Prince Of Dreams (24 page)

“Perhaps you should read it anyway, to be reminded of Peter's greatness and his formidable will…not to mention all he has done for you and the rest of us. You know, he and I had a conversation about you this very morning.”

“And?” Nikolas prompted, his muscles clenching.

“It seems Peter is disappointed in you. He had such high hopes, but you chose to squander your talents. Such potential you had, and all of it wasted. You wouldn't accept a military appointment, nor would you do your civic duty by taking the governorship of Archangel…and you even decided to marry the daughter of a traitor.”

“Not one word about her,” Nikolas warned softly, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Menshikov continued in a slightly more subdued tone. “Has she told you about her father, Vasily? I've discovered quite a lot about him from our mutual friend, the chief of the Secret Office. Vasily was indeed a
strelets
soldier, the same kind who schemed against Peter from his birth, and murdered his family. They were supposed to guard his life, and instead they made attempts on it. ‘Begetters of evil,’ the tsar has called them. Your wife's father was known for making masterful speeches about taking over the capital, killing all the boyars, and restoring the tsar's sister Sophia to the throne. Standing in the middle of a crowd with his hair blazing bright red, shouting incendiary words of treason…it led people to call Vasily the red devil. You remember when the Streltsy soldiers marched on Moscow eight years ago? Vasily was a visible and active member of that rebellion. Naturally he was arrested, and he died under torture. But the Streltsy betrayal will never die in the tsar's memory. And every time he sees you and your flamehaired wife, Peter's heart will harden more against you. Emelia is bad for you, politically. If I were you, I'd get rid of her.”

Nikolas couldn't restrain himself any longer. He pounced on the other man and shoved him against the wall, clenching his hands around the bastard's throat. “Maybe I'll just get rid of
you
.”

The other people in the shop paused to stare at them in astonishment. Menshikov whitened in fear, or anger, or both. “Take your hands off me,” he hissed.

Slowly Nikolas complied. “I've had enough of the gossip and rumors you've worked so hard to spread across Moscow,” he muttered. “If I hear of any more slander being said against me or my wife, I'll make you answer for it.”

Menshikov's lips parted in a jagged smile. “It's too late to repair your reputation, my arrogant friend. Your star has already fallen. You're not in Peter's favor any longer, because you valued your pride and privacy more than you did his affections. It's all a game, don't you see? You refused to play…and now you've been cut out.”

Menshikov was right, Nikolas thought with a chill. If he wasn't willing to pander to the tsar's whims, then he had no right to expect Peter's good will.

As winter came to Russia in full force, the air was so cold that frostbite was a worry to those who ventured outside for more than a few minutes. Helpful strangers rubbed snow on the faces of passersby who had the telltale white splotches on their skin. No one braved the weather without covering himself in a heavy fur coat, whether it was made of rabbit or sable. The great tile stoves in the Angelovsky mansion filled each room with steady drafts of heat, while the occupants kept their hands warm with steaming glasses of tea, chocolate, or mulled wine. The approach of Christmas was heralded with festive parties and dances, and with carolers who filled the streets with music. Cleverly shaped gingerbread cakes, or
pryaniki
, were baked in every household and offered to all guests.

Caught up in the holiday revelry, Emelia insisted that Nikolas bring her to the ice hill that had been made for the enjoyment of Russian children and adults alike. It was a giant slide constructed of wood and covered with ice blocks and sheets of water. People carried their wooden sleds up to the top of the forty-foot slide, then careened down it at blinding speed, screaming with laughter all the way.

“You want to go down that?” Nikolas asked reluctantly while Emelia pleaded and tugged at him to accompany her.

“Yes, yes, it's the most wonderful feeling…you've gone down an ice hill before, haven't you?”

“Not since I was a boy.”

“It's been much too long, then!”

Willfully she dragged him over to the mountainous contraption, and she talked someone into letting them borrow a painted wooden sled. They ascended the steps to the platform at the top, where the wind whistled fiercely against their faces.

“I'm going to regret this,” Nikolas muttered, watching the sledders hurtle down the long, impossibly steep incline.

