Valentine

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Valentine Page 13

by Heather Grothaus


  He heard the door open and close.

  Maria remained in his arms. Her tongue peeked out over her lips.

  Valentine felt drunk. So drunk that he was hallucinating. Or dreaming.

  “Are we to share this bed as well?” she whispered. Maria didn’t even glance at the satin-smothered mattress. “It looks very comfortable.”

  “Maria, I do no know that it is wise to . . . be so close to you . . . in this room.”

  “We are already close,” she reasoned with a little shrug. “I promise I won’t assault you again. But if you’d rather, I could sleep on the chaise.”

  He heard himself growl in his throat and dropped his head, his mouth hovering just above hers. Her head tilted, her lips parted, breathing her little breaths into his mouth.

  “Are we even now?” she asked.

  He paused. She was learning quickly. “I do no think so,” he said. “I owe you for your performance, Maria.”

  “Pay me later? I have a bath coming.”

  “I must, must go. Far away.”

  “Quickly, please,” she said, her body expressing the exact opposite sentiment.

  Releasing her was like pulling great roots from the earth, and he and Maria tore away from each other, both breathing heavily, as if they had only narrowly escaped disaster.

  In Valentine’s mind, that was precisely what had happened.

  They should have risked arrest in the stable.

  “I will return within the hour,” he said, giving her a shallow bow. “You will be safe here. Do no fear.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, giving him a pretty smile, but her eyes still burned. “I trust you, remember?”

  Chapter 11

  Mary woke up the next morning feeling as though she had spent the night in heaven. The sunlight through the long shallow windows set just beneath the ceiling shone through the draped silk, giving the room a jeweled glow, and the thick mattress beneath her cradled her body as if in a giant gloved hand. She raised her arms above her head and stretched, releasing once more the perfumed scent of the oils she’d rubbed into her skin after her delicious bath in the round copper tub the night before. She turned her head to see the other side of the bed undisturbed.

  Valentine had not returned before she’d fallen asleep.

  Uncertainty seized her, shaking her from her languor, and she sat up in bed, clutching the light coverlet to the underdress she’d donned for sleeping.

  But there he was at the little table, already dressed and stuffing what looked like the rough brown monk’s habit into the satchel he was never without. He cinched the neck tight and closed the flap. Mary worried for a moment that he had left her alone in the room all night—perhaps passing the evening with the stunning Brennie—but then her eye caught the drape of a sheet over the wicked chaise in the corner.

  He hadn’t left her. And yet the relief of that knowledge was spoiled a little by the fact that he had preferred to sleep apart.

  Her movement drew Valentine’s attention, and he looked at her with what was probably the best smile he could muster so early in the day. That he smiled at all raised Mary’s suspicions even further.

  “Good morn, Maria,” he said, setting the satchel aside and moving to a tray on the table. “Did you sleep well?” He picked up the tray and crossed the room toward her.

  “I think so,” she said, noticing that the words came out rather clipped. It was usually she who was bright and cheery in the mornings, but this day found her wanting only to bark and growl at the dawn, and especially at the handsome man who deposited the tray on the mattress near her hip.

  “I am afraid that the Owl’s patronage does no usually break the fast here, but there was this.” He indicated the bread and cheese, and a squat cup containing what smelled like spiced cider.

  Mary picked up the cup and sipped. “Thank you.” It was quite good, but she would have rather bitten off her tongue than say so.

  Where did you go last night?

  Who were you with?

  Why wasn’t it me?

  But she asked none of those things, realizing the folly in them. He was her protector on this journey, yes, and by some ancient decree they were joined to each other for the time being, but Valentine Alesander did not answer to her. He was a man with his own life, and very soon that life would not include her at all. She would be nothing more than a memory, another fabled escapade to add to his repertoire.

  And she would be married to a respectable man and returned to Beckham Hall, as she wished. Where she would live the rest of her life without thievery, or evading authorities, or criminal activity of any sort. And especially no prostitutes.

