Prince of Dreams

by Lisa Kleypas

  Slowly Nikolas forgot he was speaking. The memories came over him in a blur. His eyes were open but unseeing. “First I thought that Tasia had done it. As you remember, I followed her from Russia to England in an effort to make her pay for the murder. But then I learned that Shurikovsky was the one responsible for my brother's death… and I knew there would never be justice unless it came from my hands.”

  “Why couldn't you let the proper authorities handle it?”

  “In Russia, politics take precedence over everything else. Shurikovsky was the companion-favorite of the tsar. I knew he would never be prosecuted for murdering Mikhail. He was too influential.”

  “So you took your revenge,” Emma said tonelessly.

  “I was careful to leave no evidence, but I came under suspicion nonetheless. And I was arrested.” Suddenly the words stuck in Nikolas's throat. There was so much he couldn't tell her, things that could never be expressed, nightmares that seethed deep inside him. With an effort, he assumed his usual calm mask. “The government tried to force a confession from me, if not for murder, then for treason. When I refused to talk, I was exiled.”

  He fell silent then, concentrating on the hardbaked ground. A breeze filtered through the damp locks on his forehead. Exile from Russia had been worse than torture or even death; it meant being cut off from the very source of life. Even the most reviled criminals were pitied when they were sent away from their beloved country. Neshchastnye, they were called—“unfortunates.” Russia was the great mother, and her children were sustained by her frosty air, her dark forests, and her great cradling arms of earth and snow. Part of Nikolas's spirit had withered after he had left St. Petersburg for the last time. Sometimes he dreamed he was still there, and he awoke with an unbearable ache of longing.

  “Why tell me?” Emma asked, interrupting his bleak thoughts. “You never do anything without a reason. Why did you want me to know?”

  Nikolas looked at her, smiling sardonically into her serious face. “Don't friends confide in each other?”

  “How do you know I won't tell anyone?”

  “I'll just have to trust you, dushenka.”

  Emma stared at him intently. “Are you sorry you killed Shurikovsky?”

  Nikolas shook his head. “I don't believe in regret. It doesn't change the past.”

  “You're an amoral man,” Emma said, her blue eyes fixed on his. “I should be afraid of you. But I'm not.”

  “How brave you are,” he mocked, amused by her bravado.

  “I even think…if I had been in your place, I might have done the same thing.”

  Before Nikolas could reply, he felt her touch his wrist. He froze, realizing that he had unconsciously been rubbing the scars on his chest as they talked. His hand stiffened beneath her slim fingers. There was no pity in Emma's face. She regarded him with a strange acceptance, as if he were a savage creature who couldn't be faulted for his own nature.

  “Then you don't blame me for the murder?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “It's not my place to judge you. But I understand why you did it.” Her bare hand rested lightly on his. “I'll keep your secrets, Nikki.”

  Nikolas didn't move. His muscles locked against a sudden shiver of feeling. He had no idea why her touch, her words, had such power over him. All he knew was that he wanted to hold her, hurt her, kiss her…he wanted to bear her down to the ground, here, and tug her red hair loose, and take her in the field as if she were a peasant girl. Instead he drew back and pulled his hand from hers. His voice was pleasant, friendly, as he replied, “I believe you will, Emelia.”

  She gave him a cautious smile and began to walk again, her skirts brushing through the clods and wheel ruts on the dusty path. Nikolas kept pace with her, his hands jammed in his pockets. She hadn't reacted as he'd expected. She had accepted his story too easily. Her family had sheltered her too much, allowing her to live her life as if it were something out of a novel. She was even more unworldly than he'd suspected. You poor little fool, he thought, glancing at her through the amber screen of his lashes. Why must you make it so easy for me to take advantage of you?

  “May I see you again tomorrow?” he asked.

  Emma hesitated, her teeth catching on her bottom lip. “No,” she finally said. “I'll be in London for the rest of the week.”

  “A social engagement?”

  “Actually, I'm attending a meeting of the R.S.H.T.A. I've been asked to say a few words about the most recent animal protection laws.”

  “Will your family be accompanying you?”

  Emma's jaw hardened. “No. They have no interest in my crusades, and even if they did, I wouldn't want them there.”

  “Ah,” he said softly. “So you haven't yet made peace with your father.”

  She shook her head. “My father drove away the love of my life. If someone did that to you, I doubt you'd be so quick to forgive them!”

  “Perhaps not. But I need no one, whereas you…you've lost your love and your family all at once.” Nikolas watched for a reaction from her, but she concealed her emotions well. He made one more soft-voiced comment, well timed and carefully aimed. “It's not easy to be lonely, is it? Emptiness, silence, unwelcome solitude…it can turn a palace into a prison.”

