Prince Of Dreams (15 page)

“I can do the rest,” Emma said shortly, motioning for her to leave. “Thank you, Rashel.
Spahkóynigh nóchyee
.”

“Good night, Your Highness,” the maid replied in kind, slipping out the door.

Emma donned an embroidered linen nightgown and went to bed, pausing only to jerk the pins from her hair and run her fingers through it. She lay in the darkness with a sheet pulled up to her breasts, and tried to recall Oliver Brixton's face in detail. Did Charlotte Brixton resemble her brother? The same round cheeks, the same light, thin hair?
I hope she has a fortune big enough to satisfy you, Adam
, Emma thought grimly,
if that's what you really wanted
. She remembered Adam at their last meeting, at the Angelovsky ball…his warm brown eyes, his boyish smile, the pressure of his lips on hers, his voice saying,
I adore you
…A tear squeezed from beneath her lashes, and she buried her face in the pillow.

She had almost drifted off to sleep, her body curled and relaxed, when there was movement in the darkness. Making a drowsy, questioning sound, Emma began to roll onto her back. A heavy body pounced on hers, a spring of coiled muscle. In her drugged confusion she thought she was dreaming and was being attacked by her tiger, Manchu. A man's hot breath pelted against her ear, and she was stunned to realize it was her husband.

“Nikolas?”

He pinned her to the mattress with his weight. Although he was fully clothed, the insistent jut of his arousal was unmistakable as it pressed against her bottom. Emma gasped in surprise, wriggling to free herself as his liquor-soured breath wafted to her nostrils.

“You're a possession to me, do you understand?” came Nikolas's sneering voice. “I own every damn bit of you. I knew what you wanted tonight—I saw the way you flirted and smiled while Brixton looked down your dress. You wanted me to be jealous, my scheming little wife, but it didn't work. I will never be jealous of you.”

Emma recovered enough from her astonishment to jab her elbow against his ribs. “Get off me, you drunken ass,” she cried in a muffled voice.

Nikolas flipped her over and pressed himself between her thighs. He was breathing heavily, from rage or passion, or from some volatile mixture of both. “You want to tie my soul into knots,” he muttered. “But you won't make me feel anything I don't want to feel. I will never love you.”

“Who asked you to?” Emma replied hotly. Then she was still, and in a peculiar flash of understanding she knew that Nikolas was afraid, that he was fighting desperately against his own feelings. Wonderingly she reached up to his shadowy figure, her fingers touching the rumpled locks at the side of his head. “Nikki—”

He jerked back with a furious sound. “Don't call me that.”

“Coward,” she said, the accusation soft but clear. “Why are you so terrified of being close to me?”

Emma felt his tremor of anger as he crouched astride her hips, anger that made his bones lock and his muscles clench. Then Nikolas gave a defeated groan and bent over her. His mouth sought hers, yearning, passionate, and his hands tore at her nightgown to find her willing body beneath. She moved to help him, pulling at her own clothes and his, ripping his white lawn shirt, yanking at his trousers with such urgency that the buttons popped.

When their clothes were shredded and disarranged, Nikolas pressed his bare skin against hers. He fastened his mouth against the sweet softness of her throat, sucking and licking, working down to her breasts. Moaning in pleasure, Emma opened her thighs and reached down to guide him inside her. He was taut and enlarged, filling her until she quivered with the ecstasy of it. She pushed upward to take more of him, and gasped as he rolled over in an unexpected movement. She rose above him, riding him steadily, pleasuring herself on his aroused body.

Nikolas pulled her down to his chest and hugged her as he thrust straight into her center. Emma moved her mouth against his ear and caught the soft lobe in her teeth, making him growl with desire. Clasped against his long, scarred body, she felt the waves of excitement deepen until she was lost in a searing climax. She sobbed against his neck and writhed in delight. Almost immediately Nikolas convulsed with the same pleasure, his breath hissing through his teeth as he drew a sharp breath. He made a low, helpless sound and pushed one last time, holding himself deep inside her.

Knowing his dislike of being touched too long, Emma began to roll away. Nikolas gripped her hips in a reflexive movement, holding her against him. They lay together for several minutes, breathing, relaxing, while the cool air dried the perspiration on Emma's back. A new feeling came over her, a sense of calmness and quiet she had never known. Nikolas's heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, his hands gentle as he traced the curves of her hips and bottom. The hair at her temple was stirred into flutters by his breath, and his lips brushed her cheek. It was the most tender gesture he had ever made to her. Soon Emma was lulled to sleep. She was so tired…too tired to make anything but the faintest protest as she felt him leave her during the night.

