Golden Paradise Part 22

The reception was glittering and resplendent. Even the Tsar stayed longer than he intended, intrigued by Stefan's Georgian wines, the charm of his bride, the Gypsy dancers who entertained the guests through dinner and the Cossacks who performed acrobatic feats of great wonder after dessert. Alexander lingered until the orchestra began playing and he danced twice with the bride. In leaving he embraced Stefan, a public demonstration of his friendship.

The newlyweds were gracious for an hour more, mingling with their guests, accepting congratulations and facetious comment with equal good cheer. Stefan had never seemed so relaxed and approachable. The new Princess Bariatinsky, everyone agreed, was a good influence on him.

But Stefan's accommodating nature had its limits, although his guests were invited to stay and enjoy his wedding ball and hospitality as long as they wished. His cellars were at their disposal, he informed them, his chef committed to their gustatory pleasure, the musicians willing to play for a week. He smiled from the bandstand and waved au revoir. He and his bride, he finished, her hand firmly in his, were off on their honeymoon. And so saying, he scooped Lisaveta up into his arms to cheering applause and carried her down the short carpeted range of stairs to the ballroom floor, across its length, down the corridor to the main staircase and thence down again and out the opened doors to his waiting carriage.

Acknowledged the good wishes of those of his staff in attendance at the main doors and at his carriage with a ready smile and cordial thank-yous, he deposited Lisaveta onto the carriage seat in a tumble of white lace and, climbing in behind her, signaled for departure.

"How is the time?" Lisaveta asked, since a suppressed agitation was evident beneath Stefan's composed exterior.

"The wedding set me back five hours, but we're still fine." He hadn't told her of the telegrams-three now since late afternoon-confirming Hussein Pasha's march toward Kars...or of his decision after the second one to leave as soon as possible after the wedding and not wait until the next day.

"I'm sorry," Lise teased, "for ruining your schedule." But under the playfulness of her teasing she was aglow with the wonder of her love. How impossible she would have thought the circ.u.mstances of her wedding short months ago, how inconceivable to be married to Russia's greatest hero, how strange she'd never dreamed of this eventuality when she'd fallen under Stefan's spell that first night in Aleksandropol. She'd thought herself a civilized female then, capable of partic.i.p.ating in an amorous interlude, capable of saying adieu when it was over, never knowing intellect was insufficient against overwhelming feelings-against love. Hafiz had known it. Poets and past dwellers on this earth for a millenium had discovered that truth. And now she knew it, too.

His smile flashed white in the lamplit interior of the coach. "I wanted you to ruin my schedule, dushka. It was a perfect wedding." She was worth every minute of delay, he thought, taking his wife in his arms, feeling her close, the scent of her hair reminding him of their warm summer nights before Tiflis, when the fragrance of rose was on the air like perfumed seduction. His decision to come north and bring her back was worth every long frustrating hour of his journey. His grip tightening in a spontaneous gesture of a.s.surance, he smiled down at her upturned face. "You belong to me," he said softly, the fullness of his need and love echoing in his voice.

"And you to me," she answered, her voice as quiet. "Do you mind?" she asked then, because Stefan was a man apart, a leader and overlord of vast tribal subjects and troops, and she'd felt his minute reaction to her words.

"I'd never thought of it that way," he honestly replied, possession always having been endowed by strength. This was new, this shared right, and he asked, "Is it in the order of things?"

"It's only fair."

His answer was in the simple kiss he gave her, his lips touching hers lightly, a b.u.t.terfly kiss of affirmation and love. "Whatever makes you happy," he said, this man who'd stood alone since adolescence, this man who'd felt he never needed anything or anyone. "I'm pleased," he murmured, his mind and heart so filled with love he felt invincible, "to belong to you."

She kissed him then because no matter what his answer she loved him, but his reply had been tempered by her wishes, by his love for her, and she felt overwhelming happiness. "Do we deserve all this good fortune?" she teasingly whispered, her golden eyes like sunshine in the dark.

"I don't know about you, but I certainly do," he emphatically replied, his temperament familiar with life's largess. "I'd been looking for you for years."

