Another shot rang from the Master’s gun, but it had no effect this time. Men were now swarming the steps, yanking down the ceremonial curtains, crowding around the dead man’s body, trying to get a better look. The Masters were soon employed in fighting as well, all semblances of order disappearing in the blink of an eye.
“We should go.” Tristan’s voice was quiet, his head tilted toward mine. “No good is going to come of this.”
Nodding, I turned toward the exit, feeling shock continue to take hold of me. We were in the middle of a madhouse, blades and bullets flying. It would be a miracle if they didn’t all kill themselves right now.
“Monsieur, I cannot let you leave without a statement!” One of the guards by the door shouted at us as we approached him.
A pair of Knights staggered across his path, desperately trying to rip each other’s hair out as they growled obscenities at each other. Bumping into the guard, they didn’t even pay him any attention, continuing on with their petty fight.
“Get off me!” The guard screamed, kicking one of the men in the shin and then clobbering the other over the head with the clipboard he’d meant to record statements on.
The two men did move away then, not because they were being attacked by someone else, but because their general stumbling caused them to do so.
Straightening his tabard, the guard, swallowed, clearly looking shaken, and then stared at Tristan and I again. “Names!” he barked. “And be quick about it! God willing, we will all be away from this place and home in our beds before dawn!”
“That doesn’t seem very likely,” I muttered, earning a glare from the man.
“Tristan O’Rourke and Mark Bell,” Tristan told him roughly. “We were the Guide and Initiate waiting outside the doors.”
Nodding in understanding, the guard scribbled our names down and where we had been. Then, he unlocked the door, opening it a crack for us. “God be with you,” he said seriously. Glancing over the blood washed space, he sighed. “And with us as well.”
“I know you were one of Bevard’s favorites,” the man, Joseph McKinley, said, staring at Tristan with kind eyes. “And, while I cannot promise that you will be given the same level of inclusion and trust, I can promise that you will keep your position as captain. You need a new ship, yes?”
Tristan, sitting across from the man, his form clad in the finer fashions of France, sipped his tea slowly, nodding. His eyes never left the Templar’s face, though, his gaze narrowed and slightly distrusting.
“How does a Man of War sound?” McKinley grinned, leaning forward in his excitement. “Think of it—the entire sea at your command. No more robbing pirates and playing the part of a thief. You would be a king in the ocean.”
“Hmm.” Setting his cup and saucer down, Tristan rose, straightening his dark green jacket. “I thank ye for thinking of me, McKinley. Ye have certainly given me much to think on. Mark as well, I’m sure.” Smiling at me, he acted as if he were trying to keep from laughing, his lips pressed into a thin line and a mischievous glint to his eyes.
“Can I count on your vote, then?” McKinley stared at us in earnest, still seated in his chair.
“I don’t think I can say as to who my vote belongs to, yet,” Tristan replied, sighing. “I do not speak for Mister Bell, but I would assume he feels the same.”
“I do,” I butted in, voicing my opinion for the first time. “It’s too soon for me to know who I can trust.”
“Too soon for anyone to know, really.” McKinley grimaced, shaking his head. “Bevard, poor man. Have you heard how his wife and daughter are handling it?”
“I have not, but I imagine they are overcome with grief.” Tristan sighed as well, rubbing his face.
McKinley, seeming to feel that his time here was up, rose and bowed. “Thank you for allowing me into your home. With any luck, I will attain your votes when we gather to cast ballots in a week’s time. I bid you both good day.”
Striding to the door, he pushed it open, startling Samantha and Abella on the other side. “Ladies.” Dipping his head in acknowledgment, he took off, leaving us all in silence.
“That’s the third one in two days,” Sam finally said, hurrying to the window. “Though, he may have been politest about it.”
“The most dishonest and willing to offer bribes, ye mean.” Tristan snorted, joining her. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he fiddled with the ties of her red bodice, seemingly unaware that he was doing so.
