The Legacy (19 page)

Supper was a solemn affair.

How
dare
she?

Wolf glared at Sabina over his ale, his pear pudding dessert untouched. Most of his supper remained that way. Untouched, except for his ale. That he’d had plenty of. He drank another mouthful.

How dare she sit there and eat every bite as though she had not a care in the world? He had no appetite, not since that night in the study, not since he held fire in his arms. He had tried to behave himself since, to give them both time to become friends again, but she refused to speak with him about anything of importance. And when she was near, like now, he didn’t want to be friends. Not just friends. He couldn’t help but remember how she felt crushed against him; how her lips tasted under his …

He had to stop thinking about it.

He couldn’t. It would catch him unawares when he least expected it, like now, when he watched her eat. She had the most sensual way of enjoying food. Perhaps it was because she had been denied it for so long. The way she placed the morsel in her mouth, the way she swirled the pudding around on her tongue before she swallowed—

A shudder went through him as he thought of what else her tongue might do. He gripped the cup so hard his knuckles turned white. He deliberately forced himself to relax.

In her own subtle way, she was ignoring him. She had been for days now. Oh, not rudely, but enough so he knew she still chaffed at his rejection. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and her responses to his remarks were gracious and courteous. Bland. She drove him mad with lust, but the only effect he had on her was to inspire a well-mannered display of good breeding. Annoying.

He watched her spoon another mound of creamy pudding into her mouth, and he swallowed hard.

“It is very good,” she said.

“What? Oh, the pudding. Yes, delicious.”

She glanced down at his bowl. “It is easier to tell if you taste it first.”

“I’m surprised you even know. You’ve practically inhaled every bite,” he said perversely.

“Bea is a wonderful cook.” She slid the spoon over her tongue slowly, and his heart skipped another beat.

He shifted, trying to relieve the pressure in his aching loins. God’s wounds, this had to stop. He was so aroused; he wouldn’t be surprised to see the table rise. He had to think of something else. He looked down at his bowl, grabbed a spoon, and stabbed it into the pudding. He raised it jerkily to his lips and swallowed with determination.

“Wonderful,” he said grimly.

She patted her mouth with her napkin, but he didn’t miss her brief smile.

“How was your day?” she asked.

There it was again. Polite. He hated polite. He wanted the spitfire who had dared to challenge him soaking wet that first day.

“Fine,” he answered.

“The weather was nice today. Unseasonably warm.”

“Yes.”

He wanted to sweep the table clean, throw her on top, and have his wicked way with her. At least twice. He would slide his hands along those smooth thighs, find the source of her pleasure, and tease her mercilessly until she begged him for completion.

“They say the tigers danced in tights, it was so warm.”

“So they say. What?”

She speared him with a glance. “Wolf, would you prefer I remained silent?”

“Nay, I would prefer to speak of something other than this … nonsense.”

The ale had gone to his head. He could feel it. Good. Mayhap it would dull his senses and make him forget her taste. He swallowed another draft.

“Nonsense?” Her eyebrows winged upwards. “Some would call it polite conversation.”

“Polite. God save us from
polite,”
he snarled.

Looking alarmed, she rose to go. “Perhaps you should have eaten more and drunk less. I believe I shall retire. Good night.”

“Running away again?”

She stopped. He knew if there was one thing she couldn’t ignore, it was a direct challenge. She folded her hands in front of her and looked at him steadily.

“From what? There is nothing to fear in this room, is there?”

He stood abruptly. “This must cease.”

“To what are you referring?”

“To that!” He waved his hand at her and leaned against the table to support himself when the room spun around. “That incessant, infernal—that!”

She shook her head. “You are not making any sense. We can speak in the morning, when you are sober. I am for bed.”

“Fine, let’s go.”

She cleared her throat, and two bright flags of pink appeared on her cheeks. “On the other hand, perhaps we should talk now. What is it you wished to discuss?”

“What do you think? About what happened in the study, and why you kished—kissed me the way you did.”

