Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(68)

Emelia came toward him quickly. “Nikolai,” she said in a choked voice. She wore the blank, wide-eyed look of a terrified doe. “You must punish me. I angered the tsar, and now his wrath will fall on you. Here—take this whip—I must be disciplined. Please, I can't bear knowing what I've done—”

“Wait,” Nikolas said, interrupting her babble. He saw the gleam of the silver whip handle, and motioned for her to put it aside. “I want to ask you some questions—”

“Here, take it,” she insisted.

“Christ, I'm not going to beat you!” He pulled the whip from her grasp and sent it whistling to a corner of the room, where it hit with a solid thud. As he faced his trembling wife and saw the trails of tears that fell from her unblinking eyes, his anger vanished in one startling moment. He cursed himself for being so easily undone.

“But you must,” Emelia whispered.

“I'll be damned if I must do anything!”

“Please…” She bowed her head and shuddered.

Unable to help himself, Nikolas reached out and drew his wife's slender body against his. “Just tell me the truth,” he said, his lips on her flowing hair. “Was your father a strelets rebel?”

She began to cry violently then, gasping out words in an incoherent torrent. “Yes…he was hanged…my mother died of grief…couldn't tell you…I wanted…to be your wife, and if you knew…”

“If I had known, I wouldn't have married you,” he finished for her.

“Please punish me,” she begged.

“You little fool,” he said harshly, and pulled her closer in an effort to soothe her. He stroked her shaking back. “How in God's name do you think I could leave a mark on you? How could I cause you pain with my own hands? Oh, don't think it's not tempting, my clever one. But even if I tried, I could never lift a finger against you.”

“Because I'm your wife?” she asked tremulously.

“Because you're mine. You're the only one I've ever wanted, no matter that you'll probably be my downfall. Now stop crying—it's not going to solve anything.”

“I c-can't,” she sobbed against his neck.

“Stop it,” Nikolas said, driven to desperation. He pushed aside the curtain of her red curls and found her wet cheek with his lips. The taste of her tears, the trace of salt on silk, made him dizzy. He moved to the corner of her mouth, the trembling curve of her lower lip, the hint of sleekness inside. He kissed her gently, then harder, harder, until his tongue pushed past the edges of her teeth and he had her in full, deep possession. Her crying ceased magically, and she pressed her body to his. She was so warm, so sweetly compelling, that his desire raced out of control, and he could have taken her right then. Instead he ripped himself away with a tortured groan and strode to the fireplace. He stared into the crackling flames as he fought for composure.

“I can't do this,” he said tersely.

Emelia stood unmoving behind him. “Why?” she asked on a little gasp of air.

The notion of explaining to her, and the spectacle he would present, made him laugh sardonically. “There's no way I could make you understand. God, the things I could tell you…you'd never believe.”

“I might,” she said with impossible hope, her voice a little closer than before.

“Oh?” His laughter ended on a savage note. “What if I told you that I could see into the future? What if I claimed that we'll meet again, a hundred and seventy years from now?”

She replied after a long hesitation. “I could believe that…I think.”

“It's the truth. I know exactly what the future holds. Nothing good can come of our marriage, nothing of any value. The Angelovskys are a corrupt stock. Knowing the pain and misery they'll cause over the next few generations, for themselves and others, I can't let that future happen again. There won't be any children from our marriage because I can't allow the family line to continue.”

Emelia sounded bewildered. “If you feel this way, then why did you marry me?”

He shook his head and cursed softly. “I don't know. I can't help being drawn to you.”

“It's fate,” she said simply.

“I don't know what it is,” he muttered. “But it's no damn good.” He picked up a fireplace poker and jabbed viciously at a burning log.

“Nikki,” she asked, “will there be love between us when we meet again in the future?”

He turned sharply at the use of his nickname. She looked confused and frightened, her eyes filled with a yearning softness that shook him down to the bone.

“No,” he replied, setting aside the poker. “In the future you'll hate me for taking away everything you cherish. I'll end up hurting you, time and time again.”

“No harm can come of loving someone,” she whispered. “I don't know very much, but I'm certain of that.”

“I don't know how to love,” he said, his voice thick with self-hatred. “I've never known. And I'm not worthy of it. Trust me.”

Fresh tears glittered in her blue eyes. “I could love you. You wouldn't even have to love me back.”

“No.” It was all he could say, staring at her flushed, emotion-filled face.