“I have fallen in love with you.”
The yearning in her voice echoed his own longing.
“If there is any way for us to be together, I will leave my family and my country and follow wherever you lead.”
She sniffled.
An urge to kiss away her tears filled him. “Come to me, Sophia,” he growled.
There was a sharp intake of breath. She looked back at the door. He feared she might flee and he was powerless to stop her. Gritting his teeth, he got to his feet, grasping the linen as it threatened to slip to the floor. He braced himself against the bed and held out his hand. “Come to me,” he said again.
She came immediately and to his immense relief took his hand. In that touch of flesh on flesh an unbreakable bond formed. The truth of it calmed his raging heart. “No matter the obstacles, I will make you mine,” he pledged. “You have brought light to my dark life.”
Her tear-filled eyes sparkled in the gloom. She leaned closer. “Kiss me,” she whispered, her voice full of the need and longing and love that coursed through his veins. But, if he bent to kiss her, he might topple over. “I have to sit,” he rasped, pulling her with him as his legs gave way and he sank back onto the mattress. Only the broken ribs prevented him lifting her on top of him.
Their lips met. Softly, gently, tentatively. “You taste of sweet wine,” he whispered.
She traced a thumb across his lower lip. “You taste of Solomon’s Seal.”
The swell of her breasts soothed the pain in his ribs, but intensified the ache in his shaft. She kissed him again, coaxing his lips open with her tongue. It was at once erotic and innocent, something she’d obviously never done before, but…
He sucked her tongue into his mouth, feasting, breathing with her as she keened her contentment. She put her arms around his neck and melted into his embrace. He delved his tongue into her mouth, elated when she sucked—hard. He widened his legs, cupped her bottom and pulled her closer.
“I’m going to hurt you this way,” she said into his mouth.
He was about to protest that it was a pain he would willingly endure, but then she whispered, “Let me.”
His erection turned to granite, rendering him speechless when warm fingers gently explored him, only the linen between his rigid flesh and her hand.
“I was right,” she teased. “You are naked under the linen.”
A troubling thought niggled in the back of his head. Perhaps Sophia wasn’t the innocent he believed her to be.
“Your rute is bigger than I expected,” she said, pressing her palm against his length. “Can I move the covering away?”
Brandt plunged into a heavenly inferno. He wanted to cast the linen to the furthest corner of the chamber, suckle her nipples, wrap her legs around his hips and thrust his needy shaft into her virgin sheath. They’d ride to heaven together.
But that was physically impossible in his present state. Mayhap just his fingers then. He’d wager it wouldn’t be difficult to find her swollen nub…
Nein!
He hadn’t meant to shout out his denial, but Sophia’s abrupt withdrawal proved he had. “Mein schatz,” he ground out, longing for her to touch him again. “We cannot do this, my darling. There is the problem of Dorothea to consider…”
Not to mention you are too forward, too knowing for a virgin.
She pressed her thighs against his, put her warm hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “You think I am too brazen,” she whispered.
He had no choice. His legs tightened around hers, his hands gripped her tiny waist, but his befuddled mind refused to bring forth coherent words.
“Mama forewarned me this might happen,” she said.
Perhaps he would wake soon and realize this was a dream. What in the name of all the saints did her mother have to do with what was happening? “Your Mama?” he parroted.
She nodded. “She has taught me things husbands like their wives to do to their bodies.”
He was wrong. He wasn’t asleep. He’d died and gone to heaven.
FRIEND OR FOE
The clandestine excursion to Brandt’s chamber resulted in a restless night. Sophia dreamt warm dreams of his kisses, the brush of his thumb over her nipples, the heavy thickness of his manhood in her hand. But she cried out her despair when nightmarish visions awoke her; her beloved lying dead on the battle field, or abed with Dorothea. She’d confided to Brandt her fear that he and her brothers might find themselves on opposite sides of the imminent war. She had to cling to his reassurances that he loved her and would never do anything to hurt her.
