“Why would you want to, when all Nikolas has ever done for you is cause trouble?”
“He also helped me to escape from Russia,” Tasia pointed out. “Do you know where his house is? Tell me, Alicia.”
“Surely you're not going to disobey your husband?”
Tasia's brows quirked with a frown. She had changed over the past months. Once there would have been no need to ask such a question. She had been raised to regard a husband's word as law, to accept his authority without question. She remembered the bitter irony of Karolina Pavlova, a Russian writer: “
Learn, as a wife, the suffering of a wife…she must not seek the path to her own dreams, her own desires…all her soul is in his power…even her thoughts are fettered
.”
But that was no longer her fate. She had come too far, had changed too much, to let someone else own her soul. It was important for her to prove that to herself as well as to Luke. She would act according to her own conscience, and love her husband as a partner rather than revere him as her master.
“Tell me where Nikolas lives,” she said firmly.
“Forty-three Upper Brook Street,” Alicia murmured, wincing. “The big white marble house. And don't let anyone know that I was the one who told you—I shall deny it to my last breath.”
Tasia waited until the next afternoon, when Luke was gone and Emma was immersed in French philosophy. She ordered a carriage to be prepared and left on the pretext of paying a call on the Ashbournes. Upper Brook Street was only a short distance from the Stokehurst estate. Tasia wondered why Nikolas had taken a house there, and if anyone had accompanied him from Russia. Her feeling of urgency increased, not to mention her nervousness, as the carriage stopped in front of a huge marble mansion. A footman preceded her up the front steps to knock at the door. They were greeted by the housekeeper, an old Russian woman dressed in black, with a gray scarf tied over her hair. Evidently Nikolas had not seen fit to hire a butler. The housekeeper muttered a few words in broken English and gestured for Tasia to go away.
Tasia spoke briskly. “I am Lady Anastasia Ivanovna Stokehurst. I have come to see my cousin.”
The woman was surprised by her perfectly accented Russian. She answered in kind, seeming relieved to have a countrywoman to confide in. “The prince is very ill, madam.”
“How ill?”
“He is dying, madam. Dying very slowly.” The housekeeper crossed herself. “A curse must have been placed on the Angelovsky family. He has been this way ever since he was questioned by the special committee in St. Petersburg.”
“‘Questioned by the special committee,’” Tasia repeated softly, knowing that was far too civilized a description for what had really gone on. “Does he have fever? Infection in his wounds?”
“Not any longer, madam. Most of the outside wounds have healed. His sickness is of the spirit. The prince is too weak to get out of bed. He has commanded that his room be kept in darkness. No food or drink will stay down, except a glass of vodka now and then. He will not allow himself to be moved or bathed. When anyone touches him, he trembles or cries out as if a hot coal has burned him.”
Tasia listened to the short speech without expression, though her insides were wrenched with pity. “Is anyone with him?”
“He will not permit it, madam.”
“Show me to his room.”
As they went through the shadowy house, Tasia was amazed to see that the rooms had been filled with many of the priceless treasures from the Angelovsky Palace in St. Petersburg. Even a magnificent icon wall had been transported and reassembled in flawless detail. They neared Nikolas's bedchamber, and the smell of incense became very strong. The air was thick with an Oriental scent that was used to ease the passage of the dying. Tasia remembered that the same fragrance had clung to her father's deathbed. She entered the room and asked the housekeeper to leave them.
It was too dark to see anything. Tasia made her way to the heavy curtains and drew them back a few inches, shedding afternoon light into the dim room. She opened the windows. A crisp fall breeze began to whisk away the haze of incense smoke. Slowly she walked to the bed, where Nikolas Angelovsky lay sleeping.
Nikolas's appearance shocked her. He was covered up to his chest, but one long, thin arm was visible. The fingers twitched slightly as his mind wandered in and out of dreams. Freshly made scars twisted like serpents around his wrists and inner elbow. Tasia's stomach turned at the sight of them. She switched her gaze to his face, seeing with regret that Nikolas's once-splendid handsomeness was in ruins. There were deep hollows in his face and neck. The healthy bronze of his skin had faded into a grayish-yellow death mask. His bright golden-streaked hair was dull and matted.
