by Carrie Lofty
The shame in his voice was too much to bear. Pieces aligned, particularly his care in keeping her from becoming pregnant. He had not wanted history to repeat.
“And this was the man you stole from? You said he was an important man.”
“Yes. A Vizegraf.”
A Vizegraf’s son. She pulled away, squeezing the doorjamb with shaky hands. “You made me believe you were a valet. All this time, tearing myself up about your lack of station.”
“What station? I’m a bastard, Greta. The only reason I have a roof over my head now is because of Christoph.”
It sounded so strange hearing the nobleman’s given name coming from Oliver’s mouth. She glanced between the two men and saw what her artist’s eye had noticed but disregarded. The same strong cheekbones, the same full lower lip. She recalled the swordfights when they had dueled, how even their movements were mirror images. Grace and power, muscles matched by parentage, not just training. She had been distracted by Venner’s dark hair and olive-tinted skin, and by her own firm belief that Oliver was of inferior birth.
But how could she have known otherwise? He had been a lie from the first moment they met—in all but his instincts as her protector.
“Why the disguise?”
“No one else knows.” Oliver glanced at Lady Venner. “Until about two minutes ago, I didn’t even think Ingrid knew.”
“Christoph told me.” Ingrid smiled gently. “He said something about how it was time you stopped hiding.”
Venner made a noise in his throat. “High time.”
Ingrid skewered her husband with a warning look “We’ll leave you two alone, then.”
Oliver nodded, then urged Greta into the guest room and shut the door.
“I still don’t understand,” she said. “You could have told me.”
“No, I couldn’t.” His hands stroked her upper arms, soothing and distracting when she needed all her wits. “I am more than a valet. I am his eyes and ears. If the other politicians knew his own half brother was his servant, they would have realized how great my loyalty is to this family. As it was, we’ve learned a great many useful facts over the years when people tried to tempt me away from his service.”
So again they were separated by his responsibilities, only he was no mere servant. Serving Venner in some secret capacity had been more important than doing what he could to keep her. She pushed against his sternum, surprised by the betrayal lodged there.
“Even when faced with losing me, you chose your duty? You chose them?”
“They’re my family, Greta. Please, say something.” His eyes turned soft, almost pleading.
“I…”
She loved Oliver Doerger, no matter his status. Otherwise she would not have stood up to her uncle. The circumstances of his birth were of little consequence when it came to the decision her heart had already made. That sense of betrayal, however, fused with her blood. He had been willing to let her go rather than betray Lord Venner. Had he offered his suit as a Vizegraf’s son—even as a bastard—he might have been able to convince her uncle.
But he had chosen to let them both suffer in silence. Perhaps it was only just, considering how she had lied to him at the manor, sending him away in heartbreak.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “You could’ve told me. Just me.”
“You have no idea how many times I wanted to, especially when I knew what stood between us.”
You loved them more.
But she didn’t dare speak the words. She should be grateful, thankful, happy for the future they could claim now without reservation. How could she expect him to suddenly turn away from his only blood relative? That she had managed to do so against Thaddeus hardly seemed a fair comparison, since she had never cared for her uncle.
He was still looking at her with such hope. Greta dove into his arms and held on tight. None of it matters, she told herself. She had bid her uncle goodbye, and now she had Oliver. They were safe. They were together. They could make their fledgling love work.
“I’m sorry,” he said against her temple. “You must believe me.”
“I do. And I’m sorry too. I thought for certain you would see that I was lying when I said I didn’t love you.”
He pulled away, his hands framing her face once more. “Say it now.”
She stifled a smile. “I don’t love you.”
“Liar.”
He was still grinning when he kissed her. Greta accepted the sweet invasion of his tongue. Their kiss was enough. Their love was enough. It had to be. The Venners would take her in and they would all be together, far away from this place. When another strong dose of fear congealed in her stomach, she unbuttoned Oliver’s coat and shirt, right down to bare skin. They had a little time.
By then, she hoped, she would be able to set aside the last of her doubts.
Oliver awoke in Greta’s arms. He looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling and at the sun tinting the plaster with early-morning colors, then at her sleeping face nestled against his shoulder. Apprehension made his heart thump. They would be found out. But the memory of how their evening had ended, with Oliver revealing the truth, helped orient him once again.
He still should not be in her bed, not without offering for her. Soon, though. Soon they would leave Salzburg and Oliver would propose properly. The promise of such a future soothed him until that waking apprehension was a distant quiver in his blood.
He slowly eased strands of hair away from her cheek, from her forehead, until he had a clear view of her flawless profile. Her nose was pushed against the muscle of his upper arm, but the rest of her face was relaxed, peaceful, beautiful in the cradle of sleep. He dared not even consider the series of events that had brought them both to such a moment. To look too closely at their history would reveal all the little turns and twists that could have kept them apart forever.
Even as his body stirred to life, intent on enjoying Greta once again, Oliver knew his affection for her had changed. She was no longer an obsession or a curiosity. She was his love. The proof of it was in his heart, which seized at the thought of awakening to a morning—any morning for the rest of his life—and not finding Greta at his side.
