

Gina R. Jones

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Lady Trent

Copyright © 2015 by Sparrow Publishing

All rights reserved.

Original Cover design by Photostock

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Also available in print

See ISBN-13: 978-1480182165

Book One

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CHAPTER ONE

Dearest Agatha

Seven days have passed. I am midway my journey. I cannot say I have beheld such lovely scenery as these places have to offer. The mountains are so tall they appear to be touching the sky off in the distance. The grass is the greenest and the land rich in flowers of all kinds and colors, the prettiest and brightest I have ever seen. The trees are so full and green and those meant to bear fruit have done so sooner than those in Westerly. I am convinced that every eye should be granted the privilege of beholding such beauty as I have witnessed along this way. I was kindly welcomed by the residents of Gnovis and of Iris where I found rest amongst people of my own heart. In another week I will have entered the Great City. I will write again at the start of my journey home so that you will know when to expect me. How good it will be to see you all again! Tell my dear friends and my sisters how I miss them and that I am well and that I love them dearly always as myself.

Truly, Rachel.

By the time Agatha received the letter—reciting it to practically every soul in the small town of Westerly—Rachel had arrived at a charming little village east of the Great City. It was here she'd been instructed to stop. Here she expected to receive direction on what to do next. Here she was greeted by the lady mentioned in her summons who'd anticipated her all along and around this time.

It was a pretty, clear afternoon baring all the promise of an equally pleasant evening. The sky was mostly clear with few patches of clouds here and there. The air was warm but not humid. The street they'd travelled, finally coming to a stop near the end, was beautifully aligned with trees and flowers and shrubs—all neatly arranged before structures of various sorts: shops, homes, communal buildings. It was a rich scene, but homey and welcoming just the same.

Stepping down from her hired carriage, Rachel had only a minute to study the tranquil surroundings. A tall and slender lady caught her eye, making a graceful exit from a residential structure adjacent to the chapel—a chapel unlike any she'd ever seen. It was more sophisticated than those back home with large pictorial windows, balconies overlooking the community, and a veranda with tall, round pillars and massive concrete steps leading from ground to entranceway. Just the same, this woman was not dressed as she or any woman she'd left behind who lived by the Sacred Oracles—members of the Sacred Sisterhood which this woman, according to the summons, was. She wore a sleek, bluish gown over a tall, slender frame, jewelry that sparkled as she walked, and rouge on an elder but pretty, oval face. The soft glow in her bright green eyes was very comforting. Rachel felt content all over again.

"You must be Rachel the Elder," came the pleasant greeting. She clasped delicate hands together, the tender smile never leaving her lips. "And just as I have heard you are hardly an elder at all...quite the contrary."

"Twenty-six," she replied, at ease with the peaceful nature of this woman. "The title was placed upon me many years ago by the citizens of Westerly. It stems from my siblings. I am the oldest of the seven and thus came to be called Rachel the Elder."

Her shoulders were gently taken and a light kiss planted on her left and then right cheek. "I am Sister Camille. I was informed of your pending travels to the Great City several weeks ago and instructed to greet you here as you probably now suppose."

"It was described in my summons. I was told you would await me." She peered past her, examining the brilliant structure beyond. "Such a beautiful place."

Camille stepped up beside her, and with a reassuring hand to her middle back began guiding her toward the building she'd come from. "It is my understanding you travelled all this way although with an unclear understanding as to why you were called upon to begin with."

"Although perplexed by the summons I felt assured it would be well to honor it."

"And how was your journey?" She politely inquired. "It _is_ quite a generous distance between Westerly and the Great City."

"Quite tiring but equally as pleasant."

"The scenery does change drastically from place to place, beautifully so."

"It is amazing, even the weather how it shifts from mile to mile in many cases. I have travelled very little, and never so great a distance as this."

"It is certainly a delight to have you here. I have heard such good things about you and your work, how dedicated you are to caring for the people—especially the less fortunate who, from my understanding, are quite common in your community."

Indeed, the citizens of Westerly were very underprivileged compared to those of other towns and cities. Most of them were outcasts, people who'd found no rest or peace in any other place for various causes: physical abnormalities, ailments, and general poverty being chief of them.

"Tell me," Camille curiously began, "were you at all hesitant about coming?"

"In the beginning," she admitted, "seeing as to how I hadn't a clue the cause of Lord Trent's request. But I could not resist honoring it. The closer I came to arriving the more assured I became. Something good must be set before me although I haven't a clue as to what it could be."

"Your faith is admirable, my dear."

They entered the building—an enormous circular room with a tall arched ceiling. The walls were clothed with paintings, and the ceiling with sparkly ornaments such as she'd never thought of. The furnishings were few but elaborate, and the spotless polished floor partially decorated with a very attractive rug placed evenly in its center. It was all so very extravagant.

Camille's gaze followed the direction of hers. "Our structures differ from those in Westerly," she softly commented, "but I assure you, our hearts are the same."

"Of course," Rachel agreed. "I only wish those back home could witness this for themselves. They would be amazed, even as I am."

"Then you shall tell them about it when you return."

"Certainly," she decided.

"Now," Camille began, folding small hands together, "a room is prepared for you. You will be served dinner at your own request and the servants will assist with your bath—also apparel for your visit with Lord Trent tomorrow morning."

"Oh, but I have brought apparel for the occasion."

"You may set those there," Camille ordered the driver who'd followed them in with Rachel's two suitcases. She smiled kindly yet pitifully upon Rachel's attire: a simple beige skirt and blouse, a shawl of equal color draped about her shoulders, a scarf securely draped over dark black hair which she'd pulled back in a tight chignon. "Yes," she came to say, "I am sure you have. But you must understand the significance of having, um, shall I say something more appropriate for the occasion...and for a very appropriate man. Lord Trent accepts few and makes even fewer requests for an audience. It isn't to be taken lightly. Nor should it be handled the same as any ordinary visitation. You understand."

She nodded. "Yes."

"I know it is customary in Westerly for those of your status to dress simple and modest. In this instance I am afraid you must do away with such simplicity, although modest you may remain." She diverted her attention and raised her arms to give the fingertips of one hand two claps against the palm of the other. Instantly, two young maidens appeared from the left. They watched the ground as they moved closer and didn't look up even after they'd come to stand across from them.

Camille extended an elegant hand toward their direction. "These will assist during your stay. Tomorrow at the tenth hour I will accompany you to the palace where you will be introduced to Lord Trent."

"Ma'am," Rachel began, "If I may—"

"I have no answers, my dear...none pertaining to your meeting with Lord Trent. Only tomorrow will tell. As for these," she peacefully observed the maidens, "they will accompany you to your quarters. I will meet you here in this same spot at the tenth hour of morning. Please be prompt. It is one thing to be called upon for such a conference. But to be late...I imagine he would be terribly disappointed."

******

So she was taken to a room on the second floor from where a remarkable view of the outer surroundings was given. In the far distance mountains rolled in consecutive order, the sun positioned directly beyond as it prepared to seclude itself for the night. Perfect plots of land went on for miles and miles, orchards of various sorts obviously well kept. There was little activity directly below, just a man here and there tending to random chores. Such a peaceful place, she observed. Not much unlike Westerly with its visible message of serenity. She noticed several youngsters playing off in the distance in the yard of what appeared to be an orphanage. She pulled opened the windows to allow a fresh breeze inside and the pleasant sound of the children's laughter. They tossed a ball back and forth between themselves and chased one another about. Both sight and sound put a smile upon her lips and brought back memories from her own childhood—short but sweet and cherished.

There was a placid sadness inside as she relived a portion of her youth beginning with the death of her parents: deaths brought on by a plague that had stricken all of New Ebony. They'd passed away when she was but the age of ten...first her mother, shortly after her father. Thousands of citizens had lost their lives before a cure was discovered and the horrible disease put to rest.

She'd been left to care for her brothers and sisters...and at such a young age. But she had so much to be grateful for, and _was_ grateful, especially with such memories as the sight in the distance provoked. She had certainly been a child if even as a guardian for a time.

Dear old Sister Agatha had proven a great help after the death of her parents. Rachel and her siblings had overcome the odds, keeping peace and cheerfulness amongst themselves despite the horrible loss. Two of her sisters yet remained in Westerly while her three brothers and one other sister had ventured off to pursue lives in other cities. From time to time they wrote...usually with glad tidings, news of such events as marriage, the birth of children or newfound fortune. She hadn't seen any of the four in several years as they'd overlooked visiting and she, herself, rarely travelled at all. There was little chance and actually no desire.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. She turned to discover one of the two maidens whose gaze yet remained fixed to the floor. "Will you eat now, milady?"

She briefly examined the question. "Maybe after I have had my bath," she politely replied, directly adding, "And you needn't refer to me by such a title."

"May I bring you some water or tea?"

"Thank you, but no."

"Anything at all, milady?"

She inhaled a deep breath, exhaling with an answer. "I cannot think of anything. I do have but one question. I wonder if all servants in this place must keep their gaze to the floor."

"Yes, milady."

"Please call me Rachel. I am just a woman like you, and a servant as well...to many. I am permitted to look all people in the eye, both men and women alike."

"It is our custom, milady."

"I see," she accepted, her smile fading as she felt pity for the girl and saw it useless to persuade her. Who was she to audibly denote the rules of another place? "Well, then, I don't suppose I need anything at all as of now."

"Shall we prepare your bath?"

She'd noticed the tub at the far side of the room. At home she would draw and heat her own water, would never expect anyone to do it for her. But she could see there was no fighting against a custom that was different than those from where she'd come. "Yes," she found herself accepting, for evening was close to setting in and she wanted to be well rested for the next day.

It was not long. The two humbled maidens together filled the tub with steamy, hot water and left her alone to bathe. She eased carefully into the water, sinking in and relaxing. Her body adapted to the temperature although beads of perspiration did pop up on her forehead from the billows of steam that rolled up and around her. She leaned back, basking while the water went from hot to warm and then cooler. Night had fallen. She'd nearly drifted to sleep, possibly had dozed off a moment or so. Seeing as to how the water was turning cold she quickly finished washing, afterward stepping out and wrapping a towel about herself. Doing so, she observed a gown that'd been brought up to her for the following day. One of the maidens had simply laid it out on the bed as if to request she try it on for size prior the occasion.

She touched the beautiful dress, silky in some places, lacy in others. Surely something less extravagant could have been chosen. She could not so much as imagine herself donning such an outfit as this. A skirt and blouse would have appealed to her more, even in this fashion.

She wondered if the gown would be a proper fit, decided possibly so. Adjustments could be made if perchance needed. She imagined there was space to work with.

She continued to study the garment, wondering for possibly the hundredth time what this summons was all about and what the next day had in store for her.

She took care hanging the gown in the wardrobe and then brushing her hair, thinking of her friends back home. She considered their activities at that particular time. It wasn't a difficult thing to decide. The residents of Westerly operated in an orderly-like fashion. At this hour they were in their homes with family members or those they considered family: friends and acquaintances that could be considered family just the same. Had it been a night of the sixth day of the week every able-bodied man and woman would've by now gathered in the chapel for prayers...except, of course, in the event a child was born, which was not too common an event in Westerly. But no matter the day or circumstance the citizens kept occupied, doing whatever physically able be it working in the fields, the markets, the chapel and orphanage, the home for the widows and the sick. There were also times to rest, to eat with family and friends, to play music...to celebrate events whenever one occurred. The people of Westerly did know how to celebrate an occasion.

Smiling at the thought of home she slipped into her flannel gown and lied down. She had denied dinner already, accepting only a cup of tea and one solitaire slice of toasted bread. Sleep would not come easily. Not while she was so consumed with questions about tomorrow.

She stared through the window from her bed, up at the moon for a while, and then closed her eyes hoping to sleep. But she found herself denied the slumber she so deeply desired.

After an extended period of time had lapsed she arose from the bed, slid her feet into a pair of slippers, her arms into the sleeves of a robe and tied a scarf over her head. She afterward slipped from the room and travelled down to the inner gardens which she'd observed and admired earlier from above.

The wind was blowing. Although without a chill she clutched her arms to herself wondering for the hundredth time what this petition was all about. Two years had passed since she'd sent a message to the lord of the Great City requesting monetary support for the poor in Westerly. Its population consisted mostly of outcasts, young and old alike, many of them sick whether in body, mind or soul, and all of them poor. They did as best they could no matter how hurt or even just simply uneducated. A wanderer would occasionally find his way into the town, and some suitable way decided upon to graft him in with the rest. Nobody was ever denied what she considered a privilege—to become resident of a town where everyone accepted everyone and pitched in according to their own ability to see to it they were all properly accommodated.

The mayor, she sadly recalled, was an eighty-year-old man who had little logic these days. He did his best to govern despite poor vision, hearing, and illnesses that kept him bedridden most of the time. He was so old and frail and helpless, even. Who would take his place when the time came? Hopefully someone better equipped to help tend to the overall well-being of the community. It seemed every black sheep in all New Ebony had landed there.

To tell the truth, at times she felt utterly drained by the responsibilities placed upon her, for she consistently found herself in some decision-making position whether for the people individually or as a whole; not just called upon for spiritual guidance, which was her ultimate duty to give, but guidance in general pertaining to every condition imaginable.

A strong gust of wind blew. Her scarf unraveled and began blowing away. She tried to catch it but failed. Another gust of wind. She closed her eyes against it, turning toward the opposite direction to protect her face and eyes from potential debris. After the air had settled again she glanced around for the lost accessory. The moon was now hidden behind the clouds so that she couldn't see anything at all.

She inhaled a very deep breath and released it as if in surrender. "Time shall tell," she said to the heavens in reference to the questions she had concerning the summons. "Time shall tell, and I know you are with me."

Yes, she had searched her mind. Was there something she'd done wrong and was yet to be punished for? She couldn't think of anything. Her fault had once upon a time been her temper, rather an inability to control it. But she'd come such a long way with it, managed to regulate her moods with ease. Other than an occasional verbal disagreement she couldn't see where she'd done any particular thing wrong.

"I believe this is yours," said a voice from behind her. She swung around to discover a man standing in the shadows, and then in the light of the moon as it began to peep out from the clouds. He stood not so far away, the silk scarf in hand.

Rachel had placed a palm over her heart which had for a moment ceased to beat. She sucked in a sharp breath of air, exhaling it just as quickly. "Sir, you...you startled me."

"I am sorry," he kindly apologized, and came closer so as to offer the lost article. Although a little shaken by the intrusion, she raised a slow hand to accept it. "Thank you," she uncertainly managed. "It was a gift. I would not want to lose it." Her eyes briefly studied the scarf and then the area beyond. She barely shook her head, wondering aloud, "Where did you come from?"

"The upper wall," he told her. She glanced up to identify what he referred to. The wall above the roof of the complex had been the furthest thing from her mind up till the moment let alone the idea that somebody other than herself would be out and about at that hour.

"I have been watching you," he said, and then, "for quite some time."

She turned to drape the scarf over her hair, tying it back in place. "I suppose it is well if I am being watched. I am after all a stranger here."

"Rachel the Elder," he aloud acknowledged. "My friend should be pleased."

"Friend." She apprehensively studied the man. He appeared harmless. But the exterior of anything in particular could not be solely relied upon in any case.

"Jacob Trent," he clarified, adding "I have found no fault in you...just as he had hoped I would not."

She barely shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Perhaps I have said too much."

Her gaze dropped while she considered the peculiar statement, but for only a short time. "Tell me, sir... why has he bid me to come here? You and he are friends," she recalled him saying. "You must know."

"I know very little, only that you made an impression upon him some time ago."

"I don't understand."

"Your letter," he reminded.

"It was two years ago when I sent it. I also received a message from him in return. His impression hardly seemed set in my favor. He rejected my request for funds, which was my ultimate purpose, and with an overall cruel choice of words. Has anything changed?"

"Perhaps, but it is not for me to say. You shall see and speak with him soon enough. Then you will have your answers." He took a step back and after a slight bow turned and would have walked away.

"Sir!" she mindlessly called out, stopping him. He turned back around to both see and hear her. "Am I in any danger?"

He slid his hands into his pockets, barely shook his head and claimed, "No. In fact, I would say you have never been so safe as you are now, and will continue to be so long as you are anywhere near the Great City. Be at peace. All is well." He bowed again and went his way, disappearing into the night.

Rachel turned, clutching her arms to herself, staring out into the darkness while the winds blew all around her. At one point she felt as if she was being watched and swung around. She glanced up and in all directions. She saw nothing out of ordinary and nobody. She relaxed. A gentle smile touched her lips. She looked up at the heavens. "See what a fool I am," she criticized, "A fool to worry." She smiled again and dashed toward the door, making her way to her room, to her bed and toward a peaceful rest.

CHAPTER TWO

That morning, as specified, she found Camille waiting in the exact spot she'd left her the afternoon before. The woman's eyes dazzled with delight as Rachel descended the staircase. She raised her hands, clasping them together so that they formed one tiny fist. "Ah!" She beamed. "Beautiful!"

Rachel remembered the sight of herself from the mirror upstairs. She could not help but silently agree. The gown was lovely in itself making her look just the same. She wasn't really sure how to think of it. She could admit to feeling Camille's account—beautiful. But she felt extremely awkward just the same.

She had not eagerly dressed for the day...quite the contrary. More than anything she'd wanted to slip into the skirt and blouse she'd brought along for the occasion. But she hadn't succeeded in persuading anyone in that place to allow her to do so.

She hadn't ever worn anything other than a plain skirt and blouse—always simple and modest, just as Camille had stated. It was a part of the Sacred Oath: the one she'd gone by all these years...the _only_ one to the best of her knowledge. Things were obviously done differently outside of Westerly...in this place, anyway.

Of course this ensemble was temporary and for a specific occasion only. Still she just didn't feel right, as if she'd forsaken the Sacred Sisterhood altogether. How was it this Sister Camille could dress so attractively and not seem to mind it at all?

As with her attire the maidens had also taken special care with her hair, brushing and leaving it to trail down her back in thick, dark wavy locks, silky from the soap she'd used to wash it, and also dabs of pleasant smelling lotions the maidens had applied as some finishing touch. Another thing she was not prone to, nor was she sure of, for she always wore her hair in the tightest possible bun and never pampered it with anything besides a gentle brushing once in the morning and again the evening. This end result was absolutely stunning. She'd hardly believed the sight of herself after she had been directed to a mirror through which she both bitterly and impressively examined herself. She could not describe what she saw, only that while it was increasingly pleasant in one sense, it was increasingly disagreeable in another.

The analysis was short-lived. She'd quickly proceeded following the instructions set out to her the day before, meeting Camille at exactly the tenth hour in the same spot she'd left her.

"Stunning," Camille again commended and then audibly reasoned, "I see it fits you well."

"And with few adjustments."

"You have a natural beauty, Rachel the Elder, but it has surely this day been enhanced. This gown also serves a reminder of what fine taste I have," she praised. "It is perfect for the occasion. Lord Trent should be pleased. As should you," she added with a most reassuring tone. "Do not dare for a moment be guilt-ridden. To be so elaborately adorned should be considered a privilege, not a sin. And trust me, Rachel the Elder, you have not erred in the slightest."

The maidens entered with her suitcases and carried them to the door, putting them in the care of an escort. "Will I not be staying again?" She asked, entertaining a tug of regret. This was an environment she would've liked to enjoy a while longer.

"You will be supplied a room in the palace for the remainder of your stay."

Just how long would that be, she wondered, and again, why?

Camille ushered her outside and to an awaiting carriage—a fancy outfit with rims lined of gold and a team of beautiful white horses the likes of which she had never laid eyes upon. From the lord himself, she figured. The escort lent them a hand in stepping up and inside before taking his place above.

The ride was very short. They travelled the end of the street, turning onto another and then yet another. They came to a bridge leading into the city, and then a set of gates that looked as if they could be closed at any given time. The stagecoach travelled streets paved with cobblestone, aligned with shrubs and trees and flowers, and passed by houses, shops, places of business and marketplaces. There were people everywhere, going about their business. They stopped to stare as they went by.

Camille leaned closer to her to say, "Lord Trent's carriage. It does draw the attention of the people."

Rachel said nothing, but continued to stare out from the small window. Several minutes into the ride, a castle came into view. Not just a castle, but a palace; A very huge and beautiful palace.

It was breathtaking.

Camille smiled thoughtfully. "The very name of the Great City speaks for itself. It is one of the richest in all of New Ebony. The emperor's palace is only richer than this, and one other, the palace of Emwark."

The marketplace they passed through was full and very busy, engaged by men, women and children, some of whom also stopped what they were doing to stare as the carriage passed by. There was another set of gates, which they travelled through by permission of the guards keeping it. The entire ground was paved for a generous space. Then there were yards and lawns, very nicely decorated with flowers and trees and shrubs.

Directly outside of the palace the driver halted and they were lent a hand in stepping down. Rachel took a moment, so long as she was allowed, to stare up at the enormous structure before her.

Several guards had come out to join them. "This way," Camille whispered to her, and they were directed along, four guards ahead of them and four behind. They were eventually joined by a slender, neatly dressed man whom Camille referred to as Percival, and who travelled along with them, placing Camille in the center of the trio they together made.

It was obvious Camille had been in this place before, perhaps numerous times. She was at perfect ease. Rachel tried to imitate her by walking tall and staring straight ahead, to not be completely distracted by the brilliant decorations they passed along the way lest she trip and stumble over her own feet or appear overly informal in comparison to her companions. She could not completely resist. Moving only her eyes, she caught brief glimpses of breathtaking paintings, rich-looking crimson curtains that put one in mind of a king's robe, and golden statues of various sorts. The marble floor was clean and flawless, even pleasant to the very step. It was all so stunning, like from stories she had read and heard as a child, ones she'd dismissed and avoided in her later years.

The guards ahead led them to a set of doors before separating in perfect unison, two to the left and two the right. Percival stepped up between them and swung the doors opened. He stood by to allow Camille and Rachel to enter before him.

The quarters they entered were immense and extravagant as all else. Immaculate. The atmosphere was very quiet, cozy, warm, and engaged by one relaxed man who sat far across the room staring toward the opposite direction at a fireless hearth.

Percival guided them closer, stopping dead center a large crimson rug. "Milord," he summoned, straightening slender shoulders while making the announcement, "Sister Camille of Harp. Rachel the Elder of Westerly."

Jacob Trent turned his head toward their direction. Palms pressed down at either side of him, he pushed himself up, stood and turned altogether. Rachel had held her breath for this was a moment she had both anticipated and dreaded with all her might, the moment when she would actually meet Jacob Trent face to face, the lord of the Great City.

He was a large man—not heavy, but tall and strong-looking. His shoulders were broad and his presence a powerful one, although not in any egotistical way. He was dressed just as he'd been described...richly. Although not a youngster his face bore very few wrinkles and was quite handsome one could not help but note. His expression was warm as was the twinkle in dark brown eyes which exposed both contentment and pleasure at the sight of them. She slowly released the breath of air she'd held seeing how harmless he did appear, not matching at all the description she'd come up with by way the letter she'd received from him two years earlier.

"Sir Trent," Camille pleasantly greeted, bowing her head in a quite sophisticated manner.

"Camille," he returned, his voice deep but mild. He came closer, the grin never leaving his face. "A pleasure to see you." He took her hands and dropped a kiss on her left cheek. He afterward focused upon Rachel, stepping over so as to stand directly before her. His penetrating eyes became very bright and dazzling, brimming with a pleasure she had not expected. He took a hand, raised and dropped a kiss upon it.

"Rachel the Elder." His grin deepened, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Camille's silence had guaranteed it was true. It appeared he almost laughed.

"Such a pleasure to meet you," he replied.

"And you," she managed.

"I am pleased you made it safe and sound. It is an honor to have you here."

Her gaze fretfully lowered, skipping about the floor. Her nerves were a bit on edge and she didn't really know what to say.

"I trust your trip was safe," he said.

She looked up to find a crease between concerned dark brown eyes. "It was," she assured him.

"And that you were properly greeted upon arrival."

"Of course," Camille casually replied with that same considerate smile, the same calm thoughtful voice.

"I haven't the slightest complaint," Rachel assured him.

"Then neither do I," he said, peering into her eyes as if to draw something out of her very soul. He turned his attention toward Percival who'd stood silently by. He nodded his head. Camille turned and Percival began escorting her from the room. Rachel's eyes followed, watching the two of them go. The doors closed behind them and her heart skipped a couple of beats.

"Please," Jacob began once they were alone, his grin fading away, "don't be afraid. I did not request this audience in order to do you harm. You are safe. I promise it."

She allowed him to take her elbow. He ushered her toward the sitting area from which he'd arisen and to a plush chair situated to the left of the fireplace. He extended a hand, offering her a seat. She slipped away from him and took it.

Noting how very tense and confused she was, he raised a hand and then lowered it while his eyes saddened. "I imagine my petition was entirely unforeseen. You must be confounded, apprehensive, worried. It is your right to be all of those things and more."

"Why did you ask me to come here?" She directly asked.

He seemed a bit confounded, apprehensive and worried, himself. He avoided her stare for a time before coming to say, "I was eager to meet you if it may be so simply put."

"I don't understand," she quietly admitted and would have mentioned his letter. But she could tell he was preparing to say something or another and did not want to interfere.

He had put his hands behind his back, his gaze to the floor. "I am a foolish man," he alleged, "A very, very foolish man. I have always been a foolish man. I was a foolish child. A foolish young lad." He raised his head, lifting his gaze to hers. "You recall my message from so many years ago."

"I recall it well."

"As I recall yours," he quietly replied and after a brief silence eased down to claim the seat opposite her. "I have recalled it again and again and again the past several months...word for word by memory alone. I could no longer resist speaking to the one who wrote it. I regret my reaction to it. In fact, I have never been sorrier for any one thing than that response. I must have come across as something dreadful."

She was touched by the genuine regret upon his face and in his eyes. "You weren't kind, no," she admitted, and gently shrugged. "But I had forgotten it; that is until this summons brought it all back to mind."

"Had I ever been referred to as kind?" It seemed more a point than an inquiry.

"No," she answered anyway. "But insolent rumors and even possibility mattered little when the people of Westerly were suffering. I would rather risk being refused than be guilty of doing nothing at all."

A gentle, commendable grin touched his lips. "This is what I admire. You have a kind, charitable heart. I have heard noble things about you, that your generous deeds are profound and that your abilities have managed to keep an entire town intact."

"Now that I have met you face to face I perceive you are hardly the tyrant I'd imagined...considering the message I did receive. You _were_ the one to write it."

"I did not write it, no, not with my own hand...but the words were mine. But now compared to then I am a different sort of man. A very different sort of man." He leaned back, dropping folded hands upon his stomach. "As you may know I lost yet another wife two years ago—around the time I received your letter. And then one year ago my one and only child. My son."

"I am sorry to hear this."

"My son," he quietly repeated, "only seven years of age. It was a fault of my own, I imagine. I have heard it said a man will reap what he has sown, even outside of the field. I imagine I have brought devastation upon myself by bringing it upon various people over the years... in various ways. I lost my one and only child. But since then...when I lost him..." He stared out as if into nowhere. "Something happened. Something...unusual."

She watched him closely, leaning inward, waiting for him to continue.

"I have never been one to cry. My mother claimed that even as a babe I did not cry. I simply made demands. But that day as a forty-eight year old man, when I heard that my child was dead, I found myself in the chapel, down on my knees with my face to the floor...crying—sobbing, even. With everything inside of me, I mourned...and I spoke out into the open although there was nobody there. I guess you could say I talked to God...and for the first time in my life." He stood, placing his hands behind his back. "Something amazing happened that day...something extraordinary. It was as if some cold, heavy weight lifted off me—like some heavy invisible cloak...replaced by something else. Something good."

"It was a conversion," she happily told him, intrigued by his recollection of the event.

"Some call it that... others merely repressed anguish which upon release may bring peace to a man. No matter the case it was good. I have since then been a very different sort of man. And since then I have recalled that letter you sent; that beautiful, genuine, affectionate letter merely requesting assistance for the poor and the orphans and the widowed...and the manner in which I declined it."

"You needn't begrudge yourself because of it."

"I honestly do not recall any letter making me so angry as that one, and I have received many letters that deserved a more livid response than yours. The badness inside of me, I suppose, despised the goodness I saw in that letter...by your hand. I did not doubt you at all. I knew you meant well. But my response was completely inappropriate—uncalled for. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

"Of course," she instantly obliged. "Of course I forgive you."

He came to her just as she stood. And reaching for her hands, he took them, holding them up between them. "I want to honor that request now, Rachel the Elder." He grinned as if at the title alone. The word "honor" bounced around in her mind, rotating and repeating itself. Her heart palpitated and her blood began to surge elatedly thru her veins.

"I know how poor the people of Westerly are and have become, how they even distribute amongst themselves so that no man or woman has any more or less than another, how the desire to grow but continue this-this way of life is preferred. The people are poor, rejected by the rest of the world for whatever cause and they need my help. You have requested it, and I will grant it. Now. Here. Two years later."

She brimmed with an enthusiasm she'd never before felt. "You mean...?"

He squeezed her hands in confirmation. She beamed with delight and almost laughed. "You do not know how happy this makes me."

"Oh, but I see it in your eyes," he said, and lowered his gaze just a moment before seriously staring back at her. "There is but one condition."

The word, like a pail of water tossed upon open flames, quenched her delight. "Condition," she quietly repeated.

His words came out slow as if he dreaded to say them. "I will grant the request...in return for your placement here...in the Great City."

Her brows came together. She gave her head a slight shake. "Here," she softly repeated. "I don't understand. You...you must have many here to reverence the needy, such as Sister Camille, and not near as many in need as Westerly."

"No, no," he corrected, "not in such a way as to reverence and minister to the poor and needy, but...but as my wife."

She went still while he lowered her hands. "It is surely a shocking request, but the very reason I sent for you. Because I remembered the goodness of your heart and am convinced, especially now, that you would make me happy these last days of my life—however many remain. No man of my line has lived to see an old age, and I am now forty-nine. I have a sickness that comes and goes; these days more often than once upon a time."

"But Lord Trent, I am—"

"—I know." He gazed at her as if he already loved her, his expression so soft and gentle, so kind. Her heart went out to him. "I know the manner of woman you are and I assure you...I will not press you to lose your virtue. You may keep it. That will be an agreement between you and I so that after I die you may return the same as you are, if you wish. Please. Consider it."

She looked down and then back up at him before giving her head a hesitant nod. "I will consider," she said, certain she'd just told a fib. How could she consider it? It was completely impossible.

"Two days," he kindly suggested. "And if you would be my guest here...A room has been prepared for you. At the end of the second day you may give me your answer. Whatever the answer, you and I shall be at peace."

He offered a comforting grin, patting her hands before releasing them, and walked toward the door. "Edwin," he called out. The doors opened and one of the guards stepped inside. Jacob motioned for her. She came near to join him.

"Show the lady to her quarters."

"Yes, sir," he obliged, and swept her away.

******

She not very much later sought solace in the chapel...at the altar where she knelt and prayed.

"I know this is not your doings," she whispered. "It...it cannot be. But such a donation could go so far. When I think of what could be done." She sat up. "But I have taken my vows. Will I break them now? Is any sort of charity worth it?"

She pulled herself up and covered her face with her hands. Of course she could not break her vows. Then again she did not want to pass up such an offering for the people.

She dropped her hands, staring up toward the ceiling. "What shall I do?" She lowered her face, an idea coming to her. "If this is to be so, give me a sign," she prayed. "Please, there must be some sort of sign." She glanced about, her eyes coming to rest upon the gloom of unlit lamps and candles. "The lamps," she quietly pointed out. "If this is what you want me to do." She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Nothing happened. "The candles, then," she observed, and still nothing. "If you would only give me a sign," she pled. "If you do not, I...I..." She slouched. It was no use. There was no use tempting God.

"It has been written," said a voice from out of nowhere, "not to tempt him."

Her body stiffened and her blood went cold. She swung around toward the direction of the voice—the entrance where an elderly man with a long grey beard to match long grey hair stood gaping upon her. His large frame was clad in a thick, black robe, and one hand clutched the curved handle of a cane which he used to make his way down the aisle. He had a patch over one eye, and a slight limp, she noticed, as he came forward.

She had raised a hand to her heart which had skipped a couple of beats. "Sir," she breathed, "you startled me."

"Yes, yes, I see." He came to stand across from her, resting his palms on the crook of his cane. He glanced toward the left and then to the right before simply asking, "What are you doing?" Very thick brows only _seemed_ to be drawn together. A natural crease between them made them appear so.

"I..." She glanced down and up and over. "I was just..." How could she explain herself? She only brought herself to ask, "Who are you?"

"Ah!" Lips pressed together, he grinned. "I knew exactly who you were upon sight yet you do not know who I am."

"I am sorry but how am I to know?"

"Perhaps if I was donning brown or white opposed to this you would have some idea."

She studied his black robes, thought for a moment before guessing, "The priest?"

He slightly bowed his head. "Father Nelson, it is."

She again looked him up and down, judging his apparel which he noticed her doing. "I suppose black is not the most appropriate color when it comes to the Sacred Orders...that is, according to your standards."

"Well, no, not exactly. White is the preferred color, but not the whitest."

"That is in _your_ town," he corrected. "And I suppose the setting here is quite different as well."

"Your temples and chapels are much more extravagant than those in Westerly. Extraordinary."

"Yes," he agreed taking a look about himself. "We of the Western cities do appreciate having fine things to look upon."

"The people of Westerly will be fascinated when I tell them about it."

"Indeed," he plainly agreed, leaning on his cane. "Then you have decided to return?"

"Yes," she said, and then with furrowed brows guessed, "You know about the proposal?"

"Ah, ah, yes, indeed I do...and perhaps a choice other. I like to think of being the first to hear of it. Jacob brought the idea to my attention some time ago. Heeeee, um, asked my opinion of it."

"Then you are a confidante of his."

"I have advised him in all sorts of perils...some pertaining to matters of the heart...some the soul...and, um, others more natural."

"Then he values your opinion," she guessed. "I assume you agreed seeing as to how I am here in this place seeking an answer as to what I should do."

"Oh, yes, I did agree. But this, my child, is a decision he would have made with or without my consent. No matter the case he would have followed his heart."

Her shoulders were not so straight anymore. She'd quickly fallen into an even deeper state of utter perplexity. "I do not understand. There must be hundreds of women in New Ebony, all at his disposal. He could certainly have whomever he chooses. Out of them all...?" She could go no further.

"But if it were so that he could have whomever he chooses? Well, then, you would not be here in this place seeking such answers. You have _become_ a choice."

She found the statement to be very unsettling.

"These other women..." he gave one hand a casual flip. "Their nature does not quite line up with what he perceives would make him happy. Now, I was not granted the privilege of reading this message of yours. From what I hear it was quite poignant."

"Poignant?"

"Touching."

"Oh."

"To the best of my knowledge it was destroyed although he does claim to recall it word for word by memory alone. But I was rarely granted access to the palace in those days. Since his heart has been renewed he keeps me close at hand." He observed the unlit candles and lamps. "Seeking an answer, eh?"

Having been caught bargaining made it seem all the more ridiculous than what she'd actually felt doing it to begin with. She was a bit embarrassed by it all.

"I fear making the wrong decision. How am I to make it at all? After all, the people of Westerly are very much in need. But who am I to give up my heavenly vows in exchange for earthly ones?"

He thought for a moment before saying, "Certainly, yes-yes, certainly."

"Then you agree with me?"

"I mean, certainly I see your point." He chuckled quietly. "Who am I to question another's convictions concerning such things, what they feel is their vocation, whether it is or is not genuine, is or is not temporary or eternal." Turning, he used his cane to step nearer the altar. It was then she noticed its remarkable design. Indescribable. It spiraled down in a snakelike form, aligned from top to bottom with rubies of various colors. Very intriguing "You are spoken of well," he commented, "Rachel the Elder, known for her piety and sincerity, her generosity and intelligence...her ability to practice these things without impudence, and to teach matters pertaining to charity and truth with all modesty. Rachel the Elder whose only fault is an occasional bout with the temper."

She was caught off guard by these descriptions. The final one especially fazed her. She frowned heavily upon it. "That is spoken of as well?"

"Hum?" Lips pressed together, he nodded.

"I have done well to control it over the years," she defended. She tilted her head to the side. "How would I be spoken of at all?" She asked, and then again recalled his mention of her temper. "Even _that_ people have heard of?"

"Even that," he agreed.

She expelled a deep breath. "I would not have guessed."

"Tell me," he urged. "Have you and those in Westerly ever heard of a Father Nelson?"

She smiled compassionately. "I cannot say so, no. I am sorry."

"No need to apologize, child. Westerly is a secluded place. I assume the citizens have not even heard of such men as Mosley or Nathalie."

She thought for a moment before simply studying him with clueless eyes.

He grinned at her. "Then I shall not be offended." With that he eased down to sit on the top step of the altar, very carefully as if to not hurt himself. "Have you any other faults?" He came to ask. "Other than this temper that occasionally gets the best of you."

"Well, I am certain there are unfavorable things about myself that I do not see."

"Westerly produces fine people," he decided.

"And you?" She found herself asking.

He laughed silently. "I have many faults. Some are quite apparent, others not."

"I suppose that to be the case with us all."

"Yet you can name nothing in reference to your own. I, on the other hand, do not find it difficult at all to do so."

"Your title speaks for itself. I am certain you are a commendable man to be here in this position."

"Of course," he agreed. "I help guide the people and they overlook my imperfections."

"What sort of imperfections?" She carefully prodded.

"Well," he held onto his cane, staring outward past her left side. "Let's see, I, um, have been known to drink too much wine on occasion."

"I suppose that could be overlooked."

"I once took a man's life, although in defense of my own...if it is to be justified at all."

"That could certainly be forgiven."

"I also have three sons, each by a different mother, and two daughters of the same."

"Oh," she replied, humbly startled by the confession.

"That, child, was many years ago. I was young, and quite dashing if I do say so myself."

"And the people allowed you to stay here in the...?" She stopped. "Forgive me, I—I should not pry. But I have never heard of such a thing."

"Of course not," he agreed. "Things are done quite differently in Westerly."

"Well, I have not heard of such a profession of guilt, not amongst a member of the High Clerics. Our town has not been faced with any such problem."

"Perhaps a man with, um, say clerical ambitions in the same situation would venture away from Westerly opposed to risk becoming a spectacle."

"No," she disagreed. "The people are very swift to forgive. Everyone knows this."

He grinned. "Yes. Yes, I suppose." He took hold of his cane to pull himself up. She instantly went to him, taking his arm to assist...not that it was necessary. He seemed able enough. He straightened himself, patted her on the shoulder. "Go now, get some rest. Unless, of course, you wish to remain and wait."

"Should I wait?"

"I imagine you already know what to do. Although," he glanced about, "such a thing as candles and lamps lighting themselves would be nothing short of a remarkable observance."

His wise old unpatched eye met hers. She smiled at him, and even laughed. "I'll walk with you."
CHAPTER THREE

She slept peacefully that night in the comforts of a very exquisite chamber. The room was the coziest, and certainly the most sophisticated she'd ever occupied. Its size alone was likely equal to that of dozens of her small, humble rooms combined. She imagined the furnishings cost more than that of all the citizens of Westerly's combined.

At first she'd paced back and forth across the floor, a finger to her chin examining the proposal, and once and for all decided that she would certainly decline it.

But she imagined what it would be like to live in such a place, to be married to such a man as Jacob Trent. He was not only wealthy, as she now saw for herself, but also rumored to be the emperor's most favored noble. Oh, and he was handsome as well, and tall and strong. She would be the envy of every available woman in the Great City and beyond. She would have no need for anything, and actually have more than required.

Of course this didn't line up with her vocation. She could not indulge in such a lifestyle, nor could she simply abandon her calling and the citizens of Westerly. They needed her. No, she decided, she was called to be as she was and so she would stay.

She awakened that morning to a tapping on the door. The maiden, Tilly, who'd been assigned to assist during her stay entered with a tray and offered her breakfast.

"Good morning, milady," she kindly greeted. Rachel sat up stretching. She thought of how well she'd slept, also considered the title she'd by now been referred to as oodles of times—milady. How could one adapt?

Tilly came forward and positioned the tray across her legs then went about straightening the room although hardly in need of it.

"Tomorrow morning you will dine with Lord Trent," she announced with her usual humble, trained voice. "This morning he is away tending to a matter outside the city."

Rachel deliberated as she chewed a bite of pastry. What would she do with herself? Being idle was not something she was accustomed to. Perhaps she would revisit the chapel and say her prayers before afternoon.

She watched Tilly, who'd gone about straightening the room. Maybe she would have a clue. What exactly would a guest of such a place do to occupy their time?

"What shall I do until he returns?" She found herself asking.

"Tis a beautiful morning, milady," Tilly said, stopping what she'd been doing for a time. "Perhaps a stroll in the gardens. They are beautiful this time of year. Lord Trent should return around the start of noon. You'll sit with him at his table. He will be having guests—the duke of Tarot and the duchess."

"Duke?" she warily repeated, chewing slowly. "Duchess?" She felt queasy just thinking about taking part in engaging such a couple.

"Do not worry, milady," Tilly soothed. "Tis no trying matter. The duke and duchess are not difficult to entertain. You shall see."

She thought about this, even a bit later as she did as suggested, taking a stroll about the gardens which were absolutely gorgeous and serene...beautiful, just as Tilly had insisted. Yes, she'd escaped the chamber after choosing something to wear from a generous assortment arranged specifically for her; everything from gowns and scarves, corsets, skirts and bustles, robes and stockings; Far too many things for a mere two-day visit. Tilly assisted with her bath and her attire, and insisted upon brushing her hair which she praised in the process saying how "very beautiful" it was. As the maidens the morning before she also insisted it be kept down, and pampered it with dabs of fragrant lotions. It fell down her back in natural wavy locks, and she had to admit even to herself that it was quite stunning.

There was an assortment of sandals to choose from, also. Now, these she was particularly grateful for today seeing as to how she'd accidentally stubbed her toe on the nightstand the evening before. No way would she have been able to comfortably wear her little black boots.

Three guards were assigned to her and travelled from a distance while she strolled along a walkway admiring the gardens. There were statues and fountains and every flower imaginable. It was an admirable, colorful scene which the sparrows seemed to enjoy equally as well.

The walkway was paved with brick, in some places stone, and others pebbles that had been flatly embedded into the ground. It was a generous walk, but the scenery was never the same. The trail led all the way from the left of the palace to the right, and she could hear the faint sound of the ocean's waves from beyond the stone wall that encircled the grounds. She stopped here and there, taking a flower by its stem, touching the blooms of roses and petunias to her nose, inhaling their sweet, pleasant scent.

Midway the passage she came across a strawberry patch and could not resist plucking one of the ripened pieces of fruit. While she savored its sweet flavor, a voice called out to her. She would not have expected to be greeted there by Lord Trent, himself.

She could not help but smile back at him as he approached. Upon reaching her he extended his hands to take hers. She considered again how very solid and handsome he was, even at the age of forty-nine. She imagined he must have been a very dashing young man.

"You certainly add to the beauty of this scene," he complimented.

"You flatter me."

"I speak the truth," he kindly corrected, and acknowledged the strawberry patch for himself.

"You've stumbled upon me indulging myself."

"It is well if you do so. Such is the reason for these. Up ahead you will find apple and peach trees and berry bushes of all kinds. And some other kind of tree. It bears an attractive fruit that has yet to be seen in any other place or even named for that matter. But it is restricted."

"Poisonous?" She guessed.

"I only know that a servant of my grandfather's many years ago decided to be the first to taste it. He claimed it was the tastiest fruit he'd ever bitten into. Unfortunately, he later died. The tree is left alone to simply be admired. I do, however, suspect its fruit has been used to...Well, there may be those who have taken it upon themselves to end life prematurely."

"Perhaps the tree should be destroyed."

"Perhaps," he simply agreed, redirecting his attention to a nearby rosebush. He plucked one of the flowers and handed it to her. Smiling she accepted it. A palm to her back, he guided her onward. They walked along, several guards now following from a distance behind them.

"I supposed you would not return until later. Tilly said you had a matter to attend outside the city."

"Tilly?"

"The maiden assigned to me."

"Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me. I am not well acquainted with the names of those who serve the palace. But, yes, I attended the matter. It was quickly resolved. A mere spat between two farmers. Brothers," he added.

"I see."

"I ordered breakfast be served in your room. I thought you would prefer it opposed to dining alone at the table. I trust my orders were followed."

"They were," she assured him.

"And how does it appeal to you? Being served?"

"That is a peculiar question."

"I do not think so," he quietly commented. "After all you are accustomed to serving others, not the other way around."

She mindlessly plucked at the rose's leaves, dropping fragments onto the ground as they went, and toyed with the stem while thinking upon his statement. "True, my calling requires that I serve others...not the other way around."

"I have taken much thought to this calling of yours. Until recently I had not actually considered the Sacred Vows, that is to say the procedures of them and those who pledge to honor them. I have now become better acquainted with the Orders. People such as yourself claim to be required to serve but to never be served. I cannot help but think—are there not times when we all require the service of another whether in spirit or mind or body? Are we not all in danger of requiring a helping hand at some point or another?"

"I imagine you consider this proposition a means of service not only to the people of Westerly but to me as well? You should be aware, Lord Trent, that I am quite content to be as I am. I have no desire whatsoever to be liberated...if that is at all what you would consider to be a foremost benefit to the proposition."

"You should also be aware, milady, if not for you I would not have offered this to the citizens of Westerly."

"Without me your assistance would doubtfully have been requested to begin with," she pointed out.

He almost grinned at her profile. Placing his hands together behind his back and his gaze to the ground ahead of them, he thought heavily upon what she had said.

"This lack of self-regard...it is not a trait I am accustomed to."

"Then you have not spent a great deal of time with the clerics."

"Well, Sister Camille is a rightful and distinguished member of the Sacred Sisterhood."

"I would not doubt it, only it appears things are done so much differently here."

"I must admit, I find myself tempted to instill in you some sense of regard that I feel you deserve. You do not express any urge to be liberated and seem completely content to dedicate your life to this calling you are so adamant about—this impresses me." He paused a moment before asking. "How does one receive it, this sort of calling? Is it a voice or a thought, or a simple desire that was placed into the heart to begin with?"

She thought for a moment, her mind taking her back. "I was very young," she recalled. "Eleven years of age. My parents had died the Year of The Plague and I'd been left to care for my siblings. Sister Agatha claimed I would one day take the Sacred Vows, and a stranger who came into town, merely passing thru. He clarified the same. Ultimately the calling came to me while I was praying for my siblings and for the citizens of Westerly. I had realized how very poor and excluded they were in comparison to what I had learned about those of other places, and also very much in need of spiritual guidance which to me had become of foremost importance."

"I suppose we are all in need of guidance one way or another," he said, and she said nothing. His expression had become very serious. He kept quiet for a while, and then out-of-the-blue stated, "You are very beautiful, Rachel, beautiful in heart and naturally as well. Before, when I thought of you, I could not envision you at all. With every attempt my mind became blank. Now I have met you. I am all the more infatuated. It seems unfair that any deity or purpose; anything at all should keep you from becoming my wife."

"You should also then consider the citizens of Westerly, how unfair it would be for anything or anyone at all to keep me from continuing with them."

"Unfortunately, I am not a deity to make demands, only requests."

She stopped and turned to look at him. She parted her lips to speak, but before she could he'd lifted a hand, a grin touching his lips, and gently stroked her chin.

"You were going to scold me," he figured, dropping his hand, "for insinuating that if it was my ability, I would certainly demand it."

"I perceive that you are accustomed to having things the way you want them...to having your orders followed no matter the extent or the cost."

"I cannot argue that, milady. Not at all. But I understand how necessary you have become to the people of Westerly. Your commitment to this calling seems essential to them. You speak as if it is essential to you. Not because of any obvious shortcomings."

"What do you mean?"

"Many young ladies decide to take the vows because of outward misfortune. Their appearance leaves them with little or no prospect at finding a husband. Think of someone such as Camille, for instance."

"Sister Camille is a lovely woman," Rachel defended, "even despite being...well, advanced in age."

"Oh, she was a lovely young woman, and still is lovely in so many ways. She took the vows in secret, and later claimed that she did so because the reasons were also secret. But then there are those who have chosen the Vows, well, for apparent reasons so to speak."

"Unfortunately, in some instances, that has been the case. Very few, one can only hope."

"Quite certainly not yours," he commented.

"Lord Trent, your compliments are—"

"—the truth," he interrupted, "yet they make you uneasy. Perhaps you feel you haven't a right to be proud."

"How does one ask a man who is accustomed to saying whatever he pleases to guard his tongue?"

"I imagine they would simply ask. The request could either be honored or denied. In your case, if you wish it, I will remain silent the rest of your stay."

She could not help but smile at this. She inhaled a deep breath and they began walking again. "You speak of pride, Sir, which may only lead to egotistical affections and a regard for vain things. I don't concern myself with outward beauty, even like this." She raised her hands and examined herself. "Under no circumstance would I have given in to such a façade."

"Yet you did under _these_ circumstances, if you could call it a circumstance. You were not forced."

"Not in the slightest, although there was some pressure. When I insisted upon wearing what I'd brought along for the occasion, it was so strongly opposed. Why, one of the maidens began to have a very difficult time breathing. The other actually went so far as to wrestle my clothing from me."

He laughed at this. "They were simply seeing to it Camille's orders were followed."

"I suppose it practical that I adorned myself suitably."

"I would have received you no matter what."

"Sister Camille was the one to bring a specific 'appearance' to my attention."

"She was merely going by protocol."

"I cringe to think of my friends back home seeing me this way. It would surely shift their opinion of me."

"I'm afraid I do not understand," he admitted.

"I would rather be viewed from the inside out, not the other way around. This has proven beneficial over the years for me and for those I am personally acquainted with."

