Prince of Dreams

by Lisa Kleypas

  In contrast to all the guests dressed in their finery, the tsar wore the simple clothes of a peasant, a red tunic and loose gray trousers, and embroidered felt boots.

  “Why?” Emelia breathed.

  Nikolas answered tonelessly, without looking at her. “It's a tasteless joke. He's mocking the peasants for complaining about his policies.”

  The guests chuckled and applauded while Peter did a silly little folk dance, turning so that everyone could view his costume.

  “How terrible,” Emelia said, flushing in embarrassment and anger.

  Nikolas could find no reply. He concentrated on the parquet floor, inlaid with a variety of woods and touches of mother-of-pearl, hoping fervently that the tsar would soon tire of making an ass of himself.

  “You don't seem to appreciate Peter's wit,” came a man's silken voice from nearby.

  Nikolas's brows drew together as he beheld Prince Aleksandr Menshikov. “If that's what you want to call it,” he said softly, giving the man a deadly glance of warning. There was an air about Menshikov that made Nikolas uneasy, a sense of malicious triumph.

  Menshikov turned toward Emelia with an elaborate flourish. “How are you, Princess?”

  “Very well, thank you,” she said woodenly, refusing to look at him.

  Nikolas took his wife's elbow and began to guide her away. “If you'll excuse us, Menshikov—”

  “Not just yet,” the other man murmured. “I have a bit of news for your attractive wife. Now may not be the appropriate occasion to impart it…but then, there is never a good time for news like this.”

  Nikolas looked at Emelia, who returned his glance with a confused shake of her head.

  “It seems that you have been making inquiries, Princess, about your family—to be more specific, your uncle and brother, who have been sent to work in St. Petersburg.” Menshikov emphasized the word “princess” as if it were a term of mockery rather than one of respect.

  Nikolas stared at Emelia without expression. What the hell was going on? She had said nothing about wanting to find her uncle and brother—she hadn't mentioned one word of concern to him. Sidarov had been equally closemouthed.

  Emelia flushed guiltily and explained in a hushed voice. “I…I asked Sidarov to try and find out how my uncle and brother were. They've sent no word since they were conscripted to work in St. Petersburg, building houses and churches. I wanted to find them, and tell them about my marriage, and…” She fell into a cowed silence, her gaze darting to Menshikov's face.

  “Why didn't you come to me for help?” Nikolas asked. “Did you think I'd refuse?”

  “I don't know,” she said unhappily.

  Menshikov smiled in satisfaction at the turmoil he was causing. “Apparently it takes some time to build trust in a marriage. In any event, your servant Sidarov wasn't able to find out anything. Recently I was informed of his attempts, and I took it upon myself to make my own investigation—as a personal favor.” He gave a long, pitying sigh. “Your uncle and brother were fortunate enough to meet their fate together, Princess, although their loss is a pity. They were working side by side when a wall collapsed on them.” He shrugged regretfully. “Both dead. But life must go on for those of us left behind, mustn't it?”

  “Get away from me,” Nikolas sneered at Menshikov, “before I kill you.”

  Menshikov retreated a few feet, but hovered nearby, watching them intently.

  Emelia's long fingers twisted around the fan, clenching until they were white. Her whole body was trembling.

  “We don't know if it's true,” Nikolas murmured, sliding an arm around her.

  “It is true.” Tears dropped from her eyes and rolled to her chin. “I knew something would happen to them. Now I have no one left.”

  “You have me.” Nikolas smoothed his hand over her shoulders and back. In spite of his concern for her, he was mindful of the situation they were in and the dangers it presented. “Quiet, ruyshenka, people are listening.”

  “Neither of them wanted to be there,” she wept. “They had a right to stay in the village and live with their families and grow old in peace. I hate the tsar for making them go to St. Petersburg! And he's done this thousands of times, to so many other people. He has no right to mock the peasants when he has taken so much from them—”

  Nikolas gripped her upper arms, squeezing until she winced. “Hush. You must be quiet now.” She nodded, managing to gulp back any further tears and bitter words.

