Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  "No. This is wonderful, Berdine, thank you," Kassandra replied. She blew gently on the surface of her tea, then took a sip. It was one of her favorites, sweet cinnamon.

  "Very well, milady. I will return in a short while and prepare your bath. The water should be just about heated in the kitchen." Berdine bobbed a short curtsy, then hurried from the room and closed the door behind her.

  Kassandra took another sip of tea, her gaze sweeping the room. There could only be one explanation. Stefan must have carried her into her chamber while she slept, slipped a nightgown over her head, and tucked her into bed, then arranged her clothing to look as if she had done so herself. He knew as well as she the impropriety of being found sharing a bed together, despite their plans for marriage.

  Their plans for marriage . . . Funny, she mused. For the first time, the thought of marrying Stefan did not rankle. She set the teacup on the tray and rested her head against the pillow, closing her eyes. She tentatively touched her lips, still tender from the fiery passion of his kiss, her skin tingling with vibrant memories of his embrace.

  A warm sense of fulfillment welled up inside her. It enveloped her completely, and she sighed, recalling the male scent of him, the taste of his mouth, the rough texture of his skin, the giddy excitement whenever his eyes, startling in their gray depths, caught and held her own. And most of all, his words of love and desire, thrilling her still as they echoed in her mind. He had called her his only love . . .

  Kassandra's eyes drifted open and she gazed at the bolted door with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it might be possible for them to find some happiness together after all, she considered, despite what had gone before. She could no longer deny to herself, or him, that she yearned for him with a passion beyond her understanding.

  Perhaps what they had shared the night before signified a new beginning. She could not help wondering if there might be something more between them than desire, something not yet touched upon . . .

  A soft rap at the door dispelled her thoughts. Could it be Stefan? She smoothed the coverlet and ran trembling fingers through her tangled hair, feeling as foolish as a blushing girl half her age.

  "Come in," she called breathlessly.

  Berdine opened the door. "I've summoned your bath, milady."

  Kassandra could barely mask her disappointment. "Thank you, Berdine," she murmured, sinking back against the pillows. Ah, well, she would go and find him when she was finished with her bath and dressed. She waited until the maidservants had filled the porcelain tub, set near the decorative heating stove in one corner of the room, before she threw back the coverlet and swung her feet to the floor.

  Berdine arranged the painted screen around the tub to afford Kassandra some privacy as she stripped off her nightgown, pinned up her hair, and stepped into the steaming water. She bathed hurriedly, much to the surprise of the young maid, who was used to her lingering over her bath. Then she was out of the tub and buffing herself dry with a thick towel as she walked to the closet, leaving a trail of wet footprints upon the carpet.

  Kassandra dressed with unusual care in an emerald silk morning gown. Sitting impatiently at her dressing table, she bade Berdine not to bother overmuch with her long hair. A few simple brushstrokes soon had it gleaming with brilliant highlights, and two gold combs, her only decoration, swept the heavy mass away from her forehead. She donned a pair of soft slippers and skipped lightly toward the door.

  "But milady, what about your meal?" Berdine asked, glancing at the untouched tray.

  "I'm not really hungry," she called over her shoulder as she left the room. "But if you would like, Berdine, you're welcome to it."

  Kassandra paused in the corridor, looking both ways before reaching a decision. Instead of walking toward the staircase, she turned in the other direction, stopping when she came to Stefan's door.

  She tested the doorknob, unable to resist the urge to see if he was in his chamber. The door opened easily and she peeked inside, but the room was empty. She began to close the door, but her curiosity got the better of her and she ventured inside. She had never seen his chamber before last night, and she was not surprised she could remember little about it.

  The brightly lit room was extremely large, with a massive fireplace at one end. It was sparsely furnished, almost spartan, the great bed near the tall windows the dominant feature in the room. Her skin heated like wildfire as she drew closer, running her hand along the brocade bedspread. She could almost sense Stefan's presence there, vivid images of the night before flashing through her mind. She closed her eyes, remembering. A long time passed before she left the room, her breath caught in her throat, fearful that one of the servants might find her there.

