Chapter 25
“Alert me at once when Prince Eugene arrives at the camp,” Stefan ordered of his aide, who was standing at rigid attention in front of the plain wooden table strewn with papers and maps.
“Yes, Commander,” the young officer replied with an eager bow of his head. He wheeled smartly and strode from the room, his spit-polished boots black and gleaming.
Stefan sat back in his chair, barely suppressing a grin. For the life of him he could not imagine how his new aide, the middle son of an archduke, kept his boots so clean. The camp was a sea of mud, brought on by the spring thaw and torrential rains that had plagued them for several weeks.
Stefan toyed absently with his ink pen, wondering if he had ever been as green as that newly recruited soldier.
Probably, he mused with a short laugh. No doubt he, too, had been overly enthusiastic, anxious to please, reveling in the pomp and grandeur of military life, the parades, and the pageantry.
His expression darkened. That had ended soon enough with his first battle, his true initiation into the startling realities of his profession.
He recalled all too well his brash exhilaration and hotheaded bravado, soon tempered by scenes of brutal war. Each successive battle had transformed him gradually into the seasoned soldier he had become—what his young aide would have to become if he was to survive.
A knock on the door broke into his grim thoughts. “Enter,” Stefan called out, leaning forward in his chair.
A mud-splattered courier stepped into the room, wiping his damp, dirtied face with his cap. “I have brought the mail from Vienna, Commander von Furstenberg,” he said.
“Good. Set it here,” Stefan replied, clearing a place amidst the stack of papers.
The courier quickly obliged him, dropping the leather bag atop the table and unfastening the metal buckles. He threw open the flap and dumped out a pile of letters and several rolled documents, then brought the emptied bag up under his arm. “That’s all I have, sir,” he murmured.
“You’ll find a warm meal in the cooking tent, a short walk from here. Have one of the men show you the way,” Stefan said, dismissing the courier with a nod.
Stefan set aside the rolled documents, deciding he would look at them later.
He sorted through the letters, searching for any familiar handwriting.
He was nearly to the bottom of the pile when he spied a letter from Isabel, and though he was pleased to receive it, he could not help feeling keen disappointment that there was nothing from Kassandra.
He grimaced. He was hardly surprised. She hadn’t answered any of his letters these past two months, his only word of her having come through Isabel’s frequent missives.
His sister had regaled him with myriad details of how they spent their days, their shopping trips into the city, visiting this milliner or that dressmaker, searching out the perfect point lace, or the most exquisite fabric.
There had been occasional galas, usually only Isabel in attendance, and quiet evenings spent in his library, she at her needlework, Kassandra curled up in a chair, reading.
In last week’s letter had come unexpected word that Miles Wyndham would be returning to Vienna in early April.
All of this hardly whetted Stefan’s appetite for the news he was craving, news only Kassandra could afford him.
How was she spending her time when Isabel was away from the estate? Was she riding the Arabian mare he had given her, and walking in the woods? Was she thinking of him with loving thoughts, as he hoped, or angry thoughts, as her lack of correspondence seemed to suggest?
“Enough with torturing yourself,” Stefan said under his breath, glancing down at the letter in his hand.
He broke the wax seal with his thumb and slit open the crisp packet with a thin-bladed silver opener, then drew the folded letter from the envelope.
It was dated only three days ago. A faint smile touched his lips as he read Isabel’s affectionate salutation, but it faded abruptly, his brow furrowed into a frown, his hand clenching the ivory paper.
“What the devil!” he blurted out, reading the body of the letter with heated intensity.
She and Kassandra could have been killed.
Their carriage had suddenly lost a wheel and overturned in a ditch along the road leading to the estate.
Zoltan was thrown to the ground and severely injured, and the two horses, horribly maimed, were shot dead where they lay…
Stefan read on in disbelief. Isabel’s handwriting, usually so graceful, was a blotted scrawl, as if she had written not long after the terrifying incident she was so vividly describing.
Her last paragraph calmed him somewhat, filled with assurances that she and Kassandra were fine, though bruised and badly shaken, and closing with a fervent wish that he return home soon.
Stefan set the letter down and leaned his head in his hands.
Gut-wrenching emotions assailed him—worry, helplessness, frustration—and overwhelming relief that they were unharmed. He sighed heavily. He had wished so many times he could be there; now, after this letter, more than ever.
Yet he could not return to Vienna until Prince Eugene relieved him of his duties at the winter camp, duties that were becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on.
It had been so long since he had seen Kassandra and held her in his arms, her jasmine-scented hair and her silken skin enveloping his senses…
Stefan brought his fist down hard upon the table, the sound reverberating through the sparsely furnished room.
Damn it, man, you cannot allow your personal desires to overrule your sense of duty, he berated himself fiercely.
Yet even as he tried to force her from his mind, she was there, like a vision before him.
“Kassandra…” he murmured, closing his eyes. She had bewitched his thoughts as surely as she had captured his heart.
Everything about her haunted his memory—the timbre of her voice, her singular beauty, her wit and intelligence, her indomitable spirit.
He could not forget how she had looked the morning he left for the camp…
with the dawn light spilling across her pillow, her flaming tresses flecked with gold, and a soft smile curving her lips as she lay sleeping peacefully.
