Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(101)

“It means stinking drunk,” Emma replied pertly.

In a swift move that surprised her, Nikolas reached out and caught a lock of her gleaming hair between his thin fingers. “There,” he said softly. “I know a Russian folk tale about a girl who saves a dying prince…by bringing him a magic feather…from the tail of the firebird. The bird's feathers were a color between red and gold…like your hair. A bouquet of flames.”

Emma jerked away from his weak grip and scowled down at him in annoyance. “More like a bunch of carrots.” She glanced at Tasia. “I'll go home, Belle-mère. I can see that you're in no danger from him.” She invested the last word with infinite disdain, and left the room.

Nikolas struggled to turn his head on the pillow and watch her departure.

Tasia was amazed at the change that had come over him. The listlessness had gone from his eyes, and there was a touch of color in his face. “Devil child,” he said. “What is her name?”

Tasia ignored the question, beginning to roll up her sleeves. “I'm going to have the servants heat up more soup,” she said, “and you're going to eat it.”

“And then you'll promise to go away?”

“Certainly not. I'm going to bathe you and put salve on your bedsores. I'm certain you have many.”

“I'll have the servants throw you out.”

“Wait until you're strong enough to throw me out yourself,” Tasia suggested.

The bruised-looking lids half-closed. The conversation had wearied him. “I don't know if I'll get stronger. I haven't yet decided if I want to live.”

“People like you and me always survive,” she replied, repeating the words he had once said to her. “I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Nikki.”

“You're here against your husband's wishes.” It was a statement, not a question. “He would never agree to let you visit me.”

“You know nothing about him,” Tasia said calmly.

“He'll beat you,” Nikolas continued in glum satisfaction. “Even an Englishman wouldn't stand for this.”

“He won't beat me,” Tasia said, though privately she had her doubts.

“Did you come here for my sake, or to defy him?”

Tasia was silent for a moment. “Both,” she said finally. She wanted Luke's complete trust. She wanted the freedom to do as she thought best. In Russian society a noblewoman always expected to be ruled by her husband. Here she had the chance to be a partner rather than a slave, and she would make it clear to Luke which role she preferred…no matter what the consequences.

It was late in the evening when she returned to the Stokehurst villa. Nikolas had been a difficult patient, to say the least. While Tasia and the housekeeper gave him a bedbath, Nikolas had alternated between vicious insults and quiet, wretched stillness, as if he were being tortured all over again. Feeding him was another ordeal, but they had managed to coax him into keeping down a few spoonfuls of soup, and a bite or two of bread. Tasia had finally left him in a far cleaner and more comfortable condition than when she had first arrived, although he was now furious at being deprived of his vodka.

Tasia planned to return the next day, and every day after, until her cousin's recovery was certain. She was tired and depressed at the sight of Nikolas's broken body, the heartbreaking evidence of the cruelty that human beings could inflict on each other. She longed to crawl into Luke's arms and be comforted. Instead she faced a battle. Luke knew what she had done, and why she had returned at such a late hour. He would see her action as a slight to his masculine authority. Perhaps he had already decided the punishment for her disobedience. Or worse, he might be coldly contemptuous, and ignore her.

The villas was left in near-darkness. It was the servants' night off, and the house seemed deserted. Wearily Tasia went upstairs to the suite she shared with Luke, and called his name. There was no answer. She lit a lamp in the bedroom and began the process of undressing. She stripped down to her shift and sat at her dressing table to brush out her long hair.

She heard someone enter the room, and her hand froze, gripping the brush tightly.

“My lord?” she said tentatively, looking up. Luke was there, dressed in a dark robe. His face was grim. The look in his eyes caused her to drop the brush and jump up from the dressing table. Her instincts warned her to run from him, but her feet were leaden. All she could do was totter backward a few steps.

He came to her, pushed her against the wall, and held her jaw in his hand. There was no sound except their breathing; his deep and heavy, hers far more rapid. Tasia was aware of his brutal power, knowing he could crush her bones like eggshells.

“Are you going to punish me?” she asked unsteadily.

He forced a knee between her thighs, pinning her between the wall and his aroused body. His gaze burned into hers. “Should I?”

Tasia quivered slightly. “I had to go,” she whispered. “Luke…I-I didn't want to disobey you. I'm sorry…”

“You're not sorry. You shouldn't be.”

She didn't know what to say. She had never seen him like this before. “Luke,” she whispered, “Don't—”

He smothered her words with an aggressive kiss. His hand slid down her throat, found the fragile strap of her shift, and pulled roughly until it broke. His hot palm covered her breast, squeezing, circling until the peak sprang into a sensitive bud. At first Tasia was too unnerved to respond, but his mouth, his touch, his body compelled her, and suddenly she was flooded with excitement. The thunder of her pulse was loud in her ears, obliterating all other sound. Only dimly could she hear herself gasping a few words of surrender…but he wasn't listening. He held her in arms that hurt, and bit and licked her throat. Tasia let her head fall back, offering more, abandoning herself to the savage storm of passion.