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“Yes,” the girl said readily. “Especially a brother. As long as I could help choose the perfect name for him.”

Tasia smiled. “What sort of name?”

“Something special. Leopold, maybe. Or Quinton. Do you like those?”

“Oh, they're quite grand,” Tasia said, picking up a small rattle and jiggling it experimentally.

“Perhaps Gideon…” Emma mused, circling the table. “Or Montgomery…yes, Montgomery…”

While Emma continued to ponder names, Tasia's smile faded. A strange, cold, sick feeling came over her, and she touched her fingers to the table to steady herself. She was disoriented. The taste of fear filtered through her mouth.
What is it, what's wrong
—”

Her head jerked up. Across the room she saw her nightmare vision, the image that would never leave her.
Mikhail
…yet it was not Mikhail. The man she had murdered had been pale and dark-haired, and this one was tawny and tanned and lethal…but there were the same eyes…flat yellow wolf-eyes. Mesmerized, Tasia watched the golden figure by the entrance of the store, handsome and as inexorable as the angel of death. He was no specter, no dream.

Prince Nikolas Angelovsky had come for her.

How bizarre, to see him in a department store, while they were surrounded by clerks and attendants and hordes of women. He was dressed in somber dark clothes that should have camouflaged his foreignness but only served to accentuate it. He was the most cruelly beautiful creature she had ever seen in her life, with golden skin and sun streaks in his brown hair, a chiseled face, and the body of a tiger magically transformed into a human.

The baby rattle shook in Tasia's trembling hand. She placed it gently on the felt-covered table. It hurt to smile, causing needles of pain in her frozen cheeks, but Tasia managed it. “Emma,” she said softly, “if I'm not mistaken, you need new gloves.”

“Yes, Samson stole my last ones and chewed them to rags. He never can resist fresh white gloves.”

“Why don't you ask Lady Ashbourne to help you pick out a new pair?”

“All right.”

As Emma left her, Tasia looked up again. Nikolas had vanished. Her gaze swept the room in a swift inventory. There was no sign of him. Her pulse raced at a sickening speed. She skirted the edge of the room with swift strides. Crossing the food hall, she passed rows of iced fish and hanging meats, stacks of grocers' wares, pyramids of jars, boxes of comfits and foreign delicacies. People were turning to look at her. Tasia realized she was breathing with a harsh, sobbing sound. She clamped her mouth shut, her nostrils flaring, her face drained of blood.

Emma is safe with Alicia
, she reassured herself.
All I have to do is to elude Nikolas and find refuge somewhere, and send for Luke
…She left the food hall and hurried through the draper's shop, toward the side exit. Once she was outside, she would blend into the crowded street. Even Nikolas, with his predator's instinct, wouldn't be able to find her in that bustling mass of humanity.

Tasia slipped outside into the fetid air of London on a summer day. Before her foot touched the pavement, she felt a brutal arm close around her middle with the impact of a blow, squeezing until she felt her spine flex from the pressure. At the same time, a large gloved hand covered the lower half of her face. Quietly, efficiently, two men ushered her along the side street to a waiting carriage. Nikolas was standing there with the calm of a satiated tiger. He was a young man, not yet twenty-five, but all traces of youth and kindness had vanished a long time ago, if indeed he had ever possessed those qualities. His eyes were as round and shiny as golden saucers…emotionless…sterile.

“
Zdráhstvuyti
, little cousin,” Nikolas murmured. “You look well.” He reached out and caught a tear that trembled on her lashes and fingered it as if it were some precious elixir. “You could have made it much more difficult for me, you know. You could have hidden in the country as a peasant girl. It might have taken years for me to locate you. Instead you became the fodder for gossip all over London—the mysterious foreign governess who married a wealthy marquess. After hearing a few of the stories, I knew it could only be you.” He subjected her silk-clad form to a contemptuous glance. “Apparently your taste for luxury is stronger than your common sense.” Gently he lifted her white-knuckled fist, surveying the thick gold band on her finger. “What is your husband like? Some rich old man with a yen for young flesh, I suppose. Someone should tell him what a dangerous child you are.”

