When Love Commands Page 21

  We skirted around the edge of the woods, keeping the village in sight most of the time. It was wonderful to be out, to be moving, to be breathing crisp, invigorating air that made frosty vapor when one exhaled. In boots, the heavy apricot velvet gown and magnificent red fox fur cloak with the hood pulled up, I was quite comfortable, although my nose and cheeks were cold. Beneath the soothing layers of salve my lips still stung a bit, throbbing slightly, constantly reminding me of those fervent, near-frenzied kisses. Not a single bird called out as we moved beneath the trees. Not a single wood creature stirred. I led Natasha around a thick, icy tree trunk, past a row of shrubbery completely iced over and looking like a small, frozen waterfall.

  The village was to the north of us now. Wasn’t it? I looked back, seeing only ice and snow. The village was no longer in sight, although I could hear clattering noises and rough voices in the distance. The sound was muted, curiously distorted, and I couldn’t tell from which direction it came. I turned Natasha to the left, heading toward the sound, I thought, but the sound only grew fainter. There was no cause for alarm, of course, none whatsoever, but the beauty of the woods was beginning to pall now, taking on a sharp, menacing edge, and I was ready to go back.

  Which direction?

  To the right. Yes, I was heading toward the sound now and in a moment or so I would see the tents and troikas through the trees. Natasha moved jauntily, and I was relieved to see the frozen waterfall again, iridescent in the sunlight, ice gleaming with dim violet-blue sheen. It seemed to have changed shape, longer than it had been, the icy cascade taller. It wasn’t the same clump of shrubbery. I felt a tremor of panic as I realized I was lost. I could hear the men working in the distance, I could even smell the smoke of campfires, but I was unquestionably lost, without the least sense of direction.

  “Let’s go back now, Natasha,” I said. “You know the way.”

  She twisted her slender neck, looking over her shoulder at me, and I could have sworn she grinned. I gave her free rein. She was enchanted, capering under the trees, heading east. At least I thought it was east. Some people were very clever and could tell you from the sunlight which direction was which from the way the rays were slanting, but the light was distorted and diffused here in the woods, and I wasn’t all that clever to begin with. Natasha pranced past another clump of frozen shrubbery, through a small clearing, enjoying herself immensely. Was the noise growing louder? Fainter? It seemed to come from all around now, a muted hum. The mare moved on under more trees. They grew closer together here, and the shadows were thicker, the light less intense.

  “We’re heading away from the village!” I informed her. “You’re no help at all.”

  I turned her around, trying to control the panic that was beginning to well up inside. There was absolutely no reason to panic, I told myself. If need be I could start yelling and someone would hear me and come and the only damage would be to my pride. What an idiotic idea this had been. I should have listened to the groom, should have had more sense. What if we ran into a wolf? God, I had forgotten all about the wolves! I urged Natasha on at a faster clip, and, yes, the noise was indeed louder now and the smell of smoke was quite a bit stronger. Any moment now I would catch a glimpse of the village. Natasha started past yet another clump of shrubbery like crystal fountains spraying.

  Something leaped from behind the shrubbery. Natasha squealed, rearing up, front hooves waving. I cried out, losing hold of the reins, grabbing the saddle horn. Something grabbed my arm, jerked. I felt myself tumbling, crashing onto the snow. There was a sharp, slashing noise. Natasha squealed again and began to gallop madly away. All this happened in an instant, so quickly, so unexpectedly that it was several moments before I realized what had happened.

  Stunned, shaken, I sat up. I had landed on a small snow bank and the heavy fur cloak had helped cushion my fall. I wasn’t really hurt, but for a moment I wasn’t able to focus properly. I blinked, still stunned, and then I saw the worn brown leather boots, the loose brown trousers, the skirt of a heavy brown coat, a rough tan hand holding the handle of a riding crop, all of this at eye level. Tilting my head back, I looked up into the face of the peasant who had been staring at me in the village. His black-brown eyes glowed with hostility. The large mouth twisted at one corner in a contemptuous leer.

  “Yo—you,” I said.

  He leered. I tried to get up. He thrust a palm against my shoulder, shoving me back onto the snowbank.

