The Legacy (3 page)

The baron shrugged. “You must be the judge as to when, if at all. But speaking as a man who has been married four times, what the wife does not know will not hurt the husband.”

He had the temerity to laugh. The odd cackling sound sent a chill through Wolf that had nothing to do with the weather. The wind ruffled the dwindling strands of hair clinging to von Ziegler’s temples, and he reached up to adjust his red velvet cap.

“Daughter. Come here at once,” he called.

She came slowly, feet dragging.

“Daughter, I have done my best by you. You are lucky I am a generous father and did not send you back where you belong. I give you my blessings, if only for the sake of the man you married.” He pointed a finger at her. “But never let your shadow cross my doorstep again. You would not like the consequences.”

She shrank from the implied threat.

Wolf could stand it no more. He stepped between the two and took the girl’s arm. She flinched. Was she afraid of him?

He turned to von Ziegler. “This woman is my wife. As such, she’s no longer any concern of yours. Don’t threaten her again.”

The girl’s gaze flew to Wolf’s. Von Ziegler creased his forehead for a moment, but then shrugged. With studied nonchalance, he dismissed them both. “Go along then. And enjoy your wedding night. Pity it will not be a first—for either of you.”

Wolf stiffened in outrage. The daughter’s lips thinned.

Wolf could not let the insult pass. He loomed over the diminutive baron, making certain he had his full attention. “Do not think we are finished. Never think that. One day, when this is over, we will meet again. And on that day, we will settle
all
our debts.”

The baron peered up at Wolf and paled. Apparently, his courage deserted him, for he turned and hurried away, almost knocking over a manservant in his haste to get to his horse. The man dashed after the baron and struggled to hoist him into the saddle. Once mounted, the baron rode away without a backward glance. His various minions scrambled after him. The daughter stared with amazement at his rapidly retreating back, and the churchyard soon emptied of all but the bride and groom.

“Well,” Wolf said, arching a brow. “I suppose this means no wedding feast.”

A soft groan escaped the girl. Her gown fluttered like a conquered flag in the wind, and she closed her eyes.

Chapter
2

W
olf felt Lady Sabina’s weight press against him.

“Are you ailing?” he asked with some concern, reaching out a hand. She withdrew, and Wolf would not have been surprised to hear an audible crack as she stiffened her spine.

“I am fine. The day has been long.”

He squinted at her. “The cock has barely crowed.”

“My life has been long, then.” She looked away.

He refrained from saying he was several years older than she. The weary set of her shoulders made him agree with her conclusion.

He found the horse her father had left, a skinny palfrey with a swayed back. While the ancient beast creaked when it walked, it would last long enough to get them home.

Sanctuary.

He felt his spirits lift a little in spite of his foul mood. He retrieved his own horse and walked both up the path, noting the gathering storm clouds. If they weren’t quick about it, they would be caught in a downpour. He went to the girl and motioned her toward the horse.

“Up,” he said.

She straightened her back, her steady blue gaze trapping his. “Are you speaking to me or to the horse?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why you, of course, unless you intend for the horse to ride.”

The girl clasped shaking hands in front of her, but when she spoke again her voice was steady. “Master Behaim. It is customary to use a form of address when engaging another in polite conversation. My name is Sabina. You have my permission to use it. If you prefer, you may call me ‘Baronesse’ or ‘my lady.’ In a pinch, I suppose,
‘Frau
Behaim’ will do. But ‘you,’ implied or otherwise, is not an acceptable alternative, particularly when speaking to one of noble descent.”

His jaw dropped open at her speech.

She pointed at his mouth. “You will catch flies with that.”

His jaw snapped shut, and he regarded her with genuine interest. A fire crackled in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He knew few men with the fortitude to talk back to him, let alone women. He stood back and sketched a sweeping bow.

“If it would please Your Majesty, your steed awaits,” he said with a mocking flourish.

“That, too, would be an inappropriate form of address, given my station.”

He was no longer amused. “Get on the cursed horse—”

She trembled at his forbidding tone, but she did not comply.

“—
my lady,”
he finally ground out.

She tilted her head. “It would be my pleasure.”

She reached for the pommel, but when she tried to pull up, she rose only halfway and slid down again. She looked at him in consternation.

“May I?” he said stiffly, his desire to aid her in conflict with his desire to abandon her to her own devices.

She nodded. When he lifted her up to place her in the sidesaddle, her small breasts brushed against his chest. A curl of long black hair feathered across his cheek. Determinedly ignoring her nearness, he deposited her in the saddle and reached to steady her. His hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and it occurred to him if he wrapped them around her tiny waist, his fingers would almost touch at the tips. Heat spiraled through him. Surprised, he released her as though burned. She swayed atop the horse.

“What the—!” He caught her before she fell to the ground, and stood her up again. Her knees buckled and, out of necessity, he pressed her between him and the horse, which looked back and regarded them both without blinking.

He could feel the girl’s heart pounding against his. He stared down at her for a moment and for some reason her mouth again drew his gaze.

Dear God, that mouth—it gave a man ideas. She may be plain in every other respect, but that mouth was sin itself. His hands were still around her waist where he had caught her. He had been right. His fingers did nearly touch.

By the saints and stars,
what was he doing?

He stepped back, releasing her.

“Can’t you sit a horse?” he snapped, irritated to find himself susceptible to such an obvious female ploy as falling into a man’s arms.

“Yes—nay—that is, the saddle slipped,” she stammered.

With a raised brow, he knelt down to check the palfrey’s girth and the girl jumped aside, more skittish than the horse. She must have been holding her breath because it suddenly came out in a rush. He skewed her with a wry glance, then returned to examining the girth.

