Awaiting the Moon (15 page)

But after lunch Charlotte begged off any more lessons, saying she felt ill, and she disappeared, presumably to rest in her room.

Elizabeth found herself with free time. After sitting with Countess Adele for an hour, during which she listened to a recitation of the family history from about the year 1100 up to 1300, she felt some sympathy for Charlotte. If the girl had felt anything like the ennui Elizabeth felt in the countess’s presence, then her illness was not completely feigned.

And so, free and at loose ends, not really wanting to visit anyone else for the moment while she thought about some of the odd occurrences so far at Wolfram Castle, she explored the building, the warren of corridors and dead ends, new portion and old castle finally beginning to make sense to her in the light of day. But still she could find no explanation for those wooden doors in the base of the old castle. They must lead to rooms not readily accessible—storerooms, perhaps. That would make sense, for stores of food, coal, wood, and other supplies would need to find their way into the house somehow, and how better than from doors near the lane? Those rooms, then, would in turn be accessible only from service areas, pantries, and the like.

She had not forgotten the count’s magical appearance in the library the first night of her arrival, but she had thought of a logical explanation; it now seemed to her likely that there was a door in the paneling somewhere that led to his own suite of rooms. How else to account for it? It did not explain, however, the unmelted snow on his cape.

On her way toward the yellow parlor, the room she considered her own little sitting room, she encountered Bartol Liebner and realized that what she had been thinking so strange for the past hour was that she had encountered no other member of the family in her travels.

“
Guten tag, Fraulein
,” he said with a polite bow. “I hope you have so far been enjoying your day.”

“Uh,
vielen dank
, Herr Liebner,” she said, trying out some of her German and thanking him for his good wishes. “I have been enjoying it so far.”

He clapped his hands. “Very good, Miss Stanwycke. Soon you will speak such good German there will be no keeping secrets from you!” He chuckled and gave her a roguish grin.

“I hardly think that is a concern, sir. Languages are not my strength.”

“And so,” he said, his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, “have you been seeing the castle?”

“I have. I’ve gone over much of it, but… I think I missed a part,” Elizabeth said, peering along the gallery and pondering her route. “I thought there was a… a room that had weapons on the walls. I remember seeing it a couple of days ago, and I wished to see the family shield that hung in it again.”

“Ah, you mean the sword room!”

“I probably do.”

“May I direct you?” He held out his arm in a courtly manner.

She took it. He was just her height and kept up a lively chatter as they walked, relating amusing anecdotes from von Wolfram family history that Countess Adele had not touched on, and she found herself enjoying a family member’s company for the first time since arriving, if one did not consider Uta’s interesting oddness and Frau Liebner’s familiar comfort. Or the count’s intense attractiveness.

They entered a room on the second floor, and Elizabeth immediately recognized it as the open, marble-floored chamber she had seen on her first night’s perambulations. How she had missed the door in her travels that day she couldn’t say. It made her wonder if she had truly learned all there was to know about the castle or been deceived once again. It seemed simple enough, but once one had doubled back and gone up and down stairs, one was thoroughly confused as to what had been explored and what had not.

“That is the family shield you spoke of, Fraulein,” the man said, guiding her to the far wall and indicating above a glass case.

“Yes, I see.” She gazed up at the shield, barred diagonally in red and black and with a wolf rampant on one half and a raven with outstretched wings on the other. “What does the motto mean?” she asked of the German words scrolled across the top.

“Literally, it can be translated, ‘Run swift. Fly high. Freedom always.’ But old Johannes—

Nikolas’s father, you know, not his poor late brother—once told me it means that, like the wolf, they should run swiftly, like the raven, they should soar, and always, they should hold their freedom sacred above all else.”

“Hmm. I’ve never heard a family motto like that.”

“You have never met a family like this,” Bartol said, taking her arm and squeezing it. “They are… magnificent.”

She glanced sideways at him, curious at the thickness of his voice. There were tears standing in his dark eyes. “But you are no blood relation, am I right?”

