Tapestry of Fate
by
Nina Beaumont


Nina Beaumont is of Russian parentage and has a family tree that
includes the Counts Stroganoff and a Mongolian khan.  Born in Salzburg,
she grew up in Massachusetts.  In 1970 she moved back to Austria, where
she lives in the country with her husband and an over-friendly
schnauzer.

An avid history buff, she enjoys travelling, which gives her the
opportunity to use the five languages she speaks.  She also loves
music, books, and the French impressionists.  Her writing keeps her
more than busy, but she also finds time to work as a translator and
teach adult English classes.

TAPESTRY OF FATE

Nina Beaumont

MILLS

BOON

To my cousin, the other Alexei in my life

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the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no eocistence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

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MILLS & BOON, the Rose Device and LEGACY OF LOVE are trademarks of the
publisher.

Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 ISR

Nina Gettier 1994

ISBN 0 263 79754 6

Set in Times Roman 10 on 11 ~ pt.

04-9608-88240 C

Printed in Great Britain by BPC Paperbaclu Ltd

Chapter One

Moscow, January 1823

Irina did not smile as she watched her cousin crouch do beside Irina's
father's chair and tilt her head to the side half-flirtatious gesture.
As if this did not concern her at Irina leaned against the rich
mahogany wood of the bo{ cases and breathed in the honey-sweet smell of
the beesa that was brought from one of their country estates every
fall. She sighed as she saw the line between her father's thi eyebrows
deepen.  She'd told Klavdia that Papa hated to disturbed after
dinner.

"Please, Uncle Stefan, do allow Irina to come with u Klavdia injected
the sweetly plaintive tone into her h voice that she had always found
to be so effective.

Count Chernov frowned at his niece.  He disliked it tensely when he was
interrupted while he was enjoying after-dinner brandy.  "Where is it
that you're going?"

Klavdia's gaze wavered.  "An outing to supper on outskirts of town.
Fedor Osipovitch, my fiance, cannot and he suggested I take Irina with
me," she continu quickly, hoping that her uncle would assume they had
invitation to someone's home.  If he questioned her m{ closely she
would have to admit that they were going

Strelnia, the most famous and most infamous Gypsy tavern in all of
Moscow.

Irina tensed as her father twisted in his chair, his annoyed gaze
searching for her.  Ingrained politeness and the manners instilled in
her by the long line of English and French governesses who had all fled
from the cold, forbidding atmosphere of the Chernov mansion had her
straightening away from the bookcases until her spine was as straight
as a ruler.

"Well, girl," he barked, "why are you hanging back like that?  Why
aren't you here speaking for yourself?"

In the space of a breath, Irina ran through the choices and knew that
any answer she would give would be judged wrong, so she merely shrugged
and said, "It wasn't that important, Papa."

There was a small, indignant gasp from Klavdia and loud, disapproving
snort from her father.  "What is important to you besides the books
that turn your head and your little excursions to the Khitrov quarter
that you think I t know about."

" He glared at his daughter over his

"I should have packed you off to the Smolny in Petersburg when you were
ten instead of waiting."

He took off his pince-nez and stabbed the air with it in her direction.
"You think it's trs distingu~ to follow in you:f: mother's footsteps
and go about distributing largesse to those beggars who get no better
than they deserve.  Let me tell you this, young lady" -- his already
ruddy face flushed more deeply "--if she had thought more about her
duties to me instead, she wouldn't have been dead at typhoid."

Klavdia laid her fingers lightly on her uncle's arm opened her mouth to
speak.  But when he glared at her, pulled her hand back as quickly as
if she had been burned:

"Leave me in peace, both of you," he growled.  Turning to lrina, he
said, "Do what you want.  Maybe you'll linda man who'll take you off my
hands.  I only hope that he'll have more of a stomach than I to teach
you what your duties are."

He shoved the pince-nez back onto his nose and turned away from the two
young girls.  Picking up his newspaper again, he rattled it as a sign
that they were dismissed.

"Thank you, Uncle Stefan," Klavdia whispered, and rose, sending her
cousin a look of triumph.  Tiptoeing back to where Irina stood, she
hooked her arm around the younger girl's and pulled her out of the
library.

After the heavy oak door had closed behind them, Klavdia let out a a
nervous giggle.  "He's like a big grouchy bear.  If he were my papa,
I'd have him eating out of my hand."

"No doubt," Irina murmured laconically, and extricated her arm from
Klavdia's grip.  She was certain that her cousin wouldn't dream of
doing any of the things that seemed to put her father in a permanent
ill humor.

"Come now."  Klavdia ran ahead up the broad staircase.  "We'll see if
you have anything suitable'in that dreary wardrobe of yours."

Irina followed more slowly, wondering if she could somehow get out of
this outing and curl up, instead, with one of the books that had come
from France last week.  "

Prince Alexei Muromsky frowned as the cavalcade of sledges slid to a
smooth stop.  Crossing his arms under his cloak, which was lined with
lynx fur, he wondered what had possessed him to give in to Lieutenant
Vitaly Efimin's urging and allow himself to be dragged on this outing
when he should have long been on his way to his new post near the
Persian border.  He was already courting a new court-martial by not
traveling to the Caucasus directly from St.  Petersburg.  His orders
had not expressly forbidden a detour, but everyone knew what was
expected.  If his superiors decided to make an example of him--and
enough people had seen him in Moscow to make it an absolute certainty
that the news would find its way back to St.  Petersburg--he probably
wouldn't get away with mere demotion from the rank of major to captain
and posting with the most endangered regiment in the Russian army.

But months ago he had promised Prince Ilarion Golovin, his friend and
mentor, that he would be present at this meeting of the secret society
that was dedicated to bringing freedom to the oppressed Russian people.
He was proud-that Golovin, whose position forbade him an active part;
had chosen him to be his mouthpiece.  God only knew when he would be
able to participate again.  If ever, he added grimly.  He knew only too
well what the casualty rate was in the Caucasus.

"You won't regret this, my friend.  Just wait until you see them."
Vitaly grinned, his teeth very white in his face, and kissed his
fingertips.  "The flower of maidenhood."  He jumped down from the
sledge and gered toward the entry of a large town house.

Vitaly was one of the hotheads that made their weak, Alexei thought. He
knew plenty of men like the army.  Men who were more interested in
their posturing than in doing anything truly constructive.  men whose
speeches were too fiery.  Whose promises were heroic.  Whose tongues
were too loose when they enough vodka or champagne.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed when Vitaly retro to the sledge,
framed on either side by a female wrapped in fur against the January
cold and the snow was beginning to drift down in lazy swirls.  The
Vitaly's laughter brought him out of his reverie and, membering his
manners, Alexei stood.

His gaze collided with soft, dreamy eyes.  His fingers suddenly slack,
and he let the bearskin rug slide floor of the sledge.  Perhaps this
was why he had himself to accede to Vitaly's persuasions, he vaguely.
He was too Russian not to believe in fate.

Vitaly's voice seemed a faraway echo as he introduced the two young
women.  Even as Alexei automatically bent over first one gloved hand
then the other, the image of those wide eyes, the color of rare pale
green emeralds~ stayed with him.  As they settled the two young women
between them, neither of them noticed a curtain move aside or the
sharp-eyed man who watched them with a half smile on his lips.

The driver, in his thick quilted coat, purred to the trio of horses,
and Klavdia's laughter Vied with the bright tinkling of the bells that
were attached to the harnesses as the line' of troikas glided off. They
crossed the frozen river that wound through the night like a silver
thread, leaving the city, guarded by the ghostly crenellated towers of
the Kremlin, behind them.

Irina pulled the hood of her sable cloak more tightly around her face
as the troika picked up speed.  The fur was wonderfully soft against
her stinging cheeks, but, as always, she felt a stab of guilt. Although
her seventeenth birthday was not yet a month past, she had seen too
many children in rags to ever be truly comfortable with luxury again.

She heard the chatter on either side of her without really hearing what
was being said.  She had no interest in taking part in this silly
conversation.  No matter what Klavdia, who had talked at her for what
had seemed like hours, had said.

Instead she slipped into her own dream world where she always went when
she was ill at ease or unhappy.  Only today her dream world had a touch
of reality, for it was inhabited by eyes the color of the golden brown
Spanish wine that Papa kept in a crystal decanter in his study.  And
the owner of those eyes sat only inches away.

Irina leaned back and smiled dreamily.  Perhaps the evening wouldn't he
so dreary after all.

The tavern emerged out of the dark night like a beacon.  When they had
drawn up in front of the entrance, Irina saw that there were a dozen
open fires around the building where the sledge drivers could warm
themselves and thaw the icicles that had formed on their beards.

When they had alighted, their shoes crunching on the hard-packed snow,
Klavdia gripped Irina's arm.  "I did not bring you with me so that you
could sit there as if you were deaf and dumb."  She shook Irina
impatiently.  "Didn't you see how Muromsky looked at you?"

"What?"

"Mon Dieu."  Klavdia rolled her china blue eyes.

did I bother spending an hour explaining it to you?  " She shook her
head and pressed her lips together.  " I told that you were too young
and stupid for this.  "

"Told who?"  Ifina stopped and turned to face her cousin': fully. "What
are you talking about?"

Klavdia bit her lip, realizing that she had said too much.  "Nothing."
She began to walk again, pulling Irina with her:.  "Remember what I
told you.  Just smile and listen to him.  Men are never happier than
when they're talking themselves anyway."

She should have known better, Irina reproached herself as they entered
the foyer, which was already crowded the rest of their party.  She
should have realized that Klavdia diawould never have invited her if
she hadn't something from her.  And if she had listened more to what
her cousin had said, she would have understood what she wanted.

Her fur, which had been lightly dusted with snow,

to steam in the warmth and she slid it off into the one of the
servants.  Well, she would be damned before spied for Klavdia, Irina
told herself as the anger worked way through her customary reticence.
And she'd avoid that repulsive toad Klavdia was engaged to.  She'~
heard the whispers that Count Gvozdev worked for cret police.  Suddenly
needing to move, she laughter and flirtation around her and walked a
large pine-walled room where supper had been laid.

Alexei grinned ruefully into his champagne glass before he raised it
and poured the sparkling wine down his throat without really tasting
it.  Damn it, he'd felt something when he had looked into Irina
Chernov's eyes, and he could have sworn she had, too.  Nevertheless,
she had all but ignored him through supper.  She hadn't really looked
at him once, and if she answered him, it was at best in monosyllables.
He knew that he was less of a ladies' man than his reputation gave him
credit for, but he also knew that he had never run into rejection quite
that adamant before.

"Mon cher prince."

Warm breath drifted over his ear, and Alexei turned to face the young
woman on his left.

"May I occupy your attention for a little while?  My cousin Irina seems
to be out of sorts this evening."  The woman smiled, implying that she
was not.

With a certain detachment, Alexei watched Countess Klavdia Chernov draw
a slender finger down his sleeve and across the back of his hand.

"Of course," he said, obliging proper etiquette, "with pleasure."

"Tell me about yourself."  Klavdia's voice was soft and just a shade
breathless.  "Is it true that you are being exiled to some barbaric
place for your revolutionary views?"  Even as she smiled, she cursed
Irina silently.  The girl had sat there all through supper like an
idiot child while Muromsky had practically fallen over himself trying
to get her to talk to him.  Now she would have to work quickly and less
than subtly herself if she wanted to have anything, anything at all, to
bring back to Fedor Osipovitch.

"My views are hardly revolutionary," Alexei answered with the automatic
caution that seven years of clandestine planning had taught him.  "I
merely stood up for five of my men who were being cruelly and unjustly
punished."

"And now you are being unjustly punished, poor dear."  She leaned
close enough so that her breast brushed his arm.  "Isn't that so?"

Alexei looked into her eyes and, seeing the calculation that was only
poorly camouflaged by wide-eyed interest, felt his alarms go off. Could
she have been sent to watch him, to question him, to lure some
incriminating statement from him?  No, he decided, she was too shallow,
too foolish.  The light, champagne-induced haze made it easy to dismiss
any real concern.

He shrugged in answer, the movement bringing him in even closer contact
with her breast.  When she did not withdraw from his touch, he felt a
jolt of reaction.  What the hell, he thought.  He was only a man, after
all.  He might as well enjoy his last night in civilization.  He would
just be careful of what he said.  Very careful.

He lowered the lids of his almond-shaped, slightly up-tilted eyes,
which were the legacy of a Tartar grandmother, blurring the face of the
woman beside him.  Good, he thought with a perverse satisfaction that
was tinged with anger.  Now he could pretend that the hair was not an
ordinary blond, but the dark, silky brown of a sable pelt.  That the
eyes were not a pedestrian blue, but a rare pale green.  That-- The
quicksilver sound of a tambourine interrupted his thoughts.

Another tambourine picked up the signal, then another.  Alexei felt a
stab of impatience.  There was still the entertainment to listen to
before he could retire to one of the tiny rooms the Gypsies kept ready
for those guests who did not wish to go home once the music was
finished.  No matter, he thought.  The sensuous, intoxicating music the
GypsieS would play would stir his blood and make him forget that he
would not be making love to the woman he really wanted,

The sound of the tambourines jolted Irina from her concentration.  Ever
since Klavdia had turned Alexei Murom sky's attention onto herself, she
had devised half a dozen plans of action and discarded them all.  How
could she warn him that all Klavdia wanted from him was information
without appearing like a lunatic?  Or, worse still, a woman driven by
jealousy.

How naive she'd been.  She'd hoped that by simply ignoring him she
would do away with the whole unsavory matter.  But that had been a
simpleminded illusion.  She'd seen Klavdia's angry eyes and she should
have known that at some point her cousin would take things into her own
hands.

She was sorry now that she rhad not laughed at his witty remarks, sorry
that she had not smiled at his compliments.  And she'd wanted to so
badly, She'd wanted to look into those exotic golden brown eyes, which
she knew would be warm and welcoming.  There hadn't been anything warm
or welcoming in her life for so long.  But she hadn't, And now he would
fall into the trap that Klavdia was laying for him.

The chairs shuffled and scraped on the floor of wide pine planks as
everyone stood up from the table and returned to the low sofas and
chairs lined against the walls.  Within minutes the white-coated
waiters had removed the remainder of the opulent meal and the tables to
make room for the Gypsies, who stood ready, jingling their tambourines
in a provocative rhythm that made all kinds of promises.

Irina felt the change in the atmosphere of the room.  What had been
light and flirtatious and harmless became dark and sensuous and
dangerous.  The Gypsy women in their long, full skirts of brilliant
silks, their dark hair covered by flowing red scarves, stood perfectly
still except for the quick movement of their wrists as they shook the
tambourines.  The men in their collarless Russian shirts with colorful
patterned borders and wide breeches stuffed into soft boots stood along
the wall.  They held their brightly painted, seven-stringed guitars and
violins ready.

The rhythm of the tambourines quickened, heightening the anticipation.
Irina sat very still, afraid that her heart, which was beating in time
with that mad rhythm, would leap out of her chest.  Then one of the
women stepped forward from the line with a mournful cry.  The
tambourines stilled and the Gypsy began to sing of unrequited love and
despair.

She'd never heard anything like it, Irina thought when the last minor
chords had faded away.  Her pulse still pounding, she leaned back in
her chair.  Yes, she'd heard the songs before.  She'd even sung some of
them, accompan}

self on the pianoforte.  But equating this hour with that tame pastime
would be like comparing a carafe of vodka with a glass of watered
wine.

A strange lassitude drifted through her, weakening her muscles.  Yet,
at the same time, her blood seemed to course swiftly through her veins.
So swiftly that it heated the surface of her skin.  She shifted against
the enticing ache that rolled through her belly, not realizing in her
innocence that she was feeling pure, unadulterated arousal.

The Gypsies disappeared, taking the magic with them.  Irina looked
around her and saw only a slightly shabby room.  Some of the guests
remained where they were to drink a last glass of wine.  Others called
for their wraps.  Still others wandered off in pairs, their arms twined
around each other.

She felt movement beside her and turned to see Alexei stand and pull
Klavdia unceremoniously up with him.  He slid an arm around her waist
and, splaying a hand on her hip, maneuvered her toward a door at one
end of the room.

There was a burst of bawdy laughter and Irina turned to see a man
staring at her, his eyes glittering.  Suddenly unsure and frightened,
she jumped up and ran toward the door she had seen Alexei and K!  avdia
pass through.  She found herself in a dim corridor, but there was no
one to be seen.

Then she heard a giggle and Klavdia's high voice.  "You're being very
naughty, prince."

Irina moved slowly toward the voices until she stood just outside a
room with a partially opened door.

"What are you doing?"

Even though the words were followed by another high-pitched giggle,
there was a note of alarm in Klavdia's voice.  Alexei murmured
something in answer, his words accompanied by the rustle of clothing.

"Stop it.  Stop it!"  Klavdia's voice rose.  "I came here to talk, not
be pawed by you."

"We can talk all we want, my little countess."  His voice was muffled.
"Afterward.  I will bare my soul to you and tell you all my secrets."

"Stop it."  She began to struggle in earnest.  She hadn't counted on
this.  She'd thought that his tongue would be loosened by the champagne
and the music and he would spill all his thoughts, all his plans to
her, just like all those other fools Fedor Osipovitch had set her on.

Alexei knew the exact moment when her protests changed from coquetry to
panic.  Both the effects of the wine and his arousal seemed to drain
from him in an instant~ clearing his brain.  So his first instinct had
been right after all.

He lifted his hands away from her body and leaned them against the wall
on either side of her head, pinning her in place just as effectively
without touching her.  "What is it that you want from me?  Who sent
you?"

"Nothing."  Her breath began to hitch as the understanding struck her
just how little like the others this man was.  Just how dangerous he
was.  "N-no one."

"Really?"  His voice was very soft.

"Yes."  Klavdia drew a deep, trembling breath.  "Yes.  Let me go
now."

"I don't believe you."  She was a tart, he told himself, although much
less honest than the ones who took money for

The Gypsy pointed toward the next door with her chin.  "He is in
there."  She.  grinned slyly.  "Good luck."

For a long moment Irina stood in front of the door, wondering whether
or not to knock.  Then, before she lost the rest of her courage, she
pushed down the handle and went in.

The room was foggy with cigar smoke, Four men sat around a card table
covered with green baize and the only sounds seemed to be the slapping
of the cards, the rustle of bank notes.  One man swore under his breath
as he scrawled something on a scrap of paper and pitched it in the
middle of the table.

Alexei was sprawled in a chair, closer to the table that held the
buckets of champagne than to the card table.  Irina waited at the door
for him to raise his eyes.  When he did not, she moved forward.

Even through the cigar smoke and the fumes from open bottles of
champagne, he could still smell her light floral scent, which reminded
him of a summer garden.  How long had it been since any woman had
gotten under his skin like that?  Especially a woman he hadn't touched
except to hand her in and out of a sledge.  He swore violently,
silently, reached for a bottle to refill his glass.

His hand paused in the middle of the movement as he 'realized that
someone was standing just a step away from him; He looked up.

"What are you doing here?"  he snarled, because was even lovelier than
the vision in his head.

She stiffened at his tone, but her voice was steady.  came to
apologize.  "

"Apologize?"  He shook his head as if to clear it.  what?  "

"For my cousin's behavior.  For what she did."  Irina her fingers
together.  tightly "For what she tried"

Alexei silenced her with a choppy gesture, afraid to more of her soft,
husky voice, which rasped over his like rough velvet.  He closed his
eyes against her warm beauty because he wanted to reach out and touch
her so badly.  Forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly, he
gathered up the tatters of his self-control and swung himself to his
feet.

"Allez-vous-en.  Get out."  He saw the fear dart into her eyes and,
giving in to his instincts, reached out to reassure her.  But before
the order to move made its way from his brain to his hand, she had fled
the room.

Irina made her way back to the entry and stepped outside.  The tiny
hope that Klavdia had waited died.  Not knowing what to do, she
hesitated on the top step, her gaze drifting over the coachmen, who all
seemed to be staring at her.

One of the men separated from the group and, his mit-rened thumbs
hooked behind the wide belt that cinched his quilted coat, sauntered
over and propped up one foot against the bottom step.

"Nu, krasotka--well, my beauty?  My master will be in there for a while
yet.  I am at your service."  He smiled, showing the gaps in his teeth
through the straggly reddish beard, which was frosted with ice.

His small, close-set eyes gleamed and Irina shook her head and
automatically retreated a step.  She felt the door at her back. Groping
behind her for the handle, she turned and hurried back inside. Knowing
that she had no choice, she retraced her steps to the tiny room that
still held a hint of Klavdia's scent.

Chapter Two

The wine Alexei had drunk settled as a vague ache behind his eyes, but
his step was steady.  He closed the door behind him and shot the bolt
home.  Damn it, he thought as he leaned back against the door, her
scent was still with him.  He'd wanted to erase the memory of it with
glass after glass of champagne, but it was there, stronger than ever.

The small cast-iron stove in the corner still glowed with heat, and he
discarded the uniform tunic that he had unbuttoned hours ago.  The
flames from the fires outside lit the room with a shadowy light.
Skirting the bed, he went to the window.  Fresh air, he thought.  He
needed some fresh, cold air to get the scent out of his nostrils.  But
the window had been sealed for the winter, leaving only the fortochka,
a small pane near the top, that could be opened.  Alexei rattled the
handle, shaking the carelessly putty loose, and pushed open the
casement.

Dipping both hands into the snow on the sill, he it over his face and
neck.  The icy air stung his wet skin he plunged his hands into the
white crystals again and When he finally closed the window, he found
that his ache had cleared but the damned scent remained.

Swearing, he ran his damp hands through his hair down on the edge of
the bed.  Something--a tiny movement, a small sound--made him turn, and
he saw the curled up on one corner of the bed, her eyes huge in the
face upon which the shadows of the fire played.

Anger shot through him' like a spear of flame, but before he could
speak, he felt her hand on his arm.

"Please don't be angry.  When I came back inside to speak to you, my
cousin left without me."  She looked down and bit her lip.  "And the
drivers looked at me..."  The shiver that crawled down her back made
her pull the heavy fur closer around her.  Suddenly impatient with her
own timidity, she raised her eyes back up to his.  "Will you take me
back home?"

"Of course."  Alexei felt his anger melting away just as the snow had
melted on his heated skin.  She sounded so young,

so innocent.  "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

His mouth curved at the defiant way she said the word, tilting her chin
up for emphasis.  "Seventeen," he repeated,

remembering well the wonder and the pain of that age.  "Are you
laughing at me?"  she demanded.

"No."  His mouth curved more fully.  "I'm remembering what it's like."
He'd felt invincible and incredibly greedy for all that life had to
offer.

Her skeptical frown prompted him to continue.  "I wanted to know
everything, experience everything at your age."  He chuckled softly. "I
shamelessly used all my father's connections so that I could
participate in the campaign against Napoleon and the siege of Paris in
1813."

"You've been to Paris?"  Her soft' voice held both wonder and envy.
"Will you tell me about it?"  She leaned forward eagerly, everything
else forgotten.

Alexei nodded.  Remembering those heady days almost ten years ago, he
began to speak.  He described Paris in the spring.  He told her about
the excitement of encountering new ideas and freedom and books that had
been forbidden.  Her sharp-witted, intelligent questions had him
sharing with her what he had shared with few others.

lapestry of rate

Neither one of them remembered that she had asked him to take her home.
Neither one of them heard a faraway clock strike midnight, then one.
Neither noticed when he moved to half sit, half lie beside her.  The
desire Alexei had felt for her earlier in the evening became a
half-remembered ache as the lively conversation eclipsed it.

Ifina glowed with animation as he encouraged her to talk.

She found his approval, his acceptance, far more intoxicating than
champagne.  "But if you believe Russia should have a constitution and
the tsar should be but a servant of the people, that means no less than
revolution.  The tsar will never Voluntarily give up being the
autocrat," Irina said,

shrewdly summing up what he had told her.  "No wonder

Gvozdev wanted to know your thoughts, your plans.  "

"Gvozdev?"  His eyes narrowing, Alexei sat up straight.

What a fool he'd been, he thought.  And she so clever, ~

that combination of innocence and intelligence.  He swallowed it whole.
If she had been able to resist a pliant hint, he might not even have
noticed.

Even in the flickering light, Irina saw the change in him.

Saw the golden brown eyes cool.  Saw the tension in the line of his
jaw.  She felt no anger but an incredible sadness that he would think
her capable of violating the confidences had shared with her.

"I assume it was Gvozdev.  He's my cousin's fiance," :

explained.  "And I've heard whispers that he secret police."  '

"Where would someone like you hear whispers that?"  Alexei asked
skeptically.  Unless you heard rectly from Gvozdev himself, he added
silently.

One corner of Irina's mouth lifted in a lopsided

"Most people see me as a child with the brain of egg'."  The smile
steadied.  "And people do not watch mouths in the presence of a coddled
egg."

"Go on."

"I did not realize what Klavdia's intention was before we got here,"
she said softly.  "She probably told me, but I wasn't listening to
her."  She lifted a shoulder in a rueful shrug.  "I have a bad habit of
not listening to what I don't want to hear."

"She wanted me to get you to talk.  She said that you'd" -- Irina
looked down at her hands as she felt her face growing warm "--that
you'd looked at me."  She raised her eyes to his again.

"That's why I didn't speak to you all through supper.  I hoped" -- She
lifted and opened her hands in a helpless gesture, then fisted them
again.  "I should have known that she would try and worm something out
of you herself," she finished in a quick rush of words, and turned away
from him, afraid to look into his eyes.  Afraid to see that he did not
believe her.

No one could possibly be that good an actress, Alexei thought as he
gazed at her perfect profile, silhouetted against the wavering light.
Besides, he had seen the integrity in her clear, light eyes.  And he'd
felt.  He shook his head as he capitulated before the impossibility of
defining the confused mass of his feelings.

Irina stared at the window, now frosted over with ice blossoms.  How
could she make him believe her?  He had talked to her, truly talked' to
her.  He'd said things that had real meaning, and ~o had she.  She
would probably never see him again, but she couldn't bear it if he went
off into that terrible exile of his believing that she would repeat the
precious things he had shared with her to some sordid spy master.

He was reaching for her to reassure her when she whirled back to face
him, her eyes misted with tears.  "Please, you must believe me.  I
would never betray you."  She gripped his arms.  "Tell me you believe
me.  Please."

His hands slid up her arms as the last doubts disappeared.  "Yes,
Irina, I believe you."

"Truly?"  Her eyes were wide and full of questions.

"Yes."  He leaned forward and brushed a kiss over her cheek.  "Yes."

Instinctively she turned toward the softness of the kiss and they found
themselves mouth to mouth.

The desire hit Alexei as strongly and as directly as a punch to the
solar plexus.  The past hour or two, when he had recognized first her
youth and innocence, then her sharp mind, he had concealed the desire
he had felt earlier in the evening.  But now it returned with enough
force to make him breathless.

He heard the little hitch in Irina's breath, which could have been
either excitement or fear, but there was no hint of retreat in her body
language or her eyes.  She exhaled on a soft sigh and her breath
drifted over his mouth in

He felt the invitation as clearly as if it had been spoken: Accepting
it, he slowly closed the tiny gap that still separated them and touched
his lips to hers again.

He brushed his mouth over hers, once, twice.  Her lips parted, but he
waited to take the kiss deeper.  His eyes opens he continued with the
feather-light back-and-forth motion until he saw her eyes begin to
cloud and then close.  carefully as if he were a painter, he outlined
her tongue,

At the first damp touch," Irina's eyes flew open, did not draw back,
The butterfly touch set off fires her that were new and terrifying and
wonderful, and held perfectly still, more afraid that they would
disappear than that they would devour her.

When his tongue dipped inside her mouth, she softly, wondering if one
could die of pleasure.  She'd kissed before, once, in a corridor
between two sets of at a school ball, but it had been nothing like
this.

She'tasted so sweet, so innocent, and yet as ripe the sun-warmed
peaches that he remembered plucking ing those carefree, boyhood
summers.  Alexei knew that could drown in that sweetness.  He wanted to
drown in it.

Because he wanted it so badly, he drew back.

"Don't go."

His body stirred as her husky, seductive whisper grazed his skin.

"I will take you home now."

"No!"  Her fingers curled into his shirt as the panic streaked through
her.  "Don't send me away."

Needing every ounce of his self-control, Alexei cupped her cheek in his
hand.  "You are so young, Irina.  You do not understand what will
happen if you stay."

Irina closed her eyes.  For those moments when his mouth had been on
hers, she had felt cherished as she had never felt before in her life.
She had felt as if she were something precious.  And she wanted to hold
on to that for a few moments longer.  She turned her face into his
hand.

Alexei's breath caught in his throat as her lips brushed over his palm.
For a long moment, both of them went utterly still.

Then she curled her fingers around his hand and, keeping it against her
mouth, turned to look at him.  She saw the desire in his eyes and on
some very basic level she understood it, accepted it, wanted it.  She
had seen enough among the poor, desperate people of the Khitrov quarter
to know what happened between men and women--and to shudder at it.  But
she wanted his closeness.  And she did not want him to send her away.

Irina had only a vague, faraway memory of being held by the frail,
sweet-smelling woman who had been her mother.  The memory of nyanya's
sturdy arms was closer, but it had been years since her father had, in
a fit of annoyance, banished her old nurse to one of their estates.

Still keeping Alexei's hand in hers, she lowered it to her lap.  "Will
you hold me?"  Her hand tightened briefly on his.  "For a little
while?"

Not quite sure what she was asking of him, not quite sure of his
self-control, Alexei put his arms around her and drew her close.
Together they slid down until they lay against the pillows.

Just the physical sensation alone had Irina closing her eyes against
the tears that shot into them.  The warmth, the pressure of his body
against her woke memories of comfort and contentment, reminding her
painfully of how long she had had to go without.

Alexei felt the wetness against his neck.  Ignoring her murmur of
protest as he drew back, he looked down at her.  He wiped away the
tears that trickled from beneath her closed eyelids with the backs of
his fingers.

"Why are you crying, Irina?  Are you afraid?"

She made a small movement with her head that could have been either a
yes or a no.

"Don't be."

Taking a deep breath, she exhaled on a shuddering sigh.  "I'm not."

Alexei's mouth tipped up in a gentle smile as he wiped the last of her
tears away.  "Then why are you crying?"

"Because I'd nearly forgotten how wonderful it is to be held."

"Poor little girl."  His hand stroked over her dark hair compassion
filled him.  Guilt followed quickly.  How he have even thought of
making love to her?  himself.  She might arouse him like a grown woman,
but was a child who needed a father, not a lover, a brace, not
passion.

Irina felt him begin to withdraw from her.  Not cally, for he still
held her against him, but somehow seemed more remote.  "You've gone
away."  She placed palm over his heart.  "Here."

The warmth of her slender hand seemed to the thin linen of his shirt.
"Irina, please."  He curled fingers around her hand to lift it away but
instead

Z/

himself pressing it more firmly against his chest.  "You don't know
what you're doing."  '

She looked into his eyes.  They glowed with an odd, urgent heat so that
they were like precious stones--topaz or dark amber, She was innocent,
but she possessed a woman's instincts and she understood that he wanted
her.

She, too, wanted.  Already more than half in love with him, she wanted
desperately to prolong the gentleness, the companionship, the intimacy
of being with him in this tiny room, where the only reminders of the
world outside were the shadows of the fires playing on the wall.

But still greater than the want was the need.  He'd given her a few
hours of easy affection and she'd found out that she was starving: She
knew that she would pay, that there would be pain now and later.  But
wasn't there a price to pay for everything in life?

Irina shook her head.  "No, I know very well."  :!

He let her go and sat up.  Cupping a bent knee with his laced hands, he
looked at her.  "Are you asking me to make love to you?"

She hesitated for a moment over her admission.  Would he think her
brazen?  Wanton?  Sitting up so that they were eye to eye, she nodded.
"Yes."  She felt a burst of energy flow through her as if that one word
had been a catalyst.  "Yes, I am."

Alexei looked at her for a long time before he spoke.  "I've always
thought of myself as an honorable man."  He drew fingers that were taut
with tension through his hair.  "If I made love to you I would be a
barbarian."  He looked away: "A barbarian."

"I don't remember the last time anyone touched me with gentleness or
affection."  Wanting him to look at her again, she lifted her hand to
touch him but let it fall back.  "My father will sell me to the highest
bidder soon enough."

He turned back to look at her, and she shrugged at the surprise in his
eyes.  "Let me choose this one time," she went

on quickly before she lost the courage to speak.  "This first time."

It would have been impossible to describe how much her words touched
him.  If he could have trusted himself, he would have reached out now
to stroke his hand down her cheek.  She was so lovely, so fragile, so
desirable.  Her scent drifted over to him, reminding him that it was
that summer fragrance that had first aroused and haunted him.  Just the
thought of making love to her stirred his blood, his body.  When he met
her quiet, direct gaze, his eyes were dark and already a little
desperate.

Irina felt her heart begin to race.  She understood the power she had
over him at that moment and marveled at it, She understood that if she
touched him now, it would be like putting a match to a stack Of dry
under, But she did not touch him.  Instead she let herself fall back
against the lows.  Ignoring the fear that was suddenly there, chilling
her, she held out her arms in welcome.

His pulse, his blood, was racing.  For one last unbearable moment he
hesitated as his mind, his conscience, one last protest: But she was
beckoning to him and could he refuse what he wanted so badly.  The last
of control slipped away and he lowered himself into her

Although his body clamored for him to t~

her quickly, he reined in the desire.  He would give her gentleness she
needed.  If he were lucky, he would the pleasure he needed to give
her.

His elbows propped on either side of her shoulders trailed his mouth
over her face, while his over the soft skin of her neck.  His lips
skimmed cheekbones, traced the rim of her ear with his tongue, the soft
skin at her temples,

He touched her as if she were very fragile, very

The fear that had tensed her muscles under his gentle touch.  As
Alexei's mouth whispered toward hers, Irina felt the spark of
anticipation.  But mouth was already moving away to brush a row of
kisses along the line of her jaw.

He continued the game, caressing her face and neck with his mouth and
the tips of his fingers.  When he felt the last of the tension flow out
of her, he allowed himself to take her mouth again.  He felt her shift
beneath him, and he deepened the kiss still further.

When he raised his head, he saw that her eyes were huge and dark now,
with only a thin rim of pale green around the black irises.  Propping
himself on one elbow, he watched her eyes as he slid his hand down the
slender column of her neck.  Briefly his fingers traced the delicate
collarbones, pausing for a moment to tease the pulse that fluttered at
the base of her neck.

His hand continued its journey downward, over skin that was like the
richest cream.  His fingers followed the heart-shaped neckline of her
gown before dipping beneath the velvet.  When he found the swell of her
small breasts, she made a slight sound.

Alexei was watching her.  Unswervingly.  With utter concentration.  The
way a cat watched a mouse before it pounced.  She wanted to smile at
the image, but before she could, the backs of his fingers were trailing
across the tops of her breasts and she heard herself moan softly.

His hand stilled, but when She shifted against him, intensifying the
pressure, he knew that the sound she had made had not been one of
protest.  He lowered his head and rubbed his open mouth against the
satin skin.

"Irina, you are so lovely."  He pressed a kiss to the hollow between
her breasts where her gown dipped lower.  "Will you let me see the rest
of you?"

She felt the heat of his breath against her skin.  She felt the ache
low in her belly begin to throb.  And she knew that she would deny him
nothing.

He unfastened and removed her gown as quickly and as skillfully as any
ladies' maid.  For a moment Irina felt the

doubts surface again If he could undress a woman with such terrifying
experiise, would it mean anything to him to make love to her?  Would
the memory of this night merge into the memory of other nights, other
bodies, or would there be something that would stay with him?

Leaving her shift and drawers in place, Alexei wrapped her in her fur
and turned away to discard his own clothes.  When he turned back to
her, he saw the misgivings in her eyes.  He slid down to lie next to
her, and although the temptation was strong, he did not reach to touch
her.  "Do you want me to stop?"

Irina wished that he would make it easy for her.  That he would touch
her again.  Touch her as he had touched her before--with his mouth and
fingertips--until she was drunk with sensation.  Until there was only
one answer she could give.

She saw the desire that made his eyes gleam like old gold, but she also
saw the tenderness.  Suddenly it was easy after all.  "No."  She
smiled.  "I don't want you to stop."

Slowly he pushed the fur away and turned her so that she lay on her
side facing him.  Then, as his hand curved around her hip in gentle
possession, he took her mouth.

Even as the arousal swept through him, Alexei was aware; of Irina's
every movement, every breath.  When he cupped her breast through the
thin silk of her chemise, he felt her stiffen, then flow into his hand
with as oft sigh.  Taking advantage of that moment of surrender, he
slid down and put his mouth where his hand had been.

As his caresses grew bolder and more urgent, Irina felt the turbulence
within herself grow, When he brought her closer and pressed her fully
against his aroused body, she was already caught in a whirlpool of
sensation.  If she ~had had the strength, she would have torn away the
thin barriers that still separated them herself.

"Please," she whispered on a moan as his mouth tugged at the crest of
her breast through the silk.

Alexei raised his head to look at her.  "Please what?"

"Help me."  Her eyes were huge and dark with need.  "I'm burning."

"Yes, love," he whispered as his clever hands worked the last barriers
away.  "We will burn together."

When his hand covered her moist, heated flesh, she arched up against
him.  Mindless with the aching need that seemed to have taken over her
whole body, she moved against him.  The world was limited now to him
and her and this bed.  But within that world, the pleasure that surged
through her body seemed boundless.  Whenever she was certain that this,
now, was surely the absolute peak, he opened yet another vista of
pleasure.

He slid his fingers into her and felt her body start to flutter,
presaging the ultimate pleasure.  In one smooth motion, he covered her
and eased his body into hers.

Irina felt the essence of the' pleasure begin to change.  To have said
that it intensified would be saying too little.  Her body began to
ripple and throb.  Even as she tried to hold on to some semblance of
control, the sensations sharpened to an acute ache and spiraled upward,
upward.

She felt Alexei filling her, a pleasure that was sweeping her into its
vortex, not allowing her to feel any pain.  Although she did not know
it, she felt the pulsing of his release, which pushed her own climax a
notch higher.  For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, her body
arched into his as the last wave of pleasure took her.

Gathering her close, Alexei cradled her between his thighs and rolled
to his side.  Her body was quivering in the aftermath of passion and
his hands drifted over the smooth skin of her back as he soothed her.

Slowly she emerged from the Shuddering half faint where the climax had
plunged her.  She tried to move but could not.  It was as if her
muscles, her bones, had dissolved.

"Are you all right, moya lastochka, my swallow?"  Alexei tipped her
head back so that he could look at her.  "Did I hurt you?"

"No, you didn't hurt me."  She colored as she remembered the talk among
the servant girls.  It had been nothing like the furtive whispers she
had heard.

He saw the blush and the stunned pleasure in her eyes and smiled.

"But I can't move."

He stroked her mouth lazily with the pad of his thumb.  "You don't have
to."  Pillowing her head against his chest, he ran his fingers through
the heavy silk of her hair.

Quietly she lay against him.  Little by little the aftermath of
pleasure subsided.  Feeling a wave of new energy flow through her,
Irina tried out the strength of her muscles in a stretch.  The
answering flexing of his body, still sheathed within her, had her eyes
flying up to his.

"Hurt?"

She shook her head.

"Would you like to try stretching again'?"  His mild tone of inquiry
belied the clenching sensation of reawakened desire.  With supreme
control, he managed to smile.

Keeping her eyes on his, Irina arched her back and pointed her toes
toward the foot of the bed.  Again there was that flexing within her,
making her breath catch as it sparked a ripple of sensation.

"Is it going to happen again?"  The excitement that was beginning to
surge within her made her sound winded.

"Yes."  Alexei tilted her chin up to brush his mouth over hers.  "But
only if you want it to."

Irina lowered her eyelids as she felt the heat suffuse body.

"Look at me," he coaxed, and waited until she had raised her eyes to
his again.  "Don't."  He drew the backs of his fingers down her cheek.
"We've done something very beautiful.  And we will do it again."  He
brushed another openmouthed kiss over her lips.  "To make sure we
remember."  '

Slowly he began to rock against her as his hand traveled down between
their bodies to caress, to excite.  He moved carefully, alert for any
sign that he was hurting her even as his own desire surged.

Unaware of Alexei's caution, his control, Irina swam on the swell of
pleasure.  There were so many sensations--his body moving within hers,
his mouth on her lips, her shoulders, her breasts, his hands stroking
over her hips, sliding down to touch her where their bodies met,
teasing, tantalizing.

He felt her begin the final climb and quickened the rhythm.  As her
body started to pulse, she made a high, keening sound and her eyes
closed.

"Look at me, Irina," he demanded.  For some reason he only half
understood, he needed her to remember this moment for the rest of her
life.  "Look atme now."

Their eyes met and held, and they both knew with a terrible certainty
that this moment would be with them always.  For the space of a breath
they balanced on the peak before they tumbled off together.

Irina awoke with a start.  She was warm where Alexei was touching
her--his chest against her breasts, his hand curved around her hip, his
thighs still cradling hers.  But there was a chill along her back.

Even as the remembered pleasure drifted through her,

panic rose.  What had she done?  Her hand went to her mouth as if to
silence a cry.  What had she done?

Alexei shifted in response to her movement and his hand slid up to her
waist.  Drawing her closer, he murmured something.

The gesture, the soft, unintelligible murmur, made her want to shut off
the thoughts--the self-reproaches--that were running through her mind.
She reached for the fur, deciding to shut reality out for a few more
moments and pretend.  Pretend that she had a right to be here.  Pretend
that she had done nothing wrong.  Then she heard voices outside in the
courtyard and the sound of horses snorting and stamping their hooves on
the hard-packed snow.

Her eyes went to Alexei to see if the sounds had woken him, but he
slept on, his breathing deep and even, She had to leave, she thought.
Quickly, before he awoke.  She wouldn't be able to bear it if, now that
the night was almost over, he looked at her with contempt for what she
had allowed him to take.  No, fair as ever, she corrected herself.  He
had not taken.  She had given.  And he had given richly in return.  She
closed her eyes and let the memory wash over her--just for a moment.

But reality intruded again with the sound.  of voices arguing in Romany
in the corridor.  She had to leave, she thought.  When dawn came, they
would be two strangers who would never see each other again. Cautiously
she disentangled herself from his embrace.  He murmured a soft protest
but did not wake.

With quick, jerky.  movements she pulled on her clothes, covering the
hopelessly wrinkled velvet gown with her fur cloak.  She crept to the
door, her heart stopping every time one of the floorboards creaked. She
had already stepped out into the corridor when she realized that she
had no means of paying her way back to the city.

A new wave of shame flooded over her as she returned to the room.  Now,
she thought, now she would have to take money from him, as if she had
been his whore for the night.  She dipped her hand into the pocket of
his uniform tunic and took out one of a handful of coins.

Unable to resist, she looked back at the bed.  He still slept, his
handsome features serene and boyish.  For the space of a breath, she
had the mad, mad impulse to run to the bed and shake him awake and.
Shaking her head at her own folly, she backed out of the door and ran
down the corridor.

~Chapter Three

St.  Petersburg, March 1825

Irina conversed easily with the young French diplomat as they danced to
the strains of the newest waltz from Vienna.  She laughed at his
self-deprecating portrayal of language problems that had him
continually at odds with his Russian servants.  He was charming--and
harmless.  A most refreshing quality in this nest of intrigue that was
the Russian imperial court, where there were more than enough ambitious
men eager to seduce the wife of a powerful man in the hope that she
would help them skip a step or two on the ca-reef ladder.

The waltz ended on that sweetly melancholy note so typical of Viennese
music, and the young Count de Gramont released her immediately as
etiquette demanded and offered her his arm.

"May I bring madame la princesse some refreshment?"  His round face and
soulful brown eyes gave him the aspect of a puppy wanting to please.

Irina shook her head, softening her refusal with a smile.  "A little
later perhaps."

Obediently he led her toward the end of the ballroom, where he knew her
husband waited.

Prince Ilarion Golovin stood with his back to the glitter of the famed
Sane Blanche, the White Room, of the Winter Palace.  As always when she
saw him, Irina felt a rush of gratitude and affection.  As always, she
wondered if she would ever be able to repay what he had given her.

He had his arm on the shoulder of an officer in the red-and-black
uniform of the elite Semyonovsky Regiment and had tipped his white head
toward the younger man.  Automatically Irina ran through their list of
friends and acquaintances but could make no connection between the
uniform, the broad-shouldered figure and the dark hair with the hint of
auburn.  Then the two men turned to face the ballroom and her steps
slowed without her realizing that they did so.

Alexei!  No, it wasn't possible, she thought.  She lifted her fan and,
under the guise of fanning herself, watched him over the edge.  Yes, it
was Alexei, she realized.  The two years that had passed disappeared as
if they had never been.  Even as fear filled her, she felt her heart
take off in a mad dash.  She told herself that it could not-possibly be
joy.

She couldn't face him.  Not now, with Ilarion standing there.  How
could she speak to Alexei, give him her hand to kiss, when the memory
of that one night would be in her eyes for Ilarion to see?  He had been
so good to her, so kind.  She would rather cut off her right hand than
hurt him.

Her face still partly shaded by the fan, she looked up at the Count de
Gramont.  "I find that I feel thirsty after all."

The young count brightened.  "At your service, madame la princesse. May
I bring you back to your husband or would you prefer to wait here?"

"I think I will accompany you."  She wondered that she had the breath
to speak.  "Perhaps it will' be cooler in the gallery."

As they turned and retraced their steps, two pairs of eyes at the end
of the ballroom followed them.

"It's good to have you back in St.  Petersburg, my friend."  Prince
Golovin put his thin, long-fingered hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"I've missed our discussions."  His smile did not chase away the
melancholy that lived in his pale blue eyes.  "And you."

Alexei nodded.  "So have I. I'm glad I'm back, if only because of
this."

"I wish we could have at least kept in touch by letter, but you
know..."

Alexei gave the hand that still lay on his shoulder a squeeze and the
look that passed between the two men said everything they could not say
in this public place where the very walls had ears.

As they chatted idly, Alexei watched Golovin, his easy smile hiding the
concern he felt.  When he had left the capital two years ago, Golovin
had been a robust, hearty man, full of energy and ideas.  Now he had
become an old, frail man with skin so transparent that the veins shone
through it like thin blue ropes.

They turned back to face the ballroom.  Alexei let his gaze drift over
the vast room of pure, dazzling white.  In contrast to most of the
rooms in the Winter Palace, which had more than their share of gilt
decoration, this room did not have so much as a line of gilding.  And
the pillars, which were wreathed with candles, accented the whiteness.
Somehow the very simplicity of the ballroom made an even more arrogant
statement than the rooms that were unabashedly flamboyant and
ostentatious.

This was something he hadn't missed in the wilds of the Caucasus.  Nor
had he missed the scent of candle wax and perfume and overheated bodies
that was the cachet of such gatherings.

A set of waltzes had ended and there was a good deal of milling around
and laughter as the tapeur set up the quadrille.  A few couples
strolled away from the dance floor and his eyes skimmed desultorily
over them.  Suddenly Alexei stiffened.

Could it be her?  No.  Yes.  Could it be the girl who had haunted his
dreams for the past two years?  Whose face he had seen at the bottom of
countless glasses of wine?  Whose image had kept him alive when he was
half-dead of knife wounds and fever?  Even now he remembered her
fragrance, which had reminded him of a summer garden, so precisely that
his head began to spin.

He scrutinized her as she approached on the arm of a baby-faced young
man in civilian clothing.  She'd changed.  Her features had lost that
filmy indistinctness of girlhood and become clear and strong.  Her
curves had filled out and rounded.  Even from a distance he could see
from her posture that the shyness had given way to an aura of
confidence and composure.  A lovely girl had become a breathtaking
woman.

He'd known that he would see her again.  How many times had he played
it through in his mind?  But to see her here, now, on his first night
back in St.  Petersburg, had to be more than a mere coincidence.  He
felt his heart accelerate in anticipation.

"Who is that?"  he asked, although he remembered her name as well as
his own.  "The one in the ivory dress."  He did not take his eyes off
her, as if afraid that she would disappear if he did.

"My wife."

"Your" -- Alexei's head spun to the side to look at his friend"--wife?
I didn't know," he finished weakly, feeling as though he had just taken
a punch below the belt.

"I'd forgotten how long you'd been away.  I should have written you at
least that.  We married, let me see, it must have been two or three
months after you left."  He put his hand on the younger man's shoulder
again as he watched his wife, not realizing that his imperious features
had softened.  "She has given me much happiness."

Jealousy and anger and an unreasoning feeling of betrayal speared
through Alexei.  Had she been betrothed to Golovin when she had spent
the night with him?  Had she played the virgin on her wedding night?
Had her husband believed her?  How many lovers had she taken since to
compensate herself for marrying an old man?  He was helpless against
the onslaught of questions that crowded in on him.

Forcing himself to look away from her, he turned toward Golovin.  The
older man was still looking at her, his gaze misty and enraptured. Yes,
Alexei thought bitterly, he'd believed her.

His anger intensified as a jumble of contradictory emotions jangled
through him.  Golovin had a right to Irina anytime he wanted to
exercise it.  Irina could wrap the old man around her finger and dance
away with a lover.  And he?  Not only had he lost the woman who had
lived in his dreams, but he had betrayed Golovin.  Unwittingly perhaps,
but he had betrayed him just the same.

Golovin looked at Alexei, his eyes clearing.  "There's no fool like an
old fool.  Isn't that what you're thinking?"  He smiled.  "No matter,"
he continued before Alexei could answer.  "When you get to be my age,
you learn to take what is offered and be grateful.  If a piece of
happiness falls at your feet, it's a sin not to pick it up, Remember
that."

