by Lisa Kleypas
“It has nothing to do with you. I'm sorry, I…” Nikolas shook his head, unable to speak further. Blindly he turned away from her, waiting until he heard her leave the room. There was a sharp pain in his temples, as if someone were driving nails through his skull. “God,” he whispered, investing a prayer of fear and wonder into the single syllable. He felt for the scars again, and he was shocked anew when his fingers encountered smooth skin. The lash-marks and burns had been a part of him for years. He had stared at them whenever he needed a reminder of the fiendish cruelty people were capable of. How could the scars be gone? The visible proof of the experiences that had shaped him had vanished, and without them, his identity had been stripped away.
Nikolas moved to a nearby chair and sat in a tightly drawn heap. He had never felt so isolated. He was disconnected from everything he had known. There seemed to be no way to return to the life he'd once had. He wasn't even certain he wanted to. He had nothing in that life, no one, and he had deliberately destroyed all chance of a relationship with Emma Stokehurst. What was there to go back to?
Reason returned to him with jarring suddenness. It would have been a tragic mistake to bed Emelia. He would do nothing to risk making her pregnant. He wouldn't lay a finger on her. The Angelovsky line would die with him, and the world would be a far better place.
He thought of Emma Stokehurst waiting in the future, of never marrying her, never having her, and he ignored the coldness in the pit of his stomach.
Staring at the jug of wine, Nikolas thought of making himself drunk. But that wouldn't change anything. At best it would provide a temporary respite, from which he would awaken to face the same problem—what was he to do next?
Whether Sidarov knew or merely suspected that Nikolas hadn't bedded Emelia, he said nothing about it the next morning. His lean face was carefully expressionless, but his dark brown eyes were speculative as he gazed at Nikolas's disheveled form. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he remarked. “I took the liberty of having a bath prepared, in case you should want one today.”
Nikolas nodded and followed the steward to the private bath house attached to the main residence. “You haven't changed your clothes in two days,” Sidarov remarked, scooping up garments as Nikolas disrobed. “Your bath will be welcome news to the entire household.”
The comment reminded Nikolas of the Russians' scrupulous standards of cleanliness. Even the most humble peasants washed themselves frequently. It was one of the few areas in which the Slavs were more advanced than their Western counterparts, especially at this time in history. The English actually feared to bathe themselves too often, believing it made them vulnerable to illness.
The wooden bathhouse was well scrubbed and roomy, with glass windows set high in the walls to allow light from outside. It opened into a comfortable chamber filled with elegant brocaded furniture and large fireplaces. For now, the doors were closed to preserve the warmth of the bath. Steam collected on the windowpanes and ran down in bright rivulets. Nikolas sighed in comfort as he stepped into the bath and sat chest-deep in water infused with herbs. The heat of it permeated his body, soothing tense muscles and a multitude of aches. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rim of the wooden bath.
“Shall I leave you for a while?” Sidarov inquired.
“Yes,” Nikolas said, keeping his eyes closed.
“I will return with your shaving instruments when your beard has softened.”
For a while there was no sound except the dripping of water from the windows, and the slosh of small waves in the bath as Nikolas moved his foot back and forth. Puffs of steam rose from the tiled stove. Drowsing, luxuriating, Nikolas let his mind drift, until he heard the scrape of a footstep on the floor. “Sidarov?” he murmured.
“No,” came a woman's soft reply.
Nikolas opened his eyes. Through the luminous, hot mist he saw Emelia approach the tub. She wore a simple blue peasant dress. Her eyes were red from crying, and her jaw was set with a determination that he recognized. He sat up and stared at her warily, wondering if she had come to reproach him. God knew she had every right.
Her voice trembled a little. “I asked Sidarov where you were. I…had to talk with you right away, to ask you…”
“Ask me what?” Nikolas murmured, transfixed by her otherworldly appearance, her slender form silhouetted in steam clouds.
“If you're sorry that you chose me.” Emelia frowned earnestly and continued in a rush. “I may not be pretty enough, or maybe I seem somewhat odd, but I promise you, I would make a very good wife! I can learn to be just like the Western women—”
“Emelia,” he interrupted, “come here.” She hesitated and moved forward, leaning her hip against the edge of the tub. Nikolas reached out and enfolded her slender fingers in his wet hand. He forced himself to meet her direct gaze. “I…I'm sorry about last night. About sending you away like that.” He almost choked on the words. Apologies had never been easy for him. “You did nothing wrong,” he added with an effort.
She regarded him doubtfully, her fingers tightening on his. “I hope that's true, but—”
“You were the only woman I wanted. If you hadn't been at the Golorkov estate yesterday, I wouldn't have chosen anyone.”
A pink blush seeped into the paleness of her skin. “Is that true?”
“You're a beautiful woman. God knows I find you desirable.”
“Then last night, why didn't you—”
“Things are very…complicated for me.” Nikolas grimaced at his own ineptitude. “I can't explain it in a way you would understand. Hell, I wish I understood.”
Emelia absorbed that for a moment, her gaze locked with his. “All I would like to know is…do you want to keep me as your wife?”
Nikolas was trapped by her intense blue eyes. “Yes,” he heard himself say.
She nodded, visibly relieved. “Then I will stay. And I will abide by your decisions. When you want me to come to your bed, you only need tell me.”
Swallowing hard, Nikolas released his grip on her fingers and busied himself with splashing hot water on his face. Having her in his bed, easing his aching need within her, was not a subject he could allow himself to think about. It was forbidden to him, unless he cared to set off a chain reaction that would culminate in his disastrous future. “Sidarov should bring in my shaving razor soon,” he said, swiping at the water that dripped from his face and chin.
Shyly Emelia gestured to the dish of lavender soap beside the bath. “Shall I wash your hair, Prince Nikolai?”
“No, I'll take care of it.”
“It will be no trouble. A wife should learn to do these things for her husband.” She picked up one of the buckets of water resting on the tiled stove and brought it to him.
Nikolas hesitated, wondering how to refuse her. He met her expectant gaze and relented with a taut sigh. Why not let her help him with his bath? What harm could it do? He bent his head forward, jumping slightly at the heat of the water as Emelia poured it over his head.
“Such beautiful hair,” she commented, pushing the sodden locks away from his face. “The color of dark honey, except for the light streaks on the top.”
“It's nothing special.” Warily he watched as Emelia pushed the sleeves of her dress to her elbows.
She reached for a slippery cake of soap. “It is good you are not vain.” There was a smile in her voice as she continued. “I think many men with your appearance would be.” She moved behind him, rubbing the soap over his head, then working the lather into his hair. “Close your eyes, please. I don't want the soap to sting them.”
Nikolas leaned back against the wall of the bath as Emelia washed his hair. Her fingers slid over his scalp and the back of his neck, rubbing gently behind his ears. He had always loved her hands, strong and slender and graceful. Suddenly he wanted her so badly he could hardly breathe. If he turned his head, he could reach her breast with his mouth, bite and suck her nipple until it turned hard against his tongue. She would make
the feline sound he remembered so well, and arch closer, offering herself to him.
He imagined her naked in the bath with him, her skin sleek and wet, her hair floating in dark crimson skeins around them. He would pump her up and down on his body, until water sloshed everywhere from the force of their passion—
“That's enough,” he said hoarsely, sitting up straight. “Are you almost finished?”
“Yes, Prince Nikolai.”
He listened as she went to the stove. She returned and rinsed his hair with more hot water, then handed him a dry cloth to blot his streaming face. When he opened his eyes, he noticed her embarrassed but inquisitive gaze focused on the outline of his body beneath the water. A maidenly blush made her cheeks glow. Nikolas was half-afraid he wouldn't be able to control his impulses.
“Thank you,” he managed to say. “Find Sidarov now, and tell him I want a shave.”
“Yes, but first, would you like me to—”
“Now,” he repeated gruffly.
Emelia nodded obediently and left, and Nikolas gave a tortured sigh. He sank lower into the water and willed his body to calm down. “I don't know how much of this I can take,” he muttered. He was nearly startled out of his wits when a rumbling laugh echoed through the bathhouse.
“Talking to yourself, Nikolai?”
Nikolas turned and stared at the stranger. He controlled his expression, showing none of the amazement he felt inside.
A man nearly seven feet tall, apparently in his mid-thirties, strode to the tub and surveyed him with hearty amusement. “I just saw your new wife,” the giant informed him. “A beautiful woman, and of good, sturdy stock, like my Catherine. God grant that you made a wise choice, my friend.”
The stranger's face, incongruously small and round for such a large man, was oddly familiar. A shock of straight, fine chestnut hair fell to his narrow shoulders. A tiny mustache adorned his upper lip, but there was no beard to soften the hard, heavy lines of his jaw. His hazel eyes fairly danced with energy, the same restlessness that seemed to permeate his entire frame. He wore Western clothes but spoke Russian in the thick, rolling tones of a native Slav.
“I brought my entourage for a short visit,” the man informed Nikolas. “We're in need of one of your fine suppers and entertainment. Menshikov is back from his command in Poland, and we want to give him an enjoyable time.” The man winked. “We owe my Alexashka a lot after his triumph over the Swedes at the battle of Kalisz. Now, if only you would accept a command, we would win the war at once!”
“I'm not a military man,” Nikolas managed to reply, while his brain worked feverishly. Menshikov…the name of Tsar Peter's closest friend and companion.
The man standing in the bathhouse with him was His Imperial Majesty, Peter the Great.
Eight
T HANKS TO SIDAROV'S timely arrival, Nikolas was spared having to make conversation until he could gather his wits. He sat in the bath, his heart thumping hard while the servant shaved him expertly. Peter, in the meantime, strolled around delivering an energetic monologue to his captive audience.
Nikolas was both appalled and fascinated. He had always admired Tsar Peter's accomplishments. He had read in his school books about Peter creating the powerful Russian navy, leading the country to victory in a twenty-year war with the Swedes, and building the magnificent city of St. Petersburg. It had taken a mixture of genius and savage will to do all that, and both qualities were evident in the man standing before him.
The tsar spoke at length about the war, the over-confidence of Charles, the Swedish king, and the success of the recent Russian “scorched earth” policy. “The stubborn fools try to press onward through Poland, even though they can't supply their troops with food,” Peter said with a grim smile. “They won't last long, the stupid Swedes. They'll have to cut their losses soon, or the winter will destroy them.”
“Charles will probably march northeast,” Nikolas commented, trying to remember the military history he had studied in his boyhood. “He'll try to outflank your defenses at Warsaw and advance to Lithuania—” His voice was temporarily muffled by the fresh towel Sidarov applied to his face.
“He would never make it past all the rivers and swamps,” Peter scoffed. “And even if he did, we would stop him at the border town of Grodno.”
Nikolas shrugged, recalling that Charles had made it across Poland and captured Grodno with ease. “Only God and the tsar know,” he said, quoting an old Russian proverb. He ignored the way Sidarov's eyes rolled at the bit of flattery.
A smile touched Peter's thin lips. “I have missed you, Nikolai. I will see you often during my stay in Moscow. Two years I have been away from the capital! There is much to be done, enough to keep me here through the Christmas holiday. Unfortunately Menshikov will have to return to his regiments in Poland.”
“That's too bad,” Nikolas replied smoothly, rising from the bath and donning a robe that Sidarov handed to him.
Peter gave a short bark of laughter, as if Nikolas had made a joke. “There is no need to pretend you'll miss him, Nikolai. Everyone is well aware of the bad blood between you and Menshikov. But you must put your hatred aside, at least for tonight. Menshikov has done well by his country, and he must be respected for his achievements on the battlefield.”
Nikolas agreed with a neutral murmur, uncomfortable with the new experience of looking up at another man. His own height was not inconsiderable, but the tsar was a giant.
“Besides,” Peter continued, “there is no reason the two of you shouldn't like each other. You and Menshikov have much in common. You are both intelligent, ambitious—and willing to break with the old ways in order to make Russia equal to the West. Granted, Alexashka lacks your polish and good looks, but he has talents of his own.”
“Especially when it comes to acquiring wealth,” Nikolas said idly, remembering Aleksandr Menshikov's historical reputation for greed, and his abuse of power in stealing money from the Russian people and the government. He heard Sidarov's quiet intake of breath at the impudent remark.
The left side of Peter's face twitched as if in annoyance, but a sudden laugh burst from him. He gave Nikolas a warning look. “My Alexashka has his faults, but he has done me great service. And as for you, my clever friend…how goes it with the Moscow merchants? Have you convinced them to form trading companies similar to the English and Dutch?”
Nikolas hesitated, considering how to bluff his way through the answer. “I doubt they'll do it voluntarily,” he said, meeting Peter's gaze directly. “The transition from the marketplace posád to industry won't be easy.”
Peter grunted in disapproval, though he exhibited no surprise. “It is always this way with my people. They must be forced into progress, for they would never choose it willingly. Well, be prepared to receive a new appointment, Nikolai. From now on I want you to regulate the commercial and financial undertakings of the city. You will advise the governor, who seems to have no understanding of how things are done in the West.”
“But I don't—” Nikolas began to protest, having no desire for a government post.
“Yes, I know you're grateful,” the tsar interrupted, and strode to the door of the bathhouse. “I must tour the new fortification in the city, and see how the construction goes. I will return later this evening, to enjoy one of your excellent evenings of food and entertainment. I was told you have refurbished your private theater—I look forward to viewing it.”
When the surly giant had left, Nikolas sat on the edge of the bath and shook his head in disbelief. “I've lost my mind,” he muttered.
Sidarov gestured for him to come and dress in the adjoining room. “After I help you with your clothes, Your Highness, I'll make the necessary arrangements for tonight. There is no time for delay.” He paused and added delicately, “You might try to charm the tsar a little more, Your Highness. No doubt Menshikov has been plotting against you as usual. Much depends on your ability to stay in the tsar's good graces.”
“Of course,” Nikola
s said grimly. The Imperial government was always the same, no matter which century. A man's life was at the mercy of the tsar's whims. “I'm supposed to lick one of the tsar's boots faster than Menshikov licks the other. Nobility has its privileges.”
Sidarov gave him a shocked glance but said nothing, quietly going about his duties.
The estate swarmed with frenetic activity as the servants readied several rooms in case the tsar and his entourage should decide to stay the night. The state's private company of actors was summoned to perform a French farce for the evening, while the cook directed the servants in the preparation of an enormous banquet. Sidarov was nothing but a blur as he sped through the house, giving orders to everyone he encountered.
Left to his own devices, Nikolas set about investigating the condition of the Angelovskys' current holdings. He was surprised to find that most of the family's property was poorly documented. Looking through what few papers and account books he could find, he discovered that the family fortune was only a fraction of what it would be in the future. The Angelovsky income was comprised solely of rents from a few private properties, and a minimal interest in an Imperial porcelain factory. It seemed that among Prince Nikolai's interests, making money had not been paramount.
“Nikolai?” Emelia's soft voice came from the library doorway, and he looked up to see his wife peeking around the corner.
“What is it?”
Cautiously she ventured into the room. “Sidarov said that the tsar will eat at our table tonight. Will I have to be there?”
“Yes,” he said brusquely, closing an account book. “Western women always eat at the same table as their husbands.”
“Oh.” She frowned nervously and plucked at the sleeves of her peasant dress. “I…I have nothing to wear except a sarafan.”
“That will be fine.”
“It's not modern. It's not fashionable.”
“We'll have some gowns made for you. In the meantime, wear the sarafan.”