"Ah, I see. Yes, that does make some sense. After all, such was the manner in which I formed my opinion of you. Not by way your appearance, for I hadn't a clue...only that you were not elderly as your name implies. No, my opinion had nothing to do with any façade as you call it."

She felt pleased to have proven her point.

"Tell me," he began, "have you ever been proposed to?"

"Prior to this? Not since the age of twelve when Jonas Arum asked me to marry him." The memory to this day made her smile. "He was but a child, himself, but certain we should be wed when I became of age, even with my siblings in tow."

"And how old was he, this Jonas?"

"Merely fourteen, but he pretended to be every bit a grown man." She appreciated the memory. "I have not since then been proposed to."

"I find that remarkable. Do you have some ailment or flaw that you've disguised from me?"

She laughed at the playful insinuation and corrected, "Not at all...only the citizens of Westerly understand and reverence my calling, Lord Trent. Even strangers who have ventured into town on and off over the years whether to stay or to go—they, too, have understood it. The people respect my calling. They respect me."

He brought his steps to a gradual halt and turned so that they faced one another. His expression and voice were very serious when he asked, "Have I disrespected you in any way?"

She did not have to think before answering. "No, not at all."

"And I _would_ not," he vowed, adding, "ever. That is my promise to you. And you mustn't forget the other. I meant what I said...every word of it, even down to your virtue and the keeping of it. I would not pressure you to lose it. Do you believe me? If not I will spend more time between now and tomorrow evening trying to convince you of it."

"You needn't trouble yourself. Although I do not comprehend a man such as yourself inviting such an arrangement, I do believe you. I think you mean well."

He pleasantly studied her until a sparrow flew overhead catching his eye. He inhaled a slow deep breath, and she found herself deciding once and for all that Jacob Trent was a reasonable man.

"This afternoon and evening I will be entertaining two very dear friends. They are visiting this day and departing on the morrow. It is getting close to time. I should go and prepare myself. My hope is that you will join me."

She began walking back with him, agreeing to do that very thing. She recalled the entire conversation they'd shared after they had separated, he to his quarters to prepare himself, she to hers to do the same. Of course, Tilly assisted in selecting the most appropriate garments: a peach-colored gown that belled out below and trailed behind, a silk shawl to match, fastened together in the front by a small gold buckle in the shape of a dove. But this time when Tilly insisted she do so, she refused to look at herself in the mirror, for she was by now exhausted with guilt. If she appeared anywhere near as attractive as she felt...well, those reminders of humility and modesty would surely vex her.

The afternoon went well and on into the evening. She was introduced to the duke and duchess of Tarot, an extravagant middle-aged couple. All thanks to Tilly, her entrance was a successful one. The maiden had let her in on a little secret.

"The duchess is known for making strict comparisons between her own and the looks of other noble ladies. She judges herself most harshly. You should not be too impressively adorned...for her sake, milady, and Lord Trent's. The bond between him and the duke are most valuable to him."

But there was absolutely nothing less than impressive in the entire wardrobe...only tucked away in her two suitcases that had not been unpacked.

She and Jacob were a distinguished couple, standing side by side, she in her elegant gown, he his breeches, vest and waistcoat, a scarf draped about his shoulders; an impressive outfit in itself. He secretly acknowledged that some advice must have been given, and he appreciated her all the more for taking it.

The duchess of Tarot's gown was as equally stunning as the jewelry she proudly donned: a golden necklace with a diamond locket, pearl bracelets, diamond rings on fingers and in earlobes. If Rachel was not mistaken a shadow of appreciation crossed over her features as she realized Jacob's companion had not purposely set out to exceed her.

Rachel had wondered how Jacob would introduce her, and was pleased when he did so simply by her usual title. The duchess raised a curious brow at this. "Rachel the Elder," she slowly repeated, "of Westerly. This name I have heard."

She would later elaborate as they sat alone in the parlor, after the two men had left them alone without an excuse, speaking in private side by side as they exited through the doors.

Rachel had handled herself with ease at the table where dinner was served and wine along with it. Unlike her companions, she chose water and tea instead. She noted a hint of disappointment in Jacob's eyes as her refusal of the wine became symbolic of that fact that she would, indeed, decline his proposal.

They spent the entire afternoon and much of the evening with the duke and duchess. The visit seemed mostly due to some instruction from the emperor although little time was spent discussing whatever the matter was. Jacob and the duke often talked quietly between themselves, and eventually left Rachel and the duchess alone although in the care of two guards who stood by ever prepared to protect if the need arose.

"May I ask what brings you to the Great City?" The duchess asked with her usual soft, skillful voice. Her monotone rarely changed, she never truly smiled, and her expression rarely altered. She was quite sophisticated and elegant, and Rachel inwardly disagreed with her fears—she was unlikely any less attractive than the other noble ladies, and she felt like saying so.

"I had assumed you knew."

"I know that you reside in Westerly, my darling, and that you are an advocate of the Sacred Sisterhood. Your name has been associated with the continuance of that pitiful community. You are commended as having an ability to govern a people who would elsewhere be denoted for variable causes."

"I am hardly a governor of the people," Rachel reasoned, thinking these descriptions equally as stunning as Father Nelson's. She was fast starting to wonder why and how anyone at all was aware of her. "Westerly is not governed by one person alone. We have a mayor and a sheriff, and a priest who takes part in the administration of the town. And we all work together." She paused a moment before asking, "How have you heard these things?"

The duchess sat like a queen now, her back straight and the fingers of one hand holding gently to the stem of her wineglass. "Did you not know? The emperor at one time considered eradicating the town altogether and using that land for some more valuable cause—what exactly I assure I don't know. I do not participate in political conversations, nor do I care to know much about them. Clearly, he decided against it and left things as they are. Surrounding nobles have also made requests for it, and still do, which he ultimately denies."

The duchess had obviously paid more attention to political conversations than she realized...or cared to admit. It dawned on Rachel that the conditions of Westerly, although noted and recognized, were simply and bluntly overlooked and ignored.

"The priest of Tarot Palace once made mention of you. Yours is not a title one forgets. I cannot recall his exact reason. But now we sit face to face. Nobody had mentioned how very lovely you are...and young—only that you are quite dedicated to those poor, dear people and your town of birth."

Rachel fell into a sort of daze as she said, "And now I cannot help wonder...if people are so aware of Westerly's conditions, why have they not offered to lend their support?"

"Is it unable to support itself?" It was not a rude remark, only a point that Westerly did, in fact, manage to survive without external provisions or charity. "It is well enough," she also concluded, "that the emperor lets it alone to be as it is. A great many noble would gladly dissolve the community if only the emperor would give his approval."

"Then where would the people go?"

"To be blunt, my dear, I do not think they care."

Rachel thought on these things during a long space of silence, which they both peacefully allowed. "Tell me, darling, dear Sister," the duchess began, eventually breaking the silence, "do you recall the plague?"

"I recall it well."

"Members of the High Clerics claimed we were being punished. Do you think it is so?"

"No," she quickly answered.

"Very few children lost their lives because of it. It was mostly men and women. Nobles."

"My mother and father," Rachel also recalled, "out of merely seven who died in Westerly because of it."

"Then I see why you would reject such a belief that we were being punished, for you would then have to place that punishment upon your own mother and father." There was a second space of silence before the duchess said, "I would not trouble you with it, but I wonder if you may keep me in your heart. I am not ill, not in body. But at times I feel very wretched and discontent. I do not know why. My husband is wealthy and very good to me. I have three children, two of them sons—healthy children who have and will yet bring forth healthy children of their own. There is nothing I have desired that I do not have. But happiness...this is something I have not known for a very long time."

"I will certainly keep you in my heart. I am honored that you would ask it of me."

As soon as she'd said it, Jacob and the duke reentered. The distinguished couple soon after parted for their private quarters.

"She's very kind," Rachel commented.

"And wise," Jacob added.

"Having spoken with a few people the short time I've been here, I see that Westerly is somewhat popular, even if not in a good sense."

"Although it may appear otherwise, Westerly has not been forgotten."

"I was aware that the surrounding nobles have requested it from the emperor over the years, but he declines. The people have lived in fear since I can recall, fear of being placed under the charge of any one of these nobles."

"The emperor will not likely grant it. Only in time, as it is sought after by these, it will be considered a privilege to have him grant it to whomever he chooses if, in fact, anyone at all."

The thought of Jacob requesting it for himself crossed her mind. No matter how kind a noble as he was, or how ruthless as Duke Berlin, the people did not want to be ruled in such a way. Things were well as they were, and they imagined if any noble was ever granted Westerly, it would change and perhaps become nothing at all.

"None to fear," he soothed. "The emperor has no intention upon granting it to any noble. Perhaps in the future when a man of low degree has proven himself worthy of the position as a noble, then he may distribute it as a sort of breeding ground for a new city. It would not be such a difficult task to transform it into something much grander."

"If you were to ask...would he grant it to you?" She seriously asked, staring upon his profile.

"Is this an inclination that disturbs you?" He asked, and before she could say anything went on to say, "He has never withheld anything that I have requested of him. But I have requested very little, just as my father and those before him. The Great City is enough on its own, and parcels of land and places here and there associated with it. Yes, I imagine he would, but it is not something I have considered. Even in light of this proposal. No matter your answer tomorrow evening, I would not dare attempt to acquire it in order to acquire your hand. But I admit, now that you mention it, that may not be an altogether unprofitable solution."

She was grateful for one thing...that Jacob Trent had a sense of humor.

The following morning they sat at the table with his guests, and after a couple of hours of dining and talking, they said farewell. Jacob then insisted upon taking her for a ride throughout the city in his private carriage. She gratefully accepted, thinking it a perfect idea. She got the impression it was not often he did this. While men and women stopped and gawked, children laughed and ran and waved. She could not resist waving back, although it was not certain she could be seen doing so within the shadows of the cozy compartment.

They later dined together on a balcony overlooking the gardens and the ocean beyond. She expressed a desire to walk along the sand, and they did so after having finished their meal. As always, they were followed by a group of guards from a distance. For one, to avoid rumor and gossip, she supposed, appreciating the fact that he would take her reputation into consideration. For two, simple precautions...for safety's sake. One thing was quite obvious—Jacob Trent was hardly ever left alone. There were a lot of the time guards surrounding him, whether close by or from a distance. Such was the same with herself...even when alone. Even if she could not see them, she knew they were somewhere in hearing range, such as outside of her private quarters.

They later separated for a time. And that evening she was summoned to the table, not the private dinette, but in the Great Hall. There were two very long tables in this enormous room, each surrounded by some of the more prominent citizens of the Great City...and there _were_ prominent citizens, such as Mr. Oakley whose business overall provided fine horses for the Guard, and Thomas Beazley, overseer of the city's law enforcements.

There was also entertainment: musicians and dancers and poets.

"I hope you have overall enjoyed your visit," Jacob commented as they sat together at the head of the table. By this time the people had adapted to her presence, although they wondered exactly who she was and what she was to their host. No proper introduction had been made. According to him, it was customary to simply wonder until a noble such as himself chose to make an introduction. For some reason, she was relieved by this.

"I truly have and I'm grateful for your generosity. I must say, whatever change this was, no matter the case, it suits you well." She raised her glass, he raised his, and they both drank, he of his wine, she, her warm tea.

"This marks the end of the second day," Jacob came to say.

"Yes," she agreed, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "As I said, I am truly grateful for your generosity. My time here has been well spent."

"I can see by this expression that your answer is not in my favor."

"And one that a select few back home would scold me for were they made aware...my sisters above all. But they know me, and would likely agree that I am just not suitable for such a commitment."

He looked away as if to avoid her seeing his eyes. "Will you tell them about my proposal...that you declined it?"

"No," she had already decided. "But do not worry, Jacob Trent, I will not create a fib in order to cover it. There are plenty remnants of truth concerning this visit to ease any curiosity as to why it occurred at all to begin with."

He inhaled a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Having you here these past two days has been a pleasure," he said. "Truly an honor. It is a memory I shall cherish the rest of my life, Rachel the Elder."

"Thank you," she said, then hesitated, but leaned forward and dropped a simple kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for understanding." Had she ever kissed a man? Yes, but not under any casual circumstance—usually only the ill or those close to death; after saying a prayer for the soul or directly following the eternal closing of the eyes.

He set his goblet on the table before him and stood. "I dread to say I must be off into the countryside to settle a matter."

She frowned up at him a bit confused. "At this hour?"

"Consideration of the hour can rarely be noted with these matters that occupy my time. But this should not keep me long. Meantime, enjoy yourself." He glanced at the troubadours with a grin. "The more they drink the merrier they become, and all the more entertaining. And you are in good hands." He cast his eyes toward the guards. "You are safe I promise."

"When will you return?"

"Later," he told her. "But I will see you in the morning before you depart."

And with that he was gone.

******

That night she couldn't sleep. Her thoughts bounced back and forth between Jacob and home...furthermore her obligations there. In another two weeks she would resume those obligations, and see her friends and sisters which put a smile upon her face.

The next day she prepared her things. Tilly helped her. The clothing provided her was also packed. She hadn't a clue what she would do with these things once she got home. Such garments and accessories would not apply to any situation she could think of. But it was insisted she take every single item along. So she had extra suitcases, seven altogether. With the closing of the final one a knock sounded at the door. It opened and Jacob entered, two guards following behind. Tilly would have scurried from the room.

"You may stay," Jacob said to her, and neared Rachel with a grin that made her smile in return. She took his hands with her own as he offered them. He planted a kiss on one cheek and then the other. "I see you are prepared for your journey."

"I am."

He stepped back, holding her at arm's length. "Even the beauty of nature could not compete with yours."

"You are far too polite, milord. You shan't be a single man for long. Not speaking such flattering words as these."

"Unfortunately the hands of the available itch more for gold and silver than do their ears for such compliments." He stepped back, raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Percival entered with a box supported by a midsized crimson pillow. "I have something for you," Jacob said, and motioned for Percival to hold it out before her.

"I couldn't dare accept a gift. You have been generous as it is."

"Please," he calmly pressed.

She raised hesitant hands to lift the lid, pulling it up and back. The box was filled with coins—coins of both gold and silver. She gave her head a light shake, glancing from the small fortune to his penetrating gaze. "I don't understand."

"The request you made of me two years ago. It is granted. Take it and give to your poor and your orphans and your widows. Do with it as you wish. I know in my heart that you will do just as you proposed. I could not say the same of anyone else. But this I know will go every bit to these causes you are so passionate about."

She was so baffled she didn't know what to do or say. A smile came and went until she could not contain it, and an urge to hug him could not be resisted. She put her arms around him and they embraced.

"Thank you so much," she praised, her cheek pressed against his chest. "You are too gracious. The people will be so very grateful, more so even than I." She pulled away to look at him. "You will receive many letters of appreciation. Please, I only ask that you accept each of them by your own hand, and that you read them with your own eyes. Under that condition only will I accept. And just as you trust that I will do as I say, I will trust you to do the same as well."

Hearing her, he grinned deeply, and with eyes so soft and gentle, he raised her hands dropping a light kiss on each of them. He patted them between his and nodded. "Agreed."

With that, he stepped back. "I know the time is now for you to go. It has been a pleasure. I hope to hear word of your safe return."

"You will," she promised. He slightly bowed. She bowed her head with a smile that faded as he turned and departed the room.

******

A short time later she was on her way, travelling from the palace toward home. She twisted in her seat, searching every inch of the place she was leaving behind, hoping to spot him somewhere in the distance; perhaps standing on a balcony or atop a tower...in a window someplace. She held a hand in the air, ready to wave.

She didn't see him anywhere.

The carriage jostled along. She felt as if she was smothering. Holding on to her seat, she gazed back and then forward again and again until she could no longer stand it. She opened her mouth and called out, "driver!" and then a second time when she perceived she had not been heard.

The carriage came to a halt. The driver's expression was one of concern when he swung open the door. "Milady?" He anxiously answered. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Yes. I mean...no. Nothing." She twisted in her seat, looking back. "Nothing terribly wrong." She swung her attention back to him. "We must go back."

"Go back?"

"Yes, I...we must turn around. Take me back."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "Yes." And the door closed again.
CHAPTER FOUR

Dearest Agatha

I write this message as I remain in the Great City. In the nearest future you may expect a second letter explaining the goings-on here and the cause of my delay. All is well. I have come upon a most unusual encounter which I will later explain. Do be at peace for I am well and certain that my life is being led toward a direction that will benefit us all. I will write again soon. Until then tell my dear friends and my sisters how I miss them and that I love them dearly always as myself.

Truly, Rachel.

She sealed the letter and handed it to Aaron, a page who'd been assigned to her to attend such duties as this—the delivering of letters. He would in turn pass the message on to Jacob's secretary, Darius, who was in charge of overseeing all letters distributed from the palace grounds. She afterward proceeded to dress herself for the evening.

Two weeks had passed since she'd ordered the driver to turn around, since she'd returned to the palace and to Jacob, agreeing to become his wife and making him what appeared to be the happiest man in all the world. Since then they'd spent nearly every waking hour together: dining and being entertained, with rides about the city and the country-side, strolling about the gardens from time to time and along the sandy shore. They were never completely alone, but always watched over by guards in the distance, an occasional page and squire. Perhaps they stood in as witnesses to the innocence of the relationship. Not that the palace staff would talk or spread rumors. They treated her with the utmost respect. She was, after all, their soon-to-be mistress...the future Lady Trent.

They'd spent a great deal of hours effortlessly getting to know one another—dining alone or with guests chosen from citizens of the city, playing card games or those with boards and pieces. She sat with him during court, which was held the third day of each week, and listened in while he judged disputes amongst both the commoners and of the noblest in his realm; giving verdicts pertaining to any and all prisoners when it became time to do so. He was a wise man, she came to realize, not that she'd doubted, but hearing him resolve the various matters so, well, wisely, she found herself charmed by him all the more.

Preparations for an official wedding announcement had been so quickly arranged. Invitations were immediately dispersed, mostly to what was referred to as the class of Higher Nobles. Now, two weeks later, she examined both the outer and inner yards which were decorated and prepared for whatever guests would attend. She imagined there would be many. While the outer yard would be occupied by the citizens of the immediate realm, the inner yard was prepared for the more noble citizens: nobles in general—specifically the class of Higher Nobles such as the duke and duchess of Tarot. While some members of nobility who could travel the distance in the short time allotted agreed to the invitation, others sent their kind regards. Message after message poured in including one from the emperor who congratulated and wished him well saying, "The news was ever refreshing" and "I look forward to meeting this lady whom fate must have persuaded you to pursue".

The announcement of their engagement would be made tonight thus sealing it in stone; making it inevitable. She'd had no idea the emphasis that would be placed upon it. Jacob's noble friends and peers were very happy for him, more than happy to be a part of the announcement get-together.

Despite the sudden change of events, Rachel was very content. The past two weeks had proven quite satisfying. She and Jacob got along so well, and she found herself liking him very much.

Since her return from that very brief departure, two guards had specifically been assigned to her—one by the name of Nicholas the other, Caleb. They took their job of guarding her very seriously. Her door was never left unattended, and if she dared venture about the premises, one or the other or both would follow from a distance. This would certainly take some time adjusting to.

Three chambermaids had also been assigned to her: Tilly, Roselyn, and Zaria,

Tilly was the most zealous of the three, hopping from task to task, be it cleaning the room, delivering meals and messages, arranging the wardrobe, preparing the bath. She saw to it these tasks were accomplished in a timely, precise fashion. Her small but speedy frame was always moving about, which made it understandable that she was so tiny to begin with. She rarely stood idle or sat for that matter.

Roselyn was just the opposite, and usually volunteered for the more trivial errands. She was less energetic, more withdrawn, and quite the peculiar one all around. Rachel occasionally caught her spying from the corners of her eyes as if suspicious or uncertain, or as if to target some sort of shortcoming. She didn't seem particularly pleased to tend to anything at all—quite the contrary. She often hesitated when any deed was required as if awaiting it be done by one of the other two. But she didn't say anything out of the way; rather hardly ever spoke at all.

Now, Zaria was the most interesting of the three by far. Unhurried like Roselyn, but dedicated like Tilly, she pampered Rachel...not with a fuss. She was sociable, but not overly so, and quite the clever one. Rachel realized she was likely the smarter of the two, and sometimes felt as if she could read her mind.

Zaria spoke with a slow, seductive-like voice and she had the most wicked-looking eyes. It was just appearance, for there was absolutely nothing wicked about her, although she was, Rachel perceived, capable of seducing guards and even visitors of choice. She did not seem at all ignorant when it came to matters of the heart; which she insisted Rachel was about to get her first true glimpse of. Understandable since for the first time in her life she cared about a man enough to marry him.

Now, Zaria stood beside her early the evening of the engagement announcement. From a secluded balcony overlooking the front lawns she and Rachel observed the throngs of guests who'd gathered for the event. The violinist was already playing, and the servants distributing drinks amongst them.

"I've never seen so many beautiful people in one place at one time," Rachel commented.

"Have you _ever_ seen so many people in one place at one time?

The outer yard was crowded with the attending citizens of the city—a mixture of well-to-do, middleclass and some poor. Nobles who'd travelled from both short and not-so-short distances, mingled in the inner yard. She spotted the duke and duchess of Tarot who'd just shortly arrived, which gave her a sense of comfort. Others she did not recognize or know, but judging by their tranquil behavior she felt at ease and looked forward to being introduced to them.

"I see mostly wealthy and arrogant men," whispered Zaria, "most of whom would gladly trade their wife for a single night in the arms of a young, voluptuous maiden. As for beautiful," Zaria began, "You'll have a closer look in a short while and see otherwise. The garments may be striking, milady, but the faces of these...one may understand exactly why they vie to outdo one another with use of fine apparel." "

"Outward beauty is not all that matters."

"Tis simple for you to say, milady, as age and nature have been kind to you. Some of these, well, even I have a heart that goes out to them."

Rachel's eyes continued to skim over the people. She wondered who they all were. As if reading her mind, Zaria began pointing them out to her; couple by couple, man by man, woman by woman.

Rachel eventually blocked out her voice; not intentionally, but she'd unexpectedly spotted a particular gentleman standing off to himself, merely watching the people in an obvious state of content.

"That man there," she pointed out, interrupting Zaria. "There by the fountain."

"Ah, that would be Sir Marcus Wren. I did not think he would be here...not that he does not care."

"Who is he?" She seriously wondered.

"A very dear friend of every notable noble in New Ebony, including the emperor. I thought he was away tending to affairs of the Southern Commons."

"The Southern Commons?"

"My, but you have lived a secluded life. Come, your Lord Trent will wish to introduce you to his guests and to make his announcement." She took her hand, guiding her away. "You will be properly introduced to Sir Marcus as well, which will serve to my advantage."

"We have met," she explained as they strolled along, "The day I first arrived...in Harp."

"Then you know him already."

"There were no introductions, Zaria, only late in the evening he was spying on me."

"And taking great pleasure in doing so, I would imagine."

"Oh, you do say the most terrible things."

"Have you never so much as indulged in common conversation?"

"That depends what you call common. I am respected in Westerly. People do not mention these so-called common things in my presence."

"Well, milady, you are no longer in Westerly. In a few weeks you shall be wed to the noblest man in all of New Ebony. Everything will change. You will change."

"No, Zaria, I will not."

"Fortune changes people, and power. You shall see."

"He is wealthy, not me, and I will never consider myself in any position of power."

"And the manor? What about it?"

"What manor?"

"You do not know about the manor?"

"What manor, Zaria?"

"Orland Manor."

"Orland Manor," she repeated, giving her head a gentle shake. "What is it?"

"Perhaps I should let Lord Trent explain it to you."

"No." Rachel stopped them both and turned to face her. "Tell me."

Zaria inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if dreading to go into it. "Orland Manor is a small estate with a manor house and lands. It is placed into the hands of whoever becomes lady of the Great City. When you become his wife, Orland Manor becomes yours."

"I don't understand."

Before she knew it, Zaria had taken her hands, urging her to look into her mysterious, dark eyes. "Such an arrangement works in Lord Trent's favor, just as it does any other noble who counts for that matter, more commonly and specifically the Higher Nobles. To have his lady effectively overlook a place no matter the size of it...well, it is very significant. A noble with a wise wife is considered all the more wise for choosing and having her, and the eyes of the emperor are upon them all. Tis that simple."

Rachel quietly whispered, more to herself than anything "why did he not mention this?"

"There is but one agreeable way to look at it. The residents will be in good hands, will they not?" She took her by the elbow and ushered her along. "So, you see, there will be changes. Not only because of the manor, but you are human, are you not? A woman soon to be wed to Lord Trent, aging but very handsome and strong. Such things draw passion from a woman. Trust me, milady, once you have been made love to, you are never the same. Now, I have noticed your practices. You drink only water or tea and eat very little."

"You must remember my calling, Zaria. To shun gluttony and the fruit of the vine has come quite natural to me."

"You cannot say you do not plan to drink or to eat for pure sport, or even to please your husband."

She found it impossible to think of ever becoming a glutton or a winebibber much less a lover.

Zaria cast her eyes upward while she strolled along beside her. "You are in a sense stubborn, milady, to reject even minor pleasures. Those of lovemaking...I do not think you shall withhold it from your husband. I wonder now as we speak what you normally did for sport. It would seem you have lived a very somber and quiet life...a dreary one."

"A peaceful life," she recalled. "As for sport, well, human nature is amusing in itself. If I watched this crowd long enough I would find plenty to laugh about."

"That I will not debate," she said, and led her the rest of the way. By now, Jacob had positioned himself near a platform that'd been specifically designed for this purpose. He was glancing about, obviously searching for her. Zaria led her directly to his side.

"Ah, there you are." He took her hands and dropped a kiss upon her forehead. "I see you got my gift."

She raised a hand to touch the diamond necklace he referred to. "It is very beautiful," she complimented. "A surprise."

"I hope you like it."

"It would be a lie to say I do not."

"I intend to bequeath you with all the fine ornaments this world has to offer."

"Then you shall spoil me and I will be good for nothing."

"I shall spoil you until you insist upon it." He motioned for Caleb to come closer. "Now, stay put here," he told her. "I will have the harkers silence the people with their horns, and after I have announced you, Caleb will escort you up to the platform."

She nodded, feeling suddenly nervous. Her chest began to rise and fall while her heartbeat quickened. Zaria took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Jacob stepped up to the platform, the harkers brought the crowds to silence, and he began making the announcement. It was very simple and to the point.

"First, I thank you for coming to take part, and stand in as witnesses to this public announcement of my engagement to wed...and to meet this remarkable woman who has certainly stolen my heart. With great pleasure I introduce to you Rachel Pimbrook, also known as Rachel the Elder of Westerly...my soon-to-be bride...the future Lady Trent."

Caleb led her up onto the platform and Jacob took her gloved hand, turning her about to face the people, and they all began to applaud. She felt a great sense of relief that her trembling legs had not caused her to fall, and then that the people seemed pleased with her. She cast her eyes from one happy, content face to the next. She smiled back at them, relieved that the applause was genuine, at least so far as she could see. Some of those from the outer yard—the city—called out, cheering and bellowing out their enthusiasm. She smiled at this, and then up at Jacob who was equally pleased by the response.

He waved a hand to silence them all. "Now," he began, "Now I want to propose a toast." A glass of wine was offered on a silver platter, not just to him but her as well. He continued, "To my lovely bride-to-be. May she be exceedingly happy here, and come to call this home so long as life grants it."

They all raised their glasses to toast, and she to take her very first sip of wine.

Afterward they were properly greeted by their noble guests: earls, lords, dukes—men who patted his shoulder, shook his hand, and kissed the top of hers. The ladies were all well-mannered. She'd long since learned it was very proper to accept and give a simple kiss on the left and then right cheek.

After a while the man Sir Marcus, whose dazzling green eyes were sure to captivate any onlooker, came up to greet them.

"Rachel," Jacob began, "you recall my friend."

"I do," she agreed, her mind taking her back to the brief discussion between them. "I believe he was spying on me in your stead. But no proper introductions were exchanged between us."

"In that case...Rachel, Marcus Wren, Marcus...Rachel."

She allowed him to take her hand on which he dropped a soft kiss. "Milady," he greeted, his green eyes peering into hers. She could see clearly into them now unlike that particular night when it'd been too dark to see. "As you realize," he began straightening himself, "I was correct in pledging all was well."

"That you were," she replied to him, and then to Jacob, "he was faithful to keep the truth to himself when I questioned him."

"Marcus is a very faithful man," he properly returned. "I would trust him with my very life."

Marcus extended a hand. "If it is well with you," he said to Rachel, "I am going to steal away your handmaiden...just for a time."

Zaria cast Rachel a sly, sidelong glance. Marcus guided her away. At the same time, she and Jacob turned their backs to the people and made their way to the head of them and two massive chairs that'd been arranged specifically for them. Yet holding her hand, he waited for her to be seated, and then claimed the chair at her left.

She immediately spotted Zaria and this Marcus character. They'd gone off to themselves to quietly converse. Zaria was amused by something he'd said. She brushed him flirtatiously on the shoulder and laughed. At that point, the musicians began to play their instruments: flutes, horns, drums and harps, and some keyed instrument she'd never before seen.

"Marcus is quite a lady's man," Jacob praised, "and also my dearest friend."

"Is he a spy by trade?"

"If ever a noble is in need of one, specifically a Higher Noble which is these days on a rare occasion. He is mostly a regulator of common affairs amongst the nobles, and of political matters. He helps maintain peace in New Ebony, specifically amongst the Higher Nobles. We all have access to fairly large armies. It's important we are at peace with one another."

"These political matters...are you as heavily engaged in them as he is?"

"As engaged as you are in spiritual ones."

"Then I will not see much of you."

"Would that please you?"

"No." She honestly replied, "not at all." She stared ahead, and covered her mouth with a gloved hand when one of the guests from the outer yard tumbled over the partition separating it from the inner. He fell onto the other side, clamored back onto his feet and began to dance; a peculiar dance which made her laugh. Jacob gently squeezed her hand, grinning at her amusement. The guards were quick to detain him, pushing him thru a gate in the partition and back to the other side.

For some reason this caused her to remember the manor. Her smile faded and her gaze lowered. "You are troubled," he regretfully replied. His expression became reassuring. "You needn't suppress your thoughts. What is it that bothers you?"

"You had not mentioned the manor."

"I see someone has gotten to it in my stead."

"The handmaiden."

"Then you have questions."

"The first is why you did not tell me. Of course the first could answer the second. And then the third. What will become of Westerly?"

"I'm afraid you've confused me. But I sense you have come to conclusions without my answers."

A servant came along, offering them a glass of wine. She'd already had one and accepted a second.

"Well, it would make perfect sense," she told him. "If a noble lady's character is expected to be...well, I hate to use the word dominant, but that is what the view appears to be.

"I dreaded you would assume this of me since you do have a sort of reputation for being able to administrate, and the quality to do so is not to be taken lightly, not so far as the Higher Nobles are concerned. Our wives are committed to their own place, although in reality most of them have little to do with the goings-on in these manors and villages. You will adapt to it."

"I did not govern Westerly, nor did I try or intend to."

"If this is so," he began, "why do you worry what will become of it without you?" He paused a moment staring upon her profile while she thought his words over. "You see?" He came to say. "You are worried as to what will become of them without you. That is a proof of the significant role you've played in keeping peace and order amongst them."

"Then I should be given Westerly opposed to this manor."

"Westerly is a two week journey by carriage, the manor merely three hours under normal conditions. Besides, the lady of the Great City has been ruling Orland for decades...centuries. It is a tradition that must be kept. It isn't so great a deal, although very significant. You may even speak with the duchess of Tarot; she has a manor of her own and could confirm the simplicity of the position. Orland Manor is home to only a few, not like here. You shall adapt to it."

"How many?"

"I cannot say for sure the number of them, although a census is frequently conducted. It has been a long while since I have had the slightest dealings with it. The manor functions on its own, and for two years without proper governance...well, according to our traditions." He patted her hand as she rested it atop the armrest. "No need to fret. It is a simple place. Most of its situations are handled by the local council. Father Nelson goes on occasion to see to the religious affairs of the community. He will accompany you your first visit, along with your handmaidens and plenty of guards to see to your safety."

"When will I go?" She asked without looking at him.

"So soon as we are wed, shortly after."

"Will you go as well?"

"I regret my failure to mention it now seeing as to how you've become so troubled by it. But, no, I'm afraid not. None to worry. You will be well, and the council will acquaint you with the position. My other wives had little to do with the affairs of the manor. They merely listened to the goings-on amongst the people, and if something was complained about in excess, they changed it."

"I see," she understood.

"I hope you will not be uneasy the remainder of the night because of it. All I can do to ease your mind is make this one promise...that I called upon you for one reason and one reason only. It is just as I have said from the beginning."

She thought a moment before smiling over at him, and gave his hand a gentle reassuring squeeze. His face glowed with relief and they together watched their guests.

After being entertained by troubadours and musicians, dances meant for random maidens and fellows were conducted. These were intended to entertain, and could be quite provocative. The participants were mostly handmaidens and squires who'd attended with their masters and mistresses. Zaria was one of these, which did not surprise Rachel in the least. She'd broken away from Sir Marcus, and chose Nicholas as her partner. Strange to see him dressed in average clothing opposed to the usual armor.

He and Zaria, as the other partners, knew each move by heart. The music played, and they danced...often very leisurely, from a distance and then together, staring one another in the eye with every turn, with every graceful step, sweep and twirl. Afterward the nobles applauded. Rachel had to agree...it was quite entertaining. She and Jacob joined in the applause.

There were more dances meant for the noble couples, simple and well organized. She at first refused Jacob's attempt at getting her to join him, but then accepted although fearing she was not experienced enough to participate.

She hadn't danced in years, since she was a child. At first she was clumsy, but as they moved from song to song, she fit in well. It all came back to her; although some of the dances she did not know at all. After having first watched, and then joining in, simply doing what everyone else was doing, she did well and soon experienced the carefree feeling she remembered from so long ago—before the age of ten when she'd happily partook in events of celebration, whether for a holiday or such events as marriage. Although rare, the citizens of Westerly did know how to celebrate an occasion.

And then she and Jacob were given a space to dance alone...nobody but her and him. By then she was on her fourth glass of wine and felt very relaxed. She simply followed Jacob's lead and it all fell into place. She giggled on a few occasions, once to simply cover up the fact that her heart had begun to pound and her blood had gone warm. She felt at one point as if a swarm of butterflies had been loosed in her stomach. When the music ended, the guests gladly applauded. This was a good thing, separating from him. She needed the distance. All of the closeness had aroused a physical attraction for her partner that'd not been there before; not just any partner...Jacob Trent...whom she would marry.

The future passed before her eyes. She imagined sharing a bed with him and giving herself to him, which he'd promised she would not have to do.

But what if she eventually wanted to give up her virtue to him? What if she began to feel this attraction all the time and not just ones like this? She was sure there would be moments. Although it was clear they would have separate chambers, she imagined lying in bed with him, snuggling against him. She certainly felt safe with him. Secure. But hadn't she always felt safe? Hadn't she always felt secure?

It was late, and she planted a kiss on his cheek and departed with the excuse she was going to freshen up. Her steps led to the nearest gardens where she caught her breath. Perhaps she should've gone to the altar and prayed. She felt she needed to.

"Are you well?"

The voice came out of nowhere. Her gaze snapped toward the right and upward. In the light of the moon Marcus Wren sat atop the stone wall, one leg stretched before him, the knee of the other in the air. It appeared as if he'd been watching the scene from that location for some time.

"I've startled you yet again."

"I had supposed I was alone."

"As in the garden at Harp," he commented and then, "One thing you will quickly discover, Rachel the Elder, as Jacob's companion you will never truly be alone."

"I have already discovered so," she found herself replying. Not that someone was always in plain view. She simply knew they were there somewhere...near, far—keeping an eye out for her from one direction or another.

"These gardens are commonly visited," he began to say. "Once evening has set in, especially about the time of midnight," he swung his legs around, pushed himself forward and jumped to his feet, "when the moon is bright and round, and everyone in their beds...lovers often meet here and give place to their passion one for another."

Zaria had already mentioned this. It was not quite the same having him do so.

"You are much too forthright," she commented.

"I only revealed this in the case you were not aware, that you would not be caught off guard if by chance you were to stumble upon such a scene."

"It is well that you forewarn me although my handmaiden had already done so."

He took a slow step forward. "You did not answer my question."

"Am I under an obligation to answer you, Sir Marcus?"

"I mean well in asking. I noticed you have broken your life-long fast tonight. Being unaccustomed to the effects of wine, you could possibly become ill."

"I am well," she bluntly assured. She was not ill from the wine, no, but lightheaded and...well, somewhat tipsy.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Perhaps not entirely true. It had actually dawned on her how very fast things were happening...maybe too fast. But the utmost thing to consider was how truly content she was to be there, to take part in such events as this, to mingle with nobility and to be entertained, to sit by Jacob as his fiancé and dance with him—something felt so perfect about it all, yet at the same time so terribly wrong.

"I simply needed a moment to myself," she calmly replied adding, "alone."

"For the sake of my friend, I hope you are not entertaining thoughts of changing your mind."

"No," she quickly answered. "I am not. Why would you think so?"

"Then you miss your friends in Westerly," he guessed.

"They are forever in my heart, they and my sisters. I do miss them."

"Have you written them?" He asked, and she got the impression he already knew that she had. Every message, after all, was accounted for. It would be no small matter for him to know.

"Today even," she agreed, anyway.

"I trust you have told them of this change of events."

"You inquire of too many things, Sir Marcus."

"I am a curious man."

"One needn't express their every thought," she reprimanded although with no brutish tone. "Some questions are best left unspoken."

"Such as news that can be hidden. Such as feelings that can be spared."

She caught the sarcasm in his voice...the insinuation that she was too ashamed to tell them the news. She straightened her shoulders and prepared to defend herself. "If feelings are to be spared it is theirs, not mine. There is a proper time and place for all things."

"I shall not argue that," he plainly said but then asked, "Are you ashamed to tell them?"

"You do not take instruction very well."

"To hear and follow instruction _is_ my calling, milady."

"You are paid to do so," she said, recalling Jacob's description of his duties to the nobles. "This is a separate matter. But marriage is nothing to be ashamed of. Furthermore, these are subjects I am not comfortable discussing with you."

"Then I shall change the subject by saying what a remarkable impression you have made upon Jacob's guests and the residents of this fine city. They approve of you."

"Yet you seem to disapprove. Tell me, Sir Marcus, do you perceive I have some underlying motive?"

"Do you perceive that _he_ has?"

She was stumped for a time. Then she remembered the fact that he and Zaria had spoken a good while. Perhaps she had mentioned something along those lines.

Neither of them gave or received answers to these questions. Marcus proceeded by saying, "They seem to have fallen in love with you already. You are not only praised for being good-natured, wise...a number of things, but for your beauty, especially."

Her initial response was to look away from him.

"Again I must apologize for making you uneasy, milady. But surely you are acquainted with compliments. You should adapt to receiving them. Or have you been hidden from those as well in the small town of Westerly?"

"I have hardly been hidden as many suppose," she corrected. "It's just a different sort of place. I will miss it very much and look forward to visiting when the opportunity comes."

"It will come at your request. My friend has fallen in love with you, even prior the meeting. Your wish will certainly be his command no matter the extent of it."

"You will be pleased to know I would not take advantage of him."

"That pleases me very much. As you surely know by now, Jacob is very dear to me."

"As you are to him. He trusts and speaks highly of you. I, however, find you unusual and unsuitably bold. You trouble me, even aside from this improper interrogation. Throughout the night I have noticed you peering at me on various occasions."

"Then you must have peered at me as well to have noticed."

"My maiden is quite intrigued by you. She brought you to my attention on numerous occasions."

"As she was by your side a great deal of the night it could be assumed I was watching her and not you."

"I assume you are still doing what you were at first instructed to do, spying on me as in the gardens at Harp. Tell me, have I done or said anything to prove that my intentions are anything other than what I claim?"

"I am aware of the original proposal, and that you returned even after he had granted your request from years ago—even without an agreement to marry, rather even after you had declined. You have in a way proven yourself trustworthy...spotless from greed. Just as he has proven himself spiteless. I departed the Great City shortly after Harp, and just recently returned to find not only my friend is engaged to be wed, but that you have developed a fondness for him that does not appear to be based upon his status or possessions or his wealth."

"It is not an appearance at all but the way it truly is."

"Which," he continued, "pleases him all the more—seeing how you returned after he had granted your request, anyway. The way this fell into place pleases him very much."

"Then you do not suspect me of any wrong."

"Is there any wrong to suspect?"

"That I am using him for the sake of monetary gain, perhaps—or even worse if you have doubted my overall position as a Sacred Sister which I became at a very young age."

"I do not doubt that, no. Your name has not been hidden from the realms of the nobles, or even that of the emperor for that matter. Rachel the Elder has been mentioned throughout the years in conjunction with Westerly. So your prior position cannot be questioned. So then, milady, I find no wrong...unless of course your agreement to wed was based upon pity; a prospect that both he and I would frown upon."

"I didn't pity him, no," she assured. "Nor do I now. He could certainly win the heart of whomever he chooses. Had I declined he would have set his eyes upon another and certainly succeeded."

"There was no other."

"Even I find this difficult to comprehend. But if it's so that you suspect me of no wrong, I think it rational that you disregard these inspections and cease these vain observations. If I perceive any wrong in myself, I will be the first to acknowledge so—even in the very presence of my fiancé or of my husband, whichever is the case at the time."

He eyed her for a moment, as if studying each and every word. A lazy grin eventually touched his lips and he said, "You are wise beyond your years, milady. As for your request, consider it honored." After a short, intense stare and a slight bow, he walked by and left her alone.
CHAPTER FIVE

Marcus departed the Great City the following afternoon for a venture into Rowan where he was expected to deliver documents from the emperor concerning a trio of villains detained at Rowan Castle. He was swift to shift his thinking from the engagement of Jacob and Rachel, although for some reason he had a difficult time thinking of anything else. Once he'd mounted his steed, along with Byron, who occasionally accompanied him during such escapades as this, he disregarded the news of his dear friend's wedding and, of course, Rachel the Elder.

For the life of him he could not easily stop thinking about her.

But once the journey to Rowan began, which was a seven hour one, he did well to shove it all from his mind. After all, the documents in his possession were not only important, but time sensitive as well. Byron was only aware of a portion of the cause of this mission. He was conscious of the fact that the scrolls being transferred were of value, otherwise he would not have been summoned to go along; but he knew nothing of their contents and Marcus preferred to keep it that way. Only Marcus knew, and the emperor, of course, who'd taken special care in ordering each one for each individual case of three specific detainees who were to be strictly supervised until arrangements could be made to have them transferred to the emperor's palace where they would be reasonably questioned. It was probable they had information leading to a plot against Jacob.

Yes, secret messages had been passed along, most written in codes that were nearly impossible to decipher. But those that had been decoded, if correctly so, insisted only one thing—Jacob's life was in grave danger and had been for some time now.

Marcus had first caught wind of this when the emperor called upon him to transfer some of his own prisoners to the Northern Isles where they were subsequently executed for various crimes. In an attempt to spare his life, one of the prisoners had made it known that he'd been asked to take part in a plot to kill Jacob, but he would not say the name of the man behind it, nor a specific reason, only dropped hints here and there by way of words and phrases that could not be understood except by decoding if, in fact, they were genuine to begin with.

Marcus wished now he would've somehow spared the man's life. He'd likely had all the answers needed. The emperor had eventually tired of his parables and rhymes. He'd refused to speak plainly and identify anyone in particular, even to death. Honestly, Marcus hadn't really taken the man seriously, just as the emperor had not upon hearing of it. They'd suspected him of prolonging the sentence of his original crime, scheming in order to save his neck from the gallows. He had, after all, refused to mention anything exactly and probably never would've. He'd been given a space of one unsuccessful month to offer the information prior his execution. An exact month after that, an actual attempt had been made on Jacob's life during a hunting expedition.

Fortunately, Marcus had previously planted spies and guards at every angle, distancing them from Jacob so as he would not notice them. These were men he had hired and who were trained for such duties as this. The attempt had been successfully thwarted all thanks to his secret spies, messengers and guards. But those who would have carried out the deed would not express the name of whoever was behind it. Even under torture and to death they held their peace.

Marcus had together with the emperor and a dozen of trustworthy men working for hire in regards to the situation eliminated several names from the list of prospective suspects; simple enemies, distant relatives, people who had reason to hate him...even down to a distant female cousin who bore a _very_ deep hatred for him, and did not care to express it. Marcus had not truly completely eliminated her. She was no longer a citizen of New Ebony, but of Roark whose king bore a strong dislike not only for Jacob, but the emperor as well.

Jacob hadn't a clue, and would not if Marcus could help it. Even the emperor agreed it best he didn't know. Not now. After all, Jacob would not be one to stand idle. He would interfere and possibly make matters worse.

Marcus felt guilty from time to time. If someone was out to take his own life, would he not want to be made aware of it? Just the same, it could do more harm than good. Hopefully, maybe one, two or all of the three detainees in Rowan would have some answers. They'd been caught passing messages to one another, and then meeting in a village outside of Rowan to accomplish some mission against a noble whom was not mentioned. It was suspected they were a part of the plot, although the duke of Rowan insisted they'd planned to do away with him and nobody else, an act of revenge for some unmentioned incident from years back. Upon questioning, they'd supposedly denied this, but admitted to conspiring against another although under the instructions of someone else...someone whose name they refused to give. This was not an uncommon occurrence these days. Marcus meditated. It seemed Jacob was lucky to be alive.

But it would be a while before these men could actually be transferred. He wanted to stay in Rowan a while and do some questioning of his own. But the emperor had already ordered against it. Sometimes Marcus disagreed with the man's assessments. This was one of those times. Also a time he would likely go against the emperor's orders and suffer his consequences if perchance it was made known he'd done so. Not that the emperor would be harsh. He appreciated him too much to inflict any severe punishment upon him.

Aside from this situation, he'd planned to visit for a time, just for the sake of doing so. The duke of Rowan was a good friend of his and had hired him on several occasions to settle legal matters between himself and his siblings. Thanks to him, the matters had been resolved although he had to admit not entirely in the siblings' favor. Yes, sometimes he just had to accomplish whatever was asked of him simply for high pay, favor, for the sake of his web of acquaintances which when weaved together made things work out perfectly not only for his own benefit but the benefit of New Ebony as a whole; which had been an utmost concern of his since the age of fifteen. Yes, he had earned the favor bestowed upon him, and his pay, which was often very hefty. These things combined would one day make him a noble, indeed, a rich one, highly esteemed and respected. Such was the desire of any average man. For some it was unattainable, for others, possible...but ignorance had yet to put any man in any high position. Inheritance caused many a man to succeed. Of course the emperor was well able to remove any incompetent man from his position. He was a wise ruler, but at times Marcus wished he would allow him to have the final say-so in particular cases, such as this questioning of the three in the custody of Duke Rowan.

Riding along, he set his eyes upon some mountains off in the distance. As the ownership of land would put a sense of pride inside a man, it did him as well at the moment. The mountain was several hundred acres and promising. Very, very promising...nobody had a clue.

He couldn't even count the amount of land he owned by now, land that could someday be valuable not only as cities and towns and villages, but other things which he had set his mind upon also beginning many, many years ago...after the previous king of Roark had nearly succeeded in overthrowing the emperor and taking New Ebony as his own.

For the time being, thousands of acreage prescribed to him laid desolate except for an occasional village that sprang up here and there. He had hired men to oversee such matters, but it was almost useless trying to keep people from settling where they may live free of rents. Such communities usually receded on their own due to lack of necessity. Nonetheless, he assumed one day he would use some of the land to establish places of his own: villages, cities, manors, a castle or even a palace. For now, he was delighted to do what he'd been doing since the age of fifteen.

Hard to believe all that time had passed. So much had happened. A small exploit had turned into something bigger, and that into something even more enormous. He was content seeing to the affairs of the nobles and getting paid well to do it. Peace had to be kept amongst them. Few had risen up against the emperor over the years...their plots were successfully thwarted, and their titles taken from them. Some of these were imprisoned, some put to death—all depending upon the nature of their schemes.

He did keep his own hired men busy, occupied with procedures that few were ever aware of...only those he trusted and, yes, those few were even more than he'd imagined it would ever come to.

"How long will we be there?" Byron asked along the way. It was almost dark and soon they would set up camp for the night. The nearest town was yet hours away and he just assumed stop and sleep beneath the stars.

"Two, three nights at the most. We'll need a space of time to visit Earl Rutherford as well... before the wedding," he added.

The wedding. He was happy for his friend. Very happy. But felt disturbed whenever he considered or observed Rachel the Elder. By any fault of her own? He could not see. What exactly was it troubling him so?

Perhaps because he found her to be so very appealing. But what man would not? She was probably the loveliest woman he'd ever set eyes upon...striking, he reasoned, without knowing so, meaning to be so or wanting to be.

He thought of Patrice. Beautiful. Smart, She lived directly outside Rowan and operated a harem, which he occasionally frequented...just to see her. They'd been acquainted for ten or so years. She was very well able to satisfy his manly desires. But in comparison...well, there was none. Rachel was pure and simply beautiful on the inside and the outside. She was provocative and did not even know it. She was pure, and Jacob was a lucky man—a lucky man, indeed.

