Susan Johnson - Golden Paradise

"Haci must live," he said, exposed and powerless against the angel of death, his voice no more than a whisper. "I pledged him my word."

They were traveling down one of the deep-slashed ravines, the red sandstone rising like lofty enclosing walls on either side, the wind silenced, the snow falling gently now in the motionless air.

"We'll be at Meskoi in less than an hour now, Stefan," Nikki gently said, "and Haci will have help."

Stefan wrapped his burkah more tightly around his friend, oblivious to his own pain and wounds. "He was raised with me like a brother, we've fought together since we've been sixteen," he murmured, "and I promised him."

Reaching out, Lisaveta touched Stefan's arm, and when he turned to her, his dark eyes were wet with tears. "Our sons will be friends," he softly whispered. "I promised him."

"They will be, Stepka," Lisaveta quietly replied, wishing she could bear some of his pain and ease his sorrow. "We're almost there now. He won't die."

You are their darling Prince," Lisaveta said on Christmas morning, her golden eyes warm with happiness as she lay beside Stefan. The heat from the porcelain stove was like summer air, the harmony of church bells mellifluous background to their own blissful pleasure.

The bells had been ringing in triumph for three full days, their resounding melody echoing sweet joy at Stefan's return. All of Tiflis had turned out to welcome him home.

The narrow streets of the old quarter had been decorated with garlands of jasmine and laurel, looped from one overhanging balcony to the next. Every house, rich or poor, had hung out its finest carpets in glowing display. The spacious boulevards had been lined with troops, saluting in the way of the mountain warriors with volleys shot into the air. And over all had sounded the bells, every church pealing its glad tidings that the White General, Prince Bariatinsky, their favorite son, was home. The chimes floated across the misty river, along the steep banks where the bridge built by Alexander the Great still stood, past the Tartar bazaars, where Persian jewelers weighted turquoises by the pound; they reached the dark booths of the Armenian armorers, where the fine gold and silver damascened weapons were fashioned. The bells swept past the fretted balconies, up the steep hills, through the eucalyptus groves to the palace on the heights and then to the mountains beyond.

Stefan lay sprawled at Lisaveta's side, both his arms thrown over his head in peaceful repose, his dark hair and eyes, his entire bronzed body, in stark contrast to the pristine whiteness of the linen sheets. "I know," he said in tranquil surety. "The Orbelianis are well liked." It was a modest statement, considering the ecstasy with which his return was being received. "And Papa was admired for his justice and courage."

Lisaveta marveled briefly at his calm acceptance of the adulation, done without humility or arrogance but rather with a serene grace, both regnant and oddly informal.

"They're devoted to you," she said, as they would be to a divine ruler, she thought.

His slender hand reached out to touch the gentle curve of her shoulder. "As I am to you."

His simple words warmed her. This man whom all of Russia adored and revered loved her. It was heady stuff. But she said softly in the next breath, "I want forever," because she was in her own way imperious. "Am I selfish?" Her question was touched with that dutiful courtesy one learns should supersede egoism.

Stefan smiled. She always was so much more polite than he. "Don't apologize, dushka. You must always in this world want only the best…" His fingers drifted up her slender throat and traced the perfection of her graceful jaw, sliding upward to end in a silken caress of her gamine brows. "And in all this world I found you," he tenderly said.

"And I you." He was very beautiful, but more than that, intelligent and kind.

He grinned. "Thanks to the Bazhis and," he added irreverently, "your reckless ignorance."

"It wasn't my fault they attacked so close to Alexsandropol," she protested, cheerful and unintimidated.

"Nothing perhaps was your fault except-"

"Except?" Her pale eyes were amused, although her voice was coolly sardonic.

"Except for your choices of intellectual pursuit. If not for your research on Hafiz, you would have been safely at home doing whatever women are supposed to do."

"Supposed to do?" Her sarcasm was a shade less sportive and her expression now demonstrably attentive.

He enjoyed the small sparks of fire in her eyes, reminded of their first night in Aleksandropol, when they'd amused themselves with various poems of Hafiz… when he'd first realized a woman could inflame his mind and soul as well as his senses. "Well, you know," he deliberately teased, "play the piano, embroider, drink tea and chatter."

"In about one minute, Prince Bariatinsky, you're going to be attacked." Lisaveta's voice was constrained and heated.

"How nice." His drawl was unconstrained and mellow.

"And you'll be forced to retract that damnable drivel."

"And you're going to make me?"

"Yes."

"How nice," he said again, his smile wide.

Her own grin suddenly matched his. "You don't mean it."

He shook his head. "Please don't ever embroider for me."

"I might be able to pick out a tune on the piano," she said playfully.

He groaned theatrically.

"So you don't mind, I gather," she went on in response to his groan, "I haven't any of the feminine repertoire."

"Darling, you're perfect."

"I am, aren't I?"

"And modest."

She grinned. "Like you." Suddenly she thought he might not have a son like him. Would he mind terribly? And how much would she mind if he minded if they had a daughter instead? "What if it's a girl?" she said.

"She'll be Princess Bariatinsky-Orbeliani," he softly replied, "and the church bells will ring for days."

"You wouldn't mind?" Her own voice was equally soft.

"She will be ours, dushka, or he will be ours, conceived in love and born in love and raised in love."

"Yes," she said, turning to slide her arms around his neck, wanting to always feel him close beside her. "In all the world…"

"… our child," he whispered.