“Did I? I thought you kissed me.”

He peered at her through a foggy haze. “That’s not the way it happened, and you know it. Don’t play your woman’s games with me. I did kish—kiss you, I admit it, but only after you chased me down and kished me first.”

“Chased—! For heaven’s sake, of all the arrogant … I did not chase you down! I was concerned about you, that is all.”

“Concerned? Is that what you call it? Well, I hope you don’ show concern like that for all the men you meet.”

The idea she might even consider such a thing sent a spasm of jealously so sharp through him, it astounded him.

Her chin snapped up at his insult.

“And why should I not? What possible difference could it make to you?”

“You are my
wife
!
”
he shouted, pounding his fist on the table, the dishware hopping from the force of the blow.

“Your wife is dead!” she shouted back, then gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.

His breath left him in a rush.

He had forgotten.

Sabina’s eyes widened with regret. She slowly lowered her hand from her mouth.

“Oh, Wolf. I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”

Wolf just stared at her. He had forgotten all about Beth! He sat heavily in his chair. “You’re right. I’m drunk, it’s late. Go to bed.”

“Wolf?”

“Go to bed,” he said again, wanting to be alone, and put his head into his hands.

She turned and fled, her soft footsteps playing counterpoint to the drumming in his head.

M
arcus von Ziegler heard a crash outside his bedchamber door. Probably the cursed servants fighting again.

He ground his teeth and rose up from the baronin, who lay sprawled beneath him. She had become his wife on her seventeenth birthday. He’d married her, though she was skinny as a rail and had a nose like a horse, because her mother—with fifteen children under her belt—was the most prolific child bearer in all of Saxony. He had been assured it ran in the family, as all her elder sisters were brood mares, too. As yet, this one had not produced, though he had enjoyed some—interesting—diversions with her.

Nevertheless, he had no time for this. If she did not beget soon, he would have to get rid of her. That would be a shame, since she was so … entertaining.

Still, he was fifty-one years old, for God’s sake. It was difficult enough concentrating on his task without all that noise.

Another resounding crash, and raised voices.

Leave them to each other. He dropped his bulk over his wife once again. His haunches quivered, and he drove into her without warning, burying himself up to the hilt.

The girl flinched and bit her lip. She dug her newly sharpened nails into his buttocks, hard enough to draw blood. He grimaced.

“Witch,” he muttered, and thrust harder. She moaned. He liked to hear her moan; he did not care whether it was in pleasure or in pain. She drew a shuddering breath, the sound somewhere between the two.

“Bastard,” she hissed, and gave his buttocks a vicious squeeze.

He yelped and felt himself grow harder. She always knew how to make things more interesting. He withdrew, flipped her over on her stomach, and held her down while she cursed at him for stopping. He was preparing to slap her buttocks when the latch on the door splintered and the door fell open with a crash.

“What the devil—!”

Behaim stood framed in the doorway, hair tousled, cloak billowing—and indeed looking like the devil himself. Several servants lay littered about the hall like so much kindling. Some groaned and clutched at their jaws and stomachs.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I understood you were anxious to receive the payment.” He strode into the chamber.

“My servants—”

“Your servants—” Behaim’s glance flicked over to one of the men, who had started to rise from the floor. The man hurriedly sank back down, feigning unconsciousness.

“—indicated you weren’t receiving visitors, but I was very insistent.”

Marcus scurried out of bed and clutched the sheet up to his neck. The only thing worse than facing a madman was facing a madman while you were naked.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marcus demanded.

“Your wife is getting cold,” Behaim said, his voice dangerously soft.

“What—?” Marcus turned to look at her. She had risen up on her knees, completely naked, and now had her arms crossed in disgust. Disconcerted, he threw the sheet her way. She caught it and leisurely stretched out on the bed. Marcus grabbed his nightshirt; he quickly put it on while his current Baronin eyed Behaim with unconcealed interest.

