by Lisa Kleypas
Struggling to cope with the new information, Nikolas was only half-aware of the scene unfolding before him.
Peter's face was grim as he moved to alter the course of conversation. “Enough talk for now,” he commanded. “Everyone eat!” He cast a stern glance at Emelia. “No wonder you are skinny—there is scarcely a mouthful of food on your plate. And not one scrap of meat!”
“I-I don't like it,” Emelia faltered.
Peter's expression darkened. “Not like meat? Foolish girl—no one can live without eating flesh.” He picked up a slice of chicken with his huge fingers and tossed it to her plate, where it landed with a splatter. “Here—food from my own hand. Eat it now!”
Emelia took a fork in her trembling fingers while the attention of the entire table focused on her. She picked up a glistening sliver of chicken and regarded it with a sickly expression.
Nikolas watched her with dawning understanding. Emelia was exactly as she would be in the future, with all the same instinctive likes and dislikes. Eating meat went against her very nature. He couldn't let her be abused this way, especially when it would likely result in her throwing up all over the table. He intervened quietly. “Batushka, I will send my disobedient wife to her room, where she may go without supper and contemplate her foolishness.”
Peter pointed to the chicken. “Not until she eats that.”
Nikolas glanced at Emelia. She was lifting the bite of meat to her lips. Her face had turned pale green. He knew she wouldn't be able to hold it down. “Go,” he snapped.
Emelia threw him a glance of misery and gratitude, and raced from the room in a defeated flurry.
Six hours later, Nikolas ascended the stairs with a weary tread. His entire body was tense with anger, frustration, and a strong feeling of betrayal. It had been a hellish evening. After Emelia had left, Peter's foul mood had poisoned every attempt at conversation. Menshikov had encouraged him with a constant flow of sly whispers and insinuations, while the guests were torn between scandalous delight and uneasiness. Clearly Peter didn't like Nikolas's choice of a bride. Nikolas was well on the way to agreeing with him. After everyone had guzzled bottle after bottle of wine and vodka, Peter and his entourage had left for the night. And finally Nikolas was free to deal with his deceitful wife.
Perfect, he thought savagely. All I need in this damned slippery situation is to be saddled with a woman whose family was involved in plots to overthrow the tsar. He could hardly wait to reach Emelia's room and unleash his anger on her. He was going to make her admit that her father was a strelets, and then he was going to make her eternally sorry for having tricked him into marrying her. She must have known that he never would have endangered himself by choosing the daughter of a traitor. Now the shadow of suspicion had been extended to Nikolas, and from now on his every step would be watched carefully.
Reaching Emelia's chamber, Nikolas let himself inside and closed the door with exquisite care. The red-and-yellow glow from the fireplace was the only light in the room. He could barely make out Emelia's huddled shape by the bed. She appeared to be praying. Good, he sneered inwardly, you'll need a hell of a lot of prayer before I'm through with you. “We're going to have a talk,” he said, his voice taut with fury.
Emelia came toward him quickly. “Nikolai,” she said in a choked voice. She wore the blank, wide-eyed look of a terrified doe. “You must punish me. I angered the tsar, and now his wrath will fall on you. Here—take this whip—I must be disciplined. Please, I can't bear knowing what I've done—”
“Wait,” Nikolas said, interrupting her babble. He saw the gleam of the silver whip handle, and motioned for her to put it aside. “I want to ask you some questions—”
“Here, take it,” she insisted.
“Christ, I'm not going to beat you!” He pulled the whip from her grasp and sent it whistling to a corner of the room, where it hit with a solid thud. As he faced his trembling wife and saw the trails of tears that fell from her unblinking eyes, his anger vanished in one startling moment. He cursed himself for being so easily undone.
“But you must,” Emelia whispered.
“I'll be damned if I must do anything!”
“Please…” She bowed her head and shuddered.
Unable to help himself, Nikolas reached out and drew his wife's slender body against his. “Just tell me the truth,” he said, his lips on her flowing hair. “Was your father a strelets rebel?”
