"Step aside, Kassandra," he breathed softly, so close to her now, he could see she was trembling uncontrollably, could smell the intoxicating scent of her floral perfume.
Kassandra opened her mouth to speak, but found she had no voice. She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his face.
Stefan had expected as much. "You must," he insisted, his voice low. He gently gripped her arm and drew her a few feet away from the carefully packed dirt where she had been standing. She offered no resistance, which puzzled him, but instead stood rigidly as he began to kick at the dirt with the heel of his leather boot. The packed soil soon gave way, revealing what appeared to be one end of a tightly wound roll of clothing, secured with twine.
Stefan squatted on his haunches and impatiently brushed away the remaining dirt, studying for a moment the contents of the shallow hole. His eyes widened in recognition and he glanced up at Kassandra, but she was no longer watching him, her gaze focused on some distant point in the woods, her features set and implacable as if finely chiseled in stone.
He pulled out the bundle and set it beside him. In one swift movement he drew a long hunting knife from a leather sheath at his belt and severed the knotted twine, replacing the knife as he rose to his feet. He shook out the clothing in a spray of moist dirt—a torn and wrinkled print gown, a pair of plain gray stockings that floated lightly to the ground, a petticoat, and a small velvet drawstring bag that fell near the toe of his boot with a chinking thud . . .
"So at last I have found you, my temptress," Stefan murmured, bending to pick up the small bag. Flashing gold coins tumbled out the open end to the ground, in bright contrast to the black dirt mixed with snow. Yet it was not the money he was interested in, but his initials, finely embroidered in silver threads, upon the inside upper rim of the bag. His callused finger traced the smooth needlework—expertly sewn by Isabel, who had given the bag to him as a gift—the final proof he needed.
Stefan straightened just in time to see that Kassandra had turned toward him, the flash of her hand hurtling at his face. Before he could dodge the blow, she hit him with all the strength she could muster, a sharp, resounding smack. He nearly lost his balance, his cheek stinging painfully, but managed to keep his footing as she spun to flee.
Stefan lunged at her, grabbing her roughly, and twirled her to face him once again, his strong hands gripping her upper arms. He swallowed hard as he was struck by the full force of her gaze, like a tempest unleashed, her amethyst eyes, darkened to a stormy violet hue, glinting at him with sparks of fury.
"Bastard!" Kassandra shouted, nearly choking on the swell of emotions within her breast. Scalding tears blinded her, but she fought them back, determined not to give in to such a useless, feminine display. Sensing his momentary discomfiture, she wrenched free of his grasp, lashing out at him again with her arm. He deftly stepped aside and caught her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back and pulling her hard against his broad chest. He held her there, though she struggled and kicked, her attempts to escape him futile next to his powerful strength.
"You are the one," he breathed huskily into her fiery hair, now free of its pins and tumbling down her back and about her flushed face in riotous waves. Much the same as in the tavern, he recalled, drawing slightly away from her to study the exquisite lines of her high cheekbones, his finger instinctively tracing the curve of her jaw to her chin. When she tried to turn her face away from him, he entwined his hand in her lustrous hair and pulled her head back, bringing his mouth down upon her own.
Kassandra gasped, the memory of his kiss in the tavern, rough and demanding, and the shocking reality of his kiss at that moment, possessive yet almost tender, merging in her mind. This wasn't happening! she thought vainly, then thought no more as he deepened his kiss, forcing her lips apart, drawing panting breaths from her body.
Time stood still, then faded altogether. Kassandra did not know at what point she stopped fighting him, only to close her eyes and lean against his hard length, responding to his kiss with a burning ardor that matched his own. She felt dizzy, as if she were falling, a liquid warmth stirring deep within her and flooding her body with flaming desire.
Stefan tore his lips from hers and trailed a path of shivering kisses down her white throat, his mouth lingering at the pulse beating rapidly at the curved base of her neck. He inhaled the scent of her skin, her hair, a sense of conquest surging within him. He released her arm and brought both of his hands to her face, his thumbs caressing the satin smoothness of her cheeks as he reveled in her beauty.
