Margery had tried to explain her position—that the book was hers and that she didn’t owe him anything. He hadn’t argued with her, just grunted occasionally and shot her resentful looks.
As they drove into town, he sat straight on the opposing seat. “When we arrive at the Crooked Cat, you’ll let me do the talking with the innkeeper.”
She’d told him the name of the inn where she’d planned to stay in an effort to demonstrate that her scheme hadn’t been ill-conceived. His directive made her suspicious, and stoked her ire, given the tone he employed. “What do you plan to say?”
“I’m not letting you or that book out of my sight. As of right now, we are officially married.”
Married? “No.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow. “I wasn’t asking. For your protection and for the safety of the book, you will masquerade as my wife.” He looked away. “I don’t expect you to behave like it—at least not in private. There will be no more kissing.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Liar. She’d rather liked his kiss. That thing he’d done with his tongue had heated her in places she never imagined could burn. Her only regret was that it had been over too quickly. But he was right—they couldn’t do it again.
Yet that didn’t keep her from being disappointed. She began to imagine, for the first time, how Aunt Agnes could’ve chosen ruination. If her gentleman had kissed her like that as well as treated her kindly and with charm, he would’ve been hard to resist.
Wait. Was Margery actually thinking she could do the same if properly motivated? No. She wouldn’t become a pariah, even for a life-altering kiss. Definitely not for a life-altering kiss.
Her anger rekindled and she tossed a glare at her captor. “You realize you’re kidnapping me.”
“I am not. You are free to return to Gloucester at any time.” He smiled coldly. “I’ll even fund the trip.”
She was tempted to take him up on it, but she was desperate to see Lord Nash and his book. And at present, Mr. Bowen was ensuring that would happen. Still, she couldn’t resist provoking him and disturbing his aura of superiority. “What if I did just that and took my book with me?”
His dark eyes smoldered. “You won’t.”
“You’re awfully certain of my behavior. I don’t think you know me that well.”
“I know you aren’t to be trusted, which is why I’m not letting you out of my company until we arrive at Westerly Cross.”
So the marriage ruse was only for their stop at the Crooked Cat? They’d go back to being whatever they were when they arrived at Lord Nash’s estate? She supposed she could put up with him for one night. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
He arched a brow at her and sat forward as the coach came to a halt. “If the bed is large enough, you just might have to share.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he exited the coach and she refused to shout after him like some harridan. No, she needed to compose herself. Long ago, she’d learned to keep her emotions in check and Mr. Bowen wasn’t going to be the one to unharness them. In fact, no one but Margery would ever have that power.
Craddock helped her from the coach, and as she stretched her muscles, she watched her “husband” speak to the innkeeper, a stout man with a shock of white hair. The letter of introduction from Lady Stratton was pressed between the pages of Margery’s book, where it would remain, unused. Pity, for she’d been rather excited about undertaking this adventure on her own. Instead, she was saddled with Mr. Bowen, his superiority, and his outrage.
They took dinner in the small dining room on the ground floor. Mr. Bowen invited Craddock to join them and the two men shared stories and conversation while Margery ate in silence. If Mr. Bowen sought to make her feel isolated and excluded, he’d be sorry to know that she was content to be left out of their discussion. She busied her mind with how she might evade him once they arrived at Westerly Cross.
After the sun set, he led her to their room, a large, comfortable accommodation with a table and two chairs, a cheery fireplace, and an unfortunately wide bed. It looked as if she was going to have to sleep with him.
“Mr. Bowen.” It seemed a touch odd to be addressing him so formally after the way he’d kissed her earlier, but she didn’t want to encourage further familiarity. “I’d rather not share the bed with you.”
He removed his hat and shrugged out of his coat, hanging both on hooks set into the wall by the door. “And where shall I sleep? On the floor?”
“If you don’t, I will.” She went to the bed and removed the coverlet. There was only a sheet, so that if she took the quilt, he’d have no covering. Not that she cared. “You can ask for a blanket if you desire.”
She pulled the coverlet from the bed and laid it near the fireplace, where the poker would be within reach in case there was another invasion. Or in case Mr. Bowen decided to renege on his no-kissing edict.
He gave her a bemused stare. “I desire you to be logical. It’s silly of you to sleep on the floor. I will ask for a blanket, but I shall roll it up and place it between us. The bed is plenty wide enough for us to share without touching. I’ve already promised to keep my hands to myself.” His gaze was icy. “Wild dogs couldn’t drag me to touch you again,” he muttered.
Since their room was the finest in the establishment, it contained a bellpull to summon a member of the inn’s staff. Mr. Bowen rang for them, and when the innkeeper’s wife arrived, he asked for a blanket, which she delivered moments later.
Mrs. Walters hesitated after setting the blanket on the bed. “Would you care for assistance with your clothing, Mrs. Bowen?”
Margery had considered whether she wanted to disrobe in front of Mr. Bowen, since he’d made it clear he refused to leave, but the notion of sleeping in her stays made her cringe. Even so, she could manage them without Mrs. Walters’s assistance. “Thank you, but no.”