He did not so much as glance at her. He waved a bill of receipt under Marcus’ nose.

“You said you wanted it this morning. It’s morning. Take it to the goldsmith anytime today. He’s expecting you.”

He threw the receipt at Marcus and turned away. Several of the men outside the door dropped back down to the floor, fearful he might have noticed their movement. Behaim turned back to Marcus, eyes gleaming as dangerously as his namesake’s.

“There will be no more payments. Do I make myself clear?”

Behaim’s cold, commanding voice lashed out at him, and despite himself, Marcus flinched.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked.

Behaim walked slowly toward him, his sheer size almost as intimidating as the look in his eyes.

“I know how a man like you thinks. You believe if you got money out of me once, you might be able to do it again. But be assured, if you meddle in my affairs again, I will find the need to meddle in yours.”

“What are you talking about?” Marcus asked with rising panic. No one could find out about the embezzlement. He had covered his activities well. As long as he put the money back before the city council reviewed the treasury holdings, no one would ever know.

“Why you are so desperate for money you would risk angering someone like me,” Behaim said, “is a fascinating question I might just take the time to ponder. Once I put my mind to pondering something, it is a cold day in Hell I don’t figure it out. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, yes. You always make a practice of that,” Marcus assured him hastily.

“And if I hear anything—anything—I believe violates our agreement, I’ll assume it came from you and deal with you accordingly.”

“But,” Marcus sputtered, “you cannot expect me to be responsible for what conclusions others might draw—” He stopped when Behaim took another step toward him. “Of course, of course,” he said quickly.

“For your own sake, you’d better hope they draw the right conclusions,” Behaim responded with a cold smile. With that, he strode from the chamber, his black cloak flowing out behind him as he strode into the hall.

Marcus turned to his wife, who now regarded him with a speculative gleam in her eye. A secretive smile played across her lips.

“And just what is so entertaining?” he asked, incensed.

“A pathetic old man who cannot finish what he starts.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. He stripped off his nightshirt and let it drop to the floor.

“Open them,” he growled, gesturing to her knees.

“Nay.” She crossed her legs and swung one ankle idly while leaning back on her arms. Her small breasts taunted him.

“Witch,” he muttered again, and leapt on her.

A servant discreetly leaned the now-splintered door back onto its frame.

W
e need to talk.”

Sabina glanced over her shoulder where she knelt in the barren flowerbeds of the garden. Wolf stood behind her, glaring. She had become bored with simply resting and eating, and so decided to investigate the various placements of the dormant roses surrounding the house. They sorely needed training, but from the look in Wolf’s eye as he awaited her response, it appeared she would not get to it today.

“I will be done here in a few minutes,” she said, and returned to the task of rearranging and staking the stems.

“Now.” He stared at her, and she could tell by his almost belligerent stance he did not intend to accept “later” for an answer.

“Very well.” She brushed the dirt off her gardening gloves and rose to face him. “What is it you want?”

His gaze flickered over her plain gown, her serviceable gloves. It lingered on her face, then slid away. He glanced around the garden. “Not here.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Are we speaking in words of one syllable today, then?”

“You aren’t,” he noted dryly, and marched away.

Sabina had noticed the bloodshot in his eyes. One-word syllables were probably all he could manage after his overindulgence the previous night.

She followed him inside.

He waited impatiently for her beside the door to the withdrawing room, holding his head still as if moving it too quickly would topple it right off his shoulders.

When she entered, he closed the door firmly behind them—too firmly, as his quick grimace at the loud “clack” of the latch revealed. He turned the key and locked them in.

“What—?” She said, instantly alert.

He gave her a forbidding look. “I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“I … see,” she said, a sense of foreboding tugging at her. She glanced at his hand when he pocketed the key—and she gasped. His knuckles were raw and scraped. The wounds appeared fresh.

“What happened to your hand?” she exclaimed.

He glanced down in surprise, as if he had not noticed it until this moment. “It’s nothing.”