the Trans-Caucasus. She certainly was familiar with seeing to her own comfort and care.
'Please call me Lisaveta,' she said, in an effort to reduce the rigid deportment, her smile winning.
Her statement apparently stunned the three young officers who'd been entrusted by Stefan with 'the most precious woman in the world,' to quote their superior, and none of them was sure how to respond to such an irregular suggestion.
'I would prefer it,' Lisaveta quietly said, as the surprised silence lengthened.
'Yes, Your Excellency…er…madame…that is…Lisaveta.' The poor man struggled with his sense of protocol and Lisaveta's wishes.
'Stefan would wish me to be comfortable,' Lisaveta added, and with her words, the supreme stamp of approval was assured.
All three officers smiled. Stefan's valet smiled.
'As you wish,' their spokesman said, and all four bowed in precision.
Stefan's valet, dressed in blue silk robe and red turban of his Kurdish clan, stepped forward, a small wrapped parcel in his hand. 'From His Excellency, Your Excellency,' he said, his sense of propriety undiminished. His family had been personal servants to endless generations of Orbelianis and familiarity would be unthinkable, but his smile was genuine and his relayed message touching in its sensitivity. 'His Excellency, the Prince, wishes you a safe and happy journey, Your Excellency.' The package he placed in her hand was wrapped in blue velvet and tied with gold twine, and Lisaveta fought back her tears at Stefan's thoughtfulness even in the haste of his departure.
'Thank you,' she said softly. Then, determined not to embarrass the man they all revered, she added in a voice steadied by sheer force of will, 'I'm ready whenever you are.'
Stefan's carriage was luxurious, a larger version of the conveyance she'd originally taken from Tiflis months ago. Extra springs had been installed against the primitive quality of the military road, the seats were padded in down and upholstered in silk velvet. Even the walls and floors were covered in thick carpeting to soften the rough jarring of the journey.
When she was alone and the carriage under way, Lisaveta opened Stefan's present. Inside a gold and enamel box, precious in itself, was a small gold locket displaying three oval compartments when opened. A hand-colored photo portrait of Stefan was framed in one compartment and Lisaveta was surprised to see her own image in another. She was wearing her wedding veil in the portrait and she marveled at the speed necessary to develop and tint her picture. And then she recalled Stefan's remark about 'his' photographer, whom he'd brought along. She'd assumed the man was needed for the campaign in some way. He was essential instead for this gift.
The third oval was without a picture but its existence was explained in Stefan's familiar hand. 'For Baby,' he'd written on parchment cut to fit the frame, and a note was tucked into the box.
For a future mama from the proudest papa in the world.
All my love,
Stefan
A baby's picture would be fitted into the small empty frame someday, an astonishing thought in the current turmoil of her emotions. Tentatively placing her hands over her trim stomach, she waited to feel some sign. When would she first know for certain? How soon would she begin to see the changes occur? She wished she had the competence to judge like Alisa or Nikki, who seemed positive. Or even Stefan. But so swiftly had events occurred, she found herself still having to remind herself she was Princess Bariatinsky. She thought about all the new alterations in her life as the carriage rolled through the dark defiles and sunny valleys…about Princess Bariatinsky the wife, and Princess Bariatinsky the mother-to-be. How different they both were from the woman she had been before Stefan, when study and scholarship were her whole life. She had thought herself content then, looking forward to each new day of translation and learning, feeling often an actual friendship with the scholars of Hafiz who had preceded her, recognizing styles and handwriting patterns even in the anonymity of medieval times. But she had come to learn that serenity wasn't equal to passion or contentment commensurate with intoxicating happiness. And this awful and desperate sadness she was feeling now was the price for her loving.
She wished, hoped, yearned to have Stefan's child, a child born of this very special love, a child she hoped would bear a strong resemblance to its father. The next unbidden thought slipped past her defenses. If… if the war didn't go well-a euphemistic phrase for her darkest fears-if…something were to happen to Stefan, he would live on in their baby, he would be with her still.
