“What?” Eric croaked, eyes somehow getting even wider.
Rebecca appeared in the hallway again, her arms full of the research and letters we’d laid out on the table. “You are both under the protection of The Order of The Knights Templar now. If you value your lives, you will do as I say and come with me right this instant.”
Mark Bell
1698
Staring at myself in the long mirror, I tried to fix the lacy piece of cloth tied around my neck once more, frowning at the scratchiness of the uncomfortable garment. The rest of my outfit was no better. A heavy, forest green jacket, adorned with gold buttons that flashed gaudily every time the sun hit them, covered the pale shirt underneath. It was stuffy, making me feel as if I were suffocating. Then there were the tight, black breeches, covering a pair of white stockings that led down into black, buckle shoes. Sitting on the dresser to my left, a powdered wig waited, looking just as ridiculous as it always had.
Grunting in annoyance, I gave the neck piece one last tug, surrendering to the fashion devil. I’d never needed to follow the latest trends before. When I was with the Apache, I wore Apache things. In Mexico City, I’d worn a mix of my Native clothing and general clothing from the city. At sea, all I’d needed were some pants, a good belt and boots, and a shirt that would stay out of my way. Now, in Paris, though, it seemed The Knights Templar were determined to make me appear like a well-to-do member of society, not some street rat, begging for coins.
“Why, don’t you fix up nice!”
Startled, I turned to the side, peering past the large bed, toward the doorway. There, in the entrance, stood the housekeeper, Madame Bordeu. Recently widowed, and about twice my age, the woman had taken to mothering me in a strange way. Half the time, I felt like she was hitting on me. The other, it was as if I’d committed some great wrong and she had come to scold me.
Hunched over some, she smiled her gap-toothed grin, patting her chest over her kerchief as if she were suddenly having a fit. “I knew you would, Monsieur Bell. Knew it when I first put my eyes on you. I told Monsieur Dubois ‘that young man needs a good bath and a haircut and he’ll be as handsome as the king Himself.’ Oui, Monsieur. I was right.”
Blushing slightly, I cleared my throat, nodding in her direction as thanks. When I’d first arrived at the home The Order had prepared for me, I’d been a little worse for wear. In my defense, I’d also spent the last four months trekking through the desert and crossing the Atlantic. It hadn’t really been a priority for me, making sure that I shaved and kept my hair under control. The moment I’d set foot on French soil, though, I apparently looked like a wild caveman to everyone else. My hair reached past my shoulder blades by then, my beard long, scraggly, and patchy at best. Even Samantha suggested I find myself a barber and a bathtub as soon as possible, a small smile on her face.
Samantha.
My heart hurt, just thinking of her. She had made the crossing fine, so far as I knew, but we were all plagued by the memory of what had happened in Arizona. Images of the battle inside the mountain were burned in my mind. Skeletons, brought to life by old magic, fighting to protect the enormous treasure they had been buried with. The hammer of Thor, alive and crackling in my hand. A Viking ship, flying away into the thunderstorm, disappearing. Thomas Randall, shouting at me to kill Tristan or watch Samantha die.
Sam had fought well and hard in the battle, despite the fact she was both injured and mentally abused from her abduction. The skin on her wrists had been so red and cut open, she would probably have scars for the rest of her life. Worst of all, her captor had escaped once more, failing to stand trial for his actions.
That wasn’t what pained me, though.
She was with her Tristan now. Her husband, the man she loved more than anything in the world. There was no need for me to stand beside her and protect her, to be a part of her everyday life, or even to speak with her about more than trivial items. I loved her more than any words I could put together, and now I was practically gone from her life. Alone in the world. Again.
It was so repulsive to me, my feelings for her, because of all the issues that love brought into my life. At the same time, all I wanted was to fall into those emotions and let them rule me completely. I’d never meant to love her. She was my friend, young enough to be my own daughter, and not available. I’d known all these things from the start. And yet, it hadn’t mattered. It had proven impossible, not giving myself to her completely. How could I not? She was the only person who understood what it meant to fall through time. She knew what my life had been like from every angle. We had been the hostages of Thomas Randall together, forced to fight for our lives as one. She was my heart, the one thing that kept me driving forward, the star in my sky of darkness.