"In other women's arms?" Her sarcasm was lighthearted.

"How else do you look?" he casually replied, his tone matching hers.

"Some people might consider 'looking' in another context."

"Really?" His grin was infectious.

"Your looking days are over, you understand."

"Really?" he said again in that same unconvinced tone.

"Really," she said in an inflection bespeaking her own emphatic views on territorial rights.

"Everyone has a mistress tucked away in a little house somewhere."

"Almost everyone."

"Think what it will do for my reputation," he said, stroking her hand lightly, "if I change the pattern."

"Think what it will do for the state of your health if you don't." She looked up at him from under her lacy lashes, her glance moderate but firm.

"Are you threatening me with bodily harm?" Teasing insouciance infused his words.

"Absolutely."

"How nice," he said with a smile.

"Don't use that charming smile on me, Stefan, I'm dead serious."

"In that case, dushka, I must mend my disreputable ways and start a new trend. We shall make love matches fashionable."

"You don't mind?" Her voice was tentative at the enormity of the change she was demanding, at the realistic application of her emotional requirements.

He thought for a moment of all the years he'd considered a love match the worst possible circ.u.mstance, a danger in fact to one's peace of mind. And now, by the grace of G.o.d, he was lucky enough to realize how wrong he'd been.

"No," he said very quietly, "I don't mind."

Nikki and Alisa were waiting in Stefan's railcar, having been invited to say their goodbyes in private, and they both rose from the comfortable parlor chairs to greet the newlyweds when they entered the door.

Hugs and kisses were exchanged and pleased wishes accepted for a happy future; the wedding was briefly recapped, they commented on the Tsar's lengthy visit, discussed various guests in pa.s.sing, and then Alisa went off to the bedroom to help Lisaveta change into a traveling gown.

Nikki and Stefan sat over brandy, their conversation turning to the newest problem in the war. Nikki, a colonel a.s.signed to the Staff College, served as liaison between the Tsar's advisers and the General Staff. "How serious is Hussein Pasha's attempt?" he inquired.

"It's a deadly gamble," Stefan replied. He shrugged then, because both were familiar with the terrain Hussein Pasha was traveling through. "They could die or possibly succeed. But if they make it, will they be in any condition to fight? Even the mountain ponies need some water."

"It's a h.e.l.l of a risk."

"But you can't help admiring him for trying. He's probably gambling his own colonelcy on it."

Nikki smiled. "There's always armchair caution at the top."

"Unfortunately it doesn't win a lot of wars."

"How costly do you antic.i.p.ate the attack on Kars to be when it comes?"

Stefan had been asked that question too many times to count, the fortified city having withstood two major a.s.saults already. But the words this time seemed to strike more personally, and he experienced a brief sense of vulnerability. "It depends," he replied, repressing his sudden precarious sensation of mortality, "on how much ammunition they've stockpiled inside the fortress." His shoulder lifted in the briefest shrug. "We simply don't know."

"You won't be leading the attack now that-" Nikki paused to select a diplomatic turn of phrase "-you're no longer a bachelor," he finished, deciding against reference to the coming child.

"Of course I will," Stefan replied. "My men expect it." He'd no more think of directing the attack from the safety of the Staff Headquarters behind the lines than he'd consider retreating from battle. His personal leadership was in large part what inspired his troops. He'd always lived with them in the field, undergoing the same hardships, understanding their fears, listening to them talk of their wives and children and lovers. They'd follow him to h.e.l.l and back.

And in a few days' time, even if Hussein Pasha's reinforcements were added to the defenders of Kars, he'd be leading his men into a kind of h.e.l.l devised by the Sultan's wish for an invincible fortress. That, too, was an enormous calculated gamble, but if Kars could be taken the Turkish territories in the East would fall and the Sultan's ministers might be forced to the peace table. If Kars fell, the war could be over. If Kars fell, he could be back in Tiflis in less than a month.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to say be careful."