She needed Masha for support, she thought, frightened and fainthearted; she needed her for reassurance against the nameless terror inundating her soul. Masha would assure her in her blunt straightforward way that Stefan was always victorious; she would reaffirm the fact Stefan was never wounded, he had a guardian angel. Masha would give her courage.
Glancing out the window she saw the snow-covered peaks rimming the distant horizon, noted the numbers on the black-and-white road marker, estimated the number of hours left before they reached Tiflis and prayed in a simple plea, simply put, for strength to withstand all her tormenting anxieties.
Stefan and his men traveled at a full-out gallop, changing mounts regularly from the reserve horses that had been left saddled and ready at all the post stops on the military road.
Everyone understood time was precious, any delay could mean the difference between success and defeat. Hussein Pasha might somehow overcome all of nature's obstacles and bring his army to Kars before them, so they rode as if devils from hell were pursuing them. They arrived in Tiflis an astonishing eight hours later, sweat- streaked and dirty, the afternoon sun almost tropical in the sheltered valley.
While his troopers were served a hasty meal, Stefan left to meet with Militza and his solicitor, who were waiting for him in his library. He'd telegraphed from Vladikavkaz before leaving to arrange for Gorkov's presence and sent two additional messages from forts en route so they could estimate his arrival time.
After brief congratulations on his marriage were given and accepted, they immediately concentrated on the business Stefan wanted conducted. Time was at a premium, everyone understood, each minute potentially costly. Gorkov was settled with dispatch at a writing table. Militza had a fresh uniform for Stefan laid out on his desk and without modesty he began stripping off his filthy jacket and issuing instructions. 'My will is to be changed in favor of my wife and child,' Stefan stated, tossing aside his tunic and bending to pull his boots off.
Gorkov, who hadn't been warned of Stefan's prospective fatherhood, manfully concealed his surprise. 'Very good, Your Excellency,' he managed to reply in a neutral tone, although his cheeks flushed red at the startling news.
'Do you have time to eat?' his aunt asked as Stefan slid off his breeches. His men were being fed in the morning parlor by a staff on alert since Stefan's last telegram.
'No.' He shook his head briefly. 'I'll eat on the road. In the event of my death,' Stefan briskly went on, stepping into clean leather riding pants, 'my wife will inherit everything, my child's portion to be held in trust until its majority.' His tanned fingers efficiently buttoned his breeches as he continued. 'I think that's fairly simple. In the event the Taneievs attempt to extort more than their settlement share, I'll rely on you and Masha to protect Lise and my child from their depredations.' He shrugged into his tunic and swiftly began closing the fastenings. 'Fight them in court, but see that Lise and the baby are guarded. I don't trust Vladimir… he's not above the most perverse machinations.'
Tugging on his boots, he continued, his voice as crisp as his actions. 'Haci will stand as foster father in my place for whatever duties you feel, Masha, are required.'
'If he lives,' his aunt softly said.
'Yes,' Stefan acknowledged, his hands steady, no sign of emotion evident as he strapped on his pistol belt over his immaculate white tunic. Looking up, his voice suddenly husky and an octave lower, he said, 'You'll see to things for me, Masha,' and opened his arms to her.
She went to him as she had so often in his youth and held him close. He was much larger now than he'd been all those years ago, and poised and assured. She'd seen him overcome much in his young life with equanimity if possible and fighting spirit when necessary. He towered above her, his arms wrapping completely around her now, but he depended on her strength, too, and she'd never fail him. 'I'll protect them, Stefan,' she said, steadying her voice against her own strong emotions, 'as you would yourself.'
She seemed so much smaller and more frail each year, he thought, and he wondered when that gradual change had altered their relationship, but he knew she had the courage and the power to protect his family. Swallowing to suppress the lump forming in his throat, he tried to deal with his deep-felt feelings: his childhood memories both happy and sad, never forgotten, only buried for a time; his overwhelming love for Lise, joyous but clouded, too, with
