The de Valery Code (36 page)

Digby’s gaze was anguished as he looked between them. “I’m terribly sorry. I was only trying to protect them from the Order.”

“You should have approached us and told us what you knew,” Rhys said. “Now, redeem yourself and tell us what you know of this scribe.”

“Not as much as I’d like. He may have been the one who recorded the tales in de Valery’s manuscripts—from oral stories told by Gareth, one of Arthur’s knights.” Digby moved Margery’s manuscript from the top of the other one. “It seems likely since most of the stories center around his adventures.”

Margery itched to have her book back in her possession. And Lord Nash’s. “May I?” She reached across and picked hers up. Wrapping her fingers around it securely, she set it down in front of her. Next to her lemonade. She reached for it just as Rhys did the same and their fingers overlapped. A shock of sexual awareness jolted her, but she was careful not to snatch her hand back lest she tumble the glass and ruin her book.

Rhys did the same thing, keeping his fingers tangled with hers. “Shall I remove it, or shall you?”

“I will. You get the tray.”

He took his hand away slowly, his hand caressing hers in the process. Was that an accident?

She picked up her glass and moved it to the sideboard as Rhys did the same with the tray. With their backs to Digby, they exchanged looks that felt hotter than the day outside.

He turned and went back to the table, leaving her to rein her wanton attraction to him.

She sat down in front of her manuscript and, absently, she opened it and began to flip the pages.

“Anarawd was a monk at St. Tathyw’s monastery,” Digby said. “Since St. Tathyw was another part of the code, we assume the link between him and Anarawd, specifically his occupation as a scribe, is likely important.”

Rhys scooted his chair closer to Margery’s and looked over her shoulder at the book. “I would agree.”

The two men went on discussing Anarawd and the other parts of the code while Margery continued leafing through the book. When she got to the last illustration, she paused, her fingertip lingering at the edge of the page.

This was the busiest plate in the book, with a cast of characters filling the illustration. It depicted a feast with a hamper overflowing with food and a bejeweled knife being used to carve a great roasted beast. The detail was incredibly precise, the colors rich—she’d looked at it a hundred times and yet she’d never noticed the man standing in the distance. He was very small, inconsequential and easily dismissed. He wore a light robe so that he almost blended into the background. But it was his activity that now drew her attention. He was writing.

“I think I found him.”

The men grew silent.

Rhys leaned over, and she felt his presence more than saw him. “What?”

“Anarawd.” She pointed to the man in the picture. “I think this is him. He’s writing, like a scribe.”

Digby stood abruptly, his chair clattering against the floor, and came around the table to look at the book over her shoulder. “By God.”

She turned to look at Rhys, who was fixated on the illustration. “Where’s the glass?”

His head came up and he gave her a harsh stare. “The what?”

Had he not told Digby they had it?

“No need to hide it from me, Bowen,” Digby said. “I won’t try to take it. I’m not worried about you having the device because I know you won’t cloak it into nonexistence like the Order would.”

Margery held out her hand, knowing he’d have it on his person.

Rhys reluctantly pulled it from his coat pocket and set it securely into her palm, his fingertips grazing her flesh and again eliciting a thrilling sensation that swept her from head to toe.

Pushing aside the irritating persistence of her desire for him, she brought the glass to her eye and regarded the illustration. She gasped as the colors altered.
 

“You see something?” Digby asked, his voice trilling with excitement.

She turned the glass and the picture changed slightly. It looked like stones, but she couldn’t be sure what she was seeing. “Here.” She returned the device to Rhys. Frustration curled through her. “Why didn’t we notice this before?”

“I think because we failed to study all of the illustrations in your book after the first several revealed nothing. Shoddy investigation on our part.” His tone was dark with self-derision. “I need a parchment and ink.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Powell.” Digby hurried from the room.

“I would’ve preferred not to use the glass in front of him,” Rhys said in a hushed tone.

She was confused. “But you agreed to work with him.”

He pressed his lips together. “He has knowledge I don’t. I still don’t trust him completely.”

She couldn’t argue with him. She’d only just begun to fully trust Rhys.

Digby returned with the required implements and handed them to Rhys. “We’ll need to hurry. Mrs. Powell requires the dining room to set it for dinner.”

Margery considered suggesting they move upstairs to Rhys’s bedchamber because he had a large enough table for their use, however she was fairly certain that a return to the location of their last . . .
indiscretion
wasn’t a good idea. Particularly if his bed was still mussed.

Rhys was already scratching a drawing across the parchment. Alternately looking through the device and sketching, he soon had a rough illustration of the stones in the hidden picture.

“May I look?” Digby asked, showing a patience Margery didn’t think she could’ve managed.

Rhys handed him the glass.
 

With a reverent nod, Digby put it to his eye and immediately sucked in a breath. “It’s extraordinary.”

Margery studied the drawing Rhys had made. “What do you think it is?”

“If I’m not mistaken it’s the stone floor of the Caerwent church. And this,” he pointed to a stone that he’d shaded, “is where the treasure could be located.”

Excitement thrummed in Margery’s chest. “Do you know which stone that is?”

“It’s hard to determine what angle this was drawn from, but it should give us a rough idea.” He sat back in his chair and looked from Margery to Digby and back again. “Either way, I think it’s safe to say we need to dig beneath the floor of the church.”

They were so close! “If we leave now, we might have enough light.” Margery glanced out the window at the sun that was rapidly descending toward the horizon.

Rhys shook his head. “No, we can’t attempt this until tomorrow morning.” He looked at Digby. “After we discuss the plan to remove the Order’s sentinel from the equation.”

