There was a moment of complete terror, when Sophie felt the power of thought and movement gone from her. Then she saw Boris Mikhailov standing between two of the prince’s attendants. A bloodied weal slashed his cheek. She had seen such a mark many times in her days in this house. Prince Dmitriev used his cane indiscriminately. Fear for herself vanished as if it had never been. She must protect Boris and ensure that not a suspicion could fall upon Adam.
Recognizing instinctively that her position way up atop her Cossack stallion would put her husband at a physical disadvantage, one which would increase the viciousness of his fury, she swung to the ground before reaching him, crossing the yard on foot, her eyes not once meeting those of Boris Mikhailov.
“Who assisted you in this act of flagrant disobedience?” Her husband’s voice was hard, clipped, seemingly dispassionate yet somehow imbued with the same ferocity that caused the bravest soldier under his command to tremble.
Sophie knew she must take his anger onto herself by a show of insolent bravado—a show that would negate all her efforts of the past weeks to convince him he had succeeded in driving the spirit of rebellion from her soul. An eyebrow lifted. “Why should you imagine I needed help, Paul? I have been able to saddle my own mount since I could first ride.” Her eyes flicked toward Boris, almost indifferently. “You have no reason to hold Boris Mikhailov responsible. Even had I wished for his assistance, I would not have known where to find him in the middle of the night, or how to do so without waking others.” She shrugged with seeming insouciance, continuing swiftly, “When you did not come to me last night, I realized that you had not returned home. I had thought to have my ride and be back in the house without anyone knowing that I had left it.”
He stared at her with his cold eyes as if he would bore into her skull. She met the stare, armored against fear by the knowledge of those others dependent for their safety upon her ability to see this through. His head jerked toward the attendants, who stepped away from their prisoner. Dmitriev’s gaze flickered in disgust over his wife’s costume, missing not a speck of dust, not a tangled wisp of her hair.
“Why was that habit not burned with your other clothes?”
It seemed as if the question of Boris had been won by default. “Maria did not find it,” Sophie said deliberately, not averse to sacrificing the spy to Paul’s wrath, if by so doing she would further deflect that wrath from Boris.
“Then she must be taught to look with greater care,” observed the prince in the same cold, dispassionate tone. “And this time you will learn, my dear wife, the lesson I had thought already taken.” That travesty of a smile touched the thin lips. “Let us go inside.” With a gesture of mock courtesy, he bowed slightly, gesturing toward the mansion before laying an apparently considerate, husbandly hand upon her arm.
Sophie only just managed to control her jump of alarm and revulsion. His fingers curled over her forearm, gripping with bruising pressure as she and the prince strolled into the house with all the appearance of a couple in perfect accord.
“First, you will show me how you left the house,” he said calmly when they had reached the hall.
In normal circumstances, the household would only just be stirring, but Sophie was conscious of shadowy figures seemingly afraid to show themselves. Servants terrified that they would be implicated in the princess’s escape? She had lived in this household long enough to know what they feared. The butler, who had opened the door for them, now stood rigid, his face working.
“I climbed through the dining room window,” Sophie said, as calmly as her husband. She felt the anger surge through the powerful frame so close to her at this added reminder of the hoydenish tendencies he had believed eradicated.
He marched into the dining room, maintaining the painful grip on her arm. She showed him the window, still unlatched although drawn closed. “It seems that some members of my household have need to be taught their duties,” murmured the prince in the tone of voice that spelled torment for the watchman.
Sophie swallowed. She could do nothing to help the man, could only be sorry that she had caused him suffering, even while she wondered what her own punishment would be.
“After such an energetic night, my dear, I am sure you have need of your bed,” said her husband, in the silkily solicitous tone he always used when tightening the bars of her cage.
Sophie fixed her gaze on a whorl embedded in the heavy damask wall hanging. She must not let him see how she feared the thought of a repetition of those dark days, drifting in a drugged trance. “I find I am a little fatigued,” she managed to say, hoping to deceive him. “I should welcome the opportunity for a few hours’ sleep.”
“Then let us go upstairs, my dear Sophia.”
In Sophie’s bedchamber, a quivering Maria stood beside the empty, tumbled bed. “I had no idea, lord,” she stammered. “Her Highness said nothing…”
“Why should you imagine she would say anything, you fool!” snapped the prince, whose polite facade did not extend to serfs, errant or otherwise. “In future, you will sleep across the princess’s door.”
