She recoiled sharply. “Don’t even say such a thing!” she commanded. “You wouldn’t do it, and it is beneath you to make such a threat.”
He paused, mouth tightening. “No, I wouldn’t do it. But I must warn you, Lenora, that this is not a pretty English drawing room. Choices, for both of us, are severely constrained. Germany is a battlefield from east to west.” He stepped up to her. “I am convinced the best way to keep you safe is to make you my wife. I want to show you what that would mean.”
She didn’t care for these tactics. “I assure you, my lord, I’m not quite so naive or sheltered as to have remained ignorant on that point to the age of twenty-eight.”
His lips curled. “Such a proud beauty you are, Lenora. And such a fighter. You know in your head. Your body knows the worst of it. But I think you know nothing of the good.”
She snorted. “The good—bah! A man’s convenient fiction.”
He lifted a hand to stroke her hair. He didn’t have to lift it far; her head came up barely to his shoulders. “Have you attained the advanced age of twenty-eight without ever enjoying a sweetheart’s kiss? Has a stolen embrace never warmed your blood?”
He continued to smooth back the loose tendrils of her braid as he spoke. She knew what he was about. She’d gentled many a skittish horse herself. She didn’t want it to work, but was forced to admit his hands felt soothing stroking down the side of her head.
His big hands.
She swallowed hard and tried to step away.
“No, Liebling, stay with me,” he cajoled.
She squeaked as he suddenly picked her up, easily as a doll, and sat down on the cot with her on his lap. His arms held her in place. Imprisoned? Supported? Heat radiated from his body along with a spicy male aroma—not his soap or linen, but him: ocean breeze, nighttime forest, how to describe this musky male scent? She had to admit, his embrace, his being, felt nothing like that of Kurt.
Perhaps it might be interesting—educational, even—to experience his kiss.
She leveled an imperious stare at him. How would her mother put it? “Very well, then. I grant my consent. You may proceed, at my direction: one kiss, on the cheek, and you will stop immediately upon my command. I warn you, however; it will prove nothing,” she said airily.
He arched a thick brow. “Ah, my lady throws down a gauntlet.” He picked up her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.
A shiver rippled down her back at his caress, and she pulled away. He released her slowly, with a last touch of his lips to her hand.
“I challenge you in return, then,” he said, “to one similar kiss from you, on my cheek, after I kiss you.”
A sudden hitch in her chest interfered with speech, so she merely nodded. Kisses from a lover were few and far between in her life. Kurt, thank God, had rarely shown interest in such an embrace—perhaps it reeked too much of real affection or intimacy. Back in England, other suitors had tried for kisses in ballroom alcoves or during morning rides, but she’d never had much interest in men or romance. Learning to run the estate households or joining her mother in charity work for the London Ladies’ Society of Love had always proved more compelling.
This man, however, compelled in a different way. He didn’t fill her with loathing, as Kurt did. And although she couldn’t be sure, he didn’t seem to pose the threat that Kurt did either. But he was trying to trap her into marriage, like Kurt. This challenge of a kiss might show her more of his true character.
A sudden memory surfaced of her mother, from one of their rambles in the countryside around Sherbrooke Abbey to collect medicinal plants: “You can learn a lot from a man’s kiss, Lea.” A knowing smile had curved her mother’s lips that day. The smile had annoyed Lenora, she remembered now, along with her mother’s encouragement to spend more time with eligible gentlemen. Was she to dally with young men and encourage them to take liberties? The point of the exercise escaped her. At the time the men she knew struck her as either dull or empty-headed in their pursuit of pleasure.
Then she’d met Kurt, whose kiss and touch taught vital lessons, indeed: Bind yourself to no man.
The lesson of this earl was much less clear. Was the risk of a kiss worth what she might find out?
He leaned in closer, his nose to her throat, and inhaled. “You smell delicious, Liebling. Soft and warm and very sweet.”
