Prince Of Dreams (4 page)

“Where are the children?” Luke asked.

Tasia swirled the brandy in the snifter and offered him another sip, gently tilting the crystal rim against his mouth. “The boys are playing in the nursery. It's almost time for their baths…I suppose I should go up to them now.”

“Not just yet.” His large hand closed over her arm. “This is my favorite part of evening, when I have you all to myself.”

Tasia laughed and nuzzled the soft spot beneath his bristled jaw. “I really must go help Nurse, or the boys will splash water everywhere. And I want to check on Emma. She's been closed up in her room all day. I had Cook send up supper for her, but I don't know if she touched it.”

Luke scowled slightly. “Probably pining over Milbank.”

“Probably.”

“I was certain Emma would have gotten over him by now. Can't we do something to hurry it along?”

“Obviously you have never suffered the pangs of unrequited love,” Tasia said dryly.

“I did with you.”

“Hardly! You decided you loved me, and two days later you came to my bed.”

“It was the longest two days of my life.”

Tasia laughed at his heartfelt tone. She set aside the brandy and slid her arms around his waist. Her hands settled lightly on his muscled back. “And we've been together almost every night since.”

“Except for Nikolas Angelovsky's interference,” Luke said darkly.

“Shhh.” Tasia pressed her lips to his. “We agreed to forgive and forget about all that. It's been seven years.”

“I haven't forgotten.”

“And you don't seem to have forgiven either.” Tasia stared into his narrow sapphire eyes and shook her head slowly. “You, my darling, are the second most stubborn person I've ever known.”

“Only the second?”

“I think Emma may actually surpass you by a narrow margin.”

Luke leaned over her and grinned. “The Stokehurst blood,” he informed her. “Neither one of us can help being stubborn.”

Tasia giggled, turning her face to avoid his kisses. “The Stokehurst blood is your excuse for everything!”

He used his weight to hold her down, and nibbled amorously on her throat as she squirmed beneath him. “Stubborn and very passionate…Let me show you.”

“I've already had ample demonstration,” she said, gasping with laughter.

All at once their play was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Tasia looked in that direction and had an upside-down view of Emma's tall figure. She drew apart from her husband, struggling to a sitting position. “Emma, dear…” She paused and blinked as she saw the girl's face, white and brittle, as if she'd received some dreadful shock. Luke must have seen it at the same instant, for he sat up and said his daughter's name in a questioning tone.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” Emma said coldly.

“What's the matter?” Tasia asked in concern. “Has something happened? You look upset—”

“I'm all right.” Opening her fist, Emma tossed a sheet of crumpled paper at Luke's feet. The firelight played across it in flickers of red and gold. “I hope this pleases you, Papa.”

Silently Luke picked up the letter, while his eyes remained on his daughter's drawn face.

“Read it,” Emma said tersely. “It's from Adam. He's given up any hope of marrying me. He's leaving the country for a while. Thanks to you, I'll never have anyone.” The tiny muscles of her cheeks twitched violently. “I'll never forgive you for taking away my only chance to be loved.”

There was a troubled look on Luke's face. “Adam Milbank didn't love you,” he said quietly.

Emma's mouth curved in a bitter twist. “Who are you to decide that? What if he did? What if it was real love? Can you be so certain you haven't made a mistake? My father, so noble, so wise…so bloody damn perfect that you can see inside a man's heart and judge him in a glance! It must be nice to be absolutely infallible!”

Luke didn't answer.

“You don't want me to be married,” Emma continued in rising vehemence, “unless it's to some spineless puppet whom you can control as you do everyone else—”

“That's enough,” Tasia interrupted.

Emma's anguished gaze turned on her. “You don't think I've
hurt
my father, do you? You have to love someone in order to be hurt by their words—and I'm not privileged to be on the very short list of people Papa cares about.”

“That's not true,” Luke said, his voice rusty. “I love you, Emma.”

“Really? I thought loving someone meant wanting them to be happy. Well, you can keep your so-called love, Papa. I've had enough of it for a lifetime.”

“Emma—”

“I
hate
you.” A visible shudder of emotion ran through her body. In the blanket of silence that descended, she turned and walked away.

