The Legacy (6 page)

Franz nodded. “Yes, Master Wolfgang. It shall be as you wish it.” The manservant turned from him.

Wolf suddenly remembered something and stopped him. “There was a problem with the baronesse’s trunks. She has no belongings with her. Have Bea find something for her to wear.” Her dress was ruined, and he couldn’t have her walking about naked.
At least not until she filled out a little …

That errant thought brought up a host of images, each of which he stomped down with a mental iron boot.

Franz bowed smartly. “Of course, Master Wolfgang. I will see to it.” He glided from the room.

Wolf noted Sabina chewed again, though she gave no hint she’d overheard his orders.

Peter pulled him aside.

“Handily done. You got rid of the servants, who will probably know everything by the morrow regardless. I, on the other hand, am completely in the dark.
Baronesse
Sabina? Do I assume this is Baron von Ziegler’s prodigal daughter?”

Wolf nodded in response, jaw clamped tight.

Peter blew out a breath and raked back the locks over his forehead with an impatient hand. “Wolf, what were you
thinking?
She’s a noble! And from what I remember of the gossip, no better than a—”

Wolf’s steely glance stopped whatever Peter was originally about to say.

“—that is, she is a woman whose reputation has been discussed in the most common way. And to marry her not one month after we buried our father … what were you
thinking?”
he asked again.

“Trust me,” Wolf said quietly.

Peter looked at him askance. “You’re my brother,” he finally said, “and the head of the family. You have a right to do as you will. But if you have brought trouble into this house, I have a right to know. And my instincts say this is trouble indeed.”

Wolf laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You’re concerned. I know that. Don’t be. Our family is my responsibility. I have always protected what’s been put into my care, and I will continue to.”

Hanging unspoken between them was the one time when he had very nearly not. Of course, his brother would be too prudent to say it. He had never blamed Wolf for what had happened so long ago, after Beth died; nor would he ever. And of course, Peter didn’t know what had happened to Papa …

And he never would, if it was up to Wolf. The burden was his to carry, by right and by birth, and carry it he would. Alone. None of his siblings would ever know. Nothing would prevent him from making amends for not saving his father when he had the chance.

Peter looked over Wolf’s shoulder to Sabina, who still sat huddled before the fire eating her bread. “And by marrying her, you will somehow accomplish that goal?”

Wolf started, feeling as though Peter had read his mind. Then he realized he was just continuing the conversation. He nodded, not prepared to explain any further.

“Very well,” Peter said. “I will trust you to do what is right.” He scratched his chin. “But I do wonder what my ever-conventional Fya will say when she finds out my brother has married one of the most notorious women in Wittenberg.”

Wolf grimaced. “I’m certain you will receive an earful. My apologies in advance. But the other options would be worse, believe me.” Wolf held out his hand as a peace offering.

Peter clasped it and his eyes twinkled. “I will trust you now, but I want all the particulars as soon as possible. If I’m to suffer for your choices, I at least deserve to be the first to hear the shocking details.”

The tension lessened considerably. Peter released his grip.

“In the meantime, would you mind if I stayed here until after the storm? When last I rode in one, I was nearly struck down by lightning. They say a similar incident is what convinced Martin Luther to become a monk. I’m afraid I would be terrible at it. Particularly the abstinence part.”

“True,” Wolf said with a slight smile. “Stay. This has been more your home than mine in the past few years. Never think you have to ask if you are welcome here.”

“Well, I’m not completely obtuse,” Peter said with a grin. “I realize—given it is your wedding day—you and your bride might wish to have some privacy.”

“Not necessary, given the condition of my bride.” He glanced at the woman in question, more troubled then he cared to admit. “Besides, I’m not exactly certain what I intend to do with her at this point.”

“Hmm, I can think of a thing or two.” Peter wagged his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer.

Wolf uttered a long-familiar refrain.

“Shut up, Peter,” he sighed, and went to see to his bride.

As the two brothers quietly conversed in the corner, Sabina sensed their friendship. Even though she could not hear their exchange, she could feel the love binding them together. She remembered Carl, long dead, and a lump formed in her throat. She lowered the bread and blinked back silent tears.

Peter glanced her way, gave her an encouraging—if hesitant—smile, and left them alone. Master Behaim—Wolf, he called himself—returned at once to her side.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “No one will harm you here, not while you’re under my protection. No one will force you to do—anything you don’t wish to do. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Thank you, Master Behaim. I believe I do.”

He may have misunderstood her melancholy, but his message was clear. He was saying he would not force her into the marriage bed, at least not tonight. That was kind of him, since he now had complete authority over her, and he had to know she was no longer a maiden deserving of such gentle care. Then she remembered the searing gaze they had exchanged, and knew she must keep her wits about her. He was a man. She could not trust him.

And yet … he had a rough kindness about him; he seemed to demonstrate it against his will, as if it came from a deep well inside of him from which he only occasionally drew.

Without thinking, she blurted out, “Why did you marry me?”

She could have kicked herself at the shocked expression on his face for her blundering question.

After a moment, he answered warily, “For the usual reasons, I suppose.”

What did that mean?

She remembered the baron’s hints about having to “persuade” the man to marry her. She knew his sort of persuasion.

“What hold does he have over you?” she asked now.

He raised a dark brow. For all his roughness, it was a smoothly elegant gesture. “Who?”

She blew out a breath. “The baron, who else? How could he make you do something you so obviously disliked?”

He crossed his arms. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You did not wish to marry,” she pointed out.

“Didn’t I?”

“It was obvious.”

He cocked his head. “Was it?”

