Midnight Angel

  Luke smiled at the sight of his wife dressed in a modest white nightgown with white lace at the throat. Tasia's beautiful hair was loose and flowing, shining in the lamplight. She sat in bed with a book in her lap. “You were missed at supper,” she said.

  There was something different in her voice, a note of tension. He wondered if she was angry at having seen so little of him lately. “I wish I'd been here,” he replied. “Instead I passed the time with a group of men who spent the evening arguing over the price of wheat and the comparative merits of their stockbrokers.”

  “And what did you all conclude?”

  “That the old order is vanishing, as well as the concept of farming for profit.” Luke frowned pensively, shrugging out of his coat. “I won't have the kind of life my father and grandfather had. Certainly not their leisure. My father has spent his life pursuing women, hunting, and shooting, and occasionally dabbling in politics. He thinks my involvement in trade and industry is tarnishing the family honor.”

  Tasia left the bed and came to help him with his clothes. She unbuttoned his shirt as he spoke. “But you are doing it for the good of the family, yes?” Spreading his shirt wide, she pressed a kiss to the hard, smooth surface of his chest.

  “Yes.” Luke smiled and tangled his fingers in her hair, tilting her head back. “And I resent every minute I have to spend away from you.”

  Tasia slid her arms around his lean waist. “So do I.”

  “Is that what's bothering you?” he asked. “That I've been gone so much of the time lately?”

  “Nothing is bothering me. Everything is absolutely fine.”

  “No lies,” he reminded her quietly, and she blushed.

  “There is something I've been concerned about…” Her throat worked as she sought the right words. “I'm late,” she said, her face bathed in hot color.

  Luke shook his head, puzzled. “Late for what?”

  “My…monthly time,” she said with difficulty. “It should have come a week ago. I've always been…irregular that way, but still…it's never been this long. It's nothing, I'm certain. I really don't think it's a…a…”

  “Baby?” he suggested softly.

  “It's too soon for that. I don't feel any different, and I'm certain I would feel something if it were that.”

  He was quiet, stroking her hair, fondling the curve of her ear.

  “Would you mind?” Tasia asked in a small voice.

  Luke stared at her until she was dizzy from the blue intensity of his eyes. “It would be the greatest joy of my life.” He leaned his forehead on hers. “Whatever happens, we'll face it together. All right?”

  She nodded. “You want a baby, then?”

  His brow furrowed as he contemplated the question. “I haven't thought about it very much,” he admitted. “I never expected to have any children except Emma. The idea of another…” He paused and smiled crookedly. “Half me, half you…yes, I want that. But I would prefer to have more time alone with you before we start having children. You're hardly more than a child yourself. I'd like to give you the chance to be young and carefree—something you've missed until now. I want to make up for the hell you've been through. I want to make you happy.”

  Tasia nestled against him. “Take me to bed,” she said, her voice muffled. “That would make me very happy.”

  He arched his brows in surprise. “Why, Lady Stokehurst…this is the first advance you've ever made to me. I'm fairly overwhelmed.”

  Busily she occupied herself with unfastening his trousers. “Not too overwhelmed, I hope.”

  He laughed. “Just don't complain when I keep you awake all night.”

  “I wouldn't dream of it,” she whispered as his mouth came over hers.

  “What a pity Papa doesn't smoke,” Emma remarked, inspecting the objects poised inside a glass-covered shelf. “That's the handsomest cigarette case I've ever seen.”

  “I am glad he doesn't,” Tasia said. “I've always regarded tobacco as a disagreeable substance.”

  Alicia, who had agreed to join them at Harrods for an afternoon shopping expedition, met them at the shelf. “I wish Charles had never taken up the habit. Still, it is an elegant case…”

  The engraved silver cigarette case was inlaid with gold and set with topaz stones. As the three women stared at it with appraising interest, a store attendant sped toward them. The waxed ends of his mustache twitching with eagerness as he reached them.

  “Would the ladies care for a closer look?” he inquired diffidently.

  Tasia shook her head. “I wish to purchase a birthday gift for my husband…but not that.”