“No, I am not so fortunate. But always they have been so very kind to me. The count’s mother was my eldest sister. I came to the castle to keep my sister company when she married—she was very shy with her new family and wanted her little brother to be with her—and I have been here since.”

“Did you never want to leave?” Elizabeth asked, grateful for the explanation of his residence at Wolfram Castle but wondering that he had never wanted his own family.

“Who could? This is my family. I am devoted, like an old dog, you know. And now, how much more dear to me could the children be, even if I had my own? I would die for Charlotte and Christoph… or I would kill for them, you know, so precious are they to me.”

“That is very commendable,” Elizabeth said gently, touched by his devotion. She squeezed his arm to her side. “They are lucky to have you here.”

A door at the end of the room swung open, and when Elizabeth glanced up she saw Count Nikolas and Cesare Vitali stride in together, dressed for exercise. The count wore the same tight breeches and open shirt she had seen the evening she arrived, and he appeared just as raffish and handsome, that one dark lock of hair falling over his white forehead. Both stopped when they saw the pair by the glass case of ancient weapons below the family shield.

“Ah, nephew, and Signor Vitali!” Bartol cried out.

“Uncle, how… unusual to see you here,” the count said, strolling toward them, his boot heels beating a sharp rhythm on the marble floor.

“Yes, is it not? But Miss Stanwycke asked me to guide her, and how could I say no to such a pretty lady? And now you both are here for some swordplay. May we stay and observe? It would be thrilling for Miss Stanwycke.”

Elizabeth felt the color rise in her cheeks. She would never have made such a request on her own behalf. When she glanced up at Nikolas she found it impossible to read his expression.

He appeared angry, his dark eyes stormy, his brows drawn down. But when his gaze met hers, she felt he was not angry at the request nor even at her presence, but at something that preceded it, likely even before he entered the room. The Italian secretary, who carried their specialized practice weapons, bowed politely as he took off his spectacles and set them on the glass case.

“For myself,” he said with a smile, “I would only be embarrassed because my former student

—I taught him Italian and fencing when he was at university, before becoming his secretary—has so far outstripped my teaching and will show me to such a disadvantage. It is, of course, up to the count.”

Nikolas bowed and said, “You must both do as you wish. We are merely practicing, so it is no exhibition of skill. It will be a poor example of proper swordsmanship, but do what you will.”

It was a bad-tempered response, but Elizabeth was intrigued. Was he a poor swordsman, or was he just in a foul mood? “We’ll stay, then,” she said, released from any compunction about intruding by his ill temper.

Bartol guided her over to a row of chairs lined up along the wall, obviously intended for the express purpose of seating watchers. She took a seat, settled her dove gray skirts, and composed her thoughts.

The two men consulted for a moment, murmuring to each other, and then took their stance, opposing each other with epees drawn.

What followed left Elizabeth breathless. Signor Vitali had been falsely modest, for he was superb, to her untutored eyes. His elegant form, slim and agile, was like quicksilver, lunging and parrying. He was the elder of the two, but on the fencing floor he appeared the younger, as swift and sure in his movements as a dancer.

But the count… for most of the practice Elizabeth could not keep her eyes from him. As he appeared to work out his anger and aggression, his muscular build stretched and strained at the bounds of his tight breeches and close-fitting shirt. And as he worked, so did he perspire and his dark hair became plastered to his neck. His shirt dampened and his shoulders were outlined, as clear as if he had been wearing no shirt at all.

It was close to indecent. And yet the more furiously he thrust, the more of that dangerous attraction she felt; her heart pounded uncomfortably and her mouth dried. Her powerful attraction to him was merely physical then, she thought, disappointed in herself. She had thought herself more mature after her recent trials, and certainly with more sense, than to allow the merely animal to appeal to her. She should be fascinated by the poignant beauty of Cesare’s classic style, and yet instead she was drawn to the animal fury of the count’s rage.

She watched, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. She could feel the count’s uncle glance sideways at her occasionally. He must be wondering at the tenseness of her attitude, but she could not relax her posture. She felt every thrust and every wickedly skillful plunge of the count’s sword as if it resonated within her somehow.

