The Legacy (16 page)

Nay!

He felt as though he’d been struck in the stomach.

What he felt for Sabina was
not
love. It couldn’t possibly be. He hardly knew her. Lust, passion, yes—those he was familiar with, but his heart belonged to his beloved—to Beth—and always would. He had sworn it the day she died in his arms.

But Sabina made him laugh. She made him eager to get up with the dawn, to see what the new day would bring. What had this sorceress done to him? What kind of spell was she weaving? His breathing grew shallow and only by sheer force of will was he able to follow Sabina down the long hall toward her bedchamber.

He couldn’t submit to his desire for her; not when he knew where it would lead. Not when he had every intention of betraying her trust. He knew enough about Sabina now to realize she would never forgive him for what he must do. They had no future together, and he couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—take her to his bed knowing that. She deserved more than a hasty coupling and a pat on the rump like some tavern wench.

At her door, she turned to bid him goodnight, her eyes innocent, unquestioning.

Ah, my beloved,
he cried out silently to Beth.
What will she do when she discovers the truth?

He heard a whispered response in his soul.

More importantly,
it said,
what will
you
do?

Sabina looked at him, and her polite expression changed once she saw his face.

“Wolf, what is it? You look as though you have seen a ghost. Whatever is wrong?”

No, he hadn’t seen a ghost—only felt one.

Her eyes filled with worry, her sweet mouth pursed in concern. Her vanilla and rose scent reached out to him, entangling him, entrapping him …

He had to get away, before he snatched her up and never let her go.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Goodnight, Baronesse.”

Her eyes narrowed at the formal appellation. He quickly opened her door, wanting only to be gone so she wouldn’t see the need in his eyes, know how he ached for her inside.

“Good night, Master Behaim.” Her tone reserved, polite, she turned from him and went inside.

He shut the door, drawing a ragged breath, and groped his way unsteadily down the hall, heading instinctively for his own personal sanctuary.

Sabina leaned back against the heavy door. What had just happened?

Wolf seemed so friendly all evening but had grown strangely quiet. She rose from the table thinking he was no longer enjoying her company, but when he asked to walk her to her chamber, she’d been certain she was mistaken. Nevertheless, just now, she had the distinct impression he could not be rid of her fast enough. She wished the man would make up his mind!

She thought again about the events leading up to the moment outside her door, when he had practically shoved her inside and slammed the door in her face. She could not understand what had gone awry.

Perhaps he had over-imbibed. Doubtful, since he and his brother drank only a few cups of ale during the meal. She would not think such an amount would affect such a large man as he, but what did she know of Wolf’s capacity for drink? A strong man would never like to admit such a weakness to a woman.

Or, perhaps he was ill.

Oh, goodness, here she was worrying about her own silly pride, and he might be sick! She should go to him, make certain he was well.

Should she try to find someone to help? No, she would feel foolish if she was mistaken and Wolf was fine. Sabina knew he retired to his study at night to work on the myriad number of accounts for which he was responsible—his print shops in Nürnberg, his father’s shop here in Wittenberg, even the household accounts—and decided to seek him there first.

Light spilled from under the door. She heard what she had already begun to recognize as Wolf’s distinctive tread inside. Relief flooded her and screwing up her courage, she knocked. The footsteps inside stopped.

“What is it?” came the snarled reply.

Sabina began to doubt the wisdom of seeking out a wolf in his own lair.

“N-nothing,” she stammered. “I just wanted to be certain you were well, but I will leave you in pea—”

She did not have a chance to finish her sentence before the door jerked open and he pulled her inside. Her momentum was such, she practically bounced off Wolf’s broad chest. He steadied her with a hand to her waist, and she leaned breathlessly against him, gripping his shirt. She had a fleeting impression of a large, well-lit room, its walls covered by tapestries and oil paintings, a massive desk in one corner.

He scowled at her. “Why did you come? What do you want?”

He looked almost feral. His eyes glittered dangerously, and he had raked his hands through his hair. His doublet was gone, and he’d untied the strings holding his cambric shirt together; as a consequence, it gaped open to the waist. She gawked at the skin it revealed, and warmth flooded her. She realized belatedly what she was doing and jerked her eyes up to meet his.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to disturb you. You looked unwell, and I just wanted to …” her voice trailed off as his intense gaze traveled over her.

He appeared not to have heard a word she’d said. Nervous, she licked her suddenly dry lips, and his eyes flared with emerald fire.

“Sweet Jesu, what do you want from me?”

She heard the aching torment in his voice.

You.

For one horrified moment, she thought she had spoken aloud. She had not, but something must have shown in her expression, because the mood shifted instantly, tightening into an almost unbearable tension.

As though she were naked, she could feel the heat of his hand against the curve of her waist. Her breath caught in her throat at the wall of solid muscle against her breasts, and she became achingly aware he was aroused. The realization made her pulse beat in a staccato rhythm, from fear or desire she knew not which.

They stood pressed together, it seemed forever, while he debated whether or not to kiss her. She could see the argument going on behind his eyes, could almost hear him lecturing himself about the reasons why he should not.

She rose up on her toes and touched her lips to his.

Wolf, startled at first, quickly recovered. He lunged for her, his arms going like steel bands around her waist, his mouth devouring hers. She staggered backward, and he pressed her up against the wall, its unyielding indifference counterpoint to his fevered response. A painting behind her crashed unheeded to the floor.

