Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(76)

Her fingers curled into the thick amber velvet of his coat, clinging desperately. “Just once more,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Please…it's all I can have of you.”

“Emelia,” he began with a shake of his head, but as he stared into her eyes, his will crumbled and he crushed her lips with his own. She rose eagerly into the bruising pressure, her hands searching over his back and hips. The puffs of her breath struck his cheek in rapid succession.

Nikolas broke the kiss and undressed her with fumbling haste, ripping the fastenings that wouldn't give way quickly enough. The corset was undone, and Emelia gasped in relief, rubbing her palms over the red marks the stays had left. As Nikolas removed his own clothes, Emelia helped to lift the billowing white shirt over his head. Her mouth lowered to the smooth plane of his chest, and she kissed and licked the hollow of his throat, until Nikolas pulled her to the bed impatiently. He pulled the pins and ornaments from Emelia's hair, so that it fell over him in fiery waves.

The minutes ticked by relentlessly while they touched and kissed with frantic intensity. There was no need for words, no thought between them but the shared determination to banish the world for as long as they could. Nikolas warmed Emelia's cool skin with his hands, sliding his palms from her ribs to her slim waist. She lifted her body in encouragement, while her eyes half-closed in anticipation. He was hard with his fierce need of her, aware of each pulse of blood as it coursed through his stiff flesh. When his nerves had been aroused to stinging readiness, he gripped her h*ps and sank into her. Warmth and moisture surrounded him in gentle welcome. He pushed forward in shallow strokes, then deepened his entry until he had pushed as far as possible.

Nikolas held still, his face close to hers, their gazes locked until he was lost in a sea of shimmering blue. “My redheaded wife…you've given me the only happiness I've ever known.” His throat tightened with grief and yearning. “Promise me that if we meet again, you'll remember me.”

“How could I not know you?” she asked faintly.

He moved inside her, a rhythm of small strokes that made her moan in pleasure. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Nikki…always.” Emelia pressed the words against his throat, his jaw, his mouth, repeating them until the storm quickened and broke in passionate fury. She sobbed against his throat, yielding to the final burst of sensation, pulling Nikolas deeper with her arms and legs until he could no longer hold back his own wrenching cl**ax.

Nikolas wanted to sleep in her arms, abandoning himself to the bliss of unconsciousness. Instead he forced his tired limbs to move, lifting away from her, drawing out of the peaceful cocoon of the bed. He shivered in the cold air of the room and dressed quickly. Emelia was quiet, her gaze following his every movement. Rummaging through the armoire, Nikolas found an array of Emelia's gowns, and he chose a simple dark velvet with a high neck and long sleeves.

Her dull voice came from the bed. “Must I wear a habit when I'm at the convent?”

Nikolas couldn't help smiling. “God, no.” He brought the dress to the bed and draped it over the rumpled covers. He paused to cast an admiring glance at her tousled form. She was a tangle of long limbs and a decadent mass of red hair, a delectable witch with a mouth that would entice a priest to sin. “There's no way you could ever look like a nun, ruyshka, no matter how you were dressed.”

She sat up, holding the covers to her br**sts. “What will happen to you?” she asked quietly.

Nikolas was silent, not knowing what to tell her.

“They'll kill you, won't they?” she said. “You're going to sacrifice yourself, because of what I've said and what I am—”

“No,” he said swiftly, sitting on the bed and gathering her na**d body in his arms. “Whatever happens, it isn't because of you. I made a lifetime's worth of mistakes before I met you.”

“I can't bear it.” Her hands knotted in his shirt. “I won't let you die for my sake.” Her tears splashed on his doublet, making dark splotches on the fine, soft wool.

“If it came to that, I would die a thousand times for you,” he whispered. “It's so much easier than being the one left behind.”

“Please let me stay with you,” she begged, trying to hold him as he pulled away.

Nikolas gestured to the dress and went to the tile stove, which gave off only a feeble heat. Plastering his hands against the lukewarm surface, he spoke gruffly over his shoulder. “Get dressed, Emelia. There isn't much time.”

He was businesslike as he helped her stuff a small bag full of clothes and personal articles. Glancing out the small, thick-paned windows of the bedroom, he saw that their sleigh had been prepared and brought to the front of the house, its runners leaving narrow grooves in the snow-covered ground.

He turned toward Emelia. She was wearing the white lace shawl he had given her. Light and exquisite, it covered her hair and left part of her face shadowed, so that all he could see was the gleam of her eyes and the beseeching tremble of her lips. Nikolas was struck by the fact that this one woman could haunt him from one lifetime to another. A hundred images of her flashed through his mind: Emelia, wrapping her long legs around him in bed, romping through the snow like a street urchin, sitting in the bath with her hair dark and wet…and as Emma, with all her beguiling smiles and explosive arguments, dancing with him, coming in from her chores dressed in a man's shirt and trousers. He loved her in any guise. And he had lost her twice.