Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(49)

“What is it?” Nikolas snapped. “Are you hurt?”

Jacob shook his head and huddled more tightly against the doorjamb, tucking his feet beneath his nightshirt.

“What do you want? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Just then the door opened to reveal Emma swathed in her white gown and robe, her face soft and groggy with sleep. She saw Nikolas first, and a question formed on her lips. Her gaze fell to the miserable bundle at her feet. “Jake?” She sank to the floor, pulling the child into her lap, then shot an accusing glare at Nikolas. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing,” Nikolas growled. He watched, his feet stuck to the floor, as Emma wrapped her long arms around the boy.

“What's the matter, Jake?” she asked. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Jacob struggled with words, his mouth quivering. A flood of tears welled from his eyes. “I w-want Mama!” He threw his arms around Emma's neck, his small hands knotted in her hair.

“Of course you do, darling,” she murmured, holding him tightly. “Of course.” She rocked him in her lap, heedless of his runny nose and wet face.

The sight of a woman—especially one of Emma's class—comforting a child was rare for Nikolas. His own mother had abandoned the care of her children to servants and tutors, wanting no responsibility for their upbringing. There had never been an opportunity for Nikolas to share in the private moments of other families, except for occasional visits to the Stokehurst household. The discovery that Emma could be so maternal was unexpected, and it filled him with yearning and unreasoning anger. If only there had been someone like her fighting for him and Mikhail. She would never have allowed anyone to abuse a little boy. She would have comforted and protected Misha.

Nikolas fought a crazy urge to kneel beside her on the floor, to put his arms around his wife and the crying child, to somehow make himself part of the scene. The coldness of his isolation made him shiver. Just then Emma looked up at him as if he were an intruder. Her thoughts were unspoken but clear. You can do nothing for us…you're not wanted.

Nikolas left without a word, making his way down the hall and around the corner. He stopped there and leaned against the wall, shaking, consumed by memories. He thought of the night in Russia when he had been called away from his mistress's bed and given the message about Misha. “Your brother was murdered tonight, Your Highness. Stabbed in the throat…” And the long search for justice, culminating in his revenge on Count Shurikovsky. No, don't think about that—but the memory came back in a searing flash, and he saw himself walking toward Shurikovsky's drunken form stretched out on a rumpled bed. There had been a peculiar stench in the room, of liquor and stale sweat, and Nikolas's heart had thundered with fear and bloodlust until he couldn't hear anything else above the pounding, not even Shurikovsky's cry as he had beheld the face of his murderer.

Keeping his back against the wall, Nikolas slid down until he sat on the floor. Dazedly he wondered what he had thought about during the time of his arrest, the interrogations, the hours of torture and pain. He couldn't remember much of it. They had asked him about Misha's love affairs, particularly the one with Shurikovsky. It hadn't mattered to Nikolas that his brother had slept with men. After the miserable experiences of Misha's childhood, he had deserved to take his pleasure wherever he could find it.

Nikolas yanked up his sleeves and stared at the scars on his wrists, where restraining ropes had torn open layers of skin and muscle. It had made the government interrogators angry when he wouldn't respond to their taunts about Misha's sexual preferences. “Perhaps you see nothing wrong in liking boys,” they had said. “It must be that you have the same sickness. Do you lust after other men, you perverted bastard?”

Nikolas had shaken his head, unable to push words through his quivering lips. His whole body had been cold from shock and loss of blood. No, he had never lusted after men; he had always loved the grace and softness of women, the comfort of pillowing br**sts, the perceptiveness of a female mind. Older women were always best, for they were less inclined to make demands, they understood about the complications and realities of life, and they were by far the most passionate.

But he had never considered marriage to anyone, until Emma. He had waited seven years to have her, never doubting that she would belong to him. He had wanted her in a way that he defined not as love but as a basic need, like breathing and eating and sleeping. The problem was, she had now become a weakness. He would have to cut her out, or lose himself entirely.

Nikolas rose to his feet and went downstairs, speaking curtly to Stanislaus and a waiting footman. “Have a carriage brought around.” He would be going out now, to gamble and drink, and to find a woman. Anyone would do, as long as she wasn't Emma.

After comforting Jacob, Emma carried the boy piggyback to his bed in the third-floor nursery. Covering him with the soft linen sheet, she knelt by the bed and smoothed a cowlick in his dark hair. “I know how it feels to lose your mama,” she murmured. “Mine died when I was even younger than you. Sometimes I used to cry because I missed her, and I couldn't even remember her.”

Jake rubbed a fist over his eyes. “I want her to come back,” he said tearfully. “I don't like it here.”

Emma sighed. “Sometimes I don't either, Jake. But Nikolas is your father, and this is where you belong.”