The Legacy (13 page)

For a little thing, she was quite strong.

He squinted up her, certain this time it was she who had gone mad. “Have you lost your senses?”

She stood over him, hands on her hips, glaring down. “Have you lost
yours?
I do not require such a sacrifice, thank you very much. It was only a kiss, just as you said. Nothing more.”

Realization struck. “You thought … I was going … to throw myself in?” The idea was preposterous, yet she clearly believed it. He hooted with sudden laughter. “You thought … I was going to … throw myself in!” he roared, flopping backward onto the ground in his mirth.

She looked bewildered. “Well, weren’t you?”

“Nay!” he gasped, clutching at his sides and laughing all the harder.

She turned crimson. “Then what were you doing, for Heaven’s sake?” She wagged a finger at him. “Stop that!”

He gulped, trying hard to catch his breath. It took several deep mouthfuls before he was able to speak again.

“I was trying to douse the flames,” he informed her.

“Flames?” It was obvious she didn’t understand.

“Yes,” he said gently. “You, ah, inspired a certain kind of heat in me only a dip in ice-cold water can cure.”

“Oh. Oh!” She finally understood him. Her hands flew to her cheeks, and she covered them in a gesture of mortification so endearing, so wonderfully female, he wanted to pick her up, carry her to the house, and kiss her senseless in the privacy of his bedchamber. Perhaps do a few other things while he was at it.

She drew back her dainty foot and kicked him in the shin. Any lustful thoughts fled at once.

“Ow!” he yelped. “What was that for?”

She stamped her wet shoe in the mud. “For frightening me, for making me believe—for, for—”

She seemed to be at a loss for words, a first in their acquaintance, and although he tried not to, he laughed again.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” she cried, and stomped past him as regally as the pull of the mud would allow. “You walked right in without a word!” she flung over her shoulder.

“Forgive me.” He levered himself up and followed her. Lord, he hadn’t laughed this way since … well, for far too long.

She cast him a suspicious glare, arms crossed mutinously.

“Truly. For everything. There was no excuse for—for what happened, any of it. I lost myself for a moment, but it won’t happen again.”

“Lost yourself?” She huffed. “How does one simply ‘lose’ oneself?”

How could he explain? “I mean I forgot myself. It’s just, for the first time in years, I was enjoying myself. I failed to consider the consequences.”

A look of curiosity replaced her wary look. “Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“You said you have not enjoyed yourself in years. Why not?”

“Ah. Well, as you once said, it is a long story.”

“It appears I have time.” She swept her arms out, indicating her wet skirts. “This will take a while to dry, and I am not going back into the house until it does. Besides, I am told I am a very good listener.”

He looked around him. “But I—this is hardly the time or place—” he sputtered, thrown off by the change in her attitude.

She raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware you were so concerned about propriety.”

It was a gentle rebuke, better than he deserved, considering his outrageous behavior. He shook his head ruefully. “It wouldn’t appear so.”

“Besides, it will help us to get … acquainted, as you put it.”

“I like my method better,” he grumbled.

She snorted again.

“Very well, then,” he said, none too graciously. He turned and trudged back up the embankment, assuming she would follow. He heard her huffing behind him, and he stopped, rolled his eyes, and went back for her. He took her arm as she struggled to lift her heavy skirts above the ground; she glared at him warily, but she allowed it. They reached the top of the embankment, and he led her to the tree stump once more and sat down beside her.

He wasn’t certain where to begin. Finally, he picked up a pinecone lying nearby and broke it apart methodically, rolling its rough edges between his palms while she fluffed her skirts out around her.

What could he tell her? How could he possibly explain?

“I suppose it mostly has to do with Beth, my w—my first wife. I still miss her, in many ways. It’s hard to find joy in life when the person you loved most in the world is buried in the ground. The fact we had such a short time together as man and wife makes it even more difficult to accept.”

Wolf glanced over at Sabina. How did she feel about kissing him one moment, then listening to him moon over his dead wife the next? He was surprised to see her expression was one of genuine interest.

A unique sort of woman.

“After Beth died, I … lost myself for a long while.”

His mind rushed back to those turbulent times.

