Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three)

by Kamery Solomon

  Laughing outright, I smiled, rubbing my chin. “I love her, but she loves you. As much as I would like her for myself, she wants you, Tristan. And I want what she wants, no matter the cost to myself.”

  Snorting, he wiped his face, blushing slightly. “Aye, I suppose she has picked me, hasn’t she? It hasn’t felt much like it lately. Ye’ve been like her savior, coming from nowhere to pull her from the muck and set her on her path again.”

  Surprised, I practically gaffed at the statement, staring at him incredulously. “You’ve got to be joking. I’m not any kind of savior, simply a guy who was in the right place at the right time. She loves you, Tristan. Go to her. Talk it out. Share how you’ve been feeling—all of it. Tell her you’re hurting as well and she needs to recognize that. If anyone is going to pull her out of this, it’s going to be you. I’m not her hero. You are. Don’t forget that.”

  He gave me a small smile, opening his mouth to reply.

  “Monsieurs? Oh—excusez-moi.” Abella had appeared in the doorway, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say. Immediately realizing she’d interrupted something, though, she curtseyed, turning to leave.

  “Wait,” Tristan called, clearing his throat and moving toward her. “What is it, Abella?”

  She hesitated, looking to me as if making sure it was okay to intrude, and then spoke again. “Samantha was wondering if either of you would like to join her in the courtyard for dueling practice.”

  Nodding, Tristan smiled, appearing as if nothing had occurred between us. “Aye. Tell her I will be there shortly.”

  Curtsying again, she quickly left, giving me one last glance of hesitation.

  “Abella is good for Sam, too,” I noted, moving to the couch I’d been sitting on earlier.

  “She’s a bonny lass,” he agreed, moving to face me. “And she likes ye.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, staring at him in surprise.

  “Abella has taken a shine to ye.” He chuckled, clearly amused I hadn’t come to the same conclusion. “If ye ever decide to abandon Sam, she would make ye a good companion.”

  “I’m old enough to be her father,” I retorted, suddenly wishing we could return to our conversation about his feelings, instead of talking about someone else’s admiration for me.

  “So?” he pressed. “Ye’re old enough to be mine and Sam’s father, too. It is that way with many in this time. Is it not in yers?”

  “No.” My reply was strong and rough, my face flushing as I turned away. “It’s frowned upon. Abella isn’t even considered a legal adult yet in my time. I would go to prison if I had a . . . a . . .” Why was it so damn hard to say relationship?

  My skin was flaming red by now and Tristan laughed, apparently pleased with how uncomfortable his comment had made me. “Aye,” he continued, folding his arms. “Still. She would make any man a fine companion, indeed.”

  Leaving me with my embarrassment, he strode out of the room, his spirits appearing to be considerably lifted at my own expense.

  The funeral procession moved slowly through the tiny cemetery, the large number of people who’d shown up for the services clogging the area. Members of the King’s Court had come to pay their respects, as well as many of The Order. It appeared Bevard had been well liked in the French society, the sheer amount of bodies that had come to pay their respects surprising me.

  At the head of the group, beside the casket that was being carried through the throng, Madame Bevard and her daughter, Gloria, slowly led the way to the freshly dug grave, their faces covered with black veils and tissues in their hands. I’d not had the chance to meet them yet, but Sam whispered to me that they were nice enough. It was our combined hope that they would be taken care of, now that they had no head of the household. Tristan assured us The Order would assist them, though, even if they had no idea of its existence.

  Finally reaching the late Grand Master’s resting place, the group crowded around the shallow hole in the ground, the chill in the January air seeming to add to the gloominess of the affair.

  Speaking in French, a priest began to pray, placing a hand on the casket as he spoke. After a few moments, I found my mind wandering, as well as my gaze.

  It was a relatively small graveyard, boxed in on three sides by the surrounding buildings. The graves were covered with stones, some of them sporting statues or intricate carvings. There were the characteristically large and tall headstones that populated any old burial ground, trees swaying gently overhead, and yellow, dead grass on the ground beneath our feet. Overall, it felt like a nice place to be put to rest. Part of me couldn’t help wondering if the tiny area would stand the test of time, or if it would be destroyed or lost over the years. I’d never had much interest in the history of cemeteries, though, especially ones in Paris, and had no inkling of what the fate of this place would be.

  Sighing, I stole a glance at Samantha on my left. She had her hand wrapped around Tristan’s arm, her head on his shoulder, eyes closed as she listened to the preacher speak. She didn’t understand any of what was being said, either, but she seemed at peace somehow, like her spirits had been lifted by coming. Her black dress blended into the fabric of Tristan’s jacket and pants, as well the crowd of mourners, though we all stood away from the throng. Adjusting her position slightly, she moved to the side, revealing Abella sanding just behind her.

  Feeling my breath catch in my chest, I tore my eyes away from her, staring hard at the priest. Her image seemed burned in my mind, though. A simple, black gown, covered by her light cloak, curly hair pinned up by her face. She was listening to the sermon with rapt attention, her eyes never straying from the ceremony in front of us.

