Free Whitefire by Fern Michaels

if you tell him that the Don as well as the Terek Cossacks are not happy with the tales of his mass murders of people and his lunatic ways. For now, his only thought is to have my Cosars. If it weren’t for my horses, he wouldn’t have a cavalry. Remind him of this matter when you return.”
    Yuri’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the slovenly Kat lean back on the rough-hewn chair. The Kat’s eyes were cold and unreadable. His body tipped precariously on the wooden chair as he eyed the Russian, daring him to dispute what he said. Yuri felt nauseated as the man’s odor reached him. He smelled of stale horseflesh and his own dirty sweat, and the fumes of vodka were strong enough to set the room on fire. His coarse, homespun clothing and mud-crusted boots were those of a fighting Cossack. This fearless leader of men, this awesome breeder of horseflesh, was no different from his men. He looked the same, he dressed the same, and he smelled the same.
    â€œI shall give your message to the Czar . . . exactly as stated,” Yuri said coolly. “I would like to hear the story of the horses—that is, if you wouldn’t mind telling me. There are many hours to get through till dawn, when I inspect them.” What he didn’t say was that he had no desire to sleep in the moldy-looking feather bed that was to be his. Besides, it was something to help while away the time till the old man was sodden, and then he could take the beautiful Katerina outside to some grassy spot and unleash his violent pain.
    With supreme effort he managed to keep his eyes averted from the tawny-skinned Katerina during the meal. He felt the amber, catlike eyes on him, and knew the Kat was aware of it also. He would have to be careful. She was probably being saved for one of those smelly oafs in the horse pens. Yuri’s mouth tightened as he visualized her soft, honeyed skin being caressed by some filthy, sweaty hand. He had to force himself to remain seated, his face schooled to show nothing of his thoughts: of one of those rancid, evil faces with the thick, slobbering lips salivating over her naked body.
    He was saved from further thought when the Kat got off his seat, pulled aside a curtain, and brought forth a jug of vodka. He wiped his hand across his heavy beard as he plopped the jug on the table, with a dirty hand motioning that Yuri should take the first drink. There weren’t any glasses. Yuri raised the heavy jug to his lips and drank deeply.
    The older man’s eyes registered shock when the young Russian set the jug down, precisely on the same spot he lifted it from. His eyes didn’t water, and he wasn’t coughing and sputtering.
    Yuri grinned as he stared at the Cossack. “My guts aren’t on fire. I’ve been drinking vodka since I was six years old. I admit this,” he said, pointing to the jug, “has the kick of one of your stallions, but I’ve had worse.”
    The Kat laughed. “When the jug is finished and if you are still on your feet, then, and only then, will I tell you about my horses.” He brought the jug to his lips and drank with deep gurgling sounds.
    Yuri took his turn, to the amazement of Katerina, who was watching with wide, frightened eyes. Why was her father doing this? Why was he pretending to be this . . . this dirty, unkempt, uncultured man? He was up to something, and she would have to stay in the kitchen till she found out what it was. Surely he wouldn’t kill the Russian, or would he? She had never seen him in this sort of a mood before.
    Yuri drank and set the jug down, a patient look on his face.
    The Kat took another long, gurgling drink and handed the jug to the young Russian. “Drink as I drink,” he said harshly. “There’s more where that came from. Half vodka and half blood runs in my veins. What runs in yours, Russian?”
    â€œRussian blood,” Yuri said curtly as he brought the jug to his