Finally they were done and she felt flushed with mortification as her employer’s gaze met hers and held it. She rapidly stood, excused herself, and almost ran for the door.

Nikolas watched her go with a mixture of regret and relief.

“How very masterful you are, nephew!” Bartol said, crossing the floor and clapping his hand on Nikolas’s shoulder. “And how very damp,” he continued, wiping his hand on his trousers.

“I feel sure Miss Stanwycke was quite overcome by your display.”

“Why do you say that?” Nikolas asked sharply.

“Why, it was clear, nephew. If you had seen her tension, and the way her eyes never left you… why, you would have seen what I did.” Bartol bowed and made his farewells.

Cesare cleaned the hilts of their weapons and replaced them in their holder as Nikolas wiped his brow with a cloth.

“What was in your heart today, Nik?” Cesare said casually, picking up his glasses and slipping them on.

The count shook his head, noting his secretary’s deliberate use of his nickname and recognizing it as the man’s subtle way of trying to ease into informal talk. “Not now, Cesare. I am going to bathe. Meet me later in the library.”

He strode from the room and in half an hour he was soaking in his gigantic copper tub, one luxury he only occasionally allowed himself. It was crafted by the old coppersmith they had once employed to make roofing plates and was large enough for his own body and for another, if he had so desired, though he had never tested that capacity. The steam rising around him, he rested back, allowing the heated water to pull the tension from his body.

What was Wilhelm Brandt up to? Magda’s wound was not a wolf bite. He knew that, and no one with a mind and eyes would mistake it. But then Brandt had not intended Nikolas to see it and had been furious when he had. All he knew was it was vital that Brandt not send men onto von Wolfram property that night. He hoped he had made that clear enough; what he could have done stronger than issuing that bold threat, he could not imagine. The mayor didn’t have to know that Nikolas would no more shoot a man unprovoked, even on his own land and within his own rights, than he would harm one of his own family.

His family. His torment and his pride. He loved them fiercely and trusted them implicitly, but they did try him with their troubles.

He shook his head, ridding himself of gloomy thoughts, and instead allowed himself to remember the way Elizabeth’s steady gaze had followed him as he fought Cesare. He and his secretary would both be sore the next day after such a vigorous workout, and he would not lie to himself: he was showing off for her, displaying every skill he owned and many he had forgotten he possessed, wishing to impress her with his fencing prowess. Pondering that, he realized he had not done such a foolish thing in front of a woman since he was nineteen and on his tour of Europe.

But he had wanted her to watch him, had needed that feminine appreciation, hungered for it, in fact. Even now, just the warmth of her gaze left him feeling light-headed with desire, as irrational as that seemed to his better judgment. But he had wanted her to stay a moment, wished to talk to her and ask her her opinion of his fencing. How imbecilic that was. It was fortunate that she had left so quickly he supposed, for he may have made a fool of himself.

Closing his eyes, he tried to think of something else,
anything
else. As far as he knew, she was a virginal English lady with no more thoughts of sexual relations than any young lady; she certainly was not some
houri
there for his delectation and deflowering. He could no more seduce her, even assuming she was willing, than he could dream of having a wife and family.

It was not for him. He had dedicated his life to protecting his family from their own fatal flaws, and to healing the terrible wounds left fifteen years before, wounds that still gaped as raw and festering as that terrible night when Anna and Hans had died together.

On that cold thought, he slid down under the rapidly cooling water, rose again, sputtering, and climbed out of the tub. He needed to rid himself of foolish fantasies, dress, and go to speak to Cesare and then to Adele. They must be ready for the night ahead.

NEITHER NIKOLAS nor Adele were at dinner that night nor in the drawing room later, and Elizabeth was relieved. She sat for a while in the drawing room, talking to Count Delacroix and Melisande Davidovich, both most gracious, and drank tea served by the unctuous Herr Liebner. It was, he claimed, his honor to serve tea to such glorious company.