by Lisa Kleypas
He broke off and seized her in an unbreakable grip, leaving her no chance of retreat. “Emma,” he murmured, pulling her close until she could feel the tremor in his body, the tightly leashed power that strained to be free. He was intensely aroused, the taut ridge of flesh burning against her loins. Emma was startled to feel a throb of response in her own body. Her pulse thrummed as if a resonant chord had been struck within her. Suddenly she knew she wanted him to hold her like this—she had wanted it for weeks.
She felt his lips on hers, eager and hard and sweet; felt the pressure of his hands as he urged her higher against his body. His lungs shuddered with a breath of relief, and he kissed her more deeply, greedily searching the warm interior of her mouth. She could smell the cold outdoor air on his clothes, and the scents of wool and tea that mingled in pleasantly familiar harmony. She flexed her body around him, arms tightening and legs pressing to hold him in her sphere. Her breath came fast, driven by pleasure and excitement. Nikolas had never kissed her like this before, not with skill or technique, but with raw feeling. The sensations climbed too far, too fast, and she broke away with a fearful sob.
Nikolas released her without a struggle, staring at her with hot golden eyes.
Emma fought to catch her breath, and clasped her arms around her middle. She had never felt so defenseless, so horrifyingly vulnerable. In that moment she discarded all plans of pitting herself against him or putting him in his place. She had to stay away from him if she was to have any chance of keeping herself whole. “Don't bother me like this again,” she said shakily. “If you need a woman so badly, find someone else. I don't want you. Even if I did find pleasure in it, I would hate myself afterward.” Her throat clenched, not allowing any more words, and she fled the drawing room.
Nikolas followed Emma purposefully. He wasn't finished yet. He wanted to know exactly what had been said between her and Milbank, and how Emma felt about her former suitor. She headed outside toward the menagerie, her green skirts swishing along the cold ground and billowing in the blustering wind.
“Emma,” he snapped, and she glared at him over her shoulder.
“Go away! I don't want to talk to you!”
“Why did Milbank call on you? What does he want?”
“He wants to be friends with me,” she said scornfully. “Nothing more.”
“Like hell,” Nikolas muttered, following her into the menagerie.
“Do not come in here, Nikki!” Emma's voice floated from the direction of the tiger's pen. “I want to spend a few minutes of peace and quiet with my…”
Suddenly there was silence.
“Emma?” Nikolas frowned, walking cautiously into the building. Then he understood why Emma was quiet. His heart stopped as he saw Manchu's pen.
Jake was in there with the tiger.
Eleven
N IKOLAS COULDN'T BREATHE or think, his body frozen with a kind of fear he had never known before. The locking pin to the pen's opening had been pulled out, and Jake had lifted the latch to walk inside. The boy stood at one side of the enclosure, while the tiger crouched in the center. Manchu grumbled in confusion and annoyance as he watched the small creature intrude on his territory.
Slowly Emma turned to look at Nikolas. Her face was pale, her eyebrows standing out in glowing red arcs. Her stiff lips twitched as if she wanted to say something, but she too seemed robbed of the power of speech.
Emma's thoughts clicked at a speed a hundred times faster than usual. She forced the terror back and stared at the tiger, trying to assess his mood. She didn't like the intense focus Manchu maintained on the child. Such keenly patient attention could precede a sudden attack. His spray of white whiskers bristled as he approached the boy cautiously, one paw at a time. Although Manchu didn't have claws, he still had teeth—fifteen on each side of the skull, including long canines that pierced the neck vertebrae of prey to kill with speedy efficiency, and bladelike carnassials. A tiger had powerful jaw muscles to clamp down on struggling prey, either biting at the nape of the neck to sever the spinal cord, or crushing the throat until the victim suffocated.
For a creature of Jake's small size, Manchu would probably use the nape bite. But Manchu seemed ambivalent, and Emma realized with fearful hope that he hadn't yet committed to the attack. She attracted his attention with a cheerful whistle, striding to his empty scraps bucket and lifting it as if it were heavy with meat.
