“Why not?”
“Most of the men were taken from the village by the tsar, to build Petersburg. The only ones left didn't want to marry me.” Faced with his questioning silence, she continued hesitantly. “My family was unpopular because of my father's political beliefs. But it didn't matter that no one offered for me. They're either too old or too young, and none of them is fit to work. And they're all poor. I wanted more than that.”
“More money?”
“No,” she protested. “I wanted someone to talk to. I wanted to learn things, and find out what the world beyond the forest is like.” She lowered her head and added in embarrassed honesty, “Of course, I wouldn't mind being rich. I think I would like to try it.”
Suddenly Nikolas laughed in a flash of genuine amusement. The comment was so much like Emma, a potent reminder of his wife's charming bluntness. “Well, such open ambition should be rewarded.”
“Your Highness?” she said, clearly perplexed.
Nikolas took a deep breath. “What I meant was, I'll marry you. I'll go along with this for a time. God willing, it will end sooner or later.”
“What will end?”
“The nightmare,” he muttered. “The vision. Whatever you want to call this. It all seems so real that I'm beginning to think I've gone insane. But there's not much I can do about it, is there? I choose you, Emma…Emelia…whoever you are. I'll always choose you, though you may damn me for it later.”
“I don't understand—”
“Never mind.” He extended a hand to her. “Just come with me.”
She hesitated and then reached out for him, her long fingers clinging to his.
Nikolas took her back to the ballroom, where Golorkov and Sidarov and the entire crowd of women waited expectantly. With an extravagant sweep of his hand, Nikolas indicated the blushing woman at his side. “This is my bride,” he said in a sardonic imitation of a pleased bridegroom.
Prince Golorkov applauded. “Excellent choice, Nikolai! What a fine-looking female! Surely she will bear you many healthy sons.”
Nikolas turned to Sidarov and arched a questioning brow. “When's the wedding?”
The inquiry sent Golorkov into a spasm of laughter. “Such wit!”
Sidarov tried to cover his worry with a thin smile. “Tonight, of course. At the Angelovsky house. Unless Your Highness wishes to wait—”
“Tonight it is,” Nikolas said abruptly. “I want to return home now.”
“But our drink…” Golorkov protested.
Nikolas made an attempt at a friendly smile. “If you wouldn't mind sharing one some other time?”
“Whenever you like,” the older man replied, still chuckling.
Nikolas was taken back home in his carriage, with Emelia nestled in the space beside him. Sidarov occupied the opposite seat. Emelia spoke little, except for her refusal to share the fur lap robe with Nikolas.
“I'm not cold,” she said.
Nikolas snorted sardonically. “Really? Then why are you blue and trembling?” He lifted the side of the fur and motioned for her to join him. “Your attack of modesty is unnecessary. I'm hardly going to seduce you with my steward sitting nearby—and in any case, we're going to be married in a matter of hours. Come sit next to me.”
“I'm not cold,” she repeated stubbornly, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“Fine. Don't blame me if you freeze to death before we reach home.”
“There is less danger for me out here,” she replied, “than under there.” She pointed to the lap robe significantly, then turned away to indicate the argument was finished.
Sidarov watched the exchange with speculation and a surprising trace of satisfaction. “You appear to have chosen well, Prince Nikolai,” he remarked. “A strong and spirited woman is what every man should marry.”
Nikolas gave him a sour look and didn't reply.
As soon as they reached the Angelovsky estate, Nikolas was separated from Emelia by a troop of servants bent on making preparations for the approaching ceremony. He secluded himself in his suite of rooms and demanded to be given a bottle of vodka and a tray of zakuski. The refreshments were brought to him speedily, along with a warning from Sidarov not to become too drunk before the wedding.
Nikolas wandered around the bedchamber, swigging vodka from the bottle in his hand. He could hear sounds coming from the rooms below—scurrying feet and rapid voices, an occasional burst of excited laughter. His mood worsened with each minute that passed.
