Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  And kind. He must be kind. And patient. And not given to raising his voice or poking fun about her weight or figure. She’d had a lifetime of being lectured and screeched at, and too many biscuits, sweet meats, and pastries as a child had developed into excess curves she couldn’t seem to rid herself of no matter how many reducing diets she tried, food choices she restricted, or lengthy daily walks she took.

  Her dearest friend, Katrina, the Duchess of Pendergast, tried to convince Shona that she wasn’t prone to plumpness. Pooh. What kind drivel. She saw herself in the looking glass every day. Her bosoms were … well … big. And her hips flared out, generous and full, from her waist. Oh, to have slender, narrow hips and thighs. What a lovely thing that would be.

  True, no flabby flesh jiggled about beneath her chemise, but at soirée after rout after assembly—when she’d braved lifting her gaze from her hands neatly clasped in her lap—she’d witnessed gentlemen flocking to the lithe, svelte misses. Or the full-bosomed ones with willowy hips, while chuffy, unexceptional lasses such as herself were seldom spared a second glance.

  “I’m positive I saw our Lady Atterberry slip out the terrace doors, Clarence, dear.”

  A familiar grating voice penetrated Shona’s turbulent musings.

  Hangnails and hoary toads. Velma Olson.

  From behind a potted palm, which did little to conceal her, Shona peeked through the other door. She groaned. Beneath a purple-fringed parasol, Clarence Olson and his domineering mother, tramped toward the conservatory, red-faced and perspiring like lathered racehorses.

  She’d been found out, confound it.

  “And when she did, I purposed to find you at once,” Mrs. Olsen said. “It’s providence, surely. She’ll welcome your addresses, darling. How could she not? Trust me. Mother’s know these things.”

  What colossal windbaggery!

  Shona wouldn’t have Clarence Olson if the peacocks wandering the estate, starting singing opera. In Gaelic. If the Olsons thought she was ripe for the plucking, they’d find themselves gravely mistaken.

  Slightly breathless, Mrs. Olson rattled on. “Surely a bashful Scots drab such as she realizes the honor you bestow on her with your attention.”

  “Hardly a drab, Mother,” Mr. Olson denied with an impatient shake of his sandy blond haired head. “She’s really quite comely, and I find her accent charming.”

  Me comely? Shona barely stifled a snort.

  Been nipping his flask of brandy, had he?

  She wasn’t in the mood for those two.

  Like dogs trailing a fox, they’d pursued her relentlessly since Lady Wimpleton had introduced them. Shona was no fool. Neither Mrs. Olson nor her bird-witted fop of a son had given her a second look until someone addressed Shona as Lady Atterberry. At once, the rapacious pair had openly questioned several guests about her, and then suddenly, they were as attentive as miserly bankers counting their hoarded bank notes.

  Fisting her skirts, Shona lifted them scandalously high, exposing her entire calves, and tore from the greenhouse as if hell’s hounds nipped at her satin-covered heels. She’d prefer the devil’s own dogs to the Olsons’ importuning presences.

  The oak grove wasn’t so very far away, and the chance of someone else seeing her pelting, neck or nothing, was slight. She hoped.

  “Lady Atterberry! Wait.” Mrs. Olsen’s shrill voice raked down Shona’s spine, like a freshly sharpened gardening claw.

  I think not.

  Breathless from her charge across the grass, her lovely slippers hopeless stained, Shona plowed into the oaks’ delicious shade. Glorious coolness engulfed her. Despite her frantic flight, she sighed in appreciation. This is where she ought to have hidden away. Next time—

  “Lady Atterberry?” Mr. Olson’s reedy voice echoed far too near. “Where’d the gel git to?”

  Tossing a frantic glance behind her—the dratted pair still pursued her—Shona stumbled over a massive root snaking across the ground.

  A tiny yelp escaped her. Her arms flailing, straining to regain her balance, from the corner of her eye, she saw the man in brown sprinting toward her, his hands outstretched.

  The instant before she tumbled headfirst into the lake, her gaze met his one piercing blue eye.

  Other A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Series Books

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  Her Scandalous Wish

  When an obligatory marriage offers turns into an unexpected second chance for love, Lord Kingsley seizes it, but Philomena’s desperation-born acceptance forces her to trust the man who betrayed her once already.

  To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart

  When a privateer-turned-duke enlists help finding a bride from a woman intended for another, neither is prepared for the resulting havoc.

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  Courageous Heart

  Von Wolfenberg Dynasty Book II

  Anna Markland

  For my son-in-law Kevin

  “Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.

  They somehow know what you truly want to become.”

  ~Steve Jobs

  Prologue

  Estate of Count Dieter von Wolfenberg, Saxony, 1137 AD

  Kristoff Bryce von Wolfenberg’s indignant screams echoed off the stone walls of the musty church.

  “I fear Father Gebbert might drop him into the holy water,” the babe’s grandfather whispered to his nervous wife when the elderly priest leaned heavily against the font, struggling to maintain his hold on the sturdy child.

  She rolled her eyes. “We’re sure to hear cries of protest if that happens.”

