Love Storm (25 page)

The intricate, labyrinthine, almost trackless path the fugitives had taken was laboriously followed. One whole day was lost, as all vestiges of their passing were obliterated by a violent mountain rainstorm that moderated into a day of heavy, gray skies with murky, impenetrable mists reaching the leaden heavens. All footprints had been washed away on the steep, rocky mountainsides.

The men fanned out across the desolate terrain, looking for a clue of Zena's passage. It wasn't until late afternoon that double rifle shots signaled success by one of the trackers. The party they were following were experienced

mountain men and trackers skillful in eluding pursuit in their flight; but the prince's hunters were indefatigable. A grim smile graced Alex's harsh, lean face as they once more stalked the trail.

Late the next day a clear path of footprints was visible, as Zena and her captors had evidently led their horses across a mountain valley covered entirely with a thick bed of bluish mud. Disintegrating slaty rock from the mountainsides had decomposed into what at first appearance was a hard surface. The effect was deceiving, for underneath the exterior it was quite soft, and even without riders it was obvious that the heavy horses had sunk in at each step. Ordinarily nothing would induce the mountain ponies to go near these quagmires, but the valley was the shortest route at this point, and the bandit leader had coaxed and led his horses across.

Zena's petite form was light enough so that her boots had not settled very deeply into the soft bed.

After leading their horses through the treacherous valley, the prince's party remounted and continued on their way. Alex was unusually quiet, a pensive scowl and pursed lips accenting his sun-bronzed face. He and Ivan were in the lead, riding side by side, looking very much like mountain men themselves in buckskins and sheepskin coats. For perhaps twenty minutes they rode in silence, Alex's reflective expression altering only occasionally as a muscle high on his cheekbone would tighten convulsively.

Ivan observed all with his usual silent reserve. After another two miles or so, he turned to Alex at last and said gently, "You saw her footprints?"

Alex nodded his head but didn't speak.

"It was obvious, of course."
⁶

"Of course," Alex answered softly.

"You didn't know?" Ivan inquired.

"No," the curt voice answered.

"For God's sake, why didn't she tell you?" Ivan asked in a tense murmur.

"Why do women
do
or
not
do anything in their lives? Lord, how should I know," Alex retorted bitterly.

"She may lose the child with the pace these mountain men are setting. The trail is appalling." Ivan paused delicately. "You were the first, weren't you?"

For once, the prince's famous poise deserted him. "The first," he faltered and shut his eyes briefly. "Yes, the first," Alex finished gruffly.

"No more than a couple of months at the most, then," Ivan calculated meditatively.

"At the most," Alex murmured soberly. "We'll stay on the trail until it's impossible to see anymore tonight," the prince declared harshly.

His thoughts turned inward. He should have suspected. That explained all the tears and recriminations and erratic melancholies that had risen suddenly. Alex's experience with pregnant women was scanty at best. The brevity of his liaisons had curtailed any prolonged contact with
enceinte
females. He had normally received the news of impending fatherhood in tearful
billets
doux,
which were answered with impersonal bank drafts and instructions to apprise him of his offspring's financial requirements upon their entrance into the world. He assuaged his conscience, on the extremely rare occasions when it was necessary, by reminding himself that the Kuzan partrimony entailed not only golden eyes (which had incredibly bred true for hundreds of years) but also the gift of an extremely comfortable, if not extravagant, lifetime honorarium.

Shortly after the departure of Khazi and his troops Mulloh Shouaib and two lieutenants went upstairs to inspect the new bit of merchandise with a view to perhaps sampling her delights as well. Clean clothes and food had restored

Zena's sinking spirits dramatically, and Mulloh Shouaib was in for an unpleasant surprise.

"If you lay one hand on me," their new purchase spat as she crouched in a corner lined with silken cushions, "my grandfather, Iskender-Khan, will lay kanly on you and yours unto the third generation, you son of a pig."

Now Mulloh Shouaib hadn't survived and become rich in the hazardous trade of slave dealing without possessing an acute and agile intellect.

Immediately the name of Iskender-Khan was uttered, it was tangibly apparent his purchase must be negated. "Go after Khazi at once and bring him back," he ordered his two minions, and they sprang from the room to obey his orders.

He boldly assessed the woman confronting him ferociously from across the room, clad immodestly in the harem raiment of silk trousers and scanty bolero, her heaving breasts displayed conspicuously, as the sheer material of the vest was inadequate to cover the bounteous curves.

"A pity," he sighed without reserve, "to think I must forgo the enchantments of such a luscious tidbit."

Iskender-Khan's vengeance held a palpable threat, however. Survival far outweighed transitory gratification in Mulloh Shouaib's hierarchy of values, and he wished to avoid a crude sordid death at the hands of Iskender-Khan.

Briskly dismissing pleasant images of Zena's opulent form impaled on his engorged instrument, he sensibly said, "Prepare for a further journey,
mademoiselle.
I fear I must forgo the pleasure of your company."

A short time later Khazi wrenched open the door and stalked into the room. Tossing a burka at Zena, he acrimoniously growled, "Women are always a trial, and you're no exception. Mulloh won't keep you, so we head farther south. Bah! I've half a mind to slit your throat and be done with a bad bargain. Come," he ordered, grabbed her by her arm, and dragged her out on the veranda and down the stairs.