She thus arrived later than usual to break her fast, but was nevertheless surprised to see only her mother and Kristina still at table. “Surely my brothers aren’t abed at this late hour?” she asked, aware her face had turned red. Would her mother guess something significant had transpired during the night?
Kristina stuck out her tongue. “You’re a fine one to talk,” she teased. “The men have gone off to begin their training.”
Despite her friend’s attempt to sound light-hearted, Sophia sensed Kristina’s despair. In two short months, Johann would begin the trek to Italy with the imperial troops. Another possibility she hadn’t considered insinuated itself, robbing her of breath. “Will Papa march with the army?” she asked hoarsely.
She’d have given anything to wipe away the distress in her mother’s eyes that answered the question.
“Of course,” came the reply. “You know your father well enough to realize he wouldn’t send his sons into a campaign and not go himself.”
Sophia gripped the rough wood of the table. “But we’ll be defenceless here,” she exclaimed, her heart in knots. In his younger days Dieter von Wolfenberg had been a heroic warrior, but…
The prospect of losing her father, and brothers, and the man she loved threatened to swamp her.
“Calm yourself, Sophia,” her mother chided. “Hysteria will not help anyone.”
She was instantly contrite. It was evident her outburst had upset the now weeping Kristina. She had to be strong. She was a von Wolfenberg. “I apologise, Mama. I am concerned, that’s all.” She took Kristina’s hand. “It’s unfair. You and Johann are newly married, and Lute and Kon have no ambition to be fighting men.”
She tensed when her father entered the room, immaculately groomed as always. He looked directly at Sophia as he sat. “Sometimes, when diplomacy fails, men have to fight to protect what they believe in,” he said.
Since he didn’t look like he’d come from the training yards, she surmised he’d been embroiled in arrangements for the proposed meeting with the Staufens. Did he know how much was riding on those diplomatic efforts?
“If Friedrich and Conrad agree to come,” he said, helping himself to a slab of cold venison, “I estimate it will be a fortnight before they can get here.” He cut into the meat and skewered a chunk with his eating dagger. “By then their envoy should be sufficiently recovered to be up and about.”
She watched him chew the venison, unsure what the connection was between Brandt’s recovery and the advent of the Staufens.
He swallowed the food. “He might even be fit enough to leave with them. Either as friend or foe.” He looked into her eyes. “For the moment we must consider him a foe.”
She averted her gaze, feeling like a traitor.
LOOSE LIPS
Brandt fumed. His feelings for Sophia had clouded his judgement. Either that or Wendelin had slipped something other than Solomon’s Seal into his tea.
How else to explain that he’d readily divulged to Graf Dieter his knowledge of the emperor’s decision to launch an attack against Ruggero of Sicily in two months time.
Sophia’s declaration had resulted in a night filled with restless visions of making love to her in every position he could imagine, some of them likely impossible even without his injuries. The count’s unexpected early morning visit had caught him off-guard. He’d babbled his regrets that his sons would soon be going o
ff to war.
The graf was no fool. Who else could have told him of the timing of the impending campaign if not Sophia?
He’d spent most of his life considering every word before he opened his mouth, yet he’d let Sophia’s father know she’d been in his chamber since news had come of the emperor’s message, and that she’d betrayed the confidence.
He should explain to Graf Dieter that he had little regard for the Staufens, but such an admission wouldn’t endear him to the count who no doubt despised vassals who were disloyal to their overlords. And there was no escaping the fact that Rödermark lay in the Duchy of Franconia.
Did Sophia’s father suspect his daughter intended to change her allegiance because of him?
It was an uncomfortable feeling. He was lying helpless in the home of a man he respected but who would likely do whatever was necessary to protect his daughter if he thought she’d been taken advantage of.
He considered telling the graf he loved Sophia, but that wouldn’t impress a war hero like Dieter von Wolfenberg.
