Prince Of Dreams (20 page)

Nikolas lurched to his feet and went to the door, flinging it open. He glared down at the steward, who looked pale and upset. “I'll have no problem telling them,” he sneered. “Show me where they are.”

Sidarov's mouth was as tight as a clam. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The steward led Nikolas to the vast gathering room on the first floor. It had been filled with icons until there was barely an inch of wall space left uncovered. A large table at the back of the room was laden with a mountainous honey cake, dishes of almonds, figs, and other delicacies, and goblets of wine. The group of well-dressed guests, including Prince Golorkov, stood around a black-robed priest and a makeshift altar supporting a massive Bible. Everyone smiled and exclaimed as Nikolas appeared. Briefly he glanced over the assemblage, his gaze centering on Emelia.

His heart sank as he looked at her. She wore a sarafan of cream silk brocade, and a gold jacket that was too short in the sleeves. Some kindly benefactor, perhaps Golorkov and his wife, had given the wedding clothes to her. The pearl-embroidered veil over her hair was held in place by a gold wire diadem with a tiny paste ruby glittering on her forehead. She appeared absolutely calm, except for the bouquet of dried flowers and pink ribbons she held. The flowers were trembling visibly, a few tiny, fragile petals scattering to the floor.

It was that sign of nervousness that was Nikolas's undoing. He couldn't reject Emelia now, in front of these guests. He couldn't abandon her. She stared at him with a faint glint of hope in her blue eyes and the beginnings of a smile on her lips…the same way Emma Stokehurst had once looked at him.

Feeling dazed, Nikolas moved forward and took his place beside her. Amid the encouragement and compliments of the guests, Prince Golorkov moved forward to hand Nikolas a ceremonial silver whip, the symbol of a husband's authority to admonish and discipline his wife. Nikolas shook his head as he saw it.

Golorkov frowned. “But, Nikolai—”

“No,” Nikolas said curtly, turning from Golorkov to Emelia. He stared into her startled blue eyes. “We'll marry as Westerners do. I won't carry a whip.”

Questioning murmurs ran through the crowd, until the priest nodded, his long beard flapping against his chest. “It shall be as the prince commands.”

The priest began the ceremony in a tranquil drone. Nikolas and Emelia were each given a small icon to hold and a bite of salted black bread to eat. The wedding rings, heavy gold pieces that Nikolas vaguely recognized from the ancient Angelovsky collection, were blessed and exchanged. He did not look at Emelia, but concentrated on the ceremony, holding his arm steady as their wrists were bound together with a silk cloth. With great dignity, the priest led them in a small, tight circle around the altar, and unwrapped the wrist binding. Following the priest's indication, Emelia began to kneel on the ground. According to tradition, the bride should rest her forehead on the groom's shoe to show the proper submissiveness.

Realizing what was happening, Nikolas caught Emelia by the elbows and hauled her upright before her knees touched the floor. She gasped in surprise and swayed against him.

“The Western custom is to exchange a kiss,” Nikolas said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “My wife will not be my slave, but my companion and equal partner.”

There was some discomfort and laughter at this, as a few of the guests thought he was making an inappropriate joke. Nikolas didn't smile, only held Emelia's gaze and waited for her reply.

“Yes, Nikolai,” she finally said in a stifled whisper. Her eyes closed as he bent his head and kissed her.

Her lips were soft and innocent, parting beneath the hard pressure of his. Nikolas slid his hands around her neck, his fingers splaying across the warm, silken skin as he gathered her closer. The firm weight of her breasts touched his chest. A sound of pleasure caught in Nikolas's throat. He wanted her with sudden, terrible desperation, until his groin and his nerves and his very soul ached with it. Somehow he managed to release her. The priest handed them a red wooden
bratina
cup to drink from, and when that bit of good luck was ensured, the guests applauded the completion of the ceremony.

“Time to celebrate!” someone called, and the assemblage moved as a whole toward the honey cake and the goblets of wine.

Nikolas gazed at his new bride, his blood pumping hard, his fingers flexing as he thought of all the things he wanted to do with her. He was consumed with lust. It didn't matter what her name was. His senses told him this was Emma. Her body, her winsome spirit, and her presence stirred him just as they always had.