When they were all mounted again, Khazi informed his cohorts that they were heading south to Ibrahim Bey's camp. Mulloh Shouaib had suggested Khazi take Zena there. In the event they were unsuccessful in locating Ibrahim Bey, for he was moving daily on his yearly excursion north to acquire new women for his seraglio, they could return to Gori, where Mulloh would give instructions to his agent to attempt to sell the girl to the Persian emissaries. For this gesture he expected a fee, of course, he had added with a bland smile, the enticement of profit too strong to relinquish entirely. He sent the message to Gori at once. There was a beautiful woman for sale, and Mulloh's risk in this capacity as intermediary would be minimal.

Coming out of the mountains onto the rolling hills of the highlands, Alex's party entered the village of Simonethi. Each tracker went in a separate direction, scouring the small municipality for information about Zena.

Alex tied his magnificent stallion Pasha outside
a café
and sank tiredly onto a bench near the door. He ordered tea and brandy and leaned his elbows on the table in front of him, cradling his weary head between his hands. They were still on the trail, but as each seemingly endless day passed into another, his anxieties concerning Zena's ability to survive such hardships mounted. She was the merest slip of a woman, too fragile and delicate to be put to this punishing adversity. He forced himself not to even consider the child she carried. That train of thought was insupportable, giving rise to an amorphous ferment of torment, guilt, and censure.

When his brandy and tea arrived, he threw the brandy down straightaway but sipped on the sweet tea, allowing himself five minutes to rest before he resumed his search.

Mulloh's agent had seen the magnificent animal tied outside, accoutered with gold-bedecked Russian saddle and bridle, and had concluded that the Giaour inside the
café
must be rich. Perhaps
he
would be interested in buying the captive woman of Khazi. They were all lechers anyway, the Giaour savages.

Alex raised a disinterested eyebrow in inquiry when the short little man sat down. "Would you be interested in buying a young girl?"

"No."

"She's very young." (Alex frowned.) "But not too young, Your Excellency, perhaps sixteen or seventeen," Abudullah hurriedly amended. (One never knew the specific tastes of one's customers.)

"Sorry, I'm not interested."

"You could teach this young filly to please your inclinations, sire. The young ones are more amenable."

"No doubt you're right. Perhaps another time," the prince replied indifferently.

The seller persisted.

"She could warm your bed tonight, Your Excellency. When was the last time you rode a beautiful, young girl?" he crooned suggestively.

Ten days ago, Alex thought pensively, and a multitude of delightful memories raced through his consciousness.

"No," the prince repeated firmly, "I'm not interested."

"You'll be sorry, Excellency—a dazzling, luscious, young, auburn-haired beauty with such magnificent, deep blue eyes, such white, delicious flesh." He kissed the tips of his fingers and closed his eyes briefly. Leaning conspir-atorially across the small mosaic table, he added, "And a tiny rosebud scar in the most enticing spot, my lord."

"Sold," the prince softly murmured. Alex lifted his heavy-lidded pale gold eyes and fixed Abudullah with a chilling, basilisk glare that froze the smile appearing on the dark Mingrelian face. "Where is she?" Alex demanded.

"At Gori."

"Take me there." Alex rose, his pulse beating wildly. There couldn't be two women with a rosebud scar. It must be Zena. She was still all right, then. Relief flooded through him.

They reached the small village in record time, and the little agent ushered the troop into his spacious courtyard. "If you'll wait one moment, Excellency," and he bowed even lower than previously, since he had heard one of the trackers address Alex as "Prince." "Please sit for a moment, and I'll have a servant bring you refreshments. I must check on the whereabouts of the woman. You understand, I'm only a poor deputy acting for another."

He scurried into the house.

Alex refused to be seated, pacing impatiently back and forth in the tiled courtyard, clenching and unclenching his fingers on the braided riding whip he carried.

"Do you think it's true?" he asked as he stopped momentarily in front of a dusty, fatigued Ivan, who lounged against the wall. "Do you think it's Zena?" His tawny eyes were flinty and looked tired.

"I don't know, Sasha. You can't trust these scurvy Min-grelians. They'd sell their own mother for thirty kopecks. Don't get your hopes up."

Alex twisted around sharply as the plump agent returned, wringing his hands distressfully. His distress was sincere, for the course of events had robbed him of a substantial commission. He had intended to raise the price considerably for a Giaour prince. "It grieves me painfully, Your Excellency Prince, to inform you that the woman you desire was sold three days ago. I have many other delicious morsels you may like to peruse, Your Honor," he avowed sycophantically.

Alex lunged for the little
commis,
a growl issuing from his throat. He was constrained from doing him harm by Ivan's strong and sober admonitions. "Let be, Sasha!" Ivan urged as he held Alex back forcefully. "He can't help you dead! He knows who bought her!"

Still surging with suppressed rage, Alex paused trembling to withhold his terrible frustration and considered Ivan's words. Lashing out with his riding whip, Alex shattered a delicately filigreed ivory lattice window, then wheeled away from the terrified agent and strode out of the courtyard. "Find out the buyer's name!"

Minutes later Ivan issued from the house with the information. "A sheikh by the name of Ibrahim Bey. Very important, very influential. A personal friend of the Sultan at Stauboul."

"I don't care who he knows," Alex snapped. Ivan was consequently treated to the full benefit of Alex's pithy and Rabelaisian pronouncements on the entire race of Turks, to which he comprehensively consigned everyone south of Stavropol. "So then," he finished curtly, "where is this exalted sheikh? Let's get going."

"Consider now, Sasha. Don't be a fool. There are only six of us, and according to the terror-stricken little man in there, Ibrahim Bey's camp numbers two hundred or more. He travels with a princely entourage and a harem."

"A seraglio overcomes all inconveniences, didn't someone once say," Alex sneered embitteredly. Then bristling with spleen he added provocatively, "But I intend to deprive him of one of its members."