He still remembered the night Beth went into labor, prematurely. They had come home from Nürnberg only that day, in order to have the baby in Wittenberg, at Sanctuary. The trip had exhausted her, and the labor began that evening. The fates had conspired against them, it seemed—Peter was gone that night; even Bea, who might have known how to save her, was absent on one of her rare visits to see her family. Franz had searched frantically for the midwife, but hadn’t returned with her until it was too late.

Wolf pleaded with God to spare his wife, even as he delivered their baby himself.

“The night she had Gisel, something went wrong. There was nothing I could do. So much blood, so much pain …” He had watched helplessly while Beth’s blood flowed out of her, staining the sheets red while she weakly held the mewling babe in her arms. Still, even knowing she was dying, she didn’t regret the cost.

Love her. Love her enough for the both of us.

She had begged the promise from him moments before her death. He hadn’t kept it, not at first. He had simply been unable to comply. In his anguish, he had blamed himself, and then Gisel, for his wife’s death. They had been warned of the risk of childbirth, but it had been Beth’s heart’s desire to have a child. In this, for once, he should have refused her entreaties, but he could never deny her anything she wished. In his heart, he would always feel responsible for her death.

“At first, I wanted nothing to do with the baby. I didn’t even name her, didn’t hold her until she was weeks old. I descended into self-pity. I soaked my days with wine and my nights with tears. I alternated between being unable to leave my bed and being unable to sleep at all. I would see Beth’s ghost, looking at me, accusing me of abandoning our child, but there was nothing I could do about it. I began to look forward to the specter’s visits, even begged her to take me with her when she fled.”

Sabina stirred beside him. “Praise God she did not oblige you. Who knows, it may have been a demon sent from Hell to tempt you with despair.”

His despondency had alarmed his entire family. Peter tried to reach him, but to no avail. His father was helplessly sympathetic; even Günter, who was notorious for minding no one’s business but his own, had come home to confront him upon hearing the news. It was his sister, Greta who had forced him to face up to the way he dishonored his wife by ignoring their child, the child Beth died giving life to.

She had slapped him. Hard.

Is this what she would have expected of you? Is this what she would have wanted?
Greta had shouted at him. Greta, his sweet sister, who never raised her voice or her hand against anyone. It got through to him as nothing else had.

He still wondered what dark road he might have traveled if Greta hadn’t intervened.

Instead, that night as he stared down at the plump, squalling bundle of ferocious intensity that was his daughter, he’d named her Gisel, or “pledge,” in honor of the promise to Beth he had nearly forgotten.

“I’ve prayed for forgiveness for my weakness. I’ve done the best I can, God help me, to keep my promise to Beth to love and protect our child, but I don’t know if it will ever be enough to make up for Gisel’s beginning.”

“It will be enough.” Sabina took his hands in hers and the blue of her eyes penetrated into his soul. “Love is always enough.”

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted it with a sweet ardor that had eluded him for so long, with a purity he had abandoned years ago. For that very reason, he didn’t do it. He touched her hands, gently, and slowly pulled one to his lips. He couldn’t resist pressing a chaste kiss into her palm, and he felt her hand jerk in response.

“It’s been hard raising Gisel without her mother,” he went on, rubbing his thumb over the cool skin where he had placed his kiss. “I fret about her—am I doing the right things, am I being a good father?”

He was surprised to hear himself admitting this to her. He hadn’t really admitted it to himself. Now that he had begun, he found it hard to stop.

“I worried I was depriving her of too much by not marrying again right away and giving her a mother who could love her. Then I worried whether any woman could ever love her the way her own mother would have. The nursemaid is wonderful with her, of course, as are my family, but it’s not the same.”

“Nay, nothing is the same as the unconditional love of a mother,” she said with a poignancy that nearly broke his heart, and again Wolf saw the image in his mind of her as a young girl.

“Yes. I suspect you would understand. Anyway, what with one thing and another, there hasn’t been any opportunity for it. Enjoyment, I mean.”

He deliberately lightened his tone. He would suffocate from the memories if they didn’t talk about something else.