It was devastating, knowing that she would never feel the same. There was an eternal knife stabbing me in the heart, along with a painful twist, causing a stitch in my side. It felt as if I couldn’t breathe fully when I was with her, everything around me seeming to shout that she could not be mine. I knew there was no chance to find happiness down this road. And yet, I couldn’t pull myself off the path, turn back, or even step off to the side and accept I was going nowhere.
Whenever I closed my eyes, though, all I could see was the image of Sammy’s face. It was thin and tan, her eyes fierce and full of energy. Lips that I had kissed only once before seemed to shine in the bright light of open water, her long, brown hair blowing gently around her face. Her expression was strong and commanding, like it had been when I’d known her in the future. She was a woman worth fighting for. A woman I had risked everything to save. A woman whom I had dared to love, even when I knew I had no chance of ever being with her.
Anger coursed me for a moment. Why would God, or whatever higher power existed, put me through this if I wasn’t meant to stay with her? Why put her on that ship with me? Why make me care for her, nurse her back to health, coach her through the loss of her child? Why did I join the Black Knights to spy for her, allow them to brand me with their mark, fight in a war I wanted no part in? Why was I destined to travel through time, if not to find her and care for her? Samantha had needed me in her darkest moments, when she’d had no husband to cling to. Who was to say those moments wouldn’t return?
“Are you feeling well, Monsieur?” Madame Bordeu took a hesitant step in the doorway, her mothering side instantly manifesting itself in a worried look on her face.
“Fine,” I replied huskily, locking the dangerous, painful thoughts back in their box. Giving her a tight smile, I straightened my jacket, standing tall. “It looks right?” Turning to the side some, I allowed her to examine me, suddenly wishing I had declined the invitation to visit the O’Rourkes and could stay in bed all day.
“Like a proper gentleman.” Grinning again, she pointed to the wig on the dresser. “You’re not going to wear it?”
“No.” The reply was firm, matched in my pointed glare toward the object in discussion. “I will not. My natural hair will do just fine.”
Glancing in the mirror again, I examined my newly cut hair. It was a style that was more becoming of the twenty-first century, with the sides cut as close as I could get them to my scalp and the top left long enough to be styled in a messy manner, but I didn’t care. Ten years had passed since I’d had a haircut that I liked and I wasn’t about to let a man in tights tell me how to present myself.
Well, not completely, anyway.
Frowning at my own tights, I sighed, running a hand over my head. The lace cuffs of my shirt brushed over my face and I suddenly fought the urge to laugh. I felt like I was about to walk onto the set of a period drama. This wasn’t pretend, though, I reminded myself. This was winter in France and I was about to step outside into the real world.
“I’ll get your coat, shall I?” Madame Bordeu smiled, the skin around her eyes so wrinkly that they almost disappeared in the folds. “It’s been raining all morning, as I’m sure you saw. Catching the winter fever now will do you no good—best t
o stay warm and dry as possible. But, surely you know that, what with working at sea and all.”
“It is hard to stay warm and dry at sea.” Chuckling, I watched as she waddled into the room, opening the wardrobe behind me and pulling out a long, black, trench coat and matching hat. “I saw many men who became sick because of it when I was working as a doctor on board.”
“You know the art of the physician?” She sounded surprised, shrugging as she came over, holding up the cover for me to put on. “That’s good information to have. I’ll wager you could make a fine amount of money here, in the city, should you wish to employ yourself in such a manner. I, myself, would be willing to pay you, should any of my humors ever fail me.”
Having never considered working as a medical guru, I raised my eyebrows, pondering the option. It would give me something to do, at least.
