“Don’t be gentle, Wolfram—not today. I want you like this, hard and fast.”
Her husband, ever the gentleman, complied. Like a man swiving his last, he pumped. Her wetness slid down onto his fingers. She gasped at a dark new sensation as he slipped a slick finger inside her bottom. “Wolfram!”
“Open for me, lady—everywhere. Take me in. Take all from me. I am yours.” He threw his head back, shut his eyes.
She set her mouth on the pulse beating in his neck. She sucked on that strong column, felt the life coursing through him, and gloried in the pulse of life he thrust into her.
She’d not fight this man any longer.
She’d fight for him. And, by God, she’d win.
She began to shake as the coil of passion gripped her hard. He rocked into her, ground against her, twisted into her from behind. She bit his shoulder, hard, to keep from screaming as the climax slammed into her.
She dug her nails into his back.
She tasted blood.
She saw stars.
And she claimed him as hers, in her heart.
Chapter 17
Lenora had thought herself bold, but testifying in the House of Lords pushed even her limits. Peers, of course, had the right to be tried for crimes such as murder and high treason by their fellow peers in the House. Wolfram held the unfortunate distinction of appearing on charges of both. Although his involvement in the overthrow of a government was against a German state, British anxieties about the spread of the revolutions sufficed to add suspicion of treason to the charges Wolfram had been called to answer.
As Mr. Timmins escorted her into the Palace of Westminster—accompanied by a phalanx of additional lawyers and the gentleman usher of the Black Rod with two of his assistant sergeants-at-arms—she promised herself carte blanche with the sherry once she survived today’s ordeal. If all went well, Wolfram would be released and free to come home with her. They could repair to Ravensworth House in London, hole up in the master suite, and not emerge for days.
Now there was a cheering thought.
Mr. Timmins and Sir Richard, the barrister whom Timmins had retained to plead on their behalf, had cautioned her not to expect matters to proceed so quickly. It was much more likely that days of hearings would be needed to decide the matter. Outside consultations with European diplomats and the testimony of witnesses from Germany were likely. The trial could drag on for weeks.
“Quite the crowd, isn’t it?” murmured Callista. She had loyally volunteered to serve as lady companion to Lenora at the trial. “Every peer down to the last baron must have abandoned his grouse hunting early and come to town for the occasion.”
“It’s horrible, the amount of publicity Wolfram’s case has received,” said Lenora, fretting. “The press distorts the truth cruelly. Instead of calling him the ‘Black Knight,’ they’ve taken to the sobriquet the ‘Blackguard Knight.’ ”
“Chin up.” Callista squeezed Lenora’s hand. “As our dear Marie would say, at least you’re exquisitely dressed. That costume she sewed for you”—Callista cast an appreciative glance at the elegant drape of the blue woolen gown—“renders you the very picture of matronly beauty and respectability. And I am sure all will go well.”
Lenora thought back to her stolen moments with Wolfram in his jail cell. Despite the tension of the moment, she bit back a smile. Respectable matron, indeed!
She wished that her father could be present, to argue in support of Wolfram as his new son-in-law. The duke, however, had finally obtained an audience with the Queen, who seemed desirous to schedule the meeting precisely during Wolfram’s trial. The move did not seem one of sympathy to Wolfram’s case and added to Lenora’s worries.
She squared back her shoulders and forced it from her mind. As it was unusual for ladies to be present in the House of Lords, the proceedings were to begin with the establishment of her credentials to testify. Sir Richard had informed them that Lord Halston, the chief justice of the King’s Bench who was presiding over the trial as Lord high steward, intended to take her testimony and then have her and Callista escorted out, to allow the lords to proceed with the trial in male company.
She, however, had a different plan. She smiled to herself again—her husband wasn’t the only one whose heart and fangs were wolfish.
Wolf could tell Lenora was up to something. Her color was high, and she refused to look to where he sat at the defendant’s table. Scheming minx that she was, he didn’t want her here at all, but he’d discovered recently—to his advantage, he must admit, thinking back to that visit in his Newgate cell—that Lenora on a mission was not a force easily stopped.
