The Legacy by T. J. Bennett Page A

occupation. Especially for a woman,” he murmured.
    “I am not afraid of the truth.”
    He released her. “Which is exactly why you need protection.”
    Her temper flared. “And what of you, Master Behaim? Where do you stand on these issues?”
    He pressed his lips together and she could not help but feel he stifled another laugh. Then his expression was seriousness again.
    “I stand where my prince tells me to stand.”
    “That is not an answer.”
    He ran a gentle hand through the mass of her hair that even now dried in soft, loose waves. Then he seemed to recall himself, and pulled his hand away. He clasped them both behind him.
    “My lady,” he sighed, “I’m just a common man. I cannot afford opinions. A few years ago, the Elector was a devout Catholic, so we were all devout Catholics. Today he appears to favor reform, so now I suppose we must too. In the meantime, I shall publish my books, print my pamphlets, and keep my nose out of where it doesn’t belong.”
    “Then you are a cynic,” she accused.
    He tilted his head and smiled slowly. “Nay. Just a realist, like you.”
    Heavens, he was attractive. Her fingers itched to smooth back the tangled waves of hair falling around his ears. She looked away from him and tried to ease the sensation by stroking the fur rug instead. A tremor shook her, in reaction to either the cold or to him she was not certain, and she pulled the rug tighter.
    “I am a fool,” he said abruptly.
    She looked back up at him, surprised.
    “You’re hungry and exhausted. You need food and rest, not talk. Come.” He offered his arm. She felt surprise at the realization she did not wish their audience to end.
    “I assure you, I am quite capable—”
    He shook his head. “Then have pity on me, if nothing else. I have been up since the wee hours and I still have work to do. Just because it’s my wedding day does not mean my books will get printed without me.”
    When she still hesitated, he said, “Come, my lady. It has been, to say the least, a long morning for the both of us. Are you able to walk?”
    “Yes, of course,” she said, unwilling to admit to any weakness in front of him.
    Wolf admired her strength of will once more when she stiffened her spine and clambered up from the hearth. However, the effort she put into appearing normal was obvious. She swayed when she stood, so he took her elbow and stayed close to her, guiding her up the narrow staircase to the landing above.
    He escorted her down a hallway with two heavy doors opposite from one another and opened the one that would serve as her chamber while she resided here. Inside, a large window providing a view of the river dominated the sparsely decorated room. For now, Franz had closed the shutters, and the rain drummed furiously against them. A simple bed stood in one corner of the large space. Draped in wool blankets, it had been made more comfortable by a feather mattress thrown over the straw-filled pelisse. The only other piece of permanent furniture occupying the room was a prized Venetian mirror. Wolf had recently bought it back from the merchant his father had pawned it to, and now he was grateful for that. It gave the room a distinguished air and served as a gilded reminder of better times.
    Wolf motioned her into the chamber. A fire burned in the grate, making the room warm and inviting despite its sparse furnishings, and in front of it sat a tub, filled with steaming, soapy water.
    “I realize there isn’t much to the room,” he said by way of apology. “We’re … redecorating. I hope you will find it comfortable. I know it’s less than you’re used to.”
    Her reaction was unexpected. She clapped her hands in delight. “A bathing tub. A genuine bathing tub.” She turned to him. “It is much more than I have been used to for many years. Thank you for your hospitality. As an unwelcome guest in your home, I have no right to expect such kindness from you, and I am grateful for it.”
    He frowned.