Authors: Fern Michaels
Whitefire (22 page)
She sat down near the hearth and drew her legs up to her chin, her arms clasped around them, a red-fox blanket covering her like a waterfall. How could she respond to Banyen and still feel such hatred toward him for what he had done to her on the steppe? Tears gathered in the titian eyes as she remembered the time she had spent in the barn watching the young lovers. And then a picture of Yuri flashed before her. Even the embraces with Yuri hadn't been right. She hadn't felt the way the couple obviously had. What she had had with Yuri was passion; there had been no love. She knew that now. A meeting of the bodies for release was all it had been. If he had returned, would she have gone with him? No, she answered herself. There was no point in thinking about Yuri. Yuri was dead, killed by her own hand. She had put him to death to ease his suffering, just as she would put to death a wounded animal that had no hope of living.
Tomorrow was another day. Dawn would come before she was ready for it. She had to sleep. God, if it were only so simple, just get into the bed, close her lids, and sleep. She raised her eyes to look at the icon on the wall over her bed. She bowed her head and prayed silently. She prayed to God to free her mind of her torturous thoughts; she prayed for peace of spirit and soul; prayed for the hatred to leave her; and she prayed for love somehow to find its way to her heart. So many things to ask for; surely He would answer at least one of her pleas.
Katerina let the fur lie carelessly across the bench that stood near the hearth and shed the thick body stocking. She stood naked for a moment in the chilly air and again wondered what it would be like to lie next to a naked man who loved her as she would love him. She shook her head, freeing the coppery hair from its pins, and donned a woolen nightgown. Sliding beneath the thickness of the pedina, her eyes closing . . . No sooner was she asleep than she was racing Bluefire across the steppe, his hooves crushing the white earth with his long-legged gallop. Strong, sinewy arms reached for her as she tore over the snowy fields, her breathing coming ragged and harsh. Would he catch her. Ride . . . ride . . . ride . . . faster . . . faster.
Katerina sprang out of bed in the morning, anxious to get the ordeal of informing the prisoners over with. After a quick breakfast she summoned Mikhailo and told him to get all the men assembled in the training arena immediately. Shortly thereafter, the Kat stood before the prisoners, legs astride, hands on hips, waiting for them to line up in formation.
“Men, I have ordered you here a little earlier this morning because I want to tell you why you're here and why you're training so hard. My village was raided, and my father and all the people were slaughtered. The raiders got what they came for, the sought-after Cosar horses. I can't bring my father or the people of my village back, but I can get back the horses. That is why you're here, and that is what you're going to do,” she told them with a vengeance. A loud moan of dissatisfaction was heard from the multitude. “Save the moans for your sore muscles. Like it or not, the horses will be found by us and brought back to the Don Cossacks. Now, go have your food and be back here ready to practice hard and long. Eat hearty,” she called to them as they filed out of the arena.
Chapter 13
T
he white carpet of snow across the vast, endless steppe continued its relentless path into the fir-covered breast of the Carpathians. The massive fortress loomed like an intruder on the crystalline accumulation, trapped by the dense, mammoth evergreens. Winter had come in all its intensity to the House of the Kat.
he white carpet of snow across the vast, endless steppe continued its relentless path into the fir-covered breast of the Carpathians. The massive fortress loomed like an intruder on the crystalline accumulation, trapped by the dense, mammoth evergreens. Winter had come in all its intensity to the House of the Kat.
Winter months in the Carpathians were well-waged wars between the harsh, ferocious winds that swept through everything and everyone and the cold, insidious, sparkling crystals that fell gently and constantly from the skies.
The snowdrifts hugged the walls of the fortress tenaciously, pushing and climbing their way to the second-story windows of the structure. All garrisoned within its cold walls shivered as the wind howled its song and shook the mighty walls with its breath. The monolithic trunks and branches of the giant firs accompanied the savage winds, hitting and striking against the thick gray stone of the dwelling, filling the interior with ghoulish, eerie sounds that chilled the dwellers to the bone.
The House of the Kat was no match for the clutching, all-consuming white giant that ruled the winter. The King of the North held fast its inhabitants, closing them off, making movements into or out of the fortress impossible. They were isolated and locked in for the winter. The smothering whiteness would take its toil on each of the hostages within the House of the Kat, but in a different way for each.
The tiny, shiny brass bells strung in the green, snow-ladened branches of the firs dared to sing out their merry melody to the stark, endless void. The whipping winds urged their constant activity, sending out their cheerful sounds to fall on the deaf ears of space. No human or animal moved to hear or applaud the mellow-sounding courage of the bells. During the reign of the King of the North, no man made the journey through the pass to the cavernous underground arena and stables that housed the Mongol prince and the prisoners from Afstar's Khanate of Sibir.
