Knight of Love (12 page)

Fools who believed in hopeless dreams of freedom set themselves up for failure. Such naiveté deserved to be disappointed.

It was what she told herself as she swung onto the horse and rode out of town.

“You let her go?!” Wolf's bellow of disbelief echoed through the tax collector's house.

Becker braced himself for the rage coming next. At least Wolf appeared healthier this morning. The alternating flush and pallor of the fever were gone. And the man sat before the remains of a gratifyingly huge breakfast in the sunny alcove of the master bedchamber.

When Lenora hadn't reappeared from her supposed early-morning errand to gather more feverfew, Wolf had sent for Becker. Becker stalled as long as he could, to allow the lady more time to get away, but went up to see his cousin when the threat arrived that Wolf was dressing to go in search of her himself.

Becker considered his longtime friend. Wolf was a romantic, no doubt about it. He believed in love at first sight. He believed himself in love with Lenora. He believed in the future of a democratic and united Germany.

Becker, on the other hand, was a realist. He believed in neither true love nor revolutionary politics. But he did believe in Wolf. He loved the man like a brother and would do anything for him.

Including saving the idiot from his own foolhardy idealism.

Becker sighed, prepared for battle. “Yes, Wolf, I let her go.”

Wolf slammed a hand flat against the table. Becker cringed and craned his neck to see whether the wood had cracked.

“Why, in God's sweet name,would you let her go?” Wolf roared. “She could be killed out there on her own!”

“She could be killed—and nearly was, may I remind you—traveling with us in our guard. No one is safe in Germany these days. And it was time to let her go, Wolf.” Becker stepped up to the table and laid a hand on Wolf's shoulder. “It was time, cousin.”

Wolf surged to his feet and shook Becker off with a foul curse. “Tell me what you've done,
cousin
,” he said, sneering as he said the term. “And tell me why I shouldn't rip your head off for doing it.”

“I watched Lenora think things through during the three days we've sheltered here. She offered excellent nursing care to you and the other wounded men. But she gathered supplies for herself as well and asked careful questions about our location and the condition of the roads. She was laying plans to make her escape. I left word at the Horse and Feather that the lady or perhaps a boy claiming to be of our party would come by soon to take a horse;
der Wolfram
would foot the bill, but a sturdy groom must follow the rider discreetly behind on the road, to determine the destination and offer any needed aid. The stable master informed me early this morning that a boy came from our group and left town on a horse. We'll get word back soon enough where she headed.”

Wolf's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Early this morning? So why do you only tell me now?”

“Because I think that Lenora deserves to have her wishes respected and to get away from Germany. She is not truly your wife, and you are not her real husband.” Becker held up his hands in a quick, placating gesture. “I understand, Wolf, that you believe yourself to be in love with her. You honor her in your heart as your true wife. That's all very noble, but none of it can be worked out here, now, amidst war and revolution. There may be a time back in England when the two of you can sort through your sentiments, but for now she deserves to make her own choice. You need to let her go.”

Wolf smashed an open hand hard against Becker's chest, knocking him backward. “Who the hell are you to tell me what I need?”

They'd battled before, Becker thought, regaining his balance. Over women, horses, stupid boyhood quarrels. Would it come to that again? He eyed Wolf carefully. The man seemed strong enough and recovered from his fever, but Becker was loath to reopen his cousin's wound now that it was healing so well under Lenora's care.

Becker tried for sentiment first. “Who am I? I am your cousin, your brother-in-arms, and I love you.”
There, let that take the wind out of the stubborn bastard's sails.

“Nice try,” Wolf growled. But the fire in his eyes was only slightly banked. “I'm still going to beat the pulp out of you and then track her down.”

As Wolf advanced on him, a knock sounded at the door. Horwitz entered with a muddy groom wearing the green livery of the Horse and Feather Inn.

The groom bowed respectfully. “Freiherr von Wolfsbach, 'tis an honor to serve the Black Knight. I pray God your lordship be fully recovered now.”

Wolf waved away the groom's words impatiently. “
Ja, ja,
I am fine. It's the lady—I mean, the boy—who I want to know about. Where did he go? Is he safe?”

The groom bowed again. “You needn't worry about the lad,
Freiherr
. He rode safely all the way to Schloss Dremen, where they welcomed him most hospitably.”

“To Dremen!” Wolf said, startled.

He locked eyes with Becker. The only time Becker had seen such a look of stark fear on his cousin's face was when Wolf had thought Becker to be dying from the scarlet fever. Wolf had burst into Becker's bedroom at Greensborough Manor, bordering on Ravenhold, and looked at him as he did now. Becker had come through fine, but Wolf had paced outside the sickroom for a week.

Becker felt the same fear chill his blood. For Schloss Dremen was held by Count von Dremen. And although that man claimed sympathy for the protesters, both Wolf and Becker knew that the count was secretly working against the revolution. He'd captured a half dozen of the movement's leaders in the past few months and sent them straight into imprisonment with his ally in the neighboring principality.

Straight to Kurt, Prince of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt.

Chapter 9

S
chloss Dremen was smaller than Rotenburg, but more modern and with every convenience: gas lighting, piped hot water, and a kitchen renovated to ensure the food arrived hot to table.

