Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  “Perhaps.” Definitely. “And why do you remain unwed? I can’t believe you haven’t had offers.” She was far too lovely, too intelligent, too bewitching.

  Bewitching?

  “Believe it or not, I haven’t,” her answer came quick and carried a touch of irritation. “Furthermore, I haven’t felt the need to marry either.”

  He’d been jesting with his answer. It wasn’t so much that he hadn’t felt the need, just that he hadn’t considered it at all. But with her, he imagined she had to have considered it—women in her position really had no other choice. Sooner or later, she’d likely marry. And he suddenly envied that faceless man.

  Margery opened her eyes in the fire-lit room and took a moment to register her surroundings. The chamber at the inn was small, which was why she was huddled on a pallet between the narrow bed she’d given to Mrs. Edwards and the small fireplace in which the remnants of an earlier fire glowed orange. Based on the color of the embers, Margery hadn’t been asleep terribly long, but it wasn’t unusual that she would wake up when lodging in a strange place. Especially when the thin padding separating her from the floor did nothing to provide comfort.

  Creak.

  Now that was unusual.

  Margery turned onto her back, expecting to see Mrs. Edwards getting out of bed perhaps. Yes, there was a dark figure. But it was much too tall . . .

  A muffled screech, like someone was holding his hand over Mrs. Edwards’s mouth, drew Margery to sit up. She looked frantically for some sort of weapon. Her gaze landed on the fireplace poker.

  “I’ll slit yer throat if ye scream,” hissed a masculine voice. “Where’s the book?”

  The book?

  It was stuffed beneath Margery’s pillow. She bolted to her feet and lunged for the poker, grasping the handle with a tight grip. Spinning on her heel, she nearly lost her balance as fear and anger coursed through her. Lifting the poker, she brought it down on the intruder’s head, but he moved to the right and she just grazed him.

  It was enough to dislodge his hand, for Mrs. Edwards let loose a high scream that was bound to bring the inn down around them. The intruder raised his arm and the blade in his hand flashed, reflecting the scant light from the embers.

  Margery swung the poker again, this time hitting him square in the side of the head.

  He roared, nearly as loudly as Mrs. Edwards had screamed, and swung around. There was enough light for Margery to make out the nasty scar that disfigured his mouth and his long, misshapen nose.

  “Ye shouldn’t have done that,” he growled. He reached for her arm, but she flailed backward, trying to escape his reach.

  The door slammed against the wall as a second large figure dashed inside. And then the would-be-thief was gone, or at least no longer pursuing her. The two men tussled for a moment, but it was so dark, Margery couldn’t tell who was who or what was really happening. There were grunts, a curse, and a sharp intake of breath.

  Then one of the men—the intruder, she was almost certain—fled the room.

  “Mr. Bowen?” Margery moved cautiously toward their rescuer.

  He lifted his head, and the firelight revealed it was he. “Are you all right?” His gaze raked her thoroughly before he turned to look at Mrs. Edwards. She sat up in the bed, her eyes wide, and clutched the coverlet to her chin.

  Margery dropped the poker and rushed to her side. “We’re saved. Are you hurt?”

  Mrs. Edwards shook her head, her long, dark braid curling along her collarbone.

  “Are you both well?” Mr. Bowen asked from just behind Margery.

  She turned to look at him. “I think so. He asked for the book.” She returned her focus to Mrs. Edwards. “Did he say anything else?”

  “That he was going to . . . to . . . slit my throat.” Her face was the color of ash.

  Margery leaned closer and slid her arm around Mrs. Edwards’s shoulders in a half hug. “You’re going to be fine. We’re safe now.”

  “I think I’d prefer to return home in the morning. After Mr. Bowen’s talk of Lord Stratton and that . . . that . . . brigand, I’m afraid I . . .” She dropped her face into her hands and began to cry.

  Margery’s heart ached for the poor woman. It must’ve been terrible to wake up to a strange man standing over you with a knife. Margery’s own heart was still beating a horrendous rhythm in her chest, and she couldn’t shake the icy sensation lodged in her spine. She rubbed her hand over Mrs. Edwards’s back as she cried.