Irina stayed with the Count de Gramont, drinking almond milk and
chatting as long as decorum allowed.  But the moment came when she knew
she had to return to her husband's side.  As she walked next to
Gramont, she saw that Alexei still stood there, watching her.

She tried to concentrate on her husband as she approached.  She worried
about him since he had grown so thin, so frail.  But tonight he had
some color in his pale cheeks and looked better than he had for a long
time.

Then her heart was pounding again and she could think only of the man
who stood at Ilanon's side.  Would he re,

member her?  Or had the memory of the night they had spent together
been clouded by the life he had led, the bat-ties he had fought, the
women he had taken since?  Probably, she told herself.  After all, it
had not changed his life as it had changed hers.  For a moment her hand
touched her belly, where the child they had made together had lain.

She did not want to look at him, but he drew her gaze like a strong
magnet.  He'd changed.  "His face was thinner, harder and more angular
than it had been.  There was a wicked-looking scar that ran diagonally
across his left cheek.  And his eyes, They did not gleam with the
warmth of dark amber as they had that night.  Instead they were cold,
almost savage.  She was reminded of a wolf that the overseer of one of
their estates had once caged.  He, too, had looked at her from behind
the bars with eyes like that.  Even from a distance she could feel the
hostility coming at her in waves.  So he remembered her after all.  Her
chin tilted up.  She would face him, she told herself.  She would face
him as she had faced everything in her life--with a straight back.

Ignoring Alexei, she took her husband's hand in both of hers.  "How are
you feeling?"  She gave the thin hand a gentle squeeze.

"I should ask you that."  He wished they were not in the middle of a
court ball so that he could hold her.  She looked badly in need of
holding.  "You look pale."

She dismissed his words with a little shake of her head.  "May I
introduce Prince Alexei Muromsky, my dear, An old, dear friend."  He
smiled and continued in a low, confidential tone.  "He distinguished
himself so eminently in his exile that Tsar Alexander had no choice but
to allow him to return with all honors."

Friend?  Oh God, she thought, that meant he would be a frequent guest.
How long before Ilarion realized that Alexei had been the one?  The icy
knot in her stomach grew.  Still, her control was exquisite as she
turned gracefully and held out her hand to him.  "We've met.  Once."
Her gaze

skimmed over him before she looked back at her husband.  "Before he
was sent to the Caucasus."

She was very cool, Alexei thought, suspended between hostility and a
reluctant admiration.  He bowed, brushing his mouth lightly over her
gloved hand.  Then he felt her slight tremble.  Not so cool after
all.

Prince Golovin watched his beloved wife and the man he had always loved
as a son and considered his intellectual heir.  He saw.  He felt.  He
knew.

Needing a moment to accustom himself to the knowledge, he turned to
Alexei.  "A new set of waltzes is beginning.  Do me a kindness, Alexei,
and dance with Irina Stefanovna.  I no longer have the strength for
such exertions."

Stiffly Alexei nodded his assent.  Stiffly Irina allowed herself to be
led toward the dance floor.

So Alexei had been the one, Golovin mused.  He marveled at his own
obtuseness that he had not put two and two together long ago when lrina
had told him everything but the name of her lover.  But he had been so
intent on protecting her that he had not given a thought to the man she
had been with.

He felt a wave of grief as he remembered the child Irina had borne. The
Child who had lived but a week.  The child he still mourned.  Now that
he knew Alexei had been the father of that child, the sorrow cut still
deeper.

His hand clenched his silver-topped cane as the sharp-edged pain hit
him.  He'd lived with dull, chronic pain for almost a year.  That pain
had become part of his life even before the doctors had told him about
the disease that was slowly eating away at his insides.  But these
surges of almost unbearable pain were new--and frightening--even for a
man who had long since made his peace with his Maker.

He watched Alexei and Irina as they spun through the crowd, their
movements perfectly synchronized as if they had never danced with
anyone else.  For a moment he closed his eyes against the purely male
instinct of possession that said mine and mine alone.  Irina had never
been his.  Not really.  He'd known that from the beginning.  She had
given him a part of herself and he had treasured it as the precious
gift it had been.  He was grateful that she had brought a measure of
sunlight into the evening of his life.  And he was grateful that she
would be there to close his eyes when it was all over.

Over Alexei's shoulder, his gaze met Irina's and he smiled.

Even though they spun through the waltz in perfect counterpoint to each
other, they both resisted the temptation to give in to the seductive
rhythm of the music.  Instead they danced in silence--silence that grew
more and more tense, more brittle.

It hurt, Irina found.  Hurt more than it would have otherwise, if she
had not felt that spurt of joy when she had first recognized him.  Oh,
how right she had been to steal away that morning, she'd told herself.
If it hurt so much to feel his contempt even now when she was no longer
vulnerable but safe and secure, it would have been unbearable then.

Irina tilted her head to look at him, waiting until he met her eyes
before she spoke.  "Is there a particular reason why you've decided to
hate me?"  It took all her willpower to keep her tone light.

"I take issue with the word 'hate," madame la prin-cesse.  "

"I see."  She understood the affront and her dark eyebrows curved up
gracefully, her aloof expression hiding how badly his words stung.
"Would despise be more precise?"

He inclined his head to signal assent.  "And it doesn't bother you one
bit, does it?"

"Long ago, when I was still a small child, I learned--I had to learn,"
Irina corrected herself, "to let only just accusations burden my
conscience.  The alternative would have been to jump off the nearest
bridge."

"And you are so certain that I am doing you an injustice?"  he
mocked.

"I came to terms with what I did that night long ago."  She stiffened
her spine.  "I have no apologies to make."

Her eyes narrowed to pale green slits.  "No, I take that back.  I must
apologize for the money I took from your pocket to pay my way back to
the city.  I owe you one ruble."

Alexei ignored the flare of admiration.  "A selective conscience must
be a very comfortable thing to possess.  I don't suppose it occurred to
you that you were betraying the man you were betrothed to."

Irina's eyes widened with shock, then narrowed.  "What?  What are you
talking about?"

The surprise that was mirrored in her eyes gave him pause, but it was
too late and he continued.  "If you were married two or three months
after I left for the Caucasus you must have been betrothed at the
time."  The kissing every one of her fingers nudged him.  Fingers that
had been bare of any rings.

"No, I was not betrothed," she said dully.  She stared at him without
seeing him as she remembered.

It had been Maslenitza, Butter Week, that last week of carnival before
Lent begins.  As it did every year, the entire imperial family and half
the court had come to the Smolny Institute for Young Ladies to
celebrate with the patrician young girls, none of whom was less than
the daughter of a general.

She had been ill that morning, as she had been morning for weeks.  She
had asked, no, begged the govern, ess:on duty to allow her to stay in
the dormitory, but per mission had been refused.  The memory of how
they filed into the main hall was still so clear that she could most
smell the food, feel

Together with the other girls, she had stood behind her chair, hands
laced at the waist as etiquette demanded, swaying from dizziness and
weakness until the imperial family and the guests were seated.  She
tried not to look at the rich food that was piled on the tables. Stacks
of thick, yeast pancakes, wrapped in napkins to keep them warm,
creamers full of melted butter and sour cream, bowls of chopped
hard-boiled eggs, dishes with herring, mackerel and a dozen other kinds
of smoked fish, caviar in round glass bowls set in ice.

When her plate was filled she sat motionless, barely breathing, as she
hoped for a miracle.  When she heard the governess who sat at the head
of the table hiss at her, she knew she had no choice.  No matter what
the disgrace,-no matter what the punishment, she had to get away.  The
alternative was even worse.

She had run, desperate to escape the smell of food that seemed to
permeate the whole building.  She had run down the endless corridors of
the Smolny until she reached the garden.  There she knelt in the snow
and gave in to the nausea.  It was there that Prince Ilarion Golovin
found her.

He'd crouched down beside her and wrapped her in the cloak that was
still warm from his body.  His melancholy blue eyes had been kind.
Because he asked no questions, she'd found herself telling him
everything.  Everything but the name of her child's father.  She could
still hear his low, steady voice as he had raised her and told her that
everything would be all right,

They had been married less than a week later.

Returning from the memories, she met Alexei's eyes.  "No," she
repeated, "I was not betrothed."

Her eyes were clear and steady.  She was telling the truth, he
realized.  And he'd been a fool and cruel into the bargain.

Irina looked away then, over his shoulder to where Ilar-ion stood
watching them.  He knows.  The realization struck her so sharply that
she recoiled.  He knows.

"Take me back now.  Please."

Alexei felt her start.  He heard her voice, suddenly breathless,
urgent, but he sensed that it had little to do with what he had said to
her.  Skillfully he maneuvered them to the edge of the dance floor and
offered her his ann.

Irina had never thought of herself as a coward, but looking her husband
in the eye had never been so difficult.  Except for that very first day
in the snow-covered garden of the Smolny, they had never spoken of the
father of her child.  Now she wondered what would have happened if,
that day, she had told him the name.

They sat in her private drawing room, which was daintily furnished with
French rococo furniture.  The table between them held crystal glasses
with the dark red wine that was made on their estate in the Crimea, but
neither one of them had touched it.

Prince Golovin waited with the patience the years had given him.
Although he would have liked to make it easy for her, he knew that
Irina needed to be the one to speak first.

"Ilarion" -- She stood, wanting to pace away so that she would not have
to look at him when she spoke.  Instead she sat down on a tasseled
leather hassock at his feet and ered his frail hands with hers.

"If I said that I wished I had told you the name of the man who had
fathered my child, I would he lying.  If you had known, you would not
have married me and I would have missed something very precious in my
life."  She paused to swallow but did not avert her eyes from his. "But
I'm sorry that you had to find out like this."

"What a silly child you are."  Prince Golovin shook his head.  "Do you
really think that it would have made any difference?"  He smiled his
melancholy smile.

Irina looked at him, her eyes clouded with guilt and doubts.  "I never
wanted to hurt you."

"And you haven't."  He turned his hands upward to lace his bony fingers
with hers.  "How can you think that it would hurt me that the two
people I love most in the world had loved each other, even if it was
only for one night?  That they had made a child between them?"

Overwhelmed by the pure goodness, the unselfishness of this man who had
taken her to be his wife and had never placed any demands on her, she
lowered her forehead to their joined hands.  For the second time that
evening she wondered if there was any way she would ever be able to
repay him.

Prince Golovin looked at his wife's dark head and bent forward to lay
his papery cheek against her fragrant hair.  All his knowledge, all his
wisdom, did not tell him how to do away with the guilt he knew was in
her heart.  He could only hope that it would not stand in the way of
her happiness someday.  For not only had he sensed that Irina and
Alexei had been lovers.  He had felt the magic that flowed between them
still.

Chapter Four

Irina sat curled up on the broad window seat, the book she had been
reading long forgotten in her lap.  The day was unseasonably warm and
the sidewalk below was full of strollers who had overflowed from the
Nevsky Prospect.  A young woman lifted a toddler onto the railing
alongside the canal and pointed at a group of ducks swimming in perfect
A-formation.  The child's laughter, bright and clear as a bell, floated
up to her.

The tears sprang into her eyes so suddenly that she had no time to
protect herself.  Would her child have laughed like that?  What would
it have felt like to hold a bundle of life in her hands on a warm
spring day?

"Vashe siyatelstvo, your grace?"

She wiped away the tears with fisted hands like a "Yes, Ilya?  What is
it?"

"Prince Muromsky is here, your grace."

"The prince is in his study, Ilya."  Her voice was throaty from the
tears she had swallowed.  "Take Prince Murom-sky to him there."

"He asked to see your grace."

She spun her head around, a refusal on her lips.  No, she thought.
She'd already avoided him for weeks.  It was him "All right."  Her
nerves skittering, she rose and went to stand next to a chair, one hand
resting lightly on its back.

Irina had assured herself that she would feel nothing when she saw
Alexei again.  She'd told herself that the flare of joy she had felt
would not come again.  She'd been wrong.  Her hand tightened on the
back of the chair as he stepped into the room.

"What do you want?"  Dreams and desires she had not known she had
whispered through her, making her feel defensive.

Alexei stopped in midstep, as the words were flung at him, hearing the
hostility but not the vulnerability.  He shivered at the coldness of
her tone, feeling it as something physical.

"I've come to apologize."  Silence greeted his words, and even as the
first tiny spark of annoyance flared within him, he reminded himself
that he didn't deserve any better.  "I would have done so sooner, but I
have not seen you anywhere since... that evening."

Irina looked straight at him.  "I was taught that it is bad manners to
refuse to accept an apology.  I wonder if that applies to insincere
apologies, as well."  She moved away from the chair to rearrange a
group of figurines made of malachite.  "You will find my husband in his
study," she said over her shoulder.  "I'm sure he will be glad to see
you."

She had dismissed him, but Alexei did not move.  This time he'd heard
the vulnerability filter through.  He'd seen the hands that were not
quite steady.  "May I explain?"

"There is nothing to explain."  "Please."

The refusal died on her lips at that one soft word and she turned away
from him, unwilling to let him see her surrender.

"I accused you of betraying the prince.  Although I did not say it in
so many words, I accused you of making me betray him as well.  I
assumed you were already betrothed ... that night.  I assumed wrongly
and for that I apologize."

Something eased inside her.  Too much.  She could not afford to have
any soft feelings for him.

"All right."  She forced herself to speak coolly, lightly.  "You made
an unfounded accusation.  You've apologized.  I accept your apology."
Feeling more in control, she turned back to face him.  "That's all
there is to it."

"But that isn't all."

He was a warrior, but he was not a violent man.  He needed to make her
understand why he had reacted so violently.  He needed to make her
understand that the memory of that night had haunted him for two years.
Had both haunted him and given him a reason to keep himself alive.  He
needed to make her understand that hope had burgeoned and been
destroyed within seconds.  How could he explain that when he'd seen
her. How could he explain to her when he couldn't even explain to
himself?

Even as she shrugged and turned away, he was gripping her arms, turning
her back to face him.

"Listen to me."  The words that burst out of him were as much a plea as
a demand.  The memories he'd lived with for more than two years rose
again, his eyes mirroring the turbulence and the passion.  Passion that
was not only a memory but real and vibrant.

Irina saw the passion in his eyes, felt the passion that seemed to flow
like a fast-moving river from his hands into her flesh and felt the
answering surge within herself.  Horrified, she began to struggle. "Let
me go."  Her voice seemed to clog in her throat until it was only a
hoarse per.  "Let me go."

When his hands had fallen away from her, she stepped back.  "I ask you
to go now."  She tried for cool dignity, that was a difficult feat with
her breathing as ragged as,if had been running.  "I am a married woman
and it is not my custom to receive mente deux."

lapestry of rate 31

The moment of madness spent, Alexei saw the budding panic in her eyes
and misread it, applying it to himself.  "You are married to a man I
respect and love above all others.  Do you think I would make love to
you?"  He spoke no less than the truth as he defended his honor.

The disbelief that was reflected in Irina's eyes spurred him to
continue.  "You belong to him.  Do you think I would even want to make
love to you under such circumstances?"  Even as he spoke, he wondered
that God did not turn him into a pillar of salt for speaking such a lie
aloud.

"Why not?"  she demanded.  "You assumed the worst of me, too."

Against that statement he had no defense.  He bowed stiffly and left
the room.

Prince Golovin was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, resting
after an onslaught of pain, when Alexei strode into the book-lined
study.

The prince looked at the younger man, saw the shadows, the turbulence,
in his eyes.  Since the night of the ball more than a month ago he had
agonized about what he should do.  Should he tell Alexei the story of
his marriage?  Should he tell him that he had only been Irina's
caretaker in his absence?  Should he give Alexei his blessing for
later, for the time when he would be gone?  No, he had decided.  It was
Irina's story to tell.  And as for the rest, it would be her decision
to make.

"Hello, my friend."  The prince curved his mouth into a smile, but it
cost him.  "I have just finished something I want you to read."  He
pushed the papers covered with his flowing handwriting toward the
younger man.

Alexei sat down and began to read, but after several minutes he threw
the papers back down on the desk.

"My brain isn't working today."  He moved his shoulders, trying to ease
the tension that had gathered between his shoulder blades.  "I haven't
understood a word."

The prince looked at Alexei's stormy eyes and was sorely tempted to go
back on his decision to say nothing.  "What's wrong?"  he probed.

"Nothing."  Alexei's gaze skimmed over the older man and skittered
away.  How could he look at his old friend when his emotions were one
great confused mass?  How could he look at him when every time he did
he was consumed with jealousy?  Now Golovin was the one who threaded
his fingers through her curls to un plait them.  Who knew how soft her
skin was.  And at the same time he felt as if he had betrayed Golovin.
Because he'd spoken to Irina.  Because he'd touched her.  Because he'd.
found that he wanted her as much as he'd wanted her that night two
years ago.  No, he thought, more.  Much, much more.

"Alexei."  Golovin put his thin hand on the young man's arm and waited
until he met his eyes.

"I know."  Through the uniform tunic he felt Alexei's muscles bunch. "I
knew the moment I saw the two of you together.  Irina has never kept
secrets from me.  I just didn't know your name."

Alexei swallowed.  "I don't know what to say."

Prince Golovin gave his arm a light squeeze.  "You don't have to say
anything."  He smiled more easily now.  "I only said what I did because
I want no constraints between us."

Alexei turned to face the old man fully.  "Will you believe me if I
tell you..."

Golovin silenced him with a shake of his head.  "I trust you.  Both of
you.  Implicitly."

Humbled, Alexei accepted the tribute with a silent nod.  '~Now read the
draft for a constitution that I have begun," Golovin ordered.  "
Perhaps this will make Pestel and those other unreasonable,
bloodthirsty radicals see the light.  " He leaned back to rest a little
more as Alexei began to read.

lapestry of rate ~

The spring bled into summer.  The city emptied.  Families traveled to
their estates to escape the humid heat and the insects that thrived in
the swampy ground the city was built on.  Officers readied themselves
for maneuvers, hoping that this time the attention and the favor of the
tsar or at least one of the grand dukes would fall on them.

Alexei, too, watched his orderly pack the valises that would accompany
him to maneuvers.  He had had to pull a few strings to get out of
accompanying his own regiment to nearby Krasnoye Selo and, instead, get
himself assigned as an observer of the Second Army Corps near Kiev.
There had been a few murmurs that he was barely back from exile and
already asking for favors.  He had no choice but to ask, for it was the
only way to meet with the members of the southern branch of their
secret society--at length and without arousing suspicion.  After all,
he knew that he was still being watched, and watched carefully.

In the double bottom of his trunk was a copy of the constitution
drafted by Prince Golovin.  It was a wonderful document, ringing with
an eloquence worthy of Thomas Jefferson.  There was also a list of
detailed suggestions for the rational, orderly transition from an
absolute to a constitutional monarchy--procedures, positions, names. He
had argued about the wisdom of committing such information to paper,
but Golovin had insisted, hoping that it would help gain the acceptance
of Pestel and his supporters.  Alexei sincerely doubted it.  He knew
just how greedy the men in the south were for a radical revolution that
included slaughtering the whole extended imperial family.

Sprawling in a chair near the open window, he lit a thin cigar.  As the
smoke drifted lazily through the room to twist with a sunbeam, his
thoughts rambled away from constitutions and conspiracies.

"Well, little brother.  Here you are, daydreaming the time away-- as
usua I" '

Alexei turned at the sound of his brother's crisp voice and watched him
stride into the room.  Boris never walked.  He strode.  As always when
he saw his brother, Alexei wondered how two men could have the same
parents, grow up in the same house, have the same schooling, look so
alike that they might almost be twins and yet be so utterly
different.

"A little daydreaming is good for the soul."  He smiled.  "Maybe you
should try it."

His mouth thinning, Boris frowned.  "There's nothing wrong with my
soul," he snapped.  He paced to the French doors at the end of the room
and back, the clack of his boot heels accompanied by the slapping of
his gloves into his palm.  Then he stopped, fixing his cold eyes on his
brother.  "Perhaps you should see to your own."

Alexei could feel himself tense, although his posture remained lazy.
Forcibly relaxing the muscles in his shoulders, he blew a series of
smoke rings before he responded.  "Is there something particular you
have to say to me, Boris?"

Instead of answering, Boris turned to the orderly, who was bending over
the trunk.  "Von.  Get out of here."  He aimed a kick at the man, but
Alexei's voice stopped him in mid movement

"Don't."  His mellow voice echoed through the room like the crack of a
whip.

Boris spun around to face his brother, his features distorted into an
angry grimace.

"I believe we have had this conversation once before," Alexei's even
tone hid nothing of the menace that lay behind the words.

The two men stared at each other, both remembering that long-ago day
when Alexei had taken the same whip to his brother that Boris had used
on a hapless serf who had done nothing but be in the wrong place at the
wrong time.

Boris turned away first to stare out of the window and lace his fingers
so tightly that the knuckles cracked.

lapestry o!  rate ~

"Why don't you go down to the kitchen and get yourself something to
drink, Vaska," Alexei said.

The young orderly straightened and saluted.  He was almost out of the
door when Alexei called him back.  He snapped to attention, but there
was no fear in his eyes.

"Please bring me a pitcher of kvas, too."  He smiled with his eyes
only.  "And don't hurry back."

When the door had closed behind the orderly, Boris turned.  "You always
had a disgustingly familiar way with the servants."

Alexei shrugged and inhaled the fragrant smoke.  "I always figured you
were enough the lord for both of us."

"Listen to me, Alexei.  It was difficult enough for me to hold my head
up when you were demoted and sent to the Caucasus.  If you get involved
with any kind of subversion now..."  He shook his head mournfully.  "A
bullet through the head would be my only choice."

"I don't know what you're talking about."  Alexei's tone was bland,
even though the warning bells were ringing in his head.

"Don't play the innocent with me," he spat.  "I remember the summer you
decided to translate the American Declaration of Independence into
Russian.  And your ideas haven't changed one iota since."  He pushed
away the pang of guilt at the memory of how he had brought the papers
to their father, hoping that Alexei would be punished, only to have
their father, chuckle in approval of his younger son's activities and
then break his cane on Boris's shoulders.

Hearing more than his brother's customary disapproval of his
activities, Alexei rose and went to stand next to Boris at the window.
"If you asked me a straightforward question, I could give you a
straightforward answer."

Boris exhaled with an exasperated huff.  He wasn't any good at asking
veiled questions and he knew it.  He would be open to Alexei, he
decided, and appeal to his family loyalty instead.

"The authorities have known for years about these secret societies,
with their lofty ideals and their plans for the best of all possible
worlds.  But as long as it was only talk, they never bothered to do
anything."  He took a deep breath.  "Now, it would seem, there are
concrete plans brewing--plans that would pose danger to the tsar and
the imperial family."

Alexei smoked in silence, his lazy gestures giving no hint of the alarm
that was beginning to speed up his heartbeat.  Of course they knew that
there were men in their organization who couldn't keep their mouths
shut because they were so full of themselves.  There were others who
would talk because they hoped for personal gain by passing information
to grateful authorities.  That was why they, or at least he and Prince
Golovin, were so cautious, But this appeared to be denunciation pure
and simple.

"That sounds suspiciously like some dubious rumor that started out as a
boast made during an' all-night drinking bout," Alexei murmured.  "How
crude of you to repeat it."

"Rumor nothing," Boris burst out.  "Gvozdev told me explicitly..."  He
broke off, realizing too late what he had given away.

"Oh, please," Alexei drawled.  "Even Gvozdev cannot possibly be that
stupid."  He made an inviting gesture with one hand.  "But do tell."

Boris ground a fist into the palm of his other hand, furious for
allowing himself to be goaded into revealing his contact to Gvozdev so
clumsily.  More furious still for getting involved with the secret
police in the first place.  When he'd offered them a few details about
how Alexei circumvented military discipline two years ago, he'd only
wanted Alexei to be exiled for a little longer because he'd hated the
eternal comparisons in which he'd always come out second.  How could he
have known that they would come to him again and demand more
information?

Alexei slid his hands into the pockets of the tunic he had unbuttoned
to accommodate the heat.  His fingers closed around the ruble he hadn't
been able to part with.  The ruble Irina had given him to repay her
debt.  In some strange way it soothed him to touch the coin.  So he
rubbed it with his thumb and remained silent, knowing that silence
would provoke Boris far more than questions ever could.

"Damn it, I'm not suited for this clandestine trash."  Boris shot an
oblique glance at his brother.  If only Alexei would say something,
anything that he could give Gvozdev to get the toad off his back.  He
pulled at the cuffs of his tunic.  "I'm an officer and I like to walk a
straight line."

And with the way you bungle it, you should, Alexei sneered silently.
When they had been boys, he'd always known when Boris had tattled on
him, whether it was to their father or one of the officers or
upperclassmen at the Cadet Corps.  And after they had both been
commissioned, nothing had changed.  He'd still had to watch his back.

"Alexei, if you're involved in something like this, don't do it, I beg
you."  Boris grabbed his arm as genuine fear dampened his palms. 
Having a brother exiled for insubordination was bad enough, but a
brother involved in an attempt on the tsar's life.  That didn't bear
thinking about.  "Apparently there's a group in the Kiev area.  Have
you--do you"

"I don't know what you're talking about."  Alexei shrugged.  "I would
be a fool if I were involved, wouldn't I?  I know that I've been
watched since I returned from the Caucasus."  He let his gaze sweep
down to the tips of his brother's boots and then up again.  "I just
didn't realize how closely.

"How can you think" -- Boris tried for righteous indignation.  "I'm
just trying to save you from making a terrible mistake."

Alexei pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose where a
headache was beginning to build.  "I appreciate it,"

he murmured with fine irony.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have calls
to make before I leave tomorrow."

"On Prince Golovin?"  Desperate, Boris latched, on to his last chance.
"There are rumors about him, as well."

Fiercely Alexei reined in his first impulse to shake whatever be knew
out of Boris: "Oh, please."  He continued to rub the bridge of his
nose.

Boris bristled at his brother's apparent disbelief.  "It would seem
that it has been found noteworthy that a man of his position, court
councillor, one of the oldest names in Russia, perhaps a son of
Catherine the Great, would consort with a man who was exiled for
subverting the very authority he represents."  He paused.  "Perhaps the
old man is not as loyal to the tsar as he should be."

Alexei's brain worked feverishly.  What could he say to turn any
suspicion from his friend?  His decision made, he steeled himself
against the guilt that worked through him even before he had spoken.

Slowly he raised his head to look at his brother.  "It's not as if I
had the plague.  Ideas aren't usually contagious.  Look at you," he
added, not able to resist the dig.  He allowed his mouth to curve into
an insolent grin.  "Besides, the prince has a beautiful, charming wife.
A beautiful, charming, young wife."  He shrugged.  "Now you really must
excuse me."  '

Skillfully maneuvering Boris toward the door, he clapped him on the
back.  "I wish you a pleasant summer," he said, and closed the door
before his brother could speak again.

He leaned back against the door, his eyes closed, until he heard
Boris's footsteps fade away.  Locking the door, he ran to the trunk and
dumped out everything Vaska had so carefully packed.  With the tip of a
knife, he released the mechanism that guarded the false bottom and
removed the papers he had planned to take with him.  It would be
madness to have anything in writing with him now.

Alexei blocked out the dread he felt.  Golovin had placed so much hope
in this journey.  Hope that they would be able to persuade the others.
Hope that they would follow a united, rational path without bloodshed.
He would have to disappoint him, he thought.  And he would have to
confess the ruse he had used to deflect the suspicion his brother had
spoken of.  Would his old friend hate him for besmirching his wife's
good name?  For violating his pride?  And Irina.  He shrugged.  She had
learned to tolerate him in the past months--more or less--for her
husband's sake, but she had never truly forgiven him for what he had
said to her.  So now she would merely have a little more she would not
forgive him for.  So it really did not signify.

Never one to postpone the inevitable~ he buttoned his tunic and made
ready to leave.

The minute Alexei stepped into the spacious foyer of the Golovin
palace, he heard Countess Klavdia Gvozdev's voice and smiled grimly.
Apparently old Gvozdev had his informants swarming all over today.  The
feminine voices came closer, Klavdia's high, bubbly one and Irina's
low, smoky one.  It was just as well that Gvozdev's wife was here, he
thought, He'd give a performance that would support everything he had
said to Boris.  He might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

Even though he was braced for it, the power of the jolt he felt when he
saw Irina surprised him.  Her hand barely touching the banister, she
walked lightly down the stairs, her gown of a gauzy white muslin
embroidered with violets floating around her like a cloud.  Her 'sable
hair was dressed fashionably in two bunches of sausage curls above each
ear, and he remembered much too clearly what it had felt like to undo
her hair and thread his fingers through the silky, fragrant strands.
And her face.  Alexei closed his eyes for a moment, as much to savor
her dreamy beauty as to protect himself from it.

~apestry of ~ate

But even as his blood stirred, he knew that no matter how beautiful she
was, no matter how desirable, her true allure lay elsewhere.  It was
the wit and the sharp intelligence combined with the gentle loveliness
of spirit that drew him, even as it had drawn him two years before. And
it had been that, even more than the memory of her beautiful young body
and her passion, that had nourished him in his exile.

"Really, Klavdia" -- Irina took a deep breath, reminding herself to
moderate her tone"--I've had quite enough of your probing little
questions that you mask as concern."

"Oh, how can you say that?"  Klavdia's tone dripped with patently false
concern.  "You know I've always had your welfare at heart."

"Of course I know."  Irina's dark eyebrows took on a 'mocking slant.
"I've known that ever since you left me stranded at Strelnia two years
ago."

"Mon Dieu/ Are you still holding that against me?"  Klavdia raised her
eyes toward the ceiling.  "It's not as if anything terrible happened to
you."  She moved her shoulders in a dismissive shrug.  "Considering
that you were none the worse for wear afterward, I would think you'd
let it go."

They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and deciding that it was
time to make his presence known, Alexei stepped forward, shifting the
large, flat box he carried.  "I wish the ladies a good afternoon."

"Prince Muromsky!  What a delightful surprise," Klavdia chirped, and
touched her hand flirtatiously to her blond curls before presenting it
for his kiss.

Irina fisted her hands within the folds of her gown.  If she had known
that he was within earshot, she would never have mentioned Strelnia.
Against her will, the memory streaked through her like a bolt of
lightning.

Alexei released Klavdia's hand and turned to Irina.  Silently begging
her forgiveness, he took her hand, and instead of bending over it as
etiquette required, he lifted it to his lips.  He felt her hand tense
and freeze, but he allowed his mouth to linger.  As he watched her over
her knuckles, he saw heat flare before it was driven away by alarm and
anger.  His eyes asked for understanding before he gave her hand a
light squeeze and released it.

He saw her open her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, he
took the box from under his arm and held it out to her.  "Chocolates
from Ballet."  His smile was charming and intimate.  "As you
requested."

Irina shut her mouth with a snap and looked from the tissue-wrapped box
with its trailing, multicolored ribbons back up to Alexei's face.  What
was going on?  What was he trying to do?  He had kissed her hand as if
he were her lover, paralyzing her, and yet his eyes had sent her some
message she couldn't read.  Then he'd said that she had requested the
chocolates.  She laced and unlaced her fingers.  She felt as if she had
been dropped into the.  middle of a play she knew nothing about.  And
for some reason she sensed that it was terribly important that she play
the role assigned to her correctly.

"Thank you."  She hesitated for a moment.  "It was good of you to
remember."  She took the box from him.  As her thumb slid over the top,
she felt the lip of something that had been placed on top of the box
before it had been wrapped.

Klavdia was staring at them, her china blue eyes huge and avid with
curiosity.  Then she giggled.  "Didn't I say that I've always had your
welfare at heart."  She brushed her cheek against Irina's and
whispered, "He's luscious, my dear.  Congratulations."  Her honeyed
tone camouflaged the envy.  "I wouldn't have thought you had it in
you."

Trailing her Turkish shawl, she tripped toward the door, excited that
she finally had a juicy morsel to serve up for Gvozdev.  Now he
wouldn't be able to say no when she told him how much money she needed
to pay the debts she'd:run up.

"What"

Keeping his eyes on the door, Alexei touched Irina's arm to silence
her.  Only when he heard the carriage clatter off over the cobblestones
did he turn to her.

"I'm sorry.  More than I can say."

The angry words died on Irina's lips at the sincerely wretched look in
his eyes.  "What is going on?"

"Come.  I need to talk to the prince."

"No."  She moved slightly as if to block his way.  "He need~ to
rest."

"He needs even more to hear what I have to say."  Alexei sighed.  "And
so do you."

Soon he will not need anything anymore, Irina thought, and blinked back
the tears that pricked at her eyes.  "He is not well," she said,
unwilling to share what she knew, what she had guessed.  "Do you have
to tell him, whatever it is?  I

don't want him to worry.  "

"This he has to know."

They mounted the stairs in silence.  In front of the ornately carved,
gilded doors that led to the prince's apartment, Irina stopped and
looked at Alexei.  A border had been crossed.  And she had no idea what
new territory she had entered.  That edgy animosity that she had used
to protect herself for months was gone, swept away by those minutes in
the foyer when he had made her part of whatever secrets he and Ilarion
shared.  She forced away the heat that rose at the memory of his lips
on her hand.

Their eyes met and held for a long, intimate moment.  Then Irina pushed
down the brass door handle and entered the apartment.

Signaling to Alexei to be quiet, Irina tiptoed forward.  The moment she
knelt at the side of the canopied bed where her husband lay, he opened
his eyes and smiled.  "I've brought you a visitor, mon ami."

"Ah, Alexei."

Golovin pushed against the mattress in an attempt to sit up, but Irina
stopped him with a gentle touch.  "Ilarion, you promised."

"So I did."  He patted her hand.  "Come closer, Alexei.  Tell me, when
are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."  He stepped closer and perched on the edge of the bed.  "I
need to talk to you."

"Irina, mort enfant, will you leave us for a little while?"

"She needs to hear what I have to say."

"No!"  Golovin's voice was suddenly surprisingly strong.  "I don't want
her involved."

"Involved?  Involved in what?"  Irina demanded, pressing a hand against
her middle to quiet the alarm that was rolling through her.  "What are
you talking about?"

" Irina, please."

She subsided before her husband's simple plea.

"May I just say one thing?"  Alexei touched the old man's hand and
silently sent him a message with his eyes.

At Golovin's nod, he began to speak.  "My brother paid me a visit today
and happened to mention that the authorities find it strange that a man
in your position consorts with someone of my" -- he paused
"--unreliable political opinions."

"Idiots," Golovin grumbled.  "I've known you since you were a boy."

"I know it's ridiculous, but you know how it is when one of these
bureaucrats gets an idea in his head."  Alexei kept his voice light.
"If they don't find something, they fabricate it.  Especially
Gvozdev."

"Gvozdev?"  Irina straightened.  "So that's why Klavdia came, asking
all kinds of prying questions."

"

"So what is it that you feel Irina must know?"  Golovin demanded,
disquiet making his tone testy.  "Get on with it."

"I do not want you harassed in any way.  Since they would not have
believed any rational argument, I took it upon myself to deflect any
suspicion from you another way."  He

took a deep breath.  "I implied that my visits here were so frequent
because of your wife."

Irina jolted at his words.  "That's why you greeted me in front of
Klavdia as if you were my..."  The sudden flare of heat inside her
silenced her, making it impossible for her to say the word.  "How dare
you?"

Although he knew they had ~not betrayed him, 6olovin closed his eyes,
needing to master the same flash of irrational possessive jealousy he
had felt when he had first realized that Irina and Alexei had been
lovers.  It did not signify, he told himself.  In weeks, a few months
at mostl he would be gone.  And wasn't that exactly what he wanted for
them?  A future together?

"Are you all right, Ilarion?"  Irina breathed a sigh of relief when her
husband opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"I don't think that I'm in any danger from Gvozdev and his ilk, but
thank you."  He smiled.  "Don't worry about it, my dear," he joked
lamely.  "At most, the gossips will compliment your taste."

"How can you say that?"  She balled her fists, hating this.  charade.
Hating it even more because she remembered too well.  Because sometimes
she would wake up 'in the middle of the night and remember and wish.

"Irinam" Golovin reached for her hand, but she had al-~ ready sprung up
and was running out of the room.

The old prince sighed as the door slammed, "It'll be right.  She'll
cope.  She always has."  .

Alexei relaxed now that the first powerful urge to go after her had
ebbed a little.  He unwrapped the package and; put the papers he had
placed on top of the box of chocolates down on the bed, His voice and
his eyes were full of regret as he settled down to tell Golovin why he
would be taking them with him.

Chapter Five

The heat of the late August night was oppressive, but as Irina moved to
stand at the open window, she found that her skin was cold and clammy.
She had prepared herself for weeks, no, months, for this moment, but
when it had come, she had been paralyzed.  Motionless, she had sat on
the edge of the bed for an hour--or was it two, three?  --holding
Ilarion's hand as it grew cool, then cold.

She looked out at the midnight sky of that ghostly, iridescent, pale
lavender that meant the white nights were ebbing and caught herself
wishing that Alexei had been here.  Not for herself, she assured
herself quickly, but for Ilarion, who would have been comforted by his
presence.  No, she amended, just as much for herself.  So that there
would have been someone in the silent bedchamber with her now who
lived, who breathed.  So that the silence around her would not remind
her that everyone she had ever loved had died.

The faded memory rose of how she had crept through the endless, dim
corridors of her childhood home to find the room where her mother lay
dying of some terrible, contagious disease she had later found out had
been typhoid.  The same lost feeling she remembered enveloped her now.
She was alone, adrift on a dark, hostile sea.

She had not cried since she had held her dead child in her arms.  But
now she buried her face in her hands and allowed the tears to come.

Alexei walked down a narrow path between two rows of graves.  Here in
the cemetery of the Alexander Nevski Monastery there were none of the
simple white-painted crosses of birch wood or pine that populated most
Russian cemeteries.  Here there were tombs of granite and Italian
marble, massive gravestones draped with mourning angels in dubious
taste, ostentatious family vaults.

The grave he sought was unpretentious in comparison to its neighbors.
It was surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence, and Alexei let himself
in and stood at the foot of the massive granite slab under which
generations of Golovins lay.  A week, he thought.  He'd been a week
late.  Crouching down, he laid a hand on the dark gray stone and said
his last goodbye to the man who had been as close to him as his own
father.

He looked up at the tall, narrow chapel that guarded the grave.  A
votive light burned, its flame reflected in the precious jewels that
framed the icon.  The gilding on the long row of names and dates that
had been chiseled into the gray stone had dulled with the years.  Only
the last two names were bright.

His gaze wandered to the name above that of his old friend.  Then he
blinked and read it again, but it remained the same.  He rose and,
skirting the granite slab, mounted the two steps to the chapel and ran
his fingers over the last name but one--Alexei Golovin, October 10,
1823oOctober 17, 1823.

For long moments his brain seemed to stop functioning.  Then his
thoughts and emotions began to race like runaway horses.  His fingers
still touching the name, he half turned to look at the slab of granite
and knew with a terrifying certainty that beneath that hideous gray
stone lay the body of his son.

Damn them, he thought, the wild, unbridled anger shooting through him.
Damn them both.  How could they have done that to him?  The emphasis
shifted.  How could she have done that to him?  Still looking at the
name, he backed away.  He would have answers, he told himself.  And he
would have them now.  Then he was running down the narrow path, the
wrought-iron gate swinging behind him.

"Prince Muromsky, your grace."

Irina stood from her seat behind the desk.

Alexei remained standing in the doorway.  "My deepest sympathy,
Princess."  His tone was utterly glacial.  Although that first burst of
violent anger had cooled on the two-mile drive from the cemetery, the
bitter resentment lay on his tongue like gall.  Her eyes were dull and
shadowed with mauve and the simple black gown accentuated her pallor.
He told himself that she deserved no compassion as he walked toward
her.

As she watched him approach, she realized that something was wrong.  In
the split second before he spoke, she knew what it was.

"I was at the cemetery."  '

"Yes," Her chin lifted.  "I know."

Her answer took him by surprise.  Before he could speak, Irina
continued.  "I can see the condemnation in your eyes.  You're very
quick at that."  Her mouth twisted into agrim little smile.  "But then
I already knew that."

From the moment Alexei had realized that Irina had borne his son, he
had thought only to confront her, to demand answers, to judge.  Her
quiet courage caught him off guard, shamed him.

"Why?"

"Why?"  Irina's dark eyebrows rose as she echoed his question.  "Why
what?  Why did I conceive a child?  Why did

I marry Ilarion?  Why did I not tell you?  " She gave a short, harsh
laugh.  " What is it that you want to know?  "

"I would have married you if I had known."  Even as he said the words,
he winced at their inadequacy.

Irina closed her eyes against the pain his words caused her.  The pain
of lost opportunities, lost years.  She turned away and walked to the
window.  Wrapping her arms around her, she began to speak.

"I was barely seventeen.~The only person in the world I could
conceivably have told was my old nyanya, but she was seven hundred
versts away at our most distant estate, where my father had banished
her.  I was constantly sick.  I was terrified."  She shivered as she
remembered the icy fear that had grown proportionately with her
physical weakness:

She spun around to face him.  "Can you understand that, Alexei?"  She
slipped into the intimate form of address without noticing.  "Do you
know what happens to young girls of good family who become pregnant? Do
you know?"

Not waiting for an answer, she continued.  "They are locked in some
remote convent.  When the child is born it is taken away from them
immediately and given to some peasant woman to be raised," The words
spilled out of her as water spills out of an overturned bucket.  "If
the parents are very generous, then the girl's dowry is doubled to
offset the fact that the bridegroom is getting damaged goods," She
dragged in a breath on a sob.  "If they are not, she st~s in the
convent for the rest of her life.

"My father would have killed me."  Her throat worked painfully as she
swallowed.  "I think he would have killed me with his own hands.

"And you.  You were in exile in the most godforsaken corner of the
Caucasus, God knows how many versts away~ Even if I had dared to try
and contact you, I would not have known where to begin."  She sighed.
"But it's futile to contemplate the what-ifs.  How could I assume that
you want a foolish girl who had begged you to make love

I wasn't even sure that you remembered my name--or my face.  " '

As she spoke, Alexei felt his resentment begin to fade.  When he had
seen the name, when he had realized that Irina had borne his child,
something had snapped within him.  But now, with every word she said,
with every image she conjured up, he realized what she had gone through
and how unfair he'd been to her.

When he closed the distance between them, she flinched but did not
retreat.  Oh God, he thought, did she think he would strike her?  He
took a step back and held out his arm.  "Will you sit?"

The look of surprise she gave him hurt almost as much as the fact that
she had flinched away from him.  But after a moment she laid her hand
on his arm and allowed herself to be led to a sofa.

Not wanting her to feel threatened, he sat at the opposite end from
her.  "I owe you an apology."  He lifted a shoulder in an awkward
shrug.  "Again."

Now that she was sitting down, the strength that had carried her
through the confrontation drained out of her.  Irina gripped her hands
tightly together in her lap, as if that pressure could help her get
through the few minutes before Alexei left.  And she wanted him to
leave, didn't she?  Didn't she?

"Will you tell me?"

She kept her gaze focused on her white knuckles.  "Can you?"  he
prompted softly.

When she looked up and met his gaze, she felt something inside her
soften at the pure misery she saw in his exotic topaz eyes.  She fought
against it, realizing the danger, but the past months, the past week,
had depleted her.  Would it be so terrible if she took a little
comfort? she thought.  Just a little, when she needed it so badly?

"Ilarion found me being sick in the garden of the Smolny during a
Maslenitza luncheon attended by the whole imperial family."  One
corner of her mouth tilted up in a sorry attempt to smile.  "He didn't
ask me any questions, but he had such kind eyes that I told him
everything.  Everything but your name.  He moved heaven and earth so
that we could be married within the week, because no weddings are
performed during Lent."  She shrugged and looked away.  "There's not
much else to tell."

The wave of guilt that surged through him dumped in the pit of his
stomach like a huge ball of ice.  But he had to know all of it.  "Was
it... difficult?"

She was so still that Alexei thought she had not heard him.  Then she
met his gaze and he almost cried out at the pain he saw in her eyes.

"I almost died."  She wet her parched lips.  "But I lived and he
didn't."  She stiffened against the pain that savaged her.

"And you called him Alexei."

Irina dipped her head in a choppy little nod.  "From the moment we were
married, Ilarion was his father in everything but fact.  He sat with me
when I was sick.  He was always there when I became so clumsy that I
could barely move.  He took such joy in preparing a nursery."  She
stared at her restless hands.  "He would have given him his name with
no second thoughts.  But I wanted him to have at least a little of your
name."  Her voice broke on the last word and she buried her face in her
hands.

Helplessly Alexei watched her weep in great,

Slowly he inched toward her and tentatively touched her shoulder.

"No!"  Her head shot up, her tear-drenched eyes huge and wild.  "Don't
touch me!"

"Please."  The pain rolled through him.  "Let me you."  He stretched
out his hand but did not touch her.

She shook her head, terrified of his touch because she wanted it so
badly.

"Do you hate me that much?"

Irina saw the pain in his eyes.  Had she caused that?  Her own pain
receded and she opened her mouth to tell him that she did not hate him.
She'd never hated him.  She was only afraid.  Afraid of the memories,
the fantasies, the wishes she had lived with for so long.  But no words
would come.

Alexei rose and, without looking hack once, walked to the door.  Only
when the door had clicked softly behind him did Irina remember the
papers Ilarion had told her about.  She hadn't given him the papers
that lay in the vault behind the bookcases.

"So what does this prove?"  Gvozdev tossed the letter down on his desk
and narrowed his close-set black eyes as he looked at his agent.

"It proves nothing, but then circumstantial evidence rarely does."
Popov allowed himself a small smile.  "May I recapitulate, your
excellency?"

Gvozdev waved at him to continue.

"Prince Muromsky hinted to his brother that he was, let's say,
interested in Princess Golovin and that was borne out by what you heard
from the countess, your wife."  He picked up the heavy sheet of vellum,
"But does this letter sound like something a woman would write to her
lover?  Especially a woman who is now a rich widow and free to do as
she pleases?"

"So?"

"We know there is a conspiracy.  We know that Murom-sky is involved in
some way.  What we do not know is the extent of the conspiracy or the
extent of Muromsky's involvement.  Assuming that the deceased prince
was also involved in some way, perhaps this business of a love affair
was a red herring to lead the hounds away from the scent, so to speak,
and protect the old man."  Popov straightened.  He always thought of
himself as the tsar's very best hunting hound.

"And if it was a red herring?"  Gvozdev drummed his pudgy fingers on
the desk in a quick tattoo.  "What difference would it make now that
Golovin is dead?"

"It would be interesting to know what this bequest is.  Interesting
papers, perhaps?  The ones we know exist, but that none of our agents
has ever seen?  Or perhaps the princess is somehow involved.  She has
expressed liberal ideas more than once."

Gvozdev held out his hand and scanned the letter again, reading it
aloud under his breath.  "My husband has left you a bequest.  Please
call on me at your convenience."  He nodded slowly.  "You could be
right.  It's worth following up on.  You've always had an excellent
nose, Popov."  With measured steps, he pa~ c~l.  the length of the room
twice before he stopped in front of his agent.

"We need something soon.  Benckendorf is getting impatient He fingered
the diamond ring on his little finger.

Get an.  agent disguised as a servant into the Golovin palace.  Or
better still, two.  And keep Muromsky under surveillance.  "

Popov bowed, his eyes gleaming.  He was pleased with his orders.

"And, Popov?  I want every piece of mail both of them get
examined--letters, invitations, everything.  Do you understand me?
Everything."

Alexei stared at Irina's curt note.  Absently his rubbed the center of
his chest as if he could relieve the pain that seemed to have become a
permanent part of him.  Howl much had he lost within the space of a few
days?  Would it have been easier, he wondered, if he had been here to
see old friend off on the final journey?  Would it have ier to
reconcile himself to the thought of his son in damp, cold ground if he
had known he had had one?  Irina?  Was there something he could have
said or make things different?

Even as his thoughts meandered, his gaze wandered over the note again
and again, as if he could mesmerize the words into changing.  It was
then that he noticed that the letter was dated three days earlier.  A
hint of suspicion pricked at the back of his neck as he flipped it over
to look at the seal, cursing himself that he had broken it so
impatiently.  Now it was too late to examine it for signs that it had
been broken and resealed.

He shrugged.  Irina probably hadn't bothered to send her messenger
right away.  Or the letter had been lying forgotten on some table in
the vast Muromsky palace before a footman had remembered to deliver it
to his apartments.  There were a dozen reasons why it was late, he told
himself.  Then he pushed his chair back and went in search of the
majordomo

A good hour later he was back in his apartments, irritable and nervous.
No, the man couldn't remember when the letter had been delivered.  Or
by whom.  Perhaps one of the younger footmen had been on duty to
receive it.  His questioning of the majordomo had been exasperating and
had led him absolutely nowhere.

Although he told himself that he was seeing ghosts where there were
none, he sat down to write a carefully worded note to Irina.

"I have ordered a memorial mass to be said at the St.  Nicholas
Cathedral on Wednesday at 11 o'clock.  I would be honored if your grace
would be there."  This note had come from Alexei as an answer, or
rather instead of an answer, to her letter.

Why couldn't he simply come and collect the papers Ilarion had not had
time to give him?  Irina frowned as she stopped in front of one of the
mirrored panels in the foyer to fasten the thin pelisse at her throat.
Instead he was apparently staging some complicated farce.  No.  She
dropped her hands.  She was being unfair and petty.  She well under
stood the sensitivity of the papers Ilarion had placed in her keeping.
And she understood that he had loved Alexei.  Still, she wished.  no
matter.  She shrugged at the reflection of her thin, pale face above
the black gown, which did not become her.  Ilarion had asked her not to
wear mourning, but she could hardly go to a memorial mass without it.

