Prince of Dreams

by Lisa Kleypas

  After an hour had passed, a servant came to inform him that two agents of the Secret Office had arrived. The Secret Office, established by Peter, had been given jurisdiction over all crimes that threatened the stability of the tsar's government.

  The agents had entered the house and followed the servant directly to Nikolas. One of them was quiet and deferential in manner, while the other, a blade-faced man with a shock of oily black hair, wore a trace of a taunting smile.

  “Prince Nikolai,” the blade-faced man said, “I am Valentin Necherenkov, and my companion is Yermakov. We've been sent by the Secret Office because of an incident that was reported tonight—”

  “Yes, I know.” Nikolas moved toward a silver tray and indicated the bottle of chilled vodka. “A refreshment, perhaps?”

  Necherenkov nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Carefully Nikolas poured three glasses of the vodka, and joined them in a drink.

  Necherenkov stared at Nikolas consideringly. “Your Highness, we've come to speak with Princess Emelia.”

  “There's no need for you to see her.”

  “Oh, there is,” Necherenkov assured him. “She was reported to have made treasonous speeches within earshot of the tsar tonight. And her background is by all accounts a suspicious one—”

  “She's no threat to the tsar, or to anyone,” Nikolas broke in with a gently persuasive smile. “An attractive woman, but not too bright, you understand? A simple peasant girl, incapable of forming her own opinions. I'm afraid she was just repeating things she had overheard. In the interest of justice, you should hold the real culprit accountable.”

  “And who is that, Your Highness?”

  Nikolas's faint smile vanished. “Me,” he said bluntly. “Even the most casual investigation will reveal that I've had a falling-out with the tsar. Everyone knows it. The lifeblood of the country has been drained for the sake of Peter's self-image—I haven't hesitated to say this even in his presence.”

  Necherenkov regarded him thoughtfully as he downed more vodka. “We'll still have to question your wife, Your Highness.”

  “It will be a waste of your time.” Discreetly Nikolas fished a black velvet bag from his pocket, hefting its satisfying weight in his palm. “I'm sure you're a very influential man…I hope you can see fit to arrange things so that she is forgotten.”

  Receiving the bag from Nikolas, Necherenkov opened it and tilted some of the contents into his palm. The bag was filled with a fortune in perfectly cut and faceted diamonds, most of them fifteen to twenty carats each, a few of them even larger. They glittered in Necherenkov's broad palm like a pool of white fire. Nikolas resisted the urge to smile grimly as he heard the breathing of the two agents quicken.

  Necherenkov spoke quietly. “If she is, after all, a stupid peasant woman, there would seem to be no point in questioning her.”

  “I'm glad we agree.”

  Necherenkov met his gaze directly. “But in clearing your wife of suspicion, you've taken all the blame on yourself, and we're obligated to bring you to the Kremlin for interrogation.”

  “Of course.” And in spite of the dark certainties facing him, Nikolas heaved a great inward sigh of relief.

  For three days Nikolas was the resident of the Beklemishevskaya Tower, one of a line of Kremlin strongholds on the bank of the Moskva River. The stone fortification was dank and cold, and Nikolas saw his breath in the biting air of his cell. Strangely, no one came to question him. All he could do was sit and wait in silence. Twice a day he was given water and a bowl of boiled wheat. There was no furniture in the cell, not a pallet or even a pile of straw. He had two cellmates, both of them with empty eyes and blank faces. They didn't exchange names or make conversation, except to reply to Nikolas's comment that they should at least have been supplied with a blanket.

  “No comfort of any kind is to be given to us,” one of them said dully. “The crimes of a boyar are much worse than the rebellion of a peasant, because the tsar expects so much more loyalty of his boyars.”

  The other man, who remained silent, was clearly ill. The cold, damp air of the tower was making his condition worse, causing him to cough and shiver violently. On the third day the two men were taken out of the cell and never returned. Nikolas heard the distant sounds of someone being tortured, the inhuman cries of pain, and he wondered if it was one of them.