Nikolas gestured for the cossacks to shove her inside the carriage, but not before he saw the flicker of alarm in Tasia's eyes. Spinning around, he narrowly avoiding the whistling swing of an ivory umbrella handle. The knob missed his head and struck his shoulder with bruising force. Acting swiftly, he yanked away the makeshift weapon and seized the gangly young girl who had used it. She opened her wide mouth to scream.

“Make a sound and I'll have her neck broken in an instant,” he said.

The girl fell silent, staring at him with blazing blue eyes. She was flushed with fury and fear. The contrast between her scorching pink face and fiery hair—the color of rare red amber—was enchanting.

“Another dangerous child,” Nikolas said with a quiet laugh, holding her lanky, flat-chested body against his.

One of the cossacks addressed him in Russian. “Your Highness—”

“It's all right,” he said curtly, answering in kind. “Get into the carriage with the woman.”

The child he held spoke in a hoarse voice. “Let my stepmother go, you bastard!”

“I'm afraid I can't, my charming little beast. Where did you learn such bad words?”

The girl tried to wrench away from him. “Where are you taking her?”

“To Russia, where she'll be made to pay the price for her crimes.” Nikolas grinned and released her, watching her stagger back a few steps. “Goodbye, little girl. And thank you—it's been a long time since anyone has made me smile.”

She turned and ran wildly into the store. Nikolas stood watching her for a moment before he went to the carriage, climbed in, and signaled the driver to leave.

Charles Ashbourne sat on the library settee with his wife weeping against his shoulder. Emma occupied a leather chair, hugging her knees to her chest. She was quiet and pale with grief. Luke stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the river view. Having been summoned from a meeting of the Northern Briton Railway Company board with a succinct message that he was needed at home, he had raced to the villa to find the Ashbournes there with Emma. His daughter had been nearly hysterical. Tasia was nowhere in sight.

Prompted by Charles, Alicia had explained to the best of her knowledge what had happened. “I left her for a moment to look at the silk scarves,” she faltered, “and suddenly she and Emma were gone. And then Emma came running in, screaming about some Russian man with yellow eyes who had taken Tasia into his carriage—I can't think of how he found her, except that he must have been following me—dear heaven, we'll never see her again!” She broke down and cried, while Charles patted her back and tried to calm her.

Except for her weeping, everything was quiet. Luke turned to look at the Ashbournes. He was trembling all over, with rage and a hint of madness that made everyone in the room cringe in anticipation of an explosion. But he remained wordless and white-faced. Unconsciously he traced his fingers over the wicked curve of the silver hook, as if it were a weapon about to be put to use.

Unable to bear the silence, Charles spoke nervously. “What now, Stokehurst? I suppose we could attempt some sort of negotiation through government channels—after all, we have an ambassador in St. Petersburg, and perhaps an envoy could be sent to appeal—”

“I don't need a damned envoy,” Luke said, striding to the open doorway. “
Biddle
!” His voice echoed through the house like a peal of thunder.

The valet appeared in a flash. “Yes, my lord?”

“Make an appointment for me to meet with the foreign minister this afternoon. Tell him it's urgent.”

“My lord, what if he refuses—”

“Tell him I'll find him no matter where he goes. He may as well make an appointment.”

“Anything else, my lord?”

“Yes. Book passage for two to St. Petersburg. If there isn't a ship scheduled to depart within the next twenty-four hours, charter one.”

“Sir, may I ask who will be accompanying you?”

“You.”

“But my lord,” the valet spluttered, “I couldn't
possibly
—”

“Go. When you're finished with everything else, you can start packing for me.”

Biddle obeyed, muttering under his breath and shaking his head violently.

Charles approached Luke with quiet concern. “What can I do?”

“Take care of Emma while I'm gone.”

“Of course.”

Luke glanced at his daughter, and his face softened at the sight of her tear-swollen eyes. He crossed the room and sat beside her, drawing her close as she broke into renewed sobs.

“Oh, Papa,” she said miserably, “I didn't know what to do—I just f-followed Belle-mère, and when I saw what was happening, I should have run for help, but I didn't stop to th-think—”

“It's all right.” Luke gave her a crushing hug. “You couldn't have stopped it, no matter what you did. It's my fault, and no one else's. I should have done a better job of protecting you both.”

