Nightingale (24 page)

Klara wandered across the room and stared out her bedroom window. This was possible, because her apartment was at the corner of the building. In the blackness there was little to be seen, just a glow here and there from the long four story apartment across the street.

She knew Muller would be settling in the kitchen, banking down the fire. She could hear Liese plodding about in her neighboring chamber. Klara went to a bureau, set the candle on top, and carefully, quietly, opened the bottom drawer. Here, from among a stack of handkerchiefs, fichus and gloves, she withdrew a plain flannel pocket. Within this lay a tangle of trinkets and necklaces, all presents from admirers, some valuable, most not. From among the snaking mass, she selected a cheap-looking thing of gold plate, a key strung on a chain. It had been hiding in plain sight for the last year, and Liese, who went through her things regularly, had never marked it out as anything special. Klara had had a religious medal attached for a finger hold. The one she'd chosen, not without bitter humor, was the seal of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. For a time Klara sat in the candlelight, smiling wryly and rubbing her fingers thoughtfully upon the medal.

"Forgive me yet another sin of the flesh, Blessed Mother," she whispered. "At least this time it is caused by true love, a love which has descended straight from heaven to salve my wounded heart."

Then she went to lie upon her bed, and stroke Satz who was already ensconced there, his smoky head resting upon her pillow, and wait. When, after what seemed an eternity, the first dull rattle of a snore passed the walls
, an all too familiar sound, Klara arose. Walking to the door that led to the parlor, she held the key in one hand and the now guttering candle in the other. Her shadow rose behind her onto the ceiling, the long sleeves of her bed gown like wings. The key, as she lifted it, glinted.

She had tested it before, but suddenly began to tremble with the notion that, tonight of all nights, she'd find the locks changed. Drawing a deep breath and with barely a sound, she turned the golden key in the well-oiled lock.

Slowly, with a slight squeak, the door opened. Then she and curious Satz, his bushy tail erect, went through. There, in the flickering fire light, she saw Akos asleep, stretched out upon the sofa with all the easy grace of a sleeping lion. Ever so quietly, she set the candle down on a table.

His head, surrounded by a pool of shoulder length black hair, was propped upon a pillow. His eyes were closed, the long lashes lowered against his faintly flushed cheeks. Quietly, she approached. In another mood she might have been crossafter all, should he not be eagerly waiting for her? Then she remembered that he'd been complaining of weariness, brought on, perhaps, by his brush with her illness.

How severe and beautiful he was – her dark angel!

Kneeling beside him, she caressed his cheek. His eyes opened. A slow smile began, as he reached to stroke her arms. After a gentle time of touching, his gaze overflowing with love, he murmured, "Come, sweetheart. Lie with me."

He lifted the blanket. Boldly, in a mood of teasing, Klara didn't get in beside him, but climbed astride. His grin broadened, and he responded by drawing the blanket over her.

Then he slipped one hand around the back of her neck and drew her down to him. Her hair, the red highlights glinting in the firelight, cascaded onto the pillow to mingle with his. Klara trembled at the warm touch of his lips, at the wine sweet taste of him, the good healthy scent of his body. His eyes, golden lights burning, focused upon hers as the kiss ended.

"You must pardon me for sleeping," he whispered, "but I wanted to gather my strength." A white grin flashed. Smiling, he pulled the string that closed the neck of her shift. Klara, in a wave of desire, sat up tall as he tugged it down over her shoulders, exposing her high breasts.

"You have no right to sing like an angel and look like one, too." Taking her arms in his strong hands, he drew her down, until her breasts touched his face. "Now, angel," he murmured, "be a woman for me."

Slowly he began to move his head so that his mouth brushed her flesh all over, with final and special attention to the sensitive tips. Next, an all over tasting began. Only when she was throbbing with desire, did he take one budded nipple into his mouth and begin to suckle, tenderly and then harder. Klara was held in those strong hands, leaning over him and sighing with wave after wave of pleasure. Oh, it was hard to be silent, not to allow those gasps of pleasure to escape, but spies slept on every side. Beyond the parlor wall was Hermann, whose drunken snores were rattling the doors of his cupboard bed.