And happy as he had a right to be. So much misfortune had tainted most of his life. Ah, the change in the man overall. It was amazing how he had shifted for the better following the death of his son. Little Jacob...they all missed the lad. Marcus, himself, had become attached to the boy, taking time out to answer the hundreds of questions the curious mind a son of a man like Jacob Trent could come up with. Jacob had properly instructed him even under the condition of his very harsh attitude. How he'd loved the boy! Yes, before little Jacob's death the man had been ruthless, impossible, and hadn't seemed to give a damn about anyone or anything besides the raising of a strong child, his own fortune and matters pertaining to the emperor's realm. Marcus had tolerated him, perhaps better than anyone else could've considering the amount of time he'd had to spend in his presence and under his orders for hire—by his own choice, of course. But Jacob had been more to him than a means to make money or an alliance or one who could benefit him thru the benefit of some other noble.

Jacob was also the emperor's most favorite noble. For the most part, he'd proven himself faithful and well able to keep the emperor's position intact. No army could match any in comparison to Jacob's when it came to potential wars between nobles in New Ebony and especially threats from rulers overseas. Had it not been for Jacob, the emperor's position would have been taken by the king of Roark many years ago. He'd claimed the right to rule New Ebony, said it had been stolen from him. In some distant way the two men were related. But the emperor had every right to his position. Jacob had swiftly rounded up an army, invaded Roark and brought back not only the heads of that king's two most powerful nobles, his uncle and chief general, but of the king as well. The position King of Roark was then passed on to the brother, and no country had since then so much as raised their voice in a letter of opposition to the emperor.

But now it was not the emperor's life on the line, but Jacob's. And neither he nor the emperor would back down until the guilty party was discovered, stopped and put to death. Then they could tell Jacob. Then. He anticipated the day.
CHAPTER SIX

The idea of taking lessons to learn more about, practice and perfect her 'noble' skills was not exactly a pleasant one. Percival was the one to bring the proposition to her. He was quite convincing, claiming she could use something to do while Jacob was busy or away other than sewing, reading or going for simple walks.

"I think I am doing well enough." She placed firm hands on her hips. "Whose idea was this, anyway?"

Percival looked at the floor as if in shame. "Mine, milady."

"Does he agree to this?"

"I did not mention it to Lord Trent. It was merely an idea that I thought to bring to your attention...not that you fall short in your abilities, milady. I only thought you would be interested in learning more and perfecting your skills...and also learning more about the behaviors of those around you and what they mean."

"You are very convincing, Percival." She walked over to a table and shuffled thru some books. She took one out from the pile and turned, holding it up for him to see. "This book explains everything I need to know."

His eyes lit up and he walked toward her. "Ah, an excellent source for learning the behaviors of the noble class." He took the book for himself, flipping thru its pages. "And you discovered this in the library? Who would've thought? There are so many books."

"I only discovered it after setting out to organize the books. If you visited the library you would find the shelves much more organized, and the books lined up according to subject. So, you see, I have discovered ways on my own to occupy my time. With such a valuable collection, you would think someone would take the time to organize it properly. One thing I have learned, the things people in Westerly would cherish with all their heart are the very things people here take terribly for granted."

"Well," he began, handing the book back to her. "I suppose we should see about finding someone to fill that position. Nonetheless," he turned, preparing to make an exit, "I shall tell Sister Camille that you are in no need of further instruction."

"Sister Camille?" she repeated, and set the book down. "Percival, you mentioned nothing about Sister Camille."

He had stopped and turned back around to face her. "I did not think it would make a difference."

"Well, it certainly does. You may tell Sister Camille that I accept her offer for tutoring, and that I very much appreciate it."

He grinned tiredly. "Very well, I shall tell her."

Their first reunion was a very happy one. Camille embraced her, smiling brightly and cheerfully laughing. "I was so delighted when I heard of your engagement to be wed. It came as a surprise to me. You see, it was assumed Lord Trent would be wed to Roselle of Lyndinburg, the earl of Lyndinburg's daughter. But when you descended the steps that morning and I beheld you...well, Lord Trent, I knew, would behold you just the same, and with the addition of being a man. Then I spoke with Father Nelson—briefly, mind you." She almost whispered, "He explained it all to me: The letter. Jacob's reaction to it then and now. I am so very happy for him and for you. It must have been fate that brought you together."

She had thought so herself, but did not mention it.

She and Camille began meeting so ever often in the week. Rachel would ride into Harp and spend nearly the entire day there. Not that they only focused upon noble etiquette. They also spent a great deal of time simply talking and sharing a laugh about this or that. But she did learn things that she hadn't read about or heard or thought of, such as the proper way to accept a glass of wine, how to bow the head so ever slightly when greeting a Lesser Nobles, toward the left only. It was only proper to bow the head toward the right when greeting a Higher Noble.

"How is one to know whether a man is a Lesser or a Higher?"

"Have you noticed Jacob's clothing? He dones a red emblem...engraved into many of his vestments, usually on the lapel...which is the case always during social events. They purposely do this."

Just how anyone kept up with all of this was beyond her. She imagined it would take some time. But she had all the time in the world. She only wondered...how long did he have? Maybe longer than he imagined. She certainly hoped so.

******

Three weeks altogether passed and the day of the wedding came

about. Rachel began preparing herself early and accordingly. The gown was laid out; so beautiful, like something from a book or a dream—a child's dream.

Her bath had been accomplished, her hair was washed and dried. Zaria would brush and fix it in a short while. Later, so soon as evening was about to set in, she would shed her robe and array herself in the elegant gown made especially for her. The seamstresses and clothier had done an excellent job designing it.

She touched the silk train, all sorts of emotions washing over her. Could it be? Was she truly about to become the wife of Jacob Trent, Lord of The Great City, the finest city in all New Ebony?

Butterflies swarmed in her stomach, amazement consumed her heart. But erratic stabs of fright kept her from being at complete ease. Could she actually go through with this? Honestly, there were sporadic temptations to run and run hard.

She paced the floor, eventually stopping before the window from which she stared out at the courtyard below. This would be an outdoor wedding, just as she'd dreamt about as a child...before the idea of choosing the Sacred Vows over marital one's had ever entered her mind. The large enclosure was decorated with all sorts of flowers and greenery and statues of lions and birds, gentlemen and ladies. A red carpet was in the process of being rolled out down the center of the area where they would be wed. It would lead from the entrance of the chapel to a platform where the vows were to be exchanged. Candles floated atop the water encircling the fountain. They would be lit, along with dozens of torches encircling the immediate area. And dozens of bridesmaids and grooms would stand in perfect harmony, dressed accordingly. It would be spectacular.

She wondered for possibly the hundredth time if she was making a mistake, furthermore, if she would be punished. She was more-or-less trading her heavenly commitment for a worldly one. Was she at all in the right to abandon her calling?

She recalled the hefty donation, and that she was not obligated to do anything, nor had she ever been. She was marrying Jacob because she loved him. No, this trading of worldly vows in exchange for her heavenly ones had nothing to do with money. It was Jacob. It was love.

It was as she stood gaping at the scene below, people coming and going, mostly servants arranging things about the premises and guards strolling about, that the door opened and Tilly burst into the room. She came toward her with such force it seemed she would run directly into her.

Rachel's hands instantly came out to take her by the shoulders. "Tilly! What is it?"

"It—it's...." she stopped, trying to catch her breath.

"Tilly!" She shook her. "What has happened?"

"It is Sir Trent. He—he is ill. The sickness that comes and goes has come upon him. He is very ill."

Rachel released her and after a quick glance from her face to the door, to her face and the door again, she nudged her aside and hasted from the room, rushing from one corridor to another and to the doors of Jacob's private quarters. The entrance was secured by two guards, one at the left, one the right. They simultaneously stepped in front of her as she would have gone inside.

"He is sick, milady," explained the one, "and being tended to."

"Let me by," she urged, dodging one to the left and the other the right.

"He is ill," said the other.

"And I am his fiancé," she loudly reminded before again commanding, "Let me by!"

At this point her fists were clenched and her expression had gone from suppliant to bold and grave. The two glanced from her to one another and then, although hesitantly, stepped aside just as simultaneously as they'd stood together. Rachel burst into the cozy, unoccupied drawing room and hasted toward a second set of doors, this leading into a bedchamber. Two maidens instantly looked up from the bed where Jacob lied. They had been caring for him, both using damp towels to dab his skin with cold water.

She rushed to the bedside, nudging one of the maidens out of the way. She eased down to sit on the edge of the bed, examining his pale, sweaty skin. She took one of his hands, casting her eyes upon the maiden opposite her.

"Where is the physician?" She demanded to know.

"He has gone to fetch another dose of his remedy, milady," answered the one nearest her instead. Rachel took the damp towel from her hand and began smoothing it across Jacob's forehead. "Jacob," she quietly called, frowning deeply at the sight of him in such a shape.

"He cannot hear you," said the one, a hint of scorn in her voice.

"He only comes to on and off," said the other.

Rachel took a moment to peer at them both before refocusing on his sickly face. "Jacob," she quietly called to him, and was ever relieved when he said her name in response.

Still his eyes were closed; he was barely awake, too close to barely alive, it seemed. But she did not care even if he could barely hear her, only that he could at all...this was reassuring.

"Rachel," he whispered.

"Yes, I am here."

His brows came together as if from pain. "This," he began, his voice very quiet, "it's a curse to me."

"No," she disagreed. "It—It is an illness, not a curse."

"Of all days this one. Could it not have waited one more?"

"You will get well," she both hoped and assured, hating to see him in this condition...despising it, even.

His eyes were beginning to open now. He raised the hand she held to, touching it to her cheek. "I have never been so disappointed, nor so certain that fate has set her face against me. It is not meant for me to be happy."

"You mustn't believe such things."

"Perhaps," he slowly continued, "I lost that right many years ago with my tyrannical ways. My...my wicked deeds."

After hearing him, she glanced up at the maiden nearest her. "Go and seek the physician. Tell him to be quick."

While the maiden did as asked, she looked up at the second. "Leave us," she calmly ordered, and when the maiden hesitated to budge, she said it a second time...this time louder. "Leave us!" To this the maiden quickly turned and hasted from the room. Rachel returned her attention to him, her eyes shadowed by utter sadness. "You shouldn't say such things," she scolded. "It isn't so."

"You did not know me," he told her, "the horrible man I was."

"We have all made mistakes. None of them are held eternally against us, not after we've changed them."

"And what were yours?" He asked, his gaze, although sluggish, set upon her. "Tell me, Rachel the Elder, what horrible deeds did you ever commit? And you were so near to making these vows to me and doing away with your calling. Perhaps that is the reason for my downfall this day. It was not meant to be. Or could this merely be coincidence?"

"I don't believe either of those things."

"Seeing me in this condition...you will change your mind altogether."

She shook her head, and would have spoken. But when she parted her lips nothing came out for she heard the voice of that second maiden in the adjoining room, complaining to someone else that she "should not be disturbing him at a time like this". Rachel was instantly angered by the complaint. Both her heart and her eyes hardened upon hearing it.

"Do not worry, Holly," she heard Marcus say with a reassuring voice. "It is well."

With that he came thru the doorway looking as if he'd just arrived from some endeavor with his worn clothes and dusky features—perhaps he had for she had not witnessed his livelihood since the day following the wedding announcement.

She refocused her attention upon Jacob's pale face, wishing the physician would hurry with his medicine.

"You should rest," she told him, although in a way fearing if he slept he would never again awaken. The thought caused her heart to sink with a terrible sadness and her eyes to sting with tears.

"Rest," he repeated. "I will have plenty time to rest after I have gone into the grave, when death has called my name and I've fallen into that dark, terrible sleep."

"You will live," she assured him, "as you have before."

"Who knows what awaits a man on the other side."

"You needn't fear death," she said to him. Her face came closer as she said, "You are not a bad man, nor are you being punished, nor will you die."

"I was well and then—"

"This is how it comes and goes," Marcus told her, "without warning." He came closer, stopping at the foot of the bed. "Another date may be set for the wedding."

"Another date," Jacob repeated, closing his eyes as if to block out the very idea.

"You will become all the more ill if you do not adapt to the idea."

His eyes opened again. "Adapt," he scowled, reprimanding not Marcus, but the word in itself. He winced painfully. Rachel glanced toward the door, wondering just what in the world was taking the physician so long. But the pain seemed to go as quickly as it'd come. His expression relaxed again. His chest rose and fell while he simply rested. She figured and hoped whatever medicines the physician had gone after would ease his bouts of pain.

"Will the remedy ease the pain?" she asked.

"For a time," Marcus quietly told her.

She inhaled a deep breath, grieved by the situation altogether. "For how long?" She asked.

"So long as it is needed," Marcus told her. "It will be administered to him, and then another to help him rest, which has thus far proven the best remedy of all. The first several hours are the worst. But when this stage passes the pain goes with it and he sleeps. The fever will come and go until he is completely well again."

She understood in a daze, staring at Jacob's pale face, the circles beneath his eyes and beads of sweat on his forehead. Using the towel she gently wiped them away, her brows drawn together as her mind raced with all sorts of thoughts.

"Another day may be set," Marcus reminded, as if reading her mind.

"No," she quietly disagreed with the shake of her head.

Jacob forced his eyes opened, thinking she had changed her mind altogether. She took her hand to herself, straightening her posture, her eyes skipping about as she contemplated a remedy of her own. "There's no need to set another date," she finally said. "We will say our vows here."

"What?" Marcus asked.

"Here?" Jacob followed.

A smile threatened to touch her lips while the idea became all the more satisfying...and not just satisfying, but possible. "After your pain has eased and you have rested, I shall call for Father Nelson, and those sent by the emperor to stand in as witnesses, and choice of the Higher Nobles as well. The outer room—it could comfortably contain a few dozen people. I will have them chosen, the most important, and they will this day see the vows exchanged between us."

"Milady," Marcus began to object, "It would not be such a difficult matter to have the nobles return on another date. It is obviously necessary. I propose it be scheduled for another time."

"And I propose it be done as planned," she said, peering up at him. "Today," she added. She instantly smiled while refocusing upon Jacob. She took his hands in hers and leaned closer. "Just give me the word and I will arrange it."

"How could you approve of such a thing?"

"One needn't approve of an idea when it was theirs to begin with."

"What sort of memory would it be? A lady awaits such a day, and anticipates a good wedding, a perfect one."

"I, milord, am not every lady. And you are wrong. There are others who would do this very same thing."

She could already see some color coming back to his face. "Would it make you happy?"

"I would be very pleased to have you as my wife before the midnight hour."

"Then it will be so." She stood and called out to the maiden who'd stood near the door simply watching and listening. "Holly," she called, recalling her name, and saying it with the note of ire she felt toward her for having complained about her presence in the room. "Continue to care for him," she told her, and then Jacob, "you should rest for a time. The physician will bring the medicine to help you sleep, just a while. And as soon as you are over this stage of the illness and able, we will say our vows here...in the outer chamber."

******

While Jacob rested, Rachel went about making preparations for the change of events. Tilly, Roselyn and Zaria helped prepare the outer chamber, quietly so as to not awaken Jacob in the next room. His young page, Galvan, and Edwin, his closest guard, went about explaining the change of events to the heralds with few words. The word spread while the room was properly prepared. Roselyn went off to see to it Galvin and Edwin had succeeded with their mission. Tilly trailed away to have goblets and bottles of wine delivered to the room. Zaria went off without any direct order or explanation. Rachel stood in the outer chamber going thru the noble invitation cards, separating the names of the Higher Nobles and their ladies wherever applicable—those who would witness the exchanging of their vows. It was as she did this a voice sounded from the doorway saying, "It should have been postponed."

She turned to get a look at Marcus whom, with hands in the pockets of his worn-out trousers, stood leaning in the doorway. "Don't you think?" He added.

She turned her attention away from a shirt in need of tucking, back to the cards. "I can't see where it matters the conditions under which a man and woman exchange their vows."

"Despite his illness, something you have no knowledge of...without consulting Edison. Does he approve of this?"

"You heard him yourself. He wishes it to be so before the midnight hour."

"After you had insisted it." Hands in pockets he stepped inside. "Why are you doing this?"

She inhaled a very deep breath, becoming very impatient with him. "I assure you, Sir Marcus, my reasons are genuine and not at all what you or any other may suppose."

"And what would that be? What would I or anyone else possibly suppose?"

Her eyes gradually slanted at him. "I don't take kindly to your pernicious accusations, Sir Marcus, or to the discourteous manner in which you choose to reveal them."

"Have I said anything to accuse you?"

"You needn't verbally accuse me, you do so with your eyes."

She refocused upon the invitation cards and began flipping quite harshly thru them, so annoyed she could hardly think straight or even see the names as she shuffled past them. Had she ever felt so exasperated by any one person? Certainly, she supposed, but this differed in that her character was being questioned...or so it seemed. And her motives—had anyone ever verbally questioned them? Not at all that she could recall.

Even if Marcus Wren was suspicious of her, what right had he to so boldly confront her?

Her chest had begun to rise and fall, but she quickly got hold of her temper, commanding herself to be calm, and did not speak until she knew for sure her voice would come out at least somewhat as lenient as she intended it to.

"My reasons are honorable. I suggest you be honorable yourself and simply do as is required of you. Be the friend he has claimed you to be, not only to him, but to me as well. Support him. It is my understanding you will stand alongside him during the exchanging of the vows. I do not think it unreasonable to request you prepare yourself for the occasion."

She continued her task which was close enough to being accomplished. Without this interruption it would have gone quicker and she could focus upon something else. She intended to call upon Caleb and Nicholas to address the overall palace Guard whose assistance would be needed prior to and following the wedding.

Marcus watched her for a space of time. The room was very quiet except for the sound of her hands shuffling through the cards. His voice, therefore, sounded rather loud when he spoke.

"You love him," he said.

Her hands instantly stopped what they were doing. She moved first her eyes to look at him and then her head. "Shouldn't I?" She asked with the quirk of a brow. "We have taken this time to become acquainted, nearly six weeks altogether. Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. He is not a difficult man to love."

"Then the agreement will not stay."

Her brows came together as his words brought only one thing to mind. "The agreement," she repeated, hoping for sure he meant something other than what first came to mind.

"Have you forgotten it?"

She considered Jacob in the next room. What would he think of his friend bringing up such a thing? She, herself, was not sure what to think of it. She turned her attention toward one of the two doors leading to Jacob's bedchamber which had been left slightly opened. She dismissed the cards atop the table and made her way toward that specific door. Jacob was still sound asleep from the medicine. But it was sure to wear off sooner or later. Judging from the time that'd lapsed, she imagined soon.

She closed the door quietly together behind her back, gaping at Marcus; he certainly had some nerve! Now she would not do as well to censure herself. There was no time to stop from saying and doing exactly as she simply felt. "How dare you!" She hissed, and began walking toward him. "How dare you!"

"Yet once again I am out of line."

"Indeed you are, Sir Marcus. You speak without thinking. Are you trying to provoke me?"

He said nothing at all to this.

She straightened her shoulders. "I suggest from this day forward you guard your tongue in my presence. I do not take kindly to you probing into my private affairs. Private," she repeated, and quietly finished; "These things are between Jacob and I and have nothing to do with you."

"He made them known to me."

"I do not care," she loudly returned, and then quieted her voice to say, "That does not give you a right to say these things to me."

"Forgive me," he plainly apologized. "I have spoken my mind where I should have been silent, or rather done away with whatever thoughts I wasn't permitted to speak in the first place."

"Are you sporting with me, Sir Marcus?"

"No," he immediately answered. "I am not."

"Then what are your intentions? These-these outlandish inquiries!"

"Perhaps I and the citizens of Westerly have something in common," he quietly replied. "Perhaps I would rather you remain as you are...virtuous. For what reason I cannot say. But that is a possibility that I, myself, must even question."

He studied her closely...in a way that made her feel as if he, this close friend and alliance of her soon-to-be husband, the All Trusted Marcus Wren, had some sort of feelings for her. His eyes were very sleepy now...tired-looking. They skimmed over her, and he took a step back. As he would have made an exit she called out after him, "Sir Marcus!" He stopped, turning about to face her once more. She observed his eyes, how very down-trodden and regretful they were.

She inhaled a deep breath and proceeded with an exhale. "I will forget this conversation and pretend it did not take place. Not for your sake...but for Jacob's."

After a brief stare, he turned and walked away. When he was gone, she returned to the table, retrieving the cards she'd momentarily disregarded. But now she couldn't concentrate. The conversation replayed itself, and she felt immensely troubled by it.

She recalled his eyes, his stature. Was Jacob's dearest friend just a curious man or...? She couldn't think of him sporting with her, for it made her heart pound and the air difficult to breathe. She felt as if she was smothering. Eventually, she set the cards aside and left the room. She made a hasty exit and her way up the hall, taking a path rarely taken; so she'd observed during the course of the past few weeks. Her steps quickened until she was almost running. By the time she burst thru the chapel doors she was out of breath. Beads of sweat had popped up on her forehead. She travelled the aisle and fell to her knees at the altar.

"Have mercy," she quietly pled, her voice a mere whisper. That final image of Marcus had planted itself in her mind as if to become a permanent fixture, and those words they'd exchanged in reference to her virtue. She should be furious, but it seemed he had managed to arouse some curiosity in her...and other emotions that she did not even want to face.

"Have mercy on me," she repeated and with her head bowed began to weep. Not harshly. But she cried there a short time until the final conversation she'd had with Jacob took the place of that she'd had with Marcus. She heard his voice. She saw his expressions from that day and those before it—over five weeks of good memories: pleasant conversations, laughter, of dining, strolling hand in hand.

Her eyes dried. She rose up, wiping them, thinking about what she was about to do. Yes, she was so close to marrying the man that she did, in fact, love. Yes, she did love him. And he loved her. Dearly.

She considered the wedding, however peculiar it would be. She could see the people gathered around, and see the joy in his eyes, and she felt it in her heart. She smiled to herself, and even laughed. Happiness suddenly consumed her, filling her to the brim with joy, peace and satisfaction. A surge of excitement coursed through her veins. Yes, she was about to marry the man she loved. A man she had not planned to love. Surely this was meant to be. Yes, of course.

She began making her way back to the palace, this time taking the normal route. Her steps hastened. The eyes of servants and guards settled upon her as she passed by them. People gazed curiously. She couldn't help laugh at them. She stopped at one point, taking the hands of an elder lady, Hattie, who was in charge of dusting and sweeping the chapel—Hattie who'd simply stood by as if for no particular reason at all.

"I will be the happiest bride." Rachel told her, and then startled her with an impulsive hug. She'd never felt better. Yes, this was the perfect thing to do. The decision was final.
CHAPTER SEVEN

The scene of the wedding was beautiful!

The room had been so swiftly decorated with flowers and ribbons and banners, and even a few of the statues from outside. The rugs had been replaced with some more suitable for the occasion, and candles lit the room from every angle. The windows had been covered with black silk...so that it was not extremely lit, and so the candles could give the room a more intimate feel.

The medicine given to Jacob had allowed him to rest and now feel no pain. As stated, the most painful part of the illness was over. But he was still tired and not himself at all...but very much in his right mind.

Now, it was still evident that he was ill, but those present overlooked his sickness, choosing rather to focus upon the actual exchanging of the vows; the fact that Jacob Trent would be wed as he so desired that day despite it all, in sickness or in health. It was quite inspirational.

Getting properly dressed was time-consuming and quite exhausting for Jacob. But he was determined to do this, and persevered despite his physical ailment. In the end, he and Rachel appeared every bit a king and a queen, he in his white suit with gold trimming...she in her beautiful silk and lace gown with its long train which Tilly and Zaria arranged in an almost circular form on the floor behind her. Pleased glances were exchanged amongst their witnesses, and quiet words of praise.

And they stood side by side before Father Nelson and before the gazes of the Higher Nobles, those she'd chosen simply from having paid attention and noticed which were the most important to Jacob. None seemed to care the location of the wedding, only that it was taking place, and they were happy for him. Yes, lords and ladies alike stood wearing the same peaceful expressions upon their very peaceful faces, arrayed in their very fine and decent apparel. They were handsome and beautiful themselves. The scene was glorious. They waited. They watched. They listened. The sacred marital vows were exchanged.

To the direct right of Rachel stood Tilly and Zaria, dressed beautifully themselves in matching yellow gowns, wreaths of flowers settled upon their heads. To the direct left of Jacob stood Edwin and also Marcus—a selfless expression upon his face as if he'd forgotten all about the words he and Rachel had earlier exchanged. When it became suitable to do so he handed Jacob a ring which Jacob in return slipped onto her finger. They were pronounced husband and wife.

The guests of the occasion applauded while Tilly and Zaria did as they'd been instructed to do, swinging open the windows and tossing out flowers of various colors so that they caught in the air, blowing and drifting, carried with the breeze in all directions. Jacob and Rachel exchanged their first actual kiss, pressing their lips gently together, holding them there for a time, pulling away with shadows of pleasure and sparks of joy in their eyes. The guests clapped fingertips to palms, and she happily joined the maidens at the window.

They stepped aside so that she could come forth. Leaning forward she extended the bouquet of flowers she'd been holding to, tossing it out and into the air. It landed on the ground amidst a crowd, and into the hands of a young girl who snatched it up as if it were a small fortune. Rachel waved down at her while everyone below applauded and cheered with delight. She rejoined Jacob. He had accepted a goblet of wine from Percival who, if she was not mistaken, was so close to weeping. Rachel also accepted one, smiling a bit pitifully but amused at the emotional steward.

Everyone in the room was likewise offered a glass. When it was finished and every hand holding the stem of a wine-filled chalice, Jacob raised his, and everyone with him theirs, to propose a toast. "To my beautiful bride," he said, "to my wife." And he leaned over to kiss her so very soft and simply, yet passionately on the lips. They raised their chalices and drank.

"This," Jacob afterward said, "is by far the happiest day of my life." He was obviously tired and drained, the illness sucking a great deal of life out of him. But he was strong for the moment, refusing to let his sickness interfere with the most important day of his life.

Afterward, the nobles took turns greeting them as husband and wife, bowing their heads, the men shaking his hand and planting a light kiss upon hers. The women bowed their heads so slightly, congratulating him, and leaned in to drop a kiss on both her left and right cheek. The duchess of Tarot took a moment longer than the others, taking Rachel's shoulders and gently hugging them. She pulled away, a smile Rachel had never witnessed and could not have even imagined touching her lips, proceeding to her eyes and her entire face. "May you live a long and peaceful life. May you be happy."

Before Rachel could dwell upon the recollection of the duchess admitting her own unhappiness, she was pulled closer, a kiss planted on her left cheek. The lady continued to smile at her as if to say, "it is well", and then turned with her husband, the duke, who'd also stood before her, bowing and kissing the top of her hand. The well-mannered pair was escorted by a duo of guards from the room—just as the couples before them. Squires and pages also followed behind as they'd been instructed to do. Rachel had thought everything through...and everything fell perfectly into place.

Marcus was the final one to step up before them. The room was now vacant except for Tilly, Zaria and Roselyn, Holly and the other maiden who cared for Jacob, other servants and guards, Edison the physician, Father Nelson. Grinning deeply, Marcus shook Jacob's hand, leaned forward so that they almost hugged but didn't. He patted his shoulder with his free hand.

"Congratulations, my friend," he said, obviously straight from the heart, and his eyes fell upon Rachel. She felt a disturbing hesitance as he stepped before her. Any recollection of the conversation from earlier in the day vanished as if to have never occurred. He grinned pleasantly, handsomely, and taking her hand dropped a very light and gentle kiss upon it, raising himself only to afterward bow slightly at the waist and to audibly hail, "Lady Trent." It was the first she was greeted by the title, and she felt particularly pleased by it.

She, too, bowed her head, accepting the gesture with genuine ease. He turned away, following the lead of the others except on his own. No guards went with him. His final words to her repeated themselves again and again in her mind. "Lady Trent." The greeting stuck in her head. She was now Lady Trent and felt utterly satisfied, pleased to be so named.

She felt a unique elation...one that made her understand for the first time in her life what it meant to wonder if something was just a dream. Would she awaken to find none of this had actually happened? The idea of having just dreamt it all from beginning to end put a terrible sinking dread in her heart and stomach.

No, she decided. This was no dream. She was Lady Trent. She was Jacob's wife. She was thankful for it all. And did not take a single moment to question whether it was meant to be or not, or to question any one of her feelings. They were all understandable, and she accepted them.

"Lady Trent." Now it was Father Nelson's turn to stand before and greet her. He had a glass of wine now, which he raised to propose a toast to them and them alone. Grinning with satisfaction he said, "May you see many good days, and be blessed with unity, happiness, and many healthy children."

Rachel smiled softy, glancing from one to the other and raised her glass for a second drink of wine. Father Nelson afterward lowered his hand. He studied the ceiling, smacking his lips to analyze the wine's flavor. "Ah!" he grinned. "Good. Very good, indeed."

And with that he was led away by Caleb alone. Rachel nodded at her handmaidens, giving them permission to also leave the room. Jacob took her hand, grinning at her with a face that became paler before the very eyes. Now that they were alone he would not have to fight so hard against his ill condition.

"You have made me a very happy man," he said, and lowered his head to drop a kiss on her hand. Edison popped up beside of them.

"You must rest," he told Jacob.

"Must I?" Jacob asked, grinning down at her. But he did not intend to argue against the notion or to disregard it, for he knew it was unavoidable. Edison directed him toward the bedchamber and he went along. Rachel guided him to a chair nearby his bed. Holly and the second nursemaid, Mable, followed behind and then stood still simply awaiting orders.

While Edison prepared a dose of medicine, Rachel knelt to remove his boots. She smiled up at him as she did so. "I can see you are pleased," she said.

"Very much so," he agreed. "You make a very beautiful bride, Rachel Trent, and me the happiest man in the world for sure."

She removed his second boot, setting it aside and stood. He'd taken her hand now, and stood with her. They embraced, the first time as husband and wife. She nestled her cheek against his strong shoulder. His arms came up around her. He exhaled as if in relief. She felt a single tear slide from the corner of her eye, down her cheek and onto his shirt. She blinked to keep any others from following. "I am very happy, too," she said quietly to him. "I truly am."

He ran the tip of a finger along her jaw and offered a grin, although a tired one it was. "Your eyes tell me so. I can't say they have been so dazzling, not that I recall."

"I feel dazzling," she said. "If that is at all possible."

"It must be. You are glowing like a star."

She raised a hand to smooth away beads of perspiration from his brow. "We must get you back into bed," she dreaded to say. "You need rest."

"I would rather celebrate the occasion."

"And you will," she told him. "After the ailment has passed we will celebrate, you and I. We'll dine and maybe go for a ride about the countryside. The beautiful spot you took me where the water falls and the deer openly drink from the stream."

"Such ideas you come up with. One would think you have done this sort of thing before, or perhaps considered it."

"Never," she defended knowing he already knew it for himself.

His illness was about to get the best of him. It was time for his medicine and for him to lie down and rest. His suit was removed from him, and he was led to his bed and tucked in. Jacob drank Edison's concoction straight down without a single wince although she imagined it did not taste well at all.

Rachel sat and dropped her head on his chest while Jacob began falling into a deep sleep. She closed her eyes, knowing the two maidens were watching but not caring. She felt the steady rise and fall of his chest. "Rest well," she quietly told him, but it was too late. He was already fast asleep.

******

Rachel spent the remainder of the evening entertaining guests, blending in quite well, which she'd feared she wouldn't. It was almost as if she'd known these people all along, those closest to the man she'd wed. They were all kind and a delight to entertain. She also accepted gifts, everything from paintings and golden chalices to rugs, collections of books, jewelry and even a few new household servants...not that they were needed, but she accepted them just the same as if they were. The witnesses sent by the emperor presented the most valuable gift of all...a small chest of gold which she had delivered to Jacob's quarters immediately.

She was careful not to consume too much wine, yet by the end of the night, she was well aware that she'd had her decent share. No, it had not taken much to make her a bit tipsy. Not much at all.

Not an entirely bad feeling, but she scolded herself once it was over and done with, even as she lay down to sleep. But she slept that night, peacefully. Very, very peacefully.

The following morning, after dressing and speaking briefly with a few of their overnight guests, she checked up on the condition of her husband. She had heard that he was awake now, and that he was better. She wanted to see for herself.

He was sitting up when she entered, and grinned at the sight of her. He waved a hand at Holly and Mable, commanding them to leave, and extended an arm to welcome her. She sat beside of him. He kissed her on the forehead. "A beautiful sight this morning," he commended.

"And our first as husband and wife," she added, wondering why it took Holly so long to gather her supplies and go. "You seem to have recovered a great deal. Has the illness eased itself?"

"Unusually, I do believe it will leave as quickly as it came."

"I have hoped and prayed so," she generously returned.

"Perhaps that is the reason for this unusual, speedy recovery...your hopes and prayers." He kissed her on the temple. "I trust the remainder of last evening went well. According to Percival, it was an entire success."

"It was," she assured. "Some of the guests departed, others did so this morning, and others shall within the day."

"I had considered rising up and going to greet them. Edison insisted not. I certainly appreciate their attendance."

"They know that themselves. Your friends are fine people—gentle-natured and goodhearted. I enjoyed getting better acquainted with them. They were certainly generous with their gifts. The emperor sent a small chest of gold." She glanced around. "I had it delivered here to your room."

"Rest assured...it was safely transported to Darius early morning." He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. "What's that you have there?" He asked referring to the book in her hand.

"I discovered it in the library," she explained. "It's a fascinating collection of poetry from Pearl Hagar."

"Pearl Hagar, yes, a brilliant young artist."

"You've read his work," she guessed.

"I've little patience for such a pastime, and little time. Even during this illness I cannot read. The concentration it requires only serves to agitate me. No, but I have met the man in person."

"Oh?"

"Many years ago. He was imprisoned for including some passages in his work that the emperor thought of as derogatory."

"Derogatory?"

"Critical of him. He was freed, of course, but under the condition he would travel elsewhere...overseas."

"You did well to acquire a copy of his work. Some of his writings are quite amusing. I thought I could read to you while you rest."

He kissed her temple. "That would be well with me."

"Have you eaten?"

"Nothing appeals to me, but none to worry, my appetite shall return after I have resumed my normal activities."

Her expression became one of concern and interest. "How long does this ailment hinder you?"

"Once upon a time three, four days. And then five and six days. Now it may linger anywhere from seven to eight days, although this time I am certain it will pass quickly."

"And the physician hasn't an answer."

"Over the years I have been tended to by many physicians. This has occurred since I was a young lad, only not near as severe. These physicians all share the same opinion. The illness is uncommon and cannot be identified."

Silence fell and she sat back with him, leaning closer and opening the book before them, and she began to read. He closed his eyes to listen, and she could feel the gentle vibration of his chest and stomach from time to time as he silently laughed.

They were simultaneously amused by one particular passage, laughing when Marcus came into the room; an entrance that she felt instantly disturbed by. Without announcement or approval nobody other than the physician and his helpers were able to simply enter the chamber, yet he did so freely as if expected at any given moment.

She proceeded with the final sentence of what she'd been reading, and then stood closing the book. "You were correct with your opinion of his work," Jacob softly admonished. "He is comical in his writings. Hearing them does me good."

"I'm glad of it," she commented, and began straightening the blankets. Jacob focused upon Marcus who'd stepped deeper into the room, obviously satisfied at the improved condition of his friend.

"Ah, Marcus," he admired, "My reed in the wind." His eyes swept over his pants and loose shirt. "And from the looks of it you are about to be blown into some unpredictable direction."

Rachel considered the fact that after the exchanging of the vows, Marcus had disappeared. She'd not only wondered where he'd gone off to, but why he'd fled so swiftly and without a word to anyone. Several guards and guests had asked of his whereabouts. Nobody knew for certain. He certainly hadn't explained anything to her.

"I see the maidens have not exaggerated their accounts of your wellbeing," Marcus commented. "You have already recovered some. But I have something that may be of use." He reached inside a pocket removing a handkerchief. He unfolded it before their eyes thus revealing a mound of greenish herbs. He raised a foot atop the seat of the chair and rested his elbows on his knee, leaning forward to make the herbs more visible to Jacob. "I have brought these from Port Templeton. They will make you feel all the better."

Rachel stared from the herbs to his face. "None to worry, Lady Trent," he casually commented. "I wouldn't dare poison him. Not until he is well enough to pay me for my most recent undertaking." He planted his foot to the floor, choosing to sit opposed to using the piece of furniture as a footrest.

"Port Templeton," Jacob repeated while Rachel went about mindlessly straightening the room. "When did you go?"

"Not long after your vows were exchanged. I had some, um, matters to attend there. Don't worry about these," he encouraged in reference to the herbs. "I had the honor of trying them out for myself. I feel no pain or discomfort, even after a night of heavy drinking."

He got a laugh from this. "No man has ever been so faithful to me as this one," Jacob told Rachel. "Where others may come and go, he is always welcomed."

She made her way around the bed and accepted the handkerchief, careful not to scatter or lose any of the herbs. "How does one prepare them?"

"The same as tea...with sugar and lemon for taste." He observed Jacob. "How do you feel, my friend? I must say, you look much better today."

"I feel much better."

"I'm content to hear it...rather to see so for myself. Now I can go about my way again."

"Where to?"

"The Isles."

"Ah, yes, the Isles. I had nearly forgotten. You are at the disposal of Duke Norton."

"Lord Fleming has been at odds with him, stationing guards along the borders as if to provoke him."

"Nothing you can't remedy, I'm sure."

"I'm confident I've accomplished it already, and also that I will be paying the emperor a visit in the near future."

"Soon?"

"The next month or so, perhaps."

"I should like for you to tell me before you go. I have scrolls to be delivered to him."

"Anything of importance, I could—"

"No, no, just standard records of the goings-on in the city."

"I see."

"When will you return from the Isles?"

"So soon as the feat is over, however long it takes. I also have matters to settle between Earl Hemway and Lord Madison. But if these documents are of importance, I may deliver them now."

"Yes, yes, but it can be put off."

Hearing him, Marcus stood and took a step back. "Be well, my friend. I must be on my way now."

"I've yet a man to oversee the Guard while Sir Edward is away. He suddenly departed for some domestic concerns. I had hoped you would appoint someone in my stead."

"I've already made such an appointment," he told him. "Sir Miles has agreed to take his place for a time. I trust him with the job."

"Then I shall trust him as well."

"As you should also trust Winston with the transporting of prisoners into the West Isles. Not only that, but the delivery of any private messages in the stead of Pearce for the time being."

"Pearce?" He frowned heavily upon this. "I trust nobody other than you or he in regards to those things. You know this. For what cause has he withdrawn himself?"

"Reasonable ones," he told him. "I would not want to say in the presence of you wife." He cast Rachel a charmed glance which she returned with a harsh one of her own. She did not like being kept in the dark: something she hadn't noticed prior coming to the Great City. Perhaps since nothing had ever been withheld from her in Westerly. But she was fast learning that she wanted to know everything going on around her...both inside the palace and without.

Her eyes narrowed upon him, but not vengefully. "You may speak, Sir Marcus. I assure you, my ears have not been hidden from certain truths...especially those concerning the manly kind."

"I would rather resist the defamation of his character which could very well suffer slack. Pearce is an innocent man."

This Jacob seemed to understand. "I see," he said, staring forward as if to think a situation through. "A few hours of sickness and every damnation transpires."

"I am confident the guilty man will come forth. For the time being, Pearce must be in hiding."

"He needn't hide," Jacob calmly argued. "Not under my protection."

"It will be a short spell," Marcus assured, and then taking a step back assured, "I will send word before my return if able," and then bowed before turning. He nodded, "Milady," and then swept by her and from the room. At the same time, Edison entered to give Jacob a dose of medicine. Rachel dropped a kiss on his forehead, assuring him she would return and saying, "I will hand these over to the cooks," in reference to the herbs.

She departed the chamber and found herself searching for Marcus. She found him in the quarters he was known to keep in the latter process of getting his things together.

She tapped on the door, which was slightly opened to begin with. Although discovering her, he said nothing, which she took as permission to enter.

"Will you leave now?" She asked. "At the moment?"

He cast her an uncertain glance before saying, "If there's something you must speak to me about..." He proceeded to tie a bag closed. "I can afford a short delay."

She fell silent, her gaze to the floor. "What is it?" He urged, his brows coming together, and then his expression relaxed as he guessed. "His health?"

She simply shook her head. "I'm certain he will be well."

Marcus proceeded to tighten the knot he'd made in his satchel. "Yes, he will get well," he confirmed. "This illness has plagued him for many, many years. It passes, and he springs up like a new man. During the time he is well he makes up for that lost."

"One must wonder if it will one day defeat him altogether."

To this he said nothing, simply occupied himself with the satchel and then a parchment of some sort which he began to roll up.

"I have a request," she finally said.

He raised a curious brow. "Of me?"

"Yes, I..." she hesitated, studying the floor a moment before proceeding. "The Isles. I wonder the direction you must take to get there."

"The Eastern Isles lie off the Eastern border."

"Are they a great distance from Westerly?"

"A few days journey. Two, three at the most. Ironic, isn't it?" He commented. "A community in the east called Westerly."

"You must not know its history."

"I was not a worthy pupil in my youth. Even so, I doubt the founding of Westerly would've been discussed."

"In any case, it was founded by a Sir West Lee."

"Sir?" He almost grinned. "Also ironic."

"People began to pronounce it Westerly. See, it makes perfect sense."

"Why do you ask about the distance between those places?"

"The money that was given to me for them."

"I would've assumed you'd had it delivered by now."

"By whose hand? Not to say Jacob's messengers are not trustworthy. But the fewer who know about it, the better. Besides, greed can take hold of even the most authentic man."

"I cannot argue that, milady."

"I wonder if perhaps...I mean, since you will be so near if-if you could just take a few days and—"

"—of course," he quickly interrupted. "I would be honored, although for whose sake I cannot say."

"The sake of the poor," she decided for him, smiling at the arrangement. Coming closer she bent and reached beneath her gown, eventually raising up and bringing into view a rather large sack of coins. She did this a second time, untying the item from her lower left leg.

Marcus raised a brow at this. "You have been carrying these about?" He asked, taking the second bag of coins, examining its weight with the rise and fall of the hand.

"Since it was placed into my care."

"I imagine it would have been safe in some other place...but now it's a surety." He raised his free hand, caressed her chin, and then turned to find a suitable place to stash the gift. "And when I reach Westerly," he wondered, "who should I seek out?"

"A lady by the name of Agatha: Sister Agatha. You will find her easily, either at the chapel or the orphanage or the home for the widows...depending upon the time of day."

"Is there a message also that I should pass along?"

"Only that I am well."

"Is that all?"

Feeling a bit guilty for keeping this change of events to herself, she avoided his gaze. But then she remembered his comment about her being ashamed to tell them. Her chin went in the air. "I suppose you could explain what has happened."

"Word travels, milady. I am sure they have heard it by now."

"Not necessarily so. Westerly is—"

"—I know," he interrupted, "a different sort of place."

She agreed with silence, and after having quickly studied the situation said, "If you have the time I could write a message now explaining it."

"I don't really, no. Duke Norton is a very impatient man. I am already in arrears. The sooner I reach the Isles the better. I must leave now; which works in your favor. It doesn't seem you want to tell them at all."

"You must understand. The people of Westerly know me by this title."

" _That_ title," he corrected, standing erect so as to stare her in the face.

"Yes," she agreed, in some sort of daze. "That title." She thought on it a moment before saying, "I am cautious, I admit. But not because of shame as you once insinuated. But it must be revealed one way or another. You may tell them I will remain here longer, and if they harass you with questions, then you can tell them the truth. No matter the case, I will begin writing a letter within the next few days explaining my new position."

"This Agatha," he aloud recalled, "do you trust her? This is quite a large donation. Will she be honest with it?"

"I trust her completely, even with my life."

"Then I will also trust her," he said, and reached to pull a satchel from its place.

As it seemed there was nothing left to say, she started toward the door, only stopping a moment to say over her shoulder, "Be safe, Sir Marcus." And with that she was gone.

******

Safe, he mused, watching her leave, noting the way she closed the door, leaving it just as she'd found it. He considered the duty she had placed upon him...the coins she'd obviously guarded with all her life. It would arrive safely to its destination. He would see to it. In fact, the task became equally as important to him as the original...if not perhaps more.

With fluent motions he began tying the satchel in which he'd stashed the coins around his waist. He recalled the past two days; the wedding, how happy he was for Jacob. The man was in love, and rightfully. Rachel was perfect for him.

Indeed, as accused so many weeks before, he had scrutinized her, just as he would've any lady in her shoes, purposely looking for some fault...mainly to avoid not seeing one if, in fact, there was a fault—one purposely being concealed in order to be overlooked.

Jacob was a very wealthy man. The Great City was the greatest...large, wealthy. To be the lord of the city was an honor in itself, and the lady of it as well...which Rachel did not seem to acknowledge, no, not to any great extent. Any other in her shoes would've by now noted the significance of the position, but she could not have seemed to care less. The emperor himself would acknowledge and esteem her above any other lady because of the title.

Whether aware of it or not, she was already to a degree prevalent. People were familiar with Westerly. The town had been requested on several occasions, but the emperor consistently denied any direct ownership of it. For now the land on which Westerly sat simply was. It belonged to the emperor, although he didn't pay it much mind. Had she known this, perhaps she would have requested monetary support from him. To the best of his knowledge she hadn't done so.

No, it had not been the first time the emperor had heard of Rachel the Elder when Jacob sent word to him of the engagement. According to those he'd sent to witness the wedding, he'd been intrigued by the prospect of these two marrying. Absolutely intrigued...and pleased, for he'd heard so many good things about Rachel the Elder over the years.

It was also rumored that the emperor blamed the union upon fate...something Marcus had very little confidence in. Fate, in his mind, was one of those things that seemed to exist in the forms of blessings, and then end with some form of a curse. He couldn't dare put fate on any pedestal in the situation, for fate, in his opinion, was merely the beginning of a crucial end. He did not want to think of Jacob suffering any more than he already had.

But the emperor was already satisfied with Rachel...that is Rachel the Elder. Whatever would become of her with this new position was yet to be known.

Likewise, he was extremely fond of Jacob, thought higher of him than any man upon the face of the earth so far as Marcus could tell; understandable since Jacob had been with him through thick and through thin—since the passing of his father left him guardian of the Great City, which was right around the time the emperor had been crowned in his great uncle's stead. He'd stuck by his side through some critical disturbances amongst the nobles because of his reign, which was quickly abolished, and hatred from oversea rulers, such as the king of Roark—also quickly abolished. No matter the case, whomever Jacob chose as wife would be equally accepted and placed higher than the wife of any other noble. It seemed Rachel had already gained his approval, simply by way rumor of her overall dedication to Westerly and its people.

Westerly had also been left alone for other reasons. Actually, mainly for the simple cause that it proved a location for the outcasts. There they were accepted, which was better than to have them roaming about, relying upon criminal activity as a means of support.

It was evident that she hadn't a clue; in certain cases nobles were known to rid their domiciles of unwanted people by somehow instilling word of Westerly's being into them...this they did subtly so that it would not be openly known. When a man became hated no matter the place or cause, and suffered because of that hatred, news of Westerly would send him fast on his way. The emperor had sent a few men there, himself, when it seemed there was no hope for them anyplace else. Not directly lest it be rumored about that he condoned the resentment of any man for no actual cause, especially one who could not help physical abnormalities. What was a man in his position to do?

Keep Westerly as it was and use it as it was...a community for the outcast that operated simply under the Laws of the Sacred Orders, to which Rachel had been clearly and dearly committed.

Marcus recalled Jacob's former wives. The emperor had accepted them although he had not exactly favored the overall behavior of either of them. The first had acted as superior as a queen, and the second as lowly as a servant...that is until she'd born Jacob's first child. Then she'd discovered her confidence. Marcus sighed to himself. How could one woman be so well-rounded...proud, but not prideful, beautiful but not conceited, meager, but strong? Modest, but not obsessed with that modesty in an arrogant and prideful sense. How could she be so damned perfect?

Or so in his sight, anyway. For some reason he was intrigued by her innocence and found himself wanting her to stay exactly as she was.

He considered the thing Jacob had confided in him...that the keeping of her virtue was a choice of her own. But when Marcus considered how very close they'd became....yes, he recalled the sight of them laying back in the bed, her snuggled so close to him, reading to him, laughing with him. Could anyone make Jacob Trent laugh out loud for pure sport? Jacob Trent never laughed except in particular events, such as if a noble or commoner requested something ridiculous of him. This he would laugh about—never the simple writings in a book. Yes, she'd brought out an even better side of him. The man would give her a reasonable amount of his time but still manage to keep all other priorities straight. He would not abandon them. But she would become his life, just as she already had. And she...well, Marcus could see she was already in love with him, that she'd married him for that reason alone.

He wondered how much time his dear friend had left. It was an event he dreaded with all his heart...the death of Jacob Trent which was expected, and would be expected all the more after the passing of two years. Every man of his bloodline who survived an older age at all generally died between the ages of fifty-two and five, all except the one.

He calculated, and frowned to think of the horrible loss it would be...nobody would truly know how valuable the man was until he was no longer with them. And Rachel...by then she would be all the more attached to him. Who would console her? Whose arms would give her comfort? Whose shoulder would invite her tears? For some reason, he imagined his own. But he couldn't help wonder...who would console him?

He did not deal well with the death of loved ones. He actually didn't deal with it at all. He had yet to even completely grieve the loss of his parents, and twenty years had passed since he'd been made an orphan. Jacob Trent would be no exception. But whatever pain he did allow would subside and he would carry on. What about Rachel?

And the emperor would surely be disappointed, terribly hurt, at a terrible loss. The man was nearing seventy, himself, but would outlive Jacob as those of his own bloodline usually lived to see long life.

When the chance arose he would meet Rachel in person, and automatically approve of and favor her. She was a favorable person. Marcus had noted so from the time she'd entered Harp until now, while he'd studied her searching for a fault. He discovered none besides the one...only the one. If Rachel Trent suffered a fault it was an unawareness of her own ability to be simply human...to indulge in worldly and mortal affairs, especially those derived from ordinary regard. Rightful affection. She was a married woman now, a rich one, and well able to indulge in just whatever.