The footman in the green-and-gold Golovin livery followed a few steps
behind her as she turned right onto the Moika and then right again onto
the Voznesensky Prospect, which led to the cathedral.  It probably
would have been more seemly to take her carriage, she thought, but she
needed to move.

Alexei watched Irina walk down the sanded path, lined by the usual
assortment of beggars and cripples that seemed to cluster around every
single church.  Instead of having her footman pass out coins, she
stopped to speak to each person and place a coin in their outstretched
hands.

Irina looked up and her breath caught in her throat.  Framed by the.
turquoise and gold of the church, Alexei stood tall and straight in the
entry.  He looked like a pagan prince, wild and untamed and dangerous.
Because she wanted to run 'toward him, she slowed her steps, ing
herself to look at him again until she had reached ithe portal.

Silently he offered her his arm and led her to the left cot' net of the
church, where votive candles for the dead always lit in front of a
large icon of the crucified Christ.  A ~. priest and a small choir
awaited them, and as soon as they' reached the group, the deep, rich
bass of the priest sounded as he began to intone the prayers for the
dead.

"Please forgive me for using this ruse to meet," Alexei said as they
stood afterward in the center of the church, "But I thought it
safer."

Irina gave him a puzzled look.  "Safer?"

"Yes.  Did you send the note to me the same day wrote it?"

She frowned slightly.  "Yes.  I sent a vershnik, a runner, to you that
same morning.  Why?"

"I didn't get it until three days later.  Either the Murom-sky servants
have grown incompetent or the note was detoured."

"Are you saying that we're being watched?  That our mail is being
monitored?"  Irina twisted the strings of her reticule around her
fingers because she wanted to reach for Alexei and shake the answer out
of him.  "Will you tell me what's going on, for God's sake?"

"What did the prince tell you?"

"Nothing.  He told me nothing."  She raised her hands in an exasperated
gesture.  "Almost nothing."  For the first time ever she felt a surge
of anger at Ilarion.  "He treated me like an idiot child."  Even as she
spoke the words, she knew that they were both unfair and untrue.

"He was only trying to protect you."

There was no reproach either in his words or in his tone,

but still she felt chastised.  "I know," she sighed.

"So am I."

"I don't want your protection, Alexei," she snapped.

His mouth curved in a hint of a smile.  "Then that's just too bad,
isn't it?"

She wanted to swear at him, but remembering where they were, she
remained silent.

"I want you to tell me how much you know."

Even though Irina bristled at the arbitrary demand, she began to speak.
"Tve pieced together more than Ilarion would have liked, but I have to
know more.  Just exactly what is it that the two of you were involved
in?  I've read the pap"

Alexei's fingers closed suddenly over her arm, silencing her.

"What" -- she began, but fell silent at the shake of his head.

Alexei looked around the church, but he saw nothing that would confirm
his sudden suspicion.  Had it been the sound of footsteps on the stone
floor that he had heard?  The rustle of fabric?

"Shall we walk in the park for a few minutes?"

"What" -- she began again, only to be cut off as he gripped her arm and
maneuvered her quickly toward the entry of the church.

Just beyond the threshold of the church, a woman in a frilly blue gown
was bending over, fussing with her shoe.  As they stepped outside, she
raised her head and gave a little yelp of recognition.

"Irina!"  Klavdia put additional effort into her smile to hide her
annoyance that she hadn't gotten close enough to hear more than a few
stray words.  "I didn't realize that you had become a churchgoer.  And
Prince Muromsky, too."  She sent him a catlike smile before she turned
back to her cousin.

"You really make a charming couple.  But why the unhappy face, rna
cousine?"  she probed.

The temper Ifina had always kept such a tight lid on burst free.  She
would not have it, she thought as fury rose to the surface, heating her
skin, making her palms tingle as if they had already connected with
Klavdia's smug face.  She would have no more of Klavdia's snide
comments and knowing glances.  She would have no more of this vile
comedy that.  had her paired with Alexei, betraying a husband she had
loved and honored.

"Klavdia" -- Irina started forward, but Alexei's fingers bit into her
arm, holding her back.  "We are not" -- The pressure increased, and
although she tried to twist her arm out of his grasp, he held her fast.
Even though her rage slipped yet a notch higher, prudence was stronger
and she gave in to the message his grip was sending her.

Klavdia looked her cousin up and down, tucking every detail to be
reported later, before turning toward Alexei with a calculated smile.
"Irina has always been difficult.  My uncle said once that she needed a
man with enough stomach to teach her what her duties were."  She moved
her shoulders in a small, elegant shrug.  "Are you up to it, Prince
Muromsky?"  Her thin eyebrows rose in a mocking curve.  "But then
you've always had a reputation for your way with women."

Alexei's muscles tensed as he controlled the desire to wring the
countess's neck.  He marked a bow.  "You do me too much honor."

"Should she be too recalcitrant, I sincerely hope that you will" -- she
paused and gave him a wide-eyed look "--look elsewhere.  It would be a
shame to waste your assets where they are not appreciated."

"I have never wasted my assets, Countess," Alexei said coldly, letting
his gaze wander contemptuously down her body.  "And I do not intend to
start now."

Klavdia stiffened at the insult, but she was actress enough to
camouflage her fury with a bright smile.  She would pay him back for
that, she thought.  She always paid her debts.  Or had someone pay them
for her.  "Well, I must be off.  Enjoy yourself, cousin, while you
can."  She laughed suggestively.  "People will talk, but then you're
entitled.  It couldn't have been pleasant submitting to an old man."
With a small wave, she turned away.

Shaking with suppressed rage, Irina watched her as she flounced away
down the path.  When Klavdia's carriage had moved away from the curb,
she hurled her reticule to the ground and began to pace, her feet
kicking up little swirls of sand.  "I could scratch her eyes out."  Her
voice was low, furious.  "She's a snake.  A snake!"

So she hadn't changed, Alexei thought.  The passion was still there
under the cool, dignified, almost prim exterior.  He felt the ache in
him begin again.  Because he wanted to touch her so badly, he bent down
a little stiffly to pick up the reft-cule and held it out to her
without speaking.

When she had taken it, he put his hand lightly at her elbow and guided
her down the path.

"Do you understand now how careful we must be?"  Alexei asked after
they had passed through half of the small park.  "The only way they
could have known we would be here is if they read my note."  Purposely,
he ignored the other, more personal things Klavdia had said.

He shrugged.  "I do not want to involve you any more than the prince
wanted to involve you.  But you are involved and you need to know
enough for your safety" -- unconsciously he rubbed his thumb against
her elbow, wanting to soothe her "--but not too much.  If you have read
the papers, you have probably pieced together a great deal... and you
know much more than is safe for you."

Irina dug her hands into the silk of the reticule as she fought for
control.  The rage she had felt moments ago' had disappeared and in its
wake something even more powerful was stirring her.  Although he was
barely touching her, she felt Alexei's touch as if it were an intimate
caress.  And it had her pulse racing.  She must be going mad, she told
herself.  She was no better than Klavdia's opinion of her.

Forcing herself to keep her voice even, she looked straight ahead and,
taking a deep breath, began.  "I remember you telling me that you want
a constitutional monarchy for Russia.  You want the serfs to be freed,
education to be available for everyone and conditions in the military
made less severe."  '

"You remember very well."  He wondered how much else she remembered.

She looked up at him and saw the turbulence in his eyes.  Not knowing
how to interpret it, she glanced away again.  "The papers are a
blueprint for all that.  But is this just theory or are you involved in
some kind of plot to bring this about?"  She shook her head.  "Ilarion
was a man of ideas, a true idealist.  I cannot imagine him part of a
conspiracy."

"You're both right and wrong."  Alexei smiled at her defense of her
husband.  "He knew about it, although his position prevented any direct
involvement.  He was the brains behind it and I was his mouthpiece."

She stopped in the middle of the path and faced him so that he was
forced to look at her.  "So what is it exactly that you're doing?"  she
demanded.

Even before he opened his mouth to speak, she saw the flicker of
evasion in his eyes.  "No," she protested, "don't."  Without thinking
of the consequences, she touched him, her fingers closing tightly
around his arm.

Desire exploded within him, making him light-headed.  Was he going mad?
Alexei thought.  A simple touch 'could not possibly affect him like
this.  But it did and he could feel his blood begin to swim.

Irina knew she should take her hand away, but it was as if her hand had
been forged to his body~ Even through the fabric of the uniform she
could feel the blood pumping through his veins, its rhythm seeping into
her own system, until their hearts beat with perfect synchronicity.

They stared at each other, words, thoughts forgotten, each aware only
of the other, drugged with incipient desire.  The early fall air seemed
to grow close and hot and suffocating.  Only when a sudden, sharp gust
of wind carrying the tang of the sea swept through the park did reality
slowly begin to invade their world--a birdcall, the laughter of
children playing at the edge of the small park, the splashing sound of
a boat passing on the nearby canal.

It was Irina who returned first from the spell that had bound her.  She
looked down at her hand, still curled around his arm.  She felt her
quick heartbeat in her throat.  Her color rising, she snatched her hand
back, listing it as if to keep the sensation a little while longer.

"You were going to lie to me, Alexei.  I could see it in your eyes."
She shook her head.  "Don't you think I deserve the truth?"

He could still feel his blood pounding in his temples He could still
feel the heat her touch had caused.  And Ifina was looking at him, her
eyes serious and calm, as if nothing had happened.  His temper showered
sparks, but with the prat-rice of years he controlled it.  This was not
the moment to examine what still lay between them.  Or the moment to
demand promises from her.

"All right.  I will give you as much of the truth as I can."  They
began to walk again, careful not to touch.

"The papers you have read are detailed plans for the transition to a
constitutional monarchy.  A peaceful, orderly transition.  There are
others involved who want more and have no qualms about shedding as much
blood as they have to to get it."

"I ask you again, Alexei.  Is it theory or a plot?"  He shook his head.
"I cannot tell you."

"You mean you won't."  "Both."

Irina shrugged.  "I suppose that is an answer in itself."

Alexei frowned, displeased that she knew so much.  Still, he knew that
he had no choice but to involve her further.

"Will you keep the papers for a time?"  he asked her.  "I have no place
where they would be as safe, and if they are found, we are all lost."

"Yes, of course."  "And, Irina"

Alarmed at his tone, she whipped her head up to look at him.

"We need to keep up this charade.  I do not know how much the secret
police have found out, or how much your cousin overheard, but they must
not suspect that you are involved with me other than personally."  He
reached out to touch her but thought better of it.  "If you won't do it
for yourself or for me, do it for the prince."

"NOV' She shook her head.  " I will not do this.  "

be so easy, she thought.  So easy to make the charade be come reality.
The fear of her own weakness rose up to clog her throat.

Alexei bowed his head in assent.  He would not be honest if he tried to
persuade her that this was solely for her own safety.  "Will you at
least promise me to be careful?  And that you will let me know should
you need anything?"

She nodded.  "Let me know when you want the papers."  Not daring to
look at him again, she turned and ran down the path toward the gate.

Chapter Six

Irina paused in the middle of a step as she heard the faint sound of
books scraping along a shelf in the library.  Pushing open the door,
she stepped inside.  A chambermaid whom she couldn't remember ever
seeing before was standing on a stepladder looking through a handful of
books.

Irina opened her mouth to.  ask her what she was doing, but some sixth
sense told her to remain silent and watch for a few moments longer. The
gift pushed the books to one side and slid her hand over the back of
the bookcase, then tapped softly.

"What are you doing

Nimbly the girl jumped down from the stepladder and curtsied deeply. "I
was dusting the shelves, your grace."

Irina approached her until barely an arm's length rated them.  "Were
you told to do so?"

"No, your grace."  She bobbed another curtsy.  "I finished with the job
Ilya gave me and I wanted to be especially industrious" -- she paused
and smiled with just the right touch of humility "--to show how
grateful I am to have been hired to serve you."

Irina curbed her instinctive reaction to order her out and nodded.
"Since you are new here, you cannot know that the library is cleaned
only under supervision because of the many valuable things that are in
here," she said, inventing the new household rule on the spur of the
moment.  "You may put the books that you moved back now."

As she watched the maid, Irina felt the anger burn in the pit of her
stomach.  So Alexei had been right.  They were being watched.  She
hadn't really believed it until now.  The girl was a spy, she was sure
of it.  She remembered the half.  opened desk drawer in her private
sitting room the other day.  She start~l to tell the girl that she was
dismissed but thought better of it.  They would just send another spy
then.  It was better that she keep her on.  At least then she would
know whom to watch.

When the girl was gone she gave the bell pull a tug, and when a footman
appeared, she told him she wanted to see Ilya.

"How long have you been with the prince, Ilya?"  she asked when the
majordomo had entered the library with a bow.

"All my life, your grace."  He gave her a puzzled look.  "I was born at
the Nikolskoe estate and have served him all my life."

"Have there ever been servants in the house before who did not belong
to the Golovins, Ilya?"  She watched his face begin to crumple but
forced herself to keep her tone stern.  "Why now?"

He stumbled forward and fell at her feet.  "Prostite, va she
siyatelstvo.  Forgive me, your grace."  Grasping a handful of her gown,
he pressed his lips to the hem.  When he raised his face to her, tears
were streaming down his wrinkled cheeks and he crossed himself.
"Forgive me."

Irina reached down and touched his shoulder.  "Stand up, Ilya.  It's
alLright.  I just want you to tell me."

But the old man remained stubbornly on his knees.  "My youngest son is
in the army, your grace.  He said if I didn't do it, it would go badly
for my son."  He began to sob.  "Are

you going to send me back to the estate now, your grace?  Please
don't," he babbled.  " I would rather be whipped.  "

Putting her arm around his stooped shoulders, Irina pulled him upward
so that he had no choice but to stand.  "No one is going to send you
anywhere, Ilya."  She smiled and put her hands on his arms, as much to
alleviate her own guilt as his fear.  "What would I do without you? And
no one is going to whip you.  Tell me," she said~ softly "who is he?"

"A man came.  I do not know his name."  -Ilya sniffled.  "He brought
them" he tipped his head vaguely toward the door "wwith him and ordered
me to take them on as footman and chambermaid.  Otherwise" The tears
began to run again.

"Will you do something for me, Ilya?"

"Anything, your grace.  Anything."

"Keep them very busy, ilya.  I don't want them with time on their hands
and I don't want them near my apartments or the library."  She smiled.
"Do you understand?"

He nodded fervently.  "Yes.  Yes.  Thank you.  God bless your grace."

When Ilya had gone, Irina walked slowly to the desk.  She had no
choice, she thought.  She had to see Alexei.  She sat down and began to
write.

The canal was a dull greenish gray under the overcast October sky. Rain
clouds threatened, but the wind wouldn't push them over the city for a
little while longer.  What was it that she wanted to hear from Alexei? 
Irina asked herself as she absently picked at the moss on the stone
wall and stared down into the water.  Advice?  Reassurance? Orwher
hands stilled--had she only grasped this as an excuse to see him
again?

Alexei cursed silently.  He had listened to her story maid whom she'd
caught examining the library for secret compartments, of the servants
who had been brought into her household, with escalating alarm.

"I want you to leave."

She turned to look at him, her eyes huge.  "What?"

"I want you to leave St.  Petersburg."  His voice was harsh.  Irina was
looking at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue and he
suppressed the desire to shake her.  "Don't you understand?  I want you
to pack your bags and go.  Somewhere.  Anywhere."  His voice rose.  "Go
on an extended inspection tour of your estates.  Take the waters in
Baden-Baden.  Hire yourself an artist and take painting lessons in
Italy.  Just stay away from here for a year."

"Why?"

"You still haven't understood the danger, have you?"

" His eyes flashed.  " I want you out of here when it starts.  "

"So you do have concrete plans."  Her eyes narrowed.  He shook his
head.  It would hardly set her mind at rest if he told her that over
his passionate objections the majority in the secret society now
supported the plan to assassinate the tsar during army maneuvers next
May.  "It could start at any time.  People seem to have lost their
heads.  They're like a depot of gunpowder just waiting for a match. The
least spark could set them off."

A flash of something that was half fear and half excitement streaked up
her spine and she opened her mouth to ask more.

"I'm not answering any more questions."  His mouth thinned.  "And I
mean it when I say that I want you to leave."

"And who are you to take responsibility for my well-being?"  Irina
demanded.  "I have been ordered around enough in my life.  These days I
make my own decisions."

"I'm sorry."  Seeing the stubborn light in her eyes, he backed down--a
little.  "I didn't mean to order you about.  But I do feel responsible.
You are involved because of me"

"No," she interrupted.  "I am involved because I was Ilarion's
wife."

"Who became suspect because of his association with me."  '

They were silent for a long moment before Alexei spoke again.

"Will you at least consider it?"

"And if I do leave" -- Irina paused for a moment and shrewdly played
her trump card "--what will you do with the papers?"

Alexei shrugged, but his eyebrows drew together.  "I'll find someplace
to hide them."

"Where?  Tell me," she mocked.  "Under a loose floor~ board?  Buried
under a flower bed in the park?  Or will you hand it over to one of
your loose-lipped friends for safekeeping?"

"Stop acting like a spoiled child," he snapped.  "Or do you think you
have the only secret vault in the city?"

"No, you stop."  She whirled toward him, fury in her eyes.  "Listen to
me."  Her hands fisted.  "If the papers are as sensitive as you say, if
you are as suspect as you say, the minute you take them out of that
chamber, a great many people will be in danger."  She stopped, caught
suddenly in the golden lights of his exotic eyes.  "You will be in
danger."

Alexei suddenly found himself short of breath.  "Do you care?"

She went still.  "Yes.  God help me, yes."

"lrina" -- He curled his hands around her arms.  "Irina."  She felt his
fingers tense.  Her skin began to throb, not because he was holding her
so tightly but because of the power that flowed between them.

They stared at each other, both remembering what the other's mouth had
tasted like.  Both wondering what it would be like to taste it now. All
they saw was the stunned,

dazed look in the other's eyes.  All they heard was the sound of the
other's suddenly uneven breathing.

Alexei knew that if he didn't let her go soon, he would take her mouth
now, here.  But before he let her go, he thought, he would have a
promise.

She felt as light-headed as if she'd drunk too much wine.  How could he
have this effect on her with just a touch?  There was nothing between
them.  Nothing but one long-ago, long-forgotten night.  But even as
Irina told herself that, she knew she was lying.  She had forgotten
nothing.  And neither had he.

"Promise me"

Her breath stilled.

Neither one of them heard the rumble of a carriage Stopping.

"I wish you a good afternoon."

The smooth voice broke into their world like a thunderbolt, dissipating
the magic of the moment.  Unsteady, they turned toward the sound. Count
Fedor Gvozdev was smiling at them, his small black eyes almost
disappearing in the folds of pink flesh.  Still stunned, they returned
the greeting.

"Oh, to be young again."  He smiled at them again.  "Well, I must be
off."  Sticking his head out' of the carriage window, he pointed up at
the darkening sky.  "But don't get caught in the rain."  Chuckling, he
gestured to his driver.

Irina stood there, looking after the carriage, feeling as if she had
been stripped naked for all to see.

"You have two choices, Irina."  Alexei lifted his hand to touch her but
contented himself with: fingering the velvet edge of her short pelisse.
"You leave St.  Petersburg or we play the charade.  If you refuse to
go, that is the only way I have to protect you, at least a little."

"Charade?"  she whispered, turning to look at him, her eyes still
carrying traces of the moments that had gone before.  "How long will it
be a charade?"

Alexei tamped down the joy that sprang up within him.  "For as long as
we want it to be."

"How can you do that?"  The shame, the guilt, suddenly rushed over her.
"He was your friend."

"Yes.  And I loved him."  Alexei's eyes were sad.  "But he would not
have begrudged you a life after his death."  He gave a brief, mirthless
laugh.  "You do him an injustice if you believe that he expected you to
climb into the grave with him."

"But did he expect me to climb in your bed when he's barely under the
ground?"  Horrified at her own crass words, she gasped, her hand flying
up to her mouth.

The spurt of anger he had felt at her words faded as he saw the sheen
of tears in her eyes before she turned away.  This was neither the time
nor the place for more words, he thought.

Reaching out, he touched her elbow.  "Come now.  I will take you
home."

They were silent during the short walk back to the Golovin palace. When
they stood in the domed entry, Irina turned to look at Alexei.

"I will not leave the city."

"Then the other."  A ribbon of heat moved through his blood.

The refusal lay on the tip of her tongue.  But then she remembered the
dreams.  The dreams that had both tormented and nourished her.  She
sighed.  With his ideals, his hopes, his ambitions, he was not for her.
Nor was he for any woman.  But would it hurt, she asked herself, to
pretend for just a little while that he belonged to her?  And to have
even a tiny, vicarious part in something vital and exciting?  Suddenly
she felt bold and fearless.

"On one condition."

He suppressed a smile at the stubborn tilt of her chin.  "And that
would be?"

"That you tell me everything that is going on.  I will not go into this
half-blind."

He tensed.  "Irina, I am not the only one involved."  "Do you trust
me?"

For a long moment he gazed into her pale green eyes, not because he
needed to consider her question, but because he wanted her to believe
his answer.  "Unconditionally."

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Irina, please reconsider" -- he began again.

"Your word, Alexei."

He took a deep breath and nodded.  Instead of going inside, they moved
through the entry into the overgrown, rambling English garden that was
the exact opposite of the severe, classic palace.  Softly Alexei began
to speak.

She was edgy, Irina admitted as she forced herself not to pace while
the maid spooned red-hot charcoal into the samovar.  It had been more
than a week since she'd made that insane agreement with Alexei.  Since
she'd made a spectacle of herself on a public street, she added in
disgust.  She'd been sure that the tension would ease if she didn't see
him, but instead, she'd been wearing a trail in the carpets of her
apartments.

He had sent her three invitations since, but she had refused all of
them, unable, after all, to face him and St.  Petersburg's beau monde,
who would all whisper that they were lovers.  Even as she'd assured
herself that it washer loyalty to Ilafion's memory that was keeping her
away from Alexei, she knew that was only a sugarcoated lie.  The real
truth was that the courage she had felt as they had faced each other in
the entry of the palace had scattered like autumn leaves in the wind.

Alexei had kept his side of the bargain, she mused, while she had
hedged away from hers.  Guilt tugged at her, but only for a moment,
annoyance replacing it as she rem em bcred the wording of his last
note: "I w/11 come for you at three o'clock for a walk in the Summer
Garden."

She walked over to her desk, where the note still lay, and picked it
up.  The handwriting that slashed across the sheet of vellum was as
arrogant as his words.  There was no "please," no "would you like,"
just "I will."  Tossing it back down, she crossed her arms over her
midriff, hugging her elbows.  Surely he would understand when she told
him that she would not do it.  That she could not do it.

Her thoughts wandered as she sifted through the pile of letters, cards,
invitations.  In a strange way A!  exei's crude words had been exactly
on the mark.  Ever since Iiarion's death, she had retreated from life
so completely that she might as well have joined him in the cold
Golovin tomb.  Had she become such a coward?  she asked herself.  Or
did she simply need a little time to accustom herself to the fact that
she was alone again?

She'd always been a loner.  She'd had to be.  But the past two years
had spoiled her.  Ilarion, with his serenity and understanding, had
always been there, whether she had wanted advice on which gown to
purchase or a spirited discussion on the latest books that had been
smuggled in from France: Her life had had a purpose.  Now all she
seemed to have left were her trips to the poorer quarters around the
Haymarket to distribute food and clothing.

You could have more, a soft, insidious voice inside whispered.  Allyou
have to do is say yes when Alexei

Yes.  Yes.  ~

The water in the samovar began to boil, making those cozy gurgling
sounds, and she turned away, finding herself ridiculously close to
tears.  Without warning, the memory tea in the nursery, which had been
nyanya's undisputed domain, surfaced.  She could almost smell the room
with its scent of wooden toys and the gingerbread nyanya had ways fed
her.  There she had found sanctuary from her father's sharp words and
from all the sour-faced governesses,

snuggling up to her old nurse's soft breasts to listen to her songs and
fairy tales.

She shook off the self-pity that threatened to suck her in and looked
toward the table where the maid was setting out plate after plate of
small sandwiches, petits fours, glazed chestnuts and the flaky cones
filled with vanilla cream that she had once expressed a liking for.

"Well," Irina said.  "There seems to be enough there to feed a
regiment."

"Simon is near tears because your grace has been sending all the food
back untasted."  Parasha curtsied and folded her plump hands at her
waist.  "We are all worried, your grace."  '

Touched, Irina smiled.  "I shall do my best, Parasha."  ; She sent her
on her way with a small pat.  "And thank Simon for me, especially for
the cream cones."

When Parasha opened the door, the sound of voices.  and quick steps
muffled by the carpet filtered into the room.

"What is" -- Before she could finish, Alexei had pushed past Parasha.

His anger had carried him as he swept past the servants and up the
stairs to Irina's apartments.  But when he stood face-to-face before
her, he found the anger turning to anxiety.  Had she been so pale and
thin a week ago?  Had her eyes been so bleak?

The first shock of surprise had her paling, but anger came quickly,
bringing color to her cheeks.  "Did you not get my note that I could
not accompany you to the Summer Garden this afternoon?"  she asked
evenly.

Alexei recognized the control, and a smile of admiration touched his
mouth.  "Indeed."  Slowly he approached and took her hand, although she
did not offer it, and raised it to his lips.  "But I thought to
persuade you."

"Ah, yes?"

The ice in those two small words was enough to freeze an army, he
thought.  Before he could reply, she was speaking again.

"You thought to persuade, since giving orders did not appear
effective?"  Battling to ignore the ripples of excitement the fleeting
touch of his mouth on her hand had brought, Irina kept her eyes on
Alexei's face as she spoke.  A maddeningly smug half smile was playing
around his mouth, tempting her to forget her manners and plant her fist
in the middle of it.

"Please bring another cup, Parasha."  She pulled her hand back, but
instead of letting her go, Alexei tightened his grasp,

Fury shot into her eyes, but unwilling to indulge in a wrestling match
in front of the servants, she neither moved nor spoke.

When the door had closed behind Parasha and the man, she jerked her
hand out of his grasp.  Even though she despised herself for doing it,
she backed away.  "Why did you come?"

"We made an agreement, Irina.  And I have kept my end of it."  He
paused.  "At your insistence and much against my better judgment, I
might add."

"I made a mistake," she burst out.  "It was an promise to make."  He
said nothing, but he was looking her, his exotic eyes inexorable.  The
thought crossed mind that this was how one of his Tartar ancestors wou~
have looked at a woman he had taken as spoils of war, she found her
breath coming in short little gasps.  It took her control to stop
herself from retreating another step.

should never have done it.  "

"But you did."

The challenge was audible in his tone, visible in slightly mocking
curve of his dark eyebrows.  No, she herself.  She would not allow
herself to be mani something she did not want.  The surge of denial
within her surprised her with its fierceness, but she shoved it away,
channeling the emotion into anger.

"I have always thought of myself as an even-tempered person, but you
would try the patience of a saint," she cried.

"Even-tempered?"  Alexei smiled and narrowed the gap between them
again.  "I think that both of us know better."

"Stop it!"  Her color rose again.  "Stop what?"

"Stop trying to resurrect something that doesn't exist."  She balled
her fists.  "That never existed."

Alexei' reined in the impulse to take her mouth and prove that she was
lying.  This time, he swore to himself, he would take the time and the
care to give her the gentleness she needed.  And deserved.

"What I'm trying to do is to protect you, Irina.  The only way I know
how."

His soft words disarmed her as anger or accusations would never have
done.  "But I don't need protection, Alexei.  I am not a child," she
protested, but the heat was gone.

"I beg to differ.  You need protection because you know too much.  If
anything was insane here, then it was my telling you everything."
Because he needed the distance, his tone cooled.  "And if you do not
want to be treated like a child, then stop acting like one.  We all
have to bear the consequences of our actions."

Irina stilled, his words striking that deep wound inside her that had
scarred over but never truly healed.  "Yes," she whispered.  "I know."
Her eyes moved up to meet his.

"That is one lesson I learned very thoroughly."

"Irina, I didn't mean"

She held up her hand to silence him.  He was right, she thought.  For
the second time in her life she had acted impulsively.  She had reached
for something she'd wanted badly that she hadn't been able to resist
it, only:

she had woven yet another piece into the tapestry of her life.  A
piece that had irrevocably become part of her fate.

"All right, Alexei.  You win."  Her back straight, she looked him in
the eyes.  "I will play your charade."

Chapter Seven

The corridors Of the opera house were empty but for a few latecomers as
Irina silently mounted the stairs at Alexei's side.  The lively strains
of the Rossini overture were an incongruously cheerful counterpoint to
her wretched mood as the footman opened the door of their box.  The
stroll on Alexei's arm in the half-deserted Summer Garden yesterday had
been comparatively harmless, she thought.  But today most of St.
Petersburg would be gathered in the theater to hear an Italian soprano
who was the toast of all Europe perform her vocal acrobatics.

The anteroom was tiny, the velvet curtain separating it from the box
proper closed.  When the door closed behind the footman, they could
have been the only people in the world in that small, intimate
enclosure.

Alexei took her cape, and as he bent down to lay her long, fringed
cashmere shawl loosely around her shoulders, her fragrance rose to
bewitch him.  She smelled of flowers, but it wasn't the cool scent of
spring blossoms: No, it was the full-bodied scent of flowers heated by
a summer sun.  And in contrast to that bold scent was the delicate,
almost transparent skin of her neck.

No, he thought, how could he have believed that he could force her to
go through with this cruel charade?  He'd wanted to protect her.  That
part had been true enough.  But

had he coaxed and bullied her into it mainly because he knew that if
he did not, she would refuse to see him?

Lowering his mouth level with her ear, he whispered, "You don't have to
do this, Irina."

She whipped her head around to look at him as much because his breath
had drifted far too enticingly over her ear as because of his words.

"I can't stand to see you looking so miserable."  He lifted a hand and
feathered the backs of his fingers along her j awl inc "I'm sorry."

Irina felt her knees weaken with the heat that surged through her as
his fingers drifted over her skin.  That she could have fought, but the
gentleness in his voice drained the anger that had been sustaining her,
leaving her helpless against him.

His hands light, he turned her to face him.  "Do you want me to take
you home?"  He knew he should take his hands away, but unable to stop
touching her, he left them on her shoulders.

Her mind was clouding at his touch.  Even as she realized it, she could
do nothing to stop it.  This was what she had been afraid of--this
enervating powerlessness when touched her.  Yet at the same time, she
could feel pumping the heated blood through her veins with a that
frightened her just as badly.  With the last of strength, she pulled
away, breaking the contact.

"No."  His hands fell away, bringing her twin of relief and loss. "No,"
she repeated.  "I will not have reminding me again that I do not keep
my promises."

The throb of guilt moved through him at the reminder his harsh words.
He nodded and lifted the curtain allow her to enter the box.

The light from the brightly lit anteroom flashed darkened theater,
drawing all eyes toward them.  Even fore Irina had settled into her
seat, she heard fabric as people picked up their opera glasses to look
on her.  The music covered the whispers, the murmurs, but she saw
people putting their heads together and she knew that they were talking
about her,

It might have been tempting to ignore them and hide behind a feigned
attention to the quicksilver music, but she did not consider it for a
moment.  Instead, her head high, she let her gaze sweep along the line
of boxes.  With the slightly aloof graciousness that her life as the
wife of a rich, powerful man had instilled in her, she dispensed smiles
and nods.  She was half expecting to be ignored, and she was more than
a little surprised to find all her greetings being responded to--with
more or less warmth.  After a few minutes, the attention began to wane
and she allowed herself to turn toward the stage,

But when the curtain had fallen and the footmen had re-lit the
candelabras in the wall appliques throughout the theater, her box again
became the center of attention.

"Do you want to sit in the anteroom?"  Alexei asked softly.

"Certainly not."  Her dark eyebrows drew together in rebuke.  In her
own reserved way, she had never been one to do things by halves.  "If
we're going.  to do this, we're going to do it properly."

"Champagne?"

She nodded, remembering to smile.

Alexei stood.  "I'll be right back."  But instead of turning away, he
picked up her hand.  She would have pulled it out of his grasp had he
allowed it, but his fingers tightened.  As his lips touched her gloved
hand, their eyes met.

There was apology in his topaz eyes and warmth and compassion.  And
beneath it was the rich glow of passion.  Suddenly all the feelings
that Irina had been fighting since she had seen him those many months
ago across a crowded ballroom welled up inside her.  For the space of a
breath, panic closed her throat and she wanted to push them away,

deny them.  But the panic ebbed, and because she had never made a habit
of ignoring the truth, she yielded to it.

Love.  As she allowed that one terrible, wonderful word into her
consciousness, she felt the chains she had put on herself fall away. In
this moment of acknowledgment, of acceptance, there was none of the
weakness that had invaded her just a moment ago at his touch.  Yes, the
physical heat she had felt was still there, but it was tempered by the
emotion that now burned in bet be art just as hotly.  Strength surged
through her proudly like the sea at high fide.  And she knew she would
need it.

She was not free of fear.  She was not sure if there would be joy for
her, but-she knew there would be pain.  Perhaps more than she had
bargained for.  But having looked truth in the eye gave her a freedom
she had not possessed before.  As he straightened, she gave him her
first of the evening.

Alexei had to force himself to move away from Irina.  He had seen the
race of emotions in her eyes without being to interpret them.  But he
felt instinctively that in this moment something vital had changed, and
he wanted, needed, to know what it was.  He would have liked to where
she sat, pluck her out of her seat and carry away to some dark place
where they would be alone.  he would have his answers.  Instead he
opened the door summon the footman.

"Come closer, girl."  The brusque words were accompanied by the rapping
of a cane.

Irina was still smiling as she turned to her right and that she was
being summoned by the old Princess Knowing the princess's outspoken
manner, she was pared for a tongue-lashing as she slid several seats
the edge of her box.  What she was not prepared for was princess's
smile, which deepened the network of fine on her slack, papery skin.

"Sit by me, child," the old woman ordered.  Her lively dark eyes
scrutinized Irina's dove gray gown before she gave a quick, pleased
nod.  "Thank God you're not wearing black.  Ilarion would have hated
it."

"I know.  He asked me not to wear mourning."

The princess nodded.  "Ilarion was an old, dear friend of mine.  When
we were children we spent our summers on adjoining estates, you know."
Her mouth curved in a smile that evoked her faded beauty.  "If my
parents had not mar-fled me off at sixteen, who knows?"  She reached
out and put her small, birdlike hand on Irina's arm.  "I'm glad you
made him happy."  She gave her a squeeze.  "And you did."

Irina felt the light pricking of tears behind her eyes.  "I hope so."

"Now it's time to make yourself happy."  The princess folded her hands
on the elaborately carved ivory knob of her cane.  "Don't wait too
long.  Only an old woman like me knows just how quickly time passes
by."  She gave Irina a sharp, imperious look.  "Time, and men's
interest."

Irina stiff cried unsure of what to say.  She had been prepared to
defend herself, not for this.

The old princess's eyes went to Alexei, who had reentered the box, and
a smile touched her mouth at his fierce look.  "But then he does not
look as if his interest is going to fade anytime soon," she murmured.

Alexei moved to stand behind Irina.  He should never have left her
alone, he thought, not even for a moment.  He should have known that
one of these vicious biddies would get her claws into her the minute he
left her side.  Although he wanted badly to put his hands on her, to
reassure her, he did not, certain that she would not welcome his touch.
Instead he curled his hands over the back of her'sseat in a protective
gesture.

As if in reply to his silent message, Irina glanced up over her
shoulder at him.  There was no tension, no distress in her
eyes, he saw, but an unguarded vulnerability that
baffled and disturbed him.

Although Irina knew that the ruthless look on Alexei's face was not
meant for her, a shiver raced up her spine.  He was protecting her, she
realized.  Even though her first instinct was to reject such a gesture,
she realized, too, that the knowledge of his intent was not entirely
unpleasant.

The princess's hand on hers brought Irina's gaze back to the old
woman.

"There are some who will try to crucify you.  Ignore them."  She looked
up at Alexei, her eyes lively and coquettish.  "Now, young man, are you
going to offer me some champagne or aren't you?"

Irina closed her eyes as she settled back against the squabs of soft
Moroccan leather.  The baptism of fire was over, she thought.  She had
been stared at and talked about, and although the sensation had not
been a pleasant one, she found to her surprise that all the glances,
all the whispers, had not truly touched her.

Even the knowledge that vicious tongues would say that Alexei had been
her lover while Ilarion was still alive somehow no longer seemed
important.  She knew.  Alexei knew.  Ilarion had known.  And a few
people like old Princess Sorokin, who saw below the surface, would
know.  She remembered the princess's blunt words, and although the old
woman's candor had appalled her, she found her mouth twitching with
reluctant amusement.

"If you can still smile after the gauntlet you ran tonight, you are
hardier than I gave you credit for."  The carriage dipped as Alexei
slid into the seat beside her.

"I think women are generally a hardier lot than would like to believe."
Irina's eyelids fluttered up for a moment but she did not focus on his
face.

Although she had had hours to get accustomed to frightening, new
emotions she had allowed to s

~apestry o] rate in her, now that they were alone, she found that she
was not prepared to look into Alexei's eyes.  What if the tenderness,
the affection, she had seen there had been nothing but a fluke?  She
had seen coldness and contempt in his eyes before.  Now that she knew
she loved him, how could she ever bear to see it there again?

The carriage jolted into motion.  No, Irina thought.  Whatever would
come of this, she would not begin it by being a coward.  She lifted her
eyelids and met his eyes.

Even in the dimness of the carriage, he could see that her pale eyes
were turbulent with emotion.  Without conceit he knew that the
attraction that had been there between them from the very first had not
waned.  Even at the court ball, when he had thought to despise her, it
had been there, crackling like the air before a summer storm.  But what
he saw now was not merely attraction.  Suddenly he felt his heart begin
to pound heavily against his ribs as if in answer to what was in her
eyes.

"Irina."  He reached out and touched his fingertips to her cheek.
"Irina?"  Her name was a question, a plea.

Beneath her cloak, Irina pressed her hands against her middle.  He'd
only said her name and she was already melting.  There was gentleness
in his eyes.  Gentleness and more.  Or was there?  Was she only seeing
what she wanted to see?  Or was it truly there?

She wanted badly to tell him what was in her heart.  So badly that she
could almost taste the words on her lips.  But she knew that once the
words were spoken, there would be no turning back.  She'd given him her
heart once before even though he had been a stranger.  How much worse
would it be now that she knew him?  Yes, the emotions that ran through
her were strong and real.  That she was sure of.  But she was not sure
if she was ready to accept all the dangers that such an admission
entailed.  She pulled back within herself and closed the door.

Alexei watched her eyes widen, darken at his touch.  It took all of his
control, but he kept his touch light and un-demanding, even though the
desire to drag her into his arms was almost irresistible.

Then suddenly, although she had not moved, he felt her retreat.  Her
eyes cooled, as if she had pulled a veil down over the emotions that,
just a moment ago, had heated them.  He wanted to shout at her.  To
grab her shoulders and shake her until she spoke the words he had seen
in her eyes.

Instead he lowered his hand to the seat between them.  He was a trained
soldier and he knew that sometimes it was prudent to retreat to be able
to fight another day.

"Are the two servants who are in Gvozdev's pay still with you?"
Alexei's voice broke the silence as the carriage turned the corner onto
the Moika, where the Golovin palace occupied almost half a block,

"Do you know what that means?"

Not sure whether to be relieved or insulted at Alexei's distant,
matter-of-fact tone, Irina shook her head.

"It means that our charade does not end at your door.,"

Stiffening, she turned to face him.  What are you talking about?  "

"Do you think Gvozdev will believe we are lovers merely because we were
seen at the opera together?"  His dark eyebrows slanted up in
question.

"No!"  Frightened suddenly, she pressed herself against the wall of the
carriage.  "You can't mean" -- mind began to whirl with forbidden
images that took her breath away.  Even as the fear gripped her, she
knew was not a fear of him but a fear of herself.  And with it was a
heated yearning that was its own tern

He'd wanted to shock her, but the frantic widening of eyes had guilt
gathering in the pit of his stomach.

"No, listen to me."  His hands slid over her shoulders and he shook her
gently, afraid that she would slip into hysteria.  "You will dismiss
your servants.  We will have supper in your apartments.  And a few
hours later I will leave."  He spoke quickly, wanting to reassure her.
"It's as simple as that."

As his words penetrated, the heat of shame rose, bringing a flush to
her pale cheeks.  For the space of a moment she'd wanted him to make
love to her tonight.  She'd wanted him to take her quickly,
masterfully, so that she could tell herself that it had not been her
decision.  That moment of cowardice, much more than the wanting itself,
pained her.

With a sideways movement, Irina freed herself from his grasp and turned
to stare out of the window.

When the carriage jolted to a stop in the domed entry of the palace,
Alexei leaned toward her.  "Did you hear what I said, Irina?"

She turned toward him, her eyes dull.  "I will dismiss my servants and
we will have supper together.  A few hours later you will leave."  She
parroted his words, her mouth as stiff as if she had been out in the
cold too long.

A footman opened the carriage door and, putting her hand on his
proffered arm, she alighted.  Without waiting for Alexei, she moved up
the steps to give the servants her instructions.

The door closed behind the servants with a click that resounded in
Irina's ears like a clap of thunder.  Forcing apart the hands she had
laced tightly in her lap, she watched Alexei walk to the door and turn
the key.

He turned and stood perfectly still, his dark amber gaze resting on her
face.  There was nothing threatening in his eyes or his stance, Irina
thought desperately.  Why did she sense waves of danger coming toward
her?  Why did she feel that in this moment there was but the finest
layer of civilized veneer over the Tartar in him?  Why did she feel
like running?  If she had not been sitting, she would have been hard
put not to back away from him.

Even though her eyes were calm now, Alexei had caught the tiny movement
as she pressed herself back into the cushions of the sofa.  He moved
toward her, slowly, cautiously, as one would toward a half-wild animal
that is poised for flight.  When he reached the sofa he crouched down
but did not reach to touch her.

"It will be all right," he said softly.  "I won't hurt you.  I don't
want to hurt you," he corrected himself.

His words sent the emotions pouring through her.  He stirred her
feelings so effortlessly, Irina thought, with those occasional flashes
of compassion and sensitivity: But he would hurt her.  She knew that.
And, she thought ruefu~ny, so did he.

For the second time that evening, Alexei saw the rush of emotions in
her eyes.  If only he had been a man like any other, without the
secrets or the obligations that burdened him, he could have taken irina
into his arms now and told her what was in his heart.  If the dangers
that surrounded him had not existed, he could have courted her as she
deserved, His hands curled over the edge of the sofa, the veins
prominent.  But he could offer her, at best, an illicit liaison and his
dubious protection.

The movement of his hand caught Irina's gaze.

the play of muscles as they tautened, distended.  Her eyes went to his
and she saw the echo of the tension there--and the rigid control he was
exercising over himself.  Understanding that he, too, was suffering,
swept through her and, as the last of the fear fell away from her, she
covered his hand with hers.

"Alexei, we have been lovers and we have been adversar-.es.  I think
that perhaps it is time for us to be friends."

Alexei felt the delicate weight of her hand on his.  He saw her smile
of almost unbearable sweetness.  Easily, painlessly, the passion that
had lived within him for so long slipped into love.

He turned his hand over and brought her fingers to his lips.

"Yes," he said softly.  "Let us be friends."

Chapter Eigh~

The icy winds and the frost swept down from the north.  While the
common folk took over the frozen Neva with their rough-and-tumble
skating, the aristocracy skated in the Yusupov Gardens on the Fontanka
to the newest Viennese waltzes played by an orchestra made up of serfs
who had been trained by the best French music masters.

Her gloved fingers tucked into a muff of fox fur, Irina sat on one of
the low benches that surrounded the skating rink and waited for Alexei
to bring the hot drink he had promised her.

Alexei.  The love flowed through her, and with it the sweetness and
pain that had become such an intrinsic part of her that she could no
longer distinguish where it ended and she herself began.  During the
past weeks he had accompanied her to soirees and teas, to the theater
and the opera.  Although they met with occasional disapproval, polite
society had begun to take their supposed liaison for granted and had
turned to newer scandals.  And even as the charade they played for the
world around them became easier, the time they spent alone became more
and more difficult as their relationship became less and less of a
charade.

They really had become friends, she realized with a start of surprise.
They'd become friends, but there were still walls between them.  Walls
that Alexei, oddly enough, had begun to guard much more warily than
she.

How much of himself did Alexei obscure behind the screen of control?
There were so many currents below the surface, she thought.  So many
thoughts, so many feelings she knew nothing of.  No, she thought, that
was not quite true.  She did not know, but she felt, she imagined.  And
she remembered the passion she knew lived within him.

How strange it was.  "She had been the one who had fought so
desperately against this pretending game, only to find herself now
irretrievably caught, like an animal in a cunning trap, while he was
still the hunter, able to take his prey or leave it.  Her walls had
become frail and brittle, ready to collapse at the slightest push,
while his walls were.  still strong.

Propping her elbows on her knees, Irina rested her chin on her linked
fingers.  She loved him.  More than she had thought possible.  And
certainly more than was wise.  This was why she had fought so hard
against his persuasions.  She understood that now.  It was also why, in
the end, she had given in to them.

It would have been easy to blame Alexei for pushing her, for goading
her, into this game, which had become so vital, so real.  But Irina
respected the truth too much to deny that she had made her own
decision.  She'd woven yet another piece into the tapestry of her life,
the tapestry that was her fate.

A couple whose name she couldn't remember skated by with a small,
laughing child between them and she stilled.  As her gaze followed
them, grief lanced through her as she thought of the child whose
laughter she would never hear.  She stared after them, long after they
had disappeared into the crowd.

Returning to the present with a start, Irina found herself chilled. She
shifted and turned to look for Alexei.  As he moved away from the kiosk
where refreshments were sold,

a cup of steaming liquid in each hand, their eyes met across the crowd.
The sudden heat that arched between them caused her breath to catch in
her throat and sent her thoughts spinning madly.  What would happen if
they were alone now?  What would Before she could finish the thought, a
slight, wiry man darted through the crowd and rushed up to Alexei. Even
as he pulled him away from the people who milled at the edge of the
rink, he was already talking at him as much with his hands as with
words.  Alexei said nothing, but she saw his features tense.  For the
space of a breath, his gaze sought hers before it darted away.

The man kept talking.  Then he suddenly grasped Alexei's arms and shook
him so violently that the hot liquid sloshed out of the cups he was
holding and ran over his hands.  When the man turned so that she could
see his face, her hand fluttered up to her throat.  As he half strode,
half ran, away, her eyes followed Kondrati Ryleev, poet and avid
advocate of violent revolution, his thin, handsome face blazing with
feverish joy.

In a single moment the gently misty winter afternoon became
threatening.  Ryleev.  Razor-edged fear shafted through her to settle
like a lead weight at the pit of her stomach.  Ry-leev.  What news did
he have for Alexei to commit the indiscretion of coming here?  She half
rose from the bench before forcing herself to sit down again and
wait.

As Alexei approached, she saw the stunned look in his eyes.  He lowered
himself onto the bench and, setting down the cups between them, reached
wordlessly for the handkerchief she held out to him and began to wipe
his hands.

"What's happened?"  Knowing that spies were everywhere, she fought to
keep her voice low, her expression bland.  She dragged in a lungful of
icy air in a vain attempt to quiet her breathing.  "Tell me."

Japestry of t~ate

Alexei picked up a cup and handed it to her.  Then, lifting up his own,
he took a sip before he answered in a low monotone.

"The tsar is dead.  News just arrived that the tsar died in Taganrog
eight days ago."

"Oh God."  Feeling her hands begin to tremble, Irina lowered her cup.
"Has the time come then?"

"Hold your tongue, damn it."  The fury in his low voice was echoed in
his eyes.  "Or have you forgotten that we are being watched?"

Alexei's rebuke and her annoyance, which sprang up in answer, steadied
her hands.  She raised the cup to her lips again, watching him over the
rim.  "I don't suppose it occurred to you to say the same thing to
Ryleev."  The overly sweet, overly spiced smell of the punch assaulted
her nostrils and she set the cup down,

"Forgive me."  Self-reproach nudged away his fury but left the edginess
untouched.  "It's just that" -- Whatever he was going to say flew out
of his mind as he fell into her eyes.

The new hazards that were advancing on him seemed to have heightened
all his senses, all his emotions.  The words, those words he had
carried inside himself for so long, lay on his tongue, the moment
tempting him to say them, to taste them.  The temptation grew until it
was almost unbearable, until the words were so real that the sound of
his voice saying them seemed to echo in his ears.

Irina saw the turmoil in his eyes, the need.  For the first time since
she had known him, that layer of control, so thin and yet so strong,
seemed to have disappeared, and she sensed the full extent of his
vulnerability:

She put her gloved hand against his cheek.  "What is it?"  Her thumb
drifted absently over the scar that marked his face.  "Tell me."

The cold leather against his skin plunged him back into reality. Alexei
saw that her eyes had darkened with concern.  He had no right, he told
himself as he fought for the

control that had slipped away.  He had no right to speak those words
that, once spoken, could never be revoked.  That would mean a
commitment he was not free to make.  He closed his eyes for a moment
against the pain.  When he opened them again they were bleak, but the
control had returned.

He shook his head.  "Come.  I will take you home now."

She was trembling and she hated it.  Irina told herself that she was
just shivering from the cold as she marched across her sitting room to
lay her icy hands against the tiled stove.  She had seen every feeling,
every emotion, that lived in her heart reflected in Alexei's eyes, and
what had he done?  He had shut her out.  Oh, she knew why he was doing
this, she told herself as her temper began to simmer.  Under the cloak
of protecting her from whatever was going to happen now that the tsar
was dead, he was backing away from his own feelings.  From everything
that lay between them.

