When Love Commands Read online

  The servant left. Vladimir and I were alone. He continued to stare at me with an open contempt I chose to ignore.

  “When shall we be leaving the village?” I asked in Russian.

  Vladimir made no reply, looked as though it would be beneath him to address me.

  “I know my Russian is not good,” I said, “but I also know you can understand me perfectly. I’ve no idea why you hold me in such contempt, Vladimir, but I suggest you at least try to be civil.”

  The tall Russian muttered something under his breath, still pretending not to understand me, then turned as yet another servant entered with a large white box tied with gold ribbon. He took the box from the servant, ordered him out of the hut and twisted his wide lips sarcastically.

  “He orders me to let him know when you wear the apricot velvet gown,” he said. “Is unmanly duty, this, but each day I take note of what you will wear. This morning I see you have taken out the gown. I tell him. He grins like a boy and says it is time to deliver the box.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Vladimir tossed the box onto the fur-covered sleeping platform.

  “Is something he does in London. A surprise he plans. I leave now. I have important duties to perform.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Vladimir. When shall we be leaving the village?”

  “They should finish with the provisions by noon. The cook will prepare a lunch. We will leave immediately after. Too long we stay in this filthy village.”

  “I see. Was it too dreadfully painful, speaking to me?”

  “If you wish to tell Count Orlov you are displeased, do so,” he said sullenly. “He will relieve me of my duties. He will strip me of my rank. He will do anything to make his English lady happy. You are much more important to him than his loyal, devoted servants.”

  “You would kill for him, wouldn’t you?”

  “With my bare hands.”

  “That kind of loyalty is rare indeed,” I said. “The count is very fortunate to have such devoted men.”

  “We protect him,” he growled.

  “And you feel you should protect him from me, don’t you? I’m no threat, Vladimir, not to you, certainly not to Count Orlov.”

  “We will see,” he said, his eyes as hostile as ever.

  He turned and left, slinging aside the smelly fur hanging that covered the doorway. I sighed, frustrated by the exchange but determined not to let it bother me. Vladimir would never become a friend, as Vanya had. I would never be able to win him over, nor did I particularly care to, but I saw no reason to let the antagonism blossom into full enmity. I wouldn’t say anything to Count Orlov, of course. It wasn’t that important. This whole Russian journey had an aura of unreality about it, and Vladimir’s hostility was merely another part of it.

  Standing before the full-length mirror propped against the wall, I picked up the gold-handled brush and began to brush my clean hair, gleaming with a rich coppery sheen. The long, soaking bath had been marvelous. It was the second I had had since we arrived at the village three days ago, after two long weeks without being able to bathe at all. Two weeks had passed since the day Vanya killed the wolf, and during all that time we had spent the night in only one posthouse, the others having been destroyed by fire or otherwise made uninhabitable—the destruction quite deliberate, apparently done by rebellious peasants said to be roaming the land. We had seen no sign of them, however, and Orlov minimized the threat, assuring me they would soon be put down. After interminable nights spent sleeping in tents, bundled in fur, the wind howling like bands of demonic spirits, it had been a relief to reach the village, squalid though it was.

  I put the brush aside and adjusted the bodice of the deep apricot velvet gown I had chosen to wear. It had long, tight sleeves, a modestly low square-cut neckline and a snug waist, the full skirt belling out over several pale apricot underskirts. Why had Vladimir been waiting for me to wear this particular gown? I had almost forgotten the box. Moving to the sleeping platform with its gold brocade covering and lustrous pile of furs, I undid the gold ribbon and removed the top of the box. Thin tissue paper crinkled as I folded it back.

