Susan Johnson (4 page)

“I will … in the morning when no unusual reports will go back to Korsakov.”

“I’m going to see him whether you like it or not.” Each brisk word conveyed determination. “I won’t be stopped.”

“Write him a note,” Tamyr suggested. “I’ll find him in the morning.”

Teo hesitated, took notice of the brief hours until dawn, and then, sighing in assent, said, “I don’t suppose he’d thank me for waking him.”

She sat down then and wrote to the man who’d awakened such jubilation in her soul, asking him to come to her, pouring out her heart as if she’d known him a lifetime. She wondered briefly as the words flowed across the page with such abandon if she were feverish, so giddy was her sense of pleasure. But seconds later, as she was lost once again in blissful feeling, the rushing tumult of her words obliterated all considerations of motive or cause.

Tamyr never delivered the note that morning nor the second one Teo wrote the following day, because she wanted to save her mistress from cataclysmic disaster. And in the intervening time, she cajoled and reasoned as Teo became increasingly distraught, citing all the justifications for Duras not replying—his duties as commander on the eve of a campaign, Teo’s delicate position as wife to his enemy, other reasons too—ones Teo didn’t want to hear—undeniable reports of his brief and casual liaisons.

“I don’t care,” Teo impatiently declared when she tired of hearing all the expedient cautions, the salacious rumor and gossip. “I don’t care what Duras did last week or last month or yesterday because none of that matters when the next thirteen years frighten me beyond bearing. I’ve been offered a gift of happiness and I’m taking it, because I may never be given another chance.”

But as the hours lengthened and gave way to days, Teo could no longer pretend he might answer her letters and she fell into a heartsick gloom, the misery of her life suddenly too burdensome. Was her only hope that of outliving her husband? Could she only look forward to that meager reward for the martyrdom of her life?
Why me?
she cried, overcome with self-pity at the cruel fate that had caused
Korsakov’s covetous glance to fall on her. And as each lonely hour passed, her melancholy deepened, her sense of deprivation intensified. How ironic to have been touched by passion at last … uselessly.

For Duras the intervening days were a sleepless blur of meetings and campaign planning. His presence and command were required for a multiplicity of tasks, the need imperative to bring every unit of the army to readiness by the morning of the fifth. Although he’d criticized the Directory’s offensive plan for its diversity of objectives and lack of clear goals, in accordance with his sense of duty, he directed all his energies to implementing the attack. North of Sargans, Archduke Charles was advancing against Jourdan with 85,000 men. Duras’s orders, received on the second, were to protect Jourdan’s right flank and move against von Hotze’s 20,000 corps in the Grisons. With his 26,000 men split into two forces, there was the added danger of being left in an exposed position if Jourdan’s advance failed.

He talked himself hoarse, making sure each regimental commander understood his mission—explaining, detailing, discussing in the open style of command he preferred, until each man was fully aware of his function, of the requirements necessary to meet the large Austrian force. His army was spread too thin, their front miles too long, the possibility of being overrun by superior forces a stark reality. He’d personally reconnoitered the west bank of the river, riding from Ragaz to Vaduz, familiarizing himself with the country, tireless in matters of detail; he’d seen too many commanders draw up plans at headquarters that didn’t take into account swamps or mountains or impregnable defenses. The construction of the trestle bridge advanced under his personal supervision as well, his sappers working under the most adverse conditions in the icy waters. Snow was falling again when he’d ridden out earlier that evening to view the
nearly completed bridge, and the sentries posted to guard the crossing were barely visible through the whiteness.

After Duras dictated final orders at ten, the last dispatches were relayed to his commanders and then Bonnay sent everyone away and insisted the general lie down for a few hours.

It seemed only seconds later when Bonnay shook him awake and thrust a note into his hand. The flowing script swam before his eyes until the word
desperate
came into focus.

Please, I’m desperate to see you, she’d written, the plain words searing his brain.

No, he instantly thought, the boundaries clear-cut and unassailable, making love to the beautiful Teo was out of the question. But then he found himself glancing at the clock, gauging the hours before morning.

