Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(86)

Luke was silent, clenching his teeth until his jaw trembled.

Seeing the faint movement, Nikolas mistook it for awe, perhaps even fear. He smiled into Luke's expressionless face. “You've wasted your time. The prisoner isn't allowed visitors. Take my advice—go back to your country and get a new wife.”

He was taken by surprise as Luke moved with blinding speed, shoving him against the wall and snarling at him like a rabid wolf. The sharp point of the silver hook pressed into his chest until a drop of blood welled from the nick it had made.

Luke's voice was a scraping whisper. “Let me see her…or I'll use this to dig your heart out.”

Nikolas stared at him for a moment, and then bared his teeth in a feral laugh of approval. “You have balls of stone, to threaten me in my own house, in a room full of weapons and soldiers! Very well, you may visit Anastasia. No harm will come of it. She'll still be mine when you leave. Now, if you please…” He glanced down at the spreading bloodstain on his shirt. Luke dislodged the stinging point of the hook and lowered his arm.

Taking a linen napkin, Nikolas pressed it to the sore spot on his chest. Still smiling, he spoke to a soldier. “Motka Yuriyevich, show my new cousin to the prisoner's quarters. And don't get too close—he may bite.”

There were a few appreciative chuckles, for the Russians admired nothing more than brute force coupled with a strong will. To find that combination in an Englishman tickled their sense of humor.

Tasia's suite consisted of a small antechamber and a bedroom, both luxuriously furnished. She reclined on a sofa framed with lacy Russian woodcarving. Although she had not been allowed visitors, she had received a few tear-blotched, loving notes from her mother, Marie. Nikolas had allowed Marie to send a few of Tasia's old gowns from the Kapterev Palace. Tasia wore one of them now, a girlishly styled violet silk with a full skirt, puffed sleeves, and white lace trimming. Dully she sorted through a pile of French novels. So far her attempts at reading hadn't gone well. She found herself going over the same pages a dozen times.

She heard a key turning in the lock. The door opened and closed. Knowing it was one of the servants with an afternoon meal tray, Tasia kept her gaze on the book. “Put it on the table next to the window,” she said in Russian.

Her order was met with silence. She looked up with a coldly questioning frown…and stared into a pair of smiling blue eyes. Her husband spoke in a rough voice. “I told you I didn't plan to sleep apart from you.”

Tasia gave a cry of disbelief and flew across the room, flinging herself against him.

Luke laughed and caught her in the air, locking one arm around her narrow waist. Lowering her feet to the floor, he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder. “God, I've missed you,” he muttered, while she wriggled and tried to crawl closer.

“Luke, Luke…Oh, you came for me! Are you really here? No, it must be a dream!” Tasia slid her hands behind his head and pulled his mouth down, kissing him with violent passion. She reveled in his familiar smell, his taste, the solid strength of his body.

Somehow he managed to tear his mouth from hers. “We have to talk,” he muttered.

“Yes…yes…” Tasia wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed again, deep, yearning, heedlessly absorbed in each other. He pushed her against the wall, twisting his mouth over hers. Their tongues touched, played, slid hotly, while his fingers spread over her breast and molded the tender shape. Tasia nuzzled into the side of his neck, licking at the touch of salt on his skin. He groaned softly, urging her against the wall with the pressure of his aroused body.

“Are you all right?” he managed to ask, after smothering her with a brutally hard kiss.

She nodded and smiled unsteadily. “How is Emma? I've been so worried—”

“She wants you to come home as soon as possible.”

“Oh, if only…” Tasia began with aching longing, but suddenly she jumped in excitement and clutched his shirt collar in her fists. “Luke, I remembered everything on the ship! I know what happened to Mikhail! I didn't do anything. I stumbled on the scene at the worst possible moment, and I saw the real murderer. It wasn't me!”

His eyes narrowed. “Who did it?”

“Count Samvel Shurikovsky. He and Mikhail were lovers.”

“Shurikovsky,” Luke repeated, stunned. “The governor? I just saw him!”

“But how—”

“Never mind, just tell me everything.”

Tasia related the story of all she had seen and heard the night of the murder, while Luke listened intently. His hand slid between the wall and her spine, keeping her pressed close to him. “But Nikolas doesn't believe me,” she finished. “He wants me to be guilty, and he won't hear any evidence to the contrary. Count Shurikovsky is a very important man—the companion-favorite of the tsar. I'm certain that the servants knew he was in the palace that night, but they were afraid to say anything. Perhaps they were threatened or bribed to keep silent.”

Luke was quiet, keeping his thoughts to himself. Tasia found it hard to believe he was actually there in St. Petersburg. The knowledge that he had followed her caused a burst of love and heat in her chest. She nestled against him with a sound of pleasure, and his arms tightened.

“Have you been eating?” he asked, kissing the edge of her temple where silken wisps of hair had escaped her pinned braids.