“A little over three centuries, sir.”
“You’re a thrall, then?” That would explain the loyalty, and why Werner took anything sounding like a slight to his master as an insult to himself also.
There was a stiff nod. “Even if Herr Graf hadn’t offered that opportunity to me, I’d serve him for as long as I’m able.”
“He’s fortunate to have such a faithful servant.” Marek looked thoughtful. “I’m lucky also, for my thralls have given up home and country to accompany me.”
“Perhaps, sir,” Werner said, and Marek sensed a certain unbending in his manner, though the man’s posture didn’t change. “You treat them in such a way they don’t wish to have a different master.”
He’d left the doors open. Behind them there was movement as two servants appeared, lugging a large tin tub between them. Werner gestured to the fire.
“Place it there, and be quick about it. His Lordship’s eager to bathe and prepare for bed.” As ordered, they deposited the tub before the fire, and disappeared.
“I’ll fetch you some night clothes, sir.”
He went through the doorway, leaving Marek to watch a succession of maids bring in towels and soaps while others lugged buckets they emptied into the tub until the water level was filled halfway up the tin sides. The major domo returned carrying a white nightshirt and a brocaded robe similar to the one Karl-Josef had been wearing. He ignored the women who bobbed curtseys and scurried from the room.
“These are some of my master’s.” He placed the garments across the foot of the bed whose covers were turned back revealing pristine white sheets and six fluffy pillows. “I believe you and he are of a size.”
Marek touched the garment, rubbing the sleeve between thumb and forefinger. It was incredibly soft, a thin, fine-weaved fabric. Cotton or lawn, he thought, but the sheerness of the material…
Gods, surely one can see through it. He held it up, examining the delicate smocking and embroidery surrounding the yoke and placket. Is that lace around the cuffs?
“His Lordship sleeps in such as this?” Too late, he realized he sounded judgmental.
“He does.” Werner’ voice had frost in it. “You disapprove of the garment, sir?”
“No, no.” Marek replaced the shirt on the bed and laughed a little self-deprecatingly. “I fear I’m merely awed. like a backward country cousin.”
“Sir?” Werner looked a little dubious.
“In Carpathius, we’re accustomed to plainer sleepwear, and a much different fabric.” Oh yes, a quite different fabric. Our own skins.
“I see.” That mollified the servant. He took a step closer and lowered his voice as if imparting a secret. “The Graf does like his comfort, even when sleeping. This material’s the softest available.”
“Then I truly appreciate the use of it.” Marek was certain he wouldn’t sleep a wink while wearing such a garment, but decided to try, if for nothing but the novelty of it.
Werner glanced at the tub. “Your bath appears ready, sir. Will you need your man to help you undress?”
“Ja, send him to me.” Yes, he wanted Sandor here, but not as a valet. He wished to talk to the old man, make certain he and the others were being well treated.
Bowing, Werner backed out of the room, shutting the doors.
* * *
“Master Marek!” Sandor burst into the room without the subservient knocking at the door and multiple bows Werner affected.
“Sandor, have you and Zoltan and Sabine been taken care of?”
“I should say so. Gods, you should see where they’ve put us, sir.”
The emotion behind the old man’s response was surprising. Sandor had never reacted to anything with such intensity.
“It’s to your liking?” Marek raised a brow in surprise.
“The servants’ quarters in this place are the size of your bedchamber at the castel, sir. I was simply sitting there wondering how large the Graf’s rooms are when that high-nosed houseman…”
“Kellermeister, Sandor,” Marek corrected. “He’s called a kellermeister.”
“To me he’s nothing but a glorified house servant, master,” Sandor replied, “and a true snob at that. Anyway, he came to tell me you wished me to help prepare you for your bath.”
He screwed his face into a confused grimace.
“Since when do you need help bathing, my lord?”
“Since we arrived in Vienna, it appears.” Marek laughed. “Werner mistook you for my manservant. Here they apparently do more for their masters than act as a general go-between for the lord and the household staff. They seem to take the place of nursemaids as well.”
