Prince Of Dreams (22 page)

“Do you like it?” he asked casually, and at Emelia's bemused nod, he flipped a coin to the lacemaker, who waited nearby.

“For me?” Emelia exclaimed, her face glowing with excitement.

“Of course it's for you.” A smile tugged at Nikolas's lips. Carefully he removed the dark cloth from her head and draped the fine, soft lace over her hair. “Who else would I buy this for?”

The lacemaker, a little old woman with hands like the twigs of a gnarled tree, nodded approvingly. “Very beautiful. It looks like snow on your red hair.”

Emelia reached up and touched the lace gently. “I've never owned anything so beautiful,” she murmured. “Even my wedding clothes were borrowed.”

The shawl was carefully wrapped in a paper parcel. Next Nikolas took Emelia to a perfumery, filled with incense, oils, and perfumes that made the air sweet. While Emelia investigated the assortment of intriguing flasks and scent boxes, Nikolas spoke to the elderly Frenchman in the corner. “Monsieur, I'd like to choose a scent for my wife.”

The perfumer regarded Emelia with bright, dark eyes. “She is a fine-looking woman. Perhaps someday you will allow me to mix a special perfume for her, Your Highness. In the meantime, I have an excellent one already prepared. Rose, bergamot, and a touch of mint.” Foraging in the back of the shop, he located a flask of blue glass and removed the stopper. He proffered it to Emelia invitingly. “Your wrist, madame.”

Cautiously Emelia extended her arm, and the perfumer rubbed a tiny drop on her skin. Emelia sniffed her wrist and looked at Nikolas with an amazed grin. “It smells just like the meadow in spring!”

“I told you it was excellent,” the perfumer said proudly. “I create perfumes for all the women at court.”

After a few minutes of negotiations, Nikolas bought the perfume and gave it to Emelia. She received it with an awestruck expression.

“I didn't expect you to buy presents for me,” she said, cradling the flask gingerly as she followed Nikolas from the shop. “I haven't done anything to deserve them.”

“You're my wife now. You can have anything you want.”

“What I
really
want…” she began, and blushed up to her hairline.

“Yes?” Nikolas prompted, half-afraid of what she might say.

“I really want—” Emelia tried again, but broke off nervously.

Nikolas stopped at the side of the street, his gaze searching her face. He wasn't certain why he had bought gifts for her, or why it had seemed necessary to show her that she pleased him. She was the one woman on earth he couldn't have. Bitterly he wondered why life wasn't simple for him as it was for other men. He had never been able to reconcile the divided halves of himself, the part that wanted her and the part that feared her.

“We'd better return to the estate,” he finally said. “Peter and his entourage will be arriving soon.”

The clothes set out for Nikolas, including a long amber velvet coat with brocade cuffs, tight velvet breeches, and a jeweled brocade vest, were the height of fashion for the day. He hated everything about them. The constricting fit, the bright colors, the ostentation—all of it was contrary to his own taste. He was accustomed to the elegant simplicity of black and white for evening, tailored with room to spare in the jacket and trousers, everything crisp and neat. That was the style in the time of Queen Victoria. In the early eighteenth century, however, a man of means was supposed to dress with all the subtlety of a peacock.

Feeling ridiculous in his elaborate attire, Nikolas went to Emelia's room. He found his wife sitting at a mahogany dressing table of French design, staring in perplexity at the blue flask of perfume he had given her that afternoon. Looking over her shoulder at the sound of his entrance, Emelia smiled in admiration. “What splendid clothes, Nikolai.”

He made a noncommittal grunt and approached the dressing table. Emelia was wearing the red sarafan, with matching red ribbons wound through her plait in back. She had draped a fragile veil over her hair and secured it with the gold wire circlet. Unable to keep from touching her, Nikolas reached out on the pretext of arranging the tiny paste ruby of her diadem so it lay exactly in the center of her forehead. His thumb passed lightly over one of her eyebrows, smoothing the bright auburn arc. He would have to give her some jewelry—no wife of an Angelovsky should wear fake stones.

Emelia fidgeted with the blue flask. “I've never worn perfume before. How should I put it on?”

