Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(73)

Luke was silent for a moment. “I understand,” he said tonelessly.

Her eyes sparkled with gladness. “Then you'll permit me to write to her?”

“No.”

Before he could explain why, Tasia swung off him and gave him a sullen, determined stare. “I wasn't requesting your permission, I was trying to be courteous. It's not your decision to make. It's my mother, and my safety that's at stake.”

“And you're my wife.”

“I have always decided on the risks that are necessary to take. Now you're trying to deny me something I need desperately to do!”

“You know what I told you about contacting your family. You're aware of the reasons why.”

“We can trust my mother not to mention this to anyone.”

“Can we?” he asked evenly. “Then why didn't you trust her enough to tell her that your death was faked? Why did Kirill insist on keeping it secret from her?”

Tasia was quiet, glaring at him. She couldn't argue with his point. But the curb on her independence was infuriating. She needed to establish some fragile link to the world she had left. At times she almost felt as if she didn't exist, cut off as she was from everything she had been and known and done. It was as if her old self had truly died. No one could truly understand her confusion, the feelings of happiness and loss that coexisted inside her. Her husband was sympathetic but unyielding. His decision was the final one.

“You can't stop me from doing as I please,” she said rebelliously. “Unless you plan to guard me every minute of the day.”

A warning glint entered his eyes. “I won't play the role of prison guard,” he agreed softly. “Neither will I be cast as a tyrant. I'm your husband, with the right—and the responsibility—to protect you.”

Tasia knew that her burst of temper was unfair, but she couldn't stop herself from defying him further. “I could have this marriage annulled!” Suddenly she found her wrist seized in a firm grip, and she was hauled close against a masculine body that was tense with anger.

“You took a vow before God to be my wife,” he said through his teeth. “That means more to you than any laws ever written. You couldn't break a spiritual covenant any more than you could kill a man in cold blood.”

“If you believe that, then you know nothing about me,” Tasia replied, her eyes blazing. She yanked at her wrist, pulling hard until he released her. Hurriedly she left him in the garden and retreated to the sanctuary of the villa.

Eight

They didn't exchange a word at supper. They ate alone in a dining room filled with yellow Italian marble, delicately carved Venetian furniture, and a sixteenth-century ceiling painted with mythological figures. Although the food was delicious as usual, Tasia could barely swallow a mouthful. The silence stretched her nerves thin.

Usually this was her favorite time of day. Luke would entertain her with stories of places he had been and people he had met. He coaxed her to tell him about her life in Russia. Sometimes they debated various issues in a rapid-fire fashion, and sometimes they flirted and engaged in bits of nonsense. One evening Tasia had sat in his lap for most of the meal, and taught him the Russian words for the morsels she fed him.

“Yah'blahkah,” she had said, carefully guiding a bit of fruit to his mouth. “That is apple. Greebi' is the word for mushrooms. And this is ri'bbah. Fish.” She had laughed at his pronunciation, and shook her head. “You English always make the ‘R’ so far back in your throat—as if you are growling. Say it against your teeth…ri'bbah.”

“Ri'bbah,” he said obediently, eliciting another laugh from her.

“Here, perhaps some wine will loosen your tongue.” She lifted a glass of white wine to his lips. “This is vino' byeh'lahyeh. Make the words against your teeth. To speak Russian well, you have to spit a little. And keep your mouth round…” She had tried to shape his lips with her fingers as he spoke, and then they both dissolved in laughter, until she nearly fell out of his lap.

“Tell me the word for kiss,” he said, gathering her against his chest.

“Pahtsyeloo'eey.” She had wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his.

Tasia wished for one of those lighthearted evenings now. Several hours had passed since the argument she had instigated earlier. She knew she hadn't been fair. She wasn't even certain what had caused her flare of temper. An apology hovered on her lips, but pride kept her from saying anything. Meanwhile, her loving husband had disappeared, and in his place was an indifferent stranger, coldly unconcerned with the lack of conversation.

Tasia's misery grew with every minute. She drank three glasses of red wine in an effort to dull her discomfort. Finally she excused herself to totter alone up to their bedroom. After dismissing the maid, she pulled off her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor, then crawled na**d into bed. The wine had made her groggy. She slept heavily, barely stirring in the middle of the night when she felt Luke's weight lower to the mattress.

Dreams consumed her in a thick red-black fog. She was in a church, surrounded by burning candles, her nostrils filled with incense smoke. She couldn't breathe. Sinking to the ground, clutching at her throat, she raised her eyes to the rows of gilded icons. Please, please help me…Their pitying faces blurred, and she felt herself lifted, placed inside a narrow box. Clutching at the sides of the box, she tried to pull herself out. Nikolas Angelovsky's golden face was above her. He watched her with flat yellow wolf-eyes, while his teeth bared in an evil grin. “You'll never get out,” he sneered, and slammed the lid on the coffin. A pounding noise began as he drove in nails to seal her inside. Tasia sobbed and thrashed, and somehow found the voice to scream.