Revelers spilled from the establishments and milled about the streets, where melodies from several different instruments mingled in the ale-perfumed night. Screams of laughter, shouts of argument, snippets of sung verse flew through the air like the night birds between the buildings, swooping low over the streets to pluck at the air near their ears.
Valentine rode past the majority of the rowdy taverns closest to the gate, where most travelers would stop. In other circumstances, he would have done the same. But he was tired, and although the festivities did look amusing—as did the women in their thin, low-cut summer gowns—he wanted a peaceful night’s rest at a quiet establishment where he need not fear for Maria or their belongings. There would be time aplenty for merrymaking after tomorrow.
He knew he had found just the place when he spied the stooped old man pulling the door shut, a torch in his hand lighting the small sign above, shaped like a horse’s head. Valentine spurred his mount and called out in the tongue of the land.
“Pardon, sir, pardon!” He raised a hand and then swung off his horse, leaving Maria to sit in her saddle and watch.
The old man paused, peering around the door with not a little impatience. “Closed,” he said gruffly.
“Sir, I beg of you,” Valentine said, stepping forward and grabbing the edge of the door so that the man couldn’t pull it shut. “We have been traveling since before dawn and need a reputable establishment such as yours to rest ourselves and our horses.” He cast a disparaging glance down the street at the revelers. “One whose clientele is perhaps not so . . . enthusiastic.”
“Loud,” the old man snorted. “Destructive. Pissed,” he leaned toward Valentine and whispered, glancing at pretty Maria on her saddle.
“Indeed,” Valentine agreed, frowning along with the proprietor. “We are off to Prague on the morn. Certainly I shall pay you in advance for two chambers, a simple meal, and board for the horses.”
The old man shook his head. “No.”
“Please, sir,” Valentine said, holding the door tightly when it would have shut on his fingers. “Consider my—” He looked back at Maria, watching them expectantly, the slightest crease between her brows indicating that she was unsure whether she should be concerned about the nature of the exchange she was witnessing or nay.
“Consider my wife,” Valentine continued, looking back at the old man, who seemed to be chewing on the inside of his own face for lack of teeth to hold it taut. “This is her first time in this part of the world, and so far she has been terrified by the . . . loudness.”
The man grunted understanding.
Valentine nodded. “The destruction.”
The innkeeper snorted and shook his head.
“The sheer drunkenness she has encountered on our journey,” Valentine lamented. “She is . . . meek. Inexperienced.”
“Right.” The old man nodded, looking at Maria again. Then his eyes found Valentine’s once more. “No.”
Valentine struggled to keep his demeanor humble and friendly. “Are you full?”
He shook his fuzzy gray head.
“Then I fail to see why letting out two chambers would be a burden to you.”
The old man sighed. “Only one left.”
Valentine pressed his lips together. “Are you quite sure you have only one?” He glanced at Maria again. “My wife, she . . . she is in a delicate condition, you understand? It would be unseemly for us to—”
“One,” the old man insisted. “Yes or no?”
Valentine looked over his shoulder at the crowd milling farther down the street. At least six of the men were currently engaged in a full-out brawl, and two women were going through discarded satchels beneath a torch. Valentine was fairly certain by their frantic pawing that the items they were tucking into their turned-up skirts did not belong to them. He’d seen that game run many times. Participated on more than one occasion.
He sighed. “Yes.”
The old man released the door and followed Valentine to the horses, where he waited while Valentine helped Maria from her saddle with exaggerated care and took all the satchels into his own arms, leaving her empty-handed and confused. Then the innkeeper took hold of both sets of reins and gestured toward the doors with a toss of his head.
“Wait,” he instructed.
“Come along, my darling,” Valentine said coaxingly and began walking toward the inn. “Can you walk? Shall I carry you over the threshold?”
Maria frowned at him and then glanced over her shoulder at the old man as he disappeared with the horses into an alley at the corner of the tavern.
“What are you about now?” she demanded as she held the door wide for him and Valentine stepped through. She followed him inside and pulled the door almost to.
“Shh,” Valentine hissed, looking around the empty room before he dumped his burden onto a table near a stone hearth that contained nothing but banked coals.
Maria crossed her arms and waited. “What am I today? An idiot?” “You are my wife,” Valentine said, taking in the plain but tidy common room. This was perfect. The building was made of thick stone, keeping out most of the noise from the street. The door was solid, reinforced with hammered metal and two thick beams. The room even smelled . . . well, not like vomit.
“Very amusing, Valentine. What did you tell him?”
“Maria, whether he has more or no, the man is only giving us one room,” he clarified, taking his purse from his belt and looking at her levelly. “You are my wife.”
“Oh.” She closed her mouth and frowned. “But why did you treat me as if I were . . . fragile?”
“I was trying to persuade him to let us two chambers, so I told him you were—” he stopped counting out coin long enough to roll a hand in the direction of her midsection—“you know.”
“Sick?”
Valentine pulled a thoughtful face. “Something similar to that, yes.”
“What?” Mary said, her voice filled with confusion. “I don’t . . . ?” Then she gasped and brought a hand up to her mouth while her face bloomed the color of poppies. “You told him I was with child? Do I appear to be with child to you?”