  “Perhaps he would appreciate gold mustache scissors and comb in a leather case?”

  “He's clean-shaven, I'm afraid.”

  “An umbrella? One with an ivory or silver handle?”

  Tasia shook her head. “Too practical.”

  “A box of Italian-made handkerchiefs?”

  “Too impersonal.”

  “A bottle of French cologne?”

  “Too smelly,” Emma interrupted.

  Tasia laughed at the attendant's perturbed expression. “Perhaps we'll continue to browse,” she said. “I'm certain we'll find something appropriate, sooner or later.”

  “Yes, madam.” Disappointed, the attendant left in pursuit of other customers.

  Alicia gravitated toward a table laden with beaded handbags, baskets of gauzy embroidered scarves, and rectangular boxes of gloves. Tasia wandered in the opposite direction, drawn by the sight of a painted rocking horse. It was positioned on the floor, beside a row of handsome carved cradles. Carefully she nudged the horse with her foot, causing it to rock gently. A small, private smile touched her lips. With each day that passed, she was becoming more certain that she was pregnant. She imagined what their children would look like, tall, black-haired, and blue-eyed…

  “Belle-mère?” Emma said, having followed her and noticed the child's toy. “Now that you are sleeping in Papa's bed, are you going to have a baby?”

  “Someday, I expect.” Tasia rested a light hand on Emma's shoulder. “Would you like to have a brother or sister?”

  “Yes,” the girl said readily. “Especially a brother. As long as I could help choose the perfect name for him.”

  Tasia smiled. “What sort of name?”

  “Something special. Leopold, maybe. Or Quinton. Do you like those?”

  “Oh, they're quite grand,” Tasia said, picking up a small rattle and jiggling it experimentally.

  “Perhaps Gideon…” Emma mused, circling the table. “Or Montgomery…yes, Montgomery…”

  While Emma continued to ponder names, Tasia's smile faded. A strange, cold, sick feeling came over her, and she touched her fingers to the table to steady herself. She was disoriented. The taste of fear filtered through her mouth. What is it, what's wrong—”

  Her head jerked up. Across the room she saw her nightmare vision, the image that would never leave her. Mikhail…yet it was not Mikhail. The man she had murdered had been pale and dark-haired, and this one was tawny and tanned and lethal…but there were the same eyes…flat yellow wolf-eyes. Mesmerized, Tasia watched the golden figure by the entrance of the store, handsome and as inexorable as the angel of death. He was no specter, no dream.

  Prince Nikolas Angelovsky had come for her.

  How bizarre, to see him in a department store, while they were surrounded by clerks and attendants and hordes of women. He was dressed in somber dark clothes that should have camouflaged his foreignness but only served to accentuate it. He was the most cruelly beautiful creature she had ever seen in her life, with golden skin and sun streaks in his brown hair, a chiseled face, and the body of a tiger magically transformed into a human.

  The baby rattle shook in Tasia's trembling hand. She placed it gently on the felt-covered table. It hurt to smile, causing needles of pain in her frozen cheeks, but Tasia managed it. “Emma,” she said softly, “if I'm not mistaken, you need new gloves.”

  “Yes,
Samson stole my last ones and chewed them to rags. He never can resist fresh white gloves.”

  “Why don't you ask Lady Ashbourne to help you pick out a new pair?”

  “All right.”

  As Emma left her, Tasia looked up again. Nikolas had vanished. Her gaze swept the room in a swift inventory. There was no sign of him. Her pulse raced at a sickening speed. She skirted the edge of the room with swift strides. Crossing the food hall, she passed rows of iced fish and hanging meats, stacks of grocers' wares, pyramids of jars, boxes of comfits and foreign delicacies. People were turning to look at her. Tasia realized she was breathing with a harsh, sobbing sound. She clamped her mouth shut, her nostrils flaring, her face drained of blood.

