Knight of Love (2 page)

“Long ago.” She'd mourned her throwing knives—fine old friends, indeed—but Kurt even cut her meat at meals now and took care not to allow her anywhere near the dinner knives.

As a pair of maids scurried to lay down extra sheets and bring over a basin of water, the smith turned her in his arms toward the wall and pulled from his deep apron pocket a silver-handled dagger in a scrolled leather sheath. “Let this be your new friend. And may it provide you some protection.” He slid it surreptitiously behind a row of poetry volumes on her bookshelf.

She frowned, struggling to think past the pain. Who
was
this blacksmith who offered weaponry and took such liberties of address when no one else could hear?

Before she could form a question, he brought her to the bed the maids had readied and laid her gently on it.

“God keep you,
meine Dame
.” He did bow then, deeply, as he hadn't before to Kurt. “And may we meet again, under more pleasant circumstances.”

He turned and left. She felt a deep cold grip her again and realized it had been held at bay while she was in his arms.

Her lady's maid Frieda approached, the older one who spied for Kurt. Lenora had tried in vain for weeks to have her replaced. The woman bore scissors and a self-satisfied smirk. She lifted the blades. “To cut away the shift, Dame Lenora. I'll try not to cause you too much more distress.”

Hard shivers began to rack Lenora's frame, ripping further trails of pain down her back. But the blood of a Prussian princess and a British duke ran in her veins. She would survive.

And, by God, she would find a way out of here, back home to England.

She closed her eyes and thought of bright blue summer skies.

Chapter 2

L
enora's first step had been to heal.

She'd waved off the laudanum Frieda had tried to give her. The hot pain befuddled her enough without the mind-numbing effect of the opium. Besides, she knew better than to trust the maid's motives.

For the first few days after the flogging, Kurt left her blessedly alone, giving her time to hatch a plan as she lay in bed. From the servants' reports, his ill humor seemed for once directed not toward her but instead toward the growing signs of a rebellion brewing in the principality. Broadsides had appeared on the Gruselstadt town gates announcing a rally for democracy and a united Germany. A new movement for people's rights was apparently sweeping through Europe. Even Kurt's tiny corner wasn't immune. Frieda complained that two grooms and a footman had deserted their posts and run off to join a militia band fomenting rebellion in the countryside of the principality.

Lenora thanked God for the distraction.

The first time she'd tried to leave Kurt had been a week after her parents had departed Germany following the celebration of Epiphany in the New Year. Kurt had revealed his true colors almost as soon as they'd left. In response, she'd ordered her trunk packed and a carriage brought round to the
Schloss
front entrance. The servants had simply stared at her, frozen.

This time she would have to be more clever.

All she had to do was make it to Frankfurt. The city lay to the west of the principality of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt and served as capital for the German Confederation. The Federal Assembly met in Frankfurt, and the British kept an ambassador there. She'd met Lord Durham when he'd hosted her parents for a formal dinner at the ambassadorial residence upon their arrival in Germany. How long ago had it been now? She shifted restlessly in her bed, her back on fire. Dear God, it seemed a lifetime ago. Surely, if she could reach Frankfurt, the ambassador would grant her protection, help nullify her betrothal, and arrange her passage home.

She'd assisted with enough legal matters at the Sherbrooke estate to know the betrothal contracts were rendered void by Kurt's behavior. Her father, the Duke of Sherbrooke, had carefully drafted the contracts with his solicitors to ensure her every possible advantage within the marriage. The Trevelyans mightn't be the most loving family—British aristocracy were not renowned for their demonstrative affection—but she knew her father would be deeply affronted by Kurt's treatment of his daughter and would never allow the marriage to go ahead. If Kurt hadn't cut off all her mail, she'd have been able to inform her parents weeks ago of the man's abuse. Instead, Kurt's letters to the duke and duchess were already laying out the story he'd delighted in telling her was his plan: With the recent political upheavals, typhus was starting to break out in Germany. Sadly, it would be impossible for her parents and their retinue to return for the summer wedding.

Once she could get out of bed without her knees buckling, she began stealthily to gather supplies. The smith's dagger remained safely hidden on her bookshelf, thank God. Just thinking of the blade gave her courage and made her feel less alone. Her memories of the man were vague—huge, hulking, with a disquieting, simmering fury, but she recalled also something reassuring about a summer sky. When she'd inquired, none of the servants seemed to know much about the smith. And with the return of Dieter—the castle's regular blacksmith—from his mother's funeral, the man had disappeared. She didn't expect she'd ever see him again.

