Prince Of Dreams (30 page)

“Yes,” she whispered, consent and desire tangling inside her.

Nikolas took her to the bed and bent her over it, snatching feverishly at the hem of her gown. She turned her face into the tangle of linens and spread her thighs as she felt him settle over her. He pushed against her in aggressive seeking and made a sound of pleasure when her body contained and shielded him, drawing him deep inside the dark sweetness. He impaled her strongly, answering the backward push of her hips in a rhythm that drove her to a wrenching climax. She sobbed and held still for him, shivering with delight as she felt him flood her with his seed.

Slowly they curled together on the bed, weaklimbed and exhausted. Emma felt the warmth of him all along her back, his legs tucked beneath hers, his arm beneath her neck. Small aftershocks still rippled through her. It was a long time before she spoke in a thin whisper.

“I'm afraid.”

“Why,
dushenka
?”

“What does that mean?”

“My little soul,” he answered readily, smoothing her wild hair. “Why afraid?”

A tear slid down her cheek and trembled on the tip of her chin. “Because I don't want to love you,” she said with a gasp. “Then I'll be at your mercy, and you'll tear me to pieces. I won't let that happen, Nikki.”

He hushed her with a soft murmur and pushed her hands aside. He began to kiss her throat, where the edge of lace met her skin…nuzzling kisses that made her breath quicken and her nipples rise against the veil of cambric. He moved over her, his heavy shoulders lit with a silvered gleam as a shaft of moonlight crossed them. His hands, capable of such cruelty and power, slid gently from her hips to her breasts. He whispered to her, sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian, his words spilling over her body. Lifting the hem of her nightgown inch by inch, he celebrated her newly revealed skin with gentle bites and kisses. Emma reached down to grip the muscles of his back, finding the familiar texture of his scars.

The gown was pulled over her head, leaving her completely naked. Emma twined herself around him, embracing him fully. They kissed ardently, rolling once, twice across the bed. Nikolas groaned at the caress of Emma's hands, the gentle flex of her fingers around his stiff flesh. His head dipped over the taut plane of her stomach and moved to the soft cove between her thighs, until his tongue expertly located the tender place where all pleasure centered.

Shaking with need, Emma touched his hair, her fingers delving into the silken locks and twining tightly. “Now,” she whispered urgently, writhing in response to the demand of his mouth. “Please, now…”

Nikolas levered himself over her and entered slowly, gliding low and full until she gave a cry of satisfaction. They were still, utterly joined. Emma saw the glitter of his eyes in the darkness, the mysterious outline of his face. He was a stranger to her, more gentle and passionate than she could ever have imagined. “Who are you?” she murmured.

“I'm the one who loves you,” he whispered. “Forever, Emma.” He pushed even deeper, seeming to relish her helpless sob of pleasure. She clung to him in surrender, reckless and open, yielding all of herself. And he gave the same, letting the fire rage out of control until all memory had burned away and the world was clean and new.

For the first time, Emma awakened in the morning with her husband's arms around her. She waited through the initial moments of confusion, then shifted to look at Nikolas's face. His amber eyes were open, his gaze searching. “Good morning,” he said, his voice sleep-scratchy.

He had held her all night, occasionally interrupting her dreams by kissing her face and throat. They had made love once more as morning approached, their bodies moving in languorous rhythm until they had both dissolved in shuddering release. What could she say to him after a night of such unguarded sensuality? She looked away from him, her cheeks burning, and she made a move to roll out of bed.

He stopped her, pinning her down to the mattress. He stared into her eyes. “How do you feel?”

“I don't know. I have no idea where to go from here, or how to
be
with you. It's easy to argue all the time—it's what I'm used to. But to be at peace…I don't know if that's possible for us.”

His warm hands covered her bare bottom, squeezing the firm curves. “It's simple,
ruyshka
. We'll take it day by day.”

Emma felt him stirring between them, the insistent throbbing that betrayed his awakening passion. He gripped her bottom, keeping her on top while his mouth wandered in a moist path over her breasts.

She protested breathlessly. “No, Nikki. It's time for breakfast—”

“I'm not hungry.”

