Portrait of Seduction (22 page)

The steady clop-clop of approaching hooves brought him around. The sky was lighter now. He blinked against the brightness even as he pressed deeper into the dwindling shadows. But he needn’t have made the effort. The horses were in Greta’s care. A look of triumph shaped her features as she rode sidesaddle, leading Oliver’s stallion by its reins. Pride helped him stand, then climb atop his mount.

“You’ll be all right to ride?” she asked.

“Whether or not I am, we should go.”

Although Oliver turned toward the Staatsbrücke, one of the bridges leading out of the Old Town, Greta made no such motion.

“What is it?”

“Oliver, please stay,” she said, her voice strangled. “Go home to the Venners. I know the way to Leinz Manor and can investigate the painting. I…God, I never should’ve asked you to do this. Think what could have happened!”

“But it didn’t.”

“That’s no excuse. I asked you to take an unforgivable chance. But now…now you can go home. Forget any of this happened. I’ll be well. I promise.”

Her voice had gained strength with every word until Oliver heard the unspoken message.
Go now. Go home and forget me.

He wanted to. Sanity would be a cool, welcome breeze on a blistering day. The truth of it, however, was none so pleasing. He would ride back through town, limp up to his room, and make up some story about his night’s adventure. Venner would narrow his eyes and try to stare the truth out of him, but Oliver would resist. Then he would go about his daily routine until the end of his days.

Or he could ride free and swift across the countryside with Greta Zweig.

“I have no one to look after me at the Venners’ home.” His mouth quirked around an unexpected grin. He was in no mood to give up playing just yet, even if it cost him every last scrap of sanity.

“No one to…?” She tipped her head to the side. “Of course you do.”

“Not the way I deserve to be taken care of—not after what I went through this evening.”

Her confusion gave way to a smile of understanding. The mischief and daring was back in her eyes. “You are a ridiculously foolhardy man.”

“One needs to be to keep up with you,
meine Allerliebste.
”

Greta turned her horse toward the east, toward the bridge. “I refuse to feel guilty about this whole escapade if you refuse to listen to good sense.”

“Agreed.” Oliver adjusted his seat and nickered to his mount. “We can be there by midmorning.”

“And once we’ve found out what happened to the forgery, I’ll make good on my promise.”

“What promise is that?”

“You do need looking after, Herr Doerger.” She tossed him a heated glance that had him thinking about all the ways she could tend to his tired body and restless, fevered mind. “And I fully intend to do so.”

Despite how fatigue made her inner eyelids feel blistered, Greta kept her own counsel with regard to their pace. Oliver withstood it. So could she.

She kicked her heel into her horse’s flank, holding tight to the reins and her balance as they sped along a country road. The sun was at full brightness now but remained hidden behind an eastern peak. The air had lost its early-morning vapor. Wind licked through her hair and across her ears, rushing in time with the horse’s strides and her own heartbeat.

How many times had she painted, lost in the moment? She had done so countless times, but always her most creative phases happened when her mind was happily gallivanting elsewhere. No critical voices then. No doubts. And during those moments of creativity, she had often imagined just such an adventure. Galloping at full speed. Escaping danger. Testing her mettle against unpredictable circumstances.

Only, she had never found the boldness to imagine running free with a partner. Oliver was with her now, more vivid and more potent than any possible dream. He had taken so many chances—all because of her. Yet something about him felt different now. He grinned into the eastern sunrise as he urged his mount to faster speeds. Her quiet, stalwart protector had hidden layers too. Greta could do nothing but match his abandon and keep pace.

She wanted to think her emotions were born of relief, nothing more. If Oliver volunteered, over and over, for such daring deeds, then she needn’t hold tight to guilt. He was equally as culpable if he kept refusing to walk away. But in the back of her mind, Greta knew she was using him abominably. He remained a servant. She remained a nobleman’s niece. No matter the cravings of her body and her heart, she could not give Oliver the reward he truly deserved for his devotion. Taking her daydreaming to that extreme would only result in heartbreak.

This was just for the moment. Their moment. And once her family’s future was secure, Greta would follow through with her original plan. Marry well. Paint. And count herself lucky to have lived such an adventure, even if only for a night or two.

The road grew steep as they neared the crest of another hill. Oliver glanced back, his face alight with pure excitement. He looked innocent, carefree, boyish. The tension around his eyes and in the tight set of his mouth had eased, although she suspected the pain would return in force once they reached their destination. Sunlight glinted off his burnished gold hair, which shone almost red in the morning light.

“Almost to the top,” he called back.

Side by side they crested the hill together. Greta inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the beauty of that spectacular scene. The sun gilded every rooftop and river, each tree and pasture. Nothing was ordinary, not at that moment. It was all golden and bright.

“I’ve never seen a sunrise like this,” she whispered.

He reached out and took her hand, then kissed her knuckles. “Neither have I.”