Hospitable on the outside, at least, and in the greeting of the count.

Wolf rode up to the castle to receive a most ceremonious welcome by the Dremen butler. The man put him in the best reception room and returned with Count von Dremen himself not more than five minutes later.

“Freiherr
von Wolfsbach, you do us great honor!” boomed the count. “To have both you and your lady pay us a visit is a real tribute—your reputation grows as the noble Black Knight of the People's Revolution!” Count von Dremen walked toward Wolf with open arms and a beaming smile.

Wolf waited for the butler to shut the heavy oak double doors before he held up a hand. “Dremen, let us dispense with this pretense. There's no need for it between the two of us. I know what you intend.”

Betraying Lenora and sending her back to Kurt.

Over Wolf's dead body.

Perhaps, God willing, it wouldn't come to that. His first priority, however, was getting her to safety.

“I'm here to offer you something of much greater value to those who would end this revolution,” he said to the count.

Dremen dropped his arms. A calculating light came into his eyes. “Indeed? Pray, do tell.”

The new Countess von Dremen brought a choice of six evening gowns to Lenora that afternoon. “They're all in the latest Parisian styles,” the young countess assured her in the lovely guest chamber where they'd quartered Lenora. The countess was only recently returned from a trip to the French capital, her visit cut short by riots. “Tens of thousands of demonstrators were marching through the streets!” the lady exclaimed in horror. Had Lenora heard that King Louis-Philippe, fearing the guillotine, had abdicated the throne last month and escaped to exile in England? “Luckily,” said the lady, “I was able to get Madame to finish my gowns in record time, so I could leave that angry rabble to its barricades!”

Cries of freedom for the people might be inflaming France and Germany alike, but the lovely young countess's interest in fashion was clearly not cowed by such mundane matters as revolution in the streets.

The lady held up a gown of forest-green silk. “What about this one for dinner tonight, Freifrau von Wolfsbach? It will bring out your eyes.”

Lenora had informed Count and Countess von Dremen of her ended betrothal to Prince Kurt—“I'm afraid we simply didn't suit”—and of her battlefield marriage. Her confusion regarding what to make of it all led her to abbreviate the story to its barest minimum: after her departure from Rotenburg she'd encountered Freiherr von Wolfsbach, who'd insisted on a ceremony to offer her the protection of his name. With him occupied by the revolution, she now chose to return home to England and hoped for the assistance of her mother's old family friend in making it happen.

The countess had seemed to take it all in stride, although the count appeared oddly startled by her arrival.

Two seamstresses and a lady's maid accompanied the dresses intended for Lenora's send-off banquet. The fuss seemed far beyond the warrant of the moment and badly out of place, given all the political havoc. But the evening gowns—truly gorgeous confections of silk and lace—did sorely tempt her. She'd been in boys' rags that stank of horse sweat for weeks now.

And there was perhaps another reason to look her best. The countess informed her casually as she left the chamber that another guest would be joining them for dinner tonight: “Did I mention that your husband has arrived?”

The countess knew her fashion; Lenora had to credit the woman with that. The green silk matched her eyes perfectly and its clever improvements in pleating and flounce resulted in the most elegant wide skirts to complement the dress's deep, pointed bodice. Her shoulders felt quite naked with the daring slope of the tiny cap sleeves. But once bathed, coiffed, perfumed, and dressed with the undergarments and jewels kindly insisted upon by the countess, she felt perversely armored as well. Ravensworth had never seen her in a proper lady's toilette before. If he meant to take her back—and why else would he be here?—she'd use whatever weapons lay at her disposal to thwart his plans.

Inspecting her reflection in the long cheval mirror, she knew she'd never looked better. Thanks to some quick needlework and the careful lacing of an exquisite French corset, the formfitting bodice molded perfectly to her curves. Emeralds sparkled around her neck. A wonderfully effective almond oil tamed her corkscrew curls into gleaming ringlets, held by rhinestone combs in an artful high twist.

The look on the earl's face when she entered the drawing room before dinner confirmed the effect. His slack-jawed bedazzlement calmed somewhat her fear at finding him at the castle. Even so, she almost turned and bolted at the sight of him. He must be furious over her escape. How he'd tracked her down, she had no idea. Now that he'd found her, his intention must surely be to force her again to his will.

But as he approached, those sky-blue eyes held no anger, no guile. He took her ice-cold hand and bowed over it, his lips lingering most scandalously to press a warm kiss onto her wrist.

“My lady, I am delighted to see you in good health. Your beauty is as radiant as the evening star,” he said. “I am even more delighted that I arrived in time for your send-off dinner before your departure tomorrow.”

She withdrew her hand. “I hadn't expected you, my lord.”

“I know. I was just explaining to Count von Dremen”—Ravensworth nodded to their host, who was stepping up to join them—“how a little insurrection in Ingolbronn delayed me. But the count and I have discussed your travel plans for the safest route home to England and have everything finalized for the morning.”