When his lips first brushed her cheek, she couldn’t help the keening sound that escaped her lips. He was so big, so ridiculously strong, so unfairly in control of the situation. Yet his touch was so tender.
She didn’t know what to make of it.
“Hush, lady, all is well,” he said, soothing her with words as his large hands rubbed gentle circles across her back and kneaded her shoulders. “Your back must still be sore, particularly after so long on horseback. Have all the lash strokes healed?”
It wasn’t the lingering pain from the lashing that discomfited her. Without a corset, she could feel his touch directly through her boy’s shirt and jacket. And there was so much of him, all around her. “I’ve healed well enough,” she managed to answer.
Few situations in life had ever confounded her. Even Kurt had taken little time to figure out. Once he’d sent her parents back to England, his true colors became immediately clear. This Wolfram von Wolfsbach-Ravensworth, however, was a puzzle. British lord and German rebel. Manhandling her into marriage while seducing her with softest kisses.
He brushed his lips slowly back and forth across her cheek. His warm breath huffed across her skin. His scent surrounded her—dark and male in some way very foreign to her. Deep purrs rumbled from his chest as he nuzzled her and wrapped her closer in his arms.
“Is this a kiss?” she gasped out the words.
“Yes, the most exquisite kiss of my life. Only imagine my raptures should you allow me to kiss your lips.” He rubbed his cheek in circles against hers. The smooth stroke of his flesh told of a man who had taken the time to shave.
“Lord Ravensworth”—she tried hard for a firm tone and to regain control of the situation—“you mock me with such nonsense.”
“Call me Wolfram, I beg you.” He whispered it in her ear, a husky plea that tickled and sent shivers down her back. “And I swear I speak no nonsense. You are exquisite, so beautiful, so brave.” He nibbled her earlobe and pressed a trail of kisses down her jawline as he murmured each word. “A princess to honor and cherish.” His tongue licked at her with each soft kiss. She felt the cool wet trail of his kisses like a brand, until he rubbed his cheek across her jaw to warm her again.
She had to admit this “kiss” was like nothing she’d ever experienced. But she still didn’t trust him and did not choose to be here with him.
He sighed with contentment, pulled back, and smiled into her eyes. “Your turn, lady.”
Her turn! Her choice? If she were to exercise her will in this moment, what would it be? Initially, she’d been happy enough to pursue a betrothal with Kurt. After all, a high marriage was the destiny that she’d trained for all her life. But once he’d revealed his true colors and turned her into a virtual prisoner in the castle, she’d been unable to make any choices of consequence—until her escape.
She lifted her chin. “What if I choose to kiss your mouth? You will let me do it as I please?”
His blue eyes shone brighter. “You may direct me entirely. I am at your will.”
Something stirred in her. Some sense of revenge? Of a way for a woman to have power in this world of men?
She traced a finger along the top line of his lip. A full upper lip, almost too lush and sensuously curved for such a large-boned and masculine man. She had to admit, he was oddly beautiful, in a fierce and rough way—wide jaw, high cheekbones, and those blue, blue eyes. She stroked the planes of his face, considering him.
He held still under her touch. She felt the tension radiating from his big frame. Her touch aroused him, and yet he made no move to grab her or rush the moment. He sat unmoving, holding himself in check, s
eemingly willing to allow her to control their play. He brought to mind the cavalry’s powerful warhorses, superbly trained to hold their ground even when guns exploded nearby, but with coiled power ready to spring forth at the merest slacking of the reins.
With this stallion, she must be sure to hold the reins very tightly, indeed.
She lowered her head and touched her lips to his, brushing her mouth lightly against him, as he had done to her.
Heat.
Softness.
And wet, when she pushed in to deepen the kiss. Still, he let her direct the pace, merely opening his mouth to her. He tilted up his head, and she moved her hand against the nape of his neck. It had been covered in blood and matted hair earlier, but now lay naked and exposed. A hard pulse beat in the vulnerable curve where muscles corded up from his shoulder. Her own pulse beat faster. A tiny spark of unfamiliar heat kindled low within her.
