Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(72)

Nikolas closed the door and went over to her, reaching out to tug gently at a ruddy curl. He smiled down at the top of her head. “You don't really believe in that kind of thing, do you?”

She looked up at him earnestly. “Oh, yes, it always works. Don't the Westerners believe in fortune-telling?”

“Some of them do, I suppose. But more of them believe in science than magic.”

“What do you believe in?”

He fondled the slender line of her throat. “I believe in both.” He drew her away from the table and turned her to face him. “Why are you worried about our fate, child?”

Her gaze moved to the bruise on his face, and she touched it gently with her fingertips. “The tsar doesn't like it that you married me. Everyone knows it.”

His jaw hardened. “Has anyone dared say a word to you—”

“I hear the whispers whenever we go out. I think Menshikov and his friends have made certain to spread the news of who I am. It makes you look very bad, to have a wife such as I.”

“To hell with them all,” he said roughly, and kissed her.

Emelia turned her face away after a few moments. “Sometimes I wish…”

He bent his head to her throat and bestowed a chain of kisses against her skin. “What do you wish, ruyshka?”

“That we could find a way to make the rest of the world disappear. That it could be just the two of us.”

“I can make it disappear,” he murmured, dragging his mouth over hers with soft, intimate friction.

Emelia resisted briefly, and stared at him with worried blue eyes. “I don't ever want to cause trouble. I only want to give you comfort and peace.”

“You give me so much more than that,” Nikolas said, finding the shape of her body beneath the velvet robe. “You make me feel things I never imagined. I love you more than my life, ruyshka.” He clasped his hand around the fullness of her breast, until her breathing changed and she clung to him with a pleading moan. Triumphantly he drew her to the bed, intent on giving her such pleasure that all trace of worry would be banished, if only for a little while.

Aware that Emelia's suspicions concerning Prince Menshikov were probably right, Nikolas began to consider the best way to confront him. Strangely, they met by chance in a bookseller's shop, where most of the learned men in Moscow congregated in the afternoons. Picking up some Russian translations of foreign books, Nikolas became cognizant of a cold sensation, and turned to find Aleksandr Menshikov standing a few feet away.

Menshikov's blue-green eyes held a reptilian flatness as he smiled in greeting. “Good day, Prince Angelovsky. Have you found anything interesting to read?” He gestured to a nearby volume. “I recommend this account of the glorious accomplishments of the tsar.”

Nikolas's gaze didn't move from the other man's face. “I know all I need to on that subject.”

“Perhaps you should read it anyway, to be reminded of Peter's greatness and his formidable will…not to mention all he has done for you and the rest of us. You know, he and I had a conversation about you this very morning.”

“And?” Nikolas prompted, his muscles clenching.

“It seems Peter is disappointed in you. He had such high hopes, but you chose to squander your talents. Such potential you had, and all of it wasted. You wouldn't accept a military appointment, nor would you do your civic duty by taking the governorship of Archangel…and you even decided to marry the daughter of a traitor.”

“Not one word about her,” Nikolas warned softly, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Menshikov continued in a slightly more subdued tone. “Has she told you about her father, Vasily? I've discovered quite a lot about him from our mutual friend, the chief of the Secret Office. Vasily was indeed a strelets soldier, the same kind who schemed against Peter from his birth, and murdered his family. They were supposed to guard his life, and instead they made attempts on it. ‘Begetters of evil,’ the tsar has called them. Your wife's father was known for making masterful speeches about taking over the capital, killing all the boyars, and restoring the tsar's sister Sophia to the throne. Standing in the middle of a crowd with his hair blazing bright red, shouting incendiary words of treason…it led people to call Vasily the red devil. You remember when the Streltsy soldiers marched on Moscow eight years ago? Vasily was a visible and active member of that rebellion. Naturally he was arrested, and he died under torture. But the Streltsy betrayal will never die in the tsar's memory. And every time he sees you and your flamehaired wife, Peter's heart will harden more against you. Emelia is bad for you, politically. If I were you, I'd get rid of her.”

Nikolas couldn't restrain himself any longer. He pounced on the other man and shoved him against the wall, clenching his hands around the bastard's throat. “Maybe I'll just get rid of you.”

The other people in the shop paused to stare at them in astonishment. Menshikov whitened in fear, or anger, or both. “Take your hands off me,” he hissed.

Slowly Nikolas complied. “I've had enough of the gossip and rumors you've worked so hard to spread across Moscow,” he muttered. “If I hear of any more slander being said against me or my wife, I'll make you answer for it.”

Menshikov's lips parted in a jagged smile. “It's too late to repair your reputation, my arrogant friend. Your star has already fallen. You're not in Peter's favor any longer, because you valued your pride and privacy more than you did his affections. It's all a game, don't you see? You refused to play…and now you've been cut out.”