A shadow moved behind her. Tasia's smile faded as a chill swept over her skin. She stood there surrounded by reflections within reflections, flags of red and ivory, dozens of wide, staring eyes. Her own eyes. A dark form moved in and out of the images, coming closer. It couldn't be real…but suddenly she was frightened. Her ears rang with a high-pitched tone. She was paralyzed, trapped inside the kaleidoscope, while her lungs labored to draw in enough air…not enough air…
There was a touch at her elbow. A man turned her to face him. She stared into Mikhail Angelovsky's grinning death-face, his yellow eyes locked with hers. Blood streamed from his throat and lips as he mouthed her name. “Tasia…”
She gave a sharp cry and twisted in his hold. Somewhere in the careening room, there was a third presence. They formed a macabre triangle of death, the three of them trapped in a room of red and gold, the scene repeating over and over…Tasia covered her face with her hands. “No,” she whimpered. “Go away, go away—”
“Look at me, Tasia.”
It was her husband's voice she heard. Her body gave a jerk, as if she had been touched by an electric current. Trembling, she looked up at him. The noise in her ears receded.
Luke was there, holding her. His face was pale beneath its bronze tan, his eyes piercing blue. She kept her gaze on him, terrified that if she looked away he might disappear, and Misha would come back. She must be going mad. She had mistaken her husband for a ghost. All at once the thought struck her as funny, and she began to laugh helplessly, the sound spilling from her lips. Luke didn't share her amusement. He continued to stare at her with a serious expression that made her realize how unbalanced she must seem. Somehow she managed to stop laughing. She used her sleeve to wipe the stray tears from her eyes.
“I remembered Mikhail,” she said hoarsely. “It happened all over again. I saw everything. There was a knife in his throat, a-and blood gushing, and he wouldn't go away, he was holding me—”
Luke murmured quietly and tried to bring her close against his body, but she resisted. “Th-there was another man in the room,” she said. “Someone else was there. I didn't remember it until now.”
He stared at her intently. “Who? A servant? A friend of Mikhail's?”
Tasia gave a frantic shake of her head. “I don't know. But he was there during all of it. He was part of it, I'm sure—” She broke off as the door opened.
Gaby stood there with a confused expression. “My lady?” the girl asked. “I thought I heard a scream.”
“I'm afraid I startled my wife,” Luke said. “Allow us a few minutes of privacy.”
“Yes, my lord.” Abashed. Gaby withdrew with a murmured apology.
Luke returned his gaze to Tasia. “Do you remember what he looked like, this other man?”
“I-I'm not sure.” Tasia bit her lip, trying to control her emotions. “I don't want to think about him—”
“Was he old or young? Dark or fair? Try to remember.”
Closing her eyes, Tasia took a shivering breath and struggled to make the shadowy image clear in her mind. “Old…and tall. I'm not sure about anything else.” She felt cold and sick, to the marrow of her bones. “I can't do this,” she whispered.
“All right.” Luke folded her against his broad chest and bent his head over hers. “Don't be afraid,” he murmured. “No harm will come of knowing the truth, no matter what it is.”
“If I'm guilty—”
“I don't care what you've done.”
“But I care.” Her voice was muffled in his coat. “I'll never escape it. I'll never be able to live with myself, knowing—”
“Hush.” Luke hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe. “Whatever happened in that room with Angelovsky…someday you'll remember it all, every detail, and then you're going to let it go. I'll be there to help you.”
“But you won't be able to stop Nikolas—”
“I'll deal with Nikolas. I'll make everything all right.”
Tasia tried to tell him that he couldn't, it wasn't possible, but he crushed his mouth on hers, his kiss hard, deep, a determined invasion. She didn't fight him. She relaxed into his hold, her arms lifting to encircle his neck. Luke's mouth gentled at the gesture of willingness, and the kiss ripened into exquisite tenderness. Tasia was flushed and aroused by the time he lifted his head. His mouth touched the edge of her ear and the pale curve of her neck above the white lace collar. Half-opening her eyes, Tasia caught sight of them standing together, her red-and-cream form locked against his dark one. She twitched in reaction.
