by Carrie Lofty
“We?”
“I’m not going on my own, Greta. You need to show me which painting is the danger to you.” He edged closer, brushing his lips against her temple. “And you want to, don’t you?”
“Want to sneak into a woman’s house and commit a crime?”
“Exactly. You’re such a strange woman, meine Allerliebste. So reserved and quiet, and yet underneath it all, such a wild streak. That’s why you came to me, all persistence and curiosity. That’s why I found it so easy to become obsessed with you.”
Greta’s knees had gone liquid. She curled her fingernails into his biceps, wondering when she had thought to grab hold of him. But he was not wrong. The terrible restlessness that had haunted her since childhood continued to do so, urging greater and greater risks. It was no longer enough to secretly mark the forgeries as hers, or to silently rail against her uncle. She needed more. She needed Oliver and the excitement of testing her own nerve.
Robbing Maria Lucca…she shuddered a long exhale at the thought.
“I’ll go with you,” she whispered.
Oliver caught her against his chest and kissed her hard. His tongue plunged into her mouth, pushing, invading. Greta looped her forearms around his neck and succumbed. His passion was nursed by anger, and maybe even by a possessiveness that gave her another private jolt of pleasure. To be his woman. God, what a challenge. What a thrill.
Without another word, he backed her against the room’s outer wall and turned her to face it. Rough, demanding hands lifted her skirts and kneaded her backside. Arousal swept over her like steaming hot water.
“I’ll do this for you,” he rasped. “And you’ll do this for me.”
“Willingly.”
A low growl in his throat made her shiver. His fingers found her most secret folds, stroking and caressing with ever more insistence. From behind, he nestled his pelvis against her and lifted her hands above her head. She was pinned between the wall and Oliver—between his frustration and his desire. With one sure stroke, he pressed his thick, hard shaft inside.
Greta bit her forearm to keep from crying out. No matter her confusion and fear, she gloried in having so much influence over this indomitable man. It was only right, she thought as her climax thundered nearer, because he owned her too.
Oliver should not have been surprised to see how well Greta could make herself inconspicuous in the deep evening gloom, but he was. She had a knack for making him feel more foolish and more painfully alive than he’d ever dared. He had stepped into an abyss where her hand was the only thing left to hold.
They slid along the blackened streets. Greta must have obtained a mourning gown, because she was draped from crown to foot in varied black fabrics. He had traded his livery for clothes more befitting a chimney sweep. He had not been so poorly clad since he was a youth, which was fitting because he had not undertaken such a foolhardy enterprise since those wayward days.
Why? He kept asking himself that. Why? Why now, and why with this woman? Perhaps Christoph had been right: he had been hiding for too long. But that still did not satisfy him. Coming out of hiding was a far, wide distance from breaking into the home of the duke’s mistress.
They rounded Waagplatz, staying out of the sight of the Stadttrinkstube. Too many servants and other curious folks might recognize Oliver—and recognize Greta as being too fine a lady for the likes of him.
“This way,” he said.
Pushing his body through a narrow Durchgänge, he slipped away from the noisy tavern and onto quiet, deserted Goldgasse. There they walked single file against the pale buildings. Oliver’s heart was a constant thunderclap, beating again and again behind his sternum. Danger. Thrill. He was a demented man to be smiling in the face of this intrigue.
Greta pushed against his back when he came to a stop. He was briefly distracted by the feel of soft, warm woman. Tightly wound nerves sizzled throughout his body. At least he was honest enough with himself to know that, with regard to Greta, desire motivated his decision-making. He was thinking with his pride and his cock, which meant no thinking at all.
Reflex, however, had yet to fail him. He pushed an arm back across Greta’s torso, angling her to better fit into a sliver of shadow. Two tipsy burghers stumbled past, their voices raised high in song. Greta’s pulse matched his own as they waited, neither seeming to breathe. When the drunken men had made their way south, Oliver took his lover’s hand once again. They hurried on toward Maria Lucca’s town home on lower Getreidegasse.
“She’ll have guards,” he whispered, assessing the five-story structure. That was a great deal of territory to search.
“I can distract them.”
“How?”
“Ringing the front doorbell. A woman in distress, this late at night?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’ll be better able to sneak in without me dragging my gown in through a window. Or I can stay out here.”
Both ideas were tempting. To leave her outside on the street, normally unconscionable behavior for a man of any good repute, seemed positively honorable now. She would be out of harm’s way. But a very wicked, very dark place in his soul demanded that she be there with him. Of all things, this was an adventure. Like their insane flirtation and their dangerous love affair, they were in this together—if only because her eyes were bright and her cheeks had flushed pink.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” he said, aroused by her eagerness.
“Yes, I am. What my life has been, Oliver—you have no notion.”
“You could be ruined.”
“Not my first concern.” She leaned in close and licked his earlobe. “You should know that by now.”
“You’re a madwoman.”
“Finally. Now let me do this.”
Dreams occasionally took on this same cast, like moving through tar and being unable to get free. Time had closed in on itself so that Oliver could no longer see his way back to a moment when anything was certain. That seemed the luxury of another man, one who carelessly took it for granted and called it boredom. He was anything but bored now.