Digby nodded. “I agree. We need to organize our method before rushing in. There’s no telling what manner of defense the Order might have in place.”

Margery frowned, disappointed at having to wait. “What do you mean?”

Digby set the glass on top of the book. “The Order will go to any lengths to protect the treasure.
Any
lengths.” He exchanged a dire look with Rhys.

Margery turned to Rhys, who appeared equally grim. “What about Septon? He’s your friend. Why don’t you speak with him?”

Rhys shook his head. “You know that Septon asked me not to pursue the treasure.”

“Is it even still there?” Margery asked. “Why wouldn’t the Order have dug it up and hidden it long ago?”

“I don’t think they know its precise location,” Digby said. “I think that’s why they tried to steal your book.” At her inquiring look, he added, “Bowen told me they attacked you.” A fierce look entered his eyes, as if he wanted to avenge her. It seemed, despite her telling him that she wasn’t interested in courtship, he was still harboring a romantic inclination toward her.

“Does the Order keep someone at the church around the clock?” Rhys asked Digby.

“Yes, they have a few people who take turns watching. I think they must be especially vigilant right now, since they know you’re hunting the treasure.”

“Which is why the sentinel was inside the church and not just watching from afar, as with de Valery’s house.” Rhys tapped his finger on the table. “We’ll have to lure him outside and somehow distract him.”

“Or incapacitate him,” Digby offered.

Margery sent him a sharp glance. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. We are not the Order.”

Digby looked pained. “Of course not, but we can bind him or lock him up somewhere until we complete our work. If we don’t, he could notify others and we’ll end up having to defend ourselves from a group.”

“Unfortunately, I think Digby’s right,” Rhys said. He turned to Digby. “We’re going to have to subdue and secure him somehow.”

“I’ll see if I can find some rope.”

“We’ll also require a blindfold and something to gag him—I’ll take care of that.”

The entire enterprise made Margery feel a bit queasy. “Is all of this really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so.” For the first time since she’d entered the dining room, Rhys looked at her with something akin to concern. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt him.”

She still didn’t like it, but she couldn’t think of another way so she nodded.

“I’ll go look for that rope. See you at dinner.” Digby stood and left.

Rhys pocketed the cipher glass and closed the book. He picked it up and eyed hers. “I suppose you’ll be taking yours?”

“I will.” She ran her hand over the cover of her book. “What do you think will happen once we find the treasure?”

“Without knowing what it is, I can’t say.”

She understood there were no guarantees, that there had never been any. The entire endeavor had been a risk. Except that he’d said he would still buy her book, if she wanted to sell it. It seemed she’d had faith in him all along. “You’ll still buy my book? If we don’t find any treasure.”

He answered quickly and warmly. “Of course.”

Then their partnership would truly be over. Though it had brought her more joy than she ever anticipated, she’d always known it was never going to last. Losing her parents had taught her that it was safer to keep her emotions buried in order to protect against the inevitable pain of loss. Like everything in life, this was temporary and nothing she did would change that.

She picked up her book and left.

Following an awkward dinner during which he and Digby discussed Arthurian legend and Margery listened attentively, Rhys stripped his clothing away and stood naked in front of the window. Thank God a decent breeze was blowing tonight, offering a much-needed respite from the stagnant heat of the day.

His gaze roved to the door to Margery’s room. He’d been painfully aware of her all night, seated to his left, the ripe apple scent of her bathwater teasing him with every shift of her body. She’d worn a light gown with a wide, green sash that accentuated her slender waist. The neckline had tantalized him with just a hint of her breasts, and he’d had to work to keep from looking at them and imagining them wet and hot as they’d been earlier that afternoon.

His cock rose high and hard as he thought of their erotic play. That he’d never touch or taste her again was like a knife to his heart, but there was nothing to be done about it. If their sparring was any indication, they were simply too hotheaded to enjoy a long-term relationship.

He chuckled softly, amused to be describing himself as short-tempered. However, since he’d met Margery, he’d uncovered a surprisingly passionate nature and for the first time he wondered if he ought to take a wife. And yes, he wondered if it ought to be her.

Watching her with Digby was as excruciating as contemplating a future without her. Perhaps more so. It was one thing to think of her alone and another to think of her with someone else.

He went to the water basin and splashed his face. It didn’t help. His thoughts were still full of Margery, his body still tight with desire. He wanted her, and not just for tonight. He wanted her forever. Her body, her mind, her exasperating ability to provoke him—he wanted it all.

Blast, he was in love with her.

He stood in the near dark of his room, a single candle burning in the sconce near the door, and stared into nothing. He’d loved one person his entire life—his father—and he’d always worried that he’d never love another, not necessarily because he wouldn’t find someone, but that he wouldn’t know how. His father had been harsh, serious, restrained. Rhys had felt love in the sense that his father had been proud of him and pleased with his successes. But emotion had never been discussed or declared, and by the time he’d reached adulthood, Rhys had barely even known love existed.

Now, with Margery, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect and please and honor. He wanted to be a better man, not because his father demanded it, but because Margery deserved it. She brought joy and excitement to his life—things he hadn’t realized were missing and now didn’t think he could live without.

But could he convince her to spend her life with him? She was slow to trust and even slower to lower her emotional defenses. He suspected it was due to losing her parents at such a young age, but whatever the reason, he wanted to be the one who broke her guard down, the one
she
chose to let inside.

Night sounds carried to him over the wind—insects, the hoot of an owl, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside his window. Then the opening and closing of a door. Margery’s room.