The sunlight through the long shallow windows set just beneath the ceiling shone through the draped silk, giving the room a jeweled glow, and the thick mattress beneath her cradled her body as if in a giant gloved hand. She raised her arms above her head and stretched, releasing once more the perfumed scent of the oils she’d rubbed into her skin after her delicious bath in the round copper tub the night before. She turned her head to see the other side of the bed undisturbed. Valentine had not returned before she’d fallen asleep. Uncertainty seized her, shaking her from her languor, and she sat up in bed, clutching the light coverlet to the underdress she’d donned for sleeping. But there he was at the little table, already dressed and stuffing what looked like the rough brown monk’s habit into the satchel he was never without. He cinched the neck tight and closed the flap. Mary worried for a moment that he had left her alone in the room all night—perhaps passing the evening with the stunning Brennie—but then her eye caught the drape of a sheet over the wicked chaise in the corner.
