Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  "Look to your horse, man, not your blasted cart!" Zoltan shouted at the top of his lungs, followed by a streak of coarse obscenities in his native Hungarian. Then he jumped from his seat to the ground and pulled open the carriage door. "Are ye all right, milady?" he asked, his swarthy face a mask of anxious concern.

  "Yes . . . yes, I'm fine," Kassandra assured him shakily, righting herself in the seat. A rush of pity surged through her. The poor man, red-faced and sweating profusely despite the cool air, looked in a much worse state than she.

  Kassandra smiled brightly at him, her tone reassuring. "Truly, you can see that I am unharmed, Zoltan. But what has happened?"

  Zoltan shook his head grimly, wiping the perspiration from his brow with a massive hand. "Ah, it's an awful thing, milady. Two carts have collided just ahead, and a fine horse is down, its leg broken, looks like to me."

  "How terrible!" Kassandra gasped, feeling a sick knot in her stomach at the thought of the stricken creature. She loved horses. Riding was like life to her.

  "A pity it is, too, those damn fools. Rushing along the crowded street like that, their carts full of heavy water barrels. I'd like to take my whip to 'em both!"

  "Is there anything we can do?" Kassandra asked, peering out the window at the curious crowd pressing in around the accident.

  "No, milady. They'll see to it soon enough." Grunting his displeasure, Zoltan glanced over his shoulder at the wreckage strewn about the street just twenty feet away. "It's fortunate we were no closer, else we might have been caught in the middle. Now we'll have to wait until the mess is cleared away . . . hopefully no more than a half hour."

  Kassandra sat back against the seat at this news, her mind racing. A half hour! That was far too much precious time to waste sitting in this carriage.

  No, she decided quickly, she would set out on her own and meet Zoltan later in the afternoon. This place was as good as any other to begin her stroll, though she would have wished it had been under different circumstances. But now she would not have Zoltan dogging her every step with the carriage.

  Gathering her cape around her, Kassandra held out her hand to him. "Please help me down, Zoltan."

  The coachman did as she requested, a puzzled look on his face. "Milady?"

  "I have far too much to do this afternoon to spare even a half hour," Kassandra said, stepping onto the cobbled street. She quickly looked about her to get her bearings, recognizing the name of the street posted high on a corner sign. She was in the market district. She turned back to Zoltan. "I shall meet you at four o'clock in the square in front of St. Stephen's Cathedral. That should give me enough time to complete my errands."

  "Ye shall walk, milady?" Zoltan asked, incredulous. These English! Why would she choose to walk about the city when she had a fine carriage at her beck and call? He shrugged. It was not for him to say what the nobility could, or could not do.

  "Yes," Kassandra murmured, reaching inside her bag. She pulled out a few coins and handed them to him. "I know there must be taverns nearby where you can find some refreshment, Zoltan. Now I must be on my way."

  "Thank ye, milady." Zoltan nodded, the coins heavy in his hand, and flashed a toothy grin. The promise of a frothy mug of beer or two and a hearty lunch of sausage and fried potatoes cheered him considerably, especially after the miserable disaster he had witnessed. He tipped his cap to her. "St. Stephen's Cathedral, then, at four o'clock."

  Kassandra barely heard him as she hurried from the carriage down a crowded side street, a sense of exhilaration coursing through her. She was on her own . . . at last! And with an entire afternoon to spend exactly as she wished!

  Such sights, sounds, and smells surrounded her as she strolled up one twisting street and down another. Common people of many races—Germanic, Latin, Slav—passed by her, their languages as diverse as the rustic costumes they wore. Street urchins, most of them accomplished pickpockets, careened through the crowds, preying lightheartedly on the nobility, the men dad in black velvet coats lined with rose-colored satin over embroidered gold waistcoats, with powdered periwigs, white silk stockings, and red-heeled shoes; and their ladies wrapped in capes trimmed with luxurious fur, or edged with bright red satin and gold lace.

