The de Valery Code (6 page)

“We should discuss our visit,” he said. “You must never go anywhere alone, and you mustn’t do anything to encourage Stratton’s interest.” Though she’d likely do that by simply breathing.

Miss Derrington eyed him inquisitively. “I’m well aware of your cousin’s reputation. I shall be on my guard.”

“You must be. Stratton is a dissolute fiend.
 
Make sure Mrs. Edwards is with you at all times. In fact, I will insist that you sleep in the same chamber.”

“There you go with ‘must’ and ‘insist.’ Have you always been so dictatorial?” she asked.

Mrs. Edwards shrugged. “It’s no trouble; we shared a room at the White Lady.”

Rhys gave Miss Derrington a look that communicated something to the effect of,
not everyone thinks I’m dictatorial.

Miss Derrington exhaled softly. “I suppose adjoining chambers will suffice. Thank you so much for consulting with us,” she said with false sweetness.

He ignored her sarcasm. Protecting her was his responsibility while they were traveling together, and Stratton was a legitimate threat to a young lady like herself. “I worry that I should have come alone,” he muttered.

“With my book?” She shook her head. “There was never any chance of that.”

Right.
“Then you must adhere to my guidelines. You’ll leave the door between your adjoining chambers open so that Mrs. Edwards can hear you if you need assistance.” Rhys would request a nearby chamber as well, though that would undoubtedly pique Stratton’s curiosity.

 
In fact, perhaps Rhys ought to infer that Miss Derrington was already taken. It wouldn’t be foolproof—things such as marriage and engagements hadn’t always prevented Stratton from attempting scandalous behavior—but it might work. There had to be some honor among families, even for Stratton, didn’t there?

Was there honor in keeping a man’s son from him? For the boy’s well-being,
yes
.

Miss Derrington set her hand atop the bag that held the book nestled beside her. “I shall be cautious.”

They fell into silence for a good quarter hour or longer. Soft snores emanated from Mrs. Edwards’s corner.

Miss Derrington turned her head from the window to look at Rhys. “Are you and Stratton close? While you possess a somewhat irritating predilection for condescension, your behavior is at complete odds with his scandalous reputation.”

Rhys fought the urge to smile at her description of him. He ought to find her irritation annoying, but was instead charmed. He decided he might enjoy tormenting her—at least a bit. “Our familial connection is distant. I’ve only visited him a handful times: a few occasions as a child, his weddings, and once with my father to see his de Valery manuscript. I did attend one of his house parties, left early, and swore never to repeat the mistake.”

“I see. I understand Lady Stratton simply disregards his mischief?” Her tone held a strong note of disbelief.

Rhys had met her twice—the wedding and the house party—and found her to be lovely, if withdrawn. He felt sad for her lot and wondered what she would say if she knew the first Lady Stratton was still alive—at least for now. “She has little choice in the matter, unfortunately.”

“Indeed,” Miss Derrington murmured. “It doesn’t recommend the institution of marriage, does it? Is that why you are unmarried, Mr. Bowen?”
 

Her gaze found his, and he was struck by the frank curiosity in its depths. There was something more. Her eyes reminded him of a hothouse—a mix of earthy brown and vivid green. Exotic. Sultry. Perhaps he’d been reading too much romantic poetry of late.

“I haven’t felt the need to take a wife.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Too wrapped up in your books?”

“Perhaps.”
Definitely
. “And why do you remain unwed? I can’t believe you haven’t had offers.” She was far too lovely, too intelligent, too bewitching.

Bewitching?

“Believe it or not, I haven’t,” her answer came quick and carried a touch of irritation. “Furthermore, I haven’t felt the need to marry either.”

He’d been jesting with his answer. It wasn’t so much that he hadn’t felt the need, just that he hadn’t considered it at all. But with her, he imagined she had to have considered it—women in her position really had no other choice. Sooner or later, she’d likely marry. And he suddenly envied that faceless man.