Behind her she heard Alexei close the door.  She listened for the sound
of the key turning, but it did not come.

Alexei looked at Irina's back across the width of her sitting room.  "I
will not be seeing you again until this is over."

Even though she had been expecting the words, Irina stiffened,
unprepared for the pain that sliced through her.  Her hands closed over
the raised floral design on the stove tiles until the.  hard edges cut
into her palms.  How could he say that after what she had seen in his
eyes not a half hour ago?  Fury shot through her blood so swiftly that
her vision seemed to blur.

She whirled around and closed the distance between them.  All rational
thought gone from her mind, she grabbed the front of his tunic with
both hands and shook him, surprising them both with her strength.

"I won't be shut out, Alexei.  Do you hear me?"  Because she wanted to
shout so badly, she kept her voice low.  "I have played your game for
weeks.  A game that was never a game

~a pounds s~ry o~ ram l~l in the first place.  " Her voice rose now, as
the sorry remainder of her control began to dwindle.  " But, damn you,
don't shut me out.  "

"Irina."  He raised his hands to lift her fingers from his tunic but,
instead, curled his hands around hers.  "Don't you understand that it
has begun now and I will not endanger you more than I already have?"

"You fool!"  Her hands loosened, but now it was he who held her fast.
"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Suppose you tell me what it is then that you are talking about."

She stared into his eyes, which had become remote, inscrutable.  He was
shoring up the walls, she thought on a new wave of fury.  Her fingers
tightened again on the fabric of his tunic.  No.  Maybe she could not
bring his walls tumbling down; but this time, she swore to herself, she
would at least breach them.

"This," she whispered.  "I'm talking about this."

Levering herself upward, she pressed her mouth against his.

Alexei went still, at first because her action stunned him into
motionlessness, but after two, three heartbeats because her taste, her
fragrance, was already seeping intO him, seducing him with its
sweetness.  Lips parted, breath erratic, she moved her mouth over his,
as unschooled, as innocent, as he remembered.

When, moments later, he finally found himself able to move, his hands
went to her waist.  Slowly they wandered upward, over her back, her
neck, to slide into her hair.  Cupping her head, he tipped it back so
that he could look into her eyes, which had darkened, fear and chagrin
already warring with beginning arousal.

"Irina," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "do you know what you're
doing?"

The sound of his voice catapulted her back into reality.  Oh God, she
thought, she was offering herself to him, just as she had offered
herself that long-ago night.  But then she had been a child, a needy
child.  Now she had no such excuse.  Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried
to push herself away from him, but he was holding her too tightly.

Although he knew that it would be wiser to let her go, Alexei tightened
his hands.  "Look at me," he begged.  "Please."

She could have fought his demands, but it was not possible to withstand
a softly spoken plea.  Her eyelids lifted.

"You're right.  I shut you out.  But don't you understand?"  Against
his better judgment, his thumbs leathered over her Cheekbones, the
softness of her skin its own seduction.  "I have no right to tell you
now that I 1" -- At the last moment, he cut off the words, closing his
eyes against the temptation to continue.

Irina felt no triumph, but a deep, quiet joy spread through her.  She
allowed herself a long moment to savor it.  "Alexei."

He opened his eyes, believing that the moment of temptation had passed.
But he was not prepared for the serene joy that shone in her eyes.

"I'm not asking you for words.  Nor am I asking for promises."  She
slid her hands, which were still caught between them, upward and
touched her fingertips to his face: "Just don't shut me out now, this
moment."

No, he would not shut her out, Alexei thought.  He could not.  They
might not have said the words, but the love that flowed between them
was so real, so tangible, that he felt that if he reached out he could
have touched it.

Slowly he allowed his fingers to roam her face.

How many times had he dreamed of touching her like this?  His finger
tips skimmed over her mouth.  How many times had he dreamed of tasting
her sweetness?

He lowered his head until only a breath separated their mouths, then he
hesitated.  This was the point of no return.  They had exchanged no
words, no vows, no promises, but if their lips met now, they would be
lovers in all but fact.  But then, he thought, they had always been
lovers, hadn't they?

His heart was racing frantically, urging him to take what she was
offering.  But still his mind, his conscience, restrained him.  He felt
the quick rhythm of her breath, which was leathering over his lips,
pause and shudder.

Irina felt her heart thudding in her chest.  She would die, she
thought.  Surely she would die if he did not kiss her.  And still he
hesitated.  She saw the questions in his eyes and wanted, no, needed to
erase them.  Forgetting all else, she felt the tight rein she kept on
the streak of recklessness that ran through her blood slacken and slip
away.  She reached for what she wanted so badly and closed the distance
between them.

His tongue slipped inside her mouth.  Alexei wanted to go slowly, to
feast on her, to savor her luscious taste as one would a fine wine, but
her taste exploded on his tongue like a ripe fruit, making him greedy
for more.  As his tongue began to plunder, his hand slid down her back,
drawing her closer and closer still until the whole length of her body
was pressed against him.

In some still-rational part of his mind, he knew that he should subdue
this unreasonable passion, but the needs he had buried for so long were
already pouring out of him.  Like a mountain stream that is swelled by
the sudden thaw of winter's ice to become a torrent raging out of
control, so the passion, the need, which he had suppressed so
mercilessly, erupted now like the flow of molten lava that pours from
an exploding volcano.

How had she survived so long without his taste?  That was Irina's last
rational thought as he took her mouth.  After that there was only
sensation.  Sensation that drained her strength, making her as pliant
as warm wax.

Her mind clouded with pleasure, but the sensations became sharper, more
vivid.  The pleasure changed its texture.  It was suddenly no longer
the passive, pliant, warm pleasure of a moment
before.  Instead, her body seemed to ignite with a thousand different
fires.

She had instinctively tucked the precious remembrance of that one night
out of time into a dim, secret place in her mind that was far enough
away to disallow reaching for it too easily.  But now that corner of
her memory recognized the hungry flames and welcomed them even as a
shadow of fear sprang forth to mix in with the rising pleasure.  But
the fear flared for barely a moment before his kiss--and her own
passion--united with the memory to burn away everything but the
moment.

Alexei felt her body heat beneath his hands.  Even through the woolen
fabric of her gown, her incandescence scorched him.  In answer, or
perhaps in counterpoint, the blaze of his own passion eased.  And he
found there was more, infinitely more.  New vistas opened before him,
as if he had stepped into another reality.

His mouth gentled until he was barely sipping at her sweetness.

Suddenly the need to be the recipient of her passion blossomed within
him.  He grazed the tip of her tongue with his in invitation.  "Kiss
me, Irina," he murmured against her mouth.

Her eyelids lifted a fraction.  "I am."

"No."  He brushed his mouth over hers.  "Not yet."  Alexei cupped her
face and tipped her chin upward with his thumbs.  "Now," he whispered,
that one word both demand and plea.

He saw the confusion in her eyes, but only when she had pressed her
lips against his did he understand.

A tenderness so great that he ached with it flooded through him, making
his voice soft and husky.  "Give me your tongue, love," he prompted.

He felt her skin warm beneath his fingers as she flushed.  Half
expecting her to retreat, he held her captive, but she did not.  When
she touched the tip of her tongue against his lower lip, the desire
whipped through his veins and he bit back a groan.

His words had brought Irina out of the sensuous haze where his kiss had
plunged her.  For a moment she had felt awkward, gauche, but his voice
coaxed her.  The shudder that went through him at the first touch of
her tongue on his mouth made her feel brave and reckless, and she
probed her way between his lips.

As her tongue glided into his mouth, the sheer sensual pleasure of the
contact stunned her.  Then the spiral began-tiny coils at first, which
expanded and expanded again until her world was spinning.  Not knowing
that she did so, she lifted her hands to anchor his head.  The heady
pleasure bloomed as her tongue probed the textures of his mouth.  The
edge of his teeth pressed into her upper lip and that tiny pain had the
pleasure soaring still higher.

Had he ever felt anything like this?  How could this untutored kiss
arouse him as no other ever had?  Her taste had sweetened, darkened,
become more lavish as her own passion rose.  Alexei felt his body stir
and stir again and knew that in moments just her kiss alone could bring
him to completion.  Scrabbling for the last remnants of control, he
tightened his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back.

Her eyes were closed, her ivory skin flushed and sheened with passion.
Her nostrils quivered with her quickened breathing and it was that
involuntary sign of her arousal that almost sent him over the edge.

The pedestrian thought that he was so susceptible merely because he had
not had a woman for so long brushed his mind and was discarded.  He
knew that he had never wanted a woman as badly.  And he knew that
physical desire alone was only a part of it.

He dragged in a breath to steady himself, knowing that he would not
make love to her.  He feathered his lips over her cheeks, her temple,
her forehead, and settled her head against his chest.

Her slim body was pressed along the length of his as if they were
joined as one.  Their hearts beat with the same quick cadence.  Even
their scents seemed to have mingled.  He held her and knew that the
world had whittled down to this moment, this woman.

Lucidity began to return fragment by fragment, and with it a sense of
awkwardness, of uncertainty.  Irina stirred against him and felt his
aroused body pulse against her belly.  More even than the awareness of
his desire, the answering throb of her own unnerved her and she began
to pull away from him.

She felt his hand slide lightly down her back, exerting no pressure,
making no demands.  His gentleness and the plea-sure of feeling his
hard body against hers twined together and wound through her.  Suddenly
she could not summon a single thought, a single reason why she should
not stay.  Yielding, she subsided against him.

As his hand stroked down the delicate line of her back, Alexei had felt
her relax against him muscle by muscle.  When her breath, as it
shuddered through her lips in that moment of surrender, filtered
through the fabric of his tunic to spread in a warm cloud on his skin,
he made a sound that was half moan, half sigh.

Floating in a universe that was pure sensation, Irina felt rather than
heard the sound he made.  Other sensations came and went at random. The
light scratchiness of his tunic prickled against her cheek.  The scent
of wool and cigar smoke and his skin teased her nostrils.  She passed
her tongue over her lips and tasted his mouth, sending an ache snaking
through her body.  The ache pooled within her, but she did not
recognize it for what it was.

But more than anything else, it was the heavy thud of his heart against
her temple that touched her own heart.  Stepping away from the languor
that would have kept her lying against him forever, she raised her head
to look at him, placing her hand where her cheek had lain.

Alexei covered her hand with his and his mouth curved
into a crooked smile.  "La charade."

The little shake of her head told him that she did not understand.

"The drumroll that signifies that a besieged city is ready to
surrender."

"Have I besieged you, Alexei?"  She pressed her hand more strongly
against his chest.  Even as she reveled in the way the beat speeded up,
her own heartbeat accelerated in response.  "Or did you besiege me?"
She smiled and shook her head.  "No, there are no conquerors here.  And
no vanquished."  She paused and lifted her chin a little higher.  "Only
winners."

He felt the strength pouring back into her, belying the delicacy of her
body,.  the transparency of her skin.  What a mass of contradictions
she was, he mused.  Soft and yet so strong.  Innocent and yet so
wanton.  He remembered her unschooled kiss, which had escalated into an
erotic adventure, and his body stirred.

How was it that she had kept that innocence through two years of
marriage?  The thought came unbidden, un wanted, and was reflected as a
shadow in his eyes.

"What is it?"

He shook his head and slid his hand into her hair again to press her
against him, but she resisted.

"Tell me."  She saw the reluctance in his eyes.  "No secrets Alexei.
Not now.  Not here."

"It was just a foolish thought."  "But it disturbed you."

"Yes," he admitted with a sigh, "although I have no right to let it
disturb me."

Irina knew little of the workings of men's minds, but in this moment
she instinctively understood what was troubling him.  She touched her
fingertips to his face.

"Ilarion was my companion, my dearest friend, the father I never really
had."  She paused, wondering for an instant if she was dishonoring his
sacrifice by sharing it.  But then she knew.  Knew as clearly as if she
heard Ilarion speaking the words that he would not begrudge this
knowledge to Alexei.  "He was my husband in name only."

The purely male 'satisfaction that flamed within him shamed him.  "But
he loved you."

"Yes."  The single word was both confirmation and reason.

The joy that lanced through him cleansed him with its purity.  "Forgive
me."  He curled his fingers around her hand and lifted it to press his
mouth into her palm.

Irina felt the ache spread through her again.  "Will stay?"  she asked
softly as a flush crept up her cheeks.  "For a little while?"

Alexei stilled, wondering where he would find the strength to refuse
the invitation, so seductive in its simplicity, in its shyness.  And
how would he do it without hurting her?  He'd hurt her more than
enough.

But he knew that if he made love to her now, he would~ never forgive
himself.  Before, they had come together in a moment of recklessness
and need and he had planted a child in her womb.  He wanted to spend
the rest of his life with her, but how could he risk giving her a child
when he did not know if he would survive the next fortnight?
Reflexively his gaze traveled down her body as he imagined how she
would look heavy with his child.

Irina saw his gaze, and something died within her.  "That need not
worry you.  The doctors said" -- Her voice faded, but she forced
herself to continue.  "They said that I never have another child."

The horror that Alexei felt had nothing to do with being able to
continue his line and everything to do with having taken something
precious and irreplaceable from her.

She read the emotion correctly, but interpreting wrongly, she pushed
away from him.  He let her go
a protest, which only confirmed to her that her assessment was
correct.

Needing to distance herself from him, she walked to the table that was
set for tea.  She wanted to wrap her arms around herself and weep, but
she had made enough of a fool of herself for one day, she thought.

Stiffening her spine, she sat down on the small sofa.  Praying that her
hands would remain steady, she reached for the pot of strong tea
extract that was warming on top of the samovar.  "Would you like a cup
of tea before you leave?"  The question was accompanied by a brittle
smile.

Instead of replying, Alexei strode across the room, sitting down at her
side and plucking the teapot out of her hands in one swift movement.

"What are you doing?"  he demanded;

"I offered myself--no, I threw myself at you.  Again," She fought to
blank all emotion from her eyes.  "I'm grateful that before this went
any further, the dismay in your eyes told me that you're not interested
in damaged goods."

"What are you talking about?"  His voice rose.  "Don't you understand
that I" -- For the second time that night he stopped himself from
saying those words that trembled on his lips.  His hands slid up her
arms to grip her shoulders.  "Oh God, I've done nothing but hurt you
from the very beginning."

"Yes."  She met his eyes fully.  "I want you to go away now, Alexei."

His hands fell away from her.  He nodded and stood, but torn between
taking her into his arms again and leaving her alone as she asked, he
still hesitated.  Seeing how close to the edge she was, he chose the
latter.  Perhaps it was better so, he thought.  If she was hurt enough,
angry enough, she would stay away from him until this was all over.  At
the door, he turned to face her one more time.

"Horror would have been a better word for what I'm feeling, Irina," he
said softly.  "But it has nothing to do with you being damaged goods,
as you put it, but with the fact that on one irresponsible,
unconscionable night, I brought havoc into your life and took something
away from you that neither I, nor anyone else, can ever give back."

Before she could react to his words, he was gone.

Chapter Nine

The room was thick with smoke and so crowded that some of the men were
sitting cross-legged on the worn Bukhara rug that covered the center of
the parquet floor.  At one end of the room was a long-table with the
remnants of one of Ryleev's "Russian buffets" --cabbage soup, dark rye
bread and plenty of vodka.

Because everyone seemed to be talking at once, Alexei fell silent and
turned away.  No, he thought disgustedly as he yanked a window open,
talking wasn't the right word.  Shouting, declaiming, sermonizing,
haranguing.  Any of these were better suited.  And not a single man was
listening to what anyone else was saying.

His eyes followed the cloud of smoke as it escaped tomesh with the fog
of the December night.  Perfect, he thought cynically.  A perfect
allegory, for an undertaking that was supposed to change the course of
Russian history.  He tunneled his fingers through his hair once and
then again.

What fools, he brooded as anger mixed with foreboding.  What fools! And
he was caught with them.  Caught by his word, his honor.

Alerted by the sound of footsteps on the pavement below, he bent
forward and saw that two budochniki, policemen, had detached themselves
from the fire on the corner next to their little hut like guardhouse
and were setting out

on their rounds.  Quickly he pulled the casements closed and pressed
his forehead, where an excruciating headache was pulsing, against the
cold glass.

For a moment his shoulders slumped as he gave in to the weariness.
During the past three weeks he had rushed from one meeting to the next.
He had argued, exhorted, bullied.  He had tried to bring some kind of
order, some kind of strategy, into this venture.  But how could he talk
sense into a band of deluded idealists?  They were like a pack of
lemmings, he thought, set on mass suicide.

Now the exhaustion was catching up with him--from lack of sleep and
from the effort of pushing all thought of Irina out of his mind. Trying
to, he corrected himself ruefully.  No matter how hard he tried, she
was always there, Suddenly her image was so real that he felt he could
have reached out and touched warm flesh.

"My friends, listen to me."  Ryleev's musical, vibrant timbre cut
through the din and had the hodgepodge raised voices stilling.

Alexei turned to watch him.  Ryleev stood in the middle of the room, an
arm extended in a dramatic gesture, one leg put forward as if he were
posing for a statue.

"Perhaps we will fail tomorrow, but if we do,

failure will inspire those who come after us.  " with his own
eloquence, Ryleev looked around the room,

feverish eyes pitch-black in his pale face.

A chorus went up around him.

"We will die, but we will die gloriously!"  Prince Alexander Odoyevsky
cried, his blue eyes shining with enthusiasm.

Kakhovsky, a retired lieutenant given to colorful coats, chewed the end
of his thin mustache as he sent Odoyevsky a contemptuous glance.  "We
shall take enough of them with us so that they will remember tomorrow
tremble."  His muddy brown eyes lit up with a gleam as they darted over
his companions.

"I will be there with my regiment," cried Mikhail Best-uzhev, one of
the youngest of the group at twenty-two.  "To fight or to die."

"And I!"  "And I!"

Someone began to sing.  "Milons, enfants de la patrie, le jour de
gloire est arrive."

After the tumult had quieted, Ryleev met Alexei's calm gaze.

"And you, Muromsky?  Will you be there?"

"Yes."  Both loyalty and resignation rang in that one word.  "I will be
there."  Alexei pushed away from the window and took a step forward.

Young Prince Obolensky gave Alexei a long, pensive look.  "And your
regiment?"

"If they agree to follow me, they will be there also."

"They will follow you to hell if you tell them to do it.  Your men
worship the ground you walk on," Alexander Bestuzhev's deep bass voice
boomed in contrast to his brother Mikhail's high tenor.  "They trust
you unconditionally and will obey you without question no matter what
you tell them.  Just tell them that it was the will of the dead tsar
that Constantine succeed him and that Nicolai is the usurper..."

"No."  The single word echoed through the room like the crack of a
whip.  "My men trust me, it is true.  And that is exactly why I will
not lie to them."

Stepping forward, Alexei let the anger he had tamped down all evening
surface.  "We understand what we are fighting for.  If we fail
tomorrow, then we will know why we are being punished."  His eyes
narrowed until they were amber slits in his face.  "Do you think that I
will lead my men into a battle with a lie when I know that ten thousand
lashes await them if we fail?"

"But we've all told our men the same thing," one of the Bestuzhev
brothers protested.  "If we win, they will be the

winners, as well--their ~i~ will ~ sho~r, their punishments milder.
"

"Ind,.  If we win."  The room was silent as ~exei scm-tini~d the
leaders' faces one by one.  Prin~ Tm~tzkoy, who had ~ chomn m ~ the
provisional leader ~u~ he had the high~t milita~ rank and the old~t
name, sadly, big~amd, his mouth pinched in a thin, na~ow fa~.  Obo-len
sky his fine features better suited to a scholar than a soldier.
Jakubovitch, the devil-may-care adventurer, with his blue black hair
and mustache and black patch over one eye.  ~e th~ Stuzhev brothers,
~rf~t male s~imens, but hothmded and foolhardy to the co~.  Ryl~, with
the fa~ of a p~t and the ey~ of a fanatic.  Not one of thin had had any
compunction about using a lie to win the compli-an~ of the simple
soldiers.

"I say we let the men get drank, have them plunder a few sto~, rai~ a
few skirts, ~t a few fi~.  ~en" -- Jakubo-vitch mi~ a glass of vodka
"--with rome icons landing tM way, we mamh to the Winter Palau, ar~st
the grand duke and proclaim the republic."  He drain~ the glass and
laughS.  "It could ~ that easy."

"No."  Tm~tzkoy jumped up, his ~dish whiskers <hoing the trembling of
his hands.  "The palace must not be touched.  Only the soldiers a~
inside and ~ the rich" we will never ~ able to control them.  "

"~t them sack it," ~khovsky said.  "If we shall be a ~public, we will
have no n~ of palau."

"~ we men of honor or a~ we vile w~tch~?"  ~exei's roar had the men
around him stilling again.  "DumM.  Fools.  Every last one of you.  You
have plann~ a disaster.  Can't you get that through your heads?"  He
looked~ around the room and saw their expr~signs--obstinate, angry,
fended.  Not one of them understood.  Not one.

"No," he answered his own quit ion "How can you, when you are all drunk
on the idea of heroism and sacrifice."

"I would rather be arrested on Senate Square than in my bed," Odoyevsky
began.  "And I've heard enough of your insults"

"Silence."  Alexei let his gaze sweep the room again and angry
desperation wound through him.  He did not want to die in a shambles of
a rebellion that had no chance of success.  A rebellion that bore no
resemblance to the ethical, honorable plans Prince Golovin had made.

He took a deep breath.  He had to try one more time, he thought.  If
not for Russia or for them, then for himself and Irina.  Yes, he wanted
freedom for his country.  But he wanted to live.  To live!

"Listen to me.  We know that our plans' have been betrayed to the
secret police and to Grand Duke Nicolai: Unless we move tonight and
surprise them, we are lost."  He raised his hand to stem the beginning
objections.  "We need to move against the palace and the Peter and Paul
Fortress.  If the fortress is in our hands, the day is ours."  His
words flowed with an urgent rhythm, and his conviction that this was
their only chance was audible for anyone who cared to listen.

"We know that tomorrow the civil servants, the military and the Senate
will be taking the oath to Nicolai.  The swearing in of both the
military and the Senate is set for seven in the morning.  Seven," he
repeated, and looked around the room.  "If we wait until morning to
march, we will never be there on time."

"Bah, of course we will."  One of the Bestuzhevs inter-nap ted him with
a dismissive gesture.  "Those old codgers will still be milling around
in the Senate at noon.  And our twenty thousand 'troops will be lined
up in formation long before then."

The stubborn, angry objections swirled up around him.  It was over,
Alexei realized.  It was over before it had begun.

"We will go on as planned, my friends."  Ryleev fisted his hands and
raised them in a gesture of exhortation.  "To morrow, each man will
declare to his troops that Nicolai is a usurper and will lead them to
the Senate Square, flags flying rifles loaded and ready to do
battle."

Alexei opened his mouth to ask what good rifles would do without some
artillery to support them, but the chorus of cheers that broke out
stopped him.  Jakubovitch let out a

Tscherkess war cry.  Around him, the men embraced one another in joyful
anticipation.

And Alexei knew he had lost.  He looked around the room.  They were
dreamers, he thought, even as he felt a kind of grudging respect.  Or
madmen, ready, even eager, to die for what they believed in.

But he did not want to die, he thought for the second time that
evening.  He had proved more than once that he was willing to put his
skin on the line for his ideals, but he wanted to live for them, not
die in a venture that had been bungled from the very beginning.  He
sighed as bitter resentment welled up in him.  He had thrown in his lot
them and he would stand with them tomorrow.  !  ~

His back straight, he made his way through the bedlam.

Retrieving his cloak from the coat rack in the narrow hall way, he let
himself out of the apartment and walked slowly down the stairs.

The wind was icy, but Alexei's steps were slow as he ~ walked along the
quay toward the Nevsky Prospect.  corner he stopped and looked up and
down the boulevard empty but for a clutch of droshky, coachmen, who
were keeping warm around a brazier of glowing coals and a bottle.  The
only sounds were the whistling of the wind and distent hooves on the
hard-packed snow, and he wondered he had ever heard a lonelier sound.
The lanterns swinging in the wind, their light diffused by the fog, ing
the street a ghostly air.

A new gust of wind whipped his cloak around his legs, but he remained
standing there, wondering if he would be alive at this time tomorrow.
The thought that he was saying goodbye brushed his consciousness, but
the streak of superstition that lives in every Russian pushed it away
with something akin to horror.

His gaze wandered down the Moika Quay, where the Golovin palace stood
just out of sight.  Oh God, he thought as regret welled up like blood
from wounded flesh.  Why hadn't he told Irina that he loved her?  They
would have had that, at least.  Without being aware that he did so, he
rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest where the pain of loss
lived.  Another two blocks, just around the curve of the canal, a voice
inside him whispered, and you can see her one more time.

He shut his eyes against the longing.  No, he told himself.  He had
stayed away from Irina even when thoughts of her threatened his
concentration--and his sanity.  He had stayed away when his companions
had pressed him to produce the constitution and the transition plans
that were in the secret compartment in the Golovin palace.  He had
stayed away even when they had questioned his loyalty and his honor at
his continued insistence that there would be enough time to make the
papers public when success was theirs.  When he had been strong for so
long, he told himself, he could not give in to temptation now.  Or
could he?

Had he resisted so steadfastly, he wondered, because he needed to keep
her safe, or was he afraid that if he allowed himself to see her again,
he would abandon his honor?  Forswear all promises?  In all honesty, it
was not a question he cared to examine too closely.

The sound of snow crunching behind him broke into his brooding and he
whirled around, his hand already drawing his sword.

"Irina."  His almost soundless whisper floated away on a gust of
wind.

Before sane thought had time to take root, he had reached for her and
gathered her into his arms, needing to make certain that she was not a
vision, a dream.

During the hours she had waited, Irina had not allowed herself to think
that he would turn away from her.  But now the sheer relief that he had
not had her surrendering to his embrace and to the joyful tears that
filled her eyes.  Only now, in the safety of his arms, did the hours of
waiting be gin to catch up with her and she began to shiver with cold.
"What's wrong?"  Alexei demanded~

Afraid that her voice would tremble, she merely shook her head and
burrowed her face more deeply into the front of his cloak.

Unwilling to settle for that answer, he tipped her head back and saw
the tears.  Stripping off his gloves, he began to wipe them away.

The innate gentleness of the gesture moved her more than any words
could have--and brought more tears, which slid down her cheeks silently
like spring rain.

"Irina, love, what's wrong?  What are you doing here?"  The solace of
his touch finished what the cold and the relief had begun.  Her voice
was shaky as her teeth began to chatter.  "I h-had to s-see y-you
again."  She didn't say them, but the words "before it's too late" hung
between ~hem as if they had been spoken.

He nodded, his heart twisting.  Were they fated always to come
together.  when it was too late?  Was that perhaps the true reason he
had stayed away from her?  Because he had not dared to face her that
one final time, knowing that the odds that he would ever see her again
were stacked high against him.  Perhaps she had more courage than he.
He framed her face in his hands, filling himself now with her fragile
beauty like a man starving.

Feeling the shivers race over her skin, he realized just how chilled
she was.  His arm around her shoulders, he her to the relative shelter
of a nearby the frogged closure of his cloak, he wrapped it around both
of them and pulled her flush against him to let his body heat warm
her.

Gradually Irina felt his warmth begin to seep into her and her shivers
stopped.  The hood of her cloak had fallen back and she felt Alexei's
warm breath ruffle her hair, and she knew she could stay like this
forever.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I didn't."  She shrugged.  "It was a lucky guess."

He stilled for a moment before he tipped her face up to his.  "You
guessed that I was at Rylcev's apartment?  How?"  He saw the memory of
the accusations he had made those years ago flow into her eyes,
followed by the hurt,

He wanted to pull her close, but he made himself look straight into her
eyes instead.  "I'm sorry.  That was unforgivable."  His fingertips
traced her cheekbones.  "I know better.  It's just that" -- He sighed
and shook his head.  "I'm glad that the waiting's almost over."

Because she saw the hopelessness in his eyes, she asked no questions.
Because she knew better, she did not offer her help.  Because she
wanted to give him something that would make him strong, she smiled.
There would be enough time for tears later.

"Kiss me," she whispered, and raised herself so that they were almost
mouth to mouth.  "I've waited so long for you to kiss me again."

He allowed his lips only to skim over hers because he wanted so badly
to take her mouth fully.  But the warmth, the softness, beckoned to
him.  When her lips parted against his and the tip of her tongue
touched his mouth in invitation, the control slipped away from him.

Pressing her back against the doorway, he invaded her mouth, stroking,
tasting.  This time she needed no gentle prodding.  This time, feeling
the same urgency as he, she was with him every step of the way.  Their
tongues tangled,

craving more, taking more, until neither one of them knew where they
ended and the other began.

His body hardened against his skintight uniform and his hands slipped
down, lifting her up toward him so that his arousal nestled against her
thighs.  She shifted against him in an instinctive movement, and, for
the space of a breath, he allowed himself the fantasy that in a moment
their bodies would twine together in the ultimate pleasure.

Awareness that he had reached the limits of his control was followed
closely by chagrin that he could have so forgotten every tenet of
decency.  Alexei ended the kiss, but unable to draw away completely, he
trailed his mouth against the line of her jaw, promising himself that
he would stop--in a moment.  Irina's breath was shuddering and he drew
back to look at her.  This was how he would remember her, he thought.
Soft and pliant, and a breath away from being his.

Irina opened her eyes and saw that he was looking at her.  His mouth
was smiling, but the sadness in his eyes was so deep that she almost
cried out with his pain and hers.

He raised his hands again to let his fingertips drift over her face, as
if he wanted not only his eyes but his hands to remember her features.
Had he ever felt anything like the bittersweet gentleness of this
moment?  he wondered.  The love he felt for her filled him and spilled
onto his lips, "Irina,

I"

She could almost hear the words trembling on his lips.  The words she
had waited a lifetime to hear.  The words she knew Alexei had waited a
lifetime to say.  But in a moment of clairvoyance, she understood that
they had to be laid aside for another day.  She understood that he
would need :; the vision, the hope, of saying these words as a beacon
to guide him through the darkness that lay ahead.

Gently she placed her fingers against his mouth, silent, ing him. "When
it's over, Alexei.  You will tell me when it's over."  She traced her
fingers up over his high cheekbones,

her gaze imprinting every feature, every line, onto her memory.

"Until then, we will remember this."  Her fingers tightened and she
reached up to taste him one more time, quickly, fleetingly.  She
allowed her gaze to sweep over his face once more.  Then, before he
could stop her, she had withdrawn from the circle of his arms and was
running, her cloak flying behind her.

Alexei moved to follow her, to stop her, but even as the hard-packed
snow crunched under his boots, intuition was already slowing his steps.
As he watched her cross the Nevsky Prospect and run down the quay, he
swore to himself that he would live.  Live to hold her in his arms
again.  Live to tell her--to show her--that he loved her.

Chapter Ten

The late winter dawn was still hours away when Alexei stood in the
barracks square facing the men of the Semyo-novsky Regiment.  His
men.

He had ordered men into battle before, but today he had no orders to
give them.  He had never lied to his men.  If the odds had been against
them, he had told them so and exhorted them to fight so valiantly that
the odds would be evened.  Today he had not lied to them either.  They
had never disappointed him, but today he fought the feeling of letdown
as they looked at him and each other with a bewilderment.

In words as simple and clear as he could find, he had explained what
was happening.  He had painted no pretty pictures, made no promises.
And because today the fight for freedom was beginning, he had given
them the freedom of choice.  Now, as he looked at the expressions on
their faces--puzzled, sad, distressed, frightened--he realized that he
had asked too much of them.  He had given them the facts and asked them
to make the most important decision of their lives.

He shook his head at his own folly.  Did one ask a child to make a
decision about life or death?  Wasn't this exactly why:i he had fought
so hard against everyone who cham proclaiming a republic?  Hadn't he
always known that people were as ill-equipped to govern themselves as
babes in the cradle?  Hadn't he always said that they needed a firm
hand, but a firm hand guided by kindness and love?

"Vashe siyatelstvo.  Your excellency."  A soldier from the first row
stepped forward with a salute.  "May I speak?"

"Of course."

"I speak only for myself," the young man said, "but I believe my
comrades think as I do."  He took a deep breath and looked back over
his shoulder at the other men.  "We will follow you wherever you
command us, but" -- he paused "--I beg you, command us."

Cheers rose, at first sparsely, then swelling to a roar.  At a loss,
Alexei looked at them.  Some of the faces were young and fresh, some
old and grizzled and scarred.  But they all shone with devotion, with
the wish to serve that generations and generations of subjugated men
had bred in them.  Could he do this?  he asked himself.  Could he lead
eight hundred men to Senate Square knowing that, unless a miracle
occurred, what awaited them was death or barbaric punishment?  And he
did not believe in miracles.

Where did his loyalties lie?  The question pounded over and over again
in his brain.  Did his loyalties lie with his companions who were
rushing into their misfortune with their eyes wide open?  Or with these
men, with their unschooled minds and innocent spirits, for whom he was
as responsible as a father for his children?

The prospect of making a decision had never daunted him.  He had had to
make them, so he did.  But now the weight of this one decision pressed
upon his chest so heavily that he found it difficult to breathe.  The
panic rolled through him to grip his stomach.  The mist had thickened
in the pre-dawn darkness and the damp cold stole through his clothing
to ice over his skin.  But his palms were sweating.

The men had fallen quiet again as they stood still and waited for his
command.  As Alexei's gaze scanned the rows, it stumbled over a pair of
eyes.  Young eyes.  Frightened eyes.

Suddenly he felt as if a ray of sunlight had fallen on his conscience
and he knew that his decision was made.

"No."  His voice echoed loudly through the courtyard.  "I will not
command you.  I would have welcomed your company today, but only if you
had freely accompanied me.  No eto ne suzhdeno.  But it is not destined
to be."  He almost smiled as that quintessinally Russian statement
unwittingly slipped out.

Suddenly a commotion arose at one end of the courtyard and a general
and two colonels, trailed by various aides, approached at a run.

"Muromsky!  What are you doing?"  the general shouted, and gulped for
air, his face turning a dangerously ruddy shade.  "I will have you
before a firing squad for this!"

Alexei turned away from the sputtering man and faced the soldiers
again.  ".I have no more orders to give you.  And.  I ask you to obey
the orders you will receive from others today.  Gospod' svami.  May God
be with you."

He turned away quickly, his cloak swinging out in a half-circle.
Ignoring the outraged shouts of the officers behind him, he strode away
toward the gate.  No one tried to stop him.

Alexei walked slowly down Gorokhovaya Street, The city was still asleep
under its blanket of fog, which muffled every sound, blurred every
shape.  " The bells of the Kazan Cathedral that rang for the seven
o'clock service sounded as if they were wrapped in cotton wool.  Old
women shuffling to church and shop girls scurrying to work were
ghostly, transparent figures who hugged the walls of the houses.

He crossed the Moika Canal, but did not look to his left where the
Golovin palace stood.  Where Irina slept.  No, told himself, he would
not look back.  He could nothing that would make him weak.  But
something to him and he stopped at the end of the arched bridge turned
around.

The pale yellow facade of the palace was gray in the mist.  His gaze
drifted up to a brightly lit row of windows on the third floor. Irina's
windows.  A shadow moved behind the curtains, once and then again.

Emotions poured through him, but for the first time there was no
turbulence to them, no pain.  This time, instead of the breaking of
waves against a rocky shore, a peaceful tide flooded a sandy beach.  A
hint of a smile touched his lips and he took that indistinct image that
had moved behind the curtain into his heart where all the other myriad
images of Irina lived.  She would be with him now, as surely as if she
were standing beside him.

His step was livelier as he continued his way down the street.  When he
reached the Admiralty, its spire a golden shimmer in the mist, he
turned toward Senate Square, where a row of carriages in front of the
yellow and white Senate building waited.  But the wide expanse of the
square itself was deserted except for a few lamp lighters who were ex
ting guishing the lanterns and filling them with new oil.

The minutes passed, a half hour, then another.

The senators straggled out of the building, entered their carriages and
drove away, wheels and hooves crunching on the snow.

The fog began to lift.

A few itinerant merchants set up their tables with their wares--buns,
hot mead, cheap toys.

The first rays of the sun began to push through the mist.  The workers
climbed up the scaffolding of the half-finished St.  Isaac's Cathedral
and began to saw and hammer.

The wind drove down from the north, sweeping the clouds and the last
remnants of the fog away and the winter sun shone down on the square.

It was after ten o'clock when Alexei heard the drum rolls and went
forward to meet them.

The first detachment of soldiers, their regimental colors flying, took
up position in formation beneath the great equestrian statue of Peter
the Great.  But the founder of the city was looking toward the west and
had no interest in the drama that was taking place behind him.

Ryleev, breathless, his open overcoat flapping behind him, dashed up to
Alexei and gripped his arm.

"Have you seen Prince Trubetzkoy?"  Ryleev shook him.  "Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"He's not at home.  Not at the Preobrazhensky bar, racks."  Ryleev's
eyes were frantic.  "I've looked everywhere.  Obolensky will take over
until we find him."

Alexei remembered Trubetzkoy's sad eyes last night.  probably did not
have the stomach to look upon the debacle, he thought.  Alexei said
nothing because he knew were useless, and watched silently as Ryleev
dashed away.

Grenadiers and Marine Guards came.  By noon there were three thousand
soldiers on the square and it was obvious that no more were coming.

The soldiers stood, still cheerful, their bayonets fixed, waiting for
the command that would send them into battle.  The conspirators stood
in the shadow of the bayonets and waited for something, anything, that
would force them to act.

Around them a crowd had gathered, drawn by the drums and flags.  Some
thought to witness a parade.  Some had heard rumors.  Some felt the
tension that grew and grew a spring being slowly wound.  Some waited
for blood.

The low rumble of noise was interrupted by the sound hooves on the
hard-packed snow.  A single rider galloped to the first row of
soldiers, bringing his mount up short in front of them.

Recognizing General Miloradovich, the popular gover~ nor of St.
Petersburg, the men eyed him cautiously.

"Are you mad, all of you?"  he bellowed, his voice car-tying over the
whole square.  "Do you think to fight against the rightful tsar?"

"Constantine.  The rightful tsar is Constantine."  The cry rose from
the ranks.

"Fools!"  Miloradovich drew his sword and swung it in a circle over his
head.  "Constantine Pavlovich gave me this sword to mark the battles we
fought against Napoleon," he roared.  "Do you think I would betray him?
Our late Tsar Alexander has named Grand Duke Nicolai to be his
successor and Grand Duke Constantine has already sworn allegiance to
his brother."  The already ruddy color of the general's jowly face
heightened.  "Lay down your weapons, go back to your barracks and beg
Tsar Nicolai's mercy."

Impressed by Miloradovich's vigorous words and fearless bearing, the
soldiers shuffled their feet, their eyes wavering between the general
and their commanding officers.  "Shut him up," someone hissed.

"Give his horse a good kick and send him in the other direction."

Alexei heard the whispers, and stepping forward, took the general's
horse by the bridle.  "It would, be better if you left, your
excellency," he said softly.  "You are in danger."

Miloradovich glared down at him.  "Do you think I am afraid?"  He
pointed to the blue ribbon of the Order of St.  Andrei on his chest
with one hand and with the other brought down his riding crop on
Alexei's shoulder.

The horse shied away.  As Alexei reached for the bridle again, he was
shoved aside and he crashed into a row of soldiers.  He was still
fighting to regain his balance on the icy ground when Kakhovsky whipped
a pistol from behind his red sash.  Aiming it point-blank at the
general's chest, he calmly pulled the trigger.

A look of almost comic surprise came over the general's face and his
heavy body tipped backward.  In slow motion

he slid off his mount, impaling himself on the bayonet of a musket.

Alexei grabbed the back of Kakhovsky's coat and flung him aside.
Grabbing the rearing horse by the bridle, he saw that the general lay
on the ground, his blood already staining the snow.

"What's the matter, Muromsky?  Can't you stand the sight of a little
blood?"

Ignoring Kakhovsky's remark, he hailed a passing sleigh.  Together with
several of the men he lifted the general onto it~ He was still
breathing, but Alexei had seen enough fatal wounds to know that there
was no help for him.  Still, he gave the driver precise instructions.
Then he turned to face Kakhovsky.

"You are a murderer and a fool!"

Kakhovsky, his eyes gleaming with demented joy, curled his hand around
the hilt of a dagger he had stuck behind his red sash.  "My pistol is
empty, but I still have my kinjal."  His voice was even, almost
conversational.

Obolensky and three others pulled the two men apart.  Alexei shook off
Obolensky's hands and walked away to stare out over the river.

They had lost their innocence, he thought.  They had spilled blood, not
honestly in open battle, but cravenly.  His hands curled into fists and
he looked down and saw that Miloradovich's blood stained them.  He,
too, had blood on his hands now.  And there would be more before it was
over:

The afternoon wore on.

Alexei watched Tsar Nicolai lead his loyal regiments onto the square.
The tsar rode up and down on his white stallion, his cold blue gray
eyes seeming to dare the rebels attack him.

Alexei watched the parade of emissaries sent to the rebels be rejected.
Seraphim, the ancient metropolitan of St, Petersburg, in his green
vestments and gold miter, who after giving the rebels his cross to
kiss.  A hapless captain who became Kakhovsky's second victim.  Grand
Duke Mikhail, who greeted the troops heartily as if he were reviewing a
parade, but decamped when they ignored him except for a single shot
that did no more than shred the plume of his hat.

He watched Prince Orlov, one of his oldest friends and co founder of
the secret society from which their rebellion had grown, lead a cavalry
charge against them.  A cavalry charge that was thwarted when the
horses began to slip and slither on the icy cobblestones, ending in
ignominy as the unlucky soldiers were pelted with snowballs by the
laughing crowd.

He watched more and more civilian spectators fill the square.  Hanging
on trees and lanterns, sitting on the cornices of the Senate and the
galleries of the Admiralty, they howled and whooped like Romans waiting
for the lions to fall upon the Christians.

He watched the artillery the tsar had ordered up rumble into place. And
the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Alexei had promised himself that he would not try to dissuade them
again, but as the early dusk began to fall, he knew that he had to try
one more time.  He would not be able to live with himself if he did
not. Grimly, he strode over to where the rebel leaders stood.

"When they start firing the cannon, there will be a massacre."

"Afraid, Muromsky?"  Kakhovsky mocked.

Alexei sent him a long, cool look.  "Only fools and madmen are not
afraid.  The others do what they must, despite the fear."

"What do you suggest we do?"  young Obolensky demanded, his voice
rising.  "What should we do?"  Punching the fist of one hand
rhythmically into the palm of the other, he paced four steps away and
four steps back.

"I say we attack now."

"They will not fire upon fellow Russians.  Never."

"In an hour or two, half the troops facing us now will join us under
the cover of darkness.  I am sure of it."

"If we move fast enough, we can turn the guns on them before they give
the order to fire."

Obolensky's head spun from one man to the other.  Finally he sent
Alexei a beseeching look.

Alexei stepped up to him.  When he put a hand on his shoulder, he could
feel the light trembling of Obolensky's thin body, and compassion moved
through him.

"Anything is possible, my friend," he said softly for Obolensky's ears
only.  "But the odds are that they will lose their patience and use the
artillery before it is completely dark."  He had no way of knowing it,
but at the moment he spoke, the order to fire had already been given
and countermanded twice.  "If they do, there will be a blood bath."

"Why didn't they choose you to replace Trubetzkoy?"  bolensky's voice
was mournful.  "And why didn't you bring your men?"  His tone turned
sullen.

"Because then there would have been eight hundred more innocent men to
die here."

"You really think that they will attack us, don't you?

Obolensky whispered.

Alexei nodded.

For a long time Obolensky stared at him, his wide and unseeing.  Then
he straightened.  "We wait," said, his voice flat.  "If they attack us,
the crime--and punishment--will be on their heads."

Less than a quarter of an hour later they heard the re, sounding cry,
"Cannoneers, fire!"

Every nerve, every muscle in Irina's body tensed as heard the explosion
of the first cannon shot.  There pause--one minute, two--and then three
reports in succession.

Taking the shallow marble steps two at a time, she sped down the
stairs.  Ignoring Ilya's horrified eries, she bolted out onto the quay.
Her slippers giving her no purchase, she slid on the icy snow, only
stopping herself, hands outstretched, against the low stone wall of the
canal embankment.

A solid mass of soldiers packed the avenues at both ends of the block
and spilled out onto the quay.  There would be no getting through them
or past them, she realized.  The sound of musket fire peppered the air,
the north wind making it seem even closer than the scant half mile that
it was.  The air vibrated as another cannon shot boomed, the explosion
echoing in her chest.  Her hands pressed against the pounding of her
heart, the breath frozen painfully in her lungs as she waited for the
next explosion.

She barely noticed when her cloak was wrapped around her shoulders.

"Please, you must come in now.  Please."  Forgetting all etiquette, all
propriety, Ilya set down the fur boots he had brought outside and
grasped his mistress's arm.  "Please, barynia, come inside."  He took a
step back toward the house and pulled, petrified that she was going to
run off somewhere the way she had done the night before.

Her ears full of the shouts and screams that the wind carried from the
square, Irina jerked out of his grip.  "Let me go!  Leave me alone!"
Regretting her words as soon as they were out, she touched his
shoulder.  "I'm sorry, Ilya.  I have to stay here."  She gave him a
gentle push.  "You go inside before you catch a cold."

The old servant bowed to her wishes, but not before he had, with the
stubborn persistence of the Russian peasant, helped her on with her
boots, brought her her gloves and pressed a tall glass of steaming tea
upon her.

The darkness fell and still Irina remained where she was.  The shooting
had long since stopped, but the tension, the fear, remained with her.
Her fingers lacing and unlacing, she

paced alongside the embankment wall and waited.  and waited.

He was alive.  He had to be.  She held on to that thought as a person
drowning holds on to a straw.  Surely she would know if he were dead.
Surely she would have felt it.  Surely,

She brought her head up sharply as the sound of boots on the hard snow
registered.  The soldiers were moving.  Slowly, like cattle being
herded through a narrow gate, they were lumbering down the street
toward Senate Square.

What did it mean?  she thought wildly.  Why were moving toward the
square if the shooting had stopped?  mind full of horrifying pictures,
she buried her face in hands.  But the moment of weakness passed, and
raised her head, she saw that the soldiers on the ski Prospect had
already crossed the bridge over the Canal, clearing the quay.  She'd go
around the lone thought, as new strength flowed into her.  Somehow,
how, she'd reach the square.  Somehow she would Alexei.

The echo of the order to fire died away stretched out into what seemed
like eternity.  And still was not even the flicker of a match to be
seen.  Even as, hind him, the excited, triumphant voices rose, Alexei
the captain leap down from his horse and run toward gun crew.  His
stomach tightened as the flame flared dusk and lowered toward the
fuse.

He had known that they would fire on them.  He'd it.  Yet, until that
moment, something inside him had completely relinquished that thin
streak of hope.  Now, that last glimmer vanished, he conjured up
Irina's held on to it.

The jubilant murmurs around him subsided into a fled silence as the
cannon spewed out its deadly load grapeshot into the facade of the
Senate.  Wind( tered.  A shower of stone and plaster rained down on
crowd.  A long segment of a ledge crumbled, sending the men who had
been sitting there tumbling down--slowly, silently.

The second shot plowed into the cobblestones in front of them, sending
up a shower of snow and pieces of stone.  Alexei felt something sharp
graze his cheek, but he ignored it.  He twisted his head from left to
right, but the men around him stood motionless as if they were
paralyzed.

"No!"  The cry tore out of his throat as fury merged with the will to
live.  He had not wanted to be here, but he would not be slaughtered
like a lamb.  He would not.

Wresting a musket from the hands of a grenadier, he aimed it and fired.
In a single fluid movement, he slammed it back into the soldier's grasp
and reached for the next man's weapon.  "Reload, damn it," he shouted
as he reached for the third musket and fired again.

Only now did the officers come to life.  Obolensky drew his sword and
shouted, "Fire!"

As the men shouldered their weapons, the third load of grapeshot scored
a precise hit on the square formation of grenadiers.  Men fell over
stiffly, without making a sound, as if they were marionettes.  As they
sprawled on the ground, their limbs awry, the only sign that they were
living men was their blood melting the snow beneath them.

Alexei reeled under the impact.  He knew he had been hit, but he felt
no pain.  Yet.  Picking up the musket of a fallen soldier, he reloaded
and fired.

For a few paltry minutes more, the rebelling soldiers held out, but the
next cannon shot had them scattering in all directions in panic.  Near
the embankment Alexei glimpsed Mikhail Bestuzhev, who was rallying his
Moscow Regiment around the regiment's standard.  Blood, warm and
sticky, trickled over Alexei's eyes, obscuring his vision.  Wiping it
away with the back of his hand, he moved to join Bestu-zhev.

"If we can get across the river, we could take the fortress."  Alexei
dragged in air.  "They're not expecting us."

Bestuzhev made a quick sign of agreement.  "I'll lead the way.  You
stay here and herd the men down."  His gaze skimmed over Alexei.  "You
don't look like you're in any shape to move around a great deal."

Alexei dismissed his words with a curt gesture.  "Scratches.  Nothing
vital."

Bestuzhev acknowledged his words with a nod.  "Tell them to stay close
together."  ~He put his hands on Alexei's shoulders and gave him a
brief, silent squeeze before he turned away.  His standard-bearer at
his side, he led the way 'down the embankment and onto the ice of the
river.

