Very late, when they lay exhausted in each other's arms, Lisaveta whispered, "Stepka," the sound of his name a sigh of sated pleasure.

He stiffened for a moment. No one but his father had ever called him by the diminutive Stepka, and he hesitated briefly, equivocal responses racing through his mind.

Then Lisaveta smiled up at him as she lay on his chest, her chin propped on her hands, and he decided he liked the sound of the name when she said it. The tension drained from his muscles, and although Lisaveta didn't realize it, she'd set the first wedge in some very long-standing defenses erected years ago by a young adolescent determined never to succumb to love.

"My sweet Lise," he murmured, and kissing his fingertip, he gently brushed it across her luscious bottom lip. "I adore you."

Her smile was winsome, her eyes bright suddenly with tears. "The feeling, Stepka, darling," she whispered, "is mutual."

The room was still in shadow when he felt her pull away. "Where're you going?" Although drowsy and half-asleep, he automatically tightened his arm around her.

"To ring for chocolate." She knew it was Stefan's habitual start to the day.

"Now?" His eyes were closed, his murmured question husky with sleep.

"For later."

"Ring later, sleep now," he muttered, and tugged her closer.

They'd been up most of the night, and if Lisaveta hadn't been taut with nerves over her departure, she would have been sleeping, too. She lay quiescent in his arms for what seemed ages, waiting for his breathing to deepen, and long minutes later when he rolled over, she slipped from his embrace.

She stood by the bed, nude in the cool morning light, the summer air smelling of damp lilies from the garden below, watching him out of caution but also out of her own poignant need. She wouldn't see him again and she wanted a last look before she walked away from the most perfect and beautiful days of her life.

Her gaze traveled lovingly down the great length of his body and then up again with lingering slowness as if she could etch on her memory forever the sight of him. He'd rolled over so his face was resting on his pillow, and she visually traced the perfection of his classic features, in profile now, like Alexander's head on a Macedonian coin. Since Alexander had conquered Persia centuries earlier, perhaps the classic genes were truly incorporated. There was much of his mother's elegant Persian heritage, too, in the refined detail of his severely modeled features, in the beauty of his long-lashed eyes and the delicate curve of his mouth. In height and stature, in musculature and strength, he must favor his father however, she thought. Field Marshal Bariatinsky was reputed to have equaled his ancestor Orlov in size.

She looked for a moment more at his slender hands, the great corded muscles running down either side of his spine, the softness of his curls lying like black silk on his neck and the sleek broad expanse of his bronzed body, as if tying the parcel of her memories together.

"Goodbye, Stepka," she murmured so softly the words never touched the air, and then silently moved away from the bed to the adjoining dressing room. Her clothes were all gone from the wardrobe, packed by silent hands in the night…only one traveling gown was left hanging in the armoire. She smiled, hoping whoever had quietly seen to the disposition of her luggage hadn't been disturbed by the noises from the adjacent bedroom.

She liked the choice of traveling dress, she decided. The soft pink linen was perfect for a summer day. Lifting the jacket from the hanger, she noticed the note tucked into her pocket. "Please keep the pearls as a remembrance of our meeting. They do your beauty justice." And Militza had signed her name in a spidery Arabic penmanship. Lisaveta reached up to touch the earrings still in her ears and smiled, reminded of how Stefan had told her he liked her dressed only in her earrings.

How generous Militza was, she reflected…like her nephew, who had given her love and laughter and enchantment she would always treasure. But she would leave the necklace; it was too precious… and-lying as it was on the bedside table-too close to Stefan. She dared not return to the room.

"Thank you, Militza," she murmured, tucking the note back into the pocket, knowing the pearl drop earrings would remind her always of Tiflis and a night of love and passion. And remind her, too, of a man who had taken hold of her heart.

She dressed after that with a calculated briskness, forcing her thoughts on her journey ahead, refusing to become maudlin over a situation that had always had a foreseeable end. Leaving by the servants' entry into a back hallway, she found her way to the wide empty second-floor corridor, walked the length of the east wing to its juncture with the massive curving central staircase and, moving down the polished marble steps, reached the main entrance. Opening the door herself in the servantless palace, she saw her carriage, as arranged, waiting for her.