Sidarov appeared beside him, giving him a discreet nudge with his elbow. “Your Highness,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, “you may take your bride upstairs now. Is there anything you require?”

Nikolas tore his attention from Emelia long enough to reply. “Privacy,” he said meaningfully. “If anyone comes to my room, I'll kill him. Is that clear?”

“But, Prince Nikolai, according to tradition, the guests have the right to inspect the sheets in two hours—”

“Not according to Western tradition.”

Sidarov nodded, wearing a beleaguered grimace. “It is not easy to be the servant of a modern man. Yes, Your Highness, I'll keep everyone away.”

Nikolas offered Emelia his arm, and she took it at once, bending her head to let the veil hide her fierce blush. A chorus of cheerful farewells followed them as they left the gathering. Conscious of Emelia's nervous grip on his arm, the way she matched her footsteps to his, Nikolas was suffused with hungry anticipation. He wanted her too much to let anyone or anything interfere—it didn't matter what the consequences were. For a few hours the rest of the world would disappear, and he would lose himself in the pleasure of her body. He led her to his bedroom and closed the door. The servants had set out jugs of water and wine, and thick yellow candles that filled the room with amber light.

Emelia stood still, her breath shallow as she watched him with wide eyes. Gently Nikolas removed the diadem from her hair and lifted away the pearl-embroidered veil. He set the articles aside on a small table and returned to her. “Turn around,” he said softly.

She obeyed, and he heard her quick indrawn breath as she felt him grasp the braid that hung down her back. He unplaited the thick red locks, setting the brilliant curls free, and he combed his fingers through the loosened mass. Each movement was slow, careful, although he wanted to throw her on the bed and take her at once. Easing the gold jacket over her shoulders, he dropped it to the floor. He drew her back against him and slid his hands over her front, feeling through the layers of her sarafan for the shape of her body. She gasped, pressing her spine against him, while he cupped her round breasts until her nipples hardened from the light caress.

Nikolas was stunned by the trusting way she offered herself to him. He lowered his head over her shoulder, nuzzled his face into her neck, while his heart beat a rhythm of furious need. He let his hand drift over the flat, neat line of her stomach, down to the tantalizing cove between her thighs. Shivering, Emelia leaned harder against him, her breath rushing unsteadily as he pressed his palm over the soft mound, until heat collected between his hand and her body.

Nikolas had always preferred to make love in silence, making the act purely physical rather than an experience of shared emotion. Words said at such a time were too intimate and revealing. But he felt the need to say something to her now, to soothe the tension that had suddenly made her spine rigid. “I'm not going to hurt you,
ruyshka
.”

“I'm not afraid,” she replied, turning to face him. “It's only that…we don't know each other.”

Don't we
? he wanted to reply.
I've held you in my arms too many times to count. I know you, Emma. Every inch of your body, every expression on your face
. He knew how to manipulate her, how to make her feel pleasure, shame, anger…but did all of that mean he really knew her? The secrets of her heart and mind, the things she dreamed of and hoped for, were a mystery to him.

He stared at the woman before him, fingering a cinnasmon curl that lay over her shoulder. “You're right,” he said quietly. “We're strangers. It's a new beginning for both of us. We'll have to trust each other,
kharashó
?”

“Yes.” She smiled hesitantly, reaching for his coat with a bashful murmur. He helped her to remove the garment, and pulled his shirt hem free from the narrow breeches. Emboldened, Emelia worked on the tiny jeweled cuff buttons that fastened the billowing shirtsleeves. When the buttons were free, Nikolas pulled the garment over his head, letting it fall to the floor. He steeled himself not to move as her gaze wandered over his bare chest, and he waited for a reaction to his scars.

But there was nothing in Emelia's face save a flash of timid curiosity. She touched his collarbone and the hard curve of muscle beneath, her fingertips like tender spots of fire. “You're a beautiful man,” she whispered.

Surprised by the mockery, for no one with his scars was beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, Nikolas followed her gaze to his chest. All at once he was wrenched with amazement.