Rather than indulge in her cloying melancholy, Greta grabbed the reins. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Ha!”

She kicked her heels. The horse shot down the hill. It took all her skill and concentration to stay on its back as it sped faster and faster. Exhilaration became a physical thing—her skin more sensitive, her body lighter, as if she could float away from the earth. Living was not living without moments like these. She had been somnolent for too long.

Oliver came alongside her, his mount at full gallop. “Ha!” he shouted.

The race was on.

Greta did her best, urging her horse to greater speeds, but her skills were no match for Oliver’s expert horsemanship. His body moved in perfect time with every jolting, springing hoof beat. His head barely bobbed, no matter the terrain. Surely his ankle must be killing him, but still he persisted. Greta laughed into the wind. Mild-mannered valet—not entirely. His thirst for adventure seemed to match her own, at least now that he’d given himself permission to indulge.

With her lungs nearly bursting and her backside unforgivably sore, she pulled up on the reins and slowly, slowly urged her horse to give up the race. She had brought it to an easy canter by the time Oliver noticed. He had reached the bottom of the hill, turning back to judge the extent of his victory. Cheeks flushed, eyes wild, he had changed out his boyish look for that of a rogue. He could be a highwayman or a cavalry leader—the soldier he once had been.

Greta could hardly breathe for how powerfully she wanted him.

“I thought I had competition there for a moment,” he said. Goodness, he hardly sounded winded.

“You did. But I’m no horsewoman.”

“You could’ve fooled me. I would’ve thought you an excellent rider.”

Greta frowned slightly, trying to remember when he would’ve seen her atop a horse before. But his devilish smile and teasing eyes said he was no longer talking about horsemanship. He licked his bottom lip, looking her up and down.

“You are most depraved.” Her words were quiet, as if someone along that deserted road might hear.

“If so, you’ve brought it out in me.”

“Then perhaps we should no longer associate. We’re a poor influence on one another.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “To be certain.”

“Then why are you still smiling?”

“Why are you?”

Laughing now, Greta fought a battle with her desire and lost. They had come so close to misfortune, felled by her foolish idea. But now they were free and clear, alone in the morning countryside. She wanted to strip him bare and see the sunlight on his skin. The rays would gild every firm muscle and glint along his body hair. Pagan gods had nothing on such a man, aroused and proud. The decadent turn of her thoughts filled her body with sexual heat.

“You should get off your horse,” he said quietly.

Greta jerked her gaze back to his face. Surely…

But the teasing had gone. Any heat in her body, any decadent, wild ideas in her mind—she saw them reflected in his hungry expression.

“No,” she whispered. “We cannot.”

“Oh, no?”

She had yet to disobey him when they played their games. The thrill of taking orders from a servant had yet to lose its potency—even as her conscious mind balked at the wrongness of it all. But her body had no such qualms. She wanted Oliver Doerger to tell her what to do, how to behave when they came together.

But for his sake she could resist.

“I know you’re hurting,” she said, glancing down at his bad ankle. “We’ll regret it if we do you further injury.”

“I want you.” His pale blue eyes never wavered.

Greta let out a shuddering exhale. He was making this impossible. But she remembered how frightened she’d been, waiting for him to escape, how terribly she’d felt by mixing him up in her scheme. She could be strong—stronger, even, than his desire.

“You have no notion of how I love hearing that. But Oliver, I promised. I promised I would tend to you once we reach the manor.
Bitte,
let me keep it.”

He bit his teeth together. His fists tightened around the reins.

“A bath,” she said, pressing the advantage. “A massage. All you could want. I…I simply cannot stand the thought of doing you more harm.”

Oliver grunted something harsh and guided his mount sharply toward the east. His back was tall and proud. His legs were long and his thighs muscled. Greta did not hasten to catch up, enjoying her view.

Yes, she thought. A bath and a massage. She owed him that much.

Oliver hardly noticed his ankle for the remaining duration of their journey. His arousal was far too distracting.

He had been prepared to jump down from his horse—his ankle be damned—and drag Greta behind the nearest obliging thatch of shrubbery. Every time the incredulity became too much, he recalled that they had already dared such intimacies out-of-doors. Somehow that knowledge gave him permission to indulge. She was a wild woman, and he was a wild man when they were together. Shame and disbelief had become all too easy to ignore.

Leinz Manor loomed ahead of them, slowly coming into view with each of the horses’ weary steps. Only then did Oliver realize their predicament.

“Greta, I’m a servant. What are we going to tell the people in your household?”

“I don’t plan to tell them anything.” She tossed her hair, which caught the sunlight and shone pale gold. He wanted nothing more than to tangle his fingers in those strands and tug, baring her neck. Kissing her there would only be the beginning. “You are my guest. With Uncle Thaddeus gone, there will be no one to contradict me.”

“And later? When he finds out?”

A flicker of panic crossed her sweet features. “Maybe by then I’ll have figured out how to stand up to him. Finally.”

