Valentine (22 page)

But now the ship was beginning to light up as, one by one, long torches and hanging lanterns were lit. Mary realized that no one at all was paying her any mind, and so she felt rather foolish, brandishing Valentine’s dagger at the breeze. She dropped her hand to her side, the wind whipping her hair back from her face as she turned into it and looked past the aft castle of the ship to see the lights of Hamburg sliding past.

Where would Francisco Alesander take them?

“What have I done now?” she whispered.

She sighed and then dropped to her heels at Valentine’s side once more. His breathing was still steady and even, but his face felt like a smooth coal—dry and searing with heat.

“Valentine,” she said, running her palm over his forehead. “Valentine, can you hear me?”

“When did he take ill?”

The murmured question came from directly behind her head, and Mary jumped, whipping up the hand that still gripped Valentine’s blade.

Francisco grasped her wrist before she could use it, although his grip did not twist or bruise. “I am no going to hurt you, Maria,” he said. “Either of you.”

She jerked her arm back and, miraculously, he let her go. “You already have hurt him,” she shot back.

“I did no know he was ill,” Francisco defended. “Although I should have known something was amiss when he allowed you to board an unknown ship before him. Had he been well, the only way I could keep him in one place was to render him unconscious.”

Although Mary agreed, she gave no comment, only continued to watch Francisco warily. “He doesn’t have any gold, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I do no want his coin.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “And he didn’t kill his sister.”

At this, Francisco’s handsome face broke into a gentle smile. “I know, Maria.”

Mary was confused. “Then what do you want with him?”

“I will get to that later,” Francisco said. “But first, let us move Valentine to a place where he can rest easily and where we can better care for him, yes?”

Mary pressed her lips together for a moment. “Are you trying to trick me?”

“I would never.” His smile returned, and in it, Mary could see the ghostly outline of Valentine’s own indulgent grin. “
Vamanos
, Maria.”

H
is parched throat was the first thing to come to Valentine’s awareness. Indeed, the hot, sand-dry feeling seemed to fill up his mouth as well, and he tried to swallow before opening his eyes. The reflex only succeeded in triggering a hacking cough that would have brought tears had he any moisture at all in his body.

Perhaps he was dead, decomposing, like one of the many bodies he’d seen half-buried in the desert along the road from Damascus. The corpses had resembled parchment stretched over bundles of sticks.

But no—Damascus was a long time ago. He had gone on to Melk, and then—

Maria,
he thought suddenly, and his eyes opened.

He saw dark planks of wood over his head—not very far above him, it seemed.

Where was he?

Where was Maria?

“Good afternoon,” a man said somewhere beyond his line of vision. “Have you decided to live after all?”

Valentine turned his head very slowly to the right, and soon the blurry outline of a person rose up and drew nearer. Valentine blinked. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out save a wheezy gasp.

“Here,” the man said, reaching for something and then placing his hand behind Valentine’s head to raise it up. He felt a cup placed against his lips, and then cool liquid flooded his mouth.

His throat constricted painfully as he swallowed, and he coughed most of the water back up through his nose and down his chin.

“Too much?” the man asked while Valentine gasped for breath. His lungs felt afire. “Let us try again.”

This time the water went down, and Valentine felt the liquid sluice through his innards like some magic elixir. The hand released him back onto whatever pallet he currently occupied and he closed his eyes again with a sigh as he wiped at his mouth.

But he forced his eyes open once more. “Francisco?” he whispered.

“Sí,”
his cousin answered. “Do no trouble yourself to leap from your deathbed to embrace me.”

“Maria,” Valentine rasped.

“Maria is fine,” Francisco said. “Do you know, I think she would have tried to kill me? I have a feeling that is no her nature.”

“I . . . kill you,” Valentine whispered.

“That is no a good plan, cousin, since you and your woman are on my ship. Have another drink instead. Then you can threaten me with a clearer voice, yes?”

Valentine nodded.

“Bueno.”
Francisco helped Valentine to another dipperful of water. When it was empty, he let Valentine’s head back down gently. “Better?”

“Where is Maria?” Valentine asked.

Francisco’s face was coming into focus in the gloom of the small dark chamber. His lips were curved in the faintest of smiles.

“She is above deck,” he said. “I will fetch her for you as soon as we have had our talk, yes? She is a good sailor.”

Valentine watched Francisco, and for the briefest moment the fact that Valentine had missed his cousin so much overshadowed the pain of their history. Francisco had aged well—the lines on his face that of a grown man, where once an idealistic youth had looked out. Francisco appeared healthy, confident.

