The de Valery Code (24 page)

“You’re an orphan?” The question carried a tinge of hope, and she knew he was trying to find some elusive connection in a world that seemed grossly unfair to him.

“Yes. I have a pair of great-aunts who took me in and cared for me. I’m luckier than most. As are you.”

He looked down at the patterned coverlet. “I’m not lucky.”

“I think you are. Your mother entrusted you to a good man who will educate you into manhood. Imagine if you were in an orphanage or a workhouse instead.”

His gaze turned abruptly fierce. “My mother is going to come back for me.”

Oh no.
Why hadn’t his mother told him the truth? Why would she let him harbor false hope? But was it Margery’s place to tell him that she was dying, that Rhys was going to be the only family he would know? Yes,
family
because she believed Rhys would offer that. Whatever she felt for him, she could see that he was earnest in caring for this boy. He never would’ve consented to take him in otherwise.
 

How had she come to be so certain of the man’s motives about Penn when she still doubted his dealings with her and the treasure? Perhaps she wasn’t being very fair. Perhaps she was allowing her own emotions to cloud her judgment—emotions she’d kept at bay for far too long.

Suddenly she felt a rush of longing. Like Penn whose world had been turned asunder, she felt as though things were upside down. She’d had her parents and then her aunts and now she was here, on her own. Her aunts were still there, but for how long? At some point, Margery would be really and truly alone.

She inhaled deeply, casting her fear to the side to focus on Penn. “And if she doesn’t return?”

He looked away, his jaw clenched.

Margery clasped his hand. “It’s all right to be upset. I cried endlessly when my parents died. But then one day I decided not to be sad about it anymore.” At least on the outside. Inside, the pain of losing them still burned her chest, especially now, as she tried to give this boy hope.

“I don’t know if I can do that.” His voice cracked. “I miss her so.”

“I know, and you always will. Penn, do you want . . . Do you want a hug?”

He gripped her hand and nodded, but kept his gaze averted.

Margery leaned forward and slipped her arms around him. He came away from the pillow and hugged her back. She stroked the back of his head and smiled against his dark hair. He needed a bath tomorrow, something she would discuss with Rhys.

When she pulled away, Penn dashed a hand over his eye. She looked discreetly to the side.

“Will you be coming back with Mr. Bowen?” His dark eyes were intense.

“I . . . I don’t know.” She didn’t want to lie to him, but she also hated the flash of disappointment in his gaze. “I will promise to write to you. Will you write me back?”

“Only if you promise to visit.”

How could she do that? She and Rhys—Mr. Bowen—were not going to continue their . . . relationship after they found the treasure. He would eventually marry—wouldn’t he?—and so would she. Or not. If the treasure was sufficient, she wouldn’t have to. But then that left her alone . . . A coldness started to slither over her, but she banished it by looking at Penn, so young, so deserving of people who cared about him. “Yes, I will visit you—right after we find the treasure. You are the first one we should share it with, given your invaluable assistance.”

He brightened at her words, and the sight warmed her heart, reminding her that it was there for people other than her aunts. Could she risk baring it?

She shoved the question aside, finding the events of this night far too troubling to ponder. “I’ve also convinced Mr. Bowen to allow you a pet. Which would you like, a dog or a cat?”

He blinked at her. “Truly? I think . . .” He dropped his head shyly.

“What is it?”

“My mother always spoke of her cat. She said it was orange, and she called it Marzipan.”

Margery smiled. “I had an orange cat too. Though mine was called Fancy, because she hated to get her paws dirty, even as a kitten. She also appreciated table scraps, much to my mother’s dismay. That didn’t stop me and my father from giving them to her.”

“May I have a cat? It needn’t be orange.”

In that moment, Margery might’ve considering trading her precious book for the prospect of an orange cat for Penn. “We’ll see if we can’t find one.”

She let go of his hand and stood. “Sleep well, Penn.”

“Good night, Miss Derrington.”

“You may call me Margery,” she said. “I insist.”

“Good night, Margery.”

“Good night, Penn.” She closed the door gently and started back toward her room. Then passed it and continued to the opposite end of the corridor. Her feet carried her all the way to the door, which she knocked upon before thinking better of it.

After a moment, Rhys—Mr. Bowen—opened the door. He was wearing another banyan, this one in black silk that matched his eyes. “Margery?”

She blinked, trying to ignore the pull she felt toward him. “I’ve promised him an orange cat. You must find him an orange cat. With haste.”

His brow gathered in confusion. “Who, Penn?”

“Yes. I went to see him just now and promised him an orange cat.” She vaguely realized she might sound a little batty. This was just so important and it was vital that he agreed. “You’ll do it, won’t you?”

He ran his hand through his hair, mussing the black strands. “I don’t know—”

She poked her finger into his chest, hard enough that he stepped back. “You will get him an orange cat.”

“Margery, I don’t think—”

She stepped over the threshold and poked him again. “Promise me.”

“All right, yes. But it will live in the barn.”

“That won’t suffice. It will live wherever Penn deems best. He needs this cat, Mr. Bowen.”

A shaft of disappointment muddled his gaze. “You’ve gone back to Mr. Bowening me?”

“Agree to my terms.”