Oliver could no more interpret that statement than he could tear his eyes away from her beautiful face. Damn, he was smitten. Utterly entranced. He had once teased Christoph for falling so completely under Ingrid’s spell, and he had pitied Mathilda when love for Arie had dragged her across muddy, rain-drenched miles. He shook his head. They would have a good, long laugh at his expense if they knew but a fraction of what he’d already done for Greta.

He followed her to the manor and waited as surprised-looking grooms took their horses. Just like the first time he had visited her family home, Oliver entered by the front door—only now he wore garments more akin to those of a chimneysweep and walked with a limp. The staff averted their eyes and hastened to welcome Greta. Oliver was left with the task of simply…owning the moment. He assumed his brother’s confident gait, shoulders back and head lifted. He was a pretender in all things. This was no different.

Only a few minutes passed before Greta had taken him through the spiraling, looping corridors of the ancestral mansion. Her agitation seemed to grow with every turn, to the point where he felt compelled to take her hand.

“Later I can make inquiries as to who retrieved the forgery from Maria Lucca’s, and why,” she said. “But for now I want to make sure the original is safe. At the very least I’d like to have it available to send should she wonder where her painting has gone.”

“You think she might?”

“If the decision to revoke the bargain was my uncle’s.”

“That’s what you hope, isn’t it?”

Greta shrugged, then looked away. “He’s never taken my opinion into consideration on this matter. Why would he now? The original will be in storage.”

Oliver shelved thoughts of kissing. “Can you get in?”

“Yes, but I’ve never been there on my own.”

“Very well. But first I must send word to Lord Venner as to my whereabouts. This…absence will be too long to simply ignore. With tensions as they are in Salzburg, I want him to know where he can find me.”

“You will be careful in what you reveal?”

“Always,” he said with a tight smile. “And you should consider letting your uncle know, too. I’d rather not have the authorities assuming you’ve been kidnapped.”

After penning the necessary missives, he limped behind Greta to the east wing where they stood before a plain door. She pushed it open, wincing as the hinges protested with a strident squeak. Inside she quickly moved to the right and pressed a panel that blended perfectly with the cream floral wallpaper. Who needed a key when disguise was the measure of protection?

Oliver stopped for a candle, then ducked into a long corridor that sloped downward to a hidden safe room. The air was cool but not cold.

“Are we underground?”

“Just barely. It was thought that such a design would protect the paintings even if the manor were burned.”

“Your uncle designed this space, didn’t he?”

“He owns so many fine pieces,” she said, nodding. “He knew it would be a means of securing our future if we could hide it well enough. Only after I showed an aptitude for forgeries did he see an application for such talent.” She sounded tired, maybe even weary of revisiting the topic, but Oliver was eager to hear more about her past. “I suppose I should be grateful. After all, he would never have spent so much on my tutors had it been simply for my benefit.”

He stopped her, gently, and turned her to face him. “What would you paint? On your own?”

A sad smile graced her bow of a mouth. “Anything I wanted.”

She turned back to the task. Every inch of floor space along the rear of the room was lined with crates and boxes.

Oliver found a low stool and took the weight off his ankle, knowing even his hastily learned art lessons would be no use in helping her search. “If the painting was newly returned, it should be somewhere near the front.”

Greta nodded and continued looking, peering beneath dozens of protective pads and into buckled crates. Finally she exhaled. “Here it is.”

Holding the candle high, Oliver approached the find. Grim-faced men and women in formal dress crowded together for what had to have been a tedious family portrait.

“Certainly not the painting I would’ve imagined for a duke’s mistress,” he said.

“Her lineage, apparently.” She leaned nearer. “Wait, bring the candle here. Closer,
bitte.
”

Oliver obliged. A shiver of foreboding crept over his skin.

“This is my copy.”

Flipping the crate lid, Oliver read the stenciled writing. “This came from Maria Lucca. This is the copy that was returned.”

“But…where is the original?”

“Is there someone we can ask?”

“Herschel, my uncle’s assistant. But he’ll alert Thaddeus.”

Oliver stood and looked over the room stuffed with priceless art. “It must be in here,
ja?
”

“I would have agreed with you, but now I don’t know.”

“We can look.”

“Oliver, that will take hours. You…” She looked down to where her fingers twisted into a ball. “You don’t have to. This isn’t your problem. I…I never should’ve involved you.”

He touched her chin. “I’m here because I want to be,” he said softly. “All of it. You did nothing to force me.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to turn you away, but you refuse. Why?”

“Refuse you? I don’t know if I can.”

Greta pressed into his embrace and buried her face against his chest. Savoring the gift, Oliver laid his cheek atop her crown and held on tightly. They stood that way, motionless. The passion of their criminal evening and cross-country escape was a memory now, replaced momentarily by a sweet and tender affinity. He did not know which he would choose if forced to pick only one.