Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(41)

“Is this a true story?” Emma asked skeptically.

“Oh, yes, Your Highness.”

Emma stared at the tiny embroidered bag in her lap and toyed with the glinting beads. She was touched by the sad tale, but rather than admit it, she took refuge in a show of mild scorn. “Only an Angelovsky ancestor would be so arrogant. Making all the peasant women stand there for him to choose his wife…why, I would spit in his face!”

“Perhaps,” Rashel said with a sly gleam in her eyes. “But it is said that Prince Nikolai was a very beautiful man. Sometimes that makes up a little for arrogance, yes?”

“I don't care how handsome he was. The whole thing sounds barbaric.”

“It was the family tradition. Those days were very different. Now, of course, Russians have adopted Western ways, and it is not done anymore.”

“Thank God for progress,” Emma said. She leaned over and lifted a cloth-wrapped frame from the trunk. With the girls' help, she unwrapped the frame and discovered an old, crumbling landscape. The paint was chipped and coated with decades of grime. Emma was unimpressed by the picture, which was clearly an amateurish effort. “Why would anyone save this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Could it have any value, aside from sentimental?”

Rashel and Marinka gathered behind her to look at the painting. It was a hunting scene of Russian borzoi dogs chasing a wolf through dark fields. There was a country palace in the background, poised on the horizon against a soft lavender sky. “Look,” Marinka said, pointing to the corner where the paint had been eroded. “There is something underneath.”

Emma leaned close to the canvas and scraped the cracked paint with her fingernail. A large flake fell away, revealing a sheen of copper brown and a touch of flesh-toned paint. “I do believe you're right,” she remarked. “Someone has covered up another picture. I wonder what it could be.”

She set the painting aside in a pile to be taken downstairs, and continued sorting through the objects in the storage room. After two more hours had passed, Emma was covered with dust and sweat. She grinned at the Sidarovas, who seemed as tired as she was. “Shall we leave off for today?” she asked, and they both agreed immediately. Emma carried an armload of her newfound belongings as she descended to her suite.

Just as she had propped the painting on the velvet settee in her receiving room, Emma heard a knock at the door and Nikolas's voice.

“I came to see if you were ready for dinner. A group of American manufacturers will be attending, and you—” Nikolas broke off as he took in the sight of her wrinkled clothes and dusty skin. A look of annoyance crossed his features, but then he laughed in reluctant amusement. “You've been looking through the attic rooms.”

“It's a treasure trove!”

“You must wash and dress for supper at once,” he said, casting a dubious glance at the pile of “treasure” she had found. “The Americans—”

“Come have a look at this painting,” Emma insisted, gesturing him over to the settee. “Is it familiar? Does it mean anything to you?”

“Nothing at all.”

“See where the paint has come off in the corner? I think there's another picture hidden beneath this one.”

“Perhaps,” he said indifferently. “Now, about supper—”

“Could we ask someone if it's worth restoring? There may be a wonderful painting just waiting to be uncovered.”

“If it pleases you, we'll find someone to work on it. Though I doubt there's anything worth seeing. Emma, you must clean yourself up right away and come downstairs.”

“What could I possibly say to a group of manufacturers?”

“Just sit quietly and smile.” Nikolas shot her a meaningful glance. “And no remarks about little animal corpses when the pheasant is brought out.”

A flashing grin appeared on her face. “Or else?” She moved to her dressing table and layered the antique Russian veil and diadem on her hair, exactly as Rashel had shown her. Glancing over her shoulder with a teasing smile, she said, “If I offended all your American guests, would you beat me for it? Exactly how does a Russian prince punish his wife?”

She fell silent as she saw the change come over Nikolas's face. He had turned utterly white, his eyes dark pools of horror as he stared at her. Slowly Emma removed the frail headdress. “What's wrong?” she asked.

Nikolas didn't answer. There were no words for the sensation of being jolted into some other place. Something had snatched him away for no more than a second, as if he had been yanked through a door from one time into another. He had a vision of Emma crying, her face red and her hair loose and tangled…

“Please punish me,” she begged.

“You little fool,” came his own harsh reply. He pulled her closer in an effort to soothe her, and he stroked her shaking back. “How in God's name do you think I could leave a mark on you? How could I cause you pain with my own hands? Oh, don't think it's not tempting, my clever one. But even if I tried, I could never lift a finger against you.”

“Because I'm your wife?” she asked tremulously.

“Because you're mine. You're the only one I've ever wanted, no matter that you'll probably be my downfall…”