Two

T
ASIA WAS THE
first to move. Carefully she pried the letter from Luke's hand and read in silence. Luke remained sitting with his head bent, all thoughts concealed.

After finishing the letter, Tasia set it aside with a sound of disgust. “What melodramatic prattle,” she said flatly. “He's painted them as a pair of starcrossed lovers, with you cast as the villain, of course. Adam is leaving her ‘for the sake of honor’—and he blames you for keeping them apart.”

Luke raised his face. He was pale, and his mouth was taut. “Who else is to blame but me?”

“You did what you felt was best.”

His wife's quick defense brought a warm gleam to his eyes, but then Luke shook his head wearily. “Emma was right. I should have allowed for the possibility that Milbank did love her, but—” He broke off and scowled. “You and I both know he's nothing but a parasite.”

“I'm afraid it's clear to everyone except Emma.”

“Should I have allowed him to court her when I knew he would hurt her? Christ, I don't know anything about headstrong daughters! All I know is that she's far too good for Milbank. I couldn't stand by and let him take advantage of her.”

“No, of course not,” Tasia said gently. “You love her too much for that. And Mary would never have wanted a man like him for her child.”

The mention of his first wife seemed to be Luke's undoing. He turned away with a groan, staring into the fire. “There were so many lonely years for Emma after Mary died…I should have married someone right away for my daughter's sake. She needed a woman's influence. I should have thought about what it was like for her to grow up without a mother, instead of thinking only of myself—”

“You're not to blame,” Tasia insisted. “And Emma doesn't hate you.”

Luke laughed without humor. “She gave a hell of an imitation.”

“She's angry and hurt because Adam deserted her, and you're the most available target. I'll talk to her when her temper cools. She'll be all right.” Tasia took his jaw in her small hands and urged him to look at her. Her blue-gray eyes were filled with love. “And you may be right about Emma needing a mother when she was young,” she whispered. “But I'm glad you didn't marry someone else. I'm so selfishly glad you waited for me.”

Luke lowered his face to her rounded shoulder, drawing comfort from her nearness. “So am I,” he said, his voice muffled. Tasia smiled and stroked his black hair, lingering on the threads of silver at his temples. To the rest of the world, Luke was a powerful, confident man who rarely allowed his emotions to show. Only with her did he reveal his doubts and feelings, trusting her with all the secrets of his heart.

“I love you,” she said against his ear, touching the lobe with the tip of her tongue.

Luke sought her mouth and kissed her hungrily, his arms drawing tightly around her. “Thank God for you,” he said, and pulled her down to the carpet.

Now that the London Season was officially over, the Stokehurst household—family, servants, and animals—was transferred to its sprawling country estate. Set on a broad hill overlooking the tidy village below, Southgate Hall was a romantic home built on the remains of the original castle, a Norman fortress. With its lofty turrets and intricate front of brick and glass, it would have been the perfect setting for a fairy tale. The family would relax for the next few months, far from the humid, fetid atmosphere of London. There would be an occasional house party, a few visits paid by friends and relatives, and the activity of the summer harvest.

Emma spent most of her time riding alone through the green countryside or working in the menagerie, located a quarter mile from Southgate Hall. The endless tasks of caring for her animals helped to take her mind off Adam. During the daylight she worked until her muscles ached, and at night she slept from exhaustion. But it was always there, the knowledge of what she had lost. She found it hard to accept that she would never be with Adam again.

The worst part of the day was suppertime. Emma gulped down her food and left the table as soon as possible, unable to endure her family's presence. She had never been so angry with her father. Every moment of loneliness was his fault. Every night of solitary sleep was because of him. Her father had made a few apologetic overtures to her, but she had remained coldly unforgiving. As far as Emma was concerned, there was no chance they would ever resume the close relationship they had once had. Something had been broken that could never be repaired.

It didn't matter that there was some truth to her father's claim that Adam had wanted her dowry. Of course the money had appealed to him—Adam had made no secret of that. But he had also cared for her. They would have had a good life together. Now that was gone, and Emma knew she would never be anyone's wife. She didn't intend to settle for some fat old widower or some half-witted bore just for the sake of being married.

