Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (7 page)

Which was why now, once again, she waited with bated
breath and surging blood for him to come to their secret clear
ing in the birch forest. She could imagine his strong body on
top of hers, his mouth devouring hers, his tongue running over
her breasts, down between her legs, until finally she begged him to enter her. Oh, God, how she loved it with him, could
never get enough as they untiringly coupled again and again
in their stolen hours spent together.

The snap of a breaking twig brought her out of her reverie.
She sat bolt upright, her sparkling emerald eyes searching the
trees to catch sight of him. 'Schmarya,' she called out softly,
her heart hammering with anticipation. 'Schmarya, I'm over
here.'

Chapter 2

'Schmarya!
In the name of God, Schmarya! What happened
to you?'

Her hand flew to her breast, her fine thin nostrils flared, and
her eyes grew large as saucers. For one long, terrifying instant,
her heart stopped dead. After a moment, her heart began
pounding.

Schmarya did not speak. Arms outstretched, he weakly wove his way toward her, as though drunk, but she knew,
knew for certain deep within her heart, that it was not drink
which made him stagger. Whatever he had been up to, he had
gotten hurt. Oh, dear God! His forehead was cut open and
was bleeding.

Uttering a cry, she summoned her legs to move and darted
swiftly through the trees toward him. When she reached him,
she clasped him under the armpits, and he let himself be
helped down into a sitting position, his head leaning back
against the peeling bark of a birch. 'Don't worry,' he panted.
'Got thrown. Off a horse. I'm all right.'

'Don't talk now, just rest,' she ordered briefly, hurrying
back to the spring. When she reached it, she whipped her
precious scarlet scarf from around her waist, knelt at the edge
of the tiny pool, and plunged the scarf into the icy water,
making certain the wool absorbed as much water as it could.
Then loosely rolling the soaked scarf into a ball, she hurried
back to him, the wet bundle dripping water all over the front
of her voluminous skirt.

She dropped to a squatting position beside him, gently
cleaning his head wound. Water trickled down his face,
dripped into his collar.

He sat expressionless, his eyes closed as she dabbed at the
blood, his long legs, thick with powerful thigh muscles,
stretched out straight in front of him. Sixteen years old, like her, over six feet tall without his boots, and she couldn't help
admiring his manliness even now that he was her patient, his face with its proud bone structure caked with blood and his
golden hair dishevelled. He was large-boned and hard of
muscle, but didn't carry a spare ounce of fat on his body. He
had the healthy complexion of one who spent life out-of-
doors. And handsome
...
so incredibly handsome he made
her heart ache, with his lusty naturally red lips, bold blue-
sapphire eyes always glinting with amused contempt, and his
clean-shaven face with its strong cleft chin jutting almost insol
ently out at the world.

After a few minutes his face was clean. She sat back on her
heels. 'There.' She was relieved, but her face was set in anger,
as if she wanted to attack him for causing her such fright.
Instead, her voice was soft and soothing. 'It's only a surface
wound, thank God.' She paused briefly, furrowing her slanting
brows. 'Schmarya, what in God's name have you been up to?'

He tilted his head forward and bridged her sharp gaze, his
face filled with unspeakable anguish. Then he heaved a mas
sive sigh, as if the weight of the world was upon him alone, let his head fall back upon the yielding trunk of the young birch,
and shut his eyes and began to weep. Soundlessly, without
even heaving his chest. But the tears rolled steadily down his
cheeks.

'Schmarya!' she whispered. She was more frightened by his
tears than she had been when she'd first glimpsed his wound.
Schmarya wasn't one to cry. She had seen him clamp his teeth
together and scoff at the pain when he'd once gotten badly
hurt while chopping firewood.

'Schmarya.'

He did not speak, and in the heavy silence which hung over them, the sound of far-distant hoofbeats came whispering on
the wind. Soft and muted, far away, but quickly growing
louder, as if many horses were galloping furiously toward
them.

Schmarya tensed and his eyes flew open with a start. He
wiped away his tears with the back of a hand, stumbled
unsteadily to his feet, and swiftly lurched toward the far end
of the clearing, with its fine vista of the village below. He kept staring down. Then suddenly he turned to her. 'We've got to
warn them,' he said grimly.