She began to cry violently then, gasping out words in an incoherent torrent. “Yes…he was hanged…my mother died of grief…couldn't tell you…I wanted…to be your wife, and if you knew…”
“If I had known, I wouldn't have married you,” he finished for her.
“Please punish me,” she begged.
“You little fool,” he said harshly, and pulled her closer in an effort to soothe her. He stroked her shaking back. “How in God's name do you think I could leave a mark on you? How could I cause you pain with my own hands? Oh, don't think it's not tempting, my clever one. But even if I tried, I could never lift a finger against you.”
“Because I'm your wife?” she asked tremulously.
“Because you're mine. You're the only one I've ever wanted, no matter that you'll probably be my downfall. Now stop crying—it's not going to solve anything.”
“I c-can't,” she sobbed against his neck.
“Stop it,” Nikolas said, driven to desperation. He pushed aside the curtain of her red curls and found her wet cheek with his lips. The taste of her tears, the trace of salt on silk, made him dizzy. He moved to the corner of her mouth, the trembling curve of her lower lip, the hint of sleekness inside. He kissed her gently, then harder, harder, until his tongue pushed past the edges of her teeth and he had her in full, deep possession. Her crying ceased magically, and she pressed her body to his. She was so warm, so sweetly compelling, that his desire raced out of control, and he could have taken her right then. Instead he ripped himself away with a tortured groan and strode to the fireplace. He stared into the crackling flames as he fought for composure.
“I can't do this,” he said tersely.
Emelia stood unmoving behind him. “Why?” she asked on a little gasp of air.
The notion of explaining to her, and the spectacle he would present, made him laugh sardonically. “There's no way I could make you understand. God, the things I could tell you…you'd never believe.”
“I might,” she said with impossible hope, her voice a little closer than before.
“Oh?” His laughter ended on a savage note. “What if I told you that I could see into the future? What if I claimed that we'll meet again, a hundred and seventy years from now?”
She replied after a long hesitation. “I could believe that…I think.”
“It's the truth. I know exactly what the future holds. Nothing good can come of our marriage, nothing of any value. The Angelovskys are a corrupt stock. Knowing the pain and misery they'll cause over the next few generations, for themselves and others, I can't let that future happen again. There won't be any children from our marriage because I can't allow the family line to continue.”
Emelia sounded bewildered. “If you feel this way, then why did you marry me?”
He shook his head and cursed softly. “I don't know. I can't help being drawn to you.”
“It's fate,” she said simply.
“I don't know what it is,” he muttered. “But it's no damn good.” He picked up a fireplace poker and jabbed viciously at a burning log.
“Nikki,” she asked, “will there be love between us when we meet again in the future?”
He turned sharply at the use of his nickname. She looked confused and frightened, her eyes filled with a yearning softness that shook him down to the bone.
“No,” he replied, setting aside the poker. “In the future you'll hate me for taking away everything you cherish. I'll end up hurting you, time and time again.”
“No harm can come of loving someone,” she whispered. “I don't know very much,
but I'm certain of that.”
“I don't know how to love,” he said, his voice thick with self-hatred. “I've never known. And I'm not worthy of it. Trust me.”
Fresh tears glittered in her blue eyes. “I could love you. You wouldn't even have to love me back.”
“No.” It was all he could say, staring at her flushed, emotion-filled face.
Emelia walked straight to him, and slid her long arms around him. She hugged herself to his body, her face into the side of his neck. “I don't care about the future.” Her words seemed to burn his skin. “All I care about is that I'm here with you now…and I do love you.”
“You can't,” he said softly, while a white-hot explosion went off in his chest. “You have no reason to—”
“I don't need a reason. Love isn't like that.”
