Prince of Dreams

  Emma mounted the gelding and rode through the stableyard into the street, feeling somehow that she had only one chance at survival. She hadn't made a conscious decision about where to go, but it seemed as if the decision had been made for her. Urging the horse into a gallop, she rode west toward the Angelovsky manor, while the humid summer air did little to dry her streaming tears.

  When she reached the manor, with its towering white marble columns and classically designed facade, she ascended the semicircular staircase in front and thumped on the door with her knotted fist. An elderly butler with white hair, black brows, and broad Slavic features appeared. She could never quite remember his name, though she had seen him on several occasions.

  “Please have someone see to my horse,” Emma said. “And tell Prince Nikolas he has a visitor.”

  The butler replied in accented English. “Sir, you will have to return tomorrow. I will take your card, if you wish.”

  “I'm not a sir!” Emma cried desperately. She pulled the cloak hood from her head, and a tumble of gleaming red curls fell down to her waist. “I want to see my cousin. Tell him—” She broke off and shook her head with a muffled groan. “Never mind. I shouldn't be here. I don't know what I'm doing.”

  “Lady Stokehurst,” the butler said, his expression softening. “Do come inside. I will inquire if Prince Nikolas is available to speak with you.”

  “No, I don't think—”

  “Pahzháhlstah,” he insisted, gesturing her inside. “Please, my lady.”

  Emma obeyed and waited tensely in the entrance hall, staring at the pattern of inlaid wood on the floor. Before a full minute had passed, she heard Nikolas's quiet voice.

  “Emma.” A pair of gleaming black shoes came into her field of vision. Nikolas slid his fingers beneath her chin, nudging her face upward. His eyes held hers, and his thumb brushed lightly over her tear-stained cheek. His expression was dispassionate, and there was a comforting calmness about him. “Come with me, dushenka.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm and pressed it there.

  Emma held back skittishly. “Is someone with you? I didn't th-think to ask—”

  “No one is with me.” He murmured a few quick phrases in Russian to the butler, who nodded implacably.

  Emma held onto Nikolas gratefully as he guided her upstairs. His arm was very strong. Her panic began to fade a little, and her breath came easier. Nikolas, with his cool self-possession, his worldly detachment, wouldn't let her fall apart.

  They went to the west wing of the manor, where Nikolas's private suite was located. Emma blinked in surprise as they came to a room she had never seen before. It was decorated in rich colors, with a ceiling of blue glass and bronze moldings. The radiance of a rock crystal lamp filled the air with a serene glow.

  Nikolas closed the amethyst-studded door, banishing the outside world. He looked at her in the muted light, his features unreal in their stern beauty. The ivory shirt he wore was open at the throat, revealing a scar that twisted across his skin. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  Emma pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from the pocket of her trousers. She handed it to him silently. He took it from her, his golden eyes locked on her stricken face. Smoothing the paper flat on a nearby table, he read the betrothal announcement without expression. His lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

  “Ah,” he said softly.

  “You don't s-seem very s-surprised,” Emma faltered. “I suppose on one is except me. I…I thought Adam might actually love me. It was all a sham. And I'm the greatest fool alive for believing his lies.”

  “He's the fool,” Nikolas said quietly. “Not you.”

  “Oh, God.” She put her trembling hands over her face. “I didn't know it was possible to hurt this much.”

  “Sit.” Nikolas nudged her toward a settee upholstered in soft amber leather. Emma curled up at one end, folding her long legs beneath her. Bending her head, she let her hair fall partially over her face. She heard the sounds of crystal and splashing liquid. Silently Nikolas approached and handed her a small frosted glass. Emma took a sip. The liquid was lemon-flavored and very cold, trickling gently down her throat, leaving a path of ice and fire in its wake.

  “What is this?” she asked, wheezing slightly.

  “Lemon vodka.”

  “I've never had vodka before.” She took a large swallow, closed her eyes against the smooth, searing burn, then took another. Coughing, she held out the glass to be refilled.

  Amused, Nikolas poured more vodka for her, and one for himself. “Drink it slowly. It's much stronger than the wine you're accustomed to.”

