Knight of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  “Magnificent?” Becker scoffed. “I thought she was a little doll!” His cousin sighed deeply. “Look, Wolf, she may well be a fine woman. If we could clean her up and get her into a gown, I expect she’d be quite lovely. The Trevelyan line is impeccable, of course. But have you considered what she’s gone through with Kurt? You know the stories as well as I do about how he treats women. She won’t be untouched. She won’t be what a bride should be. She may well not care to perform a wife’s duties, especially if you force her into a battlefield marriage ceremony. It’s not what I would wish for you, my friend.”

  Becker said nothing that Wolf hadn’t considered himself. Lenora obviously didn’t welcome his offer of marriage. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting any man at this point. He imagined well enough the horrors that despot had put her through.

  But none of that mattered. He had in his power the means to ensure that she would be as safe as possible in the midst of the upheavals gripping the continent.

  “I’m marrying her, Becker. And I need your help to pull it off.”

  His friend groaned.

  But Wolf knew. He felt it in his gut. He could make this work with Lenora. It wasn’t going to be pretty. Not at first. But he could make it work.

  If they survived the fall of the German Confederation.

  And Kurt didn’t get his hands on either of them again.

  And they made it back to England alive.

  And if she ever forgave him for what he was about to do.

  This last seemed the biggest risk of all.

  But what was a man to do when he’d met his princess and fallen in love?

  Chapter 5

  Getting out of her cold and sodden garments greatly improved the situation. Gunther, a pockmarked and reed-thin lad of about thirteen, promised to have the clothing clean and dry by the morrow. Meanwhile, he brought her a steaming bucket of water for washing and a bowl of the beef stew.

  “Der Wolfram bade me tell you, meine Dame, that he looks forward to the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening.” Their camp cook, the boy informed her, stood prepared to serve their full meal as soon as it pleased her to inform Gunther of her readiness.

  It would please her never to so inform Gunther, for she was most definitely not ready to face that huge and odd man again. But petulance would get her nowhere, and the situation must be faced. Besides, she’d learned her lesson with Franz; she’d not risk another boy’s harm by angering his master toward him.

  Her chills soon ceased once she shed the wet clothes and washed off the mud of the voyage. A camp stove radiated warmth through the small but tidy tent, furnished with a narrow cot, a folding table with two chairs, and a trunk. A lute hanging from a hook caught her attention—did the earl play at troubadour as well as knight?

  Her spare clothing—a second set of boys’ breeches, shirt, and loose jacket—was terribly crumpled but dry. She combed her hair out with her fingers and replaited it as best she could. Never before had she appeared dressed as a vagabond street urchin to dine with an earl. It almost made her smile to imagine her mother’s shock. The duchess would have a fit of the vapors to see her daughter so.

  On the tent table, Gunther and a cook laid out a cloth and candles—beeswax, she noted, wondering whether they were an attempt to impress her or the earl’s usual extravagance. They then brought in a dinner of herbed roast chicken, boiled potatoes, and stewed carrots. The cook put to the side a steaming-hot raisin pudding with a cream ginger sauce. She raised a brow at how he’d been able to produce that dainty on a battlefield campsite. As the servants finished laying out the meal, the earl ducked beneath the entry flap, bearing a bottle of German white wine. The servants bowed and left.

  The tent immediately shrank as Ravensworth moved inside. My God, he is a mammoth. The observation did not help her nerves. His head, shaved down to black stubble with an angry red scrape at the back of the skull, brushed the top of the tent by the central pole. His breadth filled the center of the tent. It sucked the very air from the space.

  Manners dictated she curtsy, but her breeches made the gesture ridiculous. Nor did she feel inclined to be gracious. Panic and near hysteria were better descriptions of her mental inclinations, but giving in to such was not an option. She needed to keep her head if she were to have any chance of working her will with this man.

