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I was still alive. I was still a woman. I was still responsive, and although I tried to hold back, respond I did, leaning back against those powerful arms, my body pressing against his, leg to leg, thigh to thigh as he continued to torment me with his mouth and tongue, making moaning

noises in his throat as he probed and plundered. I could feel his manhood warm and swollen and straining against the layers of cloth that imprisoned it and kept it from the orifice it sought. His lips moved to the side of my throat. I gasped. I caught my breath. I clung to him desperately, my legs weak, my knees unable to support me, and then he clamped his mouth over mine again and I fought to hold on to the senses he had shattered so quickly, so thoroughly.

I pulled back. I shook my head. "No," I whispered hoarsely. "No," and the words seemed to come from some other source because I didn't want him to stop. I didn't want to abandon the splendor. I didn't want to come to my senses and be cool and controlled and in command. I wanted to surrender to these sensations bursting inside with soft explosions I feared would cause me to swoon. I pushed my hands against his chest, struggling in earnest as the delirium increased, as I grew dizzy, full of need every bit as potent as his. He drew his head back, his mouth only inches from my own, those powerful arms still holding me in a bruising grip. I looked up at him with eyes that pleaded with him, pleaded for him to continue, for I hadn't the strength to deny him, nor, now, did I want to.

Orlov frowned. He misunderstood my silent plea.

He released me abruptly. I staggered back a step or two, almost falling, seizing the arm of a chair for support. The cloak spilled from my shoulders, fell to the floor in a luxuriant copper red heap. I didn't even notice. I was breathing heavily, as was he, and both of us were incapable of speech for the moment. The delicious ache, the waves of warm languor that filled my blood began to subside, and I felt cold, terribly cold, as though I had been doused with a bucket of icy water. I caught my breath. I stood up straight, surprised to find my knees working properly. I brushed a wave of hair from my cheek with a hand that trembled visibly. I felt a vast relief, but the relief wasn't nearly as strong as the regret, regret I acknowledged frankly and without a single false illusion.

His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were still dark. His lips were parted and he was still trying to control his breathing as his chest heaved. Why had he stopped? Why in heaven's name had he stopped when every fiber of my being longed so ardently for him to continue, to prolong the plunder and bring it to its completion? The iciness inside turned into a kind of numbness, and it was as though I stood apart, removed, observing the two of us from a great distance. I watched with objectivity as he controlled himself, shoved a damp, tawny lock from his forehead,

scowled.

"I forget myself," he said.

"Yes." The voice belonged to someone else.

"I take advantage. I vow not to do this. I vow to wait. I vow to be the gentleman, restrain myself, control my desire for you."

"You mustn't apologize."

"Were it another man who takes advantage of you like this, I would kill him for it. I would make him suffer long and hard. No punishment would be harsh enough."

"It was-it was something that happened. You must not blame yourself."

"The blame is mine. I know you still think of this man in London, and I hope you will forget him. I tell myself you will be ready soon, you will want me as I want you, and I vow to wait. Instead, I seize you like the coarsest ruffian. I take advantage. My punishment will be the shame I feel for using you this way."

"Count Orlov-"

"I ruin everything. I do not blame you if you refuse to speak to me ever again."

"The-the flesh is weak," I said.

It was an absurd thing to say, the tritest of statements, but Orlov nodded in vigorous agreement, scowling anew, his brows knitted together over the bridge of his nose. A part of me saw the humor of the situation, this great bear of a man castigating himself because he had lost control and kissed a woman, but I didn't smile. As the numbness wore off, as I truly came to my senses, I felt the regret and knew that he would be shocked were he to know what I was feeling. I sighed, prepared to overlook the incident, but Orlov was still in the throes of high drama. The Russian character demanded this drama, every incident taking on highly colored shades.

"In another moment I would have lost complete control,"

he said, horrified.

"I know."

"In another moment I would have shoved you onto the sleeping platform and taken you like the most brutal savage!"

And I longed for you to do just that, I said silently. Orlov stood there in anguish. I thought he might actually wring his hands. He didn't. He emitted a heavy sigh and looked at me with abject eyes.

