Portrait of Seduction (26 page)

But the sweet, rose-tinted scent of her hair did more than comfort him with the reality of her presence. He inhaled deeply, then again, drawing her inside. The echoes of her soft cries made him close his eyes, savoring the wonder of her passion. She liked to tease him until his only goal was making her gasp, loving her harder, more intensely, until her giddy smiles turned to moans.

Mere seconds passed before his cock was fully rigid, eager for her wet, welcoming body.

He shifted slightly so that her breasts pillowed against his ribs. With his hand at her hip, he began swirling languorous circles along her bare skin. The curve of her backside was warm beneath the coverlet, warm and perfectly rounded. He decided that the dip along her lower back was surprisingly erotic. Not so obvious as her other attributes, that valley was exceedingly intimate territory. No other man had ever touched her there.

No other man ever would.

Floating on the sparkling heat of his early-morning arousal, Oliver thought the first distant rumble must be thunder.

But the second…

His memories of Greta’s lovemaking were replaced by far worse, far more distant images. Cannon fire and explosions. Men’s bodies ripped to pieces. He tensed and jerked upright in bed.

Greta stirred, her sleep-drenched face a picture of confusion. “What is it?”

“Be still,” he said.

She did as she was told but with a frown. Oliver absorbed one more long look of her glorious nudity. He grabbed his trousers and kicked into them, abusing the garment as if it were responsible for cutting short a morning full of such potential. The nearest window was open just a crack. He pushed the glass panes as wide as they would go and stuck his head out-of-doors.

“Oliver, you’re scaring me.”

Another rumble of thunder. But it was not a storm approaching. The faint, hair-raising whiff of gunpowder on the breeze said as much.

“You must get up, Greta.” The back of his throat stung as if he had been inhaling that acrid stench for weeks and weeks. Once he had. As a soldier there had been times when he despaired of ever taking another clean breath. “The estimates were wrong. We do not have three days to evacuate. Likely we only have hours.”

“Napoleon?”

Her eyes were impossibly wide—so much confidence and spirit in her suddenly rendered terrified. Downstairs, the first stirrings of the Venner household still maintained the regular cadence of an ordinary morning. He envied them these moments of ignorance.

Oliver grabbed his shirt and tugged it on. “Yes,
meine Liebe.
It’s Napoleon. The French are here.”

Salzburg was in chaos.

The streets pulsed with fear-stricken citizens running and pushing their way through. But Oliver had little time to consider the state of the city, let alone the meeting he had been set to attend with Karl that morning.

“Get the horses ready, now!”

He had managed to hold his temper until the latest bomb made the chandeliers rattle. The closeness of the advancing army seemed to strike the servants dumb—with fright, with curiosity, with surprise. They stopped and stared at one another, slack-jawed, every time another cannonball hit its distant target. The troops were still over the mountains. They had until nightfall at least, but everyone behaved as if Napoleon himself was ready to charge into the foyer.

But what time was that to move an entire household? Only the most prized family heirlooms could be saved. Getting them packed and stowed would take time. Choosing which members of the staff would stay and which would go…that would be agonizing as well. Nobles such as the Venners were at grave risk of outright execution by Napoleon’s bloodthirsty troops. Everyone else, however, stood a good chance of surviving the siege and occupation to come, but that did not account for the potential violence of bored soldiers and stray munitions fire. Any servant who stayed might die. The weight of that choice—one he continued to put off—was stealing his patience and tact.

On the verge of letting loose another tirade against a slothful groom, Oliver felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned to find Greta standing there, her face a picture of composure that his guts dearly envied.

“Oliver,” she said, her eyes and voice steady.

And that was enough. She was like a stiff drink, warm and soothing. He had once believed her a wild woman—she still was—but for him she was a calming reminder. Each task in its own time. How did she know to do that? How had he survived for so long, needing that understanding but doing without?

Oliver gripped Greta’s cool fingers and kissed the back of her hand. “
Danke,
” he whispered against her skin.

She offered a forgiving smile, then glanced toward the portmanteau tucked into a nearby corner. “I’ve packed. I have nothing more to do. How can I help?”

“Go to Ingrid,
bitte.
The nanny is gathering things for Franz, but Ingrid will need help directing the other packing. Valuables and such.”

“Where is Lord Venner?”

“At the Residenz, making one last attempt to stave off the inevitable. We received word two hours ago that an emissary from Napoleon’s people had arrived to talk terms.”

“Terms?”

“Of surrender.”

The little color in her cheeks drained away. “Will that prevent the city’s destruction?”

“It did last time.” He remembered the fear and panic that had claimed the city when Napoleon’s troops occupied Salzburg less than five years earlier. At that time, nothing had required Oliver’s attention other than earning a secure place with his bachelor half brother. Now he and Christoph both had more to lose. “We cannot rely on that happening. We must be on our way to Anhalt by dusk.”

