Stolen Splendor (36 page)

Though she might wish she had died, he mused darkly,
once she learned she was bound for a harem as a morsel to tempt a jaded Turkish
palate. He had in mind exactly which harem, and which man would become her
master. As far as Sophia was concerned, Kassandra would be as good as dead. No
woman who entered a harem was ever seen or heard from again.

Get on with it, man, Frederick chided himself, ripping
the blue woolen cloak from her shoulders. You've still got to make it look like
her disappearance was a tragic accident.

He stood up and strode to the water's edge, his keen
eyes judging the distance and angle of approach to several trees farther down
the shoreline, now knocked over and half-submerged because of the fierce storm
of the past week. He cast the cloak into the river, watching as it drifted on
the swiftly flowing current. He felt a rush of triumph when it snagged on a
branch. Perfect! Then he dug his bootheels into the muddy bank, so it appeared
as if someone had slipped into the water at that point.

Frederick grimly turned his back on the river and
hurried to Kassandra, hoisting her once again over his shoulder. He walked
upstream a short way to where he had tethered his horse, laid her crosswise
over the saddle, mounted, and set off at a fast canter through the woods. He
veered north, intending to avoid the von Furstenberg estate altogether. He
would cut back toward Vienna when he was well past it.

Raw excitement gripped him and he spurred the spirited
stallion on with a sharp nudge of his boot. Tomorrow he would at last be able
to leave the city and head south along the Danube to Belgrade, Serbia. It was
only Sophia's unexpected task that had prevented him from leaving several days
sooner. He had finally discovered the date the Imperial army would depart for
the summer campaign. Halil Pasha would be most pleased by this information . .
. as well as by the seductive gift he would present to him.

Now there was nothing left to do but hire a boat and
send a message to Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg that Lady Kassandra Wyndham
was dead.

***

Stefan led the two horses toward the lodge, amazed at
his light step. How different from when he had arrived there earlier in the
day.

"Kassandra!" he called, surprised that she wasn't
waiting for him at the door. He had been in the stable for a quarter hour,
plenty of time for her to finish dressing. He shrugged, raising his voice
again. "Kassandra!"

When he received no answer, he tethered Brand and the
Arabian mare to a tree stump and strode into the sun-washed interior. It was
empty.

Stefan turned on his heel and walked back outside,
surveying the clearing surrounding the lodge. Perhaps she was teasing him,
hiding behind a tree, as a game . . .

He laughed shortly, his voice tinged with feigned
exasperation. "Kassandra, come out. We don't have time for games this
afternoon. I want to reach the mansion before dark."

There was no reply, not even a giggle. All was hushed,
still, except for the wind rustling through the trees and the haunting call of
a mourning dove.

A mourning dove. A shiver ran down his spine, but he
quelled it angrily. He had never been one for superstitious nonsense, and he
wasn't going to begin now!

It was simple, he reasoned. He had taken longer than
she had thought he would, so she had decided to entertain herself with a
stroll. The woods were magical at this time of the year, with the sun filtering
through the new leaves, dappling the ground in light and shadow, and the
scurrying of forest creatures and their young. The forest had intrigued him as
a boy, and drew him even now, stirring his senses. Kassandra and he were alike
in that regard.

Perhaps she had strolled back toward the river, he
considered. It was worth a look.

He mounted Brand and urged him into a trot, skirting
the
lodge
and setting out along the trail. Every few
moments he called out her name, but only his voice came back to him, echoing in
the silent woods. He searched for the blue cloak he'd lent her; its color would
surely stand out amidst the forest hues. But there was no sign of her anywhere.

Stefan's spirits lifted as he neared the river.
Something inexplicable told him she was there, waiting for him, perhaps to
share a last kiss in memory of the day. She was a romantic at heart—another
trait he loved about her.

He pulled up on the reins at the foot of the hill and
dismounted, walking the rest of the way to the river. But when he reached his
favorite spot, he was disappointed once again. She was nowhere to be seen.

