by Darcy Burke
“Perhaps not, but it doesn’t matter in the end. He expects us to marry.”
Regardless of whether we fall in love. He hadn’t said it, but they both understood that was the expectation. She peered over at him. “Why would you agree to do that?”
He’d also turned toward the lawn so they were side by side, with less than a foot between them. “I’m a member of the Order, and I support your father. That’s why I’ve brought him two of the Thirteen Treasures.”
“You brought him the sword too?” At his nod, she continued, “Then you must mean to find the other eleven.”
He looked over at her, his eyes gleaming in the light from the lanterns on the terrace. “I do.”
He was looking for treasure, then, just like her. Her words from earlier rose up in her mind: We must be honest. Could she do that? She would try—at least a little. “I am looking for the cloak.”
“Are you?” For the first time that evening, she felt as though she had his complete and utter attention.
They both turned at exactly the same moment, drawing closer as they did so.
“Is that why you came to Hollyhaven?” he asked. “The Elidyr text you came to read contains mention of the cloak.”
“Yes.”
He arched a brow with a hint of humor. “Not for Morgan, then?”
“Not just for Morgan. She is entwined with the cloak. She made it for Arthur and gave it to him.”
He was fully invested now, his gaze focused solely on her and his body leaning slightly forward. “How do you know she made it for him?”
A surge of pride rushed through her. “I have a fragment of a poem from purportedly the ninth century about a healer who made a garment that would protect the wearer—a man who would fight in battle.”
“And then what?” he asked, rapt.
“That’s it. As I said, it was only part of the tale.”
“Was the wearer identified?” When she shook her head, he rushed on. “Why do you believe the healer was Morgan? Where did you find this poem?”
She held up her hand to cut him off, and just stopped herself from touching his chest. His excitement was palpable and exhilarating. A soft chuckle dashed past her lips as she lowered her hand to her side. “I will answer what I can. One question at a time.”
“All right, but add who wrote this poem to the list.”
“That I don’t know.”
“Can I see it?” He briefly closed his eyes, then pressed his lips together. “My apologies. I will contain myself.”
“I like your exuberance.” The night air had sufficiently cooled her, and now she was beginning to grow a bit chilled. Even so, she didn’t want to go back inside where it was loud and they would likely be interrupted. She wrapped her arms around herself.
His lips curved down. “You’re cold. Damn these medieval costumes. If I had a coat, I could give it to you.”
Just the sentiment warmed her. “It’s all right. We’ll go in soon. First, let me answer your queries. I believe she was Morgan because in this fragment, the healer is clearly identified as a woman. And she sought to protect a man in battle.”
“Arthur?” he asked. She nodded, and his gaze had strayed out to the lawn once more, then slammed back into her with intensity. “And where was this cloak made?”
“The poem doesn’t say specifically—that would be too easy,” she added wryly. “It mentions Gifl, which means forked river. I found it buried in my father’s library several years ago. It’s actually the piece that convinced me Morgan was a healer—and specifically, this healer—and gave the cloak to Arthur. I’ve been searching for other evidence ever since.”
The edge of his mouth ticked up. “Because you love evidence.”
She smiled up at him. “Yes.” How nice that he seemed to understand her. She was actually starting to consider the idea of maybe marrying him. Was he perhaps considering it too? And had he really agreed to wed her simply because he was in the Order? “Did you truly intend to marry me without having met me?” she asked. “Or did you make a promise to please my father?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Which did you do?”
She wanted to groan in frustration. He could be irritatingly enigmatic. “A bit of both. Now answer me. Please.”
“Also a bit of both.”
She fixed him with a direct stare. “I’d hoped we could be honest. If you are being truthful, then I shall accept it.”
His eyes narrowed very briefly and glinted silver in the dim light. “The truth is I don’t want to marry at all.”
“Oh.” What else could she say? “My father won’t force us.”
“I’m not sure I share that opinion,” he said softly. “But I won’t force you. You have to be absolutely willing. Are you?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know yet. So far, I…like you.”
“I don’t know you terribly well, but from what I’ve observed, you don’t seem the type of woman to allow her father—or anyone else—to choose her husband.”
That he saw her in that light only furthered her growing admiration for him. “It must seem strange. But understand that as long as I can remember, I knew this was expected. Arranged marriages aren’t popular anymore, of course, but as you know, my father is a bit rooted in another era.”
He glanced toward the great hall. “Yes, but why the later medieval period instead of Arthur’s time?”
“Because that’s when the stories were romanticized, and, as you so aptly pointed out, my father is a romantic.”
He nodded, then squared his shoulders. “Let us decide how to proceed, then. We will spend the festival deciding if we shall suit. I propose we also work to find the cloak. Perhaps if we join forces, we might be successful.”
“You plan to turn it over to my father?”
“Yes. What do you plan to do with it?” he asked.
“Probably give it to my father. Once he sees I am an invaluable antiquary, he’ll convince the Order to admit me as a member.”
Stratton gaped at her. “He told you that?”
She couldn’t help but feel a bit defensive. “He’s hinted at it. Why, you don’t think that will happen?”
