Authors: Miriam Minger
Tags: #historical fiction, #romance, #historical romance
Stefan's eyes flashed with open admiration as he
watched Kassandra, seated proudly upon her mare, disappear into the dense
trees. Then he bent down and grasped the handle of the knife, embedded to its
polished hilt, and pulled it from the ground. He slid it into the sheath at his
belt,
then
ran his fingers through his black hair, a
wry smile curving his lips.
What a remarkable woman, Stefan mused. He had been in
many fierce battles in his lifetime, but never had he been faced with such a
beautiful, and possibly more deadly, opponent. It seemed she was full of
surprises, and that her prowess extended to weaponry as well. He suddenly
recalled waking up in the tavern to find his own sword lying on the bed, its
razor-sharp blade pointed at his chest. Perhaps a thwarted attempt—fortunately
for him!—by Kassandra to exact her retribution, he thought with a grimace.
Stefan uttered a low whistle for Brand, and barely a
moment passed before the massive stallion appeared from the woods, snorting and
tossing its regal head. He hoisted himself into the saddle, then wheeled the
horse sharply and followed the path Kassandra had just taken.
At once he realized that instead of freeing him from
his obsession for Kassandra, knowing the truth of who she was had further
heightened his need for her, a need that seemed to rage within him like a
burning fever. Never before had he seen such spirit in a woman. And now that
his intuition was confirmed and he knew with certainty that Lady Kassandra
Wyndham was the wench from the tavern, he would stop at nothing to make her his
own.
Of course, he must marry her. Kassandra would become
Countess von Furstenberg. If she had been a serving maid, tavern whore, or even
married, it would have been different. But she was unmarried, a virgin until
their fateful
meeting,
and an English peeress in her
own right. No such woman would consent to anything less than marriage. No man
of position and integrity would offer anything else. Marriage it would be!
Stefan smiled wryly, surprised at this turn of events.
He was a man who cherished his freedom, a man who had known the pleasures of
many women, and been most intrigued by the chase and the capture. But Kassandra
was unique. In her he believed he had finally met his match.
And he had need of a wife. Isabel had driven home that
point again and again. It was time he thought of the future, of his estate . .
. an heir. He would offer Kassandra everything, his name, his wealth, and the
chance to share his life. Perhaps that would make up for the one thing he could
not offer her, his heart.
He was a soldier, first and foremost. There was no room
in his life for useless and transient emotions. He knew well that any man ruled
by his emotions rather than his intellect and gut instincts on the battlefield
was not destined to live long. No, he could never give her love, but he would
offer her an all-consuming desire reserved for no other woman.
Stefan drew up on the reins, a dark thought pressing in
on him. Fool, what made him think she would accept his proposal of marriage?
She was unconventional enough to think she didn't need his protection and
stubborn enough to refuse his proposal outright. She clearly despised him. It
was more likely she would throw his offer of marriage back in his face, with
relish!
His hands tightened on the reins as an image flashed
through his mind—Kassandra's eyes glinting angrily, her smiling red lips
taunting him, her vehement denial—and his mouth set in a tight line.
No, he could not risk the public disgrace she would
suffer if their liaison ever became known. And he could not deny his
all-consuming need to possess her. He would not lose her, however ruthless he
might seem, Stefan vowed. Tonight, after he returned from his meeting in
Vienna, he would make his proposal . . . and he knew exactly what he had to
say. She was too great a prize to leave anything to chance.
It was well past midnight when Stefan finally returned
to the estate. A drowsy footman opened the door for him as he stepped inside
the entrance hall, dark but for a few lighted candles still burning in the
ornate chandelier. He stamped his feet and dusted the wet snow from his heavy
cloak, then pulled it from his shoulders and dropped it over a high-backed
chair against the wall as he walked into the library.
The room was also dark, the fire long since reduced to
a pile of blackened ash, and there was a chill in the air. He sighed wearily,
dropping the large leather bag that held his papers and maps, and rubbed his
hands together to warm them. Guided by the dim light from the hall through the
open door, he poured a snifter of brandy. He swallowed, the fragrant liquid
burning his throat, then stood in silence, absently toying with the heavy
glass.