“Such a gift,” he whispered, softly kissing her forehead.
But the sweet, rose-tinted scent of her hair did more than comfort him with the reality of her presence. He inhaled deeply, then again, drawing her inside. The echoes of her soft cries made him close his eyes, savoring the wonder of her passion. She liked to tease him until his only goal was making her gasp, loving her harder, more intensely, until her giddy smiles turned to moans.
Mere seconds passed before his cock was fully rigid, eager for her wet, welcoming body.
He shifted slightly so that her breasts pillowed against his ribs. With his hand at her hip, he began swirling languorous circles along her bare skin. The curve of her backside was warm beneath the coverlet, warm and perfectly rounded. He decided that the dip along her lower back was surprisingly erotic. Not so obvious as her other attributes, that valley was exceedingly intimate territory. No other man had ever touched her there.
No other man ever would.
Floating on the sparkling heat of his early-morning arousal, Oliver thought the first distant rumble must be thunder.
But the second…
His memories of Greta’s lovemaking were replaced by far worse, far more distant images. Cannon fire and explosions. Men’s bodies ripped to pieces. He tensed and jerked upright in bed.
Greta stirred, her sleep-drenched face a picture of confusion. “What is it?”
“Be still,” he said.
She did as she was told but with a frown. Oliver absorbed one more long look of her glorious nudity. He grabbed his trousers and kicked into them, abusing the garment as if it were responsible for cutting short a morning full of such potential. The nearest window was open just a crack. He pushed the glass panes as wide as they would go and stuck his head out-of-doors.
“Oliver,
you’re scaring me.”
Another rumble of thunder. But it was not a storm approaching. The faint, hair-raising whiff of gunpowder on the breeze said as much.
“You must get up, Greta.” The back of his throat stung as if he had been inhaling that acrid stench for weeks and weeks. Once he had. As a soldier there had been times when he despaired of ever taking another clean breath. “The estimates were wrong. We do not have three days to evacuate. Likely we only have hours.”
“Napoleon?”
Her eyes were impossibly wide—so much confidence and spirit in her suddenly rendered terrified. Downstairs, the first stirrings of the Venner household still maintained the regular cadence of an ordinary morning. He envied them these moments of ignorance.
Oliver grabbed his shirt and tugged it on. “Yes, meine Liebe. It’s Napoleon. The French are here.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Salzburg was in chaos.
The streets pulsed with fear-stricken citizens running and pushing their way through. But Oliver had little time to consider the state of the city, let alone the meeting he had been set to attend with Karl that morning.
“Get the horses ready, now!”
He had managed to hold his temper until the latest bomb made the chandeliers rattle. The closeness of the advancing army seemed to strike the servants dumb—with fright, with curiosity, with surprise. They stopped and stared at one another, slack-jawed, every time another cannonball hit its distant target. The troops were still over the mountains. They had until nightfall at least, but everyone behaved as if Napoleon himself was ready to charge into the foyer.
But what time was that to move an entire household? Only the most prized family heirlooms could be saved. Getting them packed and stowed would take time. Choosing which members of the staff would stay and which would go…that would be agonizing as well. Nobles such as the Venners were at grave risk of outright execution by Napoleon’s bloodthirsty troops. Everyone else, however, stood a good chance of surviving the siege and occupation to come, but that did not account for the potential violence of bored soldiers and stray munitions fire. Any servant who stayed might die. The weight of that choice—one he continued to put off—was stealing his patience and tact.
On the verge of letting loose another tirade against a slothful groom, Oliver felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned to find Greta standing there, her face a picture of composure that his guts dearly envied.
“Oliver,” she said, her eyes and voice steady.
And that was enough. She was like a stiff drink, warm and soothing. He had once believed her a wild woman—she still was—but for him she was a calming reminder. Each task in its own time. How did she know to do that? How had he survived for so long, needing that understanding but doing without?
Oliver gripped Greta’s cool fingers and kissed the back of her hand. “Danke,” he whispered against her skin.
She offered a forgiving smile, then glanced toward the portmanteau tucked into a nearby corner. “I’ve packed. I have nothing more to do. How can I help?”
“Go to Ingrid, bitte. The nanny is gathering things for Franz, but Ingrid will need help directing the other packing. Valuables and such.”
“Where is Lord Venner?”
“At the Residenz, making one last attempt to stave off the inevitable. We received word two hours ago that an emissary from Napoleon’s people had arrived to talk terms.”
“Terms?”
“Of surrender.”
The little color in her cheeks drained away. “Will that prevent the city’s destruction?”
“It did last time.” He remembered the fear and panic that had claimed the city when Napoleon’s troops occupied Salzburg less than five years earlier. At that time, nothing had required Oliver’s attention other than earning a secure place with his bachelor half brother. Now he and Christoph both had more to lose. “We cannot rely on that happening. We must be on our way to Anhalt by dusk.”
After a quick glance around, Greta stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “The Venners are in good hands. I’ll do what I can.”
