They sat in the parlor together, talking while Tasia attended to some needlework. Her hands were delicate and deft as she repaired the torn cuff of her husband's shirt. Finding it a relief to unburden herself, Emma told her about Nikolas's strange behavior of the past months. “At first he had these odd episodes in which he had a feeling of seeing something familiar. He had visions he didn't like to talk about, and they seemed to disturb him greatly.”
“Visions,” Tasia repeated, setting the mended shirt in her lap and staring at Emma intently. “What kind of visions?”
“I don't know exactly. But every time it happened, there was such a strange look on his face, such fear and anger…and then I found the painting. Do you remember one of the letters I sent to you in which I mentioned that we were having an old landscape restored? It turned out that underneath it was a portrait of an Angelovsky ancestor…Nikki's distant grandfather, actually. It's a mirror image of him. When he got his first good look at it, he turned white and fainted dead away. We couldn't revive him for an hour. And when Nikki finally awakened, he was…different.”
“Different?” Tasia was startled and intrigued.
“It was like the flip of a coin. One minute he wanted nothing to do with Jake or me, and the next, we were the most important things in the world to him. Later he said that he had remembered a—a past life, in which we were married to each other. For him it seems to have changed everything.” Emma frowned self-consciously. “No rational person would believe such a story. The surprise is that Nikolas, of all people, would invent something like this. Tell me, Belle-mère, is my husband going mad, or is he trying to make me out as the greatest fool alive?”
Tasia was quiet for a while, concentrating on her needlework. “I suppose I could believe Nikolas's story,” she finally said.
“You must be joking!”
“It's a Russian's nature to believe in such things. We're a people full of contradictions. Intemperate, mystical, superstitious…” Tasia shrugged and smiled slightly. “Perhaps we have all led past lives. Who am I to say we haven't?”
“But you're so religious! You know the Bible by heart!”
“For Russians, religion is an elastic thing. It encompasses many different beliefs and ideas.”
“I'm not like that. I can't allow myself to believe in something so extraordinary. But I do know that Nikolas is convinced his experience was real, and it seems to have influenced him for the better.”
“Then perhaps you don't need to question it too much, Emma. You might try to accept what has happened and simply go on from here.”
“But how—” Emma began, and suddenly she became aware of someone's entrance into the room. She looked up, and her heart jumped as she saw her father. Lucas Stokehurst looked the same as always, tall and distinguished, his blue eyes bright and piercing. A change came over his face as he stared at her, his features softening with hope and love.
“Emma—”
She sprang up and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He was so comfortingly solid and dear. A wave of happiness rushed over her, and she lowered her face to his shoulder. “Papa, listen to me,” she said rapidly, her arms locked hard around his neck. “I've realized so many things lately. I've always demanded so much of other people, expecting them to be perfect. And I was the hardest on the people I love, so angry when they disappointed me by being human. You were trying to protect me and help me, and you were absolutely right about Adam Milbank. Forgive me for things I said. I was in such a rage, I didn't mean any of it. I love you, Papa. I've missed you so much.”
Her father couldn't answer, only pressed his chin deeper in her hair and swallowed hard, while his arms threatened to crush her. Emma brushed away her own tears of happiness. She was with her family, and everything was finally all right.
Emma sat and talked eagerly with her parents, telling them a carefully edited version of her life at the Angelovsky estate. She took pleasure in the way her father reached over to squeeze her hand. Tasia beamed at them both, delighted by their renewed closeness. After a while the boys came to the parlor to have tea and cakes. William and Jake were becoming fast friends. Zachary, still drowsy from his nap, sat on Tasia's lap.
“I want to visit Jake and see the menagerie,” William announced, his fingers and cheeks sticky from the iced cakes he and Jake were devouring. “When can I go? Will you take me there, Emma?”
“You must come soon,” Emma replied, smiling. “The animals would love to see you, William.” She hesitated before suggesting to her parents, “Now that the holidays are here, perhaps you might come to our Christmas Day party, and share supper with us afterward.”