By now she had lost all her value in the marriage market. There were too many younger, prettier girls who came out each Season, and they were the ones who caught the only decent bachelors available. Her father and Tasia were blind to the flaws that everyone else saw in her. They didn't seem to realize that Adam had been her only hope.

“Emma, do animals ever marry?” her six-year-old brother, William, asked one day as he watched her cleaning the chimpanzee pen. Its aging occupant, Cleo, combed her leathery fingers through William's black hair in a fruitless search for insects. The door to the building was left open, inviting any breeze that might find its way inside.

Emma stopped her work and leaned on the rake handle, smiling at him. “No, William, not the way people do. But some kinds of animals mate for life. Wolves, for example. Or swans.”

“What is a mate?”

“It's like your mother and father—two creatures that stay faithful to each other their whole lives.”

“Do monkeys mate for life?” William pushed Cleo's inquisitive hands away and glanced into her soulful brown eyes. The chimp pursed her lips and made a few inquiring grunts, reaching for his hair once more.

“No,” Emma replied dryly, “they're not so discriminating.”

“Do tigers?”

“Not tigers either.”

“But people mate for life.”

“Most people,” she agreed. “When it's possible.”

“And when they don't, they're spinsters. Like you and Cleo.”

Emma laughed as she pulled clinging strands of straw from her clothes. “Something like that.”

All at once a new voice entered the conversation. “Your sister is too young and lovely to be a spinster.”

Emma and William both turned to see Nikolas Angelovsky standing at the threshold, in a patch of blinding sunlight. With a critical glance at the chimp, he added, “I'm afraid I can't say the same for Cleo.”

Cleo squeaked and hooted as William rushed eagerly to the newcomer. It seemed, Emma thought wryly, that no one was immune to Nikolas's potent mixture of charm and mystery. “Prince Nikolas!” the boy said breathlessly. “
Zdráhstvuyti
!”

“
Zdráhstvuyti
, William,” Nikolas said, crouching down to the boy's height. He smiled as William repeated the word perfectly. “What a fine accent. Your mother has taught you well. Only a boy with Russian blood like yours could say it so clearly.”

“I have Stokehurst blood too,” William said proudly.

Nikolas looked over the boy's dark head at Emma. “A powerful combination,
nyet
?”

Emma regarded him stonily. Although it was Nikolas's habit to pay infrequent visits to Southgate Hall, drinking pots of Chinese caravan tea and conversing with Tasia in rapid-fire Russian, he had never made a side trip to the animal menagerie. This was her private world, and no one was allowed here unless specifically invited. “What do you want, Nikolas?”

He gave her an oblique smile. “I've never seen your collection of animals before. I would like to have a look.”

“I'm working,” Emma said curtly. “I'm sure you can find better entertainment than watching me feed animals and rake manure.”

“Not necessarily.”

Her mouth twisted. “Stay if you like, then.” She finished raking a pile of dirty straw from the chimp's pen and replaced it with a fresh scattering. Then she gestured for Cleo to go inside. “Back in there, old girl. Go in.” The chimpanzee shook her head vigorously, baring her teeth. “Yes, I know,” Emma said, pointing to the pen. “We'll play later, Cleo. Later.”

The chimp muttered resentfully as she picked up a rag doll from a small pile of toys. In a flash, Cleo's small, wiry body ascended a ladder bolted to the side of the wire pen. When she reached the top, she seated herself on a wooden perch and frowned down at them. Emma closed the door of the cage and turned to her little brother. “William, it's time for you to go back to the house.”

“Can't I stay with Cleo?” the boy pleaded, staring wistfully at the chimp.

“You know the rule—no visits to the animals unless I'm with you. We'll come to see her later this afternoon.”

“Yes, Emma.”

As the child left, Emma turned her attention to Nikolas. He was dressed in dark riding breeches and a white shirt that emphasized his tawny coloring. His hair looked more brown than blond today. A light sheen of perspiration had given his skin a smooth shimmer, as if he were a sculpture cast in precious metal. The thick lashes that framed his yellow eyes gleamed like filaments of light.