  “Good evening, my lord.” She contented herself with a civil nod of her head. He had washed off the rest of the blood from this afternoon’s battle; his smell now was sandalwood soap and fresh linen. His gold buttons, crimson brocade vest, and polished black boots all far outclassed her toilette. Indeed, he could have strolled into the state banquet hall of Schloss Rotenburg dressed as he was.

  He managed a bow in the confines of the tent, with enough elegance to match his evening wear. “My lady, I am pleased to see the white chill of the road replaced by the pink in your cheeks. You look lovely this evening.”

  She merely raised her eyebrows at him. She looked, she well knew, a royal mess.

  He sat her at table with courtly attention and began to serve her, slicing chicken onto her plate as he inquired whether Gunther had attended sufficiently to her needs.

  Ravensworth opened the bottle of wine with practiced ease. “I’ve been saving this Riesling from Hochheim for a special occasion. When Queen Victoria visited the Rheingau region a few years ago, she declared it one of her favorite whites.” He poured first for her and then himself and smiled as he raised his glass in a toast. “I think tonight qualifies as special.”

  Despite the bowl of stew she’d devoured earlier, she was so hungry, it took all her years of training in ladylike comportment to avoid wolfing down her food and draining her glass of the excellent wine. The effort to cut small bites and sip delicately while answering his banal questions about her family distracted her completely from the precariousness of her situation. As he moved on to serve her dessert and more wine while be babbled on about his sister Lady Margaret and other acquaintances they shared in common, she realized his goal.

  He’d fed her and relaxed her enough to convince her that he wasn’t truly crazy.

  But that did not mean she was marrying the man.

  After Gunther cleared dinner to serve them coffee and pour Schnaps for the Freiherr, she decided it time to make her point.

  “Lord Ravensworth, allow me to thank you for your kind hospitality. This meal and the shelter of your camp are most appreciated.” She fought to keep a grudging tone out of her voice, judging that she owed him this much at least. “I must ask again, however, that we make what arrangements we can on the morrow for my passage to the nearest British or allied officials.”

  He swirled the plum brandy in the small glass. “What makes you think any allied official, including the British, would not simply send you straight back to Prince Kurt?”

  The question startled her. She’d assumed that as a highborn lady with well-placed family connections, her wishes would be carried out. She knew that she could count on her parents to protect her from Kurt and end the betrothal. But it was perhaps true that his fellow princes and the other German nobles, as well as governing officials in allied states, might have an interest in supporting Kurt over her.

  She realized suddenly that she’d been naive. “But surely, as the British ambassador in Frankfurt, Lord Durham would support me?”

  “You broke your betrothal contract by fleeing Schloss Rotenburg,” the earl pointed out. “You know as well as I do that for families at your social level, a marriage is not merely a union of man and woman but a financial and dynastic alliance as well. The British favor the German Confederation; they see it as a useful check against the power of Prussia and Austria. Being forced to take sides against the leader of a German principality would place the ambassador in a very awkward situation.”

  She scraped back her chair to stand abruptly. “I am not going back to him!” She’d been too caught up in her own pain to consider such political implications of her escape.r />
  More slowly, he set down his glass and rose from his chair as well. “No, you are not,” he said quietly. “We are in agreement on that point. In fact, I pledge my life and the offer of my name on it.”

  She let her heartbeat settle as she gripped the back of her chair. Good—he wouldn’t send her back. But there he went again with that chivalry of his, when romantic flimflam was not the answer to her problems. She drew breath for battle. “My lord,” she began, “we must discuss this matter rationally. I am sure you have had time to reconsider your earlier suggestion.”

  He pulled out her chair to settle her again at the table. “I have considered it most carefully. We will wed.”

  She tried to rein in her frustration and failed. “Is this some sort of lark for you? Marriage would bind us for life!”

  “I am well aware of that fact and assure you that I am fully prepared to make such a commitment.”

  “Why do you care?” she cried. “Why do you insist on taking me up as your personal crusade?”