“Yes, lord.” Maria bobbed curtsies as if she were on a marionette’s string.
“Help Her Highness into bed, and remove that garment which you so signally failed to dispose of earlier,” the prince instructed acidly. “For your negligence, you shall have six lashes.”
The serf’s complexion went gray as putty, but the sentence was lighter than she could have expected. Sophie avoided looking at her, while she waited to hear her own sentence pronounced in the form of a considerate summoning of the physician, but her husband merely offered an ironic bow.
“I will leave you to your rest, my dear. I trust you will feel less fatigued at dinnertime.”
So she was not to face the laudanum imprisonment again? If not that, what? After the departure of the tearful though mute Maria, Sophie lay in the darkened bedchamber. Would Adam know by now of the discovery of her escapade? Presumably the general’s surprisingly premature return would be known in Preobrazhenskoye, in which case Adam would be in a fever of anxiety.
The morning dragged interminably. Sophie was unable to sleep, despite her largely sleepless night. She lay awash with trepidation, not daring to rise and show herself about the house in case Paul, choosing to interpret such restlessness as a sign of ill health, should act accordingly.
It was just after noon when a timid knock at the door heralded the arrival of a young maidservant whom Sophie did not remember seeing before; not that that was unusual, since the army of serfs staffing the Dmitriev mansion was enormous, and constantly subject to change as serfs were moved, sold, or brought in for training from the country estates.
“If you please, Princess, I’m here to help you dress for dinner.” The girl bobbed a curtsy.
“Where is Maria?” Sophie sat up, pushing aside the bedcovers, unable to hide her relief at this end to bed rest.
The girl turned away, burying her face in the armoire. “She’s in the servants’ quarters, Princess. She’ll be keeping to her bed for a day or two.”
Sophie said nothing. She should have known better than to ask. Sentences in the Dmitriev household were always summarily executed. Except, she thought, for her own in this instance. That had not even been pronounced yet.
Nor was the matter referred to throughout dinner, which was undertaken in customary formality and with the minimum of conversation. Sophie forced herself to eat, to drink, to ask a polite question about her husband’s visit to Czarskoye Selo, even to listen to the answer. And all the while she felt as she had when waiting for the rabid wolf to show himself in the long grass, poised to spring for the jugular. Now, as then, she must be prepared for any eventuality, must keep her mind’s eye free of the images that would create the fear that would impede clear thinking and the smooth reactions on which her safety and that of others depended.
The meal ended as always at precisely three o’clock. Punctiliously, Sophie performed the ritual of thanks, receiving a cool bow in return.
“Why do you not visit the stables, my dear Sophia?” suggested the prince. “It is a most pleasant afternoon, and I expect you would enjoy being out of doors after your quiet morning.”
The wolf had shown himself. She knew it with absolute certainty as she looked into her husband’s pale eyes, where swam a shark of complacent anticipation—anticipation of another’s pain.
Was it Boris? No, she must not speculate; if she did so she would be unable to conceal her dread, and Paul would read it on her face. He must not have that satisfaction.
“What a considerate suggestion, Paul,” she said, smiling blandly. “I would, indeed, enjoy a walk in the sunshine.”
“I have certain matters to go through with Colonel, Count Danilevski in my study this afternoon. However, I will be escorting you to Countess Narishkina’s soirée this evening.” A smile flickered over his lips, but the smile in his eyes was far from pleasant. “The Narishkins returned to the city last week. I received their invitation yesterday and had thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you…a little social diversion.” The thin-lipped smile vanished. “I do trust it is not unwise of me to permit this diversion, Sophia. Her Imperial Majesty will be in residence again in the Winter Palace at the beginning of next week, I understand, so there will be other invitations during the winter season. It would be a great pity if your behavior necessitated your withdrawal from society.”
“I cannot withdraw from something which I have not yet entered, Paul,” Sophie pointed out quietly. The certainty that he had taken reprisals—reprisals that she was about to discover—for her nighttime ride, somehow made arousing his anger with a further show of spirit unimportant. Indeed, it gave her some satisfaction as she felt a resurgence of the Sophia Alexeyevna of Berkholszkoye—one who did not easily yield up control of her destiny. The meek facade behind which that Sophia had been concealed suddenly appeared a cowardly deceit, an abnegation of her true self.
