Prince Of Dreams (8 page)

“You didn't like him?”

“My father was a heartless bastard. When he died ten years ago, he wasn't mourned by a soul on earth.”

“What about your mother?” Emma asked tentatively.

Nikolas shook his head and smiled. “I prefer not to talk about my family.”

“I understand,” she murmured.

Nikolas's amusement lingered. “No, you don't. The Angelovskys are a bad lot, and each generation is worse than the last. We started out as feuding royals of Kiev, then mingled the line with some crude peasant stock, and added a Mongol warrior who thought nothing of drinking blood from his horse's veins for refreshment on a long journey. We've only gone downhill from there—I'm a good example of that.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“I'm warning you not to entertain any illusions about me, Emma. ‘A corrupt tree cannot bring forth good fruit.’ You'd be wise to remember that.”

She laughed, her blue eyes dancing. “You sound like Tasia, quoting the Bible. I've never thought of you as a religious man.”

“Religion is entwined in every part of a Russian's life. There's no way to avoid it.”

“Do you ever go to church?”

“Not since I was a boy. My brother and I used to think angels lived in the tops of the church domes, gathering our prayers and sending them to heaven.”

“Were your prayers answered?”

“Never,” he said flatly, and shrugged. “But our great talent is to endure…that is God's gift to Russians.”

The carriage passed a shoddy marketplace filled with stalls of fruit and vegetables, fish stands, and secondhand goods. The noisy crowd milling through the streets caused the procession of horses and vehicles to slow. There was an unusual din in the air, a mixture of bellowing voices and animal cries.

As the carriage came to a halt, Emma leaned forward and looked out the window curiously. “Something's happening in the street,” she said. “Some sort of fight, perhaps.”

Nikolas opened the carriage door and jumped lightly to the ground. After calling to the driver to wait there, he headed into the crowd. Emma waited for a minute or two, listening to the racket. Perhaps two vehicles had collided, or someone had been run down in the street. Her heart ached in pity as she heard the anguished cries of a horse—or maybe it was a donkey. It was easy to recognize the pain and fear in its screams. She couldn't stand to wait another minute. She sprang from the carriage, just as Nikolas returned with a grim look on his face. “What's happening?” she asked anxiously.

“It's nothing. Go back inside—we'll pass through in a few minutes.”

Emma stared into his emotionless eyes, then darted past him in a swift movement.

“Emma, come back—”

Ignoring his curt voice, she rushed through the churning mob.

Three

I
N THE MIDDLE
of a busy intersection, a cart overloaded with bricks blocked the traffic from all directions. A battered old donkey, sharp-ribbed and swaybacked, strained wildly to pull the cart up a small hill. Its owner, a beefy little man with arms the size of ham hocks, was beating the donkey with a length of chain. The poor animal was bloody and crippled, its eyes rolling madly.

In the manual Emma had just presented to the R.S.H.T.A., there was a list of procedures to follow. She should take down the names of the culprit and witnesses, the specifics of the crime, descriptions of the wounds…but at the sound of the donkey's miserable braying, all thoughts of procedure flew out of her head. A bolt of furious energy went through her, and she shoved her way through the crowd. “Stop it! Stop it now, or I'll kill you!”

Startled by the blazing redheaded apparition, a few people scrambled hastily out of her way. The thick-necked man paused in his beating and glared up at her. “Mind your own business, bitch!”

Ignoring him, Emma approached the terrified animal. Drawing close to his tossing head, she soothed him until the donkey pushed his nose against her middle like a child seeking refuge. A wave of astonished exclamations issued from the crowd.

The donkey's owner seemed unimpressed. “Get away from my beast,” he bellowed, raising his arm threateningly. “I'll make him climb that hill or send him to hell.”

“I'm going to have you arrested,” Emma shouted, sliding her arms around the quivering animal's neck. “The cart's too heavy for him to pull, you stupid bastard!”

“Get away!” The chain came whistling through the air, striking the ground near her feet. “Move away, or I'll lay your head open wi' this.”

Emma's arms tightened reflexively around the donkey. Looking into the man's purple face, she knew that he was enraged beyond reason. He was deadly serious in his threats. Yet she couldn't back down—she would never forgive herself if she left the animal to be beaten to death. “Sir,” she began on a halfway conciliatory note, but he burst out with a flood of obscenities and drew back the chain to strike her.

Suddenly everything happened too fast for her to understand. All at once Nikolas was there, grabbing her with bruising force, shielding her with his body as the chain whipped around in a shining streak. She felt him flinch as the metal links struck him, and she heard the swift rush of air between his teeth. Then he sent her stumbling away with a hard shove.

For Nikolas, the impact of the chain on his back set off an inner explosion he had never expected. All awareness of the present disintegrated; there was only the past, rushing over him, making him blank and crazed and bloodthirsty. In a flash he relived the agony of being tortured by the tsar's officials, his back shredded by the knout…
Won't you confess now, Your Highness
? He found his hands clenched around the man's neck, staring into watery blue eyes that were filled with rage and dawning fear. A black, murderous mist surrounded him.