The front of the column had just reached the tip of Vasa silevsky
Island when Alexei heard a rumbling on the bridge above them and saw
that a battery of guns was being rolled onto the bridge.  Within
moments, volley after volley began to hail down on the men and the ice
around them.

In horror, Alexei saw the white expanse begin to tremble.  There was a
noise not unlike a long, drawn-out rumble of thunder before the ice
gave way with a suddenness that no time for flight.  Slowly,
inexorably, huge slabs of ice began to tilt, spilling men into the dark
water like swept from a white tablecloth.

His vision blurring with horror and loss of blood, grabbed a soldier by
the sleeve to hold him back, fingers slackened and the fabric slipped
from his hands.  screams of drowning men echoing around him, slumped
over the embankment wall and slipped into consciousness.

Numb with exhaustion, grief and the horrors she seen, Irina did not
feel the cold as she wound her through the city.  She crossed the Moika
Canal barely blocks from her home, but she did not notice.  She passed
t houses she had visited, but she did not recognize them.

The streets around Senate Square had been clogged.
Civilians and soldiers escaping the slaughter.  Police and troops sent
to quell the uprising.  Dead and wounded and those crushed under the
feet of the panicked crowd.  For a moment she leaned against the wall
of a house and closed her eyes.  So many dead and wounded.

She had helped where she could, but how much could she do with a
petticoat and the lining of a fur cloak?  And each time she had looked
into the face of a wounded man, she felt hope and fear war within
her.

By roundabout streets and alleys she had finally gotten through to the
embankment, but the last half mile to Senate Square had been blocked
off by police and soldiers.  Despairing finally, she had turned back.

The moans of the wounded had faded.  In fact, most of the bodies she
had encountered earlier seemed to have vanished.  But she wouldn't
remember that until later.  An eerie silence had fallen on the city,
broken only by the occasional crunch of boots on the snow and the hiss
and crackle of the bivouac fires that burned everywhere next to
tentlike stacks of muskets and lances.

Legs faltering, head spinning, Irina crouched down in a doorway and
lowered her head to her knees.  Bit by bit the strength crept back into
her body--and with it the fear, the grief.  Where was Alexei now?  Had
she passed him somewhere?  Had he been one of the broken bodies she had
seen, perhaps even touched?

She looked around her, trying to reconstruct the route she had taken,
piece together where she was.  Forcing herself up, she dragged herself
to the next corner.  Steadying herself against the wall of the house,
she stared up at the blue-and-white street sign until her eyes could
focus on it.  Her brain sluggish, she tried to remember exactly where
the street was.  The realization filtered in slowly.  When full
awareness struck her, her heart began to pound.

She was at most a few blocks away from the Muromsky town house, Irina
realized.  Perhaps.  perhaps Alexei had somehow made his way home.  As
desperation poured new strength through her, she began to run.

Winded, she stopped to rest.  Her fingers pressing against the pain
lancing through her side, she wedged herself into the shadow of a
building as a patrol marched by.  When their footsteps began to fade,
she crept around the corner.

A carriage stood halfway down the block.  It was directly in front of
the Muromsky town house, she realized.  Her heart leapt.  Surely that
meant that somehow Alexei had been able to make his way home.  Her
knees weak with re lief, she curled her hands around the decorative
ledge of a house for support.

She wanted to run forward, but her legs able to carry her and she had
to be satisfied with her slow progress as she supported herself hand
over hand along the house walls.

At the other end of the block a figure appeared,

needed all her concentration, all her strength, to move she paid him no
mind.  Again she stopped to rest as a wall rose behind her eyes to
obscure her vision.

When she opened her eyes again, the dark figure closer.  Because she
was still leaning against the icy stone, found the strength to focus on
the man.  Without why, she felt a churning start up in the pit of her

The figure staggered closer.  When the pale, thin light street lantern
fell on his bloodied face, she reco Alexei.

Irina opened her mouth to call out to him, but no came.  She moved to
run to him, but only her hand the ledge she was grasping.

Then the carriage door opened and two men outside.  As if she had been
turned to stone, she lessly watched the silent drama unfold--a grim
pan!  mime, the movements spare and few.

She saw Alexei throw back his shoulders and move forward, his steps
careful and suddenly utterly steady.  One of the men held out his hand
and Alexei reached inside his cloak and placed his sword, hilt first,
into the man's hand.  She did not see, but she heard the clang of a
chain and the dick as the shackles closed over his wrists.  The other
man gestured toward the open door and she saw the carriage tilt as
Alexei awkwardly mounted the steps.  The two men got in behind him and
the carriage rolled away.

As it turned the corner and disappeared, Irina still leaned,
motionless, against the wall.  Thank God.  Her lips moved in silent
prayer.  Thank God, he's alive.  That was her last thought before the
world around her went dark and she slipped slowly down to the
snow-covered sidewalk.

Chapter Eleven

Alexei sat down on the wooden planks of the bed that had once been
painted a sickly green color, finished rolling the damp bread crumbs
into a small ball and carefully placed if on the floor beneath the bed.
Without counting them, he knew that there were now forty-seven such
balls.  One each full day he had spent in the Peter and Paul Fortress.
This was just one of the things he had made part of the daily routine
he had devised to keep himself sane.

He lay down on the filthy straw mattress with balanced mixture of
disgust and acceptance of the ble.  If he did not keep the disgust
alive, it would become easy to sink to the level of a caged beast.  But
stood that without a certain acceptance of the insanity was only a step
away.

He was allowed neither books nor pen and paper, but mind was his own
and he kept it active.  cipline had determined the perimeters of a
large part of his life, and although the blood of his wild Tartar
ancestors sang in his veins had not always made that easy for now he
was grateful for the lessons it had taught him.

Going on to the next exercise he had imposed on he closed his eyes and
reconstructed his cell in his mind.  low-vaulted ceiling, hewn out of
primordial rock, with endless rivulets of dank moisture.  The slimy,

line that marked how high the water had risen during last year's flood.
The thick mesh of cobwebs in every corner.  The single barred window
with the glass painted an opaque white.  The small oil light that was
rarely lit.  The chipped water pitcher that stood on the table that was
chained to the wall.  The chair--no, he corrected himself, The chair
had been removed to be repaired a week ago but had not been returned. 
The foul-smelling iron pail that stood in one corner.  The iron rings
to which the leg fetters he was occasionally forced to wear were
attached.

He made himself remember every detail of the cell, down to the names
and dates that had been scratched onto the walls of the cubicle, which
could be measured in two and half steps in one direction and one and a
half steps in the other.  Another man might have found this a
depressing exercise, but Alexei looked upon it as a lesson he had to
learn.  Harsh and bitter, but an important lesson nevertheless.  He did
not know if he would leave this cell alive, but if he did, he did not
want to forget it.

When he had finished the mental exercises to his satisfaction, he rose
and, after sweeping the bugs aside with the hem of the habit like
garment he wore, dropped to the floor for his twice-daily regimen of
physical exercise.

He was sweating with exertion and pain when he again allowed himself to
fall down on the mattress.  His wounds, which had bled so
extravagantly, had proved not to be life-threatening--a fortunate fact
considering the curso/'y care they had been given.  Now they had
healed--after a fashion.

Only now, when he had completed the harsh regimen he had imposed on
himself, did he allow himself the reward.  The reward that was at the
same time the cruelest punishment.

Irina's image lived within him always, nourished him always.  Although
he knew she was lost to him, life was more bearable simply because she
existed.  Nevertheless, except for

a few precious moments each day, Alexei banished her image to the most
remote part of his mind, to the farthest corner of his heart, to the
deepest layer of his soul, under~, standing that he could never have
borne keeping it present constantly.  He hoarded her image as a miser
valuable gold coins, allowing himself to take it out of ing only when
the time had come for his reward--or when his situation pressed so
hideously on him that he thought would go mad.

His eyes drifted closed and he gave himself up to the sweetness.

The horses' hooves clattered onto the long wooden that led to the Peter
and Paul Fortress.  Prince Muromsky looked out of the carriage window
at the stone walls, fear pressing against his chest like an iron Fear
and guilt and hatred that intertwined with a stunted and warped by envy
and resentment.

His life had been awry from the day Alexei had born.  Always Alexei had
been the good son, the son.  Alexei had been the quicker, the more
better liked.  He'd handled a horse with the same casual he'd handled a
sword or a dagger.  And the women fallen victim to his charm like
flies.

Boris's stomach twisted into a knot as he remembered t helpless
admiration he'd felt for his younger if he had been honest with
himself, he would that it still remained.

It had been that very admiration that had driven him to fight Alexei
all his life.  He'd had to, he told himself He'd had to narrow the
advantage with whatever he had.  And because he had had no better
weapons, he intrigued and plotted and denounced.  And each time
suffered from his own baseness.

He had suffered, too, as he'd watched Alexei's behind the drapes of his
apartments.  Oh, he'd known
enough that it had been Alexei's presence on Senate Square
that had implicated him.  But as he watched the shackles close on
Alexei's wrists, he could not help wondering how heavy his own
denunciations would weigh against his brother.

Even though these thoughts had gripped him like a vise, allowing him no
respite, he had done nothing.  And he knew that he would have taken no
action if Princess Golovin had not forced his hand.

He'd been appalled, then furious, when she had come to him with her
plan.  He clenched his hands into fists as he remembered her words.
With a self-possession that had enraged him as much as her words
themselves, she had threatened to implicate him in the conspiracy,
giving him one or two diabolically clever examples of how she would do
it.  Just the memory sent humiliating terror streaking through him
again: She had threatened the only thing he had in this life--his
career.  And he'd known that he had no choice.

But when the first rage, the first wave of humiliation had passed, the
realization had ripened slowly in him that he was being given a gift.
In one fell swoop he could erase the guilt that weighed on his soul and
rid himself of his brother forever.  He leaned back in the carriage and
closed his eyes.  As an escaped prisoner, he would be a fugitive for
the rest of his life.  Never again would someone compare him to Alexei
and find him wanting.

Although the tsar had forbidden visitors tomes amis du quatorze, my
friends of the fourteenth, as he called the rebels, Boris had found it
surprisingly easy to get permission to visit his brother.  With a
conviction fired by the abject fear of what Irina Golovin had
threatened him with, he had lied smoothly, explaining to the tsar that
he and his brother were so close that he was absolutely sure that he
would get any information from him that his imperial majesty desired.

Tsar Nicolai had looked at him, a spark of interest in his.  wintry
blue-gray eyes.

"Your brother has been singularly uncooperative.  He has refused to
give me even the slightest morsel of information."  He had picked up a
silver paper knife and run it through his fingers before he began to
tap it against the palm of his hand.  "Unlike most of his friends."

"I am certain that he will confide in me, your imperial majesty."
Boris's heart had raced with fear, and sweat had pooled at the small of
his back.  But his voice had rung true and confident.  "Absolutely
certain."

But now his steps faltered as he moved down the narrow, dank corridor
lined with rusty iron doors, each with a massive padlock.  Although the
collar of his military overcoat was already turned up, obscuring half
his face, he shivered with the damp cold and his own fear.

The jailer peered into the cell through a small iron grate.  With a
satisfied grunt, he fumbled for the key.  against iron.  When he opened
the door, he grinned at Alexei, who had sat up on the mattress.

"Our batiushka, our little father, has decided to be ciful to you, my
son.  You have a visitor."  The jailer back to let Boris pass into the
cell.  "Just bang on the when you're ready to leave, your excellency."
He bowed i Boris's direction.  "Your excellency's sword will be in
guard room."

Alexei rose from the bed.  His first thought was ris had been sent to
question him, just as the priest sent to question him under the guise
of confession.

Boris stared at his brother.  There was nothing of prisoner, the
supplicant, in Alexei.  His bearing straight, his eyes as proud and
clear as they had ever What would it take to break him, damn it?  The
him, hot and strong, obscuring all other emotions, and almost regretted
coming here.  But then he reminded self that soon he would be rid of
Alexei forever.  Very lapestry o!  Pate He looked down at his hands as
he fought to keep the emotions out of his eyes.

"You here, Boris?"  Alexei spoke first.  "Why?"

"Why does a man come to see his brother in adversity?"  He raised his
eyes but, unable to support Alexei's piercing gaze, turned away.

"To gloat perhaps?"

The softly spoken question struck Boris like a fist to his midriff.  He
had counted on Alexei being broken from almost two months of captivity
and interrogation.  He had counted on Alexei being pitifully grateful
to him.  He had never even considered that Alexei might doubt that his
motives were sincere.  And in his own twisted way, they were.  Now the
possibility that this whole exercise could have been in vain, the
thought that he would have to face Tsar Nico-lai's cold eyes and admit
failure, sent a shudder through him and when he turned back, self-pity
had sheened his eyes with moisture.

"How can you say that?"  He moved toward the table and, curling his
hands around the rough edges, let his head hang.  "Ever since you've
been in here, all I have been able to think of is all the times I hurt
you, insulted you" -- his voice lowered until it was barely audible
"--informed on you.  All I can think of is that you will be condemned
and that I am somehow at fault."  And strange as it was, as he spoke
these words, they came from the heart.

Alexei fought against the softening within him.  "I'm tough enough to
survive a stretch in Siberia."

"I don't mean Siberia, little brother."  Boris raised his head and
looked at Alexei.  "I mean the gallows."

"What are you talking about?  Russia has no death penalty."

"It will."  Boris's voice was flat.  "You can take my word for it."

Alexei remembered how Tsar Nicolai's icy eyes had rested on him.  And
he remembered the hatred that had been there.

Not the hatred of a sovereign for an offending subject, but the very
personal hatred of a man for a man.

"And why are you here?"

Boris moved to stand in front of him.  "To help you escape."

Alexei stared at his brother as if he had spoken in a foreign
language.

"Do you understand what I said?"

Ruthlessly Alexei tamped down the bright ray of hope that flashed
through him.  But even as he d~d, Irma s ~ age took possession of him.
He had no right to need her now, he thought.  And yet, in this moment,
the need was so clear, so vibrant, so desperate, that he felt it in
every fiber.  He was filled with it.

He called on his common sense, which bade him to doubt his brother's
words.  He called on his conscience to remind him that it would be
dishonorable to escape while the men who had stood on Senate Square
with him remained behind.

During the long weeks of captivity he had come to terms with the fact
that he would never see Irina again.  The interrogations by the tsar
had made it clear to him that he could not expect clemency from this
man.  But now and Irina's image had awakened hopes and a wild,
unbearable temptation to forget honor and reach one last chance for
happiness.

Unable to stand it any longer, Boris gripped his shoulders and shook
him.  "Do you understand what said?"  he repeated.  "Say something,
damn you!"

Alexei could almost taste the words.  What would it like to say yes?
What would it feel like to be out of dungeon and feel the fresh air on
his face again?  In a minute he would beg, Alexei thought, and with the
last strength he shook off the hope that remained.  Raising I arms, he
lifted Boris's hands away from his shoulders.

"Even if I were to trust Greeks bearing gifts, even if I believed you
could help me escape" -- the discipline of years helped him keep his
voice light"--do you think I would do it and leave the others to rot in
here?"

Boris's heart began to pound.  Had he let himself be humiliated by the
Golovin woman, had he risked all he held most dear, only to have Alexei
throw everything back into his face?  Oh God, he thought, what could he
do?  What could he do?

He looked wildly at Alexei's face.  He could see the integrity, the
decency that made him strong.  But he had vulnerabilities, too, Boris
thought.  He had watched Alexei all his life and he knew that kindness
and compassion were his weaknesses.  - He would exploit those
weaknesses, he told himself desperately.  And it would work.  It had
to.

Fighting to control the breath that was shuddering in and out of his
lungs, he straightened and began to pull on his gloves.

"All right then, you leave me no choice.  I have had to live with your
escapades all my life, but now you have dishonored the Muromsky name
beyond all hope."  He swallowed audibly.  "You will be tried.  You will
be condemned.  And you will be hanged.  This dishonor is not something
that I can live with."

"Are you threatening suicide, Boris?"

"Not threatening," he said coolly.  "Just stating a fact."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Surely you don't expect me to believe you."
Alexei gripped his brother's arms.  "Besides, what difference would it
make if I am a fugitive or dead?"

Boris shrugged.  "Believe what you will.  Perhaps you do not see a
difference, but I" -- he threw back his shoulders "--I cannot serve the
monarchy if my brother died on the gallows, a condemned criminal who
raised his hand against the tsar."

"You cannot blackmail me with your twisted ideas of honor, Boris." But
even as he turned away, Alexei wondered the seed of doubt planted in
his mind.

"By the way, the plan was not mine alone."  Boris moved toward the
door.  "Shall I give the Princess Golovin your last greetings when I
see her?"

"Irina?"  Alexei grabbed his brother's shoulder and spun him around.
"What does she have to do with this?"

Boris read the desperation and the love in his brother's face and he
almost laughed with relief.  It was going to be all right after all.

"She is a resourceful woman.  It's really a pity."  Boris smiled now,
feeling superior to his brother for the first time in his life.  "Who
knows?  Perhaps I shall take her with me on that last journey.  She is
so besotted with you that she would probably even be grateful to me for
putting her out of her misery."

"No!"  The cry tore out of Alexei's throat like the sound of a wounded
animal.  "No, you wouldn't dare."  He bore his brother back until he
crashed into the wall.

The air whooshed out of Boris's lungs, but instead of weakening him,
the impact energized him.  "Try me, little brother," he goaded, and met
Alexei's eyes without flinching.  "Just try me."

Horrified, Alexei looked into his brother's eyes, which were so like
his own.  Could Boris really do it?  he asked himself.  No, he assured
himself.  He could not commit coldg blooded murder.  Or could he?
Alexei stared into the cold; empty eyes and remembered all the
cruelties, the viciou~ ness, Bbris had been capable of.  If his
emotions had less involved, he would have remembered his ishness, as
well, and perhaps seen past his bluff.

His hands slackened and he stumbled away.

himself to the edge of the bed, Alexei buried his face in his 
hands.  Again he was being forced to choose between two loyalties.  On
that December day he had had to choose between the men entrusted to him
and his friends.  His logical mind knew that the men he would have led
would have made no difference in the outcome, and yet he also knew that
to the end of his days the guilt that he had not done enough would live
within him.

Now he had to choose again.  Between the loyalty to those friends he
had let down and to Irina.  He raised his head and looked at Boris, his
gaze questioning, probing.  Boris's mouth curved.  As the cruel smile
blossomed, Alexei felt his skin crawl and he knew his brother had
won.

Quickly they exchanged clothes.

"How will you justify this?"  Alexei gestured at the uniform he now
wore.

Boris shrugged.  "I will say you forced me."  His gaze flickered away.
"Listen to me now.  You cross over into the city and leave the
carriage.  Go around the Summer Garden and walk slowly down the
Fontanka.  Another carriage will pick you up there."

"What carriage?"  Alexei felt a flicker of suspicion.  "Princess
Golovin's."

"What?"  The word exploded out of him.  "Are you mad, Boris?"  He ran
his hands through his hair.  "Who do you take me for?  Do you think I
would place her in yet more danger?"

Boris felt another spurt of panic.  She had told him again and again
that if he did not send Alexei to her, she would assume he had betrayed
her and would act accordingly.

"Listen to me."  He grabbed the overcoat with both hands.  "If you do
not, all our agreements are void, Alexei.  I mean it."

Alexei closed his eyes.  Again he was forced to put Irina in danger in
order to protect her.

Boris rdeased him and shoved him away.  "Put the ~ollar of the overcoat
up to shade your face."

Alexei did as he was told and raised his hand to knock on the door.
Then he turned once more toward his brother.  "I am sorry for the bad
blood that was always between us:" He extended his hand.

Boris stared down at his brother's hand.  They stood face-to-face for
the last time in this life, and something in him wanted that one last
contact.  But the hatred won and he whirled away.  "Get out of here."

The pain of loss moved through Alexei.  He looked at his brothefts back
for a long moment.  Then he struck the iron door twice with his fist.

When the door clanged open, he looked back once and saw that Boris had
lain facedown, on the bed.

'~ldieu.  " Alexei waited for a moment, but there was no answer.  He
turned around and stepped out into the dark corridor.

His body tense as a tightly wound spring, Boris lay there, with his
face buried in the stinking straw pallet, and waited.  He heard the
footsteps fade away.  He waited to see if jailer would return.  He
counted off the four, five.  When he was sure that the turnkey would
not back, he rose and braced his palms against the wall next the bed.

He pulled in a deep breath and then another.

cally he began to batter his head against the rough wall.

His teeth sunk into his lower lip to silence rose, but he did not stop.
He felt his brain reverberate in skull, but he did not stop.  He heard
his nose crack, did not stop.

His nails scraped down the wall as he fell to his was safe now, he
thought dimly.  Now no one would
accuse him of having voluntarily helped Alexei
escape.  He stared at the wall in front of him through the bloody haze.
He was safe.  With that thought he slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Twelve

The first breath of fresh, cold air stunned Alexei.  He pulled it in
greedily, although it slashed at his throat and his lungs, wondering if
he would ever get enough.  It was such a simple thing and yet he had
never realized how precious it was until he had had to do without it
for so long.  It was something he would never take for granted again.

With a muttered order for the coachman, Alexei jumped from the carriage
the minute it had crossed the bridge from the Petersburg Side.  But
instead of skirting around the Summer Garden as Boris had instructed
him, he through the gold-tipped wrought-iron gates.  He well understood
the risk he was taking in going through St.  burg's favorite promenade
during the fashionable hour, the risk that he had been followed and
would lead them Irina was one that he refused to take.

Using less frequented paths, he walked as swiftly as could without
attracting attention until he reached Fontanka Quay.  Remaining a step
inside the wrought fence that separated the garden from the street, he
one carriage speed by and then another.

A small, rather shabby carriage turned down the from the quiet,
residential Sergeyevskaya Street and watched its leisurely progress.
Suddenly his nerves, had been so calm, so steady, begun to hum.
Suddenl);

anticipation was a ball of fire in the pit of his
stomach.  As it approached, he moved out onto the quay.

The carriage was still moving when its door opened and a woman swathed
in an opaque black veil bent forward.  Even if she had not lifted her
veil for a moment, Alexei's heart would have recognized Irina.  Even as
she beckoned to him, he was already moving forward.

As he pulled the carriage door closed behind him and slid onto the seat
opposite her, she threw the veil up over the crown of her bonnet.  For
long moments they only looked at each other, filling themselves with
the other's presence.  Then Irina lifted her hands and touched her
fingers to Alexei's thin, grimy face.

"Are you real?"  she whispered in a voice thick with unshed tears.  "I
was so afraid that I would never see you again."

Unable to speak, Alexei curled his fingers around her hands, which were
still touching his face.  Turning one hand palm upward, he lowered his
mouth to it.  The sensation of her skin against his lips, her summer
garden fragrance, hit him with all the power of a lightning bolt.  The
life, the power that had bled out of him during the weeks in prison,
flooded into him again.  At this moment he could have taken on the
world and won.

Her palm still pressed against his mouth, he raised his eyes to meet
hers.  The words she had silenced so many weeks ago rose now and
trembled on his lips.  Perhaps he had no right to say them, he thought,
but when you have been pulled back from the abyss and given the gift of
a new life, there are no rules.

"I love you."

As he spoke, his breath drifted over Irina's palm.  She had waited so
long for these words, she thought as they flowed into her like a long,
lazy river.  Now, only now, did the tears she had not shed for seven
long weeks fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks.  But through the
tears she smiled.

"I love~ you Alexei."  The words tasted so sweet, and wanting to taste
them again, she repeated them.

Alexei took her words into his heart with a bittersweet joy.  This was
all he would ever have, he knew.  They would have to last him the rest
of his life.

Lowering their still-joined hands, he spoke quickly while he had the
courage.  "I can never thank you for this.  And I know that the best
way to show my gratitude is to leave you as soon as possible."

He bent his head and brushed his lips over her knuckles.  "Tell the
coachman to go to the Haymarket.  I will find someone there to take me
out of the city."

Suddenly the warmth, the closeness, of a moment ago disappeared.  Irina
heard the steel in his voice and knew that she had a battle on her
hands.  "Do you think that I did this so that you could throw your life
away?"  Her hands tightened on his.

"Irina, listen to me.  I have endangered you enough.  Do not ask me to
pull you still deeper into this quicksand."

"No, you listen to me, Alexei."  Irina felt the anger kindle inside
her, but it was a good, clean emotion, not a destructive one.

"With a few notable exceptions, I have been a mouse all my life.  I
have been controlled and manipulated and told what to do, what to
feel."  She paused for a moment, but only to drag in enough air to
continue speaking.  "No more.  Do you understand?"  She reached across
the space tween them and dug her fingers into his overcoat.  "No
more."

She saw the oddly considering look in his eyes,

ing suddenly awkward, she released him.  Fleetingly smoothing over the
thick fabric she had gripped, sheered her hands into her lap.  "I make
my own now."

"So do I, Irina."  He gave her a long, steady look.

I do not choose to endanger you further.  "

She wanted to scream at him, to grab him, to shake him, but she did
none of these things.  Instead she looked him straight in the eye and
spoke so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.

"I have a plan.  It is far from foolproof and it's risky, but you have
a fairly good chance of ending up alive and free."  Her heart was
pounding, but her innate manners and the habit of years kept her voice
even.  "How much of a chance do you think you will have on your own?
Especially once your flight is discovered?"

"I'd rather take my chances than put you into still more danger."  He
asked for her understanding with his eyes.  "With luck I have a few
hours yet before they discover that I'm gone."

The words were barely out of his mouth when they heard the boom of the
fortress cannon behind them.

The detonation had Irina pressing herself back in her seat as she
choked back a cry.  Closing her eyes, she sucked in a long, deep
breath, and then another, But when she lifted her eyelids a moment
later, she met Alexei's gaze steadily.  She wanted to cry and plead,
but exercising the most relentless control over herself, she forced her
voice to be even.  "You're right.  It is your decision."  Whatever
would happen, she thought, she wanted there to be no recriminations.
They already had more.  than their share of hurdles still to overcome.
"But know this.  What I have offered you, I have offered freely.  I
would be lying if I said I have no fear, but I believe in fate."  She
paused, and her lips curved with a ghost of a smile.  "Fate did not
bring us together to tear us apart now.

"And I have hope," she continued.  She wanted badly to touch him, but
she kept her hands in her lap.  "For the first time in my life I truly
have hope."

Her quiet words, so full of true confidence and faith, touched him as
no plea, no argument, could have.

"Fate."  He said the single word softly and it reverberated within him
like a long note plucked on a guitar string.  The echo of that one word
spread through him as a solitary pebble spreads rings upon rings of
water to reach into infinity.

Something uncoiled within him, giving him a freedom he had not known
before.  A freedom to yield to the destiny that beckoned.  But it was
not a yielding to weakness, but a yielding to strength.

He curved his hands over hers, which were laced tightly in her lap.  "I
will go where you will take me."

Irina pulled forward a large canvas bundle that she had wedged under
the carriage seat.

"Take off your overcoat, quickly," she said, as with deft movements she
undid the bundle' and shook out a large,

shapeless black gown and a voluminous woolen cape.  "What?"

"How far do you think you're going to get in that, uniform, especially
now?"  she demanded.  "Please, Alexei, hurry."

As soon as he had shed the overcoat, she impatiently tugged the gown
over his head, pulling it on over the skin-tight uniform and fastening
it cursorily.  From a round hat-box she extricated a black-veiled
bonnet and thrust it at Alexei.

Her hands flew as she rolled up the overcoat in the canvas and tossed
the military hat he had worn into the box, but she took the time to tie
all the laces that fastened the bundle into double knots.  The sword
was a problem she had overlooked, but she would simply have to hold it
under her own cape.  Then she swung the cape around his shoulders and
fastened the frogged closures.

On a busy corner of the Haymarket, they changed carriages.  Alexei,
impeded by the skirts of his disguise, followed Irina clumsily.  The
ride was short and they spoke little as they left the cab two blocks
from the Golovin palace to walk the last stretch.

Alexei hunched his shoulders to minimize his height.  "I feel like a
pike in a goldfish pond," he murmured.

Irina threaded her arm a little more firmly through his, anchoring him
to her side.  "You're doing fine," she reassured him, even as her eyes
ceaselessly scanned the other people on the street.

"Are you still being watched?"  With dread, Alexei thought of their
arrival at Irina's home.

"The two servants who were spying are gone, but sometimes I've had the
feeling that I'm being followed."  She squeezed his arm.  "But I went
to great pains to make certain that I was not followed today."

Alexei felt the sweat that was pooling at the base of his spine turn to
ice.  "Irina, please reconsider," he begged.  "Are you sure that you
know what you're doing?"

"It will be all right."  Her words rang with the assurance she needed
to give both of them, but her nerves tightened as they neared their
destination.

Quickly they rounded the corner onto the Moika Quay.  Two carriages
stood in front of the Golovin palace.  Irina felt Alexei's steps slow
and her grip on his arm tightened as much in reassurance as in defiance
against the fear that was spreading through her.

"Don't," she whispered urgently.  "Whoever it is, our only chance is to
brazen it out."

Still she felt the pull as his steps became more and more halting.
Hampered by the sword she pressed flush to her body under the cover of
her cloak, she dug her fingers into Alexei's arm.

"Follow my directions and under no circumstances raise the veil.  And
keep your skirts down.  Otherwise they'll see your boots."  Her head.
held high, she swept him by the coachmen who stood idly on the
sidewalk, their thumbs hooked behind their belts.

Irina felt the muscles in his arm bunch and her fingers dug into his
flesh.  "Please, no," she whispered.  "Running now' will only make
things worse."  K~ping a death grip on his arm, she half dragged him up
the three shallow steps, past the doorman into the entry hall.

She had thought she had prepared herself, but still her breath backed
up in her throat when she saw Gvozdev standing there like some small,
poisonous animal ready to strike.  Behind him, several grim-faced men
were fanned out, waiting to do his bidding.  Fear bordering on panic
shot through her, but determination and spirit were stronger and her
steps did not falter as She pushed past him.

She maneuvered Alexei toward the majordomo, who was hovering near the
foot of the staircase.  "Poof," she exhaled dramatically.  "The
carriage broke down a few blocks away and we walked.  Here, Ilya, take
Agafia Platonovna up to my apartments," Irina instructed, pushing
Alexei to' ward him.  "Parasha will take care of her."  She~pressed her
hand against Alexei's back.  "Go up now and rest, my I will be up
directly."

Controlling the desire to follow Alexei's progress, threw back her veil
with her free hand and turned toward Gvozdev.

"What can I do for you, Fedor Osipovitch?"  she demanded briskly.  "But
I beg you to keep it short.  I to my guest."

Instead of answering her, Gvozdev stared over her, watching the
ungainly figure in black,

aging majordomo, mount the staircase.

"Who is that?"  he demanded sharply, "I

to that person.  " He moved surprisingly quickly toward staircase.  "
You up there!  Stop!  Comeback here!  "

Irina felt the panic clutch her stomach, but she mana to follow him
without apparent hurry.  She laid a light on his arm, well prepared to
grip it if need be.  "Please her alone, Fedor Osipovitch."

He whirled around and turned on her like a spitting
cat.  "I will question that person."

Irina's stomach tightened another notch but she raised her eyebrows and
gave him a look of such cool disdain that a dark flush traveled up his
pink face.

"You will leave my guest in peace."  The tone of command was
unmistakable.  "She buried half her family today."

"I want to make certain Alexei Muromsky isn't hidden under all those
veils."

Irina lifted her eyebrows.  "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Listen to me!"  Forgetting all etiquette, Gvozdev grabbed her arm. "An
hour ago Alexei Muromsky smashed his brother's face into the wall of
his cell and escaped wearing Boris Muromsky's uniform."

"What?"  Irina felt the blood leave her face.  "What are you talking
about?"

Nonplussed at her reaction, Gvozdev stared at her.  He had been so sure
that she was involved.  All the instincts he had honed for years had
told him so.  Impatient, angry, he sent another look up the stairs
where the black-clad figure was just disappearing around a corner.

"If you are hiding him" -- his close-set eyes narrowed to black slits
in the pudgy, pink flesh that surrounded them "--I do not envy you."

Desperately Irina battled to regain the control she had lost.  "I have
no reason to hide Alexei Muromsky."  She heard the tremble in her voice
and prayed that it would be taken for indignation.

Gvozdev's mouth curved in a lascivious smile.  "He was your..."  Some
remnant of good manners stopped him from completing the sentence.  "You
were intimate friends."

"Once perhaps."  She kept her eyes on his as she thrust out her chin.
"Now he is dead."

"" I assure you, he is very much alive.  "

"For me he is dead.  I do not consort with traitors."  She sent him an
icy look.  "Now, I would thank you to leave my house."

"Perhaps" -- Suddenly unsure, Gvozdev laced his pudgy fingers.
"Perhaps..."  He took a deep breath and threw back his shoulders.  "We
will search the premises--for your protection only, of course."

Without dignifying his words with a reply, Irina started up the
stairs.

"But"

On the second step she slowly turned and looked down at Gvozdev.  "I
assure you that he is not here.  If you think I am lying" -- she put a
subtle emphasis on the last word and paused to let it take effect "--do
go ahead and search."  She made a circular gesture of invitation.  "The
Golovins have always been faithful subjects of the Romanovs.  We shall
see if the tsar approves such a violation of their ancestral home."

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and began to climb the
stairs.

She took the steps slowly, needing to concentrate on keeping her watery
knees rigid enough so that they would not buckle under her.  The sweat
was trickling down her back, her sides.  The incipient nausea lay in
her stomach like a lead weight.

One more step and then another.  Behind her, she heard Gvozdev snarl at
his men.  Another step.  The clack of boots sounded' against the marble
floor, fading as the door closed behind them.  Another step.  The rasp
of her ragged breathing filled her head.  Another step.  And another.

In front of the door to her apartments, Ilya's stooped figure stood. He
spoke to her, but his words did not register.  As she stumbled into the
safety of her rooms, her muscles went lax and the sword she had
clutched for so long clattered to the floor.

Her eyes focused, barely, on Alexei, who had already rid himself of his
disguise.  The room began to turn around her like a slow carousel.

"They're gone," she whispered.  "You're safe.  For now."  She gulped in
air, but she couldn't seem to get enough.  The blackness descended in
front of her eyes and she went limp.

Chapter Thirteen

Irina awoke to the acrid odor of smelling salts.  Disoriented,

she struggled instinctively against the hands holding her.  "Shh, it's
all right."

Her eyes flew open at the sound of Alexei's voice and she sat up and
rubbed her hands over her face as the events of the past two hours
floated into her consciousness.  "What happened2 I fainted again,
didn't I?"  She made a face, disgusted at her own weakness.

"Again?"  Alexei cupped her cheek and tilted her face toward him.  She
had grown thin over the past weeks.  So thin that her eyes seemed to
take up half her face.  And she was pale.  So pale that even the light
green color of her eyes looked vivid against the skin that was as
colorless as chalk.  It was his fault, he thought, and the measure of
his guilt grew.  He brushed his thumb over her cheek in a silent plea
for forgiveness.

She shook her head, shrugging off his question, but the memory of how
she had lost consciousness after seeing the police shackle him and take
him away sent a shiver through her.  She had been half-frozen when she
woke; it had been a small miracle that she had woken at all.

"How long was I"

"Just a few minutes."  He put his hands on her shoulders and ran them
down her arms.  "Would you like to explain what you meant about
fainting again?"

She felt the pressure of his hands on her arms and suddenly all manner
of desires, of temptations, swirled up in her.  For a moment only she
allowed herself to yield to his touch.  Then she pulled away.  "An
occasional bad habit I seem to have acquired."  Dismissing the matter
with an impatient gesture, she swung her feet down from the sofa where
Parasha and Alexei had laid her.

"Please, rest."

He was touching her again and his voice was soft in her ear.  Irina
turned her head and met his eyes.  They had spent hours and hours in
this very room so that the world would think they were lovers.  They
had talked and laughed together.  They had become friends.  Yet none of
those hours had had the intimacy of this moment, with his eyes gentle
and his hands touching her with such care.

An hour ago they had exchanged words of love.  Words that had slipped
out in that first flush of elation, in the moment of victory against
all odds.  What would it be like to say them now?

She looked into his golden brown, exotic eyes as if she could find her
answer there.  They were smiling at her, but there were shadows.
Shadows she knew nothing about.  Suddenly the-intimacy of the moment
dissipated like smoke disappearing into the night sky.  They had shared
so many things and yet they were still strangers to each other, she
thought, now perhaps more than before, because neither knew what the
other had experienced in the past weeks.

"Later."  She rose, pulling jerkily at the cuffs of her black gown.  "I
will rest later."

Alexei let her go because he had felt her withdraw from him.  And he
had felt the withdrawal all the more sharply after the wholeness and
the perfection of that one moment when their eyes had met while his
hands had been on her,

Feeling inadequate and immeasurably weary, he watched her give Parasha
instructions.  He allowed her to herd him into her bedroom so that a
bath could be prepared.  He picked at the food she brought him, his
body hungry for its delicate taste, but his soul, his conscience,
rejecting the comfort he felt so undeserving of.

Standing behind the closed curtains of the room that carried her summer
garden fragrance, he looked around the luxuriously feminine quarters to
assure himself that it was not just a mad illusion that had taken hold
Of his brain.  Could it really be just a little more than an hour since
he had walked out of his cell?  Walked out of his cell and left behind
his brother, his friends?  He dug the heels of his hands against his
burning eyes.  Would he ever get past the guilt, the shame?  Or would
it be with him always?  Yes, he reminded himself, he knew that he had
not gone willingly, but that was scant comfort when his conscience
confronted him with the reality of being a deserter nevertheless.

Realizing that he could drive himself mad with self-reproach, he
blocked out the black thoughts and let his mind drift.  Something
bobbed up in his awareness like a buoy in the water.  It went under
again, but after a moment it was back, It was just a wisp of a thought,
a memory.  Without being able to define or describe it, he knew that it
had something to do with his brother.  Was it some old memory?  Was it
something Boris had said to him today?  Or-- Alexei shook his head.
Every time he seemed close to putting his finger on it, it eluded him,
like a half-remembered dream.

Absently he stroked the back of his hand down the drapes of sunny
yellow velvet.  Just the thought that beyond the window there was
daylight that was not blocked by opaque white paint or bars eased him.
But then the thought intruded that sometimes bars could be invisible
and that he was as much a prisoner in this room as he had been in the
fortress.

Later, much later, when all the servants were gone and he had washed
off the filth of his imprisonment, Alexei leaned his head back against
the rim of the tub.  The tub had been placed behind a screen of
black-and-red Chinese lacquer and he could not see Irina, but just the
sound of her footsteps in the bedroom, the small everyday sounds of
drawers opening or armoire doors closing made him feel good--and
safe.

If he closed his eyes, he thought, it would be easy, so easy, to
pretend that they were lovers.  That all he had to do was call out and
she would come behind the screen, where he could look at her, touch
her.

They had been lovers for one night.  They had been enemies.  Someday,
someday when all this was over, he promised himself, they would be
lovers again.

He'd told her he loved her.  Oh, he'd known that he had no right to box
her in with his feelings.  But the words had been inside him for so
long.  Was that why, through weeks of imprisonment and interrogation
and deprivation, he had never stopped hoping?  Had the need to say the
words to her, even more than the need to hear her echo them, been what
had kept him strong?

Would he be able to tell her again someday?  Someday when he was free
and no longer a hunted fugitive?

He lay in the warm water and dreamed.  And after a while he slept.

Irina kept her hands busy.  She needed something that would distract
her.  from the danger they were all in.  from the soft splashing sounds
Alexei made in his bath.  from what Gvozdev had told her about Boris
Muromsky.  No, she told herself.  Alexei could never have done that to
his brother.  Without hesitation, she would wager her life on it.  She
had already prepared a whole pile of small, neat bundles for their
journey.  Clothing--both her own and the things she had had Ilya
obtfiin for Alexei.  Food--bread, fish, meat, fruit, all dried and
packed in canvas.  A small

case with medicine and bandages.  She, Ilya and Parasha had carried
them down little by little and stacked them in a small pavilion near a
forgotten, overgrown garden gate.  Now all she had left to pack was the
jewels.

She had debated long and hard how to transport the Golovin jewels,
which would purchase them a new life.  She had even begun to sew them
in the hems of the few gowns she was taking with her.  But she did not
know what awaited them.  She did not know how efficiently the tsar's
bloodhounds would hunt them.  They had to be able to move quickly and,
if necessary, abandon everything they could not wear on their backs. So
she had sewn rows and rows of small pouches onto a large piece of rough
linen.  When the stones and jewels were in place, the fabric could be
rolled up and, if need be, worn around the waist.

Suddenly she became aware that the splashing sounds in the dressing
room had stopped.  Unmindful of the half-done-up bundle that tumbled
from her lap spilling its contents to the floor, she rose and ran to
the connecting door.  "Alexei?"

There was no answer.  "Alexei, are you all right?"  Nothing.

She should not have left him alone.  The reproach shot through her mind
as her heart began to pound~ She skidded on the polished parquet floor
but managed to steady herself against the Chinese screen, The screen
wobbled but remained upright.

His head was thrown back against the rim of the tub, his eyes closed,
and for a moment her heart stood still.  Then she realized that his
breathing was slow and even and that a little color had returned to his
gaunt face.

As the love flooded through her, she knelt at the edge of the tub,
wishing that she could let him sleep.  Gently she traced his high,
prominent cheekbones with the backs of her fingers.  Then her hand
traveled upward to brush back the

dark, damp curls that had fallen onto his forehead. On a sigh she
whispered his name.

Alexei came awake sure that he was dreaming.  Even as he sought to
prolong the dream, he waited for reality to push its way into his
consciousness.  He waited for the bone-chilling cold, the stench, the
sound of rats scurrying on the damp stone.

"Alexei," Irina whispered again.

His head tipped toward her.  His eyelids lifted a little to reveal eyes
clouded with sleep and fatigue.

"You have to get out of the water," she coaxed, and, sliding her hand
down to the base of his head, pressed lightly upward.

Although, or perhaps because, he was still rhore than half-asleep and
drugged by a combination of the exhaustion and the warm water" Alexei
responded to the gentle pressure at the back of his neck and sat up.

As his upper body was revealed, Irina's gaze inadvertently strayed
down.  Her breath hissed through her teeth as she gasped at the jagged
scars that marked him.  Scars so angry-looking, so swollen, that she
was sure they were half-healed at best.  Her eyes flew back to his and
she saw them focus on her face, saw the awareness flow into them,
followed by chagrin.  Then he plunged back down into the tub, sending
water sloshing over the rim.

"I'm sorry.  I" -- He stopped, not knowing what to say.  Not knowing
how to stem the growing horror in her eyes.  Not knowing how to stem
the coldness spreading within him at the realization that his scarred
body repulsed her so.  "Go away, Irina," he said tiredly.  "Let me get
dressed."

Words and tears had clotted together in her throat and Irina could only
shake her head in denial of his words, in denial of what her eyes had
seem

"Please."  He could feel his physical weakness worming its way through
him, its tentacles reaching for his mind, for his emotions, as well.
Turning away from her, he tipped his

~apemry ol, rate head back, hoping to stem at least the humiliation of
the sudden tears that burned behind his eyes.  "Leave me alone now."

"Oh my God."  Her voice was a hoarse whisper as she worked past the
terrible lump in her throat.  "What did they do to you?"  She loosened
her hands from the rim of the tub and reached out to touch his face.
"Do you have much pain?  Will you let me take care of your wounds?"

She saw the tendons that stood out like cords in his neck.  Her
fingertips felt his tension, which seemed to vibrate on the surface of
his taut skin.  Wanting to absorb the tension, the pain, away from him,
she cupped his face with both hands, lightly stroking over surprisingly
smooth skin with her thumbs.

The gentleness in her voice and her soothing touch lifted a layer of
tension from him and then another.  If she was touching him with such
tenderness, then perhaps she was not repelled by his scars after all.
He brought his head forward and met her eyes.

There was emotion in them, so much emotion.  There was love, too, and
compassion, but no pity.  Thank God, there was no pity.  He raised his
hands and captured her wrists.  He wanted to say so much, but he did
not trust his voice, so he was silent, letting his eyes speak for
him.

"You have to get out of that water now."  Gently she pulled her hands
out of his grasp.  "It would be a shame to have fled the fortress only
to catch your death of cold."  She forced lightness into her tone as
she tried to ease the moment for' them both.

"Bath sheets are here."  Irina patted a stack of linens on a stool.
"I'll be in the bedroom."

Alone in her room, the horror of Alexei's scars struck her with new
strength, but she fought the ~tears, knowing that she could not afford
to give in to them now.

Reluctantly Alexei wrapped a dry bath sheet tog alike around him.  He
didn't want to subject her to looking at his scars again.  And he
didn't want to subject himself to her hands on his body.  Despite his
exhaustion, just the thought of Irina putting her hands on him sent an
ache through his loins.

He stopped in the doorway to the bedroom.  Oh God, she was beautiful,
he thought.  She had changed from the black gown to a soft gown of
dusty pink, and he hesitated to go forward, feeling as awkward as a
young boy who has never been alone with a woman.

Irina had unpacked her medicine chest and laid out bandages and salves
on a linen towel.  Feeling Alexers presence, she looked up.  His
discomfort as he stood in the door was palpable.  '

"Will you let me help you as best I can?"  She held out her hand to
him.

He sat down on the edge of the bed.  "There's nothing you or anyone
else can do," he grumbled.  "They're not pretty, but they're healed."

"Humor me."  She sat down beside him.  "From my work with the poor, I
have some little knowledge of medicine."  Her eyes held a touch of
amusement.  "I won't botch you up."  '

"It's not that" -- he began, a flush working its way up his neck.  How
could he explain what he was feeling without offending her?  Without
frightening her?

Irina met his eyes and saw the beginning heat there.  The answering
warmth began to course through her veins.  And she knew that they both
remembered.

She laid a light hand on his arm.  "I know, Alexei," she said softly,
not knowing where she got the courage to make the admission.  "I
know."

For a long, charged moment the currents raced between them' before
Irina stood and busied herself with the bundles in the armoire.  She
heard the rustle of the crisp linen behind her and another wave of heat
rose within her.  She was mad, she told herself as her fingers
tightened on the

canvas bundle.  She was mad to feel this restive heat in a moment like
this.  But still she was powerless against the force within her.

When she.  turned hack, Alexei had lain down on the silk coverlet and
pulled the bath sheet to his waist.

Her hands not quite steady, she examined his ~cars one by one, probing
to make certain they were not infected.

"Are these all from the fourteenth," she asked, st rug- ling to keep
her voice even.  "Or did they" -- ~

"No."  Alexei shook his head and gave a short, mirthless laugh.  "The
torture was strictly mental.  Tsar Nicolai is much too well mannered
for anything else."  ~

Carefully she spread a soothing salve on the scars.  "Were you hurt
anywhere else?"  Alexei mumbled a denial, wanting to spare he~ the
sight.  Irina heard his marginal hesitation and knew he was lying.
There was an edge of anger in her eyes when sl~e looked up to catch his
gaze, but her voice was mild.  "I have no compunction about stripping
the sheet off you and looking for myself, Alexei."

With a muttered curse, he yielded and twitched the sheet aside to
reveal his left thigh, where the tsar's artillery had torn away a chunk
of flesh.

Irina fought back the wave of nausea that rose to choke her as she
looked at the still-raw flesh.  "Barbarians," she whispered.  "Did they
give you no care for it?"  She lifted her eyes to his.

There was pain in her eyes--and hate.  "Don't."  He raised his hand to
hers.  "They bandaged it, which I am sure is more than many had."  He
remembered the square littered with bodies.  He remembered the men
sliding from ice floes into the dark river.

Irina nodded.  The police had hacked open the ice and shoveled the
bodies in--both the dead and those still breathing.  But she would not
tell him that now.  She examined the wound again.  Miraculously there
seemed to be no sign of serious festering or putrefying flesh and she
said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

"Another inch or so and the bone would have been shattered.  You are
lucky."  Her mouth attempted a smile.  "We both are."

She went to the table, where the tray he had barely touched still
stood, and picked up the bottle of aged French brandy.  Setting it down
next to the bed, she competently wedged a folded towel beneath his leg.
"You still have pain and now I will have to hurt you even more."

He wasn't afraid of the pain, but she was as pale as the sheet that
covered him.  And she had been through enough today.  Yet something
akin to admiration, to pride, wound through him.  She was an incredible
woman, he thought, wishing again that he could take just a moment to
tell her that.  To show her.  Instead, he propped himself up on an
elbow and pushed her hands away.  "Leave it, Irina.  Please."

"It's not a risk we can take."  Gently she pressed him back down on the
bed.  "Now lie back.  I'll be as quick as I can."

Her stomach churning with dread, she probed the wound to make certain
that it was clear of foreign matter.  Then, tipping the brandy bottle,
~he splashed the amber liquid over the wound.  Alexei's breath hissed,
but he made no sound as his back arched off the bed.  Mercilessly she
bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out in his stead,
Silently she asked his forgiveness and tipped the bottle again,

Concentrating on the wound, she did not look at his face as she worked,
afraid that she would lose her courage.  Still, the awareness that she
was hurting him with every touch was like a knife in her own flesh.
Lightly she spread the salve made of honey and herbs on the wound and
exchanged the brandy-soaked towel for a fresh one.

"I will leave it open for now," she explained, and covered his leg with
the sheet again.  "I will bandage it in a little while."  Only then did
she look up.

The little color that had returned to his face during the past hour
had fled again and he was as white as a bleached bone.  His teeth were
still clenched against the pain, pulling the skin taut over the high
cheekbones.  Skin that was sheened with sweat.  Then the shivers
started.

