A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(87)

Annalisa took a step away from Carl.

“Please, Annalisa . . .” he whispered.

She shook her head and took a few more steps, adding to her distance from him.

“But Matthias stayed anyway.” Peter took a bite of pork. “I couldn’t figure out why, except that he always had an affection for the baron’s son.”

Carl turned to face Peter. He straightened his shoulders and tried to calm the quaking in his stomach.

Peter stopped chewing and stared at Carl.

“I’m the baron’s son.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind rushing through the brittle grass, bending it low and beating it down.

Peter finally let the piece of pork drop onto his plate with a splat. Understanding rose in the man’s eyes as sure and hot as the afternoon sun.

“I am Gottfried Charles von Reichart the third, the eldest and only son of Baron von Reichart of Saxony.”

Peter pushed his plate away and slowly began to rise. His expression was dead cold.

The man was going to kill him. Carl could see it in every determined movement.

“I gave you my kindness, my shelter, my food, and almost gave you my daughter.” Peter’s voice shook. “And you willingly took it all. Even though you knew you were the son of my sworn enemy—the man who murdered my Erik.”

“I was wrong to deceive you.” Carl spread his feet, bracing himself. What could he say to defend himself? There was nothing he could do to make reparation for the pain of his betrayal. He deserved whatever punishment Peter wanted to give him.

Peter’s face hardened into what looked like chiseled marble, the same as one of the statues that lined the hallways of his father’s schloss. Peter stared at Carl as if seeing the baron himself, as if remembering every detail of Erik’s death and the pain of his father’s words as he dismissed him, and his father’s refusal to show any compassion—not even the smallest speck.

The man’s eyes burned with years of hate and hurt. Without a word Peter stalked across the yard, his footsteps heavy against the dry ground. He disappeared into the cabin, into its dark interior.

Dirk heaped a spoonful of krautsalat onto his plate, banging the spoon against the tin. His lips twitched with the beginnings of a grin, and from the gleam in his eyes it was clear he declared himself the victor.

Carl conceded, letting his shoulders slump. Dirk had indeed won.

Annalisa glanced between them, her eyes darkening with loathing.

Carl knew there was no way she would have him now, not even if he’d gotten down on his knees and begged her.

She hated him. And he didn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry, Annalisa,” he said.

“Don’t say anything.” Her voice was low and radiated pain.

“I know I should say I’m sorry that I ever came here in the first place. I knew from the moment I stepped foot on your father’s farm that I shouldn’t stay. But meeting you and Gretchen and Sophie—it was the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

She turned her head away so that he couldn’t see her face.

He wanted to reach out for her, to hold her, make her look him in the eyes. But he had no right to demand anything of her. He didn’t belong in her life and never had.

Just then Peter stepped out of the cabin. The clicking and cocking of a rifle echoed in the air, followed by Annalisa’s soft gasp.

Carl didn’t have to look to know that Peter had his hunting rifle and had aimed it at him.

“I wonder what your father will say when I have Herr Pastor write and tell him I killed his son? Do you think he’ll finally apologize for killing mine?”

“Nein, Vater.” Annalisa shook her head wildly. “You can’t do this.”

Peter lifted his rifle and closed one eye, centering the barrel squarely on Carl’s heart.

Carl braced himself for the power of the hit and pain of the bullet entering his flesh and tearing through his bones. Strangely he wasn’t afraid. For once in his life he’d done the right thing by staying and facing the consequences of his mistakes, instead of running away and expecting his father’s money to bail him out of trouble.

“You’re a lying, cheating, lazy nobleman.” Peter’s finger tightened against the trigger. “And the only good nobleman is a dead one.”

“Nein!” Annalisa screamed the word. Before Carl could stop her, she threw herself in front of him, her arms outstretched, her body blocking and protecting him from her father’s deadly intent.

“Get out of the way, Annalisa!” Carl tried to step around her and push her out of the line of Peter’s fire.

But she only moved back in front of him, putting her body between him and her father.

“Stay out of this, daughter!” Peter lifted the barrel of his gun heavenward.

“I won’t let you shoot him.”



Carl finally got a grip on Annalisa’s arms and swung her around so she had no choice but to stumble behind him. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.” He straightened his shoulders and faced Peter directly. “Whatever you plan to do, let’s get it over with before Gretchen comes out of the barn.”

His arms stretched taut, aching from the pressure of forcing Annalisa behind him. She struggled to break free of his grip. Her breath came in short gasps, almost sobs. “Nein!” she called again. “You can’t kill him. His father’s mistakes aren’t his.”