Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  Stefan's gaze went instinctively to the tempting mounds, his blood shooting hot through his veins. He longed to savor the sweetness of a rose-tipped peak, to explore the fascinating length of her body pressed so intimately against his own, its graceful curves, its womanly secrets. Yet he knew that now was not the time. He tore his eyes away and caught her gaze. The flashing amethyst depths had darkened to a stormy violet hue.

  Stefan exhaled sharply. It was a look he knew only too well, and he could hardly blame her. Except for his attempts to win her favor and their last evening together, he had given her little cause to regard him otherwise. But hopefully after she heard what he had to tell her, that would change.

  Kassandra clutched the fur and drew it up over her body. "I would like to get dressed, my lord," she said tersely. "So if you will kindly release me—"

  Stefan silenced her with a gentle finger to her lips. "I have something to say to you, Kassandra," he murmured.

  She jerked her head away. Whatever it was, she had no wish to hear it. "Surely it can wait until later," she objected. "No doubt your servants are searching for us even at this moment. It would be most unseemly if we were found here together" — she blushed hotly— "like . . . like this."

  Stefan could not help but chuckle at her discomfort, then he grew serious. Out with it, man, he told himself. You have kept silent long enough, too long. He drew her chin back to face him, ignoring the defiant glint in her eyes. "Listen to me, Kassandra," he said softly. "I love you."

  Kassandra blinked, but she said nothing. She could not. Her heart was in her throat.

  "I love you, Kassandra," he repeated earnestly, "and I have been a fool not to tell you before now."

  Kassandra flinched as if she had been struck. Love. It was as if by hearing the word spoken aloud, the bewildering torrent of emotion, the terrible longing, and the aching desire that had wracked her since their night of passion had finally been given a name. Love . . . How she loved him! And seeing him again, feeling the stirring strength of his arms around her, she could no longer deny it.

  Yet with this shattering realization, she knew she had to resist him. Especially now. For he had the power to hurt her far more than ever before if she fell prey to his charms again. His words were false. He did not love her. He had told her before that to him, love was a useless emotion. He was only saying he loved her because he wanted her body, nothing more! She had to protect herself, or be lost to his lies forever.

  "No!" Kassandra exclaimed fiercely, shoving at him with all her might. Taken totally by surprise, Stefan lost his hold on her and fell back against the log wall. In that moment she sprang swiftly from the bed, snatching up her chemise from the floor. She ran to the other side of the room and dressed hurriedly, slipping the thin lace straps over her shoulders. Then she moved to the door, eyeing him warily as she fumbled with the latch.

  "Will you run out in only your chemise, then?" Stefan queried, throwing back the fur and rising from the bed.

  Kassandra's knees quaked at the sight of him. He was so devastatingly handsome, the rippling power of his body more beautiful than any form she had ever seen. During her wide-eyed hesitation, he strode across the floor and pulled her in his arms again before she could even think to flee.

  "Why don't you believe me?" he asked raggedly, molding her supple form to his own, his hands tightening desperately on her narrow waist. God help him, he was baring his soul to a woman for the first time in his life, and she refused to believe him! His tormented gaze caught and held her own. "I swear to you, Kassandra, I love you more than life itself!"

  She shook her head, bringing her hands up and clasping them over her ears. She was in agony, her soul being ripped apart. If only she could believe him! She could forgive him anything, everything, if only his words were true. But he lied, he lied!

  "No, please," she cried, trying to twist free of his grasp. But he captured her face in his hands and brought his mouth down upon her own, as if by the power of his kiss, their panting breaths merging as one, he could convince her of his words. He plundered her lips, forcing them apart, his tongue delving into her, his arms pulling her closer, closer . . .

  Tears stung Kassandra's eyes as she returned his kiss, deeply, deliriously, for she was powerless against it. She gave herself completely, forgetting her rage, her anguish, the lies, the deceit, the past, the future . . . everything fading into insignificance but for the breathless splendor of the moment.