"You will forgive me?" he asked.

"I'll try," I said.

"I do not know how this happens."

"We all have needs," I said quietly.

"This is true. All men have needs. I have been without a woman for too many weeks. This is all the same no excuse for my conduct. Gregory Orlov is not a ruffian like so many of his countrymen. I do not rape defenseless women, except in battle, and I do not debase those under my protection."

"I don't feel at all debased," I told him.

"This is a tragedy. A tragedy."

"Only if you make it one."

He had regained his composure now. Shifting his weight slightly from one leg to the other, he adjusted the hang of the heavy brown fur coat and swiped at a tumble of errant gold locks that had spilled over his brow. He wore a rather sheepish expression and looked for all the world like an overgrown boy who has just been particularly naughty, but that boy had, moments ago, stirred sensations inside me I had thought dead. The boyish charm he had in such abundance was dangerously deceiving. Here was a man, hard and tough and ruthless, who, for some reason-call it integrity-had pulled back at the last moment. Out of respect for me? Perhaps. I knew full well that, had I been a serving wench or a peasant lass, he would have plundered savagely no matter how I might have struggled.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"I may be a little bruised," I admitted. "My mouth feels swollen."

"This is a tragedy," he repeated, looking crushed again.

"I imagine I'll survive."

My voice was cool, much cooler than I had intended it to be. Orlov frowned and shifted his weight once more, miserable.

"Now you will hate me," he mourned.

"On the contrary," I said. "Now I will put a bit of salve on my lips to relieve the sting and I will consider myself

. flattered that-that you thought me desirable enough to kiss. If you want to know the truth, I rather enjoyed the experience."

He arched a brow in surprise, clearly not expecting such a reply. Serving wenches and whores might enjoy abandoned kisses, but demure English ladies were cool and refined and, if they enjoyed it, never alluded to it. Orlov was undoubtedly a man of vast experience, but he knew very little about women. Few men did, come to think of it. I turned away so that he could not see the small wry smile on my lips.

"You are not angry?" he asked.

"I'm not angry," I said.

"It is forgiven?"

"It is forgotten," I told him.

"It will not happen again," he assured me.

"I'm sure it won't."

"You will accept my gift?"

"It was wonderfully thoughtful of you to have it made up for me, and I am touched by the gesture. Yes, Gregory, I will accept it."

I turned to look at him then, my gaze calm and level.

. "You call me 'Gregory.' This is the first time."

"I rather think we're on a first name basis now, don't you? Or would you prefer me to continue addressing you as

'Count Orlov'?"

He shook his head. He smiled. It was a lovely smile. His moods were as sudden, as changeable, as the play of sunlight and shadow on the surface of a pond. One never knew what to expect-or when. I took the brush from the table and, turning to the mirror, began to brush my sadly mussed hair. My lips were indeed swollen, still throbbing from the bruising pressure, but the pain was curiously pleasant. Orlov picked up the gorgeous fur cape and, moving over behind me, draped it over my shoulders. I looked up at his face in the mirror. The smile lingered on his lips, curving tenderly, and his eyes were full now of fond admiration.

"You are a remarkable woman, Marietta. Another woman would be angry with me, would dissolve into tears, but you-" He paused, frowning slightly. "I fear I will never understand your sex," he admitted.

"I seriously doubt you ever will."

The smile returned. He stepped back. I put down the brush and shoved the heavy copper red waves from my temples, then faced him. The coals in the large silver brazier had burned down now and the hut was growing colder.

The heavy fur felt wonderful around my shoulders.

"I go now," he said.

"I think that would be best," I agreed.

He strode over to the doorway and lifted the smelly fur flap, then, frowning again, paused, looking at me. Cold swept into the hut through the opening, but he didn't seem to notice. There was something else he wanted to say, and he was trying to find a way to articulate it properly. I waited, shivering, and he finally nodded, the words at his command.

"A while ago I promise it will not happen again," he said. "I wish to amend this statement."

"Oh?"

"It will not happen again until you are ready. I think perhaps this will be soon."