  Kassandra hurried past her door and continued down the hallway, her steps light and buoyant. She felt happier than she had in months. She almost ran down the stairs, checking first his library, which was dark and empty, then the dining room. But there was no sign of Stefan, or anyone else for that matter. Next she tried the kitchen, but its only occupants were the cook and several maidservants, busily preparing the evening meal. Last she tried the drawing room, nearly colliding with Isabel as she pushed open the door.

  "Kassandra!" Isabel gasped, stepping back in surprise, the letters she had been holding now scattered on the floor. But she merely laughed, a pretty smile lighting her features. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to spend the entire day abed." She bent down and began to pick up her letters, and Kassandra knelt by her side to help.

  "Forgive me, Isabel," she began, rising and handing over several crisp packets. "The gala went much later than I had imagined—"

  "So Stefan told me," Isabel interjected. "But come and sit down, and tell me everything." She settled in a soft armchair near the harpsichord while Kassandra pulled out the high-backed chair in front of the writing cabinet. "I had hoped to hear more from him, but he was in such a hurry to be on his way this morning."

  Kassandra glanced up sharply as she took her seat. "On his way?"

  "Yes. He left for the winter camp of the Imperial army, a day's ride from here. But of course, you know all about it, Kassandra. So tell me, was the gala absolutely splendid? If only I hadn't been plagued by that awful headache. I would have loved to have been there."

  "What winter camp?" Kassandra asked softly, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

  Isabel leaned forward in her chair. "Stefan did not tell you?"

  Kassandra shook her head, twisting the silken fabric of her skirt.

  "Why, just yesterday morning he said he'd be leaving in about a week. He knows how much I dislike to see him go, so he always waits until the last moment to tell me anything. Then last night, Prince Eugene told him he had to leave much earlier than expected. But I cannot believe he didn't mention all this to you."

  Isabel shrugged her delicate shoulders, sighing deeply. "Men and their unfathomable passion for war," she murmured. "They seem to think of little else." She quickly explained the camp's purpose, then rushed on. "All Stefan really told me was they are beginning preparations for the summer campaign against the Turks. But where the Imperial army will strike, and when, is a most closely guarded secret."

  "How long will he be gone?" Kassandra queried, her gaze focused blindly on some point in front of her, a hard lump in her throat.

  "Until early spring, I believe," Isabel replied. She patted Kassandra's hand, noting with dismay that it was ice-cold. "I'm truly sorry, Kassandra, that Stefan didn't tell you. As I said, he had originally planned to leave at the end of the week, but then the most unexpected thing happened last night at the gala. He was named commander in chief of the camp—well, at least temporarily, until Prince Eugene takes full command in the spring. I'm so proud of him. It's quite an honor. Perhaps his mind was so full of his duties and responsibilities—"

  "Of course, that must be it." Kassandra fixed a smile upon her face as she squeezed Isabel's hand. "I'm sure he will write a letter, and explain everything."

  "Oh, I kno
w he will," Isabel agreed, relieved that she was taking the news so well. Though for the life of her, she could not imagine why Stefan had neglected to apprise Kassandra of his plans. It was so thoughtless of him.

  Isabel paced the floor excitedly. "But we shall have a marvelous time together, you and I, and the days will pass so quickly, he will be back before we know it. And there is so much to do before your wedding . . . I mean, there's certainly no harm in beginning some preparations, Kassandra, your gown, your trousseau." She paused, sighing. "I haven't received a single reply yet from Miles to any of my letters, and heaven only knows if he has even received them due to this nasty winter and all the snow. But I believe the last of our worries should be receiving his consent to your marriage."

  Isabel glanced down at the letters clutched in her hand. "Speaking of which, I must have Zoltan take these into Vienna and post them for me at once." She hurried to the door. "I'll be back in a moment, Kassandra," she called over her shoulder. "Say a prayer that one of these letters reaches your father." Then she was gone.