  “Do Russian women drink vodka?”

  “Everyone in Russia does. It's best when consumed with caviar and buttered bread. Shall I send for some?”

  Emma shuddered at the thought of food. “No, I couldn't possibly eat anything.”

  Nikolas sat next to her, handing her a linen napkin, watching as she blotted her damp face.

  “I can't seem to stop crying,” she said in a muffled voice. “I think my heart is broken.”

  “No.” He pushed back a straggling curl from her forehead, his touch as light as a butterfly's. “Your heart isn't broken. It's only wounded pride, Emelia.”

  She jerked back, glaring at him in sudden outrage. “I should have known you'd be patronizing!”

  “You don't love Milbank,” he said flatly.

  “I did! I always will!”

  “Oh? And what did he do to earn this great love? What did he give to you? A few smiles, some flattering words, a stolen kiss here and there. That wasn't love. It was seduction, and apparently a poorly executed one. When you have more experience, you'll be able to recognize the difference.”

  “It was love,” she insisted, gulping down the rest of her vodka. Coughing, gasping for air, she dried her stinging eyes. “You don't understand anything about it because you're too cynical.”

  Nikolas laughed as he took the glass from her hand and set it aside. “Yes, I'm cynical. But that doesn't change the fact that Adam Milbank is unworthy of you. And if you're going to give your heart to a scoundrel, you may as well choose one who will give you luxury and freedom…one who knows how to please you in bed. That kind of man would be far more useful to you than Milbank.”

  If she were sober, she would have taken further offense at his bluntness. A gentleman would never have used such words to a girl he respected. But the alcohol had wrapped her brain in a cool white fog, and all she could think was that Adam had been her only chance, her only hope. Certainly no one else was waiting in the wings. “Whom do you have in mind?” she asked bitterly.

  His hands gripped her shoulders, then eased downward. Gently his palms brushed the sides of her breasts. Emma stiffened, her breath catching. She started at him without blinking, the light from the crystal lamp hovering on her gold-flecked skin. Emotions chased across her face…confusion, anger, denial…and her mouth trembled as he lifted a hand to her cheek. Gently his thumb touched the edge of her lower lip.

  Emma spoke in a scratchy whisper. “I…I didn't come here for that.”

  “Why are you here, then?” he asked softly.

  “I don't know. I wanted…comfort. I wanted to feel better.”

  “You were right to come to me, ruyshka.”

  She made a move to get off the settee, but Nikolas held her there in a light, steely grip, one hand at her shoulder, the other at her waist.

  “Nikki…” she said, half-defiant, half-pleading.

  He leaned forward and caught her lips with a light kiss, then spoke with his mouth almost brushing hers. “I can offer you more than your family has, more than Adam ever could. I can help you, take care of you…give you pleasure you've never felt before.”

  “I have to leave,” she said desperately. The vodka had made everything blurry, her thoughts drowning in a tide of feeling.

  “Stay with me, Emma. I'll do only what you want. Only what you choose.” The tip of his tongue flickered against her lips,
and then he nibbled at her bottom lip, his teeth closing gently on the soft curve. He possessed her mouth with slow, seeking kisses, pausing to brush his lips over her eyebrows, her temples, her cheeks. His hand played lightly in her hair, pushing the red curls aside to bare her neck.

  Emma shivered at the new sensation. His mouth moved softly over her throat, exciting her nerves, seeming to draw a flush of heat up to the surface of her skin. Gradually she lifted her arms around his neck. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man, the hard body beneath the snowy white shirt, the muscles filled with crushing strength. It was wrong to be here with him, wrong to feel his lips and hands caressing her. But it seemed the perfect act of rebellion against her father, against her unfaithful lover, against all the people who had ever called her an eccentric or a wallflower. Why not let Nikolas make love to her? Her virginity was hers to give—it no longer mattered, since she had lost the one man she had ever wanted. Perhaps this was a sin, but there was undeniable pleasure in it.

