Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(13)

Emma's smile remained as she shook her head. “A pretty sight that would be.” She led him to the next building, where a rust-colored fox darted back and forth inside a large pen. The animal was sleek and healthy, but it moved in uneven hops. Nikolas quirked his brows as he saw that the fox's front left paw was missing.

“I named him Presto,” Emma said, “because he's so quick and agile.”

“Evidently not agile enough to keep all his feet.”

Nimbly the fox hopped to the water dish that Emma had filled to the brim. A few laps, and then the fox turned his full attention to Emma, watching with bright, dark eyes as she drew out an egg from the depths of her pocket.

“I have a treat for you, Presto,” Emma said in a tantalizing voice. She peeled the boiled egg and held it through the bars of his enclosure. Trembling with eagerness, the fox inched closer.

“He was caught in a trap.” With practiced skill, Emma let go of the egg just as the fox snatched it. Presto gobbled the delicacy in two saliva-drenched bites. “He was half-dead from exposure and loss of blood. He'd been gnawing his leg off to escape. If I hadn't found Presto when I did, he'd probably be an adornment for some fine lady's mantle or muff—”

“Please,” Nikolas said politely, “save your speeches for that club you belong to—friends-of-the-animals, or whatever it's called.”

“The Royal Society for the Humane Treatment of Animals.”

“Yes, that one.”

Emma surprised him by looking over her shoulder with a grin. No other woman on earth had such a smile, a sly and irresistible sunburst. “If you want to visit my menagerie, Nikki, you have to listen to my speeches.”

Nikolas started slightly at the Russian diminutive of his name. Only a few friends from his boyhood had ever called him that. It sounded odd coming from Emma's lips, pronounced in her crisp English accent. Suddenly he felt the need to escape her artless smile, the childlike clarity of her eyes. But he stayed, driven to finish what he had begun, carefully luring her into the snare he had set.

“I don't see any point in making speeches,” he heard himself say, “until you find replacements for the products they supply—including the meat for your table.”

“I'm a vegetarian.” Seeing that the word was unfamiliar to him, Emma explained. “That's English for someone who doesn't eat meat.” She laughed at his expression. “You look surprised. Aren't there vegetarians in Russia?”

“Russians have three requirements for their diet: meat to make the bones strong and the blood red, dark bread to fill the stomach, and vodka to impart joy in life. Give a Russian a plate of green weeds, and he'll feed it to the cow.”

Emma didn't appear to be impressed. “I'll take weeds any day.”

“I think you take your opinions to an extreme, dushenka.” Nikolas stared at her with growing amusement. “When did you decide to stop eating meat?”

“I think I was thirteen, maybe a little older. One night I was in the middle of supper, listening while everyone talked around me, and as I stared down at the roasted game hen in front of me, I felt as if I were picking a little corpse apart…seeing all the tiny rib bones, the muscle, the fat and skin….” She grimaced at the memory. “I excused myself, went up to my room, and was sick for hours.”

He smiled. “You're an odd child.”

“So people say.” Emma gestured for him to come with her, and they went to a small door that led to a connecting building. As they walked, Emma gave him a sideways glance. “What was that Russian word you called me?”

“Dushenka.”

“What does it mean?”

“Perhaps someday I'll tell you.”

Her brows drew together at his response. “I'll ask my stepmother tonight.”

“That wouldn't be wise.”

“Why? Is it a bad word? An insult?”

Before Nikolas could reply, they had entered the next building. A pungent cat-smell crept to Nikolas's nostrils, in spite of the plentiful air and light that circulated through grates and barred windows. He forgot the smell as soon as he saw the huge striped animal padding toward Emma, prevented from reaching her by a row of iron bars. The magnificent tiger had a deep reddish-orange coat scored with thick black stripes. A distinctive burst of long hair adorned its neck and back. Nikolas had never seen such a large tiger—definitely over forty stone—and certainly not one at this close range.

“You brought him to me as a kitten, remember?”

“Of course,” Nikolas said quietly. It was the only gift he had ever given Emma, when she was twelve years old. He had found the sick tiger cub in a ramshackle shop filled with exotic animals and had bought it for her. He hadn't seen the animal since then.

Emma crouched close to the bars, cooing and making baby noises. “Manchu, this is Prince Nikolas.” The great cat settled nearby with a half-lidded, drowsy look of pleasure. An opening had been cut in the wall, allowing Manchu access to an outside enclosure where he could sun himself. His legs and belly were soaked from his lounging in a shallow tank of water. “Isn't he beautiful?” Emma asked with maternal pride. “Look at the size of those paws. Tigers have killed more humans than any other cat, you know. They're wonderfully unpredictable.”