  Kassandra sat motionless in her chair, silence descending over the room like a suffocating vapor. So Stefan had known he was leaving . . . and hadn't bothered to tell her. Cold fury welled up inside her. Not even last night, when they lay in each other's arms after . . . after . . .

  "Damn you to hell, Stefan von Furstenberg!" Kassandra raged under her breath, rising to her feet so suddenly that the chair fell to the carpeted floor with a resounding thud. She stormed to the window, her arms clasped tightly to her chest as she stared out across the snow-covered lawn.

  It was all so painfully clear, she thought bitterly, swallowing hard against the tears stinging her eyes. Obviously she was good enough to bear the brunt of his endearing lies . . . and his lust, but hardly worth including in other facets of his life!

  Kassandra felt almost a physical pain as the promising notions she had entertained so briefly vanished from her mind like whispering phantoms. It was just as Stefan had said. He had need of a wife, an heir. It was only her body he was interested in, not her. She meant nothing to him. Nothing.

  Another wrenching thought struck her. The bastard! Maybe last night was merely a cruel ploy to hasten along his desire for an heir!

  Kassandra wiped the tears rolling down her face with the back of her hand. What a fool she was! For a few fleeting hours she had actually believed Stefan cared for her. She could have sworn she saw some affection in his eyes, felt it in his caress, heard it in his whispered words of passion. But it was all an illusion, a heartless play on her emotions, a calculated ploy to get what he wanted from her.

  Well, damn him, she would not be so easily deceived again, no matter what he might say or do! When he returned from this camp of his, she would give him a welcome he would not soon forget.

  Chapter 25

  "Alert me at once when Prince Eugene arrives at the camp," Stefan ordered of his aide, who was standing at rigid attention in front of the plain wooden table strewn with papers and maps.

  "Yes, Commander," the young officer replied with an eager bow of his head. He wheeled smartly and strode from the room, his spit-polished boots black and gleaming.

  Stefan sat back in his chair, barely suppressing a grin. For the life of him he could not imagine how his new aide, the middle son of an archduke, kept his boots so clean. The camp was a sea of mud, brought on by the spring thaw and torrential rains that had plagued them for several weeks now.

  Stefan toyed absently with his ink pen, wondering if he had ever been as green as that newly recruited soldier. Probably, he mused with a short laugh. No doubt he, too, had been overly enthusiastic, anxious to please, reveling in the pomp and grandeur of military life, the parades, the pageantry.

  His expression darkened. That had ended soon enough with his first battle, his true initiation into the startling realities of his profession. He could recall all too well his brash exhilaration and hotheaded bravado, soon tempered by scenes of brutal war. Each successive battle had transformed him gradually into the seasoned soldier he had become—what his young aide would have to become if he was to survive.

  A knock on the door broke into his grim thoughts. "Enter," Stefan called out, leaning forward in his chair.

  A mud-splattered courier stepped into the room, wiping his damp, dirtied face with his cap. "I have brought the mail from Vienna, Commander von Furstenberg," he said.

  "Good. Set it here," Stefan replied, clearing a place amidst the stack of papers. The courier quickly obliged him, dropping the leather bag atop the table and unfastening the metal buckles. He threw open the flap and dumped a pile of letters and several rolled documents in front of Stefan, then brought the emptied bag up under his arm. "That's all I have, sir," he murmured.

  "You'll find a warm meal in the cooking tent, a short walk from here. Have one of the men show you the way," Stefan said, dismissing him with a nod.

  "My thanks, Commander." The courier quickly left the room, his stomach growling hungrily, visions of salt pork, boiled potatoes, and good, strong beer urging him on.

  Stefan set aside the rolled documents, deciding he would look at them later. He sorted through the letters, searching for any familiar handwriting. He was nearly to the bottom of the pile when he spied a letter from Isabel, and though he was pleased to receive it, he could not help feeling keen disappointment that there was nothing from Kassandra.