There were no scars, nothing but unmarred skin lighted with the gleam of candlelight. Nikolas lifted his shaking hands to his chest. He looked at his wrists, both clean and perfect. “My God,” he said hoarsely, while his legs nearly gave way beneath him. “What's happening to me?”

Emelia retreated a few steps and stared at him in confusion. “Prince Nikolai? Are you ill?”

“Get out,” he said, his voice scratchy.

Her skin lost its color. “What?”

“Get out,” he repeated numbly. “Please. Find another room to sleep in.”

Emelia drew a sharp breath, and wiped at the sudden glitter of tears in her eyes. “What have I done wrong? Do I displease you?”

“It has nothing to do with you. I'm sorry, I…” Nikolas shook his head, unable to speak further. Blindly he turned away from her, waiting until he heard her leave the room. There was a sharp pain in his temples, as if someone were driving nails through his skull. “God,” he whispered, investing a prayer of fear and wonder into the single syllable. He felt for the scars again, and he was shocked anew when his fingers encountered smooth skin. The lash-marks and burns had been a part of him for years. He had stared at them whenever he needed a reminder of the fiendish cruelty people were capable of. How could the scars be gone? The visible proof of the experiences that had shaped him had vanished, and without them, his identity had been stripped away.

Nikolas moved to a nearby chair and sat in a tightly drawn heap. He had never felt so isolated. He was disconnected from everything he had known. There seemed to be no way to return to the life he'd once had. He wasn't even certain he wanted to. He had nothing in that life, no one, and he had deliberately destroyed all chance of a relationship with Emma Stokehurst. What was there to go back to?

Reason returned to him with jarring suddenness. It would have been a tragic mistake to bed Emelia. He would do nothing to risk making her pregnant. He wouldn't lay a finger on her. The Angelovsky line would die with him, and the world would be a far better place.

He thought of Emma Stokehurst waiting in the future, of never marrying her, never having her, and he ignored the coldness in the pit of his stomach.

Staring at the jug of wine, Nikolas thought of making himself drunk. But that wouldn't change anything. At best it would provide a temporary respite, from which he would awaken to face the same problem—what was he to do next?

Whether Sidarov knew or merely suspected that Nikolas hadn't bedded Emelia, he said nothing about it the next morning. His lean face was carefully expressionless, but his dark brown eyes were speculative as he gazed at Nikolas's disheveled form. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he remarked. “I took the liberty of having a bath prepared, in case you should want one today.”

Nikolas nodded and followed the steward to the private bath house attached to the main residence. “You haven't changed your clothes in two days,” Sidarov remarked, scooping up garments as Nikolas disrobed. “Your bath will be welcome news to the entire household.”

The comment reminded Nikolas of the Russians' scrupulous standards of cleanliness. Even the most humble peasants washed themselves frequently. It was one of the few areas in which the Slavs were more advanced than their Western counterparts, especially at this time in history. The English actually feared to bathe themselves too often, believing it made them vulnerable to illness.

The wooden bathhouse was well scrubbed and roomy, with glass windows set high in the walls to allow light from outside. It opened into a comfortable chamber filled with elegant brocaded furniture and large fireplaces. For now, the doors were closed to preserve the warmth of the bath. Steam collected on the windowpanes and ran down in bright rivulets. Nikolas sighed in comfort as he stepped into the bath and sat chest-deep in water infused with herbs. The heat of it permeated his body, soothing tense muscles and a multitude of aches. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rim of the wooden bath.

“Shall I leave you for a while?” Sidarov inquired.

“Yes,” Nikolas said, keeping his eyes closed.

“I will return with your shaving instruments when your beard has softened.”

For a while there was no sound except the dripping of water from the windows, and the slosh of small waves in the bath as Nikolas moved his foot back and forth. Puffs of steam rose from the tiled stove. Drowsing, luxuriating, Nikolas let his mind drift, until he heard the scrape of a footstep on the floor. “Sidarov?” he murmured.

“No,” came a woman's soft reply.

Nikolas opened his eyes. Through the luminous, hot mist he saw Emelia approach the tub. She wore a simple blue peasant dress. Her eyes were red from crying, and her jaw was set with a determination that he recognized. He sat up and stared at her warily, wondering if she had come to reproach him. God knew she had every right.