After a quick glance around, Greta stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “The Venners are in good hands. I’ll do what I can.”

She turned and hurried up the stairs before he could even offer his thanks. Oliver prided himself on being able to read even the subtlest expressions, but the resignation—a resignation that bordered on sadness—in Greta’s eyes was beyond his comprehension. Something was troubling her and had been since his confession. There was a tension between them now that had not been apparent before.

Greta stuffed a blanket around a painting and carefully wedged it into an overstuffed chest of valuables. “I doubt we can fit any more.”

“You’re right. Seal it up,
bitte.
” With Franz on her shoulder, Ingrid bobbed up and down as she assessed the small stack of possessions. Three chests, two soft-sided bags, and a few assorted swords and larger antiques sat in the middle of her bedroom floor. “This is ridiculous,” she said with a sneer. “What does it matter? Enough now, Greta, my dear. They’re just things.”

“But they will smooth the way to safety.”

Ingrid made a sour face. “If Venner’s relatives won’t take us in, I’m not sure I want to associate with them. But I suppose I cannot be picky.”

Another distant explosion was enough to make the glass windowpanes shudder in their casements. Franz, who had been nearly asleep, bellowed with all his might, although his newborn lungs did not produce much by way of volume. Ingrid closed her eyes and tried to soothe him. Greta stood away from the locked trunk, her own knees unsteady.

Salzburg. Under attack. She had lived through the last occupation in the relative comfort of her uncle’s manor. The plight of the people in harm’s way had seemed so distant at the time, when Thaddeus’s coffers had been plentifully stocked. He had simply paid the French to bypass his estate. But the move had bankrupted him, save his collection of artwork.

Now there would be nothing to stave off occupation. No matter their differences, she hoped her forgeries would do their job. If he could safeguard the originals through the war, Thaddeus might still be able to marry Anna and Theresa to suitably wealthy and influential husbands.

If not, Greta might never see them again.

But she could not assume that responsibility. Thaddeus was their father. She had done all she could to give him the resources to secure her cousins’ futures.

Now she had her own future to think about. A future with Oliver in Anhalt.

Lord Venner appeared in the doorway. Ingrid rushed into his arms. She babbled an update on the household’s readiness—or lack thereof—while he held her and little Franz, his expression crestfallen.

“What of the emissary?” she asked at last.

“No terms.”

Ingrid shook her head. “What do you mean, no terms?”

“The emissary said that the French are not prepared to offer any terms. They will occupy Salzburg.”

Greta tried to breathe past the buzz in her ears. “What about the duke? Surely he would use his influence with Napoleon.”

“Oh, hello, Greta,” Venner said, only just realizing her presence. “No, I’m afraid Ferdinand already has plans, none of which involve remaining here to bear the brunt of Salzburg’s troubles. He’s packing his family for Vienna, then on to Tuscany.”

Long-ago memories of that night at the opera returned in force. Greta touched her throat with one hand and reached out for a washstand with the other, steadying her balance. “So that…that man was right. The one who attacked me.”

“His acuity does not excuse his actions, naturally, but yes.” Venner’s face appeared far older than his years. The fight for his city was over. “He was right. And now we are left with no option but to flee. No aristocrat will be safe here.”

A trio of burly men, their faces limed with a sheen of sweat, knocked and asked permission to enter. Oliver followed them into the bedchamber, directing their strong backs and arms. “These, Ingrid?” he asked.

“Ja.”
Her voice caught on that single word.

“Good. Then with the four of us, we can fit eight more people in the carriages.”

“Eight? That’s all?”

Oliver shrugged, his expression apologetic. “We only have so much room.”

“Forget the trunks, then,” Ingrid said. “The bags and this chest. That’s all. Everything else of value was shipped on to Anhalt weeks ago.”

Venner frowned. “You’re certain?”

“Now we can fit ten people, yes? Maybe eleven?”

His gaze intent, Oliver seemed to make some silent calculation. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.”

“And I’ll ride on horseback,” Greta added. Venner and Oliver both grunted their protests, but she remained adamant. “There’s no need for me to take up one of those spaces. If the goal is to get out of the city, then why not?”

Oliver still appeared uneasy with the offer. The lines around his mouth were tight, his eyes narrowed. “Fine. But I’ll ride too.”

Oliver coughed as he stepped outside. The streets were even more crowded by the afternoon, when the stink of gunpowder was a low, heavy cloud over the valley. Memories of war clawed over him so that accomplishing the simplest tasks became a matter of navigating two different crises—one from years ago, and one in the hectic present.

“They’re doing it for show,” Oliver muttered as he boosted into his horse’s saddle. “They have so much ammunition that they can try blowing up the mountain, just to terrify everyone.”

“It’s working,” Greta said. The skin along her cheekbones was a sickly shade of light gray, tight and waxy with fear. “How did you stand this as a soldier?”

