He'd listened politely, neither moving nor interrupting while she expressed her feelings, only watching her silently as she moved across the thick Kuba carpet, his dark eyes drifting occasionally to her slippered feet crushing the luxurious pile. Hand loomed near his mountain home, the navy-and-russet carpet reminded him powerfully of childhood summers, of his favorite retreat…and of his wish to take Lisaveta there. "I don't want to be sensible," he said, unmoving still.

"And I'm not interested in what you want." Lisaveta stood utterly motionless, as though her explanation had clarified both her mind and her restlessness.

Stefan's voice was almost hushed when he answered. "Are you interested in what you want?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand either his tone or his words. "Are you talking about sex? Why don't you just say it? DO you want to know if I want you?"

He shook his head, his first movement since he'd dropped into the chair, and even that response was minimal.

Her brows rose in brief surprise. "You don't?"

"I already know that. I was wondering if you were willing to acknowledge it."

His casual arrogance annoyed her. Prince Stefan Bariatinsky was much too confident. "I'm not afraid to acknowledge it. Surely after our leisurely trip north you're aware of my interest in your… assets."

He smiled faintly at her choice of words.

"I'm not, however, interested in the current triangle, which includes your fiancée."

"I had no idea Nadejda would be here." His voice was low and matter-of-fact. It wasn't an apology, only a statement.

Lisaveta grimaced. "But she is. And angry and resentful. With reason. I don't blame her."

"We could leave."

"No we couldn't," she protested. "No, I don't want to. No, I'm not open to other options to satisfy your salacious urges. No! Don't touch me!" she impassionedly finished as Stefan rose with a startling swiftness.

He stood very quietly for a moment as though her words had rebuffed him, and then he reached up to unbutton the collar hooks of his uniform tunic. The silver braided collar loosened and he pulled it away slightly from his tanned neck. "I won't if you don't want me to," he softly said, his hand dropping to his side.

"Good. I don't." She should have moved away then. It would have imparted more credulity to her declaration. But she didn't, and he took note of that omission.

"Do you know how much death and carnage I've seen in the past three months?" She didn't answer, and he continued, only his voice conveying his restlessness. "The Turks can skin a man alive," he quietly said. "It takes hours the way they do it. The screams are unearthly. You never forget them." He drew in a deep breath before continuing, and his voice dropped even further in volume. "They echo in your mind and make you break out in a cold sweat. They keep you awake at night, they make you pray to God you're never captured alive. They make you vow to die fighting. And you wonder at your courage, at your will to go on to another month of war, or two or six months, when you hardly sleep anymore, when you're afraid to shut your eyes because it could mean your death or, worse, your capture. When you haven't been clean in weeks and the food is grim or at best adequate. When you hear every day of another friend who's died. Thousands of Russian troops have died in assaulting Kars, and the only reason I'm on leave now is that replacements have to be brought up." His gaze surveyed the luxury of his surroundings as if to reassure himself he was safe from the black demons of the war and then came back to her.

"You helped me forget last week," he declared very simply. "You did for me, as well," Lisaveta replied.

"We helped each other then." He smiled his achingly beautiful smile. "And you reminded me there's goodness and laughter and love in the world."

"I know, Stefan," Lisaveta breathed, her voice almost inaudible, the quiet of the room surrounding them like silken solace. "I know what you're feeling. Life and living mean so much more to me now for haying almost died. But I won't…" she quietly added. "Please…" Her eyes were the color of warm sunsets and not pleading so much as patient. "Just thank you… I mean it truly. Thank you for everything."

She knew her feelings were becoming too involved with Russia's most exalted hero. He was so much more than his grand and valorous public image. She was drawn to his wit and intelligence as well as attracted to his harsh beauty, while his gentleness and expertise as a lover were pure perfection. She could never stay, so she must leave before her feelings were so deeply committed he would be forever in her heart. Her chin lifted a scant distance and her voice took on a new determination. "I'm going upstairs to rest before dinner and I intend to leave in the morning."

"You're sure?"

"I am."

He smiled. "And nothing I can say will change your mind?"

