Valentine (9 page)

Valentine swung his heavy leather bag into the side of the head of one and then kicked the other squarely in his soft chest, sending both men to the mud on their arses. And then he was racing back toward the gate, where Maria waited just beyond, her horse dancing in agitated circles.

“Go! Go, go, go!” he shouted over the pounding, squelching hooves.

 

Valentine caught up with Mary at the road, passing her for only a moment before Mary encouraged her mount on faster. Then the two of them kept stride with each other in the rain and the night, the wind and her horse’s heavy breaths catching and hanging in her ears, the damp pulling at her clothes, sizzling against her skin. Every nerve in her body seemed to sing; the air she breathed was shockingly sweet, her heart pounding out a war rhythm that her horse kept time with.

It seemed as though they rode the wind for an hour, although she knew it couldn’t have been that long before Valentine began to rein in his mount and they slowed on the road. Mary followed him when he veered off toward the river and the blackened silhouette of a mill.

They stopped under the wide branches of an old tree whose girth had over time toppled part of a stone wall. The heavy blanket of clouds obscured the moon and drizzled halfheartedly as they dismounted, filling the air with little snapping sounds as the raindrops flicked the canopy of the tree above them. Mary was shocked to discover the bags she’d carried from the inn were still looped over her arms, and her elbows seemed to creak as she lowered her hands, allowing the satchels to slide off onto the top of the wall.

She gave a little groan and rubbed at the deep creases she could feel beneath her sleeve and then turned to Valentine.

He was staring at her, an enigmatic smile on his full lips. She felt the roots of her hair tingle, the telltale flush beginning to creep up her neck.

“What is it?” she demanded, trying to sound as though she jumped horses, skipped out on notes, and fled in the dead of night every day of the year.

Valentine said nothing, only dropped his reins, letting his horse join hers at the river’s edge. He walked toward her slowly, and Mary forced herself to stand her ground.

He was before her now, and she could feel the warmth of him even in the humid night air and through her gown and borrowed cape. His smile grew into an intimate sort of grin. He reached out with one hand and swiped a warm thumb against her cheek.

“You have mud on your face,” he said.

“So have you,” she chirped, although her skin felt as though it was on fire where he’d touched her.

He continued to stare into her eyes, as if considering her. And Mary had the strange and sudden urge to know what it would be like to lean up and place her lips against his, if they would be as warm as his thumb, as his gaze.

“I am very impressed by you tonight, Maria,” he said. “And, under different circumstances, I would kiss you.”

She blinked, startled. It was as if he had read her mind. “But you won’t, because I am to be married,” she stated dumbly.

His grin grew more sultry, almost mischievous, as he leaned his face close to hers. His breath fanned her lips. “You are already married,” he breathed. “I am a lucky man, yes?”

Then he turned away, talking to her as he went into the shadow cast by the dark stone building, but his words held none of the magic of a moment ago, as if he had not felt the heavy vibration between their bodies that Mary had.

“Let us change into something dry and then have a light meal before the sun is up. I have some delicious things for us.” Mary heard heavy crashes, like a boot against wood, and then a splintering creak. “There you are,” he said, reemerging from the gloom. “It is quite empty. Now you may change in some privacy.”

Mary was so disconcerted she didn’t know what to say. And so she said the first thing that came to her mind.

“Do you want your hat back?”

He paused in going through the bags hanging from his horse and looked at her over the saddle. “I think no,” he said. “It looks much better on you.”

His smile sent the heat racing up from her chest and over her face so that Mary turned away and picked up her own bag.

She thought to herself as she ducked through the busted doorway that Maria Alesander still had a thing or two to learn.

D
awn never really came, only more rain. Valentine stirred nearly as early as Mary, and he spent his waking-up period walking through the deluge to the road. Mary could tell by the sour look on his face at his return that what he’d seen had not lightened his mood.

“The road is a river,” he growled, coming in through the ruined door of the mill and flinging the rain from his cloak as he swept it from his shoulders and jammed it on one of the many pegs set in the mortar between the stones. “We might as well have a fire. Even should the rain stop within the hour, the road will be impassable today. It is better that we should be held here than in the open.”

“But what if the miller comes?” Mary asked his back as he walked to the small corner hearth and crouched down.

“No one will be gathering grain today, Maria,” he said curtly.

She raised her eyebrows and pulled a face as she turned to her muddied gown of yesterday, thrown across a wide table with unusually short legs. She would spend the morning washing her clothes and letting them dry, then, so as not to waste the time. Although once that was finished, she didn’t know what else she would do with herself. She certainly didn’t want to pass the day with Valentine the Irritable.

“Why did you leave me yesterday at that wretched inn?” she asked as she moved to the cistern to draw some water. “I didn’t trust that innkeeper.”

“Nor did I,” Valentine muttered, pausing between leaning low to the floor and blowing up small flames in the kindling. The fire crackled to life and Valentine sat back on his haunches, brushing his hands against his thighs. “You were safe enough until my return. It would have taken him until morning before he had worked up the courage to approach you. He is a coward.”

Mary dipped her wide brush into the water, then set to scrubbing her gown one small section at a time, squinting at the fabric in the gloom of the stone room. “Why would he have to work up the courage?”