Lady Trent was blameless except for one thing. She had an ability to indulge, yet hadn't a clue it existed. Those things she had never experienced she would, things of various sorts, and in the end become a different sort of woman, just as Westerly was a different sort of place.

The question was, what sort of woman would she become? Arrogant? Ill-mannered?

He shook his head at the thought of it. She would not become either of those things or even a horrible person at all. She would simply become a woman unlike any worldly-wise woman he'd ever met...perhaps unlike any who'd ever existed. Or so he imagined, but who was to truly say what would become of her in this sort of lifestyle? It would mold her, surely, into another person.

He imagined her and Jacob making love, not for the first time—and not for the first time quickly did away with the thought. Just as the night before he wondered why the image disturbed him so.

The exact same reason he'd confessed to her, came the answer.

He pulled his satchel from the bed and carried it along. He would venture away, just as he had last night. But last night he had closed the door on something other than the room he was about to close the door upon—observance that he'd dedicated to this newcomer, Rachel the Elder. It was over. No more observing her. No more even letting his imagination wander away to sinful places.

Prior to leaving the night before, while the guests mingled in the courtyard, he'd stood up and beyond on a balcony overlooking the scene, drinking wine and watching her every move. She was, he'd again decided, perfect for the position. But he, himself, was quite imperfect, and in a way he could not decide what his feelings were. He could only consider the direction those feelings had led him; for he'd entered into Port Templeton for three simple causes, and mainly two. The first, claiming documents to deliver to the emperor, could have waited since it would be some time before he would actually venture that way. The other two; getting drunk and bedding an ordinary could not. He thought about Marie. He'd known her nearly as long as Patrice of Rowan. She was always available to him. After last night she'd claimed he'd done more than simply bed her...he'd actually made love to her, something so far as he knew he'd never really ever truly done.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Four days passed, and Jacob got well all over again. Just as he'd claimed, he made that unusual, speedy recovery...and also a remarkable comeback. He dedicated the first two days to making up to Rachel for lost time concerning the celebration of their marriage. So they dined together, rode together in his private carriage, strolled along the sandy shore hand in hand.

"Have you any complaints?" He at one point asked.

She actually did have a few secret distresses. She'd found herself feeling agitated toward the maiden, Holly. She could've complained about Roselyn, for the maiden was forever peering at her as if she despised her. But she kept quiet about these things...and prayed for an even greater ability to tolerate unfavorable people. For some reason she felt bitter toward both of these, specifically Holly. Her behavior gave the impression she'd been closer to Jacob at one time than now. Perhaps she'd done more in the past than merely care for his physical ailments.

But she kept all of this to herself, and smiling softly at his profile told what she guessed was her first intentional lie to him. "No," she claimed, "none at all."

Their chambers had remained separate, and he did not so much as mention a consummation. He proved himself a keeper of his word. She was impressed, and respected him all the more.

In the days to follow, he was very busy with meetings amongst other nobles and travels here and there, even investigating this matter concerning the man "Pearce" whom she'd yet to meet and whom remained in hiding for some reason unbeknownst to her. He also took part in Fencing, a sport she'd by now come to realize was a favorite of his.

"It relieves aggression," Zaria said one day as they sat beneath a pavilion watching while man after man took turns taking on a challenger. Jacob was very skilled...and it was not likely he won simply because his opponent allowed him to.

"I imagine so," Rachel said, watching the fierce movements and expressions upon the faces. The sword of his challenger clanged to the ground. Rachel smiled at this, and stood to clap with the other onlookers while Jacob raised his arms in victory.

"Has he ever challenged Marcus?" She found herself asking.

"They challenge one another," Zaria said as they reclaimed their seats, "And fight till they can move no longer."

"So then a winner isn't called?"

"No, lady, they are equally as strong and skilled."

"I would not have guessed it."

"Then you have yet to see Sir Marcus naked," said Zaria.

Rachel's eyes rounded at her. "I can't see that there would be a cause to," she snapped.

Zaria shrugged a calm shoulder. "I was merely proving a point, milady," she said, "not that he and I have slept together, but I have saw him naked."

Rachel bit her tongue and nothing more was said on the subject. She wished at that point she would've never brought it up, but curiosity had gotten the best of her...curiosity about Marcus that should've perhaps not existed.

In the passing of time, Rachel had also been encouraged to go and visit the manor, which she was now the sovereign of.

The residents had been notified of the wedding, and she was told they would await her arrival. According to heralds and messengers, they were eager and anxious to meet the new Lady of the Manor.

"There now," Father Nelson soothed as they traveled the way. A trail of guards followed before and behind them and a second carriage transporting Tilly and Zaria and their belongings. A string of guards also trailed alongside the caravan on each side—in the case of incident—not what Father Nelson referred to when he advised, "don't fear, child. It will be well."

She had been staring out the window, studying the scenery, what little she could see for the guards surrounding them. She knew she was in good hands. The captain of the Guard, Sir Edward, had returned and Jacob seemed content to have him conduct the arrangements concerning her travels.

"I find this a difficult assignment...difficult to conceive let alone perform."

"I imagine so. Being lady of Orland Manor is no small matter...more prominent than your previous title, indeed. But the weight of that title kept you occupied, I am certain. Not simply because of your obligations, but your dedication to the people and their needs. Now you must simply take that same dedication, that energy so-to-speak, and put it into this new role. Think of the manor's residents as those of Westerly...in need of guidance and attendance, someone to simply care for them and their conditions, to defend and speak for them and their local causes."

Quietly examining his words, she felt herself relax, and a small smile touched her lips, reaching up to her eyes and bringing a glow to them.

"You are a wise soul, Father Nelson. Your words have brought me peace."

"I am an old man," he reminded her. "During my many travels I have met and mingled with all sorts of people, and in every imaginable condition." He fell into a reminiscent silence, which he quickly came out of. "This is not so anomalous a matter as you are making it out to be."

"An...anomalous?"

"Strange. Unusual. Now, although overwhelming it _may_ be, no doubt you will adjust. You see how well you have adapted so far...and to the Great City...to your new position. That is no small feat, child. Although I do not think it has all completely sunk into that head of yours. But this shall be no different, only there are issues to be confronted. Seeing as to how the affairs of the manor have been placed into the hands of the council, there will likely be issues to remedy. I think you very capable of handling them."

"According to Jacob you have travelled there on occasion to tend to the religious affairs of the community."

"Ah, yes, yes. Indeed, I have...over the years on brief occasions. Not very often; my position in the Great City keeps me quite occupied."

"I perceive you have been there a long time...in the Great City."

"Thirty years have passed since I landed there. I was present during Jacob's first and second marriages, and took very little time overseeing the religious matters of the manor, only in-between those wives."

"How did they handle it?"

She hadn't really thought much on Jacob's former wives. Jacob hadn't said anything about them, nor had anyone else. But now she found herself curious about them both and the way they had dealt with their leadership of the manor. Although having had several weeks to consider it, she still found herself terribly insecure about the whole thing. Her imagination could not even fathom what was to come or to be. She could not fathom the idea of being lady of this place, Orland Manor.

Father Nelson inhaled and exhaled a deep breath as if dreading to go into it. "The first, Isabelle, was very, um, hasty to accept the position. After all, it does mean a great deal to both lord and emperor alike, an honor bestowed only upon the Higher Nobles. But she wasn't so prepared as expected, even having been the daughter of a noble—a Higher Noble, mind you, raised up and trained for the position. You see, it was an arranged marriage between Jacob's father and the former Duke of Arlington."

"Such arrangements are common, I've learned."

"Very common, indeed."

"Then she was earnest about the position," she guessed.

"No, no. Not exactly. In fact, I would say she took it lightly. The title, seriously, but she had very little relations with the people and their conditions. They suffered under her headship. As it is known, Jacob has no dealings with the manor. Such is placed into the hands of the council and advisors when necessary, as has been the case for some time now. You shall meet them. It was they who have kept the people at peace...as best as possible way back when, when Isabelle had the position. They avoided distribution of complaints to other nobles and utmost the emperor, and also thwarted any sort of uprising."

"Was she beautiful?" She found herself asking.

"Ah, yes, yes. Indeed she was," he agreed. "She grew into a fine young woman, but not near as beautiful as Lady Arlington, her mother. Now, she was _very_ beautiful, turning heads as she walked about of both men and women, young and old alike. Isabelle was more beautiful when, um, when adorned with such ornaments as add to the beauty of a woman. As for her position...she was not so prepared for it as Jacob or anyone else had supposed. Truthfully, she wasn't adequately prepared for the marriage at all. You see, she considered Jacob's wealth her own, and became puffed-up and brazen. The people in Orland Manor despised her, even to this day."

"And the second?"

"Ah, Matilda. She, on the other hand, was very meek, lowly-like. She had very little confidence in herself, which it was supposed would alter after she had been wed to Jacob. She, too, had been trained, but was simply not suitable for any position. Why, she could hardly look one in the eye let alone be guardian of a place. Now, when the child was born she changed. She became more confident and proud, even. Yes, proud to have born Jacob his first child. Very proud, as was he."

"It is a shame what became of them."

"It is," he agreed.

"How did they die? And the child?"

"Isabelle was stricken with illness from the horrible plague. Matilda...well, hers was a mysterious death. Some claim she took her own life. The rumor died as quickly as it stirred. Yes, her death was difficult...but Jacob handled it. The death of his son...well, that is another story, very hard to describe; A horrific loss, but at the same time a blessing."

"I know it changed him."

"All for the better, mind you. You would not have recognized the sort of man he was. And now he is very content and happy. I cannot say I have ever seen him so happy, even with the birth of his son. I think he has come to complete acceptance with the fact he may die childless, and now at this age has focused upon simply living a peaceable life...the last days of his."

"Did he love them, Isabelle and Matilda? Either of them?"

"Yes, I imagine so, not that one could tell specifically. But yes. The first not quite as the second, and the second certainly not quite as much as the third. The love he felt for them both combined could not match what he has for you, no, it could not even come close."

This brought a satisfied smile to her face. She turned her head and peered out the window. The land was open now with fields to the left and right, and mountains and trees beyond.

But as she stared out the window she thought about the child he'd lost. Wouldn't he want a chance at having another? Why would he marry a woman who could not at least give him a son, even if his time _was_ expected to be short?

"He loves you dearly," she heard Father Nelson say. "And I see why. You, unlike the others, are sincere but strong. Meek, but confident. Your heart is what he fell in love with, child, by the simple words of a simple letter. That is quite remarkable to me. You should be proud. Not puffed-up as Isabella became, but content and secure and proud."

"Pride," she commented and looked at him. "Surely you know, Father Nelson, the Sacred Oracles warn against it."

He inhaled a deep breath. "Well, now, child, here we have two kinds of people, the prideful and the proud. There is a difference. In the sense I have encouraged you to be, well, I don't suppose it could cause much harm to be pleased with this new position. To be content. To be secure. You are Lady Trent now, and also Lady of the Great City which is Orland's only ruler and has been for centuries. Your obligations are now not the same," he said it as if dreading to. "You must not forget...the Sacred Oracles are meant for clerics and vestals. You, my child, are neither of those things. You are no longer a vestal, no longer Rachel the Elder of Westerly. You are Lady Trent, wife of Jacob Trent, Lady of the Great City and of Orland Manor."

The ride lasted about an hour longer. She was astounded after they'd crossed over the mountain overlooking Orland. The land stretched further than she'd anticipated, and was quite populous so far as she could see. There were so many buildings of various sorts, a large manor house where she herself would reside, and homes both small and large, farmlands and orchards. She saw the people, although mere specks in the distance. Many, many people.

Yes, the residents were expecting her. In fact, a barrage of men in uniform came out to greet the guards before them, and to lead the way into the actual community where hundreds of people stood to the left and the right of the road to greet them. Surprisingly, there was absolutely no emotion. No action. No welcoming expressions. Although the crowd was large, there was little sound. She could only hear birds chirping, the occasional barking of a dog, a child chattering, a babe crying, and a gentle breeze wheezing in through a crack in the window.

"The people are apprehensive," said Father Nelson, "as they have a right to be. They wonder what sort of lady you are. But none to fear. You will do well."

The road led to the manor house. Once there she stepped out and into a throng of servants who'd also awaited her arrival. They were quick to bow, although with solemn expressions, to greet her as best they knew how—uncertain, but doing their humble duty, which was to properly welcome her. While others proceeded to tend to the luggage and to Tilly and Zaria—escorting them to their quarters for the time being—she was greeted by the head of the council, Sir Troy. He bowed with a simple "milady" and then began escorting her to the proper quarters. Sir Edward, Nicholas, Caleb and Father Nelson thankfully stayed right with her—she preferred it this way.

"I imagine you would firstly wish to rest a bit...that is, prior to greeting the council."

"Well," she began, slowing her steps, "is the council present?"

"They are," he granted.

She stopped in her tracks, causing the train they altogether made to come to a halt. "Then I shall speak with them now," she told him.

"Well, um, would you not prefer to put it off...that is, until you have had time to rest and to, um, collect yourself?"

She raised audacious brows at him. "I assure you, sir, I am very much collected. No rest is needed beforehand."

After a brief stare, he bowed his head and agreed, "yes, Lady," and thereafter led her onward and into a room meant for such meetings as was about to take place. She was introduced to the council members, all of whom acted as if they had never expected her at all. They, she decided, were the ones in need of 'collecting' themselves.

She was seated at the head of the table while five of them sat down along the right side and five the left. Sir Troy, being the speaker for them, recited the overall conditions of the estate, the problems facing it and the people. In the beginning they all gaped uncertainly upon her, their faces drawn with what seemed a mixture of fascination and doubt. It didn't appear they had any confidence in her at all, that they doubted she could take the problems seriously or even have any resolutions...perhaps even care to. But she remembered Father Nelson's recollections of Jacob's former wives. They had a right to be uncertain.

After he'd finished speaking, she requested to review the documents from which he'd referred. Complete silence fell while she looked them over...a long stretch of silence. Every eye was on her, that of the council and their officers, also her own small clan—Caleb standing close behind, Nicholas at her left, Sir Edward her right...and Father Nelson, also standing at her right. She studied and examined and contemplated the details before her.

Finally, she lifted her head, skipping her eyes over each and every watchful face. "The Great City is rumored to be the grandest in all New Ebony, yet the conditions of the estate linked to it are perhaps the least grand of any other of its kind. This will not do. It just simply will not do."

She paused a while in deep thought.

"Tell the people to be at peace," she eventually told them, her gaze coming to rest upon Sir Troy. "These matters are not so difficult as they seem. Merely overwhelming if not dealt with one by one, individually."

"Milady?" Troy frowned heavily upon her, his thick brows drawn together. "You are at ease? Well, I suppose that is well, as it was with those before you; one careless, and the other clueless. But these conditions cannot possibly become so promptly tolerable in the eyes of the people."

"These conditions are not tolerable at all," she told him, stopping to think for a minute. She rapped the tips of her fingers against the table top, and spoke quietly as if to herself. "It seems the treasury has been mishandled, by whom time may tell. It may be inspected." There was another space of silence, so quiet the sound of someone's stomach growling was heard by them all. She focused upon Troy after having thought on the situation. "I will have a man skilled in such an area sent within the week. This information should not leave the room, but stay between us." She raised a brow. "Are there any complaints amongst you...about a fellow councilman?"

"Of course not," a few of them said in unison. Others shook their head most avidly, and they began complaining one to another all at the same time.

"Please, men, it is not as if I asked you if the sky is green. The question is completely reasonable...especially seeing as to how the treasury _has_ been mishandled...whether intentionally or not it is impossible to say. But I will have a man sent to search the records.

As for the prisoners. I will review their cases this evening and decide what should become of them. Death is not an option."

"Not an option, ma'am?"

"You heard me correctly," she told the strange little man at her right. "It would have to be a terrible crime for me to suggest and bother Lord Trent with it. Now, you claim a lack of service within the community, that the fields lay in ruin because of this sudden leave of so many people, and that the service buildings are in such poor condition they have become unusable. People living without a home, along the roads and outside the sanctuary...it's ludicrous."

She paused a moment.

"There are according to these documents a total of thirty-six prisoners, which I find a rather large number. I suggest those who remain prisoners be nourished for a time, their health restored, and that they labor so many hours in the day, restoring those things in need of restoration—beginning with the chapel. It will be repaired, and those who have come to nothing shall be housed for a time, given parcels of land that are desolate and in need of operation in order to add to the treasury so that these conditions may be properly handled. We'll need wood-cutters and a bailiff and a clerk. Mister Troy, are you following me at all?"

He stared at her in such a daze she felt the need to ask. "Yes," he matter-of-factly replied.

"And where is the priest?" She asked, looking to the left and to the right. "Surely he, too, has not run away."

"Unfortunately that is just the case," answered one of the men, adding "but we were highly skeptical of him, anyway." They all nodded and murmured in agreement.

"Then he must be replaced...immediately," she added.

"Yes," Troy agreed. "And then...well, from what you say, the prisoners would help restore order?"

"To a degree," she said. "Idle men are useless. If able, no matter the case, a man or woman should labor and a child should learn. The school will also be funded. Those funds will be brought here along with the man I send to oversee the treasury. We should also find both men and women skilled in reading and writing—these should become scribes so that everything can be documented accordingly. You see, Sir Troy, these issues are not hopeless."

There was a commotion from outside. A guard came in to announce, "The people are uneasy with waiting. They would like to meet...to meet you, Milady."

"Very well." Rachel stood, stopping to tell the council. "We will go over these matters further in the morning."

They all agreed, also standing. Rachel followed the guard. A herald stood on the stoop, silencing the people. Sir Troy was the one to step up and make the announcement.

"Men...women. Residents of Orland Manor, I give you Lady Trent of the Great City, Lady Trent of Orland, the Manor's new and..." He paused, glancing over at her with a very pleased expression, "and very wise sovereign."

Happy with his conclusion, satisfied with it, trusting his opinion, they all cheered with delight, and she spent the remainder of her stay in a private chamber, judging each case, sleeping well through the night, meeting with the council that morning, and then going her way, leaving behind a very happy and hopeful people.

******

It was late when she returned to the palace, and Jacob had yet to do so. Percival met her at the doors to welcome her back. He was a delight to have around, this man—showed an appreciation for her and even appeared to enjoy being of service. He was not enthusiastic, but handled himself quite well whenever he went to express any sort of gratitude. He bowed his head with a relaxed grin, his back straight as always. Quite reserved. One well-rounded servant.

"Lord Trent is yet to return," he announced. "He shall within the night."

"Thank you, Percival," she offered with a pleased but tired smile. Even if he was not present, she was very grateful to be back and could not wait to bathe and lie down in her own bed. She'd grown accustomed to it.

"Milady," he summoned as she would have went on. She stopped, nodding her head toward her guards and maidens: an order to go ahead and deliver her things to her private quarters. While they followed the order, Percival raised a hand that she had not before noticed. It was holding to a very generous stack of letters, almost too many to carry with one single hand.

"Darius has placed these into my care," he told her. "For you."

She eyed the letters and his face and the letters again. "My, Percival," she commented. "There are so many of them. Whatever could they all be?"

"I do not know for certain, only that many of them bare the seals of such noble ladies as Lady Arlington the elder, Lady Rutherford, the duchess of Tarot _and_ of Lyndinburg."

She studied this a moment before taking the letters from his hand. It took both of hers to hold them. "Thank you, Percival," she said with the bow of her head, and went off to her quarters. Tilly and Zaria had already begun preparing her bath. As they proceeded she sat at her desk, shifting through the letters, curious about them. She began opening and reading them. She was persuaded to smile, for these letters were none other than expressions of gratitude, respect and, as she'd been warned, praise. There were invitations and requests for visits: to speak with her outside of any specific occasion so as to have her direct attention, and to attend such events as socials amongst and with other ladies. These letters touched her heart and pleased her. They pleased her well.

Although Tilly and Zaria would have remained to help with her bath, getting dressed and brushing her hair, she kindly asked them to leave.

"You also need rest," she told them, but they knew she simply wished to be alone.

She afterward bathed, slipped into a gown and would have opened more of the messages, but she'd become so tired she could barely keep her eyes opened. She decided to return to them in the morning, after she'd gotten some sleep. She lied down, closed her eyes and dozed off, but instantly began dreaming...about everything from the summons to the proposal to the engagement, the marriage...Orland Manor, and even Marcus Wren. She awakened wondering just how far he'd gone, if he was safe, had he reached his destination, and had the people received their gift. She fell asleep again, but only to awaken a short time after. She could not rest. Her mind would not let her. Perhaps she was overwhelmed. The manor itself demanded a great deal of attention, and stirred up feelings in her she'd never experienced. How could she deny feeling pleased to be a part of restoring the conditions of the place? How could she deny feeling proud to do so?

She kept seeing the faces of the people, from the nobles and citizens during the announcement of the wedding, to the nobles and the citizens the day of the wedding, to the citizens of this very needy place, Orland manor. Was it not well to appreciate these new roles? Was it not well to be proud of where she was?

She decided on a breath of fresh air. She stepped out onto the balcony, the events of the past several weeks passing through her mind so swiftly she could not snatch any one of them to ponder for any extended period of time, only a second or two. She remembered Westerly and told herself to send a message immediately describing the new role she'd taken She had to tell them the truth. Yes, she must be honest and not keep any of this from them. How could she?

She was also bent upon sending someone there to help guide them with their situations. The question was, who? Who would replace her? Who would she trust? She suddenly wished she had someone like Jacob did. He had Marcus. Now she needed someone to trust as well...someone smart and wise and kind. My, but wasn't that basically a compliment to herself and what she'd been all these years?

The face in the moon stared down at her as if in agreement. She smiled and looked away. This midnight sky was very clear. The air was perfect, not too hot or cool or damp. Just right. Perfect. The light of the moon gave access to the city, what could be seen from where she stood, and to the gardens.

She thought she saw some movement there, and leaned over, adjusting her vision so as to get a clear view. No, she had not mistaken. There was movement—of something not only Zaria had warned about, but Marcus as well. They both claimed lovers would meet in the gardens late at night. She now saw that they were correct.

She was at first stunned by the scene, but then intrigued as the young man and woman seemed so close to actually making love. They were tightly embraced, and kissing so ever passionately. The damsel's head fell back and her companion's lips sought her neck. She was clutching to him, now, while his hands held her hair as if to keep her in place. Her eyes were closed. Her lips parted. If Rachel was not mistaken, there was a sigh of pleasure. His lips had travelled down even further to the crevice between her breasts, and his hand moved to take her garment, moving it aside so as to expose one breast which his mouth instantly devoured.

Rachel did not realize she had been holding her breath until she turned away from the scene. Then she exhaled, thinking about what she'd just witnessed. She did not want to see anymore or to be seen seeing. Then again, as the memory of what was happening directly below replayed itself in her mind, she fought an urge to turn and to witness again the passion between the two lovers. The urge was so strong she hurried back inside, closing the doors behind her. She leaned against them, her chest rising and falling, her eyes searching the room mindlessly.

She thought of Jacob, imagined him holding her, kissing her, and her blood turned warm. How fond she'd become of him—and attracted, she had to admit. She placed a hand over her stomach as it began to burn.

"No," she said quietly into the air. This couldn't be.

Then the voice in the back of her head reminded her. She was married, was she not, and well able to experience what the damsel below was experiencing—and appearing quite delighted to be doing so.

She put a hand to her throat and imagined Jacob kissing her neck as the lover had kissed his damsel, and it was not hard to envision. For she imagined Jacob would be a perfect lover, that he would consume her with the very passion she'd just witnessed down below.

She began to pace, and when all else failed she sat at the desk and flipped open the very large book containing the Sacred Oracles, and she began to read. This succeeded. Before long she was calm and the thoughts of her head directed elsewhere. She yawned, rubbed tired eyes. Standing she made her way to the bed, lied down and slept.

At some point she was awakened by the heat of another body, a hand stroking the hair from her face. She opened her eyes to see a blurry image of Jacob seated on the edge of the bed. A lazy grin touched his lips as she noticed him.

She started to pull herself up, but he stopped her.

"No," he softly persuaded. "You were resting well. I am sorry for wakening you, but I wanted to witness your livelihood for myself before retiring."

Her eyelids fell. He kissed her on the check, a long, soft, lingering kiss as she drifted back to sleep.

******

That morning the first thing she did upon awakening was touch a palm to the cheek Jacob had kissed. She wondered what his plans were for the day. In the hopes of getting to him before anyone or anything else, she did not bother dressing. She yanked her arms into the sleeves of a robe and hasted from the room. Tying the front of the robe together, she scurried down the hall, toward Jacob's private quarters. Edwin stood at the doors, not seeming to notice her. He stared straight ahead without so much as the blink of an eye.

She slowly opened the doors, instantly spotting Jacob in the outer chamber, dressed and ready for the day. He stood straightening his belt when she entered.

He grinned big at the sight of her, and held out his arms as she came toward him to both offer and welcome a warm embrace. "I see I've caught you just in time," she said, pulling away from him.

He held her there at arm's length. "I would have certainly found you before going my way."

"I had hoped to have you all to myself for the day."

"I find it reassuring to have such a lovely woman anticipate my company."

"Will you be occupied all the day long?"

"Possibly so, my love." He kissed her forehead. "I'm already falling behind. I was late returning. Now it's the tenth hour. I should have been gone and on my way by now."

"The tenth hour," she repeated. "I didn't realize."

"I imagine we were both exhausted from our drudgeries," he commented. "I spoke with Father Nelson briefly upon returning. He claims you were generously welcomed and that you handled yourself as if you were trained for the position all along. I'm glad of it. Being lady of Orland is no small matter."

"I was very discontent with its present state."

"Oh, I imagine so. I studied the proposals you handed to my advisory."

"I hope you were not troubled by them."

"No," he warmly assured. "Quite the contrary. You judged the conditions of the estate well. As for your proposals, consider them done. I have already sent Winston with a reasonable amount to add to the treasury and also some guards to see to the prisoners, that they are properly supervised and handled during their labors. Also a draftsman. I see no reason why the estate cannot be restructured a bit to suit the age."

She hugged him in response, and felt her body go limp there, as if she could stay there in his embrace forever. He stroked her hair and her back. She heard and felt him inhale and exhale a deep breath.

"Ah, Rachel," he said quietly, very close to her ear. "How much I love you."

She pulled away, feeling all the more disappointed to see him go. She wanted to be with him today...to be close to him...like the lovers in the garden.

Could the eyes truly give someone away so certainly? She watched his expression change, as if he too was considering the scene she'd beheld that night. A voice in the back of her head suddenly reminded her of the fact that he had experienced such a thing before. She had not.

He raised a thumb and caressed her cheek. She felt as if he would suddenly draw her to him, maybe kiss her, hold her. Touch her. But he did not. He instead turned away, as if to do away with whatever emotions were toying with them, and spoke as if to say just whatever came to mind.

"The manor has become very poor," he commented.

"Yes," she agreed. "The conditions of the homes and buildings are not good, and the people were so poorly dressed. There are some who are not poor, but they hardly seem to mind that others are."

"Such would be the case in any domicile. Even here in the Great City there are those who haven't everything they need."

"But it isn't so," she quietly began, "in Westerly."

Lips pressed together, he came back to stand before her. "Rachel, not every man and woman intend to better themself. In fact, some prefer a handout opposed to laboring with their own hands."

"And those who do. I mean, those who labor but haven't the things they need."

"I imagine any man who practices a skill or trade is able to provide for himself and his house."

"It isn't always so."

"I had not considered it."

"Will you consider it now?" She asked, and thought to mention her concerns about the community she'd left behind for this marriage. Something kept her from doing so.

He gazed thoughtfully down at her, raising his hands to caress her cheeks with his thumbs. "Of course," he said and pressed his lips to hers. He drew away and she opened her eyes. His thumb took the place of his mouth, and he caressed her lower lip, a far away, cloudy look in his eyes. She thought he would speak, but he did not. He instead stepped back, taking his hands to himself and proceeded to straighten his belt. "Am I decent enough to venture out?" He asked, extending his arms.

She raised her hands to straighten the lapels of his shirt, and holding on to them said, "Of course, as usual."

"Then I must be going." He took her arms, kissed her on the check, and then stalked from the room leaving her feeling rather disappointed.
CHAPTER NINE

The journey to the Isles took nearly two weeks. Marcus was happy to arrive, but decided he would be all the happier to see his deed completed and the next embarked upon. He did not travel alone. Byron rode with him and some of his own men...Abe, Nicodemus, and Simon. These three were nearly as faithful to him as he was to Jacob. He could call upon them at any given time and they would never reject him. He paid them, yes, but considered them colleagues just the same. Trustworthy men such as they resided in villages and cities—all sorts of domiciles—and were stationed throughout all New Ebony.

These he'd called upon to travel with him to the Eastern Isles. They were familiar with the plot against Jacob and determined to see to it the guilty culprit, along with his plot, was abolished.

Marcus and his four accomplices were altogether greeted outside Norton's castle by several men on horseback. Another had seen them from afar and made it known that Marcus Wren had finally arrived.

Duke Norton was an upright and stern sort of man, but not nearly as unfriendly as he appeared to be. He was acquainted with Jacob, although not to the extent of some of the other nobles. And although a noble, he was not a member of the class of Higher Nobles.

Marcus and his companions were escorted inside the castle, and into a room where Duke Norton sat looking as if he'd been sitting there in that same spot waiting for a very long time. He stood when they entered, and the doors were closed behind them.

Duke Norton did not ask about his own personal business just yet. He, too, was involved in trying to find out who was trying to kill Jacob; and getting paid well to do it. The emperor knew who to call upon when the situation called for it.

Coming up with a reason for the overall scheme was of utmost importance, Marcus had decided long ago. The true motive could surely lead to the enemy.

"The man I had taken into custody would not speak," Duke Norton told him. "I gave him several weeks to comply. Even through torture, he would not answer me. I dread to say he was finally done away with. He is not alive."

So much for that lead. Not that Marcus had fully expected to get any details from the prisoner. This had happened so many times. Men were taken into custody for speaking against the emperor, some of them claiming Jacob would draw his final breath very soon. They were questioned. They refused to speak. They were tortured. They still refused to speak. Subsequently they were put to death.

"Have you any word from the emperor?" He was asked.

"Not recent."

"Have there been more letters?"

"Two that I am aware of. Amos has done well in keeping them from him. But I'm afraid Amos will stop doing this in time. He shows signs of guilt. The last message was all the more threatening. It is obvious that whomever is behind this was trying through that particular message to make him angry, to instigate a reaction which is what I do not want, nor does the emperor."

"The lad shouldn't speak now. Then he would be forced to admit keeping the threats from him all along. He would suffer his consequences. We _all_ will when Jacob learns of it, and he will—with time."

"He should by then understand. I hope."

"I have something here," said the duke, and reached into a pocket to remove a small parchment of some sort. "A message in code."

Marcus took it from him, studying the peculiar markings and words...ones that did not make the slightest bit of sense, at least not to him. Pearce was the one in charge of decoding such messages. Unfortunately, Jacob hardly let the man from his sight except to tend to a matter of importance outside of the city...and it had to be important, indeed. He was skilled when it came not only to numbers and figures but to coding or decoding either one. But the enemy's secret codes differed from those of Jacob's and the noble's. They bore nothing in common. Getting used to them was taking Pearce some time. But he was certain his solution for them was becoming more and more accurate.

Presently, very few were even aware of Pearce's whereabouts. He was in hiding for supposedly defiling a maiden of fourteen, which both he and Jacob knew him to be innocent of. Pearce was not the kind of man to overstep such a boundary. But the girl's father was convinced and seeking his life. Marcus was certain Jacob would get to the bottom of this during his absence. No matter the case, he could continue with his attempts at properly decoding these messages that kept springing up and landing into his hands, almost as if to have been purposely placed there. The situation left much to be desired...answers foremost.

"Where did you get it?"

"My prisoner had somehow hidden it upon his person."

Marcus studied the confusing words and markings. "I will hand it over to Pearce," he assured. "According to him, those last messages, the ones in code—to say the least, if properly decoded, insist his chief enemy may no longer seek his life, but that he be taken alive."

"Alive?"

"That very message was blatantly conveyed in a letter that was intercepted at Port Templeton. The man caught passing it was arrested and is being held, the same as some of these others. I am starting to suspect a second or even third party. For some reason, it has gone from death to taken alive."

"I imagine someone who has rights to the Great City."

"A man should have more sense."

"Or woman," the duke commented, obviously referring to the female cousin.

"The emperor will give it to whomever he chooses. Besides that, if Jacob was to be murdered and anyone suddenly appeared claiming rights to the Great City, the emperor would not allow it so easily. The entire matter would be examined. As of now there is complete silence when it comes to who may be entitled to step up when Jacob dies, if anyone at all. I am not sure if this is because someone intends to speed his death and hide themselves from being accused of inflicting it, or if nobody truly knows who may be entitled to the position. That is, if this has anything at all to do with the position. I am not so certain. But now, murder is no longer the issue...but kidnap, which would surely lead to murder."

"This makes me very uneasy."

"Me, as well. It is one thing to think of him dead; another to think of him suffering by the hands of whomever is against him."

"Proof of anything would be hard to come by if it was for the cause of the Great City."

"It now seems more a matter of revenge," said Marcus, and kept the rest of his thoughts on the matter to himself. Not everything was meant to be said. Not now. Not to these.

He fell silent for a time, remembering Westerly and the money he'd been asked to deliver, which he yet felt honored to do. He imagined the look upon Rachel's face when he would announce it had been accomplished. But he felt an urge to do something more. To prove something to her...as if any brave feat on his part would accomplish anything. What would it matter to her if he fought off an entire army of thieves to get the money to this Agatha character? And what would he care?

He had been bragged about, had he not? Jacob forever put him on a pedestal where he actually felt he belonged. But did she truly see and believe how very capable he was of handling just about anything at all, himself, let alone something that'd been placed into his care.

"How long will you stay?" The duke asked.

"Seeing as to how the prisoner is now dead I need not sail over into the Isles...and in light of this," he referred to the letter now in his possession, "Not long. I must cut my visit very short as I have even other matters to attend. You will be pleased to know I have dealt with the Northerners. Both Lord North and Fleming are now at peace with you."

"That easily?" His brows rose. Then he frowned heavily. "They have not dismissed their guards."

"They will," he assured him. "So soon as you dismiss yours."

"Hum." He massaged his chin between the tip of thumb and finger. "Me first?"

"...and it will be done."

"You are sure of this."

"I would stake my life on it."

"Then it is done," he announced, dropping his hand. "I had started to wonder if I would be forced to retaliate." He folded his hands together atop the table. "I have messages for Lord Harvard and General Hagar concerning troops from Harvard Plains." He referred to the place where nobles were known to send their men to learn and practice methods of warfare. "Would you deliver them in passing?"

"They are safe with me. You know it."

"Of course."

Duke Norton yet again reached into a pocket and removed a document of some sort. Marcus unfolded it, viewing its contents. It was a deed to a parcel of land. He studied it. He studied it closely, closer than he normally would before the very eyes of any noble. Its description birthed some questions which he verbalized after having thought on them for a time.

"Your land extends westward toward Westerly," he acknowledged.

"Westerly," the duke repeated as if absolutely disgusted. "I have long requested it from the emperor. He refuses to grant it. There is but two hundred or so acres that separate my land from the despicable little place."

"The land that separates it...doesn't it belong to Duke Berlin."

"The nuisance," he criticized. "The man owns too much as it is, and also stations guards at every angle which I find to be very intimidating."

"You are not alone. It seems to have become a ritual amongst the nobles...stationing guards along their boundaries: A symbol of distrust, more-or-less."

"Yes, well, the honorable Duke Berlin has also requested Westerly from the emperor." He paused a moment before saying, "You show interest in the land, or is it Westerly?"

"Jacob's new bride is familiar with the town."

"I regret not being there for the wedding. Then again, I don't recall having received an invitation."

"It seems the transferal of messages has become endangered. I am starting to question a choice few of the heralds and messengers."

"Which reminds me of Patrick."

"Patrick?"

"Patrick of Lawrence...I suppose you know he is detained."

"I hadn't heard so, no." The news was very disappointing. Patrick was a spy for him...and few were aware. He wondered how he'd gotten himself arrested and looked forward to a time when he could see to it he was freed.

"Why was he detained, and where? Who detained him?"

"The emperor, I had heard."

"For what cause?" He asked a second time.

"That I don't know. I assumed you had heard yourself. I was going to ask you."

"I imagine I have missed the emperor's message. I have not gone into Sainte Louise in a long while. It may be time I do so."

"Be careful there. I hear several men entered the city not so far back and went into homes simply murdering people."

"That cannot be true." One thing he appreciated about Duke Norton, he always had valuable information to pass along, some fact, some fiction. Some of the times it was news he figured he should have already caught wind of or discovered. Then again, he was always moving about from place to place and city to city. Some news was bound to slip past him.

"My source says it is."

This concerned him, particularly because Sainte Louise was the city he most considered home. It lied outside the walls of Castle Goth and he had friends there.

He suddenly stood. "I may cut my visit even shorter if there is nothing else you have for me, or any reason to linger."

"Only the letters to deliver in passing." They walked along, side by side. Marcus was in his own little world when the duke said, "It would be a shame to see this plot succeed against Jacob. Especially now. I hear he has become a very happy man, and lucky; that his new wife is a fine woman, very fine to look upon. Not much longer he will be a father again. Sons, maybe."

He imagined it and said nothing at all. Then he considered a very ironic thought. The duke was not aware, but the very bride he'd just boasted about had been a citizen of the very town he openly criticized. But only a short time did he entertain the thought. He began to slowly fold together the deed in his hand, thinking for sure he would visit Duke Berlin as soon as he left there.
CHAPTER TEN

Rachel fast became exhausted writing letters in response to those of other noble ladies. She received many invitations, and sadly turned them all down. She and Jacob were not prepared for a visit abroad...not just yet. She explained this as kindly as she possibly could.

Just when she thought she was down to the last of these letters, Percival would come in with an "I am sorry" sort of expression upon his face and hand her even more. She spent a great deal of time reading these messages, feeling honored by the contents of them, and then dreading to respond—not only because it often meant turning down an invitation but that it was time consuming as well.

"This, milady, is why Lord Trent has others write for him," said Zaria. "Perhaps you should consider doing the same. There are scribes. He would assign you one or even two upon request. However many you desire. This is too much time it's taking. When was the last time you even enjoyed the gardens?"

She made a valid point. Rachel took this advice to heart. Where once upon a time she could not comprehend someone having another write their letters for them, she now understood completely. Maybe Zaria was right. Maybe she would get someone else to write them—one of the scribes, perhaps, or a secretary. But she had yet to meet any one of these so-called scribes, as if they were secluded away in some secret wing of the palace. Quite possible, she presumed, seeing as to how she had yet to see it all, and some areas were strictly off limits. But even with a scribe...who could one trust to write each and every word exactly as spoken, without either adding to or taking away from it? Then again, she was well able to read over these letters prior to the transfer of them.

Zaria, yes, she could trust. Tilly, yes. But these maidens were busy enough as it was tending to her and the chamber and duties outside of it. As for Roselyn, well, she was just another story altogether. Rachel had begun to dislike her almost as much as Holly.

Jacob's secretary, Darius, was a likable man. It was he who handed messages over to Percival to deliver to her in his stead. But he on occasion made an appearance of his own as he delivered package after package containing gifts of all sorts...mostly jewelry, some of which according to the messages attached had been passed down from generation to generation.

"Your necklace," Jacob one day noticed, "I do not recall it."

"A gift from Lady Steepleton," she explained, raising a hand to toy with its golden dove-shaped pendent.

She'd been pleased to have him sweep her away from the palace and onto the sandy ocean's shore. But the air between them had made an unusual shift. There was this tension that although harmless seemed quite dangerous at the same time. She despised it and was sure he did as well. But what could one say about it or do if they hadn't a definite understanding of it to begin with?

Now they fell once more into a deep, unsatisfying silence; lost in their own private meditations. Hand in hand, they strolled along the shore, barely even hearing the roar of the waves, the sound of them crashing into and slapping against the boulders and rocky cliffs.

"I imagine myself at fault for this silence," he came to say.

She glanced over at his profile. "How so?" She asked, curious as to what he would have to say on the matter. She had tired of relying upon her predictions alone. But opposed to responding in regards to it, he changed the subject.

"There has been a sudden request for my presence in Arlington. I had considered taking you along. It's a beautiful city, and the eldest Lady Arlington is a delight to keep company with. She is now ninety years of age, and was not able to come for the wedding. She did send her kind regards."

"She has invited me with a formal invitation to visit with her, even at my own request."

"I'm afraid now would not be the best time. Word has been sent that a small army has landed there to confront the lady's son, who is now the duke of Arlington, and that it may not be in the emperor's favor."

"An army," she repeated, turning toward him. "From where?"

"Roark," he regretfully returned.

"Roark. Isn't that—"

His nod stopped her. She brought her steps to an immediate stop. "I'm yet to fully understand the extent of it," he admitted.

"You needn't go," she said, recalling the former king of Roark whose head Jacob had brought back into New Ebony. "King Alfred could very well be setting a trap in order to avenge his brother."

He fell silent as if to think it over. But surely he already had. They began walking again, even slower now than before.

"Then you have heard."

"Well, it is written in some of our books, even." She tilted her head to the side. "Is it true?"

"Yes," he said as if dreading the memory of it. "I beheaded the former king in favor of the emperor...to prove a point, even, that we will not tolerate conflict of any kind. According to Duke Arlington, these men are not here on the king's behalf, but on ours."

"How can you be sure?"

He barely shook his head. "I can't...not until I have seen and heard so for myself. This small army consists of advocates and such, although some guards may be present, supposedly on behalf of Prince Fredrick, the king's youngest brother and their bloodline's final candidate for the throne. If only all of these could be more like their father. He was a gallant man."

"Will you be safe?"

"If it is a plot, Duke Arlington is at fault. There are ways to indicate such things in secret. The message was written by his hand, and arrived by the hands of one of his own. It contains no evidence that he has been bribed or threatened into luring me into the city."

They began to walk in silence.

"When will you leave?" She eventually asked.

"Within the hour." He paused before saying, "Don't worry. I will be well. I am certain Duke Arlington would not betray me. I will travel with my guards, and have others stationed secretly in the case they are needed."

"But your illness...what if—"

"My physician will also join me...as is customary."

"And Holly?" It came out before she'd even realized the thought.

He shook his head gently. "No."

"The duke of Arlington," she found herself recalling, quickly changing the subject. She did not want to look like an overly jealous fool. But she had thought of Miss Holly a lot, and had already come to the conclusion that she and Jacob had at one time been lovers.

"Is he not the brother, then, of your first wife, Isabelle?"

He paused a moment before saying, "he is"

"And you and he have been at peace."

"Ah, yes, and I cannot think of him betraying or misleading me. He and I have always gotten along."

"I have heard of instances where a man will wed a younger sister if by chance the elder does not survive...that is in the case of an arranged marriage. It's no secret they are arranged mainly for political purposes. Were there no other sisters? Beside Isabelle?"

"One, yes. She was expected to take Isabelle's place following her death. Arlington produces a fine army. Combined with mine through matrimony, well, the emperor would be safe for certain, even in the case the nobles suddenly raised up against him. But it became rumored about that she had defiled herself, not that it is held against her. She did admit to this. So, then, she has become a sort of refuge for other men of nobility. Not that she has become an object of scorn. But she is no longer pursued, so to speak, for the sake of marriage."

Rachel had heard of such women being used for gratification, even in the place of a wife.

Another space of silence fell before she reasoned, "I do wish you would reconsider this invitation."

"Don't worry for me," he peacefully ordered. "I am well able to fend for myself, even if I am of age. I will return."

She believed him, for she knew there was strength in him, not just inner, but the few times she'd witnessed his naked arms and torso for herself...he was not a weak man. She'd watched him at sword's play with other nobles and with members of the guard. He always bested his opponent. She had no trouble at all imagining him wielding his sword in battle, or even of using it to behead a man, although she imagined he would have to be very angry to do such a thing. But she could not actually imagine him becoming so angry as that.

"I know," she quietly replied, and he stopped, taking her arm and turning her about to face him.

"I will be fine," he assured, touching a palm to her cheek. He smoothed her hair back before lowering his hand. "I was saying before that I have sensed you are troubled...and I take the blame. I imagine you sense my desire for you, how I want you in my bed. I think it must make you uneasy."

She had actually become quite uneasy with her own feelings, but kept it to herself.

"You must be terribly disappointed," she told him.

"In you, no, not at all. I keep my distance at times not only for my sake but yours as well. I do not want to do or say anything out of the way, or even oppress you with this—this energy, so to speak. But it has turned into a terrible tension. The distance and the silence are often unbearable, but can't always be evaded. I attempt to avoid these needs being detected, hoping to eliminate any pressure they may cause you. I am a man of my word. In the beginning I made a promise...you could remain virtuous. I cannot be the one to instigate otherwise."

"You truly think you will die," she observed.

"Men of my line do not live to see an old age. It's no secret. The longest to survive was the age of fifty-eight, and that was many centuries ago. My father had just turned fifty-two when he passed away, the very day after. You see how close I am to that. I may be given two more years, but they pass quickly. Then I will be at risk. It happens so suddenly. You needn't lose your virtue. I told you so, and I meant it. If you sense my desire just know I am a man of my word."

"I know you are."

"And I can contain myself," he added. "With you, it has merely taken more adjustment than I had anticipated."

"I do not feel pressured at all," she told him, and found it difficult to look him straight in the eye, for she had entertained equal aspirations and her imagination had produced the most sensual images.

He raised a hand, smoothing it down her hair. "Surely you have felt such a thing before, Rachel," he said, which proved he had, indeed, discerned it.

She raised her eyes to meet his. "As peculiar as this may sound to you, no. No, I have not. Not like this."

Slowly but surely a grin touched his lips. "I think that is remarkable," he said.

"I find it most disturbing," she admitted. "Even I have been tempted to do away with our agreement."

"I am proud to be the first to rouse such desire in you. I find it hard to believe, but believable. You would not lie to me."

"I imagine there are others who have not desired such an intimate encounter with a man, especially amongst those in the same position as me...or as I was, as I vowed to be. Sister Camille, perhaps, even."

He almost laughed. She cocked her head to the side.

"She is virtuous, no doubt, but not ignorant when it comes to such things."

"No?"

"Sister Camille and I grew up together, in a sense, although she is several years older than I. We were raised here together in the palace. You see, she was an orphan, and became a handmaiden for my mother. But she was more treated as a daughter, which my mother had not produced. Even aside from spiritual condolences, in the natural she is like a sister to me. She has loved and lost, but virtuous she has remained."

"Who?" She curiously inquired. "Whom did she love?"

"He has been dead many years now." He put a finger to her chin, urging her to look up at him. "I love you, Rachel," he said with such sincerity in his eyes. "That is all that matters. We had our agreement beforehand, and I have no regrets. You must believe that. The desire to make love when reacted upon afterward bring about particular results, some pleasant others not. It may instill an even deeper need to do so again, it may make it tolerable to do without again, or it may cause resentment. I would not have you awaken one morning regretting something that could have been avoided, and even resenting me."

"There are women who are available to you," she found herself saying, even thinking about the younger sister.

"I am no longer a foolish and selfish young man. I'm soon to be fifty years of age. I can be faithful, even to that extent."

She parted her lips to speak, and then put them together again, not sure if she should say what came to mind or not, or how to even say it, or even if she meant it.

"What is it?" He urged. "There is something you want to say."

She tried to be straightforward and strong and confident. "I...I would not hold it against you." She forced the words from her mouth as if they imposed the greatest threat of all.

She had already imagined this, he falling into the arms of some other woman, not only Holly and other of the young maidens who tended to the palace and its operation, but the woman with no face. She had already gone thru feelings of jealousy and resentment that such images aroused, even so far as to imagine Zaria making love to him. Yes, she took these feelings to the altar...out of guilt. For she had decided; if he were to stray and she knew of it...surely that would evoke bitterness in her toward him and curb her desires altogether. How horrible of her to conclude such things.

He was very serious when he asked, "Will not hold what against me?" But she felt he knew exactly what she meant. Still, she wanted to make it clear to him. It was not entirely fair of him to do without intimacy because of her refusal to yield.

Her brows came together as she sought for the perfect words to say. "If you are tempted," she managed, "and find solace," she reasoned, and no longer avoided his eyes as she finished, "in the arms of another woman...I will not hold it against you. I only ask that we be honest with one another. That is all."

He studied her a very long time, very seriously, until one of the guards off in the distance called out, motioning to him with the wave of an arm. It was time for him to go.

Saying goodbye was not as settling as in times past. It seemed her words had put even more distance between them. In silence they strolled back toward the guards, and she walked in quietness while he spoke with them. Not long after she watched him depart for his journey to Arlington, and then loathed her way to her chamber where she, for the first time in her life, got purposely intoxicated.

******

The next morning, she awakened with a terrible headache. Tilly tried to feed her. She refused. Roselyn did nothing but ogle her from across the room, and Zaria....well, hers was a different story. She merely sensed that Rachel missed her husband and feared that the night away from home had drawn him into the arms of another woman.

"You needn't worry," she soothed, sitting beside her on the bed. She toyed with a lock of mangled hair, afterward insisting upon helping her dress for the day.

"I don't feel much like getting out of this bed," Rachel told her.

"That isn't much like you."

"No," she agreed.

Zaria put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, sympathizing with her although having not a clue what was wrong with her. So far as she or anyone else knew, she and Jacob had consummated their vows. Rachel felt an urge to confide in her, but bit her tongue from doing so.