  Emma turned a wondering gaze toward him, her blue eyes wide. Heedless of where she was walking, she stumbled on the edge of a deep wheel rut. Nikolas reached for her immediately, lending her his balance. Before she could protest, he grasped her hand and drew it through the crook of his elbow. An easy smile curved his mouth as he stared into her flushed face. “Take help when it's offered, cousin. It's just a temporary arm to lean on.”

  The Royal Society for the Humane Treatment of Animals conducted its annual general meeting at a lecture hall in London, not far from Covent Garden. The small building had been converted from an old hotel located on a street of auctioneers, booksellers, and publishers. Looking around the room, scored with light that came from the half-shuttered windows, Emma felt a sense of kinship with the crowd of two hundred Society members. Middle-aged men, most of them, some of them slender and stiff in their mahogany chairs, some of them plumply overlapping the small, square seats. There was a sparse peppering of women, the youngest of them exactly twice her age.

  Emma knew that they all didn't have the same motivation for being there. Although some shared her passionate concern for the well-being of animals, others were there merely because it was a popular political concern. But that didn't matter, as long as they were working together for an important cause.

  Feeling someone's gaze on her, she looked down the row to her right. A young man with a narrow face and lively dark eyes was sitting several places away. While they exchanged a discreet smile, Emma tried to remember his name. Mr. Henry Dowling, or maybe it was Harry. They had spoken once or twice before. If she remembered correctly, he held a position at a publishing company, but his real interest was collie dogs. He was known as one of the foremost breeders of collies in England. His charmingly sharp-featured face reminded her of Presto, her fox. Emma's smile widened for a second before she looked away. She still felt that he was staring at her, however, and a warm blush burned at the tops of her cheeks.

  The meeting progressed through several speakers. There was a great deal of rustling paper as the members took notes or prepared their own speeches. The wooden chairs squeaked as legs were crossed and uncrossed. Once in a while there were interruptions as members sought to clarify certain statements or information. After the fourth speaker, it was Emma's turn. Lord Crowles, the president of the Society, asked for a report on the manual for animal-protection laws, and Emma's mouth went dry.

  All at once the room seemed very quiet. Carefully Emma made her way to the front of the room, holding a thick sheaf of paper in her arms as if it were a shield. Her stomach flip-flopped with excitement and nerves. Hunching her shoulders defensively, she gripped the papers tightly and stared at the rows of faces before her. She was surprised to hear her voice come out cl
ear and steady.

  “Gentlemen, I have brought the proposed revisions for the animal-protection manual. It has been rewritten according to many wise and helpful suggestions from the distinguished officers of the Society. If the manual is found to be acceptable, then a large-scale printing will be ordered and distributed to the public.”

  An elderly gentleman near the front of the room spoke up. “Would Lady Stokehurst care to describe the nature of the revisions?”

  Emma gave him a brisk nod, her shoulders relaxing a little. “Yes, sir. The manual gives a more detailed explanation of the procedures for making complaints about animal abuse. Certain evidence must be gathered at the time of an offense in order to conduct a successful prosecution. The public is well aware of the animals being abused in the streets…we've all seen horses beaten with whips, cudgels, or shovels; livestock mistreated on the way to market; stray dogs and cats being tormented. Many people are distressed by the cruelty they witness, but they don't know what they can do to stop it. The manual contains guidelines for recognizing an offense, and procedures for reporting criminals to the proper authorities.”

  To Emma's surprise, Mr. Dowling asked a question. “Lady Stokehurst, what about the area of scientific experimentation? Does the manual mention the practice of vivisection?”

  Emma shook her head regretfully. “The medical and scientific communities claim that they need to perform vivisections—the procedure of dissecting live animals—in order to further their knowledge. But they have no proof that it accomplishes anything, except to cause thousands of animals a cruel and painful death. I would have made mention of this subject in the manual, but there are no guidelines at present. We have no way of knowing which scientific practices are necessary and which ones are merely experiments in torture. Perhaps the members of the R.S.H.T.A. might consider it worthwhile to appoint a committee to study the situation…”

  Emma would have continued, but something drew her eyes to the back of the room, a familiar flash of gold, a man's form swathed in dark clothes. It was Nikolas Angelovsky. Even at this distance, the amber shade of his eyes and hair was vivid. Confusion seized her. She was barely conscious of Lord Crowles's agreeable response to her previous suggestion, the motion being made and seconded. Somehow she managed to rip her gaze away from Nikolas. She handed the manuscript to the secretary of the club, who was waiting nearby. The men in her row stood politely as she made her way back to her seat.

