Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(90)

“Tell me,” he said.

“You were dying…you wanted me, but I couldn't come to you. I was in a convent room, and they wouldn't let me leave.”

He made no reply to that. Inexplicably, he murmured her name in Russian.

Struggling with tears and words, Emma was silent for several moments. Then the anguished questions, born of weeks of frustration and yearning, burst forth. “Why have you changed so much? What happened to you on the day you fainted in front of the portrait?”

Finally she had asked. Nikolas couldn't speak at first, filled with such eagerness and desire that he knew his explanation would come out in an incomprehensible stutter. In the back of his mind he had rehearsed hundreds of ways to tell her, searching for the right words to make her accept, believe…but it seemed hopeless. How could she understand when even he didn't?

His voice was nearly inaudible as he replied. “During the hour I was unconscious, I dreamed I was in Russia. I dreamed that I was my ancestor Nikolai.”

“Nikolai,” she repeated hesitantly. “The one who chose his wife from among the five hundred maidens?”

“How did you know that?” he asked with sudden intensity.

“Rashel Sidarova told me the story. How Nikolai married one of the maidens—”

“Yes. It was all there in the dream. You were the bride. Your name was Emelia Vasilievna, and I fell in love with you.”

“What happened then?” she asked uneasily.

“We were together only a short time before I was imprisoned on suspicion of treason. To escape the same fate, you went to the Novodevichy Convent, where you bore my child. I don't know what happened to you after that.” He added quietly, “I'm trying to find out.”

She was stunned by his tone, so absurdly matter-of-fact. “My God…you believe it really happened, don't you? You think it was more than a dream.”

“It was real.”

His admission startled her. She put her hand up to her mouth, holding back a frightened, incredulous laugh. “You're talking like a madman!”

“I loved you a hundred and seventy years ago. Now I've found you again.”

She began to tremble in confusion. “No.”

“Don't be afraid,” he said softly.

“This doesn't make sense!”

“Why did you dream you were in a convent, Emelia?”

“Don't call me that! It was just a coincidence!” She breathed rapidly, fear pulsing through her body. “This isn't like you, Nikki. You've always been rational above all else. To hear you spinning such a story and claiming it's real…you must be trying to scare the wits out of me! It's not going to work—”

“It's the truth.”

Emma saw him rise from the bed and come to her, his lean body touched with the intimate gleams and shadows of nakedness. Although she tried to flee, her feet wouldn't obey, and she stood there in frozen bewilderment.

His hard, hot arms slid around her, one hand pushing beneath her hair to grip the back of her neck. She flinched and gasped, her body shaking. “I don't believe you,” she whispered. “I don't believe in your dream.”

Nikolas was overwhelmed with the relief of being able to tell Emma. The scent and nearness of her, the things he needed to communicate to her, came over him in rush. He had to have her now. He spoke to her in Russian, soft, guttural words she didn't understand.

“What are you saying?” she pleaded.

He translated for her, his breath burning the skin of her neck. “I don't care if you believe me. I want you in my bed tonight. I want to be inside you, and feel your arms and legs around me.”

Emma arched away from him, but his strength was so much greater, his muscles tight with determination. “I want you,” he said, his accent thicker than usual. “I want to make love to my wife.”

She felt his mouth on her br**sts, heat blazing through the fragile fabric of her gown. He found her ni**les, biting and sucking the hard points until she stopped struggling and moaned in protesting pleasure. His hand slid between her thighs, caressing the soft cove through the thin cotton layer that covered her. “Emma,” he groaned, pressing her hard against his engorged flesh, his fingers clenched into her bu**ocks.

“Yes,” she whispered, consent and desire tangling inside her.

Nikolas took her to the bed and bent her over it, snatching feverishly at the hem of her gown. She turned her face into the tangle of linens and spread her thighs as she felt him settle over her. He pushed against her in aggressive seeking and made a sound of pleasure when her body contained and shielded him, drawing him deep inside the dark sweetness. He impaled her strongly, answering the backward push of her h*ps in a rhythm that drove her to a wrenching cl**ax. She sobbed and held still for him, shivering with delight as she felt him flood her with his seed.

Slowly they curled together on the bed, weaklimbed and exhausted. Emma felt the warmth of him all along her back, his legs tucked beneath hers, his arm beneath her neck. Small aftershocks still rippled through her. It was a long time before she spoke in a thin whisper.

“I'm afraid.”

“Why, dushenka?”

“What does that mean?”

“My little soul,” he answered readily, smoothing her wild hair. “Why afraid?”