Her body soon found a way to express delight in spite of this strict frustration of silence. Her hips began to move, almost inadvertently, pressing down upon his. The sofa gave a few soft creaks in response to her rhythm and instantly she felt the hot hard rise. He was in exactly the right spot, pressed against the sensitive, humming center. Pulling her arms from his grasp, she tried to tug the banyan open.

"Not so fast." Smiling like the devil, he tumbled her, so that she slipped from her seat onto the Turkish carpet. He followed and stripped off her shift. "Lie still!" was his sotto voce command.

When she did, his muscular body arched over hers and meticulously began the same progression as before. When he slowly moved downwards, she lay obediently still, though it was not easy, every limb trembling. Kisses, lavish and loitering, descended across the soft mound of her belly to the end of satin, into the curls, straight into coral. Klara tossed and sighed with pleasure, drew up one lovely leg so that he could get all he wanted. In order not to cry out, she set even teeth into her fist.
In all things French, Klara had been well educated.

What he did was insistent, urgent. Just as in the cabinet, there was a miraculous gush. Klara arched against his lips and hands. Flesh glowed in a ruby rush of joy.

"Oh, now, my love." Kneeling between her legs he teased. Time and again, he began, only to withdraw. Klara doubled, catching his hand. "Please." She couldn't restrain a sob when he buried himself, hard and hot, deep against the eager mouth of her womb.

The sight of his youthful, muscular body, the firelight rippling across it, the black hair streaming down his back as he knelt, filled her with a deep contentment. At last, he picked her up and carried her back into her room, where he laid her in her own bed. Because she'd clung to him, he'd got in with her.

"You can't go away," she'd whispered. "I need to go on touching you."

"And I need to go on touching you. But we must be very careful, love.”

Later, in the blue twilight before dawn, he had to wake her so that she could relock the door between the parlor and her bedroom and conceal the key again.

***

"You look tired, Concertmaster," said Herr Muller innocently, as he across the room with a load of wood. Akos and Klara sat together in the parlor. Before them a low table was laid with breakfast.

"The divan and I were incompatible. After I gave up and took to the floor I did better." He spoke to Muller, but offered just the flicker of a wink to Klara.

He’d washed and redressed in the clothes he'd worn last night. Klara had washed, perfumed and had her hair curled, but remained in her morning gown.

They calmly ate breakfast under Liese's disapproving eyes. As she and Herman
n went in and out, they stole kisses, and once Akos slipped his long fingers inside her morning gown to caress her breasts, the ripe flesh now hidden beneath a fine fresh shift.

Akos had steeled himself to depart when a commotion began downstairs. First, they heard servants dashing around and babbling nervously. Satz, who had been draped luxuriously across Klara's lap, made a frantic leap without the least regard for his claws. As if shot from a cannon, he disappeared into a cat hole in the baseboard.

"Dear God!" Klara’s face went white. "It's Max."

Her fingers rushed to check the closure of the morning gown.
Almassy’s eyes widened, but he didn't have a chance to say another thing, for the door flung open and Count Maximillian von Oettingen came striding through it.

He was very grand this morning, in full uniform, wearing a crisp white wig and black boots and carrying a long crop. As was required, Akos and Klara stood, he to bow, she to curtsy. Max returned their salutes with an icy sneer. One bushy gray brow lifted.

"An almost domestic scene." He flicked the crop restlessly.

"Mein Herr Count, Concertmaster Almassy accompanied me to the opera last night. A gutter emptied upon us while we were looking for the carriage. I wasn't about to send him off in cold and wet all the way to Prince Vehnsky’s. Why, his palace is half way up the Kallenberg." Klara took a tactful step forward, between the two men.

The Count lifted Klara's hand to his lips. When the salute was complete, he turned his cold blue eyes upon Almassy and said, "Are you in the habit of allowing women to defend you, Concertmaster?"

