Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(62)

“Such beautiful hair,” she commented, pushing the sodden locks away from his face. “The color of dark honey, except for the light streaks on the top.”

“It's nothing special.” Warily he watched as Emelia pushed the sleeves of her dress to her elbows.

She reached for a slippery cake of soap. “It is good you are not vain.” There was a smile in her voice as she continued. “I think many men with your appearance would be.” She moved behind him, rubbing the soap over his head, then working the lather into his hair. “Close your eyes, please. I don't want the soap to sting them.”

Nikolas leaned back against the wall of the bath as Emelia washed his hair. Her fingers slid over his scalp and the back of his neck, rubbing gently behind his ears. He had always loved her hands, strong and slender and graceful. Suddenly he wanted her so badly he could hardly breathe. If he turned his head, he could reach her breast with his mouth, bite and suck her nipple until it turned hard against his tongue. She would make the feline sound he remembered so well, and arch closer, offering herself to him.

He imagined her na**d in the bath with him, her skin sleek and wet, her hair floating in dark crimson skeins around them. He would pump her up and down on his body, until water sloshed everywhere from the force of their passion—

“That's enough,” he said hoarsely, sitting up straight. “Are you almost finished?”

“Yes, Prince Nikolai.”

He listened as she went to the stove. She returned and rinsed his hair with more hot water, then handed him a dry cloth to blot his streaming face. When he opened his eyes, he noticed her embarrassed but inquisitive gaze focused on the outline of his body beneath the water. A maidenly blush made her cheeks glow. Nikolas was half-afraid he wouldn't be able to control his impulses.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “Find Sidarov now, and tell him I want a shave.”

“Yes, but first, would you like me to—”

“Now,” he repeated gruffly.

Emelia nodded obediently and left, and Nikolas gave a tortured sigh. He sank lower into the water and willed his body to calm down. “I don't know how much of this I can take,” he muttered. He was nearly startled out of his wits when a rumbling laugh echoed through the bathhouse.

“Talking to yourself, Nikolai?”

Nikolas turned and stared at the stranger. He controlled his expression, showing none of the amazement he felt inside.

A man nearly seven feet tall, apparently in his mid-thirties, strode to the tub and surveyed him with hearty amusement. “I just saw your new wife,” the giant informed him. “A beautiful woman, and of good, sturdy stock, like my Catherine. God grant that you made a wise choice, my friend.”

The stranger's face, incongruously small and round for such a large man, was oddly familiar. A shock of straight, fine chestnut hair fell to his narrow shoulders. A tiny mustache adorned his upper lip, but there was no beard to soften the hard, heavy lines of his jaw. His hazel eyes fairly danced with energy, the same restlessness that seemed to permeate his entire frame. He wore Western clothes but spoke Russian in the thick, rolling tones of a native Slav.

“I brought my entourage for a short visit,” the man informed Nikolas. “We're in need of one of your fine suppers and entertainment. Menshikov is back from his command in Poland, and we want to give him an enjoyable time.” The man winked. “We owe my Alexashka a lot after his triumph over the Swedes at the battle of Kalisz. Now, if only you would accept a command, we would win the war at once!”

“I'm not a military man,” Nikolas managed to reply, while his brain worked feverishly. Menshikov…the name of Tsar Peter's closest friend and companion.

The man standing in the bathhouse with him was His Imperial Majesty, Peter the Great.

Eight

T HANKS TO SIDAROV'S timely arrival, Nikolas was spared having to make conversation until he could gather his wits. He sat in the bath, his heart thumping hard while the servant shaved him expertly. Peter, in the meantime, strolled around delivering an energetic monologue to his captive audience.

Nikolas was both appalled and fascinated. He had always admired Tsar Peter's accomplishments. He had read in his school books about Peter creating the powerful Russian navy, leading the country to victory in a twenty-year war with the Swedes, and building the magnificent city of St. Petersburg. It had taken a mixture of genius and savage will to do all that, and both qualities were evident in the man standing before him.

The tsar spoke at length about the war, the over-confidence of Charles, the Swedish king, and the success of the recent Russian “scorched earth” policy. “The stubborn fools try to press onward through Poland, even though they can't supply their troops with food,” Peter said with a grim smile. “They won't last long, the stupid Swedes. They'll have to cut their losses soon, or the winter will destroy them.”

“Charles will probably march northeast,” Nikolas commented, trying to remember the military history he had studied in his boyhood. “He'll try to outflank your defenses at Warsaw and advance to Lithuania—” His voice was temporarily muffled by the fresh towel Sidarov applied to his face.

“He would never make it past all the rivers and swamps,” Peter scoffed. “And even if he did, we would stop him at the border town of Grodno.”