by Darcy Burke
At last they began to slow. They were nearing the town’s other inn—the aptly named Coach and Horse.
He stopped and leaned over, his breath coming hard and fast. “Wait here.” He squeezed her hand and went toward the stable.
She glanced around the yard, the only light the descending moon and a lantern on a post outside the inn. She turned to go back to the church and gasped when Rhys caught her in his arms.
He clasped her upper arm and clamped his palm over her mouth. “Don’t scream.”
She wrapped her hand around his wrist and looked at him in relief. She smiled, but he couldn’t see it behind his grip. Instead, she collapsed against him and slid her arm around his waist.
He loosened his hold. “Are you all right?”
She nodded into his chest, joy flooding her at finding he was unharmed.
The unmistakable cock of a pistol filled the night. “Let her go, Bowen.”
Margery turned in Rhys’s embrace and saw Digby maybe fifteen feet away, his pistol directed at Rhys’s head.
“I may’ve failed at Cambridge, but I’ve plenty of other useful skills. I’m a crack shot, for one.”
“You’re not taking her, Digby. Just go,” Rhys said, keeping his arm tight around her. “I won’t try to stop you.”
“She wants to come with me,” Digby said, taking a step forward.
Rhys scoffed. “It was a ploy. Are you really that stupid?”
“Damn you, Bowen.” He fired and Margery screamed.
Rhys’s arm dropped from her, and he lurched backward. Margery spun to catch him, but he held himself up.
Digby came at them with a roar. Margery positioned herself in front of Rhys so that Digby crashed into her. He did so with enough force to take all of them to the ground. She landed atop Rhys as Digby fell on her.
Rough hands pushed at her, and she realized both men were trying to get at each other through her. Ultimately, she ended up in a heap in the dirt as the two men tussled. Digby had the upper hand and was driving his fist into Rhys’s face.
Margery looked around frantically for a weapon. Her gaze landed on the stable and the hoe leaning against the doorframe. Desperate to help Rhys, she ran and grasped the hoe.
The sounds of the fight—their grunting and exertions—saturated the heavy summer air. Margery approached them, trying to determine how to strike, but they were moving so fast, their arms and legs tangling, she couldn’t find an opening.
Rhys landed a solid punch to Digby’s face, sending the other man sprawling backward. Margery leapt forward and brought the hoe down on his head. Twice. “Stay down!”
As if he heard her, Digby fell back and didn’t get up.
Heaving, Margery turned and knelt beside Rhys, who was lying on his back staring up at the night sky. She dropped the hoe, but kept it in reach. Blood soaked his shoulder, confirming her worst fear—that he’d been shot.
She pulled his shirt aside to look, and he winced. “I know it hurts.”
“Quite, but it isn’t bad. I don’t think the bullet is lodged in the flesh. Digby isn’t as good of a shot as he claimed.”
She nearly smiled at the surprising humor in his tone. “Thank goodness for that.”
The door of the inn opened and a man in a nightcap came ambling out. “Good Lord, what’s gone on here?”
A trio of men, also in their nightclothes, followed him outside.
Rhys struggled to sit up, and Margery helped him. “My apologies, kind sir. This man is a criminal. I had to prevent him from kidnapping this young lady. Furthermore, he stole something that belongs to her.”
Anarawd’s tales.
Rhys nudged her to go get them. She glanced at him, saw him nod toward Digby, and got up to remove the papers from where he’d tucked them into his waistcoat.
“We’ll need to alert the magistrate,” she said to the innkeeper. “However, first we need to help Mr. Bowen. He’s been shot. Can you help me get him inside?”
The innkeeper rushed forward. “Of course. Though, I’m afraid I don’t have any open rooms.”
Rhys declined the man’s proffered arm. “I can walk. We don’t need a room, just a place to tend my wound. A chair and a basin of water will suffice.” He looked at the other men standing in the yard. “Can any of you find something to bind Mr. Digby before he regains consciousness and escapes?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Andrew, nip into the stable and fetch some rope.”