“Most people make the mistake of using too much. Just rub a small drop on your wrists and behind your ears.” Drawing the stopper from the glass bottle, Nikolas touched the end of the wand to her wrist. He massaged the moist spot with his fingertip, until the heady scent of summer flowers drifted to his nose. “Some women like to perfume the places where the pulse beats strongest…the throat, the backs of the knees…”

Emelia laughed, holding still as he touched the tender hollows behind her earlobes. “But no one will see my legs!”

The thought of her strong, slim calves, lifting to wrap tightly around him, made Nikolas's mouth go dry. He stared into her smiling blue eyes. If he wanted to, he could seduce her right here, take her to the bed just a few yards away, lift the hem of her sarafan to her waist…

With her face at the level of his hips, Emelia couldn't help but notice the change in his body as his flesh hardened beneath the iron restriction of his breeches. She turned pink and cleared her throat before asking, “Nikolai, do you want to—”

“No,” he snapped, turning away. He strode to the doorway and paused at the threshold, speaking without looking back at her. “I suggest that you hurry, madam. Like it or not, you're going to play hostess for the tsar tonight. And you'd better make the performance a good one, or there will be hell to pay for us both.”

The troupe of six actors performed the comedy by Molière with engaging lightness. A group of approximately thirty guests clustered around the tsar as they relaxed in the private theater at the Angelovsky estate. The theater was small but luxurious, the walls thickly covered with gilt and oval-shaped portraits of family ancestors. Flanked by Nikolas on his left and Aleksandr Menshikov on his right, the tsar laughed heartily at the antics of the actors.

Nikolas was acutely aware of his wife's tension. Emelia was frozen in the seat beside him, darting occasional glances at the tsar. Nikolas guessed that she was intimidated by Peter. Peasants of Emelia's humble background were all taught that the tsar of Russia was the most powerful man on earth, a fatherly and omnipotent figure, and the only being above him was God. To soothe Emelia and keep her attention on the play, Nikolas whispered frequently in her ear, translating the French phrases and jokes into Russian.

When the play was concluded, the guests were led into the dining room and arranged at a long table. Again, Nikolas sat on Peter's left, Menshikov on his right. Emelia was located several places away, looking uncomfortable in comparison to the fashionably gowned court women at the table. Platters of heavily seasoned fish and roasted game were served, and wine was poured into silver goblets lined in pink crystal.

Nikolas said very little, merely sat back in his chair and watched the tsar and Menshikov. There had been few people in his life Nikolas had hated on sight, but Aleksandr Danilovich Menshikov, recently titled Prince of Izhora, was one of them. Perhaps it was because Menshikov so clearly hated him with the same intensity.

A tall, cold-faced man, bone-thin from the hardships of his service in Poland, Menshikov clung to the tsar like a shadow, trying to anticipate all his thoughts and needs. He had unusual turquoise eyes, intense and calculating, and a hard, small mouth adorned with a mustache identical to Peter's. Through a combination of endurance, cleverness, and ambition, Menshikov had risen to a power that often allowed him to speak for Peter himself. A deep sense of comradeship seemed to exist between the two men. Menshikov was fiercely jealous of his relationship with the tsar, and was obviously threatened by anyone whom Peter spoke with or admired.

Menshikov spoke to Nikolas in a catlike tone. “How admirable of you to follow the Angelovsky tradition of marrying a peasant woman! They breed with no difficulty, and it is but a simple matter to train them.”

“Alexashka,” Peter said in a warning tone, but Menshikov continued idly.

“It was wise of you to marry without love, Nikolai. Nothing must interfere with a man's devotion to the tsar and Russia, especially not love for a woman. Demanding creatures, women…they want everything for themselves. As long as a man knows what should come first, he will do well.”

“I know what should come first,” Nikolas assured him, his voice quiet, his eyes hard. He saw how Emelia flushed in embarrassment at Menshikov's pointed remarks about her background. Turning to her, Nikolas commented blandly, “Just see how far you may rise,
ruyshka
. Our friend Menshikov may be a prince of Russia now, but he began as a pie seller in the Moscow marketplace.”

Menshikov twitched as if stung, and Peter laughed uproariously. “You asked for that, Alexashska,” he said, still chuckling. “You should know by now not to provoke Nikolai. He's a sleeping tiger. Best not to awaken him.”

“We can't all be born aristocrats like the Angelovskys,” Menshikov muttered. “How fortunate for Russia that the tsar believes in rewarding a man for his own merits and not because of his noble blood!”