  Kassandra had never before seen a city where the aristocrats mixed so freely with the common people . . . so unlike London. And it seemed the entire town was composed of palaces, whether they be the homes of the wealthy, middle-class, or the poor. Three- and four-story buildings towered above the shadowed streets, their gleaming white facades decorated with all manner of fine stucco ornamentation. A wide variety of shops occupied the first floors of these buildings, some with fine glass windows through which passersby could watch the workers inside—jewelers, leather-smiths, tailors, and dressmakers—busily plying their trade. Kassandra paused here and there to admire carefully arranged displays of fans, embroidered handkerchiefs, and comfit boxes, the finest adorned with delicate wreaths of jewels and pearls.

  Luscious, mouth-watering aromas wafted into the street from pastry shops, bakeries, and sausage makers' shops. Kassandra's stomach soon growled hungrily, reminding her she had not eaten since early that morning. She stopped to buy a buttery roll filled with sweetened cream, then ate it as she walked along, reveling in her independence and contemplating life in all its diversity and richness. She had waited a long time for a day such as this!

  Rounding a corner, Kassandra paused in the doorway of a coffeehouse and finished the last of her pastry. A rousing blare of trumpets and the thunderous beating of drums took her by surprise and she peered down the street, amazed at the great throng of people moving ever closer. Overcome by curiosity, she stepped from the doorway and walked toward the lively din. It appeared to be some sort of procession . . .

  Two small boys brushed by her, their ruddy cheeks flushed with excitement as they jostled and pushed each other down the street.

  "Wait!" Kassandra called after them. "Could you tell me what's going on?"

  The boys stopped in their tracks and turned around. One lad, overcome by shyness, blushed awkwardly and shuffled his feet. But the other piped up, eager to share his important news. "It's the Hungarian oxen, miss. They've just arrived from the country and they're taking 'em down to the slaughterhouse." He bobbed his head to her, then sharply elbowed his friend, who did the same. Then they scurried on their way.

  A cattle parade. Kassandra had heard of this strange custom from Isabel, who had told her the Viennese loved pageantry of any kind. The lamentable procession of oxen on their way to the slaughterhouse qualified as entertainment of the highest order, especially because it was free.

  She watched in amazement as householders and shopkeepers left their homes and shops to throng in the street with their wives and children, all jockeying to get the best view. Shrieks of boisterous laughter rent the air, already charged with a carnival-like atmosphere.

  Kassandra pressed her back up against a wall as the procession moved past her. The roar was deafening as the trumpeters and drummers marched by, followed by dragoons on horseback, their swords drawn and flashing in the sun, who encircled the frightened oxen and herded them onward. Young boys goaded the oxen with long, sharpened sticks—Kassandra gasped as she spied the two she had spoken with earlier diving into the fray—while mastiffs snapped at the beasts' legs and barked ferociously at any laggards.

  Kassandra felt a wave of pity at the sight of the miserable creatures, clearly terrified by all the shouting and noise. Unable to watch such cruelty any longer, she turned away and began to struggle through the onlookers to a nearby side street.

  Suddenly a great cry of alarm went up as a large black ox broke away from the herd and charged at the crowd, bellowing in rage. Whirling, Kassandra dodged just in time to escape the maddened animal's horns, only to find herself swept down the street in the midst of the screaming throng.

  For a terrifying moment it seemed she would be dragged under and trampled, but, clawing and kicking, she managed to fight her way ba
ck to the side of the street. Spying a half-open door, she lunged for it and nearly tripped inside a large, dimly lit room. She slammed the door behind her and leaned on it for a moment, gasping for breath. The she stumbled to a nearby table and collapsed in a chair.

  Burying her face in her hands, Kassandra listened dazedly as the screams of the crowd carried on down the street. Everything had happened so fast! Her breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath the bodice of her gown; her throat felt raw and parched. She struggled against the swamping sensation of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her, fought back the hot tears that burned her eyes.

  Sweet Lord, she could have been killed . . . A shuddering sigh escaped her at this numbing realization. Suddenly chilled, she reached behind her to draw her cloak around her body, only to find it was no longer there.

