Prince of Dreams

Chapter One

1877 London

"Waiting for someone?" A man's voice cut through the rustling quiet of the garden. The Russian accent was soft and guttural, falling pleasantly on Emma's ears. Turning with a wry smile, Emma watched as Prince Nikolas Angelovsky stepped out of the shadows.

With his golden skin, his sun-streaked hair, and his unpredictable cruelty, Nikolas was more like a tiger than a human being. Emma had never seen such a perfect blend of beauty and menace in any other man. She knew from personal experience that there was good reason to fear him. But she was an expert at handling dangerous creatures. The only sure way to be hurt was to show her fear.

Emma relaxed her spine and settled more comfortably on the stone bench, located in the most secluded section of the formal estate garden. "I'm certainly not waiting for you," she replied briskly. "Why are you out here?"

He smiled at that, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "I felt like taking a walk."

"I'll thank you to walk somewhere else. I'm trying to meet someone in private."

"Who is it?" He slid his hands into his pockets, walking around her.

"Go away, Nikolas."

"Tell me."

"Go away!"

"You can't order me about on my own estate, child." Nikolas stopped a few feet away from her. He was a tall man, one of the few in London whom Emma didn't tower over. He had big hands and feet, and a spare, powerful build. A shadow fell across his face, obscuring all but the piercing yellow gleam of his eyes.

"I'm not a child. I'm a full-grown woman."

"So you are," Nikolas said softly. His gaze swept over her, taking note of her slender figure wrapped in a simple white gown. Emma's face, as always, was unpowdered and unpainted. Her hair had been pinned into a tight chignon, but exuberant curls sprang around her face and neck. Her hair was a sublime shade of red, burning with bronze and cinnamon lights.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said.

Emma laughed. "Don't flatter me. 'Attractive' is the best I can do, and I know it. It's hardly worth having my head stuck with hairpins and my ribs crushed with tight lacing until I can't breathe. I'd much rather go 'round wearing boots and breeches and be comfortable, as men are. If one can't be beautiful, one shouldn't have to try at all."

Nikolas didn't argue, though he had his own opinion on the matter. Emma's unique attractiveness had always fascinated him. She was a strong, resilient woman, with the grace of a tall-masted ship. Her face was a composition of delicate angled cheekbones, a lush mouth, a scattering of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. Long-limbed and slender, she reached a height of nearly six feet, even in her flat slippers. Nikolas topped her by a scant two inches. He had often imagined her body matched exactly to his, her legs and arms wrapped around him.

They were right for each other. Strange that no one else could see it, but it had been clear to Nikolas for years, ever since he had first met her. She had been a devil-child, an explosive bundle of gangly limbs and wild red hair. Now she was a young woman of twenty, with a ruthless honesty that was a perfect foil for his own secretive nature. She reminded him of the women he had known in Russia, women with fire in their souls . . . so unlike the tepid European creatures he had known for the past seven years.