Emelia gestured to the sled with an imperious mittened hand. Her eyes gleamed with enjoyment. Nikolas groaned and obeyed, positioning himself far back on the sled with his legs extended. Emelia sat in the space between his thighs, her body stiff with excitement. The people waiting behind them cheerfully assisted, giving the back of the sled a forceful shove, and off they went.

Air rushed into Nikolas's lungs with a cold, cutting bite, making it impossible for him to breathe for a moment. The sound of the sled's runners was a slick hum in his ears. The exhilarating sensation of speed took over, and they gathered more force as they crossed the middle of the gleaming slide. Emelia laughed and screamed, leaning back hard against him. Faster, faster, racing over the ice…and then they reached the bottom, where sand had been spread to slow the riders' descent. Nikolas used his booted feet to stop the sled.

Still laughing wildly, Emelia collapsed against him. She twisted in an attempt to kiss his windburned face, embracing him with the affectionate clumsiness of an unruly puppy. “I want to do it again!” she cried.

Nikolas smiled and placed a hard kiss on her lips. “Once was enough for me.”

“Oh, Nikki!” She struggled to her feet, and threw her arms around him as he stood up. “Well, it's probably for the best. I was afraid my skirts would end up over my head.”

“Later,” he promised, nuzzling her cold cheek, and she pushed at his chest as she laughed.

That night a Christmas party was held at the home of Prince Golorkov. As they entered the great ballroom, Emelia smiled at Nikolas; both of them remembered the afternoon when he had chosen her from the line of five hundred. “The room looks different now,” Emelia said.

“It's the Christmas decorations,” Nikolas replied, gazing at the swags of red velvet tied with flowers and gold ribbons that covered every inch of wall space. Long tables were ornamented with fir branches and laden with plates of pastry, dried apples and other fruits, and five different kinds of nuts. One table held nothing but gingerbread, which had been baked, cut, and iced to resemble many important buildings in Moscow, including the Kremlin and St. Basil's Cathedral with its profusion of multicolored domes. The spicy, cheerful fragrance of ginger wafted through the air, mingling with the scents of wax and pine.

Intimidated by the grandeur of the gathering, Emelia swished her billowing skirts nervously. “I look like a peasant dressed in borrowed clothes. If only you had let me use the powder for my face—”

“You're magnificent,” Nikolas interrupted, brushing a kiss over the sprinkling of golden freckles on her cheek. It was true; Emelia didn't resemble an aristocrat in spite of her sumptuous garments. The other women present were pale and chalky, their bodies frail and their gestures languid. Emelia was as vivid as a firefly in the company of moths. The glorious red-amber curls had been interwoven with pearls and drawn to the top of her head, with a few long curls dangling to her shoulders. The velvet dress she wore was a shade of blue that made her eyes gleam like sapphires. A squarecut neckline trimmed with a fall of blond lace showed the generous roundness of her breasts, while a corset had drawn her waist into narrow, compact lines. Nikolas was captivated by his wife's vibrant beauty, and judging from the admiring glances being cast their way, so was every other man present.

Enjoying his admiring gaze, Emelia opened her fan and gazed at him flirtatiously over the scalloped edge. “I know what you're thinking when you look at me like that,” came her muffled voice. “You want to take me to bed.”

“I'm
always
thinking that,” he assured her.

She patted her corseted waist. “I'm tied up with so many strings, you won't be able to reach me tonight.”

He smiled and brushed his fingers over hers. “I'll find a way, believe me.”

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of the tsar. But the chatter and excitement that always greeted Peter's entrances were far more pronounced than usual. Wondering what was causing the stir, Nikolas stared at the crowd surrounding the tsar and his entourage, until finally Peter stepped into view. Nikolas shook his head in surprise, while Emelia drew her breath sharply.

In contrast to all the guests dressed in their finery, the tsar wore the simple clothes of a peasant, a red tunic and loose gray trousers, and embroidered felt boots.

“Why?” Emelia breathed.

Nikolas answered tonelessly, without looking at her. “It's a tasteless joke. He's mocking the peasants for complaining about his policies.”

The guests chuckled and applauded while Peter did a silly little folk dance, turning so that everyone could view his costume.

