by Amelia Autin
Chapter 10
Tahra gasped, and Marek was sorry he’d had to spring this on her with little warning. Then he remembered her adamantly insisting, “Stop protecting me,” and his own response, “I cannot promise... But I will try.”
So instead of downplaying the seriousness of the king’s action, he admitted, “Armed soldiers will be posted at all the main points of congress within the country—airports, train stations, bus stations, churches, schools, border crossings. You name it, an armed presence will make itself felt.”
“He’s closing the borders?”
“No. That would play into the hands of the Zakharian Liberation Front, giving them exactly what they are asking for—cutting off the flow of refugees. But the border guards will be complemented by soldiers, making sure the émigrés who make it inside our borders are safe. No impact for the US embassy here, but it will cause your State Department to issue a travel warning to US citizens.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Does Alec know?”
“The king officially notified all the ambassadors—” he glanced at his watch “—more than an hour ago. I would assume this was important enough for their staffs to wake them. So yes, I would also assume the regional security officer of your embassy would know by now...through official channels.”
She turned questioning eyes on him. “Angelina wouldn’t tell him? Her own husband?”
He shook his head, regret creeping into his voice. “You know the answer to that question...it is buried somewhere in the currently inaccessible recesses of your brain. We are friends with them—I told you this, yes?” When she nodded, he said, “Angelina and Alec are... Let us just say that honor and duty are everything to both of them. Angelina would not tell Alec anything concerning Zakharian national security...and he would not expect her to. Just as he would tell her nothing he learned through his job as the US embassy’s RSO, and she would not want him to, either.”
“But...you told me.”
“It is not a secret, you understand. Not now that the ambassadors have been officially notified and the king made an announcement on national television and radio at the same time the letters went to the ambassadors.”
He took her left hand in his, rubbing a finger over the engagement ring. “I explained when we became affianced that I could not tell you everything. And you said you understood—you have secret clearance for your job at the embassy, and you take that seriously, mariskya.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So you understand I cannot—this is completely separate from my love for you—but I cannot betray the oath I took. Not just my oath as an officer in the Zakharian National Forces, but also the one I swore to the king when I took over security for his wife and then his son.”
Tahra entwined her fingers with Marek’s. “I understand. Honest.” She yawned suddenly, covering her mouth with her free hand, the one with a cast around her wrist. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, and—”
He interrupted her. “And I have kept you talking when you should have been in bed.” He took the blanket from her and laid it on the pew next to him. “Leave this—someone will collect it later today with all the rest.” Then he rose and helped her to her feet, drawing her into the circle of his arms. “Yes, and you are still recovering,” he said, the remorse he felt over keeping her from her bed reflected in his voice. He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Come, I will walk you to your suite.”
“You should be in bed, too,” Tahra told him as they made their way out of the chapel. “You probably got less sleep than I did, since I napped earlier.”
He almost told her he’d gotten no sleep last night, and not just because of the explosions. He’d been awake when the phone call had come urgently requesting his presence at the palace. Awake, because he hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about everything that had happened last night. Everything she’d said to him.
Not to mention the lie begun with the best intentions that had grown to huge proportions weighing heavily on his conscience, the lie that they were engaged. How long could he keep up that pretense? And would Tahra ever forgive him if—when—she regained her memory?
Then there was the other lie robbing him of sleep, the one he’d told her last night—“...take me as I am or set me free.” A lie, because it was not possible. Tahra could not set him free, because he could not be set free—Marianescus loved once, then never again. And Tahra had seemed to know it when she replied, “I’m not the one holding you prisoner. You’re doing it to yourself...”
Not quite true...because he hadn’t chosen his fate. It has to be something in our blood, he reasoned, because he was only a Marianescu on the distaff side. And yet his father had warned him when he’d barely entered his teens. “Some call it the Marianescu curse,” his father had explained. “But it is no curse—not to the men who truly love.” The Count of Mortagne had smiled as he said this, a smile conveying he was one of the lucky ones for whom the curse was not a curse.
Marek had thought he understood...as much as a teenaged boy could understand such things, but he hadn’t been unduly concerned how it might affect him. And he’d gone for years without giving it much thought. Until King Andre Alexei IV had ascended the throne and had assigned a then-Lieutenant Zale to head up the team surreptitiously guarding Juliana Richardson in Hollywood. And Marek had seen for himself just how powerful the hold was.
It is her...or no one.
The first Andre Alexei had said that about his Eleonora when she’d been kidnapped and held to ransom for five seemingly endless years. King Andre hadn’t had to say those words to Marek about the women he eventually made his queen...but Marek had known. He’d placed his hands between the king’s and had sworn an oath to keep Juliana safe or die trying. And he’d moved heaven and earth to keep that vow, both in Hollywood and Zakhar, even saving Juliana’s life once.
And again Marek had thought he understood. But it was like a seeing man trying to describe sight to a man who had always been blind. One could understand the concept in theory, without having any idea what it was really like.
Then Tahra had entered his life, and Marek had known. The scales had fallen from his eyes and he’d finally, finally understood. He’d known, too, that he must win her heart—failure was not an option.
