Stolen Splendor (3 page)

Kassandra felt a wave of pity at the sight of the
miserable creatures, clearly terrified by all the shouting and noise. Unable to
watch such cruelty any longer, she turned away and began to struggle through
the onlookers to a nearby side street.

Suddenly a great cry of alarm went up as a large black
ox broke away from the herd and charged at the crowd, bellowing in rage.
Whirling, Kassandra dodged just in time to escape the maddened animal's horns,
only to find
herself
swept down the street in the
midst of the screaming throng.

For a terrifying moment it seemed she would be dragged under
and trampled, but, clawing and kicking, she managed to fight her way back to
the side of the street. Spying a half-open door, she lunged for it and nearly
tripped inside a large, dimly lit room. She slammed the door behind her and
leaned on it for a moment, gasping for breath. The she stumbled to a nearby
table and collapsed in a chair.

Burying her face in her hands, Kassandra listened
dazedly as the screams of the crowd carried on down the street. Everything had
happened so fast! Her breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath the bodice of her
gown; her throat felt raw and parched. She struggled against the swamping
sensation of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her, fought back the hot
tears that burned her eyes.

Sweet Lord, she could have been killed . . . A
shuddering sigh escaped her at this numbing realization. Suddenly chilled, she
reached behind her to draw her cloak around her body, only to find it was no
longer there.

It must have been wrenched from her shoulders during
her struggles, she thought, her mind reeling. She looked down at the skirt of
her gown. The flowered fabric was grimy and tom, ripped on one side from the
muddied hem almost to her thigh. With trembling fingers she touched her head,
only to discover her lace cap was also missing. Her hair, tangled and snarled,
had fallen from its pins to frame her face in riotous disarray. And her bag was
gone, along with her money.

The dress and the money are no matter . . . At least
you are
unharmed,
Kassandra chided herself, still
astounded that she had so narrowly escaped death. Somewhat calmed, she gazed
nervously about the large room. She was in some sort of a
tavern,
that
much she knew.

The dense, smoke-filled air stung her eyes. Kassandra
blinked, wiped them with the back of her hand,
then
looked up again . . . straight into the eyes of a stranger staring boldly at
her from across the room.

Chapter 3

Count Stefan von Furstenberg took a slow draft from his
goblet, his gaze never leaving the flame-haired wench on the other side of the
smoke-dimmed tavern. Damn, but she was tantalizing!

He had seen her only a moment ago, when he had stood up
from the table to take leave of his men. A cavalry commander in the Imperial
Austrian army, he and his soldiers had just returned to Vienna that morning
from a victorious campaign led by their famous general, Prince Eugene of Savoy,
against the Turks.

With their hard night ride behind them, the taverns of
the city had been a welcome sight. He had not refused his officers' invitation
to join them in a well-earned drink to victory, though they had been
celebrating in this wine tavern, the Yellow Eagle, for the past few hours, far
longer than he had intended to stay.

Now he was glad he had remained. To have missed such
uncanny beauty as this wench possessed would have been a shame indeed. Perhaps
his plan of surprising his sister Isabel before she received word that the
Imperial army had arrived in Vienna would have to wait awhile longer, as well
as a visit to his mistress, Sophia, whom he had not seen for the past six
months.

Stefan chuckled to himself, a rakish grin tugging one
corner of his mouth. Sophia. No doubt she had amused herself with countless
lovers during his long absence and was probably even now in the arms of another
man . . . perfecting her skills in the fine art of lovemaking, she would say
wickedly, and without apology.

Ah, but Sophia was not here . . . only the tavern wench
in all her tousled beauty, he considered, his eyes raking lustily over her.
Surely a quick tumble with her would not hinder his plans overmuch. He would be
on his way home to the von Furstenberg estate within the hour.

Stefan drained his goblet, the wine flooding his body
with fiery warmth, and felt a surge of desire rip through him at the thought of
possessing the long-limbed wench . . . intoxicating his blood far more than the
wine. He quickly reached a decision. The devil knew he was no saint. He had not
denied himself the pleasurable company of women during the campaign, but it had
been many weeks since he had felt a woman writhe beneath him. He would wait no
longer.