She turned and hurried up the stairs before he could even offer his thanks. Oliver prided himself on being able to read even the subtlest expressions, but the resignation—a resignation that bordered on sadness—in Greta’s eyes was beyond his comprehension. Something was troubling her and had been since his confession. There was a tension between them now that had not been apparent before.
Greta stuffed a blanket around a painting and carefully wedged it into an overstuffed chest of valuables. “I doubt we can fit any more.”
“You’re right. Seal it up, bitte.” With Franz on her shoulder, Ingrid bobbed up and down as she assessed the small stack of possessions. Three chests, two soft-sided bags, and a few assorted swords and larger antiques sat in the middle of her bedroom floor. “This is ridiculous,” she said with a sneer. “What does it matter? Enough now, Greta, my dear. They’re just things.”
“But they will smooth the way to safety.”
Ingrid made a sour face. “If Venner’s relatives won’t take us in, I’m not sure I want to associate with them. But I suppose I cannot be picky.”
Another distant explosion was enough to make the glass windowpanes shudder in their casements. Franz, who had been nearly asleep, bellowed with all his might, although his newborn lungs did not produce much by way of volume. Ingrid closed her eyes and tried to soothe him. Greta stood away from the locked trunk, her own knees unsteady.
Salzburg. Under attack. She had lived through the last occupation in the relative comfort of her uncle’s manor. The plight of the people in harm’s way had seemed so distant at the time, when Thaddeus’s coffers had been plentifully stocked. He had simply paid the French to bypass his estate. But the move had bankrupted him, save his collection of artwork.
Now there would be nothing to stave off occupation. No matter their differences, she hoped her forgeries would do their job. If he could safeguard the originals through the war, Thaddeus might still be able to marry Anna and Theresa to suitably wealthy and influential husbands.
If not, Greta might never see them again.
But she could not assume that responsibility. Thaddeus was their father. She had done all she could to give him the resources to secure her cousins’ futures.
Now she had her own future to think about. A future with Oliver in Anhalt.
Lord Venner appeared in the doorway. Ingrid rushed into his arms. She babbled an update on the household’s readiness—or lack thereof—while he held her and little Franz, his expression crestfallen.
“What of the emissary?” she asked at last.
“No terms.”
Ingrid shook her head. “What do you mean, no terms?”
“The emissary said that the French are not prepared to offer any terms. They will occupy Salzburg.”
Greta tried to breathe past the buzz in her ears. “What about the duke? Surely he would use his influence with Napoleon.”
“Oh, hello, Greta,” Venner said, only just realizing her presence. “No, I’m afraid Ferdinand already has plans, none of which involve remaining here to bear the brunt of Salzburg’s troubles. He’s packing his family for Vienna, then on to Tuscany.”
Long-ago memories of that night at the opera returned in force. Greta touched her throat with one hand and reached out for a washstand with the other, steadying her balance. “So that…that man was right. The one who attacked me.”
“His acuity does not excuse his actions, naturally, but yes.” Venner’s face appeared far older than his years. The fight for his city was over. “He was right. And now we are left with no option but to flee. No aristocrat will be safe here.”
A trio of burly men, their faces limed with a sheen of sweat, knocked and asked permission to enter. Oliver followed them into the bedchamber, directing their strong backs and arms. “These, Ingrid?” he asked.
“Ja.” Her voice caught on that single word.
“Good. Then
with the four of us, we can fit eight more people in the carriages.”
“Eight? That’s all?”
Oliver shrugged, his expression apologetic. “We only have so much room.”
“Forget the trunks, then,” Ingrid said. “The bags and this chest. That’s all. Everything else of value was shipped on to Anhalt weeks ago.”
Venner frowned. “You’re certain?”
“Now we can fit ten people, yes? Maybe eleven?”
His gaze intent, Oliver seemed to make some silent calculation. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.”
“And I’ll ride on horseback,” Greta added. Venner and Oliver both grunted their protests, but she remained adamant. “There’s no need for me to take up one of those spaces. If the goal is to get out of the city, then why not?”
Oliver still appeared uneasy with the offer. The lines around his mouth were tight, his eyes narrowed. “Fine. But I’ll ride too.”
Oliver coughed as he stepped outside. The streets were even more crowded by the afternoon, when the stink of gunpowder was a low, heavy cloud over the valley. Memories of war clawed over him so that accomplishing the simplest tasks became a matter of navigating two different crises—one from years ago, and one in the hectic present.
“They’re doing it for show,” Oliver muttered as he boosted into his horse’s saddle. “They have so much ammunition that they can try blowing up the mountain, just to terrify everyone.”
“It’s working,” Greta said. The skin along her cheekbones was a sickly shade of light gray, tight and waxy with fear. “How did you stand this as a soldier?”
“I could shoot back.” He glanced uneasily at the main carriage—one of two in their small procession—as it lumbered forward. “And I didn’t have quite so many people to worry about. Just myself and whichever man was crouched in the mud next to me. Open the gate!”
A lad of no more than ten hauled on the wrought iron gate until it gaped open. He stood silently by as the carriages rolled past.
“Mikel,” Oliver called to him. “Now find your mother and take cover.”