There was a bowl of herbed soup, untouched and cooling, on the table by the bed. There were also carved animal figurines to ward off evil spirits, and a pot of burning incense. Tasia snuffed the little flame and covered the pot to eliminate the vertical stream of scented smoke. Her movements, and the fresh air, disturbed Nikolas. He awakened with a nervous start.
“Who is it?” he said groggily. “Close the windows. Too much air…too much light…”
“One would think you didn't want to get well,” Tasia observed quietly, coming closer to his bedside. Nikolas blinked and stared up at her with his odd wolf-eyes, which seemed even more sterile than she remembered, if that was possible. He reminded her of a listless, suffering animal, uncaring if he lived or died.
“Anastasia,” he whispered.
“Yes, Nikolas.” Carefully she sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at him.
Though she made no move to touch him, Nikolas shrank away from her. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely. “I can't stand the sight of you…or any other human being.”
“Why did you come to London?” she asked gently. “You have family in many other places, France, Finland, even China…but you have no one here. No one except me. I think you wanted me to come to you, Nikolas.”
“When I want you, I'll send an invitation. Now…go.”
Tasia was about to reply when she sensed that someone was at the door. She glanced over her shoulder. To her horrified surprise, Emma was there. Her slender form was nearly lost in the shadows of the doorway, but her red hair glowed with burning cinnamon lights.
Tasia rushed over to her with an annoyed scowl. “Emma Stokehurst, what are you doing here?” she whispered sharply.
“I took one of the horses and followed you,” Emma replied. “I heard you and Papa talking about Prince Nikolas Angelovsky, and I knew you were planning to go to him.”
“This is a private matter, and you have no business interfering! You know how I feel about your eavesdropping, as well as your habit of prying into things that are not your concern.”
Emma tried to look repentant. “I had to come alone to make certain he didn't hurt you again.”
“A gentleman's sickroom is not a proper place for a young girl. I want you to leave at once, Emma. Have the carriage take you home, and send it back for me.”
“No,” came a low voice from the bed.
The two women turned to look at him. Emma's blue eyes rounded in curiosity. “Is that the man I saw before?” she asked under her breath. “He doesn't look the same at all.”
“Come,” Nikolas said imperiously, gesturing with a slender hand. The effort cost him, and his hand dropped back to the bed. His gaze fixed on Emma's freckle-spattered face, surrounded by brilliant curls. “We meet again,” he said, watching her without blinking.
“It smells bad in here,” Emma observed, folding her arms over her flat chest. Ignoring Tasia's protests, she went to the bedside and shook her head disdainfully. “Look at all these empty bottles. You must be completely plowed.”
The ghost of a smile touched Nikolas's dry lips. “What does it mean, ‘plowed’?”
“It means stinking drunk,” Emma replied pertly.
In a swift move that surprised her, Nikolas reached out and caught a lock of her gleaming hair between his thin fingers. “There,” he said softly. “I know a Russian folk tale about a girl who saves a dying prince…by bringing him a magic feather…from the tail of the firebird. The bird's feathers were a color between red and gold…like your hair. A bouquet of flames.”
Emma jerked away from his weak grip and scowled down at him in annoyance. “More like a bunch of carrots.” She glanced at Tasia. “I'll go home, Belle-mère. I can see that you're in no danger from
him
.” She invested the last word with infinite disdain, and left the room.
Nikolas struggled to turn his head on the pillow and watch her departure.
Tasia was amazed at the change that had come over him. The listlessness had gone from his eyes, and there was a touch of color in his face. “Devil child,” he said. “What is her name?”
Tasia ignored the question, beginning to roll up her sleeves. “I'm going to have the servants heat up more soup,” she said, “and you're going to eat it.”
“And then you'll promise to go away?”
“Certainly not. I'm going to bathe you and put salve on your bedsores. I'm certain you have many.”
“I'll have the servants throw you out.”
“Wait until you're strong enough to throw me out yourself,” Tasia suggested.
The bruised-looking lids half-closed. The conversation had wearied him. “I don't know if I'll get stronger. I haven't yet decided if I want to live.”
“People like you and me always survive,” she replied, repeating the words he had once said to her. “I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Nikki.”
“You're here against your husband's wishes.” It was a statement, not a question. “He would never agree to let you visit me.”
“You know nothing about him,” Tasia said calmly.
