Loyal Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty #1)

by Anna Markland

  His body’s reaction was enough to convince Brandt he wasn’t dead, but he feared his chances of recovery were small if they depended on this crone.

  Then she put a warm hand on his shoulder, peered into his eyes and whispered, “I turned over a rock on my way here, seeking an omen.”

  Vidar took a step towards her. “Away, hexe, with your witchcraft.”

  She ignored him, her dark gaze locked with Brandt’s.

  “They say if creatures scurry beneath the rock, it’s a sign a dying man will live. If not…”

  Despite his scorn for the superstitions of common folk, Brandt had to ask. “And?”

  She grinned a toothless grin. “Teeming with earwigs.” She produced a filthy pouch from the copious folds of her tattered garments, and waved it before his eyes. “I gathered some up.”

  His heart lifted. He was going to live. But he hoped he wouldn’t be expected to eat earwigs in order to survive.

  WENDELIN

  Sophia made a quick visit to the stable to check on Mut, then hurried to her chamber where a maidservant helped her dress in a less formal gown and repaired the damage to the bothersome coiffure. Breathless, heart pounding, she joined her family in the receiving line as guests began to arrive.

  She ate and laughed and sang and danced along with everyone else at the banquet, but her thoughts were never far from the man who lay injured in a nearby chamber.

  She didn’t understand why he had become important to her; she’d known him only a few days. It seemed she’d been afflicted with what her mother and father called love at first sight.

  She’d always thought they exaggerated the depth of their feelings when they’d first met. Caught up in a maelstrom of fear, desire, and yearning, she now knew differently.

  Her parents too had tried to deny their attraction to each other, but obviously that hadn’t been successful.

  Of course, there was scant chance Brandt would have feelings for her, although she’d sensed he was attracted to her at the waterfall. However, they were on opposite sides of a sometimes deadly rivalry, and confident men of the world weren’t interested in silly girls who fretted over a lame horse.

  The healer had earlier declared her belief that Brandt would survive his injuries. Anger replaced the initial overwhelming relief. She determined to find out who had beaten him, and why. Vidar claimed it was the work of Saxons, but she was a child born of a union between a Saxon and an Englishwoman who also had Anglo-Saxon blood. She’d never lived anywhere else but in Saxony and was certain none of her father’s men had perpetrated the assault. He too was angry the attack had taken place on Wolfenberg lands.

  It was difficult to believe Duke Heinrich had issued the orders. What would he gain from disturbing the peaceful status quo? More likely a group of undisciplined soldiers were at fault, but ultimately such men were the duke’s responsibility.

  Kon and Lute reappeared. She’d noticed they were missing some time ago. “Where have you been?” she asked as they came to sit either side of her on the bench.

  “Mama sent us to get Kon’s belongings from his chamber,” Lute replied with a wry grin that led her to believe he’d been drinking wine, a rare occurrence.

  She pouted. “I would have helped if you’d told me.”

  Lute laughed, then hiccupped. “You just want to see the Franken.”

  As the youngest child, and female, Sophia was used to being playfully teased by her brothers and usually rose to the bait, but this situation was too serious. She must react in a mature fashion. “It’s true I am concerned about him, as you both should be. We cannot allow visitors to be attacked and nearly beaten to death.”

  The brothers looked at each other then burst out laughing. “You’re right,” Kon said, slapping his thigh. “She’s smitten with the man.”

  Sophia tried to struggle to her feet, but they held her fast. “Let me go,” she wailed.

  “We’re just teasing you,” Lute said softly. “It’s our duty as older brothers. Brandt Rödermark would be a fine catch for any woman.”

  She sagged against him. “But he’s an enemy. Possibly a spy. Perhaps that’s why he was assaulted.”

  Both men put an arm around her shoulders. Now she could definitely smell the wine on their breath. “What in the name of all the saints could a spy discover at Wolfenberg?” Lute asked.

  “And I definitely don’t believe he is an assassin on a mission to do away with the emperor,” Kon added. “The Staufens aren’t fools.”