  Ever since Tristan had told me he thought she liked me, it had been hard to be around her. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d done, if anything, to encourage such feelings. She knew how I felt about Sammy, after all. I’d thought she and I were only friends, lending a hand to one another when we needed it, joining together to help our common friend in her time of need. Never in a million years would I have thought Abella had a crush on me, or that I could ever return the affections for her.

  She was a child! What business did she have with developing feelings for a man in his forties? She was what, seventeen now? Stealing another glance, I gulped, suddenly suspecting everyone here could read my thoughts on my face.

  Of course, she had no idea of the turmoil Tristan had created inside me. How could she know I stayed awake at night, thinking of ways to dissuade her, to show there were others much more worthy of her affections. Every young man I saw in the street suddenly became a possible suitor for her, to distract her with.

  At the same time, if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want her attentions turned elsewhere. It wasn’t out of romantic inclinations for myself, but because I cared for her in a different way. She was a woman who had saved my life and been my friend in a time when I desperately needed one. What if, God forbid, the young man who came to steal her heart was cruel? What if he was destined to give her a life of sadness, loneliness, and fear? What if he wasn’t a young man at all, but some old pervert, bent on making her his play thing? No, it would be better to keep her away from something like that, to keep her safe, as I always had.

  Abella’s safety was always one of my top concerns, I’d come to realize. Whether it was the life debt I owed her or my duty as a man, I’d sworn to myself at some point that I would let no harm come to her. That oath included any actions I could take against her, such as shattering her young heart when I told her I would only ever love Sammy.

  Still, she had said nothing to me of her feelings. Maybe Tristan had only been teasing me, trying to make me nervous. If that were the case, it had worked. I could scarcely be in the same room with the girl before I felt my face flushing and had to excuse myself.

  All around me, the group muttered an amen, the priest’s service concluded. Coming back into the present moment, I shook myself, shoving my concerns about Abella from my mind once more.
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br />   One by one, those in attendance moved forward, to pay their respects to Bevard and his family. Some of them touch the casket, others went straight to the wife and daughter, hugging them and muttering quietly. When it was my turn, I hesitantly stepped forward, feeling out of place. I’d only met the man once, after all, and had never even spoken to his family. I didn’t even know if they spoke English or not.

  Resting my hand on the wooden box, I smiled weakly at the women, inclining my head toward them. “I’m sorry for your loss. He seemed a great man, when I met him.”

  Madame Bevard sniffled behind her handkerchief, bowing her head to me as well. “Merci, Monsieur. Your words are most kind.”

  Stepping away, I watched as Samantha and Tristan moved forward, taking a little longer to pay their respects. Abella stood behind them, silent, playing the part of a servant once more.

  Sighing, I watched her, an unfamiliar ache in my chest. It wasn’t pleasurable, suffering with such discomfort around her. Gone were the days of my sharing every whim with her, of telling her my emotions and having enriching conversation. Now, all I could see was a woman I needed to distance myself from, if not because of our difference in age then because she was from a different time than my own.

  I would not risk changing the future for my own happiness. A relationship with anyone from this time would create a whole new line of people, possibly corrupting everything I knew about my own time.

  Glancing away as the group turned around, I watched the line of people slowly leaving the cemetery now, clumped in little groups, whispering together. A sadness hung in the air, as was usual with funerals, but it seemed to penetrate everyone to their core today. Perhaps it was because the man they laid to rest had been murdered. Maybe it was the gloomy, cold weather. Either way, I suddenly found myself wishing I was home in front of the fire, alone with my mind.

  “Are you feeling well, Mark?” Sam appeared beside me, placing a hand on my arm. There was worry in her voice and eyes. “You look very pale.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her, smiling weakly. Patting her fingers, I carefully stepped away, putting some distance between us. The action caused me to almost run into Abella, who had appeared on my other side, and I froze, trapped between the two of them. Clearing my throat, I stared at Sam, trying to sound convincing. “Only tired. I’ve had a hard time sleeping with everything that’s been going on.”

  Tristan, coming up on her other side, nodded as he took her hand. “Aye. Myself as well. The vote will be finished tonight, though. God willing, we can put the whole ordeal behind us.”

  “God willing,” she echoed, beaming at him.

  “Will you be staying for dinner, Mark?” Abella’s quiet voice drew my attention and I looked back at her, feeling the odd clenching of my chest again. Her eyes were hopeful, I thought, as she watched me, waiting for my answer.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Any disappointment she felt, she hid well, merely nodding. “I’ll make sure to let Cook know, then.”

  “Ye aren’t staying to eat?” Tristan asked, overhearing our conversation. “Why?”

  “I want to go home and gather myself before tonight,” I lied, pleased with how quickly the excuse had come to me.

  He nodded, accepting the reason without question. “I think that is wise. Tonight will be an evening of much change, in yer life and in the life of The Order. It will be good to have some time alone with yer thoughts beforehand.”

  Samantha sighed, watching me with searching eyes. “I don’t think you’ll change too much,” she said, laughing slightly. “At least I hope not.”

  Blushing, I stared at the ground. Part of me was desperately wanting to flee the group, to feel some peace and to let my heart settle. The other part was content in talking with Sammy this way and believing I was an important part of her life.