  It must have been wrenched from her shoulders during her struggles, she thought, her mind reeling. She looked down at the skirt of her gown. The flowered fabric was grimy and tom, ripped on one side from the muddied hem almost to her thigh. With trembling fingers she touched her head, only to discover her lace cap was also missing. Her hair, tangled and snarled, had fallen from its pins to frame her face in riotous disarray. And her bag was gone, along with her money.

  The dress and the money are no matter . . . At least you are unharmed, Kassandra chided herself, still astounded that she had so narrowly escaped death. Somewhat calmed, she gazed nervously about the large room. She was in some sort of a tavern, that much she knew.

  The dense, smoke-filled air stung her eyes. Kassandra blinked, wiped them with the back of her hand, then looked up again . . . straight into the eyes of a stranger staring boldly at her from across the room.

  Chapter 3

  Count Stefan von Furstenberg took a slow draft from his goblet, his gaze never leaving the flame-haired wench on the other side of the smoke-dimmed tavern. Damn, but she was tantalizing!

  He had seen her only a moment ago, when he had stood up from the table to take leave of his men. A cavalry commander in the Imperial Austrian army, he and his soldiers had just returned to Vienna that morning from a victorious campaign led by their famous general, Prince Eugene of Savoy, against the Turks.

  With their hard night ride behind them, the taverns of the city had been a welcome sight. He had not refused his officers' invitation to join them in a well-earned drink to victory, though they had been celebrating in this wine tavern, the Yellow Eagle, for the past few hours, far longer than he had intended to stay.

  Now he was glad he had remained. To have missed such uncanny beauty as this wench possessed would have been a shame indeed. Perhaps his plan of surprising his sister Isabel before she received word that the Imperial army had arrived in Vienna would have to wait awhile longer, as well as a visit to his mistress, Sophia, whom he had not seen for the past six months.

  Stefan chuckled to himself, a rakish grin tugging one corner of his mouth. Sophia. No doubt she had amused herself with countless lovers during his long absence and was probably even now in the arms of another man . . . perfecting her skills in the fine art of lovemaking, she would say wickedly, and without apology.

  Ah, but Sophia was not here . . . only the tavern wench in all her tousled beauty, he considered, his eyes raking lustily over her. Surely a quick tumble with her would not hinder his plans overmuch. He would be on his way home to the von Furstenberg estate within the hour.

  Stefan drained his goblet, the wine flooding his body with fiery warmth, and felt a surge of desire rip through him at the thought of possessing the long-limbed wench . . . intoxicating his blood far more than the wine. He quickly reached a decision. The devil knew he was no saint. He had not denied himself the pleasurable company of women during the campaign, but it had been many weeks since he had felt a woman writhe beneath him. He would wait no longer.

  Setting his empty goblet upon the table with a thud, Stefan strode over to the proprietor of the tavern and drew him aside.

  "Have you any rooms?"

  "Ah yes, milord." The fat proprietor grinned, nodding his balding head eagerly. "I have several, but there is one, a corner room, that is quite well appointed, if I might say so." He paused, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Of course, it will cost a bit more than the others—"

  "I'll take it," Stefan said, dropping some gold coins in the man's sweaty palm. "I trust this will cover the cost of the room and another barrel of wine for my men?"

  The proprietor stared greedily at the coins. "Oh yes, milord! You are most generous!"

  "Good. Now bring some wine to that table over there, the one by the door, and be quick about it."

  "At once!" The man scurried off, the gold coins clinking in his pocket, anxious to please the formidable-looking officer. It was not every day he had such a guest in his tavern, a commander of the Imperial cavalry no less . . . and a wealthy one!

  Stefan glanced down at his uniform, dusty from the long ride the night before, and at his knee-length boots, streaked with mud and dirt. He longed for a hot bath and a shave, but there was not enough time. Besides, he doubted the wench would mind. If she plied her trade this close to the Danube Canal, she had probably lain with far worse.

  He walked back to the table where some of his men were seated. They stood as he approached, raising their goblets in salute.

  "Another draft of wine, Commander?" one young officer blurted drunkenly, sloshing the contents of his goblet down the front of his uniform and on to the floor.