Tasia agreed immediately, smacking her lips at the thought of the Russian delicacies the Angelovskys' cook would undoubtedly prepare. While they were in the midst of making plans, the butler arrived with the announcement that a police inspector was waiting at the front entrance. “I've been expecting him,” Luke said. “Excuse me. I must talk with him privately for a while.”
William and Jake suddenly found an excuse to leave the room. Emma was certain they were going to get a look at the visitor.
As the parlor emptied rapidly, Emma stared at Tasia with wide-eyed surprise. “Why in heaven's name is a police inspector here?”
Tasia grimaced. “The house was robbed the night before last, while we were sleeping! It has unnerved me and the children terribly. Your father's been in a fury.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “It hurts a man's pride to have his property stolen from right under his nose. Luke has set Scotland Yard on its ear—they sent two sergeants and an inspector yesterday—and he won't let anyone rest until the culprit is caught.”
“I pity the poor thief when Papa finds him,” Emma said dryly. “What was taken?”
“Some jewelry, a cashbox, a case of pistols.” Tasia frowned and shook her head. “The ease with which it was accomplished suggests that the thief was familiar with the house plan and the location of our valuables.”
“Then it's likely we know the person who did it?”
Tasia nodded, kissing the top of Zachary's head and holding him protectively. “Our servants are all old and trusted ones, so we believe the culprit has probably been a guest of ours in the past. We might even have entertained him at supper or a party.”
Emma shivered slightly. “I don't like that at all.”
Tasia shrugged, turning pragmatic as usual. “Life is always full of surprises, praise be to God.”
When Emma and Jake returned to the Angelovsky estate, Nikolas was in the process of ushering out a small group of estate agents, accountants, and lawyers, all of whom had delivered semiannual reports on his holdings. The last of the visitors departed, and Nikolas took his son on his knee, asking how the day had gone. Patiently he listened to Jake's excited account of his newfound cousins and grandparents. “Then you like the Stokehursts?” Nikolas asked quietly.
“Oh, yes,” Jake assured him. “I never met anyone like them before.”
“That I'm sure of,” Nikolas replied dryly, with a sideways glance at Emma. He grinned at her faint scowl and turned back to his son. “Why don't you go up to the nursery, Jake? There might be a new toy waiting for you.”
Jake ran upstairs to investigate, leaving with such unseemly haste that Nikolas and Emma laughed.
Nikolas stood and arched a tawny brow quizzically. “How was it?”
Impulsively Emma went over to him and slipped her arms around his lean waist. “Tasia was as sweet and kind as always, and Papa and I managed to iron out all our differences. Before I left, he even admitted that you couldn't be such a bad husband if I looked so well. I think Papa would like to make peace with you, Nikki. Don't be surprised if he wants to talk to you privately someday soon—I think he might be ready to accept you as his son-in-law.”
Nikolas smiled sardonically. “Why does that thought give me cold chills?”
She bit his ear lightly. “If Papa decides to be nice to you, I expect you to do your utmost to cha
rm him. For my sake.”
Nikolas removed Emma's hat and smoothed his hands over her head. “I don't like it when you braid and pin your hair so tightly.”
“I'm trying to look respectable.”
“You weren't meant to be respectable. You were meant to be unbound and natural, like your animals. No, don't bite me again…I have a present for you.”
“What kind of present? Where is it?”
“You'll have to find it,” he said, smiling as she began to search his pockets. “Not so roughly, ruyshka…you may damage something of value.”
Triumphantly Emma located a heavy velvet pouch and pulled it out. Loosening the drawstring, she shook the object into her palm. “Oh,” she said softly, her breath catching. It was a ring, a single sapphire mounted in gold. The rich, glittering stone was the size of a robin's egg, seeming to contain every shade of blue in its glowing depths. Emma turned her stunned gaze to her husband's face.
“Try it on,” he said.
Emma watched as he slid the enormous sapphire onto her finger. The ring fit perfectly, a ball of blue fire balanced on the surface of her hand. “Why did you buy this for me?” she asked in awe.
