Splendor (50 page)

Everyone flinched, before becoming still and breathless at once. Katya was so white that Carolyn reached out and hugged her to her side. And she heard a dreaded sound. The ominously merry crackling of fire.

"Hurry," Nicholas said fiercely, moving his horse across the salon.

"Come," Carolyn whispered hoarsely to Katya, kneeling over the prone Vorontsky. She was scared to check if he was still alive. Just as she was scared to decipher where the fire was. But even if it were outside, she imagined the house would soon go up in flames. "This way," Carolyn said, panting. "Push." Katya knelt beside her and grabbed his good shoulder. Huffing and puffing they managed to push and pull Vorontsky onto the rug. Carolyn had not realized how difficult it was to move a man when he was a dead weight—or perhaps merely dead. She snaked both cords under the rug and around him, in effect tying him to the makeshift sled. Another crash sounded, and this time it was definitely over their heads.

Carolyn froze, glancing up at the ceiling. Nicholas also looked up, grimly. "It's upstairs," he said.

"But how?" Carolyn did not even bother to finish her question. She wondered if French soldiers were near—intent upon burning them alive in retribution.

"Does it matter?" He rode the black past them and halted. "Give me the cord," he demanded.

Carolyn obeyed. She had left two long ends of cordage, and she handed both to Nicholas. He urged his mount out of the salon, pulling Sasha behind him. In the foyer the going was made easier because of the slick stone floors. Carolyn and Katya followed, leading Sasha's bay horse.

The sound of the upstairs fire was louder now. Carolyn was drenched with perspiration.

"Katya," Nicholas called.

Katya understood and ran ahead of him to the front door and pushed it open. Carolyn cried out.

For through the open door, the street beyond the courtyard was visible—and it was entirely aflame. Mansion after mansion was ablaze, turning the night sky an unholy shade of orange.

Nicholas's horse screamed. But Nicholas spurred the animal forward ruthlessly, dragging his cousin behind him, shouting for them to follow. Carolyn winced, hands over her breast, as Sasha went down the steps like a sack of potatoes. Her hand firm on the bridle of the bay, which was snorting in protest now, and on the verge of balking, Carolyn ran out of the house with the horse. It screamed and reared.

"Katya, show Carolyn how to hitch Sasha's horse to the wagon," Nicholas ordered.

The bay, acting up, was forced between the traces. Somewhere high up, glass shattered loudly as they buckled up the final pieces of the harness. Carolyn looked up. Flames were shooting out of several third-story windows. The palace was going to become an inferno just like the homes across the street in a matter of minutes. She glanced at Nicholas, but he was not looking at his home. She knew it would be too painful for him to do so. "Hurry," he said, sliding off his horse.

Carolyn ran to him and grabbed him as he staggered against the black's side. "What are you doing?" she cried.

"How do you think Sasha is getting in that wagon?" he gritted. "Katya, tie my horse to the rear!" He shoved Carolyn from him and bent for his cousin. Having no choice, Carolyn also reached for Sasha. "Lift," Nicholas cried.

Carolyn put every last ounce of strength she had, and then some, into heaving up his cousin. Nicholas groaned. They managed to get his upper body onto the edge of the wagon bed, his lower body dangling to the ground.

"Push," Nicholas shouted hoarsely. Carolyn obeyed, pushing him upward, as pieces of slate from the roof began to rain down into the courtyard. Suddenly Katya was there, helping them, and Sasha was heaved into the wagon.

And Nicholas, who was so tall, sank down heavily on the back of the wagon, the last of the color draining from his face. He flopped onto his back, gasping for breath.

Carolyn leapt onto the wagon bed, crawled past him, and seized his shoulders. She dragged him so that he was entirely in the cart. "Nicholas. I don't know where we are going. You must stay awake!"

He nodded, but his skin was taking on an odd green color. "Southwest," he said.

"Katya, get in the front and show me how to drive this thing," Carolyn cried, on her feet and climbing into the driver's seat.

Katya ran around the wagon and scrambled up beside Carolyn, who had taken up the reins. She glanced up at the palace. The roof was in flames. Flaming pieces of slate were falling freely to the ground. Fire licked the magnificently ornate walls. It was sad, and she was, finally, angry. So very, very angry.