“I’ll have to think about it more,” I finally said, sliding my arms into the sleeves and pulling the heavy jacket over my shoulders. “But, if you ever are unwell, Madame, you don’t need to worry about paying me for help. You work in this house—my house, I suppose. I’ll take care of you.”
“What a fine young man.” Patting me on the back, she turned, hobbling toward the hall. “I’ll make sure the coach is ready for you, Monsieur. Do you require anything else before you set off?”
“That will be all, Madame. Thank you for your help and your company.” Smiling, I watched as she made her way toward the stairs, visible at the end of the hallway.
Rain pattered on the window, a cool draft wafting in from somewhere. Not wanting to return to a cold room, I moved to close the curtains, plunging myself into firelight. The hearth was blazing, putting out more heat than I’d ever thought possible, and the closed off space suddenly felt ten times more comforting. Once again, I found myself wishing I had refused the invitation sent me. The chance to see Sammy had been too much for me to turn down, though.
Placing the hat on my head, I strode out of the bedroom, down the hall, and took the steps quickly, finding myself on the landing of the bottom floor just as the coachman entered the front door.
“Monsieur.” Tipping his hat, water dripping off him onto the wood below, he motioned to the door, apparently not able to speak English.
“Oui.” Leading the way, I stepped outside, hesitating on the doorstep. The storm was continuing in earnest now, the cold drops falling from the sky much quicker than a moment before.
Dancing around me, the coachman leapt from under the overhang and into the wetness, opening the door to the small, black carriage. He pulled his coat around him tighter, waiting for me to get in, shivering through his almost toothless smile. Even the horse seemed to be freezing, its head shaking impatiently.
Not wanting them to be pelted for longer than was needed, I quickly slid into my seat, jumping slightly as the door snapped shut behind me. In a matter of seconds, we were moving away from the house, headed toward the other side of town.
The streets were still somewhat clogged, despite the storm, people bundled up and selling wares everywhere I looked. Several store fronts were crowded by individuals trying to avoid the rain, but the wheels of carriages cackling over the cobblestone streets and splashing through puddles made the bystanders wet anyway.
Once more, I found myself thinking of Samantha. Was she okay? She had been through so much in the past year . . . I didn’t know if I would be doing alright if I’d had two face to face battles with a man who wanted me dead. Then there was the fact she’d been kidnapped, beaten, and suffered through the death of her child. She’d been separated from her husband for almost half a year, after spending almost two years straight with him.
The journey back from Arizona had been hard on her, just because her wounds were still so fresh. She appeared more and more distraught every time I’d seen her. We’d been in Paris for a week now and I’d not been able to check on her. Perhaps, being at her home in the city had helped her heal some.
It hadn’t really helped me that much.
Pushing the thoughts of my own, self-imposed exile of sorts away, I focused on the fact that I’d finally found someone who understood my life completely. I’d been unable to be myself before finding Sam again, because no one would understand. They would think me a witch, or crazy, maybe even both. It had been a hard life, isolating myself from everyone in this time. I didn’t want to go back to that now, not when I knew I could be with people who would accept me and treat me normally.
The carriage lurched to the side and came to a halt, drawing my attention to the outside world. We were on a street full of beautiful homes, much nicer than the tiny place I’d been given. Smoke curled from the chimneys, candles illuminating the windows, and delicious smells wafting to me through the curtains of my ride.
Suddenly, the door to the home directly in front of us opened, a stout woman with a slight frown on her features waving to the driver. She said something in French, waving him down the road, and we were moving again. After a brief ride down a side alleyway, we found ourselves in a stable yard, horse stalls down one side and the back of the house we’d just been in front of on the other.
“Mark?” Tristan O’Rourke appeared in the window, a strained smile on his handsome face. “Get out, why don’t ye? We’re having a bit of a situation.”
His black, chin length hair was soaked through and sticking to his face in places. Green eyes watched me with an unwilling plea for help, his lips pressed together tightly as he stepped away, allowing me out of the carriage. Even his clothes—a white shirt and black breeches—were thoroughly saturated, sticking to him like they were skin tight. His boots were caked in mud, a sword held in one hand.
