Valentine

by Heather Grothaus

  FIRST KISS

  “I don’t believe you are a criminal,” she said in a whisper.

  Valentine swallowed, noticing that her fingers were now curved around his hand. “No?”

  She shook her head.

  “What has caused you to change your mind?” he asked.

  The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the hush of the rain beyond the stone walls. He could feel her pulse quickening beneath her skin.

  Then she stood up from her stool without withdrawing her hand and stepped toward him. Valentine rose automatically as she came into his arms and raised her face. He lowered his mouth to meet hers as if it was a dance they had rehearsed a thousand times, and their lips met perfectly. Maria’s right arm came up around his neck, his left went easily around her waist.

  Valentine heard the roar of a warm sea in his ears, tasted the sweet saltiness of her mouth, smelled the garden of her hair. His heart pounded in his chest like hoof beats, his body pulsing with this sudden onslaught of unmistakable desire....

  Books by Heather Grothaus

  THE WARRIOR

  THE CHAMPION

  THE HIGHLANDER

  TAMING THE BEAST

  NEVER KISS A STRANGER

  NEVER SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL

  NEVER LOVE A LORD

  VALENTINE

  HIGHLAND BEAST

  (with Hannah Howell and Victoria Dahl)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Valentine

  The Brotherhood of Fallen Angels

  Heather Grothaus

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  FIRST KISS

  Books by Heather Grothaus

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  For JRG

  I took your advice.

  And for DLB

  Sometimes all you need is a good potion.

  Prologue

  September 1179

  Jacob’s Ford, Syria

  He had slept in worse places before, certainly.

  Valentine Alesander shifted in his saddle as the late-afternoon sun blasted down on him, caught between the white-bleached sky above and the heat glowing up from the sand beneath his horse, making him glad of the protection his long keffiyeh afforded his neck and head. He had hoped the news of the complete destruction of Chastellet had been only exaggerated boasting from the triumphant Muslims. From his view atop the hill across the river, the reports were dreadfully accurate.

  The compound lay in hazy ruin, the smell of charred wood still wafting on the hot breeze even some five weeks after the battle between the Templar defenders and Saladin’s army. Surely there was nothing left—perhaps not even shelter.

  Valentine squinted up at the sun—so bright that its orb was indiscernible in the blinding Syrian sky. Night fell quickly in this country, and though he now regretted the reckless curiosity that had prompted him to leave Saladin’s festive and generous court, he could reach no other city before darkness—and thieves—swept over the land.

  Valentine perhaps would have been one of those thieves himself, but no one of any means would be making his way via Jacob’s Ford this late in the day, and he now suspected that there would be little of value to scavenge here beyond what the black birds perched atop the walls had not already helped themselves to. There must have been a score of the vile things.

  A gust of wind charged through the scrubby brush of the hill, showering Valentine with a fine spray of sand and causing his horse to shift and toss its head toward the dull glimmer of the Jordan below. Valentine sighed. He had no choice but to pass the night at Chastellet—or at least make camp nearby. He kicked lightly at his horse and started down the well-worn road toward the river.

  Valentine did not dismount as he let his horse pause for a drink at the river’s edge; there would be time aplenty for the recently acquired gray beast with handsome black mane and tail to leisure once Valentine had determined where he would make camp. Instead he looked to the ruined northeast corner of the fortress where Saladin’s army was rumored to have breached the Templar defenses.

  Great blocks of stone appeared to have been tossed about, half-hewn, laying tumbled down the hill as if they were mere pebbles. Massive vats in which mortar had been mixed weeks ago now sat abandoned, dried into symmetrical boulders. The endless wind scrubbed at the gold-colored walls, already softening their edges. Chastellet, the famed fortress intended to preserve all of Christendom, defeated before it had truly been complete, surrendering itself to the sand and the sun and the lonely wind, sinking slowly into the tomb of history.

  The thought made Valentine shiver.

  His horse temporarily satisfied, Valentine urged his mount through the shallow river and up the bank on the opposite side. He rode wide of the spot where Chastellet’s wall had been sapped and moved warily toward the gaping hole where surely a mighty gate had once stood.

  The silence was complete outside of the scraping of the horse’s hooves as he passed through the twenty-foot-wide opening. Even the scavenger birds gave no cry of outrage against their brethren, and Valentine realized why when the hot wind shifted suddenly, blasting through Chastellet’s bailey and rolling over him.

  Valentine grabbed the hem of his long keffiyeh and drew his forearm up, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow as he gagged.

  There was no reason for the birds to fight. They were all full.

  Thankfully the wind turned again, dragging the suffocating stink up with the shimmery heat. Valentine urged his horse onward, deeper into the bailey, although the beast was now reluctant and showing his nerves with a sideways gait.

  “Ch-ch,” he whispered. “La taqlaq.” Don’t worry.