The count offered them glasses of sherry from a passing servant's tray. “You may rest assured, dear Lenora, that the
Freiherr
has arranged everything. You are a fortunate woman indeed to have a husband so touchingly concerned for your welfare. You should be tucked back within the bosom of your family before the full flush of spring is upon us.”

She looked between the two of them. This must surely be a trap. But before she could probe further, the butler announced dinner. Countess von Dremen paired her with a visiting Italian count who had recently fled his homeland after signs of an armed uprising in Venice, and the dozen assorted guests processed down to dinner.

The interminable meal in the frescoed dining room was worthy of a state banquet for the collected archdukes and princes of the German Confederation. Politics and revolution dominated the conversation. Lenora cringed, as she wouldn't have six months ago, to hear her aristocratic peers complain about the presumption of the people in daring to demand new rights. While impassive liveried footmen trooped in twelve courses of delicacies with wines to match, her fellow guests castigated the lower classes as too uneducated and lazy to be worthy of enfranchisement. To her shame, she wasn't sure she would have thought much differently a year ago. But her time in Germany had changed her and taught her lessons. People—all the people—deserved freedom and a chance at a better life.

Ravensworth, she noted, said little and deflected all questions. She had no way to interrogate him during the elaborate dinner, but she excused herself as soon as possible after the meal with a significant look his way.

When he knocked at her door a short time later, she quickly dismissed the lady's maid helping her disrobe.

“What are you doing here?” she said, pulling the man into her bedchamber. “How did you find me? And I refuse to go back with you!”

He tapped her on the nose, smiling. “You hiss and spit just like a kitten when you're angry. It's quite adorable, Lenora. Did you have any difficulties on the road getting here?”

She swatted away his hand. “No, I did not. Now answer me!”

“I am here to send you home to England.” He ticked her questions off on his fingers. “Becker had you followed. And I have no intention of trying to keep you in Germany.” He strolled over to the warmth of her fireplace, where the lady's maid had set out a decanter of apricot brandy on a low table between two chairs. “Will you join me in a nightcap?”

She dropped into the chair beside him, frowning. “Why this sudden change of attitude?”

“The situation in Germany has become too volatile too quickly.” He poured for them both and handed her a glass. “There are dangers in seeking passage to England, but the count and I have worked out a route home for you through the Kingdom of the Netherlands.”

She took a restorative swallow and contemplated him suspiciously. “Why are you doing this? It's quite unnecessary.”

“You are my wife. My sworn duty is to see to your safety.”

“I am
not
your wife!” she said. “We've discussed this before. That sham ceremony meant nothing.”

“Perhaps not to you.” He sipped and stroked her cheek. “I meant every vow I spoke, before God and witnesses, and before you. In my heart, you are my lady wife and I, your foresworn husband.”

His eyes were mesmerizing. So blue. So clear. So ridiculously sincere. What man could be so open, swear such devotion, in an age such as this? He fancied himself the people's knight, questing the country, fighting lost causes for justice and chivalry. But their age was no longer one for such foolishness. He would only get himself hurt.

Somehow the thought disturbed her, riled her to anger. She set down her glass. “Surely you're not such an idiot as all that,” she said.

His jaw clenched. It
was
low, she admitted, but the man tried her so with that steady, foolish gaze.

She couldn't trust him. She mustn't. “You are here to kidnap me again, aren't you? You've hatched some new plan to lock me up somewhere!”

And then she saw it, the shadow in his eyes the second before he looked away. “You
are
planning something!”

He shook his head. “Count von Dremen will set you on your way to safety tomorrow. You should be back in London within a fortnight. No imprisonment, no tricks, I swear.”

“But you're planning something else, then—I can see it! Tell me!”

“I am yours to command,
Liebling,
but not in that way.” His lips curled. “You'll be on your way home in the morning, after months of virtual imprisonment at Rotenburg and a very trying last few weeks on the road and with us. Don't you have any other commands for your husband foresworn?”

He leaned toward her, filling her vision. Boldly, he unknotted her sash and spread open wide the front of the silk dressing gown that the maid had left her in. “You are very beautiful this evening,” he murmured. His gaze roamed over her, taking in the countess's borrowed undergarments. “Your boy's clothing had its charm, but a corset is much more interesting attire.”

His fingertips grazed the tops of her breasts.

“Wolfram!” She batted at his hand before realizing he'd startled her into using his Christian name.

And noticing that she didn't pull back from him.

Or refasten the front of her gown.

“I am at your command, Lenora,” he remarked, eyes shining.

The notion shot an odd thrill to the pit of her stomach. If he told the truth about his plans, she might never see him again. The confused feelings—the guilty and fearful pleasures of last night and of their first night together—rushed back. A flush rolled across her body. She felt suddenly hot.

He smiled, a knowing smile, as his eyes traced her parted mouth, the quickened rise of her breast, the flush at her cleavage. Not a smile of triumph, but of pure male pleasure, and of wicked promise.

He offered her power, hers to use and explore. It was, she saw, to be a parting gift. She sensed the recompense he intended for the choices he'd taken from her, the virginity he'd taken. The harness he'd forced her into may have been a velvet one. She knew he could have taken far more from her and she would have been powerless to stop him. Yet bonds were bonds. Here was the offer of a turning of the tables.