Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(79)

“Love,” Nikolas whispered, laying his head on the floor. “That's what I chose.”

The delirium claimed him again, mercifully before anyone came to interrogate him. He was so cold, his body stiff and frozen. None of the dream figures that wandered through his cell took notice of his pleas for a coat, a blanket, a small fire to warm his hands and feet. He thought of his wife, the way her sleek limbs would twine around him, the fiery red sheaves of her hair. “Emelia, I'm cold,” he tried to say, but she was gone, unable to hear him, and he began to shudder so violently that he feared his bones would begin to rattle against the hard stone floor. Figures from the Russian tales of his childhood crept through his cell—ogres, enchanted swans, witches, a firebird flaunting its feathers of red and gold. And then the bird changed to Emma, her face surrounded by the brilliant cinnamon glory of her hair. Nikolas reached out for her, but she shrank from his touch.

“Emma, don't leave,” he gasped, but she didn't want him. She drifted away, while he pleaded for her to come to him. “Emma…I need you.” Time went spinning outside his reach, and his life began to ebb away. He felt the darkness cover him, drowning every thought and memory in its fathomless depths.

PART IV

When the clock's unhurried finger

Rounds its beat and strikes adieu

Bidding strangers not to linger,

Midnight will not part us two.

—PUSHKIN

Ten

1877 London

“NIKKI? NIKKI, OPEN your eyes.”

He mumbled a protest, wanting to sink back into the comfortable darkness. But the voice, so anxious and impatient, pulled him out of the deep sleep. Frowning, he rubbed his eyes and opened them to narrow slits. He was stretched out on a bed, and his wife was seated on the edge of it.

He was alive…and she was there, as vivid and beautiful as ever. “Emelia,” he breathed, struggling to sit up. Questions collided on his tongue, and he began to talk in a rush.

“Not so quickly! Relax for a minute.” Emma leaned over and covered his lips with her fingers, looking at him oddly. “You're speaking in Russian. You know I barely understand a word of it.”

He fell silent, bewildered, while he tried to think in English. “I thought I would never see you again,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.

“I was beginning to have doubts myself,” Emma replied dryly. “At first I thought you might be shamming, until I splashed cold water on your face. When that didn't revive you, I sent for the doctor. He hasn't arrived yet.” She leaned over and laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Are you all right? Does your head hurt?”

Nikolas couldn't answer. All his attention was riveted on her. He was filled with frantic impulses—he wanted to snatch her in his arms and pour out his soul to her, but she would think he'd gone insane. The effort of holding still, of not reaching out to her, made his eyes sting and water.

Slowly Emma withdrew her hand. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Nikolas tore his gaze from her and cast it over his surroundings. His bedroom was the same as always, the dark wood furniture adorned with scrollwork, the mahogany panels on the walls.

Robert Soames was standing nearby, his lean face drawn with concern. He smiled at Nikolas. “We've certainly been worried about you, Your Highness.”

Blinking in confusion, Nikolas returned his attention to Emma. “What happened?”

Emma shrugged. “All I know is that you were looking at the painting Soames had restored—which bears a remarkable resemblance to you, by the way—and you turned ghastly white and fell unconscious. Mr. Soames was kind enough to assist me and the servants in carrying you upstairs. You've been insensible for at least an hour.”

“An hour,” Nikolas repeated numbly. Looking down at himself, he saw that his shirt had been unbuttoned halfway to his waist.

“You weren't breathing very well,” Emma said in explanation, a blush staining her cheeks.

Nikolas spread his hands over his chest, feeling the faint, familiar ridges of healed wounds, rubbing to assure himself they were real. Robert Soames turned away, clearly uncomfortable with the sight of the scars. “Perhaps I should allow you a few moments of privacy,” the artist said, retreating from the room.

“There's no need—” Emma began, then rolled her eyes as Soames left. A bitter smile touched her lips. “As if you and I would need privacy,” she muttered.

Nikolas's head was filled with a cacophony of pictures and words, the past and the present still jumbled in his mind. Overwhelmed with love and need, he reached for Emma. She jerked away sharply. “Don't touch me,” she said in a low voice, standing up. “Now that I know you're all right, you can wait for the doctor by yourself. I have things to do. Would you like a glass of water before I go?”

She poured from a china pitcher, and gave him a crystal goblet. Their fingers touched briefly, and Nikolas felt the warm shock of it all through his body. He drank thirstily, gulping the cool water and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“You don't seem quite yourself,” Emma remarked. “Perhaps all your vodka-drinking is catching up with you. At the pace you've been going, I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner…” Her voice faded as she saw Nikolas staring with hypnotic fascination at the icon on the wall. “What is it? What's going on?”