“May the Oracle protect us! I’m thankful it isn’t that way at home. Could you see me helping your father bathe?”
“He’d have sent you flying out the door and landing on your ear if you’d dared try that.” As he spoke, Marek opened his riding coat and shrugged out of the sleeves. He tossed it on a chair and began to unbutton his shirt. “I merely wanted to assure myself everyone’s all right.”
“As right as can be,” Sandor reported. “Zoltan and I’ve been given rooms in the servants’ quarters. The doctor was taken to a chamber on the third floor, the young masters are housed in suites at the other end of this one, and Mistress Xandi’s in the nursery.”
He frowned slightly.
Marek pulled off the shirt and threw it on top of his coat. “You’ve something you wish to say, Sandor?”
“No, sir—yes, sir, I do. I think Masters Vlad and Andrei won’t be sleeping alone tonight, sir.”
“I see.” Dropping to the bed, Marek struggled with his right boot. “That's nothing new, is it—oh, damn, we don’t have any lambskins.”
“I trust they’ll be careful, but that’s not what I mean.” Sandor knelt and seized the boot in both hands, sliding it off his master’s foot. That service, at least, wasn’t beneath his station. “Seducing our host’s servants. Is that proper?”
He turned his attention to the other boot.
“If this were an ordinary visit I’d give them a lecture on proprieties, but quite frankly, I doubt Karl-Josef will mind. He’s already offered me a companion for the night. Hmm, that would’ve given me the same dilemma, wouldn’t it?”
“You didn’t accept, sir?” The old man dropped the second boot beside its mate.
“Is that any of your business?” Marek retorted.
“You’re right, my lord.” With a creaking of joints, Sandor got to his feet. “It’s no business of this old servant’s.”
As Marek laughed at that self-deprecating tone and the underlying sarcasm, he went on, “As soon as I leave here, I won’t care what my Master does in his own bed, for it seems the cook’s taken a liking to me.”
“Oh?” Marek looked up.
There was a twinkle in the old man’s blue eyes.
“Is she plying you with plates of cakes and little sweetmeats?”
“Let’s just say she promised to serve me something called midnight delight after my lord dismisses me to bed.”
“And you were the one worrying if Vlad and Andrei were insulting our host’s hospitality?”
Pulling off his stockings Marek regarded the old servant with false shock. “Sandor, you astonish me.”
He waved a hand.
“Go on, get to your bed. It’s long past midnight, and that delight may not wait much longer.” He stood up, hands going to the waistband of his trousers. “Besides, my bath water’s getting cold.”
“Oh, I intend to dine heartily on the cook’s sweets tonight, sir.” Grinning, Sandor bowed, turned and fairly scampered to the door. The old man moved as light-footed as a boy.
Marek waited until the door shut. Throwing his trousers to the floor, he walked over to the tub, savoring the soft, deep pile of the carpet under his bare feet, and forgot about Sandor, the twins, or anything else.
Dipping one hand into the water, he drew it back quickly. It was hotter than he expected, little wisps of steam
rising from its surface, wavering in the lamplight. He balanced on one foot, stepping over the high side into its center and stood a moment before gingerly lowering himself gingerly into the water.
The servants had nearly filled the tub too full. Water overflowed, splashing onto the carpet as Marek sank into it.
Leaning back with a sigh, he rested his head against the back of the tub. The water might be hot, but it definitely felt good. For several minutes, he lay there, letting the heat soak into his skin.
The locket around his neck dipped into the water. Pulling the chain over his head, he placed it on a little table drawn up to the tub, then picked up one of the small soaps. A sniff told him it was similar to those his mother had used, milled with mild and soothing olive oil.
Anastacza had possessed delicate skin. One of the few times he’d been allowed to touch her was the day of her funeral, and he remembered thinking how soft and smooth her skin was as he dutifully placed a kiss upon her dead cheek.
Dipping the bar into the water, he rubbed his hands together until a heavy lather formed, scrubbed his face vigorously then splashed away the suds. Water ran down his face, got into his eyes, and he flailed out a hand, groping for a towel and wiping his face before slinging the rest away with a toss of his head.