In the face of her stubborn, illogical passion, Nikolas could find no defense or retreat. He groaned and sought her mouth with his, kissing her with all the fire he felt inside. He filled his hands with her, cupping her bottom, her hips, her breasts, in greedy and wanton succession. She opened her lips to him, and yielded her body with a tender generosity that devastated him. Locking his arms around her, he held her so tightly that she winced and gasped in pain. He loosened his grip only slightly, and rested his forehead on hers, breathing hard against her mouth.
“I don't know what to do,” he said. He'd never made such an admission before.
“What do you want?” she whispered. It was a provocative question, especially when she was clasped so tightly against his aroused body.
He wanted the intolerable pressure in his chest to leave…he wanted to be free somehow. “I want there to be no past and no future. I want to be able to tell you…”
“Tell me what?”
Nikolas drew back enough to look at her radiant face. His heart thundered with something like terror. He gripped her head in hands that held a distinct tremor, and he stared straight into her glimmering blue eyes. She was so beautiful, so much his.
“I can't,” he heard himself say.
“Let the future take care of itself,” she urged. “Let the others be responsible for themselves. All you can do is try to make a good life for yourself now, with me.”
Nikolas shook his head, wondering if it could really be that simple. He had never lived only for himself, without carrying the burden of his family's dark history. What if he cast all of that aside? It would almost certainly happen again—his father's abuse, his brother's murder, his own corruption. How could he love Emelia now, knowing what would take place?
But he wanted so badly to be with her, and it didn't seem that he had a choice. How long had he tried to deny his feelings for her? Days, months, years…and all of it had been futile. Why keep on trying? He didn't care what price came with loving her. She was worth anything.
Suddenly the emotional upheaval began to subside, leaving a sense of peace he had never known before. “I think I finally know why I'm here,” he said hoarsely. “It's not to change my family's history. It's to be with you. To remember a time when I…was able to feel this way.”
“What way?” she whispered, her hands sliding up to grip his wrists tightly.
His vision blurred, and he swallowed against the sharp pressure in his throat. “I…love you.” He pressed his mouth to her forehead, for once utterly gentle and humble. A feeling more pure and piercing than he had ever known flooded through him. “I love you,” he repeated, kissing her delicate eyelids, and he continued to whisper the miraculous words against her skin and hair. For a long time he wasn't aware of anything except the two of them standing in a pool of firelight, completely absorbed in each other. Later they moved to the bed, although he never remembered if he had led the way, or if she had.
He undressed them both, and he held Emelia's naked body against his, keeping her warm and safe in a cocoon of silk-and-damask covers. With a single fingertip, he traced the lush shape of her mouth, the straight angle of her nose, the bold red slashes of her brows. She moved her hands over his back and sides in tentative strokes. The warmth of her touch filled him with a primitive urgency that took all his strength to contain.
His mouth came to hers, softly ravaging, while his knee slid between her long, silken legs and parted them. He clasped his palms over her breasts until the tips gathered into hard points. Emelia trembled and moved imploringly beneath him, but he kept each caress soft and light. Nothing had ever enthralled him like this, making love at last, showing love with his mouth and hands and body. Tenderly he kissed every inch of her, from her head down to her long, narrow feet, returning leisurely to the crisp red spray of curls between her thighs. He pressed his mouth into the softest part of her, licking deep into the sweet cinnamon thicket. Emelia flinched in surprise and pleasure, her fingers tangling in his hair while gasping moans caught in her throat. When she was damp and ready for him, he raised himself over her, matching their limbs length to length.
Emelia slid her arms around his neck and touched her lips to his ear. “I don't know how to please you,” she whispered desperately. “What can I do? What can I give you?”
“Yourself. That's all I want.” He kissed and stroked her, coaxing her to explore his body as she would. When neither of them could bear any more, he entered her carefully, wincing at her cry of pain. “I'm sorry,” he breathed, lodged heavily inside her. “I'm sorry for hurting you.”
“No, no…” She wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him closer, arching in encouragement.
Nikolas began to move, straining to be gentle, while the rising pleasure slowly drove him past the point of sanity. He forget everything he'd ever been, every trace of the past and future. There was only her…Emelia…Emma…driving away all bitterness and anger. His very soul was unlocked, and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to be happy.