  The earl leaned over her chair and grasped its back rails, his face inches from hers. She sat trapped, framed between his corded arms, ensnared within the dark energy of a massive male vibrating with violence. “I had to stand there and watch him have you flogged.” His clipped words radiated a restrained fury, and a muscle ticked along his jaw.

  She bit the inside of her lip to stop its quivering and forced herself to hold his gaze. She would not let him see her fear.

  The earl drew breath to continue more calmly. “A man—a real man—does not stand by and allow a woman to be hurt. You have become my responsibility, Lenora. Fate has brought us together here in Germany.”

  He believed it. She saw the conviction of his statement shining in the hot blue of his eyes. But what man made major life decisions on the spur of the moment, driven by medieval notions of rescuing a damsel in distress?

  “Why marry me?” She tried again to reason with him. “See me to safety, fine—you’ll have done your duty and earned my eternal thanks. But we needn’t marry.”

  “Marriage is the best way to ensure your protection—the only way, should you be recaptured by the prince. And I’m afraid such recapture is all too possible. Our marriage—here, now—is the surest means to keep you safe.”

  When she made to speak again, he held up a hand. “As you suggest, let us discuss the matter rationally, my lady.” He straightened to rifle through his trunk and pulled out a box of chocolate bonbons. When he offered them to her, she saw no reason to refuse. As her first bite of the dark sweetness melted in her mouth, she felt her nerves already soothed.

  He tossed one of the bonbons into his own mouth. “You are not marrying Prince Kurt—correct?”

  A hard shudder gripped her, and she almost dropped her chocolate.

  It seemed answer enough for him, as a look of glacial blue ice came into his eyes. “As I said, we agree on that question, at least.” He gathered her hands in his. “At some point, however, do you not wish to form a good marriage? To have a home of your own, children, a position in society, an estate to manage, a partner with whom to share life’s journey?”

  His words caused a burn of pain in her belly. They cut so deeply into all she’d always wanted for herself. All she’d assumed she would have with Kurt, until he’d shattered her illusions. She pulled away from Ravensworth’s warm grip. “I did want those things once,” she said. “But the situation has changed.” She stared down at the box of chocolates and listened to her heart hammer in her ears. “The sort of husband I imagined for myself would no longer be interested in a marriage alliance.”

  “And why not? You’re quite a catch: Lady Lenora Trevelyan, well-educated beauty from one of England’s highest families.”

  She huffed out a ragged breath. “I assure you that I am no catch.” Anger fueled her words. But shame crawled across her skin as well. “I have changed. Rotenburg”—she hesitated, her voice dropped—“changed me.”

  A large hand nudged up her chin. There were those eyes again, that clear blinding blue of the open summer sky. “The blame and dishonor are all his, Lenora. You are guiltless. A good man would want only to slay the bastard, then cherish you for life as the princess you are.”

  She almost smiled. She did roll her eyes and laugh a little, despite herself. What claptrap this man spouted! “Actually, I’m only a duke’s daughter, I’m afraid—not a princess at all.”

  “In Germany, you are a princess,” he answered stoutly. “Your mother was Her Serene Highness Prinzessin Astrid of the House of Sigmaringen, so you, too, hold that title here.”

  Lenora shook her head at him. “You may have inherited a German title through your mother, but you know as well as I do that it doesn’t normally work that way. My mother’s younger sisters made splendid matches here in Germany; my aunts produced a brood of Prinz and Prinzessin cousins for my brothers and me to play with on our summer trips to each other’s estates. But because our mother wed a British duke, we have no claim to German titles.” She’d thought of trying to reach her German aunts, but their family lands lay too far to the east, in Prussia. “Besides,” she added, “it seems every other lady in Germany is a Prinzessin. It’s no high honor here as it is in England.”

