Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm

  "The prince is not home to visitors, madame."

  "Perhaps if you just brought a message to him," she pleaded.

  "I'm afraid that's impossible. He can't be disturbed. If you could return, madame, at some future date. ..."

  "I want to see him today," she stubbornly insisted, her temper rising at the overbearing indifference of the man.

  The butler had learned long ago that the prince rarely wished to be disturbed by females of any kind, particularly—and his eyes swept Zena's protruding belly sardonically—pregnant females. As majordomo he was there to discourage just that sort of distraught individual. The prince demanded privacy in his own home.

  "Madame, I'm very sorry." His chill murmur was quelling.

  Tears of frustration stung Zena's eyes. Bobby tugged on her hand and piped up sweetly, "See Papa, me see Papa!" he had understood the mission they were on.

  The butler was far too well trained to display emotion, but he was definitely staggered. Good God! the august butler thought. Papa! At all costs he must see them out! The prince would definitely not want to receive these visitors. Firmly taking Zena's elbow, the stately, dutiful servant began guiding her to the door.

  A light footfall was heard on the stairs rising to the first floor, and a voice exclaimed, "The little prince!"

  All three figures turned to see Alex's valet, Feodor, descending the marble staircase. Bobby loosened his grip on Zena's hand and bounded toward his old friend.

  "It's all right, Harrison," Feodor explained. "In fact, it's perfect. This is Zena, Harrison, Princess Kuzan."

  The butler was profuse in his apologies. The entire staff knew of the prince's frantic search for his wife, but gossip had failed to note the fact that she was pregnant and had another child. He was contrite and humble over his mistake.

  "The Batiushka only woke from his sedative, madame," Feodor said. "Please come up."

  Zena followed him up the stairs and down a long corridor to a room on the south side of the palace commanding a magnificent view of the sea. Zena stood in the open doorway with Bobby while Feodor diplomatically withdrew.

  4

  Alex lay in an austere mahogany bed, the entire room sparsely furnished in a very masculine, severe Chippendale Chinoiserie style. It was a thoroughly incongruous sight in the ornate and filigreed Moorish palace. He looked splendidly well despite the bandages—very bronzed against the white linen, his dark hair brushed back, his eyes closed as he rested against the bolster of pillows. Glass doors were open onto a balcony overlooking the blue Mediterranean. The lengthening beams of the late afternoon sun streamed in, lighting the room with a diffuse golden glow.

  "May I come in?" Zena asked softly.

  At the sound of her voice Alex's eyes snapped toward the door, and the melancholy vanished from his expression. His face lit into his old, warm, inviting smile that had always struck Zena to the soul. His beautiful golden eyes met hers, and Zena almost cried aloud. His first thought as he saw her framed in the doorway was that she was more beautiful than he had remembered. Her memory had lived in his every waking moment despite his ruthless attempt to dispel and crush that tormented memory.

  "Darling!" His eyes blazed with joy; then he fell silent, uncertain for the first time in his life of his reception by a woman.

  Still standing at the door, Zena began, stammering, "Sasha, if. . . if. . . you want me, well, it won't matter . . ." "Ifl want you, child," Alex said somewhat unsteadily.

  When she had walked into his room, it seemed his heart had stopped. "There's nothing in this world I want more. I'll stop going to the Club. I'll stay home every night. Whatever you want." He halted abruptly in the midst of his explanation, frustrated.

  "Damn it!" Alex exploded. "I can't get up. Come here!"

  Zena flew across the room and fell hungrily into his embrace.

  Alex kissed her with the pent-up privation and need of a hundred fruitless nights of searching for her in other women's arms. Her lips were as sweet and soft as he had remembered. His eager longing deepened, and a savage need for her overwhelmed him. Zena clung to him as a drowning person clings to life. He was her life, and she was in his arms. Heaven could offer no more.

  He folded her to his heart, and they murmured their love for each other, trying to assuage the thirst and yearning of all their days of anguish. As he hugged her to him, as Zena pressed against the shelter of his chest, a little warm body squirmed and wiggled up onto the bed and burrowed between them.

  "Papa, me-—me, too," Bobby squealed insistently.