She met the stab of cold fury in his eyes with a steady gaze, then curtsied deliberately. “If you will excuse me, Paul, I will take my walk to the stables.”
Dmitriev watched her walk away from him, her head high, carriage erect, just as she had used to walk before her wedding night. Had he miscalculated? Obviously, to some extent he had. He had believed her spirit broken, but the belief was clearly premature. However, she was about to be reminded that acts of independence and disobedience would meet with exemplary and appropriate penalties.
He stood, frowning, massaging the palm of one hand with his thumb. For some reason, he was deriving much less than the expected satisfaction from his possession of Sophia Ivanova’s daughter. He had thought that this possession would compensate for the loss of the other, that in the subjugation to his will of a Golitskova he would experience the satisfaction of a neat revenge for the humiliations and frustrations of the past. But she lay like a stone beneath him, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, as he spilled his seed. While her lack of pleasure did not concern him, the complete indifference she evinced was almost insulting…condescending in some way. And she had not conceived. An heir would make up for everything, but add barrenness to her other faults and it would appear that, with the exception of her fortune, he had made a poor bargain. However, he could ensure her submission, and he would do so. It would not be difficult to make her life even less pleasant than it was at present if she continued to show herself intractable. On that comforting determination, Prince Paul Dmitriev went upstairs to his study to await the arrival of his aide-de-camp.
As Sophie walked through the mansion she became conscious of something strange, something not quite right about the household. It took her a minute to realize that even in this usually depressing atmosphere she would generally encounter a murmured greeting, a half smile from the domestic serfs as she went about the house. Now, eyes slid away from her, bodies shrank into the shadows at her approach, as if at the approach of a pariah. Of course, two quite innocent people had been flogged as a result of her activities. It was obviously considered safer to keep away from the mistress’s purview as far as possible.
A despondent wave washed through her, adding to the sum of her unhappiness. She was friendless, apart from Adam and Boris, whose feelings toward her, however powerful they might be, could not be made manifest, and therefore could do her no good.
But what of Boris now? Her step quickened anxiously at that thought. What would she find in the stables? Would she pass through the courtyard to find Boris Mikhailov hanging by his hands from the scaffold, his back in bloody tatters from the great knout? The image brought a nut of nausea to lodge in her throat; she had difficulty keeping to a walking pace, her eyes darting from side to side in dread of what they might fall upon. But the courtyard was deserted; only the freshly scrubbed condition of the paving at the base of the scaffold, gleaming white beneath the heedless afternoon sun, offered mute witness to the blood-spattered torments of the night watchman.
Boris was drawing water from the well in the stable yard as she hurried in. When he straightened, looking toward her, she knew that something dreadful had happened. The giant muzhik appeared to stoop, and the usually piercing black eyes were dulled with sadness; quite suddenly the gray hair and beard seemed accurate reflections of his years instead of the incongruous indications of a man past his prime.
“What is it? What has happened?” The questions emerged through stiff lips, a throat of sand, as she hurried toward him, for once not caring that they would be seen by the stable hands and grooms to be talking privately.
His face twisted with sorrow. He took her hands in his, grasping strongly. “It is Khan, Princess.”
“Khan!” Black dots swam before her eyes. “Dead? Has he had him shot?” It was the worst she could think of, but the muzhik shook his head.
“It would be better so. The prince has sold him.”
“Sold him?” She stared, aghast. Khan could not serve another master, could not be tended by other than Boris Mikhailov, who had just spoken the truth. The stallion would be better shot than broken to another will. Because he would have to be broken; he could not be bought by kindness, and he was far too mighty a creature to be mastered by the puny strength of a mere man. “Sold him?” she repeated in a whisper. “To whom, Boris?”
Despair darkened his features. “To a horse trader, for three imperials.”
Thirty rubles! He had sold that priceless animal for a mere thirty rubles to a horse trader, one of the notorious breed who would not care what he had bought for such a miserable sum, would care only about reselling him. And to do that, Khan would have to be beaten and starved into submission, for no one would pay good money for the wild beast he would appear to be in unfamiliar hands.
“No…no, it cannot be!” Sophie shook her head in disbelief. “You must be mistaken, Boris Mikhailov.”
“I wish I were,” the muzhik said gently. “But I was present at the sale. Holy Mother forgive me, but I handed Khan over to him.”
