by GinaRJ
“No, but you did.” He paused a brief moment. “Perhaps they are correct and we should invade and overthrow King Alfred and the nobles who support him. But I could not bring myself to mention that meeting to the emperor when I sent a message to him in regards to this. Do you suppose I should mention it?”
He thought for a moment and said something he was rarely known to say. “I do not know.”
“We should talk more of it later. For now you should rest, and rest well. I will have something brought up for you to eat…build up your strength. You have matters to attend. Aside from this your new home and your wedding which is fast approaching.”
Yes, his wedding. He considered it after Jacob had departed the room, doubting he would follow through with it at all.
But what other choice would he have? There was no lady any better for a position with him. Yes, he would go through with it. He would. Only not now. Not soon. Later. Later after the safety of New Ebony as a whole was no longer threatened.
******
Days passed, and there was recovery.
Rachel could not stop thinking about the entire incidence, but when she did finally rise from the bed, her mind became occupied with other things…such as the well-being of Tilly. She had heard of the maiden’s injuries during the ordeal. The attack. It had happened so quickly.
She visited her in the servant’s quarters. Edison promised a recovery, although a slow one it’d become because of an infection that set in her blood from the initial wound. Rachel recalled it well—the man swinging open the doors, stabbing Tilly and taking hold of her despite her attempts to remain free. The driver, too, had been taken, and Zaria…well, she only knew the maiden had escaped from the carriage during the invasion of it, throwing herself out from the other side, and that she’d made it to the palace safe and sound to make these things known to Jacob.
Tilly was barely awake when she entered into her room. It was a small room, just as any other intended for a servant, but decorated a bit tastefully. The maiden had put drawings on her walls and lamps on tables, and vases of flowers which had by now withered and died.
“Milady,” Tilly greeted, happy to see her well. “So good it is to see you alive and well, up and about.”
“You, yourself, will be up and about in no time,” she assured, sitting on the edge of the bed. She smiled down at the maiden, patting her hand. “I am happy you survived it…very happy.”
“That you are well makes me happy, milady. I was certain you would not live through it.”
“Had it not been for Sir Marcus, I would not have.”
“I shall like to hear of it.”
She patted her hand again. “Later,” she promised. “After you have fully recovered, as is necessary for us all.”
The maiden seemed at peace with this, or perhaps just tired and drained. Her eyelids fell and she slept.
Rachel departed the room, closing the door quietly behind her and thinking of her words to the maiden. Yes, had it not been for Marcus, neither she nor Jacob would be alive. Perhaps her life would have been spared in an honest exchange, but she doubted it.
She stood still a moment, thinking of Marcus’s well-being. She decided to go in search of Zaria. She hadn’t seen her at all. While a maiden by the name of Tabatha had been the one to care for her, she imagined Zaria was the one to care for Marcus and perhaps some of the injured guards.
As if by chance, while she travelled as if to visit Marcus, although thinking she would not, and thinking he may be up and about himself by now—she had heard he was recovering well, but nothing else—she came across Zaria who had just apparently left Marcus’s room. She was pleased to see her, and smiled in that unique way only Zaria could. “Milady,” she kindly greeted. “It is well to see you in good health.”
With that, she gave her a gentle, sentimental hug. Pulling away, still holding to her shoulders, she studied her with that familiar, clever expression upon her face. One could only wonder if she was capable of any other sort of expression no matter how happy or content or pleased. She was naturally a clever-looking person. Perhaps the natural slant of her eyes contributed to this.
“I was not advised but only to care for the guards and their wounds, and then Sir Marcus after the others recovered.”
“How is he?” She asked, very serious as she recalled his wound, the amount of blood he’d lost. As before, upon recalling this, she felt a deep-grounded sense of gratitude.
“He is well, milady.” she assured, and took a slow step back. “I hope you did not misunderstand…the way I fled. I knew only to flee, and to get to Lord Trent as quickly as possible.
“You should be properly honored for bringing word of it to him.”
“Marty would have done so, himself,” she insisted, and frowned while her eyes went to the floor. “Do not think I meant to leave you to die, or to only spare myself. I did not know what to do. After I had gone out, as soon as I saw the man’s horse, I took it and just began riding.”
“You did only as you knew to do for the time. Besides, one person is less likely to be spotted than two, and a least amount of trouble. Had you not escaped, you could have been harmed even worse than Tilly. You saved your life. It is well that you did.”
“I am so very curious about it all, to hear from beginning to end. As of now, I go upon few phrases here and there. Sir Marcus refuses to speak of it.” Her lips formed a straight line and a concerned crease formed between her brows. “I have not known him to be so withdrawn. He stares out as if into nowhere, merely thinking. He said very little to me at all, and paid little mind, even when I tried to amuse him. His expression does not change. He is troubled in some way that I have not known him to be ever. I was not able to see, but Edison speaks of his wound as if it was not the act of an assailant, but of his own doings.”
“The recollection makes me speechless, Zaria, so that I cannot mention it either.” Memories crashed through her mind, scene by scene, motion by motion, sound by sound, so fleetingly. “It is as if it did not occur…like a dream of some sort, or a tale from the pages of a book.”