Of course he is confident,
Valentine thought to himself.
You are clearly in no condition to best him. He can do with you what he likes now.

Then Francisco’s comment about Maria at last reached his consciousness.

“If you think she is a good sailor, you have obviously kidnapped the wrong woman. Where is Enrique?”

“Dead.”

Valentine’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. “When?”

“Two years.” Francisco shrugged and then shook his head. “Nearly three now.”

Had Valentine the strength, he would have laughed. “And look at you—even after his death, you still seek to do his dirty work. What an obedient little jackal you became.”

“Valentine, I am sorry.”

“No as sorry as you will be when you discover I have no coin to shower upon you. The Alesander fortune—ha!” He turned his eyes back to the planked ceiling, as foreign, unpredictable emotions welled up inside him.

“It was never about the coin,” Francisco said quietly.

“No?” Valentine challenged, letting his head fall back toward Francisco again. His cousin’s elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped loosely. His head drooped, showing Valentine only the crown of his curly head. “Then what
was
it about? Your great devotion to Enrique? The man you once said had brought dishonor to our family? Did you think that by aligning with him he would make you his heir?”

“I never had any love for Enrique,” Francisco said. He raised his face then, and looked Valentine in the eye. “The love I had was for Teresa.”

Valentine winced. “Teresa?” he whispered. “I do no understand what you are saying.”

“The night—” Francisco paused, swallowed—“the night you left, I had gone to the sheik’s apartment at the villa. I was going to kill him. To save her, you see.”

Valentine did not comment; he only watched his cousin closely.

“But I was only a boy. And I was a coward. I failed, and so I sought to beg Enrique one last time. But before I could find him, I saw the blood.”

“It was you who discovered we were gone?”

Francisco nodded. “I knew by Enrique’s panic that he had no killed Teresa. It was easy enough for him to convince me in that moment that you had—especially because you had not included me in your plan.”

“As you said—you were still so much a boy,” Valentine defended reluctantly. “I could no take you from your mother, and had I confided in you, Enrique never would have stopped torturing you until you told what you knew. How could you think—even for a moment—that I would do such a thing to Teresa? You were the only brother I knew, Francisco.”

Francisco had been nodding his head the entirety of Valentine’s speech. “All you say, it is true. But I knew how frightened for her you were. You had a better idea than I what her life would be like, and I knew that you would do anything to spare her the horrors that awaited her. You would rather see her dead.”

“I did no kill Teresa, Francisco.”

“I know that.”

“Yes? And how did you come by this knowledge?”

“Enrique told me on his deathbed. He had located her in Prague, you see. But he could no get to her. You had secured her in a place that a reprobate such as Enrique had become could no hope to reach her. He had no fortune, no title, no lands, no reputation. He was powerless.”

“A deathbed confession, eh?” Valentine whispered. “Did you absolve him of his sins?”

“It is Enrique we are speaking of. He was no looking for absolution,” Francisco almost spat. “He was charging me with finding you and exacting his revenge.”

“Which you are doing now, yes?” Valentine said with a shrug.

But Francisco ignored the question. “I did no believe him at first. A part of me—the part that had betrayed you—wanted it to be untrue. I went to Prague, to see with my own eyes. I found Teresa. And even before I spoke with her, I realized what a fool I had been. I understood at last what you had done. What you had sacrificed in order save her.” Francisco reached out a hand and gripped Valentine’s forearm. “And I am sorry that I was no there to help you. To help you both.”

Valentine did not dare react to the hand on his forearm. He attributed it to his illness, but his composure was tenuous at the moment.

Thankfully, Francisco continued. “I vowed from the moment I saw her—I vowed to her and to myself—that I would find you. And that I would make amends for my terrible betrayal. But then you vanished. Before, I would perhaps hear a tale or two about where you had been. Rumors. Stories. But that was two years ago. And then—” Francisco broke off.

“Chastellet,” Valentine whispered.

“Yes.” Francisco paused a moment. “I never believed it, no for a moment, and neither did Teresa. I knew that my only hope for redemption was to find you and help you.”

“You were going to walk to Damascus and have a talk with Saladin?”

Francisco let a grin slip over his face. “It was so much like before. But, yes. That was my intention. Only I was penniless. And so I had to find a way to make my own fortune. I took a place on a ship out of Ritzebuttel, and found I had a . . . talent for the work. Now this—” he sat up straighter and held out his arms—“this is
my
ship.
The Azure Skull
. I am no longer a boy, nor am I a coward.”