“I can’t imagine it, to be honest. Will you get a tattoo?” He half smiled at her, and she blinked at him.
“What?”
He bent over and pulled his boot from his foot, then rolled up the leg of his stocking. A three-inch sword was inked into the skin of his inner calf. The letters KRT wound around the guard of the handle.
She lowered herself a few inches to look at it more closely. She reached to touch it, stopping short of connecting with his bare flesh. Looking up, she found his gaze fixed on her. “Did it hurt?”
“Yes. You can touch it.” Apparently he could tell she wanted to.
Her hands had grown cold in the night air, but she put her fingertips on him anyway. The slight sound of his indrawn breath floated down over her as she traced the sword. It didn’t feel like anything, just him. His skin was warm, with dark hair that lightly tickled her fingers.
The spell from earlier wove around them again, and she made herself stand up. He bent to roll down his stocking and replace his boot. She took the opportunity to turn from him. Her heart beat a strong and steady, if slightly fast, rhythm.
“We should go back inside, or a marriage may not be avoidable,” he said, offering her his arm.
She took it, and they walked back toward the door. “Would you like to meet in the library tomorrow morning to discuss our plan to find the cloak?”
“Yes, please,” he answered. “And bring the poem, if you would.”
“Of course.” She was looking forward to showing it to him. “I need to attend the falconry exhibition in the afternoon, so let’s meet early.”
“I am at your command.” He guided her into the great hall, and she immediately caught her father’s eye. He looked right at them and smiled.
No, they were likely at her father’s command. She just hoped she e
nded up wanting the same thing.
The dream stayed with Gideon long after he woke. A woman with dark auburn hair rose from the water, a diaphanous white gown plastered to the curves of her body. She came to him and knelt, bowing her head. Her hand traced along his inner calf and moved upward…
He pushed the lurid image away and made his way downstairs to the library. There was to be a meal in the great hall before the falconry exhibition, but he and Miss Foliot would have enough time to conduct their business first.
Was that what they were doing? After last night’s dream, he could see doing far more than business with Daphne Foliot. A good reason to make her his wife…
But he didn’t want a wife. Not after Rose. He didn’t deserve a wife, and he sure as hell didn’t want to suffer losing one again.
The library was situated in the west wing of the ground floor. The ceilings were high and the bookcases a dark wood that gleamed from a recent polishing. There were three different seating areas as well as a massive fireplace in which a low fire burned on this late August morning.
Aside from shelves teeming with books, there were two tapestries—of medieval age, of course—and various decorative items, some of which were certainly antiquities. Figurines, pottery, even an axe mounted on the wall.
“Oh, you’re here already.” Miss Foliot swept into the room wearing another medieval costume. This one was purple with a darker purple overskirt and sleeves that belled over her forearms. Her hair was completely covered with a black headdress affixed with a gauzy light purple veil that draped beneath her chin. Her gaze raked over him, and he felt a sudden jolt, due in large part to the lingering effects of that provocative dream.
“You aren’t in medieval garb,” she said.
“I didn’t wish to bother with it today.” He was far more comfortable in his regular clothing.
“Pity, I liked the stockings.” Her gaze seemed to heat, but then she looked away from him and moved to a round table with four chairs.
He realized she carried a slim book, which she set on the table, and joined her there. “Is that the poem?” he asked.
“The fragment, yes.” She opened the volume and pulled out a piece of parchment folded in half. Opening the paper, she withdrew a smaller piece that was torn along one side, as if it had been ripped from its binding.
“That looks incredibly fragile.”
She set it atop the table in front of him. “It is.”
He was afraid to touch it without gloves. Rhys would be horrified. “You should handle this with a light pair of gloves that are meant only for that task.”
“That makes sense. I shall obtain a pair, thank you.”
He bent to study the scrawled Latin. The lines were even and perfect and exceptionally tidy with just a single blot of ink in the lower corner. He looked over at her to see that she was watching him. “However did you find it?”
“It was tucked into a book on one of those shelves.” She gestured behind him. “I’ve no idea how long it had been there.”
“And your father doesn’t insist on locking it away?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Unless he deems something valuable, he doesn’t care if I take possession of it.”
“Well, I daresay this is exceptionally valuable.” Though the vellum was torn on one corner, in addition to the edge, it was still in remarkably good condition for a nine-hundred-year-old piece of animal skin. The inkblot drew his eye again, and he stared at it for a long moment.
“You’re studying that rather intently,” she said, moving closer.
He cocked his head to the side. “It’s just that… It looks familiar. I want to pick this up with my bare fingers. Is that all right?” He shot a glance to gain her approval.
She nodded. “I trust you.”
They were three simple words spoken in reference to him touching an ancient piece of vellum. They meant nothing, and yet for some reason they resonated inside him.
He picked the parchment up carefully, touching only as much of the edge as necessary. He held it up to allow light from the nearby window to spill through the paper.
Excitement kindled inside him. “This isn’t an inkblot.”
She came even closer until she stood right next to him. “It isn’t?”