Damn, it had been a long day, he thought, much longer
than he had expected. Due to the length of his meeting with Prince Eugene, he
still hadn't found time to visit Sophia.
He had been an hour late as it was, a breech the prince
had fortunately forgiven, but then the discussions of war and strategy had gone
on long into the night, with scarcely a pause for meat and refreshment. The map
of Belgrade had been the focus of great interest and attention among the many
officers present, affording a well-drawn diagram of the layout of the near
impregnable fortress: valuable information that would hopefully insure another
victory for Prince Eugene during the next summer's campaign.
Other discussions had centered upon the winter camp of
the Imperial army, where the standing forces would be quartered until spring.
Set in the Hungarian lowlands, the camp was a good day's ride from Vienna. He
knew he would be called upon at some point during the winter to supervise his
cavalry forces, for a month, maybe longer. But he hadn't told Isabel yet. There
would be plenty of time for that, once the final date had been decided. She
would no doubt be distressed to learn he was leaving again so soon.
Stefan set down his half-empty glass and rubbed his
hands over his eyes. What would Kassandra think of his departure? Would she
also be distressed . . . or elated?
"Milord?"
Gisela's soft inquiry intruded upon his thoughts.
"Ah, Gisela, you are still up," he murmured warmly.
"Are you hungry, milord?" she asked.
"The cook has kept a platter of beef and roasted potatoes warm for you.
There was plenty left over this night, what with Countess Isabel's usually
small appetite and Lady Kassandra shut away in her room all day—"
"What's that?" Stefan queried sharply. At the
maid's surprised expression he softened his tone. "Lady Kassandra spent
the day in her room?"
"Yes, milord," Gisela replied. "She
came
flying into the house earlier today, slamming the doors
and such, and fled straight to her room. The door has been bolted, and
no one has been allowed in, not even your sister, who pleaded in
vain to find out what was the matter
." She shrugged her narrow
shoulders. "Perhaps her ride this morn did not agree with her."
Stefan frowned. If Gisela only knew how right she was!
He suddenly moved past her and into the hall. "I won't
be
needing
any dinner this night, Gisela, but my thanks. Rest well."
He turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time, the wide-eyed maid
staring after him in astonishment.
"Something's brewing this night," she
mumbled, watching his tall form disappear down the corridor. Shaking her head,
she held the candle in front of her and made her way to the kitchen.
Stefan strode down the hall, stopping abruptly at
Kassandra's door. He had rehearsed his words over and over during his long ride
back to the estate, all the while knowing no matter how he delivered
them,
they would be taken as ruthless and harsh. But he had
no choice. He couldn't take the chance of losing her now . . . for both their
sakes.
He paused, listening, and was not surprised to hear the
floor creaking slightly from light footfalls pacing back and forth. He took a
deep breath,
then
tried his hand on the doorknob while
leaning his broad shoulder into the door. It held fast.
So it was still bolted, just as Gisela had said, he
thought, his brow arching with displeasure. He stepped back, looking up and
down the dimly lit corridor, then moved once again to the door. He no longer
heard pacing within the room, only a heavy silence laced with palpable tension.
Stefan knew she had guessed he was at her door.
"Unbolt the door, Kassandra," he whispered
quietly, his soft tone belying his impatience. He waited a moment, but there
was no sound. Damn. He would break the door down if need be! "I will not
ask again, my lady," he murmured tightly. "Open the door, or I will
do so myself, in a manner you will find most unpleasant."
His threat was rewarded by the sound of footsteps
crossing the floor. Stefan smiled grimly. The bolt grated and squeaked as it
was suddenly drawn back,
then
the footsteps fled and
faded into the far recesses of the room.
Stefan turned the doorknob and carefully pushed open
the door, not certain of his reception. He stepped in gingerly and closed the
door behind him with a decisive click, scarcely daring to breathe. His gaze
swept the shadowed room, lit only by pale rays of moonlight across the thick
carpet, but there was no sign of Kassandra.
