Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(80)

“My lord, what if he refuses—”

“Tell him I'll find him no matter where he goes. He may as well make an appointment.”

“Anything else, my lord?”

“Yes. Book passage for two to St. Petersburg. If there isn't a ship scheduled to depart within the next twenty-four hours, charter one.”

“Sir, may I ask who will be accompanying you?”

“You.”

“But my lord,” the valet spluttered, “I couldn't possibly—”

“Go. When you're finished with everything else, you can start packing for me.”

Biddle obeyed, muttering under his breath and shaking his head violently.

Charles approached Luke with quiet concern. “What can I do?”

“Take care of Emma while I'm gone.”

“Of course.”

Luke glanced at his daughter, and his face softened at the sight of her tear-swollen eyes. He crossed the room and sat beside her, drawing her close as she broke into renewed sobs.

“Oh, Papa,” she said miserably, “I didn't know what to do—I just f-followed Belle-mère, and when I saw what was happening, I should have run for help, but I didn't stop to th-think—”

“It's all right.” Luke gave her a crushing hug. “You couldn't have stopped it, no matter what you did. It's my fault, and no one else's. I should have done a better job of protecting you both.”

“Why did that man want her? Who is she? Has she done something wrong? I don't understand anything that's happened—”

“I know you don't,” he murmured. “She's done nothing wrong. But she's been unjustly blamed for a man's death, and there are people in Russia who want to punish her. The man you saw today is taking her back there.”

“Are you going to bring her home again?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Don't doubt it for a second, Emma.” His voice was soft, but his expression was cold and grim. “Prince Nikolas Angelovsky hasn't begun to realize what he's done. No one takes what is mine.”

The ship Eastern Light was a small, serviceable merchantman, laden with English wheat, fine porcelain, and textiles. The weather was calm. All signs promised that the ship would make a good run, perhaps no longer than a week. As captain of the vessel, Nikolas preferred to spend most of his time on deck, making certain the crew's duties were performed with the same exacting precision that he attended to his. It was no rich man's conceit, Nikolas's decision to command the ship. He possessed excellent navigational skills, and the brutal, decisive nature of a born leader. He charted a familiar course across the North Sea, heading east to the Baltic, and through the mouth of the Neva River, where St. Petersburg sprawled in stony majesty.

At the end of the first day at sea, Nikolas went to the cabin where he kept Tasia locked in solitude. Even the cabin boy had been forbidden to speak to her, should she happen to call through the door.

Tasia, who had been reclining on the narrow bed, sat up with a start as he entered the room. She was wearing the same clothes she had been captured in, a suit made of amber silk and trimmed with black velvet ribbon. Since Nikolas had apprehended her in London, she hadn't said a word or shed a single tear. She supposed she was in a state of shock, now that the thing she had dreaded most had finally happened. It was difficult to make herself understand that the past had reclaimed her with such chilling ease. She stared at Nikolas in wary silence, taking in every move as he closed the door.

His face was wooden, except for the contemptuous curl at the corners of his mouth. “You're wondering what I want from you now, little cousin. You're about to find out.”

Casually Nikolas strode to the brass-banded trunk against the wall. The well-oiled hinges made no sound as he lifted the lid. Tasia scooted backward on the bed, wedging her back against the paneled wall. She was tense, the silk beneath her arms turning moist with sweat. Confused, she watched him pull a wad of cloth from the trunk.

Nikolas approached her with the object clutched in his fist. “Recognize this?”

Tasia shook her head. He unfolded the garment and held it up. A cry was torn from her throat. She sat rigidly against the wall, her gaze riveted on the white tunic that Mikhail had worn the night of his death. It was designed in the traditional Russian style of the boyars, with a high gold-embroidered collar and long, wide sleeves. Ugly brown and black stains covered the front of the tunic…the residue of Mikhail's blood.

“I've been saving it for this occasion,” Nikolas said softly. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened the night my brother died…his last words, the look on his face…everything. You owe it to me.”

“I don't remember,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Then have a closer look. Perhaps this will jar your memory.”

“Nikolas, please—”

“Look at it.”

Tasia stared at the blood-crusted garment, the contents of her stomach pushing upward. She tried to hold down her gorge, but it seemed that the sickening-sweet smell of fresh blood was in her nostrils, the air was warm and rank around her…and the objects in the room began to revolve in a steady whirl. “I'm going to be sick,” she said thickly, her mouth filling with a sour taste. “Take it away…”