Prince Of Dreams (5 page)

The flare of hear made Nikolas shiver violently. He nodded and let his head hang forward, sweat and tears dripping from his jaw
—

“What is it?” Emma asked. She glanced at his bare arms, and her expression went blank. Her eyes returned to his face. “Oh,” she said softly.

Nikolas stiffened. He always kept his shirtsleeves buttoned over his wrists. Strange, that he would forget to hide them around Emma. But they were no surprise to her. She had seen them before, when she was a child.

He let out a slow breath and forced himself to relax. “You seem irritable today,” he said with deliberate casualness. “Have I offended you, cousin?”

Taking his cue, Emma began to walk away from the building. To his relief, she didn't mention the scars. “Lately your entire gender offends me,” she replied pertly.

“Because Lord Milbank abandoned you?”

“He didn't abandon me, he was
driven
away, and—” She turned suddenly, water sloshing over the rim of her bucket. “How did you know? Oh, God, is it being talked about in London? Have the gossips gotten wind of it?”

“There are rumors.”

“Damn.” Emma flushed. “Well, I don't care what anyone says. Let them do their worst.” Her shoulders hunched defensively. “It wasn't Adam's fault, you know. My father behaved like a modernday Genghis Khan. Adam had no choice but to leave me and go on with his life.”

“Milbank was too weak for you.”

“You don't know anything about it.”

“If he wanted you, he should have fought for you.”

“Adam is more civilized than that,” she said defensively.

“Civilized?” Nikolas repeated, holding her gaze. “Is that the kind of man you want?”

Suddenly there was a twinkle of reluctant amusement in Emma's eyes. She glanced down at her dirt-streaked shirt and trousers. “Well, yes. I'm so terribly
un
civilized that I need someone to balance me. Don't you agree?”

“No,” he said softly. “You need someone who will allow you to be as uncivilized as you want.”

Emma's smile remained as she shook her head. “A pretty sight that would be.” She led him to the next building, where a rust-colored fox darted back and forth inside a large pen. The animal was sleek and healthy, but it moved in uneven hops. Nikolas quirked his brows as he saw that the fox's front left paw was missing.

“I named him Presto,” Emma said, “because he's so quick and agile.”

“Evidently not agile enough to keep all his feet.”

Nimbly the fox hopped to the water dish that Emma had filled to the brim. A few laps, and then the fox turned his full attention to Emma, watching with bright, dark eyes as she drew out an egg from the depths of her pocket.

“I have a treat for you, Presto,” Emma said in a tantalizing voice. She peeled the boiled egg and held it through the bars of his enclosure. Trembling with eagerness, the fox inched closer.

“He was caught in a trap.” With practiced skill, Emma let go of the egg just as the fox snatched it. Presto gobbled the delicacy in two saliva-drenched bites. “He was half-dead from exposure and loss of blood. He'd been gnawing his leg off to escape. If I hadn't found Presto when I did, he'd probably be an adornment for some fine lady's mantle or muff—”

“Please,” Nikolas said politely, “save your speeches for that club you belong to—friends-of-the-animals, or whatever it's called.”

“The Royal Society for the Humane Treatment of Animals.”

“Yes, that one.”

Emma surprised him by looking over her shoulder with a grin. No other woman on earth had such a smile, a sly and irresistible sunburst. “If you want to visit my menagerie, Nikki, you have to listen to my speeches.”

Nikolas started slightly at the Russian diminutive of his name. Only a few friends from his boyhood had ever called him that. It sounded odd coming from Emma's lips, pronounced in her crisp English accent. Suddenly he felt the need to escape her artless smile, the childlike clarity of her eyes. But he stayed, driven to finish what he had begun, carefully luring her into the snare he had set.

“I don't see any point in making speeches,” he heard himself say, “until you find replacements for the products they supply—including the meat for your table.”

“I'm a vegetarian.” Seeing that the word was unfamiliar to him, Emma explained. “That's English for someone who doesn't eat meat.” She laughed at his expression. “You look surprised. Aren't there vegetarians in Russia?”

“Russians have three requirements for their diet: meat to make the bones strong and the blood red, dark bread to fill the stomach, and vodka to impart joy in life. Give a Russian a plate of green weeds, and he'll feed it to the cow.”

