Valentine (12 page)

“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.”

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?”

M
ary 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.

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 speaking 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.