Nine
A MONTH WENT by, the winter days passing for Nikolas in a dream. He had been given a new life, a chance to be someone else, and he slipped into the role with surprising ease. Qualities that had always been foreign to him, such as compassion, tolerance, generosity, now seemed to come easily. He envied no one, because at last he had everything he wanted. He was constantly busy, organizing meetings of the merchants in the marketplace posád, appointing more agents and stewards to manage the Angelovsky holdings, reluctantly sharing an occasional hard-drinking evening with Peter and the gentlemen of the court. Most of his time, however, was spent with Emelia.
His wife enchanted him, with her high spirits and strength of will. They went on sleigh rides across frozen rivers, summoned musicians and actors to entertain at their estate, or passed hours in quiet companionship as Nikolas read aloud from a novel. They made love for hours, each experience seeming to transcend the last. Nikolas was amazed at how much he needed her, how much closeness he craved after years of solitude. He had never allowed someone to know him so well. Emelia felt free to tease and play and make demands of him, and he was only too happy to indulge her.
He lavished her endlessly with gifts—gowns of vivid silk, velvet, and brocade, with overjackets sumptuously trimmed in lace. There were matching silk stockings, slippers, gilded and tooled leather boots, shoes with raised heels in which Emelia tottered around with awkward pride. For her hair, Nikolas had given her a gold-and-silver box filled with tortoiseshell combs, jeweled diadems, diamond pins, and a rainbow of ribbon.
“It's all too much,” Emelia protested one day as they sat in the parlor with Ily Ilych, a wizened, little old man who was known as the best jeweler in Moscow. “I don't need any more jewels, Nikki. I have more than I'll ever wear.”
“There is no such thing as too much,” the jeweler protested, spreading his wares more invitingly on a black velvet cloth before her.
“Why not a bracelet?” Nikolas suggested, hooking a glittering ruby circlet with his finger.
Emelia shook her head. “I have enough to cover both my arms up to my elbows.”
Ilych pointed to other precious object
s. “A diamond-and-amber necklace? A sapphire cross to wear to church?”
She laughed and held up her hands defensively. “I don't need anything. Really!”
“The princess deserves something special,” Nikolas told the jeweler, ignoring his wife's protests. “Something out of the ordinary. What else have you brought?”
Ilych's wrinkled mouth drew up in thoughtful folds, and he began to rummage through his collection of velvet bags. “Hmm…perhaps she would like…yes, I think these will be pleasing.” He reached deep into one sack and drew out a selection of precious figurines, setting them on the table, one by one.
Emelia exclaimed in delight as she saw them. “Oh, how wonderful! I've never seen anything like them.”
A wondering smile crossed Nikolas's face. “Nor have I,” he said, although it was a lie. The menagerie of carved animals was the same set he had brought with him when he had been exiled from Russia. The white coral swan with its gold beak, the malachite frog, the amethyst wolf with gold paws, and amid all the rest, the centerpiece of the collection—the amber tiger with yellow diamond eyes.
Emelia picked up the tiger and examined it from every angle. “Look, Nikki. Isn't it beautiful?”
“Very beautiful,” he agreed softly, his gaze on her glowing face. He broke off long enough to tell the jeweler, “We'll take them all.”
Emelia laughed exuberantly and came over to throw her arms around him. “You're so good to me,” she said against his ear. “You'll make me love you too much.”
He brushed his lips across her soft cheek. “There's no such thing as too much.”
Amid the blissful days of his life with Emelia, a sinister shadow began to intrude. Nikolas was aware that whatever his relationship with Peter had once been, it had disintegrated into a friendship that was at best lukewarm. He had a sense of distant admiration for the man, but Peter's explosive temper, his ferocity, his unreasoning stubbornness, made it impossible for Nikolas to like him. And only someone in Peter's good graces would survive these precarious times.