“Is it true you were taken hostage?”
She nodded with a quiet, “Yes.” And then gave her head a shake, thinking of Marcus. She had to see him. She had to speak to him. A hand to Zaria’s shoulder, she started to pass by. But as her hand slid away and she made her first few steps toward the direction of his quarters, Zaria called quietly from behind her.
“Milady.”
She stopped and turned. The maiden’s eyes were now in such a way she’d never seen them before. Such sadness in them. “He no longer keeps his bed,” she told her, and Rachel felt as if the maiden was seeing straight through her and that perhaps she had saw through him as well. “He has become well enough to move about. He is yet in the Great City, although where I cannot say. Lord Trent recently sat in a meeting with his advisors. I imagine he will be pleased to see you up and well as you are. Beautiful as always.” She managed a smile, the very kind that Rachel had wondered if she was even capable of producing. It was a considerate smile. She suddenly looked so pure and thoughtful.
Seeing this was refreshing, as was this idea of greeting Jacob in a better condition. The last she’d saw he was sitting on the edge of her bed, caressing her hair and skin so carefully, and telling her to simply rest, to not speak of the incident or even think of it. To simply get well.
“Where is my husband?” She asked her.
“Polishing his weapons,” she told her, and the devious-looking smile returned to her face. “His swords…as if intending to put them to use.” She cast a sidelong glance toward the ceiling. “It makes little sense, milady, to polish a blade while intending it for bloodshed, and with every stroke of the hand imagine piercing an enemy….or beheading one, which is likely the idea in his mind.”
Rachel came near her, and touching a hand to her shoulder, made her way by and to the armory where Jacob’s collection of swords were stored and kept.
Marty stood at
the door, guarding it. He seemed glad to see her. He almost actually smiled, something she’d never saw him do. With dazzling eyes he bowed his head. “Milady,” he greeted. She, too, slightly bowed her head before opening the door and stepping inside.
Jacob was seated at the table, which for the time being was cluttered with swords and daggers of all shapes and designs. His expression was very serious, and he seemed lost in his own little world as he slowly ran a cloth from the bottom of the blade of this particular sword to the tip of it. Having reached the sharp point, his eyes following the movement of his hand, he spotted her from overtop it, and for a moment his hand just stayed there.
He eventually lowered the weapon, abandoning the task for the time being, and stood. Clouds of relief filled his eyes. A grin touched his lips and she smiled back at him.
They walked at the same time, meeting in the middle and embracing. Pulling apart, their lips met and they kissed—they kissed passionately, and as desire began swelling up within them, knitting them together, they held tighter to one another.
He took her hair with his hands and pulled her away but not far, and searched her eyes while their chests both rose and fell. “Rachel,” he pleasantly whispered. “How pleased I am you are alive and well. Here. For had you not survived this, then neither would I.”
She lifted her chin so that they kissed again.
Later they made love, not for the first time like the first time…and for a very long time. Jacob savored each and every inch of her livelihood, not swift to begin the ending of this very perfect thing.
“I love you so,” he said, rising up above her, preparing for the union she so desperately at this point needed.
“And I love you, Jacob Trent,” she said, raising a finger to trace the contours of his bottom lip. He took it between his teeth, not harshly, until she had lowered her arm at the same time as he entered her. And they both shook, breathed and sighed with pleasure, looking into one another’s eyes, speaking one another’s names as pleasure consumed them…like violent flames, melting them into one single being.
They afterward lay together, he with an arm beneath her shoulders, running his fingers up and down her arm, she resting a cheek on his shoulder, one leg up and over his. They said nothing, nothing at all. Both lost in their private thoughts, neither asking the other. And they fell asleep this way, at peace, it seemed. Content, it seemed. But where he dreamt of revenge, she dreamt of gratitude and of expressing it to a man who’d amazed her in more ways than one.
CHAPTER TWENTY=TWO
For many days, Marcus hid himself…that is, following the unsuccessful viewing of the criminals, following the meeting with the advisors and then the captains of Jacob’s men. The bodies would be cut asunder, sealed in boxes and prepared to be sent overseas to the king of Roark. It was now certainly guessed that he was the one behind the attempt.
Marcus contemplated venturing out of the Great City, for there were things to be done. People to talk to. Messages to deliver. Schemes to devise. But he refused, although hiding himself for the most part, keeping some distance from the palace. He only met with Jacob to discuss his near abduction and those behind it. He had sent word to the emperor to expect some message from Jacob in regards to the incident, an explanation of it…..and not to be alarmed. The men had all been slain, and he was now certain the king of Roark was behind it all from beginning to end, and also the distant cousin, Victor Trent. Roselyn was still detained, but still had yet to speak. There was really only one thing to do…perhaps the very thing the officials had mentioned in Arlington…to invade Roark and take both the king, the distant cousin, and whatever nobles supported the king—just whoever else could prove a future potential threat.