“I should like to leave this room,” she said, her voice unsteady. “All these mirrors…”
“You don't like mirrors?” he asked.
“Not this many.”
Luke glanced at their surroundings with a wry smile. “I rather like seeing twenty of you at once.” As he looked back at her face and read the signs of strain, his expression became unfathomable. “We'll go home now,” he said.
Yes, she wanted to find a dark room and crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head, and not think or feel. But she wouldn't let herself. She wouldn't indulge the guilt, the fear—or lunacy—whatever it was that inspired the macabre vision of Mikhail. “I would like to continue shopping,” she said.
“I think you've had enough excitement for one day.”
“You promised we would visit Harrods this afternoon.” Tasia pushed her lower lip into a small pout, knowing it would distract him. As she had intended, he was charmed into agreeing.
“Anything,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Whatever pleases you.”
Tasia recovered her good spirits as they went to see the accumulation of wares at Harrods, the well-known department store on Brompton Road. Every time she stopped to admire something—a clock, a tray, a tiny hat adorned with bird-of-paradise feathers, a painted tin of comfits that Emma would like—Luke would gesture for a waiting attendant to have it packaged and sent to the carriage.
Tasia refused when he urged her to purchase yet another item she fancied. “We've bought too much already.”
Luke was amused. “I didn't think the heiress to a great fortune would be so afraid of spending money.”
“I couldn't buy anything without my mother's permission. And she didn't like to walk on public streets—she said it made her feet ache. She had the merchants and jewelers come to the palace with their goods. I've never been shopping like this.”
Luke laughed and toyed with the frill of lace at her throat. The nearby attendant cleared his throat and pointedly looked away from the display of intimacy. “Spend as much as you like, sweet,” Luke murmured. “You have a long way to go before you come close to costing what a mistress does.”
Tasia hoped no one had overheard him. “My lord,” she whispered reprovingly, and he grinned.
“You have no idea what your presence in my bed is worth. I advise you to take advantage of it.”
She was torn between the urge to end the improper conversation at once and the desire to prolong it. The feel of his strong arm around her waist and his breath on her skin was irresistible. She stared into his smiling eyes, uncertain of how to react to his teasing. “Why did you want me as a wife and not a mistress?” she asked.
The quality of his smile changed, and his voice was very soft. “Would you like me to take you home and show you?”
Tasia stayed silent, imprisoned by his direct stare. She wasn't aware that she had gripped his arm until her hand slipped a little, feeling the edge of leather binding beneath his shirtsleeve. Suddenly all she could think about was being in bed with him, his mouth on her skin, the sensations he could coax from her body with such ease.
Seeing the answer in her eyes, Luke turned to the store attendant, who was hovering a few feet away. “I believe our shopping is concluded for now,” he said blandly. “Lady Stokehurst has a touch of fatigue.”
Even without having had experience of other men, Tasia knew that her husband was a superb lover. The way he used his touch, his body, his k
isses, could be shaded with infinite meaning. There were nights when the hours of lovemaking blended into a slow-moving dream, sensations spilling over her in an endless flow. He cuddled, kissed, soothed her until she purred with the pleasure of being possessed by him. But often Luke liked to play in bed, aggressive rough-and-tumble games that left her breathless with laughter. Tasia was amazed at the way he could provoke her. Even as a child, she had been quiet and well-behaved. Luke stripped away her inhibitions, encouraging—no, demanding—that she respond to him in a way that defied all her old ideas of propriety.
Tasia wished it were possible to need Luke only a little. She tried to keep her feelings contained, but they flourished in unruly profusion. The attention he paid her, the conversations, smiles, the ready comfort, were like an addictive drug. He asked for very little in return. Guiltily she thought that she should say that she loved him, but somehow the words wouldn't come. It seemed as if the key to her destruction lay in that unspoken sentence. She could give only so much of herself, and then she drew back in fear, for reasons she couldn't explain even to herself.