Kassandra bent her head to the side at his touch, hypnotically immersed in the embrace of this man. But when she opened her eyes and met his searing gaze, she saw not only desire but sheer triumph. It chilled her to the bone, dousing her own desire as surely as if she had been drenched in an icy bath, and she remembered with a jolt why she so hated him.
Bile rose in her throat with the realization that this was merely a game with him, at her expense. It was clear he considered himself the victor, and her the spoils. But damn him, he had not won yet! In one swift movement she groped wildly for the sheath at his belt, then drew out the knife and pushed the flat end of the blade against his ribs.
"Let me go," she whispered vehemently, her eyes burning brightly. "Now!"
Stefan tensed and drew back suddenly, his arms dropping to his sides, his battle-honed instincts recognizing that Kassandra's tone bespoke no idle threat. He shook his head in amazement, but kept his attention on the knife as she stepped away from him, glancing occasionally over her shoulder to get her bearings in relation to the mare that was grazing contentedly on the dry grasses that edged the clearing.
Kassandra briefly turned her back to him when she reached the mare and grabbed the reins dangling to the ground, then whirled once again to find Stefan had not moved a muscle. She eyed him warily, the knife held expertly in one hand while she flipped the reins over the mare's head, stepped into the stirrup, and eased onto the saddle.
"Whoa, girl, steady," she murmured, pulling up on the reins with her free hand. Then without a word she lifted her arm and flung the flashing blade through the air. A grim smile lit her face when the knife cut into the earth only inches from Stefan's foot.
"As you can see, Count," she murmured tersely, lifting her chin with defiance, although inside she was quaking, "I am quite able to protect myself. I hope you take this as a warning, for if you come near me again, I will not be as charitable."
Kassandra nudged the mare with her heel; then, without a backward glance, they set off at a swift canter toward the estate, precariously dodging the trees lining the path they had left earlier in the snow. Her heart was beating thunderously and she shivered, not so much from the cold as from the sheer boldness of her act. She had never threatened any living creature before, let alone a grown man, and a seasoned soldier at that. She only hoped she had swayed him from whatever game he was playing, or before heaven, she would make good on her threat.
Stefan's eyes flashed with open admiration as he watched Kassandra, seated proudly upon her mare, disappear into the dense trees. Then he bent down and grasped the handle of the knife, embedded to its polished hilt, and pulled it from the ground. He slid it into the sheath at his belt, then ran his fingers through his black hair, a wry smile curving his lips.
What a remarkable woman, Stefan mused. He had been in many fierce battles in his lifetime, but never had he been faced with such a beautiful, and possibly more deadly, opponent. It seemed she was full of surprises, and that her prowess extended to weaponry as well. He suddenly recalled waking up in the tavern to find his own sword lying on the bed, its razor-sharp blade pointed at his chest. Perhaps a thwarted attempt—fortunately for him!—by Kassandra to exact her retribution, he thought with a grimace.
Stefan uttered a low whistle for Brand, and barely a moment passed before the massive stallion appeared from the woods, snorting and tossing its regal head. He hoisted himself into the saddle, then wheeled the horse sharply and followed
the path Kassandra had just taken.
At once he realized that instead of freeing him from his obsession for Kassandra, knowing the truth of who she was had further heightened his need for her, a need that seemed to rage within him like a burning fever. Never before had he seen such spirit in a woman. And now that his intuition was confirmed and he knew with certainty that Lady Kassandra Wyndham was the wench from the tavern, he would stop at nothing to make her his own.
Of course, he must marry her. Kassandra would become Countess von Furstenberg. If she had been a serving maid, tavern whore, or even married, it would have been different. But she was unmarried, a virgin until their fateful meeting, and an English peeress in her own right. No such woman would consent to anything less than marriage. No man of position and integrity would offer anything else. Marriage it would be!
