Authors: Mischief on Albemarle
Wednesday, March 17, 1813 continued
"Your grace."
He glanced up from the book in his lap. No need to mark his place; his eyes hadn't moved for at least an hour. All his concentration had been focused upon the tight little knot of homesick yearning that tripped his thoughts and claimed his attention for itself, with never an opportunity for the book, whatever it was, to take hold of him. His Grace snapped the useless tome closed and set it aside. His butler stood in the doorway.
"Yes, Godric?"
The butler twitched, as if yearning to bow. But long ago His Grace had made it clear how little store he set by such trappings, especially with his future and standing so much in doubt. They were no longer at home; his position in England was not what it had been there, not what it might be again, should the Corsican's rule fail. While they remained in English exile, undemanding as it had proven to be, his servants should behave as the English did.
"A messenger to see you," Godric said.
His pulse quickened. He'd had to wait while the messenger delivered other, more important missives, to the military intelligence services, to the War Office, perhaps even to the Regent; His Grace didn't know and nor would he ask. His patience had been exercised, despite the delightful distraction of Miss Beryl and his game, but finally the wait was over.
"Show him in."
As well as his various reports, the messenger had also disposed of the green cravat, that perfect hue from the Kingdom of Saxony's flag, and now was dressed in sober tones, indistinguishable from any other gentleman out for entertainment on the town. He'd rested, too, and the blue-stained shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of tension about his mouth, had vanished, leaving behind a young face and fit body that together screamed his more usual vocation. An officer and doubtless a highly trusted one, since he'd been designated an undercover diplomatic courier, carrying written and sealed secrets across nations occupied by the enemy while pretending to be their friend. And no one had warned him; two steps into the library, he dipped into a courtly bow.
"Your Highness."
No use getting angry at the man; he clearly had no idea he'd offended. But His Grace couldn't entirely suppress the surge of annoyance, nor strip its remnants from his voice. "None of that, man. Here I'm no more than a duke, and not even a royal one." He rose and strode past the shelves of leather-bound books, the carefully aligned spines, brown, black, green, red, and blue. Gilt lettering flashed red sparks in the firelight and the candles' discreet flames. "You have a message for me?"
The young officer straightened, astonishment widening his eyes, clear blue-grey in a square, wind-roughened face topped with sandy hair. Then he seemed to shake himself. "Yes, your — your grace." Still the slight verbal stumble, but he'd recovered his poise sufficiently to catch himself before offending again. A steady man for his tender years, and quick on the uptake. He produced a letter, folded and sealed, and handed it over.
Thick cream-colored laid paper; glorious green wax, impressed with the crossed swords of the old Electorate, gone seven years now. His pulse quickened; it could only be from his brother. Wilhelm had promised to keep in touch and every year he wrote a missive, but occasionally there had been messages from his father, or an advisor, once even from a friend at court. A true friend indeed; none other would dare risk being caught, with the Germanic states floundering beneath the Corsican's boot and the consequences that would result should disaster occur.
"How is he?"
Only a slight pause, then understanding rose in the officer's eyes. Yes, quick and clever; doubtless the reason he'd been chosen for the journey. "He's well, your grace. And the best swordsman at court. He trounces all of us during training sessions."
Satisfied, His Grace broke the seal. "That will make life interesting when I return home." He nodded toward the cut glass decanters on the little table, well away from the gently crackling fire, and snapped the folds open. "Help yourself while I read."
Words, mere words, ink scratchings on expensive paper; but a touch from home, and its modesty could not detract from its welcome despite the ugliness of its message. Wilhelm's handwriting had smoothed its curves, emphasized both its upper and lower loops, and the letter coursed from margin to margin in even, precise rows. Maturity, it seemed, had claimed even little Willi; of course, he'd be twenty-three now, well out of the schoolroom and quite possibly taller than his elder brother.
He stilled the homesick ache and read.
"Pour one for me, would you?"
A clink. "Of course, your grace."
He downed the proffered brandy in two swallows, barely tasted, and waved the letter. "Do you know what's in here?"
The young officer had taken the time to refill his glass, as well. Oh, yes, a clever man, and not one to miss an opportunity. He nursed his more closely, lowering the glass from a shallow sip and shaking his head. "No, your grace. I'm only the messenger."
"But you understand the situation at home, surely. Has Willi exaggerated?"