On one particular day he found himself in the chapel…talking aloud to someone he could not see—and batting his eyes while they stung as if he would weep. But that he would not allow.
It was as he knelt there facing the opposite direction of the entrance, Rachel came in through the doors and made her way down the aisle, her steps slowing at the sight of him. She stopped altogether, her heart giving one very strong thrust, a breath catching in her lungs. Her chest began to heave in and out although not so very noticeable. She studied him, recalling that small, damp, eerie room and how so very relieved she had been to see him…how glad she had been to escape, and how that escape had come to be.
After a few moments of inspecting him, she called out quietly to him, “Marcus?”
He acted as if to have not heard her at first. No, for a time he did not move, but then slowly pushed himself up and to his feet. He turned himself about, first his head and then the rest of his body which seemed so very drained. From the gentle streams of light from the lamps she could see his wearied complexion.
She did not say a word, and for a time neither did he. But the silence became unsettling, and not just that, but waves of emotions that seemed to sweep about like strong, invisible gusts of wind.
“Milady,” he quietly returned, as if having never gone by a first name basis. His eyes swept briefly and tiredly over her. “I am glad to see you well.”
She glanced down at the floor and then up again. “As I am you,” she told him, “to have heard it, and now to see for myself.” She came closer, for some reason recalling her very first visit to the chapel. “What are you doing?” She softly asked, just as Father Nelson had then asked her.
He looked to the right and then back at her answering, “I don’t know.”
“Praying?” She asked, and he studied her very closely, so intently she felt he was drawing things from out of her…from the very core of her soul.
“Do you still pray, Rachel?”
It was a peculiar question. At any other time it would have probably infuriated her. But she could only stop and think of how rarely she did pray. In the beginning…well, at one time it had been not only a daily obligation, but a pleasure. To call out upon God for the sake of everyone around her, her siblings scattered about, New Ebony in general, and then herself. At a young age she had begun to do this.
Prior to coming into the Great City, she’d reached some sort of peak of spiritual perfection, one she’d imagined could not be overthrown, no, not by any man or woman or title at all. But she had failed. She had failed altogether; even for thinking something of herself that had not been so…that she was incapable of falling short of everything she’d proven herself to be in the small town of Westerly. Simply Rachel the Elder.
She realized then and there that she had been wrong altogether to accept Jacob’s proposal. True, she had begun to love him, and had fallen in love with him, but could she lie to herself and insist she had not been intrigued by the lifestyle he lived and that his wife would certainly live as well? Could she honestly say that this, too, had not contributed to her decision?
“Yes,” she quietly answered his question. “I do.” She inhaled a deep breath to force out what she would say next. “Although not so often as once upon a time, I must admit.”
“I was meditating,” he answered in response to her original question.
“Upon what?”
“Many things,” he said, and that was all.
She examined his wounded but bandaged arm. The thought of what he’d done caused her to care about him all the more, to undergo a very strong urge to embrace him, just as she had in that horrible little room when he’d first entered.
“Is it healing well?” She came to ask.
“Yes,” he very simply answered.
She inhaled a deep, uneven breath, and with an exhale began to say, “I have not heard word of what truly happened. It does not seem you have fully explained to anyone.”
“I would rather not go back to what occurred in that room, Rachel.”
Her name upon his lips was suddenly the most soothing and sweetest thing of all. “If you could tell me.”
“Why?”
“I want to know.”
“Does it truly matter?”
“It does, of co
urse. It matters a great deal.”
He paused a moment, turning toward the altar. He took three steps up to stand beside of a statue of an angel and ran a palm down the side of it. “Tell me this, Rachel, is it ever appropriate for a man to lie?”
She knew he was thinking about the lie he had concocted about the unborn child. Why would he question such a motive now?
“Do not think for a moment you were in the wrong.”
“I don’t. I just wonder…” He paused and then began to enlighten her curiosity. “There were places in the wall, broken up. Sharp points in the rock. I sliced my arm over one of these. The first time was not so successful as the second.”
She exhaled a breath, searching the floor with troubled eyes while she imagined him doing such a thing and how painful it must have been.
“I dread to think of it as well,” he admitted, reading her mind.
She shook her head, thinking not only of the actual deed and feeling the pain of it, but the cause of the deed which was to spare her and Jacob, for Marcus had been a free man to begin with.
Marcus dropped his arm and turned to peer down at her. “I made it seem as if you were losing the child.”
“You think very quickly. The idea of the child, of these complications...and this.” She shook her head. “No other man would have done such a thing to himself.”
“That cannot be said for sure.” He took the steps down, and upon reaching the bottom said, “I must be on my way. Jacob will be awaiting me for a meeting with the council.”
He started to stalk by her, as if to purposely just get away from her. She touched his shoulder and he stopped, turning to stare at her. With her eyes she searched his.
“I am grateful to you for sparing his life, for he would’ve given it up for mine.”
He studied her lips. “Your life was spared as well,” he came to say, “and has become equally as important to me, possibly even more.”
They stared at one another long, deeply in the eyes. Then he turned, and began to stalk away.