The de Valery Code (34 page)

“God, yes, Margery.” He gripped her hips and let himself go, pushing into her with frenzied strokes.

His hand skimmed up her side and around to pinch her nipple. The sensations thrumming through her intensified as another orgasm shot through her. She moaned while he worked her breast and continued his relentless assault. He stiffened, and his low groan filled her senses.

Then he was gone from her and she pushed back, looking for him.
 

“Had . . . to . . . get . . . out.”

Like he had before, right.
At last, sanity invaded her haze of delirium. She slowly turned over. He had climbed off the bed and was cleaning himself with one of the towels. He wetted a new one and handed it to her with a smoldering look. “There’s no escaping the heat today, I’m afraid.”

Apparently not.

He turned from her and she tidied herself, but mostly she enjoyed the cool cloth against her heated skin.
 

He drew on his small clothes and breeches and picked up her chemise. He offered it to her with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid it’s quite damp.”

She took it from him. “So is your bed.” She pulled the chemise over her head and realized it was also in pieces—drooping over her breast and missing one sleeve. No matter, it would give Jane something else to do and Margery would simply say it had torn when she removed it.

He buttoned his fall, but didn’t move to don his shirt. Not that she blamed him, she couldn’t bring herself to put anything on over her chemise. But she held the corner up to keep it from gapping away from her chest.

“You, ah, seemed to know what you were doing,” he said. “It’s none of my business of course, but I wanted to say you are . . . quite good.”

Feminine satisfaction blossomed through her. “Thank you. As are you. It’s also none of my business, but I wondered if you’d had a bit of practice, since you attend Lord Trevor’s parties.”

He coughed. “Ah, perhaps.” He sent her a provocative glance. “I was a bit more . . . relaxed at Oxford a decade ago.”

She suddenly wished she’d known him then. When he was young and maybe a bit wild. Probably less self-assured. She slid a look at his profile, took in the strong set of his jaw, the ever-present intelligence in his gaze. On second thought, she couldn’t imagine him without his flashes of arrogance, and what’s more, she didn’t want to.

“My aunt told me many things about what happens between men and women.”

He wetted a fresh cloth and laid it over the back of his neck. “Were you to be married?”

Margery shrugged. “Not specifically, no. Aunt Agnes chose a . . . different path as a young woman. She explained to me why she’d chosen to become someone’s mistress, and she was happy to satisfy my inquisitive nature.”

“I see,” he murmured. “I appreciate an inquisitive woman very much.”

“As an academic, I’m sure you do.” Margery redipped her towel and wiped it over her arms. She was still hot, but the inferno their lovemaking had wrought had passed.

Lovemaking.

Good heavens, what was she doing? She struggled to remember why she’d come into his room in the first place. To demand an answer from him about the treasure. And he’d said he was still thinking about it. That he even considered choosing Septon over her—and that’s what it felt like, she realized—threatened to overheat her again. She shouldn’t care . . . but she did. Suddenly she wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

She scooped up her clothing.

He bent to help her.

“I don’t require your assistance,” she snapped, furious with herself for allowing this to happen again.

He stepped back. “What’s wrong? Why are you upset?”

She straightened, her arms full of her dress and stays. “You’re asking that after what we just did again? This heat affected my brain.”

“Your brain? I’m fairly certain that is not the body part—or parts— affected. I can say with ease that my brain didn’t figure into the equation at all.”

He was right. They’d both surrendered to their desire, something they couldn’t seem to avoid. “You’re right. I was angry with myself, not you.” She softened her tone and relaxed the tension rioting through her shoulders. “I still don’t expect or want marriage.”

He looked away. “Neither do I. In fact, I think the sooner our association is over, the better.”

Margery flinched at the harshness of his tone. Did he really mean that? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it, to get back to her life? “Our partnership can end now. You’ve lost interest in the treasure, and I still plan to find it. You may go your way and I will go mine. I won’t need your help to complete my quest and I shall find my own way back to Gloucester.” She’d also have to figure out how in the world she’d sell the treasure, but perhaps Digby could assist with that.

Rhys’s answering stare was disturbingly penetrating. “What about Penn? You promised to visit him when we returned from this trip.”

Oh, dear. She’d quite forgotten about Penn. She was mucking this up horribly, all because she found Rhys Bowen too bloody impossible to resist.

She hugged the clothing tighter to herself. “Penn will understand. I’ll write to him.”

“I’m sure that will appease a young boy whose mother recently abandoned him.”

Margery sucked in sweltering air. Emotions that she kept stringently locked away bubbled to the surface. Turning before she exposed something foolish, she went back to her room, struggling with the door as she juggled her clothes. At last, she managed to get it closed.

Dropping her things in a heap, she went to the open window and vainly sought the slightest breeze to wash away the frustration and desperation curling inside of her.

The door creaked, forcing her to turn. Rhys stepped over the threshold carrying her shoes. “You forgot these.” He set them on the floor gently.

She ought to thank him, but she was still fighting with her own inner turmoil.

“I’m sorry about what I said. Penn is not your responsibility; he’s mine.”

She nodded, appreciating his apology. A slight breeze tickled her neck, but was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Please consider abandoning the search.”

She looked at him sharply, surprised he’d ask her, knowing that she needed the treasure.

“Just listen to me,” he said. “Your safety is in question. I can’t allow you to continue alone.”

His presumption fired her temper. She felt raw, vulnerable. “First, I am not your responsibility. Second, I won’t be alone.” She tried to bite back the words as soon as they left her mouth.