Margery opened her eyes in the fire-lit room and took a moment to register her surroundings. The chamber at the inn was small, which was why she was huddled on a pallet between the narrow bed she’d given to Mrs. Edwards and the small fireplace in which the remnants of an earlier fire glowed orange. Based on the color of the embers, Margery hadn’t been asleep terribly long, but it wasn’t unusual that she would wake up when lodging in a strange place. Especially when the thin padding separating her from the floor did nothing to provide comfort.

Creak.

Now
that
was unusual.

Margery turned onto her back, expecting to see Mrs. Edwards getting out of bed perhaps. Yes, there was a dark figure. But it was much too tall . . .
 

A muffled screech, like someone was holding his hand over Mrs. Edwards’s mouth, drew Margery to sit up. She looked frantically for some sort of weapon. Her gaze landed on the fireplace poker.

“I’ll slit yer throat if ye scream,” hissed a masculine voice. “Where’s the book?”

The book?

It was stuffed beneath Margery’s pillow. She bolted to her feet and lunged for the poker, grasping the handle with a tight grip. Spinning on her heel, she nearly lost her balance as fear and anger coursed through her. Lifting the poker, she brought it down on the intruder’s head, but he moved to the right and she just grazed him.

It was enough to dislodge his hand, for Mrs. Edwards let loose a high scream that was bound to bring the inn down around them. The intruder raised his arm and the blade in his hand flashed, reflecting the scant light from the embers.

Margery swung the poker again, this time hitting him square in the side of the head.

He roared, nearly as loudly as Mrs. Edwards had screamed, and swung around. There was enough light for Margery to make out the nasty scar that disfigured his mouth and his long, misshapen nose.

“Ye shouldn’t have done that,” he growled. He reached for her arm, but she flailed backward, trying to escape his reach.

The door slammed against the wall as a second large figure dashed inside. And then the would-be-thief was gone, or at least no longer pursuing her. The two men tussled for a moment, but it was so dark, Margery couldn’t tell who was who or what was really happening. There were grunts, a curse, and a sharp intake of breath.
 

Then one of the men—the intruder, she was almost certain—fled the room.

“Mr. Bowen?” Margery moved cautiously toward their rescuer.

He lifted his head, and the firelight revealed it was he. “Are you all right?” His gaze raked her thoroughly before he turned to look at Mrs. Edwards. She sat up in the bed, her eyes wide, and clutched the coverlet to her chin.

Margery dropped the poker and rushed to her side. “We’re saved. Are you hurt?”

Mrs. Edwards shook her head, her long, dark braid curling along her collarbone.

“Are you both well?” Mr. Bowen asked from just behind Margery.

She turned to look at him. “I think so. He asked for the book.” She returned her focus to Mrs. Edwards. “Did he say anything else?”

“That he was going to . . . to . . . slit my throat.” Her face was the color of ash.

Margery leaned closer and slid her arm around Mrs. Edwards’s shoulders in a half hug. “You’re going to be fine. We’re safe now.”

“I think I’d prefer to return home in the morning. After Mr. Bowen’s talk of Lord Stratton and that . . . that . . . brigand, I’m afraid I . . .” She dropped her face into her hands and began to cry.

Margery’s heart ached for the poor woman. It must’ve been terrible to wake up to a strange man standing over you with a knife. Margery’s own heart was still beating a horrendous rhythm in her chest, and she couldn’t shake the icy sensation lodged in her spine. She rubbed her hand over Mrs. Edwards’s back as she cried.

“What happened?” A new masculine voice came from the doorway as light flooded the chamber.

Margery looked over to see the innkeeper, a lantern in his hand.

“There was an intruder,” Mr. Bowen said. Now that she could properly see, Margery was shocked to realize Mr. Bowen’s chest was bare. And quite muscular. “A would-be thief.” He shot Margery a glance that was meant to convey something—probably not to mention the book, though she’d already made that determination for herself.

The innkeeper moved farther into the room. “He make off with anything?”

