Valentine by Heather Grothaus Page B

days to get there, that means we must travel four days west to make up for it. That’s eight days.”
    “Yes. It is,” Valentine agreed. “Unless we run into bad weather, of course. But it can no be helped. It is a glorious morning, yes?”
    “I don’t think you understand. I am in a terrible hurry.”
    “I do understand, I do,” he insisted. “But success on our journey begins with being properly equipped, and then joining with the best road. There is a major route between Vienna and Prague—well traveled, so generally passable most of the year. We will be safer, and travel faster, even considering the four days it may take us to reach Vienna.”
    To his amusement, Mary Beckham reined her horse to a halt. He obligingly did the same and looked back at her with a smile. She was completely lovely in the sunrise.
    “Can we not simply head north now and intersect the route between Vienna and Prague?”
    Completely lovely when her mouth was closed.
    “No,” he answered.
    Her horse danced, sensing her frustration.
    “Why not?”
    “Primarily because we need the sort of supplies that we can get only in Vienna. Secondarily, there is currently a little river between us and the route. Perhaps you have seen it, yes? We can no cross it except by ferry.”
    He saw her frown deepen as she looked past him. “There is a ferry in Melk.”
    “Yes, there is,” he acquiesced. “You wish to wait for the ferry master to awaken, and take the chance of alerting the party you arrived with?”
    “No.” She sighed.
    He turned forward in the saddle and kicked his horse. A moment later, he heard her follow.
    “Why can we not follow the Danube south? Perhaps meet the Rhine and then proceed through Normandy?”
    “Too crowded,” he explained. “This time of year is popular for travel, and in all likelihood we could no keep our horses with us. There are few barges that make a leg of any length that could accommodate mounts. It is tournament season in Normandy—it will be full of the nobility and even royalty. Wise to avoid in our situation.”
    “I didn’t actually mean to suggest that we travel on the rivers themselves. I don’t do well on the water,” she said stiffly and then was silent for a moment. “You seem to know an awfully lot about . . . well, everything,” she said.
    “I have traveled extensively,” he admitted.
    “While trying to evade your family?” she asked.
    He turned to look at her—she had come even with him again. It was a distasteful topic, but Valentine thought there was a chance it would come up at some point during their journey. Perhaps it was better to get it out of the way now.
    “Yes,” he said patiently. “It is true that there are some members of my family who . . . are pondering my whereabouts.”
    “Who?” she pressed.
    Valentine paused at her forwardness. “My brother. A cousin, perhaps. You are very interested in my past—a topic I prefer to keep more or less private.”
    She smiled at him, and he was charmed at the transformation of her face. “More or less?”
    “Private,” he repeated.
    “I am interested,” she admitted. “I have no family of my own, and this is the first journey I’ve ever made from my home, not to mention alone with a strange man. Whether we like it or not, we must accept each other as part of our own pasts.”
    “Very true,” Valentine agreed, his mouth turning down at the corners as he considered her observation. And since it had been she who broached the subject of their histories, he asked, “No family at all?”
    “None. Only a nurse.”
    “Does she know where you are?”
    Mary Beckham shook her head. “Our priest told her that I have gone on a prenuptial pilgrimage. I’m certain she is mad with worry.”
    “What of the people you journeyed to Melk with?” Valentine asked. “Who are they?”
    “A group of elderly nobles eager to see the world, now that their children have taken over the duties of their estates. My personal companion was