  “What happened?” A new masculine voice came from the doorway as light flooded the chamber.

  Margery looked over to see the innkeeper, a lantern in his hand.

  “There was an intruder,” Mr. Bowen said. Now that she could properly see, Margery was shocked to realize Mr. Bowen’s chest was bare. And quite muscular. “A would-be thief.” He shot Margery a glance that was meant to convey something—probably not to mention the book, though she’d already made that determination for herself.

  The innkeeper moved farther into the room. “He make off with anything?”

  “No,” Margery answered. “He was tall, slender, with a scar cutting across his mouth and a long, crooked nose, as if it had been broken several times.”

  Mrs. Edwards had stopped crying, though her frame still felt quivery beneath Margery’s touch. Additional figures stood in the corridor outside the room. Other guests, certainly—the inn was full to capacity—which was why Margery and Mrs. Edwards were sharing such a tiny room.

  “Everyone all right?” The innkeeper’s gaze settled on Mrs. Edwards, whose head was still bent.

  “She’ll be fine,” Mr. Bowen said. “You ought to do a thorough check of the inn and the stables. Probably the grounds. He had a knife and threatened the ladies. I know we’d all feel better if we could be certain he was gone.”

  Mrs. Edwards nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll come with you,” Mr. Bowen continued. “Allow me to attire myself appropriately.”

  The innkeeper nodded, then turned. “If any of the lot of you care to help, follow me.”

  Mr. Bowen made to leave, but Margery gave Mrs. Edwards a gentle pat and hurried to stop him. She touched his elbow just as he was crossing the threshold to the corridor. The connection of her fingers with his bare flesh banished any residual chill that was resting in her bones.

  She jerked her hand back as he turned. “Thank you.”

  His eyes reminded her of the blackened pieces in the fireplace, dark as pitch but smoldering with undeniable heat. “You’re certain you’re all right?”

  “I am. Though I am concerned for Mrs. Edwards. She’s had a terrible fright.”

  “Unsurprising. That was quite an event.” He blinked at her. “Did you hit him with the fireplace poker?”

  She nodded, feeling exceptionally good, maybe even a bit pleased with herself. “Twice.”

  “What a dangerous vixen you are,” he murmured. His gaze caressed her, lingering on her hair, which she’d unpinned before bed and left to hang loose past her shoulders.

  “Perhaps, but your arrival was most opportune.” She suddenly noticed a small trickle of blood on the side of his neck. Her fingers were against his flesh again before she could censor herself. “You’re hurt.”

  His hand came up and their fingers collided. “Just a scratch from his knife.”

  She ignored the sensations rioting in her belly and poked at his skin. Yes, just a small scratch, but it would require cleaning. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

  He arched a brow at her. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I can move rather quickly, Miss Derrington, despite my size.”

  Yes, his size. She’d likened him to a warrior and now, with his bare torso exposed to her perusal, she was certain he was some reincarnated hero. Perhaps one of the knights in the book. The book!

  She dropped her hand from his neck and rushed back to the pallet. Throwing the pillow aside, she scooped up the tome and clutched it to her chest. The attempt to steal the manus
cript had changed everything. Mrs. Edwards wanted to return home, Mr. Bowen had been injured, and someone was most definitely after her book. Who?

  Mr. Bowen had followed her. “It’s safe?”

  “Yes, I had it under my pillow.”

  “A good thing.” His tone was grim. “However, it might be best if you gave it to me for safekeeping.”

  “Why? Whoever’s looking for it knows I have it. They’ll still try to come after me.”

  “But they won’t find the book. Not that I’m going to let anyone come anywhere near you.” His pledge was dark and glorious, almost romantic. She shivered.

  Perhaps she should deliver the book into his custody. No, she had too many unanswered questions.

  “Please give it to him,” Mrs. Edwards said.

  Her tone was so forlorn, so frightened that Margery nearly relented. “I’ll consider it.”

  He frowned at her. “We’ll discuss it after I’ve helped with the search.”

  “Must you?” Mrs. Edward’s voice croaked. “I’d feel safer if you or someone else stayed with us.”