“—and I haven't seen to the animals this morning—”

“They can wait.”

“Jacob might come looking for you—”

“He won't. He's not my son for nothing.”

She tried one last time to divert him. “I'm sore…”

“I can fix that,” he whispered, rolling until she was pressed flat on her back. He pushed her thighs apart and applied himself toward convincing her to stay. Emma succumbed with a moan of pleasure as his hands and mouth made promises he was more than ready to fulfill.

Nikolas seemed to take it for granted that he would be welcome in her bed after that, and Emma did not deny him. A week passed swiftly, while Emma awoke each day with a sense of discovery. She was learning things about her husband that she had never guessed in all the previous months of their marriage. There were moments when he could be astonishingly tender, helping her take down the heavy mass of her hair at night, his fingers massaging the sore spots that hairpins and combs had left on her scalp. He would rub salve into her hands where they had been chafed or scraped during work, or interrupt her bath and wash her as if she were a child.

One day his mood took a predatory turn, and he cornered her in the menagerie. Ignoring her startled protests, he unfastened her trousers and took her against the wall, until they were both sweat-drenched and gasping with satisfaction. He teased her unmercifully, provoking her and at the same time making her laugh, until she didn't know whether to kiss him or kill him.

In the afternoons when Robert Soames painted Emma's portrait, Nikolas came to watch the sittings, staring at her with such absorption that she finally banished him from the room. “I can't sit still and look dignified when you're watching me,” she informed him, shoving him toward the doorway. Nikolas obeyed reluctantly, scowling as she closed the door in his face.

He talked about his dream once more, on the day they took a walk across the snow-dusted land around the estate. Snowflakes descended gently from the sky, and Nikolas stopped to kiss the melting patches on Emma's face. “You look like an angel,” he murmured, touching the snowy points that had caught in her hair.

“So do you,” she replied, and laughed as she brushed at the snow on his tawny locks. “A fallen one.”

Suddenly Nikolas was quiet. Emma saw that he was staring at her, transfixed. “What is it?” she asked warily.

“You looked like this before, in Russia. I gave you a white lace shawl, and you wore it over your hair.”

I was never in Russia
, she wanted to say, but she held the words back as she contemplated her husband. How often did he think of that mysterious hour when he had been lost in his dream of the past? She sensed the craving behind his closed expression, the desire to recapture what had been taken from him. Nikolas truly believed they had known and loved each other in a past life. Certainly she wouldn't encourage him in that belief, but neither could she bring herself to mock him for it.

“You loved the woman in your dream, didn't you?” she said quietly.

An indistinguishable emotion flared in his eyes. “That woman was you.”

“Even if that were true, it has nothing to do with us now,” she said. “It makes no difference to our situation.”

“It makes all the difference to me. I remembered how it felt to love you, and to be loved in return.”

“I'm sorry if that's what you want from me,” Emma said stiffly. “It's not possible. Can't this be enough for you? Being friends of a sort, and finding pleasure in each other's company?”

“No,” came his grim reply. “It's not enough.”

They continued their walk in silence until they came upon a small stone structure, the estate chapel which had been converted for the use of the Russian servants.

“I've never been in there before,” Emma said. “What does it look like?”

Nikolas regarded the chapel without expression and accompanied Emma to the small, arched doorway. He pushed open the door and held it for her as she went inside. Covering her hair with her blue woolen scarf, Emma glanced around the chapel. It was filled with icons and altars laden with candles. A few of them had been lit recently, their tiny flames sending soft light through the air. It was a sad and solemn place. The walls seemed to have absorbed the confessions and appeals of all those who had been there before them.

“Shall I light a candle?” Emma asked in a hushed voice.

Nikolas didn't reply. His golden features were as still as the icons that surrounded them.

“Well, it couldn't hurt,” Emma remarked, selecting a long taper. She lit it from a burning flame and placed it carefully in one of the holders before the Mary-and-child icon. Turning, she glanced at Nikolas, and her breath stopped.

