The de Valery Code (30 page)

Septon gestured to the seating area. “Please sit with me.” He took the armchair he’d used earlier in the day.

Anticipation stirred in Rhys’s gut as he sat in the other chair. “Why am I suddenly anxious?”

Septon smiled, but lines of tension fanned from the corners of his eyes and mouth. “I want to show you something.” He pulled his boot off and rolled down his stocking. Then he presented his leg, turning it slightly so the inside of his calf was visible. A sword, about three inches long, was tattooed into his flesh. “Every member has one in just this spot.”

Rhys leaned forward and studied the mark. The letters “KRT” were stamped across the guard of the sword handle. He instantly knew what it meant. Dread unfurled in his chest. “I should call you out for the danger you submitted Margery to.”
 

He didn’t care that he’d first-named her in front of a member of Society. He only cared that fury, white-hot and blinding, was coursing through him. He just barely kept himself from launching his fist into Septon’s grim visage.

Septon seemed to sense the danger. He pulled back into his chair, as if he could remove himself from Rhys’s reach. However, nothing would keep him safe—not after what he’d just exposed.

Septon rolled up his stocking and replaced his boot. “Before you leap to judgment, allow me to explain.”

Once again, strong emotions rose up inside of Rhys, shocking him with their virulence. He wasn’t a violent man, but right now he had a savage urge to inflict damage on Septon and his entire bloody Order. “You have one opportunity to convince me not to knock your head from your shoulders.”
 

“I understand your anger. First, let me apologize for any danger to Miss Derrington. The man at de Valery’s house was a bit . . . aggressive.”

Rhys vaulted out of his chair and stood over Septon. “And what of the man who attacked her in Hereford? Or the pair of men who accosted her outside of Leominster?”
 

Septon blanched. “I didn’t know about either of those events. . . I’m not in charge.”

Rhys leaned forward, his lip curling. “Who is?”

“We don’t reveal that information, under any circumstance.” He glanced at Rhys’s fisted hands. “I am not aware of anyone who might have perpetrated either of those acts. Was that before or after you took the glass from de Valery’s house?”

Septon knew that? “Before,” he growled.

Septon exhaled. “I doubt it was the Order. We weren’t cognizant of your activity until you showed up at de Valery’s. We’ve tracked you since, but we’ve kept our distance.”

He thought of Margery alone at the inn. “Is someone watching her now? By God, if anyone hurts her—”

Septon lifted his hand, palm out. “No one would hurt her. We don’t do that. The man at de Valery’s said you fought him—we prefer not to resort to violence.”

They
preferred
. “That doesn’t sound like you
don’t
.”

“Sometimes it’s been necessary. However, once I determined it was you—after I received your letter—I gave orders not to engage with you or your companion. At the time I didn’t know her identity.” Septon’s gaze turned pleading. “Please, you must understand. The man at de Valery’s, he wouldn’t have actually hurt you.”

“Tell that to my head.” Rhys turned to show him the still-yellow bruise on his temple.

Septon cringed. “My apologies. Will you let me explain the purpose of the Order?”

Rhys had to admit he was curious. “You assure me that Margery is safe?”

“From us, yes.”

Rhys had started to relax, but then remembered the bloody books—how could he have forgotten that? “Wait. Our de Valery manuscripts were stolen from the church earlier. They were taken from my coach. And you conveniently had us ride here in your vehicle.” He glared at his one-time friend.

“Rhys, I swear the Order had nothing to do with that. I don’t have your books. In fact, I share your concern. This is most distressing. Those are important artifacts.”

“They’re more than artifacts,” Rhys said heavily, thinking of how devastated Margery was and how distraught Lord Nash was going to be.

“I know.” Septon’s agreement was sad. “I’ll help you find who stole them. I’m beginning to think there’s some vile plot at work here. Perhaps a corrupt member of the Order executing his own agenda.”

Rhys looked at him sharply. “Is that possible?”