Investigating his surroundings, Nikolas stared closely at the bed hangings, fashioned of precious Byzantine silk and bordered with gold thread and pearls. A huge Cyrillic A was embroidered in the center of the silk coverlet. The carved wooden chest in the corner contained a set of pistols with gold handles and dragon-shaped triggers, a pile of rich fur blankets, and an enameled bow case and gold quiver. None of the objects was familiar to him.
As Nikolas closed the chest and tilted the vodka bottle to his lips, the dull gleam of a painting on the wall caught his eye, the smoky antique gold and the brilliant red glow of a small icon. As he stared at the painting, the gulp of vodka slid down his throat in a painful lump. He had seen the icon before, thousands of times. It had hung on his nursery wall in childhood. He had moved it into his bedroom as an adult, and he'd brought it with him to England after he had been exiled from Russia. “My God,” he said aloud, stumbling as he walked toward the icon. “What is this doing here? What's happening?”
The elegant design was of the Prophet Elijah, surrounded by a brilliant ruby cloud as he ascended to heaven in a chariot of fire drawn by flame-colored horses. Nikolas had always cherished the icon for its vivid color and intricate brushwork. He had never seen another like it.
Recognizing the icon, solid and unmistakable, suddenly made it seem as if his other life, the real one, were gone for good. “I don't want this,” he said in a whisper that matched the intensity of a scream. “I didn't ask for it. I damn well didn't choose it!” He gazed at the red circle of fire, backed away, and hurled the vodka bottle directly at it. The bottle broke as it struck the icon, knocking it from the wall.
Immediately a servant knocked at the door and asked if everything was all right. Nikolas answered with a forbidding growl, and the servant retreated hastily. Standing over the fallen icon, Nikolas stared at the deep scratch that had just been made, marring the edge of the red cloud. Would that scratch be there a hundred years from now? A hundred and fifty, perhaps more?
What if all this was real? Perhaps he had died and gone to hell. Perhaps hell was having to witness the wretched history of his family from the eyes of his own ancestor.
A new thought occurred to Nikolas, and he felt his knees turn to rubber. He made his way to the bed and sat down heavily. If he really was Prince Nikolai, about to marry a peasant woman named Emelia, then history was yet to be made. Their son would be Alexei, and his son would be Sergei, followed by Sergei II and Dmitri…“And then,” Nikolas said aloud, “I'll be born. And Mikhail.”
If he could keep from having a child with Emelia, then the Angelovsky line would be broken. The abuse and murder of Mikhail wouldn't occur. And Nikolas's own sinful, pain-filled life would never take place.
A tremor of horror went through Nikolas's body. Perhaps he had been given the power to keep himself from ever being born.
In spite of Sidarov's insistence, Nikolas didn't bathe before the wedding, or shave, or even change his clothes. Barricading himself in his room, he drank steadily in an effort to make the nightmare disappear. It was impossible for him to go through with the ceremony. He might be many things, but a bigamist wasn't one of them. He wasn't Nikolai the First, he was Nikolas Dmitriyevich Angelovsky, and he belonged in London, in the year 1877…with Emma Stokehurst.
Sidarov's muffled voice came through the door. “The guests are here, Prince Nikolai. The ceremony will begin as soon as you decide. You won't keep them waiting long, will you?”
“I'm not going to marry anyone,” Nikola
s said from his sprawled position in the chair.
There was a lengthy silence, and then Sidarov replied in an agitated tone. “Very well, Your Highness. But you must inform the guests—and the bride—yourself. I refuse to do it, even if you turn me out into the streets and I must die a miserable, frozen death. No, I absolutely will not tell them.”
Nikolas lurched to his feet and went to the door, flinging it open. He glared down at the steward, who looked pale and upset. “I'll have no problem telling them,” he sneered. “Show me where they are.”
Sidarov's mouth was as tight as a clam. “Yes, Your Highness.”
The steward led Nikolas to the vast gathering room on the first floor. It had been filled with icons until there was barely an inch of wall space left uncovered. A large table at the back of the room was laden with a mountainous honey cake, dishes of almonds, figs, and other delicacies, and goblets of wine. The group of well-dressed guests, including Prince Golorkov, stood around a black-robed priest and a makeshift altar supporting a massive Bible. Everyone smiled and exclaimed as Nikolas appeared. Briefly he glanced over the assemblage, his gaze centering on Emelia.