Emma didn't appear to be impressed. “I'll take weeds any day.”

“I think you take your opinions to an extreme,
dushenka
.” Nikolas stared at her with growing amusement. “When did you decide to stop eating meat?”

“I think I was thirteen, maybe a little older. One night I was in the middle of supper, listening while everyone talked around me, and as I stared down at the roasted game hen in front of me, I felt as if I were picking a little corpse apart…seeing all the tiny rib bones, the muscle, the fat and skin….” She grimaced at the memory. “I excused myself, went up to my room, and was sick for hours.”

He smiled. “You're an odd child.”

“So people say.” Emma gestured for him to come with her, and they went to a small door that led to a connecting building. As they walked, Emma gave him a sideways glance. “What was that Russian word you called me?”

“
Dushenka
.”

“What does it mean?”

“Perhaps someday I'll tell you.”

Her brows drew together at his response. “I'll ask my stepmother tonight.”

“That wouldn't be wise.”

“Why? Is it a bad word? An insult?”

Before Nikolas could reply, they had entered the next building. A pungent cat-smell crept to Nikolas's nostrils, in spite of the plentiful air and light that circulated through grates and barred windows. He forgot the smell as soon as he saw the huge striped animal padding toward Emma, prevented from reaching her by a row of iron bars. The magnificent tiger had a deep reddish-orange coat scored with thick black stripes. A distinctive burst of long hair adorned its neck and back. Nikolas had never seen such a large tiger—definitely over forty stone—and certainly not one at this close range.

“You brought him to me as a kitten, remember?”

“Of course,” Nikolas said quietly. It was the only gift he had ever given Emma, when she was twelve years old. He had found the sick tiger cub in a ramshackle shop filled with exotic animals and had bought it for her. He hadn't seen the animal since then.

Emma crouched close to the bars, cooing and making baby noises. “Manchu, this is Prince Nikolas.” The great cat settled nearby with a half-lidded, drowsy look of pleasure. An opening had been cut in the wall, allowing Manchu access to an outside enclosure where he could sun himself. His legs and belly were soaked from his lounging in a shallow tank of water. “Isn't he beautiful?” Emma asked with maternal pride. “Look at the size of those paws. Tigers have killed more humans than any other cat, you know. They're wonderfully unpredictable.”

“Wonderful,” Nikolas agreed dryly. His breath caught as Emma reached between the bars of the cage and scratched the tiger's neck.

“In Asia, where Manchu is from, the tiger is a symbol of reincarnation.” Emma glanced from Manchu to Nikolas. “You look alike, actually. Maybe you were a tiger in another life, Your Highness.”

“Don't reach in there.” Nikolas's voice was soft, but it held a note that caused both Emma and the tiger to look at him questioningly.

Emma slid her arm farther into the cage and rubbed the cat's neck harder. “If you recall, he has no claws,” she said. “They were pulled out by his first owner. Now Manchu will never be able to provide for himself. He'll never have freedom, the poor little kitten.” She looked at Manchu with loving pity. An affectionate gurgling noise began in the tiger's chest, and he stared at her with the love of a cub for its mother. Nikolas tensed visibly until Emma withdrew her arm.

“There's no need to worry,” she said. “Manchu thinks of me as a friend.”

“Or an afternoon snack.” Nikolas lifted the bucket of meat scraps. “I assume this is for him?” The tiger's head lifted, and he regarded the bucket with sudden alertness.

Emma rose to her feet and took the bucket from Nikolas. Expertly she shook the sopping mess into the cage. “
Bon appétit
, Manchu.” The tiger gurgled with appreciation and applied himself happily to the meal. “Ghastly.” Emma made a face and laughed. “I'm surrounded by carnivores.” She wiped her hands on her trousers and grinned at Nikolas. “How does it feel to have dirty hands, Your Highness? A new experience for you, I imagine.”

He approached her slowly. “I believe you're trying to bait me, Emma.” Reaching for her slender wrist, he lifted her hand and looked at it palm-up, then turned it slowly.

Emma's smile vanished as she flinched in embarrassment. Her hand was reddened and callused. Her fingers were long and slender, but the nails had been filed to ruthlessly short crescents. Tiny white scars, most of them scratches or tooth marks, were scattered from her fingertips to her wrist. After the well-groomed women Nikolas was used to, she must be a horror. “Not the hand of a lady, is it?” she said.

