Stolen Splendor (13 page)

Kassandra sighed, perplexed. She knew she could never
forgive him for what he had done to her, but she had to admit her guard was
beginning to slip. He had done nothing within the past few weeks to indicate he
had any desire to expose the secret they shared.

Perhaps he has decided there's nothing to gain from
such a scandal, Kassandra reasoned. Or could it be that he feared for his own
reputation? Surely he realized he would be punished severely, maybe even imprisoned,
for his crime of assaulting the daughter of the English ambassador.

She grimaced, recalling a day when, walking with her
father, they had come across the horrendous sight of several criminals being
herded through the streets toward the prison, their arms pilloried,
their
backs viciously lashed and bleeding. He had told her
the worst criminals were racked and broken on the wheel for their crimes, their
mutilated bodies left outside the city walls as a gruesome reminder . . .

Kassandra shuddered. Hardly a fate Count Stefan von
Furstenberg would wish upon himself! And even if he was still entertaining some
plan of revealing their secret, after today she would have nothing to fear.
There would no longer be any proof.

Kassandra pulled up sharply on the reins and looked
around her. There was a strange tension in the air—was it the wind?—and she was
anxious to be done with her task. This place was as good as any, she decided
quickly, sliding from the mare's back to the ground. Holding the roll of
clothing in one hand, she walked to a sunlit clearing, her boots crunching in
the snow.

What could she use to dig a hole? She cursed under her
breath. How stupid of her to forget to bring a small shovel, or even a knife to
hack through the cold earth. Obviously she would have to think of something
else—perhaps . . . ?

Kassandra's eyes flew to a heavy stick lying a few feet
away. It would have to do, she told herself, bending to pick it up. She
returned to the center of the clearing and fell to her knees. Dropping the clothing
beside her, she brushed the snow away from the spot with her gloved hands. She
began to dig with the jagged end of the stick, slowly at first, then faster as
the frozen topsoil gave way to moist black dirt.

Kassandra paused for the briefest moment to wipe away
the hair that had escaped from the thick knot at her nape,
then
continued to dig furiously, her panting breaths forming clouds of vapor in the
frigid air. At last there was a
hole
deep enough for
the clothing. She dropped the roll gingerly into the hollow, wrinkling her nose
in distaste, then pushed the dirt back in upon it, packing it smooth. Leaning
on her hands at the edge of the covered hole, she fought to catch her breath,
the icy air stinging her lungs.

At last it was done!
she
exulted, relief rushing through her. Sweat rolled down her back beneath the
coat of her riding habit, but she didn't care. The tension and uncertainty that
had gripped her for the past few weeks fell from her like a dead weight, and an
overwhelming sense of freedom swelled within her heart.

Kassandra sat back on her heels, tossing her head back
as she gazed up into the clear blue sky. As her laughter rang through the
silent woods, a wild impulse seized her. She grabbed the stick and threw it
with all her might into the trees.

"I'm glad I chose to stand over here, rather than
in the way of your stick," a deep voice said behind her. "Your aim is
deadly, my lady."

Chapter 12

Kassandra blanched, the laughter dying on her lips, the
abrupt strangled sound an eerie echo in the forest. No, it can't be!
she
thought, her gloved fingers digging into the frozen
earth as she knelt motionless, stricken with terror. He is in Vienna, with
Prince Eugene. He must be, he must be . . . Surely,
it
is the wind, the rustle of dead leaves, a cruel trick of your imagination.

"It seems you have strayed from your usual riding
path today, Kassandra," Stefan said lightly, stepping into the clearing.
His casual tone belied the triumph surging within him; now she would confirm
the truth and he would be free of this obsession to know. His eyes darkened to
a vivid gray as he studied her lithe form, her back still to him, straight and
stiff. He began to walk toward her.

He had been just outside the city wall when he realized
he had forgotten a most important document that he was to present to his
general. It was a map of the fortress city of Belgrade, Serbia, the site of the
following year's campaign against the Turks, which had been secreted to him the
night before by a well-paid Janissary spy. He had wheeled Brand around and
ridden like the wind back to the estate, secured the map, then had set out
again, only to find Kassandra ahead of him as she veered her mare from the road
into the thick woods.