"Stefan," Lisaveta said, returning his smile, feeling more confident with her decision made, "you can have any woman in the Empire. You don't need me." Turning to go, she couldn't resist the obvious pointed barb. "Besides, Nadejda's here to entertain you."

It was not a pleasant thought. "Bitch," he whispered, the word ambiguously caressing.

Lisaveta grinned. "I couldn't resist. Forgive me." But her apology was lighthearted and unapologetic. "Until dinner, mon chou" she buoyantly said, feeling new strength in the rightness of her choice, and blowing him a smiling kiss, she left.

"Until tonight, mon chou" Stefan softly breathed. He'd make love to her then and convince her to stay, the best soldier in the Tsar's army vowed. And he'd never lost a campaign in his life.

Chapter Four

Nadejda wore lavender crepe de chine with diamonds in her hair at dinner, and were it not for her disagreeable tongue she would have been the picture of radiant beauty. She had, however, since being seated, complained of the heat, taken issue with the servants' casual behavior and condemned the country style of food numerous times. Her patience curtailed by yet another remark about its quaintness, Aunt Militza coolly said to her, "Stefan has a Georgian palate and refuses to have a French chef."

"We have always had a French chef," Nadejda replied, as though her wishes were primary, as though she were already running the household. Her mama had assured her she would have total control since men preferred detachment from household functions.

"Perhaps you should think of adding a Georgian chef, as well," Militza retorted, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Her family had been royalty for a thousand years before the Taneievs had been elevated to princely status.

"Surely Stefan enjoys French cuisine, don't you, my dear." Nadejda turned to Stefan with her winning smile, the smile she felt had successfully gained Stefan's attention in Saint Petersburg six months ago.

Stefan, dressed comfortably in the embroidered silk shirt and loose trousers native to his mother's land, was sprawled back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. His expression had remained unreadable while Nadejda had complained, Militza had seethed and the two women had discussed him as if he weren't present. While he appreciated Militza's advocacy for his taste in food, he could only see the disagreement escalating, and Nadejda's opinion on food or anything else was really rather incidental to him. He'd chosen her for a bride because her family was well connected at court, not for personal reasons. After the irregularity of his own childhood and his father's disgrace and loss of the Viceroyalty of the Caucasus, Stefan didn't care if Nadejda Taneiev liked African chefs, as long as the stability of the Taneiev family was intact. He was marrying that dependable stability, the court attachments, the conservative background. But he disliked the cattiness of Nadejda's tone and her grasping possessiveness as much as the thought of continuing disagreements over dinner when all he wanted to do was relax and drink his favorite wine from his own vineyard.

"I eat anything," he said blandly. "Militza, you know that. Nadejda can keep her French chef by all means. When you've campaigned as long as I, you learn to eat anything." He was the perfect host, pleasant, affable, ready to step in and smooth over controversy. "Georgi, more wine for the ladies." His major-domo, who stood beside Stefan's chair, signaled for a footman.

"Oh, no," Nadejda refused, waving away the servant. "Mama says a lady never has more than two glasses." Her lavender eyes, cool as her disdain, cast a scornful glance at Aunt Militza, who'd been keeping up with Stefan's consumption over dinner.

"Your mother was from the north," Militza curtly said, her brows drawn together in nettled pique, "where all they drink is tea to keep warm. Leave the bottle," she added to the young footman filling her glass.

Stefan couldn't help but smile at Militza's snappish answer to Nadejda's prudery. It could be a battlefield of a dinner, he thought, managing to hide his grin behind his uplifted wineglass. When he raised his eyes a moment later as the glass touched his lips, his gaze met Lisaveta's, and immediately memories returned of the bottle of wine they'd shared one morning in an enormous wooden tub set out on a flower-bedecked terrace. The sun had been warm, and they warmer still, hot with need and tumultuous passion, and the wine, chilled in a nearby mountain stream, was ambrosia to senses already attuned to pleasure. They had made love endlessly and then much later laughed with silliness and frivolous intimacy, as if they were the only two people in the world. Tonight, he thought, he'd touch her again and kiss her and make her laugh and give to her the enormous pleasure she'd given him.