8
"You won't like this place," Stepvan warned Silver uneasily as he helped her from the troika. "It's not a place for a lady. If you want to go to see the Gypsies, why not let me take you to the Samarkand Inn? At least it's fashionable. Tania's place is visited by peasants, Cossacks, women of no virtue."
"And you think the ladies at court are different? I've found few women there who lay claim to virtue. They seem to take pride in how many men they can take between their legs each week."
He laughed. "Lord, what an unruly tongue you have." His voice lowered. "You don't want to stay among these peasants. Let me take you to a place where we can be alone."
"No." Her gaze was on the long low wooden inn a few yards distant. The sound of hoarse male laughter, a woman's throaty voice lifted in song, and the music of a violin drifted toward them in a dark, sensual stream. "This is where I want to be. Come along."
Stepvan shrugged and followed her up the two steps. "You won't like it," he repeated.
He was wrong. She did like it. From the moment she opened the door and stepped into the large, crowded room, something about Tania's struck a chord that vibrated within her. She liked the smell of the wood smoke, the dimness of firelight, the sound of a woman's melancholy voice rising to the soot-blackened timbers crisscrossing the low ceiling. The only lighting was provided by the massive logs burning in the huge stone fireplace that occupied the entire wall at the far end of the room. Shadow flames danced on the other three walls, while firelight played on the faces of the men and women sitting at the scarred, crudely crafted tables.
The women in the room were dark, dusky-skinned with bold eyes and wild hair loose about their shoulders. They wore similar clothing—gaily colored skirts and embroidered blouses revealing a generous amount of cleavage. On the contrary, the dress of the men was diverse. Uniformed soldiers, elegant dandies, and coarsely garbed peasants rubbed elbows in the room.
Suddenly a crash of splintering wood joined the wild cacophony of conversation, song, and violin as a chair was turned over and two bearlike men wrestled playfully to the floor, both laughing uproariously. Yes, Silver thought, she could see why Nicholas liked it here. This place was untamed and honest and free.
"Would you like to leave?" Stepvan asked anxiously. "You might be hurt."
"I won't be hurt." Silver's gaze searched the smoke- filled room. "Do you see Nicholas?"
Stepvan's eyes widened. "Nicholas? You expect Nicholas to be here? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because had you known, you would not have brought me. You were willing enough to seize the opportunity to commit adultery with his wife, but I think you're not willing to face Nicholas again."
"I'm not afraid," Stepvan said quickly. Then he grimaced. "I'm lying. Your husband's reputation with sword and pistol is—"
"There he is," she interrupted. Her gaze fastened on Nicholas with fierce satisfaction. He was sitting at a table by the fire, one booted foot resting on the edge of the table, his chair pushed back and balanced precariously on its back legs. He gazed moodily at the singer sitting on a stool on the hearth a few feet away. Silver was surprised she hadn't immediately seen Nicholas. He was a figure of light in the dim, smoky room. The tunic and closely fitted trousers he wore were of beige doeskin bleached so pale they appeared white and clung to the strong muscles of his body. Framed against the fire, his tousled golden hair appeared as radiant as a desert sunrise, but the expression on his handsome face was dark. He looked moody, sensual, utterly cynical.
"He doesn't appear in very good temper," Stepvan said uneasily.
"Good. I hope he'll soon be in even worse temper." A fresh stream of anger bubbled through her as her gaze moved to the woman singing. Was this the Tania of the heavy breasts? She was certainly displaying enough of them in the off-the-shoulder blouse she wore. The scooped neckline barely managed to cover her nipples. Silver impatiently tossed the hood of her ermine cloak back from her head. "Let's get his attention off that fat cow," she said, linking her arm through Stepvan's. With her free hand she picked up an earthenware bottle from the table next to them. She ignored the protests of the soldiers from whom she had confiscated the bottle and balanced it in her right hand.
