Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(89)

Emma approached him hesitantly. “Nikki, I thought I had made it clear to him—”

“He knew he shouldn't have come here alone,” Nikolas said, turning to face her. “He's a willful child, full of curiosity. I should have expected this.”

Emma wondered why he still looked so ashen, and why there was such a haunted look in his eyes. “Well, everything's fine now, thank God. No harm done.”

Nikolas didn't seem to agree with her. He dragged his sleeve over a clammy brow, and pushed back a lock of sweat-dampened hair. “I've never struck a child before.”

Then Emma understood. The episode had reminded him of Misha, his brother, and all the times their father had abused him. “You didn't strike Jake,” she said quietly. “It was a spanking, and a very mild one at that. You did it to make certain he wouldn't put himself in danger again. Jake understood that, Nikolas. You didn't hurt him…” She paused and continued in a very soft tone. “And you're not like your father.”

He was silent, his gaze unfocused, as if he were lost in memories of another time and place.

“It's not easy being a parent, is it?” Emma asked softly. “There are so many things to worry about, things you never expect, and you're tortured by the decisions you try to make for their own good—” She stopped speaking as thoughts of her own father caused a wave of sudden longing and guilt. Lucas Stokehurst had always been a loving, if overprotective, parent, and she had virtually cut him out of her life. She missed him. She was tired of punishing her family and herself—she wanted to make peace with them. “Don't feel guilty,” she murmured, too occupied with her thoughts to notice Nikolas's reply, or if he made one.

That evening, Emma went upstairs to the nursery at eight o'clock. She intended to explain to Jake that although she often referred to Manchu as a beloved pet, he was a dangerous animal, and by no means domesticated as a dog like Samson was. Manchu should be loved but feared, because his nature would always be unpredictable. She felt guilty for not having made that clear enough to Jake before.

As she neared the top step, she heard the boy's sleepy, relaxed voice float through the nursery doorway. “Papa, will you tell me stories even after we hire the nanny?”

“Of course,” came Nikolas's reply. “Although I imagine she'll have some stories of her own to entertain you with.”

“I like the Russian ones best.”

“So do I,” Nikolas said with a smile in his voice. “Now, where were we?”

“Prince Ivan just met the gray wolf.”

“Yes.” The pages of a book rustled. “‘It so happened that this was an enchanted wolf, who knew all about Prince Ivan's search for the magical firebird. “I know where the firebird is,” the wolf cried, and offered to take Ivan there. Climbing onto the wolf's back, Ivan rode swiftly through the night until they reached a garden surrounded with high golden walls. This was the palace of Tsar Afron…’”

Quietly Emma crept away, envisioning Jacob curled up in bed listening to his father's soothing baritone. She felt lonely, unhappy, wanting something she couldn't name. She drank a glass of red wine without tasting it and retired early to bed. Wearing a thin cotton gown, huddled under a pile of blankets, she waited for the icy bed linens to warm. The room was still and dark, voices coming to mock her from the shadows.

She remembered Tasia's appeal: “He's not worthy of anyone's trust, Emma. Nikolas is a dangerous man.”

Her father's quiet anguish: “You can always come back. I'll welcome you with open arms.”

And Nikolas's plea: “I won't hurt you again. Believe in me.”

The memories troubled her for hours, until finally the mist of sleep drifted over her. But there was no respite for her even then. One of the most disturbing dreams of her life seized her with a detail and vividness that chilled her to the bone.

She was in a cold, dark cell with wooden walls, a stone floor, and a tiny rectangular window. Crosses and icons hung on the walls, somber painted faces staring down at her, reflecting her grief. She sobbed desperately as she paced the small room, her dark gown trailing the floor. She knew that Nikolas was suffering, and she couldn't go to him. All she could do was wait here in helpless agony. Two other women—one of them a nun in gray garments—were trying to soothe her, but she shrugged off their gentle hands and turned away from their compassionate faces. “He's dying,” she wept. “He needs me, and he's all alone. I must go to him! I can't bear it, I can't—”

Emma jerked awake with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. The familiar room of her suite was eerily silent. “It was just a dream,” she told herself, wiping at the tears on her face. But for some reason the tears kept coming, and her heart ached as if someone truly had died. She didn't know how to make the pain go away. She slipped out of bed and found herself walking toward Nikolas's suite. Using the long sleeve of her gown to blot her face, she went to the doorway of his bedroom and stood there, a slender ghost hovering uncertainly in the darkness. Moonlight drifted through the window and puddled on the carpeted floor.

“Nikki,” she whispered.

She heard the sheets rustling and Nikolas's groggy voice. “Who is it?…Emma?”

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered. She had never known such desperate grief. Surely he could feel it, like another presence in the room with them.