Valentine

by Heather Grothaus

“No good,” he said, and then handed the long leather-wrapped cylinder to Mary. “I believe we are in the company of your future husband. Look.” He helped her fit the oculus to her eye. “Up the mast—see the flag?”

  “The king’s?” Mary guessed, looking closely at the blurry red and gold crest.

  “Aye, but not the king’s,” Francisco said. “That is the flag for those sailing under royal orders, but your king is no on that ship.”

  Mary lowered the glass and looked at Francisco. “Perhaps it is someone else.”

  Valentine’s cousin shook his head. “No. It is my business to know ships, to be aware of which ones are in my presence. That is the merchant ship Dane; it was moored downriver from us in Hamburg.”

  Mary raised the glass once more and tried to discern the figures on the deck. But the distance was too great, the image too blurry. She handed the glass back to Francisco with a grimace.

  “We cannot gain port before him, can we?”

  Francisco shrugged, a bit of surprise in his voice. “We could overtake them, yes. But in this wind we would come close enough to shake hands with the captain. Is that a risk you wish to take?”

  Mary shuddered. The thought of ever seeing Glayer Felsteppe again made her stomach turn. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t matter now, really.”

  If Francisco Alesander thought her answer strange, he did not see reason to question her.

  Valentine joined her not long afterward, although he did not share with her what had kept him occupied all afternoon. They ate side by side with the entirety of the crew that night, a celebratory affair that used up the remainder of the supplies aboard ship. Once she had come close enough to land to send a small boat into town, The Skull would replenish her sundries and perhaps take on fresh crew before once more setting out to sea. It was far too dangerous for a notorious pirate such as Francisco to bring his ship into an English harbor.

  Valentine was quiet, as was Mary, and she wondered if he, too, was feeling the shadow of their imminent parting growing shorter. But he smiled at her when she caught his eye, touched her arm, the curve of her ear; once, his hand had lingered in a caress across her back.

  The food was gone now, and the crew began winnowing away the remaining drink as the music started, a motley orchestra of pipes and drum and harp when Valentine leaned close to whisper, “Do you tire, Maria?”

  She was not at all tired, but she knew he was asking if she was ready to withdraw to the cabin below, and to the little narrow berth they had been sharing.

  Her heartbeat quickened. She was more than ready, and so she nodded.

  He stood and seized the handle of a lantern and a jug of wine with one hand and then reached for hers with the other. The crew called out good-natured taunts as they retreated to the hatch. Mary’s cheeks tingled, but she didn’t mind in the least.

  Valentine hung the lantern from the low ceiling and then stretched out on the bed with the wine jug. Crossing his boots at his ankles and propping himself up against the smooth wood of the cabin, he tucked a forearm behind his head and watched her fidget about the small cabin.

  Mary was suddenly very nervous. She’d no idea how to begin.

  “I have a gift for you,” he said.

  Mary turned, feeling a smile upon her lips. “You do?”

  “I wanted you to have something to remember our time together. Something I think perhaps only I can give you.” He motioned toward a little wooden pocket affixed to the wall, where it appeared a single map was rolled loosely.

  “This?” she said, taking a step toward the vellum and sliding it out. It was as long as her forearm.

  Valentine nodded.

  Mary tugged at the thin strand of gut holding it tight and pulled at the curl with her fingers. She turned her back to the lantern and held up the vellum.

  “You made me . . . a map of Antwerp?”

  Valentine’s laugh was low and full of mirth. “Turn it over, Maria.”

  “Oh!” She laughed nervously and felt the blush come to her cheeks again as she did as Valentine instructed. Once the page was reversed, she saw that it was sideways, and so she rotated her arms to see what was drawn there.

  It was a trio of small vignettes sketched diagonally across the vellum, from corner to corner. At the top right, a large bearded man walked up a beach from the sea with a helm under his arm, a listing ship and small boat riding the charcoal waves in the background. The bottom left corner held the profile of a woman who resembled Mary, but with her hair hanging in loops of plaits behind her ears.