  I didn’t actually gasp, but my eyes widened in amazement as I beheld the red fox cloak inside. It was gorgeous, the most gorgeous fur I had ever seen, the thick, glossy pelts a rich red-brown with coppery highlights, almost the identical color of my hair. Lifting it out of the box, I was further amazed to find that it was lined with deep apricot velvet that perfectly matched my gown. How had he managed it? It was a glorious garment, so glorious I couldn’t resist putting it on, although I certainly couldn’t accept such an expensive gift. Yes, the velvet was the same cloth, it might have come from the same bolt, and the fur was just a shade darker than my hair, deep copper red. I pulled the hood over my head and stepped to the mirror, feeling like a queen in the luxuriant cloak.

  There was a loud rap at the side of the door. The fur was pulled back. Count Orlov stepped into the hut, grinning a wide grin, beaming with delight as he saw me wearing his gift.

  “You are surprised?” he inquired.

  “I—I’m overwhelmed.”

  “You like?”

  “It’s incredibly beautiful, but—”

  “I have it done in London. Lucie is part of the intrigue. I have the furs already, you see, and when I see your hair I know I must have them made into a garment for you. Lucie slips this apricot velvet gown out of your wardrobe’ and says this cloth must be used for the lining. Is big problem, finding an exact match, but I threaten to strangle the furrier if he does not do so.”

  “Count Orlov, I—”

  “I have it made up, and I keep it for the big surprise. I think you are never going to wear this particular gown. I think maybe you have left it behind. This morning Vladimir tells me you have taken out this gown to wear and I fetch the surprise and smile when I think how happy it will make you.”

  He chuckled to himself, his dark blue eyes glowing with pleasure. Wearing pale tan leather boots and snug tan breeches, a heavy brown fur coat covering arms and torso, he looked more than ever like a great, friendly bear. His head was uncovered, his tawny gold locks attractively windblown, and his cheeks were flushed. He seemed to exude brute strength and vitality.

  “I do not have to strangle the furrier. He does a fine job. I give him much gold.”

  “I—it’s a wonderfully thoughtful gift, Count Orlov, and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it, but—”

  His eyes darkened. The wide mouth curled into a mock-ferocious snarl.

  “We do not argue,” he ordered. “Me, I am in no mood for it. You give me the—how you say?—the bad time and perhaps I strangle you.”

  “I can’t accept it,” I said quietly. “It’s much too lovely, much too expensive.”

  “You give me the bad time?”

  “I’m afraid I must. I—”

  He moved over to me in four brisk strides, hands uncurling from fists, flying in the air like huge moths. He seized my throat, fingers curling firmly at the back of my neck, his two huge thumbs pressing lightly against the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath my larynx. Startled, I tilted my head back, looking up into those mock-fierce eyes. He smiled. The thumbs caressed my flesh with just the slightest pressure, just enough to make me swallow and realize that I was totally helpless, that he could crush the life out of me with the greatest of ease.

  “You still wish to argue?” he asked playfully.

  “I—I don’t know if I dare—”

  “You turn down my gift in England. This I accept. This I try to understand. I am disappointed, but I do not insist. Now we are in Russia. Here I am in command. Here I am to be obeyed. I command you to accept this gift I have prepared or else I punish you most severely.”

  His voice was a husky purr, deep, melodious, undeniably sensual, and his eyes were no longer fierce. They were filled with that dark glow of desire I had dreaded seeing in them. His fingers tightened the m
erest fraction, and I felt a tremulous thrill as his lips parted, wide and pink, as he ran the tip of his tongue over them and tilted his head to one side and lowered it, covering my lips with his own. He kissed me lightly at first, still holding me by the throat, and then he curled one arm around my shoulders, the other around my waist and kissed me with fervor, crushing me to him.

  I did not struggle. To struggle would have been futile. His arms held me with bruising force, so tightly I feared my bones would snap, and as his lips forced my own apart, as his tongue thrust foward, filling my mouth, the thrill I had felt moments earlier grew and spread and splintered into a thousand sweet sensations that rendered me an abject slave. Against my will, against my every instinct, I melted against that hard, muscular body and gave in to the splendor of the man, the moment, the magic his mouth wrought inside me. It had been so long, so long since I had felt this rapturous ache, months and months of denial, and if it was the wrong man it didn’t matter at all. A part of me that had been locked up tight within and painfully denied had sprung stunningly to life and I savored the return with a trembling relief.

