Knight of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  Ignoring his fresh wound, he grasped her from Johann and towed her back toward the fire, where he stared at her hard in the light cast by the flames. “Is it really you, Lady Lenora? And are you all right?” He chafed her icy hands between his much larger ones. “You’re trembling.”

  She’d never stood near such a large and largely naked man. His chest, lightly furred with dark hair and still slick with traces of blood and sweat, filled her vision. She breathed him in: the tang of musk, battle, horse—a hard fighting man in his prime. Her head reeled.

  And then, through her confusion, she realized that he’d switched from the German he’d been using with his men and was addressing her in English. She hadn’t heard or spoken English in weeks now, since her parents had left the country. Kurt claimed it to be an inferior language and insisted they converse in German.

  This huge man spoke not only in English but in the plummy tones of the British aristocracy.

  She forced her eyes up past that chest to stare at his face—and into his eyes, now lit up by the bonfire. They were as blue as the summer sky. She dragged in a shaky breath and forced her spine straight. “I am not trembling,” she replied in English, as stoutly as she could manage. “’Tis merely that you find me soaked to the skin, half-starved, and rather thoroughly annoyed at being set upon by your merry band of brigands.”

  His face split in a wide grin. “Enough to set anyone to the trembles. I would’ve swooned dead in a faint long ago and been laid flat out on my bed.”

  His mention of fainting started a wheel turning in her head. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” She narrowed her eyes at him and frowned. And then the wheel clicked in place. “You’re the blacksmith from Rotenburg,” she said, gasping. “You were bearded then, but it is you, isn’t it? What are you doing here?” Then the absurdity of her question hit her. “Wait—you’re not a smith at all. Are you a spy? I asked you that day at the castle: Who are you?”

  He stepped back and offered her a gallant bow. “Your servant, my lady. Wolfram von Wolfsbach und Ravensworth. In England, I hold the honor of Earl Ravensworth. Here in Germany”—he smiled disarmingly—“they usually drop my father’s name. I inherited the title of Free Imperial Knight of the House of Wolfsbach through my mother.”

  She stared at him. “You are Lord Ravensworth and Freiherr von Wolfsbach, both British earl and German imperial knight?”

  The ancient order of Reichsritter was not the highest of the German nobility, nor were the holdings of the free knights the largest or the richest. But the imperial knights were among the most ancient and prestigious of all the German nobles. Free from the sometimes petty politics of the small and divided German principalities, the knights originally took orders from none less than the Holy Roman emperor himself on their charge to safeguard the German people. After the Napoleonic Wars and the abolishment of the Holy Roman Empire, Lenora knew that the titles of the ancient Ritter had been mediatized, as the knights no longer served their original purpose. But here was this man fighting for German rights and unity. Did he think himself some warrior-knight of yore, duty-bound to protect the people?

  He gave a small nod to her earlier question. “Since I joined the revolution, most here simply call me der Wolfram—der Wolf-Ram, the Wolf-Raven—or the Black Knight. My mother is the Baroness Magdalena von Wolfsbach, although in England she’s been Countess Ravensworth these past three decades and more. She was clever enough to insist on the Christian name of Wolfram for me, to claim my German heritage as son of the House of Wolfsbach. Her father and the line of Wolfsbach men before him held the honor of knight for almost eight hundred years. The last emperor agreed such an ancient German title shouldn’t go extinct, even if it meant giving it to the son of an Englishman.”

  Ravensworth.

  She knew of the title and the family. Not personally, but her governess had made Lenora memorize the families of the upper peerage. Such knowledge was needed in the duties of a hostess.

  An English aristocrat fighting here in the German revolution?

  Another wheel clicked. “Do you not have a cousin, or is it perhaps a sister, who spent time as a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty?”

  “Yes.” His smile widened. “Margaret, my sister. She’s married now, with two children. Were you at court with her?”

  “I had my presentation whilst Lady Margaret was there; it must have been ten years ago. I remember your sister as particularly kind.” She paused and searched his face. “And she had those same blue eyes.”