  In the middle of the vellum, the largest sketch of all showcased a woman in a lace veil, her lips parted, her eyes wide, and Mary remembered the longing with which she had looked at Valentine that night in the old mill.

  But . . . she had no recollection of those other sketches . . .

  I remember there was a storm, and the ship had floundered on the rocks. Your father rowed to shore himself. I was playing on the beach with my cousin when he landed.

  “Valentine,” she said, trying to force her voice through her constricted throat. She turned and looked at him. “Are these my parents?”

  “It is the best I could do with what I remembered. The one of you, of course, is from recent memory.”

  Mary looked back at the vellum and sat down on the edge of the berth. The images wavered and she blinked her eyes to clear them, felt the tears splash onto her cheeks.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, his voice closer to her now, and when she turned her head, she found that he had leaned up to peer over her shoulder.

  “This is . . . this is priceless to me,” she whispered.

  He smiled and reached up with a hand to sweep a tear away with his thumb. “When you are returned, perhaps you can press it into a book. And then you can look upon them whenever you like. Perhaps even show your children one day what brave grandparents they had.” He paused. “What a brave mother.”

  Mary let the vellum reroll gently of its own accord and her head dropped for a moment. Then she stood and replaced the portraits in the wooden pocket before turning to face the man on the bed. If she was ever to be brave, this was the moment.

  Mary swallowed. “I can’t marry him, Valentine.”

  Valentine seemed to consider this while he set the wine jug away from his hip. “No? After all we have done to come here? Why no?”

  “Because—” she licked her lips—“because he was entertaining other women that night at the Queen. I saw him kissing them and . . . and touching them. And because he was already announcing himself as lord of Beckhamshire. Using my father’s title. My father’s coin. He is not honorable.”

  “Maria.” Valentine sighed and reached out from the bed to take her fingers lightly into his palm. “That is the nature of men. And you are no married to him yet. Perhaps he was only—how do you say?—sowing his last wild seed before becoming your husband. You can no judge him for his behavior when he did no know you were there.”

  She felt her eyebrows raise.

  “I am certain he would have more reason for upset at your whereabouts and actions these past months than you do for his. Have we no kissed? Have I no touched you?”

  His words caused a fire to kindle in her belly. “It’s different with us.”

  “Why?” he insisted.

  “Because I love you, Valentine,” she said, and felt her eyes welling with tears again. “I don’t care what he does with other women. I don’t want to marry him because I love you.” She sniffed and pulled her hand away to press the tips of her fingers into the corners of her eyes. Then she let her hands fall. “I know you think that I have only been caught up in our adventure. Poor sheltered, innocent Mary. I am just another woman for you to save.”

  She looked at him directly and her back straightened. “But I am telling you now, even if you do not want me, I will not marry that man.”

  Valentine’s face was that of a statue, so still were his features.

  “I won’t,” she reiterated, her chin up.<
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  Then Valentine nodded once, slowly. “You will.”

  Mary shook her head.

  “You will,” he insisted. He rose up on his knees and seized her hands, pulling her to the side of the bed. “You will go back to your home, your title, your country. You will marry a man who will make you a mother and give you a safe place to raise your children. If you love me as you say you do, you will obey me. You will no pine after me, some man you think I am. You will no follow me so that you too become a criminal and then one day watch me be cut down in the street like a dog, leaving you with nothing.”

  Mary was truly crying now, the truth of his words causing pain too great for her to contain any longer.

  “You will marry him, and you will live a long and happy life. These things you will do for me. You will promise me, yes?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she choked.

  Valentine released her left hand and grasped the back of her neck, pulling her forehead against his. Her empty fingers found his lean waist.

  “You will promise me, Maria,” he growled. “Because I love you.”

  Mary’s breath caught in her throat and she pulled away only far enough to look in his eyes.

