Prince Of Dreams (23 page)

Reaching Emelia's chamber, Nikolas let himself inside and closed the door with exquisite care. The red-and-yellow glow from the fireplace was the only light in the room. He could barely make out Emelia's huddled shape by the bed. She appeared to be praying.
Good
, he sneered inwardly,
you'll need a hell of a lot of prayer before I'm through with you
. “We're going to have a talk,” he said, his voice taut with fury.

Emelia came toward him quickly. “Nikolai,” she said in a choked voice. She wore the blank, wide-eyed look of a terrified doe. “You must punish me. I angered the tsar, and now his wrath will fall on you. Here—take this whip—I must be disciplined. Please, I can't bear knowing what I've done—”

“Wait,” Nikolas said, interrupting her babble. He saw the gleam of the silver whip handle, and motioned for her to put it aside. “I want to ask you some questions—”

“Here, take it,” she insisted.

“Christ, I'm not going to beat you!” He pulled the whip from her grasp and sent it whistling to a corner of the room, where it hit with a solid thud. As he faced his trembling wife and saw the trails of tears that fell from her unblinking eyes, his anger vanished in one startling moment. He cursed himself for being so easily undone.

“But you must,” Emelia whispered.

“I'll be damned if I
must
do anything!”

“Please…” She bowed her head and shuddered.

Unable to help himself, Nikolas reached out and drew his wife's slender body against his. “Just tell me the truth,” he said, his lips on her flowing hair. “Was your father a
strelets
rebel?”

She began to cry violently then, gasping out words in an incoherent torrent. “Yes…he was hanged…my mother died of grief…couldn't tell you…I wanted…to be your wife, and if you knew…”

“If I had known, I wouldn't have married you,” he finished for her.

“Please punish me,” she begged.

“You little fool,” he said harshly, and pulled her closer in an effort to soothe her. He stroked her shaking back. “How in God's name do you think I could leave a mark on you? How could I cause you pain with my own hands? Oh, don't think it's not tempting, my clever one. But even if I tried, I could never lift a finger against you.”

“Because I'm your wife?” she asked tremulously.

“Because you're
mine
. You're the only one I've ever wanted, no matter that you'll probably be my downfall. Now stop crying—it's not going to solve anything.”

“I c-can't,” she sobbed against his neck.

“Stop it,” Nikolas said, driven to desperation. He pushed aside the curtain of her red curls and found her wet cheek with his lips. The taste of her tears, the trace of salt on silk, made him dizzy. He moved to the corner of her mouth, the trembling curve of her lower lip, the hint of sleekness inside. He kissed her gently, then harder, harder, until his tongue pushed past the edges of her teeth and he had her in full, deep possession. Her crying ceased magically, and she pressed her body to his. She was so warm, so sweetly compelling, that his desire raced out of control, and he could have taken her right then. Instead he ripped himself away with a tortured groan and strode to the fireplace. He stared into the crackling flames as he fought for composure.

“I can't do this,” he said tersely.

Emelia stood unmoving behind him. “Why?” she asked on a little gasp of air.

The notion of explaining to her, and the spectacle he would present, made him laugh sardonically. “There's no way I could make you understand. God, the things I could tell you…you'd never believe.”

“I might,” she said with impossible hope, her voice a little closer than before.

“Oh?” His laughter ended on a savage note. “What if I told you that I could see into the future? What if I claimed that we'll meet again, a hundred and seventy years from now?”

She replied after a long hesitation. “I could believe that…I think.”

“It's the truth. I know exactly what the future holds. Nothing good can come of our marriage, nothing of any value. The Angelovskys are a corrupt stock. Knowing the pain and misery they'll cause over the next few generations, for themselves and others, I can't let that future happen again. There won't be any children from our marriage because I can't allow the family line to continue.”

Emelia sounded bewildered. “If you feel this way, then why did you marry me?”

He shook his head and cursed softly. “I don't know. I can't help being drawn to you.”

“It's fate,” she said simply.

“I don't know what it is,” he muttered. “But it's no damn good.” He picked up a fireplace poker and jabbed viciously at a burning log.

“Nikki,” she asked, “will there be love between us when we meet again in the future?”

He turned sharply at the use of his nickname. She looked confused and frightened, her eyes filled with a yearning softness that shook him down to the bone.