“Lady Ravensworth, the documents that you have submitted”—Lord Halston, in the ceremonial black-and-gold robes of the high steward, shuffled the papers back into a neat sheaf—“of marriage contracts and affidavits from the church minister and witnesses at your wedding ceremony have all been duly examined. As all parties, including you and Lord Ravensworth, are in agreement as to the marriage ceremony, I find, despite the irregularity regarding the ending of your previous betrothal and the spontaneous foreign context of your wedding, that your marriage is valid in both civil and ecclesiastical courts. You are recognized as legally and duly married to Lord Ravensworth. Your petition to speak in this trial may thus proceed.”
Lord Grantham, a portly senior member of the House who’d been appointed to act as prosecutor in the trial, brought Lenora over to the witness’s podium. “You have relevant testimony to offer in this case, my lady?” he asked.
“I do indeed, my lord.” Lenora’s voice rang out in the House chamber. “My lord husband is innocent of the charge of murder against Prince Kurt of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt and thus also of the associated suspicion of treason.”
Lord Grantham raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And on what basis does my Lady Ravensworth make this claim?”
“On the basis, my lords, that I killed Prince Kurt myself.”
The chamber erupted in exclamations and jeers.
Christ! Wolf curled a tight fist. Would that woman not learn caution? They’d agreed she would not disclose her role in Kurt’s death. Yet here she stood, eager to tell the world.
“Silence!” The high steward called for order from his ceremonial red woolsack. He motioned to the chief officer of the House to end the disturbance.
“Order!” yelled Black Rod, banging his heavy staff on the floor. “We will have order!”
When the din subsided, the bewigged high steward addressed Lenora again. “Lady Ravensworth, your desire to protect your husband is commendable, but you will not be permitted to make a mockery of this court.”
“I assure you that I do no such thing, my Lord High Steward. I offer the simple truth. I threw a dagger quite deliberately between the eyes of the prince. He was dead before he hit the floor.”
Wolf cursed beneath his breath as shouts again filled the House. Hoots of laughter followed as well.
“Quite the bloodthirsty one, this wife of yours! Better watch out, Ravensworth!”
“I would speak with my wife!” Wolf called out. “She must not be allowed to falsely incriminate herself in this way.”
“Indeed,” agreed the high steward. “But your wife, Lord Ravensworth, speaks under oath. Are you prepared to contradict her testimony?”
Sir Richard, their barrister, rose to speak.
“About bloody time,” Wolf muttered under his breath. He wasn’t paying that man to allow Lenora to expose herself.
“My Lord High Steward, may I approach the woolsack with Lord and Lady Ravensworth?” requested Sir Richard.
“You may. Indeed, I wish you would. This story becomes more convoluted by the minute.” The high steward waved over the prosecutor Lord Grantham and Black Rod as well.
Wolf strode forward to hand Lenora down from the witness’s podium himself. “You will not tell this story,” he hissed at her. “There is no need. I can clear my name on my own.”
“If they pin the death of a Ge
rman head of state on you,” she whispered angrily, “it will be the final nail in your coffin. They’ll not let you get away with it. You know how nervous the Chartists have made the government about any sign of civil unrest. The Whigs would love to make an example of you.”
He gritted his teeth. “I can fight my own battles, Lenora.”
“Does it make you feel less of a man to accept the help of your wife?” she said, goading him with narrowed eyes.
Sir Richard cleared his throat, looking between the two of them. “Please, Lord and Lady Ravensworth, let us remember the plan we made in our preparations.”
The high steward waved his hands. “You will stop—the both of you! Lord Ravensworth, I can certainly understand your desire to protect your lady wife from spectacle. It is admirable of you to wish to shield her delicate sensibilities. I must remind you, however, that the noble House of Lords functions today as a court of law, trying you before your peers on a most serious indictment of murder and of undermining the legal government of an ally state and thus potentially of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland itself.”