"You have made him very happy," she told her. "Happier than ever. He even whistles along the way, and pays no mind to the maidens in the palace. And some of them do desire his attention. You, milady, are the apple of his eye. He shall not stray, especially if you please him and you do it well." She smiled slyly. Rachel inhaled a deep disturbed breath. "Oh, the things you say, Zaria."

"Tis the truth I speak, milady. Please him well, and when he is away from you, you shall know that he is recalling nothing as he lies in some strange bed besides your lovemaking."

She considered the probable truth behind Zaria's words. Little did anyone know she had not pleased her husband at all. At times she desperately longed to.

"I suppose I _should_ rise from this bed."

"You must," Zaria told her. "You have a guest."

She sat upright and alert. "Who?"

"Sir Troy of Orland Manor."

"Sir Troy," she repeated, and then again, "Sir Troy," this time more keenly than the first. After this she was quick to ready herself, thinking of Orland and a reason for Sir Troy's visit. Within an hour she was dressed to meet him. Her guards followed along with her as she made her way from one corridor to another until coming upon the summit room where she'd instructed Percival to have him await her.

He was sitting at the table when she entered, and stood quickly to his feet, bowing his head so slightly at the sight of her. Back straight, she strolled toward him.

"Sir Troy," she greeted.

"Lady," he returned, appearing to be a bit nervous, not at all as at the summit room in the manor house, not at all like himself. Perhaps being here in the Great City made him uneasy, or being there in the palace.

Percival popped out as if from nowhere and walked with her toward the table, pulling out the chair at the head of it. "You may sit," she told Sir Troy, thinking he would very well stand forever if she did not command otherwise.

"May I get you anything, milady?" Percival asked after they were both seated.

"Yes," she asserted. "Have the servants bring us wine." Her eyes skipped about the table. "Holly...where is Holly?"

"Well, I...I do not know, milady, not for sure could I say."

"Find her. She will serve us."

He was obviously very confused. This was not Holly's usual service in the palace...and Rachel was well aware of that. However, she was not entirely sure as to if Holly was present in the palace or not. Had she gone with Jacob after all as in times past, along with the physician?

"Percival," She bade with the raising of a serious brow after he'd lingered an unnecessary amount of time.

"Yes, milady," he agreed with a bow. "I...I shall summon her immediately."

"Very well," she returned, satisfied with his compliance. He scurried off to do as requested of him. She turned her complete attention to her visitor. "What brings you here?"

As if having forgotten and suddenly remembered he took note of a square satchel which he suddenly produced, holding it up for her to see.

"I have these letters," he told her, "messages from the residents of Orland."

She eyed the object, the word "letters" settling in her head like the weight of a brick. How she dreaded hearing it! "Why were they not offered to Darius beforehand?"

"As is customary, I am delivering them directly to you."

"Oh, I see, and I do apologize. I am not yet familiar with all the customs—not of this position or of that one—and they do seem to keep mounting up as the weeks go by."

"I understand."

"And how was your journey?"

He smiled big. "Oh, it was well, milady. Such a beautiful day we are having. And I was in good company. My...my wife joined me, you see, and...and we were only recently wed."

"Oh?" She glanced about as if in search of her. "And where is she? Why has she not joined you?" It suddenly dawned on her, and she relaxed all over again. "Let me guess, it is not the proper custom."

He agreed with silence.

She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled with, "I do believe some of these customs are in need of a renovation."

"Oh, and, milady, she also has family here that she wished to visit. We will not be very long in the Great City, and she did wish to spend some time with them."

"I see."

As soon as the words had left her mouth, Holly entered to serve the wine she'd ordered. Rachel was relieved to see her, although she at the same time had a terrible intolerance for the sight of her—just as Holly had seemed to have for her since day one. But she was very pleased to be the one in the situation with the upper hand all around.

Holly set a chalice out before each of them, and proceeded to fill each one. When she was finished she stood upright, very stiffly, and asked if there was anything else she could get for them.

Rachel paused moments, appearing to be in deep thought, purposely making her stand a while before saying, "No, you may go...but do straighten your posture. You look very flaccid."

Holly's eyes narrowed and hers did the same. The maiden did as requested, squaring her shoulders before leaving the room and Rachel alone with Sir Troy. Of course, Nicholas and Caleb were at the door in the case she needed them.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled. "So, then, you've brought me these letters."

"Yes, milady." He lowered the satchel onto the table, nudging it a few times...until it was close enough for her to reach.

"Well," she began, straightening her back. She noticed him do the same. She reached for her chalice. "This comes as a surprise to me."

"I do apologize for not giving notice."

"How are the conditions of the estate so far?"

"They are well," he assured. "These letters have been written between the time you departed till now. It is only customary that I deliver them myself, or some other member of the council."

"What do you suppose they consist of? Complaints?" She dreaded to hear it.

"Oh, no, I would not imagine so. As I said, the conditions are well...fast improving. There is but one issue I wish to discuss that may be of importance. Well, it is somewhat a problem that I feel must be addressed and by you alone."

"What sort of problem?"

"I, along with the council, wish to have one particular man dismissed from the manor...perhaps sent to the Isles."

"He is a prisoner?"

"A disturbing one at that. It seems he has...well, how does one put it? Gone a bit insane." He leaned inward to say, "he obsesses himself with the palace of Emwark, claiming himself to be not only a relative of the lord of Emwark, but of the emperor as well as your priest, Father Nelson."

She raised a brow at this. "Oh?"

He glanced toward the door and then at her again, keeping his voice low so as to keep anyone from hearing. "He more-or-less claims to be royalty, which is far from the truth. But we fear he may rile the people into believing the sorts of things he says; which are very disturbing. He rambles on about underground tunnels, and even calls the lord of Emwark malevolent and corrupt. Aside from Lord Trent, the lord of Emwark is one of the emperor's favored nobles."

She sat staring at him, taking in the information, drinking her wine, eyeing the satchel of messages on the table. "Is that all?" She eventually asked.

He did not respond quickly, and then only with the nod of his head.

She rapped her fingertips against the table-top, thinking this over. "So this man has gone insane."

"It appears so, yes."

"Well, then, he should certainly remain a prisoner plain and simple, but sending him to the Isles would mean involving my husband and also royal officials. I do not think it is serious enough to do so. He should be kept from the people so as to not cause any sort of commotion. His sayings could certainly plant unreasonable prospects into the minds of the people." She thought for a moment, repeating what she'd been told, "underground tunnels."

"All throughout New Ebony, according to him." His eyes were round, never leaving her face.

"Your wine," she reminded, noticing he had not yet touched it. This for some reason bothered her. "What is this man's name?" She asked while he took a drink.

"Ingrid," he told her. "You recall examining the cases of the prisoners."

"Yes, and I recall that name very well. He was imprisoned in the first place for stirring up riots amongst the people."

"Yes," he agreed, pleased by her good memory.

"Is he tolerable? That is, is he difficult to control?"

He thought a moment before shaking his head and saying, "no, milady, not at all."

"Then he should be tolerated and not sent away. Simply keep him to himself. He should become a scribe. Put him in a cell that is less vile than the others. Be sure he has light and the proper tools to write, and provisions...food, water, clothing...wine, if he wishes. Keep him stable and satisfied. The Sacred Oracles would be a reasonable place to start. But do not make it look as if he is imprisoned. Still he should be guarded, but served three meals a day and tended to as any ordinary scribe."

He thought on this long and hard. His lips formed a grin and his eyes twinkled with approval. "That should be a solution, indeed."

She exhaled a deep breath, reaching for the satchel of letters. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, there is one—"

"I propose we dine together this afternoon...before you venture back to the manor. We'll talk more then. And please, bring your wife. I should like to meet her."

This seemed to suit him. They did dine together, discussing the conditions of the manor which had since her involvement improved at so many aspects. The prisoners under strict supervision were repairing the chapel, homes and streets that were in need of it. They had restored the fields and those places that were abandoned were now overseen by tenants whom, according to him, kept up quite well with their rents. The treasury was also building itself, and he, himself, had been left to oversee it by Winston who had returned with him to the Great City and to the palace. Pearce had also returned. She imagined Jacob would be pleased to hear it. He bore a liking for the man although she hadn't a clue why. His duties were not apparent, nor where he even kept himself.

After he had left she began examining the letters. While doing this she came upon one that made no sense. The words were not words at all, just letters and peculiar symbols that seemed to have been randomly placed by the author. She tucked the message away in a private drawer thinking she would come back to it later.

She drank wine again that day, and the next while wondering when Jacob would return. She kept remembering Sister Camille, and decided she needed to speak with her. So she washed her face, straightened herself up, and made the trip into Harp.

******

"My, how lovely," she was commended when she came out to greet the elder. Rachel twirled around as Camille obviously appreciated the overall sight of her. She came to her, taking her upper shoulders and planting a kiss on her left and right cheek. "How lovely you are." She clasped her hands together. "And to what do I owe this honor?"

"I was mindful of you, Sister Camille. I could not resist a visit."

"I am pleased you did not." She took her arm and guided her forward. I do regret I wasn't able to attend the wedding. You see, my eldest sister passed away. I had travelled to Port Quill for the burial. I do hope you understand."

"Of course."

"And that you received my gift."

"I did...we were both grateful for it." A rare collection of poetry by random authors, all of them dead and gone.

"I hope you are happy, as well," Sister Camille commented.

"I am," she assured. "Except there are times I think of what I abandoned. I have felt guilty for it. Fear follows not far behind."

"What could you possibly fear?"

"Perhaps the deterioration of my guilt." She shrugged. "I am becoming accustomed to this lifestyle much quicker, and easier, than I could have ever imagined." She could truly see where guilt could become a thing of the past.

"You needn't feel guilty, my dear, or afraid. I am sure the residents of Westerly understand. They must be happy for you!"

She didn't say anything and was no longer able to look her in the eye. "I see," she understood, and continued to smile thoughtfully. "It is likely they have heard by now."

"It is possible. I do not know. But whenever I sit down to write the letter, well, I find I cannot do it."

"In time I am sure you will, whether they have heard it or not. But I imagine they would much rather hear from you than a stranger." She stared upon her profile. "Something is troubling you, my dear. What is it?"

"I cannot bring myself to say it."

She put an arm around her and walked with her. "You need not suppress your thoughts. Not to me. I am an excellent listener, and even better at giving sound advice."

"I am sure of it. But you would not understand, Sister Camille. I cannot think of anyone who would."

"I may understand better than you know."

She glanced over at her saying, "you were once in love," and Camille's smile faded. It dawned on Rachel that she'd never seen her frown before.

"Forgive me," she apologized. "I should not have mentioned it. Jacob and I were talking and...well, one comment led to another. He told me."

"I see." Her eyes became glossy. "It is quite alright. Even without this mention of it...the memories are always with me. The pain of losing him never quite fades. But God assists me thru it. You understand."

She ushered her into a study: Camille's, she guessed, seeing as to how she was in charge of the priory.

"I always felt called to take the Sacred Oath and to live a life of chastity," she began easing down to sit. Rachel took the seat opposite her, and accepted a glass of water that was suddenly handed to her by one of the maidens she recalled from her short stay. "I felt guilty, in a sense, when he passed away...as if he was taken away so that I would not forsake what I was called to do. Of course it isn't so, but things do cross one's mind. But surely you did not come here to hear my tales of woe." She placed folded hands atop the desk. "What is troubling you, my dear, and caused you to drink in excess?" She softly laughed. "Yes, I can see that you are a bit, um, tipsy. And I do have an excellent sense of smell."

"Do you think less of me?"

"Who am I to judge? I only wonder what ails you. You are the mistress of this magnificent city, and also guardian of Orland. Is it your calling? Do you feel as if you have betrayed something or someone?"

"At times, I do."

"All is well, dear, I assure you."

"Things seem so very complicated now. Nothing is the same. I...I am not the same, at least not my heart. It is changing. My feelings have shifted. Feelings I had only heard about from residents and helped them with...now I find _myself_ in need of help. I am confused," she admitted.

"What confuses you?"

"A number of things." She hesitated before forcing the words from her mouth. "Natural things. Affection."

Camille studied her closer now, seeing now what she meant. She leaned back, a peaceful glow in her eyes.

"I see," she came to say. "I see."

"You could not possibly understand this, Sister Camille."

"I think perhaps I do," she otherwise insisted. And for a time fell silent. "Yes, indeed, I was in love for a time. Madly so. His name was Franklyn Ulysses. He was the son of a noble man, not a Higher Noble, mind you. But quite prominent nonetheless. He was determined to become a man of war."

"Is that how he died? During a war?"

"So I was told. I never knew for certain, only that he did not return. But his family was told he was dead and mourned for him, as did I. Only I could not mourn as they did, openly. Few know of this. Jacob Trent, to this day. Of course Lady Trent, Jacob's mother, knew of it and was dear enough after so many years had passed, when they decided to hold a memorial for him, to insist upon paying her respects, and to take me along so as to take part."

"Why was it hidden?"

"His father had already arranged his marriage so he could not tell anyone about me. Only when he returned he had planned to. His body has not been delivered, even to this day. Of course, one cannot help wonder if he is truly dead. To this day I wonder. I think of him. I imagine he may one day walk thru the door and greet me...perhaps even...even hold me in his arms." Her eyes became very sad.

Rachel felt her anguish and forgot her own.

Despite it all, Camille smiled again. "See? I may understand more than you realize. You may speak your heart, whatever is in it. I doubt you are merely speaking to hear yourself do it."

"Did you remain virtuous?" She asked and then with apologetic eyes said, "I am sorry."

"You needn't apologize. I am pleased you have come to me with whatever is troubling you. Just as the citizens of Westerly once came to you. Yes, indeed. I did remain virtuous. Had he returned such would not have been the case." Her eyes dazzled while she clutched her arms to herself and cast her gaze up to the ceiling. "I had such passion for the man."

"Passion," Rachel repeated, thinking of what she'd witnessed between the couple in the garden. Curiosity once more took hold of her.

Camille cast her a sidelong glance. "Now you are being diffident, Lady Trent."

"Diffident?"

"Modest."

"Truly, I am not."

"You are married to the most noble man in New Ebony, the most dashing as well, if I do say so myself. He is still even after all these years the catch of the eye. And even more-so now since he made this change for the better. You are wed to this man, Rachel the Elder, and you tell me you do not know what passion is?"

"I know, yes," she quietly admitted. "But I am not accustomed to its nature. Just as I am not accustomed to these other things, although some of them I seem to be growing into quite well."

"Neither was I nor have I since. It is a beautiful thing when properly handled, this type of affection. You needn't scold yourself. You are by nature a woman. You have fallen in love, married. It is well if you wish to make love to your husband."

"Camille," she quietly scolded, glancing toward the door to be sure nobody else had heard. Camille silently laughed. She sat back, simply admiring her.

"I suppose these are the sort of qualities that cause Lord Trent to love you so much." There was a short pause. "But how long will a husband withstand the withdrawal of his wife?" She came to ask, having grasped the truth of matters from all that'd been said. Rachel stared into her wise old eyes and then down at her hands in lap. "It was agreed upon," she quietly replied. "That I would not be forced or persuaded to lose my virtue in the case I wished to return to my calling or...or to marry again."

"And which of those would you prefer?"

"To return to my calling, of course."

Camille's gaze became rather pitiful. "Once one has experienced such things as these you've mentioned, and love and passion and even excess of wine, it is complicated to partake of the Sacred Vows."

"But if one remains chaste."

"I was not married like you, Lady Trent, or in any such position...one that will certainly, not that it has not already, arouse all sorts of feelings and emotions, ones you have perhaps battled with all your might. One must always be exactly who and what they are, Rachel the Elder, nothing else. But I assure you, I have experienced desires, these that you have up until now been alien to. I may wish to visit this place Westerly some time. I am curious as to how it could truly keep one so sheltered as it obviously has you."

"I was not sheltered," she defended. "I simply had convictions and morals." The word "had" stood out to them both.

"And you still do," Camille reassured, "Otherwise you would not be here. But you must face the consequences of what you've become...of who you now are. Now, I do not believe for one moment that you were ignorant, not only in matters pertaining to spiritual life but natural as well. After all, you did have an entire community relying upon your advice, or so I have heard. As for these feelings...do not be so hard on yourself, Lady Trent. You are entitled to them."

While her words sank in, Rachel studied Camille, her calm peaceful composure...her confidence. This was something she did feel entitled to, and found herself smiling softly upon the realization.

One of the maidens came in and made the announcement that a visitor had arrived, so they both stood. "I suppose I will be on my way."

"You may linger a while longer while I tend to this guest, if you wish."

"No, I must return." She offered a hug and said her good-byes, rushing home in hopes her husband would soon return, and safely.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

When she did return, she noted a barrage of guards with their horses near the front entrance of the palace—a sure sign Jacob was home. While in search of him, she came across Percival midway a hallway and stopped him to ask, "Has my husband returned?"

"No, milady," he said frowning heavily upon her, "he is still away." He seemed very troubled by something or other.

Her brows came together and she asked, "Is something the matter?"

"Sir Marcus has returned," he told her, glancing at the floor for a time.

She felt strange hearing the name.

"Oh?" She barely shook her head. "Is something wrong? Is he well?"

"He has been injured and has wounds. They are being tended to."

"I see." She adapted to the idea, or appeared to. And when he was gone, she travelled the distance to the quarters Marcus normally occupied during any such visit.

The first room was empty, but from the room adjoining, his bedchamber, she could hear him fussing.

"No more of that," he was saying. "I am in pain as it is. Why cause more?"

She came nearer and slipped inside, and stood there a moment before she was realized. Mable at once noticed her and stood upright...and then Holly whom she automatically despised and could not help it. Marcus lay propped up in the bed, a pained expression upon his face.

She put her chin in the air and came nearer. "I just heard of your return and of your injuries. I thought I would see for myself that you are well...in my husband's stead," she added. "He is away."

He tried to conceal a wince but it was noticed. "Yes, I am well. Just in some pain," he admitted.

She spotted the cause of it...a rather deep-looking gash in his calf which Mable and Holly had been in the process of bandaging. Without an explanation, Rachel slipped out of the room, returning sometime later with a remedy to help ease his pain. His leg had by then been successfully bandaged. His help was still fussing over him. Rachel nudged them out of the way and eased down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Here. Drink this."

He did, and in a very short time felt some relief. "Ah." He closed his eyes and relaxed. "That is better. Much better."

She glanced up at the two women. "You may go," she said, and when Holly hesitated she commanded "Go!" and she loathed from the room in little hurry.

"You are beginning to appear a different person," Marcus commented, looking her over.

"What do you mean?"

"Or shall I say simply that I see you have adapted," he laid his head back on the pillows, eyes closing. "I have been away over a month."

She considered his words. Yes, she had changed. Constant skin and hair treatments and pampering and the finest clothing probably had made a big difference. She had not really considered it until then.

"Edison would have perhaps been so generous, were he here. Whatever the remedy, I am grateful for it."

She noticed the basin, and dampened a cloth using it to wipe a minor cut on his shoulder. "You should thank yourself," she told him. "The herbs you brought from Port Templeton...with a touch of wine."

"Then they weren't useful to him," he dreaded to say.

"It wasn't necessary to use them all. He became well a short time after you departed." She bent to get a closer view of his cut. "At least this one is not deep," she commented and straightened her upper body. "What exactly happened?"

"I wouldn't want to trouble you with the recollection of it, or even myself for that matter."

"An accident?"

"No."

"Were you attacked?"

"What was it you once said...some inquiries are best left unspoken?"

He managed to get a smile from her. "I am just curious, Sir Marcus, as you always claim to be."

"Although peculiar they may be, I am pleased you recall our conversations."

"I remember all conversations...which can be rather disturbing at times," she added. "It appears you've been in this shape before." Judging from several scars: a few on his bare chest and shoulders, one very close to his heart.

"There is but one difference. This time I did not return with my assailant's corpse. I did, however, wound him. So if you see a man roaming about with a missing eye and perhaps a finger..."

She shook her head at him. "Why do you do this? You could have a more secure place, a trade...even an estate. But you choose to wander about under hire, facing the enemies of those who hire you. It makes no sense. Does it pay so well that it's worth the risk?"

"I get paid very well."

"The money would do little good if you were destroyed as it appears you nearly were."

"You make a valid point," he said. "And yet continue to prove yourself the wisest woman I have ever met."

"Perhaps you haven't associated with the proper kind."

"I will not argue that, milady." He shifted to make himself more comfortable. "You don't understand my exertions. Otherwise you would not urge me to abandon them. Far be it from me to explain. It would seem a great deal like bragging."

"How so?" She seriously asked.

He changed the subject. "It is rumored all about that my friend is the happiest man in all the world."

"My, but word does travel."

"Quickly," he commented. "Of course I would not have expected to hear any other report. I have also caught wind of a second report, that you acquainted yourself with Orland Manor...and that you handled yourself quite well. Again, not that I would have expected otherwise." He was terribly serious now. "But how have you handled this...being here? Jacob's wife?"

"I have adapted quite well," she told him. "Jacob even lets me give to the poor in the city." She smiled. "He seems to enjoy watching me do it."

"Perhaps since any other in your place would have set her heart upon other things...to fulfilling her own desires."

That word caused her movements to nearly end. Her face became very somber as she asked, "What sort of desires?"

"Finer things which you are not so prone to think about. Apparel, jewels, furnishings. Elaborate social events, and even land on occasion."

"As for apparel...I cannot see where I could be any more blessed. Also with jewels, not only gifts from Jacob, but from the noble wives. I am forever receiving gifts of gold and silver. I cannot even keep up with having a suitable location to store them. As for land...well, Orland Manor is plenty enough. And it is understandable that a lady would spend money on social events. The people are worth the expense." She lowered the cloth back into the water, dismissing it. "I'll leave you alone to rest," she said. "You must get well. According to my husband, there is to be an event in not only his honor but yours as well in the near future. I only recently learned that you will turn thirty-five the very day he becomes fifty."

"My honor," he mocked. "In light of this, I have no honor."

"Your pride has been damaged."

"Just a bit. But it can be remedied. Now this has taken your mind from what's most important to you. Are you going to ask about my quest on your behalf?"

Yes, of course. How had she forgotten?

"A successful transfer," he said before she could ask. "I even remained longer than intended."

"The residents are the most gracious you'll ever meet."

"That they are. A peculiar people, I would call them. Your gift was received almost as if I was the one to have proposed it."

"It arrived safely by your hand. I imagine they were grateful."

"Grateful, they were. Very grateful. Agatha was just as you say, a trustworthy woman. She appeared very mature in age. I started to ask, but did not feel it my place to do so."

"She is ninety-seven."

"Even younger than I supposed," he commented, and before Rachel could scold him, he quickly continued. "She misses you dearly. They all do. I assured them of your well-being without making mention of your new status. I didn't feel it my place to tell them, so I merely explained to them that your presence is for the time required here, which is hardly a lie, and that they need not worry. They haven't a clue that you are now a wife and the lady of this wonderful city."

"I suppose I had in a way hoped you would tell them. I suppose I am a coward."

"No," he plainly argued. "You are anything but a coward. If you fear anything it is disappointing them, which is not entirely a fear at all. Having met these people, I am certain they would be happy for you."

"Tell me, how long did you stay?"

"Five days, in a small cottage not far from the chapel. The mayor insisted it."

"Oh, and how is he?"

"Old...like Agatha, very old."

"But his health."

"To be honest, I don't know how he gets around. He can't see anything."

"And my sisters...did you meet them as well?"

"I'm not sure of who exactly I met...only that it was the most relaxing five days of my life. The people there live a simple life. It was refreshing, but I could not imagine being the patron of such a place. Such simplicity would surely drive a man to madness."

"You will not be the first to have said so."

A peculiar, unique expression came over his face, as if something was wrong, and he looked away, acting to study a chipped nail.

"You have something more to say," she decided.

"Yes," he quickly admitted. His eyes became very compassionate, sincere. Just what exactly would he say? She gave her head a slight shake. "What is it? Has...has there been a death?" She hated to mention it, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

"No, no," he hastily corrected. "Nothing like that. The community has actually grown by several people."

Her brows came together. "There must be something. I can see it in your eyes."

"There is," he admitted, "but I am somewhat afraid you will take it the wrong way, misconstrue my actions, maybe consider me out of line although I meant well. Truly, I did."

She gave her head a slight shake. "What are you talking about?"

He paused a moment, studying his fingertips. He finally lowered his hand and looked at her again, his gaze still very sincere. "I was given a parcel of land by Duke Norton in return for my services. Afterward, I took the deed to Duke Berlin."

"Duke Berlin," she repeated after him. "He's a horrible little man."

"The deed was valuable to him," he explained. "So I exchanged it with him for the deed to another parcel of land that extends from the north and eastern borders of Westerly. After presenting the gift from Jacob to your friends in Westerly, I also presented the deed to this land."

She was speechless. That land had been wanted for some time now, just as Westerly had been sought after from every angle. The town was so small, and the residents consistently felt in danger of being placed into the hands of any one of the three nobles surrounding them, specifically Duke Berlin who was rumored to be a very callous and crude man.

"But..." She shook her head, easing back down to sit on the bedside. "Are you sporting with me again?"

A lazy grin touched his lips. "No, milady," he assured, and she knew for sure he was telling the truth. She visualized him handing over such a document to Agatha, the mayor and the entire town. They must have been exhausted with gifts, overwhelmed with these sudden blessings....blessings from the heavens for sure.

He was avoiding her piercing gaze now, as if a bit embarrassed by his good deed, a deed that had not been requested or expected or even thought of for that matter. It'd come to him on his own, and he'd done it...for her? To make her happy? To make her appreciate the sort of fortune his endeavors could bring? That she would not frown down upon his labors, but consider them heroic and relevant?

"As we speak, they are likely surveying the land, and considering the plans for it I left behind. The mayor and the council and I sat together and I directed them, so to speak, on the most suitable way to extend.....from the inward out. There's no danger along the borders. I have planted guards temporarily in the case of incident. But the deal is sealed. The land is theirs, and no harm will come upon them. If there are problems...well, they will speedily be brought to my attention."

Her smile deepened, and she did not resist an urge to hug him, placing her hands on his bare shoulders and leaning inward, squeezing him tightly. "This makes me so very happy."

His eyes dazzled with a joy of his own. "This ends in like manner as many of my endeavors. Mission building upon mission. Now I have one other to accomplish. I am not so sure what our emperor will think of this extending of Westerly's borders. You do know the land belongs to him. Still, he will likely leave it be although an explanation of why I chose to enlarge a town that is already despised will be demanded."

Still smiling down at him, she stood, and possibly in the nick of time. Jacob came through the door saying "alive and well" with a voice probably not as loud as it seemed at the time.

"Alive, yes," Marcus agreed. "But well, no. I will not be until I have avenged the situation."

Rachel was pleased to see _Jacob_ alive and well, but he appeared a bit untouched by the sight of her. He cast her one swift glance, one that reminded her of the conversation they'd last shared. He turned his attention back to Marcus to ask, "What happened?"

Rachel mindlessly slipped from the room, colliding into father Nelson in the process. They both exchanged apologies, and he, hearing the two men speaking in the room beyond, chose rather to walk alongside her.

"I had heard there was an incident. I came to see for myself."

"Yes, a...an accident of some sort or...well, I am not completely sure." Was there actually a reason to lie? Perhaps not, really, but she just had.

"Well, it sounds as if he is well...and also Jacob. He has likewise returned safely."

"Yes," she agreed.

"Then I shall sleep well tonight. My prayers were with them both."

"As were mine."

"Um, if I may ask...are you in good spirits?"

She had done a terrible job of covering up otherwise...yet continued the façade. "Yes, Father Nelson, I am merely tired. That is all."

"Then you will not mind if I speak with you about some matter of importance. I had desired to do so these past few days but found myself continually hindered. It seems this time of year people are more in need of spiritual guidance."

She continued to walk, her eyes to the floor. "What sort of matter?"

"If you don't mind," he said, stopping before a drawing room, extending an arm. She obliged, walking past him and inside. He joined her, pulling the doors together behind them. "I have a report for you."

"A report?"

"It seems the residents of the Orland are smitten with appreciation for you. They are planning an, um, merrymaking event in your honor. Of course such a thing is unheard of, and has never taken place to the best of my knowledge."

"It is touching to hear it." She searched her mind, thinking back to Sir Troy's visit. He hadn't mentioned anything along those lines. "Since when?" She found herself asking.

"The prospect was brought to my attention prior to departing Orland."

"Sir Troy did not mention this to me."

"There now, do not be troubled. It was well that he brought it to my attention first. He asked that I take it before Jacob. If properly conducted, I imagine it would be safe for you to accept this invitation. Of course guards will accompany you and see to it you are safe. I suppose Jacob will approve. In fact, I am certain of it. No doubt he will be proud that they have taken such a liking to you."

"Perhaps he will join me."

"Doubtfully so, my child," he regretfully replied. "For logical reasons he hides his face from the manor, as would other of the Higher Nobles, only to secure the authority of the lady. You see, upon meeting him they may very well see you as, um, weak. You understand." He studied her closely, eventually raising a hand to her shoulder, a concerned look upon his face. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I...I just think I need to rest. Perhaps take a short nap."

"If I may ask...how have you been? I have not noticed you at the chapel in some time."

"I have been well," she assured him. She offered a tired smile. Her wine had worn off and she felt like sleeping. But how could she? She felt so overwhelmed. By the return of her husband. By Marcus's gift. By this new event.

The land. She could not help feel the joy of the residents upon receiving it. Yes, she was all around overwhelmed by it...by Marcus taking any such thing to mind. How thoughtful of him, she decided. But why had he so sporadically done so?

She wondered as she shortly after paced the floor of her chamber, recalling the news, her reaction. She now felt for some reason as if she was fully prepared to tell them the truth.

She clasped her hands gently together and stared down at them, recalling the feel of Marcus's skin. She raised her palms to inhale his scent. Yes, there was a scent. Something unique

She dropped her hands and went out to the balcony and just stood there, staring up at the heavens, and then closing her eyes inhaling the scent of rain. The wind was blowing. The sky had become cloudy. There would be a storm. A strong one, she hoped, for then she could rest well.

She felt a light drizzle and held out her hands to capture some droplets of rain. And she rubbed her hands together, wiping away the sensation of Marcus's skin, and the scent, if indeed there had been one to begin with.

And it did storm. Nobody disturbed her...and she slept.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Dearest Agatha

I must write to tell you of certain changes that have taken place. I hope my friends and sisters will understand and not resent this decision I have made. If the news has yet to reach Westerly make it known that I am now the wife of Jacob Trent. Yes I have married the lord of the Great City which was his request all along. Guilt eats at my insides as I write because I did not make it known sooner. But whenever I would begin to express this in a message to you I have refrained because of guilt to begin with. I did not wish to disappoint any of you. I hope you are well. I also hope to send someone soon to advise in my stead. Please tell my friends and my sisters that I am well and that I miss them and that I love you all dearly always as myself. Truly, Rachel.

She passed the message on to Darius personally. He would be sure to deliver it to the proper messenger. She wished she would have written it sooner. Marcus could've delivered it for her personally.

He stuck around, whether for the sake of his healing wound or some other cause she could not say. But her opinion of him made a gradual shift. She went from ecstatic and relieved to curious and suspicious. She ultimately found herself disturbed by this sudden act of benevolence. Of course he had proven a point, but why to this extent, and why had he not told Jacob about it? No, it was not mentioned...not even with time as she waited for it to be. And after so much time had passed, she found herself keeping silent as well lest Jacob think something peculiar of it. So the good deed had turned into some horrible secret that she could not figure out for the life of her. But he would hear of it, become leery of them both for not mentioning it. She just shut her mouth against speaking it, and her mind from thinking about it. She would deal with the situation whenever it actually occurred.

A few very uncomfortable days came and went following both of the men's return. Jacob hardly spoke to her at all. Not that he was cruel or rude. He simply avoided her.

So one evening she decided to invite herself to his table where he'd the past few evenings dined alone. The guard announced her, and Jacob stood, wiping the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief as she entered.

"Jacob," she greeted with the slight bow of her head. His eyes swept over her once and again. She had chosen something perhaps less than suitable to wear—a long, silky gown that revealed more of her frame than she had up until that moment exposed. Zaria had insisted upon it. She had noticed the tension between them, had possibly caught on to the fact that she and Jacob had not consummated their marriage vows. No matter the case, she believed in the use of feminine charm to bring closure to any opposing situation...and to assist one in getting their way. She was quite certain the use of sensual charm could remedy any discord between a man and woman. Rachel did not argue or fight with her. It was very possible that she was correct. She was quite close to finding out.

"Rachel," he softly greeted, gradually standing to his feet. In a bit of a daze he came closer. "Are you well?"

"Yes," she guaranteed, keeping her chin up. Who would've thought a relationship could be so complicated.

"I had not received an invitation to dine with you," she started, "so I created one of my own. I hope you do not object."

Slowly but surely a gentle grin touched his lips. "How could I?" He raised his hands, touching the palms of them to her shoulders, running them down her arms, and then bent his head and gave her the most passionate kiss yet. He then took her hands, as if disposing of all the desire the kiss had aroused, and dropped a light kiss upon each of them. Still holding to her hands, he stepped back to take another look at her. "You look utterly stunning," he complimented.

"Thank you," she returned, almost smiling.

He guided her to the chair opposite his and pulled it out so that she could seat herself. He then motioned to the servant, an order for him to serve her as well. While she wondered how she had made it without falling—her legs did not seem so stable as before—he returned to his seat. She held her back straight, folding her hands and placing them atop her lap. She parted her lips to speak, but something other than what she actually intended to say came out instead.

"How was your visit...in Arlington?"

His eyes became downtrodden and he lowered them. "Although I would speak with you about just about anything, this I would rather not. It was an unusual visit. I am yet to fully comprehend its basis."

"I was relieved to see you return home safely."

"I suppose I could have paid you more mind than I did."

"I imagine you were distracted by Sir Marcus and his condition."

"Yes, and it did come as a surprise to me."

"Has he discovered a reason for the attack?"

"It seems he is just as apprehensive about speaking of that as I am about Arlington. He does not speak and neither do I. It makes one wonder if the two are not linked together in some way. So long as he is rested, relaxed and recovered...as of now I care about that most."

Yes, he was rested and relaxed she recalled, her mind taking her back to the sight of him lying in the bed, the covers pulled down to his waste...his naked torso and arms revealing smooth and strong skin. She recalled the touch of her hands upon his shoulders and...

She glanced up to find Jacob staring awkwardly upon her. Her thoughts had wandered, and to such a scene, a handsome one, of Marcus Wren lying injured and nearly naked in his bed. Could Jacob read her mind?

No, she decided. Her conscience was simply working against her. And why, she wondered, had that scene of him popped back up into her mind? Honestly, it had tweaked at her imagination since observing it.

She quickly dismissed the recollection, focusing upon the reason she had invited herself to Jacob's table to begin with. "I do believe I have an apology to make." She studied the large candle centerpiece all surrounded by flowers and greenery. She searched for the proper words to express herself. "The things I said to you before...as you were leaving."

He did not look at her, in fact seemed to be fighting to keep from doing so. This made her think he had, indeed, done exactly as she'd given him permission to do. She was also reminded of Sister Camille's words saying she could not be ignorant of natural things, and then of the truth to that...for she had seen this far. She had even planned these feelings of jealousy and resentment. But the dread of them she had not prepared for. They washed over her, and like a stone settled deep in the pits of her stomach.

The servant came in with a plate and a chalice, filled it, set the bottle aside and then left them alone. A few silent moments passed. She took a drink of her wine, in the process realizing how often she had been drinking the past few days, especially the one. But if that's what it'd taken to get her to visit Sister Camille, so be it. She truly needed to hear her story.

But this varied at so many aspects. She was actually married to Jacob. A choice few may have been aware of the truth. For the most part people assumed the marriage had been consummated and were probably awaiting word of a child.

And there she'd been, even persuading her husband to commit infidelity. She'd never felt so certain that she was the most horrible woman who'd ever walked the face of the earth—giving her husband permission to sleep with another woman, drinking to excess, entertaining anger and jealousy and all sorts of malicious emotions. The thought of him being with another woman pierced her through so that she could hardly withstand it. Should she give herself to him right now? Should she recommend it?

"I accept your apology," he came to say, glancing up at her.

"Thank you," she managed. "I was terribly in the wrong. And I was not speaking from the heart. I did not mean it at all and—and..." Would she break down and begin to cry right then and there thinking she may have caused him to be unfaithful, and that she would now cause him to lie to spare her feelings?

"I knew you did not mean it," he quietly replied, his voice very soothing to her. "And, milady, my dear beautiful wife, Lady Trent...with or without permission, I would not have strayed from you."

She looked into his eyes and knew one thing for certain; Jacob Trent was telling her the truth. A weight lifted off her shoulders. She felt a rebirth of happiness, which he obviously shared.

"You haven't taken a single bite," he noticed.

"Truthfully, I'm not the slightest bit hungry," she admitted. "I just wanted speak with you."

He raised his glass. She raised hers. They toasted without a word to something neither of them even knew. Perhaps simply closure. They drank, each looking at one another over the rims of their glasses, and were both smiling when they lowered them.

He wiped his mouth, dropped his napkin to the table and stood. "Let's you and I go out to the terrace. The moon should be big and round tonight, and the sky cloudless."

He took her hand; together they stood, and did exactly as he'd offered. Afterward, she did not want to leave his company. If anything at all, she wanted to simply fall asleep in his arms. He left her at the doors of her private chambers, dropping a kiss on her cheek and wishing her a good night. Tilly assisted with brushing her hair and afterward left her alone. She put on her gown and lied down. However long she lied there, she didn't know. It was a while, and the guards at the doors of Jacob's room were perplexed when she came up between them, pushed the doors open and went inside.

She crept her way to the door of his bedchamber and peeped inside. It was dark so she could not see, only his shadow when she came closer. She heard the soft, steady sound of his breathing as he slept. Quietly she slipped into the bed beside of him, pulling the covers back so that she could slip beneath them. Jacob stirred and she snuggled against him, laying her head on his strong, smooth chest. She felt his body go tense as he realized he was not alone. He raised a hand in the air while she whispered, "It's just me," and as his hand fell to touch her shoulder, "go back to sleep."

She snuggled closer into the warmth of his body, relaxing beneath his snug embrace. This was just as she'd imagined. She felt secure, safe, and closer to him. Yes, this was intimate...completely innocent and intimate.

She fell asleep there with him. But she awakened at one point. They had both shifted, and the sheet was no longer covering them. She arose to pull the sheet up over them again, and as her eyes adjusted, simply from the light of the moon thru the window cascading over them, she was captivated by a sight she had not before known, but had, indeed, heard of. No, she was not ignorant when it came to the union between man and woman and how it was possible. And here, now, there it was before her very eyes. The arousal of a man sound asleep—her husband. This she was at first intrigued by, for she would not have imagined the extent of it, the way in which the male body reacted to physical need. She was a bit startled; blinking her eyes to be sure she was seeing correctly. Yes, he was aroused, and a generous arousal it seemed to be. Large came to mind, then again she had never saw such a thing, had only been aware of it.

She considered her own body, clothed in the silk gown she'd put on that evening, and imagined lying back down next to him, pulling the covers up over them, but now she could not. Half asleep, she crept up out of the bed, reached for the covers and pulled them up to his waist.

He was sound asleep and did not notice that she slipped from the room, not until the next morning when he awakened and she was gone.

******

Jacob had requested Marcus join him at the table that morning—some matter of importance he wanted to speak to him about. He hadn't gone into any detail.

Marcus was there and seated at the seventh hour. He was served breakfast alone, but did not eat very much. His appetite had suffered lately. There was too much going on to be at complete ease.

He had heard while recovering from his wound that Jacob had travelled to Arlington during his absence. The details of that trip had been kept secret, apparently under strict orders. Marcus hated to see him traveling about under the circumstances, and with no explanation as to why...at least nobody would tell him. And he had questioned the guards. They simply said he had, indeed, travelled there, but did not know his reasons, and did not know anything at all about the visit. It sounded like a cover-up to Marcus. Just what exactly was Jacob getting into and why? It simply concerned him when descriptions of his actions became such a secret thing...and that this trip had not been mentioned by way his mouth, only others. He wasn't accustomed to Jacob keeping anything from him. Perhaps he planned to fill him in this morning.

About twenty minutes into the hour the doors opened and Jacob burst inside. Percival was not far behind him, rattling off something about the staff, which did not appear to interest Jacob in the slightest.

Marcus watched him very closely, for every time upon first sight of him, he automatically wondered if he'd had the honor of consummating his marriage, something few knew had been agreed upon as unnecessary for the cause of Rachel's future, as she had more a promise of a longer one than he. It made perfect sense to Marcus, but he doubted he, himself, could make such an arrangement let alone follow thru with it. How did a man contain himself? And from his own wife? From Rachel?

He took his seat at the head of the table, to the direct right of where Marcus sat. As usual, no matter the place, Marcus felt at perfect ease in the palace...at Jacob's home. He had been made to feel that way for many years, even before the change in the man which to this day still perplexed him.

It had truly been for the best. But he remembered the child, thought it a shame he could possibly now die childless because of a decision on Rachel's part to keep her virtue. But it was obvious she cared about him, that she loved him, even, and was attracted to him. When in the same room with the two of them, one could feel it in the air, as if it could be cut thru with a knife.

A servant entered and placed a plate and chalice before Jacob on the table. Percival yet stood there awaiting an answer on whatever he'd been rambling about. Jacob waved a hand at him as if to shoo him away. "We can discuss it later. Not now."

Percival started to say something else. Jacob raised a stern hand saying "Later" with a bit of a harsh tone. Shoulders slumped, Percival turned away and left the room. Jacob exhaled as if from pure exhaustion.

"First thing in the morning," he complained. "Doesn't a man deserve at least an hour or so of peace this time of day?"

He seemed perturbed all around, so Marcus could not help but ask, "Are you well?"

"Yes, yes," he quickly agreed and reached for a glass of wine as soon as it was set out before him. This wine was not the most potent kind, but had a far less influence than that offered at later hours in the day. This was offered as a choice during morning time meals. Marcus had chosen cider instead.

"I am well. I just have, it seems, hundreds of things on my mind."

"And which of these did you want to speak to me about? I imagine it to be of importance since you requested my company at such an early hour."

"It is of great importance. It has to do with my wife."

"And is she well?" He found himself asking.

"She is," he agreed. And for the first time, he grinned. "I am very pleased, my friend."

Marcus felt a peculiar sinking in his stomach...very unsettling. It wasn't quite right. For upon hearing him, images of them making love came to mind, and for the life of him he could not imagine why that disturbed him so.

He did not know what to say to it, so he said nothing at all, and would have fallen into his own little world had Jacob not continued.

"She has gained the approval of those in Orland, which pleases me very much. You recall the trouble I had in the past. Isabelle was the worst, horrible for the position although trained for it. She was not prepared at all. Matilda was so very backward. The people had little respect for her...the lack of 'backbone'. She was not prepared either. But then Rachel, who has had no such training at all, has taken the position well. She has solved many of the problems facing the community, and I hear she is praised as a queen over a nation."

"I am hardly surprised," Marcus told him, still thinking of that grin and that reaction, saying he was "very pleased". Had they finally consummated their marriage? He was suddenly very glad the two of them never discussed such things. Why, he wondered, did this thought of them making love disturb him so much? He silently scolded himself, and not for the first time.

"It seems as if she was meant to be here all along," he told Jacob.

"I will not argue that, my friend. Now, it seems the people of Orland have planned some sort of festivity in her honor. I considered going against traditional orders, thinking perhaps my presence would not take the attention of the people away from her if I were to attend. But that is the sole purpose of such a decree. It has been exercised amongst the gentry for decades. Unless necessary, a noble needn't appear in the realm of his wife. So I have decided against it."

"Wisely so," Marcus commented. "You would inevitably be esteemed above her. Not that you are not already, but the people would most likely become preoccupied with your presence above hers."

"I have not travelled there in many, many years, only after the death of Isabelle to restore some order. After then I became determined to put such affairs into the hands of other men...ones I trust, mind you; which would also be the case with the well-being of my wife. Now that I have ruled out any participation in the event, her safety during it has become of utmost concern. The festivities are scheduled to last two full days, which would place her there a total of three nights. The evening of the day she arrives, the evenings of the two days. She will return the fourth day."

"And you have approved of this."

"I see no reason to object...and neither does she. Only she wished me to go along. She did understand after I had explained, although she cannot see why such a place cannot be ruled by both lord and lady. I reminded her; the position was created so that the lady herself may prove an ability of her own to rule a people for variable causes. One, to build the character of her husband, and two, to prove she would be capable in the case she was placed in a position to make any decision in the husband's stead."

Marcus simply heard him out, taking in his every word and wondering where he was going with it.

"With all aside, I will not be at peace unless I know for sure she is safe. I would trust you with my life, which is what she has fast become. With your injuries fast healing, I thought it suitable to ask if you would be available in a week to come, and to go so far as to propose that you disengage from any prior engagements in order to see to it my wife safely arrives, safely resides, and safely returns home to me."

Marcus had taken a drink of cider, and lowered it just as Jacob had finished speaking. He stared at his cup for a moment and then at his friend. "I have no engagements," he told him.

"Then you will agree to escort Rachel to the manor."

"Have I ever declined you?" It was more a statement than a question. Jacob grinned at his words. He raised his chalice, swallowed its contents and stood. "Then it is settled. Now I can have peace of mind while she is away, knowing she is in the best hands of all."

******

These arrangements were not discussed with Rachel. Jacob did not want her to think he was fussing too much, or that he would worry himself into an illness. He did not want her to feel any guilt—only to rightfully enjoy the occasion.

He kept very busy the next few days, those prior her trip. In truth, he was apprehensive. The thought of losing her was a horrible one. He was determined to keep her so long as he lived. He had lost two wives already. A third...how would he survive it? Not Rachel. It would not be so easy. He would afterward wish to die, himself.

But he preferred she did not see this weakness in him, the weakness of worry, although she surely knew he had a weakness for her...only not the extent of it, he concluded. She hadn't a clue. How he loved her.

And how he longed to be with her.

He could not get that image of her lying in his bed from his mind, snuggled against him, so warm and soft and perfect. He had awakened at one point and watched her sleep, fighting this incredible urge to arouse her from slumber with tender kisses and touches, to make love to her. How his insides burned to do so.

The desire he now saw in her eyes from time to time did not make matters any easier. She was fighting it, he knew, and he would not become guilty of persuading her, of having her lose her virtue, lose her trust in him, and regret having ever met him at all.

But he was strong enough to withstand. He knew when to lengthen the distance between them and when to shorten it again.

The evening before she was to depart so happened to be the evening of the celebration in his and Marcus's honor—a celebration of their birthdays which fell on the same day.

This had been planned for specifically by Percival who was accustomed to making the arrangements. He and Marcus had been celebrating their birthdays together on and off for many years. It was not a festivity for the attendance of nobles but of the richest of the Great City who were chosen and invited, and who certainly accepted.

The Great Hall was rearranged and decorated. Two tables were prepared, one for each of them, and each comfortably sitting fifty guests. Marcus and Jacob would sit across from one another at the head of their own table. The room was so large there was plenty of space for entertainers and dancing.

Rachel had a place of her own with her handmaidens and others of the palace staff as well whom although she had not gotten exceptionally acquainted with she was familiar with. She approved of them and they of her...well, except the two: Roselyn and Holly. Holly seemed to downright despise her. Rachel shared the sentiments.

This night she sat from a distance with her maidens and these others whom were also offered drinks. It was an occasion for them all to celebrate. Firstly, that Jacob was now fifty years of age, secondly, that Marcus had turned thirty-five. So they all ate, drank and were entertained. It reminded her of her second day in the Great City when she had given Jacob her answer, rather he had seen it in her eyes. But fate had brought her back...or perhaps a prayer, the hope in his heart.

Rachel was careful not to drink too much. She had learned the ways of intoxication, that wine in excess could intensify a feeling whether good or bad. Not that desiring her husband was a bad thing. She only kept in mind the possibility that he would die. He would die and she would be left to continue on with her life; He was convinced in a couple of years. She could go back to her calling. Surely the people would believe her, that she had remained virtuous even through her marriage.

If she said it was so the citizens of Westerly would _certainly_ believe her. They trusted her word as if it were their own. She only wondered what their reaction would be to her message. It would arrive soon, quicker than the two weeks it'd taken her to travel the distance. The messengers did so on horseback and with less sleep, which made it a much quicker journey. Of course by then the letter could merely serve as confirmation to what they may have by then already heard—that she had married. She hoped and prayed for a speedy and kind response.

Music was playing and several damsels came out to dance, all in perfect harmony. They were dressed rather provocatively and danced just the same. It appeared as if they were purposely enticing the two men. One of the maidens slipped s silk scarf from her shoulders and draped it around Jacob's neck. This actually disturbed Rachel. The maidens nearest her may have witnessed the evil look that suddenly hardened her eyes. It happened so fast. But she hid it just as quickly.

The damsels were no less lenient with Marcus, persuading him to join them. He obliged them at times.

"Side by side they look like father and son," commented Zaria at one point. Rachel only silently agreed, and then also came to the conclusion that it was not safe at all to imagine Marcus being a younger sort of version of her husband.

"Will you not dance?" She asked Zaria, surprised that the maiden had behaved herself so well.

"Perhaps later," she returned, casting sly eyes toward Marcus's direction. "I may perchance lure him into my chamber for a gift he would appreciate better than the finest of gold."

By now Rachel had become accustomed to such sayings as this, so she did not scold her.