  But the damage had been done. Nikolas knew it from the satisfied smile on Menshikov's face and the startled expressions of the people who had overheard them. Halfway across the ballroom, Peter noticed the small disturbance, and he looked over at them, his face thunderous and dark with foreboding.

  Emelia was too shocked to notice anything outside of her own grief. She obeyed without a word as Nikolas took her home, and she snuggled against him in the sleigh like a frightened child. Nikolas held her securely, occasionally murmuring against her hair. His thoughts and emotions boiled down to numb resignation.

  They had been doomed from the beginning, he reflected. The daughter of a strelets rebel and an adviser to the tsar; such a pairing would never have been feasible. But if he had it to do all over again, he would still have married her.

  He was no fool, and he was well aware that he was no longer protected by a friendship with Peter. After what had happened tonight, Emelia would soon be forcibly taken to the Kremlin and interrogated about her past and her political beliefs—which would most likely involve some form of torture. Nikolas would kill her himself before letting that occur. Complicating matters was the possibility that by now Emelia could be pregnant. He had to ensure that she would be safe, even if he were unable to protect her himself.

  The thought of a baby—his child—filled Nikolas with anguished wonder. A small, perfect being, so much hope and innocence contained in one helpless package…

  “My God,” he whispered soundlessly, for the first time letting himself think about Jacob. His son, alone and unloved in the future, needing a father's protection…“My God, I made such a mistake.” He had never allowed himself to feel anything toward his illegitimate child, and all of a sudden he ached to hold the boy, to reassure him that he was safe, that he belonged somewhere.

  Nikolas kissed his wife's temple, his lips brushing past the wispy red curls. He pressed silent words on her skin. If we meet again in the future, I'll make it up to you. And to him. I'll love you both, I swear it.

  When they arrived home, Nikolas paused in the entrance hall long enough to inform Sidarov about what had occurred. The steward was stricken, his face turning pale with fear and regret. “Your Highness, I never intended to cause trouble—”

  “It's all right,” Nikolas said. “You were only trying to serve my wife. Besides, it would have come to this no matter what you did. It's all in God's hands, Feodor.”

  “But what will happen now?”

  “I believe they'll come for us soon,” Nikolas replied, feeling Emelia's body tense against his. She shivered and looked at him with startled eyes. He kept his attention on Sidarov. “Listen to me, Feodor. I will help my wife pack some of her belongings, and then I want to you leave with her immediately. Take her to the Novodevichy Convent, understand? The same one where the tsar's sister Sophia was exiled. They will offer Emelia refuge.” Nikolas turned to his wife. “You'll be able to leave there when it's safe. Sidarov will help you to find a place in the country to live.”

  Emelia's face was horror-stricken. “No,” she whispered. It was the only word her shaking lips could form.

  Nikolas glanced at Sidarov. “You'll do as I ask?”

  The servant nodded and turned away with an inarticulate sound.

  Emelia spoke frantically as Nikolas brought her upstairs to their room. “Nikki, please don't send me away! This isn't necessary—”

  “If it isn't, then I'll come to the convent and bring you home myself.” He kept his hand at the small of her back. “But we're in troubl
e, ruyshka. I want you to be safe.”

  She began to cry as she trudged up the stairs. “If only I hadn't asked Sidarov to find my family—”

  “That has nothing to do with this. I have enemies, led by Menshikov, who have influenced the tsar against me. Perhaps my marriage to you made things a little easier for them, but it would have happened sooner or later. It's fate, Emelia.” His own emotions surged in a wave of denial and longing, but he managed to control them. He had to help his wife accept what would happen, or she would blame herself forever.

  “I won't go anywhere without you,” Emelia said in a low voice. “You can't make me leave.”