  “So you’ve noticed my eyes, have you?” He batted his lashes at her, grinning again.

  She stared at him. Was the man flirting with her?

  “Freiherr, do we send her back to Prince Kurt?” said Müller, coming up to interrupt them.

  “Ja,” added Horwitz, “the girl would fetch a pretty ransom, we thought.”

  The earl scowled and turned to his men. “Silence!” He switched back to German. “That’s enough from you reprobates. Lady Lenora is our honored guest. You will treat her with every respect. We are not giving her back to Prince Kurt. I wouldn’t send a dog to that excuse for a man. He’s no fit master for anyone.”

  She didn’t particular care for this comparison to a dog but let it pass for the moment. “Then you will take me to Frankfurt, Lord Ravensworth, to the British ambassador?”

  The earl shook his head. “The German Confederation is in flames, Lady Lenora. Frankfurt isn’t safe. You’ll stay with us for now.”

  “With a ragtag militia band engaged in battle?” She raised her hands, gesturing toward the tents of the encampment. “That hardly seems any less dangerous. Surely there’s some place of safety where you could hand me over to a British official or set me on transportation bound for home.”

  “No place on the continent is safe for you now. But don’t worry. I have a better idea.” He captured her hand in his much larger grip and turned toward his men.

  “On the morrow, Lady Lenora and I will wed,” he announced to their startled faces.

  Chapter 4

  Wed? What? Marry whom?” Lenora sputtered. “Whatever are you talking about?” She looked around the circle of men lit up by the flickering of the campfire. They looked as shocked as she felt.

  “You and I will marry each other.” The earl lifted her hand and spoke slowly, as if explaining the obvious to a dim-witted child.

  Her mouth dropped open. She held his steady blue gaze as it sank in that the man was serious. “My lord, I just escaped one unacceptable fiancé,” she said. “I am certainly not about to take on another.”

  He shook his head. “Lenora, you misunderstand. I fear that I am not proposing to you. I am telling you: We will marry. It is the only way to keep you safe.”

  A red haze of rage rose up within her. She pulled from his grasp, stepped back, and struck him as hard as she could. She had to reach up to slap his face, and her hand stung fiercely after the contact. It felt like slapping stone. The man didn’t flinch. “I will not be commanded to the altar,” she said hotly. “This is the nineteenth century, sir.”

  He gently took again the hand that had struck him. He raised it to his lips and brushed a soft kiss across her roughened knuckles. “I regret the necessity for the command, lady, but we must and will marry. Here”—his face lit with an air of sudden inspiration—“perhaps this will help.”

  He dropped to a knee in front of her. By this point, a curious crowd of some twenty of his men had gathered at the campfire, attracted by the commotion. The earl laid his hand on his heart. “Lady Lenora Trevelyan, with these words and before these witnesses, I betroth myself to take you as cherished wife. My name, my wealth, and my protection will all be yours. Your honor will be my own, until the end of my days.”

  She took a startled step backward. “Lord Ravensworth, you make a spectacle of yourself! You are no medieval knight errant on some quest to protect a fair maiden.”

  Even Becker groaned. “Wolf, you don’t have to do this,” he said in English. “We’
ll find some other way.”

  Another source of startlement. She stared at Becker. “You speak English also, and with a native accent! Is this entire band of rebels English born?”

  “Only Becker and I,” Ravensworth answered her, coming up off his knee to take her hand again. “He’s Viscount Becker, actually. We’re cousins and grew up together, with family in both England and Germany.”

  “Wolf’s always been quite the romantic,” said Becker, sighing, “but this is going a bit far, even for him.”

  She violently shook loose her hand that had disappeared again within his much larger clasp. Her breath came fast and tight in her chest as she began to panic. Did this man truly intend the insanity he spouted?

  Ravensworth beckoned over from the crowd one of the men looking on with amusement. More than one elbow prodded into a neighbor’s ribs as the men took in the scene, laughing and whispering at one another about the marriage drama of der Wolfram.

  “Schafer, ride back to that last village,” commanded the earl. “Remember the vicar we spoke to there, the one organizing the rally for next week? Tell him we’ve a marriage we need performed, the sooner the better.”

