Lady Trent (41 page)

He thought for a moment and said something
he was rarely known to say. “I do not know.”

“We should talk more of it later. For now
you should rest, and rest well. I will have something brought up
for you to eat…build up your strength. You have matters to attend.
Aside from this your new home and your wedding which is fast
approaching.”

Yes, his wedding. He considered it after
Jacob had departed the room, doubting he would follow through with
it at all.

But what other choice would he have? There
was no lady any better for a position with him. Yes, he would go
through with it. He would. Only not now. Not soon. Later. Later
after the safety of New Ebony as a whole was no longer
threatened.

******

Days passed, and there was recovery.

Rachel could not stop thinking about the
entire incidence, but when she did finally rise from the bed, her
mind became occupied with other things…such as the well-being of
Tilly. She had heard of the maiden’s injuries during the ordeal.
The attack. It had happened so quickly.

She visited her in the servant’s quarters.
Edison promised a recovery, although a slow one it’d become because
of an infection that set in her blood from the initial wound.
Rachel recalled it well—the man swinging open the doors, stabbing
Tilly and taking hold of her despite her attempts to remain free.
The driver, too, had been taken, and Zaria…well, she only knew the
maiden had escaped from the carriage during the invasion of it,
throwing herself out from the other side, and that she’d made it to
the palace safe and sound to make these things known to Jacob.

Tilly was barely awake when she entered into
her room. It was a small room, just as any other intended for a
servant, but decorated a bit tastefully. The maiden had put
drawings on her walls and lamps on tables, and vases of flowers
which had by now withered and died.

“Milady,” Tilly greeted, happy to see her
well. “So good it is to see you alive and well, up and about.”

“You, yourself, will be up and about in no
time,” she assured, sitting on the edge of the bed. She smiled down
at the maiden, patting her hand. “I am happy you survived it…very
happy.”

“That you are well makes me happy, milady. I
was certain you would not live through it.”

“Had it not been for Sir Marcus, I would not
have.”

“I shall like to hear of it.”

She patted her hand again. “Later,” she
promised. “After you have fully recovered, as is necessary for us
all.”

The maiden seemed at peace with this, or
perhaps just tired and drained. Her eyelids fell and she slept.

Rachel departed the room, closing the door
quietly behind her and thinking of her words to the maiden. Yes,
had it not been for Marcus, neither she nor Jacob would be alive.
Perhaps her life would have been spared in an honest exchange, but
she doubted it.

She stood still a moment, thinking of
Marcus’s well-being. She decided to go in search of Zaria. She
hadn’t seen her at all. While a maiden by the name of Tabatha had
been the one to care for her, she imagined Zaria was the one to
care for Marcus and perhaps some of the injured guards.

As if by chance, while she travelled as if to
visit Marcus, although thinking she would not, and thinking he may
be up and about himself by now—she had heard he was recovering
well, but nothing else—she came across Zaria who had just
apparently left Marcus’s room. She was pleased to see her, and
smiled in that unique way only Zaria could. “Milady,” she kindly
greeted. “It is well to see you in good health.”

With that, she gave her a gentle, sentimental
hug. Pulling away, still holding to her shoulders, she studied her
with that familiar, clever expression upon her face. One could only
wonder if she was capable of any other sort of expression no matter
how happy or content or pleased. She was naturally a clever-looking
person. Perhaps the natural slant of her eyes contributed to
this.

“I was not advised but only to care for the
guards and their wounds, and then Sir Marcus after the others
recovered.”

“How is he?” She asked, very serious as she
recalled his wound, the amount of blood he’d lost. As before, upon
recalling this, she felt a deep-grounded sense of gratitude.

“He is well, milady.” she assured, and took a
slow step back. “I hope you did not misunderstand…the way I fled. I
knew only to flee, and to get to Lord Trent as quickly as
possible.

“You should be properly honored for bringing
word of it to him.”

