Borne in Blood (28 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
“Thank you, Rogier; I am sure I will,” said Hero, accepting the basket of bread still warm and fragrant from the oven.
“The next course will be ready in ten to fifteen minutes,” Rogier informed her. “Not that I want to rush you.”
“It hardly seems fair that I should be so lavishly served and you are left to tend the kitchen by yourself,” she said as he started for the door.
Rogier paused in the doorway. “I enjoy cooking; it is something I do not often have to do, but I like to keep up my skills. This is a welcome opportunity for me.” With that, he was gone.
“Your Bordeaux,” said Ragoczy as he brought the decanter to the table and poured out a third of a glass into a pear-shaped crystal glass.
“The color is fine,” said Hero, as much because it was expected of her as it was a sign of her expertise.
“So I understand,” said Ragoczy and pulled up a chair to her right, turned its back to the table and straddled it.
She took the small loaf of bread and broke it in half, as good manners required, then pulled off a smaller section and dipped it into the soup for a moment. “The aroma is heavenly,” she said before taking a bite of the bread.
“The soup is a bit more substantial than is usual for an opening course, and may be a bit overwhelming for the next course,” said Ragoczy, “but it is readily prepared and will keep for three days.”
“A hearty soup in winter is most welcome. This is excellent.” She broke off more bread and again dipped it in the soup.
“I am told that Rogier cooks very well, but you may wish to tell him yourself,” said Ragoczy, and watched her eat. When Rogier brought the trout with butter and hazelnuts, he opened a bottle of Lacryma Christi, pouring out the wine into a tulip-shaped, tallstemmed glass.
“Thank you for this superb dinner. And for this delightful wine.” Hero tasted it and drank it more quickly than she had intended, feeling the magic of the wine percolate through her veins. “I haven’t had any of this in years. It was Fridhold’s favorite.”
Ragoczy started to add some more to her glass. “Then remember him with it.”
She put her hand over the top of the glass, indicating she had had sufficient. “I don’t want to overindulge. I would be ashamed of myself for doing so. On such a night as this, it would be an easy thing to cushion my sadness with wine.”
“Then set the glass aside for now, and drink more when you like,” said Ragoczy.
“I would, but I don’t want to waste anything so valuable as these bottles must be,” she said, confusion coming over her in a rush even as the tantalizing tastes and textures of the meal continued to work on her.
“I took all the wines for this evening from my cellar, so there is no reason to worry about the price—it was paid well before Waterloo. Well before Marengo, in the case of the Bordeaux.”
“Still,” she said, a bit vaguely.
“As you wish,” he said, rising and placing the white wine bottle on the side-board. “If you change your mind …”
“I doubt I will.”
He bowed to her and returned to his seat, and spent the next two hours waiting on her in a remarkably casual yet elegant way as the night gathered in around them and the fire crackled. Finally, when Rogier had brought the Champagne, he selected a tall, narrow glass for the sparkling wine and said, “There is brandied cream in pastry, if you would like it?”
She thought about her answer, then said, “Perhaps a little. I know it will not keep, and you cannot put it into tomorrow’s soup.”
“Your point is taken,” said Ragoczy, and went to tug the bell-pull to summon Rogier. “A small serving, then.”
“Yes, a small serving would be very welcome.” After all the wonderful food she had been provided, she felt wondrously replete, sleek with pleasure, and content. She looked at the single charger remaining in front of her, and the two small spoons left; all the other silverware had been removed through the five courses of the dinner. Both her wineglasses remained, the red with a little of the Bordeaux staining the bottom of the bowl, the white empty; both bottles of wine stood on the side-board, the red more than half-full, the white slightly less than half-full. “I can’t remember dining this well since Fridhold died. Nor having such wines, or three kinds of bread.”
“Think of it as a thanksgiving for better harvests and the end of famine,” said Ragoczy, bringing her glass of Champagne to her.
“Like the baskets of food you sent home with your servants?” she inquired as Rogier came into the dining room.
“Something similar, yes,” said Ragoczy, and added to Rogier, “A small serving of the brandied cream, if you would.”
“Of course,” said Rogier. “With vanilla sauce?”
Hero smiled. “Yes, please, if you would.” She took the Champagne and lifted the glass in a toast. “Thank you for all you have done for me through the year, and through the hard winters past.” The day before there had been roast boar and hot spiced wine offered to those neighbors who came to the château. At the time Hero had thought that was a lavish gesture, but her meal this evening surpassed what she had had on Christmas in excellence and variety. Every part of her body was filled with satisfaction; a delicious lassitude was creeping over her, softening her demeanor.
Rogier’s ascetic smile was as genuine as it was rare. “It is a pleasure, Madame von Scharffensee, to be able to serve you.” He gave a crisp little bow, then turned and left the room.
“I can never thank you enough, Comte,” she said as soon as they were alone. She was trying to think of an appropriate compliment when he cut into her cogitation.
“Then please do not make the attempt—I am not interested in gratitude,” he said, his mellifluous voice as kindly and warm as the heat from the hearth.
She took a drink of the Champagne, aware that the wine—as well as the luxurious evening—was starting to go to her head; she put the glass down and said, “I will wait for the brandied cream.”
Ragoczy held out his hand to her as he once again resumed his place on her right. “Do not fret, Hero.”
“I’m not fretting …” She shook her head. “But I was about to: you’re right on that account.”
He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You need not fear that you must pay for every joy with greater pain,” he said.
“I … try not to think …” She hastily had another sip of Champagne. “I don’t know what I should say.”
A knock on the kitchen door announced the arrival of the brandied cream with a small pitcher of vanilla sauce.