“Because you were a murderous widow,” Valentine said matter-of-factly, going to the cistern to draw himself a drink. He swallowed several times and then sighed. “But too beautiful for him to resist for long. This”—he tapped his temple—“I could see.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mary’s arm froze, holding the brush in the air above the soiled skirt. “I thought we were to play at cousins.”

“Oh, yes, we were cousins,” he conceded, moving to his bags and withdrawing his own muddied garments. He walked toward the table. “But you see, you had run away from your husband, to be with your lover in Vienna. Your absence was only discovered after your husband’s body. Everyone knows you poisoned him, of course.” He looked sideways at her and tsked, then set his bundle of clothes on the table. “Would you mind, Maria . . . ?” He gestured toward his filthy surcote.

Mary knew her mouth was hanging open and her cheeks sparkled with heat. She closed her mouth and rolled her lips inward as she set to scrubbing once more with considerably more vigor.

“You could have told me what you were playing at. And you shouldn’t have left me there in the first place,” she scolded. “Wash your own clothes. I’m neither your cousin nor your laundress.”

“But you
are
my wife,” he goaded, sifting through another of his bags and shooting her a rakish smile.

At least his mood is improved,
Mary thought.

“Oftentimes you can no plan these sorts of things. I must—how do you say? Let them come to me. I am inspired by the moment. Any matter,” he continued, pulling out some garments and appraising them, then spreading them out, “I needed to move quickly, and I could only do that alone. You were much safer locked in that cell than you would have been with me.”

It was only a moment before she couldn’t help but demand, “How was I safer? If several hours is you moving quickly, I would hate to wait on you when you were at your leisure.”

“I told you, I was securing our supplies.”

“Valentine, I am a woman. I can very easily stand in a shop and peruse wares for hours with no danger to anything about my person save my purse.”

“I needed to . . . negotiate several things.” He held up a long length of rich wine-colored velvet. “Such as this. You like this, yes?”

Mary’s eyes widened. “That’s for me?”

He shrugged. “You needed a fine gown. You are a lady, after all, and should the need arise, you may perhaps wish to look the part.”

Mary frowned. “Don’t ruin it.” She wanted to dry her hands and take the material between her fingers, but she didn’t want to appear easily enticed.

He next pulled a pair of tall, buff-colored boots from the bag and draped them over his forearm for her approval. “Shoes to match, my lady?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, no longer caring. “They’re lovely! Valentine, how could you aff—”

“Ah-ah,” he interrupted, laying the buttery boots aside and reaching into his bag again. This time he withdrew a long length of black lace—so long, he pulled and pulled and looped it over his arm before it was all revealed. “For your hair.”

Mary gasped and then tossed the brush into the bucket with a splash. She stood, shoving her old, muddy gown onto the table before wiping her hands on her skirts and taking the delicate lace into her arms.

It was knotted so finely, Mary feared breathing on it would rend the fine threads. Designs of flowers and leaves and birds swirled all the way to the triangle points, where twisted fringe crowded together like a silken mane.

“Valentine,” she breathed. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She raised it carefully and spread it over the crown of her head and then looked up at him. “What do you think?”

“No, no—that is all wrong,” he chided, stepping to her and removing the veil. He shook it out, spread it fully, and then raised it over her head. He arranged it around her face and shoulders, bringing the ends crisscrossed before her throat to hang down her back. The he stepped away.

“There,” he said.
“Bonita.”

“I wish I could see it,” Mary said, fingering the material next to her cheek and then pressing it to her skin. “This must have cost a fortune!”

“Eh, no so much,” he said, the corners of his mouth dropping down.

Before she could question him further, Valentine drew another bag toward him, and Mary soon realized it was the satchel that held their foodstuffs by the items he was withdrawing. What he produced was not the cold pheasant they’d dined on last night, though, but a rainbow of delicious items.

Smoked ham, mincemeat, dried mushrooms, carrots, turnips, cabbage, lentils, a small bit of cheese, a round of dark bread, a miniature pot of honey, a jug holding what Mary could only guess was some home-brewed drink, and what appeared to be a long, hard-looking sausage.

But that was not all. Next Valentine pulled forth a fine, forged metal stew pot and a long ladle, as well as a bag of coarse, dark-colored salt.

“This is a feast!” Mary exclaimed.

“It must last us until Prague, but yes, I think it will meet our needs very nicely,” he conceded with unusual modesty.

She picked up a few of the items in turn, examining them with wonder before returning them to the low table. “How is it that a man who is wanted for stealing a vast fortune, who is in hiding from bounty hunters, and claims to have little coin for a river crossing can afford such luxuries?” Mary questioned boldly.

“Well, as I said,” Valentine hedged, “I needed to negotiate. And the merchant—he was . . . no a nice man.”

“How much do you have left?” Mary demanded. When Valentine seemed loath to answer, she pressed. “I must know what our resources are for the remainder of the journey. I have little left myself.”

Valentine shrugged. “Do no worry, Maria. I still have my coin.”

“All of it?” Mary demanded incredulously. “He
gave
these things to you?”