“Marty would have done so, himself,” she
insisted, and frowned while her eyes went to the floor. “Do not
think I meant to leave you to die, or to only spare myself. I did
not know what to do. After I had gone out, as soon as I saw the
man’s horse, I took it and just began riding.”

“You did only as you knew to do for the time.
Besides, one person is less likely to be spotted than two, and a
least amount of trouble. Had you not escaped, you could have been
harmed even worse than Tilly. You saved your life. It is well that
you did.”

“I am so very curious about it all, to hear
from beginning to end. As of now, I go upon few phrases here and
there. Sir Marcus refuses to speak of it.” Her lips formed a
straight line and a concerned crease formed between her brows. “I
have not known him to be so withdrawn. He stares out as if into
nowhere, merely thinking. He said very little to me at all, and
paid little mind, even when I tried to amuse him. His expression
does not change. He is troubled in some way that I have not known
him to be ever. I was not able to see, but Edison speaks of his
wound as if it was not the act of an assailant, but of his own
doings.”

“The recollection makes me speechless, Zaria,
so that I cannot mention it either.” Memories crashed through her
mind, scene by scene, motion by motion, sound by sound, so
fleetingly. “It is as if it did not occur…like a dream of some
sort, or a tale from the pages of a book.”

“Is it true you were taken hostage?”

She nodded with a quiet, “Yes.” And then gave
her head a shake, thinking of Marcus. She had to see him. She had
to speak to him. A hand to Zaria’s shoulder, she started to pass
by. But as her hand slid away and she made her first few steps
toward the direction of his quarters, Zaria called quietly from
behind her.

“Milady.”

She stopped and turned. The maiden’s eyes
were now in such a way she’d never seen them before. Such sadness
in them. “He no longer keeps his bed,” she told her, and Rachel
felt as if the maiden was seeing straight through her and that
perhaps she had saw through him as well. “He has become well enough
to move about. He is yet in the Great City, although where I cannot
say. Lord Trent recently sat in a meeting with his advisors. I
imagine he will be pleased to see you up and well as you are.
Beautiful as always.” She managed a smile, the very kind that
Rachel had wondered if she was even capable of producing. It was a
considerate smile. She suddenly looked so pure and thoughtful.

Seeing this was refreshing, as was this idea
of greeting Jacob in a better condition. The last she’d saw he was
sitting on the edge of her bed, caressing her hair and skin so
carefully, and telling her to simply rest, to not speak of the
incident or even think of it. To simply get well.

“Where is my husband?” She asked her.

“Polishing his weapons,” she told her, and
the devious-looking smile returned to her face. “His swords…as if
intending to put them to use.” She cast a sidelong glance toward
the ceiling. “It makes little sense, milady, to polish a blade
while intending it for bloodshed, and with every stroke of the hand
imagine piercing an enemy….or beheading one, which is likely the
idea in his mind.”

Rachel came near her, and touching a hand to
her shoulder, made her way by and to the armory where Jacob’s
collection of swords were stored and kept.

Marty stood at the door, guarding it. He
seemed glad to see her. He almost actually smiled, something she’d
never saw him do. With dazzling eyes he bowed his head. “Milady,”
he greeted. She, too, slightly bowed her head before opening the
door and stepping inside.

Jacob was seated at the table, which for the
time being was cluttered with swords and daggers of all shapes and
designs. His expression was very serious, and he seemed lost in his
own little world as he slowly ran a cloth from the bottom of the
blade of this particular sword to the tip of it. Having reached the
sharp point, his eyes following the movement of his hand, he
spotted her from overtop it, and for a moment his hand just stayed
there.

He eventually lowered the weapon, abandoning
the task for the time being, and stood. Clouds of relief filled his
eyes. A grin touched his lips and she smiled back at him.

They walked at the same time, meeting in the
middle and embracing. Pulling apart, their lips met and they
kissed—they kissed passionately, and as desire began swelling up
within them, knitting them together, they held tighter to one
another.

