The pair moved through the space like a machine, swiping and dodging, stabbing and jumping around. The rain made the ground slick and dangerous, both of them slipping every now and then, only to quickly regain their footing. Whenever it appeared that Sam might gain the upper hand and win, Tristan somehow thwarted her, causing her to shout in frustration. Finally, he drew up short in front of her, shoving her to the ground as she had Abella. Throwing the point of his sword into the ground by his feet, breathing heavily, he put a foot on her chest, keeping her from getting up.
“I said that was enough,” he breathed, glaring at her. “Ye have hurt Abella more than once today. Ye’re going to catch yer death in this storm. Sparring practice is done.”
“Get off me!” Grabbing his foot, she squirmed beneath him, trying to wiggle her way free. The action only buried her deeper in the mud, though, making her even more frustrated than she had been. “Let me go, damn it!” she screamed, now slapping any part of him that she could reach.
“Stop it, Sam!” he yelled. “Can’t ye see ye’re frightening everyone?” Removing his foot, he reached down and pulled her up, shaking her hard. “They’re afraid!”
Suddenly, I realized what he was saying was true. The coachman who’d brought me was cowering in his seat, Abella hidden in my arms. I could feel the look of horror on my own face and saw it reflected on another maid who was peering through one of the windows in the house.
“They’re afraid?” Sam asked incredulously, shoving away from him. “What about me?” She was yelling, standing her ground in front of him, not even caring about everyone watching.
“I’m afraid! I don’t feel safe in this house!”
Surprised, Tristan took a step back. “What do ye have to fear here? No one could even think to get to ye while I’m here.”
“What about when you’re not?” she asked, fuming. “Because you weren’t here. You weren’t here when Randall broke in and killed all the servants. You weren’t here when they broke down the door to our room. You weren’t here when they shot Abella. You weren’t here when they carried me away, beating me and your unborn daughter inside me. You weren’t here!” Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face in the rain. “You weren’t here to protect me. You weren’t there, on Randall’s ship, or in Nassau, or in the desert, when he caught me again.”
Her voice softened then, as if the expression of pain and regret that was spreading across Tristan’s face had made her realize how cruel she was acting.
“I don’t blame you. Not at all. But I must do this, Tristan. I need to learn how to defend myself and the people around me. If I’d known how to do it before, maybe . . .”
She stopped, staring at the ground, all the fight seeming to seep out of her in one instant.
“Maybe Rachel would be alive.” Tristan’s voice caught as he said it, a surge of emotion coming from him as a tear of his own rolled over his cheek. “Aye, lass. Maybe the bairn would be. Ye cannot blame yerself for her death, though.” He paused, clearing his throat. “I thought we had shared our feelings on this before.”
“We have,” she responded roughly, sniffing heavily and drawing a sleeve across her face. “But I’m done talking. It’s not just Rachel. Abella was shot—Mark, too—and all those men went in to battle and lost their lives because I’m not bloody good enough with a sword. I’m tired of having to be rescued. So, you can either help me, or you can get out of my way.”
Reaching down, she picked up her sword and moved toward the dummy again, chest heaving. Before she had taken three steps, though, Tristan gathered her into his arms, picking her clean up, and started toward the house.
“Put me down!” she shouted, kicking and hitting him.
“Ye’ll not catch yer death today, lass. Whether ye like it or not, ye’re goin’ inside.”
Striding past the two of us, he carried his upset wife in through the door as if we weren’t even there, his features drawn and tired. Even after the door had closed, I could still hear her shouting at him, calling him all sorts of names before she finally broke down crying and the house fell somewhat silent.
“M-m-merci, M-monsieur,” Abella squeaked, still trembling against me. “I couldn’t quite get my feet underneath me in time.”
Turning my attention back to the girl in my arms, I felt a sudden pang of realization to her condition. “Let’s get you inside,” I said, quickly. “Hopefully you aren’t sick already.”
Keeping my arm around her shoulder, I gently guided her to the back door, opening it and revealing a long hallway. At the other end, I could see the front door and a set of stairs. To the right was a storage room, the kitchen directly to the left. Guiding her that way, we settled in front of the large fire, and I asked the maid standing nearby to fetch some towels.
“Merci,” Abella said again as I removed her boots, followed by thick, wet socks. Bright red, clammy toes rested in my hands and I felt a sense of alarm shoot through me.
“Here.” Scooting the chair closer to the hearth, I placed her feet as close to the flames as I dared.
She sighed, leaning forward to warm her freezing hands as well, her hair continuing to drip on the floor and into her lap. My coat was the only semi-dry thing on her, but I was sure the inside had long become wet after wrapping her in it.
Rising, I went to the table, picking up a clean glass. A teapot sat beside it, still full of warm liquid, and I poured a cupful, hoping the drink would help warm her insides as well.
“You are too kind.” Laughing slightly, she took a long sip, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes. There were dark circles under them, a feature that had been absent when she was on board the ship just a week earlier.
“How bad is it?” I asked quietly, glancing to see if anyone was in the doorway.
