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CHAPTER 1

Bahnhof of St. Valentin, Austria

Saffron Fact: The history of saffron spans 4,000 years.

Andreas didn't know what possessed him to look up from his copy of the Austrian daily, Neue Kronen Zeitung, and turn his head to glance through the dust motes of the smudged train window into the eerie morning light at the Bahnhof of St. Valentin. He was on his way from Melk Abbey to Dürnstein, a small town on the Danube River in the Wachau region of Lower Austria, a trip he'd made countless times, when he saw what he later referred to as "a vision."

At that moment, bathed in filtered sunshine, the beautiful woman lit up the shadowed station like the subject in a Vermeer painting in which the artist had captured the light and her profile to perfection.

Andreas did not have the soul of an artist. He tended to view the world in botanical terms. He compared his reaction to the way he felt when he saw his first tulip at the Keukenhof Gardens in Amsterdam — in full bloom, decked out in a myriad of colors, dripping with dew, bathed in sunshine. Exquisite. Now he knew how the frenetic buyers felt during the Tulip Craze in seventeenth-century Holland: He had to possess her. The breath caught in his throat. In that moment he knew his life was changed forever.

He certainly wasn't in the habit of acting on whims, and he wasn't given to spontaneity or flights of fancy. Like most botanists, Andreas was methodical by nature. Nature, ha, ha. Another botany joke that only his colleagues could fathom. Anyway, he didn't believe in fate, and he didn't have time for something as foolish and intangible as romance. Whether whim or will, he was compelled to get off the train, and when the locomotive sped away, and she turned, he was transported. Her beauty surpassed anything he had ever seen or studied on this earth.

She was no more than a slip of a girl, with long, straight, dark, burnished hair and a bow, for goodness' sake. The type of bow that might appear in the hair of a Catholic schoolgirl. It was a soft pink, embellished with a large woven initial "S," and the girl's creamy lips were painted to match. Her hair was swept up above the ears, and she wore the bow at a jaunty angle, clipped on the side of her head. He looked around for a mother or a nun or a companion — a duenna, perhaps — but she was quite alone. Who would have left that small beauty by herself, subject to predators and admirers alike, in this cavernous place some would say was the spookiest train station in Austria?

That day, a narrow arc of sun framed the girl's face so she appeared both angelic and naughty at the same time. She was deep in thought. What had placed that pensive Mona Lisa smile on her face? A lover? Andreas was already jealous, and he hadn't even met her. He hadn't thought of a woman that way in years. He'd spent so much time recently in the Baroque library with the Benedictine monks in silence, so many hours reading the manuscript and trying to crack the code, solve the centuries-old mystery, his eyes were swimming, and his head was throbbing. Now looking at this goddess-child, something else quite below his brain was throbbing, as well. Good to know his privates were still in working order.

Probably his judgment was clouded. He had been spinning conspiracy theories in his head ever since he started his quest, and he was closer than ever to uncovering the truth. A truth that, if he were right, would blow the lid off the Benedictine monastery.

The girl tilted her swanlike neck, looked over at him, and bit her lip in a crooked smile. Erotischster, certainly. But at the same time pure. And that gap between her teeth, so captivating. Her bow serenaded him like a siren's song. He turned away from the light that was burning his face. She must be staring at someone else. He looked around. No — there was no one else in the all-but-deserted station. She pierced him with her turquoise eyes.

Should he approach her? Was that too forward? Or should he walk away? The next train was coming in ten minutes, according to the schedule. Andreas always relied on a schedule. He found it comforting. Although, contrary to popular belief, Austrian trains didn't always run on time. He had only precious minutes to spare before the last train to Dürnstein. And he had an appointment there he couldn't miss. After his business was settled, he had to return to the Melk Abbey library, maybe for the last time, to confront the past.

The girl was still staring at him. Maybe she was lost. He could close the space between them and see if she needed assistance. Contradicting his first impression of her as a child, he could now see she was fully developed under a clingy pearl sweater set. He was so excited, he had the urge to adjust his pants, but she was still staring at him. If he didn't make his exit soon, he was going to come right there in the verdammt train station.

He felt a choking sensation. Then he felt flushed. He wiped his brow. To use a favorite phrase of his British colleagues, he was standing there like a bleeding gawker. Make a move! Don't be a horse's ass. She'll think you're a pervert. He was paralyzed, her captive. But, miraculously, she made the first move, waltzing over to him as if in a dream.

"Excuse me, but do you know when the next train to Dürnstein will arrive?"

Andreas blew out a breath. Naturally, she had the voice of an angel, too.

"Dürnstein?"

Was he a parrot? He couldn't manage to speak a proper sentence, except to regurgitate what she had just said. And who was she? He didn't even have her name.

She laughed, and he heard a bubbling spring.

"Yes. You were on the train to Dürnstein, and then you got off."

"Yes."