“Will you cease answering my every question with a question?” she moaned.

“Was I?” Humor glimmered in his gaze, but he turned away, no doubt to avoid the daggers she now shot at him from her narrowed gaze.

He paced in front of her while she, having been frustrated into silence, stared at him. Her eyes followed him of their own accord. She was embarrassed to be caught staring when he suddenly turned and looked at her with a penetrating gaze.

“I’ll ask you the same question. The baron threatened you at the church. Why? What hold does he have over
you?”

“That was two questions,” she said, trying to think how to respond. His eyebrow winged upwards again, but he did not press.

She could not confide in him. She had her copy of the marriage contract stuffed among the folds of her bodice. What had Master Behaim thought of the agreement when he had seen it? Did he know of the extent of the legacy? He certainly mustn’t know her plans for it. Better to avoid the topic altogether.

Sabina rubbed her temples as though her head pounded, which was not entirely untrue. “Perhaps we can discuss this later. I am very tired.”

He nodded, though his eyes held a knowing gleam. “Franz is preparing your room. It will be ready shortly. Eat the rest of your bread,” he ordered, motioning to the forgotten loaf in her hand. She gnawed on it silently while he paced around her. She had to crane her neck to keep her eyes on him.

“You were in the convent. Why did you come home?” His tone sounded vaguely accusatory.

She swallowed. “I had my reasons.”

“You left of your own accord?” he persisted.

She nearly snorted, but stopped herself in time. “Indeed. I fled it as though the very hounds of Hell pursued me.”

Both eyebrows rose this time. “I see.” He continued to pace. “Did your calling change?”

“It did not.” Really, the man could have been a lawyer.

“Then why did you choose to join a cloister in the first place?” A bit of his own frustration at her reticence broke through his calm facade.

“The choice was never my own. The baron forced it upon me. I did, after a time, find a certain comfort there, but in the last few years things changed.”

He stopped in front of her. “What brought on the change?”

She lifted a shoulder evasively. “Many things.”

“Name one.”

“Perhaps I discovered I lacked the gift of celibacy?” she jested. She referred, of course, to the Apostle Paul’s belief those who had the ability to abstain from marriage were given that gift by God himself.

She thought she heard him mutter, “Why do I find that so easy to believe?” He paced away again. “Name another,” he threw over his shoulder.

It appeared there was to be no avoiding this confrontation. Very well. “I came to believe the Church was in error on many issues regarding the service of the clergy.”

He stopped pacing. “Are you a believer in the New Faith?” he asked in apparent dismay.

The followers of Martin Luther had termed their reformed view of Christianity as the New Faith. When Dr. Luther had been a scholar and professor at Wittenberg University, he’d nailed his “Ninety-five Theses” attacking the sale of church indulgences to the church door. They were later retrieved and printed in German for all to read and debate. Luther’s ideas had spread like wildfire—even into the convents and cloisters themselves. Elector Frederick, the region’s prince, had been clashing with the Pope over Luther ever since, and occasionally the Emperor too.

She tried to form an appropriate answer, not certain in which camp her new husband’s interests lay.

Wolf groaned inwardly when she didn’t respond. He moved closer to the dwindling flames in the fireplace, and pulled a poker from the tool stand, using it to adjust the logs. The flames obediently jumped. He set the poker aside and braced a hand above the mantle, staring into the dance of fire.

It was bad enough she was a noble, and an ex-nun, but she had to be a follower of Martin Luther’s as well? Wolf’s chances of convincing her to take up her vows again seemed less likely with each passing moment.

He couldn’t confine her to a convent against her will, though he knew some families did, and there were still plenty of convents outside Elector Frederick’s region willing to take her under those conditions. It simply was not his way. He sighed, feeling his fate closing in upon him. Still, he couldn’t keep her. Besides having no interest in a noblewoman as a wife, what would happen when she found out about the compact he had made with the baron?

“You needn’t be afraid,” he finally said. “I promised you no harm would come to you within these walls, and I meant it. More to the point,” he said looking at her sideways, “since the Elector has come over to Dr. Luther’s side, as long as you’re in Electoral Saxony, you’ll be safe. Speak freely.”

She bit her lip, but still didn’t answer.

He turned to her. “Tell me. Why do you think, along with Dr. Luther, you know better than the Pope what is good for a priest?”

His goad worked predictably enough. She couldn’t resist the lure.

“This is not a frivolous matter,” she flared. “The Church places an unbearable burden upon the clergy, one even the Pope cannot carry. It breeds corruption and decadence.”

She vibrated with indignation. He was impressed with her passion, if not with her speech.

“We have the same flaws and desires as those we serve,” she continued, waving a hunk of bread in the air. “How can one expect a man to live perfect, without a wife, or a woman to ignore the cry of the womb? There are very few who can be expected to answer the call of celibacy in order to pay homage to an ideal. In this, at least, the Church must change, or there will be no one left to perform its offices.”

“You don’t think a man might be faithful to an ideal for its own sake?” he interrupted.

She stopped, and seemed to sink in upon herself. She gazed past him, into the flames, and drew the rug tighter around her shoulders.

“It depends on the man, I suppose,” she said dully. “I have not met him yet, if he exists.”

He stared at her delicate, forlorn profile.

“Does your womb cry out to be filled?” he asked softly.

She turned shocked eyes his way.

Sabina’s breath stopped when his gaze flowed over her like green silk. Then she realized …

Children. He must be speaking about children. What gutter had her mind fallen into for her to assume anything else?

She exhaled carefully. “You mean do I desire children?”