“Anything’s possible. And sadly, there have been instances during our long history where members have taken it upon themselves to act with haste or have simply lost sight of their oath.”

“And what oath is that?”

“To protect the legacy of King Arthur and his knights. Most of us are descendants of the Round Table.”

Rhys blinked at him. “You can prove this?”

Septon shrugged. “In some cases. In others, it’s an oral history that’s been passed down.”

“Your ancestor was a knight of the Round Table?”

Septon smiled sadly. “How I wish. I was selected because of my extensive Arthurian research. They approached me after I left Oxford.”

And he’d apparently risen to some level of importance from the sound of it. “You’re telling me King Arthur actually lived.”

Septon adjusted in his chair. “Do you think you might sit down again? My neck is beginning to ache as I look up at you from this angle.”

Rhys backed away. “No, I have to return to the inn. If there’s a member who has, as you put it, ‘lost sight of his oath,’ I need to make sure Margery is safe.”

Septon got to his feet. “Goodness, you’re right. We’ll take my gig.” He grabbed his hat from a hook near the door and went outside with Rhys fast on his heels. The nearly full moon lit their way to the small stable. “Davis, ready my gig posthaste!”

A young stable lad bustled about, quickly tethering the horse to the vehicle. Rhys mentally calculated if he could run there faster, but decided the gig would be more expedient. That didn’t stop him from pacing while the stable lad worked.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Septon said, his tone laced with anxiety.

“She’d better be.” Raw fury blistered just beneath the surface of his temper—a temper he hadn’t known he possessed until he’d made the acquaintance of Miss Margery Derrington.

“Let me finish telling you about the Order,” Septon offered.

Yes, that would keep Rhys from obsessing over Margery for the next ten minutes, though he continued to pace, elevating his already spiking body temperature. The summer night was warm and he longed to strip off his coat. “Continue. You were telling me that King Arthur was an actual historical figure.”

“We believe so, yes, although there are no direct ancestors that we are aware of.”

“Ready, my lord,” Davis called.

Septon raced forward and climbed into the gig. Rhys followed, vaulting into the opposite side. He stifled the urge to snatch the reins from him.

Once they were moving, Septon went on, “In addition to the knights having lived, some of their stories, while exaggerated and romanticized over time, are factual. The stories in the de Valery manuscripts are based on actual events. The items in the stories—the thirteen treasures—are real.”

The speed of the gig allowed a cooling breeze to soothe Rhys’s raging temper. “Many people believe that since the Heart of Llanllwch was found.”

“Yes, but that’s only part of it. The heart isn’t actually one of the thirteen treasures. It doesn’t contain a magical property.”

Rhys angled in his seat and stared at Septon. “Are you saying these treasures exist as written in the legends? There are magical swords and knives and chariots?” Rhys wasn’t sure he could believe that, not without seeing it. Hell, he still wasn’t sure he believed anything this Order purported. He was a man of academics—he required evidence to prove his theories and assertions.

“It’s not quite that simple.” Septon turned a corner and they raced toward the inn. “The treasures have power—for the right people. Many of the stories speak of the treasures choosing the user by virtue of their nobility or bravery. They don’t work quite like that. Armed with the right information, the treasures could be very dangerous.”

“What information?” Rhys was torn between Septon’s revelations and the need to ensure Margery’s safety. But the inn was in sight.
 

“That isn’t something I’m permitted to discuss.” His tone was apologetic as he glanced at Rhys. “You must understand—the weapons amongst the treasure could empower someone to achieve terrible things, and the items that provide comfort or ease . . . men would kill to possess such treasures. The Order’s primary objective is to keep them hidden.”

“Is that why you’re trying to prevent us from finding the treasure from the de Valery code? You think it’s one or more of the thirteen treasures.”

Septon brought the gig to halt before the inn. “We don’t know for certain. We can’t confirm the location of any of the treasures—save the heart, which as I said doesn’t seem to possess any magical qualities.”