Ifina tamped down the spurt of panic that rushed through her.  Quickly
she covered him with a quilt, but the shivers grew worse~

"I--I'm sorry," he managed.  "I'll be all r-right in a moment."  ~

But he was not all right.  The pain, the exhaustion, the tension came
together with such violence that, no matter how he fought to command
the las~t of his strength, the thj~ dam did not hold.  The shivering
seemed to gather momentum until he had no choice but to give in to the
weakness.

Irina put her hand on his forehead, expecting heat, but ~ skin was cold
and clammy.  She could do nothing but wait~ out.

Lowering herself to him, she slid her arms around hia~: and held him.
Murmuring to him as she would to a sick child, she stroked his
shoulders and willed her energy to flow into him.  The minutes passed,
long and uncounted.  Little~: by little the shivers eased, his muscles
grew lax and he slipped into a healing sleep.

She felt his breathing level, but her voice murmured on and her hands
still stroked his shoulders.  Little by little her own breath fell into
the same even rhythm as his and she, too, slept.

Irina drifted awake, mingling sensations floating on the edge of her
consciousness.  The soft linen of the pillowcase against her face.  The
scent of Alexei's skin.  His naked back against the palms of her hands.
She shifted against the cramped muscles in her arms and shoulders and
groaned softly.

Alexei came awake with a start, not certain if the whimper of pain in
his ear had been reality or a dream.  Awareness rushed in quickly.
Irina's weight on his upper boOy.  Her arms wrapped around him.  Her
summer garden frggrance.  "Irina."  He turned his face toward her.

She felt his breath on her neck as he whispered her name.  Suddenly she
was wide-awake.  She was lying across his chest, her arms twined around
him and for a moment she struggled to rise.  But without warning the
awareness of him grew so sharp that the world beyond the bed ceased to
exist.  His scent and the sound of his breathing in her ear, his smooth
skin against her cheek, her hands.

"Turning her.  head, she found herself face-to-face with him.  They
were so close that she could see nothing but his eyes, which had
darkened so much that she could see her own reflection in them.

He felt her breath on his face, on his mouth, and the beginning arousal
drifted through him like a summer breeze.  Needing to touch her, he
raised his arm.  A breath away from her he stopped himself.  If he
touched her now, he would be lost.  Compromising, he feathered the
backs of his fingers down her arm, touching no more than the soft
fabric of her gown.

"Perhaps you'd better put that bandage on my leg now," he said
softly.

His words snapped Irina back from that misty world between sleep and
arousal and she began to struggle to disentangle herself from him.
Muffling the groan that rose to her lips as her stiff muscles
protested, she freed her arms from behind his back.

Sitting up, she brushed her hands over her flaming cheeks and tucked
the curls that had come undone behind her ears.  "I--I must have fallen
asleep," she stammered.  Glancing at the gold-and-porcelain rococo
clock on the chest.  of drawers, she saw that they had slept for barely
half an hour and

wondered how she would survive the hours until it was time to leave.

Alexei followed her glance.  Five o'clock.  Barely three hours had
passed since he had walked out of his cell, but that was long enough
for the police to have traced him here.  They were already suspicious
enough.

"Do you have clothes for me?"  He managed to prop himself up onto his
elbows, but they buckled and he lay there, appalled at his own
weakness.  "I need to leave."

Irina saw the color leach out of his face again, and forgetting her
embarrassment, she cupped his cheek with one hand as she stroked over
his hair with the other.  "Soon: You will leave soon enough."  Knowing
that he would argue bitterly, she did not tell him where he would be
going or that she would be going with him.

"And if Gvozdev comes back with the tsar's permission to search your
house before I leave?"

"I think my name will protect me a few more hours."  She folded her
hands in her lap.

"And if it does not?"

She brushed aside the tentacles of fear that reached out to grip her.
"I'm counting on it that it will."  Defiance of all that stood between
them and freedom had her lifting her chin.  "And once the house is
asleep, it will be easy.  Everything is prepared.  Trust me.  Will
you?"  Anticipating his questions, she laid her fingers on his
mouth--but only for an instant.  "Rest now.  You will find out when the
time comes."

His eyes narrowed.  She was hiding something, he re-fiected, but
somehow he could not find the energy to drag the information out of
her.  Because he didn't seem to have any choice, he gave in to the
lassitude.

Irina reached over him to pick up a compress and bandage and fold back
the sheet.  Even though she was prepared for it this time, the sight of
the wound hit her like a fist to her middle.  She put a layer of salve
on the lint pad and pressed it against the wound.

"All right?"  The pain ha~ settled down to a dull ache and the compress
felt pleasantly cool, and Alexei nodded.  But Irina had gone pale
again.  Cursing silently, he decided to distract her from her
self-imposed task.

"What else did Gvozdev say to you?"

Her gaze flicked up to his and for a moment her hands stilled.  She
didn't want to tell him, but he needed to know.  Putting her hand on
his leg to hold the bandage she had begun to wrap in place, she met his
gaze fully2

"He said they found your brother in the cell with his face smashed
in."

"What?"  Alexei struggled up onto his elbows again.  "The scum is
lying!"

Irina shook her head.  "I don't think so."

"Do you think I"

"No," she interrupted him.  "I know you didn't."  She kept her eyes on
his.  "I know you didn't."

"But if Gvozdev is telling the truth, who would have" -- Instinct had
the answer rushing to her lips and instinct had her quelling it.  She
dropped her gaze down to his leg again and went back to wrapping it. "I
don't know."

But Alexei had seen the quick flicker in her eyes.  He heard her
suddenly distant tone.  "What is it?"

When the only answer she gave him was a shake of her head, he closed
his hand over hers.  "Tell me."

She met his eyes again.  The demand for the truth was there and she
would not evade it.

"I think he did it himself.  Or arranged it somehow."  She shrugged at
the disbelief she saw in his eyes.  "It's just a feeling I have."

He started to dispute her words, to say that it was physically
impossible, but he stopped himself.  How many times

had he seen men perform incredible feats to disfigure themselves so
that they would not be sent into battle.

"It could be his way of assuring that he is not suspected of having
exchanged his uniform with you, willingly " Or?  "

Irina said nothing as she finished wrapping the bandage.

"Or?"  He sat up, ignoring the sheet that slid down and pooled at his
hips.

She swallowed.  "Someone who was thought to have done this to his
brother would no longer be a simple fugitive from justice but a man
devoid of all honor.  A rabid animal to be hunted and struck down
without mercy."

"Why would he do that to me?  Why would he plan to save my life only to
do that to me?"

She heard the forlorn, puzzled tone of his voice and wanted so badly to
spare him the truth.  But she knew that if she did, someday she would
resent his not knowing it.  "Why?"  he asked again.

She pulled in a deep breath.  "Because the plan was not his."  It was
hard, but she kept her eyes on his.  "I forced him to do it."

"You?  Forced?"

"I threatened to denounce him as a conspirator unless he did:"

"What?"

The knuckles of her folded hands whitened at his sharp tone.  "He had
refused to help me.  It was the only way I knew."  She pressed her lips
into a thin line, afraid that they would betray her and tremble.

Alexei dropped his face into his hands as the vague impression that had
been bobbing up and down, nagging at his mind, crystallized.  Oh God,
he thought.  Now he understood.  How could he have been so stupid?  '

If she had had the strength, she would have risen and run.  But she
could do no more than sit there and wait for his judgment.

Japestry o!  ~ate

Letting his hands fall, Alexei stared beyond Irina's shoulder, his eyes
seeing the scene in his cell.  "When I refused to go along with the
plan and leave my friends behind, he talked of dishonor and despair. He
said that if I died a traitor's death on the gallows, he Would have no
choice but to end his life.  When I did not believe him" -- he shifted
and focused his eyes on hers "--he threatened to kill you first.

"I could almost smell his fear," Alexei continued.  "Now I understand.
He was afraid of what you would do if he did not succeed;"

It was over, Irina thought as she looked into his tormented eyes.  He
would never be able to look at her again without remembering that it
had been she who had forced him to betray his friends.  That it had
been she who had blackmailed his brother into helping her.  But she did
not regret it.  No matter what happened, she would never regret it.

He'd seen that bruised look in her eyes before.  When he had accused
her of being betrothed to Prince Golovin the night they had been
together.  When he had attacked her for.

not telling him that he had fathered her child.

"Irina?"

"I understand how you feel, Alexei."  She tilted up her chin.  "If I
had it to do over, I would not do it any differently."

"What are you talking about?  How do I feel?"

"You despise me.  For making you abandon your friends.  For using a
dirty trick to enlist your brother's help."

"Stop it!"  He lifted his hands to grip her shoulders.  "Stop it!"
Realizing suddenly how tightly he was holding her, he smoothed his
hands down her arms.  "It was my decision to leave that cell, Irina.
Mine.  You did not make it for me.  And I have no reason to despise
you."

Irina forced her mouth into a smile.  He was being kind now, but
someday he would remember that the final reason for his decision had
been Boris's threat to kill her.

"You don't believe me, do you?"  Careful to keep his touch light, he
skimmed his hands back up to her shoulders.  The soft skin of her neck
beckoned, and he allowed his hands to move upward to link at her nape.
"I haven't shown you much tenderness, have I?"  he said ruefully.

Gently he pressed against her nape to bring her closer.  "Let me show
you now."

Chapter Fourteen

Already Irina could feel herself melting, forgetting her misgivings,
her fears.  Just the simple pressure of his fingers against her neck
seemed to push every rational thought out of her mind.

Closer, he brought her closer with just the easy touch of his fingers.
When they were almost mouth to mouth, even that delicate pressure
stilled, as one hand slid up into her hair while the other drifted over
her neck to trace its way to her cheek.

Even as her mind clouded, her senses grew sharper and sharper.  She
felt every feather-light touch of his fingers on her skin even more
intensely than the last, until every single pore was filled with
sensation.  He was caressing only her neck and her face, yet she felt
his touch on every inch of her body.  With a kind of desperation she
kept her eyes open because something within her knew that to close them
meant complete surrender.  And yet his exotic topaz eyes, where the
heat of passion had begun to glow, hdd a seduction all their own.

"Alexei."  She said his name as a half sigh, half plea.  Her breath
whispered over his mouth, drawing him closer.  But he turned aside and
brushed his lips over her cheek, instead.

With a tiny sound that was part pleasure, part protest, Irina shifted
to bring her mouth to his again.  All thought had fled, but even in her
innocence she knew that she wanted his mouth on hers.

But Alexei did not take what she was offering him.  Instead, his
fingers spearing into her hair, he framed her face.  The needs curled
through him, pushing aside the physical weakness of a moment ago,
filling him with their power.  But those, too, were pushed aside.  This
was not a moment for passion.  He'd already given her that once, long
ago.  This was a moment for the tender intimacy she deserved.  This
would be something for her to remember and perhaps cherish when he was
long gone.

He felt her tremble as his mouth roamed ~over the delicate, translucent
skin beneath her ear, and her head fell back to give him access, That
tiny gesture of surrender almost pushed him over the edge of his
control, but he' held on--barely--and took only a small taste.

On he wandered over the angle of her cheekbone to her temple, where a
pulse beat quickly, unevenly.  He touched it with the tip of his tongue
and felt it jump and pick up speed.

His mouth was wandering over her like a butterfly skimming over a
meadow of spring flowers.  Irina wanted' to reach for him, to touch
him, to give him back a small measure of the tenderness he gave her.
But just as the flowers can only wait for the butterfly's touch, so she
could only wait for his mouth to alight on yet another spot--to taste,
to tease.  ,

She could not have said if he touched her with this exquisite subtlety
for minutes or hours.  She was floating.  Floating in an ocean of
sensuality that was almost chaste in its tenderness.  Then he leathered
his thumbs over her mouth and everything altered.

Like a drumbeat that changes from a light, staccato accompaniment to a
heavy rhythm that demands and challenges, so Irina's halcyon ocean
changed to a stormy, wine-dark sea.  A vortex captured her, filling her
with energy.

"Kiss me, Alexei," she murmured against his skin.  "Kiss me now."

Alexei stilled.  He'd been so cautious.  He had avoided her mouth so
carefully, knowing that if he allowed himself to taste her sweetness he
would be lost.  Already he could feel the needs pounding at him as
relentlessly as the tempest-driven ocean pounds at the shore.  He could
feel himself giving way, yielding as the sand yields to the relentless
water.

For the first time since he began touching her, she moved.  Lifting her
hands, she placed her palms on his chest and slid them upward.

She felt his skin vibrate with the passion that he was mercilessly
holding in check, and the responding passion surged within her like a
bird answering the call of its mate.  Circling his wrists, she felt his
pulse pound.  And she knew that it was she, only she, who had done
this.

Intoxicated with her own power, Irina curled her hands around his and
drew them away from her face.  Her eyes on his, she slowly,
deliberately, closed the space between them.

It was madness, he thought as he tipped closer yet to the edge.  But
such a sweet madness.  When the tip of her tongue slipped between his
lips, he capitulated.

Their tongues tangled and twined and probed, imitating the consummation
their bodies hungered for.  They feasted on each other, luxuriating in
the taste that mingled and melded and became one.

She released his hands to allow her own to wander Over his skin.  As
her fingers slid over his shoulders, the fire within her grew.  Unaware
of the reason for the intensifying ache low in her belly, she shifted
against it.

His hands freed, Alexei found the temptation to tear away the fabric
that separated them almost more than he could

bear.  But he withstood it, and to reward himself, he slipped his
hands between them and filled them with her breasts.

Alexei caught her moan in his mouth and went still as awareness of what
he had done and what he had almost done came rushing in.  For a moment,
just for a moment, he was tempted to brush that awareness aside and
sink back into the mindless pleasure of touching her with his hands and
mouth.  But he knew just how thin his control had worn.  And he knew
that he would need no persuasion to have Irina's surrender.

He retreated from her so suddenly that her hands flew away from his
shoulders, putting her off balance so that she swayed dangerously to
the side.  Instinctively roaching out to catch her, Alexei gripped her
shoulders, but she was already pulling away from him.

She wanted to shout at him, or better still, to shower him with quiet
scorn, but her throat felt as if it had been sewn closed and she could
only shake her head.  The embarrassed flush that had flowed into her
cheeks had ebbed, leaving her skin as pale as wax.  Oh God, she thought
as all the old insecurities rose to unnerve her.  She'd done it again.
Again she had offered herself to him and again he had rejected her.
Rejected her despite his' words of love, his kisses.  But then, perhaps
those words he had spoken had been more a sign of relief and gratitude
than any real emotion.

The stricken look in her eyes, her pallor, appalled him.  He'd wanted
to protect her, he realized, and instead he had scored a direct hit on
her female pride.  Again.  Guilt and anger at ~his own lack of
sensitivity ate at him.

"Irina, please.  Stay."  Cautiously Alexei reached out to stroke his
hand down her arm.

She tensed at his touch, but she remained seated on the edge of the bed
because she was unsure whether her legs would hold her up if she stood.
Unwilling and unable to look at him, she lowered her eyes and focused
on the herringbone pattern of the parquet floor.

lalgestry of late "I know it sounds like a lame excuse" -- he passed
his tongue over lips that had gone dry "--but I was trying to protect
you."

The flicker of hope that went through her had her raising her gaze back
up to his.

"Don't you understand?"  he demanded, his chest banded with tension. "I
have no right to touch you like that.  And I was a breath away from
making love to you.  Here.  Now."

He watched the hurt ebb out of her eyes and a wary joy take its place.
The tightness in his chest should have eased, but instead it grew.

Irina saw the frustration, the impatience and, yes, the desperation in
his eyes.  Slowly, inch by inch, the awareness seeped into her that he
had not rebuffed her but had exercised the crudest control over
himself.  She wanted to ask him if it would be so terrible if he made
love to her, but the lingering fear that perhaps he had rejected her
after all did not allow her to say the words.

Her face was like an open book, Alexei thought as he watched the gamut
of emotions run over it.  The love washed through him like a clear
mountain stream.  But with it came the pain of loss.

Because he needed to touch her at least in some small way, he picked up
her hand and brushed his mouth over her knuckles.  "I was on my way to
exile when I made love to you.  Carelessly, with no thought to the
consequences.  What kind of wretch would I be if I made love to you
now, when the exile that awaits me is indefinite?"  His eyes pleaded
for her understanding.

"Who knows when I can return to Russia?  Perhaps never."  He remembered
the promise he had made to himself an hour ago that when it was all
over they would be lovers.  Because he knew that it might never be
over, he kept her hand in his, unable to relinquish at least that one
small contact.

"What kind of wretch would I be if I made love to you now, when what I
feel for you is not just desire but..."  He bit off the words of love
that lay on his tongue.  In that first moment of reunion he had said
them once today--un-wisely, unthinkingly.  He had no right to say them
again.

Irina's mouth curved in a soft smile as full understanding dawned
within her.  The love welled up in her and over-flowed.  Lifting a
hand, she skimmed over the stark angles and planes of his face.  "Shh."
She made a small sound of comfort that from time immemorial women have
given both their men and their children.  "It's all right."

She shifted and slipped her arm around his shoulders to draw him
Closer.  As she sought to ease him, her hand moved over his back in
gentle circles.  She could have told him.  ~that she would not have
thought him a wretch if he had made love to her.  She could have told
him that she had no intention of allowing him to go into his exile
alone.  But this moment was too precious to be diluted with words.

After a while she pushed him back to lie down.  "Sleep now," she
whispered.  "I will wake you when it is time to go."

Alexei wanted to protest, not wanting to spend the last precious hours
with her in sleep.  But he knew that he would need every bit of
strength he could muster.

"Will you lie down with me?"  he asked softly.

Irina smiled again.  At this moment he could have given her no greater
gift.  Rising, she went around the bed and lay down next to him, her
forehead resting against his shoulder, her.  arm stretched across his
chest.

As his breathing evened into sleep, she lay beside him and prayed for a
safe journey for them both.

There were two hours left until midnight when Irina perched on the edge
of the bed to wake Alexei.  For a moment she indulged herself and
studied his beloved face, remembering the last time she had watched him
sleep.  Both the boyishness and the serenity she remembered were gone.
Instead; the stark planes and angles formed by skin and bone, the slash
of the scar he had brought back from the Caucasus, the lines that
bracketed eyes and mouth, all characterized a man to whom sorrow and
trouble were' no strangers.  A man who, even in sleep, did not forget
his cares or his nerves.

She stroked a hand over his hair and softly called his name.

He came awake clear-eyed and immediately aware, as

'years of military discipline had taught him.

"Is it time?"

Irina nodded.  "Your clothes are over there."  She gestured with her
chin toward a bulky pile of clothing on a nearby chair.  "You will be
dressed as a coachman.  Dress now and then we will eat," Averting her
eyes from his, she-rose quickly, afraid that he would perceive that she
was hiding something from him.  Afraid that he would guess what it
was.

Alexei felt a painful tug of regret as he watched the door close behind
Irina.  The closeness of a few hours ago had disappeared and he had
felt a tension in her that was strung so tightly it seemed a mere touch
would be enough to shatter her.  Small wonder, he thought with a snort
of mirthless laughter.  After the danger she had put herself in for his
sake, she would be glad to see his back.

Ignoring the weakness that wavered through him, he threw back the quilt
and stood.

When Irina returned, she had already changed into a traveling gown of
sturdy, dark green wool.  Her gaze flickered over Alexei as she set
down a tray with the last hot meal they might have for days.  He wore
the baggy black breeches, tucked into high booB, and the side-buttoned
peasant shirt with its red-trimmed stand-up collar with as much panache
as he had worn his uniform.

~a~ez~ o!  ~a~e

They ate in silence, which neither one of them tried particularly to
break.  When the soft tap on the door came, Irina jumped as if she had
been scalded.

Alexei reached out and put a hand on her arm.  "What's wrong?"

Unable to speak, Irina merely shook her head.  Turning away, she went
to the door.

"Everything is ready, barynia," Parasha mumbled, and picked up a corner
of her apron to wipe away the tears that were spilling down her
cheeks.

Irina stroked the girl's cheek and turned to face Alexei.  "It's
time."

A strange tingle of alarm crept down Alexei's back.  If he had been
facing anyone else but Irina, he would have expected betrayal.  Slowly
he walked toward her.

Irina watched him approach and knew that the time for the truth had
come.

"Are you going to tell me your plan now?"

She nodded and drew in a long, shuddering breath.  "Will you promise me
something?"

"If I can."

"Will you hear me out before you say anything?"

Again the uneasiness streaked through him, but he lowered his head in
assent.

"They will be looking for you to the north and west of the city because
those are the closest borders.  I think it will take them a while to
look for you to the south."  Irina forced herself to stand very still
as she briskly spoke the words she had long prepared.  "A kibitka on
runners is waiting at the garden gate.  It is almost a thousand miles
to the Crimea, but now, in winter, you can perhaps manage as much as
forty miles a day, even if you stay away from the main roads."

Alexei nodded.  "And from there, it would be a simple matter to hire a
boat and go to Turkey.  Do you have some kind of papers for me?"

"Yes."  Suddenly needing to move, she paced away.  Almost in passing,
it occurred to her that in minutes she would be leaving this room for
the last time.

Her gaze swept the bedchamber.  She saw the silver-backed hairbrush she
had had since childhood, the row of French novels that had belonged to
her mother, the Austrian music box Ilarion had brought to cheer her up
in the dark days after her baby had died.  So many things, she thought.
So many memories.  But she felt no sorrow, she realized.  Only the
vague melancholy one feels for a life already past.  And impatience for
the new.  Filling her lungs one more time, she turned to face Alexei
again, her chin already tilted up, ready to defy him.

"In fact you have two sets of papers.  Ruslan, a serf owned by Galina
Akimov, the widow of a vintner near Yalta, or Ruslan, a serf owned by
Princess Golovin, whichever is more politic to use."

As understanding slowly dawned, Alexei closed his eyes.  She was
proffering him the ultimate temptation.  A temptation he could never
give in to and still be able to live with himself.  When he opened his
eyes, she stood exactly as she had those long moments ago, her
expression stormy and rebellious.

Not speaking, not able to speak, he walked to where she stood, Oh God,
he thought, he hurt.  And he could not remember a time when he had not
hurt.  He remembered how he had woken that morning in the Gypsy tavern
and found Irina gone.  He had hurt then, too, but at least he'd had
hope.

Now the pain wound through every pore, reminding him that he was
leaving behind not only his friends and his country but his last chance
at happiness, And he was tired.  So very tired.  It occurred to him
that he was no better off now than he had been in the fortress.  At
least there he had not had to contend with the burden of guilt that
deserting his companions had brought.  Carefully, he blanked the

emotion from his eyes.  He would have to take cam not
to let her see that.  Because he had no words to give her, he reached
out to touch.

Irina had been prepared to fight him.  She had been prepared to answer
every argument with an argument of her own.  She'd had a reason for
every reason he would give her.  But as his hand skimmed down the curve
of her cheek as lightly as a wisp of fog, she realized that this was
something she.  had no defense against.  Even though she wanted his
touch more than she had ever wanted anything, she backed away.

"No!  Don't touch me."  She drew in a shuddering breath as the feeling
of loss swept over her, plunging her to the bottom of some murky sea.
"I cannot think when you touch me."  ',

~ Alexei smiled sadly.  "But you should think, Irina.  Think and
remember that I am a man with a price on his head.  A man who failed. A
man who is deserting his country and his friends to save his own
skin."

She recoiled at his last words as if.  he had struck her.  "And I was
the one who not only helped you but forced you into this," she
whispered.  "Someday you will hate me for it."

"Not that."  He shook his head.  "Neverthat."

But the horror in her eyes did not fade, and he reached to take her
into his arms, knowing full well that he was making a fatal mistake.
Encircling her shoulders with one arm, he ran his hand down her hack,
prepared to soothe and comfort her.  But instead of crumpling into his
embrace, Irina curled her fingers into his shirt and levered herself
back so that she could look him in the face.

"I am not going to let you go alone, Alexei.  No matter what you say,"
she said fiercely, "You can hate me all you want afterward, but first I
am going to save your life."

He looked into her eyes, and if he had not already loved her, he would
have fallen in love at this moment.  Her eyes were a study in
contrasts.  Pale green against black.  Gentleness against fury. Courage
against fear.  And against the horror he had put there with his words
was hope.  Hope so bright, so confident, that he found his own heart
stirring with it before he could guard himself against it.

A moment ago it had crossed his mind that he was no better off now than
he had been in the fortress.  Did he dare?  Did he dare to take what
she was offering?  Did he dare to risk her life so that they could
build a life together?

Irina saw the hope that dawned warily in his eyes.  And the doubts2 The
desperate wanting.  And the denial that was just as urgent.  She had
been prepared to use whatever means were necessary to make certain that
she made this journey with him.  But now she realized that the decision
had to be his as much as hers.  If it was not, someday it could be the
wedge that would sunder them.

Her fingers loosened and smoothed over the soft linen of his shirt
where she had gripped it.

"I lied to you, Alexei."  The sudden skip of his heartbeat was strong
against her fingertips.  "I lied to you when I told you you could hate
me all you wanted."  She shook her head.  "That was not true.

"I want to go with you on this journey.  More than anything I want to
go with you.  But I will not force you to take me with you."  She
closed her eyes for a moment as the enormity of the risk she was taking
struck her.  Her heart began to race until her whole body reverberated
with the galloping beat.

"Are you sure?"  Even as he said the words, he cursed himself for his
weakness.  How could he even consider it, no matter how desperately he
wanted it?  And now he was bar gaining, like a besieged fortress
already half-taken.  "Yes," she said simply.

"Irina."  His hands went to her shoulders and gripped them urgently.
"Three years ago you made a decision to go on a journey with me.  It
was not a good decision for you.  And this time, the road will be
rockier still."

"Alexei, I've made my decision."  She shook her head as if in rebuke.
"Now it is time for you to make yours."

He wondered if it was simply her youth that seemed to make it easy for
her.  Or her inexperience.  Did she have any conception of the dangers
and the discomforts that awaited them?  He opened his mouth to ask her,
but his eyes encountered hers.  She knew, he realized.  And she
accepted.  "Irina, I"

Her breath stumbled and grew shallow and quick.  The age-old instinct
of women told 'her that one kiss, one caress, would push him over the
edge and he would take her with him to the ends of the earth.  Because
she needed the decision to be his and his alone, she remained utterly
still, the palms of her hands against his chest light and unde-man
ring

It was madness.  It was against every principle of decency and honor.
Yet Alexei knew that if he went on this journey alone, he would be
dead.  Oh, he might breathe and eat and sleep, but his heart and soul
would wither and die, And he wanted to live.  He wanted to live so
badly.

"I want you to come with me, Irina," he whispered.  "God help me, I
need you to come with me."

The tension flowed out of her for a heartbeat, taking with it the
strength, as well.  But then the energy was pouring back into her.
Raising herself on her toes, she pressed her mouth briefly to his to
seal the bargain they had made.

There was so much she wanted to say to him, but she knew that it would
have to keep.  Breaking away, Irina took her sable-lined cloak from the
armoire and swung it around her shoulders while Alexei put on the thick
woolen vest and the long, shaggy sheepskin coat with its wide belt that
was the standard dress for all Russian coachmen.

Then she reached for his hand.  "We have to sit down before we
leave."

Touched, Alexei smiled.  He remembered his mother
gathering the family around her to observe the old Russian custom
before they left on a journey.

Hand in hand they sat down on the narrow couch that stood at the foot
of the bed.  They sat in silence for a moment then said in unison, "S
Bogorn.  With God."

Neither one of them looked back as they left the room.

Chapter Fifteen

Irina felt the jolt as Alexei loosened the reins and spurred the horses
to a gallop.  As'she was pushed back in the hard seat of the kibitka, a
sound of pleasure rose in her throat, only to be caught and spun away
by the wind.  As if by magic the exhaustion that seemed to have invaded
her to the very marrow of her bones melted away as the light carriage
flew over the snowy expanse.  The white countryside around her became a
blur as she surrendered to the speed that was as addictive and soothing
as poppy syrup.  Exhaustion was forgotten, as was the hunger that had
become a hollow, permanent ache in her belly.  Her pulse quickened,
warming the thin body that was chilled despite the bear rug wrapped
tightly around her.

Alexei glanced back over his shoulder.  Irina's eyes were squinted
against the wind, but he could see that a gleam had replaced the
dullness he surprised there much too often.  He could do so little for
her, he thought as the guilt wound through him.  He watched her grow
thinner and more tired every day and he could do no more than to race
the horses once or twice a day to give her a few moments of pleasure.

At first it had been easy.  After they had left St.  Petersburg, he had
laid a trail to the east.  He had driven the horses as hard as he
could, stopping at the relay stations that punctuated the main road
every fourteen miles to change

~apestry o!  Pate horses.  But after they had veered off sharply to the
south, they had stayed on the wagon tracks that wound their way between
villages or cut cross-country.  If he could have, he would have kept
their horses at a gallop--to cheer her and to get them to their
destination that much more quickly.  But now even food and shelter had
become a luxury and changing horses an impossibility.

Periodically they stopped to rest the horses and themselves, burrowing
into the thick bearskin rug and pulling the leather covering of the
sleigh as far as it would go over their heads.  If they were lucky,
they found some remote village where they could get a warm meal, let
their horses eat their fill and replenish the supply of feed that~ was
lashed to the sleigh's runners.  The peasants shared their thin cabbage
soup and black, lumpy bread with them and asked few questions.  If they
were less fortunate and found no village, or worse, a town that had to
be steered clear of, they would light the coals beneath the small
samovar Irina had packed and make do with their own provisions and tea
with a few lumps of sugar.

Twice they had run into patrols.  Once, they had escaped, thanks to
Irina's fatigue-smudged eyes, which she had effortlessly filled with
tears, and the story of a dying parent.  The soldiers had not even
bothered to ask her identity and had even offered to show them the way
back to the main road.  The second time they had been able to hide in a
copse of thick, snow-laden fir trees, and their prayers that the horses
would not whinny and betray them had been answered.

Too soon Alexei had to slow the horses and return to their customary
staid pace.  He did not need to look back to know that the joy had gone
out of Irina's eyes.

The moon had long since risen when Alexei guided the sleigh away from
the track into the woods.  The moon was like a fat, round lantern in
the dark indigo sky, lighting up the snowy landscape, and he could have
driven for hours.  But his eyes were blurring with fatigue and, he
rationalized, the horses needed rest as badly as he did.  ~

He swayed as he got down from the driver's seat.  Undoing the bundle of
hay, he strewed a much too meager amount on the snow.  He patted the
horses in turn, wishing he had more for them than a few handfuls of
hay.  Then he turned to the kibitka.

Irina had already put the samovar on the driver's seat and was lighting
the coals.  He took the wooden bowl she had set out and began to scoop
up snow and pack it into the samovar, telling himself that he would be
all right as soon as he sat down and had something to eat.

As she unwrapped a bundle of dried food, Irina kept a worried eye on
Alexei.  After being badly wounded and the miserable rations in the
fortress, he needed rest and nourishing food.  Instead, he had been
driving the sleigh for more than two weeks and eating poorly.  She
wondered, as she had countless times during the past days, if she had
miscalculated.  If he would not have been better off alone and on
horseback.  If she had been egotistic by insisting on traveling with
him.  If instead of saving him, she would be the cause of his
destruction.

But she had a smile for him as she moved over to make room next to her
in the sleigh.

"Here," she said as she handed him a linen doth with the food she had
taken out of the canvas bundle.

"What about you?"

"Oh, I could not wait."  She shrugged.  "I ate a little while back."
Because she had trouble looking him in the eye, she busied herself with
rewrapping the canvas.  "I will just have some tea when it is ready."

His eyes were already closing with fatigue.  "You should eat more.  You
are much too thin already," he said, his words slurring.

Irina looked at him and gave a little sigh of
relief when she saw that he was almost asleep.  Perhaps he would forget
about making her eat by the time he awoke.  Carefully she tied the
corners of the cloth together so that none of the precious food would
spill out.  She would let him sleep for a little while, she thought.

Shifting to the side, she looked at him.  Light-headed with hunger and
the love that flooded her heart, she raised a hand to his face.  She
let her fingers drift over his prominent cheekbones and down the side
of his face, which his Tartar blood made smooth and beardless.

Pulling the bearskin rug up a little higher, she leaned her head
against the back of the seat and watched him sleep.

The next day was one of the lucky ones.  It was late afternoon when
they came across a Village small enough, harmless enough, to stop at.
It was little more than a handful of log houses with thatched roofs
clustered along the road, which would be choked with dust in the summer
and knee-high in mud in the spring and fall.

As others had before them, a middle-aged couple offered them food and
shelter for the night with the typical combination of obeisance and
familiarity of the Russian peasant.

"Do you think we could risk staying the night, " Alexei?  " Irina
murmured.

An uneasiness that he could neither define nor justify was skittering
over his nerve endings, but he heard the wistfulness in Irina's voice,
saw her tired, bruised eyes and overrode it.

"Of course," he said softty, wishing that his role did not forbid him
to take her into his arms.  "Go on inside the isba.  I will be in
soon."

She needed rest, badly, he told himself, making excuses for staying,
So, for that matter, did he and the horses.  Nevertheless, his eyes
kept wandering up and down the road as he cared for the horses.

Although the next morning the edgy feeling had not eased, Alexei knew
the rest and the large bowl of hot buckwheat porridge they had eaten at
dawn had done them both good.  Because he had nothing else to blame the
nerves on, he blamed the thick cloud cover that looked as if it would
bring snow before the morning was out.

He was just lashing the feed they had bought to the runners when he
heard the horses.

The soldiers seemed to appear out of nowhere.  One moment only the
normal farmyard sounds on a winter morning could be heard and the next
the air was filled with the din of galloping hooves.

Sitting up ramrod straight in the sleigh, Irina pressed a hand against
the heaving in her stomach.

"Busy yourself with the horses and keep your head down," she barely had
time to whisper to Alexei before the hooves of the soldiers' horses
were spraying snow around them as they were reined in.

One horse separated from the small group and moved toward them.  The
officer raised his hand in a careless salute.

"Who are you and what is your business here?"  he barked.

Although it hacdly seemed possible, Irina's spine grew straighter.  "I
suggest you moderate your tone, Sergeant.  Unless you want me to report
you to your commanding officer."

Her tone carried an icy imperiousness that had Alexei raising his head
before he remembered to keep it down.  He knelt as if to examine the
horses' hooves.

The man bristled, but the utterly confident aloofness of the small
woman in the sleigh had him lowering his head in a marginally polite
bow.  "I beg your pardon, but we have orders to question all travelers
we do not know personally."

Irina lifted her eyebrows in question.  "And why, may I ask?"

The officer shifted in his saddle.  "To make certain no one involved in
the events of December fourteenth escapes justice."  Irina curved her
gloved fingers over the edge of the sleigh and ever so slightly leaned
forward.  "Are you implying that I might have something to do with this
filthy rebellion?"  Her voice was low and even.

"No.  No, of course not."  The sergeant lowered his gaze.  Her eyes
were like pieces of pale green ice and the cold fury he saw there made
the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  "I beg your
forgiveness, but do you perhaps have a document that confirms your
identity?"  He lifted his hands palm upward.  "A mere formality."

With only the briefest hesitation, Irina reached into a side pocket of
the sleigh.  It was a risk, but she decided that the man would not be
sufficiently impressed by the widow of a vintner from Yalta.  Taking
out a folded sheet of vellum, she held it out to him.  "Here."

The sergeant's quick, convulsive swallow told her that he recognized
the Golovin name, but not because the police were searching for her.
She felt a tiny relaxation of the tension in her stomach, even though
she knew that she had just given the authorities her exact
whereabouts.

Wanting to forestall his question about her destination, she added, ,"I
have an estate near Kursk."  The statement itself was not a lie, she
thought, and it would explain why they were going south, while leading
anyone who decided to follow off to the east.

Her gaze fell on the whip in its mounting on the right side of the
driver's seat.  In a flash of inventiveness, she snatched it and
cracked down against the ground a few inches away from Alexei's
boots.

"If you do not stop fussing with those horses soon, Ruslan, the next
time the whip will be on your back."  Her calm, bland tone made the
words even more effective.

The whip still in one hand, she looked up at the officer and wordlessly
held out her other hand for the paper.

In another situation it would have been comic how he leaned forward so
suddenly that he almost tumbled forward over his mount's head.  Irina
plucked the paper from his fingers.

"Did your yarnshik lose his way, va she siyatelstvo ?"  The sergeant's
gaze brushed over the hunched figure that had cF~mbed onto the driver's
seat.  "May we escort you to a better road?"

"No, thank you."  Irina smiled thinly.  "You have done quite enough."

With a haughty nod, she turned away and poked the handle of the whip in
Alexei's back.

As the sergeant watched the sleigh glide away, his audible sigh of
relief condensed to a white cloud in the cold air.  He heard a snicker
behind him and whirled his mount around.  Grimly he eyed his men and
then gave the sign to ride.

Alexei gave the horses their head, wishing that he could at least turn
around and give Irina's hand a squeeze.  But even though he knew that
there was no immediate danger, he wanted to put as much distance
between them and the soldiers as possible.  When he was sure that they
were out of sight, he reined in the horses and turned around.

At first glance Irina looked no different than she always did--fragile,
much too thin, her light eyes huge but calm.  But when he ran his hand
from her shoulder down her arm, he realized that she was trembling.

Jumping down from the driver's seat, he reached over the side of the
sleigh and drew her into his arms.

He closed his eyes at the simple pleasure of holding her.  By mutual,
unspoken agreement, they had barely touched since they had left St.
Petersburg, but now, as he pressed her head against his shoulder, he
wondered how he had borne it.  Murmuring softly, he ran his hand over
her back again and again until the trembling began to subside.

The tension and the trembling that had begun as !  sleigh had pulled
away from the group of soldiers dra out of her.  Only now, with
Alexei's arms around her, hand stroking her back, did Irina admit to
herself just how badly she had wanted, no, needed, to be held.  Just 1
much she had waited for his touch.  As she turned her t into his
shoulder, she felt the relief, as basic and as o~ whelming as the
sudden easing of fierce pain one has lived with for a long time, wash
over her.  The tears flooded eyes and spilled so quickly that she could
do nothin~ prevent them.

When Alexei stripped off his gloves and tipped her l up toward his, he
'saw the tears.

"Don't cry," he whispered.  "It is all right.  It is over."  even as he
spoke the words, he could taste the guilt.  F many: more tears would he
cause her to shed?  he wonder

Irina saw the self-reproach in his eyes and she wanted~ tell him that
her tears had nothing to do with the soldk But what could she say
without making him feel guilty again?  She curved her mouth into a
tremulous smile a: unable to speak, raised her hand to his cheek.

When Alexei returned to the driver's seat, he saw that had begun to
snow.

The snow fell steadily, like a gauzy curtain, for a we Alexei supposed
he should be grateful that the snowfall.  not turn into one of the
fearsome blizzards the Russ plains were notorious for.  Still, the snow
slowed the horses down on the little-used roads they traveled and it
meant t[ had to look for shelter every night.

By the time the snow had dwindled to light flurries, dampness had
penetrated everything in the sleigh.  Still tk pushed on, making a
generous detour around Kiev.

Alexei looked back over his shoulder at Irina and smile She was
snuggled into one corner of the sleigh, fast asle~ The night before he
had heard her tossing and turning a the cough she had developed during
the past days had plagued her.  This morning she had been even paler
and more fragile than usual, even though her eyes had been unnaturally
bright.  He was glad that she was able to sleep now.

She slept so soundly that she did not even awaken when he halted
halfway through the morning to eat a piece of bread.  Even her
persistent cough had not seemed to disturb her sleep.  When she still
had not awakened by early afternoon, he began to worry.

"Irina?"  Alexei put an arm around her shoulders and cupped the back of
her head.  "Irina?"

Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not open her eyes.  Even as he
willed her to look at him, he felt the cold fingers of fear brush over
his skin.

Irina heard Alexei's voice calling her name and she tried to open her
eyes, but her lids felt as if they had been weighted with lead.
Blurred, vaguely pleasant images drifted through her mind.  For the
first time in weeks she was warm and the hollow ache 'in her belly 'was
gone.  She heard the alarm in his voice and she wanted to speak to
reassure him that she was fine, but her tongue was too thick to move
and she could only make a small sound in the back of her throat.

Then the images shifted further away, dimmedl After a time Alexei's
voice, too, faded into the distance.  With barely a ripple she slipped
into the waiting shadows.

Unable to shake her awake, Alexei tore off his gloves and cupped
Irina's face, Her skin was hot and dry as paper.  Oh God, she was
burning up with fever.  He called out her name again, but she only
moaned softly in answer.

"Look at me, Irina."  He stroked her heated skin as if his cold fingers
could absorb the fever from her.  "Look at me."

This time not even a moan, not even the flutter of an eyelid, told him
that she heard him.  Instead, she lay perfectly still within his
grasp.

Panic slammed into him with such force that he found his breath coming
in short little gasps.  His eyes wild, he swiveled his head from left to
right as if he could find
something, someone, who would help him.  But around him there was
nothing but snow-covered fields and forests.  There was not a village,
not a house, not even a wisp of smoke on the horizon to reassure him
that they were not alone in this glacial void.

He laid her back against the seat with hands that were trembling.
Fighting for control, he knelt, and scooping up snow with both hands,
he rubbed it over his face again and again.  When he rose again, he had
battled the panic down to a tight knot in his belly.  When he brushed
his fingers over Irina's cheek this time, his hands were steady.

"I will find us shelter, my love," he whispered.  "You will be all
right."  For a moment his fingers tightened.  "Do you hear me?  You
will be all right."

He swung himself onto the driver's seat and sent the horses flying.

Chapter Sixteen

Alexei had lost track of how much time had passed since he had
discovered Irina burning with fever.  Several times already he had
slowed the horses to an easy trot to rest them before he sent them
galloping again.  When he came to the fork in the road with the wooden
marker in its crotch, he could have wept with relief that at least
shelter was close.  He stared at the crudely' fashioned sign with its
uneven lettering.  There were a few settled tracks on the road they had
been following.  The other road was untouched, the snow just barely
dipping between the snowbanks to signal that there was a road at all.
In the distance he could see the dark outline of trees.  Yielding to
the instincts that had so often stood him in good stead, AleXei
maneuvered the horses to the left and they plowed into the pristine
snow.

Impatient now, he drove the horses so that the snow was a steady spray
on both sides of the protective net that stretched forward from the
driver's seat.  As the trees drew closer, he saw that they were on the
other side of a wrought-iron fence that would be barely visible in the
summer when the bushes that grew alongside it bloomed.  Flanked by two
marble statues half-overgrown with ivy, the gate stood open.

He knew that if the estate behind the gates was occupied, this could be
the end of the journey for him.  Without hesitation, he urged the
horses on.

As if scenting that they would be able to rest soon, the horses
galloped down a road lined with century-old oak trees, whose leafy
crowns would make the road a green tunnel during the summer months.
Even before the house came into view, Alexei saw the smoke rising above
the trees.

The one-story house with its typical ateep-roofed portico was a
sprawling wooden structure with a genteelly shabby air to it.  Traces
of blue paint clung to the elaborately carved gingerbread trim above
the deep veranda that stretched along the front, but the railing had
been sanded clean.  Smoke curled invitingly from a chimney at one end
of the house and paths to the outbuildings had been shoveled clear.
Alexei had barely jumped down from the driver's seat when the door
opened and a middle-aged couple came running down the stairs.

"Without waiting for them to reach the sleigh, he gathered Irina in his
arms and strode to meet them.

"She is sick with fever.  I cannot awaken her," he said by way of
greeting.

"Come."  The woman, her wide, smooth face topped by a coronet of blond
braids, stepped forward and touched the sleeve of his coat.  Even if
the man's eyes had not been filled with love and panic, it would not
have occurred to her to ask questions of him.

While the man led the horses toward the barn, she led the way through a
series of rooms lit only by narrow wedges of light that fell through
the drawn curtains.  Although Alexei's attention was focused on the
feather-light burden in his arms, he noted that the air was faintly
musty and the furniture was covered by linen sheets that had begun to
yellow.

They passed through a friendly room that smelled enticingly of freshly
baked bread, then what was obviously a bedroom.  When the woman opened
the last door, she gestured for Alexei to precede her.

"Lay her down on the divan," she said, indicating a wide, low day bed
that was covered by a rug and lined with bright, tasseled pillows.  "I
will he back in a few moments to make up the bed."

Alexei did as the woman had bidden him.  He shrugged out of his coat
and, his fingers stiff with cold and fear, began to divest Irina of her
clothes.

She moaned softly as he half lifted her to pull away her cape, the
sound sending her into a paroxysm of coughing.  Her eyes opened with
the effort, but their glazed look told him that she saw nothing. Gently
he held her until the coughing fit had passed, then began to slip off
her woolen gown.

The woman returned with linens and blankets.  Within minutes she had
readied the bed and pulled it away from the wall.  She approached
Alexei and, unasked, began to help him undress Irina with strong,
competent hands.

When Irina, dressed only in her chemise, lay in bed, the woman brought
a tub filled with water and snow.  Wetting two towels, she handed one
to Alexei.

"She needs to be rubbed down with cold water to bring the fever down.
We' have to take off her shirt."  Her voice was mat mr-of-fact as she
began to work the chemise up over Irina's legs.

Swallowing past the sudden thickness in his throat, Alexei slid his
hands under Irina to lift her.  As her body was re-yea led he gasped as
he saw how painfully thin she had come.  He closed his eyes.  He had
thought to undress her in preparation to loving her.  And instead he
was undressing her because she was sick onto death because of him.

"How long has she been sick like thi~"

"I do not know."  Alexei felt a hot surge of shame that he had not
noticed how ill she was.  "She has been coughing for several days. When
she went to sleep this morning in the sleigh, I thought it was a good
sign."  The towel slipped from his fingers as he pressed both hands
against his face.

"You can wallow in your guilt later."  The woman
picked up the towel and held it out to him.  "Work now."  Her voice was
stern, but the hand that squeezed his shoulder was gentle.

Together they worked, stopping only to dribble water into Irina's mouth
with a teaspoon or dip the compresses that were wrapped around her
calves and feet in cold water and vinegar.  She began to toss and turn,
to talk in broken, half-coherent phrases that brought on terrible fits
of coughing.  Alexei heard his own name.  He heard her cry for their
dead baby.  He heard her fear and wondered how he would live with the
guilt of having caused her so much pain.

Suddenly the woman passed her broad hand over Irina's forehead.  "It's
o~er."

Alexei felt his heart stop and then begin to hammer wildlyl "What?" The
word came out as a strangled groan.

His mind screaming wild protests, he thrust his hand under her left
breast.  He felt the heartbeat that was skittering unevenly, but it
took him a moment to be sure that it was not his own pulse.  "What did
you say?"

She brushed her hand over Irina's forehead again.  "She has started to
sweat.  The fever has broken," When she turned her hand ovex, her
fingers glistened with wetness.  "Now we keep her warm."  Pulling up
the blankets, she bundled them deftly around Irina's thin form.  Then
she stood and began to pack wood into the tile stove that stood in the
corner of the room.

His heart was pounding so violently that every heat slammed painfully
against his rib cage.  He sat there for long minutes, unable to do more
than watch her.  Her breathing was still shallow and raspy, but she lay
more quietly now.  Even the coughing, when it came, seemed to be less
painful.  When he was able to move, ~Alexei brushed back the dark hair
and framed her face with his hands.

Even though he knew she could not hear him, he whispered to her, his
words a confusion of love and guilt and persuasion.  Unnoticed,
unchecked, his tears ran down his cheeks and fell on Irina's face.

Irina floated in her shadowy, fever dream world There were lights
waiting for her.  She could not quite see them, but she knew they were
there.  She knew that all she had to do was take the next step.  Then
she would be free.  Free of the heat that was burning up her body. Free
of the pain that banded her chest.  Free of the grief that lived in her
heart.

But then she heard Alex~i's beloved voice.  She could not understand
his words, but the melody of his voice was so lovely that she tarried.
She would listen for just a minute.  The lights would be there later.
Then she felt the rain on her parched skin and turned her face toward
it.  The lights receded and she drifted out of the fever dream and into
sleep.

Bent over her, his hands cupping her face, Alexei murmured, his words a
prayer, an invocation.  Then his own exhaustion overtook him.  His head
dipped down to the pillow next to her head and he, too, slept.

When he awoke, the first split second of disorientation was followed by
blind panic.  He lurched up into a sitting position, and when he saw
Irina lying on the bed, everything came flooding back to him.  He had
to see if she was all right, he thought, his heart galloping madly. But
he could not make his limbs move.  It was as if he were glued to the
day bed he had only a vague recollection of.  being half-pulled,
half-carried to.

She was so still, so pale.  The fear speared through him, chilling the
sweat that trickled down his back.  Then she shifted her head to the
side and made a sound that was half moan, half sigh.

His breath left his lungs in a rush and, suddenly free to move, he
rose.  He walked over to the bed and knelt at Irina's side.  Her face
was wet and her hair was plastered to her skull, but her breathing
seemed easier.  Cupping her face with one hand, he lowered his forehead
until it touched hers in mute greeting and gratitude.  When he heard
the de open, he raised his head, his eyes full of questions.

The woman nodded, her gaze softening.  "She has r woken up yet, but I
think she will be all right."  She set down the bowl she was carrying.
"She is very thin, but beneath t skin and bones she is strong.  And she
wants to live."  S nodded again.  "I can feel her fighting."

The sober, no-nonsense words comforted him as little e could have, and
Alexei felt the need to reach out to her some way.  '"What is your
name?"  he asked.

She started, her blue eyes widening.  It was the first tit in her life
that anyone had addressed her with the formal you, as if she were a
real person and not just chatt "Maria."  She swallowed.  "My name is
Mafia."

"Tell me" -- he touched her arm ,"--how can I ever that: you?"