Wolf crossed his arms mulishly. “The noble House of Lords can go to hell before I let my wife’s good name be dragged before them.”
Even Black Rod seemed intimidated by Wolf’s fierce scowl and the bunched muscles of his tightly crossed arms. The high steward straightened his white sausage-curled wig. “As I said, your protectiveness of your lovely young bride is commendable. However, you chose freely to travel to the German Confederation and involve yourself in the uprisings tearing apart the Continent. We will not permit such lawlessness to grip our good and fair land. Now is the time for the full truth of the matter to come out, so that we may arrive at a just decision in your case.”
“I agree entirely with my Lord High Steward,” Lenora said, pushing herself in front of Wolf. “I am prepared to testify about the truth of all happenings at Rotenburg Castle. My husband, as you see, prefers that I not speak about those events, as he seeks to keep me out of the public eye. My testimony, however, is key to bringing the full truth to light. I beg your protection in the House to tell my story.” She flashed the high steward a blinding smile of pure innocence.
She never smiles at me like that Wolf thought sullenly.
“My lord,” she added, “I throw myself on your mercy and put myself entirely in your hands.”
Damned if the woman didn’t conclude her little speech by batting her eyelashes at the randy old goat.
Wolf narrowed his eyes at the high steward. “Halston, this is not necessary, and nor is it proper. Lady Ravensworth should not even be here today.”
The high steward leaned forward and narrowed his eyes right back. “And yet the lady has chosen to be here. And haven’t I heard you are a great defender of the rights of the gentle sex?” Lord Halston motioned for one of the assistant sergeants-at-arms, with his imposing ceremonial pike, to join them. “Sergeant, escort the earl back to his place at the defendant’s table and,” he added significantly, “remain with him there. Lady Ravensworth”—he bestowed a warm smile on Lenora—“will now continue her testimony, to the satisfaction of the lords.”
Fuming, Wolf stomped back to his seat, muttering under his breath about just what would give him satisfaction, while the prosecutor, Lord Grantham, returned Lenora to the witness’s podium.
“My lords,” the prosecutor said, circling to address the chamber at large, “yesterday, we heard preliminary testimony and sworn statements that Lord Ravensworth fought in the German Confederation on behalf of the revolution. That much is fact. Prince Kurt later took His Lordship prisoner and found him guilty of treason; we’ve examined German court documents to that effect as well. What we need to determine at this point is whether Lord Ravensworth murdered Prince Kurt during the uprising at Rotenburg Castle in order to escape this sentence of German justice that had been imposed upon him.”
Lord Grantham allowed Lenora to give a description of the revolt at Rotenburg: how the revolutionaries and townspeople had stormed the castle, how the garrison had voluntarily laid down its arms and the servants had aided in opening the castle, how the people had freed over two dozen political prisoners from the dungeons: professors, journalists, and town leaders who had dared to support reforms.
“But what do you claim happened then?” asked Lord Grantham, probing. “Lord Ravensworth has refused to give any details on this question, leaving open the suspicion that he murdered the prince, either to escape the castle or in defense of your honor.”
“As I explained, I had ended my betrothal to Prince Kurt and sought to return to England. Lord Ravensworth encountered me in the countryside and proposed marriage to protect me from the prince. Unfortunately, we both ended up back at Rotenburg amidst the flux and confusion of the revolution. In the end, Prince Kurt’s death had nothing at all to do with the uprising. He was trying to kill me because I refused to follow through on our betrothal, and to kill my lord husband, who sought to defend my life. Lord Ravensworth and Prince Kurt fought, but my lord husband was grievously injured from prior battle wounds and imprisonment in the dungeon. I sought to assist him, so I pulled my dagger from its sheath, waited for the prince to turn, and threw. The knife landed as I planned, in the prince’s forehead between his eyes, and Prince Kurt was dead.”
This time the chamber was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
The prosecutor continued his questions. “How far were you from the prince when you allegedly threw this knife?”