  Alex looked down into the imploring child's eyes, wrapped one strong arm lightly around Bobby, and hugged him close. It always amazed Zena how this large, powerful man could be so gentle when he wanted to.

  "I missed you, 'me too'," Alex grinned at the beaming cherubic face framed in dark curls. "Have you been keeping your sister busy?"

  "Zena not play much. I like Papa. He always play. Papa play now!" he demanded.

  "In a minute, Bobby. Papa wants to talk to Zena. Go and take a look in that dresser drawer over there." Alex pointed toward the chest on the opposite wall. "I think you'll find something to amuse you." The toys had been purchased in Warsaw on the trip south. Alex had been optimistically hopeful of reconciliation. Bobby nodded his understanding, slid off the bed with energetic vigor, and was soon seated on the floor supremely satisfied with the array of toys he had pulled pell-mell out of the drawer.

  Alex grinned. "I have a way with children, wouldn't you say?"

  Then his eyes sobered. He ran his hand over Zena's obtrusive stomach. "So, I've done this to you." He paused. "Do you hate me for it?" Zena's eyes dropped before his keen, searching gaze.

  "No, Sasha," she murmured, "not now."

  "Could you ever want me back?" he asked gently.

  Tears rose in Zena's eyes. "Yes, Sasha," she whispered hardly aloud, "with all my heart."

  His grip tightened convulsively in thanksgiving. "After you left without a trace ..."

  "But I sent you a note."

  "A note? Where?"

  "To the Club."

  "I never received it. Christ!" he gave a little bitter laugh. "You mean I could have avoided all the misery of the past few months?"

  "You never received it?" Zena whispered.

  "No, and I tried to make myself cynical again and forget all the beauty and joy you had brought into my life. I wanted to stop all the memories of you, and I did everything I could to distract myself. Then I saw your necklace."

  "My necklace?"

  "Yes, on Kasimir's wife. And in that instant I knew nothing had been of any use. I loved you and wanted you back.

  "Damn it, I'm no good at saying the right words," he declared in a low, brutal rasp. "I've never used them before—only seductive words, the playful, make-believe, required words—never the real ones. . . ." He stumbled over the explanation, this charming rogue who had given so many women so much pleasure but never his love. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "I love you," he said very simply. "Do you still love me? Or is it too late?"

  "I never stopped loving you. I tried, I really tried, but I couldn't."

  "I think I tried, too. It didn't work. I found I only missed you more. No woman ever was able to replace you."

  "Women?" Zena said with an undisguised pique.

  Alex's eyes began to glitter ominously. "And the man in the park?" he inquired suspiciously.

  "That's how you were run over, then," Zena exclaimed understandingly.

  " That's how I was run over. The blind rage obscured my vision," he grinned. "Now about the man in the park," he repeated menacingly.

  "Alistar is just a friend."

  "Alistar?" her husband queried forbiddingly.

  "He was very kind to me, Sasha."

  "How kind?" He couldn't help himself. Despite his own profligacy he had this ungovernable jealousy regarding Zena. It simply didn't respond to any reasonable logic.

  "Just kind," Zena answered emphatically. She went on to expl
ain. "He's English. Two years ago he lost his wife after a long illness. I think he's lonely."

  "Hell, if he's lonely, I'll send him a dozen women tomorrow to keep him company. He doesn't need my wife!" Alex declared indignantly.

  "Oh, Sasha, he's not wild like you." Her eyes sparkled at the thought of a dozen women deposited on Alistair's doorstep. "He's very quiet and sedate."

  "In that case, I'll send him a dozen very quiet and sedate women."

  "You're not serious, are you?" Zena asked apprehensively.

  "Of course not," was the light reply. Then Alex sternly said, "But he damn well better leave my wife alone."

  Zena's eyes shone. "Why, Sasha, you're jealous."

  "You noticed," he growled grumpily.

  "Are you going to be difficult?" she teased, warmed by the thought that he cared so deeply, enchanted by his jealousy.

  "I'm always difficult, if you remember, pet," and he smiled. "And while I'm being difficult, one slight demand more." Zena raised her brows provocatively. "I'm serious now," he retorted. "We must be married immediately."

  "Whatever for?"