“You cannot blame yourself for that,” she said dully. “I know you would have had no choice.” She turned away from the pain in his eyes. So this was what her husband had been so anxious she should hear. He would have known, also, how much it would hurt Boris to be the one to tell her.
Abruptly, she was engulfed with rage, a blind fury welling up from the depths of her soul to vanquish all thoughts of caution, all fear of the man who controlled her existence. The temper that she had struggled so strenuously to contain in the last weeks burst its restraints, and she was running toward the house, catching up her skirts to free her stride. She ran through the house, taking the stairs two at a time, heedless of the amazed stares, the forest fire of astonished whispers she left in her wake. Without ceremony, she burst into Prince Dmitriev’s study.
Adam, swinging around from the window, recognized the Sophia Alexeyevna he had first met, the fiery creature who had turned into a Fury when he caught her bridle.
Paul Dmitriev saw a woman he had not seen before. The dark eyes were almost black in their outrage, glaring in her whitened face, her mouth drawn back in a grimace of rage.
“How dare you!” The door crashed against the wall as she flung it from her. “How dare you sell Khan? How could you condemn such a beautiful creature to a slow death? What has he done that he should deserve such a fate? You had as well sell me to a horse trader as a Cossack stallion. I cannot imagine a more stupid vengeance…mindless to sacrifice such a beast—”
“Be silent!” thundered Prince Dmitriev, recovering from the shock of this incredible outburst. “You forget yourself.” His voice had dropped to an icy, dangerous calm. “If you imagine I will tolerate such a disgraceful public outburst from my wife, Sophia Alexeyevna, you are much mistaken.”
Sophie’s eyes darted toward Adam, who stood like a graven image beside the window, his expression completely impassive. “If you will excuse me,” he said now, bowing to his general. “I am de trop.” Without another word, he left the study, abandoning Sophie to Dmitriev’s anger even as she took an involuntary half step toward him.
“You will go to your bedchamber and calm yourself,” the prince now said with the same icy calm.
The anger ran from her, to be replaced by a bleak hopelessness. “Khan belonged to me,” she said in a low voice. “You had no right—”
“You will not talk to me about my rights,” he snapped. “You are my wife, and you may count as yours only those possessions I permit. I will dispose of any others as I see fit. Now, go to your bedchamber. Quite clearly, you are too overwrought to attend the countess’s soirée this evening. You will keep to your bed until I consider you have fully recovered from this extraordinary outburst. If you oblige me to summon the physician, I shall have no hesitation in doing so.”
Sophie turned and left without another word. In the Wild Lands, she had learned the wisdom of accepting defeat. It did not mean that one could not fight again, and her grandfather had told her to apply the rules of the Wild Lands to her new life. Her grandfather…She had not wanted to worry him with her tale of woe, had wanted to see this through herself, but he had told her that he would not send her without armor into this new world; if she had need of him she had only to send Boris Mikhailov with a message. Now she knew that she would fall back on that weapon in her armory. She would appeal to the old prince, who would be outraged by such an inhumane and pointless act as had been perpetrated this day.
But she could not put the plan into effect for the moment. She must keep to her bed as ordered, endure her grief, mourn in silence for the loss of a part of herself, show her husband the face of submission and docility until she was released from the imprisonment of her room.
Adam, hardly able to contain his own rage at the senseless violence of Dmitriev’s revenge, left the general’s palace, haunted by the knowledge of Sophie’s pain. He found Boris Mikhailov in the stable yard and hailed him, credibly imperious. “A word with you, fellow!”
Boris touched his forelock. “Yes, lord.” He hastened over to the count, bowing. There was nothing in either the summons or the demeanor of the count or the muzhik to draw remark from the other serfs in the yard, who, after a casual look at their master’s aide-de-camp, continued with their own tasks.
“What do you know of this horse trader?” Adam asked softly.
“From Georgia,” Boris replied as softly. “Said he was taking the road to Smolensk this afternoon with a string of horses. Seemed mighty pleased with himself.” The black eyes hardened. “Had good reason to be, with such a buy as Khan for three imperials.”
“Three imperials!” Adam was betrayed into a gasp. Then he recovered himself. “The road to Smolensk?”
Boris nodded, glancing up at the sun. “Left about four hours ago, lord. A fast horse would catch him in half that; a string of horses, some of ’em half-broke, isn’t easy to manage at speed.”
