Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(22)

“Not this time.” His attention returned to her slowly. Although her face was averted, he thought that she seemed to be struggling with her feelings. “Do you want a handkerchief?” he asked abruptly. Emma shook her head in refusal, but he fished for one in his coat and held it out to her.

“I'm not crying,” she said. “I never do. It doesn't solve anything, and it never makes me feel better.” She took the square of soft white linen and blew her nose noisily, shooting a defiant look at him.

Suddenly Nikolas felt his heart pound in a hard rhythm. Other women used tears for purposes of seduction or sympathy, yet they had never moved him. Only Emma, denying her weakness and challenging him to say one word about it, could affect him like this.

Nikolas found himself moving toward her. He took her in his arms, ignoring her unwilling start. After a brief struggle she relaxed against him, her br**sts pressing against his side and chest. Her hair was unperfumed, the scent as fresh as if she had been walking in the woods through patches of fennel and crisp green moss. He breathed deeply of the smell, and he hovered at the edge of violence, all his calculated plans threatening to crumble beneath the pressure of overwhelming desire. Somehow he kept his hands impersonal and still on her back, in spite of his desperate need to touch her.

“Stubborn, impetuous little fool,” he whispered in Russian, knowing she didn't understand. “I've been waiting for you, thousands of nights. I've imagined other women were you…I made love to them, always pretending it was you in my arms. Soon you'll know you were meant for me. Soon you'll come to me.”

Emma shook her head in confusion at the foreign language. “What did you say?”

Nikolas was transfixed by the dark brilliance of her eyes. He longed to press his mouth to her skin, to kiss the spray of golden freckles on her cheeks, the fiery crescents of her lashes. He struggled with his self-control while it threatened to slip away like sand through his fingers. With all his strength, he locked his feelings away and spoke in a cool, slightly amused voice. “I said there's no need for tears, ruyshka. You mustn't be so emotional.”

“I can't help it,” she said grumpily. “I've always been this way…out of place, out of step. I wish I could be like everyone else. My only hope was to marry Lord Milbank.”

Nikolas smiled, carefully smoothing her rumpled hair. “The minute you become like everyone else, I'll leave England for good. You weren't meant to be in step with the rest of the world. And if you think Lord Milbank would have given you happiness, you're wrong. I'm familiar with his kind. They exist everywhere. As common as mice.”

“I won't listen to any insults about Adam—”

“Did you ever let him see this side of you? Did you ever dare to argue with him? Nyet, you adopted a soft facade to please him because you liked his looks and his slippery charm, and you thought he wouldn't want you if he knew how intelligent you are, how brave and ferocious. You were right. He isn't man enough to value those qualities.”

“Well, ‘ferocious’ is certainly a wonderful quality in a woman,” Emma muttered, pulling away from him. “One wonders why Adam didn't think so.”

“In Russia you would be the most desirable woman in all the land.”

“I'm not in Russia, thank God. And stop trying to flatter me—you know I don't like it.”

Nikolas caught her jaw in his palms and studied her flushed face. Her skin was tender and soft beneath his fingertips. “The most desirable woman,” he repeated, staring hard into her eyes, not letting her turn away.

A shiver went through Emma's body. She must have felt it too, the ineluctable force that drew them together. It was their shared destiny. Nikolas was too much a Russian not to believe in fate. Everything would happen as it was meant to…all that was required of a Russian was patience and endurance…and God knew he had proved himself on both counts.

A carriage wheel bounced across a hole in the road, jolting the vehicle. Nikolas broke apart from Emma and settled himself opposite her. He continued to watch her steadily, but she kept her gaze on her folded hands. No words were exchanged until they reached the Stokehurst villa on the Thames.

Hesitantly Emma broke the silence. “I'm grateful for your help today, Nikolas. But…I would rather you didn't make any further efforts to see me. I don't think we should be friends. I can't see that any good would come of it.”

Perhaps she expected him to disagree, even argue. Instead he shrugged and gave her an oblique smile. “Whatever you wish.”

Emma escaped Nikolas's presence with blatant relief. With the help of the coachman and stablehand, she lodged the donkey in the stables behind the villa and attended to his abrasions and wounds, discovering that he had infected hooves and a bad case of malnourishment. It seemed likely that the animal would recover quite well. Leaving him in the care of the stablehand, she went into the villa.

The Stokehurst home was of picturesque Italian design, filled with pale marble columns and floors, elegant tile fireplaces, and several splashing indoor fountains. Emma had always liked to stay here, though the villa lacked the comfortable atmosphere of Southgate Hall.

Feeling troubled and out of sorts, Emma took a bath in a huge porcelain tub, in a bathing room lined with hand-painted tiles. Idly she traced the designs of tiny exotic birds with a wet fingertip…and thought about Nikolas.