It scared her enough that she pulled sharply back.
Although this man and she had a common enemy in Kurt, that did not mean she could trust him.
And yet here she sat, on his lap, in his arms.
He traced his fingertips over her brow, light as a feather. “You’re frowning, Liebling. Not happy with your kiss, perhaps? You strike me as a woman with high standards. You may try again, if it pleases you.”
Her mouth tightened. How could he joke? “I believe we have done quite enough.”
He nodded in a conciliatory way, looping his arms lightly around her waist. “All right, then. Let’s agree that what you felt in this experiment was not the loathing or shame that you felt at Kurt’s hands.”
She swallowed. “There is a big difference between a kiss and”—how did one express this? Even with all Kurt had put her through, she lacked vocabulary—“a wife’s full marital responsibilities.”
“Indeed—very true.” He nodded again. “Your full marital responsibilities will bring infinitely greater pleasure. I will see to it.”
Despite the situation, she couldn’t help but laugh. Were all men so cocksure and arrogant? “Rather certain of your appeal, aren’t you, my lord? What if your wife’s desire is simply for you to leave her alone?”
“Privacy and solitude are important for all of us at times,” he allowed, his smile dimpling. “I would certainly respect and understand that. But here’s something else I understand, Lenora.” He leaned his forehead against hers and slid his hands up to her shoulders. “Your body is designed for pleasure.” His hands slipped inside her jacket to cup the undersides of her breasts through her shirt. Before she could quite grasp what he was about, big thumbs brushed across the peaks of her nipples.
Her sharp intake of breath curved a smile across his lips. “It’s supposed to feel good, Lenora—that’s how God and nature made our bodies to feel. There is no shame in it. These are the pleasures we would share together. And there’s much more, I assure you.”
“But you’re . . . rather large in your physique. Violent in your soldiering. I imagine your passion is rather . . . demanding.” She hid her face in the crook of his neck. The warmth and smell of him were strong there. She was talking like a child, she knew, and cringed with shame at her weakness. A Trevelyan, her father often said, was not bred to be cowed by fear. She could hear his voice: What matters in life is conviction and action, despite one’s fear. But could her father have ever imagined this situation? What action was appropriate here?
“My strength is for your protection, Liebling.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands, raised her head to stare hard into her eyes. “I’d never use it against you, I swear.”
That blue light in his open, guileless eyes shone with sincerity.
But men lied all the time.
He must have seen something of her struggle. “Don’t let him win, Lenora.” His hands slid down to her arms and tightened to match the intensity of his voice. “Don’t give him that power. You’re too smart to let him make you believe what he did is normal. He taught you lessons about how a bastard abuses a woman. He did it because he’s cruel and weak, not because that’s how a man treats his wife.”
“How do I know you wouldn’t be like that also?” she whispered. “Maybe not at first, but later.”
He huffed out a breath. “I suppose there’s no absolute way to know for sure. But I take you for a good judge of character. What do your instincts tell you about me?”
The question was an interesting one. She’d had two encounters with him: today and that day at the flogging post. Even posing as a blacksmith, he’d exuded authority. He was a leader who commanded loyalty from his men—not from fear, but out of respect and common cause. A good sign, she supposed. But surely a man could treat his comrades and horse well enough, then head home to beat his wife. He possessed an old-fashioned streak of gallantry for the nineteenth century. But hopeless romanticism could easily go sour if the damsel refused her role.
And Lenora was no wilting flower. She decided to test him.
“You seem to be a strong leader, but I would want to be an equal partner to my husband. Input on estate dealings, business negotiations, important family decisions—I would seek to be involved in all such matters.”
He cocked his head, considering her. “You wish to spend your time managing these affairs?”
“I did so for years at Sherbrooke Abbey.” She raised her chin. “I am good at such work. My father allowed me significant authority with the stewards at the home estate.”
