Moltke said nothing for a moment, his hooded eyes boring into Wake. “How very American your views are, Lieutenant. But I expect too much that you would understand our history in Europe. Now, exactly where are you from in North America? And what is your family’s history?”
Wake thought it all absurd, a stage parody, except that Moltke was very real and had real power. He was closely related to the man who controlled the most powerful military machine in Europe. In the world. “Well, sir, I am from a fishing village in the state of Massachusetts. My family is not famous and they are not warriors. They sail schooners on the coastal trade. I am the first warrior in the family. I sincerely hope I’m the last.”
Moltke huffed, “Ach, and so you had to have training in the art of war at the academy, since you had no family tradition and upbringing in it?”
Christine had already made a quick departure, but Strom leaned against the parapet and watched with amused interest as Wake replied, “No, sir. I did not go to the academy.”
Moltke’s tone lowered as he clucked, “Then how are you trained in war!”
Wake tried to submerge his anger and gave the Prussian his best smile. “By doing, not talking.”
Then he turned to Strom. “I think I hear my name being called, sir. I must bid both of you au revoir for now.” As he walked away he heard Moltke mutter something about an American speaking French, badly.
His blood pounding, Wake made his way to the champagne table, where a steward presented him with a glass. Wake found his hand was shaking, but downed the drink and signaled for two more. Taking his glasses to the area by the two pine trees, he gazed out at the sea across the tiny peninsula below. The glitter of the sunset on the distant waves was calming, a sight he had known all his life. He exhaled and stretched his neck, then his arms, willing himself to relax—wishing he was out there and away from pompous bastards like Moltke. It was clean out there. He stared at the reddening sun, letting it dazzle his eyes like a kaleidoscope and take him far away.
“I liked your answer to that strutting Prussian pig, Peter. Men like him have a mind for domination, a body for war, and a heart for hate. They know about everything masculine—except how to love a woman. . . .”
Suddenly next to him, Catherine reached over and touched his hand. His eyes slowly focused on her face, her beautiful face, and Wake felt all his strength leaving. She was a vision in green, wearing the same forest-green gown, trimmed with golden threads, now almost luminescent in the sunset. Her brown hair was swept up with a single gold and green comb, and Wake had to fight an urge to take it out and let Catherine’s soft tresses fall down around her shoulders. Emeralds draped across her chest brought his eyes to her bosom, and he saw her take in a breath. Her hand squeezed his, and just then all he wanted in the world was to hold her and let her caress him.
“I hoped you’d be here,” he murmured, oblivious to the dozens of people around them.
Her eyes never left his, making him shiver inside as he realized she was looking at him the same way she had in his dream that afternoon. Her eyes were calling him to her, gently, sadly. He moved closer.
“I heard you would be here, Peter. I wore the dress that I could tell you liked in St. Pierre. And Genoa.”
Wake held her hand, staring at her, drinking her in. Behind her, in the dimming sun, he saw the lights of Porto Fino coming on. A final shaft of golden sunlight glowed on her face, bringing out the flecks of green in her eyes as she looked up at him. “It’s lovely, especially because you’re wearing it, Catherine.”
“I wanted to remind you of gentle moments in faraway places, Peter. I am happy that you are here. You are the only happiness I have here.” She glanced back at the crowd of guests that were starting to line up for the dining room. “They are, at best, boring and false. Some, like Moltke, are worse, and frighten me. I felt so alone here before I saw you.”
“I was melancholy too, Catherine. But not now. Now I’m feeling much better. Have you been here before?”
“Yes. We get invited each month. It is a lovely place, is it not? I just wish I was here alone with you.”
Wake quickly looked around the patio. “Is your husband—”
A commotion erupted at the guest line, an angry threat in French returned by an equally malevolent-sounding phrase in German. Wake saw Henri Faber facing Moltke, who was grimacing with anger, his words hissing out in English. “You cowardly French swine. You dare to call the Germanic people uncivilized! Look at your pathetic selves, little Frenchman. Your country’s never risen above its sick past except under that despotic Corsican’s illusions of grandeur, and in the effeminate playtimes of life. Wine and women are the only successes you are known for—and good for. There are no men in France, Faber, as we easily showed the world only three years ago.”
Faber’s hand was fast. Moltke fell backward a step, his cheek crimson from the slap. Faber moved closer, his gray eyes lifeless. “You may have beaten us then, Moltke, but never again. French honor will someday soon see the German barbarians bow down in apology and beg for mercy. And as for you, I will stand ready at dawn to defend my personal honor outside the walls of this castle. Any weapon you choose, German.”
Moltke glared at Faber, sputtered something in German and stalked off. Wake was astounded. He was witnessing a challenge to duel—something he had previously only heard of, like