“No. This is a leaf. Or a rendition of a leaf. And it’s precisely the mark on the Elidyr poem in Rhys Bowen’s library.”
She stared at the paper for another brief moment, then sucked in a breath, lifting her fingers to cover her mouth. Then she looked at him, her lips parted. “This was written by Elidyr?”
“I believe so.” What an extraordinary discovery. Rhys would be beside himself.
“We should take it to Mr. Bowen. Perhaps he knows of it and what the rest of the text says.”
“I’ve never heard of him speak of an Elidyr text other than the one he has,” Gideon said.
“You’re very close to him, then?”
He didn’t want to reveal too much, but a bit wouldn’t hurt. “He was my father’s distant cousin. I spent time in the summer with the Bowens. Rhys would convey me from Stratton Hall to Westerly Cross, where my mother would meet me.”
Her brow furrowed. “Your mother didn’t live with you?”
“No, she abandoned me and my father to become Lord Septon’s mistress.” He could say the words dispassionately, but the emotions inside him still swirled like a fast-moving current that left him hollow when it passed.
“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry.” She touched his arm. “I’d forgotten that she wasn’t his wife, actually. And I’m not sure I ever knew she was your mother. At least, I didn’t make the connection. I should have.”
“Nonsense. I don’t expect people to remember a scandal that happened twenty years ago, and trust me when I say I’m pleased when they don’t.”
“As you would be,” she said softly, her gaze full of compassion that, along with her touch on his arm, gave him a sense of peace. It also stirred the desire he’d awakened with that morning.
He returned his attention to the paper, and, disappointingly, she dropped her hand from his arm. “Rather than take this to Rhys, I’d prefer to visit Septon,” he said.
The thought of it curdled his stomach, but he’d learned to suffer the man because his mother apparently loved him. And while Gideon had been devastated when she’d left and would probably always carry the hurt, he’d tried to move past it.
“Are you certain?” Her empathy was foreign. Outside of the Bowen family, he hadn’t been shown much of that. Unless one counted some of the staff at Stratton Hall who’d tried to mother him after she’d left.
“Yes, I’m certain. Septon is also closer than Rhys. If he can’t help us,” or won’t—but Gideon didn’t say that out loud, “we can go to Rhys.”
The fact was that Septon owed Gideon, and they both knew it. He’d stolen Gideon’s mother away. Gideon could use that to bend the man, and he had no compunction about doing so.
She smiled up at him. “We’ll leave as soon as the festival is over.”
He set the poem fragment back on the table and turned to face her. “I’d prefer to leave immediately.” He didn’t have the patience for this bloody festival. He needed to find the treasures and secure them. Never mind whatever the hell was going on with his title and that vicar who’d gone missing.
Her smile faded. “My father won’t want us to leave.”
“Something tells me you don’t always do what your father wants.”
“Not always, no. But this festival is special to him. And there’s the other matter.”
He wanted to pretend he didn’t know what that was, but what would be the point? “The betrothal announcement.” Gideon had still been hoping that wouldn’t come to pass. Perhaps if he spent the remainder of the festival partaking in drunken debauchery, Foliot would call the whole thing off.
But then he’d likely cast Gideon out or worse.
Still, leaving now for Septon’s would buy them some time. Perhaps Gideon could
convince her they wouldn’t suit so that it became her decision. However, he wasn’t entirely sure Foliot would accept her refusal either. As she’d pointed out, her father was adamant she wed a descendant. It was just the way things would be.
“Yes, the announcement. And the subsequent wedding.” She busied herself with picking up the poem and replacing it in the folded paper for protection before sliding it back into the book.
“None of which we’ve agreed to yet,” he reminded her.
“No.” She picked up the book and faced him. “But how are we to travel together to search for the cloak if we’re not wed?” She raised an excellent—and infuriating—point.
He tried not to grit his teeth. “We wouldn’t travel together. We would meet in various locations as necessary, and you would need a chaperone of some kind. Cate used her maid—she was a widow—when she was on the hunt for Dyrnwyn with Norris.”
“Cate traveled with her husband before they were married?”
“Yes.” He worked to not think about how he’d followed them every step of the way, stolen their most valuable clue, and then pilfered the sword from her the moment she’d found it.
She seemed to consider this a moment. “I doubt my father would approve.”
“Why? He lets you move about parading as a widow. This isn’t terribly different.”
“Except rather than be alone, I’d be with you. At least some of the time,” she added.
Given the things he’d done to her in his dream last night, it was perhaps best that they didn’t travel together. Or even meet up as necessary. “I could go to Septon’s without you.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Oh no. No, no. This is our quest. You are not going to find the cloak without me.” She pressed her lips together and glared at him. “I’ll keep this poem to myself.”
“Then we are back to the question of how to get to Septon’s,” he said. “I suppose kidnapping you is out of the question.”
“Unless you want to invite my father’s wrath, yes.” She glanced toward the clock that sat atop the mantle. “Speaking of my father’s wrath, we need to get to the great hall soon. First, I need to return this book to my room.”
