Valentine (11 page)

“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?

I
f 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.

“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.

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.

To her surprise, the dark woman laughed and then leaned forward and kissed Mary on the mouth. “Welcome, Fleur. I do fancy your hat. I know a pirate who wears a hat such as that. I hope you are staying a while.” Then she stroked Mary’s cheek with the back of her hand.