“Manchu!” she called, carrying the bucket to the far end of the pen, away from Jake. She stayed outside the enclosure, calling to the tiger. “Come over here, you handsome boy…come see what I have!”
The tiger obeyed slowly, padding toward her with a low-pitched, whiny meow. At the same time, Nikolas darted to the pen, lifted the latch, and slipped inside. Aware of the sudden entrance of yet another person in his enclosure, Manchu growled in frustration and whipped around, ignoring Emma's voice. Nikolas snatched his son in a bruising grip and carried him out, slamming the door shut just as the tiger reached it.
“Papa,” Jake cried indignantly, squirming to be free, “I didn't want to come out yet! Papa, let go!”
But Nikolas couldn't let go, only held the small body tightly and shuddered in relief. Emma dropped the bucket and leaned against a nearby wall, dizzy from the pounding of her heart and the flood of fear in her veins.
When Nikolas could speak, he set the boy down and sank to his haunches, staring intently into the small face. “What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice thick. “I sent you upstairs to the nursery.”
“I didn't want to go there. I wanted to see the tiger.” Jake wore a defiant but unhappy expression, still not understanding the danger he had been in.
“You've been told never to visit the menagerie without Emma or me.”
“Manchu wouldn't hurt me, Papa. He likes me.”
Nikolas looked pale and grim. “You disobeyed me, Jake. I don't want to punish you, but you've left me no choice. You're not allowed to visit the menagerie for a month.” While the child protested and struggled, Nikolas turned him over his knee and delivered three resounding spanks to his backside. Jake howled and began to cry from surprise. Standing the child up before him, Nikolas spoke hoarsely. “That tiger is dangerous, as are the rest of these animals. You scared the hell out of Emma and me. I don't want anything to happen to you—that's why you must follow the rules we set, even if you don't always understand the reason for them.”
“Yes, Papa,” Jake sobbed, ducking his head to hide his tears.
Nikolas pulled him close, holding him tightly, and the child's arms came around his neck. “All right,” he murmured. “Everything's forgiven—just remember to do as I tell you.”
“Can I go play in the nursery now?”
Nikolas nodded, giving him one last, fierce squeeze. “Yes, you may go.”
Jake stood back and rubbed the tears from his eyes with small fists. He stared at his father curiously. “Why are you crying, Papa?”
There was a brief silence, and then Nikolas answered gruffly. “Because I hate having to spank you.”
A small, grudging smile crossed Jake's face. “I hate it too.” He ran to Emma and locked his arms around her hips, hugging her. “I'm sorry, Emma.”
Too moved for words, she ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head before he scampered away. When the rapid footsteps faded, Nikolas stood and rubbed his hands over his face, sighing tautly.
Emma approached him hesitantly. “Nikki, I thought I had made it clear to him—”
“He knew he shouldn't have come here alone,” Nikolas said, turning to face her. “He's a willful child, full of curiosity. I should have expected this.”
Emma wondered why he still looked so ashen, and why there was such a haunted look in his eyes. “Well, everything's fine now, thank God. No harm done.”
Nikolas didn't seem to agree with her. He dragged his sleeve over a clammy brow, and pushed back a lock of sweat-dampened hair. “I've never struck a child before.”
Then Emma u
nderstood. The episode had reminded him of Misha, his brother, and all the times their father had abused him. “You didn't strike Jake,” she said quietly. “It was a spanking, and a very mild one at that. You did it to make certain he wouldn't put himself in danger again. Jake understood that, Nikolas. You didn't hurt him…” She paused and continued in a very soft tone. “And you're not like your father.”
He was silent, his gaze unfocused, as if he were lost in memories of another time and place.
