You Belong to Me

  When it did start to get dark, he panicked again because he had nothing to light a torch with, even if he could find something dry to use, and no time to do either. He tried to coax a little more speed from the roan, but the de­scent was too steep in places, making it too treacherous because of the snow. The stallion balked, having already gone to his knees once, where he actually slid several feet. He refused to go any faster.

  When night finally did fall, Vasili found that he had panicked for no reason. The only advantage that the snow provided him was that the pristine white landscape kept com­plete darkness at bay, allowing him to still see ahead—when the swirling gusts weren't blinding him.

  Hours passed; he didn't know how many. But he knew he was going to die. He was slowly freezing to death, his extremities al­ready numb. He remained in the saddle only by sheer determination, keeping one thing in mind: he was going to murder that fool woman . .. no, he would make love to her first and then murder her.

  And then the wind suddenly stopped, and within moments, the snow also stopped fall­ing. The temperature might have become less severe, too, but Vasili was in no condition to tell. What was obvious was that the growth of oak and fir trees on either side of him had be­come thicker. Somehow he had nearly reached the foothills on the lower slopes. People lived in the foothills, entire villages, with fires and warm, cozy huts, hot food and drink. If he could just continue for a mile or so more, he might not die after all.

  Before he had even finished the thought, he saw Alexandra veer abruptly south off the road, and he groaned. Moments earlier, he might not have noticed, might have gone right past where the trail left the road and lost her entirely.

  With the wind quiet now, he tried shouting again, but she was already gone from sight. When he reached the same point, he could see her again, but she was as far ahead of him as she had been all along. And she was no longer descending. The trail was actually ris­ing gradually as it followed a narrow path along the slope.

  Again he shouted her name. She heard him this time. Her head turned. She looked right at him. But she didn't stop. She dug her heels into her horse instead.

  That did it! He really was going to murder her as soon as he got his hands on her—if they both didn't freeze first. Fortunately, her borrowed horse wasn't any more eager for a gallop than his stallion was, so she didn't gain on him. But she continued to maintain the same distance that kept him from reaching her.

  He wondered if a shot from the pistol he'd stuck in his belt earlier would stop her or spur her on. If he'd brought more than one, he'd be tempted to find out. Then again, she might have one of her own and fire back at him, thinking he was trying to kill her. She had good reason to think so. Besides, he didn't trust her not to shoot at him in retalia­tion. Her horses were involved, after all, and there was no doubt whatsoever that they meant more to her than he did. Damned horses. He wouldn't be out here freezing if—

  Torches suddenly flickered far ahead. Either they'd found the thieves or a village, or both. But Alexandra didn't slow down to let him catch up to her. She kept charging straight for the lights, and after another few moments, he could see why. Her horses. She'd seen her horses, and she was probably too furious even to think of the danger that lay ahead, and she was certainly too furious to be sensible.

  And, because he couldn't stop it or her, he had to watch her ride right into the midst of a half-dozen men and start wielding the horsewhip that she had taken to carrying on her hip ever since the fight. She scattered the men. Horses were rearing. One man was thrown from his mount and slid and tumbled down the slope a good twenty feet. Another raised a pistol and had it whipped from his hand. The rest were dismounting. The path was too narrow a space for so many horses to converge, and the men obviously intended to bring Alexandra down before she did any se­rious damage.

  Vasili drew his pistol and fired, but it was good for only one shot, and once it was dis­charged, he threw it away to draw his sword. He was still too late to keep Alexandra from being yanked off her mount, and with the torches having been dropped to the ground and the snow swiftly extinguishing them, he couldn't see what had happened to her.

  Another shot was fired, this one at Vasili. But he was still so numb with cold that he doubted he'd feel it if he were hit. He trusted he wasn't, and when he finally reached the group on the ground, he started swinging his sword to prove it.

  The bandits scattered again, a bit more leery of his sword than they'd been of the whip, though they didn't go far. They bran­dished an assortment of weapons that he took note of—a dagger, two swords, a club, but no other pistols that he could see. And he could also see Alexandra now.