  “Stay where you are, whore!”

  He had leaped out from behind the shrubbery, had jerked me off Natasha and slashed her buttocks with the riding crop, causing her to gallop away in terror. Though angry, disoriented, it didn’t occur to me to be frightened. On my back in the snow, furious, I sat up again and brushed snow from my hair. He slapped the riding crop against the side of his boot, looking down at me as a cat might look at a mouse. I could feel my cheeks burning.

  “Are you mad?” I cried.

  “Some claim all of us are mad. They claim Pugachev is demented, a raving maniac, all his followers as demented as he. They will see. Soon they’ll see just how demented we can be!”

  “I suggest you step back and let me up.”

  “I give the orders now,” he growled.

  “Orlov will kill you for this.”

  His mouth curled disdainfully. “The mighty Orlov. He and his brothers are at the head of Pugachev’s list. All of them will die soon, most painfully. When I come to this village to enlist recruits I never dream I will be so close to one of them. I long to kill him myself, but the risk is too great. My mission is more important than the personal satisfaction of seeing him die. His day will come soon enough.”

  “Who are you?” My voice trembled, despite my efforts to control it.

  “I am Josef Pulaski. I am with Pugachev from the beginning. I share his grief, I share his anguish, I share his dream of revenge. Pulaski is his best lieutenant. Soon I enlist many recruits to join our cause. Men of this village feel the boot of the aristocrats crushing their faces in the ground. The aristocrats take their pigs, their goats, take their potatoes and grain, leave their storehouse half empty.”

  “Orlov paid for those provisions,” I retorted. “He paid dearly.”

  “And as the winter grows worse and the food runs out, they will be able to eat the gold? Many people will starve to death while the corrupt shaman sits in his painted house, counting the gold.”

  “The priest—”

  “Is shaman, is bogus priest, makes the people fear him with his chants and false magic. Many, many like him in Russia, fool the poor, take what is theirs. They die, too!”

  Pulaski slashed his riding crop viciously against his boot as he envisioned those deaths. His thick, unkempt black hair was long in back, heavy locks flopping across his brow, and his face was pale, the skin stretched taut across his broad cheekbones. The black-brown eyes did indeed burn with a fanatical fire, glowing like dark coals as he contemplated his visions of death and destruction. The man was a zealot, and an icy chill went through me as he directed that burning gaze at me again.

  “I see you ride off alone,” he told me. “This is great good fortune, I tell myself. I am not able to kill Orlov, too many men around him, but I will rob him of his whore.”

  “I am not—”

  “Get on your knees!” he ordered. “You will kneel before me. Soon all you aristocrats will kneel before us, begging for mercy.”

  “Go to hell,” I said.

  His cheeks flushed with rage. His eyes glowed with an even darker fire. He raised the riding crop threateningly, and I merely stared at him, terrified now, determined not to show it. He held the brown leather crop over his head, longing to slash it across my face, but he didn’t. Some inner voice prevented him. Caught up in a frenzy of bitter rage against a whole society he believed I represented, he nevertheless controlled himself, lowering the crop, spitting into the snow to show his contempt for me.

  “No,” he said, “I do not mar Orlov’s whore. I do n
ot kill her. I take her back to Pugachev. This is great prize. He will reward me, make me a captain in his army.”

  “You are out of your mind,” I whispered.

  He chuckled, contemplating the glory my capture would bring. I wasn’t going to allow myself to panic. My heart was beating rapidly, banging against my rib cage, and my throat was tight and constricted. The man was mad, and the hatred inside him made him capable of any kind of violence. Cautiously, I flattened my palms against the icy ground, trying to move myself into a position from which I could spring to my feet. He saw what I was trying to do. The chuckling stopped abruptly. His mouth tightened grimly.

  “You do not trick Josef Pulaski,” he said. “You try to, I knock you unconscious.”

  “I’ll scream. Someone will hear me.”

  “You scream, I kill you.”

  Keep him talking, I told myself. You must keep him talking. Time is your only weapon. Someone will miss you. Someone will come looking for you. You must keep him distracted and you must not let him know how frightened you are. This was a sensible plan, but I was beginning to tremble inside and I wasn’t sure I could speak with a level voice.