By the time Hero had finished her dessert, she was all but purring; the meal had been superb, much better than what she had had the year before, when food was still in terribly short supply; to have more than enough to eat, and of exceptional quality, was a true delight. She rose from her place and watched as Ragoczy expertly removed a puddle of wax from beneath the candlestick on the sideboard. “Is it time to retire?”
“I thought you might like to bathe with me first,” he said calmly. “I’ve ordered the bath-house heated; there are robes for us both; that is, if you care to join me.”
She was mildly surprised. “Bathe? With you?—tonight?”
“Why not?” he asked. “Only Rogier will know, and he will not gossip.”
“I …” she said, and then reconsidered. “Why not? I think it would be a fitting end to this evening,” she said, and in a surge of boldness she could only attribute to the wine, held out her hand to him and lead the way toward the side-entrance that faced the bath-house.
As they reached the side-door, Ragoczy took two old-fashioned winter cloaks down from pegs and offered one to her as he donned the other. “It is cold out, and snow is coming.”
Hero pulled on the cloak and reached for the door-latch. “Rogier will let us back in, won’t he?”
“I believe so,” said Ragoczy, sounding amused.
“Then avanti,” she declared, flinging the door open and stepping out into the night; a thin, cold wind sliced at them as they made their way across the side courtyard toward the looming bulk of the bath-house that was marked by a faint halo of steam. She moved carefully along the icy path, not wanting to fall; holding his hand steadied her as her kid-shoes slithered on the slick paving stones.
“I’ll open the door for you,” Ragoczy offered. “It is fairly heavy.”
She laughed and let him move ahead of her, relinquishing his hand. Stopping still, she noticed the glow in the high windows of the bath-house. “There are lanterns lit. You planned this from the start.”
“Of course,” he said, pulling the door open and holding it against the insinuations of the wind. “You know where the dressing room is.”
“On the right,” she said as the door closed behind her. The vestibule was smaller than she thought it had been in the past, and that surprised her.
“You may undress in private, or you may allow me to assist you,” he said as he removed her cloak and whisked it onto a coat-tree near the door.
She hesitated, not wanting to be too daring on Christmas. “I would like that,” she said hesitantly.
“Very good.” He removed his own cloak and drew her toward him, taking the time to kiss her thoroughly, to allow the kiss to develop all its complexity before moving back far enough for her to slip by him into one of the two dressing rooms.
“How warm it is,” she said as she swung the shawl off her shoulders and folded it twice before setting it on the top of the small chest-of-drawers.
“There are towels in the bottom drawer,” Ragoczy told her as he reached to unfasten the first of the seventeen buttons down the back of her dress.
“I’ll remember,” she said, standing still so that he could undo the buttons.
He kissed the nape of her neck as he finished his task. “I’ll help you out of it.”
This time her hesitation was even more brief. “It’s best if I bend over and you pull it straight off from the shoulders,” she said. “I’ll get the buttons at my wrists.” She set herself to do it.
“When you’re ready,” he said.
She shook her hands. “Step back and let me bend over,” she said, keeping her back straight as she swung down from her hips.
“You are ready?”
“Go ahead,” she said, and straightened her arms to make removal easier. She felt a gentle tug, and then she was standing in her underclothes, a sprink of gooseflesh rising on her arms and shoulders.
He hung her dress on a peg and said, as he kissed her exposed shoulder, “If you turn around, I will attend to your corset.”
Stifling a giggle, she did as he asked, all the while reveling in the delightful insouciance of the night so far, and the promise of greater transports to come. As the laces down her back were loosened, it felt as if the whole of her melancholy had been whisked away. “You will be bathing with me?”
“As soon as I undress,” he said as he slipped the corset over her head, leaving her wearing only silk stockings, shoes, and underdrawers.
“Well, hurry. I am getting chilly.” She laughed, to show this was nothing more than a slight distraction.
He removed his swallow-tail coat, and then his black-embroidered deep-red waistcoat. “I should warn you that I have scars.”
“Who does not?” she asked, hugging herself as she sat down to remove her shoes and stockings.
He was unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his sunburst cravat. “Mine are … somewhat severe.” He had taken care not to let her see him in full light, but now he could not avoid revealing his extensive abdominal scars.
“So you’ve said,” she reminded him as she put her rolled stockings in her shoes and tucked them under the bench. “I’ve been in field hospitals. I’ve seen some terrible wounds.” Admitting this made her a bit queasy, which she attributed to the rich food and wine.
He took off his shirt, hung it up, and unfastened his unmentionables, stepping out of them as he dropped them to his ankles, where they puddled around his thick-soled black boots. Then he opened the chest-of-drawers and pulled out two large Turkish towels and handed one to her. “Wrap this around you; you will be warmer.” He managed to keep his back to her.
She took it and swung it over her shoulders. “It is very nice,” she said; the smell of damp fir was everywhere, and she sneezed once, as quietly as possible.
“Why not go on into the bath?” he suggested, holding the inner door open for her. “You know the way and the lanterns are burning.”
“Will you join me?”
“In a moment,” he said, and took her in his arms for another complex kiss, one that evoked longing and need in her.
“Do not be long,” she said a little breathlessly as she broke away from him. “I find I am growing hungry for other nourishment.” She touched his broad, deep chest before pulling the inner door open.
Left alone, he removed his boots and stockings, then wrapped his towel around his waist, securing it with an expert tuck. Satisfied that the room was secure, he followed her into the bath itself, and found her standing in the large tub up to her hips in hot water, her towel spread on the broad lip of the bath. He came up to the three steps leading down into the tub, and dropped his towel, noticing that she looked away from him as she caught sight of the swath of scar that ran from the base of his ribs to his pubis. Dismissing his failed hopes, he stepped down into the water beside Hero.
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