“All I ask is that my people give me loyalty and ardent service,” Peter replied. “In this way a peasant may prove himself to be far more noble than a prince.” As he followed Nikolas's gaze, Peter's attention alighted on Emelia. “What village are you from, child?”

It was a common question, a courtesy that most Russians exchanged in order to show polite interest. The effect on Emelia, however, was unexpected. She turned very pale, and a clammy sheen appeared on her forehead. Her silence drew out to an almost unbearable degree, until Nikolas thought she might not answer.

Her reply was barely audible. “I…it's…Preobrazhenskoe.”

Peter was still, except for the odd tic that began in his left cheek.

What the hell does that mean
? Nikolas thought in worry, before he suddenly realized that Preobrazhenskoe was the site where many bloodthirsty uprisings had begun. It was the home of the Streltsy rebels, who had been responsible for the death of most of Peter's family when he was a child. They had murdered his relatives right before his eyes. The trauma had caused him the lifelong affliction of occasional seizures on the left side of his face and neck. After the second Streltsy rebellion at Preobrazhenskoe, grisly mass executions had been held there until the ground was blood-soaked for miles around. Nothing could guarantee a more negative reaction from Peter than the mere mention of that village.

Menshikov eyed Emelia with barely subdued glee. “And is your family all from Preobrazhenskoe, my dear?” he asked in a delicately malicious tone.

“Yes,” she whispered, keeping her face down. She was the very picture of guilt.

A new realization hit Nikolas like a brick between the eyes. He remembered bits of the conversation they had had at the Golorkov mansion, her reluctant answers to his questions…

“
My father is dead…my family was unpopular because of my father's political beliefs
…”

Her father had probably been executed for being a
strelets
rebel.

Struggling to cope with the new information, Nikolas was only half-aware of the scene unfolding before him.

Peter's face was grim as he moved to alter the course of conversation. “Enough talk for now,” he commanded. “Everyone eat!” He cast a stern glance at Emelia. “No wonder you are skinny—there is scarcely a mouthful of food on your plate. And not one scrap of meat!”

“I-I don't like it,” Emelia faltered.

Peter's expression darkened. “Not like meat? Foolish girl—no one can live without eating flesh.” He picked up a slice of chicken with his huge fingers and tossed it to her plate, where it landed with a splatter. “Here—food from my own hand. Eat it now!”

Emelia took a fork in her trembling fingers while the attention of the entire table focused on her. She picked up a glistening sliver of chicken and regarded it with a sickly expression.

Nikolas watched her with dawning understanding. Emelia was exactly as she would be in the future, with all the same instinctive likes and dislikes. Eating meat went against her very nature. He couldn't let her be abused this way, especially when it would likely result in her throwing up all over the table. He intervened quietly. “
Batushka
, I will send my disobedient wife to her room, where she may go without supper and contemplate her foolishness.”

Peter pointed to the chicken. “Not until she eats that.”

Nikolas glanced at Emelia. She was lifting the bite of meat to her lips. Her face had turned pale green. He knew she wouldn't be able to hold it down. “
Go
,” he snapped.

Emelia threw him a glance of misery and gratitude, and raced from the room in a defeated flurry.

Six hours later, Nikolas ascended the stairs with a weary tread. His entire body was tense with anger, frustration, and a strong feeling of betrayal. It had been a hellish evening. After Emelia had left, Peter's foul mood had poisoned every attempt at conversation. Menshikov had encouraged him with a constant flow of sly whispers and insinuations, while the guests were torn between scandalous delight and uneasiness. Clearly Peter didn't like Nikolas's choice of a bride. Nikolas was well on the way to agreeing with him. After everyone had guzzled bottle after bottle of wine and vodka, Peter and his entourage had left for the night. And finally Nikolas was free to deal with his deceitful wife.

Perfect
, he thought savagely.
All I need in this damned slippery situation is to be saddled with a woman whose family was involved in plots to overthrow the tsar
. He could hardly wait to reach Emelia's room and unleash his anger on her. He was going to make her admit that her father was a
strelets
, and then he was going to make her eternally sorry for having tricked him into marrying her. She must have known that he never would have endangered himself by choosing the daughter of a traitor. Now the shadow of suspicion had been extended to Nikolas, and from now on his every step would be watched carefully.