He tried to settle deeper into the tub, but it was too small, or he was too big. Either way, he didn’t fit comfortably, had to sit with his knees bent and projecting from the water. The bottom of the tub had been beaten until its surface was smooth but it was still uncomfortable to his backside. It reminded him a little of the tub in the nursery, where his nursemaid bathed him each night after he awoke.
That startled him. He hadn’t thought about that in years, of Ilka, his old nurse, who was so good to him, taking the place of his mother, who wasn’t. One teaching him how a woman’s touch could be so loving, and the other that it could bring extreme pain. Anastacza had given the nurse permission to punish him, but Marek always obeyed Ilka and never gave her any reason. As a result, the old woman spoiled him terribly, giving him the affection he never received from his mother.
It was Anastacza herself who was cruel. She had a small whip, and at the slightest infraction of the rules she set for him, he’d find himself thrown across his bed, his smock flung over his head, and his stocks ripped down around his knees, the whip biting into his buttocks until he screamed. Afterward, Ilka would bathe the cuts with witch hazel solution given her by a silently angry Sabine, and cuddle him until his sobs died away.
Sometimes she cried with him.
János hadn’t known of this, for Anastacza always waited until he was gone from the castel before she punished Marek, and the servants feared her too much to speak. One night, however, he came into the nursery unexpectedly while his son was being bathed. Seeing the still-fresh marks, he demanded the reason why Ilka had hurt her charge so. Not daring to admit her mistress was the culprit the old woman cowered, and didn’t answer.
It was Marek who blurted out, “Ilka didn’t do it. It was Mama.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” János’ face was like a thundercloud as he put his arms around the child, and looked into eyes at that time as blue as his own.
Marek bowed his head. “Sh-she said if I told, she’d cut off my stones.” He clutched his small privates and looked up at János, the other hand gripping his father’s. “Papa, I don’t want to lose my stones. If I do, I can’t become a man like you are.”
Turning to Ilka, János ordered the old woman never to allow the mistress alone with Marek again. Then he went in search of his wife.
Marek never knew what they said, but he rarely saw Anastacza after that. Then came the long period when his father was gone from his mother’s bed. When he returned again to her chamber, Marek was almost 16, fully knowledgeable of János’ many infidelities and totally sympathetic. The twins were born soon after, and shortly after that his mother sickened and died and János married Anike.
Marek blinked and shivered, shaking his head. Why did I think of that? It’s over and done. For some reason Anastacza had hated him and loved the twins, but his father loved all of them. That’s what I should remember.
He set about rubbing the bar of soap over his entire body, watching the dirt dissolve and float away. Though the water was cloudy with bubbles, he could see his cock’s wobbly image floating between his thighs, slightly swollen and bright pink from the water’s heat. Gently, Marek touched it. He supposed he should bathe it, also, though the gods knew he hadn’t used it recently for anything requiring it be cleansed.
There were little cloths on the table, made of the same fabric as the towels. Picking up one, he rubbed the soap against it, then dipped it into the water, carefully brushing it against his nether parts. The slightly rough sensation against his balls was an arousing one, and that was something he hadn’t intended. Clean now and stimulated by the washcloth, his member attempted to raise its head above water.
Marek slid his hand around it, biting his lip. You want the same thing I do. It’s been a lonely year and a half.
He’d never been one to practice self-relief, but now, why not? Everything about the way he’d lived was gone, so why not that, too? Once totally immersed in the physicality, he’d reveled in it. Why shouldn’t he still enjoy it, even one-sidedly? Nevertheless, the idea of relieving himself where his spill would float around him in the water caused him to release the hold he had on his shaft though he continued resting his hand upon it.
He’d enjoy the warmth a little longer, and then…? Well, then he might pleasure himself... a little.
The steam from the water surrounded him in a sensual cloud. His skin was heated and cold at the same time, a delicate dew of sweat spotting his forehead and shoulders where the rising warmth struck. He felt languid and indolent, wanted to stretch out full-length in the water if he could have, and lie near floating for the rest of the night, tired but comfortable.
