Sweet Tannenbaum (3 page)

Chapter Five

Krystyna bit her lip and snuggled deeper under the covers. Good God, she had been 
flirting
 with Hans Von Rosen. She was lucky that he was as honorable as he seemed. But that tiny bit of playacting had taken her back to a time before her father had died, a time when her talent at playacting had very real, very profitable results. Her father had called
her 
królewna
, princess
, but she was so much more than that. She had been his right hand, planning coach robberies or, as papa liked to call it, saving the wealthy from their excess of wealth.

Hans hadn't needed to tell her that the Von Rosens were wealthy. There had been a time when Krystyna might have known more about their holdings than Hans did himself. Even if she couldn't tell the difference between Hans and Henry on sight, she knew who they were. Knew what they were worth, or likely to be worth when they stood to inherit. Families like the Von Rosens were 'above our touch' as papa used to say. In other words, they weren't just rich, they were rich enough to shake out the woods of Silesia if they took offense to a robbery. But Krystyna had always dreamed that one day her family would be as rich as one of those. That one day she would be above others' touch.

She tossed over onto her side. Then papa had been taken by the constables and charged with treason. Treason! They had beheaded him before any defense could be sought for him. In her mind the constables were as good as murderers. How dare they judge the Rokiczana family? Her people were only seeking to right the wrongs of the past. It had been a sudden, harsh lesson in politics. Now her brother was throwing away everything they had worked to achieve. And for what? It made no sense to her. She tossed onto her other side.

"Are you all right?" Hans asked from his spot on the floor.

"Yes, sorry. Just chilly, I suppose."

She heard him moving and wondered what she had gotten herself into with that white lie. The ropes creaked as he lay down atop the covers next to her and pulled her close. "Better?"

She was cocooned in heat from his body, emphasized by a blush in response to his nearness. "Yes. I'm quite warm now."

"Sleep."

She wouldn't have thought it possible to sleep with him so close, his arms around her. But before she knew it she was waking, chilly, with the earliest light of morning seeping in through the grimy window. She sat up.

"Hans?"

He stirred from his pallet by the door. "Yes?"

"Why are you down there again?"

Rather than answer her question, he stood. "If you're awake, we should make haste to leave."

"Turn around so that I can put on my dress."

He turned, shaking out the cloak he had slept with on the floor, and she scrambled into her warm woolen dress and rolled on her stockings. They were both ready in a trice and Hans covered her with the voluminous cloak again before taking her out to the carriage.

* * *

Frau
Rokiczana, Krystyna, no longer shied from his touch. She readily shared the meager bread and cheese they had been able to secure, and twice today she had leaned across him to look at
the view outside his window, resting her hand on his thigh to steady herself. It was like having one foot in heaven and one in hell. He had been attracted to women he couldn't have before, of course. What man hadn't had to deal with that? But never this keenly, and in such intimate quarters. He finally had some sympathy for the poets who carried on about unrequited love. Unrequited lust, really, was what it amounted to. But either way, he simply firmed his jaw and tried to remain neutral and pleasant. She spoke more now, asked more questions. As he had spent much of his life traveling he was able to answer most of them.

He had barely slept the
night before, and as the afternoon wore on his exhaustion got the better of him. He dozed off in their companionable silence while she was staring out her own window, then awoke again with a jolt as their carriage
rolled to a stop. There was barely any light outside and a very warm, deeply asleep Krystyna Rokiczana rested in his arms. A knock at the door made her shift and waken.

"Yes?" Hans called.

Erich opened the door, and if he was surprised to see the young woman moving out of Hans' arms he didn't show it. "We could stop in this town for the evening, Herr Von Rosen, but I can see the lights of Calais from here. Do you wish to press on?"

Hans knew that their best chance for a crossing tomorrow would be to continue so they could find a ship early in the morning. Conversely, it was tempting to suggest caution simply to ensure more time with her. It was precisely that temptation
that had him saying, "If it seems safe to do so, let us head for Calais this evening."

Erich nodded. "Of course, Herr Von Rosen."

When the door closed Krystyna said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"I know that my haste must be a burden, and you have been very kind."

"I'm not precisely known for my slow pace, so your needs have been no burden."

She smiled at him, and even in the dim light he could see that she was showing something of herself without artifice, that it was a genuine smile, and something in him wanted to respond in kind. Smile. Laugh. Share something more of himself. Another part warned him of the folly. The first part was quite insistent, however, and he found his own lips curving upwards. Unsated, that part of him urged that he kiss her. Just a simple, sweet kiss, it insisted. He chose to ignore it and turned his attention away from her.

"If you watch out the window," he said, "you will see the city lights brighten as we approach."

Her attention was diverted as he'd hoped. "Really? They have streetlights in Wroclaw but you can't see them from a distance."

"The French enjoy their nightlife. In Paris the streets are almost as bright as daylight in the middle of the night."

"No. Truly?"

"Indeed, I have seen it once."

"What of London?"

"I have not been there before, so I suppose we shall see."

"London will have bright streets at night," she predicted. "They have more money than they know what to do with."

Her tone had darkened but her observation made him chuckle. "Some of them, yes, but not all."

"Surely you're not defending the British?"

"Defending? No. It's just a matter of practical evidence."

"Of course there are
always
sługa.
Peasants
. Who else to act the servants?"

"I don't think I'll tell Erich that you referred to him as a peasant."