It still wasn’t.
He opened the door to Tahra’s suite and ushered her inside but didn’t dare follow her in. Not now. Not when heart, mind and body were all clamoring for him to take advantage of the shy invitation on the face Tahra turned to him—an invitation he wasn’t even sure she was consciously aware of.
He barely had the strength of will to resist her invitation and his own desires, but somehow he managed it. He gazed down into her face, cataloging her features, and trying—not for the first time—to figure out what it was about her that had irrevocably ensnared his heart. Tahra was beautiful, but he’d known more beautiful women... Zorina among them. But he hadn’t loved Zorina any more than he’d loved the other women he’d known. Tahra had curves in all the right places, but he’d been with more voluptuous women... Again, Zorina among them. Tahra was not the first woman he’d desired...but she was the only woman for whom he’d forsworn his desire. The only woman he wanted from now until eternity, and he’d craved the sanctity of marriage before...
Was that why—like his noble ancestor, like his royal cousin—he knew with unshakable faith that it was Tahra...or no one?
It is her eyes, he realized, wondering how he’d missed it before. Her eyes are windows into her soul. She will age as my mother has aged, but she will always be the caring, loving woman she is now. And I will love her thirty years from now...forty...fifty...as my father still loves my mother. That will never change.
But would Tahra still love him? She’d loved him before the explosion had wiped out the past eighteen months... And will again,
he vowed fiercely, whether or not she ever regains her memory. Somehow he would untangle the web of lies he’d spun and find his way back to her heart.
He kissed her cheek. Then, because his heart swelled with love and he couldn’t help himself, he brushed his lips against hers.
Failure is not an option.
* * *
“Failure is not an option,” Colonel Marianescu adamantly asserted to the men—and one woman—assembled around the conference table in the War Room later that morning. “The king has declared a state of martial law, but that cannot endure indefinitely, and no one knows that better than the king himself. So he has tasked me—and now I am tasking you—with putting an end to the unconscionable attacks the Zakharian Liberation Front has inflicted upon Zakhar, including its most innocent victims—its children.”
Everyone in the room knew the Zakharian Liberation Front had publicly taken credit for the early-morning bombings at apartment buildings across the country. And everyone in the room knew that of the nine hundred fifty-seven fatalities, six hundred eighty-nine of them were children...four hundred seventy-two of whom were children under the age of ten.
“Unconscionable is the word,” Marek whispered to Angelina, the lone woman in the room. “How any man could plan and carry out something like this is unconscionable.”
Angelina nodded, and her eyes met Marek’s. “That could have been me,” she whispered back. “Before I married Alec, I used to live in the apartment building that was firebombed here in Drago...on the top floor.”
Marek understood exactly what she meant. Flames and smoke had shot up the elevator shaft and the stairwells, because—as the fire investigators had already determined—someone had propped open the fire doors on every floor. Almost no one on the seventh or eighth floors had escaped. Not all the victims had died from the fire. Many had succumbed to asphyxiation, especially those on the higher floors, overcome by smoke that in a normal fire would not have blocked the escape routes.
“So, gentlemen. What do we know about this organization so far?” Colonel Marianescu demanded. “Major Stesha?”
Marek’s former superior opened a thick folder he’d brought with him to this meeting. It looked to be a duplicate of the one he’d given Marek the day before. Marek had forgotten about it with everything that had happened since then, but now the idea the file had raised came roaring back to mind.
“Excuse me, Major Stesha,” Marek said, rising to his feet. “I have something to offer, if I may.” The major waved a hand, ceding him the floor. “All the targets, including the ones early this morning, appear to be related to the refugee issue. And yes, ‘Zakhar for Zakharians’ sounds as if their goal is...” He fumbled for the right word. “Ahhh...ethnically related.” He drew a deep breath. “But not all the victims have been immigrants. A fair amount have been native-born Zakharians. And if the bomb had been allowed to explode at the preschool, even more native-born Zakharians would have died. Yes, nearly half the children in that schoolyard were relatively new immigrants—but more than half were not.”
“What are you trying to say, Captain?” Major Stesha barked.
“What if the asylum seekers are not truly the issue?” he asked softly. “If they were, would this organization have taken the lives of so many native-born Zakharians?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “What if the refugees are a...a blind, a way of dividing the country? A way of diverting national security attention from their true goal?”
Angelina rose to stand at his side, nodding slowly. “Captain Zale is correct. Last week we all sat in this room and assumed the refugees were the target. Even the king believed this to be the case. But what if he was wrong?”
A smothered gasp went around the room, and Marek had to bite his lip not to smile. Angelina had uttered what amounted to heresy to the men gathered here. The king could not be wrong because God would not let him be wrong. He’d believed that, too...until he’d read Major Stesha’s file. Until the idea the refugees were not the real target had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. He wouldn’t have worded his statement quite that bluntly, however...even though he was thinking it.
