“She. Has. Not!” Lord Quimby shouted with a stamp of his slippered foot.
“Lord Quimby is rather put out with me, I fear,” Mary said in a pseudo-whisper.
“Shall I try to appease him?” Father Braund muttered, only barely moving his lips. “He’s rather inhospitable on his good days.”
“I understand. But I’d hate for something untoward to happen to him if—”
The old man stalked toward Mary and the priest, already shaking his finger at her, his face alarmingly red.
“You will get out of my house this instant, young woman!” he shouted. “Or I’ll have you forcibly removed! I don’t know what sort of trick you think to put over on me, but—”
Mary saw Valentine and Roman exchange glances before coming up behind the irate Lord Quimby. Before the man knew it, they had flanked him, seizing his flabby arms and lifting him from his feet.
“What? Wha—? Put me down this instant!” he screeched, circling his feet over the rug—it was so lovely and deep. Almost an indigo color. Why, you could nap comfortably on a rug of such thickness. Even make love on it.
Oh, that most certainly would happen, very soon.
Valentine and Roman turned and carried the man toward the stairs, while Father Braund took Mary’s arm and escorted her in their wake. She looked over her shoulder at the design along the edge of the rug—fern leaves, if she wasn’t mistaken. How elegant.
“Put me down!” Lord Quimby’s shouts echoed in the stairs.
“How did you find the continent?” the priest asked her with interest.
“Rather boring in general, I must confess, although it did have its moments,” she said with a rueful smile. “Father Victor sends his regards.”
“Kind of him. I’ve always wanted to visit Melk in the autumn.”
“Oh, you must!” she insisted. “The river is simply lovely.”
They ceased their conversation as they made their careful way down the steps—the old man’s shouts rendering all attempts at speech pointless—and came into the hall.
“Help me, you idiots,” Quimby demanded of the ranks of Beckham’s soldiers, who were lined up in the hall before one of the tables. But they only looked at him briefly before their gazes turned back to the head of the table, where Adrian Hailsworth sat, a small open trunk of coin near his elbow, fresh parchment and quill and ink beneath his hand. A pirate stood to each side behind him as Adrian took individual soldiers’ marks and then doled out the stipend for their continued service to Beckham Hall’s rightful mistress.
“Maria,” Valentine called, gaining her attention to where he and Roman still held the struggling old man aloft. “To the inn, yes?”
She nodded and blew him a kiss.
Roman was holding the old man with only one hand near his armpit. “I think we should tie him up, Val. He’s kicking me on purpose now.”
“We do no wish to convey the idea that we havedetainedLord Quimby in any way. However, I should advise you, my friend,” Valentine said as they made their way toward the guardhouse, “if you think to kick me—” Mary heard his intake of breath. “Yes, that is what I mean. Roman?”
The two men stopped at the top of the stairs and released the man with a little toss. Roman turned away and came back into the hall at once, but Valentine stood on the top step, his arms held wide.
“I tried to warn you, my friend. And now you will have to walk to the inn and carry your things yourself. They will be waiting here for you by the time you have secured other accommodations. Ah-ah!” he said in a warning tone. “If you should come back inside, I will have the soldiers arrest you.” He paused. “Or worse.”
“They’re my soldiers!” Mary heard Lord Quimby wail.
“Good day to you, sir,” Valentine said with a bow and then stepped inside and slammed the door. He dusted his palms together and then placed his hands on his hips to regard Mary with his warm gaze.
“You,” he said with a grin, “were magnificent,mi amor.” He put his hands together in applause as he crossed the floor toward her, and soon the whole of the hall was clapping—even the soldiers, who weren’t entirely sure why but were fairly thrilled with the unexpected wages that now weighed in their hands.
Mary felt her cheeks tingle and she gave a short curtsy to the hall before Valentine snaked his arms around her waist.
“Excuse me, Father,” Valentine said to the priest, who looked on with an indulgent smile. “I must kiss the lady of Beckham Hall now.”
“Valentine,” Mary said quietly, drawing his attention to the blond boy who stood just beyond his elbow.
“Yes, Christian?” Valentine said.