  He began to remember what it was like when he had been tortured, and for the first time he began to be afraid, the haze of resignation fading a little. He couldn't go through it again. The damage to his body had scarred over and healed. But the damage to his soul…no, he wouldn't survive a second time. Huddling on the bare floor, Nikolas braced his side against the cold wall. He had never felt so alone.

  After another day or two had passed, he knew he had fallen ill. He became cold and feverish, his thoughts no longer seeming to make sense. Wrapping his arms around himself, he shivered, slept, and finally let his tears fall. In some moments of his delirium he saw ghosts visiting his cell…Tasia…his father…Jacob…Misha, his dead brother, who regarded him with a soul-weary face. He shrank from all of them, but sometimes he asked for Emelia…Emma…who did not come. He was going to die, he told the ghosts; he wanted his wife, wanted to lay his head on her lap and fall asleep forever.

  During one of the periods when Nikolas was lucid, he received an unexpected visitor, the tsar himself. Huddled in a corner of the cell, Nikolas watched as the gigantic figure ventured into the dark, foul-smelling quarters.

  “Nikolai,” Peter said, his deep voice rumbling against the stone walls. “They told me you were ill. I decided to visit you.”

  “What for?” Nikolas asked, the words rasping in his dry throat.

  Peter regarded him as a parent would an errant son. “I wanted to see if some sense could be talked into you. This isn't like you, Nikolai. You haven't been yourself for months. The love you used to have for me, the deep loyalty…what happened to all of that?”

  Nikolas turned his face away, not bothering to reply.

  “You've let a woman ruin you,” Peter continued quietly. “A mere peasant woman. She influenced you to turn against me. She wrought some kind of spell on you. Otherwise she never would have taken the place of everything you once loved.”

  A fit of trembling took hold of Nikolas, and he gathered himself more tightly in the corner. “I never loved anyone—or anything—until her.”

  The tsar sighed and squatted before him. “And now she has led you to ruin. Do such destruction and waste come from something that is good?”

  “I haven't betrayed you,” Nikolas said.

  “Perhaps not yet, but the seeds are there. And I must be the most important being to you, no one else. Not even God. That is what I need in order to mold Russia into the country it must become.” Peter gazed intently into Nikolas's averted face. “Even now,” he remarked softly, “you are one of the most beautiful creatures, man or woman, whom I've ever seen. You've been given too much, Nikolai. I think you were destined for a tragic end.”

  “What do you want from me?” Nikolas muttered, before he was overtaken by a spasm of coughing so violent that he tasted blood on his lips.

  Peter's huge, pawlike hand passed over Nikolas's head gently, smoothing his hair as if he were a favorite pet. “I am willing to offer you a second chance, Nikolai. A chance at life, as well as one to regain my favor. I will forgive everything if you will prove your loyalty to me.”

  Nikolas stared at him blearily. “How would I do that?”

  “Dissolve your marriage by making Emelia take the veil. Send her away, and never see her again. You can choose another wife, one who will serve you much better than she. Come back to the life you once had, and rededicate yourself to my service. Promise me these things, and I will have you taken out of here within the hour. I'll command my personal physician to attend you until you are well again.”

  Nikolas smiled faintly. “I couldn't stay away from her,” he said scratchily. “Knowing she was out th
ere…never being able to see her, touch her…” He shook his head. “No,” he said, beginning to cough again until his lungs were on fire.

  Peter snatched his hand back and stood up, glaring down at him. “I'm sorry that you value your own life so little. I was mistaken to offer you a second chance. No man who chooses death and treason over life deserves pity.”

  “Love,” Nikolas whispered, laying his head on the floor. “That's what I chose.”

  The delirium claimed him again, mercifully before anyone came to interrogate him. He was so cold, his body stiff and frozen. None of the dream figures that wandered through his cell took notice of his pleas for a coat, a blanket, a small fire to warm his hands and feet. He thought of his wife, the way her sleek limbs would twine around him, the fiery red sheaves of her hair. “Emelia, I'm cold,” he tried to say, but she was gone, unable to hear him, and he began to shudder so violently that he feared his bones would begin to rattle against the hard stone floor. Figures from the Russian tales of his childhood crept through his cell—ogres, enchanted swans, witches, a firebird flaunting its feathers of red and gold. And then the bird changed to Emma, her face surrounded by the brilliant cinnamon glory of her hair. Nikolas reached out for her, but she shrank from his touch.

