“Valentine, I don’t know what scheme you have concocted, but I simply cannot be seen like this,” she said.
He stepped toward her, and she saw that the object in his hand was his wide feathered hat. He placed it at an angle atop the knot of hair she’d created and then stepped away.
He smiled. “Now it is perfect.”
“Did you hear me?” she demanded.
“I did,” he said, already walking away from her to open the stable doors and looking cautiously in both directions before returning and holding out his hand. She took it and he led her to her horse, helped her to mount. “I would no take you to such a place had I any other choice,” he explained, handing her the reins and then moving to his own horse. “But since there are no other lodgings available to us this night, I must go where I know we will both be safe.” He gained his saddle and turned his horse toward the doors.
Mary followed. “I don’t see how I can possibly be safe anywhere!” she called out in a loud whisper, and then kicked at her horse in order to keep up with him. “Valentine! Valentine, where are you taking me?”
The wooden cutout swung in a warm breeze, smelling of alcohol and cologne over the street: the outline of a fat white bird with one eye closed and a flower clasped in its beak. Black lettering was scrawled ornately across its breast.
The Snowy Owl.
The front of the tavern had no windows, only a formidable-looking wooden door reinforced with hammered black iron. It was at present flanked by two equally formidable-looking men, one of them bald as an egg, the other sporting a long red plait that hung down over his chest. A crash sounded from behind the door, causing the wood to bulge outward. The bald man turned, opened the door a bit, and reached one beefy arm inside. When he withdrew it, a limp, scrawny man dangled from his fist and was promptly flung into the street. Shrieks of laughter and song flooded the muddy walk like a bright river before the guard slammed the door shut once more.
Mary looked to Valentine, and he gave her a wink, not unlike the one sported by the tavern’s mascot. On the street in front of Mary’s horse, the ejected patron began crawling away, perhaps happy to have escaped.
Mary noticed that he was wearing only one boot, and no chausses at all.
“Have you brought me to a brothel?” she demanded.
Just then, one of the guards called out in a language Mary was unfamiliar with. It seemed an angry shout, but at her side, Valentine laughed. He dismounted, catching her eye.
“Only smile, Maria,” he said. “You are lovely. Smile.” Then he turned to the bald man, clasping forearms with him, and each of them clapped each other’s shoulders. They conversed in the strange tongue as the guard’s eyes appraised her.
Mary tried to smile, but her lips were trembling and her heart was racing. She wondered if her breasts were betraying her.
The bald man laughed and waggled his eyebrows at Valentine, who gave a ridiculous bow before turning to Mary and helping her down.
“Stay close to me, Maria,” he whispered into her ear as he held her against him and then allowed her to slide down the length of his body to the ground. It was an intimate gesture, to say the least, and Mary wasn’t at all certain her legs would hold her when her feet did touch the street.
“Comprende?” he whispered, looking down into her face. The wide dark brim of his hat on Mary’s head shielded them, and Mary thought it probably appeared to the tavern guards that they were kissing. Valentine’s breath was hot against her lips. “I will secure us a room as quickly as I can, but you may see some things that will shock you. I will make it known that you are mine, but I must feel you beneath my hand at all times.”
If her knees were weak before, his words made them positively nonexistent. She didn’t know how she would manage to walk through the door.
What was wrong with her?
“Maria?” he insisted, giving her a little shake, and Mary realized she had yet to reply. “If you think you can no do this—if it is too much . . .”
He was too much tonight. The environment had little to do with it.
“I can do it,” she said.
He ducked his head to look into her eyes. “You are sure?”
She nodded and gave him a smile. “Vamanos.”
She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she felt his arms tighten about her the slightest bit as his smile grew wide and his dark eyes sparkled. Then he swung her around on his arm, causing her to grip his shoulders with a squeal. He swept her toward the door, the burly man with the long plait pulling it wide for them and once more letting the rush of gay sound and light loose onto the drab and dirty street.
The door closed behind them with a little push of warm air, and Mary felt as though she had been plunged into a foreign sea. The room was humid, long and low with plaster and beams running up the walls and over the ceiling. A squat stone hearth was at the far end, but it was the populace of the room itself that held Mary enthralled.
Men everywhere, seemingly from every caste, lounging on chairs or low benches, on tall stools and even the floor, surrounded by women of every shape and color imaginable. Mary saw red hair, black, blonde; skin that was the color of milk, olives, the deepest ebony; all of them in similar, ruffly, white-bodiced gowns, the skirts falling just below their knees, where they met tall boots decorated with long white feathers down the backs of the calves and across the instep.
“The Snowy Owl,” Mary murmured, making fascinated sense of the costumes.
The music was lively, and several of the patrons and girls sang along to the song, in words that were foreign to Mary but whose accompanying gestures were clear enough to bring a flush to her cheeks. Especially when she saw the two women atop one of the small tables, dancing a spirited jig back-to-back, their bodices pushed down to completely reveal their breasts, bouncing in rhythm to the steps and the tempo.
Not a single head turned to see who had entered the tavern. It was as if they were invisible.
Valentine was pulling her deeper into the room, leaning toward her as if to say something, when they were both nearly knocked from their feet.
