The de Valery Code (37 page)

Hopefully that had been Jane leaving for some reason. Locating his banyan on a hook, Rhys put it on and quickly buttoned it closed. Crossing to the door, he opened it slowly. A single candle burned on the small table. He stepped lightly over the threshold, his eyes scanning the room.

Jane was asleep on her pallet in the corner. His gut clenched as he looked at the bed, searching for Margery.
 

Empty.

Where the devil had she gone? The candlelight illuminated a garment on the coverlet—her nightrail. If she hadn’t donned it, that meant she was clothed. It was late. Why wouldn’t she have dressed for bed, particularly if her maid was already asleep?

Because she’d gone to the church.

He’d seen the excited glint in her eye when they’d determined the treasure was in the church and the disappointment when he’d said they had to wait until morning. She’d also been resistant to their plan to remove the Order’s sentinel from their path. But surely she wasn’t foolish enough to attempt to search for the treasure without Rhys, particularly when the Order was guarding it. Besides, it was something they were meant to do together—every move they’d made, every step along the journey had brought them to this place and he couldn’t imagine finishing it without her. Maybe, however, she didn’t feel the same.

He loved her, but he had no idea if she reciprocated the emotion. Maybe she’d never lower her defenses, and he was fighting a losing battle.

Going back to his room, he dressed quickly, without bothering to don anything over his shirt. He raced down the stairs and completed a cursory search of the common areas. No Margery. He moved outside, his frustration over her lack of sense if she
had
gone to the church warring with his concern that perhaps something else had occurred, something nefarious.

A figure near the corner of the inn drew his attention. With several long strides, he was there in an instant. “Craddock?”

His coachman turned. “Sir, good evening. I was just out for a refreshing walk. Today was a real burner.”

Rhys couldn’t contain his anxiety. “Have you seen Miss Derrington?”

“Indeed. She came by here not too long ago. Said she was going for a walk.”

“Did you see which way?”

“That way, I think.” Craddock gestured down the lane, toward the church.

Bloody stubborn female
. If she found herself in danger it would serve her right. But that didn’t mean Rhys wasn’t going to intervene.

He took off toward the church and hoped to hell she hadn’t done anything foolish.

Chapter Twenty-one

Margery came through the back door of the inn, keeping her tread light so as not to disturb anyone. Unable to sleep due to the heat, she’d gone outside for a brief reprieve.
 

Why was she lying to herself? She hadn’t been able to sleep because she couldn’t stop thinking of Rhys and how she longed to steal into his room—into his bed—and put her hands on him.

Securing the door gently closed, she scolded herself. She couldn’t keep thinking of him that way. Their partnership was nearly at an end, and he’d made it achingly clear that he was finished with her. Could she blame him? She’d deceived him back in Leominster, dismissed his marriage proposal, and had been too eager to accept Digby’s participation. No, she didn’t blame him at all.

She’d pushed him away at every opportunity because allowing him to get too close meant that losing him would only hurt that much more. As it was, the thought of never seeing his eyes light at that precise moment of discovery, or hearing his warm laugh, stung deep.

Turning, she stopped short as Craddock stepped toward her. “Good evening, miss,” he said, frowning.

“Good evening, Craddock. You’re about late.”

“I was out for a walk.” He was still frowning at her, his head cocked to the side in contemplation.

Her neck prickled. “Is something amiss?”

“I ran into Mr. Bowen a little bit ago. He was looking for you. I told him I saw you taking a walk earlier.”
 

Her neck prickled with apprehension
.
“Where is Mr. Bowen now?”

“He muttered something about the church. I think he walked there.”

She had to go after him. The moon was full and quite high in the sky, but she wanted a lantern to take along. “Craddock, would you mind fetching a light and accompanying me to the church?”

“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.