  “Emma, don't leave,” he gasped, but she didn't want him. She drifted away, while he pleaded for her to come to him. “Emma…I need you.” Time went spinning outside his reach, and his life began to ebb away. He felt the darkness cover him, drowning every thought and memory in its fathomless depths.

  PART IV

  When the clock's unhurried finger

  Rounds its beat and strikes adieu

  Bidding strangers not to linger,

  Midnight will not part us two.

  —PUSHKIN

  Ten

  1877 London

  “NIKKI? NIKKI, OPEN your eyes.”

  He mumbled a protest, wanting to sink back into the comfortable darkness. But the voice, so anxious and impatient, pulled him out of the deep sleep. Frowning, he rubbed his eyes and opened them to narrow slits. He was stretched out on a bed, and his wife was seated on the edge of it.

  He was alive…and she was there, as vivid and beautiful as ever. “Emelia,” he breathed, struggling to sit up. Questions collided on his tongue, and he began to talk in a rush.

  “Not so quickly! Relax for a minute.” Emma leaned over and covered his lips with her fingers, looking at him oddly. “You're speaking in Russian. You know I barely understand a word of it.”

  He fell silent, bewildered, while he tried to think in English. “I thought I would never see you again,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.

  “I was beginning to have doubts myself,” Emma replied dryly. “At first I thought you might be shamming, until I splashed cold water on your face. When that didn't revive you, I sent for the doctor. He hasn't arrived yet.” She leaned over and laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Are you all right? Does your head hurt?”

  Nikolas couldn't answer. All his attention was riveted on her. He was filled with frantic impulses—he wanted to snatch her in his arms and pour out his soul to her, but she would think he'd gone insane. The effort of holding still, of not reaching out to her, made his eyes sting and water.

  Slowly Emma withdrew her hand. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  Nikolas tore his gaze from her and cast it over his surroundings. His bedroom was the same as always, the dark wood furniture adorned with scrollwork, the mahogany panels on the walls.

  Robert Soames was standing nearby, his lean face drawn with concern. He smiled at Nikolas. “We've certainly been worried about you, Your Highness.”

  Blinking in confusion, Nikolas returned his attention to Emma. “What happened?”

  Emma shrugged. “All I know is that you were looking at the painting Soames had restored—which bears a remarkable resemblance to you, by the way—and you turned ghastly white and fell unconscious. Mr. Soames was kind enough to assist me and the servants in carrying you upstairs. You've been insensible for at least an hour.”

  “An hour,” Nikolas repeated numbly. Looking down at himself, he saw that his shirt had been unbuttoned halfway to his waist.

  “You weren't breathing very well,” Emma said in explanation, a blush staining her cheeks.

  Nikolas spread his hands over his chest, feeling the faint, familiar ridges of healed wounds, rubbing to assure himself they were real. Robert Soames turned away, clearly uncomfortable with the sight of the scars. “Perhaps I should allow you a few moments of privacy,” the artist said, retreating from the room.

  “There's no need—” Emma began, then rolled her eyes as Soames left. A bitter smile touched her lips. “As if you and I would need privacy,” she muttered.

  Nikolas's head was filled with a cacophony of pictures and words, the past and the present still jumbled in his mind. Overwhelmed with love and need, he reached for Emma. She jerked away sharply. “Don't touch me,” she said in a low voice, standing up. “Now that I know you're all right, you can wait for the doctor by yourself. I have things to do. Would you like a glass of water before I go?”

  She poured from a china pitcher, and gave him a crystal goblet. Their fingers touched briefly, and Nikolas felt the warm shock of it all through his body. He drank thirstily, gulping the cool water and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “You don't seem quite yourself,” Emma remarked. “Perhaps all your vodka-drinking is catching up with you. At the pace you've been going, I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner…” Her voice faded as she saw Nikolas staring with hypnotic fascination at the icon on the wall. “What is it? What's going on?”