  He grimaced. He was hardly surprised. She hadn't answered any of his letters these past two months, his only word of her having come through Isabel's frequent missives. Isabel had regaled him with myriad details of how they spent their days, their shopping trips into the city, visiting this milliner or that dressmaker, searching out the perfect point lace, or the most exquisite fabric. There had been occasional galas, usually only Isabel in attendance, and quiet evenings spent in his library, she at her needlework, Kassandra curled up in a chair, reading. In last week's letter had come unexpected word that Miles Wyndham would be returning to Vienna in early April.

  All of this hardly whetted Stefan's appetite for the news he was craving, news only Kassandra could afford him. How was she spending her time when Isabel was away from the estate? Was she riding the Arabian mare he had given her, walking in the woods? Was she thinking of him with loving thoughts, as he hoped, or angry thoughts, as her lack of correspondence seemed to suggest?

  "Enough with torturing yourself," Stefan muttered under his breath, glancing down at the letter in his hand. He broke the wax seal with his thumb and slit open the crisp packet with a thin-bladed silver opener, then drew the folded letter from the envelope. It was dated only three days ago. A faint smile touched his lips as he read Isabel's affectionate salutation, but it faded abruptly, his brow furrowed into a frown, his hand clenching the ivory paper.

  "What the devil," he exclaimed, reading the body of the letter with heated intensity.

  She and Kassandra could have been killed . . . Their carriage had suddenly lost a wheel and overturned in a ditch along the road leading to the estate . . . Zoltan was thrown to the ground and severely injured . . . The two horses, horribly maimed, were shot dead where they lay . . .

  Stefan read on in disbelief. Isabel's handwriting, usually so graceful, was a blotted scrawl, as if she had written not long after the terrifying incident she was so vividly describing. But her last paragraph calmed him somewhat, filled with assurances that she and Kassandra were fine, though bruised and badly shaken, and closing with a fervent wish that he return home soon.

  Stefan set the letter down and leaned his head in his hands. Gut-wrenching emotions assailed him—worry, helplessness, frustration—and overwhelming relief that they were unharmed. He sighed heavily. He had wished so many times he could be there, now, after this letter, more than ever. But he could not return to Vienna until Prince Eugene relieved him of his duties at the winter camp, duties that were becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on. It had been so long since he had seen Kassandra and held her in his arms, her jasmine
-scented hair and her silken skin enveloping his senses . . .

  Suddenly he brought his fist down hard upon the table, the sound reverberating through the sparsely furnished room. Damn it, man, you cannot allow your personal desires to overrule your sense of duty, he berated himself fiercely. Yet even as he tried to force her from his mind, she was there, like a vision before him.

  "Kassandra . . ." he murmured under his breath, closing his eyes so he could see her more clearly. She had bewitched his thoughts as surely as she had captured his heart.

  Everything about her haunted his memory—her rich voice, her singular beauty, her wit and intelligence, her indomitable spirit. He could not forget how she had looked the morning he left for the camp . . . with the dawn light spilling across her pillow, her flaming tresses flecked with gold, and a soft smile curving her lips as she lay sleeping peacefully. How he had longed to wake her and tell her he was leaving and why, but most important of all, how much he loved her. Yet something had stopped him.

  Stefan opened his eyes and stared blindly at the letter, his feelings at that moment rushing back to him. Even on the battlefield he had never felt so vulnerable. He had so much to tell her, so much to explain, and there had been so little time. How could he make sense of what lay deepest in his heart, in the few precious moments before he had to set out for Vienna, then the winter camp?

  And he had been afraid. Afraid that after declaring his love, she would still denounce him. Even after the night they had shared, after she had at last admitted her desire for him, perhaps nothing, not even his love, could erase what had happened between them at the tavern or how relentlessly he had pursued her, forcing her into a marriage she did not want.

  Finally he had left her room, unable to bear the thought that she might refuse his love. He wanted to remember her as she was, sated from the heat of passion, his name, cried out during their sweetest release, upon her lips.