The young man, perhaps the innkeeper’s son or an employee, did as he was bade. One of the other men stepped forward. “I’ll stand guard over this one.”
“And I’ll help,” the other offered.
The innkeeper thanked them—these were clearly guests—and led Margery and Rhys inside. She wrapped her arm around Rhys’s waist and helped him walk.
He looked down at her. “I really don’t need any help.”
“I know, but I want to touch you. Is that acceptable?”
His lips teased up. “Perfectly.”
The innkeeper directed them to the tidy sitting room to the right of the entry hall. “Just sit there and I’ll fetch some water. Maybe a bit of brandy?”
Rhys nodded. “Thank you.”
Margery led Rhys to a small table situated in the corner with a pair of wooden chairs. “Sit.”
He did as she commanded, wincing again as he did so. When he was settled, he fixed her with a probing stare. “You’re certain you’re all right? He didn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, you fared far worse, I’m afraid.”
“You were brilliant,” he said, his eyes warm and dark.
“I’m sorry I said those things.” She sat in the nearest chair, turning on the cushion so she faced him.
He grasped her hand between his long fingers. “I know you didn’t mean them.” He smiled. “At least, I do now.”
“The treasure was important to me,” she said, her throat clogging. “For so long, it was all I could see, all that mattered. But when I saw you in the church, saw what you were willing to do for me.” She swallowed. “No, that isn’t right. I think I’ve known for so long—”
He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips caressing hers. “Shhh. I love you, Margery.”
She smiled against his mouth, tears blurring her vision. “I love you.” She pulled back and wiped her eyes. “I wasted so much time pushing you away. It was easier. After my parents died, I didn’t want to feel. It hurt so much.”
He stroked her cheek. “Margery.”
“I’m just so . . . afraid. Of losing you, of being alone.” Her hands shook as she admitted her fear and awaited his response.
He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. “I know. I am too. I never expected to fall in love and now that I have—and felt the sting of loss, although temporary—I realize it’s worth the risk. You’re worth the risk.”
Joy coursed through her. He didn’t just accept her as she was, he truly understood. “I couldn’t have said it better,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “I cast all of my reservations to the wind when I decided to solve the de Valery code with you. The adventure itself, not the end result, is the true treasure.”
He kissed her again, their mouths blending together. “I couldn’t agree more.”
The following morning, Rhys turned over in his bed, disappointed to find he was alone. Margery had cleaned his wound at the Coach and Horse, after which they’d made their way back to their inn, where Craddock had been waiting to greet them. He’d reported that both Digby and Hawkins were being managed by the mysterious cloaked stranger and the other man, the Order’s sentinel, who’d been locked in the cupboard with Craddock.
A rap on Rhys’s door—the one that led to the hall—drew him to clamber out of bed. His shoulder, tightly bandaged, ached. Though the ball had only grazed the flesh—thankfully, Digby wasn’t quite the marksman he’d proclaimed—the cut had been deep enough to bleed profusely and cause him a decent amount of pain.
/> Not enough to prevent him from making love to Margery after they’d returned in the middle of the night. He smiled at the memory of her straddling him, insisting that he let her do all of the work. He’d already decided to feign the depth of his injury for the foreseeable future.
A second rap on the door reminded him he was supposed to be putting on clothing instead of fantasizing about his fiancée.
Fiancée.
He liked the sound of that, loved that she’d agreed to marry him.
Grimacing, he pulled on his breeches and plucked up his banyan. Tugging it over his wounded arm was difficult, but he managed. “I’m coming,” he called as he made his way to the door.
Septon stood on the other side. Gone was the black cloak from last night, replaced by his usual costume—that of a country gentleman who just happened to be a member of a secret cult.
“How are you?” he asked, stepping into Rhys’s room.