The first thing Emma saw when she awoke was the flattened pillow beside hers. She lay amid the jumble of sheets and experienced a strange feeling of lightness, almost giddiness. Last night with Nikolas had been different from any other time he had visited her. He had been so intense, savage…and the moment of intimacy afterward…it was as if they had crossed a boundary Nikolas had never intended to reach.

Remembering, Emma turned crimson with an excitement she couldn't explain, even to herself. What would Nikolas say to her today?

She took a long bath and scented her wrists and throat with spicy perfume, then tied her hair at the nape of her neck with a crisp peach-colored ribbon. With Rashel's help, she dressed in a white ruffled blouse and a peach skirt. There was a deep side pocket on the skirt, adorned with a large silk rosette. Pleased with her clean-scrubbed, glowing appearance, Emma went down to breakfast just as the clock chimed nine.

She was gratified to find that Nikolas was at the breakfast table, behind a concealing screen of newspaper. He didn't bother to rise or even glance at her, only flipped a page with meticulous care.

“Good morning,” Emma said brightly.

The newspaper lowered a few inches to reveal her husband's expressionless face. His hair was damp and freshly washed, his golden skin gleaming from a close shave. Emma wondered if, like her, he had taken special pains with his appearance this morning. “It's not often we have breakfast at the same time,” she commented, seating herself beside him. “I'm usually out with the animals at this hour.”

“Why not today?”

“Well…there's nothing the servants can't take care of. Just routine chores.” For the first time Emma could ever remember, she wanted to spend a morning doing something else rather than tending her animals. Her heart beat a little faster as she thought that perhaps Nikolas might invite her to spend the day with him. They could ride or take a walk together, stroll past a market or through a promenade of shops. “What are you planning to do today, Nikki?”

“I have business in London.”

“I could come along with you,” she said casually.

“What for?”

“To spend time together.”

Nikolas set the paper down. His brows lifted sardonically. “Why the hell would we want to do that?”

“I just thought…” Emma began, and floundered into silence.

Reading the disappointment on her face, Nikolas turned caustic. “I hope you're not going to pretend there's more than mere friendship between us. Let's not play that game, Emma. There's no need to complicate things. Surely even you aren't naive enough to have romantic illusions about me.”

In the wake of her rapidly deflating pride, Emma's temper began to seethe. “You're the last person I'd ever have illusions about!”

“That's a relief. Don't ever become softhearted, Emma. There's no faster way to bore a man.”

“Well, I'd hate for you to become bored,” she said, struggling to match his cool, jeering tone.

Just as the exchange promised to escalate into an argument, Stanislaus came to the door of the breakfast room. Although the butler looked and sounded much the same as usual, there was a tension in his face, a line between his slanting brows, that alerted both Emma and Nikolas.

“Your Highness,” Stanislaus said evenly, “there are visitors at the front entrance. A farm woman and a small boy. The woman is asking to see you.”

“Tell her to take any complaints to the estate agent,” came Nikolas's curt reply.

“Sir, perhaps…” The butler paused delicately. “Perhaps you might want to hear what the woman has to say.”

Coming from a butler, the suggestion was astonishingly bold. Only highly unusual circumstances could have prompted it. The two men exchanged a long stare. Wordlessly Nikolas stood and left the room, brushing by Stanislaus. Emma followed close behind, too curious to resist. They went to the front entrance of the manor, and down the wide steps to where the two small figures waited outside.

The farm woman was dressed in simple clothes and a threadbare shawl that had once been blue but had deteriorated to a dingy shade of gray. Her face might have been pretty except for the careworn expression and the lines of sun and weariness around her eyes. The skinny child beside her, a boy of five or six, wore decent but well-worn little trousers and a corduroy coat with sleeves that were too short. He had a sullen, tanned face and thick brows that matched his black hair.

The young woman spoke first, revealing a mouthful of uneven yellow teeth. “This is Jacob. ‘Is ma died a week ago, of ague. ‘Er last words were for someone to bring ‘im to you. No one in the village wants ‘im, anyway. I was the only one who took the trouble of looking after ‘im.” She held her hand out expectantly, wanting recompense for her pains.