He’d promised Sophia that no harm would come to her loved ones at his hand, but such promises weren’t easy to keep in the heat and confusion of battle. The graf knew that better than anyone.
Their love would wither and die if he killed or maimed one of her brothers; or her father.
The prospect sickened him.
SUMMONED
Brandt’s strength returned gradually over the next three days. The fever left his body, but his heart was in knots. Sophia hadn’t come to see him again. Wendelin allowed him to get out of bed for short excursions around the chamber, but insisted she be his crutch. He feared if he fell over he’d flatten her. Apart from Wolfenberg servants who brought food, Drogo and Vidar were his only other visitors. He had them guard the door when Wendelin was gone so he could practice walking without aid. The exercise became easier, though he tired quickly.
The von Wolfenbergs had deliberately isolated him. He didn’t blame them. He was their enemy. The sooner he left, the happier everyone would be. Except for him. And Sophia.
He was torn between relief and dismay when Wendelin breezed into the chamber accompanied by his adjutant and squire. Drogo carried his clothes in a neatly folded pile. The day of his departure was at hand. “Graf Dieter has summoned you,” she said cryptically. “He asked me if you were fit enough to walk, and I told him you were.”
The prospect of appearing before the count stinking of the sick bed was unsettling, but his concerns disappeared when two footmen entered with a large wooden bathtub. Four more followed toting pails of hot water.
“We’ll make you smell sweet,” she cackled, wrinkling her nose as she tore the sheet off him with a flourish.
Drogo helped him keep his arms raised while the crone unwound the bindings around his ribs.
His gaze kept drifting to the steaming bathtub. It was certainly appealing, but surely she didn’t intend to bathe him.
She thrust the linen and the bindings at one of the servants, then shooed them out. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of your men,” she said as she left.
It was a relief. He’d shared military barracks with Vidar and his soldiers and certainly his squire had seen him without clothing before. He refused the offer of help to get from the bed to the tub, though Drogo had to steady his elbow as he sank into the blessedly hot water. The bruising on his chest and torso wasn’t as livid, nor as painful to the touch when he soaped his body. His squire poured water over his head, then washed his hair. He began to feel better.
“Shall I shave you, my lord?” Drogo asked. “I brought your razor.”
He raked his nails through the beginnings of his beard. It might make him look stronger during the interview. “Nein. Later perhaps.”
He lingered in the water even after it cooled, dreaming of bathing with Sophia. However, it appeared less and less likely their union would ever come about. His optimism faded and he resigned himself to asking Vidar and Drogo to help him out of the tub. He didn’t have the strength left to dry his body and comb his hair, so his squire completed the task. Vidar hovered about the chamber, apparently inspecting everything in sight but keeping his eyes averted.
Brandt understood. Vidar wasn’t a body servant, and it was likely difficult for a loyal soldier to see his lord being taken care of like a baby. He suspected his adjutant still blamed himself for what had happened. There was little doubt in his mind they would both be on the receiving end of his father’s wrath when he learned of the attack.
It took a quarter hour to rebind his ribs with fresh strips of linen brought with the clothing, and even longer to dress him and pull on his boots, but he felt more himself in his own clothes, especially since they’d evidently been cleaned.
He again refused Drogo’s offer of a hand to rise from the edge of the bed, and carefully got to his feet. Truth be told he felt more like climbing back into bed than facing the count, but when Wendelin reappeared, he took a deep breath and said, “Lead on, hexe.”
She eyed him, up and down. “Handsome lad, you are. No wonder Fräulein Sophia…”
Her mouth snapped shut when she espied Drogo’s gaping stare. “A witch, am I?” she asked. “Mayhap. The earwigs did the trick,” she declared.
He followed her out of the chamber, feeling more than a little queasy.
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat when he entered the count’s solar and found himself face to face with every male member of the von Wolfenberg family.
~~~
Sophia paced the confines of Johann’s chamber, aware Brandt had been summoned to meet with her father.