  But she was not cheered.

  “When do we depart?” she asked, picking at the bread as Valentine returned to the table.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said.

  Mary felt one of her eyebrows arch. “Tomorrow?” Whoever he had passed his hours with last night must have pleased him very much. Probably Brennie after all.

  “Or the next day,” he said.

  “Oh. I didn’t know we were traveling for pleasure now,” Mary said, picking up her cup again. She sipped, her mood gathering strength like thunderheads on the horizon. “Perhaps you have forgotten that I have somewhere to be?”

  “I have no forgotten, Maria,” he said with a smile that did nothing to soothe her. He picked up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder, seemingly ready to depart.

  Mary set her cup aside and threw back the coverlet. “Fine. I’ll only need a moment to dress. Where are we going?”

  “No, no,” Valentine said, holding up a palm and walking to the door. “You rest. Brennie will be about to see to your needs when she arises.” He paused, quirking his mouth charmingly. “I would say around noon. You will be fine until then.”

  “But I want to go,” Mary said, hearing with dismay the petulance in her voice. “I want to see the city.”

  His hand was on the latch. “Later, Maria,” he promised. He opened the door and then paused. “Remember, while we are here you are my woman. Do no give us away.”

  “Valentine!” she insisted, punching her fist into the damnably soft bedclothes.

  “Latch the door behind me,” he directed and then left her.

  Mary gave a growling sigh and shoved the tray away. The cider sloshed out of the cup and ruined the bread, but she didn’t care. She swung her legs over the side of the low bed and her feet touched the floor.

  “Mary, do this. Mary, do that,” she snapped under her breath. Her entire life it seemed as though she had done nothing but follow the directions of others. The king, Agnes, Father Braund, the elderly pilgrims who had been her companions until Melk. Even her betrothed. Now it was Valentine Alesander who commanded her. Wait for me. Behave this way. Be quiet. Smile. Pretend.

  She stood up from the bed and crossed to where she’d laid out a fresh gown over the back of a chair the night before.

  Where had he gone? To gather supplies for the last part of their journey? A special merchant, perhaps. But why was he insistent that she stay behind? Likely because whomever he was meeting was a fellow criminal.

  But if that were the case, why would he need his monk’s robes?

  No, she didn’t think he would get up to anything blatantly unlawful—his caution in securing their lodgings the night before and his intention to stay in Prague for perhaps several days showed that he was being mindful not to draw attention to their presence in the city.

  She pulled the gray gown over her head and cinched the simple ties in the front—no whore’s costume for her this morning—and her bosom seemed sadly shallow. She picked up her discarded ribbon and began walking to the door to latch it as Valentine had commanded, gathering her hair as she went. As she reached for the metal turn, Mary heard low voices in the corridor and, letting her hair fall back around her shoulders, she placed the side of her face against the seam of the door frame and listened.

  It was Valentine’s voice, but he was speakin
g too quietly for her to make out his words, and Mary did not know to whom he was speaking. A man, she thought. Perhaps the brawny Karl from the night before. Were they discussing Valentine’s intended destination? She strained to hear.

  Her squinting eyes fell upon her boots and the long black lace veil peeking out from her satchel near the table, and a mad idea seized her. If she hurried . . .

  By the time Valentine’s footsteps were fading down the corridor, Mary was cracking open the door.

  He was just disappearing around the corner of the alley when she emerged from the back of the Snowy Owl, and she skittered along the daubed wall of the buildings to peer down the street after him.

  There! She caught sight of Valentine weaving through the crowd, and Mary followed, skipping several steps to close the distance between them. He crossed a wide common, skirting a bubbling fountain in the center, and disappeared into another alley. Mary dodged a meat vendor and ran amidst a little clutch of hooded old women, murmuring her apologies as she dashed through the common. As she slowed and carefully turned into the alley, Mary realized she was smiling.