  He hadn’t had the horse long enough to gain its complete trust, so it was important the animal not get startled. Valentine had little coin to spare for another, and horse thievery was an offense punishable by death in this part of the world. He didn’t plan on swimming to Constantinople.

  Even as he continued to soothe the horse beneath him, an eerie chill stiffened Valentine’s spine. Perhaps it was the idea that somewhere within Chastellet, hidden from his view, countless corpses lay rotting. Perhaps it was the idea that such a massive slaughter had so recently taken place here. Or perhaps it was just the usual wariness of a man who is no longer of any country, allegiance, home or family. The unease of a wanderer so far from anything familiar that everything has the violet hue of danger, emphasized by the sinking sun and indigo shadows growing in the stone corners of the ruined Chastellet.

  But Valentine didn’t think so. He could feel living eyes upon him. He was being watched, and not only by the carrion birds above.

  He drew his mount to a gentle halt and tugged on the reins, seeking to turn the horse and depart the bailey at once. He would sleep in the open, across the river, rather than be trapped in this haunted place.

  “
Jayed, la taqlaq,” he murmured. He clucked gently, and then with the horse’s next step the world seemed to explode.

  It was some piece of broken metal hidden in the packed dirt—perhaps from a breastplate, perhaps some tool discarded upon the breaching of the walls—but when the gray kicked it and sent it clanging across the bailey, it was the beast’s undoing.

  The horse reared and screamed, sending wave upon wave of screeching birds from Chastellet’s walls—hundreds more than Valentine had seen earlier, emptying seemingly from the very bowels of the compound. Their shadows joined and twisted, darkening the bailey as if it was already night. Thousands of wings joined, creating thunder overhead and sending the horse into a blind, spinning frenzy. Feathers and guano fell like stinking rain, the stench of avian wet and putrid corpse blooming like a rotting garden.

  And then from the corner of his eye, Valentine caught the blur of a white mass escaping from shadow and hurtling toward him, a lengthy, black-crusted sword clutched in its grip. A wordless scream from the ghoul cut through the thunder of wings, echoing beneath the blanket of scavengers.

  “La!” Valentine shouted, reaching down into his boot for the hilt of his dagger while still fighting to gain control of the horse. But the white monster was coming at him too fast, the horse spinning too wildly for Valentine to free his weapon, and the blackened sword seemed to fly toward him. In but a moment he would be skewered.

  The gray chose that moment to rear again, and Valentine used the upward momentum to spring backward from the saddle, landing mostly on his feet in a crouched position as the horse sprang free and bolted toward the bailey’s gate—all Valentine’s supplies still strapped to its saddle. The creature with the sword never broke stride, still giving its hellish scream. Valentine at last freed his dagger from his boot and rose, his arms outstretched, his weapon ready.

  “La! Stop! Detenga!” he shouted at the devil again, and as the attacker skidded to a halt perhaps five paces from him, Valentine saw that the beast was—or had at one time been—a man.

  A man well over six feet tall, even with his hunched posture, with shoulders and a chest that would have rivaled the horse that had just fled the bailey. Laborer. His head was large, blockish, the hair on top cut close to the scalp and showing white through the flaking black filth that was streaked down his face. Not aged, though. His eyes were shocking—pale blue in red-shot whites; his lips colorless and cracked. Foreigner, most likely Norse. Dehydrated.

  The man’s massive right bicep and forearm—bared by the rough-woven brown tunic he wore—still pointed the sword at Valentine, the blade shuddering as if the man stood atop a rolling cart. The sizable weapon looked no bigger than a twig in that mighty grip, and so Valentine doubted it was fear that caused the man to shake. Valentine thought of the weeks that had passed since the battle, the carrion birds belching from the innards of Chastellet, the stench that was likely so much lessened at this point.

  The blond beast gave a sound that was like a growling whine.

  Mad. Or nearly so.

  “Do no do this, my friend,” Valentine warned in English, keeping his tone low and even. “I can see that you have had some trouble, and I do no intend to harm you.”

  The giant blinked twice, as if Valentine’s words had shocked him back from whatever brink he’d been about to throw himself over.

  “You . . . you speak . . . English?” he rasped.

  “Yes, of course,” Valentine replied in a mild tone. “And you also speak English. So then we have at least that in common. Perhaps we will be friends, yes? Friends do no threaten each other with weapons.”

  The man paused for only an instant, his gaze jumping as he thought, and then his expression hardened again as his eyes swept Valentine’s keffiyeh and flowing robes.

  “You trick me,” he accused, taking a menacing step forward and raising the sword tip higher. Valentine was dismayed to see the trembling of the weapon had lessened. “It is clear that you have returned to finish the work of your friends. I will avenge Chastellet!” He moved forward another pair of steps, and Valentine saw that the man’s left arm, held behind him, hung limp, painted with the colors of old bruises.