“What do you think?” Kristina asked from a well-upholstered chair Sophia hadn’t noticed before.
She stared at her friend wondering if she was seeking compliments on the needlework in her lap. “Er…”
“The chamber,” Kristina explained, gesturing to the bed. “I’ve had a few of my own things brought in.”
Sophia scanned the space, feeling guilty she’d been preoccupied with Brandt and hadn’t even noticed the damask bedspread with matching cushions, the lady’s armoire, the chair, the new tapestry. She’d spent days in a fog worrying about her future, plotting ways to sneak into Brandt’s chamber, haranguing Wendelin about his progress. She hadn’t been aware of the arrival of the furnishings from the Halden household. “It smells better,” she quipped.
Her sister-by-marriage grinned. “Doesn’t it! And it’s tidier too. Men are messy creatures.”
She had never considered the fastidious Johann a messy person, but Kristina’s voice held no censure. She was proud of this private little space she shared with the man she loved.
Sophia closed her eyes, conjuring a vision of taking care of Brandt’s everyday needs. She wondered abut his home in Rödermark. His father sounded like a tyrant, but she’d soon charm…
An unpleasant notion intruded on her daydream. “Where is Johann, by the way?”
Kristina hesitated, looking too nervous for Sophia’s liking. “He’s with Lute and Kon,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the embroidery.
She fisted her hands. “And they are?”
“With your father,” her friend squeaked.
Her heart lurched. Brandt must feel like a wild boar cornered by hunters in the woods. The interview was a trial and she’d been given no say. So much for being allowed to choose the man she married.
She hurried out of the chamber, muttering her opinion of the misbegotten males in her family.
~~~
Hands clasped behind his back, Brandt slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The three scowling brothers stood with arms folded, legs braced. He got the impression from Kon’s twitching nose that his heart wasn’t really in whatever they had planned, but nevertheless felt like a fox run to ground by baying hounds.
The unsmiling count gestured to a chair. “Please sit, Brandt.”
He eyed the chair, encouraged that von Wolfenberg had used his given name. However, ev
eryone else was standing. Being the only person seated would put him at a disadvantage, but he didn’t think he could remain on his feet for long. He nodded, and sat.
The brothers filed to stand behind the chair. Sweat trickled down his spine, but he didn’t fear what might happen to him. They’d had plenty of opportunity to do away with him. The sword that hung over his head, the fate that churned his gut, was a pronouncement that he was never to see Sophia again.
Another chair faced the one in which he sat, but the count paced, four steps this way, turn, four back. Then he stopped abruptly and looked Brandt in the eye. “The emperor and Duke Heinrich will arrive here in three days,” he announced.
It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he supposed it meant he’d have to be gone before then.
“As will the Staufen brothers.”
A shiver caressed his nape. “Dukes Friedrich and Conrad?” he asked. “Here?”
“They are coming for a meeting,” the count explained.
Cocooned in his sick bed for days, Brandt had been isolated from what was going on in the outside world, but now reality struck like lightning. He met the count’s gaze. “The campaign against Ruggero of Sicily.”
“I don’t need to explain to you the importance of Staufen support for the emperor’s efforts to keep the Vatican out of Ruggero’s greedy hands.”
“Indeed,” Brandt replied, wondering when his host was going to get to the reason for this interview.
“I speak to you as a fellow German vitally concerned with keeping control of the Holy Roman Empire in German hands,” the count said. “And as the man who wishes to marry my daughter.”
Brandt heard movement behind him. One of the brothers coughed. He wasn’t going to remain seated and accept the thinly veiled insinuation he betray his duke; he had to get to his feet. Jaw clenched, he gripped the arms of the chair, ready to lever himself up. But the count sat down in the chair across from him. “Hear me out,” he insisted, glancing at the silent trio. “My sons are here only because they care about their sister.”
Loyal Heart (The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty #1) Page 11