Rhys prepared to step out of the gig. “The Order doesn’t sound particularly knowledgeable.”

“I assure you, we are,” Septon said with a touch of heat. “However, so much of the real information has been lost to history. That is why the de Valery manuscripts are so important. They were derived from another work—a work that was drafted perhaps during Arthur’s lifetime or shortly thereafter. By a scribe named Anarawd.”

Rhys snapped his gaze to Septon’s. “You lied to us.”

“To Miss Derrington. I’d planned to tell you the truth once we were alone.”

Margery.
Rhys jumped from the gig.

“Bowen, wait,” Septon called. He stepped out of the gig and came around to speak more quietly. “If someone
has
gotten to Miss Derrington, I’d like to help. I’ll remain here. If there’s trouble, send me a signal.” Rhys turned to go, but Septon snagged his elbow. “I’ve shared all of this with you for a reason. You
must
abandon your quest. I’ll do everything I can to help you recover the de Valery manuscripts—but
they
must be your treasure. I’m pleading with you to leave the other treasure where it lies. This is critical.” His grip on Rhys’s arm tightened.

Rhys shook him off. “Is the Order threatening me?”

“No, your friend is asking you a favor.”

Rhys pulled his sleeve to straighten the bunched fabric at the elbow. “I’ll consider it.”

Septon’s gaze sharpened. “Please, this is vitally important. You must understand the danger the thirteen treasures pose. I’m appealing to your scholarly nature—leave history alone.”

“My scholarly nature is precisely what demanded I seek the treasure in the first place.” He coated his tone in ice. “It could be an important artifact that we could use to learn and teach.”

Septon stepped back from him, his mouth turned down. “You must do as you believe, but I am not the sole member of the Order and there are many people above me.”

There was no mistaking
that
was a threat.

With a parting scowl, Rhys turned and strode into the inn. He took the stairs two at a time, but when he reached the landing, everything was quiet. With light steps, he went into his room, planning to access Margery’s via their connecting door. He didn’t get that far, however, because sitting in the chair by his open window, her loosened hair blowing in the gentle, night breeze, was Margery.

He closed the door behind him and in a handful of strides he clasped her hand and pulled her from the chair. “You’re safe,” he breathed.

Her eyes were wide, her lips parted as she nodded.

“Good.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. The heat of the night, the anger he felt toward Septon, the fear he’d felt for her well-being—all of it tangled inside of him into a sweltering passion he simply couldn’t contain.

He swept his tongue into her mouth, ravaging the soft recesses. He dug his fingers into her back as he brought her more tightly against his hardening body.

Her fingers curled into his lapels, holding him captive to her eagerly answering mouth. She struggled to push his coat off and he was only too obliged to help her, stripping it from his shoulders and tossing it to the floor. Her fingers wound into his cravat and pulled the knot free. Then she tugged the ends so that the silk pulled against his neck as she tilted her mouth beneath his.

God, she was excitement and adventure and bliss all rolled into a tantalizing package. He raked his fingers up her back and fisted a length of her hair. She moaned into his mouth and ground her hips against his.

She whipped the cravat from his neck and replaced it with her fingers, stroking and kneading his flesh. He feasted on her mouth, unable to quell the desire raging through him.

With a gasp, she pulled her lips from his. “We shouldn’t do this,” she breathed, but her fingers were busy unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“We shouldn’t.” He worked the fastenings of her robe and pushed it aside to reveal the linen nightrail she wore beneath. A breeze from the open window rustled over her, shifting the material against her breasts so he could see their pebbled tips.

He leaned down and drew one into his mouth, suckling her through the fabric. She arched her neck and moaned softly as she pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders. She clutched his head to her chest, her fingers digging into his scalp. His lust spiraling to new heights, he tongued and sucked her, then lightly nipped her flesh. She gasped and tugged at his hair even harder. Blood rushed to his cock.