Valentine by Heather Grothaus

his gaze upon her blatantly suspicious. His skin was ashen, his eyes circled from either lack of sleep or heavy mental burdens, and Mary thought that if it were true, what the abbot had said—that Valentine Alesander and those he traveled with had been unjustly accused—then this man certainly had reason to lose sleep.
    The first man stepped to her side and bowed. “Lady Mary, I am Lord Constantine Gerard, Earl of Chase. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
    “How do you do,” Mary responded, startled. “Chase? I do believe we are neighbors.”
    “Indeed,” Constantine Gerard said, and something like hope flickered across his face. “Are you familiar with Benningsgate Castle, Lady Mary? Or perhaps my wife, Patrice? She is known far and wide as a most generous hostess.”
    “I’m sorry, no,” Mary replied. “I’ve not gone farther than our village more than a handful of times. I have heard of your wonderful estate, though.”
    The giant man stepped forward, Mary thought to cover the earl’s almost palpable disappointment. “Then you most certainly are having a grand adventure, are you not?” The man bowed, and his falcon twitched its wings to steady itself. “Roman Berg, my lady. I consider your”—he paused and seemed to reevaluate his words—“Valentine is my closest friend.”
    “How do you do?” Mary said, giving the man a slight smile, but she could not keep her gaze from flicking to the shadows, waiting for a fourth man to emerge. She looked to the abbot. “Perhaps we should send for him? The sun will soon rise and—”
    “Fear not, my lady,” the third and heretofore brooding man said. “He shall arrive at the very last moment; it is his signature. Adrian Hailsworth, at your service.” But he inclined his head only slightly.
    “Indeed, last-moment arrivals are Valentine’s specialty,” Constantine Gerard said, having apparently regained his composure. “His . . . expertise has been invaluable to us. There is no one better able to guide you unseen back to England.”
    “He saved our lives,” Roman Berg volunteered.
    Adrian Hailsworth shook his head once, a mere flick. “I do believe that distinctive honor lies with you, Roman.”
    “I could have never come to Damascus without Valentine,” Roman argued. “We would have never known of Melk.”
    “He is a man of honor,” Constantine agreed. “Although oft times that is not the appearance he presents. You would do well to remember that when perhaps he behaves . . .”
    “Badly,” Adrian Hailsworth finished in a flat tone.
    Now Mary was thoroughly confused. Her nerves were so fresh already, and she suspected the hardest part of her adventure had yet even to begin. Was this Alesander a criminal or not? Father Victor had assured her that she had nothing to fear from this man, and as the priest had once been a close friend to her own Father Braund, Mary had no choice but to put her faith in him, as well as in Valentine Alesander.
    If he ever arrived...
    “Perhaps he has changed his mind?” Mary fretted to the group.
    “And forsake the opportunity of a journey with a woman of such remarkable beauty and passion?” The voice came from beyond the circle of light.
    That accent. She’d heard it before. A tingle raced up her spine. No, it couldn’t be . . .
    Then he stepped from the shadow, and Mary was shocked into silence at the embroidered tunic of blue and gold, his silken, fringed belt, the tight breeches, which fit his lean legs like a second skin, the fine tooling of his boots. Her eyes traveled back up and saw once more the angular jaw, the sparkling eyes, the dark, silky-looking hair.
    “I would never.” He smiled at her and then swept into a grandiose bow. “So we meet again, my lady.”
    “You?” Mary said. “You are Valentine Alesander?”
    He inclined his head and brought one hand to cover the area of his heart. “It is my most sincere pleasure to meet you properly at last.”
    Mary felt as if there was a