Susan Johnson (3 page)

“Did she hurt you?” he inquired, turning back to Korsakov’s wife, who’d found shelter behind a semainier.

“Does this happen often to you?” she pleasantly said, emerging from her burled-walnut barricade.

“No, never,” he acerbically retorted. “You’re fine, I see.” Immediately after he uttered the words, he realized he shouldn’t have verbalized his thoughts. But her slender form couldn’t be ignored; it was blatantly visible through the sheer batiste of her gown.

“Yes, I am.” Her voice was amiable, not seductive, and the odd disparity between her sensuous appeal and her frank response suddenly intrigued him.

“What’s your name?” he said when he shouldn’t.

“Teo.”

Her voice was genial and melodious although the contrast to Natalie’s termagant shrieks may have enhanced its sweetness. “What’s your real name?”

“Theodora Ostyuk.”

“Not Korsakova?”

“No, never.” She smiled as she repeated the words he’d so recently spoken.

“Would you like a robe?” he abruptly said, because he unexpectedly found her smile fascinating.

“Do I need one?” And then she laughed—a refreshing, light sound. “Do you scowl like that often?”

“Natalie’s too fresh a memory.”

“I understand. Have you ever been just friends with a woman?”

It took him so long to answer, she teasingly said, “You must be ignoring me, General, although your reputation precedes you. But I’m not like Natalie,” she lightly went on. “I’m actually faithful to my husband so I’m not going to seduce you. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.”

“How ungracious,” she mocked.

“I meant, no, not with Natalie’s screams still echoing in my ears. Why are you faithful to your husband?” It was a novel attitude in the current flux and upheavals of society.

“Will you play a game of chess with me?”

“Now?”

Evasive but not a no, she decided, and she found she didn’t want to be alone in the middle of the night with her husbands image freshly brought to mind, so she cajoled. “I could tell you about faithfulness while we play and Natalie
has
rather disrupted my sleep,” she reminded him.

“A short game, then, while you define a faithful wife. A rarity in my world,” he softly declared.

“And in mine as well. Men of course aren’t required to be faithful.”

“So I understand.”

“A realistic appraisal. Should I put on a robe?”

“I think it might be wise.”

He played chess the way he approached warfare, moving quickly, decisively, always on the attack. But she held her own, although her style was less aggressive, and when he took her first knight after long contention for its position, he said, “If your husband’s half as good as you, he’ll be a formidable opponent.”

“I’m not sure you fight the same way.”

“You’ve seen him in battle?”

“On a small scale. Against my grandfather in Siberia.”

“And yet you married him?”

“Not by choice. The Russians traditionally take hostages from their conquered tribes. I’m the Siberian version. My clan sends my husband tribute in gold each year. So you see why I’m valuable to him.”

“Not for gold alone, I’m sure,” he said, beginning to move his rook.

“How gallant, Andre,” she playfully declared.

His gaze came up at the sound of his name, his rook poised over the board, and their glances held for a moment. The fire crackled noisily in the hearth, the ticking of the clock sounded loud in the stillness, the air suddenly took on a charged hush, and then the general smiled—a smooth, charming smile. “You’re going to lose your bishop, Teo.”

She couldn’t answer as suavely because her breath was caught in her throat and it took her a second to overcome the strange, heated feeling inundating her senses.

His gaze slid down her blushing cheeks and throat to rest briefly on her taut nipples visible through her white cashmere robe and he wondered what was happening to him that so demure a sight had such a staggering effect on his libido. He dropped his rook precipitously into place, inhaled, and leaned back in his chair as if putting distance between himself and such tremulous innocence would suffice to restore his reason.

“Your move,” he gruffly said.

“Maybe we shouldn’t play anymore.”

“Your move.” It was his soft voice of command.

“I don’t take orders.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d move.”

“I’m not sure I know what I’m doing anymore.” He lounged across from her, tall, lean, powerful, with predatory eyes, the softest of voices, and the capacity to make her tremble.

“It’s only a game.”

“This, you mean.”

“Of course. What else would I mean?”

“I was married when I was fifteen, after two years of refinement at the Smolny Institute for Noble Girls,” she pertinently said, wanting him to know.

