"So you're following in your father's footsteps. Commendable, I'm sure," he said politely. "And you're welcome, of course, to make use of my library," he added in deference to good manners. "I still don't completely understand, though," he went on, inexplicably intrigued by the sheer bravado of this strange woman, "why you left the safety of Karakilisa to venture into the midst of the war?"

"I simply had to leave," she answered in that same clear, affirmative tone he now decided was what displeased him. It made her sound like a man. "Although my host graciously overlooked my nationality when I was detained by the hostilities, and I continued to work, his nephew Faizi Pasha, a colonel in the Turkish army, visited unexpectedly one day. On meeting me, he decided to add me to his harem. Naturally, I was opposed to the idea." Her voice was filled with cool disdain, as if she were saying, "I had to refuse my dancing master's proposal of marriage."

Stefan wondered what in the world the Pasha had seen in her that appealed to him, although the Turks did appreciate what he considered excess female flesh. "I understand your problem," he courteously replied, thinking soon he would be free of this decisive managing woman who grated on his nerves.

"So there was nothing else to do. I had to leave."

Again. That authoritarian certainty.

"And the combined forces of the Russian and Turkish armies be damned," Stefan found himself saying with only a mildly disguised sarcasm.

Lisaveta looked at him briefly, her gold eyes reflective. "I didn't care to consider a future locked in a cage," she said quietly, "no matter how gilded the bars."

Stefan immediately regretted his lapse in manners. "Forgive me." She had sounded very human for a moment and he reminded himself she had come through great danger. "And you escaped one peril only to face others."

"None so dangerous in my mind as Faizi Pasha's advances. There's a certain finality about harems… like a prison door shutting for life." Her voice held a winsome quality, and had he known her background of independent living, he would have realized how important freedom was to her. "And my host, Javad Khan, saw that I was well escorted with a dozen Afshar guides. When they left me with the caravan so near Aleksandropol-at my insistence, I might add-I assumed the rest of the journey would be uneventful."

The sheer naïveté in the word uneventful renewed Stefan's exasperation. With difficulty he refrained from remarking that only a stupid female would term crossing through the battleground of two armies "uneventful," even with a hundred guides.

"And if I hadn't given my horse to an enceinte woman, I probably could have escaped and arrived in Aleksandropol completely unharmed," Lisaveta added with the self-assurance Stefan found so annoying.

"Good marksmanship," the Prince said evenly, his irritation evident in the hard line of his jaw, "is a given with the native tribes. And the Winchester.44 round will outrun a horse, guaranteed. Your horse might have saved you and it might not have."

Lisaveta's temper was as quick to ignite as the Prince's, but since he'd saved her life, she felt she owed him a certain degree of politeness despite his rebuking tone. She would have liked to point out that her usefulness to a Bazhi was alive and not dead, but smiling instead, as reared to politeness as the Prince, she said with good grace, "You're right, of course." She had learned long ago that men preferred being right, and in circumstances where arguing was counterproductive, she always allowed them that privilege. He was, after all, transporting her to safety.

Stefan's ill humor was somewhat mollified by her ready acquiescence, so he refrained from saying thank-you and having the last word on the subject. Countess Lazaroff's next statement, however, destroyed his short-lived complacency.

"I'll need some money," she said, "when we reach Aleksandropol. If you could lend me a few hundred roubles I could find lodgings tonight. After a long day of this abominable heat, I'd seriously consider selling my soul for a bath." Unfamiliar with any of the nuances of feminine wiles, educated to establish effectively, then deal with a problem, and perhaps at base just as indulged and spoiled as the Prince, she was unaware her simple request would not be viewed as simple at all.

Stefan's resentment returned full force at her damnable tone. He also knew that with thirty-thousand troops bivouacked in Aleksandropol, the only way anyone would find a room was by rank, title and large sums of money. She was a woman, though, despite his own lack of interest in her rotund person. No doubt she could find accommodations on her own for a price other than gold. But she was also Count Lazaroff's daughter; he couldn't simply abandon her to the army's train with the other refugees as he would have were she a peasant. He supposed, he thought with a silent sigh, he was obliged to act the gentleman. "Allow me, Countess," he said, only because he'd been taught to protect the weaker sex, "to find you accommodations tonight."

