by Carrie Lofty
Fleeing the scene as if that would banish her regrets, Greta crawled out of the bushes and ran into the night. Her footsteps and her erratic breaths were the only sounds at that hour. She did not stop until she slammed into the north wall of the Rathaus, her lungs pumping with furious vigor. She turned and pressed her back flat against its stucco surface. A few more steps. Just a few more.
She found a few stacked crates. Insects, rats, even beggars—nothing scared her. Not after what she had just done. She snuggled into a dark corner, her heart finally crawling down out of her throat. Now she simply had to wait. She would wait for Oliver to meet her.
And if he did not appear?
She cried into her hands—quiet, racking sobs. Something terrible had happened to her. A quest for a little more excitement in her life had turned into a farce unlike any folly ever committed by a human being. He had to make it out. He had to make it out so she could apologize.
Oliver slipped under a table and through a narrow opening between two chairs. There he crouched low, his respiration and heart rate steady. What was this wretched delight surging to the tips of each finger and the end of each toe? Surely he was the most ridiculous hedonist who had ever drawn breath. Only an idiot craved the vividness of such a moment.
He waited until the nearest thump of boots against marble raced out of earshot. He had doubled back through the kitchen, hiding now in the servants’ dining area. Crawling another few inches, he was back within sight of the butcher’s block. The open window above it waited for him.
The bright blaze of a torch—three torches, actually—along the outer garden wall kept him still and silent. He wanted to escape, but he was not willing to do so at the expense of assaulting anyone else. What he had managed against the butler, restraining him without hurting him, was not something he would be able to infinitely repeat. Stealing a forgery was one thing, but doing someone genuine injury on Greta’s behalf was a line he would not cross. He would be patient and clever. Escaping could be done without the need for violence.
But patience was not a luxury when he heard the braying of two hounds. A spiking chill shot up his spine. He thrust the fear reaction to a corner of his mind, then shuffled in a half crouch toward the servants’ stairwell. Up he went, floor after floor, until he reached the topmost level. They would be expecting him to escape through a ground-floor window. Oliver had other plans.
After prying open a half door that led to a small room, he found what he was looking for: a panel in the low ceiling that led to the roof. First he stripped the borrowed livery. Then he undid the latch, used the nearest chair to boost himself up, and breathed the fresh air of an early-autumn Alpine night.
Stars above his head shone with the brightness of Roman candles against a pure black backdrop. He inhaled, then slid onto his stomach. With the access door closed behind him, he kept low against the roof and headed south.
The span between Maria Lucca’s residence and the nearest building was only a few feet. He sprang across the chasm, his legs propelled by the heady rush of the evening’s close calls. He crossed another roof, then another, as he ran along the row of town homes. How he would get down remained a mystery but he kept moving, away from the searching servants. Any insomniac who happened to look out his window at that hour might catch the silhouette of a man running across the rooftops.
Oliver smiled to himself at the thought, wondering when, exactly, he had lost his mind. Perhaps at the opera. Perhaps when he’d first kissed Greta. Most certainly when he’d taken her virginity.
Another closely packed building. Another chasm. But between the buildings climbed a sturdy carpet of ivy. A trellis that had perhaps once supported flowers had been overrun by the woody vines. He tested the ivy, then turned onto his belly. A few attempts in the thick blackness finally yielded a firm foothold. Knowing the trellis or the ivy vines could give away at any moment, he kept hold of the roof and closed his eyes. One deep breath.
He let go.
The trellis held. He moved quickly, shimmying down the untrustworthy supports. Barbed leaves cut his hands. A splinter jabbed into the meat of his palm. But he did not stop. The momentum of his rapid downward climb kept him focused on the task of descending. No stopping. No doubts.
A piece of the trellis gave way beneath his boot. He shifted to the left, but the stumble tipped his balance. Although he managed to descend another few feet before gravity took hold, he still fell from a story and a half. Cobblestones knocked the wind out of him. His ankle turned beneath his weight. He winced and gritted his teeth. The night was still remarkably quiet, and he could no longer hear hound dogs over the rush of blood in his ears.
He pulled himself up and gingerly tested his ability to walk. Yes, he could walk, but running to the Rathaus was out of the question.
That need for patience again. He had not thought of himself as an impatient or impetuous man for years. Discipline had guaranteed good results—respect and stability. Perhaps Christoph had been right. He was hiding, not just from the world but from his true nature. He liked this, pain and grunting, shuffling steps and all.
The sun had barely started to lighten the sky when he made it back to the center of town. Just the barest touch of the approaching sunrise reminded him of the morning he had come to Greta’s room. The thought of her waiting against the Rathaus wall kept him walking, even when the agony of each step made him lightheaded.
“Oliver!”
Greta’s whispered shout cut through the fog. He blinked, then closed his arms around her shoulders. She was already there against him, holding him.
“Lieber Gott, I was so worried!”
She tried to pull him out of the street, but he hissed and stumbled against her. “Wait,” he gasped.
“You’re hurt?”
Oliver only nodded.
