Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(60)

Emelia stood still, her breath shallow as she watched him with wide eyes. Gently Nikolas removed the diadem from her hair and lifted away the pearl-embroidered veil. He set the articles aside on a small table and returned to her. “Turn around,” he said softly.

She obeyed, and he heard her quick indrawn breath as she felt him grasp the braid that hung down her back. He unplaited the thick red locks, setting the brilliant curls free, and he combed his fingers through the loosened mass. Each movement was slow, careful, although he wanted to throw her on the bed and take her at once. Easing the gold jacket over her shoulders, he dropped it to the floor. He drew her back against him and slid his hands over her front, feeling through the layers of her sarafan for the shape of her body. She gasped, pressing her spine against him, while he cupped her round br**sts until her ni**les hardened from the light caress.

Nikolas was stunned by the trusting way she offered herself to him. He lowered his head over her shoulder, nuzzled his face into her neck, while his heart beat a rhythm of furious need. He let his hand drift over the flat, neat line of her stomach, down to the tantalizing cove between her thighs. Shivering, Emelia leaned harder against him, her breath rushing unsteadily as he pressed his palm over the soft mound, until heat collected between his hand and her body.

Nikolas had always preferred to make love in silence, making the act purely physical rather than an experience of shared emotion. Words said at such a time were too intimate and revealing. But he felt the need to say something to her now, to soothe the tension that had suddenly made her spine rigid. “I'm not going to hurt you, ruyshka.”

“I'm not afraid,” she replied, turning to face him. “It's only that…we don't know each other.”

Don't we? he wanted to reply. I've held you in my arms too many times to count. I know you, Emma. Every inch of your body, every expression on your face. He knew how to manipulate her, how to make her feel pleasure, shame, anger…but did all of that mean he really knew her? The secrets of her heart and mind, the things she dreamed of and hoped for, were a mystery to him.

He stared at the woman before him, fingering a cinnasmon curl that lay over her shoulder. “You're right,” he said quietly. “We're strangers. It's a new beginning for both of us. We'll have to trust each other, kharashó?”

“Yes.” She smiled hesitantly, reaching for his coat with a bashful murmur. He helped her to remove the garment, and pulled his shirt hem free from the narrow breeches. Emboldened, Emelia worked on the tiny jeweled cuff buttons that fastened the billowing shirtsleeves. When the buttons were free, Nikolas pulled the garment over his head, letting it fall to the floor. He steeled himself not to move as her gaze wandered over his bare chest, and he waited for a reaction to his scars.

But there was nothing in Emelia's face save a flash of timid curiosity. She touched his collarbone and the hard curve of muscle beneath, her fingertips like tender spots of fire. “You're a beautiful man,” she whispered.

Surprised by the mockery, for no one with his scars was beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, Nikolas followed her gaze to his chest. All at once he was wrenched with amazement.

There were no scars, nothing but unmarred skin lighted with the gleam of candlelight. Nikolas lifted his shaking hands to his chest. He looked at his wrists, both clean and perfect. “My God,” he said hoarsely, while his legs nearly gave way beneath him. “What's happening to me?”

Emelia retreated a few steps and stared at him in confusion. “Prince Nikolai? Are you ill?”

“Get out,” he said, his voice scratchy.

Her skin lost its color. “What?”

“Get out,” he repeated numbly. “Please. Find another room to sleep in.”

Emelia drew a sharp breath, and wiped at the sudden glitter of tears in her eyes. “What have I done wrong? Do I displease you?”

“It has nothing to do with you. I'm sorry, I…” Nikolas shook his head, unable to speak further. Blindly he turned away from her, waiting until he heard her leave the room. There was a sharp pain in his temples, as if someone were driving nails through his skull. “God,” he whispered, investing a prayer of fear and wonder into the single syllable. He felt for the scars again, and he was shocked anew when his fingers encountered smooth skin. The lash-marks and burns had been a part of him for years. He had stared at them whenever he needed a reminder of the fiendish cruelty people were capable of. How could the scars be gone? The visible proof of the experiences that had shaped him had vanished, and without them, his identity had been stripped away.

Nikolas moved to a nearby chair and sat in a tightly drawn heap. He had never felt so isolated. He was disconnected from everything he had known. There seemed to be no way to return to the life he'd once had. He wasn't even certain he wanted to. He had nothing in that life, no one, and he had deliberately destroyed all chance of a relationship with Emma Stokehurst. What was there to go back to?

Reason returned to him with jarring suddenness. It would have been a tragic mistake to bed Emelia. He would do nothing to risk making her pregnant. He wouldn't lay a finger on her. The Angelovsky line would die with him, and the world would be a far better place.

He thought of Emma Stokehurst waiting in the future, of never marrying her, never having her, and he ignored the coldness in the pit of his stomach.

Staring at the jug of wine, Nikolas thought of making himself drunk. But that wouldn't change anything. At best it would provide a temporary respite, from which he would awaken to face the same problem—what was he to do next?