“I've never been spoiled like this before,” she told him one afternoon as they relaxed in the high-walled garden of the villa. “I'm sure it's wrong of me to let you.”
The full heat of summer was almost upon them. They reclined in the shade of towering box and bay hedges, and a graceful spreading oak. Honeysuckle and thornless climbing roses spread their perfume through the air. Tasia toyed with a single rose, drawing the blossom along the edge of Luke's jaw.
He lay with his head pillowed in her lap. Idly he propped up one knee and swung it. “I don't see that spoiling has done you any great harm.” He glanced up at her face, reaching to stroke the velvety curve of her cheek. “You're more beautiful than ever.”
Tasia smiled and bent over his head, touching her nose to his. “Because of you.”
“Is it?” His hand slid around the back of her neck, bringing her closer. They exchanged a long, savoring kiss before she replied.
“Russians have a word for the arrival of spring: ottepel. It is used to describe awakening. That's how I feel.”
“Really.” His eyes were bright with interest. “Show me what's been awakened.”
“No,” she squeaked, dropping the rose as he fondled her lustfully.
“I want to know exactly which part,” he insisted, pulling her down to the grass until she was stretched beneath him. Casually he drew his hand down her body, ignoring her giggling protests that someone might see.
During the three weeks they had spent in London, Luke had gathered a thousand images of Tasia in his mind, but none so enchanting as this moment, as she struggled to climb on top of him in a wrestling match. Luke much preferred his wife's vigorous romping to her previous wan gracefulness. Her body had lost its spare, thin appearance, and there was a new roundness to her neck and face and limbs. Her breasts were still small, but softer and fuller. Her skirts rode up to her knees as she straddled his hips, hands braced on his shoulders for balance. She perched on him triumphantly. Luke flexed his shoulders slightly, making her aware of the sinewy power beneath her hands, reminding her that she was on top only because he allowed it.
“I want to ask you something,” she said.
“Ask away.”
“Promise me that before you refuse, you'll let me say all I want. And that you'll try to listen with an open mind.”
“Ask,” he growled, feigning impatience.
Tasia took a deep breath. “I want to write to my mother,” she said bluntly. “I need to assure her that I'm safe and happy, for my peace of mind as well as hers. I know that she worries about me. It can't be good for her health. And I think about her every day. I won't write anything that will betray my situation—no names or places mentioned. But it is absolutely necessary that I do this. You must understand how much it means to me.”
Luke was silent for a moment. “I understand,” he said tonelessly.
Her eyes sparkled with gladness. “Then you'll permit me to write to her?”
“No.”
Before he could explain why, Tasia swung off him and gave him a sullen, determined stare. “I wasn't requesting your permission, I was trying to be courteous. It's not your decision to make. It's my mother, and my safety that's at stake.”
“And you're my wife.”
“I have always decided on the risks that are necessary to take. Now you're trying to deny me something I need desperately to do!”
“You know what I told you about contacting your family. You're aware of the reasons why.”
“We can trust my mother not to mention this to anyone.”
“Can we?” he asked evenly. “Then why didn't you trust her enough to tell her that your death was faked? Why did Kirill insist on keeping it secret from her?”
Tasia was quiet, glaring at him. She couldn't argue with his point. But the curb on her independence was infuriating. She needed to establish some fragile link to the world she had left. At times she almost felt as if she didn't exist, cut off as she was from everything she had been and known and done. It was as if her old self had truly died. No one could truly understand her confusion, the feelings of happiness and loss that coexisted inside her. Her husband was sympathetic but unyielding. His decision was the final one.
“You can't stop me from doing as I please,” she said rebelliously. “Unless you plan to guard me every minute of the day.”
A warning glint entered his eyes. “I won't play the role of prison guard,” he agreed softly. “Neither will I be cast as a tyrant. I'm your husband, with the right—and the responsibility—to protect you.”