“He was a bad man,” Valentine said, frowning. “He deserved no coin. If you had only seen his wife, Maria—so sad.”

Mary felt her brows lower. “I can understand your reticence to pay the innkeeper, but Valentine, these things are worth a good deal. What did you do?”

One of his shoulders raised.

“No, don’t shrug at me,” she insisted.

“The prices he asked were robbery. There was a pit behind his shop—mounds of food, wasted. Rotting.” He flung a hand into the air in disgust.

“Valentine . . .” Mary said.

“I was very fair. I chose the things I wanted and then made a wager with him over a game for the price. If I won, I would receive what I wished for the price I offered. If he won, I would pay what he demanded.” He leaned toward her in a conspiratorial manner. “I would never have paid that amount.”

“So, you won?” she asked.

“He cheated. I plainly saw him draw another piece from inside his tunic.”

Her eyes widened again. “What did you do?”

Another little shrug, as if it were of little consequence. “I showed him the folly of his actions by way of his own pit. Then I gathered my winnings and came to fetch you.
El fin
.”

“Well, a small one, yes. A small pit. Very small. A large ditch, really. He is likely already out by now.”

Mary threw up her hands with a little cry. “No wonder you have men hunting you!”

“Maria, Maria,” he cajoled. “He got only what he deserved. Plus, before I left, I gave his wife one of my own blades so that she might defend herself in the future. A beautiful dagger, a ruby in its hilt. So I
did
leave payment, one I hope is put to swift use. Now, do you like your new costume or no?”

“Was he really a bad man?” Maria asked, squinting at him sideways.

Valentine leaned his face toward hers, his expression grim. “The worst sort.” Then his full lips quirked a bit, causing Mary’s stomach to flutter. “The boots, though, yes?”

Mary couldn’t help her grin. “May I try them on?”

 

Valentine very much enjoyed watching Maria preen in her boots, the ends of her veil dropping down past her hips behind her. The wine shade of the new gown would perhaps prove too muted for her coloring, he thought, but it wasn’t the drab browns and grays she’d been wearing, and the sheer delight she’d shown at his gifts gave Valentine a satisfied feeling in his core. He was reminded of the noble, Spanish
damas
from his childhood, could almost hear the music of the qitara and smell the warm salt of the sea as Maria twirled.

He had lied to her a bit, yes. But he could not think how to tell Maria that the trader’s “wife,” as he’d called her, had been little more than a girl—not yet with proper breasts. And likely not his wife either, but a young, olive-skinned slave who had been bartered at some time by her keepers for supplies. The child hadn’t spoken to Valentine, either too terrified or a mute, or perhaps Valentine had simply not possessed the words of her language, but her eyes and bruises had told him enough.

Valentine had wanted to kill the merchant, but it was one thing to be wanted for thievery in a small trade-route town, quite another to be charged with murder. He could not add that taint to his and Maria’s already perilous journey. And because Valentine could not take the girl with him, he had done the best he could for her—giving her the means to protect herself, and the opportunity to gather what she needed before making her own escape. He wished her well.

In the meantime, he was preoccupied with getting himself and Maria as far from Zwettl as possible, and quickly. The quagmire of the road would put off any pursuers only until later in the day perhaps, but if they were intent enough to journey as far as the mill—seeing the wet, trampled grass from the horses’ passing last night—there would be trouble. He and Maria would have to leave with the dawn, even if it meant they would be on foot, leading the horses.

Maria had just hung up his freshly cleaned surcote to drip from one of the pegs, and she hummed a little tune as she went to the pot on the hearth and stirred the stew that would be their supper. He watched her covertly, the way she hung the ladle carefully on the side of the pot, how she fussed over the stacks of their belongings, which Valentine had sorted into like categories. She packed them carefully into the satchels—the poorer costumes in the worn bags, the finer things in the new. It was very domestic, and caused a stirring in Valentine that was foreign and not a little arousing. He was certain Maria would make an excellent wife, and he found himself envying the man who would soon have the right to touch this beautiful English flower.

He reached into his bag and withdrew the little bound book of his drawings and notes, and when he unwound the string the pages fell open to reveal the dried flower pressed there. Its color was faded, its petals papery, its scent only a memory. He brushed his thumb over the petals without removing the spent bloom.

He would at last see Teresa again in Prague, kiss her and hold her in his arms. He had missed her so in the years since he’d last seen her. He hoped she had not heard of the vile things of which he had been accused since Chastellet. He cared little for what the world thought of him, but Teresa could never think him a murderer, a traitor.

“What is that?” Maria asked cheerily, drawing his attention from the image of Teresa’s face in his mind and causing him to close the journal—not so quickly, though, that he would arouse Maria’s suspicion.

“Nothing,” he said, slipping the book back into his satchel. “Only a little journal I keep. I make notes of the places I’ve been, people I’ve met, news I’ve heard.”

“Enemies you’ve made,” she guessed, but it was said in a light-hearted tone and delivered with a smile.

He returned the gesture. “It is quite useful when traveling at length as I often do. Did,” he amended. “I try never to make dangerous enemies, but—” He shrugged. “It can no always be avoided.”