How he had longed to wake her and tell her he was leaving and why, but most important of all, how much he loved her. Yet something had stopped him.
Stefan opened his eyes and stared blindly at the letter, his feelings at that moment rushing back to him.
Even on the battlefield he had never felt so vulnerable. He had so much to tell her, so much to explain, and there had been so little time. How could he make sense of what lay deepest in his heart in the few precious moments before he had to set out for Vienna, then the winter camp?
And he had been afraid. Afraid that after declaring his love, she would still denounce him.
Even after the night they had shared, after she had at last admitted her desire for him, perhaps nothing, not even his love, could erase what had happened between them at the tavern or how relentlessly he had pursued her, forcing her into a marriage she did not want.
Finally he had left her room, unable to bear the thought that she might refuse his love. He wanted to remember her as she was, sated from the heat of passion, his name cried out during their sweetest release upon her lips.
Perhaps his fears had been justified all along, Stefan thought dully, rubbing his forehead. Perhaps what had stopped him was the very reason she refused to answer his letters, even that first one, in which he had poured out his soul…
Stefan’s jaw tightened in determination.
No, he would not believe it until he spoke with her face-to-face!
Whatever her reasons for not answering his letters, he was not prepared to give up so easily.
Especially now, when after being away from her for two interminable months, he had reached a decision that might finally sway her heart in his favor.
“Commander, Prince Eugene and his retinue have been sighted just beyond the camp. He will be here shortly,” the aide blurted as he burst in the door, his loud voice jarring into Stefan’s thoughts.
“Don’t you know enough to knock, man?” Stefan demanded, then softened his tone at the young officer’s crestfallen look. He rose from his chair. “Is all in readiness?”
The aide brightened visibly, snapping to attention. “Yes, Commander. The trumpets are sounding and the pennants are raised. All other commanders have been alerted, and their soldiers are joining ranks at this very moment.”
“Very good,” Stefan said, striding from the room and through the narrow foyer, then down the front steps of his quarters, with the aide not far behind him. He stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight, his keen eyes surveying the scene before him.
Uniformed men were rushing into formation from all directions of the camp, streaming from tents, long-timbered barracks, even from the muddy parade fields where they had been practicing drills.
It took only a few moments for everyone to scramble into line, each man in his place, row upon dark blue row, regiments of cavalry atop their mounts and infantry alike at stiff attention.
Brightly colored pennants flapped in the cool March breeze. Horses neighed and snorted impatiently. An expectant hush hung in the air, for Prince Eugene was coming to take command of his Imperial army, in preparation for the summer’s campaign against the Turks.
Stefan mounted Brand and took the reins from his nervous aide, who was doing his best to hide his fear of the mighty warhorse.
A fine candidate for the infantry, Stefan thought dryly, as he was soon flanked by generals from the various contingents of the army.
They set out along the puddled road between the long, broad lines in formation to meet their commander-in-chief, just now passing through the guarded entrance to the camp.
“Sound the cannonade!” Stefan roared above the stillness, his voice echoed by thundering blasts from twenty cannon. The heavy artillery pieces were quickly reloaded, then fired another time amid the steady beating of drums.
Prince Eugene drew closer, riding well in front of his plumed retinue on a prancing white stallion.
Resplendent in a navy uniform edged with gold braid, he radiated supreme confidence despite his slight figure.
His dark eyes swept from side to side, proudly but solemnly surveying his forces.
He reined in his mount as Stefan rode up to him.
“You have done exceedingly well, Count von Furstenberg. The men look fit and ready to fight.”
“My thanks, General,” Stefan replied. “Your men are the ones to be commended. They have been training long and hard since the worst of the winter subsided. They know well the strength of their enemy.”
Prince Eugene nodded gravely, always one to identify with the common soldier. He had worked his way through the ranks and considered himself one of them. He was even known to sleep upon the ground wrapped in a soldier’s cloak, and not for lack of better lodging.
“So they shall be commended,” he agreed, raising his voice to be heard. “See that each man is given double his monthly pay, on behalf of our gracious emperor! And spare no meat this night, nor brandy. We shall feast in honor of our enemy, who await their defeat!”
A great roar went up from the men nearby, and for those who hadn’t yet heard, shouts echoing his words passed along the formation like wildfire. Soon the entire camp resounded with cheers and hurrahs, drawing the faintest of smiles to Prince Eugene’s thin lips. He turned once again to Stefan.
“You know as well as I that there is much to be done, more training, more preparation, before we set out for Belgrade in May. Ride with me now to the council hall, then summon every commanding officer. The men may feast, but we have much to discuss tonight.”
Stefan nodded, reining Brand in alongside Prince Eugene’s white stallion. Soon they were joined by other commanders, forming a long procession as they rode toward the council hall in the center of the camp.
Yet even amidst the clamor and excitement, Stefan’s thoughts flew unbidden to Kassandra, never far from his mind, and always within his heart.
As he rode beside his general, he resolved then and there that he would request a few weeks leave as soon as their initial meetings were completed. He had to talk to her at once, before her father returned from Hanover, and tell her of his love and his decision.
For it was his plan to release her from her promise to marry him.
He would rather risk losing her, and perhaps gain her love, than force her to go through with their marriage and earn only her hate.