Nikolas's face was blank. Deftly he motioned to the butler, who gave the girl a few coins. She pocketed her reward and started down the road without a word to the boy, without even a backward glance.

“What's going on?” Emma asked in astonishment. “Who is he, Nikolas?”

“It's not your concern. Go back inside.” Nikolas turned to Stanislaus. “Find someone to take care of him,” he muttered. “Just for a few days, until I can make arrangements.”

Emma stared at the boy, who waited with unnatural patience, his eyes fixed on the ground. She approached him as she might venture near a timid animal. Crouching down, she sat on her heels to be at eye level with him. “Hello, Jacob,” she said gently. The boy looked at her without replying. “Is that your name?” she continued. “Or do you like to be called Jake?”

The child had the coloring of a Russian icon, darkness and antique gold, and melancholy amber eyes shaded by bristly dark lashes. She had never seen eyes like that before, except…except…

Somehow Emma stood upright and stared at Nikolas in disbelief. Her knees shook beneath her. She moistened her lips and spoke hoarsely. “He's your son.”

Six

H
IS SON, HIS
son
…Nikolas didn't move as Stanislaus bustled the boy to the kitchen to be fed. He was dimly aware of Emma's questions, but he ignored her as he would a pestering fly. After the child was out of sight, Nikolas made his way back into the manor like a sleepwalker. He went to the library and braced his hands on the mahogany cabinet where liquor was kept. Dully he stared at his own distorted reflection in the silver tray on the cabinet.

He had thought he would never have to see the child. From time to time he had actually managed to forget the boy's existence. To be confronted with him now, without warning, was a tremendous shock. But on top of that, to see resemblance between the child and his dead brother…Oh, God, Mikhail had looked exactly the same at that age: the rumpled black hair, the face of sullen and beguiling beauty, the luminous golden eyes. Nikolas fumbled for a glass and a decanter of brandy.

He remembered the countless times in his childhood when he had found Mikhail huddled in a corner or a closet, crying and bleeding after their father had molested him. Nikolas tossed the drink down and poured another. The guilt and rage of those boyhood years were still with him, although he rarely allowed himself to think about that time.

Why had their father made Mikhail an object of such obscene violence? “
I'll find a way to stop you
!” Nikolas had shouted, leaping to attack his father with a small knife after one of those episodes. “
I'll kill you
!” But his father had laughed and twisted his arm until his wrist fractured and the knife dropped away, and then he had beaten Nikolas unmercifully. And the abuse of Mikhail had continued.

It had ruined Misha forever, made him a bitter, empty adult who had eventually met with an untimely death. It had also ruined Nikolas. No matter that his parents and brother were both dead now; the memories were alive, and they had corrupted Nikolas's soul beyond repair. No love, fear, repentance, grief, would ever touch him. He would never be weak. No one would ever have the power to hurt him.

“
Nikolas
,” came Emma's exasperated voice behind him.

Startled from his reverie, he answered without facing her. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“I just want to know who Jacob's mother was, and why you never mentioned that you had a son. I don't think that's too much to ask!”

Nikolas turned and looked at his wife. Emma was bristling with outrage and confusion. A few locks of wild red hair escaped her ribbon, and she pushed them back impatiently.

He sighed and answered curtly. “Six years ago I had an affair with a woman who worked at a dairy house on one of my estates. A month after the relationship ended, she came to me with the news that she was pregnant. Since then, I've given her money at regular intervals to care for herself and the child. I never mentioned it because it has nothing to do with you or our marriage.”

Emma frowned bitterly. “Hand out some money—that's your solution for everything, isn't it?”

“What would you have had me do? Marry her? Sally was a pretty dairymaid with a healthy appetite for men. I wasn't the first to bed her, nor was I the last.”

“And so you decided to let your son become a tenant farmer? Never knowing who he was or about the people he came from? No proper name, no decent education—a life in a thatched-roof hovel? Don't you feel any responsibility for him?”

“I've paid for his upkeep since he was born. Naturally I'll continue to do so. And spare me the speeches about morality and responsibility. Most of the titled landowners in England have illegitimate children. I wouldn't doubt that your own father had a few bastard offspring here and there—”

“Never! My father takes care of his own—and he certainly never went around taking advantage of milkmaids!” Emma's lip curled scornfully. “Is Jacob your only illegitimate child, or are there more?”