“I could shoot back.” He glanced uneasily at the main carriage—one of two in their small procession—as it lumbered forward. “And I didn’t have quite so many people to worry about. Just myself and whichever man was crouched in the mud next to me. Open the gate!”

A lad of no more than ten hauled on the wrought iron gate until it gaped open. He stood silently by as the carriages rolled past.

“Mikel,” Oliver called to him. “Now find your mother and take cover.”

Greta turned her head to follow his departure. “Where will he go?”

“His mother is a seamstress with a family on Judengasse.”

Oliver took one look back at the Venners’ empty home. They had managed to cram Christoph, Ingrid, baby Franz, and twelve people into the carriages, with another six armed men on horseback to keep them safe. Their mounts would serve as replacement horses along the journey to Anhalt. Everyone else had abandoned the manor. They would stand a better chance of avoiding plunder and violence if they stayed with common folk.

“Oliver, there’s nothing more you can do.”

“And that’s a terrible feeling.” He squeezed the reins in frustration. But Greta was right. He could do nothing more. His job now was to see the carriages and their precious cargo out of the city. “You ready?”

Greta nodded once, then urged her horse forward. Oliver tapped his heels into his mount’s flanks, moving alongside her in the packed streets. Carriages lined Kaigasse. People, their backs and arms laden with possessions and small children, filled in every cranny of space. The Venners’ vehicles had progressed only the length of three houses. With patience and slow moves, Oliver drew his horse even with the rearmost of their family guards.

“Dieter, I’m going on ahead to help clear a path. Will you stay with Greta, please?”

The guard’s white-blond hair looked almost ghostly as the air thickened with smoke. “Of course, sir.”

“Good. Greta, I won’t be long.”

He put more urgency into his command of the horse, forcing the animal’s body through the crowd. As the weakened autumn sun shone down on desperate faces, the push of bodies was nearly too much to overcome. But Oliver continued on. He fought to the front of the Venners’ lead carriage, greeting two more of their guards with a grim nod.

“Slow going, sir,” one said.

“I can see that. Do what you can to clear a path farther ahead. I’ll stay here.”

“You armed, sir?” the other asked.

Oliver patted his hip where his muzzle-loading pocket pistol rested heavily. He had not worn it since surviving combat. He certainly had no desire to use it, there among Salzburg’s anguished citizens, but he would not leave his people unprotected. “I’ll be fine. Go now.”

He watched as the two large men fared better at shoving a little distance between bodies. God, it ripped at his heart. These people had so little. It seemed wrong to try and shove carriages down such a street. But the future of his family depended on getting clear. He had little of Christoph’s faith that their relatives in Anhalt would offer sanctuary without being reimbursed. In an odd way, at that moment, he could understand Thaddeus Leinz’s desperate actions. What would he risk if he had daughters to protect? What decisions would he make, perhaps later to regret? Probably too many, but immediate threats crystallized what was important.

A cannon fired with a tremendous boom—a mere mile away, if that. The blast rumbled the ground and blew out the windows of two nearby buildings. Women screamed. Two horses reared up on their hind legs, scattering the crowd. A scene that had been polite chaos turned ugly. Two men fought with bloodied fists, although Oliver hadn’t been privy to the scuffle’s origin. Every inhale of gunpowder shuttled him back to distant battlefields.

“Sir!” One of the guards had turned back. “A carriage with a busted axle is blocking the way.”

Oliver was off his horse in a blink. He rounded up four of the guards and handed the horses off to one of them. “The rest of you, with me.”

They shoved through the crowd and came to the carriage, a grand vehicle with gilt trimming over black lacquer. Its occupants were still inside.

“Out! Now!” Oliver yanked open the door. When the startled couple and their servants would not exit, they were none-so-kindly assisted by the Venners’ guards. “You’re blocking the way for the entire street.”

“We were waiting for our man to return with the tools to fix it.” Oliver recognized him as a banker named Klaus Jensen.

“Herr Jensen, your man is probably across the Salzach and halfway to Vienna by now. We must get this carriage out of the way.”

Without waiting for a reply, Oliver and the other men worked on moving the vehicle to one side of the road. His head hurt, as if he’d run for miles in the blazing heat without a single drink of water. His back ached and his arms screamed for mercy, but he worked as fiercely as the guards who’d all been hired for their brawn. Urgency was like a potion making him stronger and more determined.

Slowly, with patience and brute strength, he and the men shuffled the carriage on a lazy diagonal toward the right side of the road. Almost immediately the glut in the street eased. The larger vehicles were able to cut through with room to spare, and the people calmed with more space between shoving bodies.

Oliver pushed back toward the lead carriage, only to find it had moved past. That alone seemed a victory worth celebrating, but he would save all such sentiments for when they were safely across the Salzach. With only two main bridges to cross the river, their struggles with cloying crowds were far from over.