"Do you know when the next one runs? I need to get to Dürnstein today."

"That's where I'm going," he managed.

She crinkled her nose. "Then why did you get off the train?"

He shrugged and smiled. "I honestly don't know."

"I've never been to the Wachau."

"What brings you to Dürnstein?" Certainly not scintillating conversation. Most likely she was a tourist.

"The wine, of course."

His shoulders fell and his face sagged. Of course. That was the typical answer. One day, if he had his way, the answer would be, "For the saffron, silly."

"And what business do you have there?" she inquired.

"I'm going there for the saffron."

She laughed. "Backe, backe Kuchen ... Safran macht den Kuchen gehl."

"Yes, but it's more than that," he said in earnest. It was important that she understand.

"Are you a chef?" she speculated. "Looking for ingredients for a creamy risotto?"

He should stop while he was ahead. If she discovered how passionate he was about saffron, she would surely run away screaming in boredom, like all the other girls he had dated. Saffron was more than a spice, more than a nursery rhyme, known by every German child, which lists saffron as a yellowing ingredient for Gugelhupf cake. Saffron was not just for risotto or paella. Saffron gave the traditional Viennese beef broth the Midas Touch. How many times did he have to spell that out to the pedestrian and the uninformed?

Mesmerized by her eyes, all thoughts of saffron, the spice that had fascinated him since forever, flew out of his head. Now that he had somehow captured this butterfly's attention, he couldn't let her go. Would never let her go. She had forever imprinted herself on his soul. He had found his mate. Literally. He was going to spend the rest of his life with this girl. She was surely his destiny. He was as certain of that as he was of taking his next breath. Apparently, all reason had vanished, deserting him in his time of need and leaving him with a primal hunger.

Andreas did his best to assemble the thoughts in his addled brain. "You're going for the wine, you said?"

"Yes, my uncle owns a vineyard."

"Who's your uncle? Maybe I know him."

"Malcolm."

"Not Malcolm Sutherland, owner of the Kleppinger Vineyards, surely."

She nodded her assent.

"I've been trying to meet with Herr Sutherland. Again. He wouldn't take the meeting and neither would any of the other Vinea Wachau vintners. They've locked me out. They're quite nasty, really."

The girl looked puzzled. "But Uncle Malcolm is really sweet."

"Apparently your sweet Uncle Malcolm and the rest of his friends are threatened by me. All I need is a little land. Where you can grow wine you can grow saffron. Some of his terraces are centuries old and no longer productive. They're covered over with scrub. It's land that lies fallow. Land he can no longer use to grow grapes. Land I was willing to pay a fair price for. I could grow saffron there and bring the terraces back into use. Your sweet Uncle Malcolm is trying to run me out of town. A town that has only nine hundred people. And when I went to rent a room at the local bed and breakfast, there was no room at the inn. It's not as if they don't have room for one more. They just don't have room for me."

"Perhaps you're being paranoid," she teased.

"It's not paranoia when everyone is out to get you," Andreas stated flatly.

The girl covered her mouth with her hand and stifled a giggle. He'd been told he had no sense of humor by his mother, his sisters, and a long line of women. Apparently, it wasn't true. This girl found him funny. But he took saffron seriously. It was no laughing matter.

"Every year, one-point-two million tourists come to Dürnstein to bike, wander around, look at castles, enjoy the landscape, and visit the vineyards, and many of them arrive on river cruises along the Danube. Surely, your uncle could spare a few of those tourists to a start-up saffron producer. I have big ideas, big dreams. Dreams that could help energize the town."

She laughed outright. Was she laughing with him or at him?

He grimaced, attempting to rein in his emotions. "You think this is funny?"

"No. Why don't you grow your saffron somewhere else? Dürnstein is just a speck on a map."

"It has to be there," Andreas said, balling his fingers into a fist. "According to legend, a knight came along the Danube and brought the first saffron bulbs to Austria on a pilgrimage in the year twelve hundred."

"Perhaps it is just that, a legend."

"It is more than a legend, Fräulein," Andreas said intensely. "You are probably already aware the town is known for its vineyards and for its apricots. They have apricot everything there — liquors, pastries, jams, creams, soaps, shampoos, even ice cream. But it's also famous for the castle above the town, where Richard the Lionheart was held prisoner in eleven ninety-two. You can see the castle ruins from almost everywhere in the town. And I am hoping it will become known for its revival of saffron. I have everything tied up in this project. I'm determined to make a go of it."

"You're very passionate about saffron, Herr —"

"Bauer. Andreas Bauer. And may I know your name, Fräulein? What does the S on the bow stand for?" Sexy? Studious? Scintillating?

"It's Savannah."

"Like in Africa?"

"No, like the city in Georgia."

"So you're American?"

"I'm from Charleston, but it's a long story."

The locomotive chugged into the station, belching steam.