For the first time since Adam's desertion, Emma felt a stirring of something other than anger inside, a mixture of nerves and confusion and awareness. Realizing she was staring, she turned and picked up a metal bucket. She went to the large iron slop sink in the corner and worked the pump until a steady stream of water emerged.

Nikolas came forward, reaching for the pump handle. “Let me help you.”

“No,” she said quickly, elbowing him aside. “I can do it.”

Nikolas shrugged and stood back as she labored over the sink. He watched her intently. The taut muscles of Emma's shoulders strained beneath a sweat-blotched shirt. Snug gray trousers outlined the slender shape of her bottom and thighs. Briefly he remembered her appearance at the ball in London, the cool white dress, the tightly pinned hair. He preferred her this way, strong, capable, flushed from exertion. She was extraordinary. He had never known an aristocratic woman who worked like a peasant. Why did she tend the animals when she could order her servants to do it?

“It's not often I have the chance to see a woman in trousers,” he said. “In fact, this may be the first time.”

Emma straightened in a snap. She gave him a wary look. “Are you shocked?”

“It takes more than that to shock me.” He let his admiring gaze sweep over her. “You remind me of a phrase by Tyutchev…‘the face of beauty flushed with the air of spring.’”

Apparently deciding he was mocking her, Emma glared at him and turned back to the sink. “I don't like poetry.”

“What do you read, then?”

“Veterinary manuals and newspapers.” She lifted the heavy bucket from the sink, breathing hard with the effort.

Automatically he tried to take it. “Allow me—”

“I'm used to it,” she said gruffly. “Let go.”

Nikolas raised his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. “By all means.”

Emma's thick auburn brows lowered in a scowl. She pointed to another bucket nearby. “If you want to help, carry that.”

Nikolas complied, rolling up his sleeves in a few deft twists. The bucket was filled with approximately twelve pounds of fresh meat scraps. The scent of blood filled his nose, and he hesitated before picking it up.

“Squeamish?” Emma taunted. “This sort of work is rather beneath you, isn't it?”

Nikolas didn't reply, although she was right. There had never been any need or question of his performing this sort of labor. Like the other men of his social circles, he took his exercise in the form of riding, hunting, fencing, and boxing.

As he grasped the bucket handle and lifted it, the blood smell became stronger. Rich, salty-sweet…His fingers locked, and he went still as a memory sprang to mind…dark and sickening images…He struggled to push them away, but they rushed over him in a red tide.

Blood oozed and trickled over his chest. His back was scored with lash marks, while the coarse rope around his wrists had torn a deep channel through skin and muscle. Peotr Petrovich Ruvim, the Imperial interrogator, touched his face with gentle fingertips, blocking a salty trickle of sweat from falling into his eyes. Although he was fiendishly proficient in the art of torture, Ruvim did not appear to enjoy it. “Isn't it enough?” he asked quietly. “Won't you confess now, Your Highness
?”

“
I've done nothing,” Nikolas croaked
.

It was a lie, and they all knew it. He was a murderer. He had killed samvel Shurikovsky, the tsar's favorite adviser, but since nothing could be proved, they had accused him of treason. In these turbulent days of reactionaries and reformists, there was danger for the tsar everywhere. Evidence wasn't required to imprison a man indefinitely; suspicion was all that was necessary
.

For a week Nikolas had been subjected to daily sessions with Ruvim and other government officials in which they inflicted pain just short of the limit that would kill him. He was no longer human. He was only a suffering beast, waiting for the time to come when the misery ended and he could take his secrets to the grave
.

Ruvim sighed and spoke to the others. “Bring the knout again
.”

“
No,” Nikolas said, while a shudder racked his naked body. He couldn't stand the whip anymore, the searing crack of it ripping through his flesh until it reached bone…and all the time, questions buzzing in his ears—“Do you have sympathy for the Nihilists? Do you agree with the tsar's policies?” The irony was, he had never concerned himself with politics. All he cared about was his land and his family
.

Ruvim pulled a hot poker from the pit of coals and held it close to Nikolas's face. “Would you prefer this to the knout, Your Highness
?”