The Legacy (4 page)

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.

Marcus gripped the flagon hard. With an unsteady movement, he tapped the barrel again and let the nearly purple liquid flow to the top. Never mind. The ship would come in to port, and it would be carrying riches beyond his wildest dreams. He would have excellent meats on his table, the finest wines, the best of everything, again. All he had to do was be patient. After all, God had given him the perfect pigeons at his darkest hour, had He not?

He stared at his wife; her needle flashed while she worked on the embroidered canvas. She sensed his gaze, finally, and raised her head. He downed the last of his wine and threw the flagon onto the table.

“Upstairs. I am in the mood to celebrate.”

Her eyes hardened for a moment, but she rose to do his bidding nonetheless. Marcus followed her with a self-satisfied smile.

It is done, and I am saved. No one need ever know the truth. No one.

T
he rain threatened overhead while they rode through the city. Master Behaim’s legs encircled Sabina’s, his rock hard thighs bulging. She could feel the heat of him surrounding her, smell the scent of his soap—lemons and sandalwood—upon him. She shivered, resisting the urge to hover her hands over his warmth as though he were a campfire.

Her nose twitched when they passed a meat stall, and the smell of ginger and cloves enticed her, causing her stomach to growl. A few vendors in the marketplace began to close their stalls, for there would be few buyers today if the damp heaviness in the air delivered as promised.

She glanced down at Master Behaim’s huge hands holding the reins. Ink spotted the skin around his short nails, though his hands seemed otherwise clean. She supposed it was to be expected, given his profession. A printer. A master in the Guild, the baron had deigned to explain.

She glanced up at her new husband again. A peculiar profession for someone who exuded such stark masculinity. She pictured him doing something more daring and adventurous. The sense of restrained power in him proved difficult to ignore; he compelled one’s gaze, the way a leashed beast did in the hands of an unsteady trainer. One never took one’s eyes off such a beast, if one was wise. Still, she could not continue staring at him as though he were the main attraction at a sideshow. He would become aware. She forced her gaze back to the city lanes around her.

“Your father takes poor charge of his noble duties,” he said abruptly.

Startled from her reverie, she followed the direction of his gaze to the baron’s castle situated outside the city walls, high on a hillside overlooking Wittenberg. Its crumbling northern wall was evident even from this distance.

“Frederick’s new fortifications made ours unnecessary for Wittenberg’s defense,” she answered.

“Still, he should maintain the battlements and the keep—if nothing else, for the people living within.” He gestured to the North Tower wall. “I’ve seen that wall up close. If they were attacked, anyone could enter there and slaughter them at will.”

She shivered. “He will not spend the coin. Not until he knows the holdings will be secured for his heir.”

“What do you mean by that? It will be yours.”

She merely shook her head.

“Have you brothers or sisters?” he persisted.

“Nay,” she answered carefully.

His brows drew together. “So it will be yours.”

She sighed, and tried to explain as best she could. “The baron married my mother and adopted me legally when I was two. The barony title will of course pass to any children, adopted or natural, who survive him, including me. However, when the castle was given to my great grandfather as part of his
Schenk
possessions, it was written it must descend in accordance with primogeniture—only to the eldest living male heir. If he had lived, it would have belonged to Carl, the baron’s natural son.”

She blinked away the threat of tears that always came at the thought of Carl. “Therefore, if the baron has another son with his current Baronin, the
Schenk
title and landholdings will go to him. It produces the bulk of the family’s wealth. Without an heir, it will go to my last male cousin in Leipzig.”

“And you get …?”

“A tenth of a portion of any remaining assets.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “A practical man. Why spend coin on fortifications if it will only end up in the hands of a distant relation?”

“I see you understand him well,” she said wryly.

“I am beginning to.” He subsided again into silence.

She looked back at him. “You mentioned a name. Sanctuary. Is that your home?”

He nodded. “It was converted from a farmhouse into a small manse years ago. The Elector deeded it to my grandfather for services rendered. It has on many occasions been a sanctuary to me.” He looked down at her, and his emerald eyes glittered. “I will protect it at any cost.”

The message was clear.

She sighed, weary beyond measure. Just once, she wanted not to be at odds with the male world. She wanted the power over her own life that men like Wolfgang Behaim and the baron took for granted. When she received her inheritance in a few weeks, she would finally have the means to be financially independent, something she wished with all her heart.

With her legacy, she would establish a haven for her forgotten sisters, for former nuns like her who had nowhere to turn after they left the Church. In her haven, there would be freedom to come and go, and an opportunity to earn one’s keep by contributing to the daily labor. She smiled, envisioning the farmland in Mühlhausen she had already surveyed prior to approaching the baron. The farmer who owned the land was willing to help her—all she needed was the coin to buy it.

She cursed the devil that the baron stood between her and her dream. While he could not spend her legacy, he still controlled the means of its disbursement. She counted herself twelve kinds of fool for not anticipating his violent reaction to her unexpected arrival.

Struck by a wave of dizziness, she leaned against Master Behaim’s solid chest for support, only for a moment.

“We’re here,” he said coolly.

She straightened when they rode into a winding lane and craned her neck to view the manse. It emerged from the mist like a vision from a dream. The ivy-covered manse, larger than she had expected, had five gables ambling about in four different directions. The whole of the structure appeared to be no more than three stories high. Dormant rose bushes dominated the landscape, their blunted stems a silent promise of renewal. Faint wisps of smoke drifted from the chimney tops, the spicy scent warm and inviting. The entire vision made Sabina yearn for what she had never known—true sanctuary.

