"He knows her," the man answered, and shrugged.
"And doesn't like her?" Tamada inquired.
The letter writer shrugged again. "Damned if I know, but I'll tell you this. I wouldn't mention her name again if he's around."
That night Stefan suddenly decided that since the campaign wasn't scheduled to begin for two more weeks, due to delays in transport of munitions primarily, he'd travel to Saint Petersburg.
It was an unusual decision, one likely to cause comment, but the Turks, too, had still not conveyed more than light replacements to the front. And since the weather had continued to be unseasonably warm, any large movements of troops from reserves in Erzurum or the Black Sea ports or Istanbul were considered unlikely. It would be suicidal without adequate supplies of water.
Additionally, the Russian engineers were still constructing the new telegraph lines encircling Kars, and their completion was delaying the attack, as well. Unlike Alaja Dagh, where lack of organization had cost the Russians their victory, the assault on Kars was going to be fully coordinated. Until that time, however, Stefan's presence as the general in command of cavalry was really unnecessary. And since he was as prudent a soldier as he was prodigal a man, he had conscientiously delegated those few duties that would have concerned him during the hiatus.
But his unusual decision to leave the front did cause considerable comment, as did his given reason: he wished to visit his fiancée. Everyone knew Stefan never mentioned his fiancée, and when her name came up occasionally, he immediately made it plain he wasn't marrying for love.
So bets were taken on the real reason he was traveling so great a distance, and the Countess Lazaroff figured prominently in those wagers. More complicated odds were negotiated on the outcome of his visit; both his temper and odd moodiness were factored in the point spread.
He went alone because he didn't want company in his sullenness; he also went alone for speed.
Haci had protested at first. "The road to Aleksandropol isn't safe," he'd said, his voice cool with reason.
"I'm in a hurry," was Stefan's blunt reply.
"Have I ever slowed you down?" his friend inquired, watching Stefan toss a few basic items in his saddlebag.
Stefan looked up, the dim lantern light in the tent they shared casting dark shadows across his aquiline features. His smile was brief but apologetic. "No offense, Haci. I should have said I want to be alone."
"It's still dangerous."
Stefan had resumed buckling the red leather straps securing the side pouches. "I'll be careful."
"You don't know how to be careful."
"I'm traveling at night… that'll help."
"You're crazy!" Haci went so far as to grab Stefan's arm for attention. "The road's almost impassable since the transports chewed it up. Cleo could break a leg in the dark."
"I wasn't planning on taking the road." With anyone else he would have shaken the restraining arm free. Out of courtesy for their friendship he ignored it, testing all the closures one more time before sliding an extra knife into his belt.
"Is she worth it?" Haci quietly asked, his hand falling away. "Worth your horse and maybe your life?"
Standing upright, Stefan exhaled gently before answering. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know why I'm going, I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, but-" he slid his saddlebag over his shoulder, took a quick glance around the small tent to see if he'd forgotten anything, still practical despite his tumultuous feelings, "-I'm going. I'll be back in two weeks."
"Even traveling fast," Haci persisted, heedful of the tremendous risks even if Stefan chose to overlook them, "you won't have more than two or three days in Saint Petersburg."
"I don't need much time." A flat statement.
"You may want more," Haci reminded him, aware of Stefan's craving for this woman.
"Then I'll bring her back." He was not to be deterred or dissuaded.
"Not here, certainly," Haci swiftly said, alarmed at the extent of Stefan's imprudence.
"No… but closer."
He was determined to have his way.
"And if the lady protests?" Haci softly inquired. Stefan's expression was one Haci had seen hundreds of times before as Stefan sat astride Cleo waiting for an attack: part exhilaration, part cold calculation, with an intrinsic vital energy glowing from his dark eyes. "I'll see that she doesn't," he said very, very quietly. And then he grinned. "Wish me luck now on my night ride."
Their friendship was unconditional; Haci smiled. "Bonne chance, you fool. You'll need it."
Chapter Eleven
He rode across the high plateau under a brilliant orange-colored moon, but he noticed neither its brilliance nor its color, so intent was he on his thoughts. He was reckoning distances and assessing times, gratified he was doing something at last to expedite a resolution to his sharp-set hunger. The string of ponies he led carried him in relays steadily north until he stopped briefly in Tiflis to eat and to pick up a small escort. He left a note for Militza because he didn't wish to wake her at four in the morning. Also, she would have argued with him or questioned him, neither of which he cared to deal with. He had no answers to her arguments; he hardly knew himself what was driving him.
A telegram had been sent ahead to hold the train at Vladikavkaz, and when he reached the railhead fifteen hours later, he handed his pony over to a groom, said goodbye to his escort and collapsed in his bed on his private railway car. He'd been without sleep for almost three days.
The train to Moscow had been waiting eight hours for him, so gratuities were handed around by his steward to the officials, who'd been treated only to a swift smile and thank-you from the Prince before he'd boarded. Stefan fell asleep before the train was under way and slept through until the next afternoon, fully dressed except for his wet overcoat, discarded in a heap on the parlor floor, and his boots, mud-caked and stained, which were discoloring the bedroom carpet. Three days' growth of beard darkened his face, his fingers and toes had been numb since noon, when the sleeting rain had begun in the mountains, but the worst was over and he fell asleep with a smile on his face. He'd survived this far.
He woke south of Saratov to eat and wash, and when he opened his eyes the second time, Moscow was only an hour away. From there to Saint Petersburg he paced or sat brooding, his mind preoccupied with disturbing elements of jealousy and need. He resented his obsession with Lisaveta; he resented this flying trip north; he resented the thought of other men courting her. But he resented most his own lack of control. He must see her and have her and keep her for himself alone. The sensation was entirely without reason, without precedent… and unsettling. More than that, it was inimical u a man who prided himself on his detachment.
Dressing for the ball that night, Lisaveta adjusted the bodice of her gown for the third time, for the décolletage was more revealing than she remembered. Turning to Alisa, who had brought in a diamond brooch to gather the green brocade neckline a shade higher, she said, "I don't recall having this problem when I first wore this."
Standing at a slight distance, Alisa surveyed her guest attired in a glamorous ballgown cut simply with Juliet neckline, a small cap sleeve and a gathered bustled train. "Have you felt well lately?" she asked, the faintest reflection evident in her voice.
"Perfectly," Lisaveta replied, tugging at the offending neckline, immune to the subtle rumination infusing Alisa's question. "Perhaps I've put on a little extra weight with all the elaborate dinners lately. I'm really not used to a lavish menu, Papa and I always ate less extravagantly. I suppose some extra weight would account for this bodice no longer fitting." Her full breasts rose provocatively above the plunging décolletage.