Setting his empty goblet upon the table with a thud,
Stefan strode over to the proprietor of the tavern and drew him aside.

"Have you any rooms?"

"Ah yes, milord." The fat proprietor grinned,
nodding his balding head eagerly. "I have several, but there is one, a
corner room, that is quite well appointed, if I might say so." He paused,
his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Of course, it will cost a bit more than the
others—"

"I'll take it," Stefan said, dropping some
gold coins in the man's sweaty palm. "I trust this will cover the cost of
the room and another barrel of wine for my men?"

The proprietor stared greedily at the coins. "Oh
yes, milord! You are most generous!"

"Good. Now bring some wine to that table over there,
the one by the door, and be quick about it."

"At once!" The man scurried off, the gold
coins clinking in his pocket, anxious to please the formidable-looking officer.
It was not every day he had such a guest in his tavern, a commander of the
Imperial cavalry no less . . . and a wealthy one!

Stefan glanced down at his uniform, dusty from the long
ride the night before, and at his knee-length boots, streaked with mud and
dirt. He longed for a hot bath and a shave, but there was not enough time.
Besides, he doubted the wench would mind. If she plied her trade this close to
the Danube Canal, she had probably lain with far worse.

He walked back to the table where some of his men were
seated. They stood as he approached, raising their goblets in salute.

"Another draft of wine, Commander?" one young
officer blurted drunkenly, sloshing the contents of his goblet down the front
of his uniform and on to the floor.

"Aye, let's drink in fond memory of the Turks we
blessed with the kiss of our swords, may they all rot in hell!" another
shouted loudly.

Stefan shook his head, silencing the boisterous rabble
with a single gesture. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must take my
leave of you. Pleasures other than your fine company beckon to me."

With a gleam of laughter in his eyes, he turned from
them and strode toward the front of the tavern, where the wench was sitting,
ignoring his men's low whistles of
approval
and
stamping feet.

Kassandra watched wide-eyed as the strikingly handsome
officer approached her table, the same man who had been staring at her only
moments before. He was tall and powerfully
built,
his
shoulders very broad beneath his dark blue uniform. His hair was black, black
as a raven's wing, she thought fleetingly, and pulled back into a short queue
at his nape.

It was his eyes, flint gray with just a hint of blue,
like a wild, storm-tossed sea, that caught and held her gaze. Deeply set
beneath straight black brows, they seared her with a burning intensity that
made her flush with
a strange
, stirring warmth.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Kassandra tore her gaze away.
Surely he must be looking for someone else, she thought, her mind spinning. She
turned and glanced behind her, but there was no one .else seated anywhere near
them. Turning back around, she started in surprise when he pulled out the only
other chair at her table, the wooden legs scraping along the planked floor, and
sat down beside her.

A fat, balding man suddenly crossed to them with two
silver goblets filled to the brim with red wine, set them on the table, bowed,
and hurried away.

What was going on? Kassandra wondered. She hadn't
ordered a drink. She blushed hotly, embarrassed, as the officer's eyes raked
over her, slowly, openly.

Stefan stared at Kassandra for a long moment without
saying a word. Now that he was closer, it seemed his gutter waif had become a
goddess. Either that or the wine had sorely affected his vision.

By God, she was stunning . . . an enchantress, he
marveled, astounded by her disheveled beauty. Despite the smudges of dirt on
her face, her skin was like the finest porcelain, her features a study in
perfect symmetry—high, curved cheekbones, a straight nose that tipped slightly
at the end, slim, arched brows that matched the fiery red-gold of her hair, and
a lush curved mouth that was full and inviting.

Stefan was tempted to reach out and trace the exquisite
line of her chin, a stubborn chin that bespoke strength and spirit. But
studying her, he hesitated. She looked so tantalizingly innocent for a common tavern
wench, like a fresh rose amidst flowers that had long ago lost their bloom.

