Chapter 3
Count Stefan von Furstenberg took a slow draft from his goblet, his gaze never leaving the flame-haired wench on the other side of the smoke-dimmed tavern. Damn, but she was tantalizing!
He had seen her only a moment ago, when he had stood up from the table to take leave of his men.
A cavalry commander in the Imperial Austrian army, he and his soldiers had just returned to Vienna that morning from a victorious campaign led by their famous general, Prince Eugene of Savoy, against the Turks.
With their hard night ride behind them, the taverns of the city had been a welcome sight.
He had not refused his officers’ invitation to join them in a well-earned drink to victory, though they had been celebrating in this wine tavern, the Yellow Eagle, for the past few hours, far longer than he had intended to stay.
Now he was glad he had remained. To have missed such uncanny beauty as this wench possessed would have been a shame indeed.
Perhaps his plan of surprising his sister Isabel before she received word that the Imperial army had arrived in Vienna would have to wait awhile longer, as well as a visit to his mistress, Sophia, whom he had not seen for the past six months.
Stefan chuckled to himself, a rakish grin tugging one corner of his mouth.
Sophia. No doubt she had amused herself with countless lovers during his long absence and was probably even now in the arms of another man…perfecting her skills in the fine art of lovemaking, she would say wickedly, and without apology.
Ah, but Sophia was not here…only the tavern wench in all her tousled beauty, he considered, his eyes raking lustily over her. Surely a quick tumble with her would not hinder his plans overmuch. He would be on his way home to the von Furstenberg estate within the hour.
Stefan drained his goblet, the wine flooding his body with fiery warmth, and felt a surge of desire rip through him at the thought of possessing the long-limbed wench…
intoxicating his blood far more than the wine.
He quickly reached a decision. The Devil knew he was no saint.
He had not denied himself the pleasurable company of women during the campaign, but it had been many weeks since he had felt a woman writhe beneath him. He would wait no longer.
Setting his empty goblet upon the table with a thud, Stefan strode over to the proprietor of the tavern and drew him aside.
“Have you any rooms?”
“Ah yes, milord.” The fat proprietor grinned, nodding his balding head eagerly. “I have several, but there is one, a corner room, that is quite well appointed, if I might say so.” He paused, his eyes narrowing with shrewdness. “Of course, it will cost a bit more than the others—”
“I’ll take it,” Stefan said, dropping some gold coins in the man’s sweaty palm. “I trust this will cover the cost of the room and another barrel of wine for my men?”
The proprietor stared greedily at the coins. “Oh yes, milord! You are most generous!”
“Good. Now bring some wine to that table over there, the one by the door, and be quick about it.”
“At once!” The man scurried off, the gold coins clinking in his pocket, anxious to please the formidable-looking officer. It was not every day he had such a guest in his tavern, a commander of the Imperial cavalry no less…and a wealthy one!
Stefan glanced down at his uniform, dusty from the long ride the night before, and at his knee-length boots, streaked with mud and dirt.
He longed for a hot bath and a shave, but there was not enough time.
Besides, he doubted the wench would mind.
If she plied her trade this close to the Danube Canal, she had probably lain with far worse.
He walked back to the table where some of his men were seated. They stood as he approached, raising their goblets in salute.
“Another draft of wine, Commander?” one young officer blurted drunkenly, sloshing the contents of his goblet down the front of his uniform and onto the floor.
“Aye, let’s drink in fond memory of the Turks we blessed with the kiss of our swords, may they all rot in hell!” another shouted.
Stefan shook his head, silencing the boisterous rabble with a single gesture. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave of you. Pleasures other than your fine company beckon to me.”
With a gleam of laughter in his eyes, he turned from them and strode toward the front of the tavern, where the wench was sitting, and ignored his men’s low whistles of approval and stamping feet.
Kassandra watched wide-eyed as the strikingly handsome officer approached her table, the same man who had been staring at her only moments before.
He was tall and powerfully built, his shoulders very broad beneath his dark blue uniform.
His hair was black, black as a raven’s wing, she thought fleetingly, and pulled back into a short queue at his nape.
It was his eyes, flint gray with just a hint of blue, like a wild, storm-tossed sea, that caught and held her gaze. Deeply set beneath straight black brows, they seared her with a burning intensity that made her flush with a strange, stirring warmth.
Suddenly uncomfortable, Kassandra tore her gaze away.
Surely he must be looking for someone else, she thought, her mind spinning.
She turned and glanced behind her, but there was no one else seated anywhere near them.
Turning back around, she started in surprise when he pulled out the only other chair at her table, the wooden legs scraping along the planked floor, and sat down beside her.
A fat, balding man suddenly crossed to them with two silver goblets filled to the brim with red wine, set them on the table, bowed, and hurried away.
What was going on? Kassandra wondered. She hadn’t ordered a drink. She blushed hotly, embarrassed, as the officer’s eyes raked over her, slowly, openly.
Stefan stared at Kassandra for a long moment without saying a word. Now that he was closer, it seemed his gutter waif had become a goddess. Either that or the wine had sorely affected his vision.
By God, she was stunning…an enchantress, he marveled, astounded by her disheveled beauty.
Despite the smudges of dirt on her face, her skin was like the finest porcelain, her features a study in perfect symmetry—high, curved cheekbones, a straight nose that tipped slightly at the end, slim, arched brows that matched the fiery red-gold of her hair, and a lush curved mouth that was full and inviting.
