Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(100)

“‘Questioned by the special committee,’” Tasia repeated softly, knowing that was far too civilized a description for what had really gone on. “Does he have fever? Infection in his wounds?”

“Not any longer, madam. Most of the outside wounds have healed. His sickness is of the spirit. The prince is too weak to get out of bed. He has commanded that his room be kept in darkness. No food or drink will stay down, except a glass of vodka now and then. He will not allow himself to be moved or bathed. When anyone touches him, he trembles or cries out as if a hot coal has burned him.”

Tasia listened to the short speech without expression, though her insides were wrenched with pity. “Is anyone with him?”

“He will not permit it, madam.”

“Show me to his room.”

As they went through the shadowy house, Tasia was amazed to see that the rooms had been filled with many of the priceless treasures from the Angelovsky Palace in St. Petersburg. Even a magnificent icon wall had been transported and reassembled in flawless detail. They neared Nikolas's bedchamber, and the smell of incense became very strong. The air was thick with an Oriental scent that was used to ease the passage of the dying. Tasia remembered that the same fragrance had clung to her father's deathbed. She entered the room and asked the housekeeper to leave them.

It was too dark to see anything. Tasia made her way to the heavy curtains and drew them back a few inches, shedding afternoon light into the dim room. She opened the windows. A crisp fall breeze began to whisk away the haze of incense smoke. Slowly she walked to the bed, where Nikolas Angelovsky lay sleeping.

Nikolas's appearance shocked her. He was covered up to his chest, but one long, thin arm was visible. The fingers twitched slightly as his mind wandered in and out of dreams. Freshly made scars twisted like serpents around his wrists and inner elbow. Tasia's stomach turned at the sight of them. She switched her gaze to his face, seeing with regret that Nikolas's once-splendid handsomeness was in ruins. There were deep hollows in his face and neck. The healthy bronze of his skin had faded into a grayish-yellow death mask. His bright golden-streaked hair was dull and matted.

There was a bowl of herbed soup, untouched and cooling, on the table by the bed. There were also carved animal figurines to ward off evil spirits, and a pot of burning incense. Tasia snuffed the little flame and covered the pot to eliminate the vertical stream of scented smoke. Her movements, and the fresh air, disturbed Nikolas. He awakened with a nervous start.

“Who is it?” he said groggily. “Close the windows. Too much air…too much light…”

“One would think you didn't want to get well,” Tasia observed quietly, coming closer to his bedside. Nikolas blinked and stared up at her with his odd wolf-eyes, which seemed even more sterile than she remembered, if that was possible. He reminded her of a listless, suffering animal, uncaring if he lived or died.

“Anastasia,” he whispered.

“Yes, Nikolas.” Carefully she sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at him.

Though she made no move to touch him, Nikolas shrank away from her. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely. “I can't stand the sight of you…or any other human being.”

“Why did you come to London?” she asked gently. “You have family in many other places, France, Finland, even China…but you have no one here. No one except me. I think you wanted me to come to you, Nikolas.”

“When I want you, I'll send an invitation. Now…go.”

Tasia was about to reply when she sensed that someone was at the door. She glanced over her shoulder. To her horrified surprise, Emma was there. Her slender form was nearly lost in the shadows of the doorway, but her red hair glowed with burning cinnamon lights.

Tasia rushed over to her with an annoyed scowl. “Emma Stokehurst, what are you doing here?” she whispered sharply.

“I took one of the horses and followed you,” Emma replied. “I heard you and Papa talking about Prince Nikolas Angelovsky, and I knew you were planning to go to him.”

“This is a private matter, and you have no business interfering! You know how I feel about your eavesdropping, as well as your habit of prying into things that are not your concern.”

Emma tried to look repentant. “I had to come alone to make certain he didn't hurt you again.”

“A gentleman's sickroom is not a proper place for a young girl. I want you to leave at once, Emma. Have the carriage take you home, and send it back for me.”

“No,” came a low voice from the bed.

The two women turned to look at him. Emma's blue eyes rounded in curiosity. “Is that the man I saw before?” she asked under her breath. “He doesn't look the same at all.”

“Come,” Nikolas said imperiously, gesturing with a slender hand. The effort cost him, and his hand dropped back to the bed. His gaze fixed on Emma's freckle-spattered face, surrounded by brilliant curls. “We meet again,” he said, watching her without blinking.

“It smells bad in here,” Emma observed, folding her arms over her flat chest. Ignoring Tasia's protests, she went to the bedside and shook her head disdainfully. “Look at all these empty bottles. You must be completely plowed.”

The ghost of a smile touched Nikolas's dry lips. “What does it mean, ‘plowed’?”