"How thoughtful," Lisaveta replied, as if she hadn't recognized the coercion prompting him, as if she didn't know how hazardous her position would be, alone in an army camp.

"My pleasure, mademoiselle," he murmured. They could have been at a court soiree for all their superficial politesse.

"I so appreciate your help." Lisaveta almost choked on the words, for Prince Bariatinsky was the epitome of all she despised in the aristocracy. Too rich, too handsome, too spoiled by both his fame and infamy. She'd recognized him shortly after she regained consciousness, realizing then why he'd seemed familiar to her at first sight. Engravings of the Prince in uniform were prevalent throughout Russia women collected them to pine over.

At twenty-two he had been the conqueror of the Citadel of Tubruz, at twenty-five the savior and avenging angel of the survivors of the massacre at Mirum. His victories in Asia had subdued at last the Khanates of Khiva and Kokand. In fact, the youngest general ever gazetted in the history of the Russian army was a universal hero. He was the famous and fearless Prince Stefan, always dressed in his white Chevalier Gardes uniform and mounted on his black Orloff steed, challenging death and the enemy at the head of his cavalry.

He was also famous-or notorious-for his love life.

And she suspected the women fondly collecting his likeness were more interested in his amorous exploits than his military ones.

"My pleasure," he tightly replied, wishing for his part that he were with his Gypsy lover, Choura, in the cool altitudes of his mountain lodge, miles away from the scorching heat and Countess Lazaroff. He had no tolerance for bluestocking women and less for unbecoming nonconformist females with a propensity for emphatic declarative statements. She was entirely lacking in the feminine graces and attributes that attracted him to women. In fact, she was damned annoying.

Both seemed mildly irritated at the course of their conversation, and the remainder of the ride into Aleksandropol passed in a peevish silence.

Chapter Two

As they approached Aleksandropol, the Russian army's base of operations eighteen miles from the Turkish border, Stefan said in a voice brusque with fatigue, "Until we reach our lodging, I expect you to obey my orders. The city's jammed with veterans of the siege." He didn't say they'd been without women for weeks. Instead he added, "Soldiers at war can't be expected to act like gentlemen." He hoped she wouldn't argue, because he wasn't in the mood to deal with any more of her idiosyncrasies.

Surveying the ranks of lounging soldiers at the city gate, all appearing remarkably large and burly, their eyes trained on her in a disconcerting way, Lisaveta judiciously replied, "Yes, sir."

Stefan glanced down at her swiftly, for her quiet tone and manner were extremely unlike her previous confidence.

"Are we safe from that mob?" she asked, uncertainty prominent in her voice. She was seeing lust with brutal clarity, and it took enormous control to keep her voice from shaking. Stefan was only one man, she thought. Could even his rank protect her from what she saw in the soldiers' eyes? It was the same look she'd seen in Faizi's eyes, although his had been a more leisured inspection. Under the circumstances she felt sure none of these men were interested in leisurely concerns.

Before Stefan could answer he was recognized and a series of cheers erupted, traveling down the ranks of men in a spontaneous cry of welcome. Gruff voices called to him as commander and comrade as they passed through the medieval gate and entered the narrow cobbled streets of the city. Stefan acknowledged the noisy clamor, responding to his men with casual waves and a smile, with personal comments to one and then another, recognizing a remarkable number of men by name. It was obvious he was a hero to them, adored and revered and loved.

But beneath camaraderie and facetious banter, Lisaveta was still aware of the soldiers' eyes dwelling on her as they passed, as hungry wolves would survey a tender lamb. Unconsciously she moved closer to the large man behind her.

After a dozen turns and a winding uphill climb, the crowds of soldiers thinned, the shouting died away, and they reached a small villa the Prince must have known of, for he made no inquiries on the way. Riding through a gateway into a paved courtyard walled round with a low wrought-iron railing, Stefan said, "Wait here," and slid to the ground, his hands steadying Lisaveta on the saddle. Handing her his Colt revolver, he added, "Shoot anyone who comes too close."

"Shoot?" Lisaveta said, not reaching for the extended weapon.