  “And when you love someone, you must do what is best for them, even if it means your own heart will break. I can no take you with me. And I would know that you are safe when I leave you. Please, do this for me. Please, mi amor.” His voice broke slightly.

  “There must be some way,” she began.

  “There is no,” Valentine interrupted. He brushed her hair away from her forehead.

  Mary closed her eyes, feeling his fingers brushing her skin, the heat of him pressed to her body. He was right—of course he was right. She would only be a liability to him. But she could not simply let him go, without anything to show for the breaking of her heart.

  You are Maria Alesander, a voice inside her whispered.

  She opened her eyes to look directly into Valentine’s. “I will promise you,” she said gravely, “on one condition.”

  “Anything,” Valentine whispered, his eyes searching her face.

  “Francisco says we shall reach the port of Beckhamshire on the morrow. Until then, you are mine.”

  “I will always be yours,” Valentine murmured.

  “No,” she said, placing her hand upon his chest and pressing him back into the bed. He went easily but slowly, as if wary. Mary followed him onto the mattress and then crawled up the length of him, holding herself over his chest. “You won’t. I am not so naïve as to think that you will never have another woman after we part. But until you release me, I am your wife.” She lowered her head and kissed his lips softly. “And tonight is our wedding night.”

  Chapter 21

  Mary feared Valentine would refuse her after all when he interrupted their kiss by framing her face with his hands and holding her away. He looked into her eyes, his gaze intense, almost pained.

  “Maria, wait. Before we continue, you must know this: never have I given myself to a woman as I give myself to you tonight. Never with love. You are the first.” His thumb traced her lower lip and his gaze lingered there for a moment before coming back to her eyes. “And you will be the last.”

  Then he pulled her head to his again, kissing her slowly, deeply, but so differently from on the other occasions their lips had met. Mary could feel Valentine’s surrender, his acceptance of the feelings they shared, and that he was offering all of himself to her.

  She pulled at his loose-necked shirt, ran her palm inside across his warm, smooth shoulder. His fingers raked up through her hair, tugging it free so that it tumbled around her face and onto his chest. Then he broke their kiss to seize her upper arms and turn her to lie beneath him, his fingers hooking in the front laces of her gown and freeing the ties with a whisper of sound. He lowered his head, then turned his face to run his cheek across the skin of her breasts while he breathed deeply, his dark stubble scraping her painfully, wonderfully.

  Valentine raised up on his knees, the lantern behind his head turning his body into a black outline set ablaze at the edges, like some fiery Spanish angel come down to save her. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, while Mary pulled her arms from the slim sleeves of her gown, her eyes fixed on Valentine. She could see every curve of muscle, every chisel of flesh on the outline of his ribs and waist, and when he lowered himself onto her again, taking her breast in a gentle hand and her mouth with his own lips, Mary imagined she heard a sound like that of water dancing on hot iron.

  Her gown seemed to remove itself in increments, preceding Valentine’s journey down the length of her body. He branded her flesh with his squeezing hands, his hot mouth, until Mary was unconscious to the world, lost in the magic of Valentine’s full attention. By the time he reached her feet, Mary’s fingers were curled into the mattress, her arms straining against the thin ticking as if she would levitate up to him.

  Valentine scrambled from the bed, feasting on her nude body with his eyes while he finished undressing. Mary watched him brazenly, becoming intimately educated on the perfection of his male form, his hardness in stark contrast to the infinite pliability she felt in her own flesh, eager to receive him.

  She was not afraid when he rejoined her. Not afraid when he wrapped his arm beneath her lower back and lifted her to him. Not afraid when he moved over her. She welcomed the pain in her body, the searing that signified that she would never be the same. No matter what happened in the course of her life, this moment could never be repeated. This act could never be undone. She was giving the gift of her womanhood to the man she loved in this moment, the husband she was fated to call her own from almost the moment of her birth. The man charged with loving her.

  Nothing had ever felt so right.