  Emma raised her hands to his beautiful hair, the tawny locks springing like coarse silk beneath her fingers. At her hesitant touch, he took a sharp breath and pulled her closer, stretching along the settee until they were matched together. Emma pressed close to him, wanting friction, pressure, his masculine weight bearing down upon her. His kisses became longer, deeper, changing from question to demand.

  She made no protest as Nikolas unfastened her shirt. The garment parted in front, and his hand slipped inside, fingertips spread wide as they traced the smoothness of her stomach. She had never dreamed a man's touch could be so tender, so reverent. The heat of his palm covered her breast, fitting over the soft roundness. Her nipple contracted and ached sweetly from the warmth. Opening her eyes, she found his gaze locked with hers.

  All at once she was startled by the lack of emotion in the bright yellow depths of his eyes. They were as intent as a tiger's, devoid of emotion. Even now, in this intimacy, his heart and soul were still locked away. She felt the need to reach him, to make him vulnerable somehow. Her fingers trembled as she began to unbutton his shirt. Carefully she eased the white linen from his shoulders. Her gaze swept over his torso…over the pattern of raised scars and burn marks.

  Even though Emma had known what to expect, had seen the scars as a child, she was still astonished by the legacy of his torture in Russia. Before that, his body must have been beautiful, a work of smoothly sculpted muscle and gleaming golden skin. How strong he must have been to survive such pain. Nikolas held still beneath her gaze, waiting without shame or self-pity for her reaction. She wished for some way to tell him of her compassion and understanding, but there were no words. Instead she leaned forward with deliberate slowness, and held her mouth against the scar at his throat.

  Nikolas clenched his fists while Emma's lips pressed on his skin and her hair flowed over him in a blanket of fire. Some women had been repulsed by his scars, some had been excited by them, but no one had ever shown him such a gesture of tender acceptance. His muscles tensed and knotted. He wanted to shove her away, and at the same time he wanted to hold her close until he crushed her. All his life he had feared nothing, not pain, not even death, but this gentle closeness gave him his first taste of terror.

  His voice emerged in a rasping whisper. “Damn you, don't be kind to me.”

  Emma stared at him, her eyes like blue smoke. “I'm not being kind.” She lowered her head to his neck once more, and followed the path of the scar to his collarbone.

  Nikolas wrenched away in a powerful movement, coming to his feet beside the settee.

  For a second Emma thought he was leaving her, but then he extended a hand. She hesitated before taking it. “It's all right,” he said softly.

  As if she were an outside observer, Emma watched herself reach for him, their fingers tangling in a hard clasp.

  Nikolas led her into his bedroom. The furniture was made of gleaming dark wood, adorned only by touches of carved scrollwork. There were no paintings on the walls, only simple mahogany panels and one icon with the figure of a man riding a chariot drawn by red horses, silhouetted against a huge orange-red sun. The bed was covered in cream silk and white linen. A breeze blew lightly through the netting at the windows.

  Nikolas took Emma to the wide bed, through flickering pools of moonlight and shadow. She sat on the edge of the mattress, letting him remove her shoes and stockings. He knew she was frightened. He could feel it in her rigid muscles, hear it in the uneven pace of her breathing. Emma made no sound as he finished undressing her. Finally her pale body was revealed in all its sleek beauty.

  Emma half-rolled to her side and managed a shaking whisper. “Nikki, I…I need more vodka.”

  He smiled faintly. “You've had enough,” he said, removing his own clothes. Emma's eyes squeezed shut as he joined her on the bed and pulled her stiff limbs against his. Drawing his warm hand down her back, he tried to soothe her shivering. “There's no need to be afraid. I'm going to show you how desirable you are. You said you wanted to feel better.”

  “I felt better with my clothes on,” she said in a muffled voice, and he laughed.

  “Put your arms around me.”

  “I've never done this before.”

  “Yes, I know. I'll be careful, dushka.” He kissed her shoulder, his mouth opening against her skin. Timidly Emma responded in kind, her tongue tracing a path of moist sensation along his neck.