With a determined expression, she became his shoulder to lean on as they limped back toward cover. Sweat slicked the skin down his back. His knees wobbled like an hour-old colt. Greta helped him sit against the wall.
“You wait here,” she whispered. She brushed a kiss against his forehead, just as she’d done before climbing out the window. “I’ll bring the horses.”
“No, it’s too dangerous.”
“You said we need to leave town, and I agree with you. We must get to Leinz Manor and find that painting. My family and the Venners will make up some story concerning our whereabouts.”
“But Maria Lucca’s men are back there, looking for us.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
He grabbed her hand before she could flee. “Bitte, don’t go.”
“Can you walk? Run? Make it out of town of your own power?”
The excitement of their adventure and Oliver’s escape was beginning to fade. Pain had taken its place. He sighed heavily. “No.”
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
She was gone. Oliver could only watch her go, her black pelisse blending with each shadow. He leaned his head heavily against the wall. The bite of mortar and brick against his skull took his attention away from the throb of his ankle, so he pressed harder. How long had she been gone? How long could he sit there until some early riser spotted him?
He closed his eyes, distracting himself with images of Greta stretched nude atop her counterpane. She was a witch, surely. Just the thought of her grabbed his insides and twisted. Even with the sizzling pain of his ankle, he was fool enough—crazy enough—to think that the regard in Greta’s eyes would be worth any risk.
The steady clop-clop of approaching hooves brought him around. The sky was lighter now. He blinked against the brightness even as he pressed deeper into the dwindling shadows. But he needn’t have made the effort. The horses were in Greta’s care. A look of triumph shaped her features as she rode sidesaddle, leading Oliver’s stallion by its reins. Pride helped him stand, then climb atop his mount.
“You’ll be all right to ride?” she asked.
“Whether or not I am, we should go.”
Alt
hough Oliver turned toward the Staatsbrücke, one of the bridges leading out of the Old Town, Greta made no such motion.
“What is it?”
“Oliver, please stay,” she said, her voice strangled. “Go home to the Venners. I know the way to Leinz Manor and can investigate the painting. I…God, I never should’ve asked you to do this. Think what could have happened!”
“But it didn’t.”
“That’s no excuse. I asked you to take an unforgivable chance. But now…now you can go home. Forget any of this happened. I’ll be well. I promise.”
Her voice had gained strength with every word until Oliver heard the unspoken message. Go now. Go home and forget me.
He wanted to. Sanity would be a cool, welcome breeze on a blistering day. The truth of it, however, was none so pleasing. He would ride back through town, limp up to his room, and make up some story about his night’s adventure. Venner would narrow his eyes and try to stare the truth out of him, but Oliver would resist. Then he would go about his daily routine until the end of his days.
Or he could ride free and swift across the countryside with Greta Zweig.
“I have no one to look after me at the Venners’ home.” His mouth quirked around an unexpected grin. He was in no mood to give up playing just yet, even if it cost him every last scrap of sanity.
“No one to…?” She tipped her head to the side. “Of course you do.”
“Not the way I deserve to be taken care of—not after what I went through this evening.”
Her confusion gave way to a smile of understanding. The mischief and daring was back in her eyes. “You are a ridiculously foolhardy man.”
“One needs to be to keep up with you, meine Allerliebste.”
Greta turned her horse toward the east, toward the bridge. “I refuse to feel guilty about this whole escapade if you refuse to listen to good sense.”
“Agreed.” Oliver adjusted his seat and nickered to his mount. “We can be there by midmorning.”
“And once we’ve found out what happened to the forgery, I’ll make good on my promise.”
“What promise is that?”
“You do need looking after, Herr Doerger.” She tossed him a heated glance that had him thinking about all the ways she could tend to his tired body and restless, fevered mind. “And I fully intend to do so.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Despite how fatigue made her inner eyelids feel blistered, Greta kept her own counsel with regard to their pace. Oliver withstood it. So could she.
She kicked her heel into her horse’s flank, holding tight to the reins and her balance as they sped along a country road. The sun was at full brightness now but remained hidden behind an eastern peak. The air had lost its early-morning vapor. Wind licked through her hair and across her ears, rushing in time with the horse’s strides and her own heartbeat.
How many times had she painted, lost in the moment? She had done so countless times, but always her most creative phases happened when her mind was happily gallivanting elsewhere. No critical voices then. No doubts. And during those moments of creativity, she had often imagined just such an adventure. Galloping at full speed. Escaping danger. Testing her mettle against unpredictable circumstances.
Only, she had never found the boldness to imagine running free with a partner. Oliver was with her now, more vivid and more potent than any possible dream. He had taken so many chances—all because of her. Yet something about him felt different now. He grinned into the eastern sunrise as he urged his mount to faster speeds. Her quiet, stalwart protector had hidden layers too. Greta could do nothing but match his abandon and keep pace.