“Because it matches your eyes.”
“It's so incredible, but…” She stroked his chest, tracing the hard curve of muscle. “Why did you buy this for me?”
“It gives me pleasure to see you wearing beautiful things…almost as much pleasure as seeing you with nothing on at all.” He whispered endearments to her, lightly fondling and stroking her body, unfastening the neck of her dress. His lips caressed her exposed throat, his tongue tickling the hollow where her pulse fluttered.
Emma sighed and closed her eyes. “Nikki, don't—”
“Let's go upstairs.”
“Not before supper,” she exclaimed, blushing.
“I want to see you naked—except for the ring.”
“You're impossible,” she said, letting him tug her from the room.
A week before Christmas, Emma was busy decorating the mansion with bells, acres of red ribbon, holly, and mistletoe. The Sidarova sisters and two footmen climbed ladders to hang ornaments on a towering pine tree situated in the central hall. As they worked, they entertained Emma by singing Russian Christmas carols.
“If only this place weren't so large,” Emma lamented, tying clumps of holly to the banister. “It takes three times as many decorations to make any sort of impression.”
“Yes, but it looks so wonderful,” Rashel exclaimed, carefully affixing a gingerbread man to one of the pine branches. They had baked gingerbread in a variety of shapes, and were already having problems with encroachers daring to nibble at the spicy treats. Samson was a constant threat, venturing forth to gobble the gingerbread hanging from the lowest branches of the Christmas tree. He reclined beneath the fragrant boughs, occasionally scratching at the festive red bow tied around his neck.
The butler approached Emma with a perplexed expression on his hawklike face. “Your Highness,” he murmured, “I just discovered this package on the doorstep.”
Abandoning her work on the banister, Emma came down the steps and took the object from him. It was a small white box with a red bow, bearing a card that read, simply, Emma.
A smile flitted across her face. “I wonder who would deliver a gift in such a way.”
She untied the ribbon and opened the cold, slightly damp pasteboard box. It contained a scrap of velvet, a fresh bloodred rose, and a small card with the initial A on it. Her smile vanished, and her forehead creased. Who would send her a gift like this, and in such a mysterious fashion? Could it possibly be from Adam Milbank? Once, long ago, he had given her a red rose just like this one. She touched the rose, and jerked her hand back as a thorn pierced the tip of her forefinger. “Ouch!” She sucked on the sore spot, tasting the salty tang of blood.
Stanislaus's black brows drew together. “Your Highness, if you will permit me…” He took the box from her and unrolled the velvet scrap, dropping its contents into Emma's palm.
She gasped as a pair of pearl earrings, strung in loops, fell in a cool, heavy tumble into her hand. The Sidarova girls came to view them, exclaiming in admiration. “Very beautiful,” Rashel said.
Emma was aware of a cold, uneasy feeling. She had once read that pearls meant tears. A box with a red rose and pearls…blood and tears. She dropped the earrings back into the box. “It's a good thing Nikolas isn't here,” she murmured. “I don't think he'd appreciate my receiving gifts from other men.”
“No, Your Highness,” Stanislaus agreed.
Emma glanced at the gift distastefully. “Please return that to Lord Milbank. I suspect he is the one responsible for sending it to me.” She paused and looked at the servants around her. “There's no need to mention this to Prince Nikolas. He would be jealous or angry, and I would prefer our first Christmas to be free of trouble.”
They all agreed immediately and went back to work, trying to recapture the light mood of a few moments before. Emma was disturbed by the unexpected gift, but she resolved to put it out of her mind. What could Adam have meant by his gesture? To let her know that he still cared? That he wanted something from her, perhaps even an affair? How silly some men were, only desiring what they couldn't have. Or perhaps the gift was intended to express a heartfelt good-bye. It didn't matter—she intended to concentrate on the future, not on the past. She had a good life with Nikolas, and it only promised to get better. Nothing would spoil their chances. She would make certain of that.
Twelve
I N THE MORNING Stanislaus came to Emma while she was taking tea in her private sitting room.