"What are you going to do?" Stepvan frowned in apprehension. "Silver, you're not—"
The bottle sailed from her hand with forceful accuracy, missing Nicholas's head by a scant two inches. It smashed against the stone of the fireplace behind him with a loud crash and a large splash of red wine;
"What the hell!" Nicholas's foot on the table stiffened and he pushed quickly away from the table. The chair teetered wildly and then fell over backward, landing Nicholas in a heap on the floor.
The room exploded with laughter.
"Dear God," Stepvan whispered in horror.
Nicholas was getting to his feet, cursing vehemently, his gaze searching the room.
Then he saw Silver.
She felt a thrust of sheer savage joy as she noticed how he froze at the sight of Stepvan at her side. She met his gaze defiantly and smiled sweetly.
"He'll murder me," Stepvan said with absolute certainty.
"No." She withdrew her arm from his and took a step back. "But you'd better leave now." She watched Nicholas begin to move slowly and with great deliberation across the room toward her, his eyes never shifting from her face. "You've done what I wanted you to do. I don't need you anymore."
He hesitated. "I'll stay. He's angry. I don't want to leave—"
"Go," she ordered fiercely. "I didn't bring you here to get you killed. This is between Nicholas and me. I don't want you here."
Stepvan took a look at the approaching man and decided on prudence over gallantry. "As you wish." He backed hastily toward the door. "This isn't at all wise, Silver."
She didn't care if it was wise. The blood was pounding through her veins in a wild, heated stream and she felt alive.
A blast of icy air behind her signaled Stepvan's hurried departure, but she didn't look around. She was vaguely aware that the room had suddenly grown quiet, the people at the tables watching Nicholas as she was. Then he was standing in front of her and she inhaled sharply at what she saw in his eyes.
"I've told you before you should choose a lover with more courage, Silver," he said softly. "One who won't desert you when you have need of him."
"I don't need him. I don't need anyone."
"So you tell me." He smiled faintly. "You may change your mind." He turned his head and issued a crisp order in Russian to a tunic-clad servant hovering nearby. As the man scurried away, Nicholas turned back to face Silver. "I congratulate you. I'm sure your Apache relatives couldn't have tossed a tomahawk with greater accuracy. I take it you're throwing down a challenge?"
"If you wish to take it in that way. I was only showing you that you will not dictate to me what I will and will not do." She paused. "Or who I will do it with."
"Indeed?"
Her cheeks were burning. "Why should I be careful of your name when you've copulated with every woman in St. Petersburg at one time or another?"
"Not quite every woman." His tone was mocking. "I'm sure I must have overlooked one or two. However, my amorous activities are not in question here. You will not take lovers, Silver."
"Why not? It's not fair that—"
"But who said life was fair to women?" he cut in cynically. "You should have learned by now that a balance is rarely struck." He glanced around the room. "Now, consider these good men watching our confrontation. They would do nothing to help you no matter what I did to you. They sympathize with my humiliation at your hands even though it amusws them. They would even help me if I chose to punish you."
"Then they would soon find themselves lacking in male parts."
"So fierce." His dark eyes glittered recklessly. "God, I'm glad you're fierce. It would rob me of satisfaction if you'd grown tame." The servant to whom he had spoken previously appeared at his side with a doeskin coat and held it until Nicholas had shrugged into
it. He nodded at the servant and the man faded away among the tables. Nicholas casually slipped his hand into the pocket of the coat and then smiled. "But I think it's time we left this place and went to a more private battleground."
"I don't want to go," she said defiantly. "I think I like it here."
"I can understand how it would suit you, but we shall leave." His smile deepened. "Do you know how they keep falcons from attacking their masters? They bind their limbs." He drew a length of thin strong rawhide from his pocket. "Do you think it would work with a firebird?"