“Her maid delivered this a few hours ago. She said the lady’s been in tears for two days.”

“But you didn’t give it to me?”

“You seemed preoccupied,” his aide ambivalently replied.

Duras’s brows arched marginally. “What made you change your mind?”

“At this time of night … with the attack imminent …” Bonnay shrugged, not sure himself why he’d wakened the general.

“I may not come back, you mean.”

“None of us might, sir. St. Luzisteig’s defenses are formidable.”

“Did you read this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damned impertinent, Henri.” But Duras’s mouth quirked faintly.

“I debated waking you, sir. You’ve slept so little.”

“Neither has the lady, it seems.”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps you could spare her a few minutes.”

“To comfort her.”

“That’s up to you, sir. I’ll come to fetch you in time.”

Glancing at the clock again, Duras frowned and a hypersensitive air of expectancy inundated his senses. He swore softly and then, taking a deep breath, tossed the covers aside and sat up, balancing on the edge of the narrow campaign bed, restless, indecisive, staring with an unfocused gaze at Bonnay’s finely polished boots. “Jesus, Bonnay,” he muttered, his voice tight with constraint, “she’s like a damned virgin.”

“She’s been crying for two days.”

“Which doesn’t encourage me overmuch.
Merde
. Lord knows I shouldn’t.”

“Consider it an act of kindness,” Bonnay gently said.

Duras gazed cynically at his subordinate. “I don’t need encouragement, Henri. I need restraint.”

“And she needs
you
.”

The silence was palpable, stretched taut like his nerves, and then he abruptly stood, motioned for his boots, reached for his tunic jacket. “Come for me at three-thirty,” he curtly said.

Tamyr opened the door with a scowl and a muttered deprecation, her disapproval obvious.

“I know,” Duras placated. “I shouldn’t be here. But I couldn’t help myself.”

Her gaze raked him as if vetting his sincerity.

“I won’t hurt her,” the general quietly said, not sure she understood.

But she nodded in response, uttered a few brief words in her native tongue—cautionary directives, that was clear even to his untutored ear—and stepped aside, motioning him toward the stairway.

He felt her eyes on him as he took the stairs at a run, grateful for her loyalty to Teo. She looked as though she knew how to use the small knife sheathed in her felt boots.

He neither hesitated nor knocked at Teo’s door but let
himself in as if he had a right to be there, impatient, prey to a quickening excitement.

She was standing facing the door, her back to the window, her arms rigidly at her sides, forcing herself to calmness when the sight of him sent an uncontrollable tremor through her body. “I was watching the street; it’s been busy all day. Thank you for coming.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he bluntly said, shutting the door behind him, standing motionless only inches into the room, suddenly aware of what he might do, racked with indecision.

“Thank you then even more.”

“We leave at dawn.”

“I know. Tamyr has been trying to keep me under control the last few days, waiting for you to leave.”

“Apparently Bonnay was serving as duenna to me as well. I just received your note a few minutes ago or I probably would have been here sooner.”

“I sent you three rather pleading messages. I have no pride, you see.” Her brows arched delicately and a small touch of whimsy lightened her voice.

“Only the last one got through.” A fleeting smile graced his handsome face. “We have a staff protecting us from our own indiscretions. And I was trying to be honorable,” he added with a transient openhanded gesture. “Tamyr doesn’t look very pleased, by the way.”

“She’s against this.”

“Strangely,” he said with a rueful smile, “I am too … and I never am.”

Was he hoping such unvarnished truth would deter her? “You needn’t bear any responsibility, General Duras.”

“Of course I will.” He hadn’t moved from the door, but it was only because of sheer will, knowing he was putting her in jeopardy. She looked more beautiful than he remembered—barely clothed in a nightgown that clung to her lithe, slender body, like Venus on display, tempting, the luscious apple of paradise; his libido was on full alert. “I
know your husband,” he said, as if in warning. “We’ve met several times.”

“My servants are loyal only to me.”

“I know that, but rumors spread in other ways.”

“I don’t care.”

“One of us should.”