“He's the only one.” A headache pounded in Nikolas's temples, etching lines of pain across his forehead. “Now, if your display of righteous indignation is over, kindly leave me to deal with the situation.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I intend to send the boy away as soon as I find a suitable family to take care of him. Don't worry, you won't be bothered with his presence for long.”

“You mean
you
won't be,” Emma said, and left the library with rapid strides. “Cynical…heartless…
monster
,” she said through her teeth.

She had thought more of Nikolas than this. What kind of man would have no feelings for his own son? Her skirts dragged the ground as she went outside. It didn't matter that she wasn't dressed appropriately to go to the menagerie. She didn't care if her clothes were ruined. She needed to be near her animals.

Entering one of the cool whitewashed buildings, she went to Manchu's pen and sat on the floor by the bars. Manchu lay half in, half out of his pool, wriggling like a great tomcat when he saw her. “Hello,” Emma said, resting her head against an iron bar. She closed her eyes and fought back tears. “Tasia was right. I wouldn't admit that to anyone but you, Manchu. Nikolas doesn't care about anyone but himself. And the worst thing is, he's never lied to me. He's never pretended to be anything other than the unfeeling bastard he is.”

Manchu crept closer and watched her, his head slightly cocked as if he were considering the situation. “What's to be done now?” Emma asked. “Just because Nikolas wants to be rid of Jacob doesn't mean I don't owe him something. Poor little boy without a home, no mother…but I'm certainly not fit to be anyone's mother. And I could never look at him without remembering that he's Nikolas's bastard. It's revolting, and unfair. But…if Jacob were an animal, I'd take him in without another thought. Shouldn't I be willing to do at least as much for a little boy? He's as much a misfit as you or I, Manchu. I suppose I feel some sort of obligation to him, even if Nikolas doesn't.”

The house was quiet when Emma went back inside, except for the mournful notes of a Russian dirge being whistled by a footman as he carried freshly polished silver urns to the dining room. “Vasily,” she said, and the footman turned with a start.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Where is the little boy?”

“I believe he is in the kitchen, Your Highness.”

Emma walked down the hallway into the kitchen complex, which included a scullery, a pastry room, several pantries, a servants' dining room, and the kitchen proper, a barn of a place with a rectangular wooden worktable in the center. Kitchen maids worked in the scullery, washing dishes and polishing pots, while others were busy making cakes and biscuits.

Emma felt a twinge of unwanted pity as she saw Jacob's small form at the wooden table, his short legs dangling from the edge of his chair. There was a plate of stew and lamb dumplings before him, apparently untouched. He stared at the cooling stew without expression while he wiggled one small foot.

At Emma's unexpected entrance, the cook and kitchen maids looked up in confusion. “Your Highness,” the cook exclaimed, “is there anything you want?”

“No, thank you,” Emma said pleasantly. “Please, go on with your work.” She approached the table and leaned her hip on it, smiling as she saw the child's gaze flicker over the dirt on her clothes. “Not hungry?” she asked casually. “I'm sure the food tastes a little different from what you're used to. Why don't you try one of those white rolls, Jake? They're plain and soft.”

Solemn golden eyes stared into hers. He picked up a roll, his small fingers digging into the bread.

“It must be frightening, traveling to a new place and not knowing anyone.” Emma watched in approval as he took a bite of the roll, and then another. He appeared to be well nourished. His skin was a healthy golden-pink color, and his teeth were strong and white. What a beautiful child, she thought, noticing the exotic dark slashes of his brows and the bristly crescents of his lashes.

The boy spoke for the first time, in a thick country accent. “‘E doesn't want to be my papa.”

Emma tried to think of some lie, some made-up story to comfort him, but the truth was always best. “No, it seems he doesn't,” she said gently. “But I'm going to make certain you're taken care of, Jake. And I'd like to be your friend. My name is Emma.”

The little boy was silent, picking soft clumps of bread from inside the roll and eating them in little balls.

Emma watched him with friendly sympathy. “Do you like animals, Jake? I have a menagerie on the estate where I keep old and sick animals. There are horses, a chimpanzee, a wolf, a fox—even a tiger. Would you like to come with me and have a look at them?”

“Yes.” Jacob put down the hollowed-out roll and slid off the chair, looking up at her curiously. “You're tall,” he remarked, and Emma laughed.