“This was a worse day. There are many nightmares that she suffers with. The whole house can hear the screaming, the neighbors most likely, as well. Tristan is the only one who can help calm her during those. She fights with him quite often, though. I confess; I’d hoped your arrival would help soothe her some. That was why I invited you over today. It didn’t make any difference in the end, did it?” She smiled lightly, staring at me.
“You were the one who sent the invitation?” Surprised, it suddenly occurred to me that the reason I’d shown up at such a bad time was because Tristan and Sam hadn’t been expecting me. The revelation also stung my heart some, knowing that Sam hadn’t sent for me after all. She hadn’t missed me or wanted to see me. I’d simply been summoned because the maid thought I might be able to help calm her.
“Samantha misses you.” It was as if Abella could read my thoughts. “She would never ask for you to come. For Tristan’s sake.”
Of course. They both knew I was in love with her. Sammy loved Tristan, though, despite her earlier tantrum. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, not on purpose. Tristan probably didn’t want another man with feelings for his wife around, either. I was being ignored for the sake of their marriage.
“I’ve missed you, too. You were the only one besides those two who would talk to me on the ship.” Sitting up, she took another sip of her tea. “I thought the house might be a little happier if you were to come call. I should have picked a better day, it seems.” Sighing again, she wiggled her toes, as if she were just now getting the feeling returned in them.
“Here are your towels, Monsieur.” The maid from before came through the doorway, carrying the folded fabric in her arms.
“I’ll leave you to change,” I said to Abella, turning toward the exit.
“Don’t forget your coat,” she said, struggling to detangle herself from it.
Holding up my hands as a sign for her not to worry, I continued to inch toward the door.
“Will you not see Samantha, then?” Her expression fell, her attempt to remove the coat falling short.
“Do you think she wants to see anyone right now?” I asked, skeptical. “I don’t think she even realized it was me out there just no
w.”
“I did.”
Turning toward the sound, I felt a sigh of relief leave me as I examined her. Leaning against the wall, just inside the kitchen, she looked like she had just gone an entire year without sleep. She’d changed, her form now clad in a dressing gown and overcoat instead of her mud covered clothes. Red eyes stared at me, her face tear streaked, hair braided and resting over her shoulder.
“Sammy.” My voice was quiet and filled with worry, everything inside me wanting to take her in my arms and comfort her.
She heard as much, smiling tightly as she peered at the floor. After a moment, she finally met my gaze again, lips trembling. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat, shaking her head. “I’m fine, really.” Smoothing her hands down her dress, she blinked a few times, trying to steady herself.
Tristan appeared in the doorway behind her, his clothes changed as well, and put a hand on her shoulder. Leaning in close, he nuzzled her hair muttering something in her ear. Whatever it was, she visibly relaxed, a slow breath escaping her as she took his hand.
Turning his attention from his wife, Tristan smiled at the rest of us in the room. “Are ye well, Abella?” he asked, looking past me.
“As well as ever, Monsieur.” She sounded tired, but was otherwise friendly, beaming at the pair like they were royalty.
Sammy bit her lip, obviously still upset, her eyes watering once more. “Abella, I—”
“I was thinking Monsieur Bell could stay for dinner. There is a chess set in the sitting room that is practically growing dust. I, for one, would like to see him try his hand against Monsieur O’Rourke. We already know he would lose in a game of cards.” Abella smiled slyly, refusing to let Sam finish her apology to her.
“Hey now,” I retorted, trying to help ease the mood as well. “I’m not half bad at cards.” Folding my arms uncomfortably, I tried to ignore the awkward air that was practically suffocating the room.
“I’m not bad at any cards,” Tristan added, earning a feeble laugh from Sam. The sound lightened everyone considerably and he nodded toward me, still grasping her hand tightly. “What say ye, Mark? Do ye fancy a match?”
I knew I should’ve said no. There were issues here, things they needed to sort out as a family. However, staring at the pair of them like that, Sam with tears in her eyes and Tristan with mild pleading in his, I knew I couldn’t say no.
“If only to learn your strategies for next time.” Grinning, I gave Sam my most encouraging expression, acting like nothing had happened.
She hesitated, looking as if she might burst into a heaping mess again, and then nodded. “I’ll let Madame Fairfax know you’ll be joining us, then.”
The air in the room seemed to relax after that and I felt my heart sputter at the thought of getting to spend the rest of the day with her. Maybe Abella was right. Maybe it was better for me to be here, to help distract her from the horrors she was facing. If that were the case, I would be here every day, no matter the cost or hardship on myself.
Tristan, seeming to be thinking along the same lines, gave me a cautious stare and then nodded, moving to go down the hall. “Let’s see if you’re any good at chess, Bell.”
“Ye look fine.”
Tristan, having mistaken my uncomfortable fidgeting as concern for my appearance, continued to move around the tiny shop, stopping to appreciate any and everything that caught his fancy. Paintings, knickknacks, fabrics, seashells, and every other possible item that could be sold here was on display. Rugs hung down from ropes overhead that had been stretched across the courtyard of the large building we were now visiting. They boxed us in, making it impossible not to talk to the owner of the establishment. It was rather good marketing on his behalf, seeing as how there must have been at least one hundred other merchants crammed in the space. At the moment, though, I was more preoccupied with loathing my clothes than admiring the wares.