  She was on the ground, fighting with one of the men, who was trying to hold her down and get a rope around her. That he had his hands on her at all made Vasili a little crazy, and without considering that he'd be giving up his advantage on horseback, he dove at the man, slamming against him, rolling on the ground until he managed enough purchase to smash his sword hilt against the fellow's head.

  He got back to his feet swiftly, slipping only a little in the snow, and faced three more men. The fourth had taken over with Alexandra be­fore she'd had a chance to get up; he had her face down in the snow with a knee in her back, tying her hands. He'd be joining the fray in moments.

  Vasili had his shocking burst of rage under control now. He wouldn't even have minded the odds he was facing; he considered them paltry against his own sword skill. But slip­pery ground had a way of evening odds, and he couldn't help but remember the one time he'd trained with Stefan in snow, and how they'd spent more time on their backsides than on their feet, a learning experience which he couldn't use to his advantage when facing more than one opponent.

  He was still ready and eager for the first as­sault, and it came swiftly. Vasili held his ground, deciding that the least movement would be the best defense under these cir­cumstances, and it worked for a while. He disarmed one man, wounded another, and had found an opening on the third when he was forced to stop, to go perfectly still. The blade digging into his back—sword or dagger, he couldn't tell—had pierced through his cloak, jacket, and shirt, telling him without a doubt that he wasn't too numb to feel a wound after all.

  21

  “A wise choice, Count Petroff. Now tell me, T'will my good friend Stefan be joining us as well?"

  Vasili knew that deep voice. Pavel, the man was called, and he was anything but Stefan's friend. He was as tall as Vasili but more mus­cular, with raw-boned features and a swarthy complexion, and a perpetually belligerent atti­tude. And when Vasili glanced back to con­firm the speaker's identity, he saw that Pavel wasn't alone, that nearly a dozen men were ranged behind him, some sporting firearms that were trained directly at Vasili.

  "A pleasure to see you again, Pavel," he said so dryly that only an idiot would believe him, "and no, Stefan didn't join me on this trip."

  "I'm disappointed," Pavel replied, and he did, in fact, sound it. "When I recognized you just now, I had such hope for another challenge—but perhaps you will stand for your cousin, eh?"

  Vasili wasn't surprised. Pavel's attitude hadn't changed.

  "Perhaps," was all he would commit to. "But first I'd like to take advantage of your fa­mous hospitality. I trust your village isn't far?"

  "Not far at all, or we wouldn't have heard those shots and come to investigate."

  And Vasili could blame Alexandra for that. If she had stopped, they would have seen where her horses were being taken, he would have recognized the village, and they could have returned with the others in their party, in a position of power rather than as prison­ers.

  At least Latzko, the leader of these hill ban­dits, was an easy man to deal with. Greed was his guiding principle, and everything had a price.

  "Would you mind getting that knife out of my back, Pavel? Latzko won't appreciate damaged goods."

  "Latzko is not your worry. He's gone to Austria to the bitch's wedding. I am your worry, aristo. I rule in Lat
zko's absence."

  Just what Vasili needed to hear. He had a madman to deal with instead of the reason­able Latzko. The "bitch" he assumed was Latzko's daughter, Arina. Pavel had loved her and lost her to Stefan a number of years ago, which was one reason Pavel hated Stefan so much. The other reason was because Stefan had fought him and beat him, twice. And that was why Pavel hated all aristocrats.

  "Congratulations on the promotion, Pavel, but can we continue this discussion in your village, preferably before a warm fire? I hap­pen to be freezing."

  Pavel laughed. At least half of his men joined in. But the knife was finally removed from Vasili's back. A few orders were given and Vasili's sword was taken. Then Pavel no­ticed Alexandra.

  "Another woman?" Pavel came around and approached Alexandra until he was standing in front of her. But after one quick look, he glanced back at Vasili for a little gloating. "This day's work has turned out much better than I expected. Will she be worth as much as the other one?"