  She threw herself back against the stone of the building when she saw him, stopped perhaps one hundred feet from her just beyond an abandoned wooden stall that was listing to one side. A short stack of broken crates was near Mary’s hip, and she slid down the wall until she was crouched behind them, peeking through the slats at Valentine.

  He had hung his satchel on a peg of the stall and was now pulling out his brown robes. He looked around the alley, and for a moment it seemed that his eyes landed directly on the place where Mary was hidden and she held her breath. She released it with a giggle as he pulled the habit over his head. He attached the corded belt and then raised the wide hood. When he threw the satchel over his shoulder once more and turned to continue down the alley, Mary followed.

  She trailed Valentine for what must have been nearly a half hour, dodging citizenry through the narrow, twisting streets. They crossed a wide, arching bridge over the river that divided the city, and in the moments that Mary was forced to follow Valentine in the open, her heart beat like mad, fearing he would suddenly turn and discover her. Once she had reached the other side of the bridge, though, she was accosted by a small gang of beggar children, soliciting her with plaintive, foreign words and tugging at her skirts. She pried off their hands in a panic, walking backward, explaining in her own useless tongue that she was sorry, but no, no, she had nothing, no coin, let go, let go!

  Then she was off again, her boots flying over the cobbles, afraid for one terrifying moment that she’d lost Valentine in the crush, and then at last catching sight of his dark hood as he passed through the gates of a tall wall ahead.

  The dome and steeple in the distance gave the indication that it was some sort of cathedral or religious enclosure, which made his choice of costume perfectly reasonable, and the idea that his intended destination was a church buoyed Mary’s heart as she herself disappeared into the trickle of people seeking the walled garden beyond the gate.

  Uncertainty struck her again soon after she came fully into the lush enclosure; the sculpted trees and beds filled with statuary and flowers were being admired by scores of individuals, more than half of whom wore the long, dark-colored robes of the religious. Valentine had vanished into the throng like a single crow into a murder.

  Mary froze near the center fountain as the crowd milled around her, her eyes darting from face to face. Her gaze landed on a woman at the end of the paved walkway leading from the fountain to one of the doorways of the looming cathedral. She was clothed in the garb of a nun, her white linen headdress covering all but the perfect oval of her face. She seemed to be staring through the crowd directly at Mary, but then a robed man eclipsed the nun for a moment as he walked toward the woman. When Mary next saw her, the nun had brought both hands up to cover her mouth, and Mary glanced again at the robed man who continued his approach, his fine leather boots showing beneath his hem.

  Tsk-tsk—he’d forgotten his sandals.

  Mary waited until Valentine had reached the woman, both of them holding forth their hands long before they were close enough to embrace, before she began drawing closer. Valentine and the nun clasped hands but then withdrew abruptly, and Mary turned her back when Valentine’s head swung around, surveying the crowd. Mary peeked sideways through her veil to see them walking to the left, behind a line of tall, sculpted evergreens. She followed, stopping on the other side of the elegant shrubs, where a stone bench like the one on which Valentine and his companion sat waited empty.

  Mary could see them through the fragrant boughs—the woman was crying, but the tears ran over a face shining with joy while her arms were around Valentine’s shoulders. She was serenely beautiful, with her olive coloring, dark lashes, and brows, and she spoke hushed, rapid words flavored with Valentine’s own heritage. The only word Mary could make out was Vallenteen.

  “It’s Valentine,” she muttered crossly under her breath.

  The pair drew apart, spoke for a moment over each other, laughed, and then embraced again. Mary watched the way Valentine held the woman’s hands in his own, smiled at her tenderly. His voice seemed choked with emotion as he spoke in his own tongue.

  And then it struck Mary as certainly as a bolt of lightning from the sky: this woman, the person Valentine had not wanted Mary to meet, was the reason Valentine had left Aragon. The reason he had not honored the agreement to take Mary as his wife. The reason he had fallen out with his family. This woman was not one of his travel conquests, no cheap companion he’d once passed a random night with. The love of Valentine’s life had taken the veil.