  "Tribal rites may be all well and good, charming, quaint, filthy chickens and all," he grimaced at the reminiscence, "but my child must be born under a legal and binding decree. I want no problems with inheritance."

  "Nonsense!" came the curt reply. "The empire has always recognized the tribal marriages."

  "Through necessity, dear, only through necessity. They can't enforce one single statute a half mile off the military roads," Alex said.

  "It's ridiculous, needless. Don't even talk about it," Zena firmly replied, sentimentally feeling that her parents' marriage ceremony had been tribal and blessed with happiness.

  "I've been thinking," Alex went on calmly, "that if the wedding took place here quietly at the end of next week, we might run over to Algiers in my yacht for a honeymoon. Biskra is pleasant enough now."

  "A honeymoon!" Zena exclaimed. "Wouldn't I look just perfect on a honeymoon!"

  "Just perfect, my dear," returned Alex. "Now I'm glad you're beginning to consider the notion."

  "You misunderstand!" Zena shot back tersely.

  "Ah! You prefer that it should be earlier than next week. Why didn't you say so?"

  "Sasha, you idiot, you're impossible."

  "Well, sweet, I never said I was perfect. Now, if it's St. Petersburg you're holding out for and a large society wedding, do say so at once," continued Alex, "for with . . . well, the . . . extenuating circumstances," and he cast a mocking glance at her enormous stomach, "we'll have to make the beastly journey posthaste."

  "Listen to me, damn you!" Zena cried. "Haven't I made it decidedly clear that another marriage is not necessary?"

  "All I beg is that you'll not run me too fine," went on Alex imperturbably. "One can seldom get the Lady of Kazan Cathedral in St. Petersburg under two or three days' notice."

  Zena stared at Alex wide-eyed at his impudence.

  "Sasha!" bewailed his wife. "Why do you harass me?"

  "So you'll say yes, love," he replied plainly, "and so I'll be able to sleep again at night knowing my child is secure in his patrimony."

  "Does it mean that much to you?" she gravely asked.

  "It does." His eyes were quite somber. He held her glance while she hesitated. He really was serious. Perhaps he was right about the inheritance; she had never given it a thought.

  "Very well," she agreed.

  He sighed in relief.

  "Good, now that's all settled. When?" he asked. "And where?"

  "I don't care, Sasha. Somewhere quiet. When you're more than eight months pregnant, a large wedding isn't comme il faut."

  "Child," he said earnestly, "if you want a large wedding, you'll have a large wedding."

  "No, no, Sasha. I didn't mean that at all," she rushed to say. He was deadly serious. His sweetness and arrogance were quite heartwarming. "There wouldn't be any time to have a dress made," she impishly continued.

  "Hell, that's no problem, if that's all that's worrying you." He was still perfectly willing to oblige her.

  "Really, Sasha, I was only teasing about the dress."

  "Are you sure?" he searchingly replied. He understood that women had a fondness and enthusiasm for wedding niceties, and their first one had certainly not been tonish. He was content to have the most grandiose wedding the world had seen if Zena wanted one.

  She returned his look with eyes brimming with love. "Yes. I'm really sure. The Russian Chapel and two witnesses would be fine."

  "Is tomorrow too soon?" Alex asked anxiously. "My ribs are strapped pretty well. I think I can manage. Let's hope this will be the last time we're married. I seem to have the unfortunate habit of incurring broken bones immediately prior to my marriages. I don't know if I care to go through this a third time."

  Zena said calmly, "Tomorrow's fine," and her heart sang.

  5

  By dint of moving heaven and earth, for the wheels of French bureaucracy moved with irksome sluggishness, they were married in the small jewel of the Russian Chapel at Nice.

  Zena had written a note of apology to Alistair for any unhappiness she may have caused him. He responded with his customary sweet, tender understanding, wishing only sincere joy and good fortune in her reconciliation with Sasha.

  Alex also received a note from the Earl of Glenagle but declined mentioning it to Zena.

  Despite his light disclaimer to his wife apropos gifts of females, Alex had sent his rival a dozen women; he hoped they were all suitably quiet and sedate, although he had had the devil of a time searching his memory in order to procure that particular style of woman, since his reckless, unorthodox nature normally avoided the type.