She watched Jacob, considering how he had aged so very gracefully, keeping smooth tanned skin, highlights of natural color, dazzling eyes and strength. Yes, she adored him. And she was surely not alone in admiring him. He had many admirers, which she had not truly paid mind to up till this night. He was ogled flirtatiously and purposely passed up by seductive young damsels, servants and handmaidens, and a few daughters of these wealthier citizens. Perhaps they assumed he had by now tired of her. Again she recalled Zaria's mention of noblemen and how they would gladly stray from their wives. "Not all, mind you," she'd said at one point, "But the most part of them." She likely said so to spare her from worrying.

Men of some status, according to Zaria, were also known to persuade their daughters to seduce men of higher status so as to receive honors and favors, if even for a short time.

Rachel began to think of what a shame it was that he could not make love to his own wife. But then, thinking of how well he'd handled himself despite this lack of intimacy, she admired him all the more.

But the image came out from hiding again, that of he and the faceless woman. How she despised it and the feelings it aroused in her. She scorned herself and the image, thinking she needed to visit the chapel very soon.

The damsels continually paid him a great deal of attention, but none to worry; she received an equal amount, which she was certain he noticed as well. Only Jacob was very confident. He trusted her and she knew it...also that he desired her. Such longing radiated from him like rays from the sun. This consoled her, and boosted her confidence. She was able to relax, and to calmly entertain and be entertained...to overlook such flirtatious actions as continually caught both his and her eye. There was nothing at all to worry about. He wanted her. Not these flamboyant trollops who'd probably already bedded dozens of men in their life.

Now she began telling herself to not judge them, and decided it would be best to have yet another glass of wine. She was about to take one when she saw Jacob coming toward her, a relaxed, sheepish grin upon his face that not only reminded her that he had ingested a fair share of wine, but of his desire for her. He took her hand and she stood, allowing him to guide her from the room, away from the company of the guests and the commotion they were by now causing. They went off to themselves.

Once outside of the room, he turned her about and into his arms, and he kissed her lips—a long, lingering kiss that reminded her of the lovers in the garden.

"Have I told you how exceptionally beautiful you are?" He asked, smoothing a hand down her hair.

"No, you have not, but you needn't say a word. Such compliments are embedded into your eyes."

He lowered his head and swept his lips over hers again and again, kindling violent flames of desire in the pits of her stomach. She began kissing him back until he drew away—not very far, mere inches. He held his hands to either side of her face, sweeping his thumbs over her skin. A breath caught in her lungs, and her blood turned very hot. She became limber, falling into him.

"Rachel, Rachel. My dear Rachel," he said, pulling back so as to see her. In his eyes, unlike anything she'd ever seen before, were such dark clouds of flaming desire. Dark and piercingly wicked with longing. But not dangerous. No, she could never fear him.

"How long shall you fight your heart, Rachel?" He asked, smoothing a hand down her hair. "When I am not with you...when we depart from one another, do you fight your heart?"

"You have already perceived so," she said, her voice slightly trembling.

He held her closer, his hands sliding from her hips to her waist, her midriff and upward. She felt the heat of his palms as they closed over her breasts, and the tips of his thumbs circling and exploring her nipples. She exhaled a quivering breath, raising her hands and holding to his shoulders, her legs nearly giving out beneath her. The image of the lovers in the garden passed through her mind, how the maiden had been exposed, and her naked flesh ravished. She imagined herself naked and Jacob lowering his head to devour her breasts and...

An echoing commotion from the Great Hall suddenly disturbed her imaginary thoughts. The sound of two men quarreling back and forth had interrupted them and all else. The music had stopped, and the guests from their chattering.

Yelling and cursing between one man and another filled the air, and then the sound of Marcus's voice demanding they both drop their weapons. Jacob's hands slid away. He released her and made his way back into the Great Hall. Rachel followed close behind to see what all the commotion was about.

Jacob paved his way thru those who had been dancing and toward the two men, both of whom had drawn their swords and stood in stance across from one another as if to attack at any given moment.

Marcus now stood between them, and Jacob demanded an explanation. "What is this?" He angrily demanded, and before anyone could respond, "whatever it is, you will take it elsewhere!"

"Why should it be taken elsewhere when—"

"—shut up!" Marcus commanded, peering upon the man with a fierce hardening of the eyes and face.

"What is this about?" Jacob demanded to know.

"You've taken the side of the bastard," the second one sneered.

"I've taken no side," Marcus angrily claimed.

"Then why—"

"—I said I have taken no side," Marcus yelled back at him. "Now shut up! Both of you! You will not speak of it! Do you hear me? You will not speak of it!"

Jacob was very confused staring from one face to the next. His gaze finally came to and stopped at Marcus. "What is this?" He asked him.

"It is nothing...they are drunk."

"What were you saying?" Jacob asked the one who'd been so bluntly interrupted. At this point neither of the men would speak. They chose rather to honor Marcus's command, which Jacob was not at all happy about.

"Very well, then," he surrendered, and then commanded, "Get out! Both of you!" and then "All of you!"

With that, he disappeared and Rachel did not see him again the remainder of the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Marcus had paced a long while in his private quarters before gathering the proper amount of courage needed to face Jacob later on...and he had to face him. Peculiar how intoxication could flee with the slightest amount of discord—and he had absolutely no desire to bed any one of the maidens who'd made themselves available to him. He'd actually had his eye upon Zaria, but after the verbal brawl between the two men...well, to say the least all he had in mind now was to make things right with his friend.

"Damn them," he'd muttered dozens of times, cursing Dexter and Kyle who'd caused chaos in what would have otherwise been a perfect night. He realized all the more how incredibly fragile their quest had become, how very delicate a secret...and hated that so many were now involved.

Dexter and Kyle worked as spies for him. Several weeks before, Dexter's brother Patrick had been arrested for supposedly withdrawing information from the emperor concerning the plot against Jacob. He was presently being held at Fort Templeton awaiting transferal to the Northern Isles. Dexter had not known about this...and it was not intended for him to. But Kyle had let it slip during some debate about loyalty and bloodlines. Marcus had done well to detain both men following the ordeal. They were being held and guarded outside of the city in Harp, in a secluded place that only he and Byron knew about.

Later, he decided, he would have them transported away from the Great City...not that either of them were literal prisoners, but for now they must live as if they were.

How complicated things were quick becoming. He could not recall having ever lost so much control over an endeavor in his life.

Edwin did not stop him when he came to the entrance of Jacob's quarters. He did not tell him Jacob was not there or that he was not accepting anyone. This, of course, meant just the opposite. Marcus was certain he was expecting him.

He opened the doors and entered, instantly spotting Jacob on the other side of the room, staring at a fire in the hearth. He closed the doors and after a hesitant stare made his way toward him, circling around a rectangular table and two chairs so as to be seen. Even after he'd circled around Jacob did not look at him, but raised his glass of liquor and swallowed its contents.

"Marcus," he eventually acknowledged with a flat voice. He began refilling his glass. "Sit down."

He took the chair opposite him, sitting on the edge, leaning forward, his elbows pressed onto his knees. He stared at the floor for a time thinking of the right words to break the deadly silence. In truth, he wasn't sure what to say. How he hated being caught off guard with unforeseen events such as had taken place that night.

"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" Jacob finally asked, calm-like. "And do not say it was nothing, Marcus, I will not believe it."

"They both work for me," he replied without hesitation. "They have been spying upon messengers in the northern regions."

"In regards to what?"

"Correspondence related to your affairs from the Northern Plains, specifically."

"Why?"

"Precautions."

"What precautions?"

"I have suspicions that someone is plotting against you."

"Who?"

"I do not know."

"And you have kept this from me? Why would you do that, Marcus? Hum? Would you not want to know if your life was in danger?"

"These are suspicions, Jacob, nothing more. I would not trouble you with them."

"I know you well enough to know, my friend, that you do not become suspicious for no reason at all, nor would you take any such precautions without sufficient proof."

To that, Marcus said nothing.

Jacob set his glass aside and stood. Hands behind his back, he went to stare out the window. It was dark out—well after midnight. But the city was lit up beautifully so far as the eye could see, dazzling that time of night.

"I have never known you to lie to me. Have you?"

"Never intentionally."

Jacob turned. "Is the emperor aware of these so-called suspicions?"

His eyes bored into his, contribution to at least a half-truth.

"I expressed it in so many words," he said, convinced that the emperor, were he aware of what was happening now, would not want him to disclose any specific information. This was Jacob's attempt at seeing how serious of a matter it was, for if the emperor was aware of it, it was serious, indeed. As of now, it seemed as if those who were against him had been pursuing a reaction from him: messages purposely sent out to him, and thankfully blocked by some very trustworthy men. Amos had done an excellent job keeping the coded messages from entering the palace, except they had been handed over to Pearce for decoding. Threats. Just threats. Ones Jacob would've certainly reacted upon had he known.

Jacob was back at the table now, refilling his glass. He sat back down and a generous space of silence fell. "You expressed it," he said. "Personally? Face to face?"

Marcus inhaled a deep breath, not liking where the conversation was headed.

"Yes," he honestly answered.

"So, then, the so-called 'suspicion' has been hidden from me for several months. To the best of my knowledge you and the emperor have not spoken face to face since the third or fourth month."

Marcus did not like feeling cornered at all. He felt a rebirth of confidence...which only strengthened as he proceeded.

"Jacob, do you not recall several years ago when suspicions arose that some of our very own nobles were conspiring against our emperor?"

Jacob's brows came together. "You will turn this conversation around against me?"

"I am making a point...that point being that you hired a handful of trustworthy men to investigate it...and that you not only encouraged, but commanded them to speak of it to nobody...especially the emperor."

Jacob didn't like being cornered any more than he did...and it showed. His expression hardened. He shook his head. "That was an obvious hoax all along."

"As this very well could be," Marcus brashly returned.

They took some time to collect their thoughts. When push came to shove, they both had tempers, but they had enough power over themselves to keep it from getting the best of them.

Jacob had leaned back in his seat. He stared forward, simply holding the filled glass and ignoring its contents for the time being.

"These two men," he eventually began, "What were they fighting over?"

"Loyalty."

"Loyalty?" Jacob almost laughed.

"I have been loyal to you," Marcus defended, a crease in his brow. "Nearly fifteen years."

Jacob's gaze snapped over to his. "Do you have a clue how I, the ruler of this city, of this palace felt when two bickering men chose to honor the command of a guest over his own?"

"True, they should have answered you."

"But you commanded them to be silent."

"That was my reaction and I cannot take it back. But those two men have sworn loyalty to me, which was the very thing they were questioning between one another."

"And how many more do you have such as these...who would honor your command over that of a nobleman...in his own noble realm?"

"Would you expect your own servants to honor the command of any noble over yours no matter the place?"

"There is a difference. I _am_ a noble. A Higher Noble."

"What do you think of me, Jacob? Could I not be granted a title if I wished? Do you suppose the emperor would withhold it from me?"

"Very well," Jacob eventually replied. "You have proven one point...which now makes me wonder why you have not made the request. It would surely be granted."

"For now I have my obligations. In due time I imagine I will."

"And these two men of yours...what was the discord between them?"

"It was a simple quarrel, in truth. The brother of the one has been detained in Fort Templeton, and he was not aware of it. The other made him aware and it angered him. To begin with he and his brother were accused of being disloyal. It was a simple, baseless dispute that could've stirred up all sorts of rumors had it gone on and they had not been silenced. The most popular of the city were present, and plenty of damsels who would've gladly taken part in spreading rumors of vague proportions, simply to have something to say. Now that I think back it was well that I silenced them. Otherwise, by their choice of words, who's to say the rumors that would by now be spreading...from here into every direction until every ear has been filled with utter nonsense, and every heart with fear over a riot that does not even exist."

"It seems to me your imagination has done nothing but concoct an entire storybook of nonsense in order to justify your actions."

"I do justify my actions."

"Well, these men certainly proved their loyalty to you...and before the eyes of the entire city, one might as well say."

"It will be forgotten."

"Yes, it will. It is something I shall remedy one way or another, be it through fact or fiction."

"And upon request I would help you do so."

Jacob finally swallowed the contents of his glass and set it aside. Marcus hoped he would calm down. Moods such as this brought back memories of the old Jacob...the one that few could tolerate...ever.

"This brother...why was he detained?"

"For withholding information from the emperor."

"Related to me and this supposed 'plot' against me?"

"I am not aware of all the details. He is the emperor's prisoner."

"Have you spoken to him?"

"No."

"What is his name? Perhaps I will go and speak with him, myself."

"Patrick of Lawrence."

Again there was silence. This time Marcus was the one to break it. "I have had concerns of my own, if I may express them. I have heard of your venture into Arlington at the request of the duke, but nothing about your undertakings. Those who went along, which I have heard were mainly guards, some travelling with you and others secretly from afar, a large number at that, will not give details. This concerns me."

"Because you believe someone is trying to kill me...that they were luring me into a situation so that they could do so." He extended his arms. "As you can see I am alive and well."

"It is not common for you to keep quiet about your travels. Even in casual conversation you explain them. The fact that you have not in this instance makes me think there is something to hide...something that perhaps you know I would disapprove of."

"Am I expected to report to you, Marcus?"

"All these years you have made me a part of your exploits. Why would you stop now? At this? And nobody may speak of this one in particular, obviously because of a command to keep silent. I will say, this proves that you have surrounded yourself by some very trustworthy men. Even going from man to man I have failed to get any answers except the same one that was obviously instilled in them by your command. That you simply went and nothing is known about it."

"Which is true for the most part."

There was silence. A grin slowly but surely touched Jacob's lips and soon he was laughing. Marcus found nothing at all amusing. But it was better to hear him laugh than scolding, and to see him grin opposed to scowling.

"An excellent point you have made," he commented. "Ah, Marcus." He stood. "How long has it been since we had a quarrel?"

"A very long time."

"But I see. I see. I suppose you have some right to be concerned, suspicious of that particular summons. Why did you not simply come to me opposed to hassling my guards for details?"

"I have grown accustomed to you informing me of such ventures, and prefer it that way opposed to questioning you as if you were under some sort of guardianship."

Again there was a space of silence. Jacob's grin vanished away and he became very serious. "Concerning this trip to Arlington—I knew you would be alarmed, even without this talk of a plot or scheme to take my life...whatever it may be. But I was summoned by Duke Arlington under the request of some Roark officials."

Marcus brows drew instantly together. "Roark officials?"

"I was warned that the king of Roark has been discussing and planning to invade New Ebony and to overthrow the emperor for sure, even that he has transported spies into New Ebony. So, then, I can see your point. While you have kept certain suspicions secret and asked others to do so from me, I am doing the same. The emperor should not hear of this meeting between myself and these officials. I must also assure you of this...when the proper time came, I fully intended to have you investigate the matter."

"What did they say, and why? Why would the king's officials come and warn you that the king is thinking of invading New Ebony?"

"First answer me this: according to you, you were attacked by some unknown man...a stranger. Is this truly so?"

"It is," he honestly replied. "Outside of Sainte Louise I was attacked. I don't recall having ever been so violently pursued. But the village had already itself been attacked, even weeks prior my arrival there."

"Yes, I had heard. Pearce explained it to me. He made a safe return escorted by Sir Andrew of Goth. And at the mention of a stranger's name I see signs of suspicion all over your face. It is true, Marcus, that you truly think my life is in danger."

"I take the slightest act of suspicion seriously when it comes to your life."

There was a time of silence.

"So, then, Pearce is no longer in hiding."

"But still falsely charged, and the girl will not speak, protecting the guilty...out of her own guilt, it seems. I have personally warned his accuser against pursuing his life. The matter will be brought before the court in detail. But if anything at all happens to him, he will die."

"I have not witnessed Pearce's livelihood since my return."

"He is with the scribes as of now. There he is needed anyway. But as I was saying...this attack. Who do you suppose the man was?"

"I don't know."

"Perhaps these events are linked together."

"That the attack was meant to keep me from following you to Arlington? It is impossible to say for sure. But it was successful in holding me up."

Another stretch of silence and Jacob finally answered his original question.

"Over the years there have been rumors...we have all heard them...that Alfred was planning to attack...out of pure vengeance. He's probably the most foolish king to have ever sat on the Roark throne. But we have grown accustomed to such rumors here and there, and nothing has ever transpired following them. But now, according to a chief Roark official, who is an advisor to Prince Fredrick, there has been some dissention amongst the nobles, and they wish to overthrow the king and place the prince on the throne. The warning has been planted in the hopes we would be prepared prior their attack, and overtake the king's armies. They have agreed to disclose the location of the king if he, by chance, went into hiding. One suggestion was that we prepare an army and invade Roark before Roark can invade us." He suddenly stood. "So there you have it, Sir Marcus, an explanation of my visit to Arlington, and a very valid reason as to why I did not want to discuss it."

It was a good reason. A very good reason. Just like his was a good reason for keeping the truth hidden—to lie to him directly when questioned. He planned to send a message to the emperor describing what had occurred between the two spies, but not this meeting between these supposed 'officials'. Of course they both knew that this could be counterfeit...a trap. Marcus was very certain of the possibility. Jacob could have very well walked into a trap. Even heavily guarded. Perhaps he should have taken this as an opportunity to tell him the entire truth. But that would possibly prove devastating in the end. Besides, he had no right to do anything without the authority of the emperor who had already decided it best Jacob did not know, preferring Marcus locate the culprits, which he had failed to thus far do. He felt a surge of both determination and anger. Damn whomever...the king, perhaps. It would appear so. But someone else, he had the feeling, and going by a few clues here and there was certain of it. There were more people involved than the king although it was very likely he craved revenge.

How he wished he'd had the opportunity to go along with Jacob and hear these men out. Would they have allowed it? Perhaps the man who'd attacked him had done so under the orders of these 'officials'. Had he been present, would they have persuaded Jacob against it or demanded otherwise? He was just curious.

And determined. Yes, he was sick to death of chasing around men with no faces. Sick to death of feeling defeated by the foes, whomever they were, no matter the number of them. And he would discover them. Yes, very soon so help him...

******

The next morning, Jacob's mood was back to normal. Rachel was thankful. This was the day she would depart for Orland, and she did not want to do so with any tension between them. She wanted things to be normal...and they were.

She and Jacob ate together, and it was obvious as they did so that they were both recalling that intimate encounter from the night before, one that could have very well led them into making love for the very first time. But, then again, he preferred there be no wine involved if perchance the union ever did take place, and she...well, she was beginning to not care one way or another.

"I want to apologize for my actions last night," he at one point said. It was quite evident in his eyes that he wasn't really the slightest bit sorry.

"No need," she told him. "I am not offended."

There was another space of silence. He commented on how extravagant she looked. Yes, she had adorned herself almost as a queen. Zaria had assisted in picking out her gown. Tilly had rummaged through the generous assortment of jewelry, choosing bracelets and necklaces of gold and diamonds...earbobs, and a tiara, also of gold with rubies engraved into it. She did look every bit a queen. Those she passed could only hold their breath at first sight of her, and gape with an admiration she noticed and appreciated, and that made her walk very proudly.

"Perhaps you should have been wed to a king opposed to a petty noble," he joked.

"It isn't too much, is it?"

"No, no, no...you are wise to present yourself like this...if only the emperor could meet you now as you are. He would be impressed. This is certainly not the image of the woman he has heard about in times past.""

"What sort of man is he, the emperor?"

"Well, I suppose it depends. He can be quite stern...but at the same time he is adaptable."

"Is he old?"

"Yes, but he still has his senses about him. He is possibly the greatest ruler New Ebony has known or ever will for that matter."

"I often wonder about his acknowledgments of the conditions of Westerly...why he has done nothing to help it."

"There is something that very few are aware of, that I, myself, do not feel at ease mentioning, although I do sense an urge to do so."

She raised her glass, and simply held it there, the rim so close to her lips. "What is it?"

"I can only say this, my dear, over the years the question has arisen as to what should be done with Westerly, and then how it had managed to succeed without proper government. The name Rachel the Elder came up and it became rumored that you were most responsible for keeping it as it was...a peaceful place where the man or woman with little ability could actually live and possibly contribute something to a community. So, you see, when he heard that you and I would be wed, he was astonished. He had already accumulated enough proof to feel a sense of respect and gratitude for you."

She felt as if he had not actually said what he'd originally meant to. She thought on this answer, raised her glass and took a sip of wine. She lowered it, still thinking on what he'd just told her. "Well, then," she finally said, "had I known I was so respected I would have perhaps sent a message to him opposed to you in regards to the monetary support the community required."

"Do you regret you did not, and that you requested it of me opposed to him?"

Her eyes sparkled. A small grin touched her lips. "No, not at all."

As they sat at the table, her things, which had been packed that night and early morning, were delivered to the carriage. They walked hand in hand and began their good-byes. His embrace was comforting, and the touch of his lips a reminder of the kiss they'd shared the night before.

She was then escorted to the carriage by Nicholas, one of dozens who would travel along. Marcus was there holding the door of the carriage opened for her. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of him. "Sir Marcus," she stiffly greeted, and then all the more frank asked, "What are you doing?"

He looked her up and down before bringing his eyes back up to meet and settle with hers. "Jacob didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?" She demanded.

"He asked me to escort you to Orland, and to be your companion for the event. Your safety is his number one concern and you are certainly safe in my hands."

She pulled the hem of her gown from the ground, distracting her attention from him and stepped upward. He took her elbow and she allowed him. He helped her inside. She felt dismayed when he, too, got into the carriage and seated himself. While he closed the door she peered at him.

"Should you not take part with the guards?"

"I'm sure they will do well enough without me, milady. Besides, Jacob requested I remain by your side so much as able."

The horses before them began moving and the carriage gave a slight jerk as it too started forward. Rachel felt very uncomfortable. Remembering her husband, she looked out and waved as the horses trotted away, taking her further from him. She peered out the window as they passed onlookers along the street, many waving as they passed.

"You look very well-to-do," he eventually commented. "Extravagant."

"You disapprove?" She raised a brow at him. "Your eyes say otherwise."

"And this expression of arrogance upon your face..." he remarked.

"Do you take pleasure in scrutinizing me, Sir Marcus? If so, you may find me giving you even more occasion to take pleasure in doing so."

He looked away, and she feeling as if she had succeeded in besting him, did the same. There was silence, nothing but the sounds of the guards calling out one to another, laughter on occasion.

"I feel as if you have intentionally kept a distance from me lately," he eventually said.

"What do you expect?" She asked with the raise of a brow. "Should I make it a point to speak with a man who continually criticizes me and has since day one? You, yourself, are a man of the world, yet you condemn me with every chance to do so. You seem obsessed with my character and disturb me all around. And your good deed confuses me. I find it troubling it has not been declared to my husband. Therefore, I feared as time went on to mention it myself lest he think something odd of it."

"There's nothing odd about it," he said. "I simply did a good deed. Is that no longer acceptable by your standards?"

"Standards," she quietly mocked, "As if mine had anything at all to do with it. You reacted according your own standards, whatever those are. I have yet to comprehend. Then again I have not since entering the Great City been able to comprehend you at all. Considering the circumstances..." She stopped and then snapped at him, "Why did you agree to be my escort?!"

"Of all the years I have known him, I have yet to turn down a request from him."

"This should have been the exception."

"When it comes to Jacob, there are no exceptions. He makes his requests and I honor them. In this instance I felt he was correct in saying you would not be safer in the hands of any other."

"You have too much confidence in yourself."

"Only so much as has been proven."

"You bare proof of defeat on your chest."

"Not defeat," he corrected, "But mere reminders that I can survive no matter the cost, and also of several men whom this world certainly became better without. The last will be no exception...in due time," he added.

"For every man there is another who may overpower him."

"I much more fear the ability of a woman to do the same."

She was not sure what to say, so she too diverted her attention to the scenery beyond her window. She felt unsettled, and without thinking eventually asked, "What woman has ever overpowered you?" To which he gave no reply.

Silence fell, and despite it the ride went by quickly.

They arrived, and at the manor house her things were transported to her quarters. She was kindly greeted and guarded at all times. The entire estate was alive with excitement. She stood out on the veranda, up above on a platform, completely guarded, and applauded by the people.

This lasted a very long time, and did become tiring, but it was also very uplifting, although she was not even sure herself what to do with the energy she received from this applause and admiration.

Some disagreements were afterward brought to her attention, cases between the residents that had not been resolved. As it was yet a bit early, she took this opportunity to sit in the judgment hall and hear the matters. Those with these sorts of issues were beckoned upon and brought before her. The first an elderly lady who would not stop bowing.

She came down from her seat and took the woman by the shoulder, urging her up.

"You needn't bow," she told her. "We are both women, you and I. You, elderly. You have paid your dues, and if any should bow it should be a youngster like me."

This made the elder very happy, and the onlookers. The room was packed. But it was guarded well. Only she wondered as time went on. Where exactly had Marcus gone to?

******

Of course he was present, peering at her thru a slit in the curtain overhead, looking down below. It was as he watched that someone came up from behind, popping up at his left. Roselyn. She, Tilly and Zaria had accompanied them to care for Rachel and whatever needs she required.

Marcus loosed his gentle hold on the curtain, turning his body so as to face her. She appeared very troubled by something or another. But he didn't speak. He simply waited for her to do so first.

She took his arm, leaning inward to speak so that only he could possibly hear. "I must speak with you, Sir Marcus. It is urgent."

"What is it?"

"Please, may we speak elsewhere? In private?"

He glanced about, considering a place, and discovered a room rarely occupied so far as he could tell—especially now seeing as to how all emphasis was on Rachel and her activities. He took her by the elbow and ushered her into the room. He closed the door quietly and then turned for an explanation.

"This-this is hard to say."

"What is it?" He demanded to know.

She shook her head and swung around. "I-I do not care to say it."

He took her by the shoulders, forcing her back around and lightly shook her. "What is it?" He demanded a second time.

"I am afraid this-this woman...this-this wife of Lord Trent...she is betraying him. She-she does not mean well at all."

His brows drew tightly together while he studied the expression of the frazzled maiden. "What do you mean?" He very firmly asked.

"In the beginning you ask that I observe...and I did. I do not...I cannot trust her."

"In the beginning, yes, but you did not claim to find any fault."

"She does not mean well, only to defy Lord Trent, and to gain his trust, and to take from him. To do him harm. She will. I now know it. I know it."

"How? How do you know? Dammit, Roselyn, tell me what you are talking about. If you have discovered anything at all, tell me!"

"A man who is an enemy of Lord Trent's will attend and be present here during this visit."

"Who? What man?"

"Victor Trent," she dreadfully announced. "Invited here...invited by the lady herself."

He searched her eyes, dumbfounded by what he'd just heard. The name was least expected.

She continued.

"I was present when the letter was written. And when she stepped away from her table, I read what she had begun to write, that she would be here, and that she wished he be present as well so that they may converse...and that was all. I did not see all that was written. She completed it and sealed the letter, and late in the night I saw her with my very own eyes go out into the night, and hand the message over to another."

Marcus was terribly stumped by this report. He couldn't believe it. Didn't want to. He replayed the maiden's accusation over and over again in his mind. Victor Trent...a very distant cousin of Jacob's and a very unwelcomed man...an enemy. Also a master of disguise. 'Twas the way in which he travelled.

How would she have any dealings with him? _Why_ would she have any dealings with him?

"Who received this message?" He came to ask.

"I do not know. I could not see his face."

"His?"

She inhaled a quivering breath, her eyes round with what appeared to be pent up anxiety. Tears even brimmed there, as if so close to falling. "Please, do not make me say anymore."

"What else is there to say?" He asked, and then took hold of her arm when she did not respond. "What else? What did you see?"

"The two of them...well, they embraced. I think they may have been...have been lovers by the sight of them. But I turned away. I could not watch it."

He shoved her arm away, angered by her words. "You are telling me the truth?"

"So help me, I am. I would not lie to you. I swear it."

He stood there the longest time, the damsel's zealous eyes never leaving his face. Then he remembered his duty...no matter what to keep Rachel safe. He had departed that duty long enough, but perhaps he had departed the most important duty of all...that of keeping his eye upon her to be sure she was not concealing anything, plotting anything, getting away with anything.

He went back out to the curtain and watched. She was being friendly with the people, although elegant and extravagant. She was befriending them...she was being a kind ruler. It dawned on him, what if perchance this, all of this, was a hoax. What if Rachel the Elder was a literal imposter?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The following day the festivities began. There were speeches in her honor, and one by one, as she sat ahead of the crowds, she was greeted by the most noble men and women of the community who, although not extremely wealthy, were like small versions of wealthy nobles.

There was food, wine, entertainment, dancing...and a portrait of her was painted while she sat and watched. An image that pleased and impressed her. She wanted to take it for herself, but it was to be placed upon the wall of that very room where judgments were made, and the most notable people often met to discuss important matters.

By the end of the day she was exhausted, and had no difficulty falling to sleep at all.

The following day was just as enjoyable, and more-so. Kind regards were exchanged, and honors. She had never felt so important in all her life, not even in Westerly where the people had continually expressed their gratitude. This was somewhat different...well, it was very different. She was Lady of the Manor...not a mere vestal.

These people made her to feel like a queen being appreciated and honored for merely caring, and she decided it was well to be there in that place at that time.

Today she looked every bit a queen all over again, decked in queenly apparel, jewels draped about her neck and wrists, a tiara that sparkled when she moved. Even her shoes were golden although one could not see them.

Marcus was continually standing back, simply awaiting the arrival of this 'secret guest'. He'd spent the greater portion of the night pondering and watching, pondering and watching. He hadn't gotten much sleep at all. Roselyn's declaration had settled into his mind, his heart and his very soul. He felt strange, suddenly thinking "What if? What if? What if?" He imagined the worst scenario. Was this the reason he had not saw it? Because it was right under his nose? Was she actually a part of the plot against Jacob? A man she swore she loved and cared about? A man whose heart she'd stolen, just like everyone else's. Just like these people. Just like...just like him.

He spotted the newcomer immediately...dressed as usual in disguise. And he was certain it was him. The fake mustache, hair...patch over one eye. All that cover-up didn't fool Marcus. Victor was a tall man, and had a certain walk that proved a dead giveaway every time.

Marcus watched him come into the assembly, strolling along as if the master of the ball, tall and strideful. Roselyn was right at least so far about this one thing...that he would attend. There was no mistaken. That was him for sure.

What would Jacob think of this? And Rachel...had she truly invited and planned to meet him here? Was there more to Rachel the Elder than met the eye? Could it be the two of them were alliances or even lovers?

The newcomer instantly made himself available to her, and even sat beside of her in a chair that was only occasionally occupied; up until that moment only certain members of the council had dared to sit there. Just where were they? He wondered. Were they not concerned? Did they recognize the man sitting next to her?

His heart began to pound, and his insides hardened with a mixture of things, one thing feeding off another and gathering whirlwinds of strength. Anger. Disappointment. Jealousy.

But he had to keep in mind: nothing had been investigated. Proven. Set in stone. But how else would Roselyn have known he would be there? If not by Rachel's hand, even, how? And if no letter had been sent, exactly what were the maiden's intentions?

He was not sure what to believe, but gave himself time to adapt to the presence of the man and the overall situation so as to not react spontaneously and foolishly. He had more patience than he'd ever thought likely. He had to be wise. He had to remain calm. He had to approach the situation subtly just like any other of its kind...and how he hated she'd suddenly become part of a 'situation' at all.

But his inner man would not believe she was at fault. His heart of hearts would not at all believe it.

He left his private little corner and approached Nicholas. "Keep a firm eye upon her," he told him. "I will dismiss myself for a moment."

"Yes, sir," he agreed.

And Marcus, without being spotted, left the room, making his way down hall after hall, thru room after room, until he'd reached Rachel's private quarters. Without knocking, he burst thru the door. As expected, seeing as to how he had not seen her, Zaria was there in the chamber, and in the process of preparing herself for the evening—to switch places with Tilly if perchance too many hours passed and rest was needed. She stood, the top of her dress still hanging around her waist. She was covered, but the silk underclothing left little to the imagination.

She didn't appear the slightest bit alarmed or shaken by the sudden disruption...as if she'd expected it all along. Perhaps she had been waiting for someone.

"Sir Marcus," she slyly began, "how very...bad-mannered."

He closed the door behind himself. "My apologies, but—"

"No need to apologize. I find this sudden intrusion quite... enticing."

He cast his eyes about the room and came closer. "Are you alone?"

Her eyes slanted so very provocatively. "I am."

He took her upper arms. She tilted her head back. "Shall we lock the door so as to not be interrupted? This will not be such a swift union, milord. I am quite skilled in the art of lovemaking. I could please you for many, many, many hours—although I am quite certain Lady Trent will come in search of me. I am the most favored of her handmaidens, you know."

"I have perceived it." He took her arm and eased them both down to sit on the nearby settee. "Zaria, I—"

The feel of her finger circling his ear and his jaw interrupted him. He raised a shoulder, and then took her hand, pulling it away from him. "Zaria, listen to me." He turned toward her. "This is a matter of consequence. I did not burst into the chamber in hopes of bedding you, although you do have a way of making it quite tempting. I must ask you some questions in regards to Lady Trent, and also Roselyn."

With a look of innocence she cast her gaze to the ceiling. "Roselyn. She is not favored in my eyes, nor should she be in those of the Lady's." She stared at him quite seductively. "Why are you asking these questions, Sir Marcus?"

"You are at odds with her?"

"Roselyn? Yes."

"Why?"

"She peers. All of the time she peers. Every single moment."

He remembered asking her to spy upon Rachel once upon a time, so guessed himself at fault for this. "Aside from that...is there anything else, some reason to not trust her?"

"She does not like our mistress."

"How do you know?"

"It is quite obvious, even to my mistress. She tolerates this dislike of her. She overlooks it."

"Tell me this, and Zaria, you must be terribly honest with me. Have you ever known your mistress to pass messages outside of the palace...in secret?"

She stared up at the ceiling for a time, shook her head but barely. "She hasn't a need to do so. She now passes them personally to Darius, although also Aaron sometimes. She honors the procedures as we all must."

"You do not think..." he stopped, not wanting to say the wrong thing, nothing this maiden could possibly repeat and offend Rachel with if by chance she was innocent, and he felt she was—in his heart of hearts. But hadn't his heart of hearts let him down before? Yes, he could recall. He could recall well a few specific times.

She merely stared at him, waiting for him to continue. He glanced down from her face to her upper body, barely dressed, the top of her gown still hanging at her waist. She smiled slyly at him, and he knew to stand up and put some distance between them. He stood back, crossing his arms.

"If an accusation came up against Lady Trent from the mouth of Roselyn, what would you say to it?"

She sat, palms pressed down at either side of her, thinking for a short time before standing. "Sir Marcus," she said as sweetly as possible, "The Lady has been with us now a reasonable span, has she not? She proved trustworthy from the beginning, and has not since then proven anything otherwise. If not sincere, even I would have surely noticed the wrong in her. I do consider myself a good judge of character, and Lady Trent has a great deal of it. Character. This Roselyn has done little but ogle and huff and neglect her duties. She purposely refuses orders, and does not speak to either Tilly or me...only on the occasion I say something to simply ruffle her feathers, as they say. At times I purposely do so. She purposely disrespects my mistress, and for that alone I find myself hating her." She came up to him, and slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. She stared up at him, her head back. "She is not right," she slowly said. "Tell me, Sir Marcus," she began, lifting her lips and sliding them across his chin, "what accusation has that horrible little woman said against my mistress?"

He took hold of her arms, just as she began to run her hands down his back, and pulled them away, continuing to hold to them while they stood face to face. "Do not mention this."

She stepped back, away from him, the strap of her underclothing falling down over her shoulder. "Very well, Sir Marcus," she said, and grinned the only way Zaria knew how as he left the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rachel was in the middle of a conversation when Marcus came out as if from nowhere and so casually took her hand. Paying no mind to her companion, he urged her to get up. She did so gracefully, although there was this instant urge to pull away. She did not want to make a scene.

At that point, the musicians were playing a sweet, slow song, and several couples were up dancing. He led her toward the direction of them, and she only knew to follow his lead so as to not make a scene. Either way, it was a scene, for some of the couples moved away, stepping back to watch them, smiling with delight to see her joining in.

Marcus held her, actually too close—one arm around her waist, a hand clasped with hers so slightly in the air. She tried to put more distance between them. He held her in place.

"What are you doing?" She asked thru her teeth, faking a smile in the process.

"Who is the man you were speaking with?" He firmly asked.

"You've no right to interrogate me," She bitterly returned, watching the people from over his shoulder, and fighting to keep her expression at ease. Far be it from her to have these people so soon spreading vulgar rumors about her manners, or even her relationship with this man.

"Do you know him?"

"You were hired to watch over and protect me, not to pry into my affairs."

"It is Jacob's distant cousin."

"So, then, you seek answers to questions you already know the answers to."

"How do you know him?" He firmly but quietly demanded.

"I am under no obligation to answer to you."

"Is he not an enemy of your husband's?"

As soon as he asked it, the music stopped, and she would have stepped away from him. Opposed to letting her, he kept hold of her arm, and guided her from the room, thru a set of double doors and out onto the terrace, as if to simply get some fresh air. Once again, she went along, a forced expression of peace upon her face so as to not cause a scene. Nicholas was heading in that direction, but Marcus shook his head at him and nodded toward Byron, motioning with his free hand for him to join them.

Once outside she yanked her arm free of his grip and swung around to face him.

"How dare you pull me aside like this! Does it not enter your mind that these people may question the association between us?"

"And what of your association with Jacob's enemy?"

"I know nothing of the accusations you've made against him. And you have a great deal of nerve, Marcus Wren."

"I have obligations."

"I know exactly where you stand and who you are and your obligations to Jacob and the nobles and even the emperor. Apparently you have taken no thought to my position. Are you forgetting? I am the lady of this Manor...and I am well able to dismiss whomever I choose...including you."

His eyes slanted at her. She'd never seen such a look in them. His voice was very solemn when he said, "call upon whomever you wish to have me removed, and you shall see once and for all how truly capable I am of defending myself."

She parted her lips to speak. He did so in her stead, his voice louder this time, and his eyes filled with anger. "The man with whom you were speaking is an enemy of my friend...your husband. I have every right to question why he is present."

"How am I to know?"

"You didn't invite him?"

She inhaled a deep, uneven breath, keeping eye contact, staring at him without so much as a blink of the eye. "No," she said, with straightened posture. He stared her in the eye as if to see if she was or was not telling the truth. Her brows came together. "But you already accuse me...even in your eyes I see it."

"What am I to think when I look to see you mingling with a man who has proven himself an enemy to your husband? Do not think that Jacob will not hear of it...even masquerading as a pirate or whatever he intends to be."

"How am I to know these things? He simply introduced himself as a native of Westerly."

"By what name?"

"I have said all I know to say. What good does it do to explain anything to you?"

"I want to know why he is here."

"I do not know." She nearly screamed it, and the air went terribly silent. Her chest rose and fell while she peered angrily into his eyes. Considering all he'd thus far claimed in reference to the man in question, she calmed herself enough to say, "it is in my power to remove him...to even detain him if need be. Is there a need? Just speak it, for I know absolutely nothing about this man or his dealings with my husband, only that he introduced himself as Edward Gaunt, a native of Westerly and a captain by trade. If he has deceived me and is at odds with my husband..."

"What was he saying to you?"

"That he has just come from Westerly, that he delivered materials for the reconstruction of the community."

Marcus went silent, considering the information quietly to himself and trying to figure out the man's motives.

"I can have him arrested," she said.

His entire countenance had changed. Marcus became calm enough to coolly reply, "no. Leave him be."

"Well, if these accusations are true..."

"They are."

"Then he must be arrested at once."

"You do not understand," he said, and turned away from her. "I fully intend to get to the bottom of his being here, and I will. Meantime, I advise you to stay within sight of your guards, to never dismiss yourself without supervision, which I noticed you do late last night and once this evening."

"I am sick to death of supervision," she narrowly admitted, surprised to even hear herself say it, for she could not recall having thought it...only feeling disturbed from time to time having guards constantly watching over and following her.

"It is a part of it," he tiredly commented, casting his eyes toward Byron standing close to the door they'd came out from. "You knew this," he quietly told her. "I warned you early on that you would never truly be alone. I meant well when I said it, in hopes you would surely adapt or know to."

"Adapt, adapt, adapt. I am sick to death of hearing it, and from people who have not a clue how I feel. Is there some crime in wishing to be alone from time to time in some other place than ones private chambers? Even then I have guards listening in on every word, and awaiting lest I do venture out of my room. I was not even alone earlier when I slipped away. You followed me. Not that I have not become accustomed to being followed and observed. I feel your eyes upon me at all times, even when I know for certain you are not present."

"Not present," he quietly repeated. "Have you seen someone? While I was away...have you seen someone watching you other than the ordinary guards?"

"No," she swiftly returned, and then again, "No. I did not say I had seen anyone, but that I have felt it; when you are gone, when you are present, especially since you're return from the Isles and from Westerly. You are at fault for this suspicion, that I am being watched by someone other than the guards. Although the past four days these were more than mere suspicions. You were, indeed, watching me...and quite openly. Just as now you openly pull me to the side, giving the people reason to create rumors."

"It is known that I am here as your companion. Jacob has left you in my care. If anything at all happens to you, if so much as a hair upon your head is harmed, it will be upon my head."

"I can see where you would be concerned, then, with whom I speak with and where I go. Jacob thinks so highly of you, not appearing to be the slightest bit aware of how suspicious of a character you are...yet you continually point the finger at me and even have the nerve to accuse me to my face of befriending his enemy. But even despite whatever occurred in the Great Hall he still trusts you. I cannot say the same. Indeed, if something were to happen to me, he would be furious with you. You would not want to disappoint him. You may not be so easily able to pacify him as you obviously did that night with whatever occurred between those two men who were obviously keeping secrets from him that you, yourself, were aware of."

"You should not judge matters you know nothing about."

"Perhaps he made me aware of them."

"In that case you would know better than to question my motives in reference to them. But my utmost concern at the moment and until we return, milady, is for your safety alone—not only for his sake or for mine, but for yours. I would not wish to see you fall into the hands of any mischief. Enemies can be cruel, and no man is without rival."

"Who are these rivals you speak of? This man? I can have him removed with a simple command."

"We all have enemies. Some of us many, and some more malicious than others."

She cocked a brow. "Even I?"

"You suppose you are in these positions free of adversary?"

"Then who?" She challenged. "Who are my enemies? Who are his? He has not made mention of any such rivalry, no, not one single reference."

"Such things are not openly discussed."

"You suggest _I_ have enemies. Who would these be?"

"Perhaps those of the eyes you have felt upon you."

"Are you trying to frighten me, Sir Marcus?"

"I have merely suggested you be cautious."

"I have yet to feel unsafe." She squared her shoulders to arrogantly reply, "There is little opportunity to feel anything less than safe with eyes peering upon me from every angle at every single moment. Just as you suggested in the gardens at Harp, such is how I feel; that I had never been safer nor would I be. And then in the gardens at the palace, that I would never be alone. As for this safety you promised, has something changed between then and now?"

"Yes," he flatly agreed, "yes, something has changed." There was a great amount of sincerity in his eyes when he said, "You are no longer simply Rachel the Elder. You are Jacob's wife, Lady of the Great City, Lady of Orland Manor."

She considered his words carefully, her gaze going from defiant to thoughtful. She said no more, but turned away from him, making her way near the ledge of the terrace. Marcus's voice when he spoke, breaking the silence, was quiet and soft.

"I have given you advice that is well meant, milady, from the heart...which is not without care."

"Without care," she quietly repeated to herself, unsure as to if he heard her, and not caring if he had or not. She simply stared out into the darkness, taking in his every word, the every possible meaning behind them. She understood exactly what he meant. Had she not felt this before, even from the beginning, that he had some sort of feelings for her?

"Jacob," she began, "has not advised me to be cautious. Were I in any danger he would do so."

"Jacob is a very wise man, but like any other, incapable of being fully aware of all things."

"What are you saying?" She demanded to know, swinging around to look at him, completely exhausted by every single conversation the two of them had ever shared. She shook her head and turned back around. "Never mind it. I know better than to listen to you. You've done nothing but provoke me since day one."

"My motives are not indecent. I take my duty to Jacob very seriously, and so long as it is in my power to do so, I will see to it neither he is harmed, nor anything he loves. And he loves you. Dearly he loves you, more than anything this world has or ever has had to offer him."

"Please," she said, lifting her arm toward his direction. "Just go away. Leave me alone."

"You cannot be left alone."

"I said to leave me alone!" she yelled and swung around to face him, her chest rising and falling, her breath short. "You are enough to make a person insane."

"I have told you I mean well, even in observing you so closely since I returned."

"I don't believe you."

"Then I will be honest and give you a reason as to why I have...although I am certain you already know."

"I know nothing except you...you approach as if to...to persuade me of something other than this rivalry you warn me of."

"I am a man, and just as you did not intend to care so much for Jacob, I likewise did not intend to care for you."

This silenced her. His gaze dropped a moment. He appeared to be in very deep thought, and terribly torn or troubled. He looked back at her with tired, anguished eyes. "I spoke with Jacob a few mornings after I had returned and...there was something different about him. I assumed your marriage had been consummated that night, one reason I had watched you...to see for myself. Once a woman is taken the first time, she is never the same."

She remembered Zaria saying those exact same words. This she considered for only a moment. The previous statement became most prevalent. She thought on it, and suddenly felt as if she may even laugh, but did not. She raised a brow at him. "So tell me, Sir Marcus, what were your discoveries while you ogled me from across rooms and tables and yards?"

"Nothing at all," he simply replied. "You are the same manner of woman as you ever were."

"Perhaps I am pretending to be," she said with slanted eyes. "In any case, it's none of your business to begin with. What makes you so preoccupied with my innocence?"

"Are you still innocent, Rachel?" He called her by first name for the very first time. This made her feel peculiar, as if he'd stepped over yet another boundary.

Neither of them batted an eye as she said, "You speak as if you wish to be the man to take my virtue." With that, she did laugh, a quick, short laugh. "You speak as a fool, and as an enemy, yourself, of a man you claim to love more than any other in the world. And here you are pointing the finger at others."

"I am far from an enemy," he very seriously stated. "But I am a mere man."

"You insinuate that my husband is in danger or even I...yet without an explanation. Perhaps you, yourself, are the enemy, just as you claim this man to be. Perhaps he was speaking to me in like manner as you do."

"Now _you_ speak as a fool."

"Then explain yourself," she harshly demanded.

"Such explanations are often mishandled or misunderstood."

"Then you are aware that someone is going to harm him? Or me?"

"I merely explained that no man is without an enemy. Can it be put any simpler?"

"And insisted I am in danger."

"I merely asked you to be cautious—to not wander about alone, to take heed when it comes to strange men such as the one you were speaking with."

"Strange men," she repeated. "You have just described yourself."

"I have been called strange, which may in a sense apply. But ignorant, no. A failure, no. Wrong, no."

"You have too much confidence in yourself."

"As you have come to have in yourself, as well, although I knew it was there all along."

"You know nothing about me," she hatefully returned, beams of anger sparking in her eyes. She peered at him a moment before calmly implying, "I do believe your toils, these missions to and fro, have finally taken a toll upon your mind. Perhaps you should cease from them, become married and have a family so that you will have something else to occupy your thoughts."

"In just a matter of time that very thing will be accomplished."

"What woman would want you as a husband? You would only drive her mad in the end."

"The one to whom I am engaged...that one," he sarcastically answered her.

Whatever she would have said next became swiftly forgotten. She stared at his profile, very serious but tired, drained.

"Then it's true? You are engaged?"

"The marriage will take place early Fall."

She did not notice the breath that had caught in her lungs until it became unbearable to hold any longer. She looked down while her heart did something strange, and she did not want him to see her expression.

"Engaged," she finally managed, and then asked, "To whom?"

"Elizabeth of Westcott, the daughter of Earl Wescott. You met them. They were present at the wedding."

Yes, she did remember. Earl Wescott was a member of the Higher Nobles, and he and his wife and daughter had stood in during the exchanging of her and Jacob's vows.

"Since when?" She suddenly asked. "Why have I not heard of it?"

"The proposal was set out before me many months ago, but I only recently accepted. I have told nobody as of yet. Only you."

Her eyes searched the ground. This idea of him marrying made her feel peculiar.

"Then," he began, "Jacob will find another man to perform the duties he has entrusted me with. I imagine that will please you."

Her eyes skipped about the ground. "The news will disappoint him."

"If he had any clue the reason behind this sudden decision it would not. He would then surely approve. You, yourself, should be relieved."

"I am not," she blurted, and then turned so that he could not see her face. She leaned against the ledge and stared down below. It seemed the ground was swirling round and round and round. She closed her eyes and braced herself. Too much wine. She'd had too much. And this. She'd already imagined him married, having children, and rarely presenting himself...perhaps he would bring his wife along when he did visit, and his children after she bore them.

She felt incredibly frustrated by her emotional state, could not comprehend why this troubled her so much.

"Do you love her?" She came to ask.

"No."

Now she could not help but look at him. "You will wed a woman you do not love?"

"Such arrangements are not uncommon. You know this."

"Usually for the sake of land or of an heir or both."

"Land, I have. I imagine children will come soon enough."

"Something I cannot give my own husband," she said more to herself than anything.

"Because you are not able, or have yet to sleep with him?"

Her chest rose and fell and all sorts of sensations crashed over her all at once. "Again you overstep your boundaries. What is your obsession with my virtue? While it stays intact I am promised the ability to return to my calling."

"Jacob will not have drawn his final breath before the deed is done."

"You think yourself so wise."

"I can see through you."

"Can you?"

"You constantly fight your natural sentiments, desires that naturally exist, yes, even in a woman like yourself...especially after she has fallen in love with a man....and even if she has not."

"You seem intent upon having me withdraw from my husband."

"I am content to think of you as you are. Untouched. Perhaps it intrigues my imagination. Perhaps I am intrigued by the woman I spied upon in the gardens in Harp, a woman who is before my very eyes changing...for the better or for the worst I cannot say. I imagine it is yet to be known what this lifestyle will truly do to you."