  But when he wrenched his mouth from her own at last, something snapped deep within her. She knew there was only one thing she could do. She would have to lie as well, to hurt him as cruelly as he was torturing her . . . by appealing to the one emotion she knew he possessed, the emotion she had seen in his heated gaze at Prince Eugene's gala. His jealous pride.

  "Your kiss tells me what you will not," Stefan breathed huskily, his thumbs caressing her silken cheeks. "Say it, my love. Let me hear it from your lips that you believe me," he demanded softly.

  "It does not matter if I believe you or not," she replied steadily, defiance flaring in her eyes. "Your love is wasted on me, Stefan." How strange, she thought fleetingly. Her voice sounded so distant, as if it were coming from someone else.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, stunned, his brow knit in confusion.

  "I love another, my lord. Save your eloquent words for your mistress, or someone who might better appreciate them."

  A strained silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of their jagged breathing. Stefan stared at her, his expression unfathomable, his body strangely relaxed, nothing belying the depth of his furious agony but his eyes. They were darkened to the color of slate, burning into her own as if he could read her very soul. Then suddenly his hands slipped to her upper arms, gripping her brutally.

  "Have you given yourself to another man, Kassandra?" he grated, his voice dangerously low.

  Kassandra hesitated, fear surging through her. But she threw back her head and lifted her chin. "Yes!" she tossed at him. She was stunned by the poignant flash of pain in his face, matched only by the haunted look in his eyes, and she almost regretted her words. Was it possible she might have been wrong?

  The door swung open so suddenly, she jumped in his arms, all thoughts forgotten as it struck the timbered wall with a resounding crash. Karl stepped over the threshold, stopping with one leg still out the door. He gaped, red-faced, at Stefan and Kassandra, then backed out again, loudly clearing his throat and looking at the ground.

  "Forgive me, Count Stefan," the overseer blurted uncomfortably. "Though I must say I am relieved we have found you and the lady . . . alive and well."

  Not in the least embarrassed by his nakedness Stefan released Kassandra and moved to the door. "We'll be out in a few moments, Karl," he said tersely. "Is there an extra horse for the lady?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Good."

  Stefan shut the door firmly and turned to Kassandra. "Get dressed," he muttered. He strode to the bed, grabbed his clothes, and quickly put them on, his face set and grim.

  Kassandra did not hesitate. She gathered her clothes from the floor and retreated to a far corner, where she dressed hurriedly with her back to him. Her fingers fumbled uselessly with the mother-of-pearl buttons on her riding jacket, which was still damp from the night before. But she didn't care. All she wanted was to be free of the oppressive tension in the lodge, and free of him.

  When they were both ready, Stefan opened the door once again and bowed to Kassandra. "After you, my lady."

  She kept her eyes down, her face flushing miserably as she stepped into the bright morning sun. She could imagine what Karl must think. She only hoped he was discreet enough to keep what he had seen to himself.

  Stefan followed directly behind her, hoisting her up into the saddle of the white Arabian. Then he mounted the roan stallion and they were off, a strangely silent party wending its way back to the estate.

  Chapter 29

  Sophia threw open the white latticed doo
rs and strolled onto her private balcony. She leaned against the smooth balustrade, caressing the polished marble as her almond eyes swept the grandeur of her formal gardens. It seemed that, during the few short days since the horrendous thunderstorm, spring had finally come to Vienna.

  She languidly inhaled the morning air, tinged with the scent of flowers that had appeared in the gardens as if overnight. The bright sunshine was deliciously warm upon her skin. A light breeze played through her mahogany tresses, which Marietta had just brushed to a burnished glow, the glorious mass trailing down the bodice of her cream satin morning gown to cover the swell of her breasts.

  Sophia wound her fingers in a silken tendril, her eyes narrowing with interest at one of the gardeners, an Italian youth of eighteen, as he knelt over a flower bed. Her gaze traveled across the sculpted breadth of his shoulders and back, the muscles rippling in his arms as he dug methodically, then down the curve of spine to his firm buttocks, their masculine beauty heightened by his tight breeches.

  Desire quivered inside her, dusky laughter bubbling in her throat. Angelo. Her angel. For want of the man she craved above all others, he had been only one of the diversions who had amused her over the dreary past winter.

