friend.
“No women?” Roman guessed.
“No women,” Valentine said. “No a maid, a laundress—nothing! Only men!”
“Melk is an abbey of monks,” Roman pointed out. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself every time. Perhaps you should stop coming to the market.”
“And go completely mad?” Valentine kicked at a rock in his path, very aware that the action was childish. “I hate this place.”
“Well, one thing is certain—there is nowhere else for us to go in the foreseeable future, lest we yearn for stretched necks. The bounties on our heads are such that every man with a sword and a too-light purse is looking for us.”
Roman came to a halt in the dirt road, having reached the end of the market and the fork that led either deeper into the village or up the long and narrow path to the monstrous abbey on the cliff overlooking the Danube River. Valentine paused to listen to his friend.
“I know you are unhappy here. But there is nothing to be done about it. I for one am not sorry that you came upon Chastellet, else Stan, Adrian, and I would all likely be dead.”
The giant’s words kicked at Valentine’s conscience. “I am no sorry for that either, my friend. Forgive me. I am no myself today.”
“I think you are very much yourself.” Roman grinned and clapped Valentine on the shoulder as he nodded past it pointedly. “Cheer, Brother—it seems as though a lovely pilgrim has need of religious assistance. And since I must return to Lou in the mews, I shall leave you to her. And I shall not tell Victor. See you at supper.” Roman stepped away with a wave and then turned up the path toward Melk.
“Tomorrow is my birthday,” Valentine said to Roman’s back when his friend was far enough away that he could not overhear. He sighed and turned to look down the path where Roman had indicated.
She approached swiftly, glancing about her, but Valentine could not tell if she was wary of someone following her or disconcerted by her surroundings. Her gown was clearly English, simple but well made. Her kirtle was a drab brown with gold braid trim and belt, revealing a plain, creamy underdress with wide bell sleeves. Her hair was the color of chestnuts, hanging long over one shoulder and twisted with ribbons. Her complexion was the epitome of an English lady of sheltered and privileged life, like the petals of a peony, a dusting of pink across her cheeks and nose. She was striking in her distress, and her eyes were locked on Valentine as her little slippered feet carried her closer.
Valentine grinned.
Happy birthday to me.
“Excuse me, man of heaven, excuse me. Good morning. I need you to helping me,” Mary called out, struggling to find the right words in the language of Melk. Miraculously, the man in the brown robes seemed to be waiting for her at the top of the steep path.
She was so tired. Exhausted. The last leg of travel to this little Austrian village had nearly been Mary’s undoing. Her legs and back were stiff from the long ride up and down the endless hills, and now that the horses were stabled and out of her reach, Mary had no choice but to traverse the rolling streets on foot. The natives must be part goat.
But she must hurry. If her chaperones discovered she was missing before she could reach the man she sought, a cry of alarm would be raised and she would be locked in her room at the inn until the pilgrim party moved on in the morning. She might have only minutes.
She reached him at last. “Good morning,” she said with a gasp.
“Good afternoon,” the monk corrected in a smooth voice, and as Mary tried to catch her breath, she noticed that this had to be the most handsome monk who’d ever donned a habit. His tanned skin fitted perfectly over the angular planes of his strong jaw. Dark brown eyes sparkled from beneath lashes that seemed too lush to belong to a man. His dark hair was cut short to his head, and although the copious brown wool hid his physique, his shoulders
“No women?” Roman guessed.
“No women,” Valentine said. “No a maid, a laundress—nothing! Only men!”
“Melk is an abbey of monks,” Roman pointed out. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself every time. Perhaps you should stop coming to the market.”
“And go completely mad?” Valentine kicked at a rock in his path, very aware that the action was childish. “I hate this place.”
“Well, one thing is certain—there is nowhere else for us to go in the foreseeable future, lest we yearn for stretched necks. The bounties on our heads are such that every man with a sword and a too-light purse is looking for us.”
Roman came to a halt in the dirt road, having reached the end of the market and the fork that led either deeper into the village or up the long and narrow path to the monstrous abbey on the cliff overlooking the Danube River. Valentine paused to listen to his friend.
“I know you are unhappy here. But there is nothing to be done about it. I for one am not sorry that you came upon Chastellet, else Stan, Adrian, and I would all likely be dead.”
The giant’s words kicked at Valentine’s conscience. “I am no sorry for that either, my friend. Forgive me. I am no myself today.”
“I think you are very much yourself.” Roman grinned and clapped Valentine on the shoulder as he nodded past it pointedly. “Cheer, Brother—it seems as though a lovely pilgrim has need of religious assistance. And since I must return to Lou in the mews, I shall leave you to her. And I shall not tell Victor. See you at supper.” Roman stepped away with a wave and then turned up the path toward Melk.
“Tomorrow is my birthday,” Valentine said to Roman’s back when his friend was far enough away that he could not overhear. He sighed and turned to look down the path where Roman had indicated.
She approached swiftly, glancing about her, but Valentine could not tell if she was wary of someone following her or disconcerted by her surroundings. Her gown was clearly English, simple but well made. Her kirtle was a drab brown with gold braid trim and belt, revealing a plain, creamy underdress with wide bell sleeves. Her hair was the color of chestnuts, hanging long over one shoulder and twisted with ribbons. Her complexion was the epitome of an English lady of sheltered and privileged life, like the petals of a peony, a dusting of pink across her cheeks and nose. She was striking in her distress, and her eyes were locked on Valentine as her little slippered feet carried her closer.
Valentine grinned.
Happy birthday to me.
“Excuse me, man of heaven, excuse me. Good morning. I need you to helping me,” Mary called out, struggling to find the right words in the language of Melk. Miraculously, the man in the brown robes seemed to be waiting for her at the top of the steep path.
She was so tired. Exhausted. The last leg of travel to this little Austrian village had nearly been Mary’s undoing. Her legs and back were stiff from the long ride up and down the endless hills, and now that the horses were stabled and out of her reach, Mary had no choice but to traverse the rolling streets on foot. The natives must be part goat.
But she must hurry. If her chaperones discovered she was missing before she could reach the man she sought, a cry of alarm would be raised and she would be locked in her room at the inn until the pilgrim party moved on in the morning. She might have only minutes.
She reached him at last. “Good morning,” she said with a gasp.
“Good afternoon,” the monk corrected in a smooth voice, and as Mary tried to catch her breath, she noticed that this had to be the most handsome monk who’d ever donned a habit. His tanned skin fitted perfectly over the angular planes of his strong jaw. Dark brown eyes sparkled from beneath lashes that seemed too lush to belong to a man. His dark hair was cut short to his head, and although the copious brown wool hid his physique, his shoulders
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