Prince Of Dreams (27 page)

“The devil you are!”

“I won't let you go. I need you too much.”

He had never been like this before, direct and shockingly sincere, his emotions unveiled. It was far more threatening than his customary insouciance. “You don't need anyone,” she managed to say.

“That's not true. Look closer, Emma. Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

She couldn't obey. She was too afraid of what she might see in his eyes. Ducking her head, she shouldered her way past him and fled. He let her go, thank God, although she felt his hot gaze trained on her until she reached the end of the hallway and disappeared from sight.

Nikolas remained alone for a few minutes. He wanted a drink, something sharp and bracing, but he would not have one. There would be no more pleasantly soothing numbness, no inviting alcoholic blanket over his emotions. He needed clarity. He hated the bleak existence he had fashioned for himself, and he couldn't stand the hostility in Emma's face. If only she could give him the understanding and trust that she had bestowed so long ago. He must find a way to make her love him once more.

“Emelia,” he whispered, yearning to know what had happened to his wife. Had she suffered after his death? Had she found some source of comfort? Had there been another man for her? The thought filled him with fury and jealousy. He needed to know what had become of her, or the unanswered questions would drive him mad. He went to the library and fumbled through old books and records, scavenging what scraps of information he could find. There was nothing about the fate of Emelia Vasilievna, and precious little about their son, Alexei.

It was written in one family volume that the young man Alexei Angelovsky had appeared suddenly in Moscow after a childhood spent in seclusion in a village east of Kiev. Apparently he had led a good life, amassing land and wealth for the family. He was helped in these endeavors by a long-lasting affair with Empress Elizabeth. Prince Alexei was known as a charming and cultured man, a patron of the arts who played the violin. He had married eventually and produced two children, both of them surviving into adulthood. But what of his mother? What had happened to Emelia?

Nikolas shoved the pile of books aside with a curse. He would hire a historian to find out, and send him to Russia with a troop of translators, if necessary. He rested his arms on the library desk and dug his fingers into his thick hair. Perhaps he had gone mad, to search so desperately for the history of a woman who had lived a century and a half ago. Had it really happened? Was the scratch on the Elijah icon a coincidence? Perhaps his tormented mind was conjuring fantasies in order to keep from focusing on the wreck he had made of his life.

Springing up suddenly, he headed upstairs to the nursery. He needed to see Jacob, to make things right with his son. God grant that the boy would forgive him for abandoning him. Nikolas's feet slowed on the stairs, and he came to a halting stop. He forced himself to admit the truth—that he was afraid of his own son. He hadn't the vaguest idea of how to be a father. His own father had been an abusive brute. His memories of childhood were so pain-ridden and bleak that he had no wish to see reminders of it in the eyes of his own child. He didn't want to hurt Jacob, and yet he already had. “I've denied and neglected him,” Nikolas muttered. “God knows a parent can't do worse than that.”

How should he talk to the boy? How could he make Jacob understand that he could depend on him as a father? Now it seemed incredible that he had actually planned to send the child away. He hadn't let himself care about Jacob then, but now he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to take care of the boy, to give him everything his heart desired. There were so many delights in the world to show him. The sprawling estate in the south, where they could build sand castles and collect shells on the beach. Or his castle in Ireland, where they could ride across the moors, eat picnic lunches, and fish and swim in the river. He would take Jacob sailing on one of his yachts, or hunting at one of his estates in the country.

I could have done all that for him already
, Nikolas thought wretchedly.
I could have given him a good life, and instead I turned my back on him
. He continued up the stairs and reached the nursery. Hesitating at the door, which was ajar, he tapped on the panel before entering.

Jacob was sitting on the bare floor, surrounded by odds and ends: a pot from the kitchen, an assortment of stones, a tree branch, and a piece of wood carved in the shape of a bear. Nikolas recognized the wooden figure as the handiwork of his carriage driver, who was fond of whittling in his spare time. The thought that one of his servants had provided a toy for his son, when he had given him nothing, wrenched Nikolas's heart. He glanced around the nursery, which had long been in disuse. Except for a small bed, an old trunk, and a dusty, antique rocking horse, the room was painfully empty.