“No,” Margery answered. “He was tall, slender, with a scar cutting across his mouth and a long, crooked nose, as if it had been broken several times.”

Mrs. Edwards had stopped crying, though her frame still felt quivery beneath Margery’s touch. Additional figures stood in the corridor outside the room. Other guests, certainly—the inn was full to capacity—which was why Margery and Mrs. Edwards were sharing such a tiny room.

“Everyone all right?” The innkeeper’s gaze settled on Mrs. Edwards, whose head was still bent.

“She’ll be fine,” Mr. Bowen said. “You ought to do a thorough check of the inn and the stables. Probably the grounds. He had a knife and threatened the ladies. I know we’d all feel better if we could be certain he was gone.”

Mrs. Edwards nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I’ll come with you,” Mr. Bowen continued. “Allow me to attire myself appropriately.”

The innkeeper nodded, then turned. “If any of the lot of you care to help, follow me.”

Mr. Bowen made to leave, but Margery gave Mrs. Edwards a gentle pat and hurried to stop him. She touched his elbow just as he was crossing the threshold to the corridor. The connection of her fingers with his bare flesh banished any residual chill that was resting in her bones.

She jerked her hand back as he turned. “Thank you.”

His eyes reminded her of the blackened pieces in the fireplace, dark as pitch but smoldering with undeniable heat. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

“I am. Though I am concerned for Mrs. Edwards. She’s had a terrible fright.”

“Unsurprising. That was quite an event.” He blinked at her. “Did you hit him with the fireplace poker?”

She nodded, feeling exceptionally good, maybe even a bit pleased with herself. “Twice.”

“What a dangerous vixen you are,” he murmured. His gaze caressed her, lingering on her hair, which she’d unpinned before bed and left to hang loose past her shoulders.

“Perhaps, but your arrival was most opportune.” She suddenly noticed a small trickle of blood on the side of his neck. Her fingers were against his flesh again before she could censor herself. “You’re hurt.”

His hand came up and their fingers collided. “Just a scratch from his knife.”

She ignored the sensations rioting in her belly and poked at his skin. Yes, just a small scratch, but it would require cleaning. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

He arched a brow at her. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I can move rather quickly, Miss Derrington, despite my size.”

Yes, his size. She’d likened him to a warrior and now, with his bare torso exposed to her perusal, she was certain he was some reincarnated hero. Perhaps one of the knights in the book. The book!

She dropped her hand from his neck and rushed back to the pallet. Throwing the pillow aside, she scooped up the tome and clutched it to her chest. The attempt to steal the manuscript had changed everything. Mrs. Edwards wanted to return home, Mr. Bowen had been injured, and someone was most definitely after her book.
Who?

Mr. Bowen had followed her. “It’s safe?”

“Yes, I had it under my pillow.”

“A good thing.” His tone was grim. “However, it might be best if you gave it to me for safekeeping.”

“Why? Whoever’s looking for it knows I have it. They’ll still try to come after me.”

“But they won’t find the book. Not that I’m going to let anyone come anywhere near you.” His pledge was dark and glorious, almost romantic. She shivered.

Perhaps she
should
deliver the book into his custody. No, she had too many unanswered questions.

“Please give it to him,” Mrs. Edwards said.

Her tone was so forlorn, so frightened that Margery nearly relented. “I’ll consider it.”

He frowned at her. “We’ll discuss it after I’ve helped with the search.”

“Must you?” Mrs. Edward’s voice croaked. “I’d feel safer if you or someone else stayed with us.”

Margery went back to the bed and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Whatever you’d like.”

“Give me a few minutes to get dressed and check on the search,” he said. “I’ll feel better when I know the bugger—pardon me—is gone.” With a final probing stare, he turned and left.

Mrs. Edwards’s gaze fixed on the book Margery cradled against her right side. “What’s in that anyway?”

“Just old stories recorded by a fourteenth-century scribe.” Now Margery was certain there was more to this book than Mr. Bowen had revealed. And she was going to demand he tell her the truth. “The book is highly valued.”