Stefan smiled wryly, surprised at this turn of events. He was a man who cherished his freedom, a man who had known the pleasures of many women, and been most intrigued by the chase and the capture. But Kassandra was unique. In her he believed he had finally met his match.
And he had need of a wife. Isabel had driven home that point again and again. It was time he thought of the future, of his estate . . . an heir. He would offer Kassandra everything, his name, his wealth, and the chance to share his life. Perhaps that would make up for the one thing he could not offer her, his heart.
He was a soldier, first and foremost. There was no room in his life for useless and transient emotions. He knew well that any man ruled by his emotions rather than his intellect and gut instincts on the battlefield was not destined to live long. No, he could never give her love, but he would offer her an all-consuming desire reserved for no other woman.
Stefan drew up on the reins, a dark thought pressing in on him. Fool, what made him think she would accept his proposal of marriage? She was unconventional enough to think she didn't need his protection and stubborn enough to refuse his proposal outright. She clearly despised him. It was more likely she would throw his offer of marriage back in his face, with relish!
His hands tightened on the reins as an image flashed through his mind—Kassandra's eyes glinting angrily, her smiling red lips taunting him, her vehement denial—and his mouth set in a tight line.
No, he could not risk the public disgrace she would suffer if their liaison ever became known. And he could not deny his all-consuming need to possess her. He would not lose her, however ruthless he might seem, Stefan vowed. Tonight, after he returned from his meeting in Vienna, he would make his proposal . . . and he knew exactly what he had to say. She was too great a prize to leave anything to chance.
Chapter 13
It was well past midnight when Stefan finally returned to the estate. A drowsy footman opened the door for him as he stepped inside the entrance hall, dark but for a few lighted candles still burning in the ornate chandelier. He stamped his feet and dusted the wet snow from his heavy cloak, then pulled it from his shoulders and dropped it over a high-backed chair against the wall as he walked into the library.
The room was also dark, the fire long since reduced to a pile of blackened ash, and there was a chill in the air. He sighed wearily, dropping the large leather bag that held his papers and maps, and rubbed his hands together to warm them. Guided by the dim light from the hall through the open door, he poured a snifter of brandy. He swallowed, the fragrant liquid burning his throat, then stood in silence, absently toying with the heavy glass.
Damn, it had been a long day, he thought, much longer than he had expected. Due to the length of his meeting with Prince Eugene, he still hadn't found time to visit Sophia.
He had been an hour late as it was, a breech the prince had fortunately forgiven, but then the discussions of war and strategy had gone on long into the night, with scarcely a pause for meat and refreshment. The map of Belgrade had been the focus of great interest and attention among the many officers present, affording a well-drawn diagram of the layout of the near impregnable fortress: valuable information that would hopefully insure another victory for Prince Eugene during the next summer's campaign.
Other discussions had centered upon the winter camp of the Imperial army, where the standing forces would be quartered until spring. Set in the Hungarian lowlands, the camp was a good day's ride from Vienna. He knew he would be called upon at some point during the winter to supervise his cavalry forces, for a month, maybe longer. But he hadn't told Isabel yet. There would be plenty of time for that, once the final date had been decided. She would no doubt be distressed to learn he was leaving again so soon.
Stefan set down his half-empty glass and rubbed his hands over his eyes. What would Kassandra think of his departure? Would she also be distressed . . . or elated?
"Milord?"
Gisela's soft inquiry intruded upon his thoughts. "Ah, Gisela, you are still up," he murmured warmly.
"Are you hungry, milord?" she asked. "The cook has kept a platter of beef and roasted potatoes warm for you. There was plenty left over this night, what with Countess Isabel's usually small appetite and Lady Kassandra shut away in her room all day—"
"What's that?" Stefan queried sharply. At the maid's surprised expression he softened his tone. "Lady Kassandra spent the day in her room?"
"Yes, milord," Gisela replied. "She came flying into the house earlier today, slamming the doors and such, and fled straight to her room. The door has been bolted, and no one has been allowed in, not even your sister, who pleaded in vain to find out what was the matter." She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "Perhaps her ride this morn did not agree with her."
