Love Me Again

e-reads
www.ereads.com

Copyright ©2002 by Wendy M. Burge

This first book is dedicated to my greatest fans: my mother, who is no longer with us but still shares with me our love of the written word; my father, who refuses to stop spoiling me; and my beautiful son, Matthew, who knows his mom can do anything.
To Shannon, Nedra, and Michelle, who have always been there for me, endlessly raising my hopes, padding my flagging ego, and patiently listening to my endless whining during the writing of this book of my heart.
And to my newest fan, my editor Kate Duffy, who is so generous in her belief in me.
I love you all.

Grand Duchy of Austenburg

Germany, 1808

“I'm going to have a baby.”

She felt his body tense and pull away. The silence was thick in the moonlit darkness of the room, and all of a sudden she didn't feel warm and sated anymore. She was afraid to look at him, she knew what she would see. Biting her lip, she turned onto her side, away from him.

“When?” His voice came from behind her, hushed, but she could hear the anger.

“February.”

Again, silence. Then his arm came about her waist, tight, and he gently forced her back against him. She could feel the heavy thud of his heart against her bare back.

She swallowed, tears stinging her eyes. “I know this is,",”

“I don't want to talk about it right now,” he cut her off, his voice rasping harshly against her ear.

She tried to blink back her tears; they would help nothing at this point. As she always could, she knew what he was thinking, felt his anger and despair. She felt them, too.

“How could this have happened? We've been so careful!” he suddenly exploded. When he threw back the covers, she flinched and turned to watch as he shot to his feet. The moonlight gilded his powerful body as he strode about the frigid room. Finally, he paced over to the fireplace and with restrained violence jabbed the coals to sputtering life. His face was a carved mask of fury as he watched the dancing flames, his arms braced against the mantel, his legs widespread, the sinews of his muscular thighs quivering. Then he swung about and glared at her, as if this whole untenable problem was
her
fault alone!

“How did this happen, Christina?” He almost shouted at her.

Now angered herself, she sat bolt upright and glared back at him. “What an inane question to throw at me, Varek! You know quite well how this happened! Just like the last five times.”

Her husband stood there staring at her, anger and helpless fear playing across his hard features. Then he dropped his face into shaking hands. “God, how could this have happened? We were so damn careful! We need more time,” he agonized as he threw himself into the large armchair behind him. Oblivious to his nudity, he stared off into space.

Christina bit her lip when she saw the defeat shimmering in his hard blue eyes. Also uncaring of her own nudity, she got up and padded over to him. Without even looking up, he stretched his arms out to her and she sank onto his lap, curling up against his big body, burrowing into his heat. She felt his lips against the tiny curls at her temple. Christina breathed in his scent, as familiar to her as her own. This should be a time of joy and a celebration of their love, not one of dread, as if the sword of Damocles was suspended over their heads.

Together they sighed, their minds and bodies in harmony, as they had always been over the last ten years. However, as of this night, the sands of their time together were inexorably sifting away and there was nothing they could do to stop them, except pray for a miracle. As that hadn't helped them in the past, why would it now?

They had both tried desperately to put this off, needing the precious time while they searched Europe for a doctor who could help them. How fruitless it had all been, for their love for one another was their own worst enemy. He had tried to stay away from her. She had tried to deny him, but it was like holding back the dawn. They were only whole when in each other's arms, when they became one. And now the inevitable had happened again. This was their last chance at happily ever after.

So, it was to start all over again, the endless prayers for their miracle, the dreadful waiting and the hopeless sense of inevitability. Why should this be any different from her last failures? During her last pregnancy she had worn the flesh from her knees, so devout was she in her prayers. Varek had donated millions of talers to the church in desperate hopes of bribing their miracle. All for naught. In fact, it was a pathetic irony that their devoutness was rewarded by her sixth miscarriage at the altar of their faith.

It was as if God was telling them that they did not deserve to belong to each other.

The royal couple had been warned. After ten years of marriage, if they were cursed with one more miscarriage, the Archduchess Christina must be set aside for the good of the duchy. An heir must carry on the ancient line, and Varek was the last of the von Vischerings. It was imperative that he give the Grand Duchy of Austenburg the long-awaited heir or the duchy would be dissolved, swallowed by the vast Habsburg Empire.

This was her last chance. If she failed, she would lose not only the only home she had ever known, but, more important, her beloved Varek. She could not fail them. Not this time. This was her last chance.

Reaching up, she dragged Varek's mouth down to hers. Their kiss was spontaneous and frantic, firing their blood, melding their tongues, their hunger endless.

“It will be all right, lark,” he growled into her greedy mouth as his large hands dug almost painfully into her slim hips.

The sands were slipping away, and as they joined their bodies, they knew they could not change their destiny. It was in the hands of a most heartless God.

Varek paced the royal antechamber, oblivious to the hundreds of eyes watching him. His whole life was riding on what was happening in that chamber above. He turned and glared at his chamberlain. Roget simply stared back, the bloodless statue. Varek had always thought the man's blood was ice. The little worm was waiting with a patience that made Varek want to kill him. They both knew what was happening. It was too soon for anything else. It was only late December.

Varek turned away to look out onto the beautiful winter morning and again found himself wishing it all in hell, his ancient lineage, the sumptuous palace and every last man in his duchy. None of it meant a thing to him without his beloved Christina.