  Emma is safe with Alicia, she reassured herself. All I have to do is to elude Nikolas and find refuge somewhere, and send for Luke…She left the food hall and hurried through the draper's shop, toward the side exit. Once she was outside, she would blend into the crowded street. Even Nikolas, with his predator's instinct, wouldn't be able to find her in that bustling mass of humanity.

  Tasia slipped outside into the fetid air of London on a summer day. Before her foot touched the pavement, she felt a brutal arm close around her middle with the impact of a blow, squeezing until she felt her spine flex from the pressure. At the same time, a large gloved hand covered the lower half of her face. Quietly, efficiently, two men ushered her along the side street to a waiting carriage. Nikolas was standing there with the calm of a satiated tiger. He was a young man, not yet twenty-five, but all traces of youth and kindness had vanished a long time ago, if indeed he had ever possessed those qualities. His eyes were as round and shiny as golden saucers…emotionless…sterile.

  “Zdráhstvuyti, little cousin,” Nikolas murmured. “You look well.” He reached out and caught a tear that trembled on her lashes and fingered it as if it were some precious elixir. “You could have made it much more difficult for me, you know. You could have hidden in the country as a peasant girl. It might have taken years for me to locate you. Instead you became the fodder for gossip all over London—the mysterious foreign governess who married a wealthy marquess. After hearing a few of the stories, I knew it could only be you.” He subjected her silk-clad form to a contemptuous glance. “Apparently your taste for luxury is stronger than your common sense.” Gently he lifted her white-knuckled fist, surveying the thick gold band on her finger. “What is your husband like? Some rich old man with a yen for young flesh, I suppose. Someone should tell him what a dangerous child you are.”

  Nikolas gestured for the cossacks to shove her inside the carriage, but not before he saw the flicker of alarm in Tasia's eyes. Spinning around, he narrowly avoiding the whistling swing of an ivory umbrella handle. The knob missed his head and struck his shoulder with bruising force. Acting swiftly, he yanked away the makeshift weapon and seized the gangly young girl who had used it. She opened her wide mouth to scream.

  “Make a sound and I'll have her neck broken in an instant,” he said.

  The girl fell silent, staring at him with blazing blue eyes. She was flushed with fury and fear. The contrast between her scorching pink face and fiery hair—the color of rare red amber—was enchanting.

  “Another dangerous child,” Nikolas said with a quiet laugh, holding her lanky, flat-chested body against his.

  One of the cossacks addressed him in Russian. “Your Highness—”

  “It's all right,” he said curtly, answering in kind. “Get into the carriage with the woman.”

  The child he held spoke in a hoarse voice. “Let my stepmother go, you bastard!”

  “I'm afraid I can't, my charming little beast. Where did you learn such bad words?”

  The girl tried to wrench away from him. “Where are you taking her?”

  “To Russia, where she'll be made to pay the price for her crimes.” Nikolas grinned and released her, watching her stagger back a few steps. “Goodbye, little girl. And thank you—it's been a long time since anyone has made me smile.”

  She turned and ran wildly into the store. Nikolas stood watching her for a moment before he went to the carriage, climbed in, and signaled the driver to leave.

  Charles Ashbourne sat on the library settee with his wife weeping against his shoulder. Emma occupied a leather chair, hugging her knees to her chest. She was quiet and pale with grief. Luke stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the river view. Having been summoned from a meeting of the Northern Briton Railway Company board with a succinct message that he was needed at home, he had raced to the villa to find the Ashbournes there with Emma. His daughter had been nearly hysterical. Tasia was nowhere in sight.

  Prompted by Charles, Alicia had explained to the best of her knowledge what had happened. “I left her for a moment to look at the silk scarves,” she faltered, “and suddenly she and Emma were gone. And then Emma came running in, screaming about some Russian man with yellow eyes who had taken Tasia into his carriage—I can't think of how he found her, except that he must have been following me—dear heaven, we'll never see her again!” She broke down and cried, while Charles patted her back and tried to calm her.

  Except for her weeping, everything was quiet. Luke turned to look at the Ashbournes. He was trembling all over, with rage and a hint of madness that made everyone in the room cringe in anticipation of an explosion. But he remained wordless and white-faced. Unconsciously he traced his fingers over the wicked curve of the silver hook, as if it were a weapon about to be put to use.