  He was referring to Tanya, who had been captured last year and whose retrieval had cost Stefan five hundred rubles. Vasili was al­ready going to have to pay a fortune to get Alexandra's horses back. Their value was ob­vious. Hers wasn't, and he needed to establish her worthlessness then and there, not only to keep her cost down, but because Pavel was a vengeful bastard. But he wouldn't have done it the way he did if she hadn't been glaring at him at that exact moment. He was already an­gry with her, and that only inflamed him.

  With just enough annoyance in his voice to sound sincere, he said, "Keep her. You'd be doing me a favor."

  Even with several feet separating them, Vasili heard Alexandra draw in a sharp breath. Pavel couldn't help but hear the indignant sound himself. It was obvious he'd had no real interest in her. Bundled up in her Cos­sack garb, she hardly presented an alluring package. But the sound drew his attention back to her, and he lifted her chin for a better look at her.

  Nothing should have happened. Her hands were tied behind her back. She was sur­rounded by bandits.

  But she kicked him, hard.

  Pavel howled. Some of his men laughed, adding insult to injury. When he got done hopping around on one leg while he mas­saged his aching shin—it was incredible how he did it without slipping—he looked positively murderous, and Alexandra was going to catch the brunt of his fury.

  Vasili had begun stepping closer, but not soon enough. He wasn't close enough to stop Pavel's raised fist from connecting with Alex­andra's face. He had to tackle him to manage it, which was what he did.

  When they stopped sliding in the snow, Pavel was looking up at him incredulously. Vasili felt exactly the same. The cold had obvi­ously numbed his mind as well as his extrem­ities. There was no other excuse for doing something so stupid. The only reason he hadn't been shot already was because Pavel's men couldn't believe he was that stupid ei­ther, and were immobilized by surprise.

  That gave him time to help Pavel to his feet, dust him off a bit, and say, "Sorry, but no one hits her except me. An idiosyncrasy of mine."

  He should have switched to Cardinian, which Pavel understood well enough, because Alexandra chose that moment to prove she hadn't lost her voice. "You're going to regret that, Petroff."

  He didn't glance her way when he replied, "You've been silent until now, wench. Keep it that way."

  Pavel was glaring between the two of them, but suddenly his humor took an upward swing and he was almost smiling when he told Vasili, "That—whatever you called it—is going to cost you, Cardinian."

  Vasili sighed. "I figured as much."

  22

  The food was hearty, but Vasili was only interested in its warmth. He was still chilled to the bone, despite the clay-mounded oven in the center of the room that seemed to be keeping everyone else warm. Latzko's house was a large, one-room building that served as a sort of meeting hall for the village and a barracks for the single men in the vil­lage.

  Vasili's hands were no longer numb, but snow had seeped into his boots to soak his feet, which were still freezing. He wasn't go­ing to feel truly warm until he could get out of his damp clothes, and he doubted Alexan­dra was, either.

  Not that she'd made any comment about it. She was ignoring everyone, including him, es­pecially him. She was sitting cross-legged on one of the many cots in the room. She was holding her plate on her lap, picking at the food on it with her fingers. The spoon that had been supplied for her lay on the blanket by her knee. Heaven forbid she should actu­ally know what to do with it.

  Vasili was almost accustomed to her eating habits by now, but she had surprised their hosts. Even hill bandits had better table man­ners than his betrothed. But for once he was glad it was so, because they took her for a peasant and dismissed her as unimportant. He would have wrung her neck if she had suddenly developed proper manners.

  She was still wearing her thick woolen coat fastened up to her neck. With ample light in the room, he could see that the front of it was soaked from when she'd been shoved face­down in the snow. Her lovely breasts had to be icy cold beneath that dampness, the nip­ples hard little nubs just waiting for him to ...

  Vasili covered his eyes with his hand, groaning inwardly. What the hell was he doing? He had Pavel sitting across from him, two of his men on either side of him, one of the village women moving around behind them, filling mugs with ale and congratulat­ing the locals on their bravery and cunning. And what was he doing instead of listening for a piece of information he could use to his advantage?

  The only thing of interest that he'd heard so far was that the bandits hadn't just stumbled across his party, as might be supposed, but had known about the travelers and the horses well in advance. Apparently they had men in their pay who lived in the village on the other side of the mountain, where Vasili's group had taken shelter the previous night.