  Valentine spoke to her in low throaty tones, foreign words of love that she could not translate with her mind, but their meanings were unmistakable to her heart and her body. His voice was like hot velvet, wrapping her entirely in a heady cocoon of sensation. His pace increased, his back slickened with sweat. His words of love were a hot stream of intelligible whispers in her ear.

  “I love you, Valentine. I love you.” The only thing Mary could think, the only thought she could voice to him.

  Then his frantic pace stilled, his face pressed into her neck, and Mary held him as joyful tears slid down her face and into his hair. He gave a halting gasp, and when he moved his mouth to hers, Mary felt the wetness on his own cheeks. Their kisses were little samples, tastes, both of their lips pulled into smiles as they reveled in such exquisite happiness.

  They tangled together that way until the lantern above dimmed and finally went out. And then, in the dark, they memorized each other’s bodies. They whispered things of little consequence, never once treading into the ugly future, only acknowledging the present moment, the intertwining of their fingers, the caress of a palm, the sureness of an embrace somehow enough to convince them both that it was forever, even though they knew it was not.

  And when the gentle dawn crept beneath the seam of the hatch, they were still wrapped in each other’s arms, sleeping in peace, each of them having found respite at last. And they were blissfully unaware for the time being that the vast gray sea carried them steadily closer to the low shadow of land now laying black on the horizon, waiting for them like a patient, dangerous dragon.

  Valentine was not surprised to find Maria awake when he opened his eyes. Even at sea, she greeted the dawn at its doorstep. She was watching him with a seriousness that Valentine could not find the courage to address, and so he mustered a grin for her and kissed her nose.

  “Good morn, mi amor.”

  He worried for a moment when he saw the flare of her nostrils, the glistening of her eyes. But then she smiled at him. “Good morn. Do you think there is anything left to eat? I find I am quite famished.”

  In that moment, Valentine knew that he had been right—Mary Beckham was a brave, brave woman.

  They dressed in n
either hurry nor leisure and made their way to the deck as if carefully considering each action they took. Valentine did not dwell, nor did he run frantically headlong at whatever awaited them in the day. He simply was. It was a different manner for him certainly, but he relished the peace of it.

  They did manage to wheedle some leathery fruit from the crew, and when they found Francisco, he was standing with one boot upon the rail with his glass raised in the direction of another, larger ship that was suddenly sharing the water with them.

  Valentine heard Mary’s little gasp of alarm, and for a moment he, too, wondered if the ship was the one carrying her betrothed. But the longer vessel was close enough that Valentine could see even without the benefit of a glass that it did not fly the English king’s flag.

  “Good morn, cousin,” Valentine called up to Francisco.

  “Ah, there you are!” Francisco said pleasantly, lowering the glass and looking around at them. He hopped down from his perch and held the piece to Valentine, who took it and held it to his eye. “A bright morning it certainly is. Fortune has smiled upon us today!” He then called out to the sailor manning the wheel. “All right, harder to port now. And run up The Skull! On your forward, dogs!”

  Valentine lowered the glass. “Francisco,” he said mildly, pointing toward starboard. “The harbor is—”

  “Yes. I know,” Francisco said, giving his cousin a smile of forced patience. Then he pointed his own long arm over the bow. “But first we will take that ship.”

  “Now?” Valentine felt his eyebrow raise. “Is it no dangerous to attack when we are so close to the shore?”

  “A little, yes,” Francisco conceded. “But that ship has been lucky—you see how low it rides? They still have all of their cargo, I would wager. Plenty to share with us, yes? And,” he gave his cousin a wink as he reclaimed his glass, “if it is no at least a little dangerous, the satisfaction is no as great.”

  Valentine thought for a moment of arguing with his cousin, but in the end chose the distraction Francisco presented. He threw up his hands in surrender and turned away to descend into the cabin below again. He quickly laid hand to the item he sought, trying to ignore the scent of Maria lingering in the berth like cologne. Now more than ever, Valentine needed distracting from the future, and what better way to do that than by acquainting himself with his newfound criminal endeavor?