“What do I need to know to manage Khan on a leading rein?” The question was clipped, businesslike, and received a similar response.
“Keep him on the left side. He’s inclined to shy at sudden movements.” Boris tapped out the factors on his forefinger. “He doesn’t like a strange hand on his bridle, so he’ll probably put you to the test. Keep the rein short. When he shies don’t tug him, just hold him and pray. If he’s going to take off, there’s nothing you can do to stop him, anyway.” Boris frowned, thinking. “Oh, and Sophia Alexeyevna always talks to him. Swears it calms him.” He shrugged, smiling slightly. “I don’t know if another voice would work as well, though.”
“My talent for mimicry is somewhat underdeveloped,” observed Adam dryly. “Let us hope I am not required to attempt it.”
“And the princess…?” Boris asked hesitantly.
“Knows nothing of this, yet. She has fallen foul of her husband and I cannot help her in any other way, Boris Mikhailov.” Frustration scudded across the lean, aristocratic features. “A man’s wife is his own.” Except that that rule had not applied to his own wife—the faithless Eva and her unknown lover. Why the devil should he adhere to…No! He would not repeat the wrongs that had been done to him. But the reiterated decision seemed to have lost some of its force under his fury at Dmitriev’s senseless viciousness, under Adam’s overpowering need to help Sophie in whatever way he could, under the memory of their shared declaration in the hour before dawn.
“I will keep Khan in my own stables,” he said now. “If you have the opportunity, tell Sophia Alexeyevna that I will succeed in this. I will redeem Khan from the trader; he will be quite safe with me.”
Not for one minute did it occur to Boris Mikhailov to doubt the count’s statement. If this man set out to do something, he would succeed. “I’ll tell her, lord. For all her fortitude, such cruelty will have pierced deep.”
Adam, thinking of the virago who had confronted Dmitriev, smiled despite his bleakness. “It will take more than the general to break her, Boris.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” the muzhik replied somberly. “Anyone can be broken with sufficient time. His Highness has all the time he needs, seems to me.”
Adam, who could find no words of comforting contradiction, left immediately, taking the road to Smolensk in pursuit of the horse trader.
Boris Mikhailov stood frowning in the stable yard. He had not confided his suspicion that the general had some reason of his own, some reason from the dark past, for his treatment of Sophia Alexeyevna. What could be gained by revealing his unsubstantiated hunch either to Sophia Alexeyevna or to the count?
Prince Dmitriev went alone to Countess Narishkina’s soirée, offering a bland excuse for his wife’s absence with a severe migraine. He stayed for an hour, was charming, accepting renewed congratulations on his wedding with soft-spoken thanks, smiled gratefully when he was told by various prominent ladies that they would call upon his wife in the next week, murmured how pleased Sophia Alexeyevna would be, and how grateful he would be for their interest in his young and inexperienced wife, who was in need of much guidance. Then, like the most uxorious husband, he pleaded his sick wife’s bedside and left.
Once home, he went to his own apartments, where he prepared himself for the night. Then, clad in his dressing gown, he entered his wife’s bedchamber without ceremony. The room was in semidarkness, only a night light burning on the table, the curtains drawn tight around the bed. Twitching aside the bed curtains, he looked upon the pale, drawn face of the Princess Dmitrievna.
“You look like a sick cat,” he commented coldly, untying the girdle of his robe. “It would appear that I was not altogether guilty of untruth when I said a headache had kept you from this evening’s dissipations.”
“As it happens, I am not well,” Sophie murmured, looking at him through half-closed eyes. “The time of the month…”
Dmitriev’s face darkened with annoyance. He retied his girdle with ominous deliberation. “Clearly we must try harder, my dear. And you must strive for a little more composure. These violent outbursts cannot be good for you.” He left the chamber, and Sophie heard the key grate in the lock of her door.
She turned her face into her pillow, fighting the tears, the despairing hopelessness that could only worsen this living death, the desperate longing for Adam. How she ached to be held again in love and tenderness, to feel again the wondrous blossoming deep in her body beneath the sweet caress of his lips. What would it be like to share with Adam this cold, hurtful act in which she participated with her husband? There could be no comparison. But she would never find out. The tears flowed despite her efforts, tears for herself, for her grandfather, lonely at Berkholzskoye, so many tears for Khan, tears for Adam and for a love that could only wither unnurtured.
