The de Valery Code (31 page)

He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. With fast, jerky movements, he stripped his boots away and whisked his shirt over his head. He didn’t have time for more because she pulled him down on top of her and kissed him again, her tongue a wildfire of need and demand.

She dragged her mouth away to press kisses along his jawline, then lower, against his neck and his collarbone. He gritted his teeth against the overwhelming sensations. She was going to kill him. Then her hands were on his fall and her fingers brushed against his erection through the fabric. Yes, death was imminent.

But oh, what a death it would be.

He grasped the hem of her gown and pulled it up over her knees and thighs, his knuckles grazing her soft flesh. She was hot, like him, the summer night fueling the heat of their desire.

Her hand found his bare cock, and he groaned with the pleasure of it. Her grip wasn’t tentative or light, but sure and strong. She found the base and slid her palm up, as confidently and wonderfully as the last time.
 

Desperate to touch her, he found the soft heat between her thighs and stroked the sensitive folds. Her hips came up and rotated into his hand, seeking his touch while her hand continued its ascent and descent over his rigid cock.

“Miss Derrington?”

The sound of Jane’s voice broke through their sexual haze. Both of their hands stilled as their heads turned, in unison, toward the connecting door. A loud knock sounded.

“Miss Derrington?”

Their heads turned again, this time toward each other, eyes wide. Then they scrambled from the bed, practically falling over each other in the process.

Margery pulled her nightrail down to cover her legs and snatched up her robe. With shaking fingers she refastened the garment. Her body was hot, thrumming with unsatisfied desire. What had just happened? If it hadn’t been for Jane . . .
 

“Shit,” Rhys muttered as he readjusted his breeches.
 

Margery tried to keep from looking at his magnificent chest, but failed. The muscles beneath his dark flesh flexed as he reached for his shirt.

“Yes, I’m here Jane.” Shaking her lust-addled head, she went to the door and opened it just wide enough so that Jane could see her but not into the room—and more importantly Rhys—beyond. She smiled at the young maid, whose forehead was drawn with concern. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Mr. Bowen and I had some matters to discuss. I’ll be back shortly.”

Jane nodded, her expression relaxing into relief. “I woke up and when I didn’t see you, I thought perhaps I’d failed to bring you something, but then you weren’t downstairs.”

“Oh, Jane, you’re doing a wonderful job,” Margery assured her. “Just wonderful. Please, go back to sleep. I’m quite used to caring for myself, so you mustn’t take my actions as a slight against your abilities. I’m learning, just as you are.”

Jane’s answering smile was soft and appreciative. “Good night then.”

“Good night, Jane.” Margery closed the door and turned. Rhys had donned his shirt but nothing else. Not that she blamed him, the night was quite warm and if he was half as hot as she was, he likely wished he was naked.

Do
not
think of him naked.

She crossed to the window and put her face into the breeze, closing her eyes. It was a mild comfort, but still a comfort. She exhaled and when her body had cooled just a little, she opened her eyes and turned to look at him. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

His gaze was wary. “No, it was my fault. I’m the one who kissed you.”

“Clearly, I was not opposed,” she said drily.

“It’s just . . .” He raked his hand through his hair, mussing the thick black strands. “I was worried something had happened to you and when I found you safe, I’m afraid my relief got the better of me.”

He’d kissed her out of relief? That kiss had seemed to stem from something far deeper, far more primitive. She shuddered remembering the intensity of his kiss, the insistence of his mouth on her breast, the promise of what was to come next . . .
 

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

He pulled the second chair from the table, set it opposite the other in front of the window, and gestured for her to sit. As he took the other chair, the breeze rippled the opening of his shirt, drawing her eye to the stark contrast of his nearly-brown flesh against the pale linen. She curled her fingers into her palms as the urge to touch him again swept through her.

She sensed a tension in him that may or may not have had to do with their interrupted sexual encounter.

At last, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark and vibrant, as if his passion burned just behind them. “Septon confessed that he’s a member of the Order.” He made the declaration with a contempt and disdain she’d never glimpsed in him before.

“I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.” It made too much sense, given Septon’s Arthurian knowledge and the timely disappearance of the books. “Did you get my manuscript back?”

“No, but wait.” He held up his hand. “You aren’t surprised? I was.”

“I think you mean shocked.”

“Hell yes, I’m shocked. Septon’s been my friend for years. And when I thought he’d brought danger to you . . .” His hands were splayed on his lap, but they dug into the fabric of his breeches.

“He was behind all of it? The attacks on me to obtain my book, the altercation near de Valery’s house?” She glanced at the light bruise still evident on Rhys’s forehead and felt an urge to kick Septon where it would hurt most.

“He says he wasn’t.” Rhys frowned out at the night. “He insisted the Order isn’t dangerous—as a rule—though they might have a member who follows their own path from time to time. He doesn’t know who tried to steal your book, and he doesn’t have the books now.”

She leaned forward and almost touched his knee to draw his focus, but stopped herself. Touching should be avoided at all costs unless she wanted to end up back in bed with him. For a brief moment, her mind indulged her hungry body, but he thankfully interrupted her wayward thoughts.