For a lightning moment, she felt trapped. That old familiar fear engulfed her, but her heart whispered this man would not hurt her. There was no anger in him, no domination. In fact, it was as if he had surrendered to a need greater than his own will, a need so palpable it crackled in the air around them. He kissed her throat, her eyes, her lips. Tentatively, she kissed him back, touching her tongue to his. He groaned into her mouth.

“Oh, God, I’m on fire,” he rasped. He tugged her hand up, placed it on the hot skin over his rapidly beating heart. “Can you feel it? I
burn
for you …”

He took her mouth again, murmuring, “Yes, God, yes …”

Her fingers curled into his chest. She did feel it—the heat, the torment spiking through him like a wildfire. His longing reached out to her. His distress moved her as nothing else could. Like a candle set to flame, she melted. If she could aid him, ease him with her kisses, with her body …

The thought frightened and excited her, and she knew not what to do. She sensed such torment in him, such division. It was as if he fought some inner demon, and only she could save him. Would the sacrifice of her body be enough? What would happen then? She knew he would not hurt her, intentionally, but would he do so regardless, despite his desire not to?

Was she willing to risk everything … again?

“Wolf, oh Wolf,” she murmured, and his reply was an incoherent mutter. He pressed into her, all heat and muscle and stone. He nuzzled her neck, his hands roaming over her.

She stroked his face. Life was risk, not to live it fully the greatest risk of all. With a sigh, she opened herself to him, opened her heart.

He sensed her surrender and jerked her up against him, fitted her to him, kissed her deeply. “Sweet, so good, your taste …”

He used the brace of the wall to press their bodies together, his movements wild, passionate. She arched in response against him, desire flaring through her, the sound of their ragged breathing dominating the quiet room.

Abruptly, he stopped. Panting, he stared at her, his body shaking with barely restrained ardor, and closed his eyes.

“Nay,” he mumbled, and he slowly lowered her feet back down to the floor. She felt every tense muscle, every hard place on the slide down, and she trembled.

“Forgive me.” He buried his face in her hair, the gesture one of defeat. “I’m sorry. I’ve no right—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, stroking the nape of his neck, kissing his temples. “Shhh.” She took his face in her hands, kissed his wonderful mouth.

His eyes widened, and a deep furrow creased his brow. “Nay, you mustn’t.” He spoke against her lips while he tried to remove her hands.

She ignored him. Driven by a need deep inside her she did not understand, she captured one of his hands and placed it over her own heart in an action mimicking his earlier one.

“Touch me,” she whispered, and as though he could not help himself, he did. He caressed her breast, and his eyes glazed with desire.

She pushed herself into his hand, leaning her head back against the wall. She felt waves of pleasure wash over her at his touch. She encouraged him, stroked her fingers over the back of his hand. His other hand came around, then stopped mid-air. He shook his head dully and frowned again.

“Nay,” he said once more, though his tone was less certain. “We shouldn’t—”

She placed a finger over his lips, then removed it and kissed him fully on the mouth. He reached for her, grasped her head to pull her away, and then stopped, pulling her to him instead.

She wanted this. She understood that now. So did he. She would not let his fears about her health, or her sensibilities, or whatever it was concerning him interfere. She wanted no more arguments against it, not from her mind or from his.

She let her fingers trail down to where she felt the hard desire of his body against her belly. She searched him out, fitted her fingers to him, stroked him carefully, deliberately. She could hardly believe her own audacity as she sought out what she had once feared and now desired.

A sound akin to pain escaped him at her soft caress, and he shook. Emboldened, she stroked him again, firmer now. His fingers flexed in her hair, and he pressed himself into her hand, hard.

Then, without warning, he slammed a fist against the wall behind her and whirled away. He collided with the back of a heavy chair, clutched at it, held on to it as though the floor moved and it was the only steady object in the room. He stood there for a moment, panting, looking at her with accusing eyes.

“Are you mad, woman?” he finally ground out. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and held out her hands to him.

Chapter
11

W
olf stared at Sabina. She had touched him thus knowing the reaction she would get. He remembered then she was no virgin; she would have more than a notion of the effect she had on him. He couldn’t bear to think where she had learned it. He knew, of course. She had touched
that boy
the same way, given him the first of her favors, known him as Wolf would never know her. A blinding jealousy tore through him.

“And who taught you, your
lover?”
he spat.

She flinched, and the blood drained from her face. Her hands fell limply to her side; then she stiffened her back and gathered her dignity around her like a shield.

In his mind, he heard the echo of his own words and was appalled.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,” she said, the hurt almost hidden by her careless tone of voice. “And in the event you are interested, I thought he was my husband at the time. But I think we have just proven you are not. Interested, that is.”

A glimmer of a tear trembled on her lashes; her mouth worked, and he knew she struggled not to cry in front of him. She turned away, hiding her face.

He felt like a beast.

“As I can see you are well,” she said, her words muffled by the unshed tears, “I will return to my chamber.”

“Nay, wait,” he said, grasping her arm when she made to move past him. “Let me explain.”

“No explanation is required. You were perfectly clear,” she said in a strangled voice. A wet tear splashed to the wood floor below.

“Ah, Sabina …” he said, torn in two by that tear.

She pulled her arm from his grasp and brushed past him, but halted abruptly when she spied the small portrait hanging above the desk. She would know who it was. After meeting Gisel, Beth’s resemblance to her daughter could not be denied.

She turned knowing eyes his way. “After all, I could hardly expect you to consort with me under the eyes of your
beloved.”