  Pulling at my necktie, I made a face at her, meant to display my discomfort. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be the same selfish, stubborn brute you’ve always known.”

  She laughed at that, shaking her head. Moving forward, she and Tristan started toward the street, their voices quiet as he spoke to her, their path interrupted almost immediately by someone wishing to speak with them.

  “I think, member or not, Mark Bell will always be a man of great courage and honor,” Abella said softly. It wasn’t clear if Samantha even heard her, but I peered over in shock, surprised that she would complement me so. Her eyes met mine with warmth and she smiled, her expression one of peace and acceptance.

  “I think you grossly exaggerate my better qualities,” I replied just as softly.

  “No.” She shook her head, gathering her skirt in her hand as she stepped forward to join her Lord and Lady. “I was there. It is you who forgets who you truly are.”

  The chapel inside the Temple was silent—a stark contrast from the last time I’d been here. Hundreds of men sat in the stone pews, watching as the Masters conferred at the head of the steps before them, the light from the faux stained-glass window shining on them like a rose-colored beacon from God. All around me, signs of the battle that had raged here sat openly, for all to see. There were a few bullet holes in the stone pillars, some of the benches broken in spots. It was apparent someone had been in here, repairing things, but the work wasn’t done yet. The only stark difference I could see was the white curtains at the head of the space. They were bloodless, for one, and they had all been pulled back, revealing the chairs that the leaders of The Order would inhabit during ceremonies.

  In addition to the steps leading up from the pews, there were two more set of small stairs. On the first level, four chairs sat. Tristan had mumbled to me that the Masters would take their place there. The second level housed only one chair, large and ornate. It was the seat of the Grand Master, decorated with the cross of the Templars, gold leafing, pearls, and all other sorts of finery. It was, by far, the finest thing in the entire space.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how they had cleaned it, after Bevard’s blood had washed over it. Was the cushion replaced? Was it the same seat they’d used since the crusades? Now wasn’t the time to pick Tristan’s brain about it, though, so I remained silent, watching the Masters with everyone else.

  I was the only person without a tabard, dressed in my brown breeches and white shirt, waiting to be initiated into the secret sect. The ceremony couldn’t take place without a Grand Master, though, and so, we had all gathered to tally the vote that had been cast for the office.

  “Who did ye vote for?” Tristan asked quietly, leaning toward me.

  He was nervous, I realized, his fingers tapping on his leg as he watched the proceedings.

  “I voted for you.”

  His head snapped over, glaring at me with wide eyes. “I told ye not to!”

  “And I told you, I don’t know anyone else well enough to vote for them!”

  The man next to me gave us a disproving glance, but swallowed uneasily, as if he were also nervous about the results. Then again, who wasn’t? Bevard’s murderer was in the room with us right now and we still had no clue who it was.

  “Let’s hope the rest of the men have enough brain in them to cast their vote correctly,” Tristan muttered, his attention returning to the top of the stairs.

  Shooting him a glare, I shook my head, also turning to watch the Masters again. They had several slips of paper in front of them, spread across the alter. They arranged the votes into groups, which I assumed were sorted by candidate, one of them keeping track of the number in a book he held tightly. They all seemed apprehensive and tired, as if keeping The Knights Templar from killing each other for a week had been more work than any of them expected. Finally, they stepped away from the sheets, grouping together to discuss.

  Mutters began in the pews around me, the men eager and impatient to hear the results of the vote. After a moment, the Masters formed a line in front of the alter, raising their hands for peace.

  “The results have been tallied,” one of them said. He was
tall and bald, his pale skin wrinkled with age. His French accent spread through the space with ease, though, and I recognized him as the Master who had declared we would have to vote on the night of Bevard’s murder. He held the notebook in his hands, his eyes scanning the crowd.

  “That’s Master Francois,” Tristan whispered, nerves practically rolling off him, his eyes never leaving the man who was speaking.

  Nodding, I watched Francois with rapt attention, feeling the importance of the occasion. It was like watching every reality television show competition combined, except this would have real life consequences for all of us.

  “When I call the name of the new Grand Master,” Francois continued, staring at all of us. “He will rise and join us at the altar. There, he will remove his tabard and sword, becoming like new to The Order. He will join our initiate outside and prepare himself to take on the duties of our leader. When the clock strikes midnight, he will take part in his second initiation and be awarded the title of Grand Master, should he accept it.”

  Silence spread through the space, the tension in the air palpable. It felt as though I could scarcely draw a breath, so anticipated was the answer we had all be waiting for.

  Taking a deep breath, Francois glanced at the other three Masters, as if asking for them to share their strength with him, and then stared back at the congregation. “Joffrey Davies.”

  A murmur of mixed emotions swept through the room. I could hear surprise, anger, excitement, and even worry in some of the whispers. Beside me, Tristan remained still, his gaze seemingly far away as different emotions passed over his face.

  “Who is that?” I asked him quietly, peering around to see if Davies had stood yet. “He didn’t come visit us, did he?”

  Shaking his head, Tristan blinked, looking at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him. I’d heard rumors that he was campaigning, but, no, he never came to speak with us.”