Whitefire by Fern Michaels Page A

about it in jest behind his back, where he would never overhear, but nobody ever uttered a demeaning word to his face. To his face, only words of adoration or praise, if one valued one’s head.
    The pale moonlight silhouetted the hard outline of his profile as he looked over his shoulder. A sheepskin hat sat on top of his black, curly hair, which circled his chiseled face, emphasizing the small, shrewd blue eyes set upon high-boned cheeks that were separated by a large, aquiline nose. The one redeeming feature that made him attractive to women was his full, sensuous mouth and the voice within. His commands held an authoritative manner, leaving no doubt that he meant what he said. But when he wooed the lovelies of his choice, his resonant voice was a choir singing the Gregorian chants, compelling and hypnotizing, so soothing that surrender was a gift of thanks, gladly and freely given to him. Gregory Bohacky, a warrior among warriors, a man among men, was so respected by those under him that he inspired complete obedience.
    Gregory twisted in the saddle, raising his hand upward, signaling his men to stop. “The hour grows late and soon our village will be in view. Our families will be asleep, but tonight when we arrive, the thunder of the Cosar hooves, along with our cries of joy, will awaken everyone. Tonight our mir will ring with joy, music, and dancing, and the vodka will flow like the Dnieper. Tonight we’ll celebrate our victory and conquest, stopping only when we all fall unconscious. We have done what others only dreamed of doing—we captured the Cosars from the Don Cossacks!” A loud roar of approval boomed from the warriors, almost stampeding the horses.
    â€œKeep those beauties calm and quiet, my brothers, we mustn’t lose them now. As happy as I am, I’ll behead any man who lets one horse escape!”
    The threat of the Don Cossacks coming after them was as nonexistent as the lives of the people of Volin. Secure in this knowledge, the Tereks broke into a Cossack song of victory, their voices filling the night air with a melody of joy.
    Gregory, at the water’s edge of the Dnieper, reined in his horse and instructed his men, “As we cross the river, carefully lead the Cosars through the rocks, for lame horses are of no value to anyone. When we are once again on our island of Khortitsa, I’ll personally check the animals, and someone will pay with his life if one lame Cosar is found.”
    Restraining his stallion, Gregory waited on the bank as the Cossacks led the horses through the shallow waters. He smiled to himself as he watched. Never had he seen his rough men handle anything or anyone as gently as they handled the Cosars; not even their women were afforded such tenderness. The mothers of the village would mock us forever if they witnessed this scene, he thought.
    As they left the banks of the Dnieper behind, the faint outline of their huts came into view. Gregory felt a warm glow sweep over him; it was good to be home. Returning this time was that much sweeter, for he would be proclaimed a hero. The gutting of Volin and his victorious capture of the horses would have the mir celebrating for days, and the men would talk of his exploits for years after his death. Gregory Bohacky would be a folk hero in Russian history, and the Tereks would sing his praises across the vast, endless steppe of the Ukraine. He trembled as he envisioned his welcome from the moment his stallion’s hoof first crossed the village entrance. The anticipation telegraphed itself to his legs as he dug his heels into the animal’s flanks, driving him into a full canter. His men sensed his eagerness and rode rapidly behind him, the Cosars driven along with them.
    A guard hidden from view called out, “Is that you, comrade Bohacky? If it is, show yourself.”
    Stepping forward into the light of a blazing campfire, Gregory answered, “Yes, comrade, it is Bohacky.”
    â€œWhat do