31

M aria stood in the doorway. Ruzsky would have found anyone else’s presence grotesquely intrusive, but he straightened and leaned back against the wall.

Maria sat down on the bed beside him. “What happened?” she asked.

“It was spring,” he said. He breathed in deeply. He had never recounted or explained any part of this before, not even to Irina. “Father told us not to play on the ice. We used to skate all the time in winter, but we had never been here during spring and he told us that once the weather was warm, the ice became thin, even if the lake still appeared to be frozen. He told all of us, but especially me. I was the oldest and he believed that carried a special responsibility. ‘Make sure that your brothers don’t go on the ice, Sandro.’ ”

Ruzsky stared at the opposite wall. “My father and some of the estate workers had built us a camp on top of the hill. We’d been there all morning-the three of us-and we were coming back for lunch. We reached the lake. I realized I had forgotten my jacket, so I told them to go on home and I would catch up.”

Ruzsky breathed in deeply. He stood and walked to the window.

“I went back to the tree house and I got my jacket. I was running down the hill. The air was quite warm and I noticed that wild strawberries were beginning to emerge from the melting snow. The forest was silent. Completely silent. And then I heard his cry. Just a brief, startled yell. For a moment, I stopped, paralyzed. Then I ran, tearing through the trees as I heard Dmitri’s shout for help.”

Ruzsky could almost see Dmitri now, standing there beside the lake.

“I came into the clearing and I saw it all. I didn’t pause. I ran out onto the jetty. Dmitri was paralyzed. I went on my belly and crawled onto the ice. I was shouting at Dmitri to get help. And then Ilusha slipped away and I stood and ran toward him and the ice gave way and it was still so cold and somehow I knew that…” Ruzsky stopped. “Ilusha couldn’t swim, you see.”

Ruzsky stared at the lake. “It is deep and I dived. It was dark and I held my breath and held it and held it.”

Ruzsky looked over at his brother’s gravestone.

“I was tired and cold. So cold.”

“And there was a moment when you wanted to go with him…”

Ruzsky did not answer.

“I could see Father’s hand outstretched toward me,” he said, “and I knew that by taking it, I would never escape.”

She stood behind him, her arms around his waist, lips soft against the nape of his neck. “Ilusha would not have wanted an older brother who was a coward.”

“But that is what I am.”

“No.” She tightened her grip. “No, you’re not.”

Ruzsky tried to control his breathing.

“Why did Ilusha go onto the ice?” she asked.

He remained silent.

“And why didn’t Dmitri stop him?”

Ruzsky still did not turn around. “What does it matter?”

“Because you hold yourself responsible.”

“Because I am responsible.” He stared at the side of the lake where Dmitri had been standing. “Perhaps Dmitri was doing something else.”

“What?”

Ruzsky cast his eyes across the garden to the clearing. “Perhaps he did not think that the ice would break.”

“But why did Ilusha go onto it if your father had told you not to?”

Ruzsky shook his head. His mind felt numb. “I don’t know.”

“Did he often disobey your father?”

He shook his head once more. “No. Not about something like that. As good as gold, we always used to say.” Ruzsky turned to her. “Why could you not cry out?”

“For the same reason that you can’t, except in your sleep.”

“Your parents?”

“My father was killed in an accident, my mother died of grief. I saw her face in the doorway of my room and I knew. I knew. And I promised myself I would never allow myself to be hurt again.”

They were standing inches apart, her eyes upon his. Her breasts rose and fell, her breath warm upon his face. “And I hurt you?”

She did not answer, but he touched her face, a cold hand against warm cheeks. She pressed it to her, resting her head upon his chest.

They rode hard against the setting sun that afternoon, weaving through the woods before picking up the road to the house from the village in the gathering darkness.

Ruzsky brought his horse alongside hers and once again jumped across.

Maria leaned against him, one hand cupping the back of his head, the skin of her neck soft against his lips.

Ruzsky curled his arm more tightly around her waist.

“Hello, my wounded soldier,” she said. She turned around gently and placed her moist, warm mouth against his. She arched her back, a palm against his cheek. “No one has ever loved you before, have they, Sandro?”

He did not answer.

Maria turned around again and they rocked with the motion of the horse all the way back to the house, the sunset washing the horizon a blazing red.

Oleg was waiting for them at the front door to take the horses. Ruzsky could tell from his eyes that he knew, but there was no hint of censure. “A fire is laid in the drawing room, Master Sandro, the venison cooked. I shall leave it to you,” he said. He glanced at Maria. Their faces were flushed with exertion and excitement.

Inside, they discovered that Oleg had lit a fire in both the drawing and the dining room, where the table was laid as it always had been, groaning with silver, the venison arranged on a giant salver at its center.

Ruzsky shut the door behind them and then she was in his arms, with sudden, passionate urgency. He lifted her against the door as her lips sought his. She tugged at his belt, one hand around his back, the other seeking him, pulling at his trousers until he was free and then melting into him, her face against his shoulder, her warm breath upon him.

“God, Sandro,” she said.

She traced his neck with her fingertips, her mouth warm as he held her, their bodies fused gently together. He walked with her to the great bear rug in front of the roaring hearth and, without parting, he sank to his knees and placed her very carefully onto the ground.

He moved over her, his face inches from her own.

Her eyes melted as she watched him.

Ruzsky reached down and ran a hand across the top of one of her silk stockings, tugging at her suspender belt and then feeling the smoothness of her skin.

Maria pushed him gently onto his back.

Ruzsky began to unbutton her dress and she helped him, then shrugged it off, raising herself up, her knees either side of his waist, her hair brushing his face as she bent over him.

Never taking her eyes from his, Maria lowered herself against him, straightening her legs. She kissed him gently, as his hands reached for the curve at the top of her long legs. He pushed gently against her clenching muscles and lay back.

Her back arched, her hair dusting his knees, her breasts high and proud. In the firelight, her skin seemed luminous.

Ruzsky ran his hands gently up her thighs, over her hips, and across the flat, muscular plain of her belly.

She lifted herself up, waiting as she looked into his eyes. She was smiling at him.

Then she lowered herself down again gently, slowly, almost agonizingly. Ruzsky shut his eyes as the pleasure threatened to burst within him.

They lay that night in front of the fire, wrapped in the bearskin rug. Ruzsky did not sleep, reluctant to concede a moment to the dawn. He listened to the sound of her breathing, her long, warm body half across his. He was as content as he had ever been.

Fatigue stalked him and he slowly succumbed, until the sleep of a few hours gave way to the day of their leaving.

Ruzsky listened to the birds as the light crept into the room and the shadows shortened. He would not move until she stirred.