“No,” he replied, setting aside the poker. “In the future you'll hate me for taking away everything you cherish. I'll end up hurting you, time and time again.”

“No harm can come of loving someone,” she whispered. “I don't know very much, but I'm certain of that.”

“I don't know how to love,” he said, his voice thick with self-hatred. “I've never known. And I'm not worthy of it. Trust me.”

Fresh tears glittered in her blue eyes. “I could love you. You wouldn't even have to love me back.”

“No.” It was all he could say, staring at her flushed, emotion-filled face.

Emelia walked straight to him, and slid her long arms around him. She hugged herself to his body, her face into the side of his neck. “I don't care about the future.” Her words seemed to burn his skin. “All I care about is that I'm here with you now…and I do love you.”

“You can't,” he said softly, while a white-hot explosion went off in his chest. “You have no reason to—”

“I don't need a reason. Love isn't like that.”

In the face of her stubborn, illogical passion, Nikolas could find no defense or retreat. He groaned and sought her mouth with his, kissing her with all the fire he felt inside. He filled his hands with her, cupping her bottom, her hips, her breasts, in greedy and wanton succession. She opened her lips to him, and yielded her body with a tender generosity that devastated him. Locking his arms around her, he held her so tightly that she winced and gasped in pain. He loosened his grip only slightly, and rested his forehead on hers, breathing hard against her mouth.

“I don't know what to do,” he said. He'd never made such an admission before.

“What do you want?” she whispered. It was a provocative question, especially when she was clasped so tightly against his aroused body.

He wanted the intolerable pressure in his chest to leave…he wanted to be free somehow. “I want there to be no past and no future. I want to be able to tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

Nikolas drew back enough to look at her radiant face. His heart thundered with something like terror. He gripped her head in hands that held a distinct tremor, and he stared straight into her glimmering blue eyes. She was so beautiful, so much his.

“I can't,” he heard himself say.

“Let the future take care of itself,” she urged. “Let the others be responsible for themselves. All you can do is try to make a good life for yourself now, with me.”

Nikolas shook his head, wondering if it could really be that simple. He had never lived only for himself, without carrying the burden of his family's dark history. What if he cast all of that aside? It would almost certainly happen again—his father's abuse, his brother's murder, his own corruption. How could he love Emelia now, knowing what would take place?

But he wanted so badly to be with her, and it didn't seem that he had a choice. How long had he tried to deny his feelings for her? Days, months, years…and all of it had been futile. Why keep on trying? He didn't care what price came with loving her. She was worth anything.

Suddenly the emotional upheaval began to subside, leaving a sense of peace he had never known before. “I think I finally know why I'm here,” he said hoarsely. “It's not to change my family's history. It's to be with you. To remember a time when I…was able to feel this way.”

“What way?” she whispered, her hands sliding up to grip his wrists tightly.

His vision blurred, and he swallowed against the sharp pressure in his throat. “I…love you.” He pressed his mouth to her forehead, for once utterly gentle and humble. A feeling more pure and piercing than he had ever known flooded through him. “I love you,” he repeated, kissing her delicate eyelids, and he continued to whisper the miraculous words against her skin and hair. For a long time he wasn't aware of anything except the two of them standing in a pool of firelight, completely absorbed in each other. Later they moved to the bed, although he never remembered if he had led the way, or if she had.

He undressed them both, and he held Emelia's naked body against his, keeping her warm and safe in a cocoon of silk-and-damask covers. With a single fingertip, he traced the lush shape of her mouth, the straight angle of her nose, the bold red slashes of her brows. She moved her hands over his back and sides in tentative strokes. The warmth of her touch filled him with a primitive urgency that took all his strength to contain.

His mouth came to hers, softly ravaging, while his knee slid between her long, silken legs and parted them. He clasped his palms over her breasts until the tips gathered into hard points. Emelia trembled and moved imploringly beneath him, but he kept each caress soft and light. Nothing had ever enthralled him like this, making love at last,
showing
love with his mouth and hands and body. Tenderly he kissed every inch of her, from her head down to her long, narrow feet, returning leisurely to the crisp red spray of curls between her thighs. He pressed his mouth into the softest part of her, licking deep into the sweet cinnamon thicket. Emelia flinched in surprise and pleasure, her fingers tangling in his hair while gasping moans caught in her throat. When she was damp and ready for him, he raised himself over her, matching their limbs length to length.