  Slowly Nikolas set the water glass aside and stood up, weaving slightly as he walked toward the Prophet Elijah icon. Since the eighteenth century, the painting had been decorated with jeweled plates that formed a halo around Elijah's head, covered the body of the chariot, and outlined the red cloud. Nikolas brushed his fingers over the surface of the painting and inserted his fingernails under one of the gold plates. He pried it off, ignoring Emma's bewildered questions. Clutching the small plate in his fist, he stared at the painting.

  There was a scratch on the edge of the red cloud…the scratch he had made a hundred and seventy years ago. Nikolas traced it with the tip of his finger, and felt a sudden hot trickle of tears on his face. “It wasn't a dream,” he said thickly.

  Emma came up behind him. “Why are you behaving so strangely?” she demanded. “Why are you taking that icon apart? Why—” She stopped with a gasp as he turned toward her. “God,” she whispered, backing away a step. “What's the matter with you?”

  “Stay here with me.” Nikolas dropped the thin gold plate to the floor and came toward her slowly, as if one quick movement might startle her into flight. “Emma…there are things I need to tell you.”

  “I'm not interested in anything you have to say,” she said sharply. “After what I found out today—the way you ruined my relationship with Adam and tore my whole life apart—”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Emma shook her head as if she hadn't heard him correctly. “Well, that's a first! I've never heard you apologize for anything before. Is that supposed to make up for all you've done to me?”

  He searched painfully for words. “Something's happened to me…I don't know how to make you understand. I…I've never been honest about my feelings for you. I never wanted to admit them, and when they became too strong, I tried to hurt you and keep you at a distance—”

  “Is that why you went to bed with another woman?” she asked scornfully. “Because your feelings for me are so strong?”

  Deeply ashamed, Nikolas could not meet her gaze. “I won't do that again, Emma. Ever.”

  “I don't care what you do with yourself. Have a different woman every night, for all I care. Just leave me alone.”

  “I don't want anyone else.” Nikolas caught her in his arms before she could step away. His heart beat in violent joy at being ab
le to hold her again, and his fingers clenched into her pliant flesh with unconscious force. Emma was still, her body stiff with rejection. She pinned him with a coldly accusing stare.

  “I'll make you forget all the things I've done,” Nikolas said. “I swear I'll make you happy…just let me try. All I want is to love you. You don't even have to love me back.”

  Emma froze, while the words rang in long-forgotten echoes. “What?” she asked faintly, beginning to tremble.

  Casting aside all pride and caution, he laid his heart at her feet. “You have to know the truth. I've loved you for a long time, Emma. I would do anything for you, even give my life—”

  Emma wrenched free of him, glaring and shivering. “What in God's name are you trying to do—drive me insane? For weeks you've devoted yourself to being a heartless pig, then suddenly you have a fainting spell in the sitting room, and you wake up and say you love me? What kind of perverse game is this?”

  “It's not a game.”

  “You're not capable of love. Your main concern has always been—and will always be—yourself.”

  “In the past that was true. But not now. Now I've finally realized—”

  “Don't you dare try to claim you've suddenly decided to change your ways! Only a fool would believe that of a man who rejects his own child.”

  Nikolas winced at that. “I'm going to make it up to Jacob,” he said grimly. “I'll be a good father to him. He's going to be safe and happy for the rest of his life—”

  “Enough of this!” Her face was red with fury. “I never dreamed even you could be this malicious. It's one thing to deceive me with your empty promises, but if you dare lie to that little boy and make him believe you care for him, you'll cripple him emotionally.”

  “I do care for him.”

  “You'll abandon him as callously as you do everyone else—and I won't be able to pick up all the pieces. Oh, men are such lying cowards! You make someone believe they can depend on you, and then you leave without a thought. You won't have a chance to betray Jake and me that way—I won't let it happen.”