“I forgot to stop growing,” she replied with a wink. But the boy didn't wink or smile in return, only fixed her with a wary stare. Such a mirthless child, so full of suspicion and isolation. So like his father.

Jacob was an odd child, bright but uneducated, filled with unexpressed emotions. He didn't seem to care for the company of other people, although he tolerated Emma's presence more than anyone else's. After a great deal of effort, she coaxed him to join in one of her romps with Samson, but Jacob was self-conscious, and awkward with the concept of play. He never mentioned his mother or the village where he had grown up, and Emma decided not to push him into talking about his past.

As the days went by, a pattern developed. Emma knew that as soon as Jacob awoke in the nursery, he would dress himself and come to the door of her suite, waiting patiently for her to appear. He shared breakfast with her in the dining room, helped with the chores in the menagerie, and endured her efforts in the afternoon to teach him to ride. He followed her like a shadow, though it was unclear whether he actually enjoyed her company or merely saw that he had no other options. The servants didn't know how to treat him, and Nikolas was determined to ignore him.

“Can't you at least bother to speak to Jake?” Emma demanded at supper one night, on a rare occasion when she and Nikolas were alone. “It's been almost a fortnight since he arrived. Aren't you going to acknowledge him in some way?”

“I plan to find a new situation for him within a week. If it amuses you to entertain the child until then, do so by all means.”

“What kind of situation?”

“A family who will be willing to take him in return for an annuity to be paid until he comes of age.”

Emma set down her knife and fork and stared at her husband anxiously. “But Jake will know the family only wants him because of the money. The other children will tease him—they won't accept him.”

“He'll survive.”

Emma set her jaw stubbornly. “I may not want Jake to leave.”

“Just what would you like to do with the boy? Keep him here to flaunt him as proof of my past sins?”

“I would never use a child that way!” she said in a burst of fury.

“That's right. You won't have the opportunity, because he's leaving.”

More hot words trembled on Emma's lips, but she managed to hold them back. Picking up her fork, she toyed with the cabbage soufflé on her plate. “You seem to take no more notice of Jake than you would any other child,” she said, her voice quiet and intense. “But you must have some feeling for your own flesh and blood. That's why you plan to send him away, isn't it? You don't want to love him or even like him. If you only knew how deprived you are, and what a limited life you lead. You live in constant fear, and you try to protect yourself with mockery and sarcasm and coldness.”

There was a flash in his eyes, like cold fire. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to be afraid of?”

“You're afraid of caring for someone. And you're absolutely terrified of someone caring for you in return. But a lack of feelings isn't strength, Nikki. Just the opposite.” Emma sensed rather than saw the light quiver that ran through his body, of nerves pulled as tight as a hunter's bow.

Nikolas shoved back from the table. “I've had enough of this for one evening,” he muttered.

“If you give Jacob away, I'm going to find him! He deserves better than that. He's an innocent little boy who's been robbed of his birthright. And if this is your notion of being a father, I hope I never bear your children!”

“Keep him, then,” Nikolas invited with a sneer. “I should have expected this, knowing of your taste for adopting strays and mongrels. Just make certain he's kept away from me.” He left the room while Emma stared after him in speechless fury.

The battle over Jacob was interrupted the next day by the arrival of Mr. Robert Soames. The middle-aged artist had rapidly gained a reputation for his miraculous restorations of artwork that had been damaged by age and mistreatment. Emma liked Soames immediately. He was gentle and unassuming, without any of the pretensions that she expected of people who belonged to the world of art. His lean, pale face was pleasant but unremarkable, except for a pair of piercing blue eyes. The decaying landscape seemed to interest Soames very much, and he accepted the job of uncovering the hidden painting with apparent eagerness.

“It may be nothing very noteworthy,” he told Emma with a pragmatic shrug. “Or it may be something quite special. I suspect within a fortnight we'll have a good idea of what lies underneath the landscape, Your Highness.”

A guest room was prepared, and Mr. Soames moved a few personal belongings into the manor for the duration of his labor. Emma and Jacob came to visit his workroom every day to catch glimpses of the emerging picture. They never stayed for long, because even with the windows opened wide, the fumes of the solvents Soames used made the air sharp and pungent.

“The trick is in removing the top layers without disturbing the bottom ones,” Soames told them, working on the canvas with delicate brushes. “One can't help but lose a bit of the original, even if it's only the smallest fraction of one layer of paint. I must be careful not to rob the portrait of the texture the artist intended.”