knew she loved this man. She could have married him, no matter how old he was, or where he had been, or what happened to them … but they were foolish thoughts. She hadn't even heard from him in two months. She had no idea how he felt about her, if he cared about her at all. All she knew was that he was generous and kind, and he had walked back into her life on Christmas Eve. She knew nothing more than that. But as Evgenia watched them both, she knew more than that, even more than Clayton knew himself as he stood there.
Vladimir arrived shortly after eleven o'clock. He had promised to drive them to church, and he looked startled when he saw Clayton. The Countess introduced the two men, and Vladimir searched his face, wondering who he was and what he was doing there, but the light in Zoya's eyes told its own tale. It was as though she had survived the past months only to live for this moment.
Clayton followed her to the kitchen briefly as Evgenia poured the Prince some wine, and gently he touched her arm and pulled her slowly toward him. His lips softly touched her silky hair, and his eyes closed as he held her.
“I've missed you terribly, little one. … I wanted to write to you, but I couldn't. Everything is top secret now. It's a miracle they even let me come here,” He was intimately involved with all of Per-shing's plans for the American Expeditionary Force. He pulled away from her then, and looked down at her with his warm blue eyes. “Did you miss me at all?”
She couldn't speak, and tears filled her eyes in answer. Everything had been so difficult for them, their poverty, the lack of food, the cold winter, the war. It was all a nightmare, and now suddenly here he was, with his cakes, and his wine, and his strong arms held fast around her. “I missed you very much.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper and averted her eyes. She was afraid to even look at him, he would see too much there. But she felt so safe with him, as though she had waited for him for a lifetime. She heard a polite cough then in the kitchen doorway and they both turned. It was Prince Vladimir, watching them with quiet envy.
“We should go to church soon, Zoya Konstanti-novna.” He spoke to her in Russian, and for a moment his eyes met Clayton's. “Will you be coming with us, sir? The ladies are going to a midnight service.”
“I'd like to very much.” He looked down at Zoya. “Do you think your grandmother would mind?”
“Of course not.” Zoya spoke for them both, especially for herself, as she found herself wondering where he was staying. She thought of offering him Antoine's room, but suspected correctly that her grandmother wouldn't think it proper. Not that it mattered anymore. What did propriety mean when you had no food, no money, no warmth, and the world you had lived in was gone? Who was there to even care about what was proper? It all seemed so foolish to her now, as Clayton gently took her hand and led her out of the kitchen. Sava followed them closely as they went, looking up at them, hoping for a scrap of food. She quietly reached down and fed her one of the treasured cookies.
Her grandmother went to get her hat and coat, and she took her own worn coat from a peg near the door, as the two men waited, chatting politely about the war, the weather, and the prospects for peace in the coming months. Vladimir seemed to be looking him over critically, but in spite of himself he couldn't dislike him. The American was too old for Zoya, of course, and Evgenia would be foolish if she let anything happen between them. When the war was over, he would go back to New York and forget the pretty girl he had toyed with in Paris. But Vladimir couldn't blame him for wanting her, of course. He still longed for her himself, although he had been courting one of his daughter's friends for over a month now. She was a hearty Russian girl from a good family, who had come to Paris the previous spring, like the rest of them, and was eking out a small living by taking in sewing. She and his daughter were meeting him at