“You mean the offering of being the captain of the Man of War?” Abella asked, hovering just inside the doorway.
“Aye, I do. That ship already has a captain, savvy? Which means if McKinley is voted in as Grand Master, he intends to change around the positions of leadership. It’s not technically out of his realm of power to do so, but it will not sit well with the men. Many of them will lose their positions, their pay will be affected, and they will most likely remove him again.” Shaking his head, he looked at me. “I don’t know what ye plan to do with yer vote, but I will not be casting mine for McKinley.”
“I’m surprised I was given a vote at all,” I confessed. “I’m not even a member, yet.”
“But you would have been, which is why they allow ye to have a say. Yer initiation was held off due to circumstances beyond yer control.”
“This whole thing is ridiculous.” Samantha turned, addressing both of us. “They still have no idea who killed Bevard. What if you vote the traitor in as your new leader? Has no one thought of that risk?”
“It’s all they can think about.” Rising from my seat, I shook my head, moving to pour myself more tea. “No one trusts anyone. Last night, we heard that a brawl broke out in one of the pubs on the other side of the city. The Knights were locked in the Bastille. It’s unclear if they’re going to be released any time soon or not.”
“What is The Order thinking?” Sam turned to her husband, sharing her concerns with him. He replied in kind, the two of them branching off into their own conversation about what they thought would be best.
Glancing over at Abella, I smiled, raising my cup in thanks for the tea she’d provided us with. She grinned in return, nodding her head in acknowledgement.
“Mademoiselle?”
Caught off guard, she turned toward the doorway, summoned by one of the other servants. “Oui?”
“Une autre lettre est arrivée pour Monsieur O'Rourke.”
“Merci, Annaliese. Je vais le prendre maintenant.”
Annaliese, one of the shy kitchen maids, appeared in the doorway, handing over a folded piece of paper with a wax seal on it. She curtsied when she saw me watching, her face flushing, and then ran off, disappearing.
Abella stepped into the space, eyeing the letter with curiosity. “It’s another message from The Order, I think.” Stopping beside me, she watched Sam and Tristan talking, their conversation mumbled between them now.
“Ye can open it, Mark, if ye want,” Tristan said, apparently still listening to what the two of us were saying as well. “Ye’re as much a member as I am, as far as I’m concerned.”
Nodding, I took the item in question from Abella, trading her for my glass in the process. As I popped open the seal, I noted the cross in the wax, suddenly thinking that the members of such a sacred and holy order weren’t acting very appropriate to their calling. Fighting in public, openly campaigning against each other, and all before the previous Grand Master was in the ground.
Laughing, I looked at the letter. It was in French, which I did not speak. Motioning for Abella to come closer, I held it out for her to read. “I don’t understand any of it.”
She chuckled as well, leaning over my arm to read the contents. “Bevard is to be buried in four days’ time at Calvaire Cemetery. The King has heard of his advisor’s death and sends his condolences to friends and family, but will be unable to make the services.”
“Not surprising,” I mused. “Bevard wasn’t a major character of the Court, was he?”
She shook
her head. “No, I don’t think so. Still, it is a great honor to his memory that the King himself would send condolences on his behalf.”
“We’ll need to attend the funeral, of course,” Sam said, she and Tristan having stopped their conversation to listen. “Are the black dresses clean, Abella?”
“Oui, Madame. I will air them right now.” Curtseying, she turned quickly and left, leaving my cup in my hands.
“I think I need some air myself.” Shaking her head, Sam glanced toward the window again, as if she expected yet another Templar to arrive on her doorstep, determined to convince the men in her life that one of them was the right man to lead them. “It might also be a good idea to write to Madame Bevard and her daughter, Gloria. This week has probably been the worst of their lives.” She sighed then, picking up her skirts as she followed after Abella, worry on her face.
“Aye. I’ll join ye in just a moment, lass.” Taking another sip of his tea, Tristan slowly sat back down, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then, glancing at me, he shrugged, as if at a loss. “Who will ye vote for, Bell?”