He smoothed his thumb over the fine tracing of blue veins on her skin. “It's the hand of a woman.”

Nervously Emma tried to pull away. “What do you want from me? Why are you here?”

His grip tightened. “I enjoy your company.”

“You couldn't possibly.”

“Why not? You're intelligent, entertaining…and very beautiful.”

“You arrogant bastard,” she said, her temper exploding. “Don't you dare mock me!”

“Do you really think so little of yourself? It's not mockery.” He took her other wrist, ignoring her burst of outrage. “My red-haired one,” he murmured. “In the old Russian, we used the same word for ‘red’ and ‘beautiful.’”

Emma yanked at her imprisoned hands. “What are you doing?”

“I said I would kiss you someday. I always keep my promises.”

Her muscles strained against his hard grip as she tried to wrench free. “If you don't take your hands off me, I'll blacken both your eyes. If you haven't noticed, I'm as tall as you are!”

Nikolas pushed her easily against a nearby wall. Her shoulders hit the wooden boards with a soft thump. “Not quite.” He leaned over her, pinning her arms at her sides. “And you're only half my weight.”

“I-I'll tell my father!” The few times in the past she had used those words, they had produced a magical effect. Everyone was afraid of her father.

“Will you?” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “That should be interesting.”

Emma turned her face away, knowing she had made a mistake. She should have reacted with contempt, should have laughed and said he was being ridiculous. Instead she had lost her temper, the only sure way to keep his interest.

He released her hands and leaned closer, using his body to press her against the wall. Deliberately he wrapped her braid around his hand, and exerted enough force to pull her head back. His mouth hovered just above hers. She could feel the heat of his breath wafting against her lips in a soft, even rhythm, and she began to tremble. She spoke in a thick voice that didn't seem to be her own. “Whatever you're going to do, get it over with. I have work to attend to.”

All at once she felt his mouth on hers, in a hard assault that was over as quickly as it had begun. He lifted his head, staring down at her with those golden-lashed eyes. Emma's mouth tingled from the bruising kiss. Tentatively she licked her lips, discovering a faint sugar-and-tea sweetness. “Now leave me alone,” she said unsteadily.

The edges of his wide cheekbones seemed sharper than usual. His face looked exotic, almost Oriental in its austere calm. “I'm not finished.”

Emma moved suddenly, trying to push him away. His arms closed around her, and she struggled until she was crushed by the power of his body. Nikolas bent his head again, kissing her with a force that wiped away the memories of all other men. Never again would she be able to recall the fumbling sweetness of her first kiss with a village boy, or even the tender embraces she had shared with Adam Milbank. Nikolas took it all away, branding her with a brutal passion which left no room for anything else. Emma was dizzy from the speed at which everything had changed. No longer was he the darkly glamorous figure who had hovered at the farthest edges of her life. Suddenly he was real, immediate, making her recognize him in a way she had never dared to before.

His large hands spread over her back, traced the length of her spine until he came to the swell of her hips. Beneath her shirt and trousers, she wore only a chemise and thin linen drawers…no corset, stays, laces; no protective layers that would disguise the shape of her body. She knew he could feel the softness of her breasts, the natural curve of her waist. Shame and sensation collided within her, making her sway dizzily against him. She shook with the effort not to clench her arms around him, pull him harder, closer, twine her fingers in his beautiful hair. Her flesh ached wherever it pressed his…breasts, legs, stomach…she wanted to bring his hands to her body…God, she wanted…

His lips broke from hers, and she gave a little moan of frustration. Her hands worked in the folds of his shirt, grasping aimlessly. He murmured something in Russian, his breath sinking through her hair to her scalp. Gradually her hands relaxed on his shoulders. Opening her eyes, Emma looked over his shoulder and saw that Manchu was watching them with unblinking yellow eyes, his tail flicking in an idle pattern. She snatched her hands away from Nikolas and tugged nervously at her shirt and belt.

Nikolas drew back and stared at her without emotion. “If you ever need anything,” he said quietly, “you can come to me. I want to be your friend, Emma.”

“I should th-think you have quite enough friends.”

He used his thumb to smooth the crimson silk of her eyebrow. “Not like you.”

“Friends don't kiss like that.”