"You have no right to judge me."

"You are not without imagination? Surely you have imagined being made love to."

"I despise you and your filthy mouth. If Jacob could hear the way you speak to me."

"All you must do is open your own mouth and tell him. He will believe you...and dismiss me from his sight, which would be well with me, I suppose, seeing as to how I am so close to doing so on my own anyway."

"Why?" She prodded. "Why so swiftly?"

"Because I want you, Rachel, simple as that. I have for some time now. I cannot help but express it to you. I cannot keep myself from it."

"And you claim to care for Jacob as if he were your own father."

"No, I care for him as he is a dear friend, a man worthy of respect and honor, and who has proven himself to be equally as loyal as I have been these many years. Now I find myself in the wrong. Terribly in the wrong. But I am a mere man. I did not intend to betray him."

"How have you betrayed him?"

"I simply have. Perhaps not in deed. But in my mind again and again and again." He looked down. "I have decided to have a wife and children. This will be beneficial in many ways. I know you have sensed my sentiments. I cannot keep them hidden from him forever. I am talented only to a degree. Just the same, I cannot continue to lust after a woman I can never have. I have not had to do so under any circumstance, and here I find more than one circumstance. Not only are you pure, but belong to a man I would never betray."

"Neither would I."

"I have distracted myself but to no avail for any extended period of time. So, then, I shall set my desires elsewhere, upon an estate of my own...and a family."

She shook her head. "It is not fair of you to marry this woman when you do not love her. It is not fair to her when...when she could very well be happy with a man who does love her. To be united with a man who has no love for her...is that at all fair?"

"Why should you care?"

"Maybe I truly don't," she said and turned around, tears brimming her eyes. "The thought of you marrying...it disturbs me."

"It seems everything about me disturbs you."

"Because you are so-so-so damned annoying." She glanced down and up again. "What has become of me?" She asked, more to herself than anything. "I have turned into a horrible woman." Her chest rose and fell as her mind began to skip over the past few weeks. "I—I drink. I curse and hate. I take pride in this—this credit. I become angry and jealous. I lust and I fear. I am afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Of who I may become...just as you say, it is happening before my very own eyes, and not only mine. For the first time in my life I am afraid of how I feel. All the worse I cannot share it. Not with anyone, not even with God. I am too ashamed to face him, even."

He touched her arm as if to console her, and then her hand. As if by some magnetic force, he began to draw her to him and she allowed him. He embraced her, holding her to his chest, caressing her hair, and saying very close to her ear. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. And you may share your feelings, even without speaking them. There are no secrets, Rachel. I know you well. Already in this short time. You are proud because you are admired. How could you not be proud? You curse because of your lusts, and you drink because you fight them, and because of your anger, and because of your jealousy. It is a cycle that many a noble woman has fallen into, but that few regret, only to do whatever they aspire so long as they continue to be praised and envied and wealthy."

She allowed him to hold her there, her cheek against his strong chest. She closed her eyes, telling herself to pull away but unable to. With her fists she took hold of his shirt, but did not withdraw.

"I think," he quietly began, resting his cheek atop her head, "that I may need to abandon myself from here altogether."

"You have already abandoned us. Jacob will be so disappointed." She pulled away from him, although still holding to his shirt. "You needn't tell him just yet. Please."

He simply stared down into her blurry eyes for a moment, and his eyes gave him away, even before he spoke she knew what he would say.

"I plan to tell him when I return, and also to leave in the near future to establish myself, prepare a place for my soon-to-be wife."

"Very well then." She pushed him away. "Go! By all means, leave him just like that."

"I have little choice than to take my life in this direction, one I had planned to take anyway at one time or another. Now is as good a time as ever. I fear my feelings for you will become even stronger, something that I will surely not be able to withstand. I also have other fears." He fell silent, thinking to himself before coming close to her, and she did not back away when he lowered his head and dropped a kiss on her cheek. He pulled away, looking deeply into her eyes, saying again, "I have other fears."

He ran his knuckles down her cheek and her neck and shoulder.

Rachel felt as if she was smothering. She took a step back, placing a palm over the cheek she had allowed him to kiss. No, she had not drawn away, and had he chosen to do so, he could have very kissed her on the lips.

"Please go," she told him, a single tear streaming from one eye. "Please."

And he did.

******

There were many farewells that morning as she prepared for her ride home. Many gifts were bestowed upon her, trinkets of all kinds...earbobs and strings of pearls and rings passed from one generation to another. Small children even provided concoctions of their own.....drawings and reefs—one of which she placed upon her head and wore, waving out at the people as she departed the manor.

All had gone well...except there was one single solitaire question which nobody could answer. Just where on earth was Roselyn? Nobody could provide an answer for her other than they did not know. Not the servants of the manor house. Not Tilly or Zaria. But Zaria, although believable, seemed to have kept something back. It appeared she knew something, although the whereabouts she swore she hadn't a clue, and Rachel believed her. The maiden seemed to have vanished into nowhere.

There was no time to dwell upon it. She merely left a final request with every member of the manor house. If the maiden was to appear, if she was discovered, that she should be immediately transferred to the palace.

The ride back was very awkward, although she and Marcus did not ride together as the last time. Marcus had purchased a horse in Orland, and rode ahead with the guards. Rachel had that night pled for forgiveness. It wasn't a small matter, allowing him to hold her like that...to kiss her even if it was only on the cheek. She could have very well allowed him to kiss her on the lips.

But the way he had so tenderly held her, caressing her hair and soothing her. She could still feel the touch of his hand gliding down her jaw, her neck, the crook of her shoulder, touching her in a way meant only for lovers. In her mind, the greatest debauchery of all was these feelings she had for him, truly that she could not deny—no, not to herself or even him, perhaps. Something she was learning. Such feelings, when shared between two people, could certainly be recognized and possibly strengthened because of the sharing of them. They were certainly acknowledged. While she'd been pushing them deeper and deeper inside, even from the very first recollection of him, that very first encounter, she had buried these attractions deep within her as if to hide them not from the world, but from herself...and now from the world. From Marcus? No, he had seen them all along. From Jacob? Indeed, for he hadn't a clue. Or did he? Perhaps he'd sensed it all along, some fascination between them. Then she doubted. But wondered just how she would hide her heart from him. Or even how she would rid herself of the disturbing attraction. She imagined only one way. To draw closer to Jacob. Yes, surely that would suffice.

But with or without this idea, with or without Marcus in the picture, she had already wished to draw closer to him. She loved him. She loved him dearly. And even thinking about him along the way put butterflies and flames of fire in the pits of her stomach.

As for Marcus, she cursed him in her mind for approaching her at all to begin with, for putting her in such a position that night. If only she hadn't stepped outside with him. If only he would have kept the news of his engagement to himself. If only she would have fled and gone off to her private chambers to collect herself and avoid such a thing ever happening.

She felt guilty and unforgiven. Would she be able to face Jacob? How? Wouldn't her eyes give her away? Wouldn't he see straight thru her, just as Marcus apparently had, and as she had him all along?

She closed her eyes against the idea and replayed an event time and time again that hadn't even taken place. And she fell asleep, not awakening until they were near home.

******

One guard had ridden up ahead of them to make the announcement. She was well on her way, and Jacob was waiting. As they came near the city, she spotted him. He was so tall and handsome sitting astride his horse. Her heart palpitated at sight of him. Suddenly all the past was gone. There was only now, and she was ever grateful to see him. She could hardly wait for the carriage to get to him.

When it did he dismounted his horse. She stepped out into the mid-afternoon day. They instantly embraced, and he kissed her passionately.

"Rachel," he said quietly. "My dearest Rachel. How good to have you back."

"How good it is to be back," she returned and tilted her head to receive another passionate kiss. He smoothed a hand down her hair, drawing away. "I trust all went well?"

"Yes," she and Marcus replied in unison. He sat astride his horse, staring down upon the touching scene they made. He offered one calm, peaceful grin. "Your wife is adored by the majority, and I could see why. She handled herself like a queen."

Jacob grinned proudly at her. "I imagined she'd already won the hearts of the majority when the event was brought to my attention." He studied her closely. "I imagine you are tired."

"Some," she admitted. "But I slept well during my stay." She thanked the wine for that. Under particular circumstances, without wine she would have otherwise tossed and turned throughout the night.

"I cannot say the same," he told her. "The days were well. The evenings, long. I worried for you." He refocused upon Marcus. "But I should have known better than to worry. You were in the best care...the best hands of all."

She glanced up at Marcus, noticing how well he covered up, probably doing a better job than she herself at that moment. For she felt her eyes giving her away, but just for a moment. She was able to snap to her senses and appreciate the moment all over again.

******

Marcus heard her giggle and watched them kiss. His eyes glistened. A combination of happiness and envy for his friend filled his heart.

They started to walk away together, their arms behind one another's back. Jacob stopped to fling a hand in the air, both a greeting and a thanks for having brought her safely home. Marcus raised his hand as well, lowered it, and considered which direction to take.

Southward, he decided. Yes, Southward to Port Templeton. He would go there...and perhaps stay for a very long time.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

But he did not stay gone long, or even travel to Port Templeton at all to begin with. He went to Rowan, instead, and visited Patrice who, like Marie in Port Templeton some time back, insisted he'd actually made love to her, and for the first time after having been intimate companions on and off the past ten or so years.

Patrice tried to get him to stay longer, and to reveal all of what she called the "secrets" of his heart. He refused, not only to stay, but to say anything about anything at all that was affecting him. She prodded, and he merely dropped a kiss on her forehead claiming he would visit again soon.

A few hours later he was in Orland where Roselyn had been detained the evening he'd left Rachel alone on the terrace.

"You cannot insist this," Sir Troy had scolded after he'd ordered the arrest.

"I do insist it."

"By what authority, and without the lady's permission?"

"By authority of Lord Trent, which rests upon my shoulders. You will arrest her and say nothing of it to Lady Trent. Is that understood?"

The arrest was made and kept between him, Sir Troy, and the two guards who secretly detained her.

Upon returning, Marcus went to and entered the prison along with the prison keeper who led the way to the proper cell. He unlocked and opened it to reveal a tiny, unpleasant room where Roselyn sat back to the wall, clutching her knees to herself, face streaked with dirt and tears.

Upon seeing him, her eyes brimmed with hope. She began to stand, grasping at the wall to pull herself up.

"Leave us," Marcus commanded the guard, peering at her through suspicious, slanted eyes.

"S-sir M-Marcus." Chains rattled as shackles had been bound about her ankles. She stood as best she could, her body trembling quite noticeably. Her voice quivered as well when she said, "Th-they...they took me. They took me and...and they arrested me." A few tears dropped from her eyes. "Have you come to take me from here?"

His eyes glanced about the tiny cell, a despicable little room with a horrid stench to it. But if she was guilty at all of conspiring against Rachel or Jacob either one, she had every right to be there.

"I am here to question you."

She just barely shook her head. "What questions?"

"How did you know he would be here?"

"I told you," she softly reminded, "Lady Trent—"

"—knew nothing about it," he loudly finished for her. "You lied to me."

Her eyes rounded at the accusation. "No," she whispered. "No, I...I did not."

"You did! Your mistress had never met nor spoken to Victor Trent before that night."

"It isn't so."

"It is...but obviously not the case with you. Now I will ask you once more and once more only...how did you know he would be present?"

"I told you," she loudly called out, and then slid down the wall, bowed her head and began to sob.

He stared down at her a while. He hated it had come to this, but he had no sympathy for her. She was in the proper position, but not exactly the proper place. This woman, he decided, could be the very one to finally give up the answers he'd been wanting for a very long time.

"Guard!" He called out.

The guard quickly returned. "Sir?"

"By the authority of Lord Trent, this woman shall be transported into the Northern Isles. Three men will be sent from the Great City within the next twelve hours. She shall be transferred, and no mention of it shall be made, not even to Lady Trent. I speak this under the authority of Lord Trent himself, whom provides for the treasury at the request of the Lady, but whom may withdraw it if by chance his orders are not followed exactly as I have stated them."

"Yes, sir," he easily obliged.

Marcus stepped back. Roselyn's dirty, tear-streaked face tilted upward. "Sir Marcus," she pleaded.

He simply looked at her.

"Sir Marcus." This time her voice was even louder. Marcus nodded at the guard. He closed the door with an eerie clang, locking it, and the two of them stalked from the cell, the sound of her screaming and crying out to him echoing thru the dark passageways until the final door was closed.

******

Later that evening, he was back in the Great City. Linus who kept charge of the horses took his horse for him, happy to see him again. The lad looked up to him as son would a father. It made him think of being a father...how well of one he would be. He would train up fine sons and elegant, strong daughters. His would be a perfect family. All except for one thing. He would not love his wife. Perhaps in time he would learn.

Two maidens, Adelle and Tressa, saw to it a bath was drawn for him. The palace was very quiet this time of night, and he could not help but visualize Rachel, although where he did not know. In her own bed? In Jacob's?

He shook the thoughts away, thinking about Patrice, and then his soon to be engagement, the announcement of which he planned to make the next morning.

It was about the eighth hour of morning. Percival explained that Jacob was dining at his table, preparing for a venture of some sort. The guards stepped aside when he came upon the double doors. He instantly heard the sound of laughter as he came thru them—Rachel giggling about something or another. He hadn't expected to see her. At this hour Jacob normally dined alone, simply to think over whatever matters would occupy him for the day.

"Well, I see you have returned." He extended a hand to the seat at the direct left of his which Marcus did not hesitate to take. "I do not mean to intrude," he said, casting Rachel a short glance. She didn't look at him at all, but focused upon using a knife to cut something on her plate.

"You are always welcome, Marcus. You know this. And I know Rachel does not mind."

"Of course not," she agreed, looking up at him with such a good-natured expression upon that beautiful face of hers. Such a beautiful little performer she was. "I imagine he must be hungry," she went on to say. "After all, you did return late...past midnight. My handmaiden noted so. To the best of her knowledge you did not request anything to eat."

"At that point I was too tired to eat," he said, working his way around her sarcastic comments.

"Where did you leave off too?" Jacob probed. "You departed without a word and three days have passed."

"I was away tending to a personal affair," he said, accepting the plate that was set before him, although without any kind of appetite.

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"No," he insisted, "not terribly." The servant came near. "I'll have wine," he ordered. He could see they were having the same. Not that this was uncommon; the wine with the least effect was served at such an hour. No chance of becoming besides oneself, no, not even with several glasses.

"There is a reason I sought you out at this hour," he told Jacob. "I have some news."

Jacob swallowed a drink from his chalice and set it down. "Speaking of news...Rachel was telling me about this, um, sudden disappearance of her handmaiden while in Orland. Do you know anything about this?"

"I think she, herself, could attest to the maiden's peculiar behavior. Who is to say she did not simply make herself available to some other cause. She was nowhere in the manor house, nor could she be located amongst any of the people there."

"Well, so long as no mischief befell her. If she did, perchance, make herself available to some other cause, whatever that may be, so be it. But she should be accounted for. I imagine I will hear word of her whereabouts at some point in time...if she by chance relocates herself and it eventually becomes known that she departed without either command or explanation. I will be notified to answer whether she may have perchance escaped any punishment due her in the case a crime was committed." He looked up at Rachel. "Peculiar behavior? You should have made a complaint."

She had swallowed a drink of wine, and audibly, although quietly, cleared her throat. "I merely overlooked her, milord. But I suppose it is well that she is gone. I only hope she was safe in departing and not mishandled in any way."

"Word will eventually come around of her whereabouts." He took a bite from his fork, lowered it and thought for a moment. "What is this news you have?"

Marcus stared at his goblet, toying with its stem with his long, lean fingers. During the silence, without even looking at the man, he could see Jacob's brows drawing together...see his lips pressing with a frown.

"Well?" He urged. "I had hoped the report would be a good one. Judging by your expression it is not."

"It is, yes, but in a way I am afraid it may not be all around."

"You needn't keep me waiting any longer. Say what you must."

Marcus leaned back in his chair. "It is well," he told him, "Although it will change things, this turn of events, in such a way that must be adapted to."

"Well?" Jacob seriously urged when he paused a second time.

"I am engaged to be wed," he told him, "to Elizabeth of Wescott."

"Engaged," Jacob repeated after him. A deep grin touched his lips. "I would call that good news." He looked at Rachel. "Did you hear that? Marcus is engaged to be wed." He transferred his gaze back to Marcus. "Congratulations, my friend. She is quite beautiful, and it is well known that her sisters, like their mother, upon wedding produced fine, strong sons for their husbands." He raised a hand to slowly caress his chin. "When did this come about?"

"It was proposed the beginning of the year. I had declined, and then ignored it altogether. I recently accepted. The wedding will be early Fall."

"This is very good news, Marcus. After all, life does pass so quickly. A man needn't refuse marriage past the age of thirty-five. You have travelled the world and certainly done your part, paid your dues. To settle and become a family man...this I find a reasonable and valuable decision." He focused upon Rachel. "Isn't that good news."

"Yes," she agreed. "It is good news." She took up her glass and raised it in the air to propose a toast. "To love," she said, peering into Marcus's eyes, "and many years of it."

Together they drank. Marcus knew, of course, that she was being sarcastic. What else? For to propose a toast to love after he had admitted he did not love Elizabeth in the slightest...well, what other motives could she have for proposing to the very thing he'd denied? And that gleam in her eyes...it was all so obvious to him that she resented him. For what cause? Did she expect he should be single for the sake of the secret lusts between them? Lust. Merely lust. Lust that could never be acted upon. Yes, there was more basis for this resentment than her concern for her husband. It was quite obvious to him, even now as she peered at him from over the rim of her glass, as if caring not that she could be spotted at any given time.

But it would not be evident to Jacob, for the expression upon her face was a simple one. Marcus would not have imagined she could do so well at pretending to be something she was not...which at this moment was at complete ease. She was not content with this news and he knew it.

"Tell me, my friend, where will you settle? Wescott? Port Quill? Perhaps Harvard Plains? It is my understanding the emperor wishes to soon appoint a noble over the northern portions of the Western Commons."

"Something else I wished to speak to you about. While I was away, I made arrangements and orders to begin construction for a manor house, as large and decent as can possibly be built in such a short span of time. As we speak, the process is under way. In the future, I will plan for something nobler. Maybe a castle. The castle of Emwark has always intrigued me."

"Ah, Emwark, yes. Rumored to be even finer than this." He extended his arms in reference to the palace. "Elizabeth Wescott is certainly accustomed to fine things, although not so fine as a place of this size let alone one the size of Emwark's palace. Earl Wescott shall be pleased to see his daughter so well kept. She is very dear to him, being the youngest of the daughters and of all his children." He chuckled. "All twelve of them. I doubt he has a clue what fine things you have in mind, although I am certain he, as we all, are well aware that you, Sir Marcus, bare the potential of becoming what I, myself, have become...the most noblest noble in all New Ebony."

Marcus could not help but grin, for it was not like the man to brag in the slightest, no, not since his change. It was actually quite refreshing to hear him giving himself such credit, professing for himself what he truly was, which was just as he had stated.

"So tell me, my friend, where will this manor house be constructed?"

"The Southern Plains," he quickly replied, for he had tired of falling silent in order to put off speaking the truth to spare the man's feelings. No sense prolonging these obligatory details.

"The Southern Plains?" Jacob's brows instantly drew together.

"Quite near the border of the Commons."

"I see." He was obviously disappointed.

Marcus inhaled a deep, weary breath of air, proceeding with an explanation. "I have a reasonable amount of land there, good land, rich enough to attract planters and sharecroppers and herdsmen. The pastures and fields are perfect for the raising of animals. Tradesmen would subsequently follow."

"The Southern Plains," Jacob repeated once more, his very serious expression focused upon his plate, which he had hardly touched. "Well, then, it seems you have given this a great deal of thought. I imagine your presence will be required there. And with the, um, distance I imagine you will have little time to travel, except it be for some pertinent occasion, such as is the case with myself."

Marcus could not speak at all. His heart went out to the man. His silence answered for him.

"I see. Well, then, I will require a new man to handle a portion of the matters I have entrusted to you over the years, or perhaps handle them on my own."

There was a space of silence. Marcus's heart fell, and it was obvious Rachel's did as well as she gaped sadly upon Jacob's countenance.

"I have a man who may be trusted," Marcus came to say.

Jacob gave his head a shake. "No, no," he corrected. "I cannot simply turn these matters over to just any man. I am not at ease even thinking about it." With that, he scooted back his chair and stood, taking his chalice with him. "I don't suppose I had thought about this," he slowly replied. "I had supposed you would give me some warning further ahead of time. This is sudden. I imagine your attention will be required during the building of this...manor house."

Again, Marcus said nothing. And after a generous length of silence, the only sound to break it was that of Jacob's boots as he made his way across the floor and from the room.

And there was silence, a deadly silence while Marcus and Rachel both stared down at their plates.

******

She felt as if she was being torn apart from the inside out, torn between these two men. Jacob's pain—how she felt it!

She lifted her gaze to see Marcus simply toying with the stem of his chalice, his expression very blank and unreadable. She inhaled a very deep breath. "I hope you are satisfied, Sir Marcus."

His gaze snapped over to meet hers. "Satisfied?" His expression proved how very perturbed he had become with her. "If you suppose so, then I imagine you know absolutely nothing about the man I am. One thing is certain. You know absolutely nothing about the friendship between he and I. It has been fifteen years. Fifteen years." He barely shook his head. "Do not even insinuate that I am satisfied."

"The building of this manor house...can it not be accomplished on its own?" She leaned forward so that only he could hear. "Any man whose trade is to build can do so without incessant observation. All you need do is produce a replica of whatever it is you desire to be built which may be followed."

"I _have_ produced such a replica," he slowly and firmly informed. It seemed as if he was about to lose all patience and his temper with it.

"Then it can be properly replicated. If you are so wise a man as Jacob claims you to be, surely you are wise enough to place such matters into the hands of a man who is equally as wise in his drudgeries as you are known to be in yours. You must only occasionally see to the affairs of these undertakings, and at least give Jacob a space of time to adjust to this sudden change of events. Must you tear his heart into pieces by departing with such short notice?"

"I have explained these things to you," he loudly and angrily threw at her, catching them both off guard. He took a quick hold of his temper, and did speak quieter the next time. "You should be well aware according to my confessions that I have no other choice."

"I understand, Marcus, I understand well. But even I can put my sentiments aside for the sake of his, which are perhaps stronger than yours and mine combined."

He glanced at her, appearing very tired and worn of a sudden. And he said nothing while he continued to toy with the stem of his glass.

"You cannot abandon him," she said, refusing to let him shrink away from the hurt he would surely cause, and already had.

"I am not abandoning him," he slowly and quietly corrected, his eyes upon the movements of his fingers as he ran then slowly along the stem of his chalice. Then he shook his head and suddenly lifted the chalice, swallowing its contents. He lowered it with a loud thump and simply stared upon it, leaning back in his seat, folding his arms against his chest. "I am first of all abandoning the only life I have ever known."

She suddenly felt horrible bad for him, for in truth she knew very little about him. All sorts of questions passed through her mind. Who had raised him? How had they raised him? How had he acquired his own trade, if one could call it that? And at what age? For how how long? These were very fleeting questions.

"Secondly," he continued, "the trouble I am capable of causing here."

Again there was silence, and just as those fleeting thoughts, various emotions coursed through her in speedy fashion. Her heart palpitated. Her blood crashed thru her veins. Her thoughts went in all directions, and she was certain her mind would lose control and stop working altogether.

"You needn't suffer because of this," she heard him say, and her eyes snapped to him.

" _I_ needn't suffer," she mocked, shook her head and almost laughed. "How can I help it? To not suffer would be just the same as to not care."

"Do you care?"

"You know I do."

"For Jacob, yes, and yourself."

"I care about what he cares about," she said, which almost brought a grin to his lips. He almost shook his head and it appeared he would stand.

She leaned forward to quietly say, "Do not take me wrong, Sir Marcus, or misconstrue the meaning behind these words. But I beg you, please, do not depart under these terms. Stay and spare him this sudden pain which was obvious to both you and I. Stay and allow him a space of time to adhere and to make his changes, even in his heart which may very well fail him because of you."

He again toyed with the stem of his chalice, and then leaned forward, stood up, and without so much as a glance departed the room leaving her alone to blink back tears and order the servant who shortly after appeared to bring in the better wine.

******

Jacob had found solace in his private chamber, the outer room from where he peered out the windows overlooking the city and the courtyard. He replayed Marcus's words, called himself a fool for having not thought this far ahead, and rebuked himself for having relied upon any one man alone to handle his personal and political affairs.

Marcus had spent the past fifteen years overlooking specific deeds in his stead. But he did not operate solely for his sake alone, but for the Higher Nobles, the emperor, nobles of the least significance, the common people...for New Ebony as a whole.

Marcus had learned somehow at a young age to pursue and suggest and arrange peace amongst the realms and their rulers...to use methods that only he could execute, even if he specifically ordered a man on exactly what to say or do in his stead...such a feat could not be successfully accomplished by anyone else. Yes, Marcus had his own way about dealing with the affairs of the people as a whole. He could maneuver situations, even dozens at a time, and even manipulate them in such a way as to keep peace where peace would otherwise be impossible, or even in danger of extinction.

In Jacob's mind, Marcus was a political genius.

For him to withdraw, even from the matters that he and Marcus together handled as a team...if they were to withdraw, what would become of so many various issues? These issues of peace would suffer slack and even termination. And if Marcus withdrew altogether from his toils, which were likely more numerous than any man could imagine, the state of the realms would suffer. The nobles would suffer conflict, and war amongst themselves...the emperor would suffer and be in danger from various angles...the nobles, rulers overseas—particularly the king of Roark.

Perhaps not swiftly, but over time a lack of action on Marcus's part would bring about a shortage of unity and peace. The nobles would begin to rise up against one another. The rulers overseas would catch them in a weak moment while the nobles were at odds with themselves and the emperor and would take advantage of that weakness.

Jacob didn't think he, himself, could stop pursuing peace. Not while he had breath in his body, which was suddenly feeling a bit weak.

A sweat broke out and he knew it was the sickness...coming upon him so suddenly. Had this news brought it about? Did the outbreak of illness in his body actually have something to do with his feelings? Maybe so. After all these years of suffering on and off, maybe now he was learning something more about it.

With the back of his hand he swiped beads of sweat from his brow and turned away from the window. He would not get sick, not now. This time could be the last. His heart would fail him for sure. Marcus meant such a great deal to him. Even more than he'd known, perhaps. Like a son, he thought. Like the son he hadn't the opportunity to raise into such a fine man as Marcus Wren had proven himself to be.

Who would replace him? Who?

He'd said he had someone in mind. Jacob could not possibly trust any other man, no, not with those things he'd trusted Marcus with. There would be this constant worry, this continual waiting for some situation to fail. For something to go awry. To be betrayed, as he felt now. Was he truly in the right?

"Milord?" He hadn't noticed Mable who'd at some point stepped into the room thru the doors directly in front of him. He simply stared at her, waiting. "Shall I call upon the physician?" She asked.

He hesitated, and then nodded slowly. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, do so."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Days passed, six altogether. He refused visitors during his sickness. When it was over he burst from his room like a new man and acted as if nothing had ever happened.

His first feat was to pay Rachel a visit. The sickness, along with his refusal to see anyone, was over and forgotten—done away with as if to have never occurred. He did not ask about Marcus or about anything concerning those six days in which he'd lied sickly in his chamber.

During that time, Rachel had simply coped, putting much of her time and energy into the governing of the palace staff. People were always coming and going. New members tended to cause uncertain havoc. The atmosphere amongst the staff had shifted such a degree that Percival had become overwhelmed and quite anxious. She and he together arranged the staff so as to eliminate all disorder, chaos that had arisen from the addition of maidens, pages, squires and even some guards. Together they simplified matters, and Percival was finally able to take a deep breath, relax and appreciate her all the more.

She was in the process of studying the palace map, which up until this involvement with the governing of the staff had not crossed her mind as something in need of examination. It was as she did this, she heard the door open and footsteps. She assumed it was Tilly returning with a requested cup of tea. She extended a hand to receive it, but instead found her hand taken by another. She turned in her seat, looking up to find Jacob grinning down upon her.

She was first shocked, and then overwhelmed with pleasure to finally see him face to face after days of being refused entrance to his quarters. Even despite the raising of her voice, the placing of firm hands upon the hips, the peering of demanding eyes...she had been turned away.

Now, Father Nelson had been the one to soothe her in the beginning, for he'd been called upon by Jacob, and had spent a great deal of time with him, nearly an entire day. He'd assured her that all was well....Jacob simply did not want to be seen in that shape ever again by anyone at all. Only he'd allowed the priest that one day, and that one day only, and Edison, of course, and Holly and Mable.

Her hand in his, she rose from her seat, and fell into his embrace, so strong and comforting just as she'd expected. He guided her chin upward and kissed her. She would have drowned herself in his kisses. But he pulled away and called behind him to Holly who she had not up until that moment noticed. Her arms were extended, baring some neatly folded articles of clothing which he motioned for her to bring forward.

"Have you ever ridden?" Jacob asked her.

"Ridden?" She raised a brow. "You mean...?

He nodded.

She laughed. "Surely you know it was forbidden. Even amongst common folk and heathen, women do not ride."

"Well, then, you shall learn to do so today."

The maiden handed her the clothing, which she unfolded and held out to view with much uncertainty: a pair of breeches and a shirt, suitable for a man. Had a woman ever worn such garments?

"I had them made especially for you while you were away at Orland. The seamstresses are well acquainted with your measurements."

"Surely you do not approve of this. And even so...who else would?"

"It will be well," he told her. "There are places I have meant to take you, only we must ride to get there. You could very well ride with me, but I think it would be more enjoyable if you had a horse of your own, which I am confident you would learn to handle with ease."

So he left her alone to get dressed, and she could not help but smile and giggle at the image in the mirror, and to admit that this new look was something she wanted him to see.

So she presented herself, noting the approval in his eyes as very many curves were revealed that had before been hidden. He quickly swept her away, and proved himself correct. He taught her to ride that day, and took her to those places he'd wanted her to see, specifically one. A place of sentiment which she assumed had come to his remembrance following Marcus's announcement...during the time he lay sick in his bed.

It was a graveyard. Not one where his fathers had been put to rest, for he made it known that those who became lord of the Great City were buried alongside the emperors in the Northern Isles. These were those who had no such privilege. His mother. His mother's father and mother and theirs, his father's mother and her's. His two wives. And his son.

There he knelt down, touching a hand to the grave. She watched from a distance, not really knowing what to do. She only knew to keep silent. For however long it took for him to speak again, which seemed a very long time as he simply stared upon the grave of his one and only child. He did not cry, no not a single tear so far as she could see. She only noted a barely visible grin upon his lips, and decided in her heart that he was thinking upon the pleasant moments he'd shared with his child. The good memories.

He eventually stood. "Forgive me, I have lost track of time."

No need to apologize. I would stay here so long as you wish."

They remounted their horses and departed the scene, eventually entering into a field, which he proposed to use as a space for her to perfect her riding skills.

"One never knows," he began, riding along beside her, so close he was able to reach out and take her hand. "There may be a time when you must swiftly go from one place to the next." His face became serious, but only for a moment. He released her hand, and insisted they speed their horses. She went along with him, and just as he'd supposed, she handled the steed with ease, as if she had ridden all her life.

They eventually returned to the palace, and laughed as they rode by the many, many onlookers who gaped upon the sight with total confusion. All they could do was laugh about this.

At this point they were both very hungry, so he made orders for dinner to be served earlier than usual, and sat in his private drawing room while the cooks busied themselves with the sudden demand.

"I suppose I should change," she suggested.

He stood. "If it is at all well with you, I prefer you stay as you are." He came close and suddenly took her into his arms, holding her. "Even if I may not have you," he said close to her ear, "it does me good to see you as you are...the nature of your frame, which I find quite appealing. This gives my imagination further room to contemplate what is mine to begin with; although I may not be at liberty to examine...my imagination could use this new vision of you to keep me at ease a little while longer."

His words were very enticing to her. She felt an urge to tell him to take her to his chambers then at that time and to make love to her, but she did not. For she kept recalling his illness, his death which they all awaited, and the ever after...her future. Just what would life be with him gone from it? Never the same, she imagined. Not the same at all.

Camille came to mind, and she now understood completely what she meant. A strong woman, she was, to have held on to her calling despite having known love for a man, lust for a man, having not succumbed to it, but to her calling only. Rachel wondered if she could be so strong.

They were summoned to the dinette, seated and served. Shortly after, Percival entered the room with a message, stating, "It is from Sir Marcus."

Marcus, having also been refused during Jacob's illness, had simply rode away and nobody heard from him, not until this—a message stating he was on his way to the Great City, and that he planned to stay a while during the construction of his home.

Jacob was pleased with this, which pleased Rachel as well...for her husband's sake, of course. He laughed quite pleasantly upon reading the message.

In days to come Jacob ventured out very little...as if to completely and purposely forsake particular endeavors. He left the collection of rents in charge of one Sir Miles, and the disputes between the common folk in charge of one Sir Gareth. And other matters into the hands of Sir Edward and guards of his choice. Matters of the court were held off. Prisoners that were taken in...well, their cases were not heard so swiftly as once before.

He did, however, begin to dedicate a great deal of time to studying his maps, which he gave no particular excuse for. Rachel occasionally studied with him. She was intrigued, for his maps were continually updated, and revealed so much more of New Ebony than she'd ever been aware of. Westerly's maps were not so updated, no, not near as accurate as these. Quite the contrary.

During the evening, he made orders to invite guests so that they could eat, drink and be entertained in the Great Hall. This became a regular routine. Also, they took time out to stroll about the gardens and along the shore of the ocean which she'd come to love more than anything else.

"I hope you have not tired of me," he said one evening while escorting her to her private quarters.

"Not at all," she said with a genuine smile, holding to the crook of his arm as they made their way up the hall, closer to her chamber. "I will likely be disappointed after this has passed and you decide to rededicate yourself to the activities you have placed into the hands of others, which I suppose to be a temporary arrangement."

They stopped before the door of her chambers. Caleb, who stood guard there, stared straight ahead as if to not acknowledge them at all. Such was the manner of any man in place of guarding doors and entrances.

Jacob bent and planted a very gentle, feathery kiss upon her cheek. Her eyes closed while it lasted, and then opened again as he began drawing away. He gave the hand he'd held to a light squeeze before releasing it altogether.

"Have a pleasant night," he told her. "Sleep well."

And he was gone.

******

She later stood out on the balcony, her gown blowing with the gentle evening breeze, and her robe which she'd left undone in the front flapping with the shifting of the wind. A fist pressed against her chin, she stared up at the bright moon, so many pleasant memories passing through her mind, this time slowly so as she had a chance to take hold of any single one and dwell on it a little longer than the others. She smiled at some of them, and then frowned as she considered her desire to be with Jacob, to create a memory she had only imagined, constructing images of her own as to what it would be like to have him make love to her. At times she burned for him to do so, and even trembled at his slightest touch. She was amazed at the power she had over the demand of her body, for despite the aches and terrible desires, she resisted...as did he, for he had not once tried to verbally persuade her to go against what they had agreed upon to begin with.

She visualized him as she knew him to be, as she'd witnessed him to be, and smiled. As usual, the face in the moon smiled back down at her. She stared beyond at the city, lit up beautifully, making it all the more intriguing. The Great City was certainly worthy of its name.

Her gaze lowered from the lights and the structures to the gardens below. Was it midnight already? She wondered, and did not bother to move while a damsel and her lover gave place to their desires. She simply watched, paying attention to every move of the hand, to every reaction, every kiss, and every gentle push after he'd lifted her skirts, unsnapped his breeches, and took her thrust after thrust after thrust. She noticed every pleasurable expression, and heard the sounds of their lovemaking, carried up with the breeze and into her ears.

Very calmly she turned around, and with slow steps made her way from her room, her chamber, down the hall. She came upon the entrance to Jacob's private quarters. The guards did not move, not even their heads, only their eyes as they glanced at her thru the corners of them. She stepped past them, pushing opened the doors, and entered Jacob's private quarters. Slowly, she closed the doors behind herself, and took soft, graceful steps toward the adjoining chamber—Jacob's bedchamber.

At the doors she did not hesitate, but pushed them opened and went inside. Step after step brought her closer to his bed. She raised slow hands, using them to slide her robe down her shoulder, from her body and to the floor. And with another slow hand, she reached for the silky strings below her neck, pulling the end of one so that it unloosed the bow it'd been tied into. She stopped at the edge of the bed, staring down upon Jacob's sleeping face, his still, relaxed form beneath the sheets of his bed. She took hold of her gown from the hips, easing it upward, and then raised her arms, bringing the garment with them, pulling it up and over her head, and dropping it onto the floor.

Her naked body slightly quivered, not as she was cold. No she was just the opposite. She burned from the inside out so that even her skin was very warm. But she quivered as she contemplated the distance between herself and her husband, and how very close she was to consummating their marriage. It was impossible now to resist doing so. Yes, she would this night give up her virtue. She would this night for a certainty become Rachel Trent, Lady Trent...Jacob's wife, completely.

She stared down upon him. She did love him. She loved him dearly, and the idea of doing this was not regretted in the slightest. She wanted to be made love to by this man. Just like the damsel in the garden. She wanted to give herself to him. He could take this ache from her. Do away with it once and for all. Do away with the turmoil of wavering between emotions and affections. She would let him.

She lifted a knee, raising herself onto the bed. With a slow hand, she took hold of the edge of the sheet, pulling it just so far as to slip beneath it. She slid herself onto the bed, under the sheet, and against the warmth of his body. She snuggled and then melted against him, almost as if to become one with him. This felt right to her. This felt pleasurable in itself, to feel the touch of his bare skin against her bare skin. It was almost as if they belonged this way.

She closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his strong chest. Jacob moved, awakening by the feel of her body against his. He lifted a hand and then lowered it to caress her cheek, her hair...as if to be sure it was her.

She rose up upon one arm to look down at him so that he could see with his eyes...yes, it was her. Yes, she had joined him in his bed...naked, as was he. His tired but uncertain and confused eyes searched her face, and then her breasts, bare before him. Pleasure and desire and lust flamed in his eyes. She saw so from the moonlight cascading over them where they lied.

His brows came together while a hand came up to caress her shoulder. "Rachel," he whispered, and she noted the sudden rise and fall of his chest. He ran the tips of his fingers from her ear, along her jaw to her chin, and down her neck. "What are you doing?"

"Visiting," she quietly said.

"Visiting," he repeated, obviously confounded.

"I am sorry that I awakened you," she said, although she really didn't mean it.

Again he asked, "What are you doing?" To this she raised her free hand, touching a palm to his temple, running it down to his cheek, and she lowered her face to drop a kiss upon his lips. She rose up again, not so very far. "I want to stay this night with you," she told him, running her fingertips down his neck and shoulders. Again she lowered her lips to kiss him. He almost responded to this. She lifted her face only inches from his, adding to what she'd said before, "As your wife."

"Rachel," he whispered, "What has brought this about?"

"Desire that I've grown tired of fighting. Jacob, I do not care to think about the future and what will become of me. I wish to consummate our marriage...tonight."

He took her face between his hands, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. He kissed her gently on the lips and pulling away asked, "Are you sure of it?"

She moved closer, closing her eyes, and closed her lips over his, and then again as he returned the kiss. She pulled away, his face now a blurry image before her.

"I love you truly, Jacob, and I have these desires inside of me that I can no longer overcome."

He raised a hand to the side of her face and smoothed it down her hair, afterward taking a lock and sliding it over her shoulders so that it covered her naked breast.

"Would it not please you as well?" She asked him.

"Of course," he breathlessly answered. He pulled her to him and kissed her slow and gently and deeply. He held her even closer, and she was sure he would begin to make love to her at once.

But he pulled her away, and did not act swiftly. "This you are sure of."

"Yes," she assured, "with everything inside of me, Jacob, I am."

"Isn't it your wish to be pure and untouched after I—"

"—please, Jacob, let's not speak of it. Not of your death. Not of my virtue, or even the keeping of it for the sake of my calling or of my honor in the case I wish to remarry. I do not care for any of those things, to think of them, not of my calling let alone remarrying, for I know now with everything inside of me that I will not love a man like this. I would not wish to be with any other. Only you."

He pressed a palm against the side of her face, spreading his fingers through her hair, stroking her ear. "I would rather have you as you are than to have you hate me in the end."

"I will not," she said to him. "I promise." And he could see so in her eyes that she truly meant what she was saying.

He placed his hands to either side of her face. He kissed her. And she fell into him, allowing him to lower her onto the bed. And she was made love to for the first time by this man, her husband, whom she did love with all her heart.

It was a beautiful experience, unlike anything she'd imagined. He was gentle with her, arousing passions that she did not know existed, ones that enveloped them, and shadowed over them, seeping inside and radiating, making them as one. She gave in to him completely, sometimes startled by her arousal and his touches, how very pleasurable. So perfect, so pure. How could anyone denounce such a thing? How had she?

His caresses were tender but fervent. He stroked and embraced every inch of her body, exploring her gently but zealously, with his hands and his gentle strokes, with his lips, closing them over her naked flesh, exploring her body so that she quivered beneath his every touch. She could hear the sound of their breathing, uneven and harsh at times. And the sound of her name as he whispered, "Rachel, my dear Rachel."

Control. She'd had so much of it, yet here she was drowning, losing her mind and all control of herself. She was lost now in him, in this union that was meant to be in the first place, that was completely correct and innocent.

He dropped kisses on her temple and her face and her lips. "Make me this promise," he said hovering above her, his hands to either side of her, his manhood which she'd before noted, so strong and large, resting upon her most private place of all.

Thru hazy, desirous eyes she studied him. She could barely breathe. She could barely speak. "What is it?" She managed to whisper, raising her hands to his strong shoulders.

He swept his lips over hers, and she would have returned the kiss. He pulled away, stroking her hair with the tips of his fingers. "Promise me this, my dear Rachel, that you will not despise me or hate me." Again he kissed her and pulled away, staring her deeply in the eyes with an intense, desirous stare, a dark stare...a lustful stare. "Promise me again."

"I promise," she whispered to him. "I will love you and cherish you as always, and again and again, Jacob. I will not stop, I promise it. I will not hate you or myself."

Hearing this, he kissed her lips and said quietly, "As you have not been taken, you may feel pain. This pain I do not wish to cause you."

"I am already in pain."

"This," he began, and stopped...saying nothing more.

"Jacob," she whispered, having this urge to lift herself to him.

Her legs were parted, and his manhood hard against her. He rose above her, staring down upon her face, and he pushed himself against her, so that she felt he would enter her, but he had not. Her chest rose and fell, and their eyes stayed together. He watched her closely, and she him. She yet felt that urge to lift herself to him, but did not. He pushed again. A breath caught in her throat, for she felt him begin to enter her, and then a thrust...there was a sharp pain that coursed through her body. She trembled, a breath catching in her throat. He dropped a kiss on her lips, telling her, "I am sorry."

But the pain was gone so quick as it'd come. It was finished. Her virtue was lost, gone forever...lost to the man she loved.

She rose up and kissed his lips, dropping her head back, her voice quivering as the desire to be completely united consumed her. She almost smiled at him as she said, "It is well, Jacob. It is well."

And he joined them together with his gentle thrusts...yes, thrust after thrust, together as one, consummating their marriage and their vows.

But he retreated.

She lifted her hips to him, telling him also with her voice to please not stop, to finish it—to rid her of the torment she had carried about; it seemed years.

And he joined them together again, taking her hair in his hands, burying his face in it, and his thrusts became deeper and stronger so that she could hardly withstand them, rather the pleasure of this. A breath caught in her lungs as ripples of overwhelming sensations coursed thru her body. She panted and cried out, even saying his name as her entire body was consumed with pleasure. His breath, too, came out harsh and uneven, and he raised himself up to see her face, to run a thumb along her lower lips, watching until he could no longer keep his eyes opened. She, too, watched while his body shook with pleasure. Every tremble, every quiver of the breath and voice when he spilled his seed inside her, saying her name in a way she had never heard it said before.

And it was finished.

They lay in silence for a time, until he rose up to look at her, such love and pleasure in his eyes, such hope and happiness...these things were also quite visible in her own.

He dropped a kiss on her temple, on her shoulder and her lips.

"My Rachel," he quietly claimed.

"Yes," she agreed. "Yours. I am yours, Jacob, and I'll love you till death and beyond."

They dozed off for a time, only to awaken, making love even in their sleep, and again they did make love, joining together a second time. Again, they felt the piercing, overpowering, awe-inspiring climax of their lovemaking. Again, and she imagined again and again and again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The sound of hooves hitting the ground interrupted the serenity of the marketplace. People stopped to stare while several men on horseback passed by, one in front leading the way...Marcus, returning to the palace with a handful of men.

"Sir Marcus." Byron had ridden up alongside him, and spoke so that nobody else could hear. "Will you mention the maiden?"

"No," he abruptly replied, "and neither should you. None of these are aware. The emperor asks it be kept secret."

Yes, he was returning from a journey into the Northern Isles and from the Commons where he'd visited the emperor and discussed the situation concerning Victor's sudden appearance in Orland, and Roselyn whom yet remained detained under the guardianship of the emperor and his guards. Marcus had sent a message along with the guards who had done as instructed, and transferred her secretly, telling nobody of their mission or even of their whereabouts.

She had been questioned. Victor had as well. Soon after, according to one of Marcus's own spies, the man had fled into Roark. Even upon making this known, Roselyn would not speak. Not even a yea or nay. After so many weeks of imprisonment, she had turned cold, refusing to speak at all, and claimed she would die a silent victim.

Despite it all, Marcus had also called upon skilled builders to travel to his place in the Southern Plains to join those he'd originally hired to see to it the construction of his manor house was properly and speedily conducted. With one he also sent a message so as to avoid any confusion or conflict, telling them to welcome the newcomers, to work together, and promising them a very hefty wage.

There were also other matters, ones he never spoke of to anyone other than those involved, and they were many. There was one in charge of this secret mission which had gone on for many years, one that he would not part his lips, only to the one...the trustworthy man named Galivar who'd been overseeing the secret mission for several years now.

Before the palace they all dismounted their horses, which were immediately taken away by Linus and his helpers. Those with him went their separate way to the quarters meant for such men as them alongside the palace where they would bathe, eat and rest. Marcus made his way inside, the guards simply greeting him as he passed by.

There was one issue he wished to discuss with Jacob, so he went in search of him. He luckily came across Percival who adequately kept up with the whereabouts of everyone in the palace—especially Jacob.

"Is he here or away tending to another matter?"

"He is here, sir, but does not wish to be disturbed."

"Is he well?"

"Yes, he, um..." He stopped, seeming a whole lot uncertain. Marcus watched while a blush gradually spread across his face. "He is, um, simply not to be disturbed, sir."

Marcus stared intently upon him before turning away and taking the direction of his private quarters. Suddenly things he'd once meditated upon, that he'd tucked back to some safe place in his mind resurfaced. Percival's words repeated themselves, and his expression resurfaced. Marcus could see as if the man was still standing there directly before him.

He came across a lone spinster whom was going about her way with a basket of clothing or material, he could not tell which...and it truly did not matter.

"Summon the maiden," he told her, "Zaria, to prepare my bath."

She nodded quickly once and again, shyly and hardly looking at him. Having made the demand he made his way inside his quarters, slamming the door behind him, and yanking everything he carried with him away recalling those words, recalling the blushing of Percival's cheeks. Something he could not recall having ever witnessed in the many years he'd known the man.

******

The days that passed after that first night were very wonderful, exotic and satisfying. Rachel had never felt so alive and happy and, well, womanly in all her life. That first night repeated itself...in the morning, the day, evening—didn't matter. She had not a clue the extent of lovemaking. Jacob certainly revealed to her a world she had not imagined, a part of her she had not known existed, nor would have been possible without him. With each time they made love, she felt all the freer to expose and express her own desires, and to react upon them in any way she wished. It was a beautiful thing, which she now regretted having put off for so long. There'd been no point. It would have been well all along. But perhaps she'd needed that space of time to adapt even to the simple feelings of love and attraction prior the event of their actual consummation.

She and Jacob were now lovers, peering at one another over the rims of glasses and the heads of people, across rooms and side by side as he sat the one day of the week to judge the matters of his realm, and the cases of numerous many prisoners that'd been left ignored over the weeks. He would occasionally pat her on the behind in passing, secretly so as to not make a spectacle, and she found herself doing the same on an occasion, surprising even herself. This was certainly an exciting phase of her life, having this intimacy with the man she loved, Jacob, who was an exceptional lover at that.

Now, Zaria was quite the observant young damsel. She quickly noticed the difference in the two of them—utmost her mistress, and being outspoken as she was did not hesitate to mention it one day while Rachel prepared herself to stand in while Jacob dubbed a mature squire, knight. This was an occasion to not take lightly, she'd come to learn. It was taken as seriously as that of having one take the Sacred Vows. She supposed it was well. After all, these were the young men who would go on to secure the peace and safety of their land, those who would become nobles or guards, soldiers and troops. These were those who protected the land from opposing armies and enemies, who even intimidated other countries from overstepping their boundaries and daring to attempt overthrowing the emperor.

Zaria was humming quietly to herself while Rachel slipped into her full gown. While the maiden began fastening the back of it, she said, "Was I not correct in saying Lord Trent would be an exceptional lover?"

Rachel did not scold her this time. She simply smiled. "He is a magnificent lover," she agreed. "How were you so sure of it?"

"He does have this way about him that makes one think so. Also you must remember, milady, I have been in service here over three years now. During the time he was not wed, well, he was known to bed a damsel on occasion, some of whom could not keep quiet about the goings-on in the bedchamber. Such things are usually not discussed amongst the palace maidens. Only some I imagine were compelled by pride."