"Miss Browne, look," Katya whispered.

Carolyn looked. The tower ahead of them was also on fire, flames licking the gables and domes atop the arched entry way. Carolyn lifted the reins, Katya clutching her tightly, and cried out at the horse. The animal reared. Carolyn lashed it with the whip. Screaming, it moved forward, toward the stone archway. The animal reared. Carolyn lashed it with the whip again. Carolyn lifted the reins again, hard. The bay broke into a canter, and the wagon rumbled through the vaulted arch and out of the courtyard, leaving the flaming palace and tower behind. "Faster," Carolyn shouted at the horse, whipping it again. The bay broke into a gallop, and they careened down the street, leaving the flaming block behind. And ahead of her, on the horizon, opalescent and pale gray, dawn was just breaking.

* * *

Three days later, Carolyn sat on a small wooden crate beside a pallet inside of the large canvas tent where Nicholas lay, unconscious. She held his hand tightly, her gaze on his face.

They had arrived at the army field hospital two days ago. In the course of fleeing Moscow, they had encountered other refugees, both soldiers and civilians. A pair of those iTcfugees had been wounded, young infantrymen also needing medical attention. Carolyn had allowed the two to join Nicholas and Sasha in the back of the wagon. With their help, she had found the field hospital around mid-morning of the next day. But Nicholas had fallen into a state of unconsciousness shortly after leaving Moscow.

He had been unconscious ever since. A high fever had set in. But last night, thank God, it had broken. Carolyn had only left his side to check on Katya, who had become a benevolent httle angel to the less seriously wounded soldiers outside. She spent most of her time bringing the men water, or reading old, faded letters to them. They called her "Princess," and fought for her attention. She no longer seemed six years of age. It was as if she had grown up overnight.

Carolyn touched Nicholas's brow. These past two days had been endless and terrifying. When he had been wracked with fever, she had been terrified that he would die. As it was, he was never going to walk without a significant limp again. But she did not care. She only cared that he was alive. Nothing, it seemed, had changed for her as far as her feelings for him went.

His lashes seemed to flutter. Her heart stopped and started wildly again. "Nicholas?" Hope left her breath suspended.

Again, she saw the barest fluttering of his lashes in response to his name.

She leaned over him. Praying. "Nicholas? It is I. Carolyn. Can you hear me?"

His eyes slowly opened.

And Carolyn felt tears gathering in her own eyes. She smiled at him tremulously, holding tightly to one of his hands. Secretly, she had harbored a deep fear that he would never wake up—that the doctors were all wrong.

'^Carolyn," he breathed. And then his expression changed, brows furrowing his forehead.

"Katya is fine," she said quickly, inmiediately sensing what was bothering him. "She is outside. In a little while, when the doctors will allow it, I will bring her to you," she said tenderly. And her heart was bursting with relief and joy and so much feeling that she did not know if she could contain herself.

He smiled at her. Then, again, his face stiffened. '*Sasha?"

She hesitated. "He is very ill, Nicholas. He is with fever. They do not know if he can survive. Katya and I have been taking turns sitting with him, begging him to fight for his life."

Tears slipped down Nicholas's cheeks.

Carolyn could not stand it. She laid her head in the crook of his neck, her own tears sliding freely down her face. ' 'I am sorry, Nicholas."

His hand stroked her hair. "It is not your fault. God. I am weak."

She laughed a little, kissed his jaw, and lifted her head. "You were also very ill. You are lucky, Nicholas, to be alive."

"I owe you my fife," he said simply.

She froze. And when she breathed again, it was with fear and hope, so much hope, hope she really had no right to, but damn it all, after this, she could not care anymore that he had a wife. She only cared that she loved him, and she hoped, and thought, that he loved her, and they were both alive, as was Katya. "You do pot owe me anything," she whispered, laying her palm against his cheek.

He turn his face and kissed it. ' 'Not true. I owe you, for my life, and Katya's."

Carolyn smiled at him through an even thicker haze of tears.

"How shall I repay you, Caro?" he asked.

She shook her head, unable to speak.

He closed his eyes then opened them. "I love you," he said. "Can I repay you with my love?"

She did not move. "Yes," she said, thinking of his behavior that morning in St. Petersburg when he had left her so coldly and cruelly.