“How do you not feel like you’re suffocating in these things?” I asked under my breath, still tugging at my necktie. It seemed that there were somehow more ruffles on my outfit today, as if the number of frills directly correlated to how important one was in society. By that standard, though, I should have appeared less like a decoration and been dressed more like Tristan.
He somehow managed to still look commanding and handsome in his formal wear. He wore no wig—which was the only way in which we matched—his hair swept back in an artful swoop, as if the sea breeze had just then ruffled the locks into the perfect style. A brown coat covered a matching vest and white shirt, the collar buttoning high around his neck, keeping his plain necktie in place with ease. The closest thing to resembling a ruffle there was the knot he’d tied to hold it together. Also, infuriatingly, he somehow managed to pull of the stockings, his lower half seeming like he’d never missed a leg day at the gym in his life.
I, on the other hand, was basically a blue cream puff. There were frills around my neck, sticking out of the sleeves of my jacket, running around the cuff of my pants, hell, there was even a small flower design sewn into my socks. If I’d somehow managed to jump into the sky, everyone would think I was simply a funny shaped cloud, floating along without a care.
Glancing around, I could see other men dressed in the same fashion. This was the style of this time, when France was increasingly becoming the center for beauty and fine apparel. I should’ve been grateful that The Order had gone so far out of their way to make me fit in with the high society. The more I looked at Tristan and his simple elegance, though, the more I wished they wouldn’t have bothered.
“How much for these?” Tristan held up a pair of brass bookends shaped like spheres, staring at the seller happily.
The man told the price and Tristan shook his head, thanking him anyway.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I muttered, the heat getting to me for a moment. “We should be searching for Randall.”
“You sound like my wife,” he replied, grinning ruefully as he set the objects down. There was an underlying harshness to his tone, though, and I saw his gaze dart outside the shop for a moment, worry in his eyes.
Looking out myself, I watched Samantha and Abella shopping at the table across the lane. It was covered in shining jewelry and fabrics, but none of the products held a candle to the women in front of them.
Feeling my breath catch, I watched as Sam turned, the green and black skirts of her dress rustling over the dirt, the edges browned from dragging across the ground. She hated wearing anything remotely like a corset, we all knew that, but she was so tall and regal wearing one now, the stays decorated to match the rest of the outfit, gold threading creating an intricate pattern across the bodice. Lace gathered around her elbows and across the top of her breasts, the whiteness of it making her appear even more tan than normal. The way she’d curled and piled her hair under her wide, black hat made her neck seem to go on forever, a simple, black ribbon tied gently tied at the base. She’d taken to wearing black cuffs around her wrists, I’d noticed, to hide the scarring there. They should have drawn attention to the place, but instead, somehow, made her entire ensemble come together.
Seeing me staring, she smiled softly, nodding her head in my direction. Her gaze moved past me then, to her husband, and her face flushed some, much like the many other women who had been admiring him all day.
Embarrassed and somewhat perturbed, I quickly looked away, my gaze falling on Abella. Surprised to feel my breath catching again, I examined the young woman in awe, wondering how I’d never noticed her impeccable ability to dress not only Sam, but herself as well.
She didn’t hold herself in a manner that called attention, nor did she dress to impress, it seemed, but there was something about the way her light yellow bodice clung to her form, belling out into the matching skirt, her brown shoes barely visible from under white petticoats. It was a simple gown, with a stomacher piece being the only form of decoration I could see, and somehow seemed to have been made for only her. On Sam, the dress would have be
en plain and unimaginative, something to do chores in. On Abella, it was like staring at a princess who knew she didn’t need jewels to attract attention. Also tan from being at sea, she seemed more like a Mediterranean goddess than the small, pale thing she’d been when I’d taken her inside my coat for warmth and safety. Long, black curls were pinned loosely around her head, a small pin placed above her ear. It was the only jewelry she wore, but it shone like a diamond.
Glancing up, she, too, saw me staring and flushed, looking back down at the ground as she smiled. Suddenly, I realized I was blushing as well and cleared my throat, turning around to study the inside of the store again.
Abella and I had a curious relationship. I’d never seen her before the way I did just now, but she held a special place in my heart. She was the one who had initially patched me up after being shot, her small hands making quick work of the wound in my chest. It had been her who asked for a real doctor to see me and stood by my side as I was told the bullet had stuck into my rib. It was a miracle I had survived at all.
We had sailed for The Mission in what would become Texas, and she had been my friend, visiting with me and continually checking to make sure I was healing well. Somehow, she’d known I was having a hard time, watching Sam with Tristan for the first time, and she’d been there in the only way she knew how.
When we were ambushed by Black Knights in the cove in Texas, Abella had been there again, loading my guns and passing them off. I’d almost had a heart attack when she followed me onto the opponents’ vessel, sword in hand. We’d had an unspoken bond during the fight, though; we protected each other.
I could easily recall when she’d slipped, falling to the deck as a Black Knight came at her with his sword. Without even thinking, I’d defended her, helping her to her feet. When I went overboard in the explosion that sank the ship, she had pulled me up, out of the water, saving me from drowning.
Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three) Page 8
