Sweet Love, Survive (12 page)

Surveying the newest plunder of his pillaging troops would wait until later. Reversing his previous order, General Beriozov instructed his driver to return to Stavropol.

Several times on the return journey, the general switched on the interior lights and examined, with the eye of a connoisseur, the very latest—and to date, the most beautiful—of his acquisitions.

•   •   •

Kitty woke the following morning in an unfamiliar feather bed in an unfamiliar room, albeit an opulent one. Her dark green eyes scanned the brocaded walls, the gilt-embellished sculpted ceiling, the heavily swagged windows and Second Empire furniture. The sweep of her gaze returning to the bed, Kitty was startled to see an old woman seated directly beside her.

“Where am I?” Kitty asked, wincing slightly. The back of her head was tender and her neck felt stiff as she struggled into a seated position.

“Stavropol, Excellency.” Evidently the elderly nursemaid left to watch over Kitty had not completely embraced the new egalitarian form of address in which no classes existed and everyone was “comrade.”

“Where in Stavropol?”

“The Hotel Russia, Excellency.”

“Who brought me here?” Kitty now recalled the car bearing down on her.

“General Beriozov, mistress.”

“How kind of him.”

The last Kitty had heard, Stavropol was still in the hands of the Whites. How fortunate that her savior was with the White Army.

The old woman’s eyes slid away from Kitty’s. “Yes, Excellency. Would you like a glass of tea and a headache powder?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. That would be marvelous. My head’s pounding dreadfully.”

From a samovar bubbling in the corner, atop a monstrous inlaid table, the woman brought Kitty tea, a packet of powder, and a plate of beautifully decorated cakes.

Kitty swallowed the medicine with her tea and was nibbling on a delicious brioche when the door opened and a large man in the uniform of a general of the Red Army entered. He gave one curt nod, and the old nurse scurried out. Drawing a comfortable armchair near the bed, he dropped into the down-cushioned seat, crossed a leg clothed in superbly tailored wool twill, and lounged casually against the embroidered back of
the chair. His thick neck was strapped with muscle, his eyes like sea pebbles, unreadable. He gave the impression of brute force overlaid by years of merciless experience, but he was handsome in a cold, ruthless way.

From the moment he had appeared in the doorway, Kitty’s heart had begun to hammer so loudly she was certain it was audible. The brilliant, blood red epaulets gracing the general’s shoulders were terrifying to behold. She sat white-faced and unbreathing, sensing the final closing of a trap, horror beating at her paralyzed senses. A tiny shiver traveled over her skin, responding to the danger in the general’s cold-eyed appraisal.

What to do? What to do! Whispers of reason attempted to catch at the panic numbing her mind. He apparently didn’t plan to kill her immediately, the tiny, reasonable voice hinted, or she wouldn’t be ensconced in this flamboyant room. As soon as that thought crossed her mind, the obvious alternative presented itself, and Kitty silently cursed herself for waiting so long—waiting
too
long—to flee Aladino. Useless, romantic hopes had kept her there. Ridiculous, irrational hopes of seeing Apollo again—and for that idiocy she might very well now die, caught in the Red trap. She had had some news to impart to Apollo. How quaint. It appeared now as if that information would never be transmitted. Briefly, Kitty wondered how Apollo would have reacted to the announcement that he was about to become a father.

Never to know now, in any event—and if the tales of cruelties perpetrated by the Red Army were indeed true, perhaps the child would never be born. At that staggering thought, some maternal instinct flamed deep inside and Kitty instantly resolved—as many had before her throughout this war-ravaged land—to survive, whatever the cost. She wanted Apollo’s child, her child, to know the glory of life.

While these tumultuous thoughts raced and tumbled through Kitty’s fearful brain, the general calmly steepled his fingers under his chin and surveyed the most striking woman he had ever seen: slender, fair, with a precious beauty that shocked the senses—translucent white skin like pearls in moonlight; luxurious tangles of sun-kissed hair; finely
sculpted aristocratic bones; a classic nose any goddess on Olympus would envy; enormous, heavily lashed eyes the color of an Irish landscape on a misty morning; and, most tantalizing, full, sensuous lips, unmistakably ripe cherry in hue. It was an overall effect no man would ever forget, and a far cry from the coarse peasant women previously available to him in his former station, who’d been modeled more like pack animals than females.

