by Darcy Burke
Foliot closed the chest and locked it, but not before Gideon cast a lingering stare at his sword. “You’re going to miss it.” Foliot chuckled. “It’s safe here.”
“Yes.” But safe for what? Gideon still didn’t know what Foliot planned to do with the treasures once he had them all, and Gideon wasn’t sure he was in a position just yet to inquire. He’d done so in the past and had always been told that Camelot’s objective was to keep them safe from those who didn’t deserve them. The treasures were special and had been found by worthy men, who in turn had gifted them to Gareth, an esteemed and honorable knight.
“You don’t sound convinced.” Foliot clapped Gideon on the shoulder as they returned to the door of the vault. “You’re a part of something bigger than yourself, Gideon. These treasures transcend us. We are merely custodians of a history we can only begin to understand.”
Gideon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Foliot liked to make grandiose statements and speak in enigmatic circles.
They moved out of the vault, and Foliot relocked the door. Gideon thought of the poor guard trapped inside without a chamber pot—at least Gideon hadn’t seen one.
“How often do the guards change?” he asked, hoping to glean valuable information he could use later. He doubted Foliot would answer.
Surprisingly, however, he did. “Every two hours. Can’t have them overtired or hungry. Or pissing themselves.” He laughed as he led Gideon back to the hall. The contingent of henchmen who’d followed them to the vault accompanied them.
As they entered, a pair of maids bustled around the feasting table preparing the meal. Like the dais, the dining area looked as though it had leapt from the pages of a medieval tome.
Foliot went to the tall chair set at the head of the table. “Let us drink and eat.”
Gideon would much rather have left immediately to deliver the dagger, but he didn’t dare press Foliot. There was too much at stake, and he needed the man to believe Gideon was a committed member of Camelot, that finding the treasures for Foliot was his primary objective.
Taking the chair to Foliot’s left, Gideon set the dagger on the table next to his place setting. “Is this to be a typical meal?” If so, they’d be here until midnight probably.
Foliot barked out a laugh. “Not quite. I don’t have many people in residence. But that will change in the coming days. Surely you haven’t forgotten my annual festival. It starts in just under a fortnight.”
Though he called it a festival, it was a regular house party. Not regular, exactly, because it consisted of medieval activities, including a bloody jousting tournament. “No, I haven’t forgotten. It’s a singular event.”
“You always seemed to enjoy yourself. Until you stopped coming.” Foliot sniffed as the footman poured wine.
That had been two years ago, and Gideon had been in no condition to celebrate anything. He picked up his wineglass and took a fortifying drink.
“My apologies,” Foliot said. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But thinking of that time leads me to what I must say next.” He looked toward the guards who’d gone to stand at the dais after returning from the vault. They strode toward the table and flanked Gideon’s chair, stoking his unease to the levels he’d felt when he’d stood before Foliot’s throne.
“Is there something amiss?” Perhaps Gideon was still a fool. So far, his plan tonight had executed perfectly. Too perfectly.
“While I appreciate you bringing the sword to demonstrate your fealty, I will require more than that.”
Sweat broke out on the back of Gideon’s neck. This man was known to kill to get what he wanted, and Gideon had seen the violence committed by his henchmen. He struggled to keep his voice even. “I’m happy to provide whatever you demand.” Happy didn’t come close to the true emotion Gideon felt, but pretending to like and admire this man was critical.
“As you know, I have a daughter, and it has always been our intention that she would wed a descendant. Not just any descendant—but one who comes directly from Gareth’s line.”
Bloody fucking hell. Did he want Gideon to marry his daughter? Gideon’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t marry her. He wouldn’t marry anyone. Not again. “You think I come from Gareth’s line? You’ve never said for certain.”
“No, but I think it’s safe to say that’s true. The treasures should work for all the descendants, but they definitely work for Gareth’s progeny—and more easily, I should think. You’ll marry my daughter and solidify your position in Camelot.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “As my most trusted aide.”