  “What good would that do?” he asked softly. “I can bear anything as long as I know that you're all right. And there is a chance that we've conceived a child by now. Would you put our baby at risk?” He knew from the sound of her indrawn breath that the possibility hadn't occurred to her. “If you are pregnant, the baby will be in danger. As the offspring of a suspected traitor, not to mention the heir to the Angelovsky titles and holdings, he'll be a target for everyone. No one must know about him, not even the rest of the family, until he's old enough to protect himself—”

  “Why are you talking like this?” she burst out, weeping angrily. “If you're trying to frighten me, you've succeeded very well! I'm sorry for everything I've done—I'm sorry I ever came into your life and ruined it!”

  “No, no…” Nikolas drew her into their room and closed the door. He wrapped his arms around her in a tight, comforting hold. “Don't ever say that. You're the only thing that gives my life meaning. Emelia…don't regret loving me.”

  Still crying, she returned his embrace fiercely.

  “We have to pack your things,” Nikolas said after a moment. “We don't have time—”

  She turned her face and pressed her mouth to his, her lips tasting of tears. His thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and he responded involuntarily, clasping her body against his until her breasts flattened between them. It was only then that he realized how fast his heart was pounding, had been pounding ever since the Christmas ball. He was terrified for her sake, and equally afraid of the moment when he would have to part from her. He cupped her face in his hands, savoring the shape of her determined chin, her delicately angled cheekbones.

  Her fingers curled into the thick amber velvet of his coat, clinging desperately. “Just once more,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Please…it's all I can have of you.”

  “Emelia,” he began with a shake of his head, but as he stared into her eyes, his will crumbled and he crushed her lips with his own. She rose eagerly into the bruising pressure, her hands searching over his back and hips. The puffs of her breath struck his cheek in rapid succession.

  Nikolas broke the kiss and undressed her with fumbling haste, ripping the fastenings that wouldn't give way quickly enough. The corset was undone, and Emelia gasped in relief, rubbing her palms over the red marks the stays had left. As Nikolas removed his own clothes, Emelia helped to lift the billowing white shirt over his head. Her mouth lowered to the smooth plane of his chest, and she kissed and licked the hollow of his throat, until Nikolas pulled her to the bed impatiently. He pulled the pins and ornaments from Emelia's hair, so that it fell over him in fiery waves.

  The minutes ticked by relentlessly while they touched and kissed with frantic intensity. There was no need for words, no thought between them but the shared determination to banish the world for as long as they could. Nikolas warmed Emelia's cool skin with his hands, sliding his palms from her ribs to her slim waist. She lifted her body in encouragement, while her eyes half-closed in anticipation. He was hard with his fierce need of her, aware of each pulse of blood as it coursed through his stiff flesh. When his nerves had been aroused to stinging readiness, he gripped her hips and sank into her. Warmth and moisture surrounded him in gentle welcome. He pushed forward in shallow strokes, then deepened his entry until he had pushed as far as possible.

  Nikolas held still, his face close to hers, their gazes locked until he was lost in a sea of shimmering blue. “My redheaded wife…you've given me the only happiness I've ever known.” His throat tightened with grief and yearning. “Promise me that if we meet again, you'll remember me.”

  “How could I not know you?” she asked faintly.

  He moved inside her, a rhythm of small strokes that made her moan in pleasure. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you, Nikki…always.” Emelia pressed the words against his throat, his jaw, his mouth, repeating them until the storm quickened and broke in passionate fury. She sobbed against his throat, yielding to the final burst of sensation, pulling Nikolas deeper with her arms and legs until he could no longer hold back his own wrenching climax.

  Nikolas wanted to sleep in her arms, abandoning himself to the bliss of unconsciousness. Instead he forced his tired limbs to move, lifting away from her, drawing out of the peaceful cocoon of the bed. He shivered in the cold air of the room and dressed quickly. Emelia was quiet, her gaze following his every movement. Rummaging through the armoire, Nikolas found an array of Emelia's gowns, and he chose a simple dark velvet with a high neck and long sleeves.

  Her dull voice came from the bed. “Must I wear a habit when I'm at the convent?”

  Nikolas couldn't help smiling. “God, no.” He brought the dress to the bed and draped it over the rumpled covers. He paused to cast an admiring glance at her tousled form. She was a tangle of long limbs and a decadent mass of red hair, a delectable witch with a mouth that would entice a priest to sin. “There's no way you could ever look like a nun, ruyshka, no matter how you were dressed.”

