Prince of Dreams

by Lisa Kleypas

  “I'll do whatever I want with you,” Nikolas sneered, coming closer to her, looming threateningly. “You're my wife. I own you body and soul—and when I snap my fingers, you'll open your legs for me anyplace and anytime I choose.”

  A violent rage swept over Emma. She struck out with a closed fist, aiming straight for his unshaven, hateful face. The force of it jarred her arm all the way up to her elbow. The punch caught Nikolas by surprise, and he staggered back a few steps. His expression was blank with shock. Emma stared at him with equal amazement, wondering if he would hit her back. She waited numbly, rubbing her sore wrist.

  Nikolas was silent. They both breathed heavily as they stared at each other. Lifting a hand to his jaw, Nikolas gave a dry huff of laughter. Emma didn't move as her husband walked by her, going up the stairs to his private rooms. When the last sound of footsteps had faded, she sank back down onto the step and rested her head on her knees. She had never felt so trapped, so hopeless.

  For the next week there was no conversation between Emma and Nikolas, except for a few sharp exchanges when they saw each other in passing. It was difficult for Emma to eat or sleep. She felt as if she were living in an enemy camp, barricading herself behind locked doors at night, hurrying through the halls during the day to avoid meeting Nikolas. She knew she was beginning to look haggard even before Mr. Soames asked tentatively if she was feeling well. Nikolas, on the other hand, seemed alert and well rested, making Emma realize with renewed anger that he was comfortable with the situation. He had deliberately put a wedge between them, and he intended for it to stay.

  Emma did her best to ignore her husband's comings and goings from the manor, telling herself it didn't matter if he had affairs or not. Not only had he broken their vows, he didn't seem to want even the appearance of friendship with her. Everything had been all right until Jacob had arrived. Why was it so difficult for Nikolas to tolerate the boy's presence? Why did it seem to hurt him to look at the child?

  Ironically, as Emma's marriage with Nikolas deteriorated, her relationship with Jake grew stronger every day. He was beginning to trust her. She was determined not to betray that trust, even when he began to ask the inevitable questions about Nikolas. Why wouldn't his father talk to him? Why was he always frowning and quiet?

  “Your father is a unique man,” Emma explained to him, trying to find the right balance between kindness and truthfulness. “He's had a difficult life. Have you noticed those strange marks on his arms, or perhaps the ones on his chest? Those are scars from a terrible experience in his past, when he suffered a great deal of pain. You must try to remember that, especially when he is being cold or unfair. He can't really help the way he is. We're all a product of our experiences. It's like the animals in the menagerie. Some of them are nasty and mean because they've been hurt before…because they're afraid.”

  “Is my father afraid?” Jacob asked solemnly, his gaze locked on her face.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I think so.”

  “Will he ever change?”

  “I don't know.”

  They strolled out to the menagerie together to inspect the chimpanzee's spacious wire pen. Cleo had found a way to unravel the wire and make a space large enough to escape through. “Naughty girl,” Emma scolded, surveying the damage. Cleo looked away from her in pointed unconcern, staring at the skylight overhead. After a moment, the chimp picked up an orange and began to peel it with exacting care. Emma exchanged a quick grin with Jake. “What a clever old thing. She must have found one stray end and started untwisting. We'll just have to fix this, Jake. The tools we need…” She paused as a strange, unpleasant feeling came over her, and tried to continue. “They're probably in the carriage house…”

  “Emma.” A man's voice came from the doorway.

  Emma didn't move for a moment. She kept her face toward the wire pen. Cleo glanced at the newcomer and pursed her lips, making wet kissing sounds.

  Finally Emma composed herself enough to face the intruder. “Lord Milbank,” she said coldly, and turned around.

  Adam looked the same as always, except that his hair was longer, falling almost to his shoulders in silky brown waves. He was handsome in dark striped trousers, a gray vest, and a wool frock coat. His expression was grave, his eyes soft and searching. “You're more beautiful than ever, Em.”

