Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(83)

Lifting the piece of mesh that covered the pot, Nikolas saw that it had been filled with a half inch of water and a large, flat stone, all for the comfort of a slick olive-colored frog. Nikolas smiled and deftly picked up the frog, whose legs thrashed a few times. “A handsome specimen,” he said, giving it an admiring glance. “Where did you catch him?”

“In the garden pond, yesterday. Emma helped me.”

“I'm not surprised,” Nikolas said wryly, replacing the frog in its temporary home. He would have liked to see his wife splashing in the formal estate garden pond in pursuit of a frog.

“Emma says I have to set him free tonight.”

“You like Emma very much, don't you?”

Jacob nodded, carefully setting a stone on top of the mesh to keep it secured over the pot. He glanced at Nikolas with a troubled expression. “You were sick today. I saw you fall on the floor.”

“I'm all right now,” Nikolas said firmly. “I feel better than I have in a long time.” In the silence that followed, he gazed around the room and shook his head in displeasure. “You need some toys, Jake. Some books and games, not to mention furniture.” He reached over to the trunk and lifted the creaking lid. There were some faded children's books printed in Russian, a box of playing cards, and an old wooden box covered with scars and nicks. A faint smile touched his lips, and he pulled the heavy, rattling box out of the trunk. “I haven't seen this since I was about your age.”

While Jake watched with increasing interest, Nikolas unwound the leather strap that secured the box. Inside were two complete armies of painted metal soldiers, and a lacquered board that unfolded into a battlefield. It was a Crimean War set, complete with cannon, horses, wagons, and a tiny bridge. “These are the English,” Nikolas said, holding up a figure dressed in red, “and the ones in blue are the Russians. My brother, Misha, and I used to play with these. In real life, the English won that particular war, but when Misha and I played, the Russians always triumphed.” He handed the soldier to Jacob. “Now they belong to you.”

Jake carefully examined one figure after another. “Will you play with me?” he asked. “You can be the English.”

Nikolas grinned as he helped his son set up the battlefield in neat rows of men and artillery. He stole frequent glances at the child, filled with pride that Jake was his. He was a handsome boy, his features bold and finely drawn, his eyes shaded with thick black lashes and heavy, winged brows. There was a touch of the exotic about him, a hint of the Tartar ancestor that had given the Angelovskys their stubborn will.

“Jake,” Nikolas said quietly, “there is something important I want to talk to you about.”

The boy paused and looked at him, one small hand clutching a toy horse far too tightly. As if he were afraid of what Nikolas would say.

“I'm sorry about your mother,” Nikolas continued slowly. “I should have told you that before. I know how difficult it is for you. But now that you're here with me, I would like us to spend time together, and come to know each other. And…what I want above all else is for you to live with me from now on.”

“Forever?”

“Yes, forever.”

“You're not going to send me away, then?”

Nikolas swallowed hard. “No, Jake. You're my son.”

“Does that mean I won't be a bastard anymore?”

The word was a cold shock to Nikolas. It filled him with acute remorse…and fury. “Who called you that?”

“The people in the village.”

Nikolas was silent for a moment. He reached out to smooth his son's rumpled black hair with a hand that wasn't quite steady. “That's because I didn't marry your mother. That wasn't your fault, Jake. I should have taken responsibility for you. If anyone calls you a bastard again, you tell them you're an Angelovsky, a Russian prince. You're going to have the finest of everything—education, homes, thoroughbred horses—and damn anyone who says I'm spoiling you.”

Absorbing the speech, the boy stared at him with those unnerving eyes. “Why didn't you come for me?” he asked in a small voice. “Why didn't Mama tell me about you?”

“I…” It took all of Nikolas's strength to meet the child's gaze and answer honestly. “I've made many mistakes in my life, Jake. I've been selfish and bitter, and I've caused everyone around me to suffer. But I promise you, I'll try to be a good father. I'll give you the best of myself…whatever that's worth.”

Emma went for a hard ride one morning, catapulting through the local village and ignoring the startled stares of the people she passed. She knew she was an odd sight: a red-haired virago, an amazon on horseback, racing at top speed as if the devil were chasing her. She didn't care whom she shocked—this was the only way she knew to vent her emotions.

She rode until the horse was tired, and then she headed back to the Angelovsky estate. The exercise had helped, but it had provided only a temporary escape. The fact was, she was living with a stranger. He still looked like Nikolas, gestured and moved and spoke like Nikolas, but no one could deny that he had changed profoundly. She didn't know why, or what had caused it, and the mystery frustrated her to no end. Two weeks had passed since his fainting episode, and he still showed no sign of reverting back to his old self. The servants could barely do their work, their astonishment plain as they witnessed the transformation of their master.