“Of course, miss.” He took off toward the back of the inn.
Margery touched the back of her hair, still swept up from her neck. She’d sent Jane to bed without using her assistance, telling her she was going for a short walk in the rear yard. She considered leaving the maid a note, but reasoned the young woman was probably already asleep.
Rhys had to be irate. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d assumed—with reason—that she’d gone to the church to find the treasure. She had to find him and tell him she wouldn’t do that without him. But why?
Because she cared about him. More than she wanted to admit. More than she’d even realized. It was, apparently, too late to safeguard her heart. The pain she feared was already at hand.
Craddock returned, carrying a lantern. “Ready?”
She nodded, and they exited the back door. The night was still warm, but a refreshing breeze had picked up, offering a welcome reprieve from the day’s sweltering heat. She walked quickly, eager to reach her destination, and Craddock kept up easily.
There was light coming from the interior of the church, but she suspected there were always candles lit, especially since the Order’s sentinel had taken up residence of late. She quickened her pace and practically ran onto the porch where the Silurum stone was kept.
As soon as she stepped into the church, she stopped dead.
Rhys was on his knees, using a spade to dig up a stone from the floor.
He hadn’t come here to stop her, he’d come to find the treasure himself.
Her blood ran cold, despite the warm night, and she simply stared at him.
He lifted his dark gaze to hers, sweat beading his brow. His linen shirt gaped at the neck so she could see a good portion of his chest. She swallowed and averted her gaze back to his stricken face.
“Margery,” he said grimly, “you shouldn’t have come.”
“I can see that,” she snapped, disbelief and hurt swirling inside of her as she comprehended his deception.
He slowly shook his head. “It’s not what you think. Craddock, help—”
Margery heard a scuffle behind her. She spun about as a man knocked Craddock in the head with the butt of a pistol. The man caught Craddock and the lantern he carried as he slumped to the floor.
Alarm mingled with the trepidation icing Margery’s insides. She didn’t recognize the man standing over Craddock, with his pistol pointed at . . . Rhys.
She swung her head around. Rhys had gotten up. His lip was curled with menace, and he looked as if he was about to leap across the cobblestoned floor and attack the man behind her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Digby step into the church—from the exit to the yard they’d used the other day. Relief eased the turmoil in her gut. “Digby,” she murmured, never more grateful to see another person.
But when Rhys didn’t react to the baron’s presence, her fear rose once more. Something was wrong.
Digby also had a pistol, and he also pointed it at Rhys. No.
“What are—”
Digby cut her off. He glanced at the man behind Margery, who was now close enough that she could feel his heat at her back. “Tie him up and throw him in the cupboard with the other one. Miss Derrington, please join me.” He offered her his usual lopsided smile, which quickly morphed into a snarl when he looked at Rhys. “Get back to work.”
Rhys sent her a dark stare before kneeling once more and digging around the stone.
As Margery moved closer to Digby, she was aware that the other villain—and they truly were villains—had gagged Craddock and was securing his hands and feet together. The coachman was still unconscious.
“Please don’t hurt him,” Margery said to Digby.
“I won’t unless it becomes necessary. I never wish to hurt anyone.” He glanced at her regretfully, but kept his focus on Rhys. “If you’d only relinquished your book that first night in Hereford, our paths might never have crossed again.”
“You son of a bitch,” Rhys rumbled. “You did attack her.”
“I didn’t. My man was told to obtain the book with as little difficulty as possible. How was I to know Miss Derrington is a fearless hellcat?”
Margery wanted to shout with frustration. She should’ve listened to Rhys about not trusting Digby, but she’d been too blinded by wanting the treasure. “You’re wrong. Our paths would’ve crossed again because I wasn’t going to give up on the treasure that easily.” She’d been consumed by it, driven by the need to claim her own future. She’d been blind to the fact that with every step of this adventure—with Rhys—she’d been doing just that.
Digby lifted a shoulder. “No matter, it’s all worked out splendidly. Though I was truly hoping you and I could’ve come to a mutual accord. Your passion and initiative would make us a formidable team.”
