Knight of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  Kurt’s gaze was drawn again to her décolletage, but then his face twisted in an angry grimace. “He took you, didn’t he?” Kurt grabbed her wrist in a punishing twist. “He took your virginity that was to be my prize!”

  She choked down her fear as she remembered how his lust and anger had always fed each other. She had no time for fear, no room for failure. “It is true that I am not a maid anymore, Kurt, but this time”—she patted his hand gently, and his confusion at her calm reaction was enough to loosen his grip—“we are going to do things a little differently. I will not tolerate you beating me, but I am willing to play certain games. Being with Wolfram did teach me something about the ways of men and women. It also allowed me to realize that a man like him isn’t enough for me. He’s too tenderhearted, with this ridiculous fancy that I was a princess to be rescued and his folly about supporting the peasants in their revolt.”

  “You didn’t love him, then? Did you merely lust after him, brute that he is? I’m afraid that not much of his handsome looks are left. Do you still want him now—bruised, bloody, weak?”

  How hard it was to lie and pretend indifference when her heart beat like a rabbit’s scurry in a death chase by hounds! She looked at Wolfram and saw the hurt of betrayal in his eyes. She forced her voice not to waver. “I neither loved nor lusted after the man—not ever. He is, as you say, a brutish giant. He took me against my will and offered naught in return save the supposed honor of his name and the glory of the revolution. He claimed the marriage would protect me, but his intention was to benefit himself, of course, and to spite you in the bargain. He had no more real interest in me than I did in him. I loathed him all along.”

  She picked up her drink and sipped for courage, then slid her glance away to catch Wolfram glowering with dark fury in the corner.

  Kurt glanced between her and his prisoner. “I think you underestimate your charms, my dear.”

  She got up and strolled over to the window, pretending to look at the moon. The castle was quiet—almost too quiet, with no sign of the garrison patrol in the courtyard or by the castle gate. She pulled back the draperies to peer farther out. Had the guards abandoned their posts? Had Helga and her cousin managed to spread word? Then she saw it—a black-clad figure slipping silently across the yard, sword drawn and glinting in the moonlight.

  A small gasp escaped her.

  “What is it?” Kurt asked, frowning, getting up to join her.

  She twirled away quickly, but not before she thought she heard a muffled cry and the clash of steel echo up from below. “Nothing—only the wind and a dog loose in the castle yard.” She glided toward Kurt with the best she could manage of a smile—good Lord, the man must be blind to not see her hatred. “More brandy, Kurt?” she said, a hand against his chest. “I want to talk about moving up our wedding plans. There’s no need to wait now until Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “Leave the brandy, Lenora.” Kurt’s voice sharpened. “I want to know what he did to you. You must tell me everything.”

  She turned away and tried for a little moue of distaste. “Why would you wish to discuss such unpleasantness as all that?”

  “You’re the one, my dear, who asked for the dog to be kept in the room with us. Why didn’t you want him sent back to the dungeon?” Kurt walked behind Wolfram’s pillar and twisted viciously on the wrist shackle chained to his wounded arm. “He must hold some fascination for you.”

  Wolfram fell to his knees with a grunt.

  This time she held back the gasp. “I told you, I enjoy punishing him, holding him against his will as he held me. He tried to use me as a pawn in his battle against you, and I resented it. It seems a fit revenge to keep him here now and force him to witness our reunion.”

  “I see your point, Lenora, dear. But surely you stop too soon.” Kurt dropped the iron chain and circled back toward her. “If it is revenge you seek, we should force him to witness our reunion, indeed.”

  Too late, she saw the trap she’d laid for herself. “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “I think you know very well what I mean.” He drew out the words slowly with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  She forced herself to take his arm and lead him toward a cushioned divan away from both Wolfram and the window. The moment provided an opportunity to slip her hand into the dinner jacket pocket where he’d dropped the key to the shackles.

  Oblivious, Kurt turned toward her. “If you wish to be my Prinzessin again, you must prove it. Prove that you care naught for this traitor. You did promise me to make up your betrayal in a way that I would enjoy. Here is my condition, then: pleasure me on your knees whilst we make him watch.”