She wanted to think her emotions were born of relief, nothing more. If Oliver volunteered, over and over, for such daring deeds, then she needn’t hold tight to guilt. He was equally as culpable if he kept refusing to walk away. But in the back of her mind, Greta knew she was using him abominably. He remained a servant. She remained a nobleman’s niece. No matter the cravings of her body and her heart, she could not give Oliver the reward he truly deserved for his devotion. Taking her daydreaming to that extreme would only result in heartbreak.
This was just for the moment. Their moment. And once her family’s future was secure, Greta would follow through with her original plan. Marry well. Paint. And count herself lucky to have lived such an adventure, even if only for a night or two.
The road grew steep as they neared the crest of another hill. Oliver glanced back, his face alight with pure excitement. He looked innocent, carefree, boyish. The tension around his eyes and in the tight set of his mouth had eased, although she suspected the pain would return in force once they reached their destination. Sunlight glinted off his burnished gold hair, which shone almost red in the morning light.
“Almost to the top,” he called back.
Side by side they crested the hill together. Greta inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the beauty of that spectacular scene. The sun gilded every rooftop and river, each tree and pasture. Nothing was ordinary, not at that moment. It was all golden and bright.
“I’ve never seen a sunrise like this,” she whispered.
He reached out and took her hand, then kissed her knuckles. “Neither have I.”
Rather than indulge in her cloying melancholy, Greta grabbed the reins. “Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Ha!”
She kicked her heels. The horse shot down the hill. It took all her skill and concentration to stay on its back as it sped faster and faster. Exhilaration became a physical thing—her skin more sensitive, her body lighter, as if she could float away from the earth. Living was not living without moments like these. She had been somnolent for too long.
Oliver came alongside her, his mount at full gallop. “Ha!” he shouted.
The race was on.
Greta did her best, urging her horse to greater speeds, but her skills were no match for Oliver’s expert horsemanship. His body moved in perfect time with every jolting, springing hoof beat. His head barely bobbed, no matter the terrain. Surely his ankle must be killing him, but still he persisted. Greta laughed into the wind. Mild-mannered valet—not entirely. His thirst for adventure seemed to match her own, at least now that he’d given himself permission to indulge.
With her lungs nearly bursting and her backside unforgivably sore, she pulled up on the reins and slowly, slowly urged her horse to give up the race. She had brought it to an easy canter by the time Oliver noticed. He had reached the bottom of the hill, turning back to judge the extent of his victory. Cheeks flushed, eyes wild, he had changed out his boyish look for that of a rogue. He could be a highwayman or a cavalry leader—the soldier he once had been.
Greta could hardly breathe for how powerfully she wanted him.
“I thought I had competition there for a moment,” he said. Goodness, he hardly sounded winded.
“You did. But I’m no horsewoman.”
“You could’ve fooled me. I would’ve thought you an excellent rider.”
Greta frowned slightly, trying to remember when he would’ve seen her atop a horse before. But his devilish smile and teasing eyes said he was no longer talking about horsemanship. He licked his bottom lip, looking her up and down.
“You are most depraved.” Her words were quiet, as if someone along that deserted road might hear.
“If so, you’ve brought it out in me.”
“Then perhaps we should no longer associate. We’re a poor influence on one another.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “To be certain.”
“Then why are you still smiling?”
“Why are you?”
Laughing now, Greta fought a battle with her desire and lost. They had come so close to misfortune, felled by her foolish idea. But now they were free and clear, alone in the morning countryside. She wanted to strip him bare and see the sunlight on his skin. The rays would gild every firm muscle and glint along his body hair. Pagan gods had nothing on such a m
an, aroused and proud. The decadent turn of her thoughts filled her body with sexual heat.
“You should get off your horse,” he said quietly.
Greta jerked her gaze back to his face. Surely…
But the teasing had gone. Any heat in her body, any decadent, wild ideas in her mind—she saw them reflected in his hungry expression.
“No,” she whispered. “We cannot.”
“Oh, no?”
She had yet to disobey him when they played their games. The thrill of taking orders from a servant had yet to lose its potency—even as her conscious mind balked at the wrongness of it all. But her body had no such qualms. She wanted Oliver Doerger to tell her what to do, how to behave when they came together.
But for his sake she could resist.
“I know you’re hurting,” she said, glancing down at his bad ankle. “We’ll regret it if we do you further injury.”
“I want you.” His pale blue eyes never wavered.
Greta let out a shuddering exhale. He was making this impossible. But she remembered how frightened she’d been, waiting for him to escape, how terribly she’d felt by mixing him up in her scheme. She could be strong—stronger, even, than his desire.
“You have no notion of how I love hearing that. But Oliver, I promised. I promised I would tend to you once we reach the manor. Bitte, let me keep it.”
He bit his teeth together. His fists tightened around the reins.
“A bath,” she said, pressing the advantage. “A massage. All you could want. I…I simply cannot stand the thought of doing you more harm.”
Oliver grunted something harsh and guided his mount sharply toward the east. His back was tall and proud. His legs were long and his thighs muscled. Greta did not hasten to catch up, enjoying her view.
Yes, she thought. A bath and a massage. She owed him that much.
Oliver hardly noticed his ankle for the remaining duration of their journey. His arousal was far too distracting.