“No,” the man whimpered, squirming in fright, his fat little hands coming up to Nikolas's taut wrists.

Nikolas choked him into silence, his fingers digging into the thick, straining neck. The lust for murder oozed like sweat from his pores. Only one sound reached him…a woman's voice, low and intent, pulling him back from the edge.

“Nikki! Nikki, let him go!”

He blinked and shivered, glancing in the direction of the voice. Emma was close by. Her dark blue eyes held his. “Let him go,” she repeated. Somehow the ecstasy of violence faded, and Nikolas relented, giving in to her quiet command. Reluctantly he took his hands from the man's throat.

Reeling in terror, the man fled into the crowd. He managed to shout hoarse warnings as he clutched his bruised throat. “He's the devil! Look in his eyes—you'll see! The devil himself…”

Some people dispersed. Others stayed to complain that their way was blocked and they wanted the intersection to be cleared. A few volunteers organized a group to pull the cart of bricks to the side of the street.

Nikolas's fingers were stiff and coiled. He flexed them, worked the tension from his wrists, only vaguely aware of Emma supervising the unhitching of the donkey from the cart. Her tone was brisk and expert as she directed one of the footmen to tie the scrawny donkey to the back of the lacquered carriage. “We'll bring him to my family's home,” she said in response to the footman's muted question. “I think he'll make it as long as the carriage doesn't move too fast.”

Nikolas wanted to leave. The confusion of the scene was nothing compared with his inner chaos. He had to be somewhere quiet to think, to compose himself. He sent Emma a commanding look, his gaze boring into her back until she glanced at him over her shoulder. Understanding his silent message, Emma obeyed at once. She seemed calm and unruffled as she made her way back to the carriage. Nikolas entered the vehicle and sat opposite her. To his surprise, he saw that her face was pale, and her fingers were twisted together in a tight knot.

“I see abuse like this all the time,” she said in an agitated voice. “I'll never get used to it. Why do people have to be so cruel?”

Nikolas didn't reply, only snapped the curtains shut against the sight of the swarming crowd. Emma stared at him through the darkened interior of the carriage as the vehicle finally began to move. “It must have hurt when the chain hit you,” she said tentatively. “Are you all right?”

Nikolas nodded once, still consumed with old and dark memories. How could he have lost control so easily? He never allowed his emotions to overtake him…it was a weakness he couldn't afford.

Emma spoke again while she combed taut fingers through the fallen locks of her hair. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. It seems I'm in your debt again.”

“Not this time.” His attention returned to her slowly. Although her face was averted, he thought that she seemed to be struggling with her feelings. “Do you want a handkerchief?” he asked abruptly. Emma shook her head in refusal, but he fished for one in his coat and held it out to her.

“I'm not crying,” she said. “I never do. It doesn't solve anything, and it never makes me feel better.” She took the square of soft white linen and blew her nose noisily, shooting a defiant look at him.

Suddenly Nikolas felt his heart pound in a hard rhythm. Other women used tears for purposes of seduction or sympathy, yet they had never moved him. Only Emma, denying her weakness and challenging him to say one word about it, could affect him like this.

Nikolas found himself moving toward her. He took her in his arms, ignoring her unwilling start. After a brief struggle she relaxed against him, her breasts pressing against his side and chest. Her hair was unperfumed, the scent as fresh as if she had been walking in the woods through patches of fennel and crisp green moss. He breathed deeply of the smell, and he hovered at the edge of violence, all his calculated plans threatening to crumble beneath the pressure of overwhelming desire. Somehow he kept his hands impersonal and still on her back, in spite of his desperate need to touch her.

“Stubborn, impetuous little fool,” he whispered in Russian, knowing she didn't understand. “I've been waiting for you, thousands of nights. I've imagined other women were you…I made love to them, always pretending it was you in my arms. Soon you'll know you were meant for me. Soon you'll come to me.”

Emma shook her head in confusion at the foreign language. “What did you say?”

Nikolas was transfixed by the dark brilliance of her eyes. He longed to press his mouth to her skin, to kiss the spray of golden freckles on her cheeks, the fiery crescents of her lashes. He struggled with his self-control while it threatened to slip away like sand through his fingers. With all his strength, he locked his feelings away and spoke in a cool, slightly amused voice. “I said there's no need for tears,
ruyshka
. You mustn't be so emotional.”

“I can't help it,” she said grumpily. “I've always been this way…out of place, out of step. I wish I could be like everyone else. My only hope was to marry Lord Milbank.”

Nikolas smiled, carefully smoothing her rumpled hair. “The minute you become like everyone else, I'll leave England for good. You weren't meant to be in step with the rest of the world. And if you think Lord Milbank would have given you happiness, you're wrong. I'm familiar with his kind. They exist everywhere. As common as mice.”