A pause; another sip. "I don't see how he could. Prussia declared against the Emperor Napoleon — officially, I mean — in late February, and the Prussian and Russian armies have advanced through Poland. No one should expect the Emperor to cede the German states to them without a fight."
"Meaning the war has well and truly come home to Saxony." A cold chill shivered down His Grace's spine. Bad enough after Auerstedt and Jena, with skirmishers and deserters crossing the border, the collapse of the Holy Roman Empire, holy no longer, and in the end, Father bowing beneath the cold-blooded pressure, finally joining the Emperor's Confederation of the Rhine. Months before, cornered by events and his own behavior, His Grace had fled to England, leaving behind everyone and everything he cherished, angry and close to despair.
Because the alternative had been to die, and possibly to take his family, friends, and citizens down with him.
"And now," the officer continued, "it's whispered His Serene Majesty the king — your father, your grace — is pursuing an alliance with Austria. He was in Regensburg when I left Dresden."
"Better Austria than Prussia, after Jena and Auerstedt." Where Prussia had abandoned Saxony without a backward glance, exposing his homeland to the Corsican's rule in the first place. Not that it really mattered; the Grande Armée would have plowed through them whether the Prussian commanders had run or stayed. His Grace crossed to the table and refilled his glass, but his gesture toward the officer received a polite negative. Not only clever, but unwilling to compromise his abilities, even to please a high-ranking host. Hopefully Willi realized what a jewel he had in this young man.
The officer shifted in place. "But it's dicey, negotiating with the great powers while trying to keep the Emperor blind and deaf to your actions." A pause, then the expected, hurried evasion. "If, of course, that's what's actually happening. These are only rumors, your grace, and probably shouldn't be given too much credence."
Of course not. And Father at his best as an administrator and justiciar, a sober, honest, honorable, dedicated homebody, not as a military man nor as a negotiating statesman. The remaining brandy burned like fire and slid down his throat in a convulsive, stormy swallow.
Another pause, then the officer set his glass upon the side table. For the first time, his calm assurance melted away to uncertainty. "There's one more thing, your grace."
One more thing that he clearly wasn't certain how to handle. Astonishing, considering how well he'd performed his mission to date. "Just say it." The messenger's unexpected caution slipped past His Grace's usual self-control, coloring the words with a rough edge. Regrettable, that.
And that edge drew blood, or at least a twinge of red across the officer's clean-shaven cheeks. Without another word, he withdrew from his pocket and handed over—
—a drooping, pale flutter of cloth.
Fire took root inside him, flaring heat from his inside to his own face, and His Grace took his new prize to beneath the candelabra. A lady's handkerchief, the lace edging rubbed and threadbare, a small stain faded to gentle purple from repeated washings, the once-fine linen softer than cambric. A heart-wrenching ecstasy gripped him, swept him deep into memories.
He even recalled that stain.
****
Wednesday, October 8, 1806
south of Dresden, Electorate of Saxony
The afternoon sun touched his face, burned red behind his closed eyelids, helped him think of warmth despite the chilly air. At some point during his nap, someone had draped his cloak over him, indolent sluggard that he was, and the heavy wool kept autumn's airy fingers at bay. And it seemed someone had also ordered the restless teenagers to take their noisy rampaging to a distance, or at least their shouts seemed further away than the elaborate song of a woodlark, luxurious notes tumbling end over end. A nearby tree, a bush? If the little fellow repeated any bars of his song, Ernst didn't catch it. Not a fugue, this song.
Movement beside him, a rustling, the blanket beneath him tightening and tugging. "I know you're awake."
Beautiful as the lark's voice was, it couldn't compare to hers. A gentle warmth that didn't arise from the meager sunshine stirred within him, and his lips curved to a smile. "What gave me away?"
"Your breathing." A nudge in his side. Not tender.
Left with little choice in the matter, he opened his eyes. She sat beside him, her tucked legs sinuous as a cat's, pale yellow curls pinned up yet cascading over her slender neck and her dark cloak's lowered hood. Her delicate hands, small as a child's, cupped a stem of red grapes. "Are you thirsty? Or can I tempt you with…" The deliberate pause stirred the little fire building within him, and his smile widened. She'd always known how to tease him. "…with a grape?"
Elegant, mischievous, deceitful wench. He ought to roll over, roll her under, and…
No, on second thought, he shouldn't. Definitely not.