Nicholas must have instructed the servant to place the rawhide in the pocket, Silver realized. "No. You're very fond of bonds, aren't you? You ordered Mikhail to bind me once before. This time, if you try to do it, you'll lose—"
"Are you about to threaten my manhood again?" He shook his head as his fingers swiftly manipulated the rawhide to form a loop. "I wish you'd refrain from doing that. It makes me very uneasy." He glanced up to meet her eyes. "You're wrong. I hate to see you bound, but if it's the only way.... I think these bonds may work very well." He took a step nearer, and her muscles tensed as she readied herself for the struggle to come. "But not alone. It's strange that you mentioned the way Mikhail brought you to me. Mikhail loves freedom, too, but he has wonderful instincts and he knows about falcons. Did I tell you they do one other thing to hold a falcon captive?" His eyes were sparkling with excitement. "They hood them, Silver."
Darkness enveloped her as two strong arms encircled her from behind, binding her arms to her sides. A blanket, she realized furiously, that damned servant again.
"No!" She struggled wildly, kicking backward. She heard a yelp as her boot connected with her captor's shin and she felt a swift rush of satisfaction.
"Hold her! I don't want her hurt." Nicholas's voice. Nicholas swiftly grasping her wrists, slipping on the rawhide loops and pulling them taut. Her boot swung forward and this time connected with a solid thunk. Nicholas gasped with pain. "Christ, are you trying to cripple me?"
"Yes," She swung her foot again, but he evidently managed to dodge it, for she heard laughter and shouts of encouragement which she doubted were for her. Nicholas was right, she would receive no help here. Well, she didn't need help.
She lowered her head and charged forward. Nicholas muttered a pained oath as her head struck against his chin. It hurt her head a little, too, but the knowledge that she had hurt him eased her pain enormously.
"Enough. You're going to kill us both."
"Only you." She swung her boot again. This time he failed to avoid it and she heard a low exclamation. It was wildly gratifying. She laughed and swung her booted foot again.
"Oh, no, my little savage."
She was suddenly thrown over his shoulder. The wool blanket pressed against her face smelled of smoke, wine, and garlic, and she fought it. Nicholas's arm was around her knees, preventing her from using her feet. She was helpless and the knowledge caused her to struggle even more desperately.
She heard Nicholas give a terse command and the door was opened for them.
"Let me go." She enunciated every word through her teeth. "I'll punish you for this."
"That sounds familiar. You've been punishing me since the day we met." He was striding down the steps and she heard the clop of hooves on the ice- crusted snow and the silver tinkle of bridle bells. "And I've just realized that's what this is all about." He threw her onto the seat of the troika and climbed in beside her. "Punishment. That's what it's always been about."
"Let me go." She tried to wriggle off the seat.
"Oh, no." His hands jerked her back on the seat and he gave a crisp order to the driver. The troika started with a lurch and a flurry of bells and soon the sleigh was skimming smoothly over the snow. "Not until I have you where you can't get away. It's gone on too long. And you know it. No matter what other reason you gave yourself, that's the real reason you came to Tania's."
"No!"
"Yes." His tone was as rough as his hands holding her captive. "But it's done. One way or the other, all the questions are going to be answered and all the conflicts settled between us." He pulled the blanket off her head and the sudden cold stung her face. His face in the moonlight was as harsh as the stark, snowbound landscape passing rapidly on each side of them. "Tonight."
"And where the devil do you think you're taking me?"
"To Crystal Island. We're going home. Where else would a man take his wife?"
* * *
"Let me down. This is foolishness."
Nicholas strode rapidly through the garden, his grasp holding her immobile. "You're mistaken. This is self-preservation." He paused before the oak door in the high brick wall and fumbled in his pocket. Then Silver heard the click of the key in the lock and the gate swung open. Nicholas closed the gate behind them, locked it, and dropped the key back into his pocket. He began walking down the path toward the small stone cottage in the center of the private garden. The bathhouse, Mikhail had called it on that day so long ago, Silver remembered vaguely. Then a wave of pain rocked through her. That was the day her baby had died. No, not died, that was the day her baby had been murdered.
She began to struggle again, fury raging through her. "I want down!"