“Septon’s pledged to help us recover the books,” Rhys said.

She didn’t trust Septon to do anything he said. “And how does he plan to do that?”
 

“We didn’t discuss it. I was too concerned with getting back here to you. When he said there could be another member of the Order out on his own, I immediately wanted to ensure your safety.” His gaze burned into hers. He’d been afraid. For her.

She swallowed as the attraction between them coaxed her temperature past the breaking point. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck and she pulled her hair over her shoulder to expose the flesh to the somewhat cooler air wafting from the window. “I’m not sure why you would trust Septon. He’s a member of the Order, and from what Lord Nash said, they’re a dubious organization.”

“I’m angry with Septon, but I still trust him. I’ve known him a long time, and he confessed his membership of his own volition.” He massaged his neck. “He also told me the Order’s purpose.” He shot her a skeptical look. “He claims King Arthur and the knights were real people and that the Order was founded by the knights’ descendants.”

Margery let go of the mass of her hair. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t know whether I believe
that
. However, I can tell you that his other revelation is too fanciful to be indulged.”

She could hardly wait to hear. “Do tell me.”

“You know of the thirteen treasures of course. The Order says they not only exist, but that they hold the magical properties as outlined in the legend.”

Margery thought of the items in her book. “There’s a sword that bursts into flame?”

He blinked. “Supposedly, yes.”

They stared at each other a moment and burst out laughing.
 

“I can see you find this as compelling as I do,” he said through a wide smile that made her heart turn over.

“It’s preposterous. And where are these precious items?”

“He says they don’t know, but I’m not sure I believe that either. He’s quite insistent that we give up our quest—to protect the world from these potentially dangerous items.”

She scoffed. “How is a hamper that provides as much food as necessary dangerous?”

“Because it will induce men to fight over its possession.”

She fervently wished the breeze was stronger and cooler. Her nightrail stuck to her back beneath the heaviness of her robe, but she didn’t dare remove it again.

After a long pause, she said, “Septon believes the treasure from the de Valery code is one of these magical items?”

“He isn’t certain, but says it’s possible. He’s asked that we respect history and let it remain hidden.”

Anger flared in her belly. “That’s fine for him to say, but I need that treasure, especially now that my book is gone.” She pressed her lips together, hating that she’d said so much.

“I know,” he said softly. “And we’re going to get it back, I promise.”

She appreciated his sympathy, but it did little to ease the sick feeling rooting in her stomach.

“Margery.” The word stroked her like a caress. “You don’t need to worry about needing the treasure. I will take care of you.”

She snapped her gaze to his. “You’ll
what
? I’m not your paramour.”

His forehead creased, making him appear chagrined. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How else would it be interpreted for a gentleman to give money to an unmarried young woman?”

He looked away from her. “My apologies.”

“What are you going to do about finding the treasure?”

He kept his gaze averted. “I’m not sure. I have to consider Septon’s plea.”

He’d really surrender their quest? She clenched her teeth, upset that he’d abandon her. She couldn’t do it alone. Digby could help her. And with Rhys gone, that was one less person to split the treasure with. But could she trust Digby? It had taken time for her to trust Rhys, and now knowing Septon was a member of the Order, and that there might be another member out there with a self-serving agenda . . . Could Digby be that member? A chill raced down her back, icing the perspiration and making her shoulders twitch.

No, she’d come too far to back down. She
needed
that treasure. “I’m not giving up.”

He turned his head to look at her. “And what will you do when you find it?” Sell it? To whom? How will you be monetarily compensated?”

She blinked at him, her mind scrambling. “You were going to . . .” Take care of that with his antiquarian connections. Or something. They’d never really settled on a firm plan. Why would they do that when finding the treasure had seemed, at times, like an insurmountable challenge? But if he sided with the Order and chose to leave the treasure alone, she wouldn’t have his assistance. And she couldn’t take any money he offered without losing every shred of self-esteem she possessed. Besides, Aunt Eugenie would never allow it. She considered Aunt Agnes’s decision to become a man’s mistress to be a dire mistake, one she never truly forgave her sister for. That Margery wouldn’t actually be Rhys’s mistress didn’t matter—she’d given him her virginity and if she took his money, it would seem like a transaction.

Standing, she fixed him with a determined glare. “Never mind. I don’t need your help to find the treasure. Good night, Mr. Bowen.”
 

She turned to go to her room, but he lightly clasped her wrist, spinning her until she nearly connected with his chest—if not for the hand she splayed over his shirt and quickly snatched away.

He let go of her with a slight nod of apology. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to give up the quest—I’m only thinking about it. I consider things from all angles, as any good scholar would.”

“Do inform me when you’ve completed your analysis.” She quickly retreated to her room before he could stop her again.

Once inside, she hastily stripped her robe away and flung it to the floor, uncaring that it would be a wrinkled mess by morning. Jane would be delighted to have something maid-ish to do.

The single window was open, but the heat of the room was near-stifling. Between that and the lingering desire burning between her legs, finding sleep was going to be the devil.

Yet she managed to do it, and Rhys haunted every single one of her dreams.

Chapter Eighteen