  I was still alive. I was still a woman. I was still responsive, and although I tried to hold back, respond I did, leaning back against those powerful arms, my body pressing against his, leg to leg, thigh to thigh as he continued to torment me with his mouth and tongue, making moaning noises in his throat as he probed and plundered. I could feel his manhood warm and swollen and straining against the layers of cloth that imprisoned it and kept it from the orifice it sought. His lips moved to the side of my throat. I gasped. I caught my breath. I clung to him desperately, my legs weak, my knees unable to support me, and then he clamped his mouth over mine again and I fought to hold on to the senses he had shattered so quickly, so thoroughly.

  I pulled back. I shook my head. “No,” I whispered hoarsely. “No,” and the words seemed to come from some other source because I didn’t want him to stop. I didn’t want to abandon the splendor. I didn’t want to come to my senses and be cool and controlled and in command. I wanted to surrender to these sensations bursting inside with soft explosions I feared would cause me to swoon. I pushed my hands against his chest, struggling in earnest as the delirium increased, as I grew dizzy, full of need every bit as potent as his. He drew his head back, his mouth only inches from my own, those powerful arms still holding me in a bruising grip. I looked up at him with eyes that pleaded with him, pleaded for him to continue, for I hadn’t the strength to deny him, nor, now, did I want to.

  Orlov frowned. He misunderstood my silent plea.

  He released me abruptly. I staggered back a step or two, almost falling, seizing the arm of a chair for support. The cloak spilled from my shoulders, fell to the floor in a luxuriant copper red heap. I didn’t even notice. I was breathing heavily, as was he, and both of us were incapable of speech for the moment. The delicious ache, the waves of warm languor that filled my blood began to subside, and I felt cold, terribly cold, as though I had been doused with a bucket of icy water. I caught my breath. I stood up straight, surprised to find my knees working properly. I brushed a wave of hair from my cheek with a hand that trembled visibly. I felt a vast relief, but the relief wasn’t nearly as strong as the regret, regret I acknowledged frankly and without a single false illusion.

  His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were still dark. His lips were parted and he was still trying to control his breathing as his chest heaved. Why had he stopped? Why in heaven’s name had he stopped when every fiber of my being longed so ardently for him to continue, to prolong the plunder and bring it to its completion? The iciness inside turned into a kind of numbness, and it was as though I stood apart, removed, observing the two of us from a great distance. I watched with objectivity as he controlled himself, shoved a damp, tawny lock from his forehead, scowled.

  “I forget myself,” he said.

  “Yes.” The voice belonged to someone else.

  “I take advantage. I vow not to do this. I vow to wait. I vow to be the gentleman, restrain myself, control my desire for you.”

  “You mustn’t apologize.”

  “Were it another man who takes advantage of you like this, I would kill him for it. I would make him suffer long and hard. No punishment would be harsh enough.”

  “It was—it was something that happened. You must not blame yourself.”

  “The blame is mine. I know you still think of this man in London, and I hope you will forget him. I tell myself you will be ready soon, you will want me as I want you, and I vow to wait. Instead, I seize you like the coarsest ruffian. I take advantage. My punishment will be the shame I feel for using you this way.”

  “Count Orlov—”

  “I ruin everything. I do not blame you if you refuse to speak to me ever again.”

  “The—the flesh is weak,” I said.

  It was an absurd thing to say, the tritest of statements, but Orlov nodded in vigorous agreement, scowling anew, his brows knitted together over the bridge of his nose. A part of me saw the humor of the situation, this great bear of a man castigating himself because he had lost control and kissed a woman, but I didn’t smile. As the numbness wore off, as I truly came to my senses, I felt the regret and knew that he would be shocked were he to know what I was feeling. I sighed, prepared to overlook the incident, but Orlov was still in the throes of high drama. The Russian character demanded this drama, every incident taking on highly colored shades.