"In another few minutes." Nicholas's tone was grim. He swung open the door of the bathhouse and strode into the room. He set her down and turned to light the candle on the table next to the door. The sudden illumination revealed a room in amazing contrast to the grandeur of the palace. There was no furniture other than the small table by the door and a wash- stand on which a simple white china pitcher and bowl rested. The only notes of luxury were the tawny pile of fox and beaver furs spread on the floor before the huge stone fireplace and an exquisitely carved teakwood chest against the wall to the left of the hearth.
Nicholas turned back to her, pulled a knife from the sheath in his left boot, and cut the rope around her shoulders. He pulled the blanket away from her body and tossed it on the floor. "Give me your wrists."
"I'll give you nothing."
He reached out, took her wrists, and cut the rawhide binding them. "There, you're free."
She whirled and started for the door.
"However, the walls surrounding this garden are sixteen feet high, the garden door is locked, and it's very cold out there. I'd stay here if I were you."
She turned to face him. "Give me the key," she demanded.
He shook his head. "Neither one of us will leave here until everything is said." He walked over to the stone fireplace and knelt to light the kindling beneath the large logs that were laid ready on the grate. He soon had a crackling fire blazing and sat back on his heels, gazing at the leaping flames. "Have you ever been to a bathhouse, Silver?"
"No. The key."
"That's right, they're not popular in America as they are here in Russia." He nodded at the door across the room. "That's the steam room. It's the practice to stay in there for a time and then when you've had enough to come back to this room."
"I'm not interested in this, Nicholas."
"You will be." He didn't look away from the fire. "Do you see those linden switches in the corner? After the steam bath it's the custom to take turns switching each other to stimulate the flow of blood beneath the skin. Then we go out into the garden and roll in the snow. It takes the breath from your body and is very invigorating."
"It sounds idiotic to me."
"You think most things Russian are peculiar or idiotic, don't you? This is no different."
"I want the key."
He rose to his feet and turned to look at her. She was standing very straight, her spine taut with an unbearable tension, her eyes blazing at him with fury. "That's not what you want." He turned and strode to the corner of the room, picked up one of the linden switches, and turned to face her. "This is what you want."
For a moment the anger in her eyes was tempered by surprise. "You're going to beat me? I'll fight you. I won't let you—"
"I have no int
ention of beating you. After what I saw that bastard Bassinger do to you on the Mary L, do you think I could ever bear to strike you?" His expression was unutterably weary as he crossed the room, put the switch in her hand, and closed her fingers around it. "This is for you." He smiled crookedly as he gazed into her eyes. "You want to punish me? Do it. The only thing I ask is that you tell me why."
She moistened her lips with her tongue. "I don't want to whip you. Just give me the key."
He shook his head. "The key is in the pocket of my coat." He took off the doeskin coat and folded it carefully. He turned back toward the fireplace and tossed the coat on top of the furs on the floor. He fell to his knees on the coat and began to loosen his belt. "You won't get the key. You're a prisoner, Silver."
"No!"
He pulled the tunic over his head and tossed it aside. His naked flesh gleamed in the firelight, the webbing of scars stark and white on the bronze of his back. "There, I'm helpless before you. You could even pull your little knife and plunge it in my back. Why didn't you try to use your knife before, Silver?"
"Because I didn't choose to use it."
"I think it was because you wanted this to happen. You wanted us to come to this point."
"Lies!"
"Whippings aren't new to me and that switch can do little damage. Igor used a knout on me. Go ahead. Punish me. But then tell me why."
Why was he mocking her like this, she wondered furiously. Didn't he realize how angry she was with him? Her voice was shaking as she said, "You think I won't do it. I will. I won't be kept here against my will."
"Then try to take the key. Use the switch."
She didn't even realize she'd obeyed him until the switch cracked against his back. Shock that was curiously like pain tore through her.
"That was scarcely a tap," he taunted. "You can do better than that."
Rage rose within her again in a red tide. The switch came down harder.
"Again." He looked into the fire as he laced his fingers together before him. "You'll never get the key that way."