It was worn and nearly snapped when the girl—dammit, Lady Sabina’s—weight had been added to it. It barely held together. Of course, von Ziegler would give his daughter an old horse with a useless saddle, adding final insult to injury.

Wolf eyed her over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you can ride bareback, Your Worship?”

Her plump mouth drew into a thin line. “Nay, I do not suppose I can.”

He had no pillion handy, either. He considered their other alternatives, coming up with only one, and stood up. “You’ll have to ride double with me, then.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “I … I am certain that will not be necessary. If it is not too far, I can walk.”

“I’d hardly ride while you walked, and
I
am not walking.” He stifled an exasperated sound when he saw her draw up at his harsh tone. “Pardon me. Sanctuary is nearly half a league away. If you haven’t noticed, it’s about to storm. We’ll catch our death of cold before we get halfway there. It’s my horse for the both of us, or you can return home with your father—if you can catch him.”

That alternative didn’t sit well with her either, it appeared. She glanced doubtfully over at his powerfully built horse, which stood seventeen hands high at the withers, and pursed her lips.

“What is his name?” she finally asked.

“What difference does it—Suleiman, his name is Suleiman,” he said, trying to unclench his teeth.

She blinked. “You named your horse after a marauding infidel?”

“He was a little difficult to train. I thought the name fit well at the time. Now, of course, he is as tame as a kitten,” he dryly assured her while Suleiman pawed at the ground and snorted. “Would you like to look at his bite and check his hooves, too? Or may we ride?”

She huffed prettily. “Master Behaim, I only wished to know his name so we would not be strangers. If someone intended to ride me, I would certainly prefer to be introduced first.”

A slow, masculine smile spread across his face. He couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s good to know. Call me Wolf.”

She abruptly dropped her gaze. He wasn’t surprised to see a blush steal over her cheeks. Why he had teased her so, he didn’t know. There was something provoking about this slip of a girl with an iron will.

She cleared her throat. “I feel compelled to point out no gentleman would consider that a proper introduction,” she said, flicking her skirts again.

“Did you mistake me for one?” he asked, amused.

In answer, she looked up at him, a smile briefly lighting her face. “Nay.”

Ah, a spirited filly, as Grandpapa might have said. But enough of this. Trading insults with her was a luxury he could not afford—no matter how much he might be enjoying it. He inclined his head, gestured to Suleiman, and graciously conceded her the hit.

“Shall we … my lady?”

She nodded, and putting out a tentative hand, approached Suleiman.

She had a grace about her, bred in from birth. Even though she was thin and pale, the elegant tilt of her head while she examined the horse, the delicate extension of her arm, the proud erectness of her spine held an appeal all its own. What was it about a gently bred woman, useless for anything but organizing a household of servants he did not possess, who could still fascinate a man who’d labored with his hands for most of his life?

“I am Sabina, and you are Suleiman,” she crooned to the beast. “What a good horse you are.”

She stroked down Suleiman’s muscular chest, and the horse practically quivered in anticipation. Wolf caught himself thinking of Suleiman as the lucky one.

She placed her foot in the stirrup, and he lifted her up, settling her astride the horse. She wobbled, held the pommel in a death grip when Suleiman shifted, but kept her seat.

He tied the palfrey’s reins to his saddle and then sprang up behind Lady Sabina. When he felt her delicate shivers through her thin wedding dress, he removed his cloak and draped it around her shoulders without a word. He squeezed his thighs to signal to the horse to move, ignoring the girl’s startled jump. Perhaps she was surprised at his small kindness; perhaps it was the feel of his thighs momentarily gripping hers. He couldn’t be certain of which, but the suppleness he had felt instead of layers of underskirts certainly had surprised him.

The sky spit a fat drop of rain into his eye. He blinked it away and stared up at the dark clouds with a measured look.

I refuse to see this as an omen,
he informed them, and steered the horses into the wind.

Baron Marcus von Ziegler dismounted from his horse in a flurry of movement and kicked the groom who came to assist him out of his way. He ignored the salute of the pitifully young sentry on guard and strode into the dilapidated castle that was his home. He headed straight for the wine cask set up in the Grand Hall and there proceeded to get quietly drunk.

It was done. At least very nearly so.

He smiled at the idea of the prideful wench married to a commoner and becoming just another
frau.
Years ago, it would have offended him, but now it seemed a fine retribution for all the trouble she had caused him.
Stupid, worthless girl.
How he had ever let her mother talk him into adopting her, he would never know.

The wine eased through him and he felt the tension seep from his body.

It was over now, and as a side benefit he would finally be rid of her. In exchange, his reputation—yes, even his very life—would be saved. For what he had done, the crimes he had been forced to commit, could not be made right without her.

He looked up briefly when his young wife, the fourth Baronin to be so titled, entered the Hall. For a moment she watched him with far-too-penetrating eyes, and then sat down and pulled out her embroidery hoop. Not a pretty woman, but she had her uses.

He licked his lips.

Soon, all would be well. A few days, and no one would be the wiser about the hundreds of ducats gone missing from the city treasury over the last two years. He could put it all back, and soon his ship would arrive from the Orient, laden with silks and spices, and it would return him to his rightful standing by making him the wealthiest man in all of Electoral Saxony—excepting, of course, the Elector himself.

That ridiculous report about his ship being lost at sea—of course it was not true. Besides, two years was hardly long enough to decide a ship was lost. It was a dangerous trip, certainly, but he had paid dearly for the finest captain in the Holy Roman Empire to stand at its helm. He had beggared himself, had hobbled along for
two years
on what he could sell or steal, knowing it would be well worth it in the end. If only the cursed city council had not decided to review the treasury accounts at next month’s meeting.