Emelia slid her arms around his neck and touched her lips to his ear. “I don't know how to please you,” she whispered desperately. “What can I do? What can I give you?”

“Yourself. That's all I want.” He kissed and stroked her, coaxing her to explore his body as she would. When neither of them could bear any more, he entered her carefully, wincing at her cry of pain. “I'm sorry,” he breathed, lodged heavily inside her. “I'm sorry for hurting you.”

“No, no…” She wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him closer, arching in encouragement.

Nikolas began to move, straining to be gentle, while the rising pleasure slowly drove him past the point of sanity. He forget everything he'd ever been, every trace of the past and future. There was only her…Emelia…Emma…driving away all bitterness and anger. His very soul was unlocked, and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to be happy.

Nine

A
MONTH WENT
by, the winter days passing for Nikolas in a dream. He had been given a new life, a chance to be someone else, and he slipped into the role with surprising ease. Qualities that had always been foreign to him, such as compassion, tolerance, generosity, now seemed to come easily. He envied no one, because at last he had everything he wanted. He was constantly busy, organizing meetings of the merchants in the marketplace
posád
, appointing more agents and stewards to manage the Angelovsky holdings, reluctantly sharing an occasional hard-drinking evening with Peter and the gentlemen of the court. Most of his time, however, was spent with Emelia.

His wife enchanted him, with her high spirits and strength of will. They went on sleigh rides across frozen rivers, summoned musicians and actors to entertain at their estate, or passed hours in quiet companionship as Nikolas read aloud from a novel. They made love for hours, each experience seeming to transcend the last. Nikolas was amazed at how much he needed her, how much closeness he craved after years of solitude. He had never allowed someone to know him so well. Emelia felt free to tease and play and make demands of him, and he was only too happy to indulge her.

He lavished her endlessly with gifts—gowns of vivid silk, velvet, and brocade, with overjackets sumptuously trimmed in lace. There were matching silk stockings, slippers, gilded and tooled leather boots, shoes with raised heels in which Emelia tottered around with awkward pride. For her hair, Nikolas had given her a gold-and-silver box filled with tortoiseshell combs, jeweled diadems, diamond pins, and a rainbow of ribbon.

“It's all too much,” Emelia protested one day as they sat in the parlor with Ily Ilych, a wizened, little old man who was known as the best jeweler in Moscow. “I don't need any more jewels, Nikki. I have more than I'll ever wear.”

“There is no such thing as too much,” the jeweler protested, spreading his wares more invitingly on a black velvet cloth before her.

“Why not a bracelet?” Nikolas suggested, hooking a glittering ruby circlet with his finger.

Emelia shook her head. “I have enough to cover both my arms up to my elbows.”

Ilych pointed to other precious objects. “A diamond-and-amber necklace? A sapphire cross to wear to church?”

She laughed and held up her hands defensively. “I don't need anything. Really!”

“The princess deserves something special,” Nikolas told the jeweler, ignoring his wife's protests. “Something out of the ordinary. What else have you brought?”

Ilych's wrinkled mouth drew up in thoughtful folds, and he began to rummage through his collection of velvet bags. “Hmm…perhaps she would like…yes, I think these will be pleasing.” He reached deep into one sack and drew out a selection of precious figurines, setting them on the table, one by one.

Emelia exclaimed in delight as she saw them. “Oh, how wonderful! I've never seen anything like them.”

A wondering smile crossed Nikolas's face. “Nor have I,” he said, although it was a lie. The menagerie of carved animals was the same set he had brought with him when he had been exiled from Russia. The white coral swan with its gold beak, the malachite frog, the amethyst wolf with gold paws, and amid all the rest, the centerpiece of the collection—the amber tiger with yellow diamond eyes.

Emelia picked up the tiger and examined it from every angle. “Look, Nikki. Isn't it beautiful?”

“Very beautiful,” he agreed softly, his gaze on her glowing face. He broke off long enough to tell the jeweler, “We'll take them all.”

Emelia laughed exuberantly and came over to throw her arms around him. “You're so good to me,” she said against his ear. “You'll make me love you too much.”

He brushed his lips across her soft cheek. “There's no such thing as too much.”