“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” Valentine cajoled and couldn’t help his grin. He put the coin on the table and began retying his purse. “You are a married woman, after all. And I? I am a proud papa!” If he thought her face pink before, now it was scarlet. “Do no be so upset, darling. Perhaps I will let you kiss me again later.”
Maria picked up the satchel closest to her and raised it, but then the door to the inn opened and Valentine stepped to her side, wrapping one arm about her waist and pulling her tightly to him. Maria dropped the bag down near her thigh and pasted a thin smile to her mouth.
“I am so happy,” he whispered sensuously into her ear.
“I hate you,” she gritted between her teeth.
“Little Valentine. Or Valentina, yes?” He moved his hand as if to place it on her abdomen as the innkeeper came fully into the room, and Maria swung the saddlebag across her body and into the general vicinity of Valentine’s groin. He stopped it before full impact and jerked it from her hand, slinging it onto the table.
The old man raised a hoary eyebrow in their direction before chuckling and barring the door. He pocketed the coins before taking hold of half their bags, and then jerked his head toward them as he began walking to a darkened doorway in the back of the room.
Valentine released Maria and took up the rest of the bags. “After you, mi amor,” he said, bowing low, unable to hide his grin.
She did manage to tread on his foot as she passed him, but it only made his shoulders shake with laughter.
He followed Maria’s stomping steps up the tidy stairs and then down a slanted corridor to the last door. The room was narrow, the bed more so, and it was quite a pinch with him and Maria and the curt innkeeper crowded into the little chamber. But it was clean and quiet, and the man promised to bring up a tray before he saw to the horses properly. He bowed to Maria
before quitting the room, his eyes lingering on her stomach, and Maria blushed wildly again before turning away from the door.
Valentine dumped his satchels on the floor and then walked to the narrow bedstead, falling backward onto it with a groan.
“This may be the most comfortable bed I have ever lain on in the whole of my life,” he vowed, his eyes still open and fixed on the ceiling. The underside was clean, straight, wooden lathe, and the packed thatching between didn’t hold the slightest appearance of rot. Well built and well tended. He sighed. He would rest easy here tonight.
“Don’t become overly comfortable,” Maria grumbled, digging through the pile of bags to locate her own. She jerked it open and began rummaging through the contents.
Valentine rolled to his side and propped his head up with one hand. “Why no?”
She pulled out her hairbrush, tossed the bag back to the floor, and turned to flop onto the small room’s only other piece of furnishing—a hard-looking wooden chair. She began tugging the ribbons from her hair. “That’s my bed, isn’t it?”
Valentine chuckled. “Of course it is.” She began brushing her hair vigorously, and he added, “And it is my bed.”
The brush paused in midstroke. “I’m not sharing that bed with you.”
He shrugged. “Then you will be sleeping on the floor, I am afraid.” He rolled to his back once more, folding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes with another great sigh.
“Valentine!” she insisted, and he thought that if she had been standing, she would have stomped her foot for emphasis.
“I do no know why you are so suddenly shy,” he said, and then cracked one eye to peer at her across the room. “I would think after such a passionate kiss last night, you would be eager to be invited into my bed.”
Her face went scarlet. “I am sorry about my behavior last night. I believe that horrid drink affected me.”
“Hmm.” He closed his eye again. So comfortable.
“I—I only wanted to see if I could trust you,” she stammered. “If you were honorable.”
“That is no a good test of honor for a nice lady to put upon a man when they are alone.”
“I realize that now,” she said, and to his delight, she did sound remorseful. “I exercised poor judgment.”
He opened his eyes again and looked down the length of his body at her. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did I pass your test?”
“Yes,” she said, her cheeks rosy again. “Yes, you did. And I am truly sorry.”
He smiled. “Good. I accept your apology. And now it will be no trouble for both of us to take our rest here.”
“No! Valentine, I—”
“Maria,” he said, cutting her off and sitting up, swinging his feet over the side, “we are in a clean, respectable establishment, with a bed. We are no out of doors, in the rain, on the ground. I, for one, have missed the simple pleasure of a mattress. The proprietor thinks we are married, and no one else will ever see or know. We have been together these many days, and as of yet, the only one of us who has made an inappropriate advance upon the other is you.”
“I’m not certain that’s completely true,” she argued, but she didn’t look particularly happy either. He had to admit he was enjoying her discomfort.
“So,” Valentine pressed, “do you trust me or no?”
Maria took a deep breath and then blew it out. She might as well have waved a flag in surrender.
“Yes,” she said wearily. “I trust you.”
“Good,” he said as a rap sounded at the door. “Now, there is our supper. Do let him in so that we can eat and go to sleep. I am so tired, I could not ravish you even if I wanted to.”
Mary stared at the blackness shadowing the ceiling, her arms crossed tightly over her bosom. The room was silent, save for Valentine’s deep, even breaths. She turned her head to look at him—well, to look at the back of his head. Mary thought he had been asleep as soon as his head had touched the satchel he was using as a pillow. The outline of his shoulders was only a blacker shadow in the room. She turned her face back to regard the ceiling once more.