“Margery—Miss Derrington,” he said, with a dose of exasperation heightening his tone. “I will not be held hostage to your demands. I will discuss the cat with Penn when we return from Caerwent.”

“No, you must set Thomas or someone on this task immediately.” She couldn’t explain it, but she felt beholden to this boy now. Someone had to look out for him, to fight for him. “Before we leave tomorrow.”

He wrapped his hand around the finger still pointed into the front of his banyan. “Why is this so important to you?”

“It just . . . is. Penn needs some security. His world is completely different. A cat will soothe him.” It would’ve soothed her. But her aunts had made her find a new home for Fancy because Aunt Eugenie was allergic. The pain of that loss so soon after her parents had crushed her heart in such a way that she wasn’t sure it had ever healed. “Please, just get him the cat.” Her words were soft, broken.

“Yes, I’ll get him the cat—tomorrow—and it can live wherever Penn wants.” He brushed his hand against her dry cheek. “Margery?”

“You shouldn’t call me that.” She stood on her toes and kissed him. It came from gratitude, but bloomed into something far more devastating. The passion he’d stirred earlier sprang to life within her, and she pulled his head down so she could deepen the embrace.

He returned the kiss, his hands digging into her back and holding her tight against him. His frame was hard and strong, and in contrast she felt light and feminine. There was also next to nothing between them. Her thin nightrail and robe and his banyan. Even her feet were bare.
 

She swept her tongue with his, reveling in these new sensations that were both surprising and exhilarating. This was madness. She should stop him as she’d done earlier. But something inside her was singing for the first time in so long, maybe ever. It was wrong, but she just knew that if she walked away she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

With a clarity she didn’t know she could possess during such a tumultuous moment, she retraced her steps and closed his door. When she returned to him, she unclasped her dressing gown and dropped it to the floor.
 

He looked down at her, his eyes impossibly dark in the faint light from the pair of lanterns that flanked his bed. “What are you doing to me?” he rasped.

“Consider it an invitation.”

“It’s a bloody seduction.”

She pulled at the buttons holding his banyan closed.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m not wearing anything under this, Margery.”

“Good.” She let the word embolden her, though her insides were quivering—both from excitement and dread. She was opening a door she could never close again, but she simply had to see what was on the other side.

She pushed the garment from his shoulders and looked at his bare chest. Dark hair sprinkled between his nipples and led a trail downward. She jerked her gaze up before she could reach his arousal.

“Are you certain?” he asked, his hands hovering at her shoulders.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Not trusting herself not to change her mind.
No,
there would be no regrets.

But he wasn’t to be satisfied. “I need to hear you say it. I need to hear the words. I like words, Margery. I
love
words.”

She almost smiled. Of course he loved words. And she would give them to him. Whisking her nightrail up over her head, she tossed it atop her dressing gown on the floor. Then she speared him with a seductive—
his word
—stare. “Make love to me, Rhys.”

Chapter Fourteen

Rhys’s brain had to be failing him. Was this some fevered dream? He’d been about to climb into bed, where he’d expected to toss restlessly. Now the reason for his turmoil was here. Not just here—but ready to fulfill his fantasy.

He stared at her nude body, disbelieving. The gentleman in him demanded he cover her back up and send her away. The man in him told the gentleman to shut the hell up. He decided to listen to the man.

Reaching for her, he couldn’t help but repeat himself, “You’re certain?”

She arched an elegant blond brow at him. “I understand your fondness for the written word, but must it carry to speech as well? Particularly
now
?”

He laughed, but it came out as a sort of half-growl as he pulled her against his chest. The contact of their bare flesh nearly drove him to his knees. He wrapped his arms around her and held on for everything he was worth.

With a gentle caress along her neck, he tipped her head back and kissed her mouth like he was drinking a fine, rare wine. But she tasted far better. How could he describe it? Like warmth and bliss and excitement.

He trailed the kisses along her jaw until he met her ear. She shivered when he stroked his tongue along the outer shell and nibbled the lobe.

“The bed?” she asked breathlessly.

He swept her into his arms and carried her a few long strides. She clutched at his neck and pulled him to kiss her again. They fell together onto the bed.

He rolled her to her back and came over her, his breath catching at her beauty in the dim light. Her eyes were dark and sultry, her lips reddened and parted. There’d never been a lovelier, more alluring sight.

“Aren’t you going to touch my . . .” She glanced away from him demurely. “What you did earlier?”

Where was the adventurous woman he’d come to know? “Your breast? Don’t be ashamed of the word or of your body, Margery. You’re beautiful.” He gazed down at her reverently, touched her softly, his palm grazing over her nipple.

She sucked in a breath as he kept his touch light.

“So beautiful.” He leaned down and blew across the tip, tormenting her with the barest skim of his hand over her flesh.

“Please.”

“Please, what? Remember, I like words. Written, spoken,
screamed
.” A rush of lust jolted through him as she arched up, pressing her breast into his hand.

She cast her back against the pillow, her blond hair trapped beneath her save a small fan that grazed her shoulder. “Please touch me. Harder. Like you did before. With your mouth.”

“Like this?” He cupped her, then brought his thumb and forefinger to her pebbled tip and squeezed, which he hadn’t done before.