Surprised by the candidness of his question, I sat as well, lips pursed. “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “You’re more informed than me. You know these men and The Order better than anyone else, in my opinion. I’ve not had the years you do, making friendships and trusts, learning who can be taken at their word and who can’t. I would as soon vote for you as the Grand Master than any of the men who’ve come begging for votes.”
“Me?” He seemed shocked and unsettled by the thought. “No, I wouldn’t think so. I’m naught but a wee lad when it comes to concerns of The Order. Young and foolish. There are many a man who are more qualified and able than I would be.”
Shrugging, I chuckled slightly. “I don’t know any of them.”
He stared at me quizzically, like he didn’t think I was being serious. “I’m no Grand Master, Mark. The treasure I oversaw was compromised. Twice now, the man who challenged me to battle got away with nary a scratch on him. I can’t even protect my wife from being abducted—how in the world would anyone think I could be trusted to run The Knights Templar?”
“Have you forgotten that you still managed to keep your treasure hidden and protected? That you uncovered a whole ring of Black Knights in Mexico City and brought them to justice? In your quest to rescue your wife, you not only united many Templars, but you managed to find and save a portion of the treasure that had been missing for hundreds of years. Randall got away, yes, but he’s missing a hand now. On top of all that, everyone knows you didn’t kill Bevard—you were locked outside the room, with me. You are the only option that everyone is sure is not a Black Knight.”
“By that logic, ye have as much a chance of being voted Grand Master,” he argued. “Ye were there with me! Ye’re older as well, which would make ye preferable, out of the two of us.”
“But I’m not a member of The Order, yet,” I reminded him. “And I do wear the brand of a Black Knight. I’m not stupid. I know that will make many men never trust me, no matter what I say or how many times I share my reasons for joining with the enemy. All I’ll ever be in this organization is a plain, entry level man.” Seeing that I’d caught him, I smiled, raising an eyebrow. “You might want to prepare yourself, Tristan. You very well could be voted in.”
Crossing himself, he muttered something under his breath and rose to his feet, the option I’d presented him with having clearly never crossed his mind. “I pray it doesn’t happen,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding dry and thick. “I must refuse if it does.”
“Why?” He’d caught me off guard now and I frowned, wondering why he would turn down such a position of power and honor. Surely, it would be a distinction to his family, who had served The Order since it first began during the crusades. Technically speaking, he was royalty as well. It made sense to turn to him as a leader; he would have held that position had fate not changed the path of his family.
“Samantha.” He appeared slightly panicked, glancing toward the door, as if he thought saying her name would cause her to appear. “I can’t be away from her that much. Not yet. She’s still so hurt, so . . . lost. If I were to be voted Grand Master, I don’t know that she would ever recover.”
Staring at me, he swallowed hard, a glint to his eyes that I’d never seen before. “I can’t help her,” he said softly, his voice breaking some. “I don’t know how. She spirals so far from me, shutting herself off, and it’s all I can do to try and keep her with me. The nightmares—I had already planned on killing Randall, but I will do it with joy now. The things she has said in her sleep, the words she’s had with me when she’s awake . . .” He swallowed, his gaze turning down to the floor for a moment. “Ye know. Ye were there with her.”
Clearing his throat, he stared at the window again, moving to stand just in front of it. “The child—Rachel. It is so strange, the amount of pain I can feel for a being I have never met or even laid eyes on.” He laughed slightly, and I had the sudden impression he might be crying, which was why he’d turned away. “Sometimes, I think I feel her spirit with me,” he continued. “But I don’t know how or why. What business would a baby have with haunting people?”
The confession made my heart ache for him. It was the first time I’d ever really considered what it must be like for Tristan, the events of the past several months. Sure, I’d been aware he was hurting, that he was suffering with Sam, but I’d never stopped to consider him by himself. I was always concerned with Sam and how she was feeling, wondering and hoping that Tristan was taking care of her right.