Their kiss was fragrant with hope. and happiness and that special delight that comes so rarely in life between two lovers who have found at last the mirror of their souls. And when her mouth lifted from his long moments later, she briefly hugged him tighter as she thought how very close she'd come to losing him.

"You're getting stronger," he teased.

"What if Nikki hadn't heard Haci's name?" she said, ignoring his levity, her thoughts touched with a nightmarish shiver. "He wouldn't have gone looking for you." Her brows were drawn together, her golden eyes pained.

"I would have found my way back anyway," he quietly said, smoothing her creased brows with a gentle finger. He spoke with a quiet clear certitude.

Yes, she thought, you would.

"Although I'm eternally grateful," he said with a grin, "you were difficult enough to invite yourself along, and… grateful as hell-" his smile widened "-you talked me into marrying you."

He rolled away just in time to avoid her swinging fist, and before she could follow to strike him a blow for his impudence, he'd pulled the drawer open on the bedside table and brought out two very small packages. "Peace offerings," he said quickly, sitting up and holding them out to arrest Lisaveta's attack.

She was on her knees beside him, her arm raised, and his smile touched the small golden flecks in his dark eyes. "Clever man," she murmured, her arms slowly lowering to her side. "I adore presents." She smiled. "This may just save your life."

He grinned. "I know."

"If they're sufficiently extravagant," she said facetiously, sitting down beside him.

"It," he corrected. "The other's for baby." And he handed her a small wooden box tied with a red silk ribbon.

Lisaveta slid the ribbon free and lifted the hinged lid on the sandalwood box. Inside, nestled in a bed of crushed green velvet, was a necklace of gold with two jeweled charms attached. The charms were exquisite miniatures of desert towns, walled and minareted and architecturally detailed. Cloisonné and pounded gold alternated for brickwork on the walls, jewels were windows, the crenellated towers were tipped with precious platinum, the central gates opened on delicate crafted hinges. They were less than an inch in length and on the base of each a small plaque had been set. One read Bokhara-the other Samarkand.

Lisaveta's eyes filled with tears. Like the lover in Hafiz's poem, Stefan was giving her Bokhara and Samarkand.

"For the mole on thy cheek," he whispered, and when she lifted her head and smiled, he saw she was crying. "You don't like it," he teased, uncomfortable with tears.

She shook her head, unable to speak with the lump in her throat.

"You like it?" he said, uncertain of the exact meaning of her head shake.

She nodded.

"Good." He grinned in pleasure and relief. "Now if I kiss away all your tears and you give me a smile, I'll let you have baby's present, too." Bending over he took her hands in his, placed them on his shoulders and proceeded to gently kiss away her tears.

"I love you," Lisaveta murmured as his warm mouth moved over her cheeks, wishing it were possible to define the extent of her happiness, her mind stumbling over all the pleasure words, searching for one adequate to her feelings. "Is it like winning?" she asked obscurely, her voice hushed against Stefan's mouth as he nibbled at her lip.

"Mmm?" he said. She tasted like perfumed nectar or sugared sweets or both together, he thought, wondering if one lost one's mind when passionately in love. He'd never considered himself a fanciful man before.

"Is love like winning a battle for you?" she asked with more clarity, and sat up straighter so Stefan's mouth slid over her chin and into nothingness.

Leaning back on one elbow, he stretched out his lean body before answering. "It's better." His smile was the one his father had seen and his mother and few others-an open, contented, unblemished smile. "Is love like translating the perfect quatrain in Hafiz?" he asked then in analogous query.

"It's better," she said.

And they both smiled.

"You know what I'm feeling," Lisaveta declared.

Stefan nodded. "Exactly. I consider the sensations revolutionary and cataclysmic and also-"

"Balmy."

"How did you know?" He never used the word.

Nor did she. Lisaveta shrugged, then grinned and said, "Perhaps the shaman drums are beating."

"They have," he said with an answering grin, "done a damn good job of looking out for me. And for Haci. We both have futures again." Stefan's friend had recovered in the weeks since the journey to Kars and was back in his village, making plans for an April wedding. "And speaking of futures," he said, holding out the second present, "open this. I want to show you and baby something I hope you'll like."

When she opened the small box wrapped in pale yellow paper, she found a key inside-a door key.

"It's a surprise," Stefan said to her inquiring look. "Now, put this on and I'll show you." Handing her the cherry-red cashmere robe lying on the bed, he rose and, picking up his trousers from where he'd dropped them the previous night, slipped them on.

"I don't like surprises," Lisaveta protested as he pulled her from the bed.

"You'll like this one," he replied, drawing her with him across the room. "It's not for you anyway. It's a surprise for baby, but baby can't see it unless you cooperate." He grinned and put out his hand. "Give me the key."

When she handed it to him they walked the few remaining steps to the door opening into the adjoining room and he slid the key into the lock.

"We've been home only three days," Lisaveta said, bemused and curious, her voice tentative.

"I left instructions with Militza," Stefan said. Pushing the door open, he turned to watch Lisaveta's face.

She stood transfixed on the threshold. A nursery had been installed in the room next door, in the room she'd once occupied, and the previous space was completely transformed.

A lapis lazuli ceiling twinkling with diamond stars shone down on them.

The floor was carpeted in a field of yellow daisies.

The wallpaper was hand-painted with fairy tales.

And in an embrasure near a sunny window stood her cradle-the one that had always graced her old nursery at Rostov.