  Margery went back to the bed and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Whatever you’d like.”

  “Give me a few minutes to get dressed and check on the search,” he said. “I’ll feel better when I know the bugger—pardon me—is gone.” With a final probing stare, he turned and left.

  Mrs. Edwards’s gaze fixed on the book Margery cradled against her right side. “What’s in that anyway?”

  “Just old stories recorded by a fourteenth-century scribe.” Now Margery was certain there was more to this book than Mr. Bowen had revealed. And she was going to demand he tell her the truth. “The book is highly valued.”

  “But why are you taking it to Stratton Hall to compare it with this other book?” Her eyes narrowed. “This whole endeavor is suspicious.”

  Margery couldn’t disagree. “Do you truly want to return to Gloucester in the morning?” This was by far a better topic than the book. Besides, if Mrs. Edwards meant to leave, Margery would have to make other arrangements for a chaperone.

  “I do, and you should come with me. This is a dangerous escapade.” She said this in her best I-know-better-than-you-and-as-your-chaperone-it’s-my-duty-to-remind-you-of-that tone.

  “I trust Mr. Bowen to keep me safe.” She was surprised when the words escaped her mouth. She might not trust his motives regarding the book, but he’d jumped to their defense with alacrity and vigor—and she didn’t think it was just because of the manuscript. The way he’d looked at her . . . She suppressed another shiver. “He can keep us both safe. Plus, I’ll sleep with a poker.”

  This earned a smile from Mrs. Edwards. “That was rather brilliant of you. Your aunts will find this tale most diverting.”

  Her aunts. Oh dear, this would worry them needlessly. She didn’t want to keep it from them, but there would be time to tell them later. “If you do return to Gloucester, please don’t tell them what happened. Just say you needed to come home.” Margery touched her hand, which sat atop the coverlet in her lap. “Please, this errand is absolutely necessary and I won’t have them upset.”

  After a long moment, Mrs. Edwards nodded. “Let me consider whether I will continue with you to Stratton Hall. After I sleep. If I sleep.” She lay back against the pillow and brought the bedclothes up to her neck.

  “That sounds like an excellent notion.” She brushed her hand against the worn cotton of the quilt. “I’ll just wait for Mr. Bowen to return.”

  She partially closed the door and moved into the corridor, leaning against the wall. A few minutes later, the light of a lantern flashed down the hallway and Mr. Bowen came into view. He’d donned a shirt and waistcoat, though his neck remained bare.

  “There’s no sign of the brigand yet. I’m sure he’s gone and won’t bother us again tonight.”

  Holding the book to her chest, she pinned him with an intense stare. “I think it’s past time you told me the truth about this book. What are you hiding about its value?”

  He hesitated a moment too long, his mouth pulling down.

  “Tell me now or I’m returning to Gloucester in the morning—with my book.” Her voice climbed. “That you would put me and Mrs. Edwards in danger—”

  He pressed his fingers against her lips. “Enough. The book holds a secret code.” He gritted his teeth as if he’d hated letting the words out. Which he probably did.

  She moved his hand away from her mouth, though his touch hadn’t bothered her nearly as much as it should have. “A secret code for what?’

  “A treasure.”

  Margery resisted the urge to kick him. “You bounder!”

  He took a small step back. “I don’t even know if the code is real. I wanted to make sure before I told you.”

  “So you planned to tell me after you did whatever you were going to do at Stratton Hall? Forgive me if I don’t trust you at all just now.”

  His dark eyes glittered in the lantern light. “This book . . . this treasure . . . They’re important to me in ways you can’t understand. To you, they represent a monetary find, but to me, they are the discovery of a lifetime.”

  “And your discovery is more important than my need for money?” She pressed her lips together, wishing she could take the words back. “What is this treasure?”

  “No one knows for certain. The pair of books is alleged to be coded with information that will lead to something important. Perhaps another of the thirteen treasures, like the Heart of Llanllwch.”