  Dislocated shoulder. Perhaps a broken arm, as well.

  Valentine stepped back quickly an equal number of paces and tightened the grip on his own blade. “No, no! Easy now—you merely mistake my costume,” he said. “I am but a lowly traveler, seeking shelter for the night.”

  Again the man stepped forward, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together, his white eyebrows lowered. “I don’t believe you.”

  Valentine retreated yet again. He would need to act quickly, and on the man’s lame side—if the giant managed to lay hand to him, he could crush Valentine’s throat in his one massive fist.

  “I hail from the Spanish kingdom of Aragon,” Valentine explained, working his way almost imperceptibly to the man’s left. “I only obtained this suit of clothing in Damascus, to ease my journey through such an inhospitable land. On the morrow I shall continue on to the Mediterranean. I assure you I claim no part in the slaughter here.”

  The man’s posture straightened and the confused expression came over his face again. “Damascus?”

  “Yes,” Valentine said in a friendly tone, edging ever closer to the man’s left side. “I took rest there for several days. Although this is not the country of my birth, I make friends easily. It serves me well when outfitting for my travels.”

  “You have friends in Damascus?” the man repeated, his gaze narrowing. “Wealthy friends?”

  “No as wealthy as they were when I came into that city,” Valentine admitted. He was almost close enough now. “Only some guards. No one of status.” He readjusted the grip on his dagger.

  The man threw down his sword and rushed at Valentine. With reflexes quicker than Valentine ever would have guessed considering the man’s injuries, he swatted the dagger from Valentine’s hand and then seized his left bicep, half-lifting Valentine from the bailey’s crusted dirt.

  “You will take me there now,” he said.

  Valentine ground his teeth together. “That is no possible. I can appreciate that you have been here for some time alone, and so I will forgive this one time your handling of my person. Release me.”

  The giant behaved as if Valentine had not spoken. “You will take me to your guard friends in Damascus. I will go get my things.” He shoved Valentine away and then turned from him, walking back toward the charred and tumbled-down wall from which he’d emerged.

  Valentine retrieved his dagger from the dirt and then started walking in the direction in which his horse had disappeared, keeping his eye on the spot where the giant had vanished. He had only taken a handful of steps when the enormous man ducked back out into the bailey, a pair of rough sacks in his right hand, a pack across his back, and on his shoulder was a—

  Valentine halted and stared.

  A falcon?

  The giant walked determinedly toward Valentine, the bird sitting easily on the massive perch of the man’s shoulder and wearing the typical hood and leather tie about one of its legs.

  “We must find your horse,” the man said. “It is too slight to carry me, but I am a fast walker and you are likely already fatigued from your journey, so you may keep it.” He swept past Valentine without a glance, leaving his sword lying in the dirt.

  “Perhaps you did no hear me,” Valentine called after him. “I am no returning to Damascus.”

  “We go tonight,” the man said, continuing in his walk toward the bailey gates.

  “No,” Valentine insisted.

  The giant stopped abruptly and turned. “I watched hundreds of men slaughtered,” he said, retracing his steps. “I pulled arrows from eyes, hearts, necks. Do you see the black dirt of this bailey? ’Tis not dirt—’tis dried blood. After my arm was nearly ripped from my body, I could only hide like a woman and watch as every last man at Chastellet, save me, was either killed or captured.” He came even with Valentine at last.
“Two of my friends were taken prisoner and marched to Damascus. I will free them. Or I will die trying.”

  Valentine smirked. “Then you will die, my friend. A man such as you walks into Damascus, the hair, the size—they will cut you down without inquiry.”

  “That is why you will go. To your guard friends.”

  “And ask them to please release Saladin’s prisoners?”

  The giant shoved one of the sacks he held into Valentine’s chest, nearly knocking Valentine from his feet.

  “Pay them,” he growled.

  Valentine took hold of the sack’s rough, limp neck as the giant’s hand fell away.

  It was heavy. Very heavy.

  Valentine shoved the sack back at the man, holding it against the wall-like chest when the giant made no move to reclaim his possession.

  “I am afraid no. I ran into a little trouble there before I left. It is likely that your friends are dead any matter—many of the prisoners became diseased on the march to Damascus, and the road is littered with their skeletons. So you would lose whatever it is of value that this sack contains and I”—he shrugged—“well, should I encounter a certain friend of mine who feels he was perhaps no treated so fairly, I would be without the use of my legs for some time.”

  The giant only stared down at Valentine, while the falcon on his shoulder cocked its head, as if listening to the exchange it could not see.

  “Take the sack,” Valentine demanded.

  The giant shook his head. “No.”

  “Take it.” Valentine thumped the weighty bag against the man’s chest.

  “If you help me,” the giant said, motioning with the hand still hanging by his side, “the rest is yours to keep. More than what you now hold.”

  Valentine sighed. This was madness.