Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(53)

“Who was that?” he demanded.

“An old friend. Lord Milbank, as a matter of fact.” Emma continued walking. As she passed him, Nikolas reached for her arm, and she flung off his hand. “Don't touch me!”

“What did he want?”

“Nothing.”

A wave of blinding jealousy came over Nikolas. He followed her into the house. “I want to talk to you,” he said, taking hold of her wrist and yanking her into the library.

“Don't insult my intelligence with this playacting,” Emma said scornfully. “You don't give a damn about me, or about anything I do.”

“Tell me why he came here.”

Her blue eyes flashed with hatred. “Adam told me what you did. The way you threatened him, and made him stay away from me. You kept us apart, and then you manipulated your way into marrying me.”

“Milbank didn't have to desert you. He had a choice.”

“Adam was afraid of you. And I don't blame him. You're a vicious, selfish creature, and the world would be a much better place without you!” Her voice lowered to a searing whisper. “I despise you for what you've done to me, Nikolas. You've ruined my life.”

In spite of his callousness, Nikolas recoiled at the look on his wife's face. It was the truth, he realized bleakly. She did hate him. It was all his doing…it had been necessary to push her away, to save himself…but still, the proof of his success didn't please him. He was more troubled than he had ever been in his life. His head pounded, and there was a sound in his ears, a jarring, high-pitched tone that seemed to worsen every minute. He rubbed his forehead in an effort to ease the ache. No more arguments for now—he would deal with his wife later. Get the hell out of here, he tried to say, but strangely, the words came out in garbled English and Russian. His mind wasn't straight, wasn't clear…everything was somehow tangled.

“What is it?” Emma asked sharply, but he shook his head in confusion.

In the charged silence that followed, Mr. Soames came into the library with the canvas he had been working on. “Your Highness,” he began, unaware of the scene he had interrupted. He smiled as he saw Emma there. “Princess Emma, I have uncovered the portrait. You must have a look. It's remarkable.” Carefully he propped the painting on Nikolas's desk and stood back. “You see?”

Nikolas focused on the portrait, of a man in his early thirties with golden-brown hair, amber eyes…high cheekbones…a hard mouth, and a sharp-cut jaw…

My God…It was like looking into a mirror. It was his exact likeness. That's my face, my eyes…

All at once his head was filled with shooting pain. He tried to tear his gaze away, but he couldn't.

He was vaguely aware of Emma's shocked gasp. “It's you,” she said, and the last word echoed in his brain: youyouyou…

Nikolas made a desperate attempt to escape, but his body wouldn't obey. He stumbled and fell to the floor. The painting seemed to be pulling him inside itself, a magnet for his soul, drawing all the flickering life from his body. He was sinking into darkness, while color, sensations, time itself, shot past him in whirling updrafts.

He was dying, he thought, and he was flooded with panicked regret. What an empty life he'd led, with no one to mourn his loss. Suddenly he wanted Emma: he needed to feel her slim, strong arms around him, her warmth…but there was nothing…only the torment of his own extinguishing thoughts.

PART III

My pulses bound in exultation,

And in my heart once more

unfold

The sense of awe and inspiration,

The life, the tears, the love of old.

—PUSHKIN

Seven

1707 November, Moscow

S OMEONE WAS SPEAKING in Russian. “Your Highness, it is time to leave now. Your Highness…?”

The stranger was annoyingly persistent. Nikolas awakened slowly, groaning at the pounding in his head. The taste of wine was strong and sour in his mouth. Blinking painfully, he discovered that he was sitting at a tiled table, his head and arms resting on the hard surface.

“You drank all through the night,” the man's voice scolded. “There is no time to shave your face, or even to change your clothes before the bride-choosing. Please, Prince Nikolai, you must wake up now.”

“What are you talking about?” Nikolas muttered, groggy and perplexed. There was a comfortable and familiar scent in the air, not the sweet wool-and-starch smell of his English house, but one of birch wood and wax candles, and the citric tang of cranberries. It reminded him so strongly of home that he closed his eyes again and breathed deeply. Gradually he recalled what had happened…the argument with his wife, the portrait…“Emma,” he said, lifting his head with an effort. He rubbed his sore eyes. “Where's my wife? Where…”

The words died on his lips as he saw that he was in a strange room. A young man, his slim form neatly dressed in antique clothes, waited nearby. His dark eyes, the same chocolate shade as his hair, sparked with exasperation. “We'll get a wife for you as soon as you rouse yourself and go to the bride-choosing, Your Highness.”

Nikolas braced his head with his hands and gave the stranger a slitted glare. “Who are you?”

The man sighed. “You must have had even more to drink than I feared! When a man forgets the name of his favorite steward, it is safe to say his brains are pickled. I am Feodor Vasilievich Sidarov, as you well know.” He reached for Nikolas's arm to help him up from the table.