Stefan smiled. "In my own fashion I'm careful." But he understood what Nikki was saying. "And I've reason to be more cautious now," he added. "Will that do?"

Nikki smiled back. "I know how ridiculous words of prudence are in wartime. As if caution ever won a campaign, but..." He sighed. "I know your style of command and it's based more on some G.o.dd.a.m.ned guardian angel watching over you than on any even remote concept of discretion. Take care."

"I intend to."

Both men knew their plat.i.tudinous words, no matter how well intended, wouldn't last a second in combat. There one acted on instinct and experience. One did what one did best, and Stefan had always won by risk taking.

"You intend to what?" Lisaveta asked, walking back into the parlor, her traveling dress of forest green bombazine an attractive foil to her golden eyes and peaches-and-cream skin.

"I intend to love you till the end of time," Stefan chivalrously answered. "Are you comfortable now?" he went on, inclined to change the subject to safer ground.

"That wedding gown weighed thirty pounds," Alisa said, "although its dazzling splendor was worth the suffering."

Lisaveta smiled. "One never actually suffers in something that beautiful but, yes, I'm very much more comfortable now." She twirled around, her light silk skirt billowing out in a fluttering bellshape.

Nikki and Stefan had come to their feet when the ladies entered the parlor. Knowing how pressed Stefan was for time, Nikki took his wife's hand and said, "Since they're holding the train for you, we won't stay any longer. Bon voyage and all our best wishes."

"You'll let us know how you're feeling," Alisa said, her voice significant in its emphasis.

"You'll be the first to know," Stefan replied with a smile. "We'll telegram."

Hugs and kisses were once more exchanged amid promises to write and visit. No one mentioned the war, but when Nikki and Alisa stepped off onto the platform, the train began moving immediately. Stefan's orders were being obeyed.

"Are you happy?" Stefan asked, his arms around Lise's waist as they stood by the train window, the bustle of the station pa.s.sing by with increasing speed.

"Words pale," she softly replied, leaning back into the solidness of Stefan's body, all the pain and uncertainty of Nadejda in the past, Stefan's love for her wildly real, like his strength. She couldn't have been happier or more content.

"You must be tired." She seemed small and delicate in his, arms and the day had been grueling. They'd worked nonstop arranging the wedding, then entertained their guests for several hours more.

Lisaveta sighed. The evening had been so hectic and chaotic she hadn't had time to think about being tired. Until now. "I am," she said, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment.

"Anyone would be, darling. The schedule's been brutal. Why don't you take a nap?" he suggested. Slipping his arms from around her waist and taking her hands in his, he turned her to face him. "I'll wake you in, say, two hours." The color was gone from her cheeks and fatigue shadowed her eyes.

"You'll wake me?" She didn't resist, Stefan's soft bed temptation in her weariness.

"Promise." His smile was protective. "You and baby need rest."

Her fingers gripped his in a sudden tightening. "Do you...really think so?" She felt so normal; were other women as uncertain as she?

Stefan hadn't had time himself to dwell at any length on that possibility, or perhaps he'd suppressed those thoughts with so much at stake in the attack on Kars. The reality of a child could seriously curtail his style of soldiering, which had, until very recently, been his life. And the thought of having a baby was, in honesty, not completely joyous. It was in too many ways terrifying. It made him vulnerable in a precarious world; it increased the danger of his existence; it opened up long vistas of "tomorrow" when he'd always lived for today. And his responsibilities, which he'd learned to handle with a practiced skill, were now extended to a wife he loved and soon, perhaps, to a child.

Would he think of them as the charge was sounded? Would his emotional involvement temper his intuitive sense of survival?

Would his risk taking be impeded because he had too much to lose?

He was uncertain of the answers, and that in itself was disconcerting. He wasn't, as a rule, uncertain.

But to his wife, he said, "I hope we're having a baby."

Gazing up at him, she tried to gauge his sincerity. "Good," she said after a small pause, "because Alisa's probably right."

Stefan grinned. "Nikki certainly seemed sure. I was almost called out."

Her pale eyes widened. "You weren't forced into this marriage?"