“It's not easy being a parent, is it?” Emma asked softly. “There are so many things to worry about, things you never expect, and you're tortured by the decisions you try to make for their own good—” She stopped speaking as thoughts of her own father caused a wave of sudden longing and guilt. Lucas Stokehurst had always been a loving, if overprotective, parent, and she had virtually cut him out of her life. She missed him. She was tired of punishing her family and herself—she wanted to make peace with them. “Don't feel guilty,” she murmured, too occupied with her thoughts to notice Nikolas's reply, or if he made one.
That evening, Emma went upstairs to the nursery at eight o'clock. She intended to explain to Jake that although she often referred to Manchu as a beloved pet, he was a dangerous animal, and by no means domesticated as a dog like Samson was. Manchu should be loved but feared, because his nature would always be unpredictable. She felt guilty for not having made that clear enough to Jake before.
As she neared the top step, she heard the boy's sleepy, relaxed voice float through the nursery doorway. “Papa, will you tell me stories even after we hire the nanny?”
“Of course,” came Nikolas's reply. “Although I imagine she'll have some stories of her own to entertain you with.”
“I like the Russian ones best.”
“So do I,” Nikolas said with a smile in his voice. “Now, where were we?”
“Prince Ivan just met the gray wolf.”
“Yes.” The pages of a book rustled. “‘It so happened that this was an enchanted wolf, who knew all about Prince Ivan's search for the magical firebird. “I know where the firebird is,” the wolf cried, and offered to take Ivan there. Climbing onto the wolf's back, Ivan rode swiftly through the night until they reached a garden surrounded with high golden walls. This was the palace of Tsar Afron…’”
Quietly Emma crept away, envisioning Jacob curled up in bed listening to his father's soothing baritone. She felt lonely, unhappy, wanting something she couldn't name. She drank a glass of red wine without tasting it and retired early to bed. Wearing a thin cotton gown, huddled under a pile of blankets, she waited for the icy bed linens to warm. The room was still and dark, voices coming to mock her from the shadows.
She remembered Tasia's appeal: “He's not worthy of anyone's trust, Emma. Nikolas is a dangerous man.”
Her father's quiet anguish: “You can always come back. I'll welcome you with open arms.”
And Nikolas's plea: “I won't hurt you again. Believe in me.”
The memories troubled her for hours, until finally the mist of sleep drifted over her. But there was no respite for her even then. One of the most disturbing dreams of her life seized her with a detail and vividness that chilled her to the bone.
She was in a cold, dark cell with wooden walls, a stone floor, and a tiny rectangular window. Crosses and icons hung on the walls, somber painted faces staring down at her, reflecting her grief. She sobbed desperately as she paced the small room, her dark gown trailing the floor. She knew that Nikolas was suffering, and she couldn't go to him. All she could do was wait here in helpless agony. Two other women—one of them a nun in gray garments—were trying to soothe her, but she shrugged off their gentle hands and turned away from their compassionate faces. “He's dying,” she wept. “He needs me, and he's all alone. I must go to him! I can't bear it, I can't—”
Emma jerked awake with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. The familiar room of her suite was eerily silent. “It was just a dream,” she told herself, wiping at the tears on her face. But for some reason the tears kept coming, and her heart ached as if someone truly had died. She didn't know how to make the pain go away. She slipped out of bed and found herself walking toward Nikolas's suite. Using the long sleeve of her gown to blot her face, she went to the doorway of his bedroom and stood there, a slender ghost hovering uncertainly in the darkness. Moonlight drifted through the window and puddled on the carpeted floor.
“Nikki,” she whispered.
She heard the sheets rustling and Nikolas's groggy voice. “Who is it?…Emma?”
“I had a nightmare,” she whispered. She had never known such desperate grief. Surely he could feel it, like another presence in the room with them.
“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 t
o 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 breasts, heat blazing through the fragile fabric of her gown. He found her nipples, 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 buttocks.
“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 hips in a rhythm that drove her to a wrenching climax. 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?”