  Wolfram roared through his gag and pulled on his chains.

  She swallowed down her bile. She’d known the situation might come to such as this when she’d committed to returning to the castle to rescue Wolfram, but she’d hoped she could hold Kurt off long enough for Becker to arrive.

  Now, however, was not the time to lose nerve.

  Now was the time to fight, in whatever ways a she-wolf could.

  She pushed Kurt down onto the reclining couch. “An excellent idea, my prince—I will pleasure you to make up for my transgressions. And for our joint revenge against der Wolfram, we will make him watch.” She positioned herself just out of Kurt’s reach, standing between the two men. “But first, I want you both to watch. You, Kurt, so that you see I am now all yours, body and soul. And him, so that he sees what he loses forever. Lie back”—she held a hand against Kurt’s chest when he made a move to stand up—“and know that all I do tonight, I do for you.”

  He reclined again against the divan’s back. “Very well, my dear. But remember, my standards are exacting. If your performance does not please me, I’ll throw you back to the revolutionaries.”

  She started with her evening slippers, untying the laces on first one and then the other. Kurt’s eyes never left her—greedy, hard, glistening with his sick blend of anger and desire. She kicked aside the slippers and lifted her skirts coyly to start on her stockings. Her slim dagger lay high on her upper thigh, strapped by a separate garter. Thank goodness for the endless layers of clothing in a fashionable lady’s toilette; they permitted one both to hide weaponry and to perform the slowest of disrobements. But how long could she delay before Kurt’s patience wore thin? And could she distract him sufficiently to not notice the attack?

  Wolfram moved and rattled his shackles just as she thought she heard another shout from outside. She risked a quick look at him—despite his injuries, did he grasp what was happening? Could he assist with the rescue?

  When she glanced back at Kurt, a frown creased his forehead and he was rising from the divan. She quickly lifted her skirts over her bare legs and straddled him on the tufted cushions. She settled across his lap, careful to keep the dagger hidden under her bunched skirts.

  “You wanted to know what the traitor did to me, my prince?” she asked him, purring.

  “Yes.” He frowned still, but looked startled as well to find her on his lap. He put his hands on her shoulders.

  “He took my wrists, like this . . .” She lifted Kurt’s hands off her and pushed them down against the cushions above his head. “Then he tied me to his bed with his cravat. It was a small camp cot in his tent. He told me that if I screamed he’d kill me. His men were stationed in the camp, so I had no possibility of escape or help. Then he drew his dagger and used it to cut away all of my clothing.”

  Kurt’s frown smoothed out, and he lay still under her. He seemed to have forgotten about any noise outside the room. “His dagger? Did he strip you naked?”

  “Yes, quite entirely naked! He cut away the boy’s shirt and breeches that I’d taken from here, the linen binding I used to wrap my breasts flat, and the smalls and stockings I had on as well. He left me completely unclothed, tied to his bed! I wept, I railed against him, I begged for mercy, I cursed him with your wrath! But nothing had any effect. He laughed and said I was his captive
to do with as he pleased. That I was in his complete control and power. Can you imagine, Kurt? Can you imagine what that was like?”

  She leaned over him, pushing his arms farther back against the inclined couch. Her breasts, hitched up in her gown’s corset, hung mere inches from his face. She dropped her head to whisper in his ear, “Can you imagine how I felt—helpless, frightened, exposed, overpowered, completely at his mercy?”

  Kurt’s chest rose and fell faster beneath her. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes, Lenora, I can imagine. Tell me what happened next.”

  “Well, he lit all the lamps in the tent, said he wanted to see his prize of war. He trailed the dagger down my arms and legs as he inspected me, everywhere. I thought he planned to cut me, to mark me as his, but he wasn’t that much of a barbarian, thank goodness. But I could tell he liked having me in his power, the horrible cad.”

  Her story had Kurt entranced. His eyes never left her, his body tense under her. “Yes . . . and then?” he asked harshly.

  The feel and smell of Kurt disgusted her. The precariousness of the situation terrified her. So much could go wrong so easily here tonight, and so many people could be hurt.