  Sophia's smile quickly faded, her hands gripping the balustrade like talons. Diversions that had gone on far longer than she had planned . . .

  "Milady," Marietta murmured, standing by one of the latticed doors. "Adolph is here."

  Sophia tensed, though she spoke calmly. "Bring him to me." She listened to the rustle of Marietta's starched skirt as the maid moved swiftly across the room, opening and closing the chamber door with a click.

  "The little beast," Sophia muttered vehemently, the familiar thud of his bootheels upon the carpeted floor grating against her nerves. She should choose her assassins as carefully as she chose her gardeners.

  "You sent for me, milady?" Adolph asked, stopping on the threshold. He grinned expectantly. Perhaps she was going to present him with the emerald ring she had promised, for the successful completion of his task. The bauble was worth a fortune, and could very well mean his freedom if he found the right buyer for it.

  Sophia waved Marietta away, waiting to speak until she had left the room. Her topaz eyes glinted with deep-seated rage as she studied her servant. At the click of the door she drew herself up, towering over him. "It seems you have failed me once again, Adolph," she stated darkly.

  Adolph shook his head vigorously, his heart sinking to his boots. The low timbre of her voice, dripping with hidden intent, was like a death knell to him. "No, mistress, that's not possible!" he blurted. "She could not have survived her fall . . . I saw it, milady. It would have killed the strongest man!"

  "She lives, Adolph; it is as simple as that," Sophia muttered with disgust. "I saw Countess Isabel at a gala last evening, looking none the worse for your bungled carriage accident. I overheard her talking to several of her simpering friends about Kassandra's . . ." she viciously spat out the hated name ". . . unfortunate fall and Stefan's daring rescue. It was so gushingly recounted, I thought I might retch!"

  Adolph took a step back, cold fear gripping him. "I c-could have sw-sworn . . ." he stammered, the words dying on his lips as she cruelly clasped his shoulder.

  "You are obviously not capable of performing the task you have been given, my little friend."

  Adolph fell to his knees, his compact body shaking uncontrollably. "Please . . . please, mistress, allow me one more chance," he pleaded, sweat breaking out upon his protruding brow.

  "Why, Adolph?" Sophia sneered. "So you can fail me again? This is all becoming quite an embarrassment to me. And one more failed attempt will surely look suspicious, if it doesn't already. I don't think I can risk another—"

  "I promise, milady, I will not fail you!" Adolph broke in, his high-pitched voice wavering. He swallowed hard, as her fingers bit painfully into his shoulder. "I swear on my life!"

  Sophia abruptly released him, and he toppled over onto the floor. "Aptly put, Adolph. On your miserable life . . ." She wheeled around, her skirt hitting him across the face, and strode to one end of the balcony, her back to him. "Now get out of my sight," she ordered. "You have until this evening to come up with a plan . . . a very good plan."

  "Yes, milady!" Adolph nodded furiously, rising quickly to his knees. He grasped the balcony doorknob and pulled himself to his feet, bowing as he backed away. "Until this evening—"

  "Go!"

  Adolph did not hesitate. He sped to the door, nearly tripping on his own boots in his haste to leave her chamber.

  Sophia sighed with satisfaction as the door slammed behind him. She leaned slightly over the balustrade and plucked a flowering bud from a tall tree growing near the wall, her gaze moving once again to the gardener toiling below. Holding the bud in the palm of her hand, she admired its fragile beauty and inhaled its delicate fragrance.

  "Angelo!" she called out. She gestured to him with a wave of her hand. He smiled knowingly up at her, and she smiled in return, her eyes dancing with lusty anticipation. Then she turned and sauntered from the balcony, crushing the bud between her fingers and dropping it to the floor.

