Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(20)

“Almost always.” Nikolas escorted her from the building, ignoring the curious stares that followed them. “I like to watch you make speeches, Emelia. I admire a woman who doesn't try to hide her intelligence.”

“Is that why you followed me to London? Because you admire me so much?”

He smiled at her impudence. “I'll admit to having taken an interest in you. Would you condemn a man for that?”

“Condemn, no. But I have plenty of suspicions. Especially where you're concerned. I think you're nothing but a great big mass of ulterior motives, Nikki.”

A low laugh of delight came from his throat. He led her to the curb, where a splendid lacquered carriage awaited them. It was drawn by a team of four gleaming black Orlovs, the finest carriage horses in the world. A pair of tall, black-liveried footmen attended the vehicle.

Emma preceded Nikolas into the carriage and settled herself on upholstery of burgundy velvet in a shade so dark, it looked black. The interior was filled with gleaming panels of precious inlaid wood. The windows were framed in gold and crystal, and the lamps were encrusted with semi-precious stones. Even with her family's considerable wealth, Emma had never been inside such a luxurious vehicle. Nikolas sat opposite her, and the carriage pulled away with magical smoothness as it passed over the rough London streets.

Temporarily dazzled, Emma wondered about the life Nikolas had led in Russia, and all that he'd been forced to leave behind. “Nikki,” she asked abruptly, “do you ever see any of your family? Have they ever come to visit?”

He showed no reaction, but she sensed that he was puzzled by the question. “No…nor would I expect it of them. All ties were severed when I left my country.”

“But not blood ties. You have sisters, don't you? Tasia once mentioned that you have four or five—”

“Five,” he said flatly.

“Don't you miss them? Wouldn't you like to see them?”

“No, I don't miss them. We were virtual strangers to each other. Mikhail and I were raised separately from our sisters.”

“Why?”

“Because my father wanted it that way.” A bitterly amused look crossed his face. “We were rather like the animals in your menagerie, all of us caged and at my father's mercy.”

“You didn't like him?”

“My father was a heartless bastard. When he died ten years ago, he wasn't mourned by a soul on earth.”

“What about your mother?” Emma asked tentatively.

Nikolas shook his head and smiled. “I prefer not to talk about my family.”

“I understand,” she murmured.

Nikolas's amusement lingered. “No, you don't. The Angelovskys are a bad lot, and each generation is worse than the last. We started out as feuding royals of Kiev, then mingled the line with some crude peasant stock, and added a Mongol warrior who thought nothing of drinking blood from his horse's veins for refreshment on a long journey. We've only gone downhill from there—I'm a good example of that.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“I'm warning you not to entertain any illusions about me, Emma. ‘A corrupt tree cannot bring forth good fruit.’ You'd be wise to remember that.”

She laughed, her blue eyes dancing. “You sound like Tasia, quoting the Bible. I've never thought of you as a religious man.”

“Religion is entwined in every part of a Russian's life. There's no way to avoid it.”

“Do you ever go to church?”

“Not since I was a boy. My brother and I used to think angels lived in the tops of the church domes, gathering our prayers and sending them to heaven.”

“Were your prayers answered?”

“Never,” he said flatly, and shrugged. “But our great talent is to endure…that is God's gift to Russians.”

The carriage passed a shoddy marketplace filled with stalls of fruit and vegetables, fish stands, and secondhand goods. The noisy crowd milling through the streets caused the procession of horses and vehicles to slow. There was an unusual din in the air, a mixture of bellowing voices and animal cries.

As the carriage came to a halt, Emma leaned forward and looked out the window curiously. “Something's happening in the street,” she said. “Some sort of fight, perhaps.”

Nikolas opened the carriage door and jumped lightly to the ground. After calling to the driver to wait there, he headed into the crowd. Emma waited for a minute or two, listening to the racket. Perhaps two vehicles had collided, or someone had been run down in the street. Her heart ached in pity as she heard the anguished cries of a horse—or maybe it was a donkey. It was easy to recognize the pain and fear in its screams. She couldn't stand to wait another minute. She sprang from the carriage, just as Nikolas returned with a grim look on his face. “What's happening?” she asked anxiously.

“It's nothing. Go back inside—we'll pass through in a few minutes.”

Emma stared into his emotionless eyes, then darted past him in a swift movement.

“Emma, come back—”

Ignoring his curt voice, she rushed through the churning mob.

Three

I N THE MIDDLE of a busy intersection, a cart overloaded with bricks blocked the traffic from all directions. A battered old donkey, sharp-ribbed and swaybacked, strained wildly to pull the cart up a small hill. Its owner, a beefy little man with arms the size of ham hocks, was beating the donkey with a length of chain. The poor animal was bloody and crippled, its eyes rolling madly.