“I won't listen to any insults about Adam—”

“Did you ever let him see this side of you? Did you ever dare to argue with him?
Nyet
, you adopted a soft facade to please him because you liked his looks and his slippery charm, and you thought he wouldn't want you if he knew how intelligent you are, how brave and ferocious. You were right. He isn't man enough to value those qualities.”

“Well, ‘ferocious’ is certainly a wonderful quality in a woman,” Emma muttered, pulling away from him. “One wonders why Adam didn't think so.”

“In Russia you would be the most desirable woman in all the land.”

“I'm not in Russia, thank God. And stop trying to flatter me—you know I don't like it.”

Nikolas caught her jaw in his palms and studied her flushed face. Her skin was tender and soft beneath his fingertips. “The most desirable woman,” he repeated, staring hard into her eyes, not letting her turn away.

A shiver went through Emma's body. She must have felt it too, the ineluctable force that drew them together. It was their shared destiny. Nikolas was too much a Russian not to believe in fate. Everything would happen as it was meant to…all that was required of a Russian was patience and endurance…and God knew he had proved himself on both counts.

A carriage wheel bounced across a hole in the road, jolting the vehicle. Nikolas broke apart from Emma and settled himself opposite her. He continued to watch her steadily, but she kept her gaze on her folded hands. No words were exchanged until they reached the Stokehurst villa on the Thames.

Hesitantly Emma broke the silence. “I'm grateful for your help today, Nikolas. But…I would rather you didn't make any further efforts to see me. I don't think we should be friends. I can't see that any good would come of it.”

Perhaps she expected him to disagree, even argue. Instead he shrugged and gave her an oblique smile. “Whatever you wish.”

Emma escaped Nikolas's presence with blatant relief. With the help of the coachman and stablehand, she lodged the donkey in the stables behind the villa and attended to his abrasions and wounds, discovering that he had infected hooves and a bad case of malnourishment. It seemed likely that the animal would recover quite well. Leaving him in the care of the stablehand, she went into the villa.

The Stokehurst home was of picturesque Italian design, filled with pale marble columns and floors, elegant tile fireplaces, and several splashing indoor fountains. Emma had always liked to stay here, though the villa lacked the comfortable atmosphere of Southgate Hall.

Feeling troubled and out of sorts, Emma took a bath in a huge porcelain tub, in a bathing room lined with hand-painted tiles. Idly she traced the designs of tiny exotic birds with a wet fingertip…and thought about Nikolas.

Her encounters with him had become more and more confusing. She had never experienced so many conflicting feelings about one person. He was challenging, charming—and frightening. She had heard the rumors of his affairs, a multitude of discreet, short-lived relationships with society women. That was the kind Nikolas liked—cool, elegant creatures who were bored with their lifeless marriages. Why had he decided to bother with her? What could his motives be?

Well, it was over now. Nikolas was out of her life, just as surely as Adam Milbank was. She lifted one long, soapy leg and viewed it with a critical eye. If she were petite and fragile, would Adam have stayed with her? Emma dropped her leg with a splash and sighed. If only she had been beautiful enough, Adam wouldn't have let anything stand in the way of having her…not her father, not money, not anything. “If only I were like Tasia,” she said aloud. Tasia was small and delicate, with an exquisite beauty that fascinated men. Suppressing a twinge of envy, Emma scooped handfuls of hot water over her neck and shoulders.

Now that she had lost Adam, she would become a dried-up old spinster, never knowing what it was like to be with a man, to give herself to him in passion and fall asleep in his arms. She could take a lover, but the thought of that filled her with melancholy. How lonely it would feel, sharing a bed with a man she didn't love, a physical exchange in which their emotions and souls were left untouched.

“Miss Emma?” A voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at the doorway, where her maid, Katie, stood with an armload of freshly warmed towels and a white linen robe. “Finished with your bath yet, miss?”

“I suppose I am.” Emma stood up and reached for one of the towels, wrapping it around her body as she stepped from the tub.

Katie blotted her shoulders with another towel, and helped her into the robe. “Shall I run downstairs and tell Cook what you'd like for supper, Miss Emma?”

“I'm not very hungry tonight.”

“Oh, but you must have something, miss!”

Emma smiled and nodded reluctantly. “All right, I'll have tea and toast in my room. And I'd like something to read. Please bring a copy of the
Times
.”

“Yes, miss.”

Emma walked barefoot into her suite of rooms and sat at her dressing table. She pulled the pins from her hair and unbraided it, luxuriously massaging her fingers over her sore scalp. Methodically she worked a brush through her long, curly hair, smoothing out tangles and snarls until her arm was tired. After placing the brush in one of the dressing table's intricate compartments, she stared at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror.

An ordinary face, she thought. Pale skin with freckles, a straight nose, a sharp chin. The only thing that pleased her were her blue eyes, identical to her father's, except that her lashes were auburn instead of black.