“And you’re very refined,” he urbanely replied, wondering how much she knew of love after thirteen faithful years in a forced marriage. His eyes drifted downward again, his thoughts no longer of chess.

“My husband’s not refined at all.”

“Many Russians aren’t.” He could feel his erection begin to rise, the thought of showing her another side of passionate desire ruinous to his self-restraint.

“It’s getting late,” she murmured, her voice quavering slightly.

“I’ll see you upstairs,” he softly said.

When he stood, his desire was obvious: the formfitting regimentals molded his body like a second skin.

Gripping the chair arms, she said, “No,” her voice no more than a whisper.

He moved around the small table and touched her then because he couldn’t help himself, because she was quivering with desire like some virginal young girl and the intoxicating image of such tremulous need was more carnal than anything he’d ever experienced. His hand fell lightly on her shoulder, its heat tantalizing, tempting.

She looked up at him and, lifting her mouth to his, heard herself say, “Kiss me.”

“Take my hand,” he murmured And when she did, he pulled her to her feet and drew her close so the scent of her was in his nostrils and the warmth of her body touched his.

“Give me a child.” Some inner voice prompted the words she’d only dreamed for years.

“No,” he calmly said, as if she hadn’t asked the unthinkable from a stranger, and then his mouth covered hers and she sighed against his lips. And as their kiss deepened and heated their blood and drove away reason, they both felt an indefinable bliss—torrid and languorous, heartfelt
and, most strangely—hopeful in two people who had long ago become disenchanted with hope.

And then her maid’s voice drifted down the stairway, the intonation of her native tongue without inflection. “He’ll kill you,” she declared.

Duras’s mouth lifted and his head turned to the sound. “What did she say?”

“She reminded me of the consequences.”

“Which are?”

“My husband’s wrath.”

He was a hairsbreadth from selfishly saying,
Don’t worry
, but her body had gone rigid in his arms at her maid’s pointed admonition and at base he knew better. He knew he wouldn’t be there to protect her from her husband’s anger and he knew too that she was much too innocent for a casual night of love.

“Tamyr is my voice of reason.”

He released her and took a step away, as if he couldn’t trust himself to so benignly relinquish such powerful feeling. “We all need a voice of reason,” he neutrally said. “Thank you for the game of chess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not more sorry than I,” Duras said with a brief smile.

“Will I see you again?” She couldn’t help herself from asking.

“Certainly.” He took another step back, his need for her almost overwhelming. “And if you wish for anything during your stay with us, feel free to call on Bonnay.”

“Can’t I call on you?”

“My schedule’s frenzied and, more precisely, your maid’s voice may not be able to curtail me a second time.”

“I see.”

“Forgive my bluntness.”

“Forgiven,” she gently said.

“Good night, Madame Countess.” He bowed with grace.

“Good night, Andre.”

“Under other circumstances …” he began, and then shrugged away useless explanation.

“I know,” she softly said. “Thank you.”

He left precipitously, retreat uncommon for Frances bravest general, but he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to act the gentleman if he stayed.

As the general walked back to Bonnay’s lodgings, he forcibly suppressed the seductive images of Teo—lush and willing, trembling like a young girl on the brink. How odd that she could still evoke such winsome youthfulness after years as Korsakov’s wife.

Her husband’s reputation for brutality was well known. Duras had personally witnessed an episode years ago when France had been wooing Catherine the Great’s enormous supplies of gold. He’d been sent to the provinces east of the Urals in General Guibert’s entourage, their mission to negotiate a useful method of exchanging gold for French cannon. Was it in ’83 or ’84? The exact date escaped him but he’d never forget his first sight of Korsakov. The scene was etched on his memory, not for its uniqueness—flogging took place in the French Royal Army as well—but for the
obscene pleasure evident on Korsakov’s face. Korsakov had personally administered the flogging, putting the full weight of his powerful physique behind every blow, taking delight in the man’s torture.

The soldier had died under the savage punishment, at which point Korsakov had simply handed over the whip to his aide, wiped the sweat and spattered blood from his face with his embroidered handkerchief, and strolled off to breakfast.