  Yet a bubble of laughter caught in her throat at the same time. Kurt’s twisted desires made him so predictable. Could he really be so easy to control?

  “I could see his . . .” She looked away, tried to look abashed. “His arousal. He unbuttoned the fall on his trousers and took it out. He rubbed that part of himself over my breasts, here”—she shifted her grip to hold his wrists in her left hand and slipped the fingers of her right hand into the décolletage of her gown, trailing them over one nipple and then the other—“and here.”

  Kurt’s eyes hooded and he licked his lips.

  “Next, he removed all of his clothing,” she continued, adding a sob to her voice for emphasis. “He straddled me on the cot, standing over me as I am now over you. He was so huge, so tall and muscled and big! If I could have fought him, Kurt, you must know that I would have, but I was powerless to resist his wickedness.”

  “Yes, yes, his wickedness.” Kurt strained upward, grinding his hips against hers. His hard length jutted at her through her layers of skirts.

  He made to shake off the grip of her hand at his wrists, but she pushed him back down, her breasts practically in his face. “No, no, Kurt, I must tell you all that he did to me, so that you know! I want there to be no secrets between us. Lie still, so that I may show you. You see, he took this part of him . . . ” She reached behind her to lay her right hand against Kurt’s own arousal through the wool of his evening trousers. “What do you men call this part of your body, Kurt?”

  “It is the cock, Lenora,” he said harshly, pushing up hard against her hand. “Say it.”

  “Yes, Kurt, he took out his . . . cock.” She hadn’t realized she could make herself blush at will.

  “Did he force you to take his cock in your mouth?”

  “Oh, yes, Kurt, he did! He held the dagger at my neck and said I must take him in my mouth. And that if I tried to bite him, he’d cut my throat! He was so big, and I was so scared!”

  She straddled his chest, one hand looped around his two wrists and the other touching him from behind. He could easily have broken free, but her words held him spellbound, compliant.

  Until he was compliant no more.

  “You’ll do the same for me, Lenora. Unbutton me now and take me in your mouth. I’ll stop you before I spend. Then I want you back on top of me. I’ll take you while you ride me.”

  She fought nausea at his words. “But, Kurt, I must finish telling you first what he did to me! It was horrible, and you must hear it all!”

  “Enough for now—I have other uses for your mouth. Suck me, Lenora, and then I’m going to fuck you, hard. Now!”

  She began to argue with him, but he would hear none of it. He shook free of her grasp, twisted a hand in her hair, and elbowed her roughly to the floor. He was unbuttoning his trousers when the shouts from outside and from within the castle hallways finally grew too loud to blame on a loose dog or the wind.

  With a fierce curse, Kurt redid his buttons. He shoved her aside and strode to the door, throwing it open. “What is going on out here? Where is the guard?” he bellowed, stepping out into the hallway.

  Lenora pushed to her feet and rushed to Wolfram’s side with the key she’d lifted from Kurt’s pocket. “Wolfram, you must flee. Becker is here, liberating the castle.” She fumbled with the lock, almost dropping the key in her fear and haste. “A loyal servant has unlocked the postern gate, and some of your men await you on the other side. They’ll get you to a doctor and to safety.” Up close, Wolfram looked even worse—horribly battered and swollen from the blows. But when she finally freed him from the manacles, he surprised her.

  With a fierce yell, he ripped off his gag. Listing heavily to the side, favoring his badly wounded shoulder, he lurched across the chamber. He grabbed a sword hung in ceremonial display on the wall and brandished it like a man risen from the dead.

  “Wolfram! Take care!” Lenora cried when he stumbled and almost fell.

  He barely spared her a disdainful glance. “If it’s truly Becker and his men in the castle, find them and get to safety.”

  “I’m not leaving you! You’re half-dead on your feet.”

  Kurt came back into the room and to a sudden stop at the sight within. “Half-dead, indeed. Allow me to complete the process.” He drew his sword. “I’ve wanted to end the miserable existence of Wolfram der Grosse for a long time.”

  Lenora stepped in front of Wolfram and spread her arms. “No! You will not hurt this man!”