Amid the blissful days of his life with Emelia, a sinister shadow began to intrude. Nikolas was aware that whatever his relationship with Peter had once been, it had disintegrated into a friendship that was at best lukewarm. He had a sense of distant admiration for the man, but Peter's explosive temper, his ferocity, his unreasoning stubbornness, made it impossible for Nikolas to like him. And only someone in Peter's good graces would survive these precarious times.

Peter was now under tremendous pressure, waging a war not only against the Swedes but on his own people as well. He had conscripted hundreds of thousands of unwilling peasants to serve in the army and build St. Petersburg, earning the wrath of his subjects from every level of society. Discontent and treachery were everywhere, and few people were safe from Peter's suspicion. Secret police were constantly busy ferreting out information about anyone who breathed even one treasonous word against the tsar and the government. God knew how many innocent men had been accused and made examples of, sometimes even without a trial. The atmosphere around Moscow was ripe with intrigue, and Nikolas realized that he himself was the target of much dislike.

“Jealousy,” Sidarov, his steward, had explained matter-of-factly when Nikolas had remarked on the cold attitudes of the other noblemen toward him. “In their eyes you have been blessed with more than one man deserves. Your name and wealth, your fine looks—” He was interrupted by a sardonic snort from Nikolas. “Yes, you are very fine-looking, and you married a woman of great beauty as well. You gained the favor of the tsar because of your modern Western ideas, so why should any of the boyars like you?”

“The favor of the tsar,” Nikolas muttered. “As far as I can see, that's worth a pail of horse droppings.”

“Your Highness,” Sidarov protested, his chocolate-colored eyes filled with alarm. “You shouldn't say such a thing aloud. The walls have ears! You will endanger yourself and the princess.”

“We're already in danger,” Nikolas said softly, lifting a hand to his jaw and touching the outline of a shadowy bruise. It had been inflicted the day before, at the culmination of a meeting among Peter and the eight men whom he intended to appoint as governors of newly created provinces of Russia. Menshikov was to be in charge of St. Petersburg, Prince Dmitry Golitsyn was to have Kiev, Kazan was to go to Boyar Apraxin, and so forth.

Nikolas had infuriated Peter by refusing the appointment as governor of the Archangel region. He had declined to explain his reason, which was primarily that he had no interest in producing more revenue for the government. All Peter really wanted from his governors was for them to prod a virtual army of tax collectors into squeezing more money from the suffering populace. Nikolas had the unpleasant certainty that his refusal of the position would probably have far-reaching consequences, but still, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Peter's disapproval had fallen on him with full force, and he had pinned Nikolas with an accusing glare that had made some of the men at the long table wince, while a few wriggled in poorly hidden satisfaction. “That's fine—I'll appoint someone else!” Peter had sneered. “But if you feel so comfortable in denying the tsar a request, then perhaps you can tell me what you
have
done, if anything, for my benefit! Tell me why you haven't yet convinced the Moscow merchants to form trading companies.” He stood and walked over to Nikolas, leaning down to shout directly into his face. “I want more industry, more development! Why are my people so slow to change? Why won't they give me the revenue I need to make war against the Swedes? I want answers from you now!”

Nikolas was expressionless. He hadn't flinched in the face of the tsar's ear-splitting roar, not even when tiny flecks of spittle flew from Peter's gigantic mouth. Somehow he had managed to reply calmly. “You've found every possible source of revenue and squeezed it dry,
Batushka
. Your tax collectors have drained every kopeck from the people. There are taxes on everything from birth and marriage to drinking water. There is even a tax on mustaches, ludicrous as that may seem.”

Nikolas paused, realizing that there was a deadly hush in the room. Peter's eyes had turned into chips of flint. No one could believe that Nikolas would dare to tell the tsar the truth. “On top of that,” he continued evenly, “the state monopolies you've created serve to multiply the price of goods at five times their original cost. People can't afford to bury their dead properly because coffins cost too much. Peasants can't even afford salt for their tables. Alcohol, fur, even playing cards are too expensive. The merchants can't make a decent profit under these conditions. They are outraged, and they see no reason to work harder merely to finance your war.”

“Your honesty is appreciated.” Without warning, Peter had struck him. The blow had landed on Nikolas's jaw with blinding force. Nikolas was nearly knocked to the floor. “But
that
is for your insolence.”