“He’s a treasure hunter, Margery,” Rhys said. “He was never going to share it with anyone.” He looked up at Digby, his nostrils flaring. “Do you already have a buyer?”
Digby sent Rhys a malevolent glare. “You’re stretching my patience, Bowen. Stop talking and dig.”
Margery curled her fingers into her hand, longing to hit Digby.
The sound of something being dragged drew her attention, and she watched the other villain shove Craddock into a cupboard, closing it once he was inside. “Will he be able to breathe in there?” she asked, shaking with fear.
“I wouldn’t worry about him. Someone will come along, and by then I’ll be long gone,” Digby said.
“I’ll hunt you down,” Rhys swore.
“No, you won’t, because you’ll be dead.”
Margery lunged forward. “No! You said you didn’t like to hurt anyone.”
“Hold her.” Digby motioned to his cohort. “I take no pleasure in it,” he told Margery, “but as I said, it’s sometimes necessary. I can’t risk Bowen coming after me for the treasure.”
The second man grabbed Margery’s arm and dragged her back against his chest. He dug the barrel of his pistol into her side.
An inhuman sound erupted from Rhys’s throat, but Digby reached out and grabbed a candlestick from a table and threw it at Rhys, striking him in the head. Digby’s face contorted into a mask of rage as he grabbed Rhys by the neck and shoved him face first into the stones. “If you don’t find this treasure for me, I’m going to kill her, too, understand?” He waited a beat, then knocked Rhys’s forehead against the rock. “I said, do you understand?”
“Yes.” Rhys’s response was muffled, but audible.
Digby let him go and retreated. He wore a waistcoat over his shirt, which was also open at the collar. He tugged at his garments to reposition them as he aimed his pistol at Rhys.
When Rhys’s head came up, blood trickled from his hairline. His face was dark, his eyes darker. Margery had never seen him look so enraged.
Knots of fear formed a chain from her throat to her belly. She was going to be sick. She couldn’t let Digby kill him. What were they going to do?
Taking deep breaths, she watched Rhys digging around the stone. Why had he selected that particular one? She tried to make sense of how the map applied to the actual floor, but couldn’t. Did Rhys understand it, or was he simply guessing?
At last, the stone came loose. Digby leaned over to look into the space. “There’s nothing there. You said it was there.”
“No,” Rhys said levelly. “I said it could be there. Give me the map.”
Digby withdrew the parchment Rhys had drawn earlier and tossed it to the floor. “Try again, and this time you’d better be right.” He nodded toward the man holding her, who squeezed Margery’s arm painfully. She tried not to make a sound, but gave off a whimper, which drew Rhys’s frustrated glare.
She couldn’t continue like this. “Digby, if I agree to go with you—to marry you—will you let Rhys go?”
Digby’s eyes flashed with surprise. His lips parted and he looked between them as if he was trying to detect some sort of plan.
“I’
ll go with you—happily,” she added, though her stomach threatened to empty its contents at the thought.
“Margery, don’t.” Rhys’s quiet plea filled her soul.
“Why would you do that?” Digby asked. “You said you weren’t interested in marriage, though there seems to be something between the two of you.” His tone was derisive. “Keep digging, Bowen or I’ll have Hawkins make another part of you bleed.”
Margery clenched her hands into fists and bit her tongue to keep from begging Digby to stop. “There’s nothing between me and Mr. Bowen, though I know he’d like there to be. I only care that he doesn’t die—I don’t want that for anyone.” God, this was going to hurt Rhys. “The treasure is what’s important to me. It’s always been the treasure. And using him to find it was merely a means to an end.”
Rhys had flinched when she’d said “using,” and Margery’s heart constricted. He looked at her, his gaze uncertain, and she knew she was almost there.
She moved toward Digby, but her captor held her fast. “Please, Digby, let me come to you.”