"Kassandra!" he shouted above the rushing
torrent, looking first upstream, then the other way. "Kassan—"

His voice froze in his throat, fear cutting through
him. Was that his cloak, caught within the branches . . . ? He moved closer to
the shoreline to get a better view, his feet slipping in the mud at the water's
edge, and he had to catch himself from sliding in. He looked down, his heart
lurching sickeningly in his chest. Someone had fallen here, not long ago . . .

Kassandra!

Stefan began to run along the rolling bank, faster and
faster, desperation spurring him on. He did not stop until he reached the
fallen tree, half of its splintered length stretching out across the water, its
branches reaching for the sky like bony fingers. Floating on the surface of the
white-flecked currents was his blue cloak, snagged by one of the outermost
branches.

Kassandra . . .

"No . . ." he whispered vehemently, as if he
could will away the thought burning into his mind. "No!" He wrenched
off his boots and dove into the water, frantically searching the muddy river
bottom and along the length of the submerged tree . . . nothing. He came up for
great, gasping breaths only to dive beneath the sunlit surface again and again,
swimming with powerful strokes to the place where he had slipped, diving,
searching, diving . . . nothing . . . nothing!

The horrible minutes dragged on, the agonized cries
that tore at his throat melding with the ragged breaths for air that rasped in
his lungs. At last, spent and exhausted, he dragged himself from the water and fell
to his hands and knees, his chest heaving, water running from his clothes and
pooling on the ground.

"Brand!" he shouted hoarsely, fighting to
catch his breath. "Brand!"

A shrill whinny carried to him on the breeze,
then
the thunder of hooves sounded upon the grassy bank as
the black steed galloped toward him.

"Steady, boy, steady," Stefan gasped,
staggering to his feet and leaning on Brand's glistening flank. His hands,
scratched and bleeding, seized the reins, and with a groan he hoisted himself
into the saddle. He nudged the stallion into a fast trot, veering along the
rolling bank.

He would search the entire length of this river, he
swore vehemently, and on to where it joined the Danube, if need be. He would
find her . . . he would find her! Alive or—

No, he would not think of it! Desperate tears stung his
eyes. He tried to choke them back . . . He had never cried before in his life.
But they welled up once again, streaking the hardened planes of his face,
dimming his vision as his tortured gaze followed the line of the shore . . .
the life that had held so much promise suddenly become a living hell.

Chapter 34

Kassandra tossed her head from side to side, lost in
the depths of an all-consuming nightmare. There were no shapes, only faceless,
creeping shadows. They advanced, looming over her, then receded, disappearing
into a smothering gray mass, a dense cloud, settling over her, covering her.
She couldn't breathe . . . she couldn't breathe!

Kassandra gasped, her body jerking spasmodically. She
dragged open the oppressive weight of her eyelids, only to close them once
again. Her lungs drew in great gasps of air, tinged with the fetid odor of
rotting fish, damp wood, and mildew. The smell unsettled her empty stomach and
she gagged, rolling heavily onto her side, afraid she might choke.

She was ill . . . something was wrong with her, she
thought dazedly, trying to lift her head. It fell back to the thin mattress
with a thud, the throbbing at her temples heightening into piercing pain. She
cried out, her hands cradling her forehead, her moans echoing about the cramped
cabin, dark but for the thin slivers of light squeezing through the small
slatted window.

A key grated in a lock and the door creaked open,
lamplight flooding in from a narrow hallway. Kassandra blinked against the
brightness. Two figures were framed in the light, their whispering voices
carrying to her from a few feet away.

What were they saying?
she
wondered crazily, not recognizing their clipped language. Who were they? Where
was she? The door slammed shut on her unanswered questions, the key twisted,
and footsteps scurried down a hall, fading into silence.

Kassandra rose up on her elbows and lifted her head,
tucking her hands beneath her chin. She stared straight in front of her at the
window, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. Gradually the stabbing pain
in her head subsided, becoming a dull ache. Her blurred vision began to focus,
and the queasy feeling in her stomach settled into a gnawing emptiness. Yet she
still felt as if she was rocking up and down, a dizzying motion that
occasionally pitched the bed forward, bumping the headboard into the planked
wall.