The tsar's desire for progress was perfectly in accordance with his Western ideals, but his methods of getting it were not. Blinking hard to clear the bright spots before his eyes, Nikolas had fought to stay upright. There had been a strange ringing in his ears. Rage began to pump through him, and he was consumed with the urge to attack, to defend himself. But lifting a finger against the tsar would be the same as signing his own death warrant.

Slowly Nikolas rose to his feet. “Thank you for the lesson,” he said. “Now I know the reward for telling the truth.” There were audible gasps at his effrontery, and then they all watched in silence, Peter included, as he strode from the room.

Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Nikolas touched the sore spot on his jaw once more and smiled grimly as Sidarov spoke anxiously.

“But, Your Highness, the tsar strikes everyone. It is just his way. Why, he struck Prince Menshikov once in this very house, so hard that Menshikov began to bleed all over the supper table! The tsar doesn't mean anything by it. The people who are close to him must bear the effects of his frustration—you've always known that.”

“His frustration has a hell of a right hook,” Nikolas muttered.

“The bruise will fade soon.” Sidarov's young face twisted with a frown. “Please, Prince Nikolai, you must try to forget this.”

For Emelia's sake, as well as for his own, Nikolas was willing to try.

Later that night, when he went to the room they now shared, he found Emelia sitting at a small table with an odd collection of little mirrors, all positioned to reflect off one another. A candle burned in the center of the mirrors. The soft, wavering light extended to the shadowy wall behind her, making the icon of Elijah and its ruby-colored cloud glow as if lit from behind.

Perplexed, Nikolas stood in the doorway and watched his wife. She was dressed in a pale blue velvet gown, closed up the front with tiny buttons carved from mother-of-pearl. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Emelia jumped a little, and then smiled at him. “You came in so quietly that I didn't hear you!” She returned her attention to the mirrors. “I'm trying to read our fortune. I will stare into the mirrors until one of them reveals our fate. If I can't see anything after a while, then I thought I would melt a candle into a bowl of water, and the drippings will form a figure that will give a clue.”

Nikolas closed the door and went over to her, reaching out to tug gently at a ruddy curl. He smiled down at the top of her head. “You don't really believe in that kind of thing, do you?”

She looked up at him earnestly. “Oh, yes, it always works. Don't the Westerners believe in fortune-telling?”

“Some of them do, I suppose. But more of them believe in science than magic.”

“What do you believe in?”

He fondled the slender line of her throat. “I believe in both.” He drew her away from the table and turned her to face him. “Why are you worried about our fate, child?”

Her gaze moved to the bruise on his face, and she touched it gently with her fingertips. “The tsar doesn't like it that you married me. Everyone knows it.”

His jaw hardened. “Has anyone dared say a word to you—”

“I hear the whispers whenever we go out. I think Menshikov and his friends have made certain to spread the news of who I am. It makes you look very bad, to have a wife such as I.”

“To hell with them all,” he said roughly, and kissed her.

Emelia turned her face away after a few moments. “Sometimes I wish…”

He bent his head to her throat and bestowed a chain of kisses against her skin. “What do you wish,
ruyshka
?”

“That we could find a way to make the rest of the world disappear. That it could be just the two of us.”

“I can make it disappear,” he murmured, dragging his mouth over hers with soft, intimate friction.

Emelia resisted briefly, and stared at him with worried blue eyes. “I don't ever want to cause trouble. I only want to give you comfort and peace.”

“You give me so much more than that,” Nikolas said, finding the shape of her body beneath the velvet robe. “You make me feel things I never imagined. I love you more than my life,
ruyshka
.” He clasped his hand around the fullness of her breast, until her breathing changed and she clung to him with a pleading moan. Triumphantly he drew her to the bed, intent on giving her such pleasure that all trace of worry would be banished, if only for a little while.

Aware that Emelia's suspicions concerning Prince Menshikov were probably right, Nikolas began to consider the best way to confront him. Strangely, they met by chance in a bookseller's shop, where most of the learned men in Moscow congregated in the afternoons. Picking up some Russian translations of foreign books, Nikolas became cognizant of a cold sensation, and turned to find Aleksandr Menshikov standing a few feet away.

Menshikov's blue-green eyes held a reptilian flatness as he smiled in greeting. “Good day, Prince Angelovsky. Have you found anything interesting to read?” He gestured to a nearby volume. “I recommend this account of the glorious accomplishments of the tsar.”

Nikolas's gaze didn't move from the other man's face. “I know all I need to on that subject.”