The door was not unlocked until noon of the following day. She did not bother to ring the bell for the little maidservant, being fairly confident that for as long as her door remained locked, any summons would be unanswered. The mortification of being ignored by the servants, even though they would be doing so on her husband’s orders, was more than she could bear. She would pretend to be asleep, lost in peaceful oblivion. No one, least of all her husband, should have the satisfaction of thinking she might be suffering from this neglect.
When the key sounded again in the lock, she propped herself up against the pillows, schooling her expression to one evincing an anxious desire to please. “Good day, Paul.” She greeted him with the hesitant smile she had perfected over the weeks, as if the circumstances were quite ordinary.
He fitted the key in the inside lock again, before approaching the bed. “You had better summon your maid to help you dress for dinner. I am expecting guests.”
“Guests!” She could not control the surprised exclamation. “Count Danilevski, you mean?”
“I do not consider my aide-de-camp to be a guest,” her husband informed her. “When he dines here it is simply because we have work to do.”
Sophie, afraid that she had been on the verge of betraying herself by that incautious question, dropped her eyes to the coverlet, murmuring meekly, “Yes, I do see that, Paul. How foolish of me.”
He regarded her with a degree of suspicion. Until yesterday, he would not have doubted the sincerity of her meek demeanor, but now he was unsure. However, she had suffered some severe blows since then: the loss of her horse, denial of a social visit for which she must have longed after the long period of isolation, then the mortification of this imprisonment of which she must have known the servants were aware.
He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “As it happens, my guests are regimental colleagues newly returned from an expedition to Kazan. Count Danilevski will also be joining us. I trust the role of hostess will not be beyond you.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You will not be required to participate in the conversation beyond the formalities, and you will leave the table as soon as the meal is over.”
Rebellious fury welled anew at these insulting instructions better suited to a child at an adult’s table or a poor relation dependent upon charity. She kept her eyes down, stilling the angry trembling of her fingers, concentrating on the singing thought that Adam would be present throughout the interminable tedium. Perhaps they could steal a glance, exchange a comment that would carry a meaning apparent only to the two of them.
“You will be in the drawing room to greet my guests at a quarter to two,” Paul informed her, marching to the door. “You will not dress yourself too elaborately—a morning gown will be sufficient for the modest part I wish you to play.”
“Yes, Paul,” Sophie dutifully murmured; then, as the door closed behind him, she picked up the brass candlestick beside the bed and hurled it at the paneling. There was a splintering crash, and she waited with bated breath to see if it would bring him back into the room. But the door remained closed. The violent gesture had so relieved her feelings that she could almost laugh at the thought of how she was to explain a bent candlestick and splintered paneling to her maid. At least it wouldn’t be Maria for a while longer, and the timid little girl presently allocated to her didn’t seem to have the makings of a spy.
She pulled the bell rope with a surge of energy and flung open the door to her armoire. Maybe she had been forbidden to dress with any ceremony, but there was some pleasure in the thought that she was to lay eyes upon representatives of the outside world, and they would have to respond to her in some small way, just as a matter of simple courtesy.
A smile played over her lips as she dressed in a gown of apple green cambric over a very small hoop. She was remembering the first evening with Adam, when, in customary careless fashion, she had presented herself for supper in her dusty riding habit and boots, hair still wind-whipped. In the few weeks at court before her wedding, she had discovered some of the pleasures to be found in an elaborate wardrobe and the sophistication of ceremonial dress. Her present gown was elegant in its simplicity. The color brought out the deep highlights in the rich brown hair coiled heavily around her head to frame her oval face. A lace fichu at the neck of the gown bespoke modesty, but it exactly matched the froth of lace foaming at the edge of the elbow-length sleeves. Her forearms seemed to curve nicely, Sophie thought, examining them for the first time in her life with a frown of interest. She turned them this way and that, admiring the daintiness of her wrist, the smooth creaminess of her skin.
Her lip curled in sudden distaste. What was the point of admiring her so-called charms when they were laid to waste night after night beneath an indifferent husband? What did Adam think of her arms? Perhaps they were a little too muscular for true elegance…. Oh, stop it! She scolded herself vigorously for such pointless, potentially hurtful musings, as she slipped into the deep pocket of her decorative apron the letter to her grandfather she had written during her imprisonment the previous evening. It was possible she would be able to slip away to the stables, and she must be prepared to seize whatever opportunities arose. Armored with the decision, she went downstairs to the drawing room.