“He'll beat you,” Nikolas continued in glum satisfaction. “Even an Englishman wouldn't stand for this.”
“He won't beat me,” Tasia said, though privately she had her doubts.
“Did you come here for my sake, or to defy him?”
Tasia was silent for a moment. “Both,” she said finally. She wanted Luke's complete trust. She wanted the freedom to do as she thought best. In Russian society a noblewoman always expected to be ruled by her husband. Here she had the chance to be a partner rather than a slave, and she would make it clear to Luke which role she preferred…no matter what the consequences.
It was late in the evening when she returned to the Stokehurst villa. Nikolas had been a difficult patient, to say the least. While Tasia and the housekeeper gave him a bedbath, Nikolas had alternated between vicious insults and quiet, wretched stillness, as if he were being tortured all over again. Feeding him was another ordeal, but they had managed to coax him into keeping down a few spoonfuls of soup, and a bite or two of bread. Tasia had finally left him in a far cleaner and more comfortable condition than when she had first arrived, although he was now furious at being deprived of his vodka.
Tasia planned to return the next day, and every day after, until her cousin's recovery was certain. She was tired and depressed at the sight of Nikolas's broken body, the heartbreaking evidence of the cruelty that human beings could inflict on each other. She longed to crawl into Luke's arms and be comforted. Instead she faced a battle. Luke knew what she had done, and why she had returned at such a late hour. He would see her action as a slight to his masculine authority. Perhaps he had already decided the punishment for her disobedience. Or worse, he might be coldly contemptuous, and ignore her.
The villas was left in near-darkness. It was the servants' night off, and the house seemed deserted. Wearily Tasia went upstairs to the suite she shared with Luke, and called his name. There was no answer. She lit a lamp in the bedroom and began the process of undressing. She stripped down to her shift and sat at her dressing table to brush out her long hair.
She heard someone enter the room, and her hand froze, gripping the brush tightly.
“My lord?” she said tentatively, looking up. Luke was there, dressed in a dark robe. His face was grim. The look in his eyes caused her to drop the brush and jump up from the dressing table. Her instincts warned her to run from him, but her feet were leaden. All she could do was totter backward a few steps.
He came to her, pushed her against the wall, and held her jaw in his hand. There was no sound except their breathing; his deep and heavy, hers far more rapid. Tasia was aware of his brutal power, knowing he could crush her bones like eggshells.
“Are you going to punish me?” she asked unsteadily.
He forced a knee between her thighs, pinning her between the wall and his aroused body. His gaze burned into hers. “Should I?”
Tasia quivered slightly. “I had to go,” she whispered. “Luke…I-I didn't want to disobey you. I'm sorry…”
“You're not sorry. You shouldn't be.”
She didn't know what to say. She had never seen him like this before. “Luke,” she whispered, “Don't—”
He smothered her words with an aggressive kiss. His hand slid down her throat, found the fragile strap of her shift, and pulled roughly until it broke. His hot palm covered her breast, squeezing, circling until the peak sprang into a sensitive bud. At first Tasia was too unnerved to respond, but his mouth, his touch, his body compelled her, and suddenly she was flooded with excitement. The thunder of her pulse was loud in her ears, obliterating all other sound. Only dimly could she hear herself gasping a few words of surrender…but he wasn't listening. He held her in arms that hurt, and bit and licked her throat. Tasia let her head fall back, offering more, abandoning herself to the savage storm of passion.
Yanking the hem of her shift to her waist, he reached between her thighs. He pressed the heel of his hand against the place she most wanted it, grinding gently until the delicate fluff of curls was flattened beneath his palm. His mouth covered hers again, his tongue thrusting toward the back of her throat. She pushed against his hand, while her face became damp with sweat and her breathing turned ragged. When she was too weak to stand, he pulled her to the bed and lowered her to the mattress.
She lay passively on her side, robbed of speech or thought, her eyes closed as she waited in trembling anticipation. The hard length of his body pressed against her, his chest at her back. He pushed her top leg up high, arranging her to his satisfaction, and he entered her warm body with a skillful stroke. His hand played lightly on the front of her torso, sliding over each ripe, tender curve. Tasia writhed against him, oblivious of everything except the sweet torment. “Please,” she moaned.