“How terrible,” Emelia said, flushing in embarrassment and anger.

Nikolas could find no reply. He concentrated on the parquet floor, inlaid with a variety of woods and touches of mother-of-pearl, hoping fervently that the tsar would soon tire of making an ass of himself.

“You don't seem to appreciate Peter's wit,” came a man's silken voice from nearby.

Nikolas's brows drew together as he beheld Prince Aleksandr Menshikov. “If that's what you want to call it,” he said softly, giving the man a deadly glance of warning. There was an air about Menshikov that made Nikolas uneasy, a sense of malicious triumph.

Menshikov turned toward Emelia with an elaborate flourish. “How are you, Princess?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said woodenly, refusing to look at him.

Nikolas took his wife's elbow and began to guide her away. “If you'll excuse us, Menshikov—”

“Not just yet,” the other man murmured. “I have a bit of news for your attractive wife. Now may not be the appropriate occasion to impart it…but then, there is never a good time for news like this.”

Nikolas looked at Emelia, who returned his glance with a confused shake of her head.

“It seems that you have been making inquiries, Princess, about your family—to be more specific, your uncle and brother, who have been sent to work in St. Petersburg.” Menshikov emphasized the word “princess” as if it were a term of mockery rather than one of respect.

Nikolas stared at Emelia without expression. What the hell was going on? She had said nothing about wanting to find her uncle and brother—she hadn't mentioned one word of concern to him. Sidarov had been equally closemouthed.

Emelia flushed guiltily and explained in a hushed voice. “I…I asked Sidarov to try and find out how my uncle and brother were. They've sent no word since they were conscripted to work in St. Petersburg, building houses and churches. I wanted to find them, and tell them about my marriage, and…” She fell into a cowed silence, her gaze darting to Menshikov's face.

“Why didn't you come to me for help?” Nikolas asked. “Did you think I'd refuse?”

“I don't know,” she said unhappily.

Menshikov smiled in satisfaction at the turmoil he was causing. “Apparently it takes some time to build trust in a marriage. In any event, your servant Sidarov wasn't able to find out anything. Recently I was informed of his attempts, and I took it upon myself to make my own investigation—as a personal favor.” He gave a long, pitying sigh. “Your uncle and brother were fortunate enough to meet their fate together, Princess, although their loss is a pity. They were working side by side when a wall collapsed on them.” He shrugged regretfully. “Both dead. But life must go on for those of us left behind, mustn't it?”

“Get away from me,” Nikolas sneered at Menshikov, “before I kill you.”

Menshikov retreated a few feet, but hovered nearby, watching them intently.

Emelia's long fingers twisted around the fan, clenching until they were white. Her whole body was trembling.

“We don't know if it's true,” Nikolas murmured, sliding an arm around her.

“It is true.” Tears dropped from her eyes and rolled to her chin. “I knew something would happen to them. Now I have no one left.”

“You have me.” Nikolas smoothed his hand over her shoulders and back. In spite of his concern for her, he was mindful of the situation they were in and the dangers it presented. “Quiet,
ruyshenka
, people are listening.”

“Neither of them wanted to be there,” she wept. “They had a right to stay in the village and live with their families and grow old in peace. I hate the tsar for making them go to St. Petersburg! And he's done this thousands of times, to so many other people. He has no right to mock the peasants when he has taken so much from them—”

Nikolas gripped her upper arms, squeezing until she winced. “Hush. You must be quiet now.” She nodded, managing to gulp back any further tears and bitter words.

But the damage had been done. Nikolas knew it from the satisfied smile on Menshikov's face and the startled expressions of the people who had overheard them. Halfway across the ballroom, Peter noticed the small disturbance, and he looked over at them, his face thunderous and dark with foreboding.

Emelia was too shocked to notice anything outside of her own grief. She obeyed without a word as Nikolas took her home, and she snuggled against him in the sleigh like a frightened child. Nikolas held her securely, occasionally murmuring against her hair. His thoughts and emotions boiled down to numb resignation.

They had been doomed from the beginning, he reflected. The daughter of a
strelets
rebel and an adviser to the tsar; such a pairing would never have been feasible. But if he had it to do all over again, he would still have married her.