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.”
He flicked his forefinger lightly against her cheek. “Don't be a child, Emma.”
The remark stung, and she replied in the haughtiest tone she could manage. “What could either of us have to gain from friendship?”
She stiffened as he slid his fingers beneath her chin. His lips almost brushed hers as he answered, “Perhaps we'll find out, ruyshka.”
Then he released her. She stood with her eyes half-closed, leaning against the wall while he walked away.
As the rest of the week passed, Emma could think of nothing except Nikolas's visit and the possible reasons for his behavior. She didn't understand what he wanted. Surely Nikolas wasn't angling to have an affair with her, the eccentric daughter of an English duke, when so many beautiful women in London were eager to have him in their beds. And she wasn't stupid enough to believe he really wanted her friendship. He had the company of innumerable aristocrats, intellectuals, artists, politicians, all ready to come running whenever he snapped his fingers. He was never at a loss for companionship of any kind.
Just when she decided that the episode had been a temporary amusement for Nikolas, he came to visit again. Emma was in her room, reading a novel and basking in the morning light that streamed over her cushioned window seat. Her dog, Samson, a mongrel with a large dose of wolfhound, looked up expectantly at the sound of footsteps.
Tasia appeared in the doorway and tapped on the frame with her knuckle. “Emma,” she said in a strange voice, “Nikolas is here.”
The book wavered in Emma's hands. She looked at Tasia with open surprise.
Tasia continued softly. “He asked if you would care to go riding with him.”
Emma was filled with a storm of confusion that made her want to leap up and pace around the room. Instead she turned toward the window and fixed her gaze on a point in the distance. “I don't know,” she said, unnerved by the thought of being alone with Nikolas. What would he say? What did he want? Would he try to kiss her again?
“I don't think Luke would approve,” Tasia said tentatively.
Emma scowled. “I'm sure he wouldn't! Papa wants me to stay alone and never see anyone. I don't care if there's hell to pay when he comes back from his meeting in London—I'm going to do as I please. Tell Nikolas I'll be down in five minutes.”
“You're not being fair to your father.”
“Has he been fair to me?” Emma stood and went to her armoire, opening the top drawer and searching for riding gloves.
“You need a chaperone.”
“Why?” Emma asked scornfully. “Nikolas is a cousin, isn't he?”
“Not really. Perhaps a case could be made that he's an extremely distant rel
ation by marriage.”
“Well, I doubt there's any possibility of scandal if I go riding with him. No one in his right mind would believe Nikolas Angelovsky has taken a sudden interest in carrot-topped spinsters.”
“You're not a spinster.”
“I'm not the toast of London either.” She kept her back to Tasia, continuing to rummage through the armoire.
There was the sound of Tasia's soft sigh. “Emma, when will you stop being so angry at your family?”
“Maybe when you stop interfering in every part of my life. I feel as caged as those poor animals in my menagerie.” Resolutely Emma kept her back turned toward Tasia until she heard the sound of retreating footsteps. She glanced defiantly at Samson, whose furry face was wreathed in puzzled dismay, his tongue drooping limply from the side of his mouth. “Don't look at me like that,” Emma muttered. “She's taken Papa's side, as always.” The dog continued to stare at her, ears twitching with curiosity. Suddenly he flipped over onto his back and stretched out his paws in an invitation to a tummy scratch.
Emma's rebellious anger faded, and she went to him with a muffled laugh. “Silly old dog. Silly boy.” Squatting next to him, she scrubbed her short nails through his rough coat while he whined and wriggled happily. Emma gave a deep sigh. “Oh, Samson…how many thousands of secrets have I told you? You're my best friend.” She smoothed his long ears as she continued to talk wistfully. “I wonder why I can't be calm about everything the way Tasia is. She always manages her feelings so well. Mine are always exploding out of control. Phoebe Cotterly was right—I am more at home in a barnyard than a ballroom. Thank God I don't have to be clever or sophisticated or well behaved around my animals. All I have to do is love you, and you love me right back. Isn't that right, Samson?” She smiled bleakly as the dog nudged her hand with his moist nose. “Maybe Adam's love for me would have faded in time. I don't think I would be a good wife for anyone. Love isn't enough. A woman needs to be obedient and devoted, and beautiful, and helpful to her husband…instead I'm plain and wild and…”
She looked down at herself, wrinkling her nose at her usual combination of trousers, boots, and white shirt. She preferred to ride astride, in men's clothes. It was far more comfortable, not to mention easier for controlling the horse. But for some reason she didn't want to appear in front of Nikolas Angelovsky in her outlandish breeches today.
She returned to her armoire and opened a gleaming paneled door, pushing back layers of garments until she found her blue riding habit. The smartly tailored jacket and broadcloth skirt were dyed a shade of indigo that matched her eyes. Rummaging deeper in the armoire, Emma located a pale blue veil to wear with her high-crowned black silk hat.
She turned and grinned at her attentive dog. “Prince Nikolas is waiting. What do you think, Samson? Should I surprise him by dressing like a lady?”
If Nikolas was surprised or pleased by her appearance, he gave no sign. He waited in the great hall, half-sitting on the edge of an octagonal stone table with casual elegance. He held a riding whip in one hand, tapping it lightly against his fawn breeches and polished boots. Sunlight poured in from the solar windows at the top of the hall, turning his hair to a golden blaze. As he watched Emma descend the grand staircase, there was an insolent glint in his eyes, as if they shared a secret. And they did, Emma reminded herself with sudden discomfort. Somehow Nikolas had known that she wouldn't tell anyone he had kissed her.