Perhaps she was new to her trade, he considered. She
looked young, barely seventeen. He noted now her large amethyst eyes studied
him warily, dark violet pools opulently fringed by thick lashes tipped with
gold. He could not help feeling that a man could easily drown in those luminous
depths . . .

Enough! Stefan berated himself, shifting impatiently in
his chair. Obviously he had been away from women far too long to become so
easily besotted over a common tavern wench.

Gazing steadily into her eyes, Stefan raised his goblet
to his lips and drank deeply, the heady liquid fanning his desire. But the girl
did not follow his lead. He gestured to the cup before her. "The drink is
for you," he murmured, his voice low, edged with roughness.

Kassandra stared at the goblet, then back at him. The
man must have seen her plight and was offering wine to her out of kindness, she
reasoned with a surge of relief. "Thank you," she replied softly.

Her hand trembled as she lifted the goblet to her lips
and drank thirstily. It was a coarse vintage, and overly tart, but she did not
mind. She felt
a relaxing
warmth wash over her as she
drained the cup, her jangled nerves calmed at last.

Perhaps the soldier might calla carriage to take her to
St. Stephen's, Kassandra thought hopefully. She doubted it was past two
o'clock, but Zoltan might already be waiting for her in the cathedral square.
She had experienced quite enough excitement for one day, and was more than
ready to return to the von Furstenberg estate. She smiled warmly, gratefully,
at the officer and leaned toward him.

Stefan's breath caught in his throat, his eyes falling
upon the creamy swell of her breasts,
firm
and high,
straining against the taut fabric of her bodice. He knew he could no longer
restrain his mounting desire, burning like a raging inferno within him. "I
have a room waiting upstairs," he said abruptly, rising from his chair.
"Come."

Kassandra stared up at him, dumbstruck, as if she had
not heard his words. Room upstairs? What could he possibly mean?
she
wondered wildly. Why was he looking at her so?

Then a flicker of fear flamed within her, and her gaze
darted around the smoke-filled room. She noticed for the first time the other
women present, their heavily rouged faces, easy smiles, and low-cut gowns
blatant testimony to their calling. In a far corner one woman had even unlaced
her bodice, and a sailor was suckling at her breast!

"If it's money that concerns you, wench,"
Stefan said wryly, "I will pay you well for your trouble." He held
out his hand, the gesture a command. "Now walk with me, else I will be
forced to carry you up the stairs."

Kassandra gasped, incredulous. Sweet Lord, he thought
she was nothing more than a common harlot . . . a . . . a tavern whore!

She jumped up from her chair so suddenly that it
crashed to the floor,
her
only thought to flee. But
before she had taken two steps, a strong arm encircled her waist, and she was
pitched unceremoniously over the officer's broad shoulder like a sack of wheat.

"
Wh-
what are you
doing?" she sputtered indignantly, fighting to quell the terror filling
her heart. "Let me down at once!"

Stefan chuckled deep in his throat and slapped her
backside, his hand lingering there. "
Enough,
wench! You play the part of the innocent quite convincingly . . . a captivating
illusion . . . but I have no time for games!" With long strides he carried
her toward the back of the tavern and up a flight of creaking wooden stairs.

"No! Please, you are mistaken!" Kassandra
cried out, pounding her clenched fists against his rugged back. But her
desperate protests were of no avail, drowned out by the crude laughter and
ribald jests that filled the tavern, resounding from the high beams.

"The corner room is straight along the corridor
and to the left, milord," the proprietor shouted above the din. He watched
with no small amount of envy as Stefan reached the top of the stairs and
disappeared down the darkened corridor with his stunning load, a kicking, struggling
vision of flaming hair and flailing limbs.

Funny, he had never seen that wench at his tavern
before, he thought, scratching his head. What a tigress! Surely he would have
remembered such a beauty . . . and such a temper. He shrugged. Perhaps he might
sample her charms when the gentleman was through with her. Licking his lips, he
filled some goblets from a newly opened barrel of wine and hurried toward the
crowded tables. "Here you go, m'lads, more wine! Compliments of the
commander."