Gideon forced himself to say what he must. “I don’t wish to marry again.” The memory of Rose pierced his heart, and he pushed it away.
“I can understand that.” He lowered the glass but didn’t set it on the table. “However, I’m not asking you to. It’s simply what’s required. If you wish to continue the quest for the Thirteen Treasures, you must demonstrate your full commitment. If you don’t… Well, I’d rather not contemplate that.” He smiled briefly before lifting the glass once more. “To your marriage. You’ll like Daphne very much.” He looked at the guards, who moved closer to Gideon’s chair, then inclined his head toward Gideon’s wineglass.
Realizing this was not the time for a fight, Gideon picked up his glass and tapped it to Foliot’s. “To wedded bliss.”
Foliot grinned. “That’s my boy.” He took a hearty drink and set his glass down, then motioned for the footman to begin serving the first course.
Gideon had met his daughter at the medieval festivals, but barely remembered her. She’d been a child, if memory served. No, at his last festival three years ago, she’d been a young lady, but he couldn’t bring her image to mind.
Not that it mattered. He had no intention of marrying her. He’d say what he needed to say and take one day at a time as he worked toward his goal.
Dipping his spoon into his soup, Foliot continued jovially as if he hadn’t just threatened Gideon. “I daresay you’ll fall quite in love with my Daphne. She’s as intelligent and beautiful as they come. And well versed in Arthurian studies. She’ll be a marvelous partner for you.” He smiled at Gideon before sipping from his spoon.
Not only did the man expect Gideon to marry his daughter, he expected him to fall in love with her too? Well, that was never going to happen. His capacity for love was almost nonexistent.
Itching with anticipation to leave with the dagger, Gideon suffered through the interminable dinner, followed by a medieval musical entertainment. It was well into the middle of the night before Foliot stood to retire. He’d said it wouldn’t be a typical meal, but it was. The only thing missing was one of Foliot’s women, who typically joined him after the meal.
Throughout the evening, he’d extolled his daughter’s virtues and restated his threats in every way imaginable. Gideon would marry his daughter if he wanted a future in Camelot. Hell, if he wanted a future at all. The fact that this was a horrible basis for a marriage, let alone one that was supposed to include love, seemed quite lost on Foliot. The man was deranged.
And Gideon didn’t trust him.
“I’ll expect to see you back here for the festival. With the heart in hand. We’ll announce your betrothal then.”
Foliot left the hall, and Gideon didn’t waste time departing. He was all too aware of the guards watching every step he took. Foliot would have him followed, of course, and probably Penn as well.
Gideon’s objective had just become much more difficult. To avoid being leg-shackled to Foliot’s chit, he needed to find the treasures and take down Camelot. Time was now against him, along with everything else.
He was playing a very dangerous game. And Gideon meant to win.
Chapter 2
Hollyhaven was a charming, well-apportioned house backed by a small woodland. Green pastures rolled before it, and an inviting curl of smoke whispered from a rear chimney. It was lovely and picturesque and apparently housed one of the finest medieval libraries outside a university.
Daphne nodded at him as she descended, and then walked toward the house. The door opened before she reached the stoop, and a middle-aged woman wearing an apron greeted her. “Good afternoon, welcome to Hollyhaven. You must be Mrs. Guilford.”
“I am indeed,” Daphne said brightly, though it was a lie since she was in truth Miss Foliot. But it didn’t do to gallivant around Wales and southwestern England as a miss.
The housekeeper opened the door wide in invitation. “Mr. Bowen is expecting you.” Daphne had corresponded with Mr. Bowen about the manuscript she wished to view, and they’d agreed upon her visiting today.
“Thank you.” Daphne walked into the reception hall, where she was greeted by gleaming dark wood and a plush red-and-moss-green patterned rug.
“This way,” the housekeeper said, gesturing to the left where a door stood ajar. “Would you care for me to take your hat?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Daphne untied the ribbons beneath her chin and handed the bonnet to the housekeeper.
She took the hat and went to the open door, pushing it wider and announcing, “Mrs. Guilford is here to see you.” Stepping aside, the housekeeper smiled at Daphne and allowed her to go inside.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Hollyhaven.” The deep voice greeted her as she entered, and she offered a curtsey to her host. Tall with dark hair streaked with a bit of gray and his complexion a light olive, the scholar was far more attractive than she’d expected. What had she expected? A wizened old man with spectacles, probably.
“Thank you, Mr. Bowen. I’m so grateful for this opportunity to view your manuscript.”
“It’s always my pleasure to share my library when I am able. Come and sit. I have the text ready for you on my worktable.” He indicated a small book that lay open on a long table in the center of the impressive library. Dark wood shelves lined the walls, and a bay window overlooked the drive and front lawn.
Daphne moved toward the table, feeling a bit awestruck. She’d seen copies of this story, but Mr. Bowen possessed the oldest known version. She dearly hoped she’d find what she was looking for.
“Good afternoon.” A feminine voice drew Daphne’s attention to the doorway. A very pretty woman with blond hair entered the library and, given the way her gaze connected with Mr. Bowen and the intimate smiles exchanged, Daphne assumed she was his wife.
“Margery, allow me to present Mrs. Guilford. Mrs. Guilford, this is Mrs. Bowen.”
“How do you do?” Daphne gave another curtsey.
“Rhys said you came to look at the Arthurian story that was likely written by Elidyr. At least that’s my husband’s supposition, and I must confess, he is rather brilliant.” Mrs. Bowen looked toward her husband in keen admiration.
“His scholarship on the subject of Welsh texts is unparalleled,” Daphne said. “If he says it was written by Elidyr, who am I to dispute him?”
“Did I hear someone say Elidyr?” Another gentleman came into the library. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the dark complexion of a Welshman like Mr. Bowen. However, where Bowen’s eyes were also dark, this man’s were a vivid blue. He was accompanied by a woman, blonde like Mrs. Bowen, but the similarity ended there.
“Mrs. Guilford, we have a rather full house at the moment. This is my son, Pennard Bowen, and his betrothed, Amelia. They are to be wed tomorrow.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the younger Mr. Bowen said.
Daphne bobbed again, thinking she would surely perfect her curtsey before the day was out. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Bowen.”
“Please call me Penn. My father is Mr. Bowen.”
“Are we holding a family meeting or conducting research? Either way, you can’t think to leave me out.” This came from yet another woman who entered the library. She was young, also Welsh, with ebony hair and dark eyes. She had her father’s coloring but her mother’s chin and mouth. This was undoubtedly another child of the Bowens.
“Mrs. Guilford, this is my daughter, Cate,” Mr. Bowen said. “And her new husband, Elijah, the Earl of Norris.”
Daphne dipped an even deeper curtsey since they were peerage. “It’s my honor to make your acquaintance,” she said.
Norris was even taller than the Bowen men, with blond hair and a rigid bearing she would swear was due to a military background. She’d grown up with plenty of army men who worked for her father after leaving their commissions. Papa liked to help former soldiers, and so there were a great many of them either employed on his estate or living there as tenants.
“Everyone, Mrs. Guilford is here to see the Elidyr text.”
The countess came toward Daphne and drew her to the table. “How fascinating and wonderful to meet another female antiquary. You are an antiquary, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say so, no. At least not in the general sense. I am a scholar of Morgan le Fay. Or Morgana. Or whatever name you’d like to give her.”
The countess’s dark eyes lit with appreciation. “Splendid! Any female scholar is more than welcome here. I’m an antiquary myself, as is my brother.”
“I also happen to work at the Ashmolean Museum,” Penn said dryly.
Daphne had heard of him, of course—both in the antiquarian community at large and specifically from her father. Just as he’d told her of the elder Mr. Bowen. The rest of the people in the library were unknown to her. Though Mr. Bowen had invited her to come, she felt like a bit of an intruder. But perhaps that was because of what she’d just learned—that there was to be a wedding tomorrow. She turned her head toward Penn and his betrothed. “May I offer my felicitations on your marriage?”
“Thank you,” Penn said. “But that’s not nearly as exciting as why you’re here. Are you hoping to learn something new from the text?”
His soon-to-be wife elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s plenty exciting,” she said softly but with heat.
“The most exciting day of my life, darling.” He brushed a kiss against her temple, and for a brief moment, Daphne wondered what that might feel like. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t care.
Addressing Penn’s question, she said, “I am hopeful this text includes a clue about Morgan. It is a personal endeavor to read everything that may be associated with her.”
“What a wonderful enterprise,” the countess said. “I wager you know her rather well.”
“As well as I know myself.” It was perhaps the most honest thing Daphne had said that day.
“Well, don’t let us keep you,” Mr. Bowen said, approaching the table and holding out a chair positioned in front of the book. “Please sit. I only ask that you remove your gloves and don one of the pairs we use for handling my manuscripts. Oh, blast.” He turned from the chair. “Where are the gloves?”
The air in the room seemed to compress and the temperature to rise. Someone else entered—a man. He was nearly as tall as Penn, with the same dark hair. However, his eyes were deep gray, like a storm moving over the tor.
He picked up a pair of gloves from a table near the door and brought them to where she stood between Mr. Bowen and the countess. “I believe I heard Mrs. Thomas saying she’d just laundered these.”
“Yes, I thought I’d put them on the worktable already,” Mr. Bowen said. “Gideon, allow me to present Mrs. Guilford. She’s a scholar of Morgan le Fay and has come to read the Elidyr text. Mrs. Guilford, this is the Earl of Stratton, a cousin to us.”
“It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Daphne said, dropping into yet another curtsey. If she had to do so again, she wondered if her knees would hold up. Or maybe her wobbly knees were due to this newest arrival. There was something darkly attractive about him, dangerous almost. Perhaps that was because he hadn’t smiled at her as everyone else had done. Instead, he affected a slig
ht bow, as if he could barely be bothered.
He murmured, “Mrs. Guilford.”
She was horrified to feel a tremor in her belly at the timbre of his voice. Shaking away the sensation, she returned her attention to Mr. Bowen. “May I?”
“Of course. Would you like me to send everyone away? You needn’t suffer an audience if it will distract you.”
“It’s quite all right.” There was something…warm about the family clogging the room. And that was just it: they were a family. She’d always wanted one, but instead had only her father and the myriad hirelings he’d paid to watch over her since her mother had disappeared. Her gaze drifted briefly to Mrs. Bowen. How nice it must be to have a mother.
Banishing the maudlin thoughts, Daphne sat at the table and began to read the manuscript.
“You read Old Welsh?” the countess asked.
Daphne lifted her head and looked across the table to where the young lady had moved to stand. “Yes.”
“How wonderful. I can’t believe we’ve never met.” She sat down opposite Daphne, and color splashed across her cheeks. “Forgive me. I shan’t interrupt you again.”
Her excitement was contagious. Daphne hadn’t ever met another young woman with interests similar to hers, and she found herself wanting to speak with her. But she didn’t have much time—she had to travel to Glastonbury tomorrow. Besides, these people had celebrations to commence.
Daphne returned to reading and was soon engrossed in the tale of Arthur’s battle at Badon Hill. She wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed before she finished, but when she looked up, the countess was still seated across from her, and Mr. Bowen sat at the end of the table to her left.
Had everyone else gone? She turned to look about the room and saw that the others were gathered in a seating area near the large bay window, save the Earl of Stratton, who leaned against the bookshelves studying a book of his own. His head lifted, and his gaze found hers.