“What’s going on?” I asked, alarmed by his appearance. “Where’s Sam?”
Jerking his head to the other side of the muddy courtyard, he sighed, suddenly looking exhausted.
Following the motion, I finally saw her, standing in the far corner, hacking away at a crudely put together dummy. The sword in her hand was flying every which way as she stabbed and swung, spinning her body a different direction each time. Even more waterlogged than her husband, she didn’t seem to notice the storm pelting her, all her attention focused on the mannequin in front of her.
“She’s still practicing?” I asked, surprised.
“She insists,” Tristan muttered. “I can’t even get her to come in out of the storm. She’s been like this for the past three hours.”
Samantha had often asked members of the crew, including Tristan and myself, to help her practice her sword play on the return journey. Her maid, a French girl named Abella, had taken part as well. I’d assumed once she had returned home, she would relax, though, feeling the safety and comfort her home brought her.
“How often does she do this?” Speaking in an undertone, I glanced over Tristan again, noting that he seemed very agitated.
“Every damn day. All day. I can’t hardly speak to her without having a sword shoved in my face.” The Irishman sighed, his concern finally showing through his current frustrations. “I’m worried, Mark. I’ve never seen the lass act like this before.”
“Ready!”
Abella’s voice sounded from inside one of the horse stalls and she appeared soon after, wiping her long hair from her eyes. She, too, was soaked to the bone, her shirt and pants sticking to her like honey on bread. Reddened fingers grasped the hilt of a sword, mud smeared across her face and one arm.
Turning quickly, Sam abandoned her dummy, sinking into a defensive pose as she watched Abella approach her tiredly. “You sure you’re up for it?” she called, noticing the slowness of her movements.
“Oui. I’m not going inside until you do.” Finding her own pose, the two girls began to circle around each other, watching carefully for the first sign of attack.
Suddenly, Sam leapt forward, stabbing her blade in the same direction. Thinking that Abella was about to be skewered, I sucked in a deep breath, but the shout never reached my lips.
Abella deflected
the attack with ease, parrying and delivering her own backhanded blow as quickly as a snake attacks its prey.
Samantha, dodging the blow with mere millimeters to spare, sidestepped the maid, swiping at her legs. She hit her opponent with the flat side of her sword, slapping the metal hard against the poor girl’s boots.
Hissing, Abella doubled over, drawing her leg in close for protection, but Samantha already had the upper hand.
Reaching out, she shoved Abella, hard, knocking her into the mud. Raising her sword high, she moved to strike at the poor woman again, a crazy fire in her eyes I’d never seen before.
“Enough!” Tristan’s voice rang through the space as he strode forward, grabbing Sam by the wrist and yanking her away. “Can’t you see you’ve hurt her? Again? You’ve done enough today!”
“Let go of me,” Sam hissed, pulling her arm away. “And I’m not finished! I’ll be done when I say I’m done, not when you decide I’ve had enough. I can think for myself and I intend to be able to fight for myself, so either help me or get out of the way!” She shoved him, another action I’d never seen from her, and made to go back to Abella, sword in hand.
Growling, Tristan raised his blade, moving forward with purpose. Before I even knew what was happening, he had engaged Sam in another fight, not pulling back on any of his attacks.
Abella, scrambling to get out of the way, seemed terrified as she watched them, her eyes wide and tear filled. Hurrying to her side, I grabbed her icy hand and pulled her away from the fray, backing up against the wall of the house. Removing my coat, I wrapped it around her shaking shoulders, rubbing her arms to try and warm her up. As I held her, cradling her against my chest, we both watched in growing horror as the couple continued to fight in front of us.
Sam had gotten good. Really good. It occurred to me that she hadn’t learned all of this in a week and must have been practicing her fighting whenever she was alone on the ship as well. She had a rage in her that was to be expected after what she’d been through, but I never would have thought she would direct it at Tristan like this.
Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three) Page 7