When Sophie appeared in the drawing room, curtsying politely to her husband and the two senior officers of the Semeonovsky regiment of the Imperial Guard, Adam covertly, carefully, scrutinized her. There was nothing out of the ordinary in her demeanor, no indication that she had suffered unusual hurt as a result of her outburst over Khan. There was one moment when those dark eyes met his inspection. In their depths he read a glimmer of complicity, a glow of warmth, instantly extinguished when she turned from him to murmur some meek assent to a comment from General Arkcheyev.
She was not going to break, Adam decided. If anything, he thought he could sense a resurgence of the old Sophie, as if, instead of crushing her further with his cruelty over Khan, Dmitriev had had the opposite effect. She had gone beyond his power to hurt.
She did not yet know that Khan was safe and sound in Adam’s stables. Boris had said the princess had not appeared since the previous afternoon. When she had that knowledge, it would augment her will to resist. But he could not stifle the slow burn of rage at Dmitriev’s manner, which, by effectively excluding his wife from the conversation, implied that her presence was simply a necessary nuisance.
Sophie retreated into herself—a trick she had taught herself in the last two months. The pompous voices, the laughter growing louder, more immoderate, as the wine and vodka passed back and forth, drifted, unheeded, over her head. She was vaguely conscious that her husband had imbibed much more than was his custom, or, at least, his custom at this dinner table; what he did when he was with his friends was a different matter. A flush had appeared on his sallow cheeks, and his movements were not as precise. A knife clattered against a plate, wine spilled over the lip of his glass. His voice became, if not slurred, then a trifle thick. But this condition was shared by his two friends.
Adam, alone, remained as cool and distant as ever. Sophie’s eyes slid across the smooth, polished surface of the table, around the heavy silver serving dishes, over the delicate delftware, the cut glass goblets, to lift in a secret whisper of a glance to his face. His lips moved fractionally, yet she felt the kiss they gave as a vital force, as real as if it had been planted upon her mouth, now tingling in response. Desire, invincible, swelled within her, filling every corner of her body. There was a moment when it shone, naked, from her eyes, glowing now as they looked openly at him, meeting a hunger to match her own. Then sharp warning sparked in his eyes, dousing passion, and she lowered her gaze to her plate.
Filled with a secret joy, Sophie left the dining room the minute she could decently do so. The drinking was continuing, and three of the four seemed set fair for an afternoon that would vanish into the mists of bibulous unremembering. The jubilant memory of that clandestine look and promise buoyed her as she made her way to the stables, intent on sharing a moment of silent memory with Boris Mikhailov, before telling him he must depart for Berkholzskoye to explain to Prince Golitskov the full wretchedness of her situation. But when she saw Boris, saw his shining eyes, the radiance of his expression, she gathered up the soft cambric of her skirts and ran across the cobbles toward him.
“Hush!” he cautioned in a whisper as she reached him. “You are too impulsive, Sophia Alexeyevna! There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
“I forgot for a minute,” she said with a return to somberness. “You looked as if you had good news.”
“I have. Khan is safe with Count Danilevski…. No, control yourself!” he said sharply as tears suddenly filled her eyes and her face shone with wonder and joy. “If I can slip away from this place this evening, I will go and check on him, but the count says he is calm, eating well—”
“Listen, Boris,” Sophie interrupted in an urgent whisper, controlling her joy and relief until the time when she could savor them. “I have decided that my grandfather must know of these things. He will know how to help. You must go to Berkholzskoye.”
Boris nodded slowly. “The prince told me what I should do if you felt the need. He gave me money for a horse and for the journey. Have you a letter?”
Sophie turned her back on the yard, beginning to saunter toward the gate, stealthily drawing out the paper from the pocket of her apron, holding it at her side, concealed in a fold of her skirt. “It explains everything…about Tanya Feodorovna, Khan…and…oh, so many other things.” Things Boris knew nothing about, all the hurts and humiliations that she could not bring herself to talk about, although writing about them had put a distance between herself and the wounding memories.
Her lips barely moved as she spoke; the muzhik’s hand covered hers for the barest second, and the document changed owners. Without another word or glance, Sophie strolled from the yard, fighting to keep the skip out of her step. Khan was safe. Adam had saved Khan. Boris would reach Berkholzskoye in two, maybe three, weeks of hard riding, and Prince Golitskov would not ignore her plea. What he could do, Sophie did not know; but she knew that he would do something. The bars of her prison seemed to be widening, offering a glimpse of a possible future other than the drear withering of her soul beneath the tyrant’s yoke.