  Unable to bear the silence, Charles spoke nervously. “What now, Stokehurst? I suppose we could attempt some sort of negotiation through government channels—after all, we have an ambassador in St. Petersburg, and perhaps an envoy could be sent to appeal—”

  “I don't need a damned envoy,” Luke said, striding to the open doorway. “Biddle!” His voice echoed through the house like a peal of thunder.

  The valet appeared in a flash. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Make an appointment for me to meet with the foreign minister this afternoon. Tell him it's urgent.”

  “My lord, what if he refuses—”

  “Tell him I'll find him no matter where he goes. He may as well make an appointment.”

  “Anything else, my lord?”

  “Yes. Book passage for two to St. Petersburg. If there isn't a ship scheduled to depart within the next twenty-four hours, charter one.”

  “Sir, may I ask who will be accompanying you?”

  “You.”

  “But my lord,” the valet spluttered, “I couldn't possibly—”

  “Go. When you're finished with everything else, you can start packing for me.”

  Biddle obeyed, muttering under his breath and shaking his head violently.

  Charles approached Luke with quiet concern. “What can I do?”

  “Take care of Emma while I'm gone.”

  “Of course.”

  Luke glanced at his daughter, and his face softened at the sight of her tear-swollen eyes. He crossed the room and sat beside her, drawing her close as she broke into renewed sobs.

  “Oh, Papa,” she said miserably, “I didn't know what to do—I just f-followed Belle-mère, and when I saw what was happening, I should have run for help, but I didn't stop to th-think—”

  “It's all right.” Luke gave her a crushing hug. “You couldn't have stopped it, no matter what you did. It's my fault, and no one else's. I should have done a better job of protecting you both.”

  “Why did that man want her? Who is she? Has she done something wrong? I don't understand anything that's happened—”

  “I know you don't,” he murmured. “She's done nothing wrong. But she's been unjustly blamed for a man's death, and there are people in Russia who want to punish her. The man you saw today is taking her back there.”

  “Are you going to bring her home again?”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Don't doubt it for a second, Emma.” His voice was soft, but his expression was cold and grim. “Prince Nikolas Angel
ovsky hasn't begun to realize what he's done. No one takes what is mine.”

  The ship Eastern Light was a small, serviceable merchantman, laden with English wheat, fine porcelain, and textiles. The weather was calm. All signs promised that the ship would make a good run, perhaps no longer than a week. As captain of the vessel, Nikolas preferred to spend most of his time on deck, making certain the crew's duties were performed with the same exacting precision that he attended to his. It was no rich man's conceit, Nikolas's decision to command the ship. He possessed excellent navigational skills, and the brutal, decisive nature of a born leader. He charted a familiar course across the North Sea, heading east to the Baltic, and through the mouth of the Neva River, where St. Petersburg sprawled in stony majesty.

  At the end of the first day at sea, Nikolas went to the cabin where he kept Tasia locked in solitude. Even the cabin boy had been forbidden to speak to her, should she happen to call through the door.

  Tasia, who had been reclining on the narrow bed, sat up with a start as he entered the room. She was wearing the same clothes she had been captured in, a suit made of amber silk and trimmed with black velvet ribbon. Since Nikolas had apprehended her in London, she hadn't said a word or shed a single tear. She supposed she was in a state of shock, now that the thing she had dreaded most had finally happened. It was difficult to make herself understand that the past had reclaimed her with such chilling ease. She stared at Nikolas in wary silence, taking in every move as he closed the door.

  His face was wooden, except for the contemptuous curl at the corners of his mouth. “You're wondering what I want from you now, little cousin. You're about to find out.”

  Casually Nikolas strode to the brass-banded trunk against the wall. The well-oiled hinges made no sound as he lifted the lid. Tasia scooted backward on the bed, wedging her back against the paneled wall. She was tense, the silk beneath her arms turning moist with sweat. Confused, she watched him pull a wad of cloth from the trunk.