"You just did."  She smiled for the first time.  "I will bring~ you
something to eat.  Try giving her a little broth."

When she returned with a steaming bowl of borscht ar several pieces of
meat pie, she motioned to him to eat ar took his place at Irina's
side.

The sight and smell of the food made him realize he ravenously hungry
he was, but he forced himself to e slowly.  The moment he was finished,
he returned to the bedside.  Her eyes were still closed and he felt a
new o: slaught of fear.

"Do you think she will wake up soon?"  He stroke Irina's damp hair and
cursed his own helplessness.

"Dai Bog.  May God grant it," Maria~ said with the matter-of-fact
resignation of the Russian peasant as she p tiently dribbled drop after
drop of broth into Irina's moutl "It has been so long."

"Patience," Maria admonished.  "God's ways cannot ~ hurried."

He pressed the palm of his hand against the top of Irina head, needing
the contact, wanting to give of his ow
strength.  God, Alexei thought, if anything happened
to her.  He felt the food he had just eaten congeal into a lump in his
stomach.

Suddenly he felt her shift beneath his hand.  Her eyelids twitched and
fluttered open.  Her eyes still glittered with fe ver, but the glazed,
unseeing look was gone.

"Irina?"  His voice was a hoarse whisper.

She tried to move, but she felt as if her body were weighted with
bricks.  "Alexei."  Her eyes fell closed for a moment from the effort.
But then she felt his hands on her face and the strength trickled back
into her.

"Where am I?  What happened?"

His hands stroking her face, her hair, he told her.

They fed her broth and linden blossom tea laced with honey.  Then, when
she slept again, Maria coaxed Alexei into the kitchen to sit at the
table with her and her husband, Ostap.

"I have to tell you who I am," he began.

"You are our guest," Maria said, already knowing that they were
fugitives.  She had seen the same look in her son's eyes when he had
run away from the army.  Before they had come to find him.

Alexei shook his head.  "You need to know that the tsar's soldiers are
looking for me."

Ostap lifted one shoulder in laconic dismissal.  "Russia is big and the
tsar is far away."

Still he felt obliged to continue.  "In December there was a rebellion
against the tsar in St.  Petersburg."

Both Mafia and Ostap nodded.  "We heard about it when we went into the
village for the church service on Epiphany."

Alexei told them a very abbreviated, simplified version of what had
happened and of his part in it.  "If you tell me I have to leave, I
will understand," he finished.  "I only ask you to take care of her
until she is well."

"You will both stay here until you wish to leave."  Ostap muttered his
approval of his wife's words.

"And if the soldiers 'come?"  Alexei asked.  "And they will come.  We
were seen a week ago.  It is only a matter of time until they find
their way here."

"There are enough carriages and sleighs in the coach house so that no
one will notice your kibitka," Maria said.  "No one has been out here
in years so no one knows how many horses we have in our stables.  And
as for the rest, leave it to us.  The soldiers will not find you."
Because her eyes had started to fill at the old memories, she rose and
went to stir the pot that hung over the fire on its tripod.

Because he had enough secrets of his own, Alexei understood and did not
question further.  He stood to return to Irina.  In passing he gave
Maria's plump shoulder a gentle squeeze that spoke more strongly than
words ever could.

Mafia watched him leave the room.  The soldiers would not find them,
she swore to herself.  Perhaps the?  her Petya could rest in peace. And
so could she.

Irina stretched when she awoke and just that single movement seemed to
drain her.  It had been three days since she had regained consciousness
and she was as feeble as an old woman, she thought, impatient with her
own weakness.  But no matter how weak she was, they were going to have
to leave here as soon as possible.  She had put Alexei in enough danger
as it was.

She turned her head and saw him standing at the window.  Although the
tile stove radiated enough warmth that he had stripped down to his
shirt, the temperature outdoors was low enough for ice blossoms to have
formed on the window.  He had scratched away the thin layer of ice from
one of the small panes and was looking outside.  "What do you see out
there?"

He started at the sound of her soft, wistful voice as if it had been a
gunshot and spun around.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head.  How could he tell her that he was trying to
rationalize away the uneasy prickle at the back of his neck?  Crouching
down next to the bed, he curled his fingers around her hand.  "How are
you feeling?"

A thin line appeared between her eyebrows.  "I'm feeling fine."  She
struggled to sit up.  "And do not try and distract me."

Again he opened his mouth to deny that anything was wrong, but she
interrupted him before he could speak.  "Do not lie to me, Alexei.  No
matter how well you mean it, do not lie to me.  Ever."

"All right."  He touched her shoulder to quiet her.  "But only if you
stop fidgeting and rest."

More glad to rest than she cared to admit, she settled back against the
pillow with a small sigh of relief that she immediately negated with a
muttered grumble.

Smiling, Alexei ran a finger down her cheek.  "Poor little one, you
hate being sick."

"I'm never sick."  She made a sound of disgust.  "Never.  The only time
I ever had to keep to my bed was..."  She stopped, her eyes clouding
with grief for a moment before she controlled it, more for Alexei's
sake than her own.  Instinctively she understood that in some strange,
convoluted way the sense of loss of the child he had never known was
much more raw than her own grief.  Yes, the edges of that grief were
still sharp enough to draw blood, but they were somehow softened
because she had held the child they had made and had known the joy,
however brief, as well as the heartache.

He saw the emotion in her eyes and his heart constricted with her pain
and his.  And with the guilt.  Oh God, he thought, would he ever get
past the guilt?  No, he answered his own question.  How could he, when
he kept piling up more and more of it?  How could he, when it hung over
his head like the sword of Damocles?

"Don't, Alexei."  Irina lifted her hand to his face.  "Guilt is such a
useless thing.  It cannot change the past and it burdens your
present."

"I know that.  I also know that there are things I cannot forgive
myself for."

Irina shook her head.  "We have to forgive sometime.  Even
ourselves."

"I made love to you because I was too weak not to.  I left you pregnant
and alone.  I came back and offended you with my accusations.  And now
I have dragged you into my exile and almost caused your death--for the
second time."  He ran his hands through his hair.  "How do you expect
me to feel?"

"And that these decisions were mine as much as yours counts for
nothing?"  Losing patience, she dug her fingers into the front of his
shirt and used every bit of strength she had to maneuver herself into a
sitting position.  "Or that you saved my life?

"You brought me here although you had no way of knowing whether or not
you were putting your life in more danger than it already is.  And
then" -- She paused, as much because the thought that he had had his
hands on her body was making her head spin as because her hold on his
shirt was weakening.  "And then Maria has told me the rest."

He could only shake his head in the face of her generosity and the fact
that he had seen her eyes widen with Sensual awareness.

They were still staring at each other when the door burst open.

"Soldiers have just ridden into the yard."  Maria's ruddy face was pale
except for a bright spot of color on each cheekbone.  "Sit in the
farthest corner of the divan so you cannot be seen from the window and
do not make a sound."

Before either one of them could say anything, Maria was gone.  The
snap of the door closing was still echoing in the room when Alexei
scooped Irina up in his arms.  As he moved toward the day bed he heard
Maira dragging an armoire in front of the door.

Chapter Seventeen

Alexei was sure he had never moved so fast in his enfi life: Within
seconds he had squeezed himself into the farthest corner and settled
Irina on his lap.  As he bundled the quilt around her, he felt her
tremble.

"Are you cold?"  His whisper brushed her cheek.

"I am afraid."  She turned her face up to his.  "We a~ trapped in here.
We can do nothing.  What if"

He laid his thumb against her mouth to silence her.  "The will not find
us now."  Just as he had felt that prickle of ut ease only minutes
earlier, now he was filled with that ode certitude of his own
invincibility that he had oecasionall~.  felt before going into battle.
And it had never deceived him yet.

"You cannot know that."

"Our fate has given us too much to take it all away now."  He let the
backs of his fingers drift along the edge of he jaw.  "And too little."
He smiled.  "Yet."

Because he needed to comfort her, to soothe her, he trie~ to forget
that the words he had spoken had been a lie.  It was not fate that
would take everything they might have had together away from them, but
he himself, He had made the decision as he had watched Irina in the
grip of fever and he~ delirious rambling.  As he had watched her hover
on that thin line between life and death.  This invasion by the
tsar'.,

minions only reinforced it.  But for these few moments he was hers and
she his.

Before she could answer, before she could absorb the meaning of his
words, a jumble of sounds crept into the room--the jingle of spurs, the
whinnying of the horses, the raucous voices of the soldiers, a slamming
door.  Her eyes widened and she began to tremble.

"Shh, little one.  It will be all right."  He pressed her head against
his chest and slid his other hand underneath the quilt to stroke her
back.

He murmured endearments and soft, soothing words that ruffled her hair.
His hand heated as it traced circles over the soft linen of her
nightgown.  Slowly the trembling subsided and she lay still and pliant
against him.

A crash and the sound of splintering wood had her tensing again, but
Alexei cupped her face to tip it up to his.

"Easy, love."  His mouth skimmed over her cheek and scattered a row of
kisses along the line of her jaw.  Gently, with the most minimal of
pressure, he turned her face so~ that they were almost mouth to
mouth.

Although he would have wanted to go even more slowly, to take more time
to tease, to arouse, he knew that time was something he did not have.
He had given her so little, thought, but he could give her a moment of
respite from the fear.

He closed that breath of a space between them and began moving his head
from side to side.  As he rubbed his lips over hers, he felt the knot
of tension within her loosen and flow away like rainwater.

Irina understood what he was doing.  She told herself she had to pull
away.  She had to be careful, attentive.  had to have her wits about
her in case.  The last thought slipped from her mind even as she tried
to grasp and hold it back.  And then all she knew was that wanted.  She
wanted so badly.

The anticipation was winding through her, a thin coil of white heat
that had tensed muscles relaxing.  If he led her, it was only for a
moment.  Then she was moving on her own.  Moving into a world where
there was no fear, where there was no one but the two of them.  The
last of her resistance melted away like wax in the hot sunlight and her
lips parted in welcome.

Alexei heard the rough voices come closer.  His hands slid upward and
his fingers burrowed into her hair.  She was already beyond hearing,
steeped in the pleasure of his touch, his scent, but he did not know
that.  Wanting, needing to give her more, to ease her through this
terrible moment, he angled his head and took her mouth fully.

The pleasure flowed into her in a gentle, persistent wave.  Suddenly
there was so much of it that she felt like a goblet filled to
overflowing with the sweetest of wines.  Then as the wine began to
course through her veins, her head began to' spin.

Alexei had thought only to distract Irina, to give her a few moments of
forgetfulness, but when he tasted her mouth, everything changed.  His
breath caught as her taste shot into his blood like the strongest of
brandies.  With a moan he did not recognize as his own, he poured
himself into the kiss.

He filled Irina's mouth with a totality so unconditional, so
consummate, that the last of her strength drained out of her.  When he
withdrew a little, her desperation to keep his mouth merged with hers
had a little of that strength flowing back.  She fought her way free of
the quilt he had wrapped around her and curled her fingers into his
shirt.  When he withdrew still further to nip at her lips, her fingers
loosened, releasing the fabric, only to tense again as his teeth
scraped over her lower lip.  This time, her fingers dug into his chest.
She felt the hammering of his heart, and the sense of her own power had
more strength rushing into her.

To prove to himself that he still could, Alexei drew back.  But even as
he did, she was already pulling him back and he

returned to trace her mouth with the tip of his tongue.  They both
stilled for a heartbeat, then two.  Then their tongues were tangling
again.

Alexei slid his hand down her throat, down over the fragile collarbone,
down to shape her small breast through the soft linen.  As his hand
covered her, they both moaned, the sound and their breath mingling and
becoming one.

It was as if that sound were the key to unlock the next chamber of
desire.  Alexei's fingers were unsteady as he undid the laces of her
nightgown.  Fabric tore, but neither of them heard it.

When his fingers closed over her, he felt the sensation seep through
his fingertips and travel through his body like a lightning bolt.

The sweet, easy pleasure Irina had felt at the beginning had long fled.
Instead of floating in its gentle current, she was tossed from one wave
to the next.  The turbulence grew like a sea that is whipped up by an
inexorable wind.

When she felt his fingers at the neck of her nightgown, she knew he was
going to touch her.  As if it remembered the touch of his fingers, her
body arched upward to meet him.

She seemed to flow into his hand.  And he took.  God forgive him, he
took.

As his need grew, he began to burn out of control.  But even as one
still-rational part of his mind was commanding him.  to stop, he was
reaching for her, drawn as relentlessly as an incautious swimmer is
drawn into an undertow and swept away,

Neither of them heard the armoire being pulled away from the door.
Neither heard the door open.

"They've left.  It's safe now."

The sound of Maria's voice had them pulling apart, eyes wide, breathing
ragged.

Mafia saw their faces, but it was the air in the room, charged like a
summer night before a thunderstorm, that had her closing the door.

Motionless, Alexei stared at the door that had just clicked shut.  Cold
awareness thrust the heated passion of a moment ago aside.  Awareness
of what he had done.  And almost done.

"NO."

Irina's voice, surprisingly cool, surprisingly strong, had him turning
his head toward her.

She looked into his beloved face, at the tortured eyes, and wondered
how long it would take her to make him understand that there were two
of them now to share everything, be it love, be it sorrow, be it guilt.
Pushing past the physical weakness that was beginning to take her
again, she raised a hand to his cheek.

"Stop tallying up your guilt, Alexei.  You may have started it, but I
was a participant.  A willing participant."  There was annoyance in her
voice, and impatience.  And love.  "Do not demean yourself--or
me--pretending otherwise."

"Irina."  He closed his eyes, suddenly so very tired.  "I

almost made love to you.  In a minute I would have.  "And.9

His eyes opened.  "Three days ago you almost died."  Anger spurted
through her, bringing its own strength.  She grasped his hand and
pressed it against her where the nightgown still gaped over her
heart.

"But I am alive now, Alexei.  Alive."

He felt her heartbeat against his palm, his skin against hers.  If he
shifted his hand, just a little, he could cup her breast.  He knew he
should break the contact and move away from the temptation, but he
remained motionless, giving in to the sweet torture.  Perhaps some
hidden part of him understood just how badly he would hurt her if he
withdrew now.

She could feel the weakness coming in like the tide.  Already the
fingers that held his hand against her were going slack.  Determined to
give him no more grounds for what

she considered his unreasonable guilt, Irina gave his hand a squeeze
and released it.

"I think I will rest now," she said.

Silently, Alexei carried her to the bed, gently placing her on it,
covering her with the quilt and the blankets.  His hands moved to make
her comfortable, but he used all his control to make his touch as
impersonal, as dispassionate, as possible.

But when he was done, he found that he was unable to resist one last
touch.  He bent and brushed his mouth over hers and was surprised to
find that the guilt that had hammered at him minutes ago had receded,
as if she had lifted it away with her magic touch.  "Sleep now."

He was almost at the door when she called out his name.  When he
turned, her mouth was curved with the full-blown smile he had seen so
rarely.  The smile was echoed in her eyes, lighting them so that they
glowed like jewels.  In the space of a hear theat he fell in love all
over again.

"We've wasted enough time, Alexei.  The minute I'm strong enough,
you're going to make love to me."

All the defenses against her that he had built upin the last few
moments evaporated like water in desert heat.

He had already done the unspeakable, he thought.  Already his soul was
damned for eternity.  Soon, very soon, he would leave her so that she
would at least have a chance at a life.  But before he did, he would
give them both that one fleeting moment of pleasure.

"Yes."  He nodded.

When Alexei had closed the door behind him, Irina curled up under the
blankets.  As she'd said to Alexei weeks ago, she was through being a
mouse.  She was smiling as she slipped into sleep.

It was dark when Irina awoke, thirsty from the slight fever that still
lingered.  She reached for the cup that stood next to her bed.  Finding
it empty, she threw back the covers and rose to feel her way to the
table that stood near the window. She filled the cup from a small
pitcher and drank deeply of the refreshing kvas, enjoying its yeasty,
tart taste.

The wind swept away a cloud that had concealed the moon so that
moonlight filtered through the iced-over window, bathing the room in
its cool white light.  It was then that she realized that the only
sound in the room was her own breathing.

"Alexei?"  Even as the sound whispered past her lips she knew that the
divan where he had slept these past nights was empty.

Turning, she stared at the empty couch as the panic swelled up inside
her, rising in a terrible crescendo to lodge in her throat. "Alexei?"

The door opened to admit Maria, and Irina whirled to face her, her eyes
huge.

"Where is he?"

Maria put her arm around Irina's shoulders and began to guide her
toward the bed.  "He asked me to make up his bed in another room."

Irina stopped and closed her eyes for a moment as she absorbed Maria's
words.  "He is still here then?"  She took a deep breath and then
another.  Then she met the peasant woman's eyes.  "You are telling me
the truth?"

"Of course.  Now back into bed with you."

In her no-nonsense way, Maria bundled Irina back under the covers.
Then, sensing that the young woman needed company, she remained sitting
on the edge of the bed.

"Now that you are getting better, it is not easy for him to sleep in
the same room with you."

Irina remembered what she had said to him and warmth crept into her
cheeks.  Poor Alexei, she thought.  His sense of honor made things so
difficult for him.

"It is difficult for him," Maria said.  "He has put you in danger and
the soldiers today were a strong reminder of that."

Irina smiled because the peasant woman's words echoed her own thoughts
so closely, but her smile died as the memory of the rough voices, the
noise, surfaced.

"Did they come here by chance?"

"Apparently your trail was easy to follow after those last soldiers you
had run into."

Irina closed her eyes.  "I should have stayed in St.  Petersburg. Alone
and on horseback he would have been in safety long ago."

"Perhaps, perhaps not."  Maria shrugged.  "But either way it is a waste
of time to think what would have been if.  That is not your way."

Irina opened her eyes to find the peasant woman looking at her
shrewdly.

From the beginning Maria had sensed a kindred soul in the young woman
consigned to her care.  She might be a frail aristocrat, but she was a
woman who took what life handed her and managed.

"You are right, Mafia.  But sometimes it is hard, since hindsight makes
us so much wiser."  Irina saw the peasant woman's eyes darken and knew
that she, too, had her own dark memories.

Maria tucked the covers around her tightly.  "Sleep now.  The morning
is wiser than the evening."

Irina smiled, remembering her nyanya comforting her with the very same
words.

Under Maria's sharp eyes Irina got better.  The fever disappeared and
so did the cough.  She gained weight from the simple, hearty fare. When
the day came when Maria decreed her well enough to get dressed for the
first time, she was as excited as if she were going to her first
ball.

Maria entered the room with a gown over her arm and laid it over a
chair.

Irina ran her hand over the thin merino wool the cole fine Bordeaux
wine.  "But that is not one of my gov Maria."

"It belonged to one of the master's daughters."  paused.  "His
legitimate daughters."

Irina looked sharply at Maria as understanding daw~ Although they lived
more than modestly in a small of the servants' quarters of the villa,
Mafia and Ostap far better off than the average Russian peasant.  Now
understood why.  She also understood that this was the son for some of
the sadness she saw in the woman's eye.  ,

"Was it very difficult for you?"  She put a light hand the peasant
woman's ann.

Maria looked at her.  Surprise and shame warred wit her, making her
want to repulse the young woman's overture.  But there was no pity in
her eyes.  Only compassio]

"He treated me with a careless sort of kindness, but remained a serf
until his death.  And yet I was always different from the others."  She
allowed herself only a b compressing of her lips at the memory.  "They
either avoi, me or reminded me with kicks that I was property just.
they were."  For the first time in her life she spoke the we aloud,
stunned at the feeling of relief that spread through her as her secret
spilled.  "I always felt like a white crow: flock of black ones."

Irina slid an arm around Maria's plump waist.  "He fr you at his
death?"

She nodded.  "Too late.  When it counted, we were serfs and they took
Petya, our son, for the army."  For first time bitterness twisted her
mouth.

"And?"  Irina prompted.

"He was not a submissive boy.  They punished him whipped him.  He ran
away and came back home."  pulled in a long, trembling breath.  "The
soldiers came I could not keep him safe."  She looked at Irina, her h
eyes swimming with tears.  "I could not keep him safe."

Irina put her arms around Mafia and drew her close.  "When the
soldiers came looking for us, you relived it all over again," she said
in sudden understanding.

"He struggled when they took him.  He bled to death in the yard."  She
raised her head.  Her eyes were still full of tears, but their
expression was fierce.  "At least he died quickly.  If they had taken
him, they would have made him run the gauntlet."

Irina closed her eyes as she felt Maria's pain.  She, too, knew what it
was like to lose a son.  But how much worse to lose him like this.

Maria raised her hands to wipe away the tears.  "I have never spoken of
this before to anyone.  Perhaps now I can put it away."  She wiped her
hands on her apron and then lifted it to blot away the remaining
wetness from her face.

"Now you will put on the gown."  Maxfa managed a watery smile.  "And we
will go look for the prince.  Yes?"

Irina nodded and felt a spark of excitement flicker to life within her.
"Yes."

Chapter Eighteen

The shaggy white dog ran circles around Alexei as he walked.  When he
swept a fallen log free of snow and sat down, the dog decided that it
need not herd him any longer and lay down at his feet and looked up at
him with an expectant little whimper.  Absently he scratched the dog's
ears as he stared into the birches, their black-and-white trunks stark
against the brilliantly white snow.

Would he find the courage to make love to Irina?  he asked himself.
Would he find the courage to step into paradise knowing that all he
would ever have would be that one taste?  And if he did dare, where
would he find the courage to leave her as he knew he had to?

He felt the dog lift its head and prick up its ears.  Turning, he
looked down the path he had taken and saw Irina.

She stopped when her gaze met his and stood very still, as if waiting
for some kind of signal from him to continue.  Her eyes were serious,
her mouth unsmiling, and he wanted badly to reach out to her and make
her mouth lift and her eyes light up.  But if he did that, he would be
promising something he would not be able to deliver, or at least only
temporarily, so he remained still.

Irina could read his eyes as if they were a book.  How well she knew
him, she thought.  She had been so certain that he would not move
toward her, nor would he invite her closer

see if perhaps this time his guilt and sense of honor would let him go
long enough to allow him to take that step toward her of his own free
will.

They had been tiptoeing around each other for days, the words she had
spoken hovering between them.  Sometimes she was not quite sure if he
saw them as a promise or a threat.  Oh, she had known that he would not
take the first step.  So be it, she thought, shrugging beneath her
heavy sable cloak.  Her soft sigh carried an understanding that was
edged in impatience.  She began.  to walk toward him.

When she stopped in front of him, the only sound was the rustle of the
wind among the naked branches of the birch trees and the swishing of
the dog's tail against the snow.  She could smell wood smoke, which had
drifted from the house, and the dog's damp fur.  She looked at Alexei
for a long moment before she spoke.

"Should I be flattered or offended that it is always I who has to take
the first step."

He watched the slight line appear between her dark eyebrows and knew
that she was annoyed.  She had changed, he thought~ She was still soft,
still fragile, but as she had said weeks ago in the carriage after he
had fled the fortress, she made her own decisions now.

"I seem to remember that I took the first step once.  But I do not
think that I did you a favor."

"Do not speak for me, Alexei."  She sat down on the log next to him
and, needing to busy her hands, reached out to the dog.  It inched over
to her on its belly and laid its head on her outstretched hands.

The silence stretched and grew.  When a crow flew overhead with a
raucous cry, the sound only underlined the silence.

"Were you planning to go back on your promise, Alexei?"  she finally
asked.  "Were you planning to sneak away some night and leave me behind
for my greater good?"

Alexei felt the guilt of a thief caught red-handed flash through him.
"Ten times--no, a hundred times I came to within an inch of going into
your room and locking the door behind me.  But every time I asked
myself if you perhaps regretted your words."  He turned toward her.
Their eyes met and held.  "But I knew that even if you did, you would
consider them a promise to be kept."

"And if I tell you that I do not regret them?"  She watched his exotic
eyes turna molten gold and she needed all her control not to reach out
to touch him.  "Will you still sneak away some night because you think
I am better off without you?"  The way his eyes dulled told her that
she had been precisely on target.

"Irina" -- he began.

"No."  She held up her hand.  "Let me finish."  She swallowed.  "Let me
finish while I still have the courage to do it."  She was gambling, she
thought, She was gambling for the highest stakes

"I will say this to you only once, Alexei.  Here, now, in the light of
day, without wine or candlelight or any other trappings of seduction."
The cold air burned in her throat and lungs as she drew in a long
breath, "I love you.  I want you to make love to me.  But I want it to
'be a beginning, not an end."  She laced her fingers tightly because
she wanted so badly to touch him.  "If you think to give me a night of
love as a farewell gift, then I ask you to leave me now."  Her breath
shuddered past her lips.  "Do you understand me?"

She paused, waiting for him to answer her, but he remained silent.

"What do you.  think I need to be happy, Alexei?"  The words burst out
of her in a flood.  "The luxuries I left behind in St.  Petersburg? The
gossip and the empty amusements?  The security of knowing exactly what
the next day will bring?  All for the price of spending the rest of my
life without you?"  Her voice fell to a whisper.  "Do you think so
little of me?"  She shook her head.

"The only thing I need is you beside me.  And I do need you."  Her
knuckles whitened.  "So the only question left is how much you need me.
For me a life with you is worth any risk."  She swallowed painfully.
"Now you have to decide if it is worth any risk for you, as well."  She
forced herself to keep her eyes on his, even though the fear that she
would see rejection there was an icy, heavy knot in her stomach.

Her voice was very calm, but her eyes were turbulent with emotion and
anguish.  Shamed by her courage, Alexei wondered where he would find
words to match hers.

He still had not spoken and suddenly her impatience broke through.  "I
have bared my soul to you," she cried: "Wha.t more do you want from
me?"

He reached for her then.  He could no more live without her than he
could live without water, without air.  He remembered that moment in
Irina's bedroom weeks ago.  Then, too, she had offered herself and left
the decision to him.  Which would take more courage?  To take what he
wanted and fight for it to his last breath, or to relinquish it to
salve his honor and his conscience, knowing that that decision would be
his sentence' of death, if not in body then in every other way that
counted?

She was offering him his life.  No more, no less.

He stood, lifting her up with him.  "I love you," he said softly.  The
simple words seemed much too plain to express the wild, tender emotion
within him.  "But I will never be able to show you how much."

"Why not?"

He gave a little shake of his head.  "How do you put the infinite into
words or actions?"

Irina smiled now for the first time as the relief rushed through her,
bringing confidence and hope--immeasurable hope.  She lifted her hands
to his face.  "Come, my love.  Let me show you."

He looked at her for a long time before he lowered his head to brush
her lips with his.  Then he took her hand and together they moved down
the birch-lined path back toward the house.

As they walked, the dog ran circles around them, making high little
yips.  They were almost at the edge of the woods when Alexei stopped,
and keeping his hand linked with Irina's, he turned her to face him.
His hand resting on her shoulder, he looked at her for a long time.

Irina felt nerves gather and flutter in her stomach.  She was sure.  So
very sure.  But as she watched him scrutinize her, she began to wonder
if he was as sure as she was.

"You deserve so much more than I can give you, Irina."

"I told you that I care nothing for the luxury, or for the danger."

"That is not what I am talking about, my love" -- he shook his head
"--although that itself would be reason enough."

He took a deep breath.  "You deserve more than a tumble in a ramshackle
house in the middle of nowhere.  You deserve a ceremony and a vow
before God and a man to cherish you forever.  You deserve a feast where
champagne flows and the guests keep crying gorko, bitter, so that I can
kiss you and make it sweet.  You deserve a marriage bed covered with
scented linen and lace."

The nerves quieted, and Irina smiled.  "I have excellent memories of a
tumble in another ramshackle house," she teased gently.  "You will be
hard put to match them."

She lifted a finger to his lips to silence him.  "Will you cherish me
less because you did not make a-promise in front of a priest?  Will you
make it less sweet because there are no guests to cry 'bitter'?  Will
you give me less gentleness and less passion because the linen we lie
on is not trimmed with Brussels lace?"

Suddenly a wild joy surged through her, so powerful, so untamed that it
was only a step away from pain.  Irina lifted her face toward the light
wind, which carried the sweet promise of spring.

"Kiss me," she demanded.  "Kiss me now."

She'd said exactly the same words to him before.  Weeks ago, in her
dimly lit bedroom, she had murmured the request, her breath skimming
lightly over his skin.  But this was no tentative request made in the
shadows of the night.  Now, here, in the bright sunlight, the power and
vitality of her demand had heat rushing through him.

The speed and fierce intensity of his arousal urged him to meet her
demand and more, but he knew that passion was not the only thing he
needed to give her.  He did not move.  Instead, his gaze slid down and
rested on her mouth.

Fascinated, Irina watched his topaz eyes drift over her mouth, watched
them heat with desire.  Yet he remained perfectly motionless, making
love to her mouth with only his eyes.  Her blood began to swim and
still he did not touch her.

Alexei could already taste her.  When her lips parted and she made a
small sound that was part sigh, part impatient demand, he was lost.

His needs were pushing ai him, urgent and hot, but he controlled his
passion carefully, severely, the same way he would have bridled an
unbroken stallion.  Slowly, slowly, he lowered his mouth.  Even when
his lips were brushing hers, he did not move to take the kiss deeper.
Keeping his eyes on hers, he traced his tongue along her lower lip.

She moaned and shifted closer, her body asking him for more, but he
teased, provoking them both.  His tongue traced the outline of her
mouth again and again, turning their breathing as ragged as if they had
just run for miles.

When his lips drifted away from her mouth to taste the skin along her
jawline, Irina made a sound of protest that turned into a sigh of
pleasure as he skimmed over her face, lingering to kiss, to savor.
Returning to her mouth, he began the teasing game anew, but this time
as he traced her upper lip, she touched her tongue to his.

The thin thread of Alexei's control snapped.  His hands lifted to cup
her head and he took her mouth with all the edgy, impatient passion of
a man who has gone hungry for a long, long time.  Of a man who knows
that soon, very soon, that ravenous hunger will be stilled.

The potency of his kiss had Irina's head spinning, had her bones
melting from its heat.  She reached for purchase, her fingers curling
into his coat at the waist.  Stunned, she could for long moments only
passively accept the passion that poured out of him.  The passion she
herself had unleashed.  But then her strength began to flow back to
her, feeding the richness of her own desire.

This time he did not need to tell her to kiss him back.  She answered
his kiss, her mouth as hungry, as insatiable, as his.

He had experienced before how open, how lavish her passion could be,
but still it amazed him to find such fire under such a calm, cool
exterior.

They drew apart, needing to calm their erratic breathing.  One last
time the doubts and hesitations tried to steal back into Alexei's mind.
He looked at them and then consciously, deliberately, set them aside.
Their time was past.  Now the time had come to celebrate what life had
given them.

"I love you, Irina."  He smiled.  "I love you."

Irina felt pure joy pour through her in answer to the joy she saw in
his eyes.  For the first time there were no dark thoughts shadowing
them.  No doubt.  No guilt.  Only joy and anticipation.

"Will you show me?"

"Yes."  He looked down at her, his eyes full of promises.  And he
intended to keep every single one of them:

With a smooth motion he scooped her up into his arms and moved quickly
down the path.

Mafia watched Alexei stride through the yard with Irina in his arms,
every inch the conquering prince.  As the joy that radiated from them
like the rays of a bright sun warmed

her, she was acutely conscious of that cold, empty spot in her heart
she had long since grown accustomed to.

What did it feel like, she wondered with a little stab of envy, to
choose your husband, your lover?  Her mother had been chosen by the
master, ordered one day to bathe and to await him in his bed.  And
she--she had been given in marriage to Ostap a week after her
fourteenth birthday.  She would never know what it was like to make
that choice herself, but she would see it in Irina's eyes tomorrow
morning.  She was smiling when she went back to work.

In the few minutes that it had taken Alexei to carry her from the edge
of the forest, all the old insecurities, all the old habits of control
and propriety, had crept back in, pushing back the joy, the confidence.
When he set her down in the middle of the bright, sunny room Maria had
given him, Irina shrugged her cape into Alexei's hands and made a
production of examining the room as if she had never seen anything more
fascinating than its country furnishings of honey-colored pine wood and
a Bukham carpet whose crimson color was beginning to fade.

She'd thrown herself at him again.  She'd offered herself in the most
wanton way.  A flush swept up her cheeks.  Yes, he'd told her he loved
her.  He'd kissed her as if he had meant it.  But did it really mean
that he wanted her?  Walking to the window where the ice blossoms were
beginning to melt, she clasped her hands together.

Suddenly the memory of how the women in St.  Petersburg had looked at
him was very clear.  Those sensuously beautiful women with their lush
bodies and knowing eyes.  Could he really want her with her pale, thin
face and child's body?  Suddenly it seemed terribly important--no,
necessary-that he want her, truly want her in every way there was for a
man to want a woman.

Tossing their coats over a chair, Alexei went to stand behind her.  He
felt her slight tremble when he put his hand on her shoulders.

"Second thoughts?"

His warm breath brushed her ear and it was all she could do not to
allow her head to fall back against him.  Her shoulders moved in a
quick, jerky shrug.

"I"

Whatever she was going to say flew straight out of her head as he
kissed his way down the rim of her ear.  "Mmm, you were saying?"  He
retraced the route with his tongue.

"I--I can't think when you are touching me like that."  With another
woman he might have ignored the apprehension, the tension, knowing that
within moments his mouth and his hands could melt it away.  But not
with Irina.  Gently he turned her around to face him.  x

~ "What is it, love?"  She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth
and her eyes were clouded.

"I do not" -- She stopped, unsure of how to ask him if he wanted her.

"Do you want me to stop, Irina?  Is that it?"  He slid his arms around
her and drew her into the curve of his body.  "All you have to do is
tell me, love.  I will never do anything you do not want me to do."

Her breath hitched as his aroused body settled into the indentation
between her belly and her hipbone.

Cursing himself silently for frightening her, Alexei began to shift
away, but her hands curled suddenly into the peas ant Shirt that hung
over his hips.

"Stay."

Puzzled, Alexei looked at her, only to see her smile blossom.

"You want me," she whispered.

"Was that what it was all about?"  He shook his head in disbelief. "You
thought I did not want you?"

Irina gave an embarrassed little nod.

"You have much to learn, my love."  He watched her as his hands slid
down to her hips to press her against him more fully.  "First lesson."
His own breath caught as he moved against her.  "This is want."

The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, bathing them in its
faint warmth.  It was going to be all right, she thought.

"Will you make love to me while the sun is still shining?"

In answer, Alexei brushed his mouth over hers and reached for the top
button of her gown.

Chapter Nineteen

Alexei,s mouth drifted over Irina's face as he began to undo her dress
with hands that were not quite steady.  As he fumbled with a fastening,
he felt her lips curve into a smile.  Curious, he pulled back and
cradled her face in one hand as he raised it to his.

Her lips were still tilted upward and the gentle smile was reflected in
the warm glow of her eyes.  The love slammed into him so hard that he
almost staggered.  Yes, he thought, he wanted her, but the desire that
stretched his body taut was a mere spark beside the blaze that was the
love in his heart.

Irina turned into the hand that still cupped her face and pressed a
kiss into his palm.  Then she raised her face to his again.

"The first time, I remember thinking that you got me out of my clothes
as expertly as a ladies' maid," she said softly.  "It appalled me to
think of how much practice you must have had to do it so efficiently."
Her shoulders shifted in a small shrug.  "And I wondered if there had
been too many women for you to remember me at all."

She let her fingers drift over his other hand, which was still nestled
at the buttons of her gown.  "I'm glad that your hands are not quite so
steady this time."

It was such a small thing, she thought, but to her it was a vital
symbol of how much today meant.  She had lovely memories of the first
time he had made love to her, but when she came right down to it, it
had been the coupling of two strangers who had, for the space of one
night, simply needed what the other had to give.

When her gown was gone, he backed her to the bed and knelt to remove
her boots.  Even after they were tossed aside, he remained where he
was, kneeling as if to worship her.  She wore a shapeless linen chemise
that gave hardly a hint of the body underneath, and yet he felt a wave
of desire so strong that he did not trust himself to continue.  When he
felt Irina's fingers at his neck, his head snapped upward.

"What are you doing?"  he managed to say before his throat went dry.

"I am returning the favor."  Her words were bold, but her smile was
tremulous as her fingers flicked the side-buttoned shirt open.  When
she reached the red cord that cinched his waist, her fingers stilled as
the courage that had carried her through drained out of her.

Alexei saw the chagrined flicker in her eyes before she lowered them to
stare at her hands, which were still at his waist.

"Look at me, Irina."

Slowly her eyes moved upward until they met his, and she saw the
challenge in the dark amber depths.

"Are you going to finish what you started?"  His voice sounded rusty.
It was a wonder that he could speak at all, he thought, the way her
fingers were burning his skin even through the barrier of coarse
linen.

Her chin thrust up and forward.  With a single jerk she undid the cord
and slipped the two remaining buttons through the buttonholes.  When
her gaze returned to his, it shone with the satisfaction of having
accepted a dare and won.  But he answered her only with a slight
raising of his eyebrows that questioned, provoked.

She pulled in a deep breath and, lifting the shirt at the shoulders,
gave it a quick, backward tug.  It slid off his body

~apes~ry o!  ~'ate 243

to hang down his back, trapping his wrists with the narrow cuffs.

The scars still stood out clearly on the smooth golden skin of his
chest.  Her hands fisted tightly as the need to touch him rose in her
like a wave of fire.  Fighting the heat that threatened to turn her
into a wanton again, she deliberately relaxed her hands finger by
finger.

Alexei saw the convulsive way her hands closed, saw the slow,
deliberate loosening, and a low moan rose in the back of his throat at
the thought of her cool, soft hands on his body.  "Touch me," he
whispered.  "I've waited so long to have your hands on my skin."

She looked down at her hands as she battled another onslaught of
timidity.  Then she raised them, turning them palm outward.  Half inch
by excruciating half inch she brought them closer to Alexei's chest.
She' could feel the heat radiating from him, melding with her own heat,
and was sure that the air in that tiny space between her palms and his
chest must be shimmering from it.

When she closed that last half inch of distance, they both made twin
sounds of relief.  For a moment she was very still.  Then her hands
slipped up and over his shoulders and her head fell back as she
luxuriated in the feeling of her skin upon his.

He was still kneeling in front of her, his hands still trapped by his
shirt, as her hands slid over him.  They were soft, but instead of
bringing the soothing coolness he had imagined, they brought sizzling
heat.  Unable to bear it any longer, he ripped the shirtsleeves off his
wrists and reached for her.

Her legs spread apart to accommodate him, and as he pulled her to him,
he felt more heat--her intimate heat--press against his middle.  The
sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a growl as his body
stretched to yet another level of arousal.

"I wanted to make love to you slowly," he said, pressing an
openmouthed kiss to the hollow of her throat, "but I am burning out of
control already although I have barely touched you."

His lips were against her throat, and not even understanding his
tortured words, she tipped her head back in pleasure as his hot breath
skimmed over her skin.

Pushing himself away from the edge of the bed, Alexei stood, and with
hands that were quick and desperate, he began to rid himself of the
rest of his clothes.

Suddenly cold as he withdrew from her, Irina opened her eyes.  Barely
daring to breathe, she watched him undress.  He was beautiful, the
terrible scars only making his beauty more poignant.

Then he was kneeling in front of her again, loosening the drawstring of
her chemise.  Her breath caught in a mixture of anticipation and
uneasiness as she waited for him to tug the garment down.  When he
picked her up to lay her on the bed instead, disappointment warred with
relief.

Aware that his control was stretched to its limits, he did not lie down
beside her, Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lowered his head and
nudged the chemise off one shoulder with his mouth.  Trailing his lips
over her collarbone, he paused to taste the hollow of her throat, where
a frantic pulse beat, before drifting farther to slide the chemise off
the other shoulder, as well.

His mouth roamed upward to taste her lips while his fingers retraced
the path his mouth had taken a moment ago.  Determined to give her the
gentleness and the care she needed, he barely dipped his tongue between
her lips before his mouth moved on to nuzzle the satin skin beneath her
ear.

Irina shifted, bringing his mouth back to hers.  Unable to resist
another taste, he delved into the sweetness.  She opened to him like a
flower opening to the sun.  He had only wanted a tiny taste, but he
found himself sinking into her as an unwary traveler sinks into
quicksand.

lapestry o!  Pate Touching her tongue to his, she invited him to stay
and, unable to do otherwise, he lingered to sample, to explore.  Her
flavor was as sweet and heady as the wine that came from the grapes on
the sun-drenched hills of the Crimea.  Already half-drunk on the taste
of her mouth alone, he was barely aware that his fingers had wandered
beneath the edge of the chemise until she shifted again and arched into
his hand.

For the space of a breath Alexei went still as he grappled for
control--and lost.  His tongue plunged into her mouth, no longer gently
seeking out her secrets but demanding, then taking them for his own.
His hands dragged down the neckline of her chemise and he filled his
hands with her, glorying in the velvet texture of her skin.

She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it, and she would have if he
had not invaded her mouth so fully.  She wanted to touch him, and she
would have if her arms had not been pinned down by the chemise.

He released her mouth, thinking to give himself a moment of respite.
But the desire that coiled through his blood sliced through him, coming
so perilously close to pain that he gasped.

"Alexei, please."

Irina's ragged whisper had him dragging himself back from the edge.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No."  She tossed her head from side to side on the pillow. "Please."

Her eyes were huge and dark with only a shadow of green around the
pupils, and the fear that he had hurt her slashed through him again.

"Come to me now, Alexei."

He smiled.  "Not yet, love."

Cupping her slender body in his hands, he swept the chemise down and
away.  Moving to the foot of the bed, he

rolled down her stockings, following the path they took with his
mouth.

Irina felt his mouth rove down the inside of her thigh and she moaned.
Surely she was going to go mad with the heat, the ache, that curled in
that se erat place he had not touched yet.

He sat up and looked down at her, Her breathing was quick and shallow.
Lightly he ran his hands up her legs.  When he reached the creases of
her thighs, her eyes flew open.  Feather-light, he ran his thumbs
toward her hips and then back to her center.  Her legs parted then, and
as she pressed her heels into the mattress, her hips lifted in a mute
plea for his touch.

If she could have moved, she would have grasped his hand and pressed it
against the ache, but she could not move, could not speak.  She could
only wait.

Gently he parted her and grazed her soft, damp flesh with the pad of
his thumb.  Her hips arched off the bed and she reached for him, her
hands desperate.  Her grip surprisingly strong, she pulled him toward
her, urging him to cover her body with his.

Afraid to hurt her with his weight, he lay down on his side and drew
her close.

Irina gasped as his aroused flesh pressed into her belly,

but there was still no relief for the ache.

"Alexei, I hurt."

Alarm churning through him again, he raised himself on an elbow.  "Tell
me, love.  Where?"

She curled her fingers around the hand that lay curved around her
shoulder.  Raising it to her mouth, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
Then she shifted onto her back in a gesture that was both submission
and command and laid his hand against the apex of her thighs.

Alexei went still as the openness, the simplicity of gesture had his
emotions moving into yet another dim en ~apestry o!  rare z4 I

sion.  Suddenly the last barrier in his mind fell away and he began to
touch her.

Her eyes fell closed at the first languorous stroke.  "Look at me,
Ifina."

Her lids fluttered open, but her eyes were already clouding Her hips
began to move in instinctive counterpoint to his fingers.  He lowered
his head to take her first moan of pleasure into his mouth.

The ache had widened, deepened.  The urgency grew, making her want to
move, but her body seemed to have turned to a fiver of warm honey and
she could do no more than open herself wider to his touch.

When she found the strength to reach out and pull him closer, her hand
fell short of his hip and slid down to the sheet between them, the
backs of her fingers grazing his sex.  She felt him flex in reaction,
in invitation.  Slowly, her eyes on his, she curled her fingers around
him.

He surged against her hand, fighting desperately against the heat in
his loins that presaged the explosion.

"Please, Irina."  His voice was ragged.  "I will ask you to touch me
later.  I will beg you.  But not now?"  Even as he spoke, his body
swelled, tightening the sheath of her hand.  He fought against the new
rush of heat, but his body betrayed him and, helpless, he had no choice
but to yield' to the pulsations that took him.

Irina felt the spasms that racked his body.  She felt his warm seed
spill over her hand, and the realization that she had brought him to
this with a single touch had a triumphant sense of her own power
pulsing through her.

He moaned with the tortured pleasure of big release and chagrin at his
own weakness.  "Oh, love, I am sot"

She stretched upward and silenced him with her mouth.  As her tongue
took a delicate taste of his, she felt him pulse again, this time with
renewed arousal.  Pulling back far enough so that she could look at
him, she smiled.  "I love you."

There was everything in her smile.  The sleepy sensuality of a woman
whose passion has not quite yet been fully awakened.  The triumph of
the temptress who has brought her willing victim to his knees.  The
gentle love of a mate, as deep and boundless as the sea.

"And I love you."  He brushed a butterfly of a kiss over her mouth.
"More than I did an hour ago and less than I will tomorrow."

He reached down to the foot of the bed for her chemise and used it to
wipe away the traces of his passion.  Then he lay down face-to-face
with her and began to touch her again.

Her senses already heightened, the spark burst quickly into bright
flame and still he provoked.  And provoked.

She would have begged if she could have said a coherent word, but her
body was one single mass of sensation.  And still he found another
level of sensual delight to explore.

When he finally cradled her between his thighs, she could have wept
with relief.  When he gently, oh so gently, slipped into her, she
did.

As he moved.  slowly within her, her body seemed to hang suspended just
a breath away from completion.  And yet his clever hands discovered
still another caress, still another way to drive her higher.

Then the rhythm changed.  What had been a soft, easy breeze became a
tempest.  What had been a gentle, trickling stream became a torrent.
What had been a leisurely stroll became a race.

Together they raced.  The speed grew urgent, then desperate.  On the
brink of the precipice they stilled, riveted in the blinding spotlight
of the ecstasy that fused them together like two links of a chain.
Secure in the knowledge that they could never again be sundered, they
hurtled down.

The pleasure still reverberated through Irina's body like the slowly
fading sound of gently strummed guitar strings.

The last echoes ebbed, leaving her body to swim in the honey-sweet
lethargy of repletion.

Her hand lay against Alexei's chest, his now even heartbeat lulling her
into that hazy softness that hovers between wakefulness and sleep.  She
had thought she remembered what making love with him had been like. But
it had been more.  So much more.  The visions danced behind her closed
eyelids, sending a leisurely rush of arousal through her.

She surfaced from the dreamlike state when he withdrew from her body
and turned her so that she was tucked against him back to front.  She
wanted to speak, but her words disappeared into a sigh of pleasure as.
he nuzzled the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear.

Had she ever felt so cherished?  So right?  So safe?  She wished that
she could crawl inside Alexei's skin--just for the space of one
thought--so that she could know what he felt.  Could this moment
possibly be as precious for him?  Wanting to question him, she opened
her mouth to speak.  But when he skimmed the hand that had been loosely
curved around her hip down her thigh and back up to her waist, she
found she had to concentrate just to remember to breathe.

How often did a man get a second chance?  Alexei mused as he absently
trailed his hand down Irina's flank and then up.  His hand stroked over
her skin, not seeking to arouse but simply for the pleasure of it. Lost
in his thoughts, he did not notice her breathing go from even to rough
to ragged.  Only when she shifted, her bottom pressing against him, did
he become aware of her renewed arousal.  And his own.

He slid his hand from the curve of her hip to splay it against her
belly.  Slowly he began to trace circles that inched lower and lower.
When his fingers meshed with her curls, she arched against his hand and
moaned.

The soft sound she made, the instinctive movement of her hips in answer
to his caress, sent an almost painful flash of desire through him.  All
he had to do was move just a little and he could sink into the warm,
moist paradise that awaited him.  He took a long, steadying breath and
eased his throbbing body away from the temptation.

"Tell me, love," he whispered as he traced a row of moist kisses along
the curve of her shoulder.  "What do you want?"

Irina felt such a stab of disappointm~t as he moved away from her.
Lying there, her body flush against his, had given her such pleasure.
It had not been simply the pure sensual delight of skin against skin,
but the feeling of belonging, of having come home.  And when his body
had begun to swell again, that had been a seduction of its very own.
Tension crept in as she wondered if she had done something wrong.

Alexei felt her muscles grow taut and, misunderstanding, he drew away
still further.  "Easy, love."  He soothed his hand upward to just below
her breasts.  "Nothing will happen unless you want it to."

Again Irina felt the disappointment wind through her.  Her breasts
tightened in anticipation of his touch, but his fingers had stilled on
her midriff, not quite touching the curve of her breasts when she ached
to have him fill his hands with her.  She pressed her face into the
pillow, willing him to read her mind.

Gathering her waist-length hair in his hand, he lifted it away before
he shifted her onto her back.  Leaning forward, he brushed his mouth
over hers.

"Talk to me, love.  There is nothing you cannot tell me."  He leathered
the backs of his fingers over his cheek.  "Did I frighten you before?
Do you hurt?"

She moved her head from side to side in negation.  "Tell me what you
want, Irina," he repeated.

She drew in a shaky breath.  "I want you to touch me."  The words came
out in a rush.

A new wave of desire surged through .  Alexei's blood.  Desire coupled
with a tenderness so great that he could have wept.

~apestry o!  rate

"Where do you want me to touch you?"  he whispered.  "Here?"  He cupped
her breast.

"Yes."  Her answer was barely audible.

He lowered his head to flick his tongue over the crest, glorying in the
way her heartbeat leapt.

"Or do you want me to touch you here?"  Lifting his head, he watched
her as his hand traveled downward.  Her body arched like a strung bow
beneath his hand and her thighs fell open in welcome.  Cupping her, he
slid one finger down over the slick folds.