Stefan frowned. If Gisela only knew how right she was! He suddenly moved past her and into the hall. "I won't be needing any dinner this night, Gisela, but my thanks. Rest well." He turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time, the wide-eyed maid staring after him in astonishment.
"Something's brewing this night," she mumbled, watching his tall form disappear down the corridor. Shaking her head, she held the candle in front of her and made her way to the kitchen.
Stefan strode down the hall, stopping abruptly at Kassandra's door. He had rehearsed his words over and over during his long ride back to the estate, all the while knowing no matter how he delivered them, they would be taken as ruthless and harsh. But he had no choice. He couldn't take the chance of losing her now . . . for both their sakes.
He paused, listening, and was not surprised to hear the floor creaking slightly from light footfalls pacing back and forth. He took a deep breath, then tried his hand on the doorknob while leaning his broad shoulder into the door. It held fast.
So it was still bolted, just as Gisela had said, he thought, his brow arching with displeasure. He stepped back, looking up and down the dimly lit corridor, then moved once again to the door. He no longer heard pacing within the room, only a heavy silence laced with palpable tension. Stefan knew she had guessed he was at her door.
"Unbolt the door, Kassandra," he whispered quietly, his soft tone belying his impatience. He waited a moment, but there was no sound. Damn. He would break the door down if need be! "I will not ask again, my lady," he murmured tightly. "Open the door, or I will do so myself, in a manner you will find most unpleasant."
His threat was rewarded by the sound of footsteps crossing the floor. Stefan smiled grimly. The bolt grated and squeaked as it was suddenly drawn back, then the footsteps fled and faded into the far recesses of the room.
Stefan turned the doorknob and carefully pushed open the door, not certain of his reception. He stepped in gingerly and closed the door behind him with a decisive click, scarcely daring to breathe. His gaze swept the shadowed room, lit only by pale rays of moonlight across the thick carpet, but there was no sign of Kassandra.
He waited, tense and alert. It was only the sheerest whisper of a movement that caught his attention; perhaps the rustle of a silken nightgown, he thought heatedly, and he realized she was hiding behind the oriental screen in the far corner of the room. Overcoming a pang of gu
ilt that he had so subdued her brave spirit, he stood quietly by the door, his legs spread, his arms crossed in front of him.
Kassandra crouched behind the screen, furiously chewing her lower lip. Where was he? What was he doing? Blackguard! He obviously wanted something from her, but what? Wasn't it enough that he had discovered her secret?
Several moments passed, each one an eternity for her, and still Stefan made no movement toward her. After another long silence, she had had enough. Her knees were beginning to ache, kneeling on her haunches as she was, a most uncomfortable position. This was her chamber, and here she was cowering in it like a frightened lamb.
With a sigh of angry exasperation Kassandra rose suddenly to her feet, wincing as pinpricks of sensation shot through her legs. She cursed under her breath and leaned on the screen, but somehow misjudged the distance and lost her balance. The screen fell forward with a resounding crash, and she would have toppled with it if she hadn't grabbed the side of her tub, righting herself, just in time.
"Why don't you light a candle, my lady?" Ste-fan's voice, deep and husky, came to her from across the room. "It might make it easier for both of us to see . . . each other."
"Why would we want to do that?" Kassandra snapped. "I can assure you I have no wish to see you. Why don't you just leave!" She straightened shakily; then, as an afterthought, she moved to the fireplace not far from the tub and grabbed the poker propped against the wall. She might need it to protect herself, she thought fleetingly, holding it crosswise in front of her. After this morning in the woods, there was no telling what he might try to do.
"Very well. I'll light them," Stefan replied, unperturbed that Kassandra had armed herself once again. He could see in the dark, but for what he had to say to her, he thought it best if he could also read her expressions. He walked to the low table beside the bed, found the flint, steel, and tinderbox, and lit the three candles in the delicate porcelain candelabra, their flickering golden light settling over the room. Then he turned to face her.
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