He had thought it strange, knowing how much she enjoyed
riding across the open fields, and giving her a good lead, he had followed her
to this clearing. She had been so engrossed in her mysterious task that she had
not heard him approach, and he had stealthily watched her, a strong suspicion
growing that she was on the verge of giving herself away.

She reminded him of a cornered doe, Stefan mused,
seeing her tense at the sound of his approaching footsteps in the snow. Her
head was tilted to one side as if she was aware of his every movement, her body
taut and poised to flee.

"It's of small consequence, really, taking another
path," he continued steadily. "The woods are beautiful at this time
of year, especially with a dusting of snow. Still, I didn't expect to find you
digging a hole in the ground, a strange pastime, you must admit, Kassandra,
even for such a mysterious young woman as yourself."

Kassandra winced as stark realization, and a chilling
despair, settled over her like a smothering cloud. It hadn't been the wind, or
her imagination, she thought dully. Stefan must have been watching her for some
time . . . must have seen everything . . .

Her limbs felt wooden, sapped of their lifeblood, as
she rose to her feet and turned to face him, her gaze caught and held by his own.
The familiar taunting challenge was there, but now something else struck her
with numbing force. He looked so . . . resolute.

Stefan drew in his breath, stunned by Kassandra's
poignant beauty. He had never seen her look so vulnerable, or so haunted. He
longed to reach out and wipe away the smudge of dirt on her cheek, yet he held
back.

No, he would not be swayed, he thought grimly. The
moment he had long awaited had come at last. He would play out the game to the
end, and prove the victor, triumphant over this obsession that had so haunted
his days and nights.

"Step aside, Kassandra," he breathed softly,
so close to her now, he could see she was trembling uncontrollably, could smell
the intoxicating scent of her floral perfume.

Kassandra opened her mouth to speak, but found she had
no voice. She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his face.

Stefan had expected as much. "You must," he
insisted, his voice low. He gently gripped her arm and drew her a few feet away
from the carefully packed dirt where she had been standing. She offered no
resistance, which puzzled him, but instead stood rigidly as he began to kick at
the dirt with the heel of his leather boot. The packed soil soon gave way,
revealing what appeared to be one end of a tightly wound roll of clothing,
secured with twine.

Stefan squatted on his haunches and impatiently brushed
away the remaining dirt, studying for a moment the contents of the shallow
hole. His eyes widened in recognition and he glanced up at Kassandra, but she
was no longer watching him, her gaze focused on some distant point in the
woods, her features set and implacable as if finely chiseled in stone.

He pulled out the bundle and set it beside him. In one
swift movement he drew a long hunting knife from a leather sheath at his belt
and severed the knotted twine, replacing the knife as he rose to his feet. He
shook out the clothing in a spray of moist dirt—a torn and wrinkled print gown,
a pair of plain gray stockings that floated lightly to the ground, a petticoat,
and a small velvet drawstring bag that fell near the toe of his boot with a
chinking thud . . .

"So at last I have found you, my temptress,"
Stefan murmured, bending to pick up the small bag. Flashing gold coins tumbled
out the open end to the ground, in bright contrast to the black dirt mixed with
snow. Yet it was not the money he was interested in, but his initials, finely
embroidered in silver threads, upon the inside upper rim of the bag. His
callused finger traced the smooth needlework—expertly sewn by Isabel, who had
given the bag to him as a gift—the final proof he needed.

Stefan straightened just in time to see that Kassandra
had turned toward him, the flash of her hand hurtling at his face. Before he
could dodge the blow, she hit him with all the strength she could muster, a
sharp, resounding smack. He nearly lost his balance, his cheek stinging
painfully, but managed to keep his footing as she spun to flee.

Stefan lunged at her, grabbing her roughly, and twirled
her to face him once again, his strong hands gripping her upper arms. He
swallowed hard as he was struck by the full force of her gaze, like a tempest
unleashed, her amethyst eyes, darkened to a stormy violet hue, glinting at him
with sparks of fury.