“As well as can be expected.” Aside from the shoulder injury, he sported a black eye, the wound on his forehead, and several sore ribs.
Septon cracked a smile. “Excellent. May I sit?” He eyed a chair at the table.
Rhys held out his hand. “Of course.” He perched on the edge of the bed, while Septon sat. Rhys didn’t bother asking why he’d come. He already knew. “I’m not going to give you the poems.”
Septon exhaled and laid his palm flat on the table. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“I have to study them. You understand that, don’t you? And I’d be happy to have you study them with me.” He couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather share the excitement of discovery with. Actually, that wasn’t true anymore. He smiled to himself.
“You seem rather pleased this morning,” Septon observed.
“I am. Miss Derrington has consented to be my wife.”
Septon inclined his head. “Congratulations. I shall look forward to Trevor’s inevitable premarital celebration.”
“I think I’ll eschew the typical bacchanalia.”
Septon’s mouth crept up into a reluctant smile. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” His lips flattened. “The Order won’t be pleased that you’re keeping the poems.”
“But they’ll allow it?”
“For a time, perhaps, though it depends on what you plan to do. If you want to study them for your own academic pursuit, they won’t attempt to obtain them from you. However, if you try to publish a paper or otherwise publicize their existence, the Order will intervene.”
“So I may have one of the most important literary finds of the century and no one can know about it?”
Septon inclined his head. “You still have the de Valery manuscript and the Order will not interfere with whatever you choose to do with it—provided you make it clear there is no code and of course no treasure. Nash must agree to do the same when you return his book to him.”
“I can live with that, and I’m certain Lord Nash will agree.” Bringing Margery’s aunts’ lost de Valery book to light would establish Rhys as a leading literary scholar, though that goal seemed less important now that he had Margery.
“What of Digby?” Rhys wanted the man imprisoned at the very least—he’d targeted Margery from the very beginning, going to Gloucester and approaching her because he’d traced the book to her aunts, then following her to Monmouth and tracking them as they’d launched their quest.
“The Order will collect any Arthurian items he might still possess and the magistrate will take care of the rest,” Septon said.
“The Order won’t intervene and take justice into their own hands?” Rhys was reluctant to dampen his blissful mood, but he had to ask Septon about what Digby had told him. “They don’t seem to be as benevolent as you claimed.”
“I told you there have been members who step outside the Order.”
“Is that what happened to de Valery’s brother?”
Septon’s face darkened. “It was a quarrel between brothers. De Valery the scribe was angry when de Valery the alchemist tried to manufacture his peculiar cipher glass and sell it to other code makers. De Valery the scribe wanted the science for himself alone.”
“Badly enough to orchestrate his brother’s death?”
“I don’t know how it deteriorated to such a macabre ending, but the glass went missing—until you found it. Some in the Order theorize that a third party hid it in an effort to quell the animosity between the brothers, only it backfired and de Valery the alchemist was blamed for the loss of the device and hanged.”
Rhys couldn’t imagine turning on one’s family, not when it was such a precious commodity. “What a sad tale.”
“History is full of them, but then you know that.” Septon stood. “When you’re finished with the poems, I will take them into custody for the Order. Then we shall study them together.” He flashed an eager smile.
So Rhys didn’t get to keep them permanently. He wouldn’t argue, not when he was just glad to have them for a time. “Thank you. What of the device?”
“Its use has been exhausted.” Septon shrugged. “Feel free to put it on your desk as a curiosity—without revealing what it ever did, of course.”
Everything about their quest was to be kept secret then. “I can do that.” Rhys walked his friend to the door. “I’ll see you at my wedding?”
Septon clapped him on his good shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Later that morning, Rhys sat in the inn’s kitchen garden, enjoying the pleasant summer day. The temperature was still warm, but it wasn’t the cloying heat of yesterday.