The general’s eyes silently took in the full scope of Kitty’s extraordinary lushness. He still hadn’t spoken. In no hurry, he was rather relishing the hunted terror in her expression and was contemplating with delectable fondness the ultimate capitulation of this gorgeous woman.

Kitty’s nerves were stretched taut. The general’s eyes continued their slow perusal. Finally, no longer able to withstand the oppressive silence, she said in a deliberately calm voice, white-lipped but composed, “What do you want of me, General Beriozov?”

There was something new in her manner—a decisiveness and resolve that hadn’t been there before. The panic-stricken fear had been quelled, but with what? Aristocratic backbone, fortitude? That self-reliant confidence that centuries of wealth nurtured? In addition to the heavenly gift of her looks, apparently she had character. It should prove amusing, the general thought, to toy with such a strong-minded woman.

General Beriozov carefully recrossed his muscular legs and tapped his fingertips together gently before answering pleasantly, “Whatever you care to offer me, Countess Radachek.” He’d become familiar with her name after perusing her single piece of luggage.

“And if I choose not to offer you anything, General?” The question was couched in a mild, courteous tone as if she had queried, “One lump or two?”

“I am almost certain, madame,” said the general dryly, “you’ll reconsider in the end.” He stood in one swift movement, phenomenally graceful for a man of his bulk, and, leaning over, took Kitty’s small hand. He stroked the back of it very gently with his powerful tanned fingers, almost as though
he were gentling a foal. “I have no intention of hurting you, my dear,” he explained with fine courtesy. “On the contrary.” Kitty attempted to pull away. His fingers tightened their grip. “You will be my hostess tonight at dinner.” The general’s pale gray eyes held no warmth now. The flinty coldness that had allowed his swift climb to the top of the Red Army trapped Kitty’s horrified gaze. His fingers constricted further on Kitty’s hand until she winced. “I suggest you say yes,” he continued with unruffled persistence.

She paused for half a heartbeat, her hand captured in a viselike grip that could cripple if it chose. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Good girl.” He released her hand and the briefest smile passed over his face. Turning on his heel with a sharp military precision indicative of training in the tsar’s army, General Beriozov strode from the bed. Pausing at the door, he lingered, hand on the latch, and added mildly, “Agrafena will bring you gowns. Take any you like. I prefer red or black velvet if it suits you.” Opaque eyes of gunpowder gray rested reflectively on the small woman seated stiffly in the enormous bed, her long golden hair cascading over her satiny shoulders. Receiving no answer, he walked out, the door closing on his blood red epaulets.

    When Kitty entered the drawing room that evening, the general’s brows lifted the merest fraction; otherwise his expression remained unaltered. He crossed the luxuriously carpeted floor with the stride of a cavalryman and bowed smartly to the perfectly groomed, golden-haired woman who stood just inside the room as if contemplating a rapid retreat. If, in fact, Kitty had envisioned any hope of successfully ignoring the general’s command, she would have defied him; as it was, however, compliance seemed the only option, and here she stood. Her spine stiff, her head high, the smallest affordable act of defiance now covered her slender form.

“Blue silk is most becoming to you, madame. May I offer my compliments on your toilette.” The tone was perfectly modulated, slightly bemused, and Kitty wondered for a
moment whether she had imagined the general’s expressed preference for red or black velvet.

She murmured a commonplace in return, determined to be as unsociable as circumstances permitted. No martyr, though, and youthful enough to desire life above all, Kitty realized that total indifference was out of the question. The short conversation earlier that day in her bedroom left little doubt of the general’s plans for her immediate future, so within reason she would remain aloof until such a time as even that prerogative was denied her.

The general’s next comment put to rest Kitty’s reservations concerning her hearing. Sliding his arm around Kitty’s bare shoulders, he drew her near, at the same time gently propelling her toward the archway leading into the dining room. “I hope,” he said softly, very near her ear, “that you will attempt to please me better tonight. While I admit you are exquisite in this shade of blue, I must warn you, my dear, I will not tolerate defiance in my bed. Understood?”