"Isn't it true, though? By birth we are assigned a role, either master or servant. Simply by virtue of the blood that runs through our veins, rather than any measure of our means or abilities. A rich peasant remains a peasant. A poor noble remains a noble."

"There are those that fall between."

"Merchants? Who are despised by master and servant alike?"

"Clergy. Military. Occupations for gentleman and common men alike, where ability can dictate achievement."

Even in the dim light he could see the eyebrow she arched at him. "Officers colors are purchased, as are plum clerical assignments."

Debating with her was delightful. "You seem passionately interested in the plight of the classes
, f
or a blue blood."

That seemed to quiet her and she turned back to the window. "Yes, I do, don't I?"

The final hour to Calais passed in relative silence.

Chapter Six

The inn
in Calais
was the grandest of the places they had stayed. Even if he wasn't the Von Rosen heir, being one of the middle sons, it was clear that Hans had ready access to a gentleman's income. Although it was quite late when they arrived, they were accorded every luxury, and within minutes Krystyna found herself alone in a large, well-appointed room with no idea if Hans was even housed nearby. He had stayed downstairs in the public room while a maid had shown Krystyna up the stairs. Feeling restless, she paced in front of the large fireplace. The weather had turned noticeably colder outside, which shouldn't be a surprise as they were well into December. Tomorrow they would cross the Channel and be a day or so from London, from Casimir. Only now was she beginning to feel some trepidation about her mission. What if Casimir didn't listen to her? Even if he was her little brother, he was technically head of the family now. Whatever decisions he made, she was bound
to them
. It was infuriating. 

After a few turns on the carpet she realized that the room was quite spacious indeed, and that one thing was assured to take her mind off her troubles. She retrieved her shawl from her valise.

* * *

Hans had raised two tankards with the men in the tavern room. It had been useful, as he now had recommendations for ships and captains to contact come morning. Or rather, Erich would be contacting them, which meant that Hans could have a leisurely breakfast with Frau Rokiczana before they set out on the last leg of their journey. He stopped at the top of the steps and counted doors. His was the fourth to the left. And, as they had carefully pointed out to him, his wife's was the third. Should he check on her? She was most likely asleep. But perhaps she wasn't. Was she cold again, as she had been last evening?

He stood in front of her door, indecisive. Hans was never indecisive. He should go to his own bed, avoid any chance that the spark of attraction between them became something more. It was dangerous for it to be something more. He was not a man to take advantage, or to mislead. When he married it would require a good deal more thought than finding a woman who attracted him. Delighted h
im, really. She was a good deal feistier than at first she seemed. He would, perhaps, consider her to be on the list of potential wives, but that was a far cry from throwing caution aside and leading her to believe there was some chance of a future for them. She deserved nothing but respect. He shouldn’t bother her.

He knocked.

She answered quickly. "Yes?"

He leaned against the door, trying to visualize her. "It's Hans. I wanted to see if you needed anything before I took my rest."

The door opened a bit. "No, I'm fine."

She was smiling at him, but also breathing heavily, and sweaty, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Something primal and dark and not altogether healthy streaked through him.

He pushed the door open. "Who is in here?" he demanded.

She stumbled back a step as he moved past her, eyes scanning the room.

"No one is in here other than me."

"What were you doing?" he barked. He recognized his tone as the one used to correct wayward recruits, but he would be damned if Frau Rokiczana would be entertaining gentlemen while also masquerading as his wife.
He would credit, however, that she stood up to his questions a great deal better than a fresh recruit.
She didn't even stiffen into the imperious posture he had seen her affect before, merely stared at him for a moment as though she thought he was addled before answering.

"I was dancing."

He looked at her again, from her hair falling loose
of its pins
, to her heaving bosom, to her bare feet. "Dancing?" He didn't think he'd had quite enough drink for the floor to shift under him like this.

"Yes. Not that fancy, stiff dance you are used to practicing in the ballroom. Real dancing. Traditional dancing." She grinned at him. "Would you like for me to teach you?"

She held the shawl out, her arms in graceful arcs, and pointed one bare foot out toward him as she bowed, a clear invitation to the dance.

He backed away from her as though she were made of living flame. "No, I should rest. You should rest. We leave early and it could be a very long day." He moved toward the door. "I hope rough seas don't bother you; I hear the Channel crossing can be quite rough. We should have a good breakfast unless you think the sea will bother you, then perhaps just something light. Although it will only be a few hours to cross." He had the door in hand and stopped there for a moment. "You'll tell me if you need anything? The room seems satisfactory. And warm. I hope you sleep well." He closed the door before his overactive mouth could dribble out more useless information. "Don't forget to lock your door. And I'm in the next room if you need anything."

"In what direction?" Her voice was clear, as though she were standing as close to her side of the door as he was to his.

"To the left."

"Very well. Goodnight, Hans."

"Goodnight, Krystyna."

What had come over him? Seeing her flushed and breathless he had immediately become jealous and possessive, as though he had some right to her. He had never known himself to have such a response in regard to a woman. Was it merely an affront to his pride while she was masquerading as his wife? Or was it something else, something deeper?

He walked to his own room and closed the door. He realized that his breathing was shallow and his skin felt a size too small. It was the first time in his life he had ever run in fear. Fear of betraying a friend, fear of his own lust overshadowing his honor. And underneath it all, fear that this woman could come to mean something much more than she should.

It had been some time since he had engaged in the practice, but alone in his room he went down on his knees and prayed.