He nodded. “Then you shall have such at Wolfsbach and Ravenhold as well. You don’t yet have faith in me, and rightly so. But I know me. I will make you a good and loyal husband. I will honor you all the days of my life and give you pleasure in bed.”
Her face flamed hotly at this scandalous mention of pleasure and bed.
He traced her blush with a finger down her cheek. Then he sighed. “We are out of time, Lenora. Were circumstances different, were we back in London, I would dance attendance on your hand all the length of the Season. I’d woo you at balls and with drives in the park. I’d fight off challengers for the right to squire you about town. Your father’s ducal mansion would overflow with my bouquets of love: asters, balsam, and thornless roses in fullest bloom.”
He stopped, shifted her off his lap, and pushed to his feet. “But this is not London and it is not the Season. We’re caught in the midst of the German Confederation’s collapse. The revolution grows across Europe every day. In Paris, people are rioting in the streets. Things will get worse—much worse—before some new order emerges. Innocent people will die in the chaos.” His mouth tightened. “You will not be one of them. I am sorry, lady, and I will spend our lifetime atoning for it, but I am taking the decision out of your hands. We are marrying, now.”
“Without my consent, no marriage is valid and, and”—she swallowed hard—“any bedding is rape.” She narrowed her eyes to stare up at him, towering over her from where she sat on the cot. “Is that what your fine words of chivalry come down to?”
“The marriage will be valid enough for the chaos of the moment. If and when you need the protection that the shelter of my name affords, you will have it. And the bedding”—he took her hand for one last kiss across her knuckles, his gaze blue and hot—“will be what you make it.”
He moved to the tent flap. “My quarters are yours for the night. You will not be disturbed. Do not make the mistake of thinking you can escape. Tomorrow, we wed.” He bowed. “May you sleep well, lady.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter 6
The ceremony was mercifully quick.
The minister arrived from the village around noon the next day, brought by the earl’s man Schafer. Lenora marched up to the short and plump man before he even dismounted from his pony.
“I am held here by force,” she announced to the startled Pfarrer. “Any wedding ceremony”—she narrowed her eyes at the earl, who had come up behind her—“would be entirely against my will. I demand to be released and brought to British authorities.”
“Come, Herr Pfarrer,” said the earl with a respectful bow, “let me explain to you the situation.”
The past week’s rain had finally stopped and bright sun warmed the day with the promise of spring. Ravensworth sat the vicar and Lenora on a bench pulled up to a table by one of the camp’s bonfires. Gunther fetched her hot cider and offered the minister a stein of ale.
She listened as the earl recounted her whole sorry tale to the minister, along with the earl’s reasoning for the proposed marriage. To Ravensworth’s credit, he presented her objections to his plan and her alternate suggestions and invited her to speak and add her side of the story. But by the time the minister emptied his stein, he was nodding at Ravensworth’s every point. “Ja, Freiherr, I see your reasoning. This marriage protects Dame Lenora in these turbulent times, better than any other solution. And you clearly make a fine husband. Indeed, she is lucky you are willing to go so far to see to her safety.”
She rose up off the bench at that. “Lucky?!” she sputtered.
Ravensworth quickly cut off her protest of outrage. “The fortune is clearly all mine to win the hand of such an exquisite bride as the Lady Lenora,” he said, casting the minister a hard glance.
The hapless man scurried to his feet and bowed to her. “Forgive my poor choice of words, meine Dame. I do agree, however, that this marriage is your best choice under the circumstances. The rebels are surrounded by government and military forces in this part of Germany. The roads to Frankfurt and Berlin are blocked by Prinz Kurt and his allies. Should you attempt to get through to the British, you are almost certain to be recaptured by his men.”
“If the situation is indeed so dire, Lord Ravensworth is likely to be killed in battle,” Lenora said. “I would be a widow then, and the prince could reclaim me as his bride.” The thought of the earl’s battlefield death was oddly disturbing, unlike the prospect of her former fiancé’s demise. Should that good fortune befall her, she might dance a country reel.
Knight of Love Page 6