Her answer was a gasp as her legs closed to imprison him.  Still
cupping her, he shifted her back onto her side and slid his aroused
body between her thighs.

"Like this?  Do you want me to touch you like this?"

Unable to speak, she gave a choppy nod, her hips already moving.

The pressure, the hunger, grew as her slick flesh slid over his.
Finally, unable to resist the final temptation, Alexei gripped her
thighs and fitted his body to hers.

"Like this?"  He thrust inside her--just a little.

Irina stilled in anticipation of the fullness that would relieve the
ache.

Afraid that he had hurt her, he began to withdraw.

He was slipping away from her, she thought desperately.  Instinctively,
she tilted her body forward and pressed downward.  She cried out in
relief as she took him fully inside her.

For the space of a heartbeat they were both still.  Then they began to
move.

The waves rose, each stronger than the one that had gone before. Alexei
slid his arms around her and began to touch her, sliding over her,
sliding over where their: bodies were joined.  A swell swept them up
just short of the cresL

He felt her open to him, inviting him still further.  Grasping her
hips, he thrust into her, once, twice.  She closed around him and
together they plunged into the vortex.

Chapter Twenty

The mild winds that were the harbinger of spring had started to blow
over the endless plains.  The first crows and ravens began returning
from their winter habitat in central Europe.  A rough-cry stalled crust
formed on the snow where the surface had melted in the late March sun
and then frozen again at night.  And Alexei knew that they had
prolonged their stay as long as they could.

Forthe last time, they turned around to wave at Maria and Ostap.  For
the last time, they looked at the house where they had become lovers.

Alexei, his eyes concerned, watched Irina turn toward the front of the
kibitka.  Silent tears were running down her face, but when she met his
eyes, she smiled and tilted up her chin.  He returned her smile before
turning away to spur the horses.  It would be all right, he thought. At
this moment, he could almost believe that it would be all right.

They passed almost without transition from roads still covered with
snow to the dry area to the north of the Black Sea.  They had been
extraordinarily lucky, Alexei mused as he watched the village smith
dismantle the runners from the kibitka, that spring had come early to
the south this year.  The roads were almost dry now, saving' them from
the necessity of plowing through the impassable morass that the spring
thaw brought with it.

The smith shoved a basket full of chains to be mended aside and began
to fit the first wheel to the carriage.  "You be on the road for a long
time in this, eh?"

Immediately alert, although the man's tone was casual, Alexei murmured
a noncommittal reply.

"The seams on this be getting weak."  The man whistled tunelessly as he
crouched down and peered at the rounded underside.  "If you be going
far, you need them redone."  He slanted a look up at Alexei.  "Won't
last if you be going over the mountains."

Alexei shrugged.  "Why do you think we are going over the mountains

The smith looked straight at Alexei, his reddened eyes keen and
curious.  "Thought maybe you be going to the Crimea.  There be
mountains there."

Forcing the muscles that had tightened to relax, Alexei leaned against
the wall.  "Why do you think that?"

"There be a lot of traffic in that direction from up north these past
weeks."  The smith leaned a wheel against the carriage and dug into the
pocket of his baggy trousers.  Extracting a handful of sunflower seeds,
he offered some to Alexei.

Alexei took the proffered seeds.  As he waited for the man to continue,
he cracked a seed open with his front teeth and absently picked the
shell off.

"Seems the soldiers be looking for a man who escaped from the tsar's
prison in St.  Petersburg."  The smith popped one seed after another
into one side of his mouth, spitting a steady stream of shells out of
the other side.  "Some prince."

Stiffening, Alexei sent a worried glance toward Irina.  But she had
fallen asleep on the stack of firewood where she had sat down to rest.
"Seeing as how there are so many men in the tsar's prisons, I suppose
they are always looking for

 e someone.  " He concentrated on opening a cracked seed with his
thumbnail.

"Except they usually be looking for serfs, not princes."  The smith
laughed with no show of bitterness.

Alexei looked up to see the man eyeing him openly.  "Many soldiers
stopped here to have their horses re-shod."  He cracked another seed.
"Some said this prince fought against the tsar to free the serfs and
forbid the knut."

A flicker of fear passed through the man's eyes at the mention of the
abhorred whip made of knotted leather straps.

"You think that be so?"

It was a bare-bones description of what he had stood up for on that
December day, Alexei thought, but it was close enough.  "Maybe."  He.
saw the acknowledgment in the man's eyes.

The smith nodded, not taking his eyes off Alexei's face.  Then he
stuffed the remaining seeds back into his pocket and went back to work.
Only when the last wheel was mounted, the last bolt tightened, did he
speak again.

"They say there be a Tartar near Kakhovka who guides people over the
mountains," he murmured.  "For a price."

"And where might this man be?"

"They say his isba be on the north side of town.  His name be Rauf.
They say he has helped more than one runaway serf or escaped prisoner
if they paid his price."  He shrugged.  "That be all I know."

Alexei nodded and fished a coin out of his pocket.  Then he offered the
man his hand.

"How did you know?"

"The look in your eyes.  You don't look like you be on the wrong end of
a cudgel all your life."  Then he grinned, showing strong white teeth.
"And none of us opens sunflower seeds with his fingers."

Alexei grinned back.  "I'll remember that."  He laid his hand on the
man's shoulder.  "Do you want to come with
us?  This Rauf can guide three people over the
mountains as easily as two.  "

"No."  The smith shook his head.  "What would I do in a strange country
without my piece of Russian soil?"  His mouth curved in a smile of
extraordinary sweetness.  "God has sent me this life and I will live
it."

Alexei nodded, understanding the sentiment all too well.  How many
nights had he not been able to sleep for thinking that soon he would no
longer have his piece of Russian soil?  That he was abandoning the life
God had sent him?  But then he looked at the stack of firewood where
Irina dozed and knew that he was doing what he had to.

It was not difficult to find the guide the smith had told them about.
The difficulty lay in persuading him to guide them, for he, too, had
heard about the prince the tsar's soldiers were hunting.  But he, like
most people, had his price.

They passed the narrow Perekop isthmus, traveling at night now because
the Crimean peninsula was teeming with soldiers.  It had been conquered
less than fifty years before and was still considered partly hostile
territory.

Dismounting from his shaggy Tartar pony, Rauf gave the signal to rest.
The first foothills of the Yaila Dagh Mountains offered shelter in a
stand of oak and beech trees that was so thick even the young leaves
already made a canopy that allowed only a glimpse of the sky.  The
night had been mild and the sun, which was coloring the sky an
opalescent pink, promised the warmth of a spring day.

Using half a pine cone as under, Rauf skillfully built a small, almost
smokeless fire from the charcoal he carried.  Using a wicked-looking
dagger, he skinned the rabbit he had trapped the day before and put the
pieces on wooden spits that he laid on two stones on either end of the
glowing coals.  As the meat began to sizzle gently, he sat down
cross-legged in front of the fire and gestured to Alexei to join him.

Irina returned toward the camp after taking care of her private needs
and saw Alexei sit down next to their guide.  Instead of joining them,
she sat apart, having already made acquaintance with Rauf's Muslim
disregard for the female gender.  Besides, every time he looked at her
with his cold, flat eyes, she felt a shiver crawl up her spine.

She watched the Tartar's black eyes slide over to her before he began
to speak softly, quickly.  She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees,
straining to understand his accented Russian.

"We are not far from the coast here.  In a day we could be in
Eupatoria."  He gestured with his hands as he spoke.  "I have a friend
there who can get you a boat that will take you to Turkey."

Alexei looked past the guide's shoulder, missing the sly look that came
and went in his eyes.  He had considered the possibility himself.  It
was certainly tempting to save Irina the hardships of crossing the
mountains.  But if they took a boat from here, they would have to sail
around the whole peninsula, right past the fleet at Sevastopol.
Besides, he preferred to hire a boat in Yalta or Gurzuf, where there
were people he could trust.  He had not been back for a long time, but
he had spent many a boyhood holiday in the Murom-sky villa in Gurzuf.
Irina had never traveled to the Crimea with Ilari0n, but the Golovin
servants would be loyal to his widow.

"I do not know," Alexei said cautiously.

"At least a boat to Yalta then," Rauf pressed, moving his eyes toward
Irina without really looking at her.  "It will be easier on the
woman.

"Do not worry about the fleet."  Rauf grinned, his teeth very white
against his honey-colored skin.  "My friend knows all the ways of
getting around it.  He makes his living that way."

Irina could feel Alexei's discomfort at the way the man was pressing
him, and yet at the same time she could feel
him weakening because he was thinking of her.  She rose and went to
stand behind him, her hands touching his shoulders.

"We will cross the mountains as planned," she said lightly, careful not
to let any sign of the distrust she felt be reflected in her tone. "I'm
not looking forward to being in a boat longer than I have to."

Rauf spread his hands and shrugged.  "You pay, you choose."  He
shifted, focusing his attention on turning the spits with the meat.

"I do not trust him," Irina said later that evening.  She kept her
voice low, even though she was speaking in French.  "He would sell his
firstborn son for the right price."

"Still, we could hire a boat if I stayed at his side to make .certain
he did not betray us."  Irina's eyes were bruised with fatigue and he
desperately wanted this over with and Irina in safety.  "At least to
Yalta."

"No."  Irina shook her head.  "All he would need to do is say a few
words in his own language."

"You are right."  Alexei stroked her hair and pulled her a little
closer.

Near Simferopol they exchanged their kibitka and horses for surefooted
Tartar ponies.

"Will they take a sidesaddle?"  Alexei wanted to know.  "They will not
need to," Irina interrupted.  "I have a split skirt.  When Ilarion and
I were in: the country, I always rode astride."  She smiled at the
surprise on Alexei's face, feeling suddenly lighthearted.  It was a
beautiful spring day and soon, very soon, they would be in safety.  She
held on to that thought.

They had only a little more than thirty miles to cover as the crow
flies, but the way over the narrow mountain paths was long and
tortuous, even though they had gone back to traveling in the daytime.
As they rode farther and farther up, the paths grew narrower and
rougher.  The riding began to take its toll on Irina's weakened body
and she no longer paid attention to the landscape, a succession of
forest and rocks so massive and wildly shaped that they looked like
sculptures carved by the hand of a giant.

When they rode through what looked like a gate with columns of rock on
either side onto a broad, high ledge, it took her minutes to realize
that there were no more trees, no more rocks in front of them.  Below
them lay the sea, richly azure and glittering with the golden
highlights of the afternoon sun.  The fatigue and the sudden
realization that their journey was almost over struck Irina with the
force of a tidal wave, and she closed her eyes and silently wept.

They set up camp that night partway down the slope in a grove of fig
trees, too excited, too enervatexi, to take more than a drink of the
clear, cold water from a nearby stream.  Their sleep was short and
plagued by restless dreams.  When they awoke as dawn was breaking, they
found themselves alone.  Rauf was gone.

"What a fool I was," Alexei said, the lines around his mouth white with
controlled fury.

"No."  Irina put her hand on his arm.  The tightened muscles stood out
like ropes.  "You cannot blame yourself for everything that goes
wrong."

"I should have stayed awake," he raged, pulling away from her to pace.
"I should have watched him.  You warned me.  My own instincts warned
me, but I ignored them.  And now I've put you at risk again."  He
stalked away and curled his hands around a low-hanging branch.

She let him go, although she ached to put her arms around him and give
him what comfort she could.  But she knew that now it was not
compassion that he needed.  She waited, counting out the minutes.  Then
she moved to stand behind him, gripping her hands tightly together so
that she would not be tempted to reach out and touch him.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself."  Although he did not turn around,
Irina saw his head snap up.  Good, she thought.

Now I have his attention.  "You are not God, responsible for everything
that goes on in this world.  You are just a man doing the very best you
can."

"But my very best does not seem to be good enough, does it?"  Alexei
pushed himself away from the tree and turned around to face her.  "Not
in St.  Petersburg and not here."

She shook her head.  "None of us can do more than our best, Alexei."
She paused.  "What we can do is have the courage to live with it."

He heard the challenge'in her voice and his heart lifted.  How had she
known?  he thought.  How had she known that this was just what he had
needed.  Not gentle sympathy but a few sharp words to snap him out of
the self-mutilation that every Russian soul so easily falls prey to.

Reaching out, he pulled her toward him.  His mouth was hot on hers as
the need to affirm life poured through him.

"I love you."  His breath flowed into her mouth as he said the words.

"Yes."  She caught her hands in his hair, which had grown long and
shaggy.  "And I love you."

Irina rested her head against his chest, absorbing his light, quick
heartbeat.

They gave themselves the gift of a long, peaceful moment before they
sat down on the grass and began to plan.

Alexei's assumption that Rauf would sell them to the authorities had
been exactly right, Irina thought as she heard the galloping hooves.
She concentrated on taking a step and then another one, forgetting that
the handle of the small but heavy valise was cutting into her hand.
Forgetting that the roll with the jewels was heavy around her waist.
Another minute and they would be upon her.  She caught the first
glimpse of the riders through the trees and braced herself to give
another performance.

Clods of the rich, reddish brown earth flew as the soldiers stopped in
a half circle around her.

Shading her eyes against the first rays of the sun, she looked up at
the commanding officer of the troop.  His face was young and soft, but
his frown was menacing.  Trying to forget that her heart seemed to be
beating in her throat, she began to speak.

"Dieu merci, thank God, Lieutenant" -- She stopped.  "What is your
name?"

Nonplussed by both her words and the fact that she spoke the perfect,
unaccented French of the highest Russian aristocracy, the officer
stared at her for a moment before he answered.  "Lieutenant Count
Tikhonov, at your service."

"

"I am Princess Irina Stefanovna Golovin."  She managed a smile.  "And I
see that the blackguard whom I paid to guide me and who abandoned me is
already in your custody."

"Actually, he" -- the lieutenant began, then cleared his throat.  "He
came to us with information that"

"He came to you?  How strange," she interrupted.  "I would have thought
that he would try and get as far away as possible with the money I paid
him and the horse he stole from me."

She heard Rauf begin to protest loudly and saw the officer silence him
with a sharp gesture.

"He said you were in the company of a man."  The young lieutenant
colored.  "Perhaps you could tell me"

"I will be pleased to tell you anything you like," Irina said briskly,
her tone brooking no contradiction, "as soon as I have reached my
villa.  Now, I would greatly appreciate it if one of your men would
lend me the use of his mount.  I am quite tired."

When she had been helped up onto a chestnut gelding, she felt some of
the nervous strength that had carried her through the encounter drain
out of her.  Desperately, she battled to bring it back, knowing that
her safety and Alexei's depended on it.

Where was Alexei?  she wondered.  The lovely landscape they were
passing through was not the object of admiration now.  Instead she
looked at the pine forests, the vineyards, the groves of laurel and
lemon trees-and wondered if one of them was sheltering Alexei.

As they came down toward the sea, she was struck by the profusion of
color.  Everything seemed to be in flower--Judas trees with their
bright rex flowers almond trees with their fragile pale pink blossoms,
flowering shrubs, their blooms the color of corals.  The wonder of
finding herself in the midst of this fragrant subtropical paradise
after weeks in the snow and icy winds of the Russian plains had her
forgetting the danger.

"She's lying.  I tell you she's lying."

Rauf's sudden high, piercing shout jolted her out of her reverie.

"He was with her, I tell you."  His eyes were wild.  "The man you are
looking for was with her."

Her hands tightened on the reins, making the horse whinny and rear
nervously.  The fear that they would believe him crawled over her skin
like a living thing and she barely managed to repress a shudder.  That
small success and the thought of Alexei had the control returning.

She turned and gave the young lieutenant a long, cool look.  "I realize
that these savages are difficult to control, but I have had a long
journey," she said, softening her tone, "and I should hate to meet with
an accident a few miles from my destination."

Turning away, she blocked out the pangs of conscience as she heard the
scuffling and harsh words behind her.

They turned west before reaching Yalta.  As they approached Gurzuf, she
turned toward Tikhonov.

"You will have to guide me."  She spoke graciously now and was pleased
to see Tikhonov's smile as he spurred his mount to ride abreast of her.
"My late husband spoke of ~!itpestry o!  gate ten of our house here,
but we were never able to travel here together."

"May I ask you"

Irina touched his arm lightly.  "Later, mon ami."  The young lieutenant
preened at her sudden amiability and again she blocked out the guilt at
her deceit.  "I am so very tired."

Irina recognized the white two-story house with the lattice work trim
along the ledge of the green tile roof from Ilarion's description even
before Lieutenant Tikhonov told her that they had arrived.  There would
be a lovely view of the bay, she knew, from the balcony that ran the
length of the second story.  The arched windows had an oriental air and
were surrounded on three sides by an intricate floral design in strong,
primary colors.  The house looked bright and inviting, the garden
surrounding it a riot of color.

Yet the closer they rode, the greater became the reluctance she felt.
They dismounted and approached the wide arched door painted the bright
green the Muslims regarded as the Prophet's color.  The door opened,
revealing a Tartar servant wearing the typical silver-trimmed blue
jacket and wide trousers gathered at the ankle.  He bowed to the waist
and took a sliding step backward so that she could enter.

But she stood still, light-headed with fear and exhaustion, unable to
bring herself to step inside.  They were waiting for her to go in.  She
could hear the soldiers' boots shuffling on the white gravel of the
drive.  And still she did not move.

She felt like the character in a fairy tale who stands on the threshold
of a house, knowing that she will meet evil inside.  Evil that will
imperil her.  Evil that she will have to fight.

The tinkle of laughter drifted from the depths of the house, as cool as
the sound of a glass bell.  Even as the icy apprehension in the pit of
her belly expanded, she moved into the shadowy entry.

~! apes try o!  l~ate

Ignoring the servants who approached, she moved in the direction from
where the laughter had come.  She entered a large sunny room full of
bright-colored oriental furniture.  At first she thought the room was
empty, but then the sound of mocking laughter drew her gaze.

Her eyes grew wide with horror as she saw her worst nightmare coming
true.  On the low davenport sat Gvozdev and Klavdia.

Chapter Twenty-One

No!  It could not be!  The room began to spin around Irina and she felt
a scream building in her throat.  Alexei!  Where was Alexei?  What had
they done to him?  The vision of her lover in chains rose so vividly
that her hand lifted to reach out for him.

But then a thought penetrated her panic like a ray of sunlight pierces
thick fog.  What if they had not captured him?  What if he was still
free?  The realization that, again, she was possibly the only thing
between him and death at the end of a rope had a calm descending on
her.  A calm that was grim, remorseless.  A calm that would enable her
to do any-thing--anything she had to.  Just as suddenly as everything
had tilted, it righted itself.

Straightening, she aimed a cool look at her cousin, who lounged on the
low sofa in a seductive pose.  She said nothing, but let her eyes rest
on Klavdia's sulky face until the blond woman began to fidget against
the bright cushions.  Satisfied, she slid her gaze to Gvozdev.

He was gauging her, his eyes thin black slits in the' pink folds of
fat.

"Do correct me if I am wrong, Count Gvozdev" -- her voice was soft and
steady "--but I was of the old-fashioned opinion that it is impolite to
enter someone's house without permission."

Gvozdev had felt a jolt of almost physical pleasure at the panic
reflected on her face when she had first stepped into the room.  But
now her quick recovery brought a frown to his face.  Moving to rise
from the low, deep sofa, he had to wriggle forward, his short, fat legs
kicking ineffectually a few times before he managed to reach the floor.
Rage that had nothing to do with what he had come here for bubbled up
inside of him.

"And I, my dear, am of the old-fashioned opinion that it is treason to
aid a traitor to the tsar."  He pressed his hands together and rubbed
his palms in a circular motion.

Irina suppressed the desire to turn away from his opaque black gaze. "I
know what you are talking about, since I have already made acquaintance
with this obsession of yours, but truly" -- she lifted her hands in a
graceful gesture of denial "--I fail to see what it has to do with
me."

Oh, she was a cool one.  Gvozdev could feel the rage pressing upward
inside him like a column of steam.  He exhaled carefully before he
spoke.  Later, he thought.  Later the time would come when he would be
able to vent his rage on her.

"Do you deny that you aided Muromsky after his dishonorable escape from
the Peter and Paul Fortress?"  he demanded.  "Do you deny that you
traveled across Russia with him?"  Irina's mouth curved in a cool
smile.

"You laugh at me?"  He stepped closer, acutely aware of his wife's
sharp blue eyes watching the exchange.  He had married 'her for her
porcelain beauty, but he had few illusions about her character.

"If you knew how preposterous your assumption is, you would laugh
yourself.  It all sounds like a French novel of adventure."

"You were seen together!  I have witnesses!"  He ground a fist into his
palm and began to pace.  Yes, he had witnesses, but only stupid,
provincial soldiers and dull-witted peasants.  Unless she confessed or
he found tangible proof--He broke off the thought, not wanting to think
about the subtle warning the tsar had given him.  If he was to openly
accuse the widow of Prince Golovin of treason, the proof he had
obtained--or manufactured--had better be first-class.

She marveled at how far away the fear she had felt earlier was. Looking
Gvozdev straight in the eye, she shrugged.  "Your witnesses cannot be
very reliable if they claim to have seen me with Prince Muromsky." 
Lowering herself to an ottoman, she invited Gvozdev to sit with an
elegant twist of her wrist.

Cursing the soft, low oriental furniture of the room, Gvozdev sat down
on the edge of a brightly patterned sofa.  "Who were you traveling
with, then?"

Irina sighed audibly, the slight compression of her lips expressing
impatience and exasperation.  "I am eager to rest, but I will give you
a few more minutes, Count Gvozdev.

"I traveled with a serf who had the reputation of being an excellent
coachman and guide.  However, it would seem I chose badly."  She let
her eyes cloud with distress.  "He chose to run away when I fell
ill,"

"Why did you leave secretly, in the dead of night, without telling
anyone?"

Irina's eyebrows rose.  "The servants who had my confidence were
informed.  Who else was I supposed to tell?  You?  My cousin perhaps?"
Her gaze was contemptuous as it passed over Klavdia, "As to the time I
chose to leave, it was dictated solely by my impatience to begin my
journey."

"Is it not unusual for a lady like yourself to travel without at least
a maid to see to her comforts?  Klavdia would never dream of traveling
without servants."

"No doubt."  Irina sent her cousin another disdainful glance.  "I, on
the other hand, did not choose to subject any of my servants to the
rigors of the journey.  On the road, I could pay for any help I needed,
and I knew there would be enough servants here in Gurzuf."

She rose.  "I must ask you to excuse me now.  I am tired from my
journey.  When I have rested, we can speak further."  She moved toward
the door.

"Do not walk away from me," Gvozdev sputtered.  "I have the tsar's
pouvoir to question anyone I see fit in con-neet ion with Muromsky's
escape."

"And what, pray tell, do I have to do with Muromsky's escape?  Have you
found him here in the villa perhaps, or on the grounds?  Or any trace
of him?  Since I know you have not, that you cannot," she said,
allowing herself a small smile, "I do not see why you should want to
question me in this connection."

A servant appeared in the doorway with her valise in hand.  "Where does
barynia want her luggage?"

"Put it in the green room, please.  That is the room my husband always
used, I believe."

"You cannot."  Klavdia's slightly nasal voice was smug.  "That is the
room I am using."

Irina felt a moment of panic.  She needed to be in that room.  It was
the room Ilarion had described to her.

Folding her hands together to hide that they were suddenly not quite
steady, she turned toward Gvozdev again.  "I have chosen to overlook
that you have invaded my house and made yourselves at home.  Since we
are related in a manner of speaking, I am extending the invitation to
you to remain."  She paused, hoping that she was not making a mistake.
Surely it would be better to have Gvozdev where she could at least, to
some small extent, monitor his activities.

She straightened to her full height.  "I will tell the servants to
remove Klavdia's belongings to another room."  Looking Gvozdev directly
in the eye, she dared him to challenge her.

Klavdia began to protest, her high voice turning petulant, and was
shushed impatiently by her husband.  Irina gave Gvozdev a small nod of
acknowledgment and turned.

As she walked out of the room, her step was steady, giving no
indication that she had begun to tremble.

She had bested him, Ovozdev fumed as he watched her leave the room. But
the game was not over, he swore.  It was not yet over.  And before it
was, by God, he would have his quarry.

The room Irina had demanded was named after the pale green Chinese silk
with its delicate pattern of tree branches and birds in gold and a
darker green that graced its walls.  While two of the maids were
removing Klavdia's things and changing the linen on the bed, she
stepped out onto the balcony.

The view from the balcony was indeed as lovely as Ilar-ion had told her
it would be.  The water with its sapphire blue color sparkling so
brightly that it hurt the eyes to look at it.  The garden with its
lemon and orange trees, the bushes of myrtle and oleander and the wide
umbrella pines and slender cypresses standing sentinel at its edge. The
village with its minarets the color of sand and quaint, flat-roofed
huts.  But this was not what she was looking for.

Halfway between here and the village stood an incongruous wooden
replica of a French chfiteau.  Her gaze rested on it for a moment and
then passed on.  The umbrella pines almost hid the next house from
view, but she could just glimpse the brick red tiles that Alexei's
father had brought back from Italy.

Had Alexei reached safety?  she wondered.  Had he found people to help
him?  Had he been careful enough that Gvozdev's minions who were surely
watching the Murom-sky villa had not recognized him?  Even as the
questions swept through her, she told herself that he was safe.  Surely
she would have felt it if anything had happened to him.

Willing Alexei to find a way to let her know he was safe, she gave the
red tiles a last look and went inside.

Sending the servants off to bring her bathwater, she locked the door
and ran to the large armoire that stood in one corner.  She opened it
and knelt, needing to stretch both arms out fully to find the
mechanisms that controlled the false bottom.  The costly wood sprang up
with a soft click and she placed the roll of jewelry and the coins she
had taken from the valise inside.  In a pinch the compartment would be
large enough to conceal a person for a brief time, she thought, staring
into the dark space so intently that she did not hear the door handle
being pressed downward.

A knock on the door had her starting as if she had been burned.
Hurriedly she closed both compartment and at-moire and opened the door,
dizzy from fatigue and her furiously beating heart,

But it was not the servants Irina had been expecting.  Instead, Klavdia
leaned against the door frame, admiring the rings on her fingers.
Before she could shut the door again, Klavdia had straightened with the
quick, sinuous grace of a cat and, giving Irina a sharp jab in the
chest with her knuckles, swept past her into the room.

Off guard, Irina stumbled backward.  Out of breath and helpless, she
could only watch as Klavdia strode to the dresser and began pulling out
drawers.  Finding them empty, she made a sound of disgrist and moved to
where the open valise stood.  She plucked out one garment after
another, throwing them on the floor.  When she turned around to face
Irina, her mouth was distorted by fury.

"You know, I really underestimated you, rna cousine.  You may look and
act like a prissy little governess, but you have managed to abscond
with the most attractive man and the most valuable collection of jewels
in St.  Petersburg."  Her delicate hands balled into fists.  "Where are
they?"

For some reason, Irina found it more difficult to defend herself
against Klavdia's bald statement than against Gvozdev's accusations.
Perhaps because the personal greed reflected in it frightened her even
more than anything Gvozdev

"If that is all you have to say, Klavdia, I suggest you leave."

"Oh no, ma chore.  You will not be rid of me that easily."  Klavdia
came closer.  "You see, Gvozdev only suspects, deduces.  I know."  Her
mouth curved in a sneer.  "I can smell it on you."

The venom in her words had nausea rising in Irina's throat and she
turned away before her cousin could see her weakness.  But before she
had taken a step, Klavdia had grabbed her shoulder and spun her back
around to face her.

"I am not done with you," she raged, and then cursed when a light knock
on the door was followed by servants entering with a tub and pails of
hot water.

Her fingers biting into Irina's ann, she pulled her out onto the
balcony.

"Listen to me.  You are a prisoner here.  There is no way you can
escape."  Her blue eyes glittered with pleasure and malice.  "Gvozdev
will see to that and so will I. But" -- her grip on Irina's ann
loosened, just a fraction "--I will make you an offer."

"I am not interested in your offers."  Irina twisted out of Klavdia's
grip.  "I do not want to listen to you."  She moved toward the French
doors.

"Too bad.  You will listen."  Klavdia blocked her way.  "I will help
you."  Her voice subsided to a murmur.  "I will help you and Muromsky
escape.  For a price."

The temptation to say yes was overwhelming, but Irina fought it and
won.  "I do not need your help, Klavdia."  She dragged in a breath.
"And whether you help Muromsky or not is your own business."

"All right.  Have it your way."  Her lips curved in a sly smile.  "But
think about this.  You will be a prisoner in this house and, sooner of
later, he will be caught trying to get to you."

Irina felt a new spurt of fear and turned her head aside, afraid that
it would be reflected in her eyes.

"All I want is your jewels, Irina," Klavdia cajoled.  "Give me your
jewels and I will help you escape.  Both of you."

Irina curled her hands tightly around the balcony railing.  Klavdia was
lying.  She knew it.  She could feel it.  But her words were so
tempting, Irina thought, and she was so tired.  "Think about it."

Her soft words were like a siren's song in Irina's ears.  "What are
your jewels against your lover's life?"

Irina tightened her grip on the railing, feeling like Odysseus lashing
himself to the mast.  She begged, prayed for the strength to say no.

Do not do anything rash, love.  I will find a way, I promise.  Will you
remember that and wait for me?  This time I

will make it right.

Her resolve was beginning to crack when the words that Alexei had
spoken rose in her memory, lightening her heart.  How could she have
forgotten?  New courage poured into her like a healing balm.

"I have no need of your help, Klavdia."  Her voice was strong again and
her eyes were steady.  "But even if I did, I would not trust you.  I
remember only too well that you wanted Muromsky for yourself,"

Klavdia shrugged.  "I have no need to pursue men who ... do not wish to
be pursued."  The memory of Alexei's carelessly insolent rejection
still lay bitter on her tongue and she lowered her eyes.  "There are
plenty of others."

Irina expelled a soft sigh of relief.  In the split second before K!
avdia had lowered her eyes, she had seen the flicker of hatred there
and she had known.  Klavdia would have betrayed them--not just for the
jewels, but because she had never forgiven Alexei for refusing her
charms.

"Then I wish you good hunting, my cosine," Irina said, and moved
toward the door.

Inside, her bath was ready and she began to un braid her hair, although
she could feel Klavdia's gaze like pinpricks on the back of her neck.

When she was done, she turned toward Klavdia, who was still standing
just inside the French doors.  "I would appreciate some privacy now."

Klavdia looked at her for a long moment, measuring her, before she
spoke.  "My offer is still open, but not for long."  Her lightly
mocking tone belied the apprehension that clutched at her stomach. 
This new Irina made her afraid, unsure.  "After that I will enjoy
watching you watching him be taken away in chains."

Irina said nothing, but when the door closed behind her cousin, she
trembled.

The garden was still covered with dew as Irina took a brisk morning
walk.  Klavdia had been both right and wrong, she thought.  Every step
she took was watched, and Gvozdev had forbidden her to leave the
grounds, but within that framework she could move around the house and
garden freely.

She spent much of her time exploring the grounds, not just because she
hated the inactivity of being shut up in her room, but because she
wanted to accustom her jailers, as she had begun to think of them, to
her presence in the garden at all hours.  For surely, when Alexei came
for her, it would be the garden that would offer them some means for
their escape.

Up ahead one of the gardeners was working on the flower bed that
bordered the white-graveled path and Irina stopped to watch him.  His
love for the plants he nurtured was obvious in the way he touched each
flower.  Even when his gnarled old hands pulled a weed, his touch
seemed benign.

lapestry o!  ~ate When he straightened and turned to look directly at
her for a long moment before he bent to the waist in a bow, she
realized with a little start of pleasure that she knew who he was from
Ilarion's'stories.  Her step quickened as she walked toward him.  "You
must be Simon."

"Yes, barynia."  Surprise and delight showed in his eyes before he
again bowed deeply.

"The prince always asked about you when he wrote to the overseer."  She
heard the guards narrow the distance between them so that they could
hear what she was saying.  "I am glad that you are well."

"I grieved when the prince died," Simon said.

Irina's mouth curved in a sad smile.  "Yes, Simon.  So did i."

The old man leaned forward to kiss her shoulder in the age-old gesture
of fealty.  Then he bent to a flat-bottomed basket that was piled high
with showy peonies and picked up a bunch of red-and-white ones that had
been already bound together in a bouquet.

"Perhaps barynia would like these for her room?"  He handed them to
her, closing her hands around the stems with his rough fingers.

Immediately alert, Irina knew that he had just given her some kind of a
message.  No serf would normally allow himself such a familiar touch.

"Thank you, Simon.  I will see you again."

"Yes, barynia," he said solemnly.  "I am always in the garden."

Wondering what Simon had been trying to tell her, Irina turned back
toward the house.  As she walked, she lifted the full-blown flowers to
her face to catch their faint scent.  Something touched her nose and
she jerked her head back.  Looking down, she saw that a tiny slip of
paper had been wedged between the white flowers.

Alexei!  It was a message from Alexei, she thought.  It had to be. She
needed every scrap of control not to break into a run.

The moment she closed and locked her door behind her, she reached for
the paper, remembering only at the last moment to examine the room to
make certain that it was empty.  Then she pulled it out.

Soon.  The first spurt of disappointment at the brevity of the message
was replaced by a fierce joy.  Alexei was safe.  And soon he would come
for her.

After a week, the guards who accompanied her paid hardly any attention
to her at all, Irina thought with satisfaction.  They had become so
accustomed to her prowling the garden or sitting with her basket of
needlework while Simon talked to her about the plants and flowers that
they watched her only desultorily while talking amongst themselves or
playing at dice.

Thus, it was easy for Simon to tell her about the small door in the
garden wall that was concealed by tall hedges of arborvitae on both
sides.  It was easy for her to conceal the thick roll with the jewels
and the pouch with the coins in her needlework basket and then leave
them among the flowers for Simon to hide at the base of a fountain not
'far from the door.

Every night, Irina watched the waning moon and held on to the single
word of Alexei's message.  Her impatience grew, but instead of making
her uneasy, the long delay made her foolishly confident that everything
would be all right.

When Simon pressed flowers on her again with a meaningful glance, her
heart leapt with joy.  The time had come.

This time, lulled into security by the negligence of her guards, she
did not, could not, wait until she had reached her room to read the
note that was hidden among the bios soms.  She read the brief
instructions to be in the vicinity of the garden door at eleven o'clock
the following evening.  As Irina read the note, sharp, china blue eyes
watched her, and Klavdia, too, knew that the time had come.

Chapter Twenty- Two

The evening was overcast, the clouds obscuring the half moon.  Everyone
seemed to have retired early and the house was silent as Irina closed
her door behind her.

She had considered every possibility, from stealing down the stairs and
into the garden to climbing down the trellis at the corner of the house
along which honeysuckle trailed.  But she had finally decided on the
most straightforward approach.  The house, after all, was surrounded by
guards and her chances of slipping through them unobserved were as good
as nonexistent.  She could only hope that Alexei had taken that fact
into account.

Near the door two guards were playing a desultory game of cards.

"I am afraid I shall have to trouble you once more this evening."  She
smiled apologetically.  "I could not sleep and I thought a turn in the
garden"

"I will accompany he[, grace, " the younger of the two said to his
companion as-he threw down his cards.  "You've stacked the cards so
well that I'll lose my shirt before the night is over anyway."

The older man cuffed his shoulder good-naturedly and unlocked the door
for them.

She saw the shadowy figures of the other guards around the house as
they acknowledged the man who accompanied her with a silent wave and
she wondered if there were more where she could not see them.

In her room Irina had waited for the appointed hour to arrive with the
utter calm that comes once that all-important decision is made.  But
now, as she moved down the white-graveled path, her heart began to
race.  In the heavy, fragrant night air of the garden, her nerves
surfaced until her skin seemed to shiver and she had to fight the urge
to run.

Alexei was here, in the garden, waiting for her.  She knew it.  Her
heart could feel his heart beating somewhere near.

The torches that burned around the house were only a faint glimmer in
the inky blackness of the southern night.  The shrubs and bushes seemed
to take on the monstrous shapes of some nightmarish landscape with only
the path that wound between them like a white ribbon a safe haven.

Up ahead the circular little clearing with its marble fountain came
into view.  Her senses heightened, her nerves strung as tight as
bowstrings, she moved forward.  The call of a night bird somewhere
close by had her racing heart throbbing in her throat.  The call came
again and a moment later a third time.

A signal!  It had been a signal!  The realization froze her in the
middle of a step.  She pressed her fingers to the hollow of her throat,
where the pounding had become so violent that it seemed impossible that
the fragile skin there could withstand it.  Even as she strained to
hear something, anything, she could hear nothing over the frantic
drumming in her ears.

She would not have noticed the dull thud behind her if it had not been
followed by the crunch of gravel.  Spinning around, she saw a small,
wiry man pulling the burly guard into the shrubs, the heels ~of his
boots digging deep furrows in the gravel.  Horror at what had to be
done and a nascent joy that soon she would be with Alexei rose and
twined.  She wanted to follow the man, to ask him-- Before she could

translate the wish into motion, a hand was over her
mouth, cutting off her air.

Even as a black curtain seemed to descend in front of her eyes, her
muscles tensed in anticipation of the struggle.  Fighting desperately
to pull in enough air through her nose to feed her lungs, she never
heard the reassuring whisper.

Finally she drew in air, and with it came the scent of the garden and
of the man.  Her muscles grew lax as her body recognized the scent.  It
took another breath for the realization that it was Alexei who held her
to sink into her brain.

Feeling the tension, the readiness to fight, flow out of her body,
Alexei slid his hand from her mouth and turned her to face him.

"I'm sorry.  I was afraid you would cry out."  His voice was no louder
than the rustle of leaves in the lightest of breezes.  "We cannot
afford any noise."

Irina nodded only, afraid that she would not be able to control her
vocal chords if she spoke.  Then, as the deep, quiet joy poured through
her, she lifted her hands to cup his face and pressed her lips to his.
The waiting was finally over.

An arm around her shoulders, Alexei guided her.  As they passed the
gently burbling fountain, she gestured toward it, her eyes
questioning.

"Yesterday," he mouthed.

As he looked at Irina, the clouds shifted to reveal the moon.  AS the
milky light spilled over her, it allowed him, for the first time, to
see her face clearly.

His conscience, his acute sense of duty, had not made it easy for him.
How many times in the past days had he been haunted by the thought that
honor demanded that he remain in Russia, no matter that it meant his
death?  But now, as the love filled his heart and overflowed, the
absolute certitude clicked softly, irrevocably into place.  He put the
past to rest and new hope took root within him.

Irina saw something in his eyes change--something
basic, something important.  It would be all right, she thought.  They
would be all right.

The sound of a pistol being cocked broke into their universe like a
rock smashing glass.

"What a touching little scene."

As they turned toward the mocking voice, Alexei's hand crept toward his
own weapon.

"No."  Klavdia's voice was icy.  "No matter how fast you are, I will be
faster, and my pistol is aimed right at my little cousin's heart."  She
paused.  "And I know how to use it.  Now, your pistol."

A black rage surged through ~Alexei, obscuring everything, but he
fought it back, knowing that he needed a clear, cool head.  Slowly he
took the pistol from his belt and threw it on the ground.  He still had
his dagger.

"Do not worry, Alexei.  I do not want your pitiful little lives.  All I
want are the jewels."  Her mouth curved in an amiable smile, but her
eyes remained cold.  "AS soon as you give them tome, you are free to
go."

"All right."  Already he was measuring the distance, planning how he
would move.  "If you put the pistol down, I will tell you where they
are."

"Ah, a reasonable man.  I like that."  But instead of putting her
weapon down, she lifted it in an impatient gesture.  "Where?"

Even as she spoke the last word, Alexei saw the pistol wobble as one of
the hands that held it fluttered up to her heart.  Good, he thought
with grim satisfaction.  A perfect time for the little bitch to get the
vapors.

With a single lunge, he closed the distance between them, the side of
his hand striking her wrist even before the movement was completed.
Even as he bent to pick up the pistol, a prickling at the back of his
neck had him looking over his shoulder.

The world shattered as he saw Gvozdev step from the shadows and grip
Irina's shoulder with one hand as he pressed the muzzle of a pistol
into the hollow beneath her ear.

"My advantage now, it would seem.  I suggest you stand up, Muromsky."
His voice was obscenely avuncular.  "Slowly.  Very slowly."

His blood curdling, his skin icing over, Alexei rose from his half
crouch inch by careful inch.  His gaze did not linger on Irina's face,
did not dare linger there.  But he knew that the terror in her widened
eyes would forever be with him.

As he straightened, the desire to look at Irina again was so strong
that he could taste it.  But, afraid that his fear for her would make
him weak when he needed to be strong, he did not.  With the seasoned
eye of a professional soldier, he gauged the distance between himself
and his opponent.

Gvozdev chuckled.  "I can only repeat what my dear little wife said
just minutes ago.  No matter how fast you are, I will be faster."  His
eyes flicked over to Klavdia.  "Kick the pistol aside so that he cannot
reach it."

When She gracefully bent down and picked it up, it did not occur to him
that she had disobeyed him.

"I apologize for misjudging you, Klavdia my dear."  Gvozdev chuckled as
he glanced again at his wife.  "I thought you had gone to meet a lover,
but you wanted to satisfy another kind of greed."  He laughed again,
blind to the bitter loathing in her eyes.  "I am quite grateful to
you."

"Now," he continued, "it is I who would be interested to find out where
the jewels are."  His smile pushed the folds of fat upward so that his
eyes narrowed to slits.  "Before I hand you over to my men."  To lend
emphasis to his words, his grip on Irina's shoulder tightened until she
cried out.

Alexei dragged in a breath past the rage that threatened to choke him.
He would kill him for this.  "The fountain."  His voice was steady.
"They are at the base of the fountain."

Japestry o!  rate z51

~ "Get them?"

Without taking his eyes off Gvozdev, Alexei moved to the fountain and
extracted the laced-up roll of fabric from where it had been wedged
between the marble base and the low hedge.  The pebbles he had placed
inside were just the right weight to fool anyone who did not bother to
look inside.

Holding the roll loosely in his hand, he gauged the distance again.  He
stood closer to Gvozdev now.  He had to distract him, Alexei thought.
He had to get the pistol away from Ifina's neck.

Irina fought to ignore the pain in her shoulder where Gvozdev's fingers
bit into her flesh.  She fought to ignore the muzzle of the pistol,
which had turned warm against her skin.

As Gvozdev spoke, Irina looked at Klavdia.  Her cousin's eyes, glazed
with greed now, were riveted on the roll of fabric that Alexei held.
The weapon seemed to lie forgotten in her hand.

Her gaze skittered back to Alexei.  He was preparing to move.  She
could feel it.  Her own muscles tensed in response as she imagined his
muscles bunching subtly like a cat's as he readied himself to pounce.

Alexei looked past Gvozdev into the empty shadows, his face breaking
into a smile.  "Welcome, my friend.  I thought you would never come."

The hand that held the pistol wavered as Gvozdev's gaze veered away
from Alexei and over his shoulder.

As if by prearranged signal, the moonlit garden exploded into motion.

Pretending to slump headfirst, Irina ducked away from the pistol,
sharply jabbing her elbow backward into Gvozdev's middle.

Alexei reached for the dagger at his side.

Klavdia lifted the pistol.

Irina felt the hand that had been crushing her shoulder slacken, and
she twisted away, the momentum propelling her facedown onto the
gravel.

Alexei hesitated for half a breath to make certain that Irina was safe
before he sent his dagger flying.

Klavdia did not hesitate at all before she pressed the trigger.

Gvozdev's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent cry.  When he
fell to the ground, the blood was already staining his chest from twin
bullet and knife wounds.

As suddenly as the movement had begun, it stilled so that the scene
looked as if it had turned into a horrible tableau vivant.  But only
for a heartbeat.  Then Alexei was kneeling at Irina's side.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."  Her voice sounded rusty.

He heard the crunch of gravel behind him and turned to see Klavdia
kneeling in the shadows where he had thrown the fabric bundle.  The
pistol lay forgotten beside her as she tore at the leather laces.

They had but seconds, a minute at best.  Alexei raised Irina to her
feet and, with a speed fed by desperation, pulled her toward ~the hedge
that hid the low door from view.

Shouts, the voices of approaching guards were audible as they slipped
through the door and half ran, half slid down the incline to where a
man stood, holding the reins of a mount.

Alexei vaulted into the saddle.  As he lifted Ifina up to sit in front
of him, he heard Klavdia's howl of chagrin from behind the wall.  He
spurred his horse and they galloped toward the sea.

The fisher boat bought and manned by Muromsky servants who had been
Alexei's boyhood playmates, sliced cleanly through the dark water, the
slap of the oars as regular as clockwork.

Holding Irina cradled against him, Alexei watched the stretch of beach
recede.  It turned to a pale ribbon against the sea.  Then a thread.
When the thread slipped beyond the horizon, he felt Irina shift against
him and he knew that she, too, had been watching.

Needing to see his eyes, Irina pushed her hand through the opening of
her cloak and reached up to touch his face.  He met her eyes, and the
relief that swept through her was so powerful that she could have wept.
Yes, there was sadness there, but none of the bleak hesS the
hopelessness, she had been so afraid of.

"I love you."  He brushed his fingertips over her face.  "And I love
you."

Alexei pulled her close and, as their hearts beat in unison, they
waited for the dawn of the new day.

Epilogue

Florence, Italy July 5, 1833

Alexei paced the room, his shirt streaked with sweat, his eyes wild. It
was his fault.  It was his fault that she was suffering like this. When
Irina's groan filtered through the door, his hand closed over the back
of a chair so tightly that the ornately carved wood drew blood.

The joy he had felt that they would have a child after all was gone.
All he knew was self-reproach and the abject terror he had felt ever
since the moment the doctor had kindly, but firmly, closed the door to
the bedroom in his face.  The man had come to reassure him several
times since, but what good were words when he had glimpsed Irina's
beloved face distorted with pain.  When he heard her groans.

All night and half.  the day he had stared at the brandy bottle,
wishing for the short-lived relief it would give.  But what right did
he have to grant himself relief when Irina had none?  But he reached
for it now and splashed a measure of the amber liquid into a glass. But
he did not drink.

When he heard her long, high-pitched scream, his fingers tightened on
the thin crystal, crushing it.  He stood un-moving, as if he had been
turned to stone, noticing neither

the brandy nor the blood that ran over his hand to
drip down onto the carpet.

He heard the thin wail of a baby, but even though the sound registered,
he still did not move.

When the door opened, Alexei stared at the doctor, who came toward him
wiping his hands with a linen towel.  The rotund little man stopped in
front of him and smiled.

"Congratulations, your grace.  You have a daughter.  A healthy
daughter."

The flash of joy that went through him was obscured by fear.  "My
wife?"  His voice was hoarse from the countless cigars he had smoked.

The doctor put his hand on Alexei's ann.  "Your wife is fine.  You can
see her in a moment."  His gaze flickered down to Alexei's hand.  "As
soon as I have cleaned that up."

Alexei looked down at his hand with some surprise.  Then he looked back
at the doctor.  "Is she really all right?  I heard"

"Everything went perfectly."

"But"

"Perfectly," he repeated.  "Believe me."  The doctor pushed Alexei into
a chair and went to fetch a bandage.

Minutes later Alexei was still numb with fear as he stood on the
threshold of the bedroom.

Ifina lay in the middle of the bed where their daughter had been
conceived and born.  There were lavender smudges under her eyes, but
she was smiling.

A little corner of his fear fell away, allowing him to come forward.
With slow, halting steps he moved toward her until he stood at the edge
of the bed.  Incapable of speech, he looked down at her, his hands
opening and closing at his sides.

Irina patted the bed beside her.  "Sit, love."

Carefully, hesitantly, he lowered himself to the bed.  Her hand still
lay there, fragile, almost as pale as the white linen.  He slid his own
hand under it and bent to press his lips against it.

As his mouth touched her warm skin, the tears shot into his eyes so
quickly, so strongly, that he had no defense against them.  Only now
did he realize how afraid he had been that when he next touched her
hand it would be cold and lifeless.

Irina felt the warm wetness on her hand and her own eyes filled in
response.  She turned her hand palm upward and cupped his cheek.

"Look, my love," she whispered.

When Alexei had raised his head, she turned back the blanket so that he
could see the child that slept against her naked breast.

"This is Julie."

Alexei's eyes filled with wonder as he looked down at the tiny, perfect
girl child.  For a long time he feasted his eyes on her before his gaze
met Irina's over the head of the child their love had made.

Their eyes met and held until Irina's eyelids began to droop with
fatigue.

"Do you remember, love?"  Her eyelids fluttered upward.  "Do you
remember the afternoon in the birch woods?"

He smiled.  "Of course."  He remembered every moment of that afternoon.
Every moment.

"I told you then that it was worth any risk."  She smiled.  "It was. It
still is."

He leathered his fingertips over her cheek, afraid to touch her more
strongly.  "I love you, Irina."

"Hmm," she murmured, her eyes drifting closed.  "Stay with me while I
sleep."

Alexei sat very still and watched as his wife and child slept.  Irina
had been right.  It had been worth any risk.  It still was.

Author's Note

The major characters in this story are all purely fictional, although
there is a smattering of historical personages among Alexei's
coconspirators.  I could not resist, however, giving my hero a few
attributes, both physical and spiritual, of my grandfather, who was a
colonel in the White Army during the Russian Civil War and who, like my
hero, had a weakness for lost causes.

Readers who have even a nodding acquaintance with Russian novels will
wonder that I by and large left out the complicated forms of address.
Russian aristocratic society was very formal, and even within the
family people often addressed one another with first name and
patronym~c.  However, I decided to dispense with that to make it easier
for my readers, just as I dispensed with the female ending of surnames
to avoid confusion.