Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(67)

Menshikov twitched as if stung, and Peter laughed uproariously. “You asked for that, Alexashska,” he said, still chuckling. “You should know by now not to provoke Nikolai. He's a sleeping tiger. Best not to awaken him.”

“We can't all be born aristocrats like the Angelovskys,” Menshikov muttered. “How fortunate for Russia that the tsar believes in rewarding a man for his own merits and not because of his noble blood!”

“All I ask is that my people give me loyalty and ardent service,” Peter replied. “In this way a peasant may prove himself to be far more noble than a prince.” As he followed Nikolas's gaze, Peter's attention alighted on Emelia. “What village are you from, child?”

It was a common question, a courtesy that most Russians exchanged in order to show polite interest. The effect on Emelia, however, was unexpected. She turned very pale, and a clammy sheen appeared on her forehead. Her silence drew out to an almost unbearable degree, until Nikolas thought she might not answer.

Her reply was barely audible. “I…it's…Preobrazhenskoe.”

Peter was still, except for the odd tic that began in his left cheek.

What the hell does that mean? Nikolas thought in worry, before he suddenly realized that Preobrazhenskoe was the site where many bloodthirsty uprisings had begun. It was the home of the Streltsy rebels, who had been responsible for the death of most of Peter's family when he was a child. They had murdered his relatives right before his eyes. The trauma had caused him the lifelong affliction of occasional seizures on the left side of his face and neck. After the second Streltsy rebellion at Preobrazhenskoe, grisly mass executions had been held there until the ground was blood-soaked for miles around. Nothing could guarantee a more negative reaction from Peter than the mere mention of that village.

Menshikov eyed Emelia with barely subdued glee. “And is your family all from Preobrazhenskoe, my dear?” he asked in a delicately malicious tone.

“Yes,” she whispered, keeping her face down. She was the very picture of guilt.

A new realization hit Nikolas like a brick between the eyes. He remembered bits of the conversation they had had at the Golorkov mansion, her reluctant answers to his questions…

“My father is dead…my family was unpopular because of my father's political beliefs…”

Her father had probably been executed for being a strelets rebel.

Struggling to cope with the new information, Nikolas was only half-aware of the scene unfolding before him.

Peter's face was grim as he moved to alter the course of conversation. “Enough talk for now,” he commanded. “Everyone eat!” He cast a stern glance at Emelia. “No wonder you are skinny—there is scarcely a mouthful of food on your plate. And not one scrap of meat!”

“I-I don't like it,” Emelia faltered.

Peter's expression darkened. “Not like meat? Foolish girl—no one can live without eating flesh.” He picked up a slice of chicken with his huge fingers and tossed it to her plate, where it landed with a splatter. “Here—food from my own hand. Eat it now!”

Emelia took a fork in her trembling fingers while the attention of the entire table focused on her. She picked up a glistening sliver of chicken and regarded it with a sickly expression.

Nikolas watched her with dawning understanding. Emelia was exactly as she would be in the future, with all the same instinctive likes and dislikes. Eating meat went against her very nature. He couldn't let her be abused this way, especially when it would likely result in her throwing up all over the table. He intervened quietly. “Batushka, I will send my disobedient wife to her room, where she may go without supper and contemplate her foolishness.”

Peter pointed to the chicken. “Not until she eats that.”

Nikolas glanced at Emelia. She was lifting the bite of meat to her lips. Her face had turned pale green. He knew she wouldn't be able to hold it down. “Go,” he snapped.

Emelia threw him a glance of misery and gratitude, and raced from the room in a defeated flurry.

Six hours later, Nikolas ascended the stairs with a weary tread. His entire body was tense with anger, frustration, and a strong feeling of betrayal. It had been a hellish evening. After Emelia had left, Peter's foul mood had poisoned every attempt at conversation. Menshikov had encouraged him with a constant flow of sly whispers and insinuations, while the guests were torn between scandalous delight and uneasiness. Clearly Peter didn't like Nikolas's choice of a bride. Nikolas was well on the way to agreeing with him. After everyone had guzzled bottle after bottle of wine and vodka, Peter and his entourage had left for the night. And finally Nikolas was free to deal with his deceitful wife.

Perfect, he thought savagely. All I need in this damned slippery situation is to be saddled with a woman whose family was involved in plots to overthrow the tsar. He could hardly wait to reach Emelia's room and unleash his anger on her. He was going to make her admit that her father was a strelets, and then he was going to make her eternally sorry for having tricked him into marrying her. She must have known that he never would have endangered himself by choosing the daughter of a traitor. Now the shadow of suspicion had been extended to Nikolas, and from now on his every step would be watched carefully.

Reaching Emelia's chamber, Nikolas let himself inside and closed the door with exquisite care. The red-and-yellow glow from the fireplace was the only light in the room. He could barely make out Emelia's huddled shape by the bed. She appeared to be praying. Good, he sneered inwardly, you'll need a hell of a lot of prayer before I'm through with you. “We're going to have a talk,” he said, his voice taut with fury.