  "Aye, let's drink in fond memory of the Turks we blessed with the kiss of our swords, may they all rot in hell!" another shouted loudly.

  Stefan shook his head, silencing the boisterous rabble with a single gesture. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave of you. Pleasures other than your fine company beckon to me."

  With a gleam of laughter in his eyes, he turned from them and strode toward the front of the tavern, where the wench was sitting, ignoring his men's low whistles of approval and stamping feet.

  Kassandra watched wide-eyed as the strikingly handsome officer approached her table, the same man who had been staring at her only moments before. He was tall and powerfully built, his shoulders very broad beneath his dark blue uniform. His hair was black, black as a raven's wing, she thought fleetingly, and pulled back into a short queue at his nape.

  It was his eyes, flint gray with just a hint of blue, like a wild, storm-tossed sea, that caught and held her gaze. Deeply set beneath straight black brows, they seared her with a burning intensity that made her flush with a strange, stirring warmth.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Kassandra tore her gaze away. Surely he must be looking for someone else, she thought, her mind spinning. She turned and glanced behind her, but there was no one .else seated anywhere near them. Turning back around, she started in surprise when he pulled out the only other chair at her table, the wooden legs scraping along the planked floor, and sat down beside her.

  A fat, balding man suddenly crossed to them with two silver goblets filled to the brim with red wine, set them on the table, bowed, and hurried away.

  What was going on? Kassandra wondered. She hadn't ordered a drink. She blushed hotly, embarrassed, as the officer's eyes raked over her, slowly, openly.

  Stefan stared at Kassandra for a long moment without saying a word. Now that he was closer, it seemed his gutter waif had become a goddess. Either that or the wine had sorely affected his vision.

  By God, she was stunning . . . an enchantress, he marveled, astounded by her disheveled beauty. Despite the smudges of dirt on her face, her skin was like the finest porcelain, her features a study in perfect symmetry—high, curved cheekbones, a straight nose that tipped slightly at the end, slim, arched brows that matched the fiery red-gold of her hair, and a lush curved mouth that was full and inviting.

  Stefan was tempted to reach out and trace the exquisite line of her chin, a stubborn chin that bespoke strength and spirit. But studying her, he hesitated. She looked so tantalizingly innocent for a common tavern
wench, like a fresh rose amidst flowers that had long ago lost their bloom.

  Perhaps she was new to her trade, he considered. She looked young, barely seventeen. He noted now her large amethyst eyes studied him warily, dark violet pools opulently fringed by thick lashes tipped with gold. He could not help feeling that a man could easily drown in those luminous depths . . .

  Enough! Stefan berated himself, shifting impatiently in his chair. Obviously he had been away from women far too long to become so easily besotted over a common tavern wench.

  Gazing steadily into her eyes, Stefan raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply, the heady liquid fanning his desire. But the girl did not follow his lead. He gestured to the cup before her. "The drink is for you," he murmured, his voice low, edged with roughness.

  Kassandra stared at the goblet, then back at him. The man must have seen her plight and was offering wine to her out of kindness, she reasoned with a surge of relief. "Thank you," she replied softly.

  Her hand trembled as she lifted the goblet to her lips and drank thirstily. It was a coarse vintage, and overly tart, but she did not mind. She felt a relaxing warmth wash over her as she drained the cup, her jangled nerves calmed at last.

  Perhaps the soldier might calla carriage to take her to St. Stephen's, Kassandra thought hopefully. She doubted it was past two o'clock, but Zoltan might already be waiting for her in the cathedral square. She had experienced quite enough excitement for one day, and was more than ready to return to the von Furstenberg estate. She smiled warmly, gratefully, at the officer and leaned toward him.

  Stefan's breath caught in his throat, his eyes falling upon the creamy swell of her breasts, firm and high, straining against the taut fabric of her bodice. He knew he could no longer restrain his mounting desire, burning like a raging inferno within him. "I have a room waiting upstairs," he said abruptly, rising from his chair. "Come."

  Kassandra stared up at him, dumbstruck, as if she had not heard his words. Room upstairs? What could he possibly mean? she wondered wildly. Why was he looking at her so?