“You won’t?” He scrutinized her a long moment while she attempted to behave as if she hadn’t just said something she shouldn’t. “Do
not
tell me Digby will be helping you.”

“I won’t.”

“But he is.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, Margery. We still don’t know if Digby is a member of the Order who’s gone off on his own.”

He was back to that? “I find it highly unlikely. He’s an Arthurian enthusiast, not some clandestine steward of a centuries-old group like
your friend
.”

He inhaled loudly, as if he were exasperated with her—and he assuredly was. “Yes, Septon is my friend, which is why I trust him more than Digby.”

“Yet
Septon
is the one who is actually part of an organization that is seeking to stop us from finding this treasure.”

“For good reason.” His voice climbed.

She fought to keep her tone even. “So he says. He could very easily be lying in order to obtain the treasure for himself.”

Rhys glanced at the ceiling, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Please consider it. I’ll compensate you for your book.” He held up his hand. “No, don’t tell me you won’t take the money. It’s my fault it was stolen, and my reimbursing you for its loss doesn’t constitute any other sort of
lurid
transaction.”

She remembered using that word with him after they’d met. That seemed so long ago now, but it hadn’t even been a fortnight. “I can’t abandon the search. I won’t.”

His mouth pressed into a disappointed line. “Then we are at an impasse.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“You have to go,” she said.

He hesitated and sweat broke out on her neck—both at the fear of being discovered and because of the tumult in his gaze.

In the end, he turned and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Getting fully dressed was almost painful in the oppressive heat, but it had been necessary in order to leave the inn. And Rhys hadn’t been able to suffer another moment in his sweltering room—or next door to Margery.

This afternoon had been an avoidable disaster. They’d both succumbed to a fever brought on by the temperature and their unquenchable desire. At least his was unquenchable. He’d wanted her again as soon as he’d climbed off the bed.

But then things had degraded, and it seemed a repeat of today’s blissful events would never come to pass. He scowled, moving into a grove of trees that provided some much-welcome shade. To his left, the inn rose a few hundred yards away. He turned and quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and the woman bedeviling his thoughts.

Blast it all, he couldn’t let her continue the search for the treasure without him, not when a faceless hazard lurked. He grunted. Not faceless. Digby would be with her, and for now, Rhys considered him a threat. Was that the reason for his distrust of the man—jealousy? Yes, but he had no cause for it since Margery didn’t seem interested in a permanent future with either one of them.

He was going to have to maintain the search with her, and Septon would have to keep the Order away from them. Meanwhile, Rhys would work to convince Margery to turn whatever they found over to the Order after they found it. Perhaps he could arrange things to have the Order pay her for the treasure—even if the money actually came from Rhys.

He loosened his cravat, uncaring that he might look less than dressed. Who was he going to encounter anyway?

Bloody Digby.

The gentleman, his own cravat hanging loose, walked toward him. He offered an affable smile. “Deuced hot. This is about the coolest spot to be had, here under the trees.” He gestured toward the canopy shading them.

Rhys wasn’t interested in Digby’s observations or small talk of any kind. His abject frustration boiled over. “What are you really doing in Caerwent?”

Digby stopped short and blinked at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m calling your bluff,” Rhys said softly, but with enough menace to make the other man’s eyes widen. “Are you a member of the Order of the Round Table? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Digby’s features relaxed and he inclined his head. “I am not.”

Rhys was taken aback by the man’s admission, despite having demanded it. Which didn’t mean he was trustworthy. He glanced at Digby’s calf. “Prove it.”
 

Digby opened his mouth but then closed it abruptly. He walked to the nearest tree, leaned against the trunk, and removed his boot. After dropping it to the ground, he peeled his stocking down to his ankle and revealed his pale, untattooed flesh. “Will this satisfy?”

Damn it all to hell.
Rhys would’ve wagered his library that Digby was a member, particularly if he was actually an Arthurian expert. “You’re at least aware of the Order if you knew to show me that.”

“I’m an Arthurian enthusiast.” He cocked his head as he drew his stocking back up his calf. “I know many things.”

Things he’d presumably told Margery if she’d consented to partner with him to find the treasure. When and how had that come about? Likely as soon as Rhys had said he was considering stopping the quest, something he now bitterly regretted. “Tell me some of these things.”
 

Digby drew on his boot, then turned and walked away from the inn. Rhys fell into step beside him, keeping a few feet of distance between them—as much as the copse would allow.

“I became interested in Arthur at Cambridge. I’ve spent a great deal of time researching everything to do with him and his knights. I’ve found several mentions of the Order.”
 

Why hadn’t Rhys ever heard of them? Because he hadn’t ever specialized in Arthurian texts. Not like his father, who’d sought them out periodically. Had he known of the Order? “What do you know of it?”

“It was founded in at least the eighth century—that’s the earliest writing I’ve found that references its existence. However, I believe it may be older.”

It was, according to Septon, but Rhys didn’t say so. “If you’re not a member of the Order, yet you are an Arthurian enthusiast, you must admit your presence here is rather coincidental when we are on a quest for Arthurian treasure.”

Digby removed his hat and wiped a handkerchief over his forehead. Like Rhys, he’d forsaken gloves in the heat. “My being here at this particular time is coincidence, I assure you. Caerwent is an important location in Arthurian legend, and I come here from time to time, always hoping I’ll see something new or make a discovery.” His smile was self-deprecating. “I haven’t been successful yet. I should tell you, however, that I tracked the de Valery manuscript to Miss Derrington’s aunts. It was the reason I tried to court her several weeks ago.”