Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(48)

Her teasing brought the smallest twitch of a smile to Jacob's lips, and he answered in his gruff country accent. “I can't say nothing when you're always talking.”

Emma laughed, swinging one long leg. “It's not polite to tell a lady she talks too much, Jacob.”

“Ladies don't wear trousers,” he countered, glancing at her outfit of a man's white shirt, charcoal-colored trousers, and shiny black shoes.

“But I'm a princess, and a princess can wear whatever she wants. Isn't that right, Mr. Soames?”

The artist looked up from his work with a smile as he witnessed Emma's success at drawing the boy into a conversation. “I would say so, Your Highness.” His gaze remained on Emma for a moment as she lounged casually at the window with her coltish legs crossed. The sunlight played over her skin until her golden freckles seemed to glitter. With her flashing smile and the tied-back mane of copper curls, she was a magnetically appealing figure.

“Princess Emma,” Soames said hesitantly, “if I might make a remark of a personal nature…”

“By all means, do. It may liven up my morning.”

“You're an extraordinarily attractive woman, Your Highness. I would be honored to paint you someday. Exactly as you are now.”

Emma laughed at the notion. “And what would you title the painting? ‘The Madwoman’? ‘The Eccentric’?”

“I am sincere, Your Highness. You have a rare and original beauty that any artist would want to capture.”

Emma smiled skeptically. “I could show you a hundred women more beautiful, beginning with my own stepmother.”

Soames shook his head. “Conventional faces and forms are easily found. They are of little interest to me. But you…” He paused as a shadow fell across the doorway, and he saw Nikolas standing there.

“I agree,” Nikolas said, having overheard the last remarks. “I'd like a portrait of the princess to be painted by someone who appreciates her beauty. The commission is yours, if you can show me some satisfactory examples of your own work.”

“Of course I—” Mr. Soames began.

“I don't want my portrait painted,” Emma said, scowling at her husband.

“But I want it.” Nikolas happened to glance at the small boy, now standing beside Emma, and his smile dimmed. Abruptly he turned and approached the landscape painting. “I came to view your progress, Soames.”

“The work will go more quickly now that I've found the most effective way of dissolving the top layers,” Soames explained. “So far all I've uncovered is part of a man's left hand.”

“So I see.” Nikolas stared at the fragment of the portrait, suddenly mesmerized. His own left hand began to tingle and burn. He flexed his fingers and crossed his arms over his chest. A touch of dizziness came over him, and he wrenched his gaze away. “We'll discuss the portrait of my wife later,” he muttered to Soames. “For now, don't let them keep you from your work.”

“They are no trouble…” Soames's voice trailed off lamely as Nikolas strode abruptly from the room. The artist threw a questioning glance at Emma, who answered with a sardonic smile.

“A gracious soul, my husband…don't you agree?”

But she left the workroom before Soames could reply, the little boy trotting after her.

It was on the following night that Nikolas was finally forced to speak directly to his son. He was drinking alone in his suite, sipping chilled vodka in a slow, contemplative way, hoping with each glass that it might numb the uneasiness inside him. Nothing was right anymore. Everything had been knocked off-kilter, and for the first time in his life he felt too slow to adapt to the changing circumstances around him. He hadn't visited Emma's bed in weeks, and his desire for her was beginning to gnaw at him. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her skin and crush her soft red curls in his hands, and feel her slender body quiver in passion as he thrust inside her. But he didn't want her to know how much he needed her, craved her, for she might find a way to use it against him.

It infuriated him that Emma had maneuvered the discovery of his illegitimate child so adeptly, first by playing the role of betrayed wife, then by deciding she wanted the boy to stay. She had no real power to keep Jacob, of course. Nikolas could have him shipped off tomorrow, if he chose. The hell of it was, he was almost grateful—grateful—that Emma was so determined to keep the child. Often Nikolas found himself staring at the boy, yearning to talk to him, and at the same time he was tormented by Jacob's likeness to Mikhail.

A strange, soft noise broke into his thoughts. Nikolas set his vodka down and listened intently. It was the muffled sound of crying.

“Misha,” he whispered in horror, instinct taking precedence over reason. It was not his brother…but the sniffling and tears…a little boy's sobs…

Nikolas rose to his feet and stumbled from the room, gripped by a sense of anguished fear he hadn't felt since childhood. He followed the quiet sobbing along the hall, around the corner, until he saw a small figure huddled by the door of Emma's suite.

“Jacob,” Nikolas said with difficulty. The name felt strange on his lips.

The boy looked up with a startled jerk, his face unhappy and tear-streaked. His shimmering gaze reached inside Nikolas to a place of indescribable pain.