"Bastard!" Kassandra shouted, nearly choking
on the swell of emotions within her breast. Scalding tears blinded her, but she
fought them back, determined not to give in to such a useless, feminine
display. Sensing his momentary discomfiture, she wrenched free of his grasp,
lashing out at him again with her arm. He deftly stepped aside and caught her
wrist, twisting her arm behind her back and pulling her hard against his broad
chest. He held her there, though she struggled and
kicked,
her attempts to escape him futile next to his powerful strength.

"You are the one," he breathed huskily into
her fiery hair, now free of its pins and tumbling down her back and about her
flushed face in riotous waves. Much the same as in the tavern, he recalled,
drawing slightly away from her to study the exquisite lines of her high
cheekbones, his finger instinctively tracing the curve of her jaw to her chin.
When she tried to turn her face away from him, he entwined his hand in her
lustrous hair and pulled her head back, bringing his mouth down upon her own.

Kassandra gasped, the
memory of his
kiss
in the tavern, rough and demanding, and the shocking reality of his
kiss at that moment, possessive yet almost tender, merging in her mind. This
wasn't happening!
she
thought vainly, then thought no
more as he deepened his kiss, forcing her lips apart, drawing panting breaths
from her body.

Time stood still,
then
faded
altogether. Kassandra did not know at what point she stopped fighting him, only
to close her eyes and lean against his hard length, responding to his kiss with
a burning ardor that matched his own. She felt dizzy, as if she were falling, a
liquid warmth stirring deep within her and flooding her body with flaming
desire.

Stefan tore his lips from hers and trailed a path of
shivering kisses down her white throat, his mouth lingering at the pulse
beating rapidly at the curved base of her neck. He inhaled the scent of her
skin, her hair, a sense of conquest surging within him. He released her arm and
brought both of his hands to her face, his thumbs caressing the satin smoothness
of her cheeks as he reveled in her beauty.

Kassandra bent her head to the side at his touch,
hypnotically immersed in the embrace of this man. But when she opened her eyes
and met his searing gaze, she saw not only desire but sheer triumph. It chilled
her to the bone, dousing her own desire as surely as if she had been drenched
in an icy bath, and she remembered with a jolt why she so hated him.

Bile rose in her throat with the realization that this
was merely a game with him, at her expense. It was clear he considered himself
the
victor,
and her the spoils. But damn him, he had
not won yet! In one swift movement she groped wildly for the sheath at his
belt, then drew out the knife and pushed the flat end of the blade against his
ribs.

"Let me go," she whispered vehemently, her
eyes burning brightly. "Now!"

Stefan tensed and drew back suddenly, his arms dropping
to his sides, his battle-honed instincts recognizing that Kassandra's tone
bespoke no idle threat. He shook his head in amazement, but kept his attention
on the knife as she stepped away from him, glancing occasionally over her
shoulder to get her bearings in relation to the mare that was grazing
contentedly on the dry grasses that edged the clearing.

Kassandra briefly turned her back to him when she reached
the mare and grabbed the reins dangling to the ground,
then
whirled once again to find Stefan had not moved a muscle. She eyed him warily,
the knife held expertly in one hand while she flipped the reins over the mare's
head, stepped into the stirrup, and eased onto the saddle.

"Whoa, girl, steady," she murmured, pulling
up on the reins with her free hand. Then without a word she lifted her arm and
flung the flashing blade through the air. A grim smile lit her face when the
knife cut into the earth only inches from Stefan's foot.

"As you can see, Count," she murmured
tersely, lifting her chin with defiance, although inside she was quaking,
"I am quite able to protect myself. I hope you take this as a warning, for
if you come near me again, I will not be as charitable."

Kassandra nudged the mare with her heel; then, without
a backward glance, they set off at a swift canter toward the estate,
precariously dodging the trees lining the path they had left earlier in the
snow. Her heart was beating thunderously and she shivered, not so much from the
cold as from the sheer boldness of her act. She had never threatened any living
creature before, let alone a grown man, and a seasoned soldier at that. She
only hoped she had swayed him from whatever game he was playing, or before
heaven, she would make good on her threat.