She had considered it, of course. But there seemed to be no point. And the thought of her father's reaction, the reprimand he would try to give Nikolas—no, it would all be too humiliating.
He smiled as she approached him. “I'm glad you agreed to see me, cousin.”
“I was bored,” she said flatly. “I thought you might provide some diversion.”
“How fortunate for me that you had no better offers.” His tone was light, almost cheerful.
As she studied him, Emma realized that he was pleased at the prospect of riding with her. Smug, actually. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “What do you want, Nikki?”
“To provide some diversion for you.” He crooked his arm invitingly.
Emma ignored the courtly gesture. “I don't need to be escorted to my own stables,” she said, motioning for him to follow her. “And if you dare lay a finger on me today, I'll cripple you.”
Nikolas smiled and matched his legs to her brisk stride. “Thanks for the warning, cousin.”
The mount that Emma chose, a supple and energetic chestnut, was a good match for the black stallion Nikolas had brought. They rode in perfect balance, after the stallion's fretful temperament had been worked out. Emma couldn't find fault with the way Nikolas rode. He was patient with the animal, using just the right amount of discipline to keep him under control. But she sensed the contest of wills between them, the way Nikolas dominated the stallion. Almost all men rode that way, as if one had to be superior and the other inferior. Emma treated her horses as equal partners. Because she worked with them and communicated with them, they were far more responsive to her commands.
Emma and Nikolas rode from the broad hill that Southgate Hall was founded on, down to the outskirts of the busy town below. The day was bright and warm, the air stirring with a pleasant breeze. After crossing a small creek, they cut through the oak forest that bordered Southgate, and raced across a wide green meadow. The stallion easily overtook Emma's chestnut, and she slowed the horse's pace, laughingly acknowledging defeat.
“I would give you some real competition if I weren't riding sidesaddle,” she called.
Nikolas reined in the stallion and grinned back at her. “You ride like no other woman I've ever seen, Emelia. Like a swallow in flight.”
“Is that the Russian version of my name?”
He nodded. “My distant grandmother was named Emelia. It suits you.” He circled the stallion around her. “Shall we walk for a little while?”
“All right.” Emma dismounted easily, before he could offer to assist.
Nikolas slid from the saddle, clicking his tongue against his teeth as if she were a willful child. “You're independent to a fault, ruyshka. Is it such a crime to take a man's arm every now and then? To let someone help you down from a horse or climb a flight of steps?”
“I don't need help. I don't want to depend on anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might get used to it.”
“Is that so terrible?”
She shrugged impatiently. “I do much better on my own. I always have.”
They left the horses grazing beneath the branches of an ancient oak tree, and walked across another wide green meadow. The grass was alive with the drone of bees harvesting pollen from a carpet of wildflowers. Emma glanced at Nikolas frequently, struck by the sight of him walking beside her with the grace of a prowling cat. In her whole life she had never known such an unpredictable man. The first time she had ever seen him, he had torn her family apart. They had all hated him. But somehow in the following years he had stolen his way into their lives. If not exactly welcomed into the Stokehurst household with open arms, at least he had become a tolerated visitor.
“I never thought we would be walking together alone like this,” she commented.
“Why not?”
“To begin with, my father doesn't like you, my family doesn't trust you, and everyone I know says you're a dangerous character.”
“I'm not dangerous,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.
“According to the stories, you are. A scoundrel, betrayer, seducer of married women…some even say a cold-blooded murderer.”
Nikolas was quiet for a long time. Somewhere in the midst of their grass-muffled footfalls came a soft reply. “All those things are true. Even the last. I left Russia because I killed a man. But there was nothing cold-blooded about it.”
Emma stumbled a little, fixing her startled gaze on him. His expression was closed, the tawny crescents of his lashes veiling his eyes. Why on earth would he admit this to h
er? She felt her heart pound in an agitated rhythm. Nikolas kept walking, and she followed uncertainly. They reached a shaded cart path bordered by a wooden fence.
Nikolas stopped in the center of the path, his muscles tensing. It had been a calculated risk, telling Emma about what he had done. But she would find out anyway, and it was better to have heard it from him. A mist of sweat broke on his forehead, and he wiped at it with the cuff of his sleeve in a controlled gesture. “Would you like to hear about it?”
“I suppose,” she said diffidently, but he sensed the intense curiosity behind her stillness.
“The man I killed was named Samvel Shurikovsky.” Nikolas paused and swallowed hard. Five Imperial interrogators and two weeks of torture hadn't been able to wring those words out of him. It was a trick of the imagination, but suddenly his scars seemed to burn and itch. He continued with difficulty, rubbing absently at his wrists. “Shurikovsky was the governor of St. Petersburg, and the tsar's favorite adviser. He and my brother, Mikhail, were lovers. When Mikhail broke off the relationship, Shurikovsky went mad with rage…and stabbed him to death.”
“Oh,” Emma said, her mouth slackening in astonishment, trying to comprehend that not only had his brother taken a male lover, but he had been murdered by one of them. It was a shocking revelation, especially uttered in such a casual tone. Subjects such as sex and murder had never been discussed in her presence, except for Tasia's motherly lectures on morality.
“Mikhail was all I had,” Nikolas said. “I was the only one who ever gave a damn about him. He was my responsibility. When he was killed, I…” He paused and shook his head. Sunlight moved over his golden-brown hair in a shower of sparks. “The only thought that kept me breathing and eating and living was to find his murderer.”