  And Valentine had dressed the woman who had been intended as his wife as a whore and left her at a brothel.

  Mary sat on the bench beyond the bushes, the bright sun warming her face and hair beneath the black lace veil Valentine had given her, listening to the rapid, affectionate conversation she could not understand. Her heart ached in her chest, but she did not know why. Valentine was not hers. The only reason they were even together on this mad journey was to ensure that they had no claim to each other whatsoever, that a connection could never be drawn between them in the future. She was marrying another man in only weeks! She shouldn’t care what or who was in Valentine’s life, then or now.

  But she did.

  Mary stood up, intending to leave the garden and the estranged lovers to their privacy, but then she sat back down.

  She had no idea the way back to the Snowy Owl. She’d been so intent on not losing Valentine in the crowd that she’d paid little attention to the route they’d taken, beyond the fact that they had crossed a river. But she could not very well wait for Valentine and then follow him back. The mere idea that she risk coming face-to-face with the woman Valentine loved brought a deep flush of shame to her face.

  She would simply have to manage. It wasn’t the first time she’d been alone, after all.

  Mary rose again, this time with her chin lifted, and walked directly away from the oblivious couple hidden by the elegant landscape. She passed the fountain, her boots crunching on the fine colored gravel, the water bubbling merrily. She told herself that she would not cry as she wiped her eyes with one end of the beautiful veil.

  She paused for a moment outside the gate and drew a deep breath to calm herself and get her bearings. The cathedral sat upon a hill, and so she could clearly see the river and bridge she’d crossed below. It would be easy enough to get to the other side, and once there, she would hope that something seemed familiar.

  Mary found she was quite thirsty, and wished she had thought enough to grab her purse from the room before she left. She had no coin, nothing in her possession at all.

  Foolish, foolish girl. In more ways than one.

  She began walking in the direction of the bridge, the buildings lining either side of the street seeming to close over her head. She had not gone very far when she heard a high, warbling voice calling over the bustle of the crowd. A
t first she did not stop.

  “Mary!”

  What an odd coincidence, she thought.

  “Mary! Lady Mary Beckham!”

  Mary’s movements froze—indeed, even her heart seemed to still in her chest. She didn’t have time to turn of her own volition, for in the next instant her arm was seized and she was swung around.

  Before her stood the Lady Elmsbeth.

  “Mary!” the old woman gasped, happy tears in her eyes. She pulled Mary to her ample bosom. “Thanks be to God, we’ve found you at last!”

  “I never thought to see you again,” Teresa said, pressing one palm to her chest for a moment. “There has been no word from you in almost three years—not even to Brennie. I feared you were dead.”

  Valentine’s face ached from the wide smile he couldn’t help. It was so good to see her, to hear her voice speaking their shared language. “No, not dead. It was far too dangerous to send a message to you, this last year especially.”

  Teresa’s face lost a little of its glow. “It can’t be true, what they are saying you did.”

  “It is and it isn’t,” Valentine hedged. “I did not aide the betrayal of Chastellet, and neither did the men with whom I was forced to join forces.”

  Concern filled her eyes. “The prisoners?”

  Valentine nodded. He told her briefly how he had come to be imprisoned alongside Adrian Hailsworth and Constantine Gerard, and how Roman had freed them. “We are in hiding until our innocence can be proven.” He stayed her question before she could even ask it. “I cannot tell you where.”

  Teresa’s smile returned. “Very well. I shan’t yet press you further only because I am so happy to see you at last, no matter the circumstances. But then you must tell me, why are you here in Prague now? Are your . . . friends with you?”

  “They are my friends now, yes, but they are not with me.” He paused, smiled, gave a little shrug. “I am with a woman.”

  Teresa threw back her head and laughed out loud, and Valentine’s heart expanded at the sound. “Of course, it is a woman! Who is she, and what sort of trouble is she in?”

 

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