“Go, then,” he said. “I’ll slip in and find you.”
“How?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.” He grabbed her shoulders and dragged her close. A deep breath filled him with her warm essence. A tilt of his head touched his mouth to hers. Lightning sizzled across their lips, burning away the last of his caution. He was a lost man, because he would do anything for that kiss. “Go.”
Rather than slink toward the door, as Oliver had expected, Greta took off at a full run. She slammed against the townhouse door with the whole of her body, then pounded with both fists. “Help!”
Seconds passed slowly before the door jerked open.
“Help me,” Greta panted. Her bonnet and mourning veil sat at a crooked angle. She had cast off one shoe and clutched it like a weapon. “Bitte, I beg you. A man! He attacked me!”
Oliver did not wait to see the outcome of her ruse. Made of shadows and smooth steps, he slipped behind the townhouse. A kitchen window was low enough and large enough to serve as his entryway. Calling on old, old skills, he silently lifted the pane. His breath came in shallow puffs but his hands remained steady and calm. He had experienced the same reaction during wartime too. No nerves. Just the calm of being able to do his job well.
He hoisted up and swung his legs in. A large butcher’s block was positioned just below the window. On it rested pots and pans and a series of knifes. All would make a terrible racket if he knocked them over. Patiently, he moved each piece of cookware to either side until he had cleared a path through the middle. With one foot, he tested the block’s stability. The wood neither creaked nor shifted. He was still cautious, however, as he stepped onto it. One catlike jump later and he was on the kitchen floor, crouched low.
After an indulgent second to get his heart rate back under control, Oliver crept through to the laundry and found a spare livery. He quickly donned a coat and trousers over his pla
in clothes. From down the hall he could hear the echoes of Greta’s theatrical sobs. He wondered whether waking the whole house was part of her plan, although with Maria Lucca still out of the city, her staff would be minimal. With any luck he would simply be mistaken for another member of the household—at least at first glance. His loose disguise could endure no further scrutiny.
Oliver slipped up the servants’ stairs that led from the kitchen, moving silently toward the middle of the building. If this townhouse was structured like the Venners’ at all, he would find the great hall on the second or third floors—the public rooms. Door after door, he checked with a patience that belied how tightly his nerves stretched. Any minute he expected a thundering call from the guards in the floors below. Intruder! We have an intruder!
His patience paid off when he silently opened the door onto a massive art room. Christoph and Ingrid used a comparable space for their ballroom, but perhaps Maria Lucca had no such need. She could, after all, host elaborate balls at the duke’s Residenz. She filled her own home with artwork, not people.
With the room located, Oliver pulled a burlap sack out from inside his shirt and slipped back downstairs to find Greta.
Greta grew more worried with each passing moment. A stern-faced butler named Georg seemed the least likely to believe her story. The other three men, all former soldiers if their bearing and brawn were any indication, appeared all too happy to believe creeping marauders roamed the streets, ready to attack young widows.
“We’ll check the boundaries of the property. You stay here.”
“Of course,” she breathed. “Danke schoen.”
But the butler stayed.
He eyed Greta with a narrow, intense stare. “What did the man look like, again?”
“The streets were dark, sir. All I recall clearly is that his shirt was filthy.”
“And you were walking alone at night?”
“Coming back from midnight Mass, sir. I pray for my husband’s soul every night.”
She was really praying for deliverance. Her brain screamed promises she knew she would never keep. Promises about being a good girl and never taking such chances again.
Hands too quick to see looped over the butler’s head, covering his face with burlap. Greta’s heart leaped into her throat and stayed there, even after she recognized the attacker as Oliver. The two struggled. Oliver leaned his weight against the inside of Georg’s knees, forcing them to buckle. Less than a minute passed before he had the man incapacitated. He tied rope around the butler’s neck, securing the burlap in place. Greta could hardly believe what she witnessed, even as his strength, speed and skill reminded her of those frantic moments in the opera.
No, she had been frantic. Oliver had been the same as now—perfectly in command. Calm. And lit up from the inside by the contest.
But what had she done? She had led Oliver to this place, where shoving a butler into a closet was just another step toward achieving an end.
Greta had already been nauseated with fear. Now regret churned in her stomach as well.
Oliver held out his hand. “Come now. Quickly.”
They were past the point of turning back. Clasping Oliver’s fingers and following him into the dark corridor, she could only hope he would forgive her come morning.
Chapter Twenty-One
Together they stood at the threshold of Maria Lucca’s art room. Greta knew she should move forward. This was the easy part. Simply slip inside and take back the offending forgery. But her toes were roots growing into the carpet. Much like realizing how much wrong she had asked of Oliver, she was struck in the face with the desperation of her actions. All this to protect her uncle, her cousins, their family future. Even knowing the stakes was not enough to quiet the harping voices.
Scandal. Jail.
Life as she’d hoped it would be…all at an end before the sun rose on a new day.
Only Oliver’s whispered command gave her the strength to take a step.