“At least of the grown variety, at any rate. Gisel, you know, puts on quite a little tea party on occasion. Moreover, she has the most bloodcurdling scream of any Turkish raider I have ever heard, which she loves to practice on Peter when they play ‘Attack the Village.’ Forewarned is forearmed.”

His light banter lifted the somber mood, as he hoped it would, and he saw her quick grin.

“I will be certain to take care,” she said.

He looked her over. She appeared to be dry enough. He stood up. “Come, my lady, we must see to your needs.”

Her eyes grew round and she clutched her cloak to her bosom.

“But I—that is, we—”

He grinned down at her. “My, such wicked thoughts. One would never guess you were once a nun.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“You haven’t eaten yet this morning,” he reminded her. “I suggest we go inside to break our fast.”

“Oh.” The word drew out as realization dawned. She turned pink and stood up.

He looked at her cloak and grimaced. He knew he must not look any better. “And on the way back, mayhap we can concoct a suitable explanation for our, um, disarray.”

She examined their clothes in dismay. “Oh, my.”

He smothered a smile and escorted her back up the path.

A
t the sight of the disheveled Sabina and Wolf returning from their walk, Franz’s eyebrows rose nearly to his crown of gray hair. Still, as a noble, Sabina had learned long ago never to explain herself to a servant. Wolf appeared to concur with her approach because he handed the cloaks over without a word. Franz said nothing, but merely took their cloaks and gingerly proceeded to brush out the bits of grime and mud with a stiff brush.

“Fräuline
Schumacher is in the dining room with your brother, Master Wolfgang,” he warned Wolf. “She and her mother wish to join you for the morning meal.”

“Oh, I am not presentable—” Sabina began, but a familiar voice interrupted her.

“Good morning to you both. I trust you slept well,” Peter called out as he advanced with two women in tow. “You must come see who has shown up on our doorstep for a bride visit, Wolf.” Peter turned to the two women. “Fya, and
Frau
Schumacher, please allow me to introduce my new sister-in-law, Baronesse Sabina,” he said grandly, as though he was not standing before two people who had apparently decided to take a dirt bath before breaking their fast.

The women eyed Sabina with curious detachment. The younger one, an exquisite blonde with a mass of tumbling curls wrapped in a silk ribbon, wore an elegant green overskirt on top of a damasked underskirt trimmed in pale yellow. Her puffed and slashed sleeves and muslin chemise were probably the height of fashion, although Sabina could not be the judge, and her lush brown eyes revealed nothing but a studied lack of interest in anyone but Peter. This was, no doubt, Fya, with whom he had an “understanding.” The older woman resembled her strongly, with two exceptions: her blond curls had long ago turned gray, and were neatly tucked into a stylish cap, and she favored sky blue to match her eyes … eyes that scraped over Sabina’s rumpled clothing with a knowing and at once dismissive gaze.

Sabina disliked them both on sight. She had no doubt in her mind the feeling was mutual.

“Come join us,” Peter said. “Bea has put on her usual spread of food. There is far too much for a troop of soldiers to finish, let alone we paltry three.”

“Please,” Sabina demurred, “I am not prepared for such elegant company. You must feast without me, I am afraid.”

“Yes,” agreed
Frau
Schumacher with a smug smile. “I am certain the baronesse would not be … comfortable … in such a state.”

Wolf’s eyes narrowed. Then he tilted his head as if he did not understand. “And what sort of state could my wife possibly be in which wouldn’t allow her to enjoy a meal in her own home?” he asked politely, only the hint of steel in his voice giving him away.

Sabina blushed to be the object of such an instant defense. It implied things about their relationship she knew were not true, and it made her feel like an object of pity, unable to defend herself.

Frau
Schumacher seemed to realize she had made a tactical error where Wolf was concerned. “I meant only, perhaps the baronesse would prefer to change into something more … less …” she trailed off, at a loss for words.

Wolf took Sabina’s hand and folded it over his arm. “I think she looks fine. Don’t you think she looks fine, Peter?”

“Marvelous,” Peter answered without hesitation, then instantly flinched at the elbow dug into his ribs by his female friend. “Though, of course, I only have eyes for you, my dear Fya,” he said with a gracious bow. She fluttered her ample eyelashes at him and giggled.