  Sophia studied her hands, comforted by the love and common sense of her brothers. She supposed they could be forgiven for imbibing at their brother’s wedding. “I agree. I think Conrad’s aim was to subtly offend the emperor by sending the son of an obscure graf.”

  “Indeed, Rödermark is the victim here, dispatched into the lion’s den by his own duke,” Lute quipped. “Or the wolf’s lair.”

  Kon got to his feet abruptly. “Look! Johann and Kristina are leaving. We’re needed, brother.”

  The glint in Lute’s eyes indicated the pair had mischief in mind as they hurried away. She joined in the cheers and laughter as they hoisted Johann onto their shoulders and staggered away. A blushing Kristina was invited to sit in a chair which four of Johann’s friends lifted and carried out of the main hall.

  The bawdy crowd followed, leaving behind only the unmarried maidens—and the Haldens who seemed unsure whether to follow or not.

  In the sudden silence, it struck Sophia like a blow to the belly how vital love was to the success of a marriage. If she married a man she didn’t love, she might end up sour and withered, like Eugenia Halden.

  A shiver rushed up her spine. Making small talk with the woeful pair was the last thing she wanted to do. When she caught sight of Wendelin hurrying into the kitchens, she seized the opportunity and followed.

  A few scullery lads were still scrubbing pots and pans, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the healer who was pouring steaming hot water from a ketel into a wooden bowl, her back to Sophia.

  Sophia pressed her hands to her belly to still the creatures fluttering there and asked, “How fares your patient?”

  Wendelin startled. A mouse-like squeak emerged from her throat as hot water splashed onto the stone floor. The boys looked up from their tasks. Sophia held her breath. Surely she hadn’t caused injury to the one person who might heal Brandt. She rushed to take the bowl from Wendelin’s trembling hands. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean…”

  The ancient woman narrowed her eyes, as if she wasn’t sure who’d startled her, but then, “Fräulein Sophia. You took me by surprise. He’s as well as can be expected. I am brewing tea for him.”

  It wasn’t much, but at least Brandt was still alive. “Tea?” she parroted, peering at the bits of green and white floating in the bowl. It didn’t look like any tea she’d ever seen.

  “Root of Solomon’s Seal,” Wendelin explained, as if she’d sensed the question in Sophia’s mind. “Gave him the tincture a while ago. Looks better already. The tea will help him pass the night.”

  Sophia had an urge to shout out the relief surging in her throat, but could only nod as she gripped the bowl of life-giving tea.

  Wendelin eyed her. “I’ll need help,” she said, “and I sent his man off to get some sleep before he fell over.”

  She prized the bowl from Sophia’s hands then glared at the gaping scullery lads. “Trencher of parsnips, carrots, mashed. And a spoon. Now!” she hissed.

  They bolted into action as if the emperor himself had given the command. Wendelin was evidently well respected by the local peasantry—or feared.

  Within minutes Sophia was trailing after the healer, a trencher of mashed vegetables in hand, her heart in knots. Entering a chamber where a man lay abed might be considered highly inappropriate by some. Eugenia Halden’s face loomed.

  Sophia dismissed her fears. Wendelin would be there to act as chaperone. It wasn’t as if she was going to touch Brandt, no matter how much s
he wanted to.

  ICE MAIDEN

  Reluctant to raise his head, Brandt risked shifting his weight slightly in order to get a better look at the chamber. A lone candle flickered in the gloom, illuminating Drogo curled up asleep on what looked like a pile of cushions near the cold hearth. The ruckus going on nearby evidently hadn’t woken the lad, but it had pulled Brandt from the first sleep he’d had since the beating.

  The chamber seemed tidier. Someone had removed the clutter of clothing, boots and parchments. Whoever occupied the room must be a studious individual and he doubted it was Lute.

  He breathed more easily, relieved the pain and fever had lessened considerably. It seemed the hexe knew a thing or two after all. She had apparently left, as had Vidar.

  He didn’t mind being wakened. It proved he was still alive and, after all, a wedding had taken place in this household and by the sounds of the bawdy shouting and laughter the bedding was underway.

  Lute’s voice dominated. Sophia’s brother seemed to be the life and soul of any party. He recalled the conversation at the waterfall about siblings. When he married, there would be no brother to lead the ribbing and the fun, no uncles to spoil his children.