His heart sank as he looked at her. She wore a sarafan of cream silk brocade, and a gold jacket that was too short in the sleeves. Some kindly benefactor, perhaps Golorkov and his wife, had given the wedding clothes to her. The pearl-embroidered veil over her hair was held in place by a gold wire diadem with a tiny paste ruby glittering on her forehead. She appeared absolutely calm, except for the bouquet of dried flowers and pink ribbons she held. The flowers were trembling visibly, a few tiny, fragile petals scattering to the floor.
It was that sign of nervousness that was Nikolas's undoing. He couldn't reject Emelia now, in front of these guests. He couldn't abandon her. She stared at him with a faint glint of hope in her blue eyes and the beginnings of a smile on her lips…the same way Emma Stokehurst had once looked at him.
Feeling dazed, Nikolas moved forward and took his place beside her. Amid the encouragement and compliments of the guests, Prince Golorkov moved forward to hand Nikolas a ceremonial silver whip, the symbol of a husband's authority to admonish and discipline his wife. Nikolas shook his head as he saw it.
Golorkov frowned. “But, Nikolai—”
“No,” Nikolas said curtly, turning from Golorkov to Emelia. He stared into her startled blue eyes. “We'll marry as Westerners do. I won't carry a whip.”
Questioning murmurs ran through the crowd, until the priest nodded, his long beard flapping against his chest. “It shall be as the prince commands.”
The priest began the ceremony in a tranquil drone. Nikolas and Emelia were each given a small icon to hold and a bite of salted black bread to eat. The wedding rings, heavy gold pieces that Nikolas vaguely recognized from the ancient Angelovsky collection, were blessed and exchanged. He did not look at Emelia, but concentrated on the ceremony, holding his arm steady as their wrists were bound together with a silk cloth. With great dignity, the priest led them in a small, tight circle around the altar, and unwrapped the wrist binding. Following the priest's indication, Emelia began to kneel on the ground. According to tradition, the bride should rest her forehead on the groom's shoe to show the proper submissiveness.
Realizing what was happening, Nikolas caught Emelia by the elbows and hauled her upright before her knees touched the floor. She gasped in surprise and swayed against him.
“The Western custom is to exchange a kiss,” Nikolas said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “My wife will not be my slave, but my companion and equal partner.”
There was some discomfort and laughter at this, as a few of the guests thought he was making an inappropriate joke. Nikolas didn't smile, only held Emelia's gaze and waited for her reply.
“Yes, Nikolai,” she finally said in a stifled whisper. Her eyes closed as he bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips were soft and innocent, parting beneath the hard pressure of his. Nikolas slid his hands around her neck, his fingers splaying across the warm, silken skin as he gathered her closer. The firm weight of her breasts touched his chest. A sound of pleasure caught in Nikolas's throat. He wanted her with sudden, terrible desperation, until his groin and his nerves and his very soul ached with it. Somehow he managed to release her. The priest handed them a red wooden bratina cup to drink from, and when that bit of good luck was ensured, the guests applauded the completion of the ceremony.
“Time to celebrate!” someone called, and the assemblage moved as a whole toward the honey cake and the goblets of wine.
Nikolas gazed at his new bride, his blood pumping hard, his fingers flexing as he thought of all the things he wanted to do with her. He was consumed with lust. It didn't matter what her name was. His senses told him this was Emma. Her body, her winsome spirit, and her presence stirred him just as they always had.
Sidarov appeared beside him, giving him a discreet nudge with his elbow. “Your Highness,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, “you may take your bride upstairs now. Is there anything you require?”
Nikolas tore his attention from Emelia long enough to reply. “Privacy,” he said meaningfully. “If anyone comes to my room, I'll kill him. Is that clear?”
“But, Prince Nikolai, according to tradition, the guests have the right to inspect the sheets in two hours—”
“Not according to Western tradition.”
Sidarov nodded, wearing a beleaguered grimace. “It is not easy to be the servant of a modern man. Yes, Your Highness, I'll keep everyone away.”