  “Or—Orlov will give you much gold for—for returning me safely. I will tell him I—I got lost in the woods. I will tell him you—you found me, and he will give you much gold.”

  “Gold! We do not want their gold. We care nothing for riches! We want vengeance!”

  “I—I can understand that. I’m not an aristocrat. I—I’m not even Russian. I’m English. Surely you can tell that from my voice, my features. I am sympathetic with your cause, truly I am, and—”

  “You are Orlov’s whore! You wear the finery he gives to you. You ride in his fine troika, eat off his fine golden plates. You are as corrupt as the other whore, the German murderess who sits on the throne and makes false promises. You will pay.”

  “You can’t possibly get away with this. Orlov’s men will—”

  “Yes, he has might. He has many men. They all do. They have strength, but we have guile. Pugachev trains us. Until our army is large enough we use our guile. We strike unexpectedly, kill and burn and disappear. Me, I am one man alone, but I use my guile.”

  He smiled a chilling smile and began to unwind the long maroon wool scarf from his neck.

  “I tie you up,” he said. “I stuff a gag in your mouth. I hide you under the shrubbery so they will not find you and when night comes I steal a horse and come for you. I take you to Pugachev. Is long way off, his secret camp. During our journey there I rape you many times. I use Orlov’s whore as he and his kind use our women.”

  He had finished unwinding the scarf now. He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket. My pride would not allow me to beg, but I realized that I must. It would please him. It would give him a perverse satisfaction, and it would give me a few more moments.

  “You—you mustn’t do this,” I pleaded.

  “Ah, you beg now. It does you no good, I promise.”

  “I’m not your enemy. I—I’m just a defenseless woman, helpless, at your mercy. If—if you tie me up and—and leave me hidden out here I will freeze to death.”

  I was right. He was pleased. His black-brown eyes glowed with a cruel pleasure as he savored his power over me. I was, he thought, a soft, pampered aristocrat, the poor, defenseless woman I claimed to be, but that was far from true. He might take me, might tie me up and leave me to freeze, but he wasn’t going to do so without a fight, and I’d done my share of fighting in the past. You’ve been in worse situations, I told myself, and you’re not going to let it all end in the middle of a Russian wasteland.

  “Have—have you no mercy?”

  “Mercy is for the weak. Pulaski is strong.”

  “You—you mustn’t do this.”

  His lips twisted into a cruel smile. “It gives me much satisfaction. I enjoy making Orlov’s whore suffer.”

  I couldn’t keep him talking much longer. Cautiously, I lifted my knees and planted my boots firmly in the snow, leaning back on my palms, wearing a pitiful expression. I tensed the muscles of my calves, digging the heels of my boots deeper into the snow.

  “After I use this scarf to tie you up, I stuff this handkerchief in your mouth and hide you. I pile snow all around so they do not see.”

  “I—I’ll freeze.”

  “I do not worry about it.”

  He moved a step closer, reaching out to take hold of my arm. I seized his wrist with both hands and yanked with all my might, pulling him into the snow beside me, and at the same time I sprang to my feet. Pulaski let out a yell, thrashing in the snow. He seized my ankle, his fingers clutching the pliant leather of my boot with furious strength. I tried to pull free. His grip was too strong. I raised my free foot and stomped, aiming for his most vulnerable spot, missing, kicking his abdomen instead. He let out another agonized yell and let go of my ankle and I ran.

  I ran with all the speed I could muster, fleeing in the direction Natasha had gone, hoping, praying it would take me back to the village. My boots crunched, crashed on the icy surface, taking good purchase, holding as I fled through the crystal wonderland that had become a nightmare setting, glittering with evil menace. My hood fell back and the cloak flew open, flowing behind me like bizarre red-brown wings. I slipped, stumbled, fell to my knees. I could hear him yelling. I could hear him charging after me, his footsteps thundering, the sound echoing loudly.