  Emma's gaze fell to his left hand. The sight of the wedding band on his ring finger was like cold water thrown in her face. “How did you know to find me out here? The servants shouldn't have allowed—”

  “They didn't. I stopped my carriage before I reached the estate and walked along the front drive. I knew you'd be with your animals. I waited to make sure no one was watching, then went past the outside gates and through the gardens—”

  “The gates should have been locked.”

  “They weren't.” He shrugged. “The menagerie wasn't difficult to find. Quite an impressive set of buildings.” Confronted with Emma's stony silence, Adam switched his gaze to the boy hovering beside her. “And who is this? Your little brother William…or is it Zachary?”

  “Neither. He's my stepson, Jacob.”

  “Your stepson…”

  Emma watched as surprise, chagrin, and then a trace of pity swept across Adam's features. It was the pity that affected her most, filling her with offended pride. She would die before allowing anyone, especially Adam, to feel sorry for her. “Congratulations on your marriage,” she said in a soft jeer that she had learned from Nikolas. “Recently I had the good fortune to meet your brother-in-law. He described you as a charming fellow. He didn't know the half of it.”

  Adam, who had never received anything but eager affection from her, seemed astonished. “Emma, you don't sound like yourself!”

  “I've changed quite a lot in the past few months, thanks to you and my husband.”

  “Emma?” Jake said, disturbed by her cutting tone. “Emma, what's wrong?”

  She softened as she gazed into the child's upturned face. “Everything's fine,” she murmured. “Lord Milbank is an old acquaintance of mine. Why don't you go back to the house and ask the cook to give you some sweets? Tell her I said it was all right.”

  “No, I don't want—”

  “Now, Jake,” she said firmly, and gave him an encouraging smile. “Go on.”

  The boy obeyed, dragging his feet and glancing over his shoulder as he left. Cleo settled in the corner of her pen, applying herself to the task of separating the orange into wedges.

  “I had to see you,” Adam said quietly. “I had to make certain you understood what really happened all those months ago.”

  “I understand perfectly. I don't want to hear your explanation. I'm married now, and so are you. Whatever you have to say isn't important.”

  “The truth is important,” Adam insisted, with an intensity that Emma hadn't remembered from before. She had always been the intense one, whereas Adam had been quiet and elusive. “I won't leave until you listen to me, Em. Regardless of what anyone believes, I did love you. I still do. I didn't realize exactly how much until I'd lost you. You're such a special woman. You're so damn easy to love.”

  “Easy to leave, you mean.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “I was threatened into leaving you. I never wanted to, but I wasn't strong enough to stand up to him. I'll regret it every day for the rest of my life.”

  “Threatened by whom? My father?”

  “By your husband. He came to see me the morning after the Angelovsky ball.”

  “And what did he say?” Emma asked softly.

  “Nikolas told me that I was to leave you alone, for good, or he would make my life a living hell. He said I should marry someone else, because I had no more rights where you were concerned. He implied that if I continued to court you, someone would be hurt. I was afraid, Emma. Afraid for both of us. You can hate me for being a coward, but at least you must know that I love you.”

  Emma felt herself turn white with shock. Adam's story fit in with everything she already
knew about her manipulative, lying husband. She thought of the way Nikolas had comforted her after Adam's desertion, making use of her hurt and humiliation…seducing her the night she had discovered Adam's engagement. Every move had been calculated. Nikolas had destroyed her love with Adam, methodically taken her life apart, in order to get what he wanted. And he had encouraged her to blame her father for all of it.

  “Please leave,” she said hoarsely.

  “Emma, say that you believe me—”

  “I believe you. But it changes nothing. It's too late for both of us.”

  “It doesn't have to be. We can salvage something of what we once had.”

  Emma stared at him incredulously. What was there left to salvage? What could he want from her now? “Are you suggesting an affair?”

  The word seemed to startle Adam, and she saw that he hadn't expected to have it voiced openly. “As blunt as ever,” he murmured, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “It's one of the things I love most about you. What I'm trying to say is that I want to be some part of your life. I miss you, Emma.”