Mrs. Walters nodded, then left.
“I can help you,” Mr. Bowen offered. “If you need it.”
“I do not,” she said frostily. “I do, however, require you to turn away.”
He did as she requested, presenting his back without a word.
Margery tugged at the laces of her gown and loosened it enough to pull over her head. She laid it over the back of the chair. “I look forward to having a room to myself at Westerly Cross.”
“Too bad that won’t happen,” he said.
Her fingers stalled before she could move on to her stays. “What do you mean? You said you weren’t taking your eyes off me until we reached Westerly Cross. I presumed you meant to abandon this ridiculous charade after tonight.”
“I meant no such thing. If you misunderstood me, that’s your problem.”
She hadn’t misunderstood him! Glaring at his back, she worked the laces of her stays until she was able to wriggle free of the garment. “You can’t order me to play your wife at Westerly Cross. Furthermore, Lady Stratton sent a note to her father and he’s expecting Miss Derrington, not Mrs. Bowen.”
“That’s his problem.”
Her frustration bloomed into full anger. “You’re being beastly. I promise I will not try to leave with the book. I want to review it with Lord Nash’s book as much as you do.”
“Your promise holds little credibility.” His tone was vexingly even, as if he were orating a lecture. “Actually, it holds no credibility.”
Margery fought the urge to throw something at his back. She kicked off her shoes and retrieved a robe from her valise. After shaking the garment out to the best of her ability, she wrapped it around herself. “You may turn.”
He did so, his gaze landing on her for a bare moment before diverting toward the fire.
She went to the table and began removing pins from her hair. She eyed him warily, coming up with a new tactic. “You do realize this book belongs to me? That without this book you won’t be able to solve the code, which means you won’t be able to find the treasure.”
He glanced at her, agai
n keeping it brief. “And you realize that without me, you won’t be able to solve the code?”
He was probably right, but she would never agree. “So you say.”
“So it is.” Oh, his smugness was maddening.
Searching through her hair, she located another pin and dropped it onto the table. “I had thought you to be merely smug, but it happens that you are domineering as well. You would force me into a contentious alliance.”
“No, you forced it by lying to me.”
She supposed she had, but Lady Stratton’s situation had quite persuaded her to the advantages of establishing her independence, and now that she’d had just a small taste of what that could be, she was afraid she couldn’t relinquish the idea. Still, she’d made an agreement with Mr. Bowen, and she supposed she owed him an apology.
“I regret deceiving you,” she said quietly, hating that he would probably respond with his typical haughtiness.
“Thank you.”
The simplicity and solemnity of his response rattled her. And provoked her to keep the discontent between them alive. “It seems to me you aren’t in need of the treasure. You appear to be a wealthy gentleman.”
He looked at her fully, then. “I told you I didn’t want it for its monetary value. Its historical and academic importance is what matters to me.”
Yes, his books were paramount. His library might be worth a fortune, but she couldn’t envision him ever liquidating it.
“Well, the monetary value is very important to me. How will I be rewarded for my portion of the treasure when we find it?” She didn’t even mention the half that would belong to Lord Nash as owner of the other manuscript.
He moved toward her and braced his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “I will still pay you whatever you ask for the book—and I can make it enough to compensate for the treasure.”
She could take his money and return to Gloucester as the independent woman she wanted to be. However, that meant abandoning her quest and yielding the book, two things she’d developed a surprising passion for. “I’ll consider it.”
His eyes widened, drawing her attention to his darkly lush lashes. She could get lost in his eyes—or worse, she could find something.
“You will?” he asked, disbelieving.
“I’ll decide when we get to Westerly Cross. After we see the other book.” She at least wanted to go that far. And she suspected that once she saw the code and key in their entirety, she’d be too excited about deciphering what it meant to walk away.
He looked back to the fire. “We needn’t pretend to be married at Westerly Cross.”
She suspected he didn’t like making the concession, but appreciated him for it. “Thank you.”
He went to the bed and rolled the blanket, placing it in the middle as a divider. It was a well-intentioned thought, but the barrier was meager at best. Either one of them could easily breach it and touch. Or kiss.
She fought to keep the heat from rising in her body and flushing her face. He couldn’t know how his kiss had affected her. And she couldn’t allow herself to succumb to another.
Picking up the coverlet, she laid it back atop the bed. Then she climbed into the far side and turned her back toward him. Though they’d reached some sort of mild accord, she purposely refrained from saying good night. She was still annoyed with his cavalier behavior.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the sounds of him moving around—probably undressing—were too distracting. Instead, her mind turned over the events of the day and every time they landed on the kiss, she forced herself to think of the book, what the code might be, and how close they were to finding it.
The situation only worsened when the bed dipped as he climbed in beside her. She scooted as far away him as possible without tumbling over the edge. It seemed to take an eternity, but his deep, even breathing filled her ears and reminded her, as if she needed reminding, of his proximity. She contemplated what it would be like to be married. Sharing this bed with him, being so . . . intimate, made it seem . . . possible.
And that made her want to run screaming from the room.
