Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(59)

Nikolas lurched to his feet and went to the door, flinging it open. He glared down at the steward, who looked pale and upset. “I'll have no problem telling them,” he sneered. “Show me where they are.”

Sidarov's mouth was as tight as a clam. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The steward led Nikolas to the vast gathering room on the first floor. It had been filled with icons until there was barely an inch of wall space left uncovered. A large table at the back of the room was laden with a mountainous honey cake, dishes of almonds, figs, and other delicacies, and goblets of wine. The group of well-dressed guests, including Prince Golorkov, stood around a black-robed priest and a makeshift altar supporting a massive Bible. Everyone smiled and exclaimed as Nikolas appeared. Briefly he glanced over the assemblage, his gaze centering on Emelia.

His heart sank as he looked at her. She wore a sarafan of cream silk brocade, and a gold jacket that was too short in the sleeves. Some kindly benefactor, perhaps Golorkov and his wife, had given the wedding clothes to her. The pearl-embroidered veil over her hair was held in place by a gold wire diadem with a tiny paste ruby glittering on her forehead. She appeared absolutely calm, except for the bouquet of dried flowers and pink ribbons she held. The flowers were trembling visibly, a few tiny, fragile petals scattering to the floor.

It was that sign of nervousness that was Nikolas's undoing. He couldn't reject Emelia now, in front of these guests. He couldn't abandon her. She stared at him with a faint glint of hope in her blue eyes and the beginnings of a smile on her lips…the same way Emma Stokehurst had once looked at him.

Feeling dazed, Nikolas moved forward and took his place beside her. Amid the encouragement and compliments of the guests, Prince Golorkov moved forward to hand Nikolas a ceremonial silver whip, the symbol of a husband's authority to admonish and discipline his wife. Nikolas shook his head as he saw it.

Golorkov frowned. “But, Nikolai—”

“No,” Nikolas said curtly, turning from Golorkov to Emelia. He stared into her startled blue eyes. “We'll marry as Westerners do. I won't carry a whip.”

Questioning murmurs ran through the crowd, until the priest nodded, his long beard flapping against his chest. “It shall be as the prince commands.”

The priest began the ceremony in a tranquil drone. Nikolas and Emelia were each given a small icon to hold and a bite of salted black bread to eat. The wedding rings, heavy gold pieces that Nikolas vaguely recognized from the ancient Angelovsky collection, were blessed and exchanged. He did not look at Emelia, but concentrated on the ceremony, holding his arm steady as their wrists were bound together with a silk cloth. With great dignity, the priest led them in a small, tight circle around the altar, and unwrapped the wrist binding. Following the priest's indication, Emelia began to kneel on the ground. According to tradition, the bride should rest her forehead on the groom's shoe to show the proper submissiveness.

Realizing what was happening, Nikolas caught Emelia by the elbows and hauled her upright before her knees touched the floor. She gasped in surprise and swayed against him.

“The Western custom is to exchange a kiss,” Nikolas said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “My wife will not be my slave, but my companion and equal partner.”

There was some discomfort and laughter at this, as a few of the guests thought he was making an inappropriate joke. Nikolas didn't smile, only held Emelia's gaze and waited for her reply.

“Yes, Nikolai,” she finally said in a stifled whisper. Her eyes closed as he bent his head and kissed her.

Her lips were soft and innocent, parting beneath the hard pressure of his. Nikolas slid his hands around her neck, his fingers splaying across the warm, silken skin as he gathered her closer. The firm weight of her br**sts touched his chest. A sound of pleasure caught in Nikolas's throat. He wanted her with sudden, terrible desperation, until his groin and his nerves and his very soul ached with it. Somehow he managed to release her. The priest handed them a red wooden bratina cup to drink from, and when that bit of good luck was ensured, the guests applauded the completion of the ceremony.

“Time to celebrate!” someone called, and the assemblage moved as a whole toward the honey cake and the goblets of wine.

Nikolas gazed at his new bride, his blood pumping hard, his fingers flexing as he thought of all the things he wanted to do with her. He was consumed with lust. It didn't matter what her name was. His senses told him this was Emma. Her body, her winsome spirit, and her presence stirred him just as they always had.

Sidarov appeared beside him, giving him a discreet nudge with his elbow. “Your Highness,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, “you may take your bride upstairs now. Is there anything you require?”

Nikolas tore his attention from Emelia long enough to reply. “Privacy,” he said meaningfully. “If anyone comes to my room, I'll kill him. Is that clear?”

“But, Prince Nikolai, according to tradition, the guests have the right to inspect the sheets in two hours—”

“Not according to Western tradition.”

Sidarov nodded, wearing a beleaguered grimace. “It is not easy to be the servant of a modern man. Yes, Your Highness, I'll keep everyone away.”

Nikolas offered Emelia his arm, and she took it at once, bending her head to let the veil hide her fierce blush. A chorus of cheerful farewells followed them as they left the gathering. Conscious of Emelia's nervous grip on his arm, the way she matched her footsteps to his, Nikolas was suffused with hungry anticipation. He wanted her too much to let anyone or anything interfere—it didn't matter what the consequences were. For a few hours the rest of the world would disappear, and he would lose himself in the pleasure of her body. He led her to his bedroom and closed the door. The servants had set out jugs of water and wine, and thick yellow candles that filled the room with amber light.