Stolen Splendor Read Free Page B

screams of the crowd carried on down the street. Everything had
happened so fast! Her breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath the bodice of her
gown; her throat felt raw and parched. She struggled against the swamping
sensation of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her, fought back the hot
tears that burned her eyes.
    Sweet Lord, she could have been killed . . . A
shuddering sigh escaped her at this numbing realization. Suddenly chilled, she
reached behind her to draw her cloak around her body, only to find it was no
longer there.
    It must have been wrenched from her shoulders during
her struggles, she thought, her mind reeling. She looked down at the skirt of
her gown. The flowered fabric was grimy and tom, ripped on one side from the
muddied hem almost to her thigh. With trembling fingers she touched her head,
only to discover her lace cap was also missing. Her hair, tangled and snarled,
had fallen from its pins to frame her face in riotous disarray. And her bag was
gone, along with her money.
    The dress and the money are no matter . . . At least
you are unharmed, Kassandra chided herself, still
astounded that she had so narrowly escaped death. Somewhat calmed, she gazed
nervously about the large room. She was in some sort of a tavern,
that much she knew.
    The dense, smoke-filled air stung her eyes. Kassandra
blinked, wiped them with the back of her hand, then looked up again . . . straight into the eyes of a stranger staring boldly at
her from across the room.
     
     

 
    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