  “It seems my runaway bride,” Kurt said with a sneer, “is not as penitent as she pretended to be. I always knew you were a lying bitch, Lenora. You have feelings for the dog after all.”

  “He’s twice the man you’ll ever be,” she said, spitting the words at Kurt.

  “He’s a traitor and a half-blood mongrel! He’s betrayed his German blood and our class! What aristocrat fights for the peasants? Not even the English peers will forgive him that sin.”

  “Lenora,” Wolfram said, shouldering her aside, “get out of here—now!”

  Kurt laughed cruelly. “The pair of you are pitiful. It’s time I put you both out of your misery.” He raised his sword. “It seems Rotenburg hosts unexpected guests. A few revolutionaries have come to visit, but they won’t overwhelm my garrison. The chaos of this little event should prove a fine cover for your deaths.”

  With a roar, Wolfram rushed Kurt. The clash of steel echoed in her ears as the two men’s swords slammed together in punishing blows. Wolfram had the advantage of size and skill, but his condition was so weakened, he fell back against Kurt’s every blow. Lenora pulled her dagger from her garter but couldn’t get a clear line on Kurt. The men twisted in battle, the prince striking hard against Wolfram’s wounded shoulder and forcing him back across the room.

  Kurt cast her a hate-filled glance, caught sight of the blade in her hand, and lashed out against her with his sword and a curse. Wolfram lunged forward to block Kurt’s cut and barely succeeded in knocking the prince’s blade away in time. The air whooshed by her as Kurt’s sword missed by inches.

  But the blow left Wolfram badly off balance, teetering forward and exposed.

  Kurt raised his sword and smashed the hilt hard against Wolfram’s head. Wolfram fell to his knees, blood spilling from a gash opening across his temple. Kurt shouted in triumph and shifted his grip on his hilt, preparing to drive the blade down into Wolfram’s chest.

  She didn’t think, aimed by reflex with eye and arm. Acting on instinct, breathing fire.

  You shall not kill this man.

  No more evil may you do.

  My will be done.

  The dagger flew from her hand.

  Her blade sank into Kurt’s skull in the middle of his brow. His eyes locked on hers, startled.

  Then he fell over, dead.

  But h
is sword fell with him. And Wolfram, blood in his eyes, dazed from the last blow, still on all fours, rolled away too slowly.

  She watched as Kurt’s sword blade lay open the flesh of Wolfram’s thigh. He tried to rise, but collapsed and then moved no more.

  A distant bugle startled her—the signal of the rebels’ reinforcements arriving. More voices rose from the courtyard and the hall below.

  “The castle is fallen!”

  “The garrison has surrendered!”

  “It’s over!”

  She stood, frozen, staring at the two fallen men.

  Her ex-fiancé, killed by her hand.

  And her . . . somewhat husband, near dead as well, she feared—unconscious, a pool of blood spreading quickly beneath him. It was the blood that shook her back into action. She ran to Wolfram, yanking the linen cloth off the supper table she’d shared with Kurt as she passed, spilling its floral arrangement to the floor.

  She dropped to her knees beside Wolfram. Sweet Lord—so many wounds and bruises. So much blood. The cloth quickly turned red as she tried to stanch the flow from the long gash across Wolfram’s left leg. Thigh wounds could bleed heavily; she’d once helped her mother tend a groom who’d died from such a wound after a bad throw from a horse.

  Led by Helga, Becker ran into the room, sword drawn. The housemaid screamed, and Becker took in the bloody scene at a glance. “Lenora, are you unharmed?” he asked.

  She barely looked up. “I’m fine. It’s Wolfram who needs help. You must fetch a doctor immediately!”

  Becker swore and issued a sharp command to one of the men behind him. “Christ, is that your dagger between Kurt’s eyes?” he said, incredulous.

  “Yes,” she said, not sparing Becker a look. So much blood! She ripped out one of her petticoats and leaned over Wolfram to apply more pressure to the thigh wound, ignoring the oozing gash on his temple for the moment.

  “Did you throw it?”

  She did look at Becker then, from over her shoulder. “Yes.” She raised her chin high. “I threw the dagger and killed the prince.”