Stefan was tempted to reach out and trace the exquisite line of her chin, a stubborn chin that bespoke strength and spirit. But studying her, he hesitated. She looked so tantalizingly innocent for a common tavern wench, like a fresh rose amidst flowers that had long ago lost their bloom.
Perhaps she was new to her trade, he considered. She looked young, barely seventeen. He noted now her large amethyst eyes studied him warily, dark violet pools opulently fringed by thick lashes tipped with gold. He could not help feeling that a man could easily drown in those luminous depths…
Enough! Stefan berated himself, shifting with impatience in his chair. Obviously he had been away from women far too long to become so easily besotted over a common tavern wench.
Gazing steadily into her eyes, Stefan raised his goblet to his lips and drank deeply, the heady liquid fanning his desire. But the girl did not follow his lead. He gestured to the cup before her.
“The drink is for you,” he murmured, his voice low, edged with roughness.
Kassandra stared at the goblet, then back at him. The man must have seen her plight and was offering wine to her out of kindness, she reasoned with a surge of relief. “Thank you,” she replied softly.
Her hand trembled as she lifted the goblet to her lips and drank thirstily. It was a coarse vintage, and tart, but she did not mind. She felt a relaxing warmth wash over her as she drained the cup, her jangled nerves calmed at last.
Perhaps the soldier might call a carriage to take her to St. Stephen’s, Kassandra thought hopefully.
She doubted it was past two o’clock, but Zoltan might already be waiting for her in the cathedral square.
She had experienced quite enough excitement for one day, and was more than ready to return to the von Furstenberg estate.
She smiled warmly, gratefully, at the officer and leaned toward him.
Stefan’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes falling upon the creamy swell of her breasts, firm and high, straining against the taut fabric of her bodice. He knew he could no longer restrain his mounting desire, burning like a raging inferno within him.
“I have a room waiting upstairs,” he said abruptly, rising from his chair. “Come.”
Kassandra stared up at him, dumbstruck, as if she had not heard his words. Room upstairs? What could he possibly mean? Why was he looking at her so?
A flicker of alarm flamed within her, and her gaze darted around the smoke-filled room.
She noticed for the first time the other women present, their heavily rouged faces, easy smiles, and low-cut gowns blatant testimony to their calling.
In a far corner one woman had even unlaced her bodice, and a sailor was suckling at her breast!
“If it’s money that concerns you, wench,” Stefan said wryly, “I will pay you well for your trouble.” He held out his hand, the gesture a command. “Now walk with me, else I will be forced to carry you up the stairs.”
Kassandra gasped, incredulous.
Sweet Lord, he thought she was nothing more than a common harlot…a…a tavern whore!
She jumped up from her chair so suddenly that it crashed to the floor, her only thought to flee. But before she had taken two steps, a strong arm encircled her waist, and she was pitched unceremoniously over the officer’s broad shoulder like a sack of wheat.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she sputtered indignantly, fighting to quell the terror filling her heart. “Let me down at once!”
Stefan chuckled deep in his throat and slapped her backside, his hand lingering there.
“Enough, wench! You play the part of the innocent quite convincingly…a captivating illusion…but I have no time for games!” With long strides he carried her toward the back of the tavern and up a flight of creaking wooden stairs.
“Please let me down, you are mistaken!” Kassandra cried out, pounding her clenched fists against his rugged back. Her desperate protests were of no avail, drowned out by the crude laughter and ribald jests that filled the tavern, resounding from the high beams.
“The corner room is straight along the corridor and to the left, milord,” the proprietor shouted above the din.
He watched with no small amount of envy as Stefan reached the top of the stairs and disappeared down the darkened corridor with his stunning load, a kicking, struggling vision of flaming hair and flailing limbs.
Funny, he had never seen that wench at his tavern before, he thought, scratching his head.
What a tigress! Surely he would have remembered such a beauty…
and such a temper. He shrugged. Perhaps he might sample her charms when the gentleman was through with her.
Licking his lips, he filled some goblets from a newly opened barrel of wine and hurried toward the crowded tables.
“Here you go, m’lads, more wine! Compliments of the commander.”
Stefan reached the end of the corridor, turned left down a short hallway, and kicked open the door of the corner room. He glanced around, quickly noting that the room was well appointed, just as the proprietor had said it would be.
A wide bed was set in the middle of the room not far from the window, a luxurious spread of green damask pulled back to reveal crisp linen sheets.
A thick oriental carpet covered the wooden floor, and a richly upholstered chair was the only other furnishing, that and a small table beside the bed.
Thick tallow candles burned brightly from several polished wall sconces, for although there was a window, it was small, with the shade drawn, and the room would have been dark but for the warm glow of the candlelight.
Stefan walked over to the bed and dumped Kassandra upon it.
“Oh!” she gasped, the breath knocked from her body. She watched wide-eyed as he moved with lithe grace back to the door, and felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as he bolted it securely. Then he turned and faced her, his eyes blazing into her own…wild, turbulent, and laden with open desire.
“Take off your clothes, wench, or I shall have the pleasure of removing them myself,” he murmured, his voice deep, commanding.
He slid his sword from the scabbard belted to his waist and leaned it against the chair, then he stepped toward her, loosening his wide leather belt and dropping it to the floor.
The ornately carved butt of his pistol hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Believe me,” he said softly, “I would relish the task.”