Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  Frederick held her against him, stroking her silken hair, well able to imagine her thoughts. He hardened his heart. A pity. But not to be helped. He suddenly extricated himself from her embrace, nodding to the sailor. The man grabbed Kassandra's arms at the elbow and dragged her back, shoving her onto the bed.

  "Wh-what?" she blurted, her eyes moving from Frederick to the sailor, who was lustfully appraising her, a crooked grin on his face. "Count Frederick . . . ?"

  "You must forgive his rudeness, Lady Kassandra," he murmured, bowing slightly. "He knows no better." He nodded to the sailor, who quickly left the cabin, then walked over to the chair, pulled it closer to the bed, and sat down. "How are you feeling, my lady? You have been asleep for well over a day."

  Kassandra gaped at him in total astonishment. What was going on? Here she was in a cramped cabin, on a strange boat, bound for God knew where, and Count Frederick was asking after her health!

  An unsettling thought struck her. This serious-faced man sitting across from her was hardly the fop she remembered from Prince Eugene's gala. There was nothing effeminate about him, not in the simple cut of his clothes, not in his posture, not in his steady, intense gaze. She blushed, noting his eyes were fixed on the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He was not the same man at all!

  "I-I am dizzy, my lord," she stammered. "I . . ." She paused, biting her lower lip. How did he know she had been asleep for a day? Unless . . . unless he had something to do with why she was here.

  Kassandra stifled the twinge of fear in her heart, rising to her feet. "What game are you playing, Count Frederick?" she asked, indignation fueling her courage. "Where is Stefan? I demand to know what this is all about."

  Frederick, amused by her pretty show of temper, allowed his thin lips to curve into a smile. But it faded as he leaned forward in his chair, his ice-blue eyes piercing her own. "You demand, my lady? You are in no position to demand anything. And as for Count von Furstenberg, he is quite far away. Now, sit down."

  What did he mean, Stefan was far away? Kassandra shuddered, gripped by an icy chill. She sank down upon the bed, her hands falling numbly to her lap.

  "I am now responsible for your fate, Kassandra. He laughed dryly. "I hope you don't mind my calling you by your given name. We shall be in close quarters for the next few weeks, and I think it best to dispense with . . . all formalities." His gaze raked over her. "You may call me Frederick."

  He settled into his chair, deciding to toy with her a little. "You really should thank me, Kassandra. I have spared your life. That is why you are here" —he paused, his hand sweeping about the cabin— "and not at the bottom of some river."

  Kassandra's eyes narrowed at him, her chin trembling. Spared her life? What had she ever done to him that he would wish to harm her? "Was it you at the hunting lodge?" she asked in disbelief.

  "Yes," he answered. "The dizziness you complained of will soon pass, an unpleasant complication of the mild drug I used on the cloth." He raised a blond eyebrow. "It seems you've made some enemies in high places, Kassandra," he continued cryptically. "Or should I say, one enemy, although one seems to be quite enough in your case. This . . . enemy would see you dead."

  Kassandra's thoughts raced. "Wh-what enemy?" she queried shakily. "Who would w-wish my dea—?" She stopped, blanching, unable to say the word. She swallowed hard. "And why would you—"

  "You mustn't trouble yourself with questions for which there are no answers, Kassandra," Frederick interrupted soothingly, placing his hand atop hers. "There are some things that must remain a secret." His fingers caressed hers. "But you needn't worry. You have nothing further to fear from this enemy."

  Kassandra slowly drew in her breath. Suddenly it was all becoming horribly clear. If what Count Frederick was telling her was true, and he had spared her life, then it was for some other dark purpose entirely of his own making. He had already alluded to a journey lasting several weeks, had said he was now the master of her fate. Yet what fate, she could not begin to imagine.

  Kassandra pulled her hand away. "On the contrary, Frederick, I believe I have much to fear," she objected, grim understanding reflected in her steady gaze. How strange, she thought fleetingly. She could not believe the calm that had settled over her, despite her obvious peril. "Where are you taking me?" she queried.

