Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(17)

“I'm not dangerous,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.

“According to the stories, you are. A scoundrel, betrayer, seducer of married women…some even say a cold-blooded murderer.”

Nikolas was quiet for a long time. Somewhere in the midst of their grass-muffled footfalls came a soft reply. “All those things are true. Even the last. I left Russia because I killed a man. But there was nothing cold-blooded about it.”

Emma stumbled a little, fixing her startled gaze on him. His expression was closed, the tawny crescents of his lashes veiling his eyes. Why on earth would he admit this to her? She felt her heart pound in an agitated rhythm. Nikolas kept walking, and she followed uncertainly. They reached a shaded cart path bordered by a wooden fence.

Nikolas stopped in the center of the path, his muscles tensing. It had been a calculated risk, telling Emma about what he had done. But she would find out anyway, and it was better to have heard it from him. A mist of sweat broke on his forehead, and he wiped at it with the cuff of his sleeve in a controlled gesture. “Would you like to hear about it?”

“I suppose,” she said diffidently, but he sensed the intense curiosity behind her stillness.

“The man I killed was named Samvel Shurikovsky.” Nikolas paused and swallowed hard. Five Imperial interrogators and two weeks of torture hadn't been able to wring those words out of him. It was a trick of the imagination, but suddenly his scars seemed to burn and itch. He continued with difficulty, rubbing absently at his wrists. “Shurikovsky was the governor of St. Petersburg, and the tsar's favorite adviser. He and my brother, Mikhail, were lovers. When Mikhail broke off the relationship, Shurikovsky went mad with rage…and stabbed him to death.”

“Oh,” Emma said, her mouth slackening in astonishment, trying to comprehend that not only had his brother taken a male lover, but he had been murdered by one of them. It was a shocking revelation, especially uttered in such a casual tone. Subjects such as sex and murder had never been discussed in her presence, except for Tasia's motherly lectures on morality.

“Mikhail was all I had,” Nikolas said. “I was the only one who ever gave a damn about him. He was my responsibility. When he was killed, I…” He paused and shook his head. Sunlight moved over his golden-brown hair in a shower of sparks. “The only thought that kept me breathing and eating and living was to find his murderer.”

Slowly Nikolas forgot he was speaking. The memories came over him in a blur. His eyes were open but unseeing. “First I thought that Tasia had done it. As you remember, I followed her from Russia to England in an effort to make her pay for the murder. But then I learned that Shurikovsky was the one responsible for my brother's death… and I knew there would never be justice unless it came from my hands.”

“Why couldn't you let the proper authorities handle it?”

“In Russia, politics take precedence over everything else. Shurikovsky was the companion-favorite of the tsar. I knew he would never be prosecuted for murdering Mikhail. He was too influential.”

“So you took your revenge,” Emma said tonelessly.

“I was careful to leave no evidence, but I came under suspicion nonetheless. And I was arrested.” Suddenly the words stuck in Nikolas's throat. There was so much he couldn't tell her, things that could never be expressed, nightmares that seethed deep inside him. With an effort, he assumed his usual calm mask. “The government tried to force a confession from me, if not for murder, then for treason. When I refused to talk, I was exiled.”

He fell silent then, concentrating on the hardbaked ground. A breeze filtered through the damp locks on his forehead. Exile from Russia had been worse than torture or even death; it meant being cut off from the very source of life. Even the most reviled criminals were pitied when they were sent away from their beloved country. Neshchastnye, they were called—“unfortunates.” Russia was the great mother, and her children were sustained by her frosty air, her dark forests, and her great cradling arms of earth and snow. Part of Nikolas's spirit had withered after he had left St. Petersburg for the last time. Sometimes he dreamed he was still there, and he awoke with an unbearable ache of longing.

“Why tell me?” Emma asked, interrupting his bleak thoughts. “You never do anything without a reason. Why did you want me to know?”

Nikolas looked at her, smiling sardonically into her serious face. “Don't friends confide in each other?”

“How do you know I won't tell anyone?”

“I'll just have to trust you, dushenka.”

Emma stared at him intently. “Are you sorry you killed Shurikovsky?”

Nikolas shook his head. “I don't believe in regret. It doesn't change the past.”

“You're an amoral man,” Emma said, her blue eyes fixed on his. “I should be afraid of you. But I'm not.”

“How brave you are,” he mocked, amused by her bravado.

“I even think…if I had been in your place, I might have done the same thing.”

Before Nikolas could reply, he felt her touch his wrist. He froze, realizing that he had unconsciously been rubbing the scars on his chest as they talked. His hand stiffened beneath her slim fingers. There was no pity in Emma's face. She regarded him with a strange acceptance, as if he were a savage creature who couldn't be faulted for his own nature.