Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(57)

Emelia struggled free with a burst of energy. Putting a distance of several feet between them, she stared at him and raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and very blue. “Your Highness…have you chosen me? Is that why you've taken me aside like this?”

Nikolas was silent, trying to comprehend what was happening.

Somehow reading an answer in his expression, Emelia gave a little nod, as if something she had long wondered about had just been confirmed. “I thought you would,” she said gravely. “Somehow…I knew if I came to Moscow, you would pick me.”

“How did you know that?” Nikolas asked hoarsely.

“It was just a feeling. I heard the things they say about you, and I thought…I might be a good wife for a man like you.”

Nikolas moved toward her, and she countered with a small backward step. He forced himself to stand still, although he ached to reach for her once again. “What do they say about me?”

“That you are very intelligent and modern. They also say you are in great favor with the tsar because you spent some time in the West and you understand the foreigners. You even shave your face like them.” Emelia stared at the hard line of his jaw with open curiosity. “All the men in my village have beards.” Slowly she approached him, lifting her hand to his face. She stroked the surface of his chin once, twice, her fingertips soft on his skin. A shy smile hovered on her lips. “It's smooth, like a little boy's.”

Nikolas caught her hand and held the palm against his cheek. She was warm, real…too real for this to be a dream. “Emma, look at me. Tell me you've never been with me before. Tell me we've never touched, never kissed. Tell me that you don't know me.”

“I…” She shook her head helplessly, her gaze fixed on his.

He let go of her and prowled through the room in a wide circle, compelling her to turn in order to watch him. “Then who are you?” he asked in a low voice, feeling angry and hollow inside.

“I am Emelia Vasilievna.”

“What about your family?”

“My father is dead. My uncle and brother were taken from the village and sent to work on the new city on the Neva. I couldn't live alone in the village, and I didn't want to marry any of the farmers there.”

“Why not?”

“Most of the men were taken from the village by the tsar, to build Petersburg. The only ones left didn't want to marry me.” Faced with his questioning silence, she continued hesitantly. “My family was unpopular because of my father's political beliefs. But it didn't matter that no one offered for me. They're either too old or too young, and none of them is fit to work. And they're all poor. I wanted more than that.”

“More money?”

“No,” she protested. “I wanted someone to talk to. I wanted to learn things, and find out what the world beyond the forest is like.” She lowered her head and added in embarrassed honesty, “Of course, I wouldn't mind being rich. I think I would like to try it.”

Suddenly Nikolas laughed in a flash of genuine amusement. The comment was so much like Emma, a potent reminder of his wife's charming bluntness. “Well, such open ambition should be rewarded.”

“Your Highness?” she said, clearly perplexed.

Nikolas took a deep breath. “What I meant was, I'll marry you. I'll go along with this for a time. God willing, it will end sooner or later.”

“What will end?”

“The nightmare,” he muttered. “The vision. Whatever you want to call this. It all seems so real that I'm beginning to think I've gone insane. But there's not much I can do about it, is there? I choose you, Emma…Emelia…whoever you are. I'll always choose you, though you may damn me for it later.”

“I don't understand—”

“Never mind.” He extended a hand to her. “Just come with me.”

She hesitated and then reached out for him, her long fingers clinging to his.

Nikolas took her back to the ballroom, where Golorkov and Sidarov and the entire crowd of women waited expectantly. With an extravagant sweep of his hand, Nikolas indicated the blushing woman at his side. “This is my bride,” he said in a sardonic imitation of a pleased bridegroom.

Prince Golorkov applauded. “Excellent choice, Nikolai! What a fine-looking female! Surely she will bear you many healthy sons.”

Nikolas turned to Sidarov and arched a questioning brow. “When's the wedding?”

The inquiry sent Golorkov into a spasm of laughter. “Such wit!”

Sidarov tried to cover his worry with a thin smile. “Tonight, of course. At the Angelovsky house. Unless Your Highness wishes to wait—”

“Tonight it is,” Nikolas said abruptly. “I want to return home now.”

“But our drink…” Golorkov protested.

Nikolas made an attempt at a friendly smile. “If you wouldn't mind sharing one some other time?”

“Whenever you like,” the older man replied, still chuckling.

Nikolas was taken back home in his carriage, with Emelia nestled in the space beside him. Sidarov occupied the opposite seat. Emelia spoke little, except for her refusal to share the fur lap robe with Nikolas.

“I'm not cold,” she said.