  The relief was evident on the cleric’s wizened face when the baby’s smiling godmother stepped forward to take the burden from him. The newly baptised infant calmed and seemed content to lie in his godmother’s arms atop her swollen belly, and gaze into the rafters.

  “Sophia will make a good mother when her time comes,” Countess von Wolfenberg whispered proudly.

  Dieter smiled. “And by the look of our daughter, that won’t be long now.”

  Father Gebbert glared, evidently annoyed by the whispers. “Count Dieter,” he intoned, “it’s my understanding you will profess the promises of the godfather since he is in absentia.”

  The doddering village priest knew very well their son-by-marriage was away fighting a war, as was the babe’s father, but Dieter saw no point in antagonizing the increasingly bad-tempered soul. “Ja, I will make the promises on Brandt’s behalf, as I did for the babe’s father, my son, Johann.”

  He glanced across at Sophia and his daughter-by-marriage standing at the other side of the font. The heir to the von Wolfenberg title had been safely delivered and Kristina was recovering quickly from her confinement. Despite the women’s obvious happiness at this blessed event their eyes betrayed the deep regret that neither husband was present.

  Sophia had blossomed and remained healthy during her pregnancy, and hopes were high for the safe arrival of an heir to her husband’s title in the very near future. Dieter doubted word had reached Brandt in Italy of his father’s recent death. He likely didn’t know he was now Count Rödermark.

  Both fathers were newly married
young men obliged to leave Germany to fight for Emperor Lothair in his campaign to wrest lands in southern Italy from King Ruggero of Sicilia. He prayed they still lived and would return safely to hold their babes. Neither knew before his departure that he’d planted the seeds of the future.

  As Dieter repeated the godfather’s baptismal promises on Brandt’s behalf, he admitted inwardly the absence of his three sons and his son-by-marriage had taken a toll on him and his wife. He felt he’d aged a hundred years and even Blythe’s never-flagging optimism had waned.

  He’d been deeply embroiled in diplomatic efforts to bring about concessions from Ruggero, but the Sicilian seemed intransigent.

  They worried particularly for Kon, their youngest son who’d long expressed a desire to enter the religious life. How did he fare in Italy? He wasn’t cut out to be a soldier, any more than Lute, the middle son. Lute’s irrepressible sense of humor, inherited from his mother, would stand him in good stead. However, Dieter knew first hand that the blood and gore of battle could destroy a young man’s optimism.

  Reports had come of a decisive imperial victory at Salerno. “Pray they are all safe and whole,” he whispered, taking his tearful wife’s hand as they exited the church. “Wherever they march next.”

  He refrained from mentioning news of the devastation of towns and villages Lothair’s army had left in its wake. The emperor’s son-by-marriage, Commander-in-Chief Duke Heinrich of Saxony, was almost certainly responsible for the merciless harrying.

  He suspected Lothair would march next to Termoli. He hoped Ruggero’s vassals there realized resistance was futile and decided to surrender without a fight.

  Termoli

  Outside the walls of Termoli,

  Duchy of Apulia, Southern Italy, Spring 1137AD

  “Termoli has surrendered,” Emperor Lothair intoned solemnly.

  His son-by-marriage stood next to him, short, beefy legs braced atop the mound of yellow earth that served as a dais. “It would appear news has reached them of our glorious victory at Salerno,” Duke Heinrich gloated.

  Half-hearted cheers sounded from the group of thirty or so weary imperial officers assembled to hear the good news. Among them in the sweltering heat stood Lute von Wolfenberg. “That’s a relief,” he muttered to his brother-by-marriage. “You’ve probably heard rumors of our exhausted soldiers refusing to carry on a siege in this inferno.”

  Brandt grinned wryly. “The stench of fish guts alone is enough to deter the keenest warrior.”

  Lute wrinkled his nose in agreement. “Thanks be to the saints the rulers of Termoli want to avoid the same slaughter inflicted on the other towns and villages we’ve destroyed in our march to glorious victory.”

  The sarcasm in his own words troubled him, and he sensed from Brandt’s silence he’d heard it too. The devastation wrought at Heinrich’s insistence had sickened him. Yet he’d been surprised to discover during the months-long campaign that he was a capable soldier, like his father.

  Duke Heinrich had recognised it too and Lute now held the same rank as Brandt.

  Kon hadn’t begrudged him the promotions, but then his younger brother didn’t have a jealous bone in his body.

  Lute’s half-brother had risen even faster in the ranks to become Heinrich’s adjutant. However, Johann insisted modestly his promotion had come as a result of the duke’s obligation to their father. Being constantly at Heinrich’s side was probably the safest place for the heir to the Wolfenberg title, though Johann privately admitted he loathed the man.

  “Small wonder Emperor Lothair looks happy,” Brandt remarked. “Count William of Loritello is apparently willing to pay him homage and open the gates. Ruggero will be furious when he hears of it.”

  Lute mopped his brow. “But he’s in Sicilia by all accounts and sent no troops.”

  “Probably knows better than to fight in this heat,” Brandt retorted sarcastically. “I used to think summers in Franconia were hot, but Italy is unbearable, especially in this confounded armor.”