  “You are a true princess,” he insisted stubbornly. “And we were discussing your future marriage.” He gathered her hands within his warm grip again. “When you wed, both you and your family will want for you an appropriate husband. The eldest daughter of a duke, especially one of your beauty and bravery, might hold out for a duke herself. I admit a mere earl is stooping a bit low, but in my favor, both the Ravensworth and the Wolfsbach names are ancient, the combined holdings of both titles are as substantial as many a dukedom, and the family estates are all in excellent condition. I am thirty-two, in good health, and am prepared to sign over to you a substantial dower and quarterly allowance. Were the situation different, do you not think that your father would consider me a worthy suitor to your hand?”

  “Yes,” she said, forced to admit it, “I suppose he might. But the situation is not different.” She tugged to free her hands; why must he keep touching her? “It is what it is, rendering this conversation quite pointless!”

  He rolled on, ignoring her protests. “And I hope your bias against me is not so great that you won’t avouch I’m a handsome devil—at least when my head isn’t cracked open and shorn bald.” He cocked an eyebrow and pulled a boyish grin.

  She could only shake her head at him, baffled by the man. “That smile is supposed to charm me, I take it?”

  His grin broadened. “Is it working?”

  “Not at all, I’m afraid.” She tried for a nonchalant tone, although in truth she feared his flummery. Perhaps all this chivalrous nonsense was simply his way to manipulate a woman and subject her to his will, as horrid in the end as Kurt’s sick violence.

  “For the sake of argument,” he continued smoothly, pouring her more wine and pushing the box of chocolates her way, “let us imagine that a good man appears at some point in your future with a sincere offer of marriage. Let us further assume that your parents approve of the match as appropriate and that you find the gentleman worthy and appealing. Would you not accept his offer?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Dangerous territory lurked here. Her eyes slid away from his. “Marriage holds little appeal.” His question conjured memories she seemed powerless to banish: Kurt’s visits to her chambers, the crop he often carried, the times he’d force her to strip in the cold room so as to “inspect” his bride. “The duties of the marriage bed hold no appeal.” More memories flashed—his hands coiled in her hair, pushing her to her knees, a knife at her throat, a terrified Franz in the corner. Looking down at her hands shredding the paper lining of the chocolate box, she saw them tremble, felt herself float away from the table, from the tent—she thought she smelled the cloves Kurt chewed for his sour breath.

  Again, strong hands framed her face. Sky-blue eyes brought her back to the tent�
��s warm glow. He stared at her intently and stroked her cheek. “Do you understand, Liebling, how a man and woman make love? How between husband and wife, there should be no pain or humiliation, only pleasure and love?”

  She drew a shuddering breath and twisted away from his touch. “Lord Becker was right—you are a romantic. And a fool. What nonsense you speak. And quite the male point of view.”

  “Kurt’s soul is warped, wicked. You know that. It shows in how he abuses his peasants and estates as much as in how he mistreated you.”

  His voice was so gentle, so concerned, it almost undid her. She bit her cheek hard against the sting of tears. He spoke the truth about Kurt, but her skin knew the sick feel of a man’s hands on it. She had no desire to repeat that experience.

  “I have an idea,” he said suddenly. “Would you allow me an experiment, Lenora?”

  “What kind of experiment?” she asked suspiciously.

  “One kiss, as a test.”

  “A kiss? Certainly not!” She stood again and backed away from the table. “Why ever would I agree to such? I have no desire to kiss you, Lord Ravensworth.”

  And yet, if she were to be fully truthful, she would have to acknowledge there was something different about this man. Not only his immense size, two of any normal men, packed into that massive breadth of hard-muscled shoulders and torso. But also his demeanor. Certainly not mild-mannered—not with that blood streaming down his face on his ride in, nor with his ongoing insistence on this notion of their marriage. But somehow not threatening in the same way Kurt was.

  And somehow intriguing.

  He stood as well, and carefully pushed in his chair. “I ask your permission for a kiss, to prove a point and move us forward in this conversation.” When she didn’t reply, he added mildly, “You don’t, I assume, prefer that I give you to the men?”