Valentine felt his eyebrows rise. “You are captain of your own trading ship?”

Francisco twisted his grin into a thoughtful moue. “I do no do so much trading as acquiring.”

After a moment, Valentine closed his eyes, chuckling silently. “You are a pirate,” he whispered.

Francisco leaned forward with a wide smile that was so like the ones he’d worn as a boy.
“I am a pirate!”

Valentine’s mirth led to another coughing fit, and so Francisco helped him to some more water and then sat back on his stool.

“Congratulations,” Valentine said, feeling the effects of the conversation dragging him down like the tide once more to sleep. But he forced himself to tread water; he desperately wanted to see Maria. He needed to see her. “Unfortunately, there is little you can do for me now. Especially since your vocation is rather—notorious, and without regard in the higher circles. I fear you have wasted your time in locating me.”

“I have no,” Francisco said and leaned forward once more, his expression alert, almost anticipatory. “I had greater cause to find you now than ever before. If only you had stayed in Prague another day.”

“What does Prague have to do with any of this?” Valentine asked.

“I still love Teresa,” Francisco said, his features softening. “And I wish your permission to marry her.”

Valentine blinked. “You want . . . it is
you
? You are the man?”

Francisco nodded.

“But . . . you are a pirate,” Valentine reasoned, lifting his right hand toward Francisco. “I can no have my sister married to such a criminal.”

“Because two criminals in her family would be too many?” Francisco quipped. “I will no have her climbing rigging, Valentine. I have amassed such wealth that I can pursue other interests once we are wed.”

Valentine’s eyebrows rose again. “Truly?”

“Well, perhaps I would engage in it occasionally. As a hobby, yes? I do enjoy it, and it is a very profitable profession.”

“I clearly chose the wrong path in my life’s work,” Valentine muttered.

“But do you no see?” Francisco insisted, leaning forward once more, his wide grin returned. “This is your opportunity, cousin!”

“Francisco, I am tired.”

“I know. But only listen to me a bit longer and I will fetch your Maria.” He scooted forward on his stool and held his hands out, as if the ideas he spoke of were tangible objects between his palms. “You are a terrible criminal, yes?”

“No.”

“No, of course you aren’t. But . . . yes.”

Valentine sighed. “All right. Yes.”

“You have nowhere to go once this woman you are with is returned to her home, save—I assume—the place your criminal friends are hiding, yes?”

“Correct.”

“So, you do no return to those men. You come with me, learn the life, and then take the ship over when Teresa and I marry.”

Valentine blinked. “You want me to become a pirate?”

“Why no?” Francisco asked, holding out his arms. “You are already a wanted man. You would have more gold than you could ever amass otherwise and the freedom of the sea. Flying under my flag, none would dare challenge you. Assume my name and none would ever know
The Azure Skull
had changed hands. It would be as if Valentine Alesander no longer existed.”

The weight of his cousin’s words seemed to sink into Valentine’s body and spread, like a foamy wave breaking on the sand. With each moment that passed, Valentine realized Francisco’s plan could actually work.

“I will have to think about it,” he said.

“My proposition? Or Teresa and I marrying?”

“Both.” Valentine sighed. “I do no think I can be called Francisco.”

Valentine’s cousin laughed as he stood. “Oh, I do no go by Francisco,” he said, and then swept his feathered hat from the end of the berth with a flourish and placed it on his head. “I am
La Ave Mortal
!”

Valentine felt the corners of his mouth pull downward. “That is worse than Francisco.”

His cousin held his palms up toward Valentine. “You think about it, yes? I will send down your woman.”

 

Valentine was asleep again by the time Mary stepped carefully down the steep stairs into Francisco’s cabin, easily balancing the tray of food against the rolling of the ship.

Apparently, she was her father’s daughter after all.

She slid the tray over the narrow lip of the shelf on the wall and noted that he now had bright patches of color on his cheeks, where only this morning a shroud of gray had given him the disturbing appearance of lifelessness. Valentine’s conversation with his cousin had obviously done much to revive him, and it gladdened Mary’s heart.

The scrape of the wood caused him to stir, and his eyes found her immediately. “Maria,” he whispered, his lips curving into a smile as he slid his arm away from his body on the mattress, his palm up.

Mary did not hesitate, climbing into the narrow bed and nestling against Valentine’s side as if she had done it a hundred times, as if her very soul was not rocked by admission of his need for her. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face into his ribs. Mary felt his arm come around her shoulders and his lips brush the crown of her head.

“I’ve missed you,” she said into his skin, for once not resentful of the sudden tears that leaked from her eyes.