“Your Highness,” the butler said, and paused, as if wondering how to continue. His black brows were drawn together, and his mouth was tight.
“What is it, Stanley? You have the strangest expression on your face.”
He ignored her nickname for him. “Your Highness,” he answered, “I have discovered this on the front doorstep.” He held out the object in his hand.
Emma set her teacup aside and stared at it in astonishment. It was the same bloodred rose that had been delivered to her yesterday. “Didn't you send it back?”
“Yes, Your Highness, along with the pearls. Apparently the flower was left by itself this time.”
She shook her head, staring at the slightly bedraggled blossom. “Whoever the giver is, he's remarkably persistent.”
“Shall we tell Prince Nikolas?”
Emma thought for a moment. She was certain the rose had come from Adam. Mischief-making, probably. He would be glad to provoke Nikolas, and cause trouble between them. “No,” she said brusquely, “It's just a silly gesture. Please dispose of the thing—we'll forget all about it.”
It was Christmas Eve, and the scent of pine emanated from the small tree in the corner of the family parlor, a cozy room lined with tapestries and golden oak paneling. Hangings of burgundy velvet framed the windows, and were parted to reveal a trace of the evening starlight. A fire in the fireplace burned with crackling vigor, sending out a wavering yellow glow to relieve the darkness of the room.
Nikolas lounged amid a pile of velvet pillows on the floor, watching his wife stir about the room. Jacob was asleep in his bed in the nursery, dreaming of the morning to come. And they had the whole night ahead of them.
“Come here,” he said lazily, drinking wine from a glass-lined goblet, its silver and gold exterior glittering with inset diamonds and rubies.
“Soon,” Emma replied, adjusting strings of cranberries on the tree. “I'm not finished yet.”
“You've done nothing for two days except retie ribbons and move garlands up or down a mere inch—”
“With nearly two hundred guests coming tomorrow, I want everything to be perfect.”
“Everything is perfect.” Nikolas poured more wine and admired the shape of his wife's bottom as she bent over in her trousers. “Come here now—I have a present for you.”
“I have one for you too,” she replied pe
rtly. Reaching behind the settee, she pulled out a large, square object that was the right size and shape to be a framed picture. It was covered with a length of dark cloth.
Nikolas sat up straighter, eyeing the object with interest. “Is that your portrait?”
“Yes, Mr. Soames worked night and day to have it finished in time.”
“Let me see it.”
“My present first,” she said, coming to sit beside him. She crossed her long legs Indian-style and accepted a goblet of wine.
Obligingly Nikolas slid a wrapped package from beneath one of the tasseled pillows. Emma reached for the first-sized box with childish glee. “Oh, good, I like the small ones best.” She tore the paper and opened the velvet-lined box and stared at the object inside with delight. Carefully she lifted it out, and it glittered richly in the firelight. Nikolas had commissioned a brooch to be fashioned in the shape of a tiger, with stripes of black onyx and yellow diamonds. “Thank you,” she said, flashing a smile at Nikolas. “It reminds me of you.”
“It's supposed to remind you of Manchu.”
“You and he aren't so far removed,” she commented, reaching out to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. “You're both solitary creatures who have been wounded in the past, and neither of you will ever be completely domesticated.”
His eyes were bright yellow gold as he looked at her. “You wouldn't want us to be.”
Smiling wryly at the truth of his statement, Emma retrieved the nearby picture. “Now for your present.” She paused before unveiling the painting and frowned. “It's rather…unconventional.”
Silently he gestured for her to proceed.
“All right, then.” With a flourish, she whipped the cloth from the portrait. “What do you think of it?”
Nikolas stared at the portrait in silent absorption. Robert Soames had painted Emma half-sitting on a windowsill. She wore a white shirt open at the throat and light beige trousers—and in an oddly sensuous touch, her feet had been left bare. The length of her red hair, made brilliant by the filtering sunlight behind her, cascaded to her hips. A dreamy, slightly serious expression on her face was the perfect counterpoint to the abandon of her posture. Nikolas found the portrait riveting and erotic.