  She closed her eyes, remembering how warm and caring Adam had been. She missed him too. If only she could go to his arms right now, and let him kiss and soothe her. But she had lost that particular freedom. Just because her husband had been unfaithful didn't mean she could abandon her own principles. There was no excuse for committing adultery. She couldn't live with herself if she did.

  “I don't think there's anything I can give you,” she whispered.

  “I'll be satisfied with the smallest portion of your heart. You're my true love, Em. You will be until the day I die. No one can change that—not even Nikolas Angelovsky.” His face turned hard, as she had never seen it before. “My God, someone should do the world a favor and get rid of him—before he ruins any more innocent lives!”

  Nikolas heard a knock on his library door and turned away from his desk with an impatient growl. He'd had a headache all morning, and it made his work difficult. Numbers and ink scrawls seemed to dance before his eyes. Damned hangover, he thought, and made up his mind to limit his after-dinner vodka from now on.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Robert Soames poked his head past the door, looking oddly excited. “Prince Nikolas, I've come to tell you that I've almost completely uncovered the painting. Some touch-up work will be required, of course, but we have an excellent impression of the original portrait.”

  “I'll have a look at it later.”

  “Your Highness, would you permit me to bring it downstairs for your immediate inspection? I think you'll be quite astonished.”

  Nikolas quirked his brows sardonically. “Very well.”

  The artist left in such haste that the door remained open. Nikolas scowled and bent over his work once more, but the lines of accounting seemed incomprehensible. He heard a little smacking noise, and he glanced at the doorway once more.

  The boy, Jacob, stood there with a sugar-coated tart in his hands. Crumbs scattered on the carpeted floor with each small, careful bite.

  “What do you want?” Nikolas muttered.

  Jacob didn't answer, only continued to look at him with fearless curiosity.

  “Where is Emma? You're usually with her this time of day.”

  Jacob spoke then, in the rough country accent that never failed to surprise Nikolas, coming from a child with such classic Russian features. “She's in the menagerie. A man came to see ‘er.”

  Nikolas had the feeling the boy had told him deliberately, that he hoped Nikolas would go outside and drive the stranger away. “What part of the menagerie?” he asked in a controlled voice. “Is she with the tiger?”

  “No…with Cleo.”

  Nikolas stood and strode from the room, using the French doors to reach the outside grounds. He was halfway through the garden when he saw Emma coming from the stables. The clang of the gates near the house alerted him that someone was heading to the front drive. Torn between going after the visitor and cornering Emma about the incident, he decided on the latter course. He went toward his wife with rapid strides.

  “Who was that?” he demanded.

  “An old friend. Lord Milbank, as a matter of fact.” Emma continued walking. As she passed him, Nikolas reached for her arm, and she flung off his hand. “Don't touch me!”

  “What did he want?”

  “Nothing.”

  A wave of blinding jealousy came over Nikolas. He followed her into the house. “I want to talk to you,” he said, taking hold of her wrist and yanking her into the library.

  “Don't insult my intelligence with this playacting,” Emma said scornfully. “You don't give a damn about me, or about anything I do.”

  “Tell me why he came here.”

  Her blue eyes flashed with hatred. “Adam told me what you did. The way you threatened him, and made him stay away from me. You kept us apart, and then you manipulated your way into marrying me.”

  “Milbank didn't have to desert you. He had a choice.”

  “Adam was afraid of you. And I don't blame him. You're a vicious, selfish creature, and the world would be a much better place without you!” Her voice lowered to a searing whisper. “I despise you for what you've done to me, Nikolas. You've ruined my life.”

  In spite of his callousness, Nikolas recoiled at the look on his wife's face. It was the truth, he realized bleakly. She did hate him. It was all his doing…it had been necessary to push her away, to save himself…but still, the proof of his success didn't please him. He was more troubled than he had ever been in his life. His head pounded, and there was a sound in his ears, a jarring, high-pitched tone that seemed to worsen every minute. He rubbed his forehead in an effort to ease the ache. No more arguments for now—he would deal with his wife later. Get the hell out of here, he tried to say, but strangely, the words came out in garbled English and Russian. His mind wasn't straight, wasn't clear…everything was somehow tangled.