Digby stared at her a long moment, then motioned for her to come. With slow, sure steps that belied the fear quaking through her, she made her way to his side. She caressed his cheek and slid her hand to the side of his jaw. Pressing her hand against him, she urged his head down so she could kiss him. Softly, she touched her lips to his and bit her cheek to hide her revulsion.
Digby slipped his tongue into her mouth, but she pulled back and offered a hasty smile. “Not here. There will be plenty of time for that later.” She stroked his jaw and prayed he believed her.
With a triumphant grin, Digby turned to Rhys, who was watching them in utter rage. “Miss Derrington has just saved your life. Don’t mess it up by not complying with the arrangement she’s just negotiated. You still need to find that treasure. Stop fooling around and dig under the correct stone.”
Margery realized Rhys had already moved two other stones, to no avail. Had he been stalling? She expected nothing less from a man of his exceptional intelligence.
Rhys’s black eyes found hers. “Margery.” The single word nearly drove her to her knees.
Squaring her shoulders, she dug for a strength she wasn’t sure she had. “Stop calling me that. You are too familiar. Hurry up and find the treasure so we may leave.” The hurt in his gaze pulled at her heart and she knew she had to do more. “I need you to understand that I only ever wanted the treasure—only the treasure. Everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done has been with that result in mind. Once you accept that, we can finish this and move on.”
The fire burning behind his eyes went out. The rich, dark color hardened to obsidian, and she knew she’d killed whatever feeling he had for her.
And a part of her died too.
Rhys looked at the map he’d sketched, but the image blurred. He couldn’t believe what Margery said. Yet, she’d spoken quite convincingly. Plus, she’d gone and kissed that prick Digby. All for the treasure. He knew she wanted it—no, he knew she needed it. But would she really go to such lengths to get it? He thought he’d come to know her, and he’d certainly come to care for her. Hell, he loved her.
While he was nothing to her.
He blinked several times and brought the map into focus. He’d been digging in random spots, trying to delay until he could organize a plan of escape. He’d considered taking Digby by surprise, but with the second bloke—Hawkins was his name—and then Margery’s appearance, he hadn’t wanted to risk it. He was certain that in a confrontation between just the two of them, he would dominate Digby handily. How he yearned for the chance.
He knew where the stone was located because of the way the rows were laid out. There was a number pattern that allowed him to figure the orientation of the map. But if he found the correct stone and unearthed the treasure now, they’d leave—and regardless of what Digby said, he didn’t trust the man not to kill him.
He stood up, still clutching the map.
Digby pointed his pistol at Rhys’s chest. “Where are you going?”
“To try another stone.”
“You’d better get it right. Margery would rather I didn’t kill you, but my patience will only hold for so long.” He glanced at Margery. “Sorry, my love, the treasure is all that matters.”
She looked at Digby, her lashes fluttering. “Of course.” She turned an icy stare on Rhys. “Do yourself a favor and find it now.”
Something about the way she said the word sparked hope in his chest. Was it possible she was playing an elaborate part? God, he hoped so.
Feeling slightly buoyed, he went to the stone in the northwest corner and counted two rows over and three rows down. He sank to his knees and used the dull tool Digby had provided to pry up the stone. He had to work his fingers around it to loosen the rock—the last one had taken considerable effort. This one, however, seemed to wobble more easily. Excitement stirred in his chest. This could be it . . .
He picked up the rock, it was heavier than the others, and set it aside.
Digby and Margery crept forward, while Hawkins flanked Rhys from the other side.
“Is that a . . . box?” Margery asked breathlessly.
Rhys looked up at her, saw the enthusiasm in her gaze and had to stifle the urge to sweep her against him. This was not how this discovery was supposed to play out. They were supposed to find this together and celebrate . . .
“Open it,” Digby demanded, also sounding thunderstruck.
Rhys pried it up from the small nook and set it beside the hole. The box bore a simple latch, which he flicked apart. With a wary glance at his captors, he opened the lid.
Everyone gathered close. “What is it?” Digby asked. “Margery, pick it up.”