“Please no. Don’t give me book and verse on the proprieties. I’ve never done anything like this before, I didn’t send for you lightly.”

“I’m not sure I want to take on such a damning obligation.”

“Your reputation suggests you’ve overlooked such obligations before. Don’t they call you Duras of the Serai? Consider me in that light—another of your transient harem.”

He didn’t argue the veracity of the sobriquet given him; he only said, “I wish I could.” His voice was low, almost threatening. His odd new feelings disturbed him; his entire concentration should be on the coming battle. Where they always had been in the past.

“Then I’ll make it easy for you,” she gently said, untying the bow at the throat of her gown. “Surely you can indulge me for a few minutes,” she added, sliding one shoulder free of the fine linen. “You’ll still have time to sleep afterward,” she murmured, slipping her arm from the sleeve, exposing one plump breast, the nipple taut with arousal. “I understand you’re very good at this.” Her cheeks were flushed, the pink glow sliding down her throat, warming the paleness of her skin. The other sleeve puddled at her wrist for a second before she pulled it free and a moment later her nightgown lay in a pool at her feet.

She stepped over it and began moving toward him and he waited, trembling like a callow youth when he’d never trembled even then. He first touched her with his fingertips when she came within range, the hardened pads of his fingers tracing the slope of her shoulders with exquisite
gentleness before he pulled her close and said, “We should have met thirteen years ago.”

“But we have now,” she whispered, feeling the same rare sense of rapport. Of desire. All impediments brushed aside. “Stay with me till morning.”

“I’d like to keep you with me for a thousand years.” His mouth touched hers with consummate tenderness, a lover’s kiss offering love, and she kissed him with a young girl’s artlessness and a rush of feeling that brought tears to her eyes.

“Will I frighten you with my love?” She couldn’t help herself; there was so little time.

“No,” he said, when the thousand times he’d heard that in the past had only brought flight to mind. And then he added very low, so his voice vibrated against her mouth. “So this is love?”

“I think so.”

“Perhaps,” he said, half under his breath because it was so different. And then he swore in a quiet exhalation of dismay at the irony of such a staggering concept—now, with time so short, with life so short.

“I don’t want to wait,” she whispered, a sense of urgency underlying every thought and breath. “Must I rip your clothes off?”

He laughed and the odd spell was over. “Let me rip them off. I’ve had more practice.”

And he did so with astonishing speed, taking her by the hand and leading her to the bed with an unhesitating confidence she found charming. He was so assured of his abilities to please. “I thought of this moment,” he said, turning back to her with a smile, “a dozen times since I left you—while Foy was informing me of the artillery positions, several times during the discussion of the bridge construction at Trubbach, twice when dictating to Bonnay, and unfortunately at the moment Cambacérès was defining the exact
locations of his tirilliers—which meant I had to ask him to repeat the dispositions. So I warn you, madame, I’m not likely to stop once this begins. I’ve been waiting for days.”

“Please don’t,” she said, overcome with happiness, “when I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”

His skin was dark, brown like a Moor’s. “You’ve been in the sun,” she murmured, as he pulled her down on the bed beside him, the feel of his body hot too like the sun.

“While you never have, it seems,” he gently replied, propped on one elbow, tracing his finger down the paleness of her arm.

“The sun is weaker in Siberia.” Stretching upward, she brushed a kiss down his jaw, her sense of having reached safe harbor profound.

“I was there … the summer of eighty-three.” He remembered the date suddenly; he’d been godfather to his sister’s first child when he’d returned that fall.

“Where?” Playfully launching herself at him, she tumbled him on his back, and lying across his chest, she kissed
his broad smile. “Tell me where,” she murmured, “because I want to know you were close to me.”

“At Samorov and Troickoe and you were twelve,” he whispered with a grin, “and much too young …”

“We were fifty versts away at the summer hunt. Darling, think how near we were.” Her kiss was heated this time, lingering.

Moments later her mouth lifted from his.

“Say it again.”

Her downy brows rose in query.

“Say
darling
.” His palms drifted down her spine.

“Surely you’ve heard that before,
darling
.” A teasing gleam shone in her eyes.