  Her head was spinning. Was the man mad? Had this revolutionary fever gripping all Germany unbalanced his mind? Why else would he propose to take on an unknown wife in circumstances such as these? “Lord Ravensworth, you cannot force me to wed you! I must inform you most strenuously that I do not agree! I will refuse to say any vows or to sign any wedding papers. I’ll tell this vicar a marriage is against my will. Surely he’ll offer sanctuary.”

  The earl turned back toward her. “Lady Lenora, married to me, you’ll be safe. Or as safe as you can be in Germany at the moment. Kurt won’t be able to make any further claim on you. There is no other way.”

  He held up a hand as she drew breath to argue further. “Let us say no more at the moment, my lady. You are wet and cold and hungry. It is to be regretted that my men”—he cast them a hard glance—“have not offered you the most hospitable of welcomes. I am sure that you’ve had a quite trying time since your escape from Rotenburg; you must tell me all about it. Our comforts here are meager, but you will have the best of them. Let’s get you dry and fed. We can talk more then.”

  She schooled herself to a deep breath and a calm voice. “Lord Ravensworth, I accept your gracious offer of hospitality with thanks. I must make very clear, however, that I can and will accept no more than that. Your other proposal”—she couldn’t even bring herself to name his daft suggestion—“remains completely unacceptable. It is not only rash and unnecessary but, frankly, quite mad. If your desire is truly an honorable one to see to my safety, I am sure—and your cousin Lord Becker here seems to agree—that we can find another way.”

  She forced a smile and held his gaze, willing him to concur.

  He merely smiled back, taking her hand—yet again, the silly fool!—to brush another kiss across her knuckles.

  “Gunther!” Without taking his eyes off her, the earl called to the boy who’d helped Krause tend him earlier. “Take our honored guest to my tent and fetch her hot water for washing and some of the stew. See that my lady has her privacy whilst you make arrangements for a full dinner. When it’s ready to be served, fetch me. Lady Lenora and I will dine in my tent.”

  She gave him a tight nod of thanks before unbuckling her satchel from her saddle and marching up to Becker. “I’d like my dagger back, if you please, Lord Becker.” She raised her chin at him. “I might need it to eat my stew.”

  His lips twitched. “Nice try, Fräulein.” He patted her scabbard, tucked into his belt. “But I will hold on to your steel for now.”

  She looked to Lord Ravensworth, but not even that man’s ridiculous gallantry moved him to contradict his cousin. “Perhaps it’s best for now, my lady,” said the earl gently.

  She narrowed her eyes at him before sweeping them all with a haughty gaze. “Until later, then, gentlemen. May the revolution serve freedom for us all.”

  Wolf’s hands tingled with the itch to take her into his arms.

  He had found his princess.

  Granted, she was filthy with mud and bristling with fury. But he knew her nevertheless.

  The princess of his heart.

  She claimed she wanted nothing to do with him. She refused even to consider his offer of marriage. All this, it was true, posed some impediment to their future happiness.

  Yet he’d found her again after having to abandon her at Schloss Rotenburg to that bastard Kurt—a true miracle that she’d landed here in their camp, amid the chaos of the revolution. Surely it was a sign that they were meant to be together.

  She was his one true love. His delicate princess. His soul mate. She simply didn’t know it yet.

  “What the hell are you thinking, Wolf?” Becker’s angry question interrupted his thoughts.

  They paced the farmer’s field lying fallow and serving as pasture to their horses. Wolf had thrown on a greatcoat but was otherwise still bare chested to the chill night. Gunther was to bring fresh clothing after the lad had settled Lenora in the tent. Wolf had even given instructions to fetch his best waistcoat and vest; it wasn’t every evening a man dined with his intended on the eve of their wedding.

  “I am thinking”—Wolf spun to face Becker, greatcoat flaring—“to safeguard a lady and a countrywoman from a man we know to be brutal and despotic. Exactly what, pray tell, is wrong with that?”

  Becker blew out a frustrated breath. “Ensuring her safety is one thing. Marrying her is quite another. There are other ways we can help her.”

