Valentine by Heather Grothaus Page A

appeared to have just stood up from the chair facing the door, a knife in her hand pointing at Valentine’s face. She was wearing his feathered hat.
    Maria dropped the blade down by her thigh. “Where have you been?”
    “Shh!” he urged, pushing the door shut behind him. “The common room is no empty, although its occupants sleep.”
    “Where have you been?” she asked again, this time in a whisper, and she rounded on him as he walked the short distance to the beds. “You’ve been gone for hours.”
    “Gathering our supplies.” He looked, nonplussed, at the satchels lined up like soldiers atop the rotten blanket, their tops cinched tightly. He looked behind him at the table—empty. “Maria, did you do this?”
    Her chest rose as if she took a deep breath and he noticed that she was also wearing his red cape, which nicely framed her breasts. She squared her shoulders, and his view of her figure was improved even more. “Valentine, I am sorry, but I cannot stay here.”
    He grinned at her, shrugged. Then he half-turned, picked up one of the satchels and swung it, tossing it to Maria. She caught it.
    “Then let us go.”
    She blinked, hesitated for only a breath, and then her mouth broke out in a smile as she stepped to the bed and began scooping up the remaining bags along with Valentine.
    “Have you paid the innkeeper?” Maria asked.
    “I would no give that pig a farthing for such a hovel,” he said. “Seeing your beauty is more payment than he deserves. So we must be quick and quiet. Ready, Maria?”
    She nodded, her cheeks rosy under the wide brim of his hat, and then bent to blow out the candle.
    “Stay to the wall,” he whispered into the darkness as he grabbed the door handle. “Once we are past the hearth, quickly is better than quietly.”
    “What if someone wakes?”
    “Run,” he said. And then Valentine opened the door.
    He was not sure how they made it across the common room undetected, except that perhaps the sleeping patrons were used to the sounds of very large rats scurrying through the litter on the floor. Nevertheless, he was impressed with Maria’s gameness for their escape—she didn’t so much as squeak when Valentine threw her up onto her saddle. Then a gust of wind grabbed half of the inn door and threw it against the exterior wall with a crash that seemed to shake the entire building. Alarmed voices, heavy with sleep and drink, could be heard within.
    “Vamanos!” Valentine shouted as they wheeled their mounts toward the gates of the palisade and the horses jumped into a run down the street, flinging up wild sprays of mud.
    He swung one leg over the side of his horse as they approached the gate, hanging from his mount like a performer at a tournament. He kicked at the stay that held the long, diagonal brace as they rode by, and the timber fell as though it had once again been cut where it stood in the forest, screeching across the wooden gate.
    It was going the wrong way, though, Valentine noticed as he swung back onto his horse. The log splatted into the mud across the road and began to roll toward the riders even as half of the gate swung wide in the rain, freedom beckoning to them.
    “Get down!” Valentine shouted over his shoulder as he himself leaned close to his horse’s neck and raised up from his seat as he felt his mount gathering beneath him and heard its distraught shriek.
    He hoped Maria’s horse would jump.
    He hoped Maria stayed in the saddle.
    Valentine’s horse cleared the rolling obstacle easily, and he looked over his shoulder as he was carried through the gate. He saw the moment Maria’s horse too, leaped over the log, and she gave a dainty scream, one pale hand atop Valentine’s feathered hat.
    He would have laughed with relief had he not seen his leather bag being flattened by the log and then lying in the muddy street as the brace rolled away.
    “Damn,” he muttered as he pulled on the reins, fighting his horse, who wanted only to completely