Nikolas offered Emelia his arm, and she took it at once, bending her head to let the veil hide her fierce blush. A chorus of cheerful farewells followed them as they left the gathering. Conscious of Emelia's nervous grip on his arm, the way she matched her footsteps to his, Nikolas was suffused with hungry anticipation. He wanted her too much to let anyone or anything interfere—it didn't matter what the consequences were. For a few hours the rest of the world would disappear, and he would lose himself in the pleasure of her body. He led her to his bedroom and closed the door. The servants had set out jugs of water and wine, and thick yellow candles that filled the room with amber light.
Emelia stood still, her breath shallow as she watched him with wide eyes. Gently Nikolas removed the diadem from her hair and lifted away the pearl-embroidered veil. He set the articles aside on a small table and returned to her. “Turn around,” he said softly.
She obeyed, and he heard her quick indrawn breath as she felt him grasp the braid that hung down her back. He unplaited the thick red locks, setting the brilliant curls free, and he combed his fingers through the loosened mass. Each movement was slow, careful, although he wanted to throw her on the bed and take her at once. Easing the gold jacket over her shoulders, he dropped it to the floor. He drew her back against him and slid his hands over her front, feeling through the layers of her sarafan for the shape of her body. She gasped, pressing her spine against him, while he cupped her round breasts until her nipples hardened from the light caress.
Nikolas was stunned by the trusting way she offered herself to him. He lowered his head over her shoulder, nuzzled his face into her neck, while his heart beat a rhythm of furious need. He let his hand drift over the flat, neat line of her stomach, down to the tantalizing cove between her thighs. Shivering, Emelia leaned harder against him, her breath rushing unsteadily as he pressed his palm over the soft mound, until heat collected between his hand and her body.
Nikolas had always preferred to make love in silence, making the act purely physical rather than an experience of shared emotion. Words said at such a time were too intimate and revealing. But he felt the need to say something to her now, to soothe the tension that had suddenly made her spine rigid. “I'm not going to hurt you, ruyshka.”
“I'm not afraid,” she replied, turning to face him. “It's only that…we don't know each other.”
Don't we? he wanted to reply. I've held you in my arms too many times to count. I know you, Emma.
Every inch of your body, every expression on your face. He knew how to manipulate her, how to make her feel pleasure, shame, anger…but did all of that mean he really knew her? The secrets of her heart and mind, the things she dreamed of and hoped for, were a mystery to him.
He stared at the woman before him, fingering a cinnasmon curl that lay over her shoulder. “You're right,” he said quietly. “We're strangers. It's a new beginning for both of us. We'll have to trust each other, kharashó?”
“Yes.” She smiled hesitantly, reaching for his coat with a bashful murmur. He helped her to remove the garment, and pulled his shirt hem free from the narrow breeches. Emboldened, Emelia worked on the tiny jeweled cuff buttons that fastened the billowing shirtsleeves. When the buttons were free, Nikolas pulled the garment over his head, letting it fall to the floor. He steeled himself not to move as her gaze wandered over his bare chest, and he waited for a reaction to his scars.
But there was nothing in Emelia's face save a flash of timid curiosity. She touched his collarbone and the hard curve of muscle beneath, her fingertips like tender spots of fire. “You're a beautiful man,” she whispered.
Surprised by the mockery, for no one with his scars was beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, Nikolas followed her gaze to his chest. All at once he was wrenched with amazement.
There were no scars, nothing but unmarred skin lighted with the gleam of candlelight. Nikolas lifted his shaking hands to his chest. He looked at his wrists, both clean and perfect. “My God,” he said hoarsely, while his legs nearly gave way beneath him. “What's happening to me?”
Emelia retreated a few steps and stared at him in confusion. “Prince Nikolai? Are you ill?”
“Get out,” he said, his voice scratchy.
Her skin lost its color. “What?”
“Get out,” he repeated numbly. “Please. Find another room to sleep in.”
Emelia drew a sharp breath, and wiped at the sudden glitter of tears in her eyes. “What have I done wrong? Do I displease you?”