When the Saints Read Free Page A

previous count. Only men who admired flattish chests and sinewy legs would regard her as a beauty. Anton’s taste ran to the voluptuous. He liked buttocks he could sink his fingers into and breasts like melons, great twin pillows where a man could bury his head; not these pale, pink-tipped pears. Her ivory skin, moonlight hair, and sapphire eyes were bloodless. She looked like an ice maiden and acted like one.
    Madlenka sniffed. “I am not weeping, my lord.”
    “You have tears in your eyes!”
    “It hurts!”
    Anton made an exasperated noise. What he might have said then remained unsaid, because another man spoke right behind him.
    “Anton! Are you awake?”
    Anton withdrew, rolled off, and peered out from under the quilt to make sure the bed curtains were safely closed.
    “Otto?” He would tell anyone else to go to hell and stay there for at least two hours. “What the devil—”
    “It’s urgent. Very bad news. Put some clothes on and come out here, to the fire.”
    The door thumped shut.
    Cursing, Count Magnus struggled out of the mattress and the curtains. Shivering as if he had fallen into icy water, he quickly covered his gooseflesh with the garments he had dropped on the floor last night, which were all just as cold.
    He paused at the mirror to drag on his hat, dab some wax on his mustache, and twirl up the ends. He scowled at the bruise on his jaw and winced as he poked a loose tooth with his tongue. Anger, as much as cold, made his breath smoke. The windows overlooked the bailey and showed a thin slice of milky blue sky above the battlements on the far side. Up here in the mountains, September morninligember mgs felt like November back home at Dobkov.
    The count’s quarters in Castle Gallant were shabby and ancient. As soon as he had driven off the Wends and settled into his demesne, he would have them redecorated in the Italian style; more like, say, the bedroom of Baroness Nadezda Radovan in Mauvnik. Now, there was a woman who understood the finer points of copulation! As she should, having been at it for thirty years. He strode out into Madlenka’s dressing room and shut the door behind him, ready to face whatever disaster the new day had brought.
    Even a brother should not invade the count’s private quarters uninvited. But it wasn’t just Otto: three of them were out there, waiting for him. They must have brought a firepot, for the wood on the hearth was blazing merrily already. And they all stood up to honor the count, their host.
    At thirty-six, Ottokar Baron Magnus of Dobkov was the senior brother and head of the family. He had arrived in Gallant yesterday on what was intended to be a brief celebratory visit, but now he dared not go home again lest he carry pestilence with him. Although Anton would not admit it, he was more than happy to have his oldest brother here to lean on in the present crisis. Otto was big, solid, and battle-hardened, but those qualities mattered much less than his level head, steady nerves, and experience. Whenever there was a dispute, Otto’s opinion would always be the soundest and the safest to accept.
    The giant hiding behind the huge and very unfashionable black beard was second brother Sir Vladislav, even bigger than Otto, and a renowned warrior. He had come to Gallant to advise on how to fight off the Pomeranian army that was poised to attack the north gate. All through Anton’s childhood, Vlad had been a bullying pest, dispensing bruises on the training ground or mocking all lesser men with his cruel, hobnailed humor. But Vlad would still be languishing in captivity, a hostage in some godforsaken castle in Bavaria, had Anton not come up with his ransom, so Vlad owed him a gigantic favor and was having to behave himself at last.
    And the youngest, Wulfgang. He looked small and babyish alongside the other two, but was neither. He was a superb horseman and packed a punch to fell oxen, as Anton’s sore jaw and loose tooth reminded him. No longer the amiable varlet