Strange, but she exhaled with a renewed sense of calm. Oliver had far more to lose. Yet he was there with her. No matter what happened in the minutes, hours, days to come, they shared these moments. That, coupled with the love they had made, meant Greta’s memories, at least, would never be void of excitement.
Selfish, wicked girl.
She entered the great hall. Darkness made it impossible to discern the boundaries. Walls could be ten or a hundred feet away. Only an intangible sense of vastness told her of its size. The space no more felt like a closet than Oliver’s hand felt like a broom handle.
“Stay here,” he said softly against her nape. “We’ll need light.”
His hand had been her only measure of safety. Then he was gone. It was a supreme test of Greta’s nerves to stay exactly where he left her. She concentrated on keeping her breath low and quiet, avoiding thoughts of what would happen if someone discovered her whereabouts.
A flicker of light preceded Oliver’s return. He held a small candle, one no bigger than his pinkie finger. The tiny flame wavered with his every step, but it was enough to create a halo of light around his torso and face.
“Quickly now,” he said. “Which one?”
Greta followed him to the nearest wall and stayed close behind as they made a quick survey of the room. She needed only a few glimpses of color and form to know that each painting was exquisite, priceless, and certainly not her ill-fated forgery. Her heart pounded and her palms grew damp as they turned the last corner. Still nothing.
“It’s not here,” she said. “Uncle said it would be here.”
“We’re running out of time. We have no way of continuing a search.”
Greta’s throat closed. She had been able to hold off complete hopelessness with the idea that finding the painting would make this risk worthwhile. But to come away empty-handed?
“It must be somewhere.”
Oliver snuffed the candle with his fingertips. “I’m sure it is. But this is a bad idea gone very wrong. We must get clear.”
He took her arm, pulling her back toward the doorway. A noise in the hallway changed his course. They shuffled quickly to the nearest wall and pressed close, deeper into the shadows.
Voices carried down the corridor. One she recognized as Georg, the butler. “Wake the others, then check upstairs. They have to be here somewhere.”
Oliver left her alone in the dark once again. She listened with every measure of concentration but could find no trace of his silent footsteps.
Georg held a candle in front of his chest as he entered the great hall, but again Oliver was there. He grabbed the man from behind and clamped a hand over his mouth. Whatever hold he used must have been incapacitating because the butler did not struggle.
“Where is the painting newly delivered for Maria Lucca?” Oliver whispered. “If you call out for help, I will be forced to break your leg.”
A low grunt dragged Greta’s attention to the pressure Oliver applied with the sole of his boot against Georg’s lower calf. Any sudden move would snap that bone. Oliver slowly loosened his fingers until the butler could speak in a muffled voice.
“A painting?” he asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Where is it?”
“It was retrieved by a man from Leinz Manor two days ago. That’s all I know.”
“Then I’ll be leaving now.” He forced the man to his knees and pressed a knife against his nape. “Keep your eyes forward. Don’t move.”
Oliver motioned for Greta to go. Carefully, silently, she stayed close to the shadows lining the room, out of Georg’s sight. Quiet footsteps might ensure that Maria Lucca’s people thought Oliver worked alone. She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. When she reached the door, she checked the hallway before quickly slipping outside. Oliver pushed Georg until he lay face-down on the floor, then snuffed the candle and exited.
Faster than she thought possible, Greta fled down the corridor and down the stairs. Soon Georg’s voice boomed after them. He shouted to the
other members of the household staff, his footsteps pounding after them.
Greta had no notion of where she ran, but soon Oliver took the lead. Had he ever been in Maria Lucca’s home before? He seemed to know exactly where to go. Left, right, right again—she could only trust that he knew the way out of her monumental folly.
“Here.”
He tugged her arm and dragged her into a tiny crevice between two kitchen cupboards. She thought it must be a dead end, but soon he had opened a window above her head.
“Is that how you got in?”
“No, we’re improvising. You out this way. I’ll meet you on the side of the Rathaus that faces the river. We’ll retrieve the horses from Venner’s stables and ride to your family estate tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“We need to find that painting, yes? And it’ll be best if neither of us is in town come morning. We’ll sort the details later.” He bent at the waist and threaded his fingers together, forming a step for Greta. “Out. I’ll be right behind you.”
Greta planted a silent kiss on his forehead. Without another thought, she boosted up to the window. Her dress was a nightmare of fabric catching on the sill, but soon she freed herself and wiggled outside.
Only when she was halfway out did she realize how completely she had trusted Oliver. The window could have been four floors above the ground and she would have gone anyway. The drop was not a long one, but she landed on her rear in a clump of rhododendron bushes. The perfume of their crushed blossoms clouded around her as she assessed her body for damage.
A quick glance up toward the window showed no sign of Oliver. He said to meet him, which meant he likely had another exit in mind.
If anything happened to him…if he were caught…
The nausea that had churned and bubbled in her gut became nearly too much to bear. She swallowed and swallowed, pushing hard against her stomach to staunch the urge to gag.
“Such a fool,” she whispered to herself.
But she could not stay. Oliver could take care of himself. He was the most capable, resourceful man she had ever known.