  “You were never going to tell me about the treasure, were you?” Suddenly the book felt like a possible weapon in her arms. One she could bludgeon him with. “You planned to solve the code at Stratton Hall and probably send me on my way back to Gloucester without ever even purchasing the book.”

  He had the grace to look aghast. “That isn’t true. I wanted to buy the book. I still do. You’re the one who changed their mind about selling it. I’ll buy it from you right now—name your price.” He leaned toward her, his features harsh. “Any price.”

  “Oh, I’ll sell you the book. After we find the treasure and split it.”

  His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “We find the treasure?”

  “You need this book to find it. And I’m not letting it out of my sight, especially not after you tried to swindle it from me without disclosing its true value.”

  “Swindle?” His voice rose, but he reined it back by clenching his jaw. “I did no such thing. I offered you a fair price.”

  “Fair for what? A rare medieval text? Perhaps. For a treasure that you called the ‘discovery of a lifetime’? Your offer didn’t even come close to paying for something of that value.” She notched her chin up and straightened her spine. “Take my offer or leave it. It’s the only way you’ll have access to my book.”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “That isn’t going to make for a very solid alliance.”

  “You’re right. Perhaps we should part ways right now. I can visit Stratton on my own and solve the code.”

  “The devil you will. I’m not letting you anywhere near him without my protection.” He dropped a glance at the book. “And just how do you purport to solve this code when you don’t even know what it looks like?”

  She eyed him with a generous dose of skepticism. “I suppose you do?”

  His muttered epithet gave her a notable amount of satisfaction.

  “Do we have an accord?” she asked.

  His eyes were still dark as pitch, but there was a glint of something in their depths—begrudging admiration perhaps. “Yes.”

  Margery exhaled, not realizing she’d held her breath. “Have you any idea who tried to steal this?” She tightened her grip on the book.

  He crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Did you speak to anyone about it?”

  “No.” She’d kept it close and hadn’t discussed it with anyone. “My aunts had forgotten all about it until we found it
in the attic just the other day.”

  His expression mirrored how she felt—utterly confounded. “Well, someone knows you have it. We’ll need to be very careful.”

  “This someone is after the treasure, not just the book.”

  He inclined his head. “I think it’s safe to assume that, yes. But Stratton has the other book and without both, the code can’t even be detected.”

  She knew that to be true, since she’d spent countless hours studying the text and hadn’t noticed anything that could be interpreted as a secret code. She supposed that was what made it secret. “Even with both, the code might be meaningless, unless we can decipher it.”

  “We will.” He spoke confidently, but she had to admit she found his streak of hubris somewhat attractive. Probably because he had the intelligence and wit to support it. “Does Mrs. Edwards really want to return home? I suppose I can have Craddock drive her, and I can hire a coach to take us to Stratton Hall. Then there is the matter of a chaperone—”

  “She’s pondering it while she sleeps. I’m hopeful she’ll just continue with us, though she is quite upset.”

  He cocked his head to the side. It was a slight, innocuous movement, but it put his head at an angle that made him seem even more attractive, if that was possible. “I’m a little surprised you’re not.”

  Margery appreciated the admiration in his tone. “It takes a great deal to rattle me. However, I didn’t wake up with a large, ugly man waving a knife in my face, so I reserve the right to behave precisely as Mrs. Edwards did.”

  “You’re an extraordinary young woman, Miss Derrington.” He moved subtly closer, and it was as if the air in the corridor thinned. “But if that ever happens to you, I pity the man, for I’ll ensure he won’t live to see the morrow.”

  4

  The early afternoon sun shone bright as Rhys helped the ladies—Mrs. Edwards had decided to join them after waking up feeling better that morning—from the coach in the drive at Stratton Hall. The butler, whom Rhys vaguely recalled was Post, met and led them into the wide marble entry hall.

  Unable to keep his eyes open after a mostly sleepless night, due to the intrusion on Miss Derrington and Mrs. Edwards, Rhys had dozed off for a bit in the coach. He’d dreamed of treasure and verbally battling with his lovely partner. Until their sparring had turned into seduction. When he’d awakened, Miss Derrington had thankfully been too engrossed in her book to notice his half-aroused state.