Sabina glanced at Master Behaim, and noted his eyes searched the landscape as though he checked it against a mental picture to assure himself all was as he had left it.

He rode the horses up to the main door. At their arrival, the huge door opened and two men came out. The first resembled Master Behaim, but with a slightly smaller build. He looked closer to her age than her husband’s. Like her new husband, he was striking, but his features lacked Master Behaim’s blunt intensity. The second, she recognized as the elderly servant from the wedding ceremony.

Master Behaim dismounted and turned to face the younger man when he approached.

“Well,” the man said to him, “I thought perhaps Franz had gone dotty in his old age when he informed me you were bringing home a wife this morning, but I can see I was mistaken. You might have told the rest of us, you know.”

The man then turned to Sabina. With her ill-fitting garments, Sabina was hardly worthy of any man’s attention, yet he managed a flirtatious smile.

“I am Peter,” the man said, “this big oaf’s younger brother. Much younger, I might add.”

Sabina returned Peter’s smile. He brightened and put his hand over his heart as though struck with an arrow.

“Ye gods, what a smile! Where have you been hiding so this brother of mine found you first?”

Sabina stiffened. “It is a long story.”

“I have the time,” Peter said with a wink.

“And the impudence, apparently,” Sabina answered with a raised brow. That drew an even wider smile from him.

Wolf spoke up. “I think Fya would not be pleased to hear of such impudence. She believes you have an understanding.”

Peter tugged on one ear and looked almost sheepishly at Wolf. “Fya understands little that doesn’t have to do with the most current fashions in gowns or jewelry. However, since she has the face of an angel, I make allowances.”

The elderly man came forward at that moment. “Welcome,
Frau
Behaim. I am Franz,” he said, as if no further introduction was necessary. He turned to her husband, glancing pointedly back at her where she sat on the horse.

It was improper for her to remain seated, astride Master Behaim’s horse, but what was she to do? Particularly when the ground seemed to be getting farther away by the moment.

Wolf frowned, wondering why the manservant’s gaze held a faint note of censure. He scratched his head.
What the devil have I done now?

Well, at least Lady Sabina’s gaze had finally turned elsewhere. She’d done nothing but scrutinize him since they had mounted Suleiman. Unnerving, to say the least. One would think she’d never seen a man before.

He almost laughed. Of course. She’d recently come from nine years in a convent. It was very nearly the same thing.

Franz cleared his throat. “Master Wolfgang, I have sent the young
Fräuline
to the nursery to break her fast.”

“The young
Fräuline?”
Lady Sabina asked.

Wolf looked up at her. “My daughter.”

“Oh. I see,” she said, though it was clear she did not.

Peter’s glance slid to Wolf, a question in his raised brows Wolf chose to ignore. If he hadn’t yet informed his new bride she had a stepdaughter, it was his business alone.

Lady Sabina shivered atop the horse and only then, did Wolf notice her white-knuckled grip on the pommel. He was being unforgivably rude, even for him. She looked a little green. The best thing to do would be to get her inside, quickly.

“Let me help you down,” he offered, and went to her side.

At that precise moment, the clouds opened up, drenching them all in a matter of seconds. Lady Sabina glanced up in surprise, and the motion seemed to do her in.

“Excuse me,” she said, closed her eyes, and for the second time that day slid off a horse—straight into Wolf’s outstretched arms. He caught her deftly and stared down at her limp form.

“Lady Sabina!”

She did not respond. The driving rain flattened his hair into a sleek cap and dripped down his nose onto Lady Sabina’s face, though he tried to shield her. He gazed at the soot-colored eyelashes that swept down over white flesh, now deathly pale.

“What the devil is wrong with her?” Peter asked, and reached for her. Wolf pushed past him.

“I haven’t a clue, but whatever it is won’t be cured by standing out here freezing our backsides off in the rain. Franz, open the door.”

Franz leapt to obey, and Wolf hoisted his new bride over the threshold.

“Well, at least we shall abide by one tradition,” Peter observed sardonically, and followed them into the house.

Just inside the doorway, Wolf removed his sodden cloak from Lady Sabina’s shoulders, dumped it by the door, and carried her into the withdrawing room, where he laid her down before the hearth. At least this room still held some semblance of the comforts the house had known in its earlier days, before Papa had taken to pawning off entire rooms of furniture at a time. He spread Lady Sabina’s hair out around her; the fire roared in the grate. He hoped it might help to dry the thick tresses. He barely heard Peter giving orders to the housekeeper regarding their unexpected dousing.

The baronesse was slim, though she still had the soft padding of a woman where it counted. The fact she wore no underclothes became more obvious as a result of her damp bodice. He couldn’t help but notice the twin peaks cresting beneath it. He hastily pulled a threadbare fur rug around her shoulders, less in deference to her modesty than to a sudden and intense curiosity about the shape of what lay beneath. Mildly ashamed to realize he could have such a reaction to a woman unable to defend herself, he tucked the rug under her chin.

Peter, who studied medicine and philosophy at the University of Wittenberg under the Elector’s own physician, strode into the room. He carried a polished pewter plate; when he knelt and held it in front of her face, the pewter fogged, indicating she still breathed. He felt beneath her armpits and along the sides of her neck, then briefly pulled up her eyelids. He released them and pressed a palm to her forehead.