  ***

  Adolph took another draft of warm beer, then licked the foam from his lips. His black eyes roamed the dingy interior of the tavern, dimmed with smoke from countless cooking fires and cheap tobacco, resting here and there on familiar faces: the tavern keep, a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall and strong as a bear, whom he had known from his days with the traveling menagerie; the whores who worked the riverfront inn next door, with their heavily rouged cheeks and hardened glances. Yet these women always smiled when he would visit his favorite haunt, never cringed when he offered to pay for their affection. He felt more comfortable in this ramshackle tavern than anywhere else on earth. Less a dwarf, condemned by an accident of nature to a life of ridicule and hardship, and more of a man. It was to this place he had come to think.

  Adolph barely suppressed a shudder, recalling Sophia's cold threats. He did not doubt she meant every word. Never in his life had he known such a woman, or dreamed such a woman could exist, until he was sold into her service late last summer. He had known ruthless cruelty, but usually at the hands of men. The archduchess was a witch, a murderess, the devil incarnate swathed in female flesh of the finest alabaster and the most voluptuous curves, her face a study of extraordinary beauty that gave no hint to the evil lurking in her heart.

  If the bitch had a heart, he amended wryly. He took another draft of beer, the pungent liquid buoying his flagging spirits, and emptied his mug. He set it down on the rough-hewn table with a thud, the heavy pewter clinking against the other two mugs in front of him, and waved for another. He rested his head in his hands while he waited, his thoughts tumbling over and over in his mind.

  He had to think of a new plan, and fast, he mused grimly, or he, not Lady Kassandra Wyndham, would become Sophia's next victim. But what? It was by mere chance that his three previous attempts had failed. This time he had to come up with an idea that was foolproof, one that would convince Sophia he could carry it through to completion. Perhaps poison might do the trick. He knew of many kinds, arsenic, hemlock, nightshade, and many ways to conceal their use, so one's death might resemble an accident—

  A chair grating across the planked floor jarred him out of his thoughts and he looked up as two cloaked men sat down at the table next to his own, the one nearest the corner. They were dressed as Bohemian peasants, in rough woolen garments and low-slung caps that covered their heads, not an uncommon sight, especially this close to the Danube. There were many Slavic races who had merged into the fabric of Vienna, plying their trades along the river.

  Yet there was something about these two men that struck him as odd. His instincts told him that these two peasants were not what they seemed.

  Adolph blinked in surprise when a sallow serving wench placed another mug of frothy beer in front of him—he had forgotten his request for more in his curious obs
ervation of the strangers. He paid her, shrewdly watching the newcomers as they, too, ordered beers, then resumed their soft-spoken conversation. He listened carefully, his ears attuned to even the quietest sounds, a talent he had learned to insure his own survival. He was not disappointed at the furtive discussion that drifted over to him. He kept his head down and slowly sipped his beer.

  "You must deliver this message to Sultan Achmet," one of the men muttered, furtively sliding a folded letter across the table. "I have made all the arrangements for you. The boat will leave tomorrow night, taking you to Belgrade. There you must alert Mustapha Pasha to the Imperialist threat, but stay no longer than it takes you to recite the message. You must press on, traveling as swiftly as you can."

  "So you believe it is to be Belgrade, then?" the other asked in faintly clipped tones.

  Adolph started. He had heard that accent before, long ago, as a youth, when his traveling troupe had performed in Constantinople. The man was Turkish.

  "Yes. It seems Prince Eugene is eager to surpass his victories of last year by attempting to capture the great fortress. He has maps, diagrams, everything he needs to lay siege to the city."

  "But the garrison in Belgrade can hardly defend the fortress alone. They are well armed, well trained, to be sure, and the fortress is heavily fortified. It could withstand a long siege, but if the lines are broken . . ." The Turk paused, shaking his head. "It would be twenty men to one in favor of the Imperialists."

  "True. Prince Eugene can be stopped only if the grand vizier, Halil Pasha, assembles his field army and prepares to march from Constantinople in defense of the city. That is the contents of your message, Hasan. That is why it is urgent you deliver it to the Sultan as quickly as possible. I should know in a few days when the Imperial forces plan to leave Vienna. I shall carry this news first to Belgrade, and give Mustapha some advance warning, then travel on and hopefully meet up with Halil's army on its way north. So, you see, I will be following close on your heels."