Margery set a tray on a small table beside him. “Mrs. Powell makes the best lemonade. You must promise that we’ll return, if only to enjoy this.” She poured two glasses of the pale yellow liquid and handed him one. Taking a hearty drink, she sat in a chair next to his.
“I’ll promise you anything, but are you certain you want to return to Caerwent?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Why not? I have many excellent memories.” Her gaze fell on his wounded arm, now hidden beneath his layers of clothing, but aching nonetheless. “Perhaps you do not.”
“On the contrary, I shall recall the hot summer days of Caerwent with the utmost fondness.”
She grinned at him before sipping her lemonade and setting the glass on the table, leaning over him in the process.
He snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap.
She tried to pull away, but her sultry smile belied her actions. “Rhys!”
“Now, you’re worried about propriety? A woman I greatly admire recently took me to task for such nonsense.”
“And she was right to do it.”
He captured the back of her head with his palm, holding her captive to his stare. “She is free to lecture me about anything at all. Any time.” His lips met hers, and she kissed him with a passion he felt straight to his toes.
After a long moment, she pulled away and laid her head against his unwounded shoulder.
He stroked her hair, enjoying the moment and looking forward to a lifetime of them. “Are you sure you aren’t disappointed in how our adventure turned out? The treasure wasn’t what you expected.”
“No, but neither was the journey.” She looked up at him, love shining in her eyes. “And it’s far from over.”
Epilogue
September dawned with a nasty rainstorm. Not that Margery minded, for that meant she would have an excuse to stay indoors and sneak away with her new husband for a few stolen kisses—or more.
Still, disappearing in the middle of the day might be noticed by one of the other people who now inhabited Hollyhaven: Penn or one of Margery’s aunts. Convincing them to relocate to Monmouth had taken a bit of cajoling, but they’d both agreed that they preferred to be with Margery than alone in Gloucester. Harker had also been pleased to accompany them and was enjoying her new position as the housekeeper of Hollyhaven, while Mrs. Thomas had been delighted to focus her duties on her true love: cooking.
Marge
ry dodged an orange ball of fur darting up the stairs. Penn appeared at the base and stopped short before pursuing the kitten.
“What’s wrong with Felicity?” she asked.
“Fergus was playing a little too rough and she got upset,” Penn said. A second kitten, a black cat with orange wisps here and there, padded toward the stairs. Penn scowled down at him. “Naughty boy. Be nicer to your sister.”
“Indeed,” Margery said to the cat. “Else your mother will see that you’re punished.”
They’d taken in the family of three—a mama and her two kittens—because really, three cats were better than one.
Aunt Eugenie walked into the hall and looked up as Margery descended the last few steps. “Oh, Margery, there you are. Tea is ready. Or coffee if you’re Aggie.” She made a moue of distaste.
Margery smiled, thrilled to have everyone she loved within arm’s reach. “I’ll fetch Rhys.”
Aunt Eugenie nodded and strode back toward the drawing room.
Margery crossed the hall and went into Rhys’s library, where he was bent over the Anarawd manuscripts laid across his table. He’d translated them and was in the process of making several copies, including one in Latin, so that he’d have the text, if not the original.
Margery came up behind him and massaged his neck. “Your handwriting is so lovely.”
“A necessary skill in my occupation. My father made certain I wrote legibly and with an attractive slant.”
Of course he had. She’d come to learn just how exacting the elder Bowen had been. “Tea is ready.”
He reached back and laid his hand over hers, then brought it around to press a kiss to her palm. “I was thinking that we might take Penn with us when we return Nash’s book.”
“That’s a splendid idea.”
“Then we can swing through Caerwent to show him the ruins.” Penn had been so upset about not being able to accompany them that they’d promised to take him as soon as possible. Plus, they would deliver the Anarawd poems to Septon. “Are you ready to give them up?” She nodded toward the papers on the table.
He exhaled. “No. And I’m especially reluctant to turn them over to the Order, even if I do agree that keeping their existence quiet is for the best.”