  The emperor brandished a fist in the air and glowered at his troops. “I have guaranteed there will be no looting, rape or murder,” he intoned. “We want trade to continue in and out of the seaport.”

  There was a low murmur of dissatisfaction with the pronouncement, but Duke Heinrich’s steely glare soon silenced it.

  Lute elbowed Brandt. “Even Heinrich thinks it’s too hot to loot and murder,” he quipped. “And neither of us has a taste for rape.”

  Brandt shrugged. “True.”

  Lute chuckled. “My sister’s the only woman you want.”

  He was happy for Sophia that she’d found love with her new husband, and glad that he and Brandt were friends. The marriage had taken place mere sennights after Johann and Kristina were wed. However, both men had been forced to leave their brides behind in Saxony to join the army. They seemed to find solace in sharing hopes about sons that may have been born in their absence.

  The devout Kon found peace in prayer. He would have entered the priesthood by now but for the Italian campaign.

  As the emperor droned on in the oppressive heat and dust, Lute repeated something his sister had told him months before. “You and Johann are destined to inherit earldoms. Kon will enter the religious life. Sophia predicted I would one day find my calling. I suppose being a career soldier won’t be so bad.”

  Brandt shook his head. “It’s hard to imagine a wife and family fitting into such a life.”

  Lute glanced at the square tower of the so-called castle of Termoli shimmering in the heat. The little town scarcely seemed worth the effort. “I haven’t found a woman who interests me.”

  Brandt looked him in the eye. “But you will.”

  Lute pondered the notion. He’d never given much thought to marriage, but had to admit he’d become increasingly envious of the contentment and happiness Johann and Brandt had found in their wives. But what did he have to offer a woman? No lands, no title. No clear idea of his future.

  The emperor finally slumped down on a surprisingly ornate chair perched precariously atop the mound, mopping his face with a linen.

  Heinrich took up the tirade. “Once we enter the gates, you are responsible for ensuring the discipline of your men. You will lead them through the town to the beaches and supervise the pitching of our camps.”

  “Wonderful,” Lute complained. “Nothing like sleeping on sand.”

  Inside the walls of Termoli

  “You will be sorry,” Francesca di Cammarata raged, fists clenched in the rumpled skirts of her too-heavy gown. “My uncle will never forgive you.”

  “Be calm, cara,” Count William advised patronizingly, his leather armor squeaking as he offered a kerchief.

  She turned up her nose at the overly embroidered linen. She would never be the obese William’s dear, no matter how much he might desire it.

  “I have no choice,” he went on, using the kerchief to dab the sweat from his three chins. “Have you seen the number of troops the emperor has at his disposal? Do you want the entire populace slaughtered?”

  Francesca had indeed watched the massing of heavily-armed military might outside the walls, her heart sinking further with each passing hour. But to give up without a fight? “We could have held out for a sennight at least, until my uncle arrives with his army to save us.”

  William of Loritello cleared his throat. “King Ruggero is still in Sicilia with no apparent plans to rush to our defence.”

  “But he will come,” she insisted.

  “Just like he came to the aid of Salerno,” William replied sarcastically. “There are reports he is dying, or mayhap already dead.”

  Her uncle boasted loud and long of his crusade to unite all the separate duchies, principalities and kingdoms of southern Italy. She admitted inwardly she didn’t understand why he had allowed the Holy Roman Emperor to so readily confiscate territory he’d fought for years to bring under his rule.

  The possibility he had died filled her with dread. His son hadn
’t yet reached his majority.

  William paced. “Emperor Lothair has exploited the opportunity to support the rebellions against King Ruggero.”

  Francesca shuddered at the bitter truth. For Robert of Capua to rebel against his king was one thing. Rainolfo of Alife was Ruggero’s brother-by-marriage, a serpent in the bosom of the family.

  “The emperor must not discover who you are,” William declared.

  Startled by his statement, she thrust out her chin. “I shall proudly reveal who I am.”

  He shook his head. “You jeopardize all our lives as well as your own. Lothair will use you as a pawn against your uncle. Better to work silently and unseen against the occupying forces.”

  The notion made sense. “If they don’t know who I am, they won’t suspect me of causing disruption.”

  “Exactly. You will play the part of my wife.”

  “Your wife?” she exclaimed, filled with revulsion at the notion. “I am Francesca di Cammarata, niece of King Ruggero of Sicilia and of all Italy.”

  “But you speak German,” he reminded her, reopening the shameful wound. “And if he knew your true identity, the Saxon monster Heinrich would like nothing more than to throw you into a dungeon and let you rot until he wrests concessions from our king.”

  Reluctantly, she admitted she had little choice. Her ability to speak the invaders’ language would be an asset, though Zio Ruggero had never ceased berating his sister for her marriage to a lowly Bavarian knight.

  But if William so much as looked at her the wrong way…

  “My steward has moved your belongings into my chamber,” he announced. “We cannot leave doubt in their minds.”

  “I will play along with this charade,” she conceded, seething with resentment that he would presume to move her clothing without her permission. “But…”