Now, as he stood before me, though, I realized that he had his own wounds that needed nursing. Was Samantha taking care of him, too? Or was she taking all he offered her and giving him no comfort in return?
Here, with the perfect opportunity to talk to him about how he was feeling, I faltered, not knowing if I should try or not. Would he want to share his troubles with me? In the end, I knew it didn’t matter if he did or not. He needed someone to talk to, and I was the only person here now.
Clearing my throat, I rose, trying to think of what I could say to him that would help. Downing the rest of my tea, I set the cup on the table and folded my arms, coming to stand behind him. “Perhaps,” I started slowly, wanting to make sure I got the words right. “It’s not so much a haunting as it is a visit. You’re right—why would a baby need to haunt anyone? But this isn’t just any baby. It’s your baby. Tristan’s baby. Rachel Dawn O’Rourke. Rachel never met her father. Her spirit may be trying to reach out to you for that reason. Maybe she’s trying to comfort you as much as you’re trying to help Sammy. Or, it could be that she wants you to know she loves you. Do you ever get that feeling when you feel her around?”
He laughed, a humorless sound, and responded without turning around. “I tell ye I’m being visited by a spirit and ye don’t think I’m mad? Ye don’t want to rush me off to church or call the priest to come cleanse the house?”
“Why would I think you were crazy?” I asked, taken aback. “You have no reason to lie to me about this. There’s nothing you could gain from telling me. Honestly, I don’t even know why you would share it with me, given our relationship.” The conversation was taking an uncomfortable turn, and I suddenly wished I hadn’t brought up our common interests.
He did look back me then, his eyes red and a smirk on his face. “Ye mean the fact that ye’re in love with my wife? Aye, I probably shouldn’t have given ye such ammunition against me. Try as I might to hate ye, though, Bell, I find that I enjoy yer company and conversation. Perhaps it is my curse, to always have a constant reminder of the life Samantha could have had without me and the horrors she faced when I didn’t protect her.”
Biting my cheek, I stared out the window, nodding. His words had both hurt and helped me, causing feelings of confusion and resentment in me. I didn’t want to be a reminder of the worst time in Sam’s life, nor did I think I deserved his friendship after I had so openly declared my em
otions. It wasn’t my aim to be alone in this time again, though, and I was pleased to hear that he enjoyed having me around, even if it meant his attempts to hate me had failed.
“Do you honestly think that Sam would have been happier in her own time?” I asked, choosing to ignore all the other things he’d said.
“She wouldn’t be hurting.” His answer was simple, but there was so much pain in it that I paused, sympathy rocketing through me once more.
“I disagree.” Speaking softly, I watched a man walking down the street outside, his jacket pulled tight around him, breath puffing from his mouth like a cloud of smoke. It was easier to say what I needed to when I didn’t look at Tristan, I realized, mostly because my opinion was the truth and it hurt me to admit it.
“Samantha was alone in our time. Her mother had passed away and The Pit took her father. I was only a simple friend. We didn’t even know each other all that well. There was no boyfriend that I knew of, no prospects of settling down that she seemed to have. If she had stayed there, she would’ve been lonely and sad. I saw it setting in after Michael—her father—died. She was stressed, upset, and trying so hard to keep herself together. Simply put, she was hurting.
“Here, she has you, though. You put her back together, Tristan, gave her a family to love and care for. She’s cracked now, yes, but she has you to help pick up the pieces. Will she ever be the same? No. It’s foolish to even think that she’ll be the same as she was before. The death of a child will mark her forever. It will mark you forever. But, you’ve been marked together.”
Breathing deeply, I glanced over at him, watching as a tear rolled down his cheek. I knew it was a show of great trust on his part, to let me see him like this and to talk with me about what was troubling him.
“Why do ye want us to work through it together so badly?” he finally asked, turning to meet my gaze. “She does so much better when ye’re here. Ye help her in ways I cannot. Ye could take her from me, if ye wanted. I think ye know that.”
Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three) Page 12
