a dowager countess called Lady Elmsbeth. Very nice woman.”
“I thought you said she was . . . pluckish?”
Mary Beckham blushed. “You must understand the desperation I felt when we met yesterday. Our party needed to travel so very slowly to accommodate our aged members, and I feared I had come all this way for naught—that Victor would have no answers for me, if even he was at the abbey at all. Lady Elmsbeth is only lonely, and seeking someone to look after.”
“Then she is likely despairing at your sudden disappearance.”
“Likely,” Mary said, looking back in the direction of the village, which now had sunk nearly out of sight between the hills of the shallow valley. Valentine could see the guilt Mary Beckham felt as clearly as if she had been clothed in sackcloth and ashes.
“You will perhaps use the time between Melk and Vienna to practice guarding your emotions,” Valentine advised.
“What do you mean?”
“We shall likely have to . . . tell some untruths so as to remain anonymous. For instance, in Vienna, perhaps we are brother and sister. Do you think you can imagine being someone you are not?”
She gave him a smile that was more than a bit enigmatic and, try as he might, he could not decipher its cause in her eyes.
“That does sound like a rather interesting way for one to pass the time.”
They rode until the sun was high in the sky before stopping to give their horses rest. Several smaller paths converged on the Vienna road at a bend in the river, where a small grove of gnarled, low-branched trees protected the bank. Valentine swung from his horse and then did not hesitate in turning to help Mary dismount. He took swift charge of their animals, leading them to the river and letting them dip their heads while he unstrapped one of his bags and a blanket roll from his saddle.
Mary went upstream from the horses to splash her face with the refreshing water and then cup her hands for a quick drink. She paused, watching her companion as he unfurled the blanket beneath the widest tree. Every move he made was confident, deliberate, efficient. He didn’t seem fatigued at all from the morning’s journey, and in fact even his costume was still pristine. Mary guessed it was from the obvious quality of the material, and she wondered how he’d acquired such fine garments. She was a titled lady, after all, and yet her entire ensemble was worth perhaps only one quarter of Valentine Alesander’s tunic.
She had to admit that he was handsome. Not only handsome—his features were captivating. And when he spoke, the flip of his accent was soft on her ears, warming to her skin, like the glow of good spirits in her belly on a cold night. She couldn’t prevent herself from drawing comparisons between Alesander and her future husband: her betrothed was English—white, polite—almost hesitant at times. But he was direct and he had never done anything to compromise her reputation.
On the other hand, she was very certain that Valentine Alesander had sought to compromise her reputation at their first meeting on the path to the abbey, while he had been wearing monk’s robes. He’d made no overtures since they’d been properly introduced, though, and so Mary hoped he would remain well behaved.
He rose up from the blanket he’d been kneeling on and hailed her with a long arm.
“My lady,” he called. “Would you care to dine?”
Mary realized she was starving.
He had laid a feast for them on the blanket: stuffed cabbage leaves, a small round of dark bread, a hefty wedge of fragrant cheese, and a finely woven sack filled with dried figs and dates and raisins. A short, fat, leather-wrapped bottle sat near the food, its chained cork dangling, and two silver cups stood at the ready.
“I’d no idea the brothers ate so well,” she said with a smile as she sank to her hip on the far side of the blanket from him.
“They do no,” Valentine said, picking up the bottle and pouring. “I liberated the
“I thought you said she was . . . pluckish?”
Mary Beckham blushed. “You must understand the desperation I felt when we met yesterday. Our party needed to travel so very slowly to accommodate our aged members, and I feared I had come all this way for naught—that Victor would have no answers for me, if even he was at the abbey at all. Lady Elmsbeth is only lonely, and seeking someone to look after.”
“Then she is likely despairing at your sudden disappearance.”
“Likely,” Mary said, looking back in the direction of the village, which now had sunk nearly out of sight between the hills of the shallow valley. Valentine could see the guilt Mary Beckham felt as clearly as if she had been clothed in sackcloth and ashes.
“You will perhaps use the time between Melk and Vienna to practice guarding your emotions,” Valentine advised.
“What do you mean?”
“We shall likely have to . . . tell some untruths so as to remain anonymous. For instance, in Vienna, perhaps we are brother and sister. Do you think you can imagine being someone you are not?”
She gave him a smile that was more than a bit enigmatic and, try as he might, he could not decipher its cause in her eyes.
“That does sound like a rather interesting way for one to pass the time.”
They rode until the sun was high in the sky before stopping to give their horses rest. Several smaller paths converged on the Vienna road at a bend in the river, where a small grove of gnarled, low-branched trees protected the bank. Valentine swung from his horse and then did not hesitate in turning to help Mary dismount. He took swift charge of their animals, leading them to the river and letting them dip their heads while he unstrapped one of his bags and a blanket roll from his saddle.
Mary went upstream from the horses to splash her face with the refreshing water and then cup her hands for a quick drink. She paused, watching her companion as he unfurled the blanket beneath the widest tree. Every move he made was confident, deliberate, efficient. He didn’t seem fatigued at all from the morning’s journey, and in fact even his costume was still pristine. Mary guessed it was from the obvious quality of the material, and she wondered how he’d acquired such fine garments. She was a titled lady, after all, and yet her entire ensemble was worth perhaps only one quarter of Valentine Alesander’s tunic.
She had to admit that he was handsome. Not only handsome—his features were captivating. And when he spoke, the flip of his accent was soft on her ears, warming to her skin, like the glow of good spirits in her belly on a cold night. She couldn’t prevent herself from drawing comparisons between Alesander and her future husband: her betrothed was English—white, polite—almost hesitant at times. But he was direct and he had never done anything to compromise her reputation.
On the other hand, she was very certain that Valentine Alesander had sought to compromise her reputation at their first meeting on the path to the abbey, while he had been wearing monk’s robes. He’d made no overtures since they’d been properly introduced, though, and so Mary hoped he would remain well behaved.
He rose up from the blanket he’d been kneeling on and hailed her with a long arm.
“My lady,” he called. “Would you care to dine?”
Mary realized she was starving.
He had laid a feast for them on the blanket: stuffed cabbage leaves, a small round of dark bread, a hefty wedge of fragrant cheese, and a finely woven sack filled with dried figs and dates and raisins. A short, fat, leather-wrapped bottle sat near the food, its chained cork dangling, and two silver cups stood at the ready.
“I’d no idea the brothers ate so well,” she said with a smile as she sank to her hip on the far side of the blanket from him.
“They do no,” Valentine said, picking up the bottle and pouring. “I liberated the
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