With a deep resentment, he frowned up at the line of past archdukes lining the wall behind him. From the first ambitious adventurer who founded the wealthy duchy of Austenburg right down to his father, they all glowered reproachfully down upon him for his failure to their noble dynasty. He felt their collective dissatisfaction bearing down on him. At that moment he hated every last one of them. The illustrious name of von Vischering must go on. No matter what the cost. No matter that two lives were torn asunder.

If it wasn't for the fact that he knew a fanatic's bullet would find his wife, he would tell the blasted duchy to take itself to hell and sit back uncaring when it was dissolved. However, there was a violent faction lurking within the duchy. Austenburg enjoyed too much the freedom and wealth that had been taken for granted for almost four hundred years. Never would they let a little thing such as a barren archduchess get in their way. He had even thought of taking Christina and simply disappearing. But what would that solve? They would simply be hunted animals for the rest of their lives and in the end, his precious love would still be taken from him, one way or another, whichever was more expedient. All he knew was that no matter what the cost to himself, he would do whatever it took to keep Christina safe.

Somehow he would have to make it work, for he could never let Christina go. There had to be a way to keep her with him always, even if he was forced to set her aside. Never would he let her go.
Never. Never.

The litany pounded in his panicked mind. He felt strangled, his hands clenched white-knuckled on the window frame.

“Your highness.”

Varek's eyes closed and he leaned his feverish brow on the cold glass.
Please, God! Please!

“Your highness.” The timid voice was closer.

Varek spun around, and the bloodstained doctor fell back with a gasp, fear shooting through him at the sight of those cold pale eyes boring into him.

“My wife?” The archduke's voice was quite calm, if one did not look into the hell radiating from those intimidating eyes.

Dr. Hainse swallowed. “She had a rough time of it, your highness, even more so than the last. But she will be well, given time to rest.”

Varek's heart hammered. He still hung tenaciously to a thread of hope. None of Christina's other pregnancies had advanced so far.
Please, God
! “The child?”
Please, I'll give you anything! My life! My soul!

The doctor looked down and rubbed nervously at his stained waistcoat. He couldn't look up. “I'm sorry, your highness.”

Varek's eyes slid closed.

“You know what must be done, your highness,” came an insidious voice from beside him.

Quick as a striking snake, Varek's hand shot out and latched with bruising force about Roget's cold-blooded throat. Varek smiled grimly as Roget's eyes bulged, and yet the cold bastard showed no fear.

“Killing me will not change what must be, your highness,” Roget croaked, his hands held limp at his sides. “Killing me will not protect her from assassination by the rebels.”

Varek wanted to kill the bastard. He wanted to spill his blood and see if cold water gushed forth. Through the rage consuming him, he barely heard the babble of voices crying at him. He barely felt the hands tearing at his murdering fingers, embedded deep in his enemy's throat. He refused to let go. The thrum in his brain grew stronger as Roget's face turned blue, his eyes red with broken blood vessels. Varek's fingers became stronger, his smile more cold-blooded. This was justice.

Then the deafening crack of a pistol startled him out of his insanity. Instantly, a crippling pain shot up his arm, and he watched dazed as Roget stumbled back, his ungainly body sprawling ignobly onto the cold marble floor, choking and coughing.

The doctor was stunned, not knowing which to tend to first, his bleeding sovereign or the man he had just tried to murder. Where was the protocol?

Varek glanced down in surprise. Someone had shot him in the arm, a nice clean hit, just barely grazing his forearm. He looked up into the face of his best friend. Sergei's eyes were filled with pain as he wrapped a handkerchief about his arm, stanching the flow of blood.

“I'm sorry, my friend. You gave me no choice. I couldn't allow you to kill the scum in front of so many witnesses.”

Varek just continued to stare at him as if confused by the drama just played. Then his unblinking gaze found Roget, still sprawled on the freezing floor, coughing. No one dared to offer help. Even the doctor stood undecided between the archduke and the chancellor, wringing his hands.

“Pull yourself together, Vare,” Sergei muttered close to his ear. “Christina needs you right now.”

When Varek finally spoke his voice cracked with agony and dazed disbelief. “I've lost her.”

Sergei couldn't bear looking into his friend's eyes. It was akin to looking into a wasteland of broken dreams. Tomorrow the Archduke Varek of Austenburg would have to put aside his beloved wife of ten years. The duchy must have its heir, it would expect no less of an ancient line that had reigned with glory for so long. If they were to remain independent, their beautiful duchess must do her duty and step down, for their beautiful duchess could only give birth to royal corpses. The deadly rumors had been floating around for months, one way or another the duchy would have its heir, no matter what the cost.

Sergei watched as Varek left the antechamber, his natural poise shaken, those proud shoulders bent under the weight of his torment.

When the door opened, Christina looked toward it. The tears in her eyes blurred her vision, but she knew it was him. It was like a sixth sense between them.

Varek came to stand over her, and the tension in the room was piercing as he waved all her attendants out. Wordlessly, he stared at the bloodstained sheets one maid hastily grabbed up on her way out. Feeble warmth emanated from a fire crackling in the chamber, the only sound penetrating the heavy silence.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, a sob escaping her blue-tinged lips.

Varek flinched as her huge, pain-filled eyes beseeched him. When her hand reached out for him, his own stifled misery burst forth and with a groan, he fell to his knees beside the bed. His arms swept her close as he buried his wet face against her now flat stomach.