  She sat up, holding the covers to her breasts. “What will happen to you?” she asked quietly.

  Nikolas was silent, not knowing what to tell her.

  “They'll kill you, won't they?” she said. “You're going to sacrifice yourself, because of what I've said and what I am—”

  “No,” he said swiftly, sitting on the bed and gathering her naked body in his arms. “Whatever happens, it isn't because of you. I made a lifetime's worth of mistakes before I met you.”

  “I can't bear it.” Her hands knotted in his shirt. “I won't let you die for my sake.” Her tears splashed on his doublet, making dark splotches on the fine, soft wool.

  “If it came to that, I would die a thousand times for you,” he whispered. “It's so much easier than being the one left behind.”

  “Please let me stay with you,” she begged, trying to hold him as he pulled away.

  Nikolas gestured to the dress and went to the tile stove, which gave off only a feeble heat. Plastering his hands against the lukewarm surface, he spoke gruffly over his shoulder. “Get dressed, Emelia. There isn't much time.”

  He was businesslike as he helped her stuff a small bag full of clothes and personal articles. Glancing out the small, thick-paned windows of the bedroom, he saw that their sleigh had been prepared and brought to the front of the house, its runners leaving narrow grooves in the snow-covered ground.

  He turned toward Emelia. She was wearing the white lace shawl he had given her. Light and exquisite, it covered her hair and left part of her face shadowed, so that all he could see was the gleam of her eyes and the beseeching tremble of her lips. Nikolas was struck by the fact that this one woman could haunt him from one lifetime to another. A hundred images of her flashed through his mind: Emelia, wrapping her long legs around him in bed, romping through the snow like a street urchin, sitting in the bath with her hair dark and wet…and as Emma, with all her beguiling smiles and explosive arguments, dancing with him, coming in from her chores dressed in a man's shirt and trousers. He loved her in any guise. And he had lost her twice.

  Silently Emelia slipped her hand in his. Their fingers clung in a hard, hurtful grip. Still retaining her hand, Nikolas picked up the valise and carried it as they went downstairs together.

  Sidarov was waiting in the entranceway, his brown hair uncustomarily mussed, his face pale. I
n his arms he clutched one of Emelia's cloaks, a shade of plum wool so dark it looked black. “Everything is ready, Your Highness.”

  “Good.” Nikolas leaned very close to the steward. “Don't let them have her,” he said, too quietly for Emelia to hear. “You know what they would do.” He drew back and stared hard at Sidarov, leaving the next thought unspoken, that he would rather have Emelia die quickly by Sidarov's hands than be tortured to death by someone else.

  The steward nodded, understanding the silent message. “It won't come to that,” he said calmly, and Nikolas rested a hand on his shoulder, gripping hard.

  “I'm trusting you with everything I value, Feodor.”

  “I understand, Your Highness.”

  Nikolas took the cloak from Sidarov and turned to fasten it around Emelia's shoulders. Carefully he pulled the hood over her head, and he tried to smile. The attempt failed, however, and he stared at her in bleak despair. He didn't know how to say good-bye. His throat ached from the strain of holding back his emotions. “I don't want to leave you,” he said humbly, reaching for her cold, stiff hands.

  Emma lowered her head, her tears falling freely. “I'll never see you again, will I?”

  He shook his head. “Not in this lifetime,” he said hoarsely.

  She pulled her hands away and wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt her wet lashes brush his cheek. “Then I'll wait a hundred years,” she whispered. “Or a thousand, if I must. Remember that, Nikki. I'll be waiting for you to come to me.”

  Nikolas stood at the door, watching as Sidarov took her to the sleigh. The vehicle vanished swiftly into the blue-black night. “God be with you,” he said quietly, gripping the doorframe. Eventually he asked one of the servants to bring some vodka to the sitting room. He waited near the tile stove, drinking in apparent leisure as he stared at a blank space on the wall.