Tasia knew that her burst of temper was unfair, but she couldn't stop herself from defying him further. “I could have this marriage annulled!” Suddenly she found her wrist seized in a firm grip, and she was hauled close against a masculine body that was tense with anger.
“You took a vow before God to be my wife,” he said through his teeth. “That means more to you than any laws ever written. You couldn't break a spiritual covenant any more than you could kill a man in cold blood.”
“If you believe that, then you know nothing about me,” Tasia replied, her eyes blazing. She yanked at her wrist, pulling hard until he released her. Hurriedly she left him in the garden and retreated to the sanctuary of the villa.
Eight
They didn't exchange a word at supper. They ate alone in a dining room filled with yellow Italian marble, delicately carved Venetian furniture, and a sixteenth-century ceiling painted with mythological figures. Although the food was delicious as usual, Tasia could barely swallow a mouthful. The silence stretched her nerves thin.
Usually this was her favorite time of day. Luke would entertain her with stories of places he had been and people he had met. He coaxed her to tell him about her life in Russia. Sometimes they debated various issues in a rapid-fire fashion, and sometimes they flirted and engaged in bits of nonsense. One evening Tasia had sat in his lap for most of the meal, and taught him the Russian words for the morsels she fed him.
“Yah'blahkah,” she had said, carefully guiding a bit of fruit to his mouth. “That is apple. Greebi' is the word for mushrooms. And this is ri'bbah. Fish.” She had laughed at his pronunciation, and shook her head. “You English always make the ‘R’ so far back in your throat—as if you are growling. Say it against your teeth…ri'bbah.”
“Ri'bbah,” he said obediently, eliciting another laugh from her.
“Here, perhaps some wine will loosen your tongue.” She lifted a glass of white wine to his lips. “This is vino' byeh'lahyeh. Make the words against your teeth. To speak Russian well, you have to spit a little. And keep your mouth round…” She had tried to shape his lips with her fingers as he spoke, and then they both dissolved in laughter, until she nearly fell out of his lap.
“Tell me the word for kiss,” he said, gathering her against his chest.
“Pahtsyeloo'eey.” She had wrapped her arms around his neck and press
ed her mouth to his.
Tasia wished for one of those lighthearted evenings now. Several hours had passed since the argument she had instigated earlier. She knew she hadn't been fair. She wasn't even certain what had caused her flare of temper. An apology hovered on her lips, but pride kept her from saying anything. Meanwhile, her loving husband had disappeared, and in his place was an indifferent stranger, coldly unconcerned with the lack of conversation.
Tasia's misery grew with every minute. She drank three glasses of red wine in an effort to dull her discomfort. Finally she excused herself to totter alone up to their bedroom. After dismissing the maid, she pulled off her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor, then crawled naked into bed. The wine had made her groggy. She slept heavily, barely stirring in the middle of the night when she felt Luke's weight lower to the mattress.
Dreams consumed her in a thick red-black fog. She was in a church, surrounded by burning candles, her nostrils filled with incense smoke. She couldn't breathe. Sinking to the ground, clutching at her throat, she raised her eyes to the rows of gilded icons. Please, please help me…Their pitying faces blurred, and she felt herself lifted, placed inside a narrow box. Clutching at the sides of the box, she tried to pull herself out. Nikolas Angelovsky's golden face was above her. He watched her with flat yellow wolf-eyes, while his teeth bared in an evil grin. “You'll never get out,” he sneered, and slammed the lid on the coffin. A pounding noise began as he drove in nails to seal her inside. Tasia sobbed and thrashed, and somehow found the voice to scream.
“Luke! Luke—”
He shook her awake, bending over her writhing body. “I'm here,” he said repeatedly, while she clutched at him and breathed in choking gasps. “I'm here, Tasia.”
“Help me—”
“You're all right. You're safe.”
The nightmare was slow to leave her. Shaking wildly, Tasia buried her sweat-blotched face in his neck. She had never felt so foolish and cowardly. “Nikolas,” she managed to say. “He sh-shut me in a coffin. I-I couldn't get out.”