  “What is it?” Emma asked sharply, but he shook his head in confusion.

  In the charged silence that followed, Mr. Soames came into the library with the canvas he had been working on. “Your Highness,” he began, unaware of the scene he had interrupted. He smiled as he saw Emma there. “Princess Emma, I have uncovered the portrait. You must have a look. It's remarkable.” Carefully he propped the painting on Nikolas's desk and stood back. “You see?”

  Nikolas focused on the portrait, of a man in his early thirties with golden-brown hair, amber eyes…high cheekbones…a hard mouth, and a sharp-cut jaw…

  My God…It was like looking into a mirror. It was his exact likeness. That's my face, my eyes…

  All at once his head was filled with shooting pain. He tried to tear his gaze away, but he couldn't.

  He was vaguely aware of Emma's shocked gasp. “It's you,” she said, and the last word echoed in his brain: youyouyou…

  Nikolas made a desperate attempt to escape, but his body wouldn't obey. He stumbled and fell to the floor. The painting seemed to be pulling him inside itself, a magnet for his soul, drawing all the flickering life from his body. He was sinking into darkness, while color, sensations, time itself, shot past him in whirling updrafts.

  He was dying, he thought, and he was flooded with panicked regret. What an empty life he'd led, with no one to mourn his loss. Suddenly he wanted Emma: he needed to feel her slim, strong arms around him, her warmth…but there was nothing…only the torment of his own extinguishing thoughts.

  PART III

  My pulses bound in exultation,

  And in my heart once more

  unfold

  The sense of awe and inspiration,

  The life, the tears, the love of old.

  —PUSHKIN

  Seven

  1707 November, Moscow

  S OMEONE WAS SPEAKING in Russian. “Your Highness, it is time to leave now. Your Highness…?”

  The stranger was annoyingly persistent. Nikolas awakened slowly, groaning at the pounding in his head. The tast
e of wine was strong and sour in his mouth. Blinking painfully, he discovered that he was sitting at a tiled table, his head and arms resting on the hard surface.

  “You drank all through the night,” the man's voice scolded. “There is no time to shave your face, or even to change your clothes before the bride-choosing. Please, Prince Nikolai, you must wake up now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nikolas muttered, groggy and perplexed. There was a comfortable and familiar scent in the air, not the sweet wool-and-starch smell of his English house, but one of birch wood and wax candles, and the citric tang of cranberries. It reminded him so strongly of home that he closed his eyes again and breathed deeply. Gradually he recalled what had happened…the argument with his wife, the portrait…“Emma,” he said, lifting his head with an effort. He rubbed his sore eyes. “Where's my wife? Where…”

  The words died on his lips as he saw that he was in a strange room. A young man, his slim form neatly dressed in antique clothes, waited nearby. His dark eyes, the same chocolate shade as his hair, sparked with exasperation. “We'll get a wife for you as soon as you rouse yourself and go to the bride-choosing, Your Highness.”

  Nikolas braced his head with his hands and gave the stranger a slitted glare. “Who are you?”

  The man sighed. “You must have had even more to drink than I feared! When a man forgets the name of his favorite steward, it is safe to say his brains are pickled. I am Feodor Vasilievich Sidarov, as you well know.” He reached for Nikolas's arm to help him up from the table.

  Nikolas shook him off with a soft snarl. “Don't touch me.”

  “I'm trying to help you, Prince Nikolai.”

  “Then tell me where I am, and what happened after—” Nikolas stopped speaking as he looked down at his own clothes. He was dressed in a velvet doublet, narrow breeches, and a white shirt with billowing sleeves, garments that looked as ridiculously old-fashioned as the steward's. He flushed in embarrassed rage, thinking that someone was playing a joke on him. As he took in his surroundings, however, his emotions dissolved in a wash of pure astonishment.