'Warn whom? About what?' She stared at him, her eyes
wide and scared.

'There's no time to explain. Quickly! We've got to get to
the village!' Without another word, he ran off through the
trees, stumbling and sliding downhill.

For a moment she stared after him, hands on her hips in
perplexed indecision. What could there possibly be to fear?
What danger had he sensed? Her eyes darted about, searching
the forest. Overhead, the birch branches shivered and rustled
softly in the cool breeze. Birds swooped and sang in the sky. She could smell the fresh earthiness of spring all around her,
could feel the comforting moistness of the cushiony moss
beneath her feet. Everything seemed crystal clear somehow,
as though all five of her senses were heightened. Something,
she knew—
something,
whatever nameless, faceless danger it
was—threatened from nearby.

Finally she caught up with Schmarya, but there was no sweet
victory in winning this race. When they'd begun running, she
had been well-rested, while he had already been half-dead on
his feet. And although he'd started running with a burst of
speed, she could feel his pace was already flagging. It was obvious that he had summoned his last reserves of strength
for this run.

She raced beside him now, bosom heaving, heart hammer
ing. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire from the
exertion. She was so winded she could barely breathe, and her
legs felt heavier and heavier, as if weighed down with lead.
Still, she forced herself to keep pace with him.

If he can run in his condition, then I can keep up, she told
herself resolutely.

She stole a sideways glance at him. Schmarya's face was set
in fierce lines of determination.

'Schmarya,' she finally gasped, 'I can't. Can't run anymore.
Got to rest. You too.'

'No.' He was short of breath, but breathing evenly, steadily,
conserving what little strength he had left. 'Got to make it.'
His words were clipped, disjointed, in rhythm with his breath
ing.

'But why? Tell me! Why?'

'Horses.'

'So? Not the first time. Horses here. Horses ride past. All
the time.'

'Not like that. Not so many.' He clenched his fists as he
spurred himself on faster, head tilted skyward, eyes half-shut.
'Pogrom.'

'What!'

Despite the sweat which bathed her, her blood suddenly ran
cold at this dreaded word. What Jewish child in Russia didn't
know the meaning of 'pogrom'?
Sanctioned death. Slaughter
of the innocent. All because of a circumstance of birth over
which they had no control.

'No. Can't be.' Tears pushed out of the corners of her eyes.
She didn't want to believe this. Couldn't begin to believe it.
Pogroms were a thing of the past. 'Hasn't been one.' She
panted for breath. 'For years. Why now?'

'Pogrom,' Schmarya repeated doggedly.

'But why? What reason—' She clamped her lips shut. How
stupid of her! From the stories she'd heard, there didn't have
to be a reason for a pogrom. Being Jewish was excuse enough.

'Wolzak's house. Someone burned it. I tried to stop them,
but I was too late.'

So there
was
a reason. She stared sideways at him, her attention on him instead of the ground up ahead. Suddenly
she let out a scream as she tripped on a fallen log. She somersaulted forward headfirst, her skirt and petticoat flying. She
landed facedown and felt the air being knocked out of her
lungs.

Dazed, she raised her head. Then she shook it angrily, as
though to clear it. She scowled. Schmarya hadn't stopped to
help her. He hadn't so much as shot a backward glance at her.
He kept on running.

Because of the pogrom.

Oh, God. She stifled a sob, pushed herself to her feet, and
took a few careful, tentative steps. Tears seeped from her
eyes. She'd twisted her angle when she fell, and the pain shot
upward, halfway to her knee.

With a grimace she fought to keep from crying out, and
forced herself to limp after him. Her lips tightened in self-
loathing. Schmarya would soon approach the edge of the
forest. She was so far behind now. All because of a stupid
sprained ankle. If she didn't hurry, she would be too late.

She took a deep breath. Well, she wouldn't let it slow her
down. Not if what Schmarya feared was true. What was her
pain compared with the lives of so many?

She forced herself to race ahead, closing her mind to the
splinters of fire shooting through her leg. Mustn't think of the
pain, she told herself over and over. It's nothing compared
with—