Jacob stared at him curiously, with eyes exactly like his own.

He reminds me of Misha
, Nikolas thought in a flash of agony, but somehow he managed to smile. “Hello, Jake,” he said quietly. “I thought I would visit you up here. Is that all right?”

The boy nodded and began to play with his wooden bear.

“Did you know the bear is the Russians' favorite animal?” Nikolas remarked, sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor. “We used to worship the bear as a god. There is a superstition that the presence of a bear drives away all evil spirits.”

Jacob stared at the carved animal in his hands, then reached over to nudge the pot nearer to Nikolas. “What about frogs?”

Lifting the piece of mesh that covered the pot, Nikolas saw that it had been filled with a half inch of water and a large, flat stone, all for the comfort of a slick olive-colored frog. Nikolas smiled and deftly picked up the frog, whose legs thrashed a few times. “A handsome specimen,” he said, giving it an admiring glance. “Where did you catch him?”

“In the garden pond, yesterday. Emma helped me.”

“I'm not surprised,” Nikolas said wryly, replacing the frog in its temporary home. He would have liked to see his wife splashing in the formal estate garden pond in pursuit of a frog.

“Emma says I have to set him free tonight.”

“You like Emma very much, don't you?”

Jacob nodded, carefully setting a stone on top of the mesh to keep it secured over the pot. He glanced at Nikolas with a troubled expression. “You were sick today. I saw you fall on the floor.”

“I'm all right now,” Nikolas said firmly. “I feel better than I have in a long time.” In the silence that followed, he gazed around the room and shook his head in displeasure. “You need some toys, Jake. Some books and games, not to mention furniture.” He reached over to the trunk and lifted the creaking lid. There were some faded children's books printed in Russian, a box of playing cards, and an old wooden box covered with scars and nicks. A faint smile touched his lips, and he pulled the heavy, rattling box out of the trunk. “I haven't seen this since I was about your age.”

While Jake watched with increasing interest, Nikolas unwound the leather strap that secured the box. Inside were two complete armies of painted metal soldiers, and a lacquered board that unfolded into a battlefield. It was a Crimean War set, complete with cannon, horses, wagons, and a tiny bridge. “These are the English,” Nikolas said, holding up a figure dressed in red, “and the ones in blue are the Russians. My brother, Misha, and I used to play with these. In real life, the English won that particular war, but when Misha and I played, the Russians always triumphed.” He handed the soldier to Jacob. “Now they belong to you.”

Jake carefully examined one figure after another. “Will you play with me?” he asked. “You can be the English.”

Nikolas grinned as he helped his son set up the battlefield in neat rows of men and artillery. He stole frequent glances at the child, filled with pride that Jake was his. He was a handsome boy, his features bold and finely drawn, his eyes shaded with thick black lashes and heavy, winged brows. There was a touch of the exotic about him, a hint of the Tartar ancestor that had given the Angelovskys their stubborn will.

“Jake,” Nikolas said quietly, “there is something important I want to talk to you about.”

The boy paused and looked at him, one small hand clutching a toy horse far too tightly. As if he were afraid of what Nikolas would say.

“I'm sorry about your mother,” Nikolas continued slowly. “I should have told you that before. I know how difficult it is for you. But now that you're here with me, I would like us to spend time together, and come to know each other. And…what I want above all else is for you to live with me from now on.”

“Forever?”

“Yes, forever.”

“You're not going to send me away, then?”

Nikolas swallowed hard. “No, Jake. You're my son.”

“Does that mean I won't be a bastard anymore?”

The word was a cold shock to Nikolas. It filled him with acute remorse…and fury. “Who called you that?”

“The people in the village.”

Nikolas was silent for a moment. He reached out to smooth his son's rumpled black hair with a hand that wasn't quite steady. “That's because I didn't marry your mother. That wasn't your fault, Jake. I should have taken responsibility for you. If anyone calls you a bastard again, you tell them you're an Angelovsky, a Russian prince. You're going to have the finest of everything—education, homes, thoroughbred horses—and damn anyone who says I'm spoiling you.”