He waited,
tense
and alert. It
was only the sheerest whisper of a movement that caught his attention; perhaps
the rustle of a silken nightgown, he thought heatedly, and he realized she was
hiding behind the oriental screen in the far corner of the room. Overcoming a
pang of guilt that he had so subdued her brave spirit, he stood quietly by the
door, his legs spread, his arms crossed in front of him.
Kassandra crouched behind the screen, furiously chewing
her lower lip. Where was he? What was he doing? Blackguard! He obviously wanted
something from her, but what? Wasn't it enough that he had discovered her
secret?
Several moments passed, each one an eternity for her,
and still Stefan made no movement toward her. After another long silence, she
had had enough. Her knees were beginning to ache, kneeling on her haunches as
she
was,
a most uncomfortable position. This was her
chamber, and here she was cowering in it like a frightened lamb.
With a sigh of angry exasperation Kassandra rose
suddenly to her feet, wincing as pinpricks of sensation shot through her legs.
She cursed under her breath and leaned on the screen, but somehow misjudged the
distance and lost her balance. The screen fell forward with a resounding crash,
and she would have toppled with it if she hadn't grabbed the side of her tub,
righting herself, just in time.
"Why don't you light a candle, my lady?"
Ste-fan's voice, deep and husky, came to her from across the room. "It
might make it easier for both of us to see . . . each other."
"Why would we want to do that?" Kassandra
snapped. "I can assure you I have no wish to see you. Why don't you just
leave!
" She straightened shakily; then, as an
afterthought, she moved to the fireplace not far from the tub and grabbed the
poker propped against the wall. She might need it to protect herself, she
thought fleetingly, holding it crosswise in front of her. After this morning in
the woods, there was no telling what he might try to do.
"Very well. I'll light them," Stefan replied,
unperturbed that Kassandra had armed herself once again. He could see in the
dark, but for what he had to say to her, he thought it best if he could also
read her expressions. He walked to the low table beside the bed, found the
flint, steel, and tinderbox, and lit the three candles in the delicate
porcelain candelabra, their flickering golden light settling over the room.
Then he turned to face her.
Stefan inhaled sharply as his eyes moved over
Kassandra, her beauty stunning to behold. She wore a cream lace nightgown that
left little to his imagination, the curves of her lithe, long-limbed body
barely concealed by the flowing folds of the gossamer fabric. Her long hair,
brushed to a burnished glow, curled softly around her furious face and tumbled
down the front of her gown, concealing the high, firm breasts he ached to
caress. It was all he could do not to go to her and crush her in his arms, but
he forced himself to think clearly, rationally. There would be time enough for
that . . . later.
"That's better," he murmured, sitting down in
one of the comfortable upholstered chairs at the foot of the bed. He stretched
his long legs out in front of him and nodded toward the other one. "Sit
down, Kassandra. We have an important matter to discuss."
She eyed him suspiciously, shaking her head.
"No."
"Very well, then, stand if you wish—"
"We have nothing to discuss!" she stated
hotly, cutting him off. She nervously fingered the poker. The blasted thing was
so heavy. She set its point down upon the ceramic tiles in front of the
fireplace on which she was standing, one hand still gripping the curved handle.
"Now, I have already asked you to leave my chamber, Count von
Furstenberg."
Stefan sighed. His attempts at civility were getting
him nowhere. Best to get on with it, he decided quickly. He brought his legs up
and leaned forward in the chair, his mild expression becoming deadly serious.
"It's time to put an end to this charade, Kassandra," he said simply.
She paled, though she did not fully understand his
meaning. "Charade?"
"I know you are the woman I found in the tavern,
though why you were there, I have yet to discover. Our . . . encounter in the
woods this morning only confirmed what I have believed all along, and what you
have sought, for obvious reasons, to conceal from me since we met at the
Hofburg." He paused, studying her face, but her lovely features were set
and immobile. It was her eyes, wide and full of turmoil, that gave away her
true feelings.