"Let me help you onto the train. Then you can tell me all about it." Andreas lifted the Fräulein's suitcase and helped her carry it up the steps. He had a sudden urge to know everything about her. To protect her, at all costs. To be her champion.

"Tell me, Herr Bauer, are you as passionate about other things as you are about saffron?"

Andreas blushed. "I think you're teasing me now."

"Maybe I am," she admitted. "Don't you think it's romantic that we met in St. Valentin's station?"

Andreas shrugged and looked around. "Romantic? Hardly. It's a train station."

The girl's eyes looked dreamy.

"Let's board. We don't want to miss the train," he said.

She placed a hand on his arm, and he felt an electric current. "Wait. I'm in first class."

Frowning, he pulled back the bag and walked toward the front of the train. "I'll just drop off your luggage in your cabin and walk to the back."

"No," she said, "I'm sure there's plenty of room. I'll sit with you. You can tell me all about your love affair with saffron."

Saffron Fact: The cultivation of saffron in Lower Austria — Crocus Austriacus — is documented from the end of the 12th century until the 19th century. It appears to have arrived with the Crusader Walther von Merkenstein, who brought the seedlings from the Orient to Austria.

Andreas and Savannah settled into two second-class leather coach seats across from each other.

He tried not to stare at the girl sitting before him, but in typical scientific fashion he was observing her, trying to classify her, calculate her background. From her accent, and the little she had revealed about herself, she was clearly American and Southern.

"So you're from Charleston, South Carolina?"

"I was born in Charleston, but my father lives in Scotland."

"How did Savannah from Charleston end up in Scotland?"

"My mother was from Charleston and she met my father on a summer trip abroad right after she graduated college. But the marriage didn't last very long. Scotland was too cold and too rainy and too quiet for her taste. So they got divorced, and I live in America with her. I go to Scotland to live with my father every summer. He works for the Glenn Castle Inn on Loch Lomond, near Glasgow.

"O ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road, And I'll be in Scotland a'fore ye, But me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."

Where had that blasted song come from? Probably something his mother sang to him. His mother was very unscientific, ruled completely by her emotions. Prone to breaking out in song at every odd moment. And reading racy romance novels whenever his father's back was turned.

"Exactly. It's verra verra romantic." Savannah affected a heavy Scottish brogue.

"And verra verra pricey, so I've heard."

"Have you ever been to Scotland, Herr Bauer?"

"Please, call me Andreas."

"Andreas, then."

"Only to Edinburgh to attend a conference. And how about you, Miss Savannah. Is Scotland too cold for your blood?"

"Not at all. I love Scotland in all seasons. Scotland is in my blood. Loch Lomond is the most beautiful place on earth. The scenery is enchanting. When I first saw the place, I stayed up half the night just staring out over the lake, watching the moonlight glitter over the surface like diamonds. I'll miss the lake, but I'm looking forward to seeing the Danube. I'm going to get married at the Glenn Castle Inn."

Andreas looked alarmed. "You're engaged?"

Savannah laughed. "Not yet. Well, I mean, I was engaged back in America but not anymore. When I do get married, it will be at the Glenn Castle Inn."

"Are there any fierce Scottish Highlanders I need to do battle with for your affections?"

"Not at the moment," she confirmed.

"Good to know." Now he could breathe. He sat back in his seat. "Why Glenn Castle Inn?"

"I've watched hundreds of brides walk down the aisle there with the Highland piper behind them and the ceremonial sword ahead of them, entering the elegant banquet hall. Here, let me show you."

Savannah opened her handbag and pulled out a faded picture of a giant of a man in a kilt and a beautiful woman in a white wedding dress standing in front of what looked like a castle. The woman was glowing and obviously in love.

"These are my parents. They couldn't afford a fancy wedding, but my father worked at the Inn even then, so the management pulled out all the stops to help them celebrate like royalty."

"Very nice. You look a lot like your mother. This could be a picture of you."

"Thank you. My mother is the beautiful one. Everyone thinks so."

Andreas thought everyone must be blind if they couldn't recognize this girl's exceptional beauty.

"So tell me more about this wedding of yours."

We'll be arriving by seaplane, of course."

"You and your phantom groom?"

"You can scoff all you want, but I've been dreaming of my wedding day since I was a little girl."

She was no more than a girl still, he thought. "And what brings you to the Wachau, besides wine?"

"My father recently remarried, and he and my stepmother are on their honeymoon. I think they want to be alone, so my father's brother agreed to take me for the summer. I'm going to learn the wine business and help with the planting and picking of the grapes."

Andreas raised his eyebrows. "Your Uncle Malcolm."

"Yes."

"So where did a Southern Scots lass learn Backe, backe Kuchen?"

"From my Uncle Malcolm. He says repeating nursery rhymes is the best way to learn German. But we were talking about saffron."

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Excerpted from "The Saffron Conspiracy"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Marilyn Baron.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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