8
“I’m so sorry, but Lord Nash is not currently at home.”
The declaration, uttered by Lord Nash’s butler, Godfrey, nearly caused Rhys to swear. What on earth had happened to his even temper? He slid a look at Miss Derrington standing beside him and had his answer.
“When will he return?” she asked, her shoulders dipping with disappointment.
“Tomorrow. I received Lady Stratton’s note yesterday, and I’ve prepared a room.” Godfrey looked at Rhys. “I apologize that I didn’t know you were coming.”
In spite of his annoyance at finding Lord Nash absent, Rhys offered a congenial smile. “Nonsense, you can’t be expected to read minds.”
Godfrey nodded deferentially. “Of course. Let me alert our housekeeper, Mrs. Oliver, and she’ll prepare your room. In the meantime, allow me to provide refreshment.”
He led them into a sitting room with dark oaken beams stretching at intervals across the ceiling. A large painting of what had to be Lady Stratton with her parents hung above the fireplace. A housemaid entered with a tray and arranged tea and cakes on a table near the center of the room.
Rhys watched as Miss Derrington set her book on the table and helped herself to a plate of cakes and a cup of tea.
She looked up from stirring sugar into her tea. “Do you suppose the book is here somewhere?”
“In his office, perhaps?”
“Not that it matters. We have to wait for him to return.” She shot Rhys an inquiring glance as if she wasn’t certain they had to wait.
But no, they couldn’t go looking for it. Could they? He’d sensed her dismay at finding Lord Nash absent, and now he could feel her desperation to see the book. It matched his own.
After sharing tea, they were shown to their rooms, which were, coincidentally, right across the corridor from each other. They exchanged glances, and Rhys was curious to know what she thought of that. He found it bloody tempting.
Though he’d told her there would be no more kissing, last night’s sleeping arrangements had sorely enticed him. He’d managed to keep his hands to himself, but only because she’d made it clear she was more than happy to forget the kiss had ever happened. A shame, since he was fairly certain she’d enjoyed it. He knew he had.
He went into his chamber and closed the door. His luggage had been brought up and his clothes put away. The room wasn’t as large as the Knight’s Lounge at Stratton Hall, but it was well-appointed and lacked the disturbing presence of a secret door. Or so he presumed. After his experience at Stratton Hall, he might take it upon himself to thoroughly investigate any room he stayed in from now on.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Half-five. Dinner was to be at seven. Should he change for dinner? It wasn’t likely necessary, but he wanted to tidy up after the trip anyway.
After removing his boots and stockings and stripping to his waist, he filled the bowl on the washstand and washed. As he was drying his face, a rap on the door startled him.
Tossing the towel aside, he drew a fresh shirt over his head and padded to the door in his bare feet.
Miss Derrington’s fair countenance blinked at him. “Pardon me for disturbing you, but I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to take dinner in my room.”
He wasn’t surprised. No, what surprised him was that she’d come to tell him personally. “I see. An excellent idea. I shall do the same.”
She nodded, then turned to go back to her room, the door of which was ajar.
He noticed her feet were also bare, as he saw her toes peeking out from the edge of her gown. Turning, he closed the door before he could follow the mental vision of where those bare feet led . . . bare ankles . . . bare knees . . . bare thighs.
He went back to the washbasin and splashed more cold water onto his face. He rang for the footman and informed him that he would also take dinner in his room.
In the meantime, he went to the bed and lay down, crossing his ankles and folding his hands behind his head.
The canopy that stretched over his bed was a dark blue. He stared at it for a long time and tried very hard not to think about Miss Derrington’s bare anything.
Think about the book.
Both of de Valery’s manuscripts were about to be in his presence, if not his possession. How he wished even one of them belonged to him, but he didn’t see how that would be possible. At this juncture, he couldn’t see how even the treasure would belong to him.
What would it be? One of the thirteen treasures like the Heart of Llanllwch, which sat in the Ashmolean Museum? Some other Arthurian item that would prove the hero king’s existence? Or something else entirely?
Or maybe nothing at all.
No, there had to be something. De Valery wouldn’t be that cruel, would he? But Rhys was getting ahead of himself. Putting the books side by side was only the beginning. Then came the hard part: discerning the key so they could use it to decipher the code.
The urge to find Nash’s library or office to search for the book nearly overwhelmed him, but he would wait. Besides, the baron would likely keep the book locked up, wouldn’t he?
Rhys thought of the men who’d accosted Miss Derrington the day before. Upon returning to Leominster, he’d alerted the constable, who’d taken care of dealing with the wounded brigands. Rhys had never shot a man before and was surprised at the ease with which he’d done it. But upon seeing Miss Derrington in danger, he hadn’t hesitated. Did that mean she meant something to him? Given how badly she upset his equilibrium, he had to consider that she did.
He sat up, frustrated with the direction of his thoughts. Book. Think about the book.
He got up and dressed and let himself out of his room. He stopped short, as Miss Derrington was doing the same.
They stared at each other a moment before closing the doors and meeting in the center of the corridor.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 32