He left then, stepping through the doorway, letting the foul-smelling sheepskin fall back into place. I stood for several moments, staring at the hideous fur, bemused, amazed at my own calm and objectivity. I should have been shaken. I wasn't, nor did I feel the least bit of guilt about those feelings he had stirred so easily. I should have felt guilty had I been committed to another man, but that.'

wasn't the case. There was no other man. Jeremy Bond was out of my life for good, and I was trying my best to exorcise his memory. Why should I deny myself the very thing that might best help me forget him?

Opening my white leather cosmetic case, I took out a small porcelain pot of clear lip balm and carefully rubbed the salve over my bruised and swollen lips, remembering those kisses, their furor, the lusty energy behind them.

Orlov was a fiercely passionate man, totally abandoned when in the grip of passion, incredibly exciting, and, yes, I was disappointed that he had pulled back, surprised, too.

He respected me. He was not content to use me as he would use a serving wench. That was most admirable. Ruthless brute he might well be, cruel and barely civilized beneath the glamorous facade, but no man had ever shown me such courtesy. No man had been so thoughtful and considerate, so concerned about my comfort and well-being.

Best forget about the incident for the time being, I told myself. I pulled the hood over my head and fastened the cloak securely, reveling in'the luxury of the garment. Two weeks ago I had decided that a stronger powder was needed if I was to get over Jeremy Bond, and I knew now that I was ready to take it. The right time would undoubtedly come. Until then I did not intend to dwell on it. Leaving the hut, I pulled the cloak closer as the cold smote me with a physical force.

The village was indeed squalid, a large collection of dilapidated huts like the one I occupied built around a clearing with a frozen pond and rusty pump. A huge mud and wood structure contained grain and provisions for the community,

and there was a blacksmith's shed and a community bake house where even now a dozen women toiled

over the ovens, turning out loaves of coarse black bread. A number of pens and enclosures held livestock, and the only solid-looking structure was a large wooden house painted with bizarre, brightly colored symbols. This was the domain of the local priest, the most powerful man in the village, a wizened old charlatan who used herbs and spells and played on the dark fears and primordial superstitions of the peasants. Plodding, illiterate, they lived much as they must have lived in the Middle Ages.

Chickens squawked, flapping across the clearing. Pigs squealed. Sullen, stony-eyed peasant men watched me as I crossed over to the hut assigned to Lucie. Though flimsily clad in wooden sabots, loose trousers, ragged cloth coats and caps, they seemed immune to the cold. One man in particular glared at me, a surly brute much taller than his comrades, his head uncovered, his thick, unkempt black hair flopping over his brow. His coarse, not unattractive features seemed to have been hewn from solid granite, and the brown-black eyes that watched my every movement seemed to burn with a curious, fanatical fire. He wore brown boots instead of sabots, and his brown trousers and coat, though shabby, seemed a slightly better quality than those the others wore. A thick leather belt cinched his coat at the waist. A dark maroon woolen scarf was wound around his neck, the ends flapping over his right shoulder.

I slipped on the ice, almost fell. A pig darted past me, sliding over the ice. The tall peasant in brown said something to the man beside him. The man nodded, scowling darkly. I knew they were talking about me, and I felt a tinge of uneasiness, wishing the cossacks and our other men weren't all occupied elsewhere. There was no danger, of course. I realized that, and I realized, too, that it was perfectly natural for these people to resent our sudden arrival in their midst. They existed in almost subhuman conditions, their lives an endless round of back-breaking labor just to stave off starvation, and to see us surrounded by every imaginable luxury must be difficult.

Something really should be done about these conditions, I thought. There was indeed a grave inequality. The Negro slaves in Carolina lived better than these people, and it did not seem right for a select few to have so very much, to live in unparalleled splendor while the majority of their countrymen existed on a level not much higher than the ani'

mals of the field. No wonder there was so much resentment and rebellion. Empress Catherine, I knew, was trying to relieve their plight, establishing schools and hospitals, showing a great concern for
all
her people, but reform was a long, slow process, and one lone woman, Empress or no, could not easily change conditions that had been accepted for centuries: