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.
“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 h
er 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.
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 p
urpose.” 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.”
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 44