Rhys withdrew the sheaf of papers crowding the box and held them up to her. She grasped them, her fingers grazing his knuckles. Her gaze found his and again, he had the sense that everything she was currently doing was an act.
Digby peered over her shoulder at the stack of parchment. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She sifted through the papers. “I can’t read it.”
Digby snatched them from her and scowled at them. “Neither can I. Bowen, what is this?” He thrust the documents at Rhys, who caught the papers before they scattered.
“It’s in Latin.” Rhys arched a brow at Digby. “They didn’t teach you that at Cambridge?” Likely the scoundrel hadn’t bothered to learn it.
“I’m afraid I was sent down after my first year.”
“Not surprising,” Rhys muttered.
Digby pointed his pistol at Rhys’s forehead. “What does it say? Does it direct us where to look next?”
Rhys scanned the pages. His chest expanded. It was an extraordinary find—better than any bejeweled heart or magical sword. “No, this is the treasure.”
“I don’t understand.” Digby gritted his teeth. “It’s a bunch of ancient parchment.”
“Sixth-century parchment to be exact.” He held up the last page for both of them to see. “Can you read the name there at the bottom?”
Margery’s intake of breath filled him with joy. She understood. “Anarawd.”
“What?”
She turned to Digby, her features animated with the excitement of the discovery. “The scribe, Anarawd, wrote this.”
Digby seized the papers from Rhys and stared at them, as if he’d somehow learned to read Latin in the space of the last two minutes. “Are these the recorded stories . . . from the knights?”
“I wasn’t able to read them closely, but yes, it seems they are the source material for de Valery’s manuscripts. A series of poems if I’m not mistaken.”
Digby looked at him, his gray eyes feverish. “Do they prove the existence of Arthur?”
“I’d have to study them.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have an associate who will know their worth.”
“I thought you were an Arthurian expert,” Rhys observed drily.
Digby c
lenched his teeth. “Don’t push my tolerance, Bowen.
“I must say this is disappointing.” Digby rolled the vellum, and Rhys nearly threw himself at the bounder to save the artifacts from damage. “It will garner a decent price, but it’s no Heart of Llanllwch.” He looked at Margery apologetically. “I’m sorry, Margery. The next one will be better.”
Rhys couldn’t remain silent. “You’re a fool, Digby. This is an incredible discovery.”
Digby threw him a nasty glare. “It’s not the treasure I was hoping to find.”
“It’s precisely what I wished for—and more.” Rhys stared at Margery, the curve of her lip, the brilliant gleam of her hazel eyes, and knew he’d found a treasure worth keeping. A treasure worth fighting for. He held his breath waiting for her response.
She opened her mouth, but Rhys never got to hear what she was going to say. The rough hands of Hawkins pulled him to his feet.
“Bind him,” Digby ordered as he went to another pile of rope and tossed some to his henchman.
Hawkins set his pistol down before he grabbed Rhys. It was now or never. Rhys lifted his arm and chopped his hand into Hawkins’s nose. Blood flowed, but Hawkins pivoted and took Rhys down hard to the stone floor.
Rhys heard a scuffle, looked up, and saw Digby and Margery hurrying from the church. With a loud cry, he heaved up at his attacker and threw him aside. He scrambled to his feet, but a hand on his ankle pulled him back down.
Hawkins dragged him backward as Rhys kicked at him with his free foot. He dug his fingers into the stones for purchase. But Hawkins was bloody strong, and Rhys slid back. With a burst of strength, he turned himself over so he could see Hawkins. The man had a knife in his hand and swiped up at Rhys’s leg, keeping his grip firm around Rhys’s boot.
Kicking out, Rhys tried to knock the knife away, but Hawkins had a firm grasp. The knife slashed at Rhys’s boot, but only nicked the leather.
Damn it, every moment he tangled with the man was a moment Digby was escaping with Margery. Rhys reached behind him, looking for anything he could find. His fingers met the empty box, a pathetic weapon to be sure, but better than nothing. He lurched upward with it and brought it down on Hawkins’s head.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 49