Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(82)

“The devil you are!”

“I won't let you go. I need you too much.”

He had never been like this before, direct and shockingly sincere, his emotions unveiled. It was far more threatening than his customary insouciance. “You don't need anyone,” she managed to say.

“That's not true. Look closer, Emma. Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

She couldn't obey. She was too afraid of what she might see in his eyes. Ducking her head, she shouldered her way past him and fled. He let her go, thank God, although she felt his hot gaze trained on her until she reached the end of the hallway and disappeared from sight.

Nikolas remained alone for a few minutes. He wanted a drink, something sharp and bracing, but he would not have one. There would be no more pleasantly soothing numbness, no inviting alcoholic blanket over his emotions. He needed clarity. He hated the bleak existence he had fashioned for himself, and he couldn't stand the hostility in Emma's face. If only she could give him the understanding and trust that she had bestowed so long ago. He must find a way to make her love him once more.

“Emelia,” he whispered, yearning to know what had happened to his wife. Had she suffered after his death? Had she found some source of comfort? Had there been another man for her? The thought filled him with fury and jealousy. He needed to know what had become of her, or the unanswered questions would drive him mad. He went to the library and fumbled through old books and records, scavenging what scraps of information he could find. There was nothing about the fate of Emelia Vasilievna, and precious little about their son, Alexei.

It was written in one family volume that the young man Alexei Angelovsky had appeared suddenly in Moscow after a childhood spent in seclusion in a village east of Kiev. Apparently he had led a good life, amassing land and wealth for the family. He was helped in these endeavors by a long-lasting affair with Empress Elizabeth. Prince Alexei was known as a charming and cultured man, a patron of the arts who played the violin. He had married eventually and produced two children, both of them surviving into adulthood. But what of his mother? What had happened to Emelia?

Nikolas shoved the pile of books aside with a curse. He would hire a historian to find out, and send him to Russia with a troop of translators, if necessary. He rested his arms on the library desk and dug his fingers into his thick hair. Perhaps he had gone mad, to search so desperately for the history of a woman who had lived a century and a half ago. Had it really happened? Was the scratch on the Elijah icon a coincidence? Perhaps his tormented mind was conjuring fantasies in order to keep from focusing on the wreck he had made of his life.

Springing up suddenly, he headed upstairs to the nursery. He needed to see Jacob, to make things right with his son. God grant that the boy would forgive him for abandoning him. Nikolas's feet slowed on the stairs, and he came to a halting stop. He forced himself to admit the truth—that he was afraid of his own son. He hadn't the vaguest idea of how to be a father. His own father had been an abusive brute. His memories of childhood were so pain-ridden and bleak that he had no wish to see reminders of it in the eyes of his own child. He didn't want to hurt Jacob, and yet he already had. “I've denied and neglected him,” Nikolas muttered. “God knows a parent can't do worse than that.”

How should he talk to the boy? How could he make Jacob understand that he could depend on him as a father? Now it seemed incredible that he had actually planned to send the child away. He hadn't let himself care about Jacob then, but now he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to take care of the boy, to give him everything his heart desired. There were so many delights in the world to show him. The sprawling estate in the south, where they could build sand castles and collect shells on the beach. Or his castle in Ireland, where they could ride across the moors, eat picnic lunches, and fish and swim in the river. He would take Jacob sailing on one of his yachts, or hunting at one of his estates in the country.

I could have done all that for him already, Nikolas thought wretchedly. I could have given him a good life, and instead I turned my back on him. He continued up the stairs and reached the nursery. Hesitating at the door, which was ajar, he tapped on the panel before entering.

Jacob was sitting on the bare floor, surrounded by odds and ends: a pot from the kitchen, an assortment of stones, a tree branch, and a piece of wood carved in the shape of a bear. Nikolas recognized the wooden figure as the handiwork of his carriage driver, who was fond of whittling in his spare time. The thought that one of his servants had provided a toy for his son, when he had given him nothing, wrenched Nikolas's heart. He glanced around the nursery, which had long been in disuse. Except for a small bed, an old trunk, and a dusty, antique rocking horse, the room was painfully empty.

Jacob stared at him curiously, with eyes exactly like his own.

He reminds me of Misha, Nikolas thought in a flash of agony, but somehow he managed to smile. “Hello, Jake,” he said quietly. “I thought I would visit you up here. Is that all right?”

The boy nodded and began to play with his wooden bear.

“Did you know the bear is the Russians' favorite animal?” Nikolas remarked, sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor. “We used to worship the bear as a god. There is a superstition that the presence of a bear drives away all evil spirits.”

Jacob stared at the carved animal in his hands, then reached over to nudge the pot nearer to Nikolas. “What about frogs?”