  His throat constricted. Fun suddenly seemed like a word that didn’t fit with the prospect of bedding Dorothea. Had he ever desired her? He closed his eyes trying desperately to recall if her breasts were large, small, what?

  His troubled heart calmed when Sophia’s perfect breasts floated into his recollection. He mused on the color of her nipples. Pink, he’d wager, with paler haloes. His shaft stirred pleasantly, but he felt ashamed of his lusty thoughts when the graf’s voice drifted down the hallway. Without shouting, von Wolfenberg calmed the noisy crowd and urged them to leave the newlyweds in peace.

  As the hubbub receded, Brandt’s thoughts went to his own father who probably wouldn’t stay awake long enough to participate in any bedding rituals. He’d take to his bed early on in the proceedings, complaining of the cold.

  He clenched his jaw. His injuries were making him maudlin. He resolved to get well, return to Rödermark and marry Dorothea.

  He would put Sophia von Wolfenberg and her happy home and family out of his mind.

  He groaned when Wendelin reappeared, the golden haired beauty at her side. The arousal that had been subsiding stirred anew.

  ~~~

  Sophia gripped the trencher. She’d expected Brandt to be asleep. Even in the dim light, it was evident he was less than pleased to see her.

  Wendelin poked the boy sleeping near the hearth with her toe. “Get up lad,” she muttered. “Light more candles.”

  He startled awake, peering at them as if trying to recollect where he was. Sophia recognised him as the youth who’d brought Mut back. Perhaps Brandt’s valet. She smiled, hoping to put him at ease. He probably feared for his master, injured and far from home.

  “His name is Drogo,” Brandt rasped unexpectedly, causing her to almost drop the trencher. His husky voice echoed in her bones. She dithered near the door, tempted to thrust the food into Drogo’s hands and flee.

  The lad seemed to recover his wits and soon had more candles lit. Sophia wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. She had three older brothers and was aware men and women were made differently, but she’d never seen a well-muscled adult male in bed with naught to cover him but a linen sheet molded to his body.

  She suspected he’d pulled the sheet over his chest, but his feet lay uncovered as a result. She fixed her gaze on his elegant toes, resolved to keep her eyes off his long legs.

  Balancing the bowl of tea in one hand, Wendelin yanked the sheet over Brandt’s bare feet. “I know you’re hot, my lord, but you must keep covered,” she chided.

  He bent his knees slightly, his jaw clenched.

  She definitely shouldn’t have come. However, fleeing wasn’t an option. She was a von Wolfenberg who didn’t intend to make a fool of herself in front of two peasants and a foreign spy.

  She was about to offer the food when Wendelin thrust the bowl at Drogo and barked another order, this time at her. “Give the trencher to the lad and help me get our invalid into a sitting position.”

  Sophia froze like one of the snow sculptures the servants fashioned on the icebound Elbe each winter. If she spoke it was doubtful coherent words would emerge, but she couldn’t touch him. “I…”

  “Hurry,” Wendelin said, one arm already hooked around Brandt’s. “The tea’s getting cold.”

  Sophia passed the plate into Drogo’s outstretched hand and walked with as much dignity as she could muster to the bed. To her surprise Brandt’s scowl had softened into a wry smile and she was relieved he looked better than the last time she’d seen him.

  “We must be careful,” Wendelin warned. “Take hold of his arm and we’ll ease him up slowly so I can bolster him with the pillows. You’ll have to help, my lord.”

  He nodded. “I understand.” Then he glanced up at Sophia, his blue eyes full of longing. “Be gentle with me.”

  The ice maiden melted as fire rushed through every vein, every pore. She’d never been looked at that way. Her heart raced as she grasped his bicep, awed by the strength in his arm, the heat of his skin.

  “Put the other hand on his shoulder,” Wendelin advised softly.

  She obeyed.

  Brandt sucked in a breath as they eased him up then back onto the pillows the healer pummelled into place.

  “Thank you,” he rasped with a wink that sent a thousand winged creatures fluttering in her belly.

  She couldn’t take her hands off his body. She longed to confess he drew her like a lodestone. Instead she whispered, “I was glad to help.”

  He glanced down at her hand, still gripping his arm.

  She withdrew quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you discomfort.”

  “You didn’t,” he replied.

  The sheet had pooled around his waist when they’d sat him up. She gazed at his chiseled chest, fascinated by the dusting of dark hair, but appalled at the swollen red bruises across most of his torso.

  Wendelin made a tsking sound and drew the sheet over his nakedness.

  Brandt smiled at Sophia, as if he knew his body had affected her.

  She felt her face redden when Drogo coughed. Wendelin took the tea from him and gave the bowl to Sophia. “Help him sip this,” she said. “Then he can eat the vegetables. I’ll be back.”

  Panic surged. “Where are you going?”

  “Just to the kitchens for more hot compresses. Don’t worry, Drogo is here.”

  She scurried away before Sophia could protest.

  WOVEN ENCHANTMENT

  Brandt was afraid Sophia might scald him with the tea. “I can manage,” he said, tempted to laugh out loud at the relief obvious on her lovely face when she handed him the bowl with trembling hands. But laughing might have painful consequences.

  She clasped her hands together, twirling her thumbs as she watched him sip the tea.

  He should insist she leave. Drogo could take care of his needs, though admittedly there was one need his squire couldn’t fulfill. Everything about Sophia aroused him. He craved her. It was as if her presence was helping his body heal.

  Perhaps the Saxons had kicked him in the head.

  The tea had the same nutty taste as the tincture Wendelin had administered earlier. He sipped it willingly, almost enjoying Sophia’s obvious discomfort. It came as a relief that he hadn’t imagined the spark ignited between them at the waterfall. She was blushing prettily, swaying from side to side, fidgeting with the lace at her cuffs then the crucifix at her neck. Her green eyes betrayed her excitement, and he knew she’d be mortified if she was aware her nipples were straining at the fabric of her satin gown.

  He pictured her dancing at the banquet. The enticing aroma of a healthy female tickled his nostrils and sent more blood rushing to his groin.

  She’d kept her gaze averted, but he worried she might look up and notice the linen tenting. Though he was cert
ain of her innocence, she had three older brothers.

  Painful as it was, he slowly drew up his knees and held out the bowl to Drogo. “Give Fräulein von Wolfenberg the trencher, then you can go back to sleep. She’ll take care of me.”

  Drogo narrowed his eyes, and it occurred to Brandt too late that he’d offered an insult to Sophia. “I apologise,” he said. “I didn’t mean to infer you’re a servant.”

  It was a relief to see her smile when she took the trencher from Drogo. “I’m not offended,” she assured him. “I want to take care of you.”