This idea of him doing the exact things he had done with her with any other woman placed some heavy, eerie stone in her heart. She could feel it weighing her down. Jealousy? Of course. But why? Such things were in the past and had nothing to do with her.

"I wonder if he strayed from his other wives."

"From the second? Not that I know of—only after her death. Now the first, if those with loose tongues are truthful, was a different story. He bedded many, so I have heard. But he was young, still. Since you came into the Great City...well, there have been no others. Otherwise I would certainly have heard."

"What sort did he choose?" She came to ask.

"During events in the Great Hall they are quite simple to locate."

"I have noticed those who prance and attempt to lure him vary a great deal in appearance if nothing else."

"They are all the same in this: that he did not care about them...not in the slightest. Women to be used as they had been used before, acquainted with the ways of lovemaking. I imagine he has taken great delight in guiding you in the way of passion."

Thinking of the truth to the statement, she smiled with satisfaction.

Zaria laughed very quietly. "You should know by now, milady, that he desires no woman but you, and will have no other. I do believe not only I but every other in the realm and beyond by now certainly know he is not an available man...not at all."

A space of silence fell. She found herself considering Marcus who had returned a few days before, and who had avoided her, it seemed, on purpose. In fact, she rarely saw him at all. She recalled the magnetism between him and this maiden, Zaria who was attractive in her own right, and had expressed some intimate interest in Marcus. Before she could even bite her tongue, she said, "Sir Marcus is to be wed. Had you heard?"

"If there's any news to be spread, milady, trust me...I will hear of it. If not on my own, well, Percival and I do get along. But yes I know. I heard it from Sir Marcus, himself."

"Oh?" Her gaze went to the ceiling while the maiden's hands continued to fasten the back of her gown. "Then you finally made it into his bed," she guessed.

"Twas not such a difficult task, milady. I seduced him—not that he wasn't seducing me all along as well with those handsome, seductive eyes of his. He is a very gifted lover, I must say. He does know how to please a woman."

Rachel tried not to suck in the deep breath of air her lungs instantly seemed to require, and she tried to get the visual out of her mind, for it disturbed her. Everything about the man always did. But this was by far the most disturbing thought of all.

"He said little about this woman. I do not think he loves her. But his land, now this he loves, and his dream of building his own realm, so to speak. The emperor would let him do as he chooses. If he rules as well as he makes love, I imagine he will become the greatest noble in all New Ebony after the passing of Lord Trent. Not to mention it, milady. I imagine many years lie ahead of him. Who knows? He may be the very one to outlive them all. Nonetheless, I requested a place in this manor house of his. He seemed delighted by the idea, and agreed to it."

"Then you will leave here?"

"There is still a matter of time, milady. And yes, I will miss you as well."

She stared out into nowhere before saying, "Then you and he shall be lovers."

"Until he tires of me," she shrugged, "which will certainly happen with time. Yes, there will be much opportunity for him to stray, I imagine, just as with any noble, especially one so, um, well, hmm, how does one truly describe Marcus Wren. He is dashing by nature. But I am not one to compete for the sake of a man's affections. When it ends, it shall end."

"But he will be married. Zaria, surely you would not resume an affair with a married man. It would not be fair to her."

"Some ladies are thankful as they do not wish to be troubled by their husband's demands." She shrugged. "They welcome such companionship. Not in the open, mind you, they simply turn another direction and act to pay no mind. Then again, this lady, she may prove herself desirable, capable of pleasing him. She is likely a virgin. Perhaps she will become a good lover. Perhaps he will eventually fall in love with her. For the sake of them both, I hope it."

" _Then_ where will you go?"

"I have not thought so far ahead."

"You speak as if there's no meaning to your life at all, Zaria"

"I am a drifter, milady. I do not stay in one place any longer than three years. Only this time because of you. You interested me so that I stayed when I had considered taking myself elsewhere."

"I am glad you stayed," she found herself saying. "You have been a great help. I would much rather you stay and not go. But if you ever find yourself in need of a place...you must come back."

"Tis still a while longer till he weds. You will adapt. Another will take my place—they always do. Just as another will take Marcus's place. Lord Trent will adapt— _he_ always does."

There was that word again. Adapt. She silently disagreed. Marcus was too much one of a kind. She was certain there was nobody else like him in the entire world.

Zaria urged her to turn and look at her. "People have their importance, milady, but when all is said and done, we disappear, we die, we flee, and those we leave for whatever cause, they adjust and continue on until it is their time to disappear, to die, to flee. Tis a cycle we all live by. Tis life. As with you coming here, as with others all over the world...they adapt. They always do."

That night, while the dubbing ceremony was conducted, she found herself searching the room with her eyes for Marcus Wren, but did not see him...then she searched for Zaria, and exhaled a breath of relief when she spotted her. Better to see her in person than to imagine her alone with Marcus. At least in such a way as she'd admitted to having him.

How horrible of her to even think of it.

And later on, how horrible of her to think of him while her husband made love to her.

******

The following days went well. Jacob attended many meetings with the Higher Nobles in close range of the Great City. Still, there had been rumors of the king of Roark starting a war. The nobles were being safe opposed to sorry; concocting plans to retaliate if need be by joining their forces together, arranging to have their armies prepared in the case of a potential war. But this talk of battle did not mean life could not go on.

Rachel hired an expert painter to make portraits of herself to hang about the palace. She and Jacob even posed together for one of these. Franklyn De'Juan occupied the palace for an entire month, time well spent as he collected a generous wage for creating these likenesses. His work was exceptional.

She also updated the furnishings in her chambers, not that they were terribly outdated...she'd simply discovered a fondness for the most recent decorations, ones rumored to be very popular amongst the Noble Class.

She also embarked upon planning an event of her own for other ladies such as herself; to bring attention to the impoverished of not only those of Orland, but in all of New Ebony. It was an issue she felt inclined to do something about. She felt she could certainly win over the hearts of some of the other ladies, those who had manors of their own but doubtfully acknowledged the need.

She imagined her invitations would be accepted. She had, after all, received dozens and dozens from these same ladies, although kindly declining them but with reasonable cause. Surely they would be pleased to receive one from her in regards to any matter at all. Then again it dawned on her that they may have possibly tired of her rejections—which is what the declines may have appeared to _bluntly_ be.

Nonetheless, she was willing to take the risk. Whether one or all...no matter how many accepted the invitation, it would benefit someone somewhere in some way.

She was in the solar sifting thru invitation cards, humming quietly to herself as she did so, when a voice interrupted her.

"Milady," she heard the nonchalant greeting, and turned so as to see Marcus leaning in the doorway, hands in pockets. One could only wonder how long he'd been standing there.

She would have expected Tilly or Zaria or Percival, maybe a guard or squire or her husband upon returning. Not Marcus. He'd avoided her for a long while now. Perhaps he'd seized this occasion to speak to her as she was alone and the door without guard at the time. But there was sure to be one down the hall a pace.

She redirected her attention to the cards in her hands, inhaling a slow, deep breath. Her heart skipped a beat, palpitated, and then began beating faster than normal.

"Sir Marcus," she casually returned and then without thinking added, "You finally choose to speak to me?"

"I did not expect you would want me to."

"Your purposely avoiding me makes me uneasy, as if people may think something is being hidden."

"I doubt they pay it any mind."

Her hands moved a bit quicker as she shuffled through the cards. "I have heard you set a new date for your wedding," she said as simply as possible.

"Yes," he agreed and came inside. "I postponed it for the end of Fall opposed to the beginning. The seers are predicting harsh weather. I didn't want to risk it."

"Seers," she mocked. "I wouldn't have thought you the sort of man to rely upon their predictions."

"On most occasions they have been correct."

"They are malevolent and should not be condoned in any way." She shuffled thru the cards feeling the peer of his stare upon her back.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Planning an event."

"What's the occasion?"

"Just to bring attention to the impoverished. I imagine other noble ladies would join me in the cause. I must only bring it to their attention. I am planning an event for those I feel would take part in assisting the poor with their donations. Not just here but—"

"—it's over, isn't it?"

Her hands instantly went still, but for a very short time. She proceeded to sift thru the cards, now much slower than before. She placed a few of them to the right, most to the left, depending upon whom she would or would not invite. "What's over?" She quietly asked.

"I notice yet another change in you."

"You are imagining things...there is no 'change'."

"...change that is usually only brought about in a woman after she has given up her virtue."

"As usual, you are out of line."

"He walks about whistling. You walk about humming. The two of you behave as if you were just recently wed."

She said nothing at all.

"Well?" He urged.

Still she said nothing.

"Would you answer?" It was a calm request.

"I cannot see where you have any right to make such a demand. This is not your business, Sir Marcus."

"You are correct, milady, in saying so. But as I said before, I am a very curious man, especially when it comes to you."

"Am I to be reprimanded for sharing my husband's bed?

She heard the slow sound of his boots taking him to the cabinet where a generous assortment of wine and goblets were set out for the taking. He proceeded to fill a glass. "No," he afterward said, and stood with his back to her, emptying his glass. He refilled it and she watched while he looked up toward the ceiling and spoke as if to God. "Why?" He asked. "Why am I disappointed? Why?"

"I, too, would like an explanation although it's really quite plain. As if you were awaiting his death, thinking you may be the one to lie with me for the first time. While you frolic with maidens at random you expect me to be virtuous and deny my own husband."

"Then you have taken thought for my love life."

"Love life," she mocked. "Is that what it is now referred to? As a love life?

She turned about and could feel him getting closer and closer to her. "Of course I knew this day would come," he commented. "I even predicted it. Before he draws his final breath," he recalled—a portion of what he had, indeed, predicted.

"It should not have been predicted at all, neither meditated upon nor anticipated nor dreaded. He is my husband, and I did what is even my duty to do."

"He did not pressure you, Rachel, I know this." He turned, glass in hand, a gleam of distress in the pupils of his eyes.

"He would not pressure me into doing anything nor would he disrespect me as you continually do, speaking to me as if I were a-a-a harlot or a whore." She quickly turned away, calming herself and preparing her voice to be calmer before continuing. "Why are we even discussing this? I love him, Marcus, and I wanted to do this. I am glad I did. Now I can have some peace of mind and . . . "

"And what? Forget me?" He came to stand directly across from her. With each step, the air became harder and harder to breathe. He stopped, staring her deeply in the eye. "Look me in the eye and tell me you have not thought of me."

She did look him in the eye, searching them for a short time. She shook her head. "I have not."

"This lifestyle has now made you quite the little liar."

"You must think very highly of yourself, Sir Marcus, to suggest such a thing."

"Do you think I was jesting when I said I could see through you?"

"You can see nothing."

"What I do see is a woman who is too proud and pious to admit her own shortcomings. I can face mine. You, on the other hand, cannot."

"You think you are so wise," she began with slanted eyes, her teeth nearly ground together. "When you know absolutely nothing about me."

"I know you have become quite skilled at deceiving even your own self. I imagine you have always been."

"How dare you!"

"How dare I what? Speak the truth?"

"You verbally attack my character....for no reason at all other than a lust that you, yourself, cannot control. I am not the one with the problem, Sir Marcus, you are. So deal with it on your own. I want no part of it. You-you provoke me, and you criticize."

"I criticize myself," he loudly claimed. His gaze dropped but for a second before coming up to meet hers again. He was quieter now, finishing off where he'd left, "for feeling this disappointment, as if I had, indeed, hoped to be the one."

"As if I would betray my husband."

"As if I would betray my friend."

"Then why are you speaking to me like this, probing into affairs you have no right at all to question."

"Because I am disappointed. Is it my right to be? No. I cannot go about acting as if all is well. It becomes harder for me to do so with time."

"All _is_ well."

"Perhaps for you. You've discovered a remedy that I, myself, have already resorted to, one that can only suffice for so long."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean."

"You speak as if I have had desire for you and none at all for my husband, which is far from the truth."

"Sharing his bed may appease your desires. Perhaps it will cure them forever. For your sake, I hope so." Grief covered his countenance. He touched her chin. "I'm sorry, Rachel. The fact that you not only love him but are also his lover now makes me feel very alone."

With that, after a long stare, he dropped his hand, step back, and left her alone. She made one well-deserved trip to the altar.

******

Marcus found a measure of solace outside on the upper roof. He stared down at the quiet and calm surroundings. Curfew was at the tenth hour this night, and by now it was the eleventh.

"Ah, Marcus," he heard and turned to see Father Nelson edging his way toward him—with some trouble in his leg judging by the way he hobbled along. His cane did not seem near as helpful as once upon a time.

Marcus redirected his attention to the stars. The sky was full of them tonight.

"Father Nelson," he greeted. "What are you doing out and about, up here this time of night?"

"I, too, am a man of sorrow, my son," he said. Marcus looked at him again. Father Nelson, leaving a few feet of space between them, turned to get a look at the sky for himself.

"A beautiful night," he praised. "Rare, it is, to see so many stars this time of year."

He'd thought so himself.

Father Nelson did not admire the scene very long. His gaze lowered and he turned it upon Marcus's profile. "What is this-this sad countenance?" He asked, and then observed a bottle of strong drink that Marcus had set upon the ledge. "And this...?"

"Surely you will not reprimand a man for indulging in something you, yourself, are known to indulge in on occasion."

"No, no," he quickly assured. "I was merely going to ask if you would spare an old man a sip from your bottle."

A lazy grin touched Marcus's lips. With a hand, he slid the bottle toward Father Nelson, who with a smile of his own raised it up, staring at it for a time before taking a large swallow. He lowered the bottle, smacking his lips to analyze the flavor.

"Ah, good, very good"

"From Port Templeton," he told him.

"Well deserved to be known for producing the finest, and smoothest I might add, in strong spirits."

"That they are," he slowly agreed, and took the bottle to take a generous swallow for himself.

"You do not look so well, Sir Marcus. Tell me, what ails you?"

Marcus continued to look up at the stars. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Love," he repeated. "I suppose we have all loved....and lost at that."

"Then you have been in love."

"A man of my age is bound to have felt the sting of love for a woman.....perhaps even more than once. I must say, Sir Marcus, I do not have five children for nothing."

His brows rose at him. "Five?"

He helped himself to another drink. "You didn't know?"

"No, I..." He stopped, commenting simply, "Five."

"Well, it is not something one goes around pointing out. It is comforting to know that those I have entrusted with such secrets have been faithful in not repeating them. Not that I would ever deny my past. I am not the slightest bit ashamed."

"Five children," he repeated, staring out into the night.

"Two girls by one—twins...and two others, each by a different mother, and a son by another."

"Five," he repeated again before asking, "Did you love them all, these four women?"

"Oh, yes, very much so. Still do, in fact. One does not merely stop loving once they have begun."

"How is that possible?" He quietly asked, as if to himself. "To love so many women? To truly love them...would you not love one least than another and another more?"

"You are a wise man, Sir Marcus, for you could not have said it any better. There are those you love more, those less. I will say this. The one you love the most will likely be the one you have most reason not to." He took another drink, lowering the bottle back to the ledge. "Yes, love is a very mysterious thing. Boundaries do not apply to it, rather they are crossed. It draws people from various types together, and all too often drives the heart toward those who are not even available to love."

"Was this the case with the one you truly loved?"

"I loved them all. God spare me, but I loved them all. But my Elizabeth was the apple of my eye. She was...." He grinned staring out, reminiscing, "....unlike any woman I had ever met, and to this day have yet to meet. In fact, while I was a saint, she was quite the little reprobate." This seemed to amuse him.

"How so?"

"Well, I had just become what I am today, although there were a few dark spells where I thought I had lost my right as a sacred representative. Elizabeth was the beginning of that. She was quite the malicious one, greedy and flamboyant and provocative, so spontaneous and carefree. I've never known a woman to be so ambitious. And, my, such beauty. She was very beautiful. And she did not care what anyone thought of her. No, not at all. She did not pretend or try to be anything other than what she was: quite the little reprobate." He chuckled. "Now, don't get me wrong, she was not dark and sinful. But compared to me, she was very sinful, and very different from anyone I had ever acquainted myself with. I fell in love with her immediately."

"Did she love you as well?"

"Oh, yes, very much. But I departed that place before things could go any further than was acceptable. I travelled on...met the others in-between. Yes, I loved them. Each and every one of them, but I winded up transgressing even worse than if I would've just given in and taken heed to her and her alone. I fought my inner man, in the end lost. I lost terribly."

"Then you never knew her."

"Two years passed. I could not shake her from my mind, rather my heart that had fallen so harshly in love with her. I was smitten. Terribly smitten—to the point I even became ill with love for her, so I returned in search of her. She had gone to some other place. After a few weeks travelling to and fro, going by word alone of others who claimed to have met her and knew something about her, I found her." He grinned big up at the heavens. "It was quite a reunion, one I shall never forget. It was she whom I loved the most. It was she who bore my twin daughters, and she who died giving birth to them." Although sad an ending, he did not frown at it. "So, you see, although I was cursed by my affections, I was blessed just the same. I have children, although I hear very little from them. None of these women are yet alive, save one. We write from time to time. But at my age, I'm content to be as I am. At your age...well, that was quite a different story."

A space of silence fell while they passed the bottle between them, and until Father Nelson came to say, "What caused you to ask? Surely you, yourself, are in love."

Either the old man could see the truth, or Marcus's conscience was working against him. Not something he was accustomed to.

"I have loved nobody but myself," he found himself saying. "For many, many years. Now I _am_ truly in love."

"And engaged to be wed," he acknowledged. "This lady should consider herself blessed. You are a fine man, Sir Marcus. Now, it is also my understanding you will be wed the first of Fall."

"The end," he corrected.

"Ah, the end of Fall. Winter comes quickly. It shall turn cold and you into a father in no time."

Marcus grinned at him, patted his back. "I'm sure of it," he said, handing the bottle to him. He then thanked the elder for the conversation before going away to his chamber to rethink his priorities.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

The event lasted a total of four days and went very well. The noble guests stayed in their own private chambers; Of course, the husbands came as well. So while she entertained the ladies, Jacob entertained the males, usually with trips about his land, and hunting expeditions, things of such. As hoped for, she gained the support of the ladies. Donations were given then and there, and some afterward delivered by trustworthy messengers and guards. Rachel took delight in dispersing this money, rather the necessities purchased by it. Homes in need of repair were fixed. Materials for clothing were delivered. A trip to Orland brought about other necessities, and she received reports continually of the provisions being dispersed by the hands of servants via the ladies in their own domains. This made her happy. But there was something just not right. Something unsettling inside her. She was convinced that she was plagued...that Marcus would forever hold a tender spot in her heart, her inner woman, and that it would forever vex her.

There were a few days she stayed in her chambers, receiving nobody, requesting to be left alone. Jacob respected this. Except on one particular day he did make an entrance, greeting her with a rather sad countenance. She was sitting on the settee and would have stood. He stopped her, taking the spot beside of her, and with an arm around her shoulders hugged her to him.

"You have been troubled," he said, and she said nothing. He suddenly stood, placing his hands behind his back, and paced a few steps.

"My initial thought was that you may be with child."

She shook her head. "No, I am not."

"I realize that. So I have narrowed this depressed mood of yours down to one single, solitaire cause."

She did not look up. His words and the possibility behind them put a heavy, sinking dread in the pits of her stomach.

"I know what troubles you," he said, and stopped to gaze down at her.

"You do," she said, unable to look at him any longer.

"And while the very idea of it disturbs me, I can no longer ignore it."

She too stood and would have begun explaining herself. Just how exactly would she explain? He stopped her, placing his hands to her shoulders which he squeezed in a most comforting manner. "I have thought it over these past two weeks or so, waiting for you to bring it to light on your own. Since you haven't, I doubt you will at all. But despite my own reluctance—and I know I would miss you terribly—I think it time you set off for Westerly and visit your friends and sisters."

She searched his eyes. He grinned thoughtfully. "I know you miss them. It would be selfish of me to keep you here without even an offer to go see them."

"You mean..." Her gaze skipped from left to right before settling again with his. She felt very relieved, because for a horrible space of time she'd thought he would blame her mood on Marcus.

"Yes." He pulled her close and held her. "You should accept. After all, you have known the place and its people all your life. It's only logical you would miss them, and that you should see them again."

He pulled her away and she smiled at him. "You're too gracious."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "I will arrange to have you escorted. Messages will be sent ahead of time to the nobles along that way so that you will have places to settle here and there during the night. I will appoint plenty of guards over you, and you may take your handmaidens. But if you fail to return, it will mean death to those in whose hands I've entrusted you."

She laughed. He did, too, and they embraced.

"See there." He tilted her chin. "Already you are brought back to life."

He caressed her hair, and she leaned into him and kissed him. Later in his bed they made love. They made love as if they had never made love before.

******

The trip was quickly arranged. Dozens of guards were assembled and instructed. Tilly and Zaria had packed their belongings and would ride in a separate carriage. The morning she was to leave she said farewell to her husband, who was himself about to venture out to Port Templeton for a matter he didn't bother discussing. They embraced, kissed, embraced and kissed again. He left fluently, as if fearing he would otherwise not leave at all, or maybe even persuade her to stay.

At the ninth hour she was escorted by Marty, also to join them, to a carriage awaiting her in the courtyard. Her steps slowed and she frowned upon the sight of Marcus hoisted upon a tall dark stallion, dressed in full attire of a guard.

Her feet halted dead in their tracks as she stopped to peer hatefully up at him. "What are you doing?" She instantly demanded.

He kept his horse still while it appeared ready to take off without warning. "Seeing to it you are properly transferred, milady" he replied, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

"I certainly hope you are merely referring to this transferal...from the palace to the carriage," she added, paying little mind to Marty who simply observed them, some curious and elusive expression upon his face.

"It did not cross your mind he would request my services during this venture; that I go and see to it you have a safe journey? I _am_ his most faithful subject and friend."

"You were gone to the Commons," she recalled.

"I returned," he simply announced.

"When?"

"The important thing, milady, is that you have a safe journey, a safe visit, and an even safer return."

Her chest rose and fell. She glanced at Marty and then the driver who stood holding the door opened for her. She got inside, completely exasperated by Marcus's involvement with her travels. The carriage soon after moved onward, and after having left the city, the guards on their horses all took their positions before, behind and to each side of her carriage. It would be a long journey, she recalled. Two weeks.

They would make several stops; Some at the palaces and castles of other nobles who'd been notified of her travels, and in Iris, a place she had appreciated and wanted to stay at least one night.

A message had also been sent to the residents of Westerly. They would know to expect her even down to the day. A messenger from their convoy would ride ahead of them the day prior the arrival so as to announce an even more precise arrival time. Seeing as to how she had received no letters, she was not sure what to expect. What would the reaction of the people be to this new title and the forsaking of the old one?

The second night of their travels they stopped at Harlinger Castle where the duke and duchess happily welcomed her. It was a pleasant little reunion, for they had attended not only the announcement of her and Jacob's engagement, but the actual wedding as well, and also the event she'd perpetuated for the sake of the poor.

She spent a couple of hours with the duchess, sipping tea and discussing the outcome of the event which had been nothing short a huge success. The duchess of Harlinger was quite charming, an excellent hostess. The servants continually offered wine and tea and pastries, and she was assigned the best quarters in the castle. The castle staff was equally pleased to have her there.

Aside from this stay and one outside of Harvard Plains and Gnovis, the most intriguing of all was with the duke and duchess of Tarot. She was pleased to arrive there earlier in the day as she was anxious to spend more time with the duchess. As usual, she was a delight to be around; solemn, yes, but she did actually manage to smile a bit on this occasion.

The palace, one of the oldest in all New Ebony, was nearly as extraordinary as that of the Great City, but not quite as large. The duchess was pleased to give her a tour while a barrage of guards and handmaidens followed behind. They dined together alone...well, except for the guards. Just as with any lady, they were never left completely alone, only in the comforts of their private chambers. Not that Rachel hadn't found a rare opportunity to be alone at home. It'd become easier done with the passing of time...she could even persuade Nicholas and Caleb and the maidens to simply leave her be. Of course she knew Caleb and Nicholas either one were never far away.

The trip was an overall success.

She felt a bit nervous as the distance shortened, and especially as she realized she was only minutes away from entering Westerly.

She wanted to see up ahead, but could not...only after the stagecoach had come near the town. For some reason, the caravan had come to a complete stop—guards and all. She wondered why. Marcus rode up to the window, which she opened to ask, "What's wrong? What is it?"

"It seems you've stirred up quite a crowd, milady," he said with a very serious and professional tone of voice.

"What...?" She went no further, but reached for the door handle, pushing the door open. Marcus guided his horse away a few paces, giving her room to exit and to see for herself what the holdup was all about.

She could hardly believe her eyes, for so far as she could see there were people. Lots and lots of people, and standing ahead of them all, the most admired person of all. Sister Agatha.

Smiling big, almost laughing, she took hold of her skirts, lifting them from the ground, and began making her way toward the elder and her companions. Soon she was almost running, her eyes skipping about each smiling, thoughtful and happy face.

Yes, these were her dearest friends. And she had worried in vain. They did not despise her. They would not reject her. Of course not. The entire town, even more people than she recalled or imagined, had gathered outside the town to greet her.

It was a remarkable reunion.

She and Agatha embraced, the elder squeezing her close, pulling her away and then squeezing her again. Her aged, wrinkled face glowed while her old grey eyes welled up with tears.

"Oh, my child," her old voice cracked. "I was certain I would never see you again."

"Oh, Agatha, surely you knew I would..." She stopped, hugging her small, frail shoulders again. Her own eyes welled up with tears.

"I was certain you had abandoned us for good. But then it all made sense. The money and the deed. It all made sense."

"Then you are not disappointed in me," she happily realized.

"Disappointed?" Blinking her tears away, she turned Rachel about so that they together faced the crowd. "Do any of us look disappointed, child?"

She shook her head, almost crying, feeling like running to every single person and embracing each one of them. There would be plenty time to visit them individually. She could stay as long as she wanted, and she decided then and there that she would, indeed, stay a while.

******

The change had been and was completely accepted. The entire town celebrated her return. She couldn't say she'd ever saw the people happier. Festivities planned in her honor were to begin the following day. It was now close to evening, and it often said how tired she "must be from" her journey. Yes, she was. But unlike before, she'd had plenty places to stop and spend an evening, in some cases much of the day and evening, such as with the duchess of Tarot,

She hardly had room to breathe, for she was surrounded by people, and one by one everyone she remembered welcomed her with tight embraces. Young and old alike, sick and healthy...she was greeted with huge smiles and piercing words of commendation. The money achieved by her hand was declared; the deed and the additions to the land...the changes they'd made and were making. The people had not wasted any time. She could see for herself. New structures had already been erected, although she couldn't be sure what they were upon first sight. Old ones had been restored to their former glory. The town was growing for certain.

Agatha was finally the one to shoo them all away, and to take a ride with her in the carriage. You would've thought the elder had done this many times before. She suddenly seemed so cultured.

Once inside, Rachel's smile faded and she thought out loud, "Where are my sisters?"

"They are awaiting you, child, at my place. There you shall stay. I will have it no other way."

Who was she to argue, although she did think about her small room adjacent the chapel and how she would like to stay at least one night there.

As said, her sisters were awaiting her, and with lots of hugs.

"Sorry I did not meet you outside the town with everyone else," said one. And then the other, "When we realized what a crowd would gather we did not want to be caught in it."

She hugged them both, and they held her at length, inspecting her appearance which was certainly a strange sight in Westerly.

She spent the first two days taking part in a celebration. The citizens when it came to anything major always celebrated outdoors, and only during times of celebration would they put off the usual chores or customs.

She could not recall having enjoyed herself so much. She laughed heartily. Tilly stood beside of her, passing cups of wine in secret...well, it should have been secret, but she was certain the elder, Agatha, knew exactly what she was doing. Zaria kept disappearing...probably to seduce some young man, she decided. Marcus was present from afar, so it was not likely him.

The music was entertaining. The dancing entertaining. The communication was all the more cherished than she'd ever even known. She was often approached by men and women who brought back to mind the situations they'd been in, and seemed bent upon letting her know how things had worked out just right.

Following this, she spent several days catching up with her friends and her sisters, and a few taking a tour of the lands, the extensions and what'd been accomplished with them. Marcus was forever at a distance, sitting astride his horse and watching her every move. Despite the tension between them, they only had one spat during the entire visit.

She had heard some sort of commotion while sitting with Agatha in her small and pitiful but cozy home having tea. While Agatha merely turned in her seat, Rachel leapt from hers to see what was going on from outside the window. She pulled the curtain aside to find two men. They were twins and she recognized them. There was some sort of quarrel between them and Marcus whom, for the first time she could see, had actually dismounted his horse.

Rachel came out the door, peering from one to another and then finally Marcus. "What's this commotion about?"

"We needed to speak to you, Sister Rachel, but he will not let us."

She peered at Marcus, whose eyes were hard just as they had been since leaving the Great City. "And why is that?" She looked about. "Where is Marty?"

"Guarding the back door which has been equally as hard to keep these people from."

She barely shook her head. "Keep these people...what are you talking about?"

"If anyone needs to speak with you, milady, they may do so out in the open."

"These people are my friends," she madly returned to him. "And you haven't a right to turn them away from me."

"The doors of whatever place you occupy will be guarded so long as you are here, and the people kept away from them. If so many wish to speak with you about their matters, they may do so in a public place."

It was their only confrontation. And such a meeting _was_ set up. She wrote a letter and sent it away with a young lad who seemed eager to go about from place to place reading it.

As for Marcus...he and Marty and one other guard named Andrew stayed directly in town. There were places to sleep. The other guards had taken off to the Isles under the instruction of Marcus. The town was too small for them, and the people felt a bit intimidated by their attendance, so he sent most of them away.

Recalling Marcus's visit from before, he, too, was well received, especially by Agatha after she had recognized him.

"Come down from there, now," she would coax upon seeing him every single time in some short distance hoisted upon his steed. It was days after their actual arrival when she recognized him at all. Then again, her sight wasn't what it once was. "Come down from there, now," she would command as if speaking to a child. "Come inside and eat with us."

Rachel was thankful to Marcus for turning down the many invites to dine with or accompany them or simply sit and chat. "He is such a dashing man," the elder recalled. "And the way he came into Westerly with your gifts, and kind as kind could be. Five days he stayed. If not for him I don't think the mayor would have had a clue what to do with the money or the land. But he sent people too who could help guide him and, well, and all of us."

"What people?" She prodded.

"Oh, nice ones. The guards we don't see much of them, but they are decent young men, and two fine gentlemen...Percy and Jonas. Fine, fine, fine men."

"Who are these?"

"I couldn't say for sure what you would call them, dear, but they are good with figures and such."

She considered these two men. Marcus hadn't mentioned them. But what did she care? The town had so quickly made use of the money and the land, and she was pleased by this.

Overall, the visit went very, very well. Such joy, not the reaction she had at all expected.

Indeed, the citizens of Westerly were a forgiving people, just as she'd said to Father Nelson.

"Not long, you'll be baring children," said Agatha's niece, Sophie.

She instantly raised a hand to her stomach. "Could it be?" Agatha aloud wondered with glistening, hope-filled eyes.

"No," she corrected, feeling peculiar about this mention of children, for the lovemaking she and Jacob shared would surely bring children about...unless her womb was cursed forever. She actually felt a bit saddened by the fact that after all this time she had not become with child.

Her sisters teased her, especially the married one who in a way suddenly reminded her of Zaria, the things she said. Despite her sister's attempts, she did not get so much as a flush of the cheeks.

"Dear, dear sister...no longer a virgin. Tell me, how did you so quickly adapt to becoming a lover?" And then later, "of all people I would not have guessed."

"We just thought you'd been called upon for some religious affair in the city," said the other. The three of them had been strolling along, simply enjoying the scenery outside of the town, travelling along a path that led from her Agatha's home to the brook. Of course, they were not entirely alone. For Marcus and Marty were off in the distance seeing to it she remained safe. Tilly and Zaria, also, strolled along with them, enjoying the scenery as they trailed along behind, saying nothing, not caring to interrupt this time their mistress was having with her sisters. Zaria had actually said little, anyway. Rachel would not have imagined she was even able to be so silent, especially with so many opportunities to say something clever. But she knew she was enjoying herself, and although at times mischievous, she also knew how to be respectable.

"I noticed you and Gerald Hinson spending a great deal of time together," she said to the younger of the two, Mary, who had yet to marry. In fact, she had yet to do anything at all with herself since becoming of age. "During last eve's festivities and the ones before."

"She's in love," the other sister, Annabelle, said.

"I am not," she frankly argued. "He and I are...well, we just take to one another. He has travelled some, and I love hearing stories from his travels."

This made Rachel think of Marcus. Off in the distance he'd stopped his tall, black steed and simply stared toward that direction.

"Are you always guarded?" Mary asked, also casting her eyes toward his direction.

"Most of the time."

"Isn't it irritating?" Annabelle wondered. "You were such a little hermit at times, hiding yourself in the chapel. Do they go there as well to watch you?"

Come to think of it, she rarely ever visited the chapel at all these days.

"Sometimes I slip away unnoticed," she commented. "This isn't so great a deal, being guarded; it just takes time adjusting."

"You look to have gotten used to it easily," said Mary. She cocked her pale, thin face to the side. "How did you get to be so beautiful?"

"I always was," she said, putting her chin in the air. "You just didn't notice."

Annabelle nudged her shoulder. "They look at you as if imagining what you may look like naked."

"Oh, Annabelle," she scolded, but then smiled at her sister's train of thought.

"Once before she would have slapped you for saying that," said Mary.

"Maybe scold her," she corrected. "None of you were ever stricken, even when it was in my power to do it."

"The guards are handsome," said Annabelle.

"Especially the one," said the other, and then, "This husband of yours...this Jacob Trent, is he handsome?"

"He is old," Annabelle commented.

"Which makes him all the more distinguished and..." she smiled up at the sky, "...quite the lover."

"My, my sister, but this marriage has loosed your tongue."

They all laughed, thinking the same kinds of thoughts, ones of romance and of love and of intimacy. But then they made mention of the many messages that had come to Agatha, who must have forgotten or not thought to mention herself...ones from their siblings who'd settled in other places.

"We should go and ask to see them," Mary insisted, and Rachel agreed. She loved her siblings more than anything in the world...well, almost anything. She did miss them all and wished she had more opportunity to see them all. Perhaps in time...perhaps now that she'd gotten better acquainted with New Ebony and its domiciles. It would be so easy to seek their exact locations and go to them. Yes, she decided. She would do this in time.

Of course Agatha insisted upon reading the letters out loud. She had such a way about telling a story, which is what these letters actually seemed to be. Miniature little stories. Although aged, the elder still had her sight. She did, however, require the use of a magnifying glass which upon being occasionally raised higher when the elder looked up became a very amusing sight. It made her one eye so big and round. Rachel and her sisters smiled between themselves, giggling quietly so as to not be heard. She felt like a youngster all over again.

She learned by way the letter that two of her brothers were officially husbands and fathers, her sister was also married but had yet to bare any children, and the other brother had decided to become a skilled swordsman.

"How exciting!" said Mary.

"I don't think it is," Rachel quietly said, more to herself than anything. "Thomas...with this talk of..." She stopped, not wanting to be heard making mention of the potential war between Roark and New Ebony.

"Talk of what, my dear?" Agatha asked.

She hesitated a moment. The three of them peered at her, waiting. "Well, of war," she said despite an urge to bite her tongue.

"War?" Mary's brows rose and she stared from Agatha to Annabelle to see their reactions before gaping frightened-like upon her. "There can't be a war."

"And our dear old emperor is too old to fend for us," Annabelle commented.

Rachel raised her chin to defend, "He is well enough," she claimed, "Well enough to keep our nobles on his side." She looked at Agatha whose head had bowed, as if in slumber.

"Sister Agatha," she called and the elder raised her eyes thus proving she had not dozed off but was merely considering this news. Rachel frowned at the expression on her face. "What is it?"

"Some or even most of the nobles," she commented. "But not all. Never all. There are always the bad amongst the good."

"I would hate to see Thomas get caught up in a war with the king of Roark. I hear he's such a horrible little man," said Mary.

"Thomas has always been a different sort of child," Agatha reminded. "He's strong and able to fend for himself. Twas why he went away."

"To Emwark," Annabelle commented.

"Emwark?" Rachel frowned upon them. "He is in Emwark?"

"So it says." She referred to the letter.

"But he had gone into the Northern Isles to—"

"—to be trained, my dear," said Agatha. "Now he is trained," she smiled thoughtfully, "to become this man of valor he so desires. Tis no difference than you, my dear, becoming a vestal, or Annabelle a seamstress and then a wife, and of Mary here, well, dear child, mayhap you shall one day wed this prince charming of yours."

Mary's cheeks blushed and she quickly went about collecting their empty teacups. Rachel considered Agatha's words. So true what she'd said. No matter what one chose to be or do...all positions worked together some way or another. But the idea of her brother getting caught up in a war. She decided to contact him as soon as possible. If he was going to be part of an army, Jacob's would be the best. She was sure of that.

******

Days passed, and a total of two weeks. It went by so very fast, but she found herself missing her husband, and although enjoying her visit, she went out in search of Marty and Marcus. Not a difficult task. They were always close at hand, whether separately or together. She saw them in the distance from Agatha's house and started toward them. Marcus, seeing how she was approaching them, guided his horse forward.

"Summon the guards together," she told him. "Send one out to fetch those who have traveled to the Isles so that we may begin our journey home." Home. Yes, it was home now, and she was more than content with that. "After we have all been accounted for, we will go."

Marcus glanced at Marty, giving him permission to begin gathering the guards. It was something she had grown accustomed to, so many people simply doing what she bid. She'd never been one to require much of anyone. But casting orders was no longer a difficult task; it had actually become quite natural to her. She began walking away, and could feel his piercing gaze upon her back. She ignored it best she could. Her steps took her toward a place she had yet to visit...one specific chapel, and the room she'd called home.

It was like some abandoned shack now, she observed, obviously never used anymore. She turned the knob to find the door was unlocked and slipped inside. Upon viewing the scene, a sharp breath caught in her lungs, and she raised a hand to her mouth. The room was so tiny, but still so tidy, just as she'd kept it. It was simple and modest, just as her clothing in those days. She observed its furnishings—three simple pieces: a small bed, which was still dressed, covered by the worn quilt her mother had made for her, a small desk and a chair. The book containing the Oracles yet lied open upon the desk...the same page where she had left it, she presumed.

Tears filled her eyes. She nearly gasped. Inhaling a deep breath she held back tears that threatened to break loose and never be stopped. Easing down, she sat on the edge of the bed and slumped. She fidgeted with her fingertips, looking down, recalling the scene in which she sat but refusing to look directly at it. For a while she sat there in that same position until finally gathering her wits, her emotions together and lifting her head. Memories surfaced. Not many, for few had ever taken place in this room. She could see herself sitting at the desk in her modest attire, studying the Oracles. She could see herself kneeling beside of the bed, saying her prayers. She could see herself sound asleep, dreaming of a deity she'd come to love with all her heart and soul, more than anything else in the world...one she'd forgotten with time.

She glanced over at the door leading into the chapel, one she'd walked thru many a time, either to enter or exit...how many times? Hundreds, she could imagine. She stood, making her way to that door. As hesitantly as the first, she reached up and turned the knob, opening the door. Slow steps led her down a very short hallway and into the chapel.

It was empty now. In times past, rarely had she found it so. There'd always been someone there, especially in the case of death when the citizens would come together to console the brokenhearted ones, and to seek healing for their heart. She had always comforted them.

Now the room was empty and quiet. She made her way to the altar. It was not a far walk. And she found herself easing down to sit, and then with her head bowed and the tips of fingers and thumb to throbbing temples she began to cry.

It was short lived, this spell of weeping. She raised her head, her eyes brimming with tears that just stayed there, and she thought of home again. Her new home. Jacob, her love. The palace staff whom she'd grown quite attached to. Father Nelson and his brilliant sanctuary. She supposed there came a time in everyone's life when it was simply time to move on.

Sniffing back the remainder of her tears, she left the chapel by way the front doors, closing them securely behind her. She expected to find Marcus somewhere in the distance, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"It will take time," had been the start of his last words to her, and she'd wondered if he ever smiled anymore, or if he even liked her anymore for that matter. "We'll leave early morning. By then full preparations will be made. I will send someone to ride ahead of us and make it known to the nobles that you are on your way back so that they will be expecting you, and also a message to Jacob."

"Very well," she'd agreed, and nothing else was said between them. Not then. Not the next few days. Not the morning she was to leave. She said her goodbyes to everyone, and departed, the residents waving and she returning the wave until they were no longer in sight. She felt a sense of sadness, but then of joy. Home. Soon she would be home. And right now that was all that really mattered to her.

******

Marcus felt a great amount of relief, but was not prepared to fully relax. He'd gotten her safely there, had saw to a safe visit, and now he was having her safely returned.

One more week, he thought after the first had passed. They'd spent a night in Tarot and near Harvard Plain. Now the next stop: Rylan, which was nearly a two day journey by carriage. He dreaded passing through Ebbs Valley. But it was unavoidable, just like it'd been before. A caravan of this size...well, there was no other way.

Even along the way to Westerly, especially coming through the Valley, he'd had a peculiar feeling, as if they were being watched. This time, he moved the position of the guards, spreading them out more, further from the caravan.

Already the sun was sinking down into the far Western sky. Soon it would be dark. He wished they'd moved faster earlier in the day. He did not like being so deep in the valley this time of evening.

But all would be well, he told himself. Rachel would return home to Jacob safe and sound. And then...well, he would consider his future life. For now, nothing else mattered—nothing besides the damsel in the carriage...the noble one.

Tilly and Zaria had earlier in the day joined Rachel in her carriage. Perhaps she'd become lonely. He was glad she'd taken to the two maidservants so well. Tilly was most understandable in the beginning. As for Zaria, well, he would have himself chosen someone else to tend to her thinking she would be offended by the damsel. But such had not been the case. In fact, she seemed to be drawn more to her than Tilly, not that it was overly apparent. Apparent to him. Then again, a lot of things were...more than she knew.

Yes, he understood Rachel Trent...more than she'd ever know or even wanted to realize. More than he'd expected to. Then again, all along he'd felt some sort of connection to her, one that'd spiraled into a horrible lust that he'd tired of subduing. In the future it would become easier...after he married. Zaria made it easier. He'd come to notice her more often, having been placed in Rachel's care. She was close at hand and certainly helped to ease his desires. But when it came down to it, he would never be able to stop imagining making love to Rachel the Elder.

He almost closed his eyes for a moment, but his heart told him not to. Too much chance of maybe dozing off. He could not afford it. He hadn't had an actual decent night's rest since he could remember. If not for strong drink, which for the sake of his pounding heart he wished he had now, he would not have slept at all in a great while.

Up ahead, he noticed Marty slowing his steed. The two of them had been exchanging positions on and off, going from front to back in intervals. Being in front, the slowing of his horse slowed them all down, except for those who travelled alongside to the left and the right in the far distance.

Marcus's gaze followed the direction of his. Marty had tilted his head back as if to stare way above at the cliff surrounding and overlooking the valley. Marcus's eyes followed the direction of his gaze. If not mistaken he saw a man on horseback, and then another and another.

His heart started to race. His eyes skimmed the entire area above the valley. He turned his head this way and that, spotting men in all different directions. Atop the mountain above the valley there were lots of men on horseback, all facing their direction, a number he didn't bother considering for whether one or dozens, this was alarming.

He cast his eyes over the guards. Could they not see this? Was he imagining it?

No, not at all. And as these men began to move from their positions, he rode up ahead, waving his arms and stopping them. They, in turn, gave attendance to those men on horseback who had suddenly decided to make themselves much known. One after another they drew their weapons. A fight was so close to breaking out.

******

Rachel, Tilly and Zaria sat holding to their seats as the carriage jostled before coming to an instant halt. They took turns eyeballing one another. "What's happening?" Rachel asked, seeing as to how the carriage had stopped in the middle of nowhere. There was this eerie feel in the air, and some very eerie sounds coming from outside the carriage.

She pushed the door opened. Tilly took hold of her arm to stop her. She yanked free, clamoring out of the vehicle, Zaria following behind. Then the commotion was very evident. Lots and lots of commotion. All she saw were horses and riders coming and going in all directions, and swarms of dust all around.

"Get back into the carriage!" She heard the shout from one of the guards, and then another who rode toward her. "Back into the carriage!" he demanded, but she did not take instant heed, but turned this way and that while men on horseback descended the mountainside at a very fast speed.

She swung in all directions. They were everywhere.

Marcus, she thought and then whispered, "Marcus." She turned this way and that, searching for him, and while the guards scattered in all directions as if in battle, she spotted him riding toward her.

"Get in the carriage!" He demanded.

"What's happening?"

"Just do it!"

"What is happening?"

He had nodded at the guard who'd previously ordered her. He instantly dismounted and took hold of her arm. And then the driver of the carriage who'd also drawn a weapon. Yes, even the escorts were skilled for battle. Jacob would have it no other way.

"Stay with her!" Marcus ordered. "Watch her!" he said even louder, taking note of the intruders who had fast come upon them. The team of horses that'd pulled the carriage became uneasy with the ruckus and began to prance left and right. One of them reared, followed by the other.

"Loose the horses!" He commanded the two of them. He glanced at Rachel who attempted to free herself and then at the faces of the two men. "If any harm befalls her, it will be upon your heads."

With that, he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY

The ground was now covered with bodies and blood and weapons that'd fallen from limp, lifeless hands. Marcus dodged the horrible mounds here and there, wondering in fleeting intervals which men were his and which belonged to what now seemed an obvious fierce enemy. He rode hard back to the carriage, hoping, praying to God she would be there.

Upon reaching the vehicle whose horses had, indeed, been detached, he dismounted his horse and slung the door opened. His heart stopped beating altogether. He stopped breathing, taking hold of one slouched female form by the back of her dress. Tilly had been struck in the shoulder and looked to be barely alive.

His chest began to rise and fall very quickly. He backed up, looked around in all directions. Not a soul in sight. Just he and this maiden, barely alive.

"Sir Marcus," she quietly pled. Would she live, and where was everyone...anyone at all?

He heard hooves pounding against the ground. One by one others joined him. Marty being one, Kyle and Andrew. The carriage escort came riding toward them. Had he actually survived? But how? He'd been left in charge of Rachel? Why hadn't he stayed with her? Why was she not there? Where in God's name was she?

"Where is she?" He fiercely demanded. He reached up, taking hold of the man and pulling him from his horse. "Where is she?" He shook him hard.

He exhaled a heavy breath. "They...they have taken her," he dreaded to reply.

Marcus clutched the man's shirt with two tightly clenched fists, pulling him up so that their faces were a mere few inches apart. "What?!" He demanded thru his teeth. "What are you saying?"

"To the abandoned fort two or so miles from here. They....they took me as well, but then freed me, and sent me back with this message." It trembled in his hand.

Marcus snatched the message and began to read: Deliver Lord Trent and we shall deliver his bride. The message also trembled in his hands...not from fear but the firmness of his hands as his arms stiffened, every muscle in them. He read it again, his chest rising and falling as it all sank in, and then as the idea of her being captive to any man dawned harshly upon him.

"Dammit!" He muttered, and then again, louder and louder and louder, "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"They ask I return with a response."

"Where is Lionel?" He asked in reference to the guard he'd placed in charge over her with this man. His anger was only provoked as he recalled placing not one, but two men over her...and they'd both failed.

"I do not know."

"Did he flee?"

"He rode away. I do not know where."

His chest continued to rise and fall. He cast his eyes toward the carriage remembering Tilly. He wiped the back of one hand across his sweaty forehead. "The handmaiden is still alive but injured. Rylan is not but five or so hours away. Take her out and get her there. Get her help."

"But they said if I do not return they—"

"I don't care what they say," he angrily yelled. "I will handle it. I...I will handle it."

Marty just barely shook his head. "If they wish him to return he should do that very thing."

"I said I will handle it. This-this fool did not save her to begin with. I will not entrust her into his hands a second time." He peered at the man. "Take the handmaiden into Rylan. Chances are she may live."

Marty was shaking his head, and then began to tremble. and before Marcus knew what had happened, he was galloping away and toward the Great City to deliver what could be the message of death, the one that when followed would surely take his friend's life.

******

The fort was occupied by dozens of men, each donning uniforms of brown and of black. Nothing he could tie together with anything or anyone. Nothing extravagant or flawless. These men, although arrayed as an army, were neither neat nor clean, nor was their clothing without stains and holes.

He'd observed them a very long time with the message in his hand. Also a white handkerchief which he raised into the air while nearing...a notion of peace although his teeth grinded together and his inner man raged with thoughts of death. Death to these men.

He wanted to kill them all.

How had he not prepared for this? How had he become at all at ease? But he recalled no such relaxation. He had been leery all along, and now longed for only one thing...to see Rachel's livelihood. Where was she? Who was with her? What had they done to her? What would they do?

"I have come in the stead of the other," he called out to a man who came forward to greet him. "After he had passed this message on to me, he became frightened and fled."

The man eyed him up and down, his face drawn with displeasure; and scarred here and there, he noted, having come close enough to see. "Fled," he repeated, as if not believing him.

"He will suffer his consequences. Another is headed toward the Great City as we speak, on his way to deliver the message; in exchange for the lady, Jacob must give up himself."

He did not take his eyes off him as he considered his words. "Will he come?"

"You know he will," Marcus said. "Whoever you are, you must've known it to begin with."

"What is your name?" He asked, squinting out at him. Marcus got the impression he was seeking someone specifically.

"Marty," he said, stealing the name for the time being.

"Marty," he repeated, and then cast his gaze toward the area behind him. "Is there such a man as Marcus Wren amongst you?"

"You may find his corpse amongst the dead of both yours and ours."

This seemed to please the man. "Bring it to me," