Prince of Dreams

by Lisa Kleypas

  Peter was now under tremendous pressure, waging a war not only against the Swedes but on his own people as well. He had conscripted hundreds of thousands of unwilling peasants to serve in the army and build St. Petersburg, earning the wrath of his subjects from every level of society. Discontent and treachery were everywhere, and few people were safe from Peter's suspicion. Secret police were constantly busy ferreting out information about anyone who breathed even one treasonous word against the tsar and the government. God knew how many innocent men had been accused and made examples of, sometimes even without a trial. The atmosphere around Moscow was ripe with intrigue, and Nikolas realized that he himself was the target of much dislike.

  “Jealousy,” Sidarov, his steward, had explained matter-of-factly when Nikolas had remarked on the cold attitudes of the other noblemen toward him. “In their eyes you have been blessed with more than one man deserves. Your name and wealth, your fine looks—” He was interrupted by a sardonic snort from Nikolas. “Yes, you are very fine-looking, and you married a woman of great beauty as well. You gained the favor of the tsar because of your modern Western ideas, so why should any of the boyars like you?”

  “The favor of the tsar,” Nikolas muttered. “As far as I can see, that's worth a pail of horse droppings.”

  “Your Highness,” Sidarov protested, his chocolate-colored eyes filled with alarm. “You shouldn't say such a thing aloud. The walls have ears! You will endanger yourself and the princess.”

  “We're already in danger,” Nikolas said softly, lifting a hand to his jaw and touching the outline of a shadowy bruise. It had been inflicted the day before, at the culmination of a meeting among Peter and the eight men whom he intended to appoint as governors of newly created provinces of Russia. Menshikov was to be in charge of St. Petersburg, Prince Dmitry Golitsyn was to have Kiev, Kazan was to go to Boyar Apraxin, and so forth.

  Nikolas had infuriated Peter by refusing the appointment as governor of the Archangel region. He had declined to explain his reason, which was primarily that he had no interest in producing more revenue for the government. All Peter really wanted from his governors was for them to prod a virtual army of tax collectors into squeezing more money from the suffering populace. Nikolas had the unpleasant certainty that his refusal of the position would probably have far-reaching consequences, but still, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

  Peter's disapproval had fallen on him with full force, and he had pinned Nikolas with an accusing glare that had made some of the men at the long table wince, while a few wriggled in poorly hidden satisfaction. “That's fine—I'll appoint someone else!” Peter had sneered. “But if you feel so comfortable in denying the tsar a request, then perhaps you can tell me what you have done, if anything, for my benefit! Tell me why you haven't yet convinced the Moscow merchants to form trading companies.” He stood and walked over to Nikolas, leaning down to shout directly into his face. “I want more industry, more development! Why are my people so slow to change? Why won't they give me the revenue I need to make war against the Swedes? I want answers from you now!”

  Nikolas was expressionless. He hadn't flinched in the face of the tsar's ear-splitting roar, not even when tiny flecks of spittle flew from Peter's gigantic mouth. Somehow he had managed to reply calmly. “You've found every possible source of revenue and squeezed it dry, Batushka. Your tax collectors have drained every kopeck from the people. There are taxes on everything from birth and marriage to drinking water. There is even a tax on mustaches, ludicrous as that may seem.”

  Nikolas paused, realizing that there was a deadly hush in the room. Peter's eyes had turned into chips of flint. No one could believe that Nikolas would dare to tell the tsar the truth. “On top of that,” he continued evenly, “the state monopolies you've created serve to multiply the price of goods at five times their original cost. People can't afford to bury their dead properly because coffins cost too much. Peasants can't even afford salt for their tables. Alcohol, fur, even playing cards are too expensive. The merchants can't make a decent profit under these conditions. They are outraged, and they see no reason to work harder merely to finance your war.”

  “Your honesty is appreciated.” Without warning, Peter had struck him. The blow had landed on Nikolas's jaw with blinding force. Nikolas was nearly knocked to the floor. “But that is for your insolence.”

  The tsar's desire for progress was perfectly in accordance with his Western ideals, but his methods of getting it were not. Blinking hard to clear the bright spots before his eyes, Nikolas had fought to stay upright. There had been a strange ringing in his ears. Rage began to pump through him, and he was consumed with the urge to attack, to defend himself. But lifting a finger against the tsar would be the same as signing his own death warrant.

  Slowly Nikolas rose to his feet. “Thank you for the lesson,” he said. “Now I know the reward for telling the truth.” There were audible gasps at his effrontery, and then they all watched in silence, Peter included, as he strode from the room.

  Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Nikolas touched the sore spot on his jaw once more and smiled grimly as Sidarov spoke anxiously.

  “But, Your Highness, the tsar strikes everyone. It is just his way. Why, he struck Prince Menshikov once in this very house, so hard that Menshikov began to bleed all over the supper table! The tsar doesn't mean anything by it. The people who are close to him must bear the effects of his frustration—you've always known that.”

  “His frustration has a hell of a right hook,” Nikolas muttered.

  “The bruise will fade soon.” Sidarov's young face twisted with a frown. “Please, Prince Nikolai, you must try to forget this.”

  For Emelia's sake, as well as for his own, Nikolas was willing to try.

  Later that night, when he went to the room they now shared, he found Emelia sitting at a small table with an odd collection of little mirrors, all positioned to reflect off one another. A candle burned in the center of the mirrors. The soft, wavering light extended to the shadowy wall behind her, making the icon of Elijah and its ruby-colored cloud glow as if lit from behind.

  Perplexed, Nikolas stood in the doorway and watched his wife. She was dressed in a pale blue velvet gown, closed up the front with tiny buttons carved from mother-of-pearl. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Emelia jumped a little, and then smiled at him. “You came in so quietly that I didn't hear you!” She returned her attention to the mirrors. “I'm trying to read our fortune. I will stare into the mirrors until one of them reveals our fate. If I can't see anything after a while, then I thought I would melt a candle into a bowl of water, and the drippings will form a figure that will give a clue.”

  Nikolas closed the door and went over to her, reaching out to tug gently at a ruddy curl. He smiled down at the top of her head. “You don't really believe in that kind of thing, do you?”

  She looked up at him earnestly. “Oh, yes, it always works. Don't the Westerners believe in fortune-telling?”

  “Some of them do, I suppose. But more of them believe in science than magic.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  He fondled the slender line of her throat. “I believe in both.” He drew her away from the table and turned her to face him. “Why are you worried about our fate, child?”

  Her gaze moved to the bruise on his face, and she touched it gently with her fingertips. “The tsar doesn't like it that you married me. Everyone knows it.”

  His jaw hardened. “Has anyone dared say a word to you—”

  “I hear the whispers whenever we go out. I think Menshikov and his friends have made certain to spread the news of who I am. It makes you look very bad, to have a wife such as I.”

  “To hell with them all,” he said roughly, and kissed her.

  Emelia turned her face away after a few moments. “Sometimes I wish…”

  He bent his head to her throat and bestowed a chain of kisses against her skin. “What do you wish, ruyshka?”


  “That we could find a way to make the rest of the world disappear. That it could be just the two of us.”

  “I can make it disappear,” he murmured, dragging his mouth over hers with soft, intimate friction.

  Emelia resisted briefly, and stared at him with worried blue eyes. “I don't ever want to cause trouble. I only want to give you comfort and peace.”

  “You give me so much more than that,” Nikolas said, finding the shape of her body beneath the velvet robe. “You make me feel things I never imagined. I love you more than my life, ruyshka.” He clasped his hand around the fullness of her breast, until her breathing changed and she clung to him with a pleading moan. Triumphantly he drew her to the bed, intent on giving her such pleasure that all trace of worry would be banished, if only for a little while.

  Aware that Emelia's suspicions concerning Prince Menshikov were probably right, Nikolas began to consider the best way to confront him. Strangely, they met by chance in a bookseller's shop, where most of the learned men in Moscow congregated in the afternoons. Picking up some Russian translations of foreign books, Nikolas became cognizant of a cold sensation, and turned to find Aleksandr Menshikov standing a few feet away.

  Menshikov's blue-green eyes held a reptilian flatness as he smiled in greeting. “Good day, Prince Angelovsky. Have you found anything interesting to read?” He gestured to a nearby volume. “I recommend this account of the glorious accomplishments of the tsar.”

  Nikolas's gaze didn't move from the other man's face. “I know all I need to on that subject.”

  “Perhaps you should read it anyway, to be reminded of Peter's greatness and his formidable will…not to mention all he has done for you and the rest of us. You know, he and I had a conversation about you this very morning.”

  “And?” Nikolas prompted, his muscles clenching.

  “It seems Peter is disappointed in you. He had such high hopes, but you chose to squander your talents. Such potential you had, and all of it wasted. You wouldn't accept a military appointment, nor would you do your civic duty by taking the governorship of Archangel…and you even decided to marry the daughter of a traitor.”

  “Not one word about her,” Nikolas warned softly, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  Menshikov continued in a slightly more subdued tone. “Has she told you about her father, Vasily? I've discovered quite a lot about him from our mutual friend, the chief of the Secret Office. Vasily was indeed a strelets soldier, the same kind who schemed against Peter from his birth, and murdered his family. They were supposed to guard his life, and instead they made attempts on it. ‘Begetters of evil,’ the tsar has called them. Your wife's father was known for making masterful speeches about taking over the capital, killing all the boyars, and restoring the tsar's sister Sophia to the throne. Standing in the middle of a crowd with his hair blazing bright red, shouting incendiary words of treason…it led people to call Vasily the red devil. You remember when the Streltsy soldiers marched on Moscow eight years ago? Vasily was a visible and active member of that rebellion. Naturally he was arrested, and he died under torture. But the Streltsy betrayal will never die in the tsar's memory. And every time he sees you and your flamehaired wife, Peter's heart will harden more against you. Emelia is bad for you, politically. If I were you, I'd get rid of her.”

  Nikolas couldn't restrain himself any longer. He pounced on the other man and shoved him against the wall, clenching his hands around the bastard's throat. “Maybe I'll just get rid of you.”

  The other people in the shop paused to stare at them in astonishment. Menshikov whitened in fear, or anger, or both. “Take your hands off me,” he hissed.

  Slowly Nikolas complied. “I've had enough of the gossip and rumors you've worked so hard to spread across Moscow,” he muttered. “If I hear of any more slander being said against me or my wife, I'll make you answer for it.”

  Menshikov's lips parted in a jagged smile. “It's too late to repair your reputation, my arrogant friend. Your star has already fallen. You're not in Peter's favor any longer, because you valued your pride and privacy more than you did his affections. It's all a game, don't you see? You refused to play…and now you've been cut out.”

  Menshikov was right, Nikolas thought with a chill. If he wasn't willing to pander to the tsar's whims, then he had no right to expect Peter's good will.

  As winter came to Russia in full force, the air was so cold that frostbite was a worry to those who ventured outside for more than a few minutes. Helpful strangers rubbed snow on the faces of passersby who had the telltale white splotches on their skin. No one braved the weather without covering himself in a heavy fur coat, whether it was made of rabbit or sable. The great tile stoves in the Angelovsky mansion filled each room with steady drafts of heat, while the occupants kept their hands warm with steaming glasses of tea, chocolate, or mulled wine. The approach of Christmas was heralded with festive parties and dances, and with carolers who filled the streets with music. Cleverly shaped gingerbread cakes, or pryaniki, were baked in every household and offered to all guests.

  Caught up in the holiday revelry, Emelia insisted that Nikolas bring her to the ice hill that had been made for the enjoyment of Russian children and adults alike. It was a giant slide constructed of wood and covered with ice blocks and sheets of water. People carried their wooden sleds up to the top of the forty-foot slide, then careened down it at blinding speed, screaming with laughter all the way.

  “You want to go down that?” Nikolas asked reluctantly while Emelia pleaded and tugged at him to accompany her.

  “Yes, yes, it's the most wonderful feeling…you've gone down an ice hill before, haven't you?”

  “Not since I was a boy.”

  “It's been much too long, then!”

  Willfully she dragged him over to the mountainous contraption, and she talked someone into letting them borrow a painted wooden sled. They ascended the steps to the platform at the top, where the wind whistled fiercely against their faces.

  “I'm going to regret this,” Nikolas muttered, watching the sledders hurtle down the long, impossibly steep incline.

  Emelia gestured to the sled with an imperious mittened hand. Her eyes gleamed with enjoyment. Nikolas groaned and obeyed, positioning himself far back on the sled with his legs extended. Emelia sat in the space between his thighs, her body stiff with excitement. The people waiting behind them cheerfully assisted, giving the back of the sled a forceful shove, and off they went.

  Air rushed into Nikolas's lungs with a cold, cutting bite, making it impossible for him to breathe for a moment. The sound of the sled's runners was a slick hum in his ears. The exhilarating sensation of speed took over, and they gathered more force as they crossed the middle of the gleaming slide. Emelia laughed and screamed, leaning back hard against him. Faster, faster, racing over the ice…and then they reached the bottom, where sand had been spread to slow the riders' descent. Nikolas used his booted feet to stop the sled.

  Still laughing wildly, Emelia collapsed against him. She twisted in an attempt to kiss his windburned face, embracing him with the affectionate clumsiness of an unruly puppy. “I want to do it again!” she cried.

  Nikolas smiled and placed a hard kiss on her lips. “Once was enough for me.”

  “Oh, Nikki!” She struggled to her feet, and threw her arms around him as he stood up. “Well, it's probably for the best. I was afraid my skirts would end up over my head.”

  “Later,” he promised, nuzzling her cold cheek, and she pushed at his chest as she laughed.

  That night a Christmas party was held at the home of Prince Golorkov. As they entered the great ballroom, Emelia smiled at Nikolas; both of them remembered the afternoon when he had chosen her from the line of five hundred. “The room looks different now,” Emelia said.

  “It's the Christmas decorations,” Nikolas replied, gazing at the swags of red velvet tied with flowers and gold ribbons that covered every inch of wall space. Long tables were ornamented with fir branches and lad
en with plates of pastry, dried apples and other fruits, and five different kinds of nuts. One table held nothing but gingerbread, which had been baked, cut, and iced to resemble many important buildings in Moscow, including the Kremlin and St. Basil's Cathedral with its profusion of multicolored domes. The spicy, cheerful fragrance of ginger wafted through the air, mingling with the scents of wax and pine.

  Intimidated by the grandeur of the gathering, Emelia swished her billowing skirts nervously. “I look like a peasant dressed in borrowed clothes. If only you had let me use the powder for my face—”

  “You're magnificent,” Nikolas interrupted, brushing a kiss over the sprinkling of golden freckles on her cheek. It was true; Emelia didn't resemble an aristocrat in spite of her sumptuous garments. The other women present were pale and chalky, their bodies frail and their gestures languid. Emelia was as vivid as a firefly in the company of moths. The glorious red-amber curls had been interwoven with pearls and drawn to the top of her head, with a few long curls dangling to her shoulders. The velvet dress she wore was a shade of blue that made her eyes gleam like sapphires. A squarecut neckline trimmed with a fall of blond lace showed the generous roundness of her breasts, while a corset had drawn her waist into narrow, compact lines. Nikolas was captivated by his wife's vibrant beauty, and judging from the admiring glances being cast their way, so was every other man present.

  Enjoying his admiring gaze, Emelia opened her fan and gazed at him flirtatiously over the scalloped edge. “I know what you're thinking when you look at me like that,” came her muffled voice. “You want to take me to bed.”

  “I'm always thinking that,” he assured her.

  She patted her corseted waist. “I'm tied up with so many strings, you won't be able to reach me tonight.”

  He smiled and brushed his fingers over hers. “I'll find a way, believe me.”

  Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of the tsar. But the chatter and excitement that always greeted Peter's entrances were far more pronounced than usual. Wondering what was causing the stir, Nikolas stared at the crowd surrounding the tsar and his entourage, until finally Peter stepped into view. Nikolas shook his head in surprise, while Emelia drew her breath sharply.