  The "gift" had been dispatched in two carriages with a note expressing his gratitude for the earl's devotion and defense of his wife. The note also expressed in a thoroughly masculine, ribald way, the whimsical hope that one or several of these women might be a modest, trifling consolation for the loss of Zena. A postscript had suggested the gift not be acknowledged, since Zena wouldn't approve.

  Alistair responded nevertheless, sending Ridgely with a

  personal message to the prince, in which he indicated his hearty approval of Alex's taste in women. With his usual well-bred, understated reserve, he declared that while the loss of Zena was inconsolable, it had been mitigated considerably by the very pleasant, delightful company of twelve beautiful and genial women.

  Alex quirked an understanding, exceedingly satisfied smile and tossed the note into the fire.

  Because of the physical limitations of both bride and groom, their second honeymoon night was quiet. Telegrams had been sent to their family and friends informing them of the reconciliation and remarriage. They were staying that night in the villa and then leaving in Alex's yacht, the Southern Star, for a brief cruise to Biskra, with the intention of returning to Nice in two weeks to await the birth of their child.

  As they lay in each other's arms that night, Alex noted a subdued mood had descended on Zena.

  "Penny for your thoughts, child," he whispered. Despite the bulk of the baby she still seemed very fragile and young to him.

  "Sasha, is it ungrateful after all our tumultuous problems, is it childishly ungrateful to have the tiniest wish to occasionally be something more than a lover, wife, and mother?"

  "Woman," Alex retorted with a mocking pomposity, "what was good enough for my mother is good enough for my wife."

  "Don't tease, Sasha, I mean it."

  Smiling warmly at her he said gently, "Ah, the bluestocking soul lives on. It's all right, dear. If you were a bubble-headed society miss, I wouldn't want you. They are quite literally available by the carriage load. Miss Bluestocking doesn't have to be locked away, dear, just because you're a wife and mother. Listen, sweetheart, if you want to be involved in the new wave of women's rights, I'll build you a women's college. Just name the site. It's yours. We'll have the most insufferably bright children in the empire. Or if
you want to research those migration routes your father was interested in, do that. I'll put together whatever caravan you need. We'll spend the rest of our lives clinging to rocky mountain byways. Look, I'll go and pack right now." He grinned and began to get out of bed.

  Zena pushed him back. "You're mocking me, scoffing at me."

  "Christ, no, I'm being full of understanding and all those husbandly attributes. Well, one small favor, perhaps. Could you wait a week or so until our baby is born? The idea of you delivering my firstborn on some precarious mountain eagle's nest worries me somewhat."

  Maybe he was teasing slightly, but at bottom, Alex meant what he said. He would give Zena whatever she wanted. Her happiness and pleasure were his delight. If it was bluestocking notions arid historical surveys, she would have them.

  "And I'm not mocking you, little one. Good Lord, what do I have to do, anyway? Hunting in winter, war games in August, the social season in St. Petersburg and Paris—the life of an idle aristocrat I will gladly relinquish without a qualm. All those stale amusements only serve as change of scene in the endless tedium. If you could see your way to take a break or two in your life scheme of feminine progress to give me two or three children, I and the nursery will be more than happy to spend eternity as companions to you in a continuous trek up and down the mountain trails. So come here, my little suffragette, and tell me our itinerary."

  "Sasha, really? You wouldn't mind?" Her eyes sparkled. Then her face dropped, and she looked dismayed. "But a little baby. It wouldn't work."

  "Like hell, it won't, dushka." Alex lifted Zena's chin, and his golden eyes held her. "You don't know the power of the Kuzan fortune. I'll hire enough litter bearers to hand-carry you and Bobby and that little tyke of ours and nursemaids and nannies and governesses up and down every mountain peak and in and out of every mountain village and hamlet in the Caucasus. That's what I'm here for, to lean on, to rely on. I'll carry you myself, if need be, and do your walking for you." He took her beautiful, provocative face between his hands and said quiet simply, "I'll take you wherever you want to go whenever you want to. You're never leaving my sight again. I don't have the courage to face the awful agony of being separated from you. Promise me." He was very solemn. "Promise you'll never leave me."