The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(130)

"Oh?" Her heart sank. This did not sound good.

He gestured to a nearby taverna. "It is not too early in the day for a drink, I reckon."

The taverna was empty of customers, though a delivery man sat talking to the landlord over a bowl of olives whilst his young assistant waited outside, ostensibly guarding the barrow but mostly flirting with any passing women. Mal ordered a flagon of wine and led Coby into the little courtyard out back. Strings of washing crisscrossed the sky above, and no doubt there were listeners up there, ears cocked for the latest gossip, but still it felt like they were alone.

"You are right," Mal said, filling two glasses. "I should have listened to you. I meddled where it was not needed, because I thought I was right, and because I wanted to gain Kiiren's approval."

He pushed one of the glasses towards her.

"However, there is no use crying over shed milk," he went on. "I must take responsibility for the outcome of my decision, as any commander must, as well as resolve to make better choices in future. And to do that, I need good advice. Your advice."

"You have it. Always."

"And shall make better use of it, I swear." He took a sip of his wine. "But I have need of your service in another capacity. If… If Sandy is right, we will have to take the child home with us. And I want to raise it as my own. My son and heir, if it be a boy."

"You are asking me to look after this child?" she said. "But I know nothing of infants. I helped my mother with Kees, true, but that was many years ago…"

"No. I'm not asking you to be a nursemaid. I can hire a woman for that. But… he will not be an ordinary child. And I fear he will not want to stay with us, once he remembers who he is."

"You think he will want to go back to the New World and be reborn as a skrayling?"

"I'm certain of it. And Sandy will want to go with him. I… I might never see them again."

Coby reached out her hand, and he took it, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb as if to assure himself of her solidity.

"But that won't be for years, surely?"

"I hope not," he whispered hoarsely.

They sat in silence for long moments, then Mal reached for his glass with his free hand and drained it in one go.

"The thing is…" He cleared his throat. "If he won't stay, I need a real heir, one born of my own flesh. And for that I need a wife."

He caught her gaze, held it. Realisation dawned, and she stared back at him, hardly able to believe what she was hearing.

"Jacomina Hendricksdochter, will you marry me?"

Coby nodded, her heart too full for words. Then the full implication of his offer struck her. To be a married woman, the respectable wife of a respectable gentleman, she would have to give everything up that she had worked for. Her life as Jacob Hendricks would be over.

"I know I ask a very great deal," he said, as if guessing her thoughts. "If you would rather seek your fortune elsewhere, then so can I." He looked more miserable than ever, if that were possible.

"No." The thought of him marrying someone else was too much to bear. "I accept your offer. On one condition."

"Anything."

The look on his face, of hope renewed beyond expectation, was so adorable, she almost burst into tears of laughter.

"I will be your faithful wife at home and in sight of our neighbours," she said carefully. "But if ever the Queen or Sir Francis Walsingham require your service, then I ask leave to become your servant Jacob for as long as you need me."

He laughed, and raised both her hands to his lips to kiss them.

"Agreed."

She got to her feet slowly and went round the other side of the table. For a moment she feared he would stop her, that he would remind her she was still dressed as a boy, but he only watched in silence. She sat down on the bench next to him, slipped her arm around his waist and pressed her forehead to his chin. His beard was scratchy on her skin, but she didn't mind as long as she could be this close to him. After a moment he took her in his arms and kissed her brow, her nose, her lips…

"You're not afraid someone will see us?" she murmured between kisses.

"This is Venice," he replied, "where even the women wear breeches."

She chuckled. "Perhaps we should stay, then."

Ned cursed as the nib splayed, spattering ink across the page.

"It's no good, I'll never get used to writing left-handed."
He threw the quill down and wiped his inky fingers on the rag as best he could. The stump of his right forearm ached, as if his missing hand had been clenched in frustration throughout the exercise. As well it might. He had known this was a stupid idea when Gabriel suggested it, but he hadn't the heart to refuse.

"Nonsense, it's my fault for cutting the nib poorly," Gabriel said. "You were doing very well with it."

He tried to kiss Ned's brow, but Ned pushed him away and got to his feet, pacing the attic room to ease his cramped muscles. The skraylings' potions had taken away the pain of surgery, but a week of lying drugged and immobile, and two more of being cooped up in this attic with nought to do but think, had left him both weak and restless.

"Much use I will be," he muttered. "A one-handed scrivener who can't even cut his own pens."