Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(54)

Nikolas shook him off with a soft snarl. “Don't touch me.”

“I'm trying to help you, Prince Nikolai.”

“Then tell me where I am, and what happened after—” Nikolas stopped speaking as he looked down at his own clothes. He was dressed in a velvet doublet, narrow breeches, and a white shirt with billowing sleeves, garments that looked as ridiculously old-fashioned as the steward's. He flushed in embarrassed rage, thinking that someone was playing a joke on him. As he took in his surroundings, however, his emotions dissolved in a wash of pure astonishment.

The room was an exact reproduction of one in the private Angelovsky house in Moscow. The parquet floor, intricately fashioned of inlaid wood to resemble a Persian carpet; the scrollwork on the furniture, thickly overlaid with gold; the carved panels on the walls—all of these were things he had known in his childhood. He had left it all behind after the exile.

Nikolas stood on unsteady legs. “What's going on?” he whispered. “Where am I?” His voice shot up several notches. “Emma, where the hell are you?”

Sidarov began to look alarmed. “Prince Nikolai, are you feeling well? Perhaps you need something to eat…some bread? Fish? Smoked beef—”

Nikolas strode past him in sudden haste, pausing with a startled jump at the threshold. He began to roam through the halls and rooms like an animal caught in a trap, disoriented, sweating heavily, his heart feeling as if it might burst from his chest. It was all here, the furniture, the wood carvings, everything he had never thought to see again. A few strangely dressed servants regarded him with confusion when they saw him, but none of them dared to speak.

“Prince Nikolai?” came the steward's anxious voice behind him.

Nikolas didn't pause in his headlong rush until he reached the front door and flung it open. A blast of excruciatingly cold air hit him, stinging his face, gnawing through his thin sleeves. Except for a shudder of surprise, he was absolutely still.

All of Moscow was spread before him, in a glittering carpet of gold and white.

The estate was located on a hill near the edge of the city, rising above a sea of shining church domes topped with gold crosses. In between the churches stood houses of wood and stone, their roofs painted with green, blue, red designs. Smoke from thousands of stoves spiraled into the air, mixing with the fresh bite of snow in Nikolas's nostrils. Numbly he watched as flakes the size of down feathers descended gently to the frozen earth. The light covering of snow on the city sparkled in billions of crystalline fragments.

Nikolas's knees shook so violently that he was forced to sit on the ice-laden doorstep. “Am I dead?” he wondered, not realizing he had spoken aloud until Sidarov's sarcastic answer came from behind him.

“No, although you don't look far from it. And you'll certainly catch your death if you sit out here with no coat.” Gently the steward touched his shoulder. “Prince Nikolai, you must come inside now. You've appointed me to look after your household and your personal affairs. I would hardly be worth my wages if I allowed you to become ill. Come, the carriage will be readied soon…and you will go to the bride-choosing, as you wanted.”

Nikolas stood and continued to stare at the city. He felt like weeping in fear and joy, and kissing the hard earth. Russia, his beloved country…yet this Moscow was younger, harsher, than he had ever known it. The dark, primitive forest around the city had not yet been cut back and cleared. The streets were filled with the clamor of carts, animals, peddlers, holy men, and beggars. There were no houses or carriages of modern design. The villages in the distance were sparse and isolated, unlike the thick clusters he remembered.

Perhaps this was just a dream. Perhaps it would end soon. How had he come here? What had happened to Emma and Jacob? Disarmed, uncertain, he followed Sidarov back into the house. The steward produced a coat for him, the same shade of dark blue velvet as the doublet. “Allow me to help you with this, Your Highness.” The heavy garment enfolded Nikolas in warmth, its line of covered buttons extending high on his chest and reaching to mid-thigh. Standing back to view him critically, Sidarov gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Not quite up to your usual glory, but I doubt the prospective bride will be displeased at the sight of you.”

“Whose bride?”

Sidarov laughed, as if Nikolas had just made a joke. “Your bride, Prince Nikolai. Whomever you choose to be your mate.”

“I'm already married.”

The steward began to laugh harder. “I'm glad your sense of humor is back, Your Highness.”

Nikolas didn't smile. “I'm not choosing a bride,” he said, tight-lipped.

Suddenly Sidarov was flustered and upset. “But, Prince Nikolai…you said yourself that it is time for you to marry! You sent envoys to gather beautiful unmarried maidens from every village around Moscow. Now they're all here, waiting for you. Their families have brought them from Suzdal, Vladimir—some from as far away as Kiev and the Ukraine! Are you saying you don't even want to have a look at them?” He stared into Nikolas's pale face and clucked disapprovingly. “It's the wine talking. You hardly know what you're saying. As all Russians do, you require one day to get drunk, one to enjoy it, and one to recover.”

“I'm not enjoying it,” Nikolas muttered, hoping fervently that he was drunk. Stinking, filthy drunk. Maybe when he sobered, this would all be gone. In the meanwhile, there didn't seem to be much he could do about the situation.