He lifted his knees, propped his feet, and crossed one ankle over the other thigh, sliding his arms beneath his head. And looked away, up into the cloudless sky. The less he saw, the less tempted he'd be. And he'd never be more tempted than that solitary, savory moment. "Only if you peel it."
"My, demanding, aren't we." Not a question. Those tiny hands appeared over his lips, slender fingers holding a grape. Not peeled. "Open wide."
Impossible to resist. He sucked in the grape, tried to bring her fingers in with it, but she pulled them back, leaving him defeated and with little option but to chew. And sweet as the spurt of juice was, it couldn't hold a candle to her allure. The withdrawing index finger tapped his nose, as she might when teasing an obstreperous child.
And from the feel, leaving some sticky juice behind.
She laughed and again he lost the fight, falling willingly back into the temptation of her. Her dark eyes, narrowed and alight with humor, seemed fixated on his nose. Indeed she had decorated him. But when he reached for his handkerchief, she whipped out her own, a stiff new square of fine linen with a lace border, and leaned over. Putting her gown's bodice and, more importantly, the satin skin above it, right in front of his eyes.
Determined to push temptation to his limits. No shame in refusing that combat. Ernst again closed them. It was either that or pull her down atop his chest. And even though Willi and his young friends sounded distant still, the woodlark remained close and was doubtless watching.
Besides, if once he started, he'd never stop.
A dab, a swipe, a harder scrub. A giggle. When he looked — as he had to look, in the end; never could he resist her — she held up the handkerchief, now stained with a deep red dot.
"You might try leaving me unblotched for the ride back."
"Or I might try peeling you a grape." Her voice deepened, dropping to a sultry purr, more musical than any cat or even the operatic lark. She dangled another grape over his head, as if taking aim and preparing to drop it, then she yanked it back.
Gripped the top of the skin with her thumbnail.
And gently dragged it down.
It hit him like a seduction, like a sultry woman peeling off her shift. Desire swamped him, the heat within outclassing the sun's meager warmth without, and he couldn't look away from her, her brows lowered over hooded dark eyes, those full Cupid's bow lips pursed and begging for a kiss. Her hair glowed, pale silk flashing sunsparks, demanding his fingers, and the most perfect rose hue flushed her cheeks, not from embarrassment. A smart man would look away.
But a smart man might have thought twice about tangling his life with this temptress. And when she reached down with the peeled grape, his hand met hers halfway. Instead of accepting her offering, he guided it — without resistance — to her mouth, past her lips, and slid her fingers in with the fruit.
"And then again, I might try stopping your mouth."
She laughed, full-throated and wickedly teasing, acknowledging his stroke and sharing the joke as if it hadn't been aimed at her. The lurking allure subsided, as quickly as it had arisen, and he stretched out his legs again. The covering cloak fell away, and the cool air on his calf signaled the end of his nap.
Ernst sat up.
And stared back toward the city, where a cloud of dust was being hurled from the road, rising and whipping away like the streaming cloak behind a horse and rider, galloping straight for them.
This time, she could not be blamed for his surging pulse. Ever since Napoleon had created his Confederation of the Rhine and Prussia's Queen Louise had moved her husband and court toward war, a dark foreboding had haunted him. The Third Coalition had collapsed in ignominy; the Fourth had waged economic warfare and little else. The unquiet lack of battles — for peace it had never been and could not be called — couldn't possibly last. He'd been waiting for the worst to happen. This had to be the news his pricking thumbs had foreseen.
The woodlark sang on, unconcerned.
"Ernst?"
He wrapped an arm about her and stood, lifting her with him and drawing her to his side. The hoofbeats pounded closer, louder, more threatening with every second, and he couldn't escape the feeling that he'd wasted all his little remaining time, and now it was gone. She suddenly seemed, not a temptress nor mischievous nymph, but indescribably precious, fragile, dear, and without thinking, he tightened his grip, folding her into his chest. Her curls tickled his chin, drifted across his neck, and then the wild-eyed horse surged up the slope's final rise and skidded to a halt before them.
Sudden silence. A rattle of wings, the woodlark taking flight.
Their peace was over.
The courier kicked his feet free and slid down the blowing horse's shoulder. "Your Highness."
He refused to let her go, and when she tried to step away, he cradled her head against his shoulder. "Yes?"
"You're needed at the castle immediately. The Grande Armée has crossed the border and seized the bridge at Saalburg-Ebersdorf."
War had come to Saxony.
And he knew, somehow, impossibly, he knew it would tear them apart.