  The meeting lasted another hour. Emma kept her gaze pinned on the back of the chair in front of her, unable to concentrate. Somehow she resisted the temptation to glance back at Nikolas. He was here because he wanted something from her. That was the only explanation for this deliberate pursuit. Unease and anger tangled inside her. But…was it possible she also felt a flicker of pleasure? Nikolas was a handsome and powerful man. Many women would do anything to capture his attention just for a few minutes…and here he was, waiting for her.

  As Lord Crowles's concluding remarks signaled the end of the meeting, the assemblage rose to leave. Emma made her way to the end of the row and found herself in the company of Mr. Dowling. A smile lurked in the depths of his dark eyes.

  “Lady Stokehurst, I'm going to suggest to Lord Crowles that your name be included in the manual as recognition of the splendid work you've done.”

  “Oh, no,” Emma said earnestly. “Thank you, but I haven't done all that much. And I don't want any sort of recognition. I just want the animals to be helped.”

  “If I may say so, you're as modest as you are attractive, Lady Stokehurst.”

  Confused and pleased, Emma lowered her gaze.

  Mr. Dowling spoke again, this time on a more tentative note. “Lady Stokehurst, I was wondering if you would consider—”

  “Cousin.” A soft Russian accent cut through the conversation. “How nice to find you here. But you seem to have lost your chaperone. You must allow me to see you back home safely.”

  Emma's head snapped up, and she scowled at Nikolas, who knew perfectly well that she often discarded the basic etiquette of chaperones. It was one of the benefits of being eccentric. Realizing introductions were in order, she crossed her arms over her chest and gruffly did the honors. “Prince Nikolas Angelovsky, may I present Mr. Dowling.”

  The men shook hands briefly. Nikolas turned a shoulder to Dowling, rudely indicating that the meeting was over. “You look very fine today, Emelia.”

  Mr. Dowling hovered nearby, his eyes meeting with Emma's. She smiled apologetically. “Good day, Lady Stokehurst,” he said hesitantly. “My best wishes to you and your…family.” He eyed Nikolas uncertainly, clearly wondering if the blond Russian fit in that category. As he left, he seemed to fade away like a puff of smoke.

  Emma glared at Nikolas. “What are you doing here?”

  “I'm concerned about animal protection,” he said mildly.

  “Like hell you are. This was a closed meeting. How did you get in?”

  “I purchased a membership.”

  “You can't buy a membership, you have to fill out papers and go through interviews, and then there's a committee vote—” She stopped abruptly. “You bribed your way in.”

  “I made a donation,” he corrected.

  Emma gave an exasperated laugh. “Is there anything your money can't get for you? What do you want now?”

  “I intend to escort you home, cousin.”

  “Thank you, but I have a carriage waiting outside.”

  “I took the liberty of dismissing it.”

  “Presumptuous man,” she said without heat, sliding her hand into the crook of his proffered arm. “Do you always get your way?”

  “Almost always.” Nikolas escorted her from the building, ignoring the curious stares that followed them. “I like to watch you make speeches, Emelia. I admire a woman who doesn't try to hide her intelligence.”

  “Is that why you followed me to London? Because you admire me so much?”

  He smiled at her impudence. “I'll admit to having taken an interest in you. Would you condemn a man for that?”

  “Condemn, no. But I have plenty of suspicions. Especially where you're concerned. I think you're nothing but a great big mass of ulterior motives, Nikki.”

  A low laugh of delight came from his throat. He led her to the curb, where a splendid lacquered carriage awaited them. It was drawn by a team of four gleaming black Orlovs, the finest carriage horses in the world. A pair of tall, black-liveried footmen attended the vehicle.

  Emma preceded Nikolas into the carriage and settled herself on upholstery of burgundy velvet in a shade so dark, it looked black. The interior was filled with gleaming panels of precious inlaid wood. The windows were framed in gold and crystal, and the lamps were encrusted with semi-precious stones. Even with her family's considerable wealth, Emma had never been inside such a luxurious vehicle. Nikolas sat opposite her, and the carriage pulled away with magical smoothness as it passed over the rough London streets.

  Temporarily dazzled, Emma wondered about the life Nikolas had led in Russia, and all that he'd been forced to leave behind. “Nikki,” she asked abruptly, “do you ever see any of your family? Have they ever come to visit?”

  He showed no reaction, but she sensed that he was puzzled by the question. “No…nor would I expect it of them. All ties were severed when I left my country.”

  “But not blood ties. You have sisters, don't you? Tasia once mentioned that you have four or five—”

  “Five,” he said flatly.

  “Don't you miss them? Wouldn't you like to see them?”

  “No, I don't miss them. We were virtual strangers to each other. Mikhail and I were raised separately from our sisters.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my father wanted it that way.” A bitterly amused look crossed his face. “We were rather like the animals in your menagerie, all of us caged and at my father's mercy.”

  “You didn't like him?”

  “My father was a heartless bastard. When he died ten y
ears 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.