He had been true to his word. It hadn’t seemed to stir his passions in the slightest when he’d climbed into bed beside her.
Likely because he’s done it so many times with other women, she reasoned.
The thought did not help her sleeplessness. In fact, it made it worse. Although she tried to close her eyes, longed to sleep, now she was wondering just how many women Valentine Alesander had had, in rooms just like this, all across the world? How many women had he loved and then left?
And why didn’t he want to ravish her anymore?
Chapter 10
If Mary had been surprised by the revelry in Tábor, Prague was a complete shock.
She saw the lights from the city hours before they actually entered through the wall; the glow of it against the night sky was like a little sunrise. Mary could feel Valentine’s excitement the farther they went on the road, where now they were joined by scores of people heading into and out of the city, alive even in the grave of night. He showed no sign of the fatigue that had plagued him the night before, and Mary wondered crossly what he was so looking forward to.
She had been cross the entire day.
But if Valentine sensed her bad mood, he gave no indication of it, leading her from one tavern to the next, all respectable twins of the establishment they’d stayed at the night before, and like any reputable inn, already closed long ago. They clomped over narrow, cobbled streets for more than an hour before he finally turned to her with the faintest expression of irritation.
“It will be dawn soon,” he said, almost to himself.
“Is there no place for us?” Mary asked. “Surely in a city so large . . . ?”
“Yes, I know a place, Maria,” he said dismissively, looking at her in an intense manner, up and down her plain traveling gown. “But you will have to change.”
They snuck into a sleepy stable, and Mary remained hidden behind the tall wooden boards of an empty stall while Valentine tossed her particular items of clothing over the top.
“Why can’t we simply sleep here?” she asked, her voice causing the beasts in the adjoining stalls to shift and huff at the disturbance.
“Shh,” Valentine warned, throwing over a gauzy-looking piece of white material. “Because, Maria, if we were found in the morning by the stablekeep, he would have us arrested and confiscate our belongings and our animals.”
“What is this?” she whispered, holding up the thin garment, the sleeves only now discernable.
“We shall call it a chemise, yes? Put it on.”
“I can see through it!” Mary hissed.
Valentine’s head popped up over the rail. “No all the way,” he argued. “I will give you an overdress, Maria. Put it on.” Then he disappeared again, and in a moment the wine-colored velvet came flying in a ball into the stall. The boots came next, and Mary dodged the second one with a yelp as she rubbed the crown of her head.
“Apologies,” Valentine whispered.
The scandalous excuse for a chemise and even the tall boots gave her little trouble, considering that she had nothing to lean against save the rough stall wall, but the gown was a trial. Four sets of laces held the dress together, two each to the front and back and both sides, ending in long ties below her hips, and it felt to Mary as though she struggled for a half hour before she was confident enough that she was properly covered and stepped out into the dim light cast by the cracked stable doors.
Valentine turned his face toward her, his foot propped up on a cart wheel where he had been wiping at his tooled leather boots. He wore the embroidered tunic and tight leggings she’d seen him in the morning they’d left Melk, and when he smiled at her appearance, Mary felt a flutter in her stomach.
“Very pretty, Maria,” he said, walking toward her. “We need only a bit of adjustment.”
“Should I wear the lace?” she asked
as his hands went to the tie at her side, and expertly began tugging at the laces. She swayed with his every pull.
“What?” he asked, momentarily perplexed. He turned her halfway round and began working at her other hip. “Oh, no. No veil for you tonight. In fact—” he turned her away from him and swept her hair over her shoulder, raising gooseflesh on her arms—“I think you should put your hair up. Have you any ties?”
“Up?” she questioned, as she felt her shoulder blades drawing together. She looked down at her brown boots, which were now visible to her ankle, as was the cut work along the hem of her plain underskirt. “I think so, yes.”
“Good.” He turned her around to face him once more, and Mary tucked her chin to watch his nimble fingers confidently work the long ladder of her laces, starting in the middle of her chest, where only a slim band of the silk shirt could be seen. He pulled the edges apart and then went to the bow below her navel, deftly untying the strings and then drawing each rung tight until the velvet touched up to and over her rib cage. Then he moved back to the bottom, refashioning the bow before stepping away.
“There,” he said. “Better.”
Mary looked down and gasped, bringing her hands to splay over her bosom, which now seemed doubled in size and straining at the white silk.
“Maria, you look—” He held his open hands toward her, as if at a loss for words.
“Naked!” she hissed, and felt her cheeks stinging with heat.
He paid her little mind, though, going to his horse and reaching inside a satchel. “Hair,” he reminded her over his shoulder as he rummaged.
Mary raised her hands to undo the ribbons in her plait, but then brought them back down immediately when it felt as though her breasts would spill completely out of her dress with the motion. She tentatively tried again, and miraculously, the shirt managed to contain her chest. As long as she didn’t breathe.
She turned her back to him as he found whatever the dark object in his hand was and gathered her hair to the crown of her head, forming it into a long loop and then tying the ribbon around it securely. She checked to make certain her breasts were still in her gown and then turned around once more.
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