“Ballenteeeen!”
Perhaps not invisible after all.
Mary’s hat fell down over her eyes as it was knocked loose by the arms flung around Valentine. She straightened it as she felt his hand slide away from her waist, and then Mary turned to look at the interloper.
She was hanging from his neck, her long dark arms shining and smooth in the candlelight, like polished wood; her mouth was pressed to his, only the high curve of her ebony cheekbone, her finely turned ear, and her close-cropped black hair was visible. Her shapely shoulder seemed to glow against the pristine white of her gown. One of her hands came up to caress Valentine’s face, and Mary noted the beautiful pink nail beds, the creamy tan of her palm against the mahogany of the rest of her skin.
Just as Mary was contemplating ripping the tall woman away from him, she pulled back on her own.
“Ballenteen,” she cooed again, and her straight white teeth flashed between impossibly plump, rosy lips. Her brows drew downward and she wagged a long, elegant finger before his nose. “They say you have been very naughty.”
“Do no believe everything you hear,” Valentine said, his smile for the woman so fond that Mary felt her teeth grinding together.
“Don’t you worry—I don’t!” the woman said with an unselfconscious laugh. Then she turned to Mary at last, her eyes openly curious. “And who is the beauty you bring us after so long, eh?” She still hung about his neck with one long arm, her fingers playing with his hair at the nape.
Valentine’s arm snaked back around Mary’s waist, pulling her into the pair so that they became a trio. “This is M—” his pause was nearly undetectable—“my Fleur.”
Her eyebrows raised, her wide mouth quirked. “She is your flower, or she is called Fleur?”
Mary heard herself answering before she knew what she was doing. “Yes,” she said, leaning into Valentine with a smile.
“Fleur, this is Brennie,” Valentine said. “A room quickly, por favor? I would prefer we no be seen tonight.”
Brennie pulled a sad face. “You will not drink with us?”
“No tonight, mi amor. Karl is tending our horses and will bring our things. We have traveled a long distance today and are only seeking a comfortable bed.”
Brennie’s deep eyes flashed to Mary’s décolleté and she hooked a long forefinger in the top rung of her laces and gave a playful tug. “I do not blame you, with such possessions to unpack.” She let go of Valentine but took hold of Mary’s other hand, pulling her deeper into the room. Valentine trailed behind, never releasing Mary as they snaked through the bawdy crowd. “Come, Fleur—Brennie knows just what Ballenteen likes, and I will take very good care of you both.”
Valentine worried for the construction of his chausses.
Seeing Maria in the Snowy Owl, her creamy skin flawless, with the little curling tendrils of hair over her shoulder, her clear blue eyes wide with—shock? Horror? Curiosity? Her innocence lay over her like a veil only Valentine could see while debauchery danced around her and then—in the form of lusty Brennie—marched right up to her and, throwing the veil back, kissed her on the mouth.
She didn’t belong here, Valentine knew, and although he was more than comfortable in the brothel that had once been his haven, he would have paid a proper innkeeper any price to keep Maria away from such wickedness. Even in her seductive gown, with her ankles showing, she was like a patch of wildflowers growing up through scorched earth, her innocence as sweet and fresh as the blooms’ scent.
But she was not afraid. And she had not hesitated, had not stepped out of character for even a moment. Feeling Maria’s clasping hand, the tremble of her flesh as she clung to him, the way she had answered the question that she was his without prompting or hesitation . . .
Valentine had never wanted a woman so badly in his life.
There was no second floor at the Owl, only a maze of corridors flowing away from the back of the tavern and then behind the row of other establishments that lined the street in front. The Owl’s private apartments were accessible from inside the tavern or through the narrow alley behind, a convenience for loyal patrons who would rather not be seen entering from the street, as well as men who might or might not have a price on their heads for crimes they might or might not have committed. Valentine would have gone directly to the alley, but he was no longer sure if Brennie would keep the same apartment, or if she would even still be at the Owl. She had promised to keep watch for Teresa, and Valentine had known she would do her best, but three years was a long time to wait.
The dark beauty released Maria’s hand to fish a ring of keys from the fullness of her skirts, and Valentine gave a low whistle.
“Chatelaine now, Brennie?”
She flashed him a dazzling smile, full of pride. “I am Madame, Ballentine.” She fit a key into a lock and turned. “Now it is in my power to give you whatever you want.” She winked at Maria. “Anything at all.” Brennie pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Maria looked back over her shoulder at Valentine as she moved to follow Brennie, and to his surprise, she gave him a rather impressed smile and a wink of her own.
It took all his self-control not to grab her there in the corridor.
Thankfully, Karl appeared just then at the end of the long row of doors, bearing all the satchels from their horses save the one Valentine already carried. The bald man raised a hand to indicate he saw which apartment they had been assigned. Valentine followed the women inside.
