Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(38)

Nikolas lifted a hand to her tumbled hair, stroking softly, while his eyes remained wide open in the darkness. A strange mixture of emotions flooded him; all at once he felt desperate, wanting to crush her in his arms and yet also to shove her away. The peaceful weight of his wife's body, her contented sigh as she snuggled next to him…it made his chest hurt. He couldn't let himself relax, couldn't accept the easy affection she offered. If he let himself be vulnerable, even for a moment, the floodgates would open, and everything he had steeled himself to endure and forget would finally overtake him.

Easing himself away from her, he left the bed and groped for his discarded robe.

“Nikolas?” she murmured sleepily.

He ignored her and shrugged into the robe. Quietly he left the room and went to his dark, empty suite at the other end of the wing.

Emma sat up in confusion, pushing her hair off her face. Why had he gone so suddenly? What had she done wrong? She bit her lip to keep from crying. She wasn't a child, she was a married woman, and she didn't have the luxury of tears.

“You chose this,” she told herself grimly. “Now you have to make the best of it.” It was a long time before she lay back down again, and longer still before she fell asleep, her body curled in the center of the large bed.

PART II

Who cares if this locked heart holds unforgotten

pictures…

—PUSHKIN

Five

N IKOLAS WAS DISTRACTED from his work by the sounds of shrieking outside the library window. He shot up from his desk, although Mr. Meadows and Mr. Bailey, a pair of estate agents he had been conferring with, remained in their chairs with bemused expressions on their faces. Reaching the window in three strides, Nikolas looked outside at the damp October landscape and went still.

“Your Highness?” Meadows asked uneasily. “Has someone been injured?”

Nikolas shook his head. “It's my wife,” he murmured. “Taking her daily exercise.” He watched with a faint smile as Emma, dressed in a white blouse, boots, and breeches, romped on the manicured lawn with her dog, Samson. Anyone who didn't know her might have been moved to suggest that the princess should be institutionalized. Emma chased the mongrel over flower beds and parterre hedges, her red hair flying in a tangled banner behind her back. In a flash, she whirled around and ran the other way, while the ungainly dog bounded after her.

In the past month of marriage, the Angelovsky household and tenants had become accustomed to Emma's uninhibited ways, even to the sight of her striding around the estate in men's clothes. Walking through the house hand in hand with an elderly chimpanzee had also become a commonplace occurrence. Frolicking on the lawn with her dog was mild in comparison to everything else.

Nikolas said nothing about his wife's eccentric behavior, for the simple reason that he enjoyed it, especially when it shocked others. He relished Emma's agile and unconventional mind, her straight-forwardness, her lack of pretension. She had the boundless energy of a child, working herself to near exhaustion and then releasing her tension by riding her horse at neck-breaking speed, or sprinting across the fields in pursuit of Samson.

Nikolas enjoyed almost every moment of being with Emma…except for the times when she turned unexpectedly quiet and sweet, wanting to snuggle close to him and rest her curly head on his shoulder. Then he was forced to pull away from her, before he was consumed with blind panic. Emma had no idea of the way she threatened him, the promise of destruction she brought with every smile. He would not—could not—love her. But neither could he ignore his need for her, and so his relationship with her was a complicated balance of attraction and repulsion.

Nikolas was about to turn away from the window when all at once Samson reached Emma and jumped on her, his saucer-sized paws hitting her slender back. She fell forward onto her stomach and didn't move.

Nikolas was filled with a sudden blast of energy. Without a word to the two startled men, he raced across the room and sent the French doors bursting apart as he took a shortcut to the outside grounds. “Emma,” he called harshly, running to her still figure. He dropped beside her, his knees digging into the soft green lawn.

She was making choking noises. He turned her over, the blood draining from his face as he saw her struggle to breathe. “Emelia—” He hovered over her, unfastening the top three buttons of her blouse.

“I'm…all right,” she wheezed. “Wind…knocked out…” She tried to sit up, and he pushed her back to the ground.

“Quiet. Just relax. Does it hurt anywhere? Are you nauseated?”

Emma shook her head while he checked every-where for signs of blood or broken bones. “No,” she gasped, trying to push his searching hands away.

Nikolas scowled as Samson approached them. The dog whined apologetically and snuffled in Emma's hair. Impatiently Nikolas shoved him aside. Samson retreated a few feet and lay down, moaning anxiously.

“Your Highness?” came the butler's voice from several yards away. Evidently the servants had been alerted to the mishap. “Shall I send for a doctor?”

“Not yet,” Nikolas replied, staring at Emma's pale face. “We'll see how she is in a few minutes. Go back inside, Stanislaus.”

“Very well, sir.”

To his surprise, Emma began to giggle as she regained her breath. “We were playing,” she said, taking in weak, rapid gulps of air. “I fell on my stomach…that's all.”