"No, darling, I can't be forced into anything."

"You're not just being pleasant?"

He laughed out loud at the notion he'd marry someone "to be pleasant" after escaping designing women for years. "I don't think even my most fervent supporters would see me obliging as a bridegroom out of courtesy alone. You are truly loved, darling, make no mistake."

Lise smiled a contented Cheshire cat smile. "You say the nicest things."

He grinned. "Years of practice."

"Which have now come to a screeching halt."

"Of course." But his grin was still in place.

"Are you always this accommodating?"

"Years of practice," he repeated, amus.e.m.e.nt rich in the words, and he kissed her then to erase her small scowl. "Which," he added a moment later, his mouth still close to hers, his voice quiet and grave, "are now over. Have I told you that I'm looking forward to monogamy?"

His words warmed her heart, his dark eyes so adoring she felt a contented security as bucolic as a Lorrain landscape. "A novel experience," she softly murmured, her mouth lifted in a very small smile, "for you, I'd guess."

"But then," he replied, his voice a hushed suggestion, "I'm always open to novel experiences."

"Libertine." It was a whisper only.

"Former libertine," he quietly corrected her.

"You're a married man now."

"I like the sound of that with you in my arms, and," he went on, no longer jesting, "I didn't think I'd ever have those feelings."

"We've the Turks to thank for our meeting," she reminded him, touched by the peculiar fate that had taken a hand in their destiny.

"You're right." Mention of the Turks, though, effectively altered Stefan's sense of joy. He had enormous work to accomplish mapping his plan of attack before the train reached Vladikavkaz. "Sleep now," he gently said, kissing her tenderly, "and I'll wake you soon."

The rhythm of the train and the warmth of Stefan's body, the swaying comfort of being held, were all lulling supplement to her drowsiness. "You won't forget to wake me?"

The gold flecks shone briefly in his black eyes, brilliant like his smile. "Not a chance, sweetheart. This is my only wedding night and I'm not going to miss it."

While Lise slept, Stefan pored over the maps he'd brought with him, coordinating his cavalry with the infantry movements, measuring distances from the artillery positions, trying to estimate the weakest approaches to the city, guessing with calculated experience which defenses would be sh.o.r.ed up against attack and which, perhaps, would not. He knew the Turks after all the years of border skirmishing; he knew how Mukhtar Pasha and Mehemet Pasha thought. What he didn't know was the extent of the munitions stored within Kars and, even more daunting, whether the reinforcements coming from the west would reach Kars before him.

He shouldn't have left, of course; he knew that now with a gut-level intensity. But at the time the risk had been minimal or no risk at all. He'd weighed it against his need for Lisaveta and decided he'd have more than a safe margin to accomplish his trip and return. And if Hussein Pasha hadn't decided on this suicide march he'd be well within his schedule. Unfortunately, he was racing against time now. The track to Vladikavkaz had been cleared so his train wouldn't encounter any delays, the engineer had orders to proceed at top speed-Stefan had been a.s.sured they could cut ten hours from their normal run-and he was relying on his intrinsic luck after that to carry him through.

Slightly more than two hours later he glanced at the clock on his desk, finished the southwest angle of attack by noting the cavalry regiments to be held in reserve and, setting aside his maps, leaned back in his chair and stretched. The muscles across his shoulders ached and he flexed his arms briefly to relax the tension. So much depended on the attack, so much depended on his a.s.sessment of their options. The western campaign in Bulgaria and Romania would be dramatically influenced by the success or failure of the attack on Kars.

And failure was unthinkable.

He'd never failed.

Standing, he pushed his chair back and strode to the windows. Lifting aside the heavy draperies, he stared out into the blackness rushing by, only an occasional twinkle of light in a distant dwelling evidence of another living being. He felt very much alone in the luxurious railway car, as though he stood a solitary figure in a dark void, as though the entire burden of the war's success were on his shoulders. He must be more tired than usual, he thought, to feel the depression so intensely. Much of the burden of the Tsar's wars had been his responsibility for years now and he'd never felt the weight so oppressively.