“Why did that man want her? Who is she? Has she done something wrong? I don't understand anything that's happened—”

“I know you don't,” he murmured. “She's done nothing wrong. But she's been unjustly blamed for a man's death, and there are people in Russia who want to punish her. The man you saw today is taking her back there.”

“Are you going to bring her home again?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Don't doubt it for a second, Emma.” His voice was soft, but his expression was cold and grim. “Prince Nikolas Angelovsky hasn't begun to realize what he's done. No one takes what is mine.”

The ship
Eastern Light
was a small, serviceable merchantman, laden with English wheat, fine porcelain, and textiles. The weather was calm. All signs promised that the ship would make a good run, perhaps no longer than a week. As captain of the vessel, Nikolas preferred to spend most of his time on deck, making certain the crew's duties were performed with the same exacting precision that he attended to his. It was no rich man's conceit, Nikolas's decision to command the ship. He possessed excellent navigational skills, and the brutal, decisive nature of a born leader. He charted a familiar course across the North Sea, heading east to the Baltic, and through the mouth of the Neva River, where St. Petersburg sprawled in stony majesty.

At the end of the first day at sea, Nikolas went to the cabin where he kept Tasia locked in solitude. Even the cabin boy had been forbidden to speak to her, should she happen to call through the door.

Tasia, who had been reclining on the narrow bed, sat up with a start as he entered the room. She was wearing the same clothes she had been captured in, a suit made of amber silk and trimmed with black velvet ribbon. Since Nikolas had apprehended her in London, she hadn't said a word or shed a single tear. She supposed she was in a state of shock, now that the thing she had dreaded most had finally happened. It was difficult to make herself understand that the past had reclaimed her with such chilling ease. She stared at Nikolas in wary silence, taking in every move as he closed the door.

His face was wooden, except for the contemptuous curl at the corners of his mouth. “You're wondering what I want from you now, little cousin. You're about to find out.”

Casually Nikolas strode to the brass-banded trunk against the wall. The well-oiled hinges made no sound as he lifted the lid. Tasia scooted backward on the bed, wedging her back against the paneled wall. She was tense, the silk beneath her arms turning moist with sweat. Confused, she watched him pull a wad of cloth from the trunk.

Nikolas approached her with the object clutched in his fist. “Recognize this?”

Tasia shook her head. He unfolded the garment and held it up. A cry was torn from her throat. She sat rigidly against the wall, her gaze riveted on the white tunic that Mikhail had worn the night of his death. It was designed in the traditional Russian style of the boyars, with a high gold-embroidered collar and long, wide sleeves. Ugly brown and black stains covered the front of the tunic…the residue of Mikhail's blood.

“I've been saving it for this occasion,” Nikolas said softly. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened the night my brother died…his last words, the look on his face…everything. You owe it to me.”

“I don't remember,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Then have a closer look. Perhaps this will jar your memory.”

“Nikolas, please—”

“Look at it.”

Tasia stared at the blood-crusted garment, the contents of her stomach pushing upward. She tried to hold down her gorge, but it seemed that the sickening-sweet smell of fresh blood was in her nostrils, the air was warm and rank around her…and the objects in the room began to revolve in a steady whirl. “I'm going to be sick,” she said thickly, her mouth filling with a sour taste. “Take it away…”

“Tell me what happened to Misha.” He held it even closer, until the dried brown stains filled her vision. She moaned and held her hand over her mouth, gagging. Suddenly he shoved a basin beneath her bowed head, and she vomited in violent spasms. Tears streamed from her eyes. Blindly she accepted a linen towel he handed her, and dried her face.

She looked up again and recoiled in horror as she saw that Nikolas was putting on the tunic, the garment straining over his shoulders, the death-pattern spread down his front. It had been a waterfall of bright red when Misha had worn the tunic, the knife protruding from his throat, his eyes bulging with pain and fear as he staggered toward her, reaching out for her—

“
Nooooo
—” she screamed, flailing with her stiff arms as Nikolas came nearer, a nightmare come to life—
stayawaystayaway
—her screams shot through the room, and her head was filled with a brilliant light, exploding, suddenly eclipsed by merciful darkness. The memory came back in a devastating flood. “
Misha
,” she sobbed, and fell slowly into the endless black pit, where there was no speech, no sight, no sound, nothing but the pieces of her shattered soul.