Absorbing the speech, the boy stared at him with those unnerving eyes. “Why didn't you come for me?” he asked in a small voice. “Why didn't Mama tell me about you?”

“I…” It took all of Nikolas's strength to meet the child's gaze and answer honestly. “I've made many mistakes in my life, Jake. I've been selfish and bitter, and I've caused everyone around me to suffer. But I promise you, I'll try to be a good father. I'll give you the best of myself…whatever that's worth.”

Emma went for a hard ride one morning, catapulting through the local village and ignoring the startled stares of the people she passed. She knew she was an odd sight: a red-haired virago, an amazon on horseback, racing at top speed as if the devil were chasing her. She didn't care whom she shocked—this was the only way she knew to vent her emotions.

She rode until the horse was tired, and then she headed back to the Angelovsky estate. The exercise had helped, but it had provided only a temporary escape. The fact was, she was living with a stranger. He still looked like Nikolas, gestured and moved and spoke like Nikolas, but no one could deny that he had changed profoundly. She didn't know why, or what had caused it, and the mystery frustrated her to no end. Two weeks had passed since his fainting episode, and he still showed no sign of reverting back to his old self. The servants could barely do their work, their astonishment plain as they witnessed the transformation of their master.

To begin with, Nikolas had cut back his business dealings, and devoted a part of each day to Jake. The boy seemed to blossom under his attention. Nikolas took his son with him everywhere…on walks through London, on carriage rides in the park, on visits to the sawmill, the carriage-house, and any other place Jake found interesting. Jake no longer took his meals alone but ate with Nikolas and Emma in the formal dining room, and when Nikolas worked at his desk in the library, Jake sat nearby with a pile of toys. Most astonishing of all, Nikolas's drinking had stopped, except for an occasional glass of wine at night.

Emma was invited to join them on every excursion, but she refused most of the invitations. She was bewildered by what was happening, and she was doing her best to cope with the way Nikolas had turned their life at the Angelovsky estate upside down. He bought a shiny black pony for Jake—named Ruslan, after his favorite fairy-tale hero—and also a little lacquered carriage to pull behind it. He filled the nursery with toys and furniture, and played cards or board games with his son in the parlor each night.

Emma was disgruntled at how quickly Jacob had taken to Nikolas. Children gave their trust with such frightening ease, and Jacob was clearly beginning to adore his father. There was a bond between them, albeit fragile, that came from an intrinsic likeness. Both of them were independent, perceptive, mistrustful of the world; both of them seemed to crave security. And they apparently found it in each other.

Lately Nikolas had begun to interview a parade of nannies and tutors, consulting Jake in a way that offended or amused almost everyone. Adults were never supposed to ask a child's opinion about anything, especially significant matters, but Nikolas didn't seem to know or care about that. Jake reveled in his new life, laughing, yelling, becoming more unruly with each day that passed, but he was so endearing that no one was inclined to complain about it. Finally Emma decided to suggest that Jake needed some discipline.

Privately she approached Nikolas, after Jake had been put to bed at ten o'clock in the evening. “I just want to point out that children need some regulation in their lives,” she said, hovering in the doorway of her husband's bedroom. “It would be better for Jake if he had a consistent bedtime. Last night he went to bed at nine, and tonight, ten. And not only that, you let him eat three helpings of cake at tea this afternoon, and he had no appetite at supper—”

“He's had enough limits in his life. For a while he's going to enjoy himself.”

“You're thinking only of your own guilty conscience, and not of Jake's welfare,” she snapped. “That's a disservice to everyone involved. You must stop indulging him like this!”

“But then I'll have no one left to spoil,” he said softly, his eyes suddenly touched with small twin flames that disconcerted her terribly. “Unless you're volunteering for the position.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Nikolas smiled slightly at her confusion, and gestured toward the pair of velvet-upholstered chairs next to the glowing fireplace. “Come in,
ruyshka
. We'll talk and have a drink—”

“No,” she said, trying to look anywhere but at her husband. He wore a velvet robe of rich mink brown, and his sun-streaked hair was in disarray. Rotten husband or no, he was still one of the most attractive men she had ever seen in her life. “I'm tired. I'm going to bed.”