Lenora looked around the chamber for a reference point. “I was standing against the room’s back wall; the distance was more or less fifty feet”—she pointed down the room—“from about here to that partition.”
Lord Grantham shook his head as he paced in front of the witness’s podium. “Lady Ravensworth, this story strains all credulity. The chamber was measured by Major Simmons after his arrival from the British ambassador’s office in Frankfurt. Major Simmons has provided sworn testimony that the room was a large state reception chamber, outside the prince’s private bedchamber, and that Prince Kurt lay dead at a distance of fifty-four feet from the wall where you claim you threw the dagger. Now, really, my lady: When and why would you learn to throw daggers? Especially with the degree of deadly accuracy to which you claim possession?”
Wolf sighed and rolled his eyes. There was no stopping her now.
“Our head groom taught me, at my request and with my lady mother’s blessing. I don’t believe my father the duke ever knew, but Her Grace was quite prescient in deeming it a useful skill.”
“You are the daughter of a duke, raised as an English lady,” said Lord Grantham scathingly. “You are not a heathen Gypsy circus performer. I find it hard to believe that you could hit any target at that distance, let alone that you would kill a man.”
Undeterred, Lenora grabbed hold of the podium’s wooden railings and raised her voice over the prosecutor’s. “My lord Grantham impeaches my honor to suggest that I would lie while testifying under oath before my peers, here in the highest court in the land! I speak the truth! And I demand the right to prove it, both to clear this slur on my honor and to clear my husband of these false charges of murder. ’Twas I who killed Prince Kurt in self-defense as he attempted to murder both me and my husband!”
Lord Grantham stepped up to the woolsack. “My Lord High Steward, the lady seeks to clear her husband’s name; that much is obvious. Her ladyship’s loyalty is commendable—indeed, both Lord and Lady Ravensworth appear quite committed to the other’s cause. I fear, however, that their loyalty leads less to truth and justice than to a mere display of marital devotion. It’s touching enough to push us old bachelors to the altar, no doubt, but is not to the point of today’s proceedings.” He waited for the chuckles to die down, tucking his thumbs into his vest lapels and circling the floor like a smug peacock.
“The fact remains,” the prosecutor continued, “that her ladyship could not have thrown the dagger to kill Prince Kurt at the dista
nce from which she stood. No other possibility exists, then, save that Lord Ravensworth himself had access to the dagger and stabbed the prince at close range. In that case, Lord Ravensworth is—”
“I can prove it!” Lenora said, cutting him off. “Bring me knives and I’ll throw to target right now!”
Once more the chamber erupted in howls and jeers. Wolf closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten. He could hear the stories now: he’d wed the woman who threw daggers in the House of Lords.
Notorious, gossiped about, and—the thought pushed through his buzzing annoyance—bloody amazing brilliant. Courageous. Bold in spades, when need be. Willing to stop at nothing to fight for those she called hers. Loyal, clever, beautiful, and, most amazing of all . . . his.
For the first time, the fact that she’d accepted their marriage began to truly sink in. The woman was publicly claiming him as her husband. Damned if she wasn’t flaunting the fact in the House of Lords! She’d left herself no way to back out of the connection now. She’d not only accepted the marriage and claimed it as her choice, she was fighting for it. Fighting for him, warrior-princess that she was.
If he were to walk out of here a free man today, it would be with her on his arm.
As his wife.
“Let the lady prove her claim!” shouted the Duke of Torrington from his seat among the crossbenchers.
“Aye, bring her a set of throwing knives!” chimed in the marquess of Blaringshire from the Tory aisles.
Other peers began to yell out their agreement and encouragement, until the high steward was forced to call again for order and motion for Black Rod to bang his staff against the floor. “May I remind my noble lords of the need for decorum! We will not proceed until order is restored!”
“My Lord High Steward!” called out the earl of Thorpton. “I keep a pair of fine Spanish daggers in my chambers. ’Twas the gift of the last ambassador from Madrid, made of the best Toledo steel, he boasted. Let the lady throw them!”
Knight of Love Page 23