Suddenly the fur robes were raised at the foot of the sleigh. I caught a quick glimpse of the pretty face and bosomy figure of a young girl before they were lowered again, shutting out the light. The girl had slipped under the robes and hidden herself just as I had done. Like me, she was huddled at the foot of the sleigh. Our bodies were almost touching. She was breathing very quickly, as if with fear.
Slowly, surreptitiously, she started to change position. Her hand fell on my thigh and clenched momentarily. I heard a sharp intake of breath. I didn’t give her a chance to expel it as a scream. I rolled over and quickly covered her mouth with my hand.
For a long moment we lay like that, frozen, face to face. A chink of light coming through the furs illuminated her eyes. They were wide and brown and staring. I held my hand over her mouth until her eyes became more perplexed than fearful. Slowly, carefully, I took my hand away, ready to clap it back over her lips if she started to scream.
But she was evidently as anxious to avoid discovery as I was. When she did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper and directly into my ear. The words had an urgency to them, but they were Russian and I didn’t capisce.
“Do you speak English?” I asked her.
She looked blank, more puzzled than ever.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” I tried.
No sale.
“Habla Español?”
She shook her head.
“Parlez-vous Français?”
“Un peu.”
It was something.
“I was maid to a noble lady who thought it chic to speak French to her lovers,” she explained in French. “I picked up enough to make myself understood.”
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Olga. And yours?”
“Steve. What are you doing here, Olga?”
“I might ask you the same question.” She was regaining some of her confidence.
“And there are others around who might like the answers to both questions,” I pointed out. Still, there was no reason not to tell her why I was hiding there. “There’s an angry Russian in a toga who wants to kill me,” I explained. “Add the fact that it’s cold outside and this seemed as good a place to hide as any.”
“That would be Orlov.” She chuckled without humor. “This is not the place for you to be then. This is the Empress’ sleigh and he’s sure to accompany her.”
“The Empress sleigh!” I cursed the luck. “Then I’d better get out.” I started to move.
“No!” She grabbed me. “You’re sure to be seen. Then you will be killed. And so will I if they find me here with you.”
“Just what are you doing here?” I asked again.
Olga looked at me speculatively, as if deciding just how much she could trust me. “This is the only way I can smuggle myself into the palace of the Tsar,” she told me finally.
“But why?” I persisted.
Now her look said she was trying to decide to just what extent I might be useful. “He is the fulcrum of injustice in Russia,” she said obscurely.
“Yes?” I waited.
“Many peasants die every day because of the Tsar and his tax collectors and his Cossacks. If he were to die it would mean life for many of the oppressed.” She stared hard at me, trying to gauge my reaction.
I fit the pieces together in my mind. They added up to a second plot to assassinate Tsar Peter III. Many similar plots aimed at Peter, and then at Catherine the Great, would be hatched during the next ten years. They would culminate in the great Peasant Revolt led by Pugachev in 1773. It would take Catherine two years to put down that uprising and Russia would never be the same. The Mother of all the Russias was to have her hands full.
Just now, the Mother of all the Russias was being helped into her sleigh by her lover, Grigori Orlov. Both wore long fur coats over their masquerade costumes. Olga and I stayed quiet, trying not to breathe, as the couple propped themselves against the backrest of the sleigh and stretched their bodies full length under the fur lap robes. One of the Empress’ boots lodged against my armpit. As the sleigh began to move she used her other foot to kick it off altogether. We picked up speed and she also managed to wriggle free of the other boot. She rubbed her feet together, seeking the warmth from the fur, her toes wiggling right under my nose.
Soon we were on the open road and the troika was traveling at a fast clip. Orlov had relaxed by spreading his legs wide. Olga had been forced to position herself between them to keep from crowding him. Catherine reached under the robes and groped for Orlov’s hand. She almost grabbed Olga’s ear. Quickly, to keep her from discovering us, I took the royal palm in my own. The Empress squeezed and her fingers trailed over the surface of my hand ticklingly, insinuatingly.
“Ahh, Grigori,” Catherine sighed. “Is there time for love when one is to be Tsarina?” she asked in German.
“There is always time for love.” He patted my head. “Your coat must have gotten wet,” he observed. “The fur is bristly.”
“It is too bulky anyway.” Catherine wriggled free of the garment under the robes and pulled my hand up to her breast. It was very soft and warm under the thin harem costume. She was breathing quite heavily.
“Mine too.” Orlov turned on his side and unbuttoned his coat. Olga was caught up in the folds of his toga. She looked at me helplessly. I shrugged and squeezed the Empress’ breast again. The nipple hardened and quivered under my palm.
Orlov fumbled under the robe. Olga anticipated him. She grasped his hand and pulled it down. Unbuttoning the bodice of her dress and pushing it down, she pressed his hand against it.
“Ahh, so soft,” Orlov sighed. “Is it not amazing,” he added, “how not being able to see what one is doing confuses one’s sense of anatomy. My sense of touch tells me I am caressing your glorious, Imperial breast, but it seems somehow placed differently on your glorious Imperial body.”
“Never mind that,” Catherine panted. “Don’t stop!”
I pushed aside the gauzy fabric and gave both my hands freedom to roam over her bosom. Orlov squeezed Olga’s bare breast enthusiastically. It had its effect. She bit her lip to keep from responding audibly.
The sleigh went over a bump in the road and we were all four jostled. My hand slid from Catherine’s breast, under the gauze to her naked belly. The material ripped with the movement.
“Impetuous boy,” she murmured. “That tickles!” Her smooth belly undulated beneath my fingertips.
“It is because you set me afire!” Orlov stroked my bare forearm, his fingers drifting higher with each motion. I signaled to Olga and shifted position slightly. She intercepted his fingers and now they stroked her thigh. Olga was positioned like a jackknife now, her skirts pulled up over her waist, the bloomers covering her derrière brushing against my cheek.
“Kiss me!” the Empress commanded.
They turned on their sides and kissed. Catherine’s lush hips writhed as her belly strained for contact with her lover. Orlov pulled up his toga and his manhood probed like a bloodhound on the scent for the body of his mistress. Caught between them, Olga and I improvised as best we could.
I pressed my elbow against Catherine’s thighs and they parted. Exquisite, white, quivering flesh gripped at my elbow. Doubtless she thought it was her lover’s knee. She pressed down against it with the fulcrum of her body and her belly twitched with an eager rhythm.
Still doubled over, Olga contrived to pin Orlov’s tumescent passion between her breasts. “Amazing!” he exclaimed as he and Catherine ended their kiss. “And yet there is a strange thrill to this disorientation.”