  It was an ideal arrangement that kept the bandits informed whenever a rich party was crossing the mountains. Shortcuts connected the two villages in a matter of hours. And to­day, the storm had merely been an added boon, allowing them to take what they wanted without a confrontation.

  "What is she to you?"

  Alexandra was suddenly looking straight at Vasili, proving she'd been listening to every word even if he hadn't been. But he wasn't going to make the mistake of giving an in­flammatory answer in Russian again. She was too unpredictable. He couldn't depend on her to help them get out of this mess she had got­ten them into. Make her angry, and she'd just as soon attack him as the bandits.

  So Vasili switched to Cardinian to say, "Her father gave her to me. I've decided to amuse myself with her for a while."

  The look Alexandra gave him before her eyes returned to her food said she didn't ap­preciate one little bit being excluded from that answer. Vasili was relieved. There had been the possibility that she might know Car­dinian. It hadn't been likely, but it was possi­ble.

  "And you amuse yourself by beating her?"

  Pavel was sticking with Russian, deliber­ately to discomfit Vasili, he didn't doubt. And Alexandra's head had snapped back up. Vasili could try again in Cardinian, he supposed, but as Pavel had already given the wrong im­pression with that question, the odds were he'd do the same again, so Vasili might as well stick with Russian. If Alexandra was go­ing to be foolish enough to draw attention to herself with an interruption, it would be her own fault.

  Vasili's golden eyes settled on Pavel and stayed there, refusing to look in Alexandra's direction again. "I believe my earlier words were that no one hits her except me. I don't find amusement in that, merely necessity. She does so often deserve it, after all."

  "But you mean to keep her, eh?"

  "I'm not bored yet, so yes, for a little while longer I'll keep her. But during that time she remains mine exclusively—or I lose interest."

  Pavel's shrug said he understood perfectly. Used goods lost their value. And now they could get down to the business at hand.

  "Fifty rubles, no more," Vasili offered, and his expression
implied that he was being gen­erous. Then he sat back, lifting one arm over the back of his chair. "Wasn't that the price Stefan had to pay to get Arina back that time?"

  It was a calculated risk, bringing Arina into the conversation. But he'd already guessed that the woman serving them was Pavel's woman, simply by the expressions passing be­tween them, and because the other men kept their hands off her. Pavel could either explode with jealousy as he usually did whenever Arina was mentioned, or quickly get the subject of women out of the way, since his own was listening.

  "You would compare Latzko's daughter with this peasant?" he demanded, waving a hand toward Alexandra.

  Indignation? Vasili couldn't have asked for a better reaction. "You're right, of course. What would you suggest, then? Twenty-five?"

  "Forty-five," Pavel replied, obviously hav­ing realized his mistake.

  "I suppose that keeps anyone from being insulted," Vasili remarked dryly. Except for Al­exandra. "Agreed, and by the way, who is Arina marrying?"

  Pavel spit on the floor before he said in dis­gust, "She got tired of her Austrian duke and took up with a count. He's crazy enough to marry her."

  Vasili knew he shouldn't, but he simply couldn't resist rubbing it in a little. "Latzko must be pleased to have a count in the fam-ily."

  "Latzko just wants her married," Pavel half growled, half mumbled. "He don't care to who. Now for you, Count Petroff. I know my good friend Stefan will pay plenty for you. The horses, of course, I keep for myself. But you—"

  "Horses like that would be useless in these mountains and you know it, Pavel. I'll give you three hundred for the lot of them."

  Pavel laughed. "You think I don't know horses that fine are for your cousin? If he wants them, he'll have to pay the price I ask, or I keep them."

  Vasili couldn't imagine where that notion had come from, but he'd have to disabuse him of it quickly or he'd never get the horses back. "They happen to be a gift to me from my betrothed. Stefan doesn't even like whites. He calls them bloodless, tempera­mental creatures, not worth the effort to feed them. Having traveled with them, I'm in­clined to agree, though I may still start a breeding farm with them, as I had planned to do. However, since they cost me nothing, I really don't care one way or the other. Three hundred rubles for the lot, and not a ruble more."