Strange, she mused, the muddled fog clearing from her
mind, her thoughts growing sharper. She had felt this motion before, last
summer, on the boat that had taken her and her father down the Danube from
Ratisbon to Vienna . . .

She started, her eyes widening in horror. Sweet Lord,
she was on a boat! She twisted around, her gaze flying about the shadowed
cabin. It was very small and plainly furnished with a chair and an armoire upon
which was stacked a pile of books. The bed she lay upon was very narrow, the
mattress hard and lumpy. The ceiling was low; an unlit oil lamp swung overhead,
back and forth, back and forth, further testament that she was aboard a vessel
of some kind. But how?

"What is happening?" Kassandra whispered
plaintively under her breath. She struggled to sit up, almost falling back upon
the mattress as dizziness assailed her. She grabbed on to the headboard until
the vertigo passed, her forehead furrowed in desperate thought, remembering.

She had been waiting for Stefan in the hunting lodge .
. . she bent over to pull on her boots . . . she heard the door open . . . the
cloth, pressed over her mouth . . . now she was here, on a boat.

Maybe it was all a terrible dream, Kassandra thought
numbly, peering out the thin slats of the window. Tears stung her eyes at the
wide expanse of glistening water between her and the rolling shoreline, green
and thickly wooded.

It wasn't a dream! Panic-stricken, she sprang suddenly
from the bed, her legs buckling beneath her. She fell heavily to the floor,
expelling her breath in a loud gasp. Stunned, she lay inert, wincing as feeling
flowed back into her limbs, pricking her like sharp pins and needles. She began
to crawl toward the door, where she grabbed on to the latch and pulled herself
to her knees.

"Help! Please, someone help me!" she cried,
tears streaming down her flushed face. She rattled the latch up and down, but
to no avail. The door was locked. With great effort she rose to her feet, the
room spinning. She clung to the door, pounding on it weakly. "Please, let
me out! Let me out!"

Loud footsteps sounded, a key was fitted into the lock,
then
the door was pushed open so abruptly that
Kassandra fell back against the armoire. Pain shot through her shoulder, but
she ignored it, swiping the tears from her face as she rushed forward, straight
into the arms of a tall man standing just inside the threshold.

"Light the lamp, man," Frederick gritted to
the scrawny sailor behind him.

Kassandra tensed at the familiar voice, though she did
not understand his words, spoken in a language wholly foreign to her. She
stared up at him, but in the dark she couldn't see his face. It was only when
someone brushed by her and lit the oil lamp that her eyes widened in startled
surprise as she recognized the man who held her as Count Frederick Althann.

Wild with relief, she collapsed against his chest.
Whatever had brought about this nightmare was now, thankfully, at an end. What
a coincidence that Count Frederick should rescue her from this confusion. She
embraced him gratefully, her mind racing with questions. Then she shrugged,
stifling giddy laughter. What did her questions matter? She was safe!

Frederick held her against him, stroking her silken
hair, well able to imagine her thoughts. He hardened his heart. A pity. But not
to be helped. He suddenly extricated himself from her embrace, nodding to the
sailor. The man grabbed Kassandra's arms at the elbow and dragged her back,
shoving her onto the bed.

"
Wh-
what?" she
blurted, her eyes moving from Frederick to the sailor, who was lustfully
appraising her, a crooked grin on his face. "Count Frederick . . . ?"

"You must forgive his rudeness, Lady
Kassandra," he murmured, bowing slightly. "He knows no better."
He nodded to the sailor, who quickly left the cabin, then walked over to the
chair, pulled it closer to the bed, and sat down. "How are you feeling, my
lady? You have been asleep for well over a day."

Kassandra gaped at him in total astonishment. What was
going on? Here she was in a cramped cabin, on a strange boat, bound for God
knew where, and Count Frederick was asking after her health!

An unsettling thought struck her. This serious-faced
man sitting across from her was hardly the fop she remembered from Prince
Eugene's gala. There was nothing effeminate about him, not in the simple cut of
his clothes, not in his posture, not in his steady, intense gaze. She blushed,
noting his eyes were fixed on the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He was not
the same man at all!