  Frederick's eyes widened, startled by her sudden grasp of her situation. He sat back, clearing his throat. "Suffice it to say we are journeying south, Kassandra, far from Vienna." He rose abruptly. "That is enough talk for now. You need rest, to recover from the shock you have suffered." Indeed she does, he considered, noting the dark smudges beneath her eyes. He could not have her looking pale and wan.

  "I must apologize for the accommodations. This Croatian fishing vessel was the only transport available on such short notice." He smiled faintly. "I believe you will find everything you need in the armoire, even some books to while away the hours. I recall you saying how much you enjoyed reading. If there is anything further you wish, you have only to ask—"

  "I wish to return to Vienna," Kassandra interjected softly.

  Frederick stiffened but ignored her comment and walked to the door. Almost as an afterthought, he turned, his eyes flashing dangerously. "I must warn you, Kassandra. If you are entertaining any fantasies of escape, you would do well to reconsider. The crew have been well paid for their services, one of which is to guard you well, and will resist all bribes for fear of losing their reward . . . and possibly their heads, if I am deceived before we reach our destination."

  He began to close the door behind him, pausing to glance once again at her. "And if you anticipate any daring rescue on the part of your . . . lover," he stated coldly, "rest assured, my lady, there will be none. He believes you have drowned, and is no doubt, at this moment, mourning your death." At her stricken expression, he looked away. "Your midday meal will be brought to you shortly. I hope you like fish stew." He shut the door with a resounding thud, the key grating in the lock.

  Kassandra stared blankly in front of her, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She felt as if she were suffocating in the confines of the small cabin, her sense of restrained calm crumbling in the face of desperate anguish.

  "Stefan . . ." she whispered. No! No! She was not drowned, not dead! She was here! She had to get out. She had to get out!

  Kassandra jumped from the bed and hurled herself at the window, her clenched fists beating at the slats. They held fast. She slipped her fingertips through one of the tiny openings. Maybe she could pry one loose . . . and if one, then another! She could create a space wide enough to slip through and swim to shore. She yanked and pulled, but again she was defeated. The openings were too narrow. Damn it all, she simply could not get a firm hold.

  She sank helplessly onto the bed, tears of frustration swimming in her eyes. Soon they tumbled down her face, a tormented flood as wrenching sobs wracked her body. Yet through it all kept silent, her hand clasped against her mouth, until finally she threw herself on the bed and buried her cries in the woolen coverlet, one defiant thought burning in her mind. She would not give that . . . that bastard the satisfaction of hearing her grief!

  When her tears were spent at last, she rolled onto her back and stared at the planked ceiling, a plan forming in her mind. She would not give in to despair. She was alive, and that was all that mattered. Somehow she would escape and find her way back to Vienna, and Stefan.

  Kassandra's doubled fists pounded into the bed. And she would make her captivity so difficult for Count Frederick, he would rue the day he had brought her aboard this wretched boat.

  Chapter 35

  "But I tell you, Stefan is not seeing anyone," Isabel insisted, her hands pressing into her black crepe skirt. Oh, if only she had been closer to the door, she thought irritably. She would never have allowed the footman to grant this woman entrance.

  "Isabel . . ." Sophia purred, her eyes narrowing. "It has been over a week since" —she paused, shaking her head sadly— "well, since the unfo
rtunate accident. Surely he would allow a visit from a friend, an old friend, who wishes only to offer him comfort and condolences at this trying time."

  Isabel shook her head firmly, raising her voice. "No, Archduchess von Starenberg, that simply won't be possible. Stefan has left express wishes that he does not want to be disturb—"

  "But I insist on seeing him!" Sophia exclaimed, cutting her off. "I lost my own husband, dearest Stanislav, only a few months ago, and I can well imagine what Stefan must be feeling. Who better than I to offer him consolation, when I have recently experienced such grief, such anguish, myself." With a determined smile fixed upon her beautiful face, she swept past Isabel, her voluminous mauve taffeta gown rustling vigorously. "Where is he, in the library?"

  Isabel rushed after her, grabbing her arm, undaunted by Sophia's height. "I demand that you leave at once, Archduchess. You are sorely testing the limits of my hospitality, which when it comes to you, are narrow indeed!"

