Whitefire by Fern Michaels

arm to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
    As she nestled herself in the comforting hold of his arm, she said quietly, “I’ll miss you when you return to Moscow.”
    â€œI’ll return for you at summer’s end. Promise that you will wait for me.”
    Katerina looked into his eyes and wanted to tell him of the time on the steppe when the Mongol took her by force. Something stopped her just as she was about to speak. She remembered her own thoughts: when I look into his eyes, I’ll know if he is the man who will understand and forgive. Some instinct, some warning, told her that Yuri was not that man. He wanted her, but was it for now or would it be for always? “I’ll wait for you,” she said huskily.
    Yuri raised himself on one elbow. “I’ve bedded many women, but none like you. I think I loved you the moment I saw you standing in the house, waiting for me. I’ll love you forever, for all eternity.”
    â€œWhere will we go, what will we do?” Katerina asked quietly.
    â€œDon’t concern yourself, I’ll take care of you. I have many plans to make. When I return, all will be in readiness. Would you like to live in Kiev with a houseful of servants, and have fine clothes and fine food?”
    â€œOh, yes,” she murmured happily. There was no need for her to tell him that in the mountains during the winter months they lived a life of royalty, in the tradition of the Vaschenkos. No need to reveal that her father was not what he seemed. Later she would tell him. Later she would let him know everything except her secret. For now, this was her time—hers and Yuri’s.
    They slept, their naked flesh entwined on the grassy copse, far from the house.
    Â 
    Yuri’s selection of the horses was slow and thorough. Katerina sat, unobserved, willing the tedious process to be over. Unable to keep her shining eyes off the muscular Russian, she followed his every move. All she could think of was the velvety night and how it felt to have Yuri’s arms embrace her.
    She watched as the tall Russian shook his head over something, his jaw tight and angry. Even from where she sat, she could hear his harsh complaint to her father.
    â€œThe agreement was two hundred horses from the stallion Whitefire and the mare Wildflower, not one hundred and fifty, not one hundred, but two hundred. Two hundred pure whites. The other eight hundred were to salve your ego. Do you take me for a fool?” he demanded angrily. “The purpose of this agreement was for the whites.” Angrily he waved a long arm at the black and russet horses that roamed the pens. “What good are they in the snow? The Czar wants only the whites. You agreed, you gave your word. If you wish to renege on the agreement, then I must cancel the bargain we made. Two hundred pure whites or nothing,” he said adamantly.
    The Kat grinned at the determined look on the Russian’s face. “It never hurts to barter. You shall have your two hundred whites—one hundred and twenty-five mares and seventy-five castrated stallions.” When the Russian flinched, the Kat roared with laughter. “Does the word bother you, my friend, or is it the act itself? Never mind, it isn’t important what you feel. When we return from the Carpathians in April, the horses will be taken to Moscow.
    â€œOles,” he called loudly, “take the Russian to the pasture so he can inspect the mares.” His eyes told the Cossack to watch and let nothing go unnoticed.
    Yuri correctly interpreted the look and smiled to himself.
    He could feel Katerina’s eyes on him while he made his selection, nodding as each horse was examined. He could do worse. With a little finery she would be acceptable at court, he mused as he finished his chore.
    Katerina, who had been standing next to her father during the counting, looked at him with wide eyes. He knew! Why didn’t he say something? What would he do?