The training of the recruits and Banyen's men was long and seemingly endless. The prisoners worked diligently with something close to vengeance. Not so with Banyen's force. It was a contest of wills, and Kostya drove his men with quiet looks and a grim, tight line around his mouth when they did something he disliked. It was evident to Katerina and Mikhailo that the men respected him and even liked him. Banyen, on the other hand, drove his men unmercifully as he followed Katerina's orders. The young men serving under him resented Katerina and at times openly refused to follow her orders, which Banyen issued through clenched teeth. One night in the cold, bare room with no blanket and no dinner was all they needed to renew their hatred of her. She watched them through catlike eyes as they murdered her time and time again in their minds and hearts. Banyen remained aloof, and often openly ridiculed her with some snide remark or blatant show of contempt. Still, she admitted to herself, he didn't defy her; he did as she ordered even though he didn't like it. She felt in her bones that he was playing a game with herâa game that he intended to win. And Kostya, what was he planning?
She felt drawn to the tall, quiet man with the piercing blue eyes and found herself making excuses to talk to him, complimenting him on his skill or just standing near him, feeling the power his body exuded. And when she found herself standing next to him, she would feel Banyen's eyes on her, arrogant and mocking. She, in turn, would give him her sleepy Kat gaze and toss the heavy, burnished hair till it fell winsomely over her high cheekbones. Banyen would then shout at his men, and a look of cold, deadly hatred would settle over his handsome features. It was a game they played, and Katerina knew instinctively that if she wasn't careful the stakes would be something she was not prepared to lose. Kostya would watch the little byplay with an amused expression and smile down at Katerina, his white teeth gleaming in the dimness of the cavern. The three of them were playing a game, and each knew the unspoken rules. The only question in their minds was: what was the prize at the end of the game? Was it the Cosars, or was it Katerina?
Katerina led her horse to the water trough and watched him drink thirstily. Her back stiffened as she felt Banyen bring his stallion up next to her. Her eyes were quiet and languid when she looked up at him. Why hadn't he come to her room last night, as he promised? She would not have opened the door, but this way, she felt humiliated and embarrassed. He had said he would come and there were no footsteps in the great hall that night. Another game, cat and mouse. Well, she was no mouse, she was the Kat. This was the first time today that she found herself so close to him, close enough to smell his heady body scent, to feel the heat his lithe, muscular body gave off. Her hand trembled slightly as she grasped the reins of her horse and led him away from the trough.
Kostya waited a moment before he too brought his mount forward. His movements were slow, almost calculating, as he swaggered slightly, his bright gaze searching and alert. He nodded briefly to Banyen and let his gaze drift to the Kat, who was staring at him openly. She liked the way he carried himself, almost effortlessly, as though he moved to music. Banyen stalked and prowled, his eyes those of the hunter, his actions those of a killer bent on getting his prey. With Kostya present at the water trough, there was no way Banyen could talk to the Kat, even if it was only to needle her. His dark eyes smoldered with rage as he led the stallion back to his perspiring men.
Kostya grinned as he led his horse away and settled himself next to Rokal. “A small breathing spell,” Kostya said, a smile in his voice.
“Best be careful, my friend,” Rokal said quietly. “The Mongol knows how to kill. Read his eyes and don't say you weren't warned.”
“I was warned back in Sibir, Rokal. If it comes to a personal battle between the two of us, I can give a good accounting of myself, have no fear. Those days in the stockade were not meant to be forgotten.”
“He obeyed orders, Kostya, remember that. Back in the stockade, he had no stomach for what he was forced to do. Here it's another story. He wants the woman. You want the woman. Somebody's blood will flow, and, my friend, I feel it will be yours.”
Kostya laughed, a sound that reached Katerina and Banyen. Both of them looked up to see the man's shoulders convulsing.
Katerina looked at Mikhailo and realized she liked the sound of the rich laughter the prisoner exuded. The stocky Cossack's face wore a strange look as he watched Katerina, a feeling of dread settling over him. He, too, knew trouble would come soon. Which of the men would be the one to bring matters to a head? And was it just Katerina that was at the bottom of whatever it was that was bothering the two men? The old man's gut told him there was more to it than a woman. Katmon was forever telling him stories of how men made fools of themselves over women and lost not only their manhood to them but their dignity and their wealth. All for a woman. Never having had one of his own, Mikhailo found it hard to accept the elder's words. A woman was a woman! But Katerina was different. He didn't want to see her a pawn between these two, didn't want to see her hurt.
“You're too young for all this responsibility and too innocent to be wounded in the heart and soul. Why must it always come down to survival? Which of you will be the survivor?” he asked.
“ls there doubt in your mind, Mikhailo? I will, and so will the others. Life is a matter of strategy and endurance, and there are none among us who wish to die.”
Mikhailo shuddered uncontrollably at the determined look in the Kat's eyes, the same expression she had had when she announced a new breed of Cossack was soon to be born. “But, Katerina, hatred will cloud your thinking. When you hate, you cannot love,” he said shortly.
“Love!” she cried. “I have no time for love.”
Fear crawled into Mikhailo's chest as he blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. “Someday you will want it,” he said softly.