Odd, the pang at that thought.

She shook off the sense of mystery—and, foolishly, of loss—and set about squirreling away supplies. As part of her act of newly re-formed obedience to the role Kurt wanted her to play, she asked to take on the task of mending the servants' clothing—contrition for her pride, she murmured to Frieda, eyes cast down. She knew the lady's maid would report the request to Kurt. When the basket of frayed shirts and ripped breeches arrived in her room, she gloated as she stitched—and surreptitiously stuffed deep under her mattress two mismatched sets of stable boy's clothing, along with heavy woolen stockings and a warm padded vest.

When several of the oilcloth greatcoats used by the groomsmen arrived for hemming, one of her worst worries was allayed. The problem of the winter temperatures plagued her. Spring was starting to come on, but it still dipped down to near freezing at night. The days weren't much better, with the drizzling gray weather they'd had the past fortnight. Snow had even fallen last week. Barring a deluge, the greatcoat should keep her fairly dry. With her other layers, she could hope to stay warm enough to survive the voyage to Frankfurt.

Food—some apples, hard cheese, walnuts, and flat bread—proved easy enough to store away in hiding caches as she hobbled about her room. When the maids greeted with skeptical glances her request to the kitchen for dried sausage, she merely lifted her chin. “My mother, the duchess, always recommends dried meat to invalids,” Lenora said imperiously. “It is well known in England as easier on the digestion during periods of recovery from illness or affliction.”

Money posed more of a problem. Kurt had long ago taken away her pin money. And he insisted on keeping her jewels in a locked coffer in his room. He'd given a key to Frieda, but Lenora had learned early on that the woman did nothing without her master's permission. Frieda wore the key on a chain around her neck, keeping it on even under her nightdress as she slept. “So you needn't worry your pretty head about losing it, my dear,” Kurt had simpered as he'd explained the arrangement to her. It had taken all of her ingenuity last month to pilfer three of her own gold wrist bangles from the jewelry case when she'd needed them for poor Franz. She still had one of the bracelets left, hidden in safety. For this escape, she doubted she could get ahold of any more of her jewels. She'd have to content herself with scraping together a handful of coins.

Most important, she needed transportation away from the
Schlo
ss
. Ideally, something fast, discreet, and reliable. She considered somehow buying passage on a coach and train to Frankfurt, but feared she'd be recognized on so public a means of conveyance. With the democracy demonstrations rising up across the German Confederation and, according to reports she'd heard, across much of Europe as well, she feared that transportation had become unpredictable. A horse would be faster and safer—if she could get one. She had no compunctions about stealing a good mare or gelding from Rotenburg. Kurt held enough of her dowry to pay for a stable of fine horses many times over. But the stables were well guarded, and stealing the tack to saddle the horse in silence in the dark posed an insurmountable problem.

She spent a day darning housemaids' stockings in the window seat of her sitting room before the solution came to her. A sympathetic under-maid, whom Lenora had gifted with some cast-off clothing in the past, agreed to carry a note to young Franz's father, Herr Steinberg, in the town of Gruselstadt outside the castle. In it, Lenora begged a favor: the purchase of a horse in exchange for the last of her own stolen gold bracelets. Herr
Steinberg and his wife had promised her aid in return for having delivered their boy to safety. Franz still tortured her sleep—her worst shame in this whole horror of an engagement. When Kurt had discovered her fondness for children, he'd immediately used it against her. She'd smuggled Franz out of the castle two weeks ago with the wine merchant and the pair of gold bangles, back to some cousins in Imsbach, so Kurt wouldn't find him at his parents' lodgings in town. It was that act of rebellion that had cost her the flogging in the castle courtyard. But it had been worth it. She hated having to ask the boy's parents to take further risks on her behalf, but saw no other way to make good her escape. She needed a horse—nothing fancy that would attract attention on the road, but a beast sturdy and fast enough to get her to Frankfurt before she could be caught.

Her last hurdle involved her guards, as she'd come to think of Frieda and the strapping country girl, Inga, who served as Frieda's assistant. Early on, Kurt had insisted the two maids sleep in her chambers, “to assist with my betrothed's every need and keep her company until I myself should have the honor of that task,” he'd said, the lying blackguard. She had to steal a moment of privacy in her water closet to grind sleeping herbs into a fine powder for Frieda and Inga's small ale. The herbs should keep them soundly slumbering through her escape. Lenora thanked her learned mother for insisting that a lady's training should include traditional herbal medicines. As the duchess often said, “Modern medical quackery is so often imprecise and ineffective in its treatments.”