  "What is going on out here?" Stefan shouted, opening the door to the library. His eyes widened at the sight of Sophia, his expression hardening.

  "I-I'm sorry, Stefan," Isabel murmured. "I told her you did not wish to be disturbed."

  "Oh, Stefan, I only wanted to let you know how truly sorry I am," Sophia began, composing her features into an appropriate expression of sympathy. She took a step forward. He didn't appear to be suffering overmuch, she thought with quick appraisal. He was dressed well, in his dark blue uniform, shaven . . . all in all, a good sign. "If we could talk, for only a moment."

  Stefan abruptly threw open the door and strode back into the room. "It's all right, Isabel," he said over his shoulder.

  "You see," Sophia murmured in an aside to Isabel. "We're old friends." She threw a smug smile, then flounced into the library, closing the door firmly behind her.

  The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and only a few candles lit here and there. Sophia shuddered. What a dreary place, she mused. Well, when she was Countess von Furstenberg, she would redecorate the room more to her liking. Her gaze settled on Stefan, who was intent upon throwing documents and rolled maps into a leather satchel. He was clearly ignoring her, and she didn't appreciate being ignored.

  "You're packing?" she inquired, trying to keep her tone light.

  "Yes. I'm leaving shortly for the Imperial camp. You have excellent timing, Sophia. A few moments longer and you would have missed me entirely."

  Sophia smiled, not sure whether his words were a compliment or not. But she remained unruffled. She took a few light steps forward. "What a pity, Stefan. I was hoping I might persuade you to leave this gloomy house for a while and share supper with me tonight." She mistook his raised brow for interest. "Perhaps you might reconsider your journey, and linger another day or two—"

  Stefan's lips drew into a tight line. Was the woman mad? he mused incredulously. Surely she didn't think he might be interested in . . . His mouth curved into a sardonic half smile. With Sophia, nothing surprised him.

  "I will have to decline your invitation," he stated bluntly, resuming his packing. "Prince Eugene is expecting my arrival by nightfall."

  "Prince Eugene, Prince Eugene," Sophia muttered. She had heard enough of that pompous little man and his plans for glory and conquest! It seemed the talk in Vienna was of nothing else but the summer campaign, which would part them again for six months or better. Why did she have to fall in love with a soldier?

  Ah, but what a soldier. Sophia sighed softly, her gaze moving over him, her pink tongue flicking over her lips. Although he was fully clothed, she could imagine the sinewed muscles beneath the taut fit of his uniform, the sculpted planes of his body, the black hair matting evenly across his chest, trailing down the tight muscles of his belly, past his navel, that tempting hollow she longed to kiss and suckle, trailing to the dark triangle at the juncture of his powerful thighs . . .

  She drew in her breath, her face flushing. How she wanted him, how she loved him. Now there was no one between them, no husband, no meddling English bitch . . . nothing but this odious summer campaign. Sophia slapped her fan irritably against her palm, her ire rising once again. Perhaps she should rid Austria of Prince Eugene as well.

  Stefan buckled the flap on the satchel, and the clicking sound startled Sophia from her venomous reverie. She reached a quick decision. She was not about to give up so easily, not after she had expended so much effort to free them of any entanglements. She sauntered over to him and laid her hand on his arm, caressing his sleeve.

  "You are a commander yourself, Stefan," she purred persuasively. "One of the highest-ranking officers in the Imperial army. Surely you have the power to determine your own schedule. What will another evening matter?" She leaned against him, plying him with all of her seductive power. "I promise you, I could help you forget."

  Stefan flinched at her words, his eyes flashing angrily. "As you have so quickly forgotten your own husband, Sophia?" he tossed at her, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I think not. I do not wish to insult you, but nothing you could say—or do—will help me forget Kassandra. Nothing." He moved away, his breathing hard, his hands doubled into tight fists. "If this is your idea of offering sympathy, Sophia, it's a wasted effort. Now, if you'll excuse me, I still have much to do before I leave."