Two steps more and they were in the dining room. Receiving no answer, he stopped and spun Kitty to face him, his arm remaining around her shoulder. “Understood?” he repeated. His cold, gray eyes, short inches from hers, held a distinct hint of menace. General Beriozov, commanding the entire Sixth Division, was unaccustomed to insubordination. Indeed, since the first days of the Revolution, he had been intolerant of refusal. His life of late had been peerlessly, ruthlessly self-indulgent.

There was a short, tortured silence. Against such an adversary, Kitty’s answer—short of suicide—was predetermined. Dropping her lashes, she nodded mutely, sick with fear and loathing.

A short bark of laughter broke from the general and a satisfied smile followed. “You well-born ladies know the art of pleasing a man.” His eyes raked Kitty insolently. “What else did you ever have to do? Never any work to dirty your dainty pink hands … plenty of time to primp and perfume yourself for men and to practice accommodation.”

Kitty’s eyes snapped indignantly at this grossly unfair assessment of her life, which had been almost totally devoted to running the estate. Her all-too-ready temper outweighed any discretionary caution. Pale and trembling, she enunciated in formal tones, “May I inform you, General, that your image of ladies is profoundly mistaken!”

The general found Kitty’s quick anger appealing; it indicated some spirit—a characteristic he much preferred to mute and passionless acquiescence. So he baited her, his eyes narrowed appraisingly. “In what way, madame? Do they not know how to please a man?”

“No more, I expect,” Kitty hotly replied, “than women of any class!”

“Since you have had little experience in comparing the, ah, female expertise of each class,” the general murmured, “let me stand authority on that subject. Aristocratic ladies are, madame, a damn sight better in bed than any Siberian peasant girl or scrawny factory drudge from Moscow.”

Seething inwardly—but, as the general pointed out, unable to speak with any great authority—Kitty snapped, “Well, in any case, we don’t all sit before our mirrors and primp. Many work!”

The general brushed this aside. “Not the ones I’ve seen.”

“And your experience is so wide?” she sarcastically inquired.

“Actually, quite varied. Particularly, you understand,” he replied softly, “in the last two years.”

Kitty’s heart sank at the quietly deliberate reply. What did he do with women like herself once he was through with them? Just how short a future did she have? Damn him and damn his arrogance! With a fresh surge of resentment she thought, whatever her future, she’d not collapse at his feet in a display of trembling fear. Let him bully some more timid soul. Looking directly into those steely gray eyes—which appeared slightly amused at the moment—Kitty said with a cool detachment she was far from feeling, “As you say, General, the last two years have immeasurably altered our lives.”

“How true … and because of the Revolution,” General Beriozov said with mocking amusement, “I now have the opportunity of making your acquaintance, Countess.”

“And I, sir, have the opportunity of viewing the inside of this delightfully garish hotel.” While the timbre of her voice was spun sugar soft, Kitty’s sarcasm was bluntly pointed. If her future was indeed as short as circumstances suggested, at least she was going out of this world with courage.

Kitty’s jibe struck General Beriozov where he was most vulnerable. However successful he was as a professional soldier, in matters of style and taste he was most insecure. He was dressed by the best tailors, insisted on the services of a French chef, furiously cultivated the manners of his former commanding officers, but his lack of sophistication could not be easily altered with a veneer of culture. It galled him that that inferiority remained despite the upheavals of the Revolution. Refinement had been bred into the aristocrats over the centuries; they had breathed the atmosphere of wealth and privilege from their earliest days in the cradle. They were cultured; he was not. They knew music; he did not. They could discuss the paintings hanging on their palatial walls; he could not. They’d all been raised in elegant, tasteful surroundings and knew how to behave. They could be amusing, insouciant, intensely interested in the newest exhibition or ballet. They laughed mildly, lounged negligently, were intricate and graceful as snowflakes—and what the general felt he most severely lacked, they possessed in abundance, attuned with an almost casual indifference to aesthetics that would take him decades to attain.

He had too much self-control—an asset, by the way, that had stood him in good stead in the acrimonious jealousies and bitter rivalries constantly compromising the effective operation of the Red Army General Staff—to show his annoyance, but the general resolved to punish the countess for her impertinence later, in the privacy of his bedchamber. A certain amount of spirit was desirable in a woman, but ridicule was unacceptable. This fair-haired female must be made to understand the permissible limits of expression. Her position
within his household was to favor his whims and afford him pleasure. Tonight he would begin to teach her. He was looking forward to the schooling.