“Perhaps, Mikhailo. Do you suppose there is a man somewhere who will understand me? Will he look into my eyes and see my love reflected in his? Is there a man who will smile at me with humor and hold me close in the darkest hours and tell me nothing matters but me?”
Mikhailo frowned. “Somewhere, Katerina, there is such a man, and you will search each other out.” He patted Katerina fondly and walked toward Banyen.
Banyen watched the short, stocky Cossack approach him. His hand went instinctively to his right cheek, where he fingered the hateful scar. As always when he was angry, the damnable thick red welt throbbed. If he ever came across the bitch that did this to him, he would wring her neck without a moment's hesitation.
Mikhailo's voice was thick and guttural when he addressed the Mongol. “Your man, Igor, needs much preparation. Neither Katerina nor myself care for his insolent attitude. You'll bring him into line or he will be spending many long, cold nights alone. It could be the death of him.”
Banyen's fingers continued to caress the swollen scar as his eyes raged at the Cossack. He knew the old man spoke the truth. His only defense was that they were boys. It took awhile for a boy to become a man. However, he said nothing to the Cossack, but nodded his head to show that he was in agreement. Igor needed a tongue-lashing, and perhaps a swift kick from his boot. His surly, untamed mouth could be the end of all the youths if he didn't shape up quickly. Another night or two without dinner and the thick woolen blanket just might do the trick.
Banyen motioned his men to fall into formation behind him as Kostya and the men assigned to him mounted their horses and took to the center of the arena. The Russian divided his men into groups of seven, and lightly touched his horse's flanks for the animal to move backward. Banyen watched carefully as the men settled themselves on top of the horses and then spurred their mounts forward, their lances thrust in front of them. He was shocked when no one was unseated, all weapons clasped firmly in hand. Grudgingly he admitted that Kostya would have made a good general. He had the ability to make men do what he wished just by speaking. As yet, the prince had seen no man give him an argument. How, Banyen wondered, was he delegated to be the leader of the prisoners? Did they have some sort of unspoken agreement between them? What was there about the fair-haired Russian that gave the prisoners such confidence? Was it, could it be, that he was their friend? If so, that might account for their seemingly implicit trust in the blue-eyed man. His face contorted in rage as he saw Katerina walk over to congratulate Kostya.
Now it was his turn with his men. He felt a coldness settle over him as he signaled his men to take to the center of the arena. He knew in his gut that he couldn't hope to do as well. They would try, and that was all he could hope for.
He was right. They were clumsy and awkward, their movements unsure, their weapons held loosely in lax fingers.
“Enough!” yelled Katerina. “We have no time to waste with this childish foolishness. Prince Banyen, you will assign all of your men to their quarters for two nights. If they wish, they can practice throughout the night. When I set eyes on them again, they had better he prepared to meet with the prisoners in the center of this arena, and there will be no safety tips on the weapons. If they get wounded and die, it will be their own fault. One more mistake and your men will be turned out into the snow. It makes little or no difference to me if they die of cold or not!” The titian eyes spewed sparks as she stared at Banyen. “And,” she said emphatically, “if they go into the snow, so do you.” Turning on her heel, she left the arena.
That's what she should do, pray that they failed so she could send them all into the frozen landscape. How would the Mongol fare? He had left her to die in the snow, and she could do the same if she had to. Soon it would be her turn to wreak vengeance on him. All good things came to those who waited. And she would wait and wait and wait! Soon it would be her turn.
Katerina had just folded the blanket from her horse and laid it on a tack box when she felt a presence near her. She whirled, thinking it was Banyen stalking her again. “Kostya!” she said breathlessly. “What are you doing here?”
“Mikhailo sent me for additional blankets. Where are they kept?” he asked as he deliberately brushed near her. His bright blue eyes were expressionless as he stared at her, waiting for a reply.
Katerina pointed to a chest in the corner and moistened her dry lips with her tongue.
The silence between them seemed more eloquent than words could ever be. When Kostya held out his hand, she reached out her own delicate one and felt him draw her to him. They walked hand in hand to the dimmest corner of the stable. Katerina drew in her breath and felt the man next to her tense at her intake. He, too, seemed to have trouble with his breathing. She was conscious of his height, of his nearness, and of his maleness. His arm around her shoulders made her tingle with the contact of his flesh. In the murky light they stopped their initial, tentative gestures. She felt her body move into the circle of his arms. His mouth became a part of hers, and her heart beat in a wild, untamed, broken rhythm. In their yearning they strained together as they mounted obstacles of the flesh and worked to join blood, flesh, and spirit.
In the quiet of the stable they devoured each other with searching, hungry lips.
His touch was gentle as he tore his mouth from hers, his breathing ragged and harsh. It was Katerina whose sensibilities returned first, and she stepped back from him, her eyes sleepy and almost content. Her passion-bruised mouth tasted sweet to her tongue as she licked at her lips in an effort to calm herself. She was alive! Her response to Kostya was what she had needed to prove that her body could respond to someone other than Banyen.
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