  ~~~

  Sophia kept her eyes averted, unsure whether to tell Brandt she understood the significance of the bulge at the apex of his thighs. There was no need for him to bend his knees. She longed to touch him there, to reassure him all was well, that she was falling in love with him and was elated he found her attractive.

  However, she was aware most girls her age didn’t have mothers who had explained natural sexual desires in detail.

  Brandt would deem her a wanton. She’d likely already given the wrong impression by telling him she wanted to take care of him in a sultry voice even she didn’t recognise.

  The trencher provided a welcome distraction. “Can you manage this, or would you like me to help?”

  There was that voice again. She was transforming into a flirtatious nitwit. Next she’d be fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  “I’d appreciate your help,” he replied.

  Something had happened to his voice too. Perhaps the tea had made it huskier. And speaking of eyelashes, his were the longest she’d ever seen, inky black like the hair on his head and chest. She recalled wisps of the same on his fingers. She absently wondered if the narrow line that wandered down his belly went all the way to…

  “Sit,” he said softly, patting the bed beside him. “It will be easier for you to feed me.”

  No wonder his blue eyes sparkled with amusement. She was leaning over with the spoonful of mashed carrots half way to his mouth, lost in daydreams of attempting some of the attentions her mother had told her men loved. She perched on the edge of the mattress and put the spoon to his mouth, fascinated by the movement of his sensuous lips as he savored the food.