Her heart still thrilled at him, especially when he was outfitted so splendidly as he was now.
Mary swept into the guardhouse, startling the young man from his stool. He gained his feet.
“Good day, milady,” he said, turning as Mary barely paid him any heed beyond a smile. His voice called after her and she could hear the indecision in his tone. “I beg your pardon, but you just can’t—milady?”
He caught up with her and lightly took her elbow, causing Mary to spin around with wide eyes. But she needn’t have worried, for before she could come full circle, her husband had pressed the lad against the wall of the guardhouse, a knife point under his chin.
“Perhaps you have no been taught that you do no touch a lady—especially no the lady of Beckham Hall, and especially nomy wife,” Valentine said in a chastising tone, looking through his lashes at the guard.
The young man gulped, his eyes going from Valentine to Mary and then to the commotion of footfalls trampling up the steps to the door.
“L-lady M-Mary?” he stuttered. “B-but, the lord said—the king said—I—”
“Oh, it’s quite all right, dear,” Mary said, gesturing to her husband to let the guard go. “I’m certain Beckham has been through a trial in my absence.” She reached out and patted the young man’s forearm, if only to distract him from the variety of individuals now filing past him in somewhat dubious raiment. They’d done their best, but there was only so much that could be accomplished with one’s costume when one was wearing an eyepatch.
She continued, “I’ve all the necessary documentation, so I need only inform Lord . . . oh, I’m afraid his name has slipped my mind again.”
Valentine smirked at her. “You are so silly.”
“I am,” she agreed and wrinkled her nose at him before looking back to the young guard. “Lord . . . ?”
“Quimby, milady,” the lad finally managed to stutter. He stood away from the wall and moved as though he would overtake Mary into the hall. “I’ll go and—”
“No, no,” she trilled on a laugh and gave the young soldier a sweet smile as Valentine shoved him back into the guardhouse and then gave him a gentle pat and made a show of brushing off and tidying the guard’s tunic. “No need for that! I remember the way to my own quarters well enough, I daresay.”
The hall beyond was filling with raucous commotion as the crew fromThe Azure Skullinfiltrated the place, jolting the few soldiers quartered at Beckham Hall from their complacency with wide-eyed expressions. Some of Francisco’s men had managed to secure a motley collection of clothing meant to mimic military garb, but if one only looked, the striped sashes, ornate and foreign swords, and odd jewelry were quite obvious.
And of course there was the fellow with the unfortunate eyepatch.
Maisie Lindsey stepped onto one of the benches and then sat her bottom directly on the tabletop in the far corner of the hall, Valentina on her knees. Mary watched the woman’s keen eyes and knew that Valentine’s and her backs would be safe from unlikely attack. Maisie raised one of Valentina’s hands and waggled it in their direction.
Mary blew the pair a kiss as, behind her, the more authentically clothed members of the crew filed from the guardhouse and through the doorway leading to the garrison and storeroom below, their arms laden with crates and trunks and baskets. Roman Berg’s intimidating presence as foreman discouraged any argument from the surprised and confused contingent of Beckham soldiers coming up from the lower quarters.
Adrian Hailsworth breezed through the opening and cut between the line of men and cargo, a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a hammer and tacks in the other. He peeled off one of the sheaves and handed it to Roman without a second glance. Mary doubted the ink was even dry as the man began to hammer one of the other authentic-looking proclamations to the door of the guardhouse.
Isra Tak’Ahn urged Christian up the steps to the hall before her, the boy doing his best to walk carefully while carrying a hooded Lou on his right forearm in the too big gauntlet. The lad was propping up his elbow with his other hand, and Mary thought Roman and Isra’s idea to keep Christian focused on something other than the forcible seizure of Beckham Hall quite ingenious.
Francisco was the last to sweep inside, nodding to Roman as he took charge of his crew, and Roman turned on his heel and walked toward Mary and her husband. Roman handed Valentine the parchment, meeting his gaze and giving him a nod of his own.
“Let’s do this.”
Valentine looked down at Mary as he tucked the parchment inside his fine velvet tunic. “Shall we,mi amor?”
Mary smiled at him, and together the three walked to the door at the foot of the stairs, which Mary noticed had been replaced with one twice as fortified as that which Glayer Felsteppe’s men had broken down when she and Valentine had fled Beckham for their very lives. The door was suitable for a fortress indeed, and looked to be virtually impenetrable.
Had the present Lord Quimby bothered to engage it, that is.
“I don’t think they saw us coming, my darling,” Mary murmured through her smile as she mounted the first step.
“All the time, they are underestimating us,” he said ruefully. “Have you your blade,mi amor?”
“I’m seldom without it. Oh, Valentine, what wonderful fun this is!”
“It pleases me that you are so happy, Maria. I still think you should have worn the hat,” he murmured, and she felt his hand slide over her hip as he followed her up the stairs.
“Later,” she promised, and then called up into the brightness above their heads in a cheery tone. “Hello? Hello-o? Good day, Lord Quimby. Are you about?”
Mary heard a wheezing gasp and then a short fit of coughing before she came to the top of the stairs. Apparently they had interrupted someone’s nap. She prepared herself for the sight of her old, bare hall, where she had spent the whole of her life with only her nurse, Agnes, and the kind Father Braund for company. She feared the memories that would flood her upon gaining the upper floor might throw her off her game.