And, as if reading her mind, he said, "I loved you then, too. But 1 was trying to push you away, so we could both be honorable. I thought a liaison would only make you unhappy."

And she understood. And hadn't she known, with her heart, that there would be an explanation? "I do not want to be honorable anymore. Life is far too precious—as is our love."

And he smiled, lifting one hand, curling it around her neck. He pulled her down, and their lips finally met.

"Excellency, it is too soon for you to be up and about."

"Nonsense," Nicholas said, leaning heavily on crutches.

"Your cousin can wait." The physician implored him. "Please, Excellency, a few more days of complete bed rest."

Nicholas stared. "Sasha is conscious and his fever has finally broken. He is so weak that neither you nor anyone else can tell me whether he will live or not. I am going to see him." With that, Nicholas hobbled past the disapproving army doctor and through the open tent flap. He paused briefly once outside, his eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight. How good it was to be alive—alive and with both his daughter and Carolyn.

Nicholas started forward, hopping on the crutches, paying no attention to the panorama of thousands of soldiers spread out on pallets on the plain that was the active army hospital. He had been told Sasha was in the third adjoining tent, where the very serious cases were. He ducked in order

to enter it and paused, his eyes again adjusting to the change in lighting. Although there were a dozen men .in this tent, he saw him immediately, thin covers pulled to his waist, his entire upper body bandaged, his face, usually swarthy, tinged green and cast in sickly pallor. Nicholas hobbled forward until he stood over him. "Sasha?"

Sasha's eyes opened. He saw Nicholas but did not smile. Nicholas knew he was too weak.

"You are very ill," Nicholas said. "But goddamn it, I expect you to fight to live."

Sasha seemed to smile. "N-Niki." His voice was hardly audible.

"Do not talk. We will have our entire lives to talk after we have both recovered fully from our wounds. You shall have a long convalescence. You are a lucky dog. By the time you are well, I imagine the war will be over."

Sasha stared, a question in his eyes. "N-Nap . . . ?"

"Napoleon is in Moscow. He seems to think Alexander will sue for peace." Nicholas smiled at the absurdity of that. "I have heard tell that Alexander's response has been 'Peace? We have yet to make war!' "

And Sasha did smile, although feebly.

Nicholas sobered. "Kutuzov awaits reinforcements, supplies and horses, and a more opportune moment to attack. I think I am beginning to understand the method to his madness. If we are very lucky, there will be early snows— and Napoleon is deeply in our territory, his supply lines stretched thin. I do sense that this winter will be crucial for us." He smiled. "And Alexi is well. I received a message from him yesterday. He joined the army, you know, and survived his first engagement at Borodino. But enough of the war. For us, it is most likely over. I shall convalesce in St. Petersburg." He hesitated. Sasha continued to stare closely at him. Nicholas cleared his throat. ' 'I forgive you, Sasha, because she is not worth any grudge. And because you risked your life for my daughter, and because, mostly, you are like a brother to me." He was choked up.

Sasha's mouth tightened. "Niki. I was—"

"Do not talk now. Save your strength, my cousin, to get well." The two men's gazes held. And again, Sasha seemed to smile.

Nicholas finally turned and hopped from the tent. Outside, he took a deep breath of air. And that was when he saw Carolyn, weaving her way through the many wounded soldiers, and he became absolutely still.

But his heart sang a little, and danced in joy.

He watched her. Sunlight turned her pale curls an impossible color, almost silver. She was so beautiful. But more than that, she was the bravest woman he had ever met. He was never going to forget her courage that night in Moscow. Her courage, her loyalty, and her determination.

She had seen him and she waved, smiling, a smile that made his heart turn over again and again. She was right. Life was so fragile and so precious, as was a love like theirs. He would not ever let it go again. He would build her a palace, probably in St. Petersburg, where he would reside with her. He would also buy her a mansion in London, and anything else she wished, including an entire block of bookstores, if that is what she preferred. He intended to shower her with furs and jewels, even though he imagined she would prefer her own newspaper, but he might buy that for her, too. And he would also declare her to the entire world as his mistress. As his love. Marie-Elena could complain or not. ^

Carolyn reached him. "Nicholas, you will not believe who is here. Raffaldi!" Her eyes were worried.