She reentered the house, finding it as dark and oppressive as ever, yet, for once, the atmosphere did not deaden her uplifted spirits. There was a distinct spring in her step as she passed the dining room, from whence came the muffled sounds of voices, a low rumble of laughter. She would go up to the long gallery and look over the river. At least there was to be found light and airiness. The river symbolized freedom, a highway to the outside world.
She turned a shadowy corner at the head of the stairs. “Adam!” Her urgent, joyful cry was a little too loud for caution, but her heart had speeded at the sight of the tall figure striding down the tapestry-hung corridor ahead of her. He turned, and she ran into his arms. “You saved Khan!” With blind recklessness, she flung her arms around his neck, reaching up to embrace him, initiating a passionate kiss that for a moment he could not help but respond to, so sweet were her lips upon his, the eager darting of her tongue as she took possession of his mouth, the lithe slenderness of her body molded to his, the fragrance of her skin and hair.
“Sophie! This is madness!” At last he drew away, pulling her arms from around his neck.
“They are all drunk,” Sophie declared with a dismissive gesture, a gay laugh. “I wish to kiss you, because you saved Khan and because I love you!” Smilingly importunate, she raised her arms again.
Adam could not prevent his own delighted laugh at her words, but he caught her hands. “At least let us get out of the corridor, you foolhardy creature!”
“I do not care anymore!” Sophie declared, although she allowed him to pull her into the gloom of a small, rarely used parlor.
“You must care enough to take reasonable precaution,” Adam chided, pushing the door half shut behind them. “Do you wish to spend the rest of your life in the cloister?”
Sophie paled. “He would not do such a thing.”
“His second wife died in the Convent of Suzdal,” Adam informed her bluntly. “He forced her to take the veil and she died five years later. It is a man’s prerogative with an unsatisfactory wife.”
“One who is barren and looks upon another man,” Sophie said slowly, hugging herself in a fierce gesture of self-protection. “Grandpère would not allow him—”
“Prince Golitskov has not the right to prevent him,” Adam interrupted with harsh truth.
“He will do something,” Sophie declared with intense conviction. “I have given Boris Mikhailov a letter, telling him of…of the way things are, here. He will do something.”
Adam looked down at the pale oval face, the dark, glowing eyes where lurked a glimmer of hope, and he could not bring himself to stifle that hope. “How is Boris to leave here?”
“I do not know,” she replied. “But he has promised that he will. I do not know when he will find the opportunity, but he will keep his promise. Grandpère gave him money for a horse and travel expenses in case…” Her voice faded, the light dimmed in her eyes. “It is a long way to Berkholzskoye, I know.”
Adam, unable to bear the resurgence of despondency, took her in his arms, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Sweetheart—”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside stopped his words. Sophie went rigid, her eyes darting wildly around the room. “Behind the tapestry,” Adam whispered, pushing her roughly toward the far wall, where hung a Gobelin tapestry. She slipped behind it, holding her breath, sucking in her stomach, trying to flatten herself against the wall.
“Count Danilevski, is there something you wish for?” It was the butler’s measured tones, although the surprise he clearly felt at the count’s presence in this dim little chamber was apparent in his voice.
“No, nothing, thank you, Nikolai,” responded Adam smoothly. “I was passing this parlor and heard a scrabbling in the wainscoting. I think you may find a mouse. It would be as well to inspect the woodwork, I think. One mouse usually means more. They have such prolific breeding habits.” He smiled, gently benign, and strolled past Nikolai, whose expression exhibited great alarm at the prospect of such a disorderly infestation in Prince Dmitriev’s regimented household.
Sophie waited, breathless behind the tapestry, until she was sure that Nikolai had left, presumably to bring reinforcements to attack the mice. Despite the heart-thumping danger of the last minutes, she could not help a little chuckle at Adam’s improvisation. The idea would have the servants in an uproar, turning this forgotten parlor upside down in search of something that wasn’t there.
Slipping out of the room, she continued innocently on her way to the long gallery, there to spend the afternoon gazing out at the sparkling river, now coming to life again as society returned to the capital, and to daydream of what might have been…of what might yet be….