Nikolas's eyes were flooded with burning wetness. He was unable to control his reaction at the sight of Emma surrounded by Russian paintings and candlelight. He had never known such torment. It seemed that she had the power of life and death over him. He didn't know what would happen to him if she never came to love him. He was afraid of what he might become.

It seemed an eternity before he spoke with inhuman self-control, his voice low and even. “I don't know what happened to me on that day. I'm not certain what's real anymore. All I know is that I need you.”

Emma stood there in helpless confusion, gazing at the man who had seduced, married, betrayed her…the most complex and disturbing man she had ever known. It would take courage to stay with him. She felt as if she were standing face-to-face with a tiger, with no bars between them. She had so many feelings for him…fear, desire, anger, tenderness. Would anyone ever fascinate her as he did? Was it worth the risk to find out if he truly did care for her?

She moved toward him and laid a gentle hand on his jaw. She felt the tremors in his body, a tension too great to bear. “Perhaps I need you too,” she whispered.

His hand tangled in her hair, a tightly possessive grip, and he pulled her to him, compressing and crushing her against his body. He pressed muffled words to her lips, then kissed her savagely, holding her as if he would never let go.

“Where are you taking me?” Jake asked the next day, his small hand locked in Emma's as they went out to the carriage on the front drive. “And why are we wearing fancy clothes?”

Emma had dressed him with exacting care in little black breeches, a blue vest, and a blue cap pulled over his heavy, dark curls. For herself she had chosen a smart gray frock trimmed with violet-and-gray-striped silk. Her hair had been neatly braided and pinned, and topped with a gray felt hat trimmed with grosgrain ribbon and a gauzy lavender scarf. A velvet hooded cape with a shawl mantle covered her shoulders.

“We're paying a call on my family,” she told Jake. “My stepmother wrote to me, saying they will be staying in the city for a few days.”

“You have a stepmother too?” he asked in surprise.

“Well, yes.” Emma adjusted his cap carefully and smiled at him. “You don't have a monopoly on stepmothers, you know.”

“What is yours like?”

“She's Russian, like you and your father.”

“Does she know Russian stories?” There was a flash of eager curiosity in the boy's eyes.

Emma smiled. “Probably hundreds of them.” She was grateful for Jake's happy chattering, the way he settled in the carriage and pulled toy soldiers from his pocket, engaging them in a mock battle. Any distraction was welcome, helping her to ignore the fluttering nerves in her stomach.

She had refused to see her parents since her wedding to Nikolas four and a half months ago. There had been little communication, aside from a few stilted letters exchanged between her and Tasia. She wondered how they would react to seeing her. Would their reception be warm or cold? What would they say about Jacob? Perhaps it would have been best to go by herself, but Emma needed the boy's company. And she wanted them to know about the child—it would help them understand the things she would try to tell them. Jacob seemed to be an integral part of the change that had come over Nikolas.

“You'll probably meet my brothers, William and Zachary,” she said as the carriage proceeded down the long front drive. “William is exactly your age, Jake, and you're cousins of a sort, although so distant that it's very difficult to trace. Russians are very keen on the idea of family, and very proud of their relatives, so I imagine William will be quite pleased to claim you.”

Jake looked wary. “Will I like him?”

“You will definitely like him,” Emma said firmly. “He's a nice boy, Jake. He's not the kind who calls names or makes fun of others.”

“But I talk like the villagers…and I'm a bastard too.”

Emma hadn't realized the boy was conscious of his rough country accent. “You don't have to tell people that, Jake. Your heritage is nothing to be ashamed of, and certainly nothing you could help. Second, William won't think anything about your accent. And as you grow older, that will soften a bit.”

“Will it?” Jake looked vaguely pleased, and went back to playing with his soldiers.

Emma's nervousness increased during the drive to her family's Italianate villa on the Thames. The lovely, familiar trio of round towers with cone-shaped roofs and surrounding loggias came into view. The carriage stopped in front of the villa, and footmen dressed in heavy brocaded livery came to assist her and Jake from the carriage. Perhaps sensing her apprehension, or sharing it, Jake slipped his hand in hers as they walked to the front door. Emma glanced quickly at him and at herself to make certain they looked their best.