He took her hair with his hands and pulled
her away but not far, and searched her eyes while their chests both
rose and fell. “Rachel,” he pleasantly whispered. “How pleased I am
you are alive and well. Here. For had you not survived this, then
neither would I.”

She lifted her chin so that they kissed
again.

Later they made love, not for the first time
like the first time…and for a very long time. Jacob savored each
and every inch of her livelihood, not swift to begin the ending of
this very perfect thing.

“I love you so,” he said, rising up above
her, preparing for the union she so desperately at this point
needed.

“And I love you, Jacob Trent,” she said,
raising a finger to trace the contours of his bottom lip. He took
it between his teeth, not harshly, until she had lowered her arm at
the same time as he entered her. And they both shook, breathed and
sighed with pleasure, looking into one another’s eyes, speaking one
another’s names as pleasure consumed them…like violent flames,
melting them into one single being.

They afterward lay together, he with an arm
beneath her shoulders, running his fingers up and down her arm, she
resting a cheek on his shoulder, one leg up and over his. They said
nothing, nothing at all. Both lost in their private thoughts,
neither asking the other. And they fell asleep this way, at peace,
it seemed. Content, it seemed. But where he dreamt of revenge, she
dreamt of gratitude and of expressing it to a man who’d amazed her
in more ways than one.

CHAPTER TWENTY=TWO

For many days, Marcus hid himself…that is,
following the unsuccessful viewing of the criminals, following the
meeting with the advisors and then the captains of Jacob’s men. The
bodies would be cut asunder, sealed in boxes and prepared to be
sent overseas to the king of Roark. It was now certainly guessed
that he was the one behind the attempt.

Marcus contemplated venturing out of the
Great City, for there were things to be done. People to talk to.
Messages to deliver. Schemes to devise. But he refused, although
hiding himself for the most part, keeping some distance from the
palace. He only met with Jacob to discuss his near abduction and
those behind it. He had sent word to the emperor to expect some
message from Jacob in regards to the incident, an explanation of
it…..and not to be alarmed. The men had all been slain, and he was
now certain the king of Roark was behind it all from beginning to
end, and also the distant cousin, Victor Trent. Roselyn was still
detained, but still had yet to speak. There was really only one
thing to do…perhaps the very thing the officials had mentioned in
Arlington…to invade Roark and take both the king, the distant
cousin, and whatever nobles supported the king—just whoever else
could prove a future potential threat.

On one particular day he found himself in the
chapel…talking aloud to someone he could not see—and batting his
eyes while they stung as if he would weep. But that he would not
allow.

It was as he knelt there facing the opposite
direction of the entrance, Rachel came in through the doors and
made her way down the aisle, her steps slowing at the sight of him.
She stopped altogether, her heart giving one very strong thrust, a
breath catching in her lungs. Her chest began to heave in and out
although not so very noticeable. She studied him, recalling that
small, damp, eerie room and how so very relieved she had been to
see him…how glad she had been to escape, and how that escape had
come to be.

After a few moments of inspecting him, she
called out quietly to him, “Marcus?”

He acted as if to have not heard her at
first. No, for a time he did not move, but then slowly pushed
himself up and to his feet. He turned himself about, first his head
and then the rest of his body which seemed so very drained. From
the gentle streams of light from the lamps she could see his
wearied complexion.

She did not say a word, and for a time
neither did he. But the silence became unsettling, and not just
that, but waves of emotions that seemed to sweep about like strong,
invisible gusts of wind.

“Milady,” he quietly returned, as if having
never gone by a first name basis. His eyes swept briefly and
tiredly over her. “I am glad to see you well.”

She glanced down at the floor and then up
again. “As I am you,” she told him, “to have heard it, and now to
see for myself.” She came closer, for some reason recalling her
very first visit to the chapel. “What are you doing?” She softly
asked, just as Father Nelson had then asked her.

He looked to the right and then back at her
answering, “I don’t know.”

“Praying?” She asked, and he studied her very
closely, so intently she felt he was drawing things from out of
her…from the very core of her soul.