“Captain Mateja-Jones is right,” Marek said now. “What if the king is wrong? What if this is nothing more than an attempt to seize power from our rightful monarch? To assassinate the entire royal family and take over Zakhar?” He let that suggestion sink in for a moment, then added, “Even their name supports the idea. Zakharian Liberation Front. Nothing about that name indicates keeping Zakhar ‘pure’ or keeping the ethnic makeup of our citizens as it has been for centuries. Yes, their publicly stated credo would lead you to believe this, but again, that could be a diversion tactic.”
The arrested expression on Major Stesha’s face was followed by a flash of admiration, then agreement. “There is much in what you say, Captain Zale.” He turned to Colonel Marianescu. “The secret intelligence service has focused exclusively on learning as much as it can about the Zakharian Liberation Front as it relates to the influx of émigrés. And yes, we have made some progress in that area. But if Captain Zale is correct, the threat is even greater than we have so far imagined.”
* * *
Tahra woke when her body told her she’d had enough sleep...and when she heard a slight noise from the other room. “Who’s there?” she called sharply, sudden fear ratcheting up her heartbeat. She’d never been fearful like this...until she’d nearly been raped. But ever since then, she’d experienced instances of panic attacks, which the psychologist she’d consulted had assured her would become less and less frequent over time. The woman had been right...at least as far as Tahra could remember. They had nearly ceased by the time she’d been transferred to Zakhar. In fact, one of the reasons she’d welcomed the transfer was Drago’s reputation as one of the safest capitals in the world.
Tahra couldn’t swear she hadn’t had a panic attack in the past year and a half—she couldn’t swear to anything that might or might not have happened during that time. But that wasn’t really relevant. She was having one now.
Another sound from the other room, then the door to the bedroom was pushed ajar, and a smiling face peered in. “You are awake, Miss Edwards. Did you sleep well?”
Tahra let out the breath she’d been holding and leaned back against the pillows, ordering her heart to relax. The door opened further, and Ani entered the room, carrying a bed tray. “I have brought your lunch, miss.”
Lunch in bed seemed so...decadent. So...un-American. But Ani didn’t seem to see it that way, and besides, Tahra still found meals awkward with the cast on her right wrist. So when the little maid set the tray on a side table, opened the curtains to let the noonday sun in and moved to fluff up Tahra’s pillows, she leaned forward and let her.
“Oh, miss!”
The empathetic dismay in Ani’s voice reminded Tahra she was wearing one of her sleeveless nightgowns...and those pinkish scars the fléchettes had inflicted were clearly visible in the sunlight. She sat back hurriedly, hiding the scars from view. She’d almost forgotten about them, especially since they didn’t hurt and she couldn’t see them herself unless she posed naked in front of a mirror and craned her neck—something she wasn’t about to do.
“Oh, miss,” Ani said again, and this time there were tears in her eyes. “We knew you were a heroine, saving those children as you did—all the household staff vied to look after you, and I was proud when I was chosen—but we... I never knew what you suffered.”
Tahra couldn’t help it; bright color flooded her cheeks. “It doesn’t hurt. Truly it doesn’t. And I don’t remember, but Marek—Captain Zale—told me what I did. You would probably have done the same thing.”
Ani shook her head. “Not me, miss. I would have been frozen with fear.” She settled the bed tray across Tahra’s lap, then removed the cover to reveal a tempting meal...one that wouldn’t require her to use her right
wrist at all.
“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure if the chef had known or if Ani had reminded him, but she was grateful one way or the other.
“There is a note, too, miss,” the maid said. “Let me fetch it.” She was gone and back in less than a minute. “It is from your fiancé. Captain Zale.”
Tahra put down her fork and took the envelope, laying it on the tray momentarily. “How do you know?”
Ani smiled in a way that made her seem older than Tahra, who was probably ten years her senior. “How do I know it came from Captain Zale? Or how do I know he is your fiancé?”
“Both.”
“A footman brought the note and told me who had sent it.” Ani’s smile deepened. “And everyone who works in the palace knows Captain Zale. Many women have tried to catch his eye—oh, many, many. He is so handsome and such a gentleman!” She sighed a little. “But ever since he came to work here in the palace he seemed to have eyes only for his duty. So of course when we learned his fiancée was the heroine who was all over the news and was coming to recuperate in the palace, well! Word spread like wildfire.”
Tahra knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help it. “Many, many?”
Ani was straightening the room as she gossiped, picking up the clothes Tahra had worn in the early hours of the morning—an event that seemed so far away from her now, after six hours of sleep—and placing them in the laundry hamper. “You would not believe how silly some women are when a man ignores them,” Ani said. “And when a man looks like Captain Zale, like a prince in a fairy tale...” Her dark eyes twinkled at Tahra.
The color deepened in Tahra’s cheeks, and she tried to focus on the delicacies on her plate. Then she saw the envelope on the tray next to her plate, with her name written across it in a bold hand. And though the room was warm and the sun was shining brightly through the window, a chill ran through her at the sight of her name in Marek’s handwriting.
Her hand was trembling so much she almost couldn’t pick the envelope up. Why? Her frantic brain scrambled for an answer, but none was forthcoming. All she knew was that she dreaded reading what was enclosed. Which was crazy. Crazy!
