Knight of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  He groaned in his drugged sleep.

  The snake unfurled as well.

  She’d seen it happen with Kurt, knew the general mechanics involved. But this time no revulsion filled her. Instead, an answering heat began at the juncture of her own thighs. She kept the sponge on him and raised her other hand to brush the tip of her breast through her boy’s shirt. She inhaled sharply at the thrill that shot through her.

  Was this wrong, to touch herself? She’d heard whispers, of course, and read vague warnings in books of ladies’ comportment, that such touching could lead to the vastest array of maladies and a most dangerous weakening of the constitution. But any of the few times she’d dared be so bold with herself in bed at night in England, exciting bliss was all she’d felt.

  And was it wrong to touch a helpless, vulnerable man in such a way? Or was there not some justice in it, in taking back from him some of what he’d taken from her?

  The sight of him, naked and spread before her to do with as she pleased, roused the strangest sensation: a tingling awareness of her body and its possibilities, a liquid heat, a yearning. Desire—and power—beat a heavy pulse through her body.

  She wanted more.

  She darted a quick glance around—she knew they were alone. Becker slept one floor up and she’d locked the door earlier, but still . . . She lifted her foot to the bedrail and slipped a hand under the waistband of her breeches. Shame and guilt flitted at the edge of her awareness, but stronger every minute was the sense of rightness—and a need for more. She trailed her fingers up and down his now rigid shaft. So hard it was, and yet such silken soft skin encased it. A bead of moisture appeared on its tip, and she smeared it across the thick head of him, straining and beating to its own pulse.

  His moisture matched her own, gathering now at that secret core of hers. She slowly stroked her own flesh as her hips rocked to his movements. Some nameless part of her tingled with fierce pleasure when she flicked and rubbed at it.

  He was hers: his strength tamed, his desire under her control—entirely, literally, in the palm of her hand.

  He groaned again, more loudly. Would he awake, despite the dose of laudanum? She didn’t want that. She wrapped her palm around his bulbous head and held her hand still. With her other hand, she concentrated on the peaks and dips of pleasure she could bring to her own body. Watching him laid out before her, her pleasure began to rise fast.

  She trembled as a climax hovered nearer. Her mouth fell open, her breathing loud to her own ears. Her eyes never left the spread-eagled giant whose power she held in her hand.

  And then the wave crashed over her. She bit her cheek to keep from crying out as she pushed against her core until the last pulse faded.

  He was rock hard, straining against her palm, his own mouth open, head thrust back.

  She straightened and wiped the wetness of her hand against the base of his shaft. It drew another moan from deep within him.

  Then she released him. And drew up the sheet.

  “I think you need to conserve your strength,” she whispered. A smile curved her lips. For the first time in quite a while, she felt rather pleased with the situation in which she found herself.

  The situation she’d created.

  “Sleep well, my warrior.” She pressed a kiss to her index and middle finger—what a spicy aroma—and smoothed the fingers across his still-straining brow. “You’ll live to fight and play another day.”

  Then she crossed the hall to her solo bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke, the house still lay in dark. The enchantment of earlier had faded. Only confusion and guilt remained. What had she done? She knew not what to make of the strange mood—and seductive sense of power—that had come over her at Ravensworth’s bedside only hours before. Her own behavior shocked her.

  She must leave this man, escape this farce and turmoil, before she turned mad.

  She slipped into her boy’s clothing and sneaked out the back door through the kitchen. A few of the earl’s coins weighted her pockets, and a satchel of supplies hung over her shoulder. She took her dagger with her, tucked in her right boot, but left her other personal items in her room so as not to rouse suspicion. The note she set by the earl’s bed said she’d gone to gather more feverfew in the copse before dawn, as the herb was most potent then and she feared a return of the fever. All lies—any sensible healer knew feverfew was best harvested by moonlight—but she hoped the note would buy her the few hours she needed to reach safety.

  The groom she roused at the Horse and Feather’s stable seemed groggy enough to ask no questions about why der Wolfram was sending a boy out on the road a good hour before dawn. “As the Freiherr wishes,” the groom said, reaching for the bit and saddle.

  Bah, how the man had become a romantic hero of the revolution was beyond her. There was no romance in any of these battles. No clear victory or improvements in the lot of the people lay ahead for Germany. The nobles were too entrenched in their power and too unwilling to give it up. Change would no doubt come, but not at a pace to please the revolutionaries. Nor their war hero the Lord Raven-Wolf, free knight of the people.

  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 nar
rowed 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

  Schloss 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, h
is 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.