  I got to my feet. I continued to run. My heart was hammering. My legs were hurting. My lungs seemed ready to explode. He was coming closer, closer, gaining on me every second, and somehow, through some miracle, I was able to pick up speed, run even faster. I crashed into a clump of shrubbery. Ice crackled, splintering like glass, showering to the ground, and wet icy branches seemed to seize me, clutching my skirt and cloak. I pulled free, panting, and I saw him charging toward me, not twenty yards away. I ran, and my legs burned, every muscle tight, taut, agonizingly painful as I continued to punish them.

  Under the trees, ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch, across a clearing, past more frozen shrubbery—I flew, and he was right behind me now and my lungs were going to explode and my heart would explode as well if I didn’t stop. I gasped, panting, unable to breathe, my throat dry and tight and constricting. He bellowed, not five yards behind me, and I was truly in a panic now, knowing it was over, knowing I was going to die. My knees collapsed. I fell face foward in the snow, throwing my hands out to break the fall as best I could, sliding over the ice, rolling onto my back.

  He stumbled to a halt, his chest heaving violently, his cheeks flushed, his face a frenzied mask of rage. It was hopeless now. He would kill me on the spot. I tried to sit up. I couldn’t manage it. Josef Pulaski stood over me, his fists clenched viciously, puffs of cloudy vapor filling the air as he heaved and panted and tried to get his breath. I was panting myself, my lungs on fire, and my head was filled with a deafening pounding noise that grew louder and louder like hoofbeats thundering.

  Natasha whinnied in anguish, charging toward us. Pulaski yelled, moving aside as she reared at him. Another horse came tearing toward us, this one with a rider. Vanya yelled, a bloodcurdling yell, and swung his sabre in whirling circles over his head. He jerked the reins. The horse skidded to a halt and the cossack literally leaped from the saddle and raised his sabre and crashed the butt of the hilt against the side of Pulaski’s head. Blood splattered as skin broke and bone bruised and the peasant crashed onto the ground with arms and legs flying at crazy angles. I screamed as he thudded down beside me. My throat seemed to split apart. Heavy black clouds smothered me, growing darker, darker, claiming me completely.

  Strong arms gathered me up, held me tightly, and I struggled to banish the blackness. I moaned. A tender hand stroked my brow, brushed damp tendrils of hair from my temples. I opened my eyes and peered into a shimmering haze and through the haze I saw the terrible, ferocious face of the man who had saved my life. His teeth were bared, lips flattened back over them. His eyes were murde
rous. The long oriental mustache and the twisted, broken nose made him look all the more savage.

  I moaned again. He touched my cheek with incredible tenderness, caressing the skin lightly.

  “Is all right now,” he crooned.

  “I—”

  “Is all right. You not fret.”

  The voice was wonderfully soft and soothing and I closed my eyes for a moment and rested my head against that hard, bony shoulder and felt myself sinking into a sweet oblivion, and when I opened my eyes again my heart was not pounding and my lungs were no longer afire and I was breathing evenly. Every bone and muscle in my body seemed to be hurting, but I paid no attention to that. The joyous relief inside was like a magical potion that made mere pain irrelevant. Vanya still held me, his face as fierce as ever. Natasha stood a few yards away, whinnying plaintively. Vanya’s stallion stood immobile, reins dangling in the snow. Pulaski’s body sprawled nearby like a gigantic, limp doll, a dreadful, bloody gash above his right temple.

  “Is—is he dead?” I whispered.

  “He not dead. He does not get off so easily.”

  “You—how did you—”

  “Natasha, she comes tearing into the camp. She rears and whinnies and whirls around in a frenzied circle. I step out of my tent. She rushes toward me and whirls around some more and cries out. My horse, it is saddled in seconds and I am on it and Natasha is charging out of the camp, leading the way.”

  “Thank God. Oh—thank God. He was—he was going to—”

  “Is your fault,” Vanya said, and his voice was no longer soothing. It was harsh, severe. “This is very foolish thing you do, Marietta. This is insane, makes much trouble.”

  “I—I just wanted to—”

  “Vanya protects you. You are my dear friend. If you were my woman, I would beat you most thoroughly and you would be put on bread and water for a week and you would trudge on foot behind my horse as punishment for this bad thing you have done.”