  “In another moment I would have lost complete control,” he said, horrified.

  “I know.”

  “In another moment I would have shoved you onto the sleeping platform and taken you like the most brutal savage!”

  And I longed for you to do just that, I said silently. Orlov stood there in anguish. I thought he might actually wring his hands. He didn’t. He emitted a heavy sigh and looked at me with abject eyes.

  “You will forgive me?” he asked.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “I do not know how this happens.”

  “We all have needs,” I said quietly.

  “This is true. All men have needs. I have been without a woman for too many weeks. This is all the same no excuse for my conduct. Gregory Orlov is not a ruffian like so many of his countrymen. I do not rape defenseless women, except in battle, and I do not debase those under my protection.”

  “I don’t feel at all debased,” I told him.

  “This is a tragedy. A tragedy.”

  “Only if you make it one.”

  He had regained his composure now. Shifting his weight slightly from one leg to the other, he adjusted the hang of the heavy brown fur coat and swiped at a tumble of errant gold locks that had spilled over his brow. He wore a rather sheepish expression and looked for all the world like an overgrown boy who has just been particularly naughty, but that boy had, moments ago, stirred sensations inside me I had thought dead. The boyish charm he had in such abundance was dangerously deceiving. Here was a man, hard and tough and ruthless, who, for some reason—call it integrity—had pulled back at the last moment. Out of respect for me? Perhaps. I knew full well that, had I been a serving wench or a peasant lass, he would have plundered savagely no matter how I might have struggled.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “I may be a little bruised,” I admitted. “My mouth feels swollen.”

  “This is a tragedy,” he repeated, looking crushed again.

  “I imagine I’ll survive.”

  My voice was cool, much cooler than I had intended it to be. Orlov frowned and shifted his weight once more, miserable.

  “Now you will hate me,” he mourned.

  “On the contrary,” I said. “Now I will put a bit of salve on my lips to relieve the sting and I will consider myself flattered that—that you thought me desirable enough to kiss. If you want to know the truth, I rather enjoyed the experience.”

  He arched a brow in surprise, clearly not expecting such a reply. Serving wenches and whores might enjoy abandone
d kisses, but demure English ladies were cool and refined and, if they enjoyed it, never alluded to it. Orlov was undoubtedly a man of vast experience, but he knew very little about women. Few men did, come to think of it. I turned away so that he could not see the small wry smile on my lips.

  “You are not angry?” he asked.

  “I’m not angry,” I said.

  “It is forgiven?”

  “It is forgotten,” I told him.

  “It will not happen again,” he assured me.

  “I’m sure it won’t.”

  “You will accept my gift?”

  “It was wonderfully thoughtful of you to have it made up for me, and I am touched by the gesture. Yes, Gregory, I will accept it.”

  I turned to look at him then, my gaze calm and level.

  “You call me ‘Gregory.’ This is the first time.”

  “I rather think we’re on a first name basis now, don’t you? Or would you prefer me to continue addressing you as ‘Count Orlov’?”

  He shook his head. He smiled. It was a lovely smile. His moods were as sudden, as changeable, as the play of sunlight and shadow on the surface of a pond. One never knew what to expect—or when. I took the brush from the table and, turning to the mirror, began to brush my sadly mussed hair. My lips were indeed swollen, still throbbing from the bruising pressure, but the pain was curiously pleasant. Orlov picked up the gorgeous fur cape and, moving over behind me, draped it over my shoulders. I looked up at his face in the mirror. The smile lingered on his lips, curving tenderly, and his eyes were full now of fond admiration.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Marietta. Another woman would be angry with me, would dissolve into tears, but you—” He paused, frowning slightly. “I fear I will never understand your sex,” he admitted.