  Wolf knew what was coming. His cousin already judged him crazy to be leading this pack of rebels. They both believed in the cause for democracy and civil rights in a unified Germany. But Becker didn’t share Wolf’s idealism for the growing revolution blazing like wildfire across Germany and much of the continent. They’d debated the issue for weeks, with Wolf extolling the new order sure to unfold through the people’s uprising and Becker holding out little hope for real change and justice. He rode at Wolf’s side, he oft informed his cousin, to keep him alive and out of trouble.

  Wolf had to admit that adding a bride to a revolution did qualify as trouble. Perhaps even as lunacy. But was love not a form of lunacy?

  Becker was counting off options on his fingers as he paced toward a line of oaks bordering the field. “If you don’t want to return her to the prince, we could probably get her to Frankfurt. I heard the mail coach has started to run again in some places. Or we could send her home through the Kingdom of the Netherlands; there’s been no revolution there. Maybe even through Sweden or Russia; it would take longer to reach England on such a roundabout route, but those countries have stayed quiet as well.”

  Wolf held up a hand. “Stop—it won’t work, Becker. She needs me. There’s no other way. Not if I want to know she’s safe.”

  Becker threw up his hands. “Why do you care? Yes, she’s a lady, a fellow countrywoman caught up in this turmoil, but she betrothed herself to Kurt willingly. She knew what she was getting into. Her father must have known something about both the confederation’s instability and Kurt’s character when he left her here.”

  “Three months ago no one knew the German Confederation was about to fall,” Wolf argued. “The universities are practically shut down, the assembly isn’t meeting, and revolutions rage across most of Europe. No one predicted the speed of this change and collapse.”

  “But why insist on marrying her, Wolf? This is no time to shackle yourself.”

  Wolf grabbed at his cousin’s shoulders as the shorter man paced by. “Becker, I looked into her eyes.”

  “And?” His cousin spread his hands, bewildered. “She’s got eyes, like any woman.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I looked in her eyes and I knew. I can feel it. She’s my princess. She’s soft and pink and fine. I carried her in my arms like a doll. She’s the one.”

  Becker stared at him. “Wolf, that woman is no delicate flower!
She may well have speared Johann’s throat if I hadn’t stopped her. Granted, he was too stupid to take her seriously as an opponent. But you have no excuse! You’re not seeing her for who she really is: a hard and angry woman.”

  Wolf shook his head again. “It’s only that she’s been mistreated by Kurt and had to fight her way free. At heart, she’s soft and sweet, a true princess.”

  Becker stood, mouth agape. “I have never heard such drivel in my life.”

  “It’s not drivel! Don’t you believe in true love? She’s the one!” Wolf repeated.

  Becker slashed a hand through the air. “There is no one!” he cried. “You made firsts at Oxford, studying less than any of us. You are not a stupid man. How in God’s name can you believe in a fairy tale for fools like love at first sight?”

  Wolf thought it was sad, really, how cynical and jaded his cousin had become. “I don’t expect you to understand,” Wolf said loftily.

  Becker rolled his eyes. “You’ve always tilted at windmills, Wolf, riding to the aid of others, even when we were boys. I know you take seriously the duty of chivalry and the Wolfsbach heritage as knights of the people. You’re a good man. But you don’t have to rescue every stray that crosses your path. This woman could ruin your life. You don’t know anything about her. You only think you do. She could be a scheming woman who lays claim to your wealth and ties you up in the courts for life!”

  “She’ll have every right to my wealth and to the dower. I mean for her to have it. But she’s not like that.”

  “How do you know?” Becker demanded, exasperated.

  “I know her! Look at her! She’s a delicate beauty who has been sorely abused in an untenable situation. She should be cherished and treasured like the princess she is.”

  Becker snorted. “And you’re soft in the head if you believe such sap as that.”

  Wolf tried one last time to make his cousin understand. “You should have seen her at Rotenburg. It was twenty-six lashes before Kurt ordered the flogging stopped. She refused to cry out the entire time. She was magnificent, Becker.”