With a small bow the coachman explained a valise of roubles had been placed inside the carriage for her, and he and the two outriders were at her disposal.

She was comfortably seated with the friendly informality typical of Stefan's staff, the carriage door was closed, and at the crack of a whip the horses broke into a gentle trot.

The morning sun was a perfect summer maize.

The air was tepid and calm.

Stefan's white marble palace, crowning the heights above Tiflis, began diminishing in size. It was over.

When Stefan woke two hours later, he lazily rolled on his back and with a casual sweep of his arm reached out for Lisaveta. Only the smoothness of silk sheets, the great expanse of empty bed, met his hand, and he swore even before he fully opened his eyes.

Damn her! Instantly alert, he snapped his head around but knew without looking she was gone. Furious, he shouted for his valet and lunged out of bed. Reaching for his trousers, he thought it odd when Ellico didn't appear. He shouted again. As he swiftly dressed, he cautioned himself to deal with his feelings less emotionally, although for a man who operated a good deal on instinct, curbing his emotions required more control than he was currently feeling. Perhaps, he suggested to himself, trying mightily to gain a calm perspective at the same time he was cursing buttons that failed to button rapidly enough, Lisaveta was in the dressing room or on the balcony. Perhaps, he thought, pulling on his boots with a small grunt of exertion, she rose early and was breakfasting with Militza.

Like hell, his dominant passion noted as he grabbed his shirt and strode to the bank of French windows facing east. Pushing the gauze curtains aside, he scanned the small balcony adjoining the bedroom because he was going to take five seconds to be reasonable.

She wasn't there…

His nostrils were flared in anger as he crossed the large bedchamber to the dressing room door, and shoving it open with the palm of his hand, he stood in the doorway and swore.

"Damn her!"

He could scratch the possibility of her breakfasting with Militza.

He could reject other possibilities of her presence in other areas of his palace, as well. From the looks of the armoire, stripped clean of her gowns, his darling lover had flown the coop.

"Ellico!" he roared, turning to retrace his steps, recrossing the Shirvan rug in almost a run. He was out the door into the hallway before he considered how curious it was that his voice wasn't heeded. In the next moment, discarding speculation on his servants' inefficiency, he refocused on the important overriding issue of Lisaveta's escape. His choice of word in regard to her leaving was symptomatic of his military background or perhaps more aptly of his proprietary feelings.

Striding down the corridor, he shrugged into his shirt while his mind raced over all the possibilities of her destination. Or more importantly, when she had left; her destination was, in his current frame of mind, not likely to be reached. Tucking in his shirttails with a minimum effort, he covered the distance down the carpeted passage with haste, distracted from the unusual quiet by more prominent considerations. When, exactly, had she left? Had she traveled by carriage… or horse? She had luggage, of course; she'd have gone by coach. Good. He could overtake her more easily.

The Orbeliani family motto was, I Am God's Spoiled Child, and Stefan had been operating too many years under that maxim to deny himself anything. He wanted Lise, so he would have her. Regardless. And that word encompassed a myriad of disastrous possibilities he chose to ignore.

At the stables he paced restlessly while Cleo was being saddled, intent on taking off in pursuit, agitated at every moment lost, knowing each minute placed Lisaveta farther out of reach. She'd be traveling to Vladikavkaz where the railway line ended. The military road was the only one out of the Caucasus. At least he didn't have to deal with numerous possibilities. Glancing up at the sun he disgruntledly thought, Damn, it was late.

"When did Countess Lazaroff leave?" he asked tersely.

"Orders were to have the first carriage ready at seven." A minimum staff had been left at the stables to service the carriages for Lisaveta and Nadejda.

Stefan's dark brows rose. "First carriage?"

"Princess Taneiev leaves at nine."

"She's leaving?" The pleasure in Stefan's voice was noticeable.

"Only to the Viceroy's palace, Your Excellency." The young groom's tone was sympathetic. Servants always knew all the gossip, and the relationship between Stefan and his fiancée was common knowledge.

If Lisaveta had left at seven he'd need Haci and some of his troopers, Stefan decided, Nadejda dismissed from his mind much as he'd dismissed her from his life. Lise had nearly two hours' head start and Cleo couldn't overtake her alone. He'd need fresh horses.