Akos flushed. "This is Fraulein Silber's home, sir. I assumed that you would be addressing the lady of the house, rather than a guest."

The Count's pale eyes flashed. "Impertinent, but, I must confess, Concertmaster, there is propriety in your observation. Today I shall do you the honor of accepting a rebuke. I take comfort in the notion that an opportunity will soon arrive in which it will be no less proper for me to instruct you."

There was a moment in which the eyes of the men locked and flared.

"Now, sir, good morning!" The Count aimed a brusque gesture at the door. "No doubt your prince awaits your attendance."

Almassy bowed, to the Count and then to Klara. His salute was graceful, such as one gentleman might make to another. There was no submission in it.

"I am sorry if my speech disobliges you, Sir Count. I had no wish to offend, but respect for a lady must be maintained." He had ignored the end of Oettingen's speech, the part that subordinated. Dismissal, it was clear, he would take only from Klara.

"
Guten Tag
, Herr Concertmaster." Klara extended a hand. "I have not had the pleasure of Count Oettingen's company for months and we both very much wish a tête-à-tête. I shall look forward to the time of our collaboration."

Klara was afraid of Max in this constrained mood, but she knew, for her lover's sake, that she dared not show so much as a flicker of fear. After a small hesitation, his face a mask, Akos bowed over her hand, and then went out between the tall footmen who now stood on either side of the door.

Chapter 14

"Very domestic."

"If you will have it so." Klara turned away from him toward her breakfast. “Concertmaster Almassy is most agreeable company. I am quite certain, however, that Liese will tell you that she has, as always, done your bidding."

Behind her she could hear the tap of the crop upon his boot, a sound which sent her hackles up.

Two summers ago he’d used it on her, to give her "a lesson I have so far refrained from teaching, one in which you will learn how infinitesimally separate are pleasure and pain."

"Yes, Herr Marshall." Liese’s broad body suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Everything was secure."

"Your attention to duty is noted," said the Count with a thin smile. "Now go and find me more of this breakfast, Liese. Bring tea, eggs, bread, meat, if you have so much in this frugal house. And remember to knock before you come in."

Liese, clearly relieved at dismissal, curtsied deeply and then withdrew, closing the door with a click. Klara shuddered. The very idea of Max touching her after what had passed last night was horrible.

“Now, Klara," Max said, gesturing at his footman to go out into the hallway, "let's have a little talk, my dear. I hear you have been seeing quite a bit of this young man, that he is some kind of physician."

"He is and I have." Somehow she’d managed to keep her voice even. Seating herself, she arranged her morning gown and then gracefully lifted and sipped the last of her tea from a thin porcelain cup, one of a set made to look like rose petals.

"I have heard a few things about this cure that sound quite ordinary, but Liese also says that it involved touching. So, I spoke with Prince Vehnsky, for this is his servant, after all, and he tells me that the origin of the cure is perhaps Turkish, perhaps even older, a tradition come down from the Greeks. That, of course, I found a fascinating notion. Tell me, my dear Klara," he said, coming to take a seat beside her, "something about this aspect of your treatment."

The back of his large leathery hand grazed the side of her cheek. His touch, his closeness, and now his scent, sent a thrill of horror through Klara, but she knew she must accept his caresses with apparent pleasure.

"Touching is a very compelling business between a man and a woman." As Max spoke, his hand moved, a slow meditative appreciation of the satin of her cheek.

"It was a powerful part of the cure," Klara said, trying to keep the distress she felt out of her voice. "I don't think the herbal remedies alone ever worked so well."

"That I believe. You were sublime when you sang for Prince Josef the other evening, Nightingale. I was so proud of you, so delighted. I was so sorry that business kept me from taking you home." A powerful hand slipped around the back of her neck and began to massage. Klara received his attention stiff and still. She did not dare draw away, but it was almost unbearable to have this wicked sensualist so proprietarily caress her.