With another splash spattering the carpet, he lifted his legs out of the water, hooking his knees over the tub’s sides, letting his feet dangle. Droplets of water dripped off his toes, forming little puddles on Karl-Josef’s expensive Persian rug. Leaning back with a sigh, Marek closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
Chapter 25
A faint knocking on the door woke him.
Floundering slightly, Marek sat up, finding himself sprawled in a tub of cold water, one hand still cradling his cock. He hauled himself out of the tub, reaching for a towel.
The knock sounded again. Hastily swiping the towel over his body, he tossed it aside and looked around for something to put on, saw the nightshirt and pulled it over his head. It clung where his skin was still damp, sticking to his thighs, outlining his privates. Marek picked up the robe, sliding it on and fastening the single button at the beltline.
At the third knock he called out, “Kommenzei.”
The door opened and a young woman came in, shutting it behind her. She wore a night rail and wrapper, holding both together with one hand.
“Herr Graf sent me, mein herr.” She curtseyed. “He says you need nourishment. My name’s Lisalotte. Herr Graf calls me Lisl.”
Nodding, he answered her with a smile and held out one hand. Without any disloyalty to Lily’s memory, he thought her truly an exquisite creature. She came closer and placed her hand in his. He raised the hand, kissing it.
“Where do you wish me, my lord? Shall I sit?” She gestured at the bed. “Or lie down?”
“Just sit.” He guided her to the bed. “Here.”
As she settled upon the coverlet, he sat beside her. Marek studied her a moment, nostrils quivering slightly. Her scent...
“You’re aventurieri?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I had no idea our own people could be vita…” What would they be called here? “Uh… cattle.”
“It’s rare, but not unheard of. We’re very expensive, so only the richest can afford us.” She released the neck of the wrapper, folding it back, revealing
a pale throat and even paler bosom. Her movements were swift and methodical.
“Your wrist will do.”
Lifting her hand, he kissed her fingers, then turned it over, caressing the palm with his lips. Her skin held the fragrance of soap and water, very clean. Beneath it, he could smell the sweet, rich scent of her blood, so much headier than a human’s. It moved at an even, steady pace through her veins.
He studied the five veinlets in her wrist, licking across the largest, feeling the gentle, rhythmic flowing of her pulse through his tongue-tip. She shuddered slightly but didn’t move. Fangs dropping, he grazed the points back and forth over the pale flesh, then pressed them into the throbbing blue rivulets.
Lisl drew in her breath with a harsh gasp transforming itself into a whimper of pleasure. Marek inhaled, sucking in the warm liquid. It was so pure.
He thought the Graf fortunate to have someone this delicious giving him sustenance. After that, there was nothing in his mind but the act of absorbing that sweet nourishment into himself. Marek drank, slaking the thirst with him for over a year.
Those travelers had been barely adequate, but this...this was exquisite. He might’ve sucked every drop from her body if she hadn’t given a soft sigh that to his blood-drugged ears didn’t sound quite right. Looking up, he saw her eyes were half-closed and heavy-lidded, rolled back so far only the whites were visible. Her mouth was slightly open, and to his startled eyes she looked as if she were in the throes of ecstasy, one hand gripping the comforter between clenched fingers.
Marek released her hand and she opened her eyes, recovering with a gasp.
“You’ve finished, my lord? So soon?”
So soon? In a few moments, I’d have drained you dry, girl, and you’d have enjoyed every minute of it even as you died, wouldn’t you?
“By the gods.” His words were a breathless accusation. “You’re in a cycle, aren’t you? Does the Graf know?”
She nodded.
“He still sent you to me? Does he want me to breed with you?”
“Of course not.” She laughed and gave him a coy look. “Unless you wish to, that is.” One hand touched his chest, pushing past the ruffled yoke of the nightshirt to brush his skin. “I wouldn’t mind, but I would warn you. You’d have to take the consequenes with you, for my lord has no place in his household for children. He merely hoped you might wish to end your mourning once you scented me, so he sent this along, also.”
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