  Sophia stiffened, the blood rushing from her face. If he had struck her, she could not have been more stunned. He'd never spoken to her like this before, never! She whirled, seeking to hurt him as well. But she bit her tongue. She knew he didn't really mean it. He was merely speaking out of his momentary grief. Stefan was a virile, passionate man. It wouldn't be long before he sought out the company of a woman. And when he did, she would be there, waiting. She decided to try another tack.

  "I've heard they have not as yet found a body—"

  "Not a body," Stefan cut her off vehemently, "Kassandra. "

  "Oh, so you still hope to find her alive, then?" Sophia scoffed lightly, not surprised when he did not answer.

  Thankfully that would never happen, she mused. She had no doubt that Frederick had carried out his end of their agreement; he would be a complete fool to have done otherwise. His gloating letter had assured her that Kassandra had drowned, that he had accomplished his task easily, and well.

  It was no matter to her that there was no body. Kassandra could rot at the bottom of the river for all she cared. But it seemed Stefan needed some sort of final proof before he could be free of her. Well, it was only a matter of time before her bloated corpse would float to the surface, squelching the last remnant of his misplaced hope.

  "You will have to face the truth eventually, Stefan. Kassandra is dead," she stated matter-of-factly. "Perhaps your heart will start to mend when they finally lay her in the ground. I assume they will continue the search while you are at camp?"

  "Enough!" Stefan demanded. He strode to the door and wrenched it open. "I think it's best you leave, Sophia. Now."

  She sighed heavily. Obviously this would take more time than she had ever imagined. But he was worth it. She would just have to be patient. It was enough, for now, that she had finally gotten rid of that English tart.

  She waltzed slowly to the door, stopping in front of him. "You may not believe it now, Stefan, but one day you will be over this . . . dreadful incident. I want you to know that I'll be here, on that day, waiting for you." She leaned forward and suddenly brushed her lips against his cheek, then swept from the library. She grimaced as the door slammed behind her, but she shrugged it off.

  Remember, my girl, she consoled herself, the worst is over. It will only take a bit more time to become Countess von Furstenberg. She smiled tightly at Isabel, who was standing near the staircase, a distinguished gentleman at her side. He was dressed from head to toe in black mourning. She started. Lord Harrington . . .

  "My dear ambassador," she murmured, holding out her hand to him as she hurried across the floor. "I was just offering my condolences to Stefan at his loss. I should offer them to you as well. What a terrible m
isfortune."

  Isabel barely managed the amenities, her blue eyes flashing fire. "Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg . . . my betrothed, Lord Harrington."

  "You have my deepest sympathies, Lord Harrington," Sophia rushed on as Miles bent his head and brushed his lips atop her hand. "Your only daughter. How tragic. And in the prime of her youth and beauty."

  Miles straightened, swallowing against the choking lump in his throat. He was not adept at judging human character, but he could swear he saw triumph in those striking topaz eyes. Yet before he could reply she had turned to Isabel.

  "My dear Countess, I hope you and Lord Harrington are able to find some happiness in the midst of such sorrow." She did not wait for an answer, but whirled and flounced toward the opened door.

  Wasn't that the final coup, she gloated, stepping up into her carriage with the assistance of her liveried footman. She settled on the plush seat, an amused smile lighting her face.

  A kiss on the hand from the father of the girl she had consigned to death. How rare!

  Chapter 36

  Kneeling in front of her small window, Kassandra sighed heavily, watching through the thin slats as another magnificent sunset torched the western sky. The sun was a glowing orange ball, then a crescent, sinking beyond the distant plains, finally fading into the shimmering horizon, awash in startling hues of crimson, violet, and gold fire. She had never seen such beauty, nor felt such piercing desolation. She had counted ten sunsets so far, marking the passing of ten interminable days, each one taking her farther and farther from the man she loved.

  Where was Stefan? What was he thinking at that moment? Of her, perhaps, as she thought only of him? The same questions had tormented her every hour, every minute, since she had awoken in this dingy cabin. She had no relief from her questions, nor did she want any. Strangely, they gave her hope amidst the despair that settled over her, a despair she continued to fight against, even as one day melted into the next, the numbing sameness of her routine broken only by her wretched meals and her afternoon walks upon the deck.