Ten days after the flogging, the night of the new moon held the castle and town in deepest dark—perfect cover for an escape. Lenora's back still ached fiercely, but her broken and bruised skin had healed sufficiently for her to ride. It would have to be enough.

At midnight the Gruselstadt town clocktower beat out its chimes to the pounding of her heart. She crept out of bed and dressed swiftly in the chill, pulling on the men's clothing she'd stuffed into hiding. The castle lay in deep shadows. The dagger's location behind the books she knew by quick feel. Strapping the dagger round her waist helped quell some of her fears. Working as silently as she could, she retrieved the sturdy satchel she used to collect herbs and dried flowers and filled it instead with her provisions for escape. After adding a few personal items—her silver comb, the last letter from her parents—she slung the satchel over her shoulder and tied to her belt her meager purse of coins. She wound her night braid around her head, secured it tight with hairpins, and pulled on the boy's cap she'd filched from the pile of mending. The plainest and smallest of the greatcoats added warmth and camouflage to her ensemble; it would serve as ground cover and blanket as well, for wherever she could find shelter on the road.

If Kurt found her on this escape attempt tonight, he might well kill her. He'd become hard to predict, now with revolution threatening to break out. On his last visit he'd been infuriated with the people's presumption of daring to ask for freedom and more rights. “Don't those ingrates know their place?” he'd snarled. His temper rode at hair-trigger levels, but he'd been so busy quelling protests and attending meetings with other worried nobles that his visits had been mercifully few. He seemed content with her act of meek compliance and her claim that she had come to accept his rule. Why shouldn't he believe her? In his mind, he held absolute rule by right of emperor and God over all souls at Schloss Rotenburg and throughout the rest of his principality.

The conceited fool. One could ride from one end of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt to the other before lunch. Kurt's territories were miniscule in comparison to the Sherbrooke duchy held by her family. The title of
Prinz
of which he was so arrogantly proud was far overblown by British standards; in England, his land holdings and status were more on the level with those of an earl. The difference was that Kurt held sovereign power over his subjects. But therein lay the problem as well: Such absolute rule of a prince over a small division of territory was out of step with modern notions of democracy and the people's desire for a united Germany. The time when petty tyrants like Prince Kurt could rule was fast coming to an end.

Lenora had no intention of being his last victim.

By the time she'd slipped through the castle halls and down the back stairs to a seldom-used entry onto the kitchen gardens, a nervous sweat dripped down her back. The darkness of the night aided her escape, but also forced her to a painfully slow pace. She slid the heavy door bolt, careful not to make a sound, and thankful for once that Kurt's ridiculously strict standards meant the bolt slid silently from its latch.

She knew the castle routines well enough to be familiar with the location of the night watchmen. This route, while taking longer to reach the rendezvous point with Franz's father, was the most deserted. She had only to pass the head gardener's cottage bordering the orchards to make it to the far gate. The cold night air hit her as she padded by the tidy beds lying fallow and heavily mulched for the winter. But her stomach clenched at the light of the lamps burning in the cottage.

Herr Blumthal, the head gardener, was awake.

A woman's laughter coming from the stone cottage froze Lenora to the spot. The middle-aged widower had guests as well! And then, by the further sounds coming from the cottage, she realized Herr Blumthal entertained but one guest and that the two of them were involved in an activity more intimate than mere conversation. Even in the dark, Lenora blushed. As she inched around the corner of the ivy-covered building, she distracted herself by the thought that their activity proved an excellent cover. Hopefully the lovers were too otherwise occupied to notice her passage.

But the sounds of their pleasure saddened her as well. She'd come to Germany with a young woman's hope to find love with her fiancé. She had dreamed of a happy partnership like that shared by her parents—perhaps not a grand passion, but a solid union based on respect and affection.

Yet love had failed her. Now she expected she would never marry. The story of her failed betrothal was bound to leak out back in England, should she ever—God willing—make it home alive. Her reputation would be ruined, even without the full truth of how Kurt had beaten her and forced her into the debasement of his bedroom games.

She paused by the wall, listening despite herself. The woman moaned with obvious delight. Herr Blumthal, whom she knew as an orderly gardener dedicated to his flower beds and topiary, seemed quite the lover.

“Helga, ah,
Schöne
.” He repeated her name lovingly, even reverently. Lenora's eyebrows shot up. The only Helga with whom she was acquainted at the castle was Helga Stanfeld—the head upstairs housemaid, a widow whom Lenora had always taken to be a staid and quiet woman.