The Owl had obviously prospered in the years since Valentine had last visited. Always clean and well appointed, the room into which he followed Maria’s gently swaying hips was lavishly decadent, with broad fabric panels climbing the walls fluidly to join together in an intricate knot in the middle of the ceiling over the wide, low bed. The squat plaster and stone hearth was cold but contained a lidded brazier, which Brennie went to right away, pulling a long reed from a copper cylinder nearby and lifting the lid to light the stem. She moved to two standing candle holders in opposite corners as if she had done it in the dark a hundred times, and soon the room sparkled with golden light against the shimmery fabric and upholstery of the bed and other furnishings.
The exotic woman turned on her heel and blew out the reed, then tossed it into the hearth. She held out her arms, indicating the room. “What do you think? Will it do?”
Karl was stacking the satchels in a corner behind a small round table, and he raised a hand in silent farewell as he quit the room and closed the door behind him.
“I can no believe this is the same place,” Valentine said, watching Maria from the corner of his eye as she took in their accommodations. Her expression was for the most part composed, but she was standing rather stiffly in the middle of the room near the bed, and her eyes were wide. “Is this your doing, Brennie?”
The dark beauty nodded her head with a proud grin. “I brought in so much coin that Pig gave me free hand. It has served our customers—and his purse—very well.”
Maria obviously realized her lack of appreciation for such plush lodgings, for she walked forward suddenly to a low upholstered chaise and ran her hand over the back of its deep incline. The arms of the chair stuck out perpendicular to the seat, rather than parallel, and ended in carved wooden knobs. “This is interesting,” she said.
“You will love it,” Brennie said, coming over to the chair and turning around to fall backward into it. In a blink she had raised her feathered feet and hooked her knees over the arms of the chaise, her skirts falling over her crotch with a flounce. “So comfortable.”
Valentine saw Maria swallow, and then her eyes met his.
He turned away quickly and rolled his neck from side to side, shook out his arms, took a deep breath and blew it out.
Brennie laughed, and he heard her get up from the chair. “Someone is eager,” she teased, coming up behind Valentine and wrapping her arms about his waist. She laid her head between his shoulder blades and then squeezed him with a happy sigh. “I am so happy to see you again, Ballentine. You cannot know.”
Valentine laid his forearms over Brennie’s and returned the gesture. “And I, you. That you are doing so well gladdens me. We will talk on the morrow, yes?”
“Of course.” Brennie moved away, and Valentine turned to face the two women again, his libido once more in check—surely an oddity for most men after such an embrace. Brennie was appraising Maria now, as she busied herself inspecting the draperies on the side of the room farthest from the wicked chaise. “Unless you want me to stay—I must confess that your Fleur does not look at all like one of your women.”
Maria’s wide eyes flew to Brennie. “What do you mean?”
Brennie pursed her voluptuous lips, crossed one arm under her breasts, and then laid a fingertip to her chin, contemplating. “Your coloring—it’s so pale.” She dropped her arms and sashayed to stand before Maria, seizing both of her hands and holding her arms out, looking at her from side to side. “Your hips are narrow. But you are not long.” She dropped one of Maria’s hands to sweep the hat from her head and gasped. “Look at that hair! Very English.” She smoothed a palm down the side of Maria’s creamy cheek.
Maria looked at Valentine, but her words were for Brennie. “You think I am not to his liking?”
“Oh, I can tell by the way he looks at you that he likes you very much.” Brennie chuckled, and Maria gave him a sly smile. “I certainly wouldn’t mind having you for myself. It is only that you are not the sort of woman I would consider for Ballentine.”
Valentine felt he must speak up before Brennie started trying to seduce Maria into her own apartment. “What can
I say? I have changed since last we saw each other.”
Maria pulled away from her new dark admirer and reclaimed his hat from Brennie’s hand. She began walking toward him, and he was surprised to see that her cheeks held not the slightest hint of blush, although her lips were rosy, her eyes sparkling. She sailed his hat onto the decadent bed.
“Perhaps it is I who changed him,” Maria mused aloud.
Valentine opened his arms at the last moment, when he realized Maria intended to slide her hands around his middle. She tilted her face up to his, and the scent of her made him see double for a moment. He had a perfect view of her breasts. His breathing grew shallow. His heart raced like a horse on desert sands.
“The room grows hotter.” Brennie chuckled, but Valentine did not look at her. Could not look away from Maria, in this sensuous room created for making love, the air of seduction all around them, indeed, raising the temperature twofold. “How can I help bring you lovers ease?”
Maria’s gaze was flitting over his face, landing on his mouth, his eyes, like physical touches. “I crave . . . a bath,” she said. “Is it too late to request one, Brennie?”
“Never too late to fill the tub,” Brennie replied, coming to stand behind Maria. She reached up and untied the ribbon holding her hair, and it cascaded down her back while Brennie combed it with her fingers. She leaned her lovely, pointed chin over Maria’s shoulder. “I will wash you, with your man’s permission.”
“Sorry, Brennie, I do no share her,” Valentine said hoarsely.
The dark woman clucked her tongue and stepped away, trailing her fingers through the ends of Maria’s hair and then letting it fall back onto Valentine’s clasped hands.
“I thought as much,” she said ruefully. “But he has never been so stingy before with his sweets. I will have the water brought, mi amor. And some oils, so that—” She broke off with a laugh. “Well, you know what to do with them.”
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