  Nikolas burned with the need to push inside her. Emma's body was slender and firm, her breasts more luxurious than he had expected. Her skin was vibrantly hot, as if she burned with an excess of life. There is boundless delight in the possession of a young, barely unfolded soul…Now, for the first time in his life, he understood that line by Lermontov, for he wanted to drown in her innocence, to devour her as a rare delicacy.

  He drew his hands over her, skimming the hollows in the backs of her knees, the fragile structure of her ankles, the winged shape of her collarbone. Losing some of her fear, Emma slid her arms around his waist, fingertips digging into the hollows of his spine. Nikolas brushed warm kisses over her breasts and pulled the points of her nipples into his mouth, sucking, biting softly, making her gasp with pleasure. Only then did he touch the soft cinnamon curls between her thighs, combing gently through them. She was virginal and closed, but there was a betraying touch of moisture that made his body throb in anticipation.

  The inquiring strokes of his fingers drew forth more dampness, more heat. Gently he pushed his middle finger inside her, stroking the soft, slick inner surface. She whimpered and froze beneath him, her legs stiffening.

  “Does it hurt?” Nikolas whispered.

  She gave a quick, bewildered shake of her head, robbed of the breath for words.

  Nikolas kissed her parted lips and then drew back to watch as she relinquished herself to the rising tension, surrendering to him at last, helpless to whatever he wanted. She arched higher against his hand, inviting more, her head turning to the side as she closed her eyes and let the feeling rush over her. Skillfully he brought her to climax, relishing the involuntary clenching of her thighs around his hand.

  When the last delicious spasm had left her, he cradled her face in both his palms. “You're still a virgin, Emma. Shall I stop?”

  “No,” she said, her voice shaking. “Go on.”

  Although Nikolas had known what her answer would be, he was still relieved. He lifted his body over hers, fitting his knees between hers, pushing them wide. He had never been with a virgin before, and it was more difficult than he'd expected. She was swollen and small, her flesh opposing his invasion. He pushed harder, forcing himself inside the tight ring of resistance. Her choked cry of pain was smothered against his throat. Suddenly it was easy to slide deeper, and he felt her yield to his slow penetration.

  As her warmth surrounded him, he buried his face against her throat, overcome by the sweetness of being inside her. “Emelia,” he murmured thickly, “I've always wanted this…always wanted you…”

  Her
slender hands gripped his head, guiding his mouth to hers. Driven to the edge of his control, he kissed her deeply, while his lower body sustained a steady, driving rhythm. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tightly, and suddenly it became too much for Nikolas to bear. He shuddered and groaned, his senses unraveling, everything consumed in a bonfire of pleasure. Emma hugged him even closer, her palms slipping on his glistening back. Nikolas moved to his side, pillowing his cheek on her hair while they both tried to regain their breath.

  Emma wasn't certain how long she dozed. She awakened with her hand resting on Nikolas's shoulder, her fingertips fanning the ridge of a scar. She felt weak and defenseless, yet oddly peaceful. She tried to comprehend what had happened, that she had gone to bed with a man, with Nikolas. Although she waited for a bolt of lightning, a feeling of disaster, nothing happened. She must have no scruples or principles whatsoever, to have this lack of shame.

  Sometime while she had slept, Nikolas must have pulled the bed linens up to her shoulders. Clasping the sheet over her breasts, Emma turned to face him. Thoughts raced through her mind. She had to find her clothes, she had to return to the villa…but most importantly, she had to make certain he wouldn't tell anyone what had happened tonight. Secrecy was necessary for both their sakes. “Nikki,” she began awkwardly.

  He touched a finger to her lips. “I want you to consider something, ruyshenka. I don't require an answer tonight. You need time to think about what you want. For now, just listen to me.”

  “All right,” she said cautiously.

  “There is no one for you now, is there? That is, no one you are hoping to marry?”

  The question provoked a bitter laugh from her. “No, and there never will be.”

  “Then your plan is to live with your father and Tasia for the rest of your life?”

  “I don't have much of a choice.”

  “Don't you?” He used his thumb to smooth away the puzzled crease in her brow. “Why not marry me, Emma?”

  “She shook her head as if she hadn't heard him correctly. “What?”