That distant memory hadn’t surfaced with his libido at peak levels in Teo’s bedroom, but now Duras recognized that Teo Ostyuk was hardly suitable for a casual liaison. With a husband like hers, faithfulness was a prudent choice.

A shame, though, he reflected, his exhalation of regret crystallizing in the cold night air. She was damned desirable. On the other hand, with the Second Coalition forces staging 220,000 men on Frances borders, he didn’t have time for women.

Taking the few steps fronting Bonnay’s lodgings in a nimble leap, he pushed open the door and entered his new quarters.

Unlike the general, who immediately fell into a deep sleep, Teo found her repose elusive. Restless, absorbed with her agitated emotions, she sat before the banked fire in the burgomaster’s parlor, trying to resolve the tumult of her feelings.

She wasn’t unaware of worldly temptations. The Russian aristocracy was rife with vice and scandal; dalliance and flirtation posed a means of mitigating the ennui of life. And her beauty had always attracted men bent on seduction. But until tonight, her feelings had never been touched. A small jolt strummed through her senses in heated memory, the concept of flirtation too tame for the breathless desire she’d experienced in Duras’s arms. And she wanted him still … 
despite all rationale—with a quivering desperation that was both intoxicating and terrifying in its physicality.

She was trembling.

The memory of him filled her consciousness. His dark eyes, more black than blue, intense with an inner fire; his tall, virile body, whipcord lean, muscled, so different from Korsakov’s brute bullish strength, the feel of his hands on her, gentle, offering temptation with an angel’s touch, the feel of
him
—hard against her body, the rigid length of his arousal pressed into her belly. She inadvertently whimpered as desire flared inside her, no longer able to repress her vaulting need, wanting him so fiercely it felt as though she were caught in some sorcerer’s spell. Abruptly rising from her chair, she paced like a caged tigress, her senses on fire, wondering how she could find him, where he slept tonight, realizing even as the thoughts raced through her brain, how rash was such speculation.

But irrepressible emotion wouldn’t be gainsaid, and headstrong, she decided to go out and find him herself. Moving toward the door, she smiled in whimsical elation at the novel sensation of wanting someone with such unbridled passion. It was a rare pleasure, she thought, exiting the room in search of her cloak.

Short moments later Tamyr stopped her from leaving the dressing room, her small solid body blocking the portal, her feet in their red felt boots squarely planted. “You can’t go,” she challenged.

Teo looked at the woman who’d been her body servant since childhood, her gaze studiously blank. “I’m just going for a walk.”

Undeceived, Tamyr bluntly said, “Korsakov takes pleasure in killing. Now take off your cloak and come to bed. Your grandpapa expects me to keep you safe and Duras will soon be gone.”

“I don’t want your advice.” Teo clutched the sable wrap
more tightly around her as if she could protect herself from her husband’s malevolence.

“Your mama didn’t either and in the end your father could only love her, he couldn’t save their lives.”

“Maybe I understand for the first time how she felt,” Teo whispered, a rare humility in her voice.

“Don’t give Korsakov reason to kill you.”

“But he’s not here … and am I not a prisoner?”

“That won’t be excuse enough when he finds out. His spies are everywhere.”

Teo’s chin came up and her voice took on a faint edge. “Maybe I no longer wish to be his hostage.”

“Because of Duras.”

“Because I feel as though I’ve risen from the grave after thirteen years, as though I were liberated, babushka,” she said very, very quietly.

Tamyr stood silent for a moment and then she softly said to the child she’d helped raise after her parents were killed, “Korsakov won’t live forever.”

“It just seems like forever,” Teo said, unrepentant.

“Don’t be hasty, little bird.”

“But I feel a kind of urgency … like time is running out.” She swung away, the soft sable rippling in a tawny, fluid sheen as she swept toward the windows.

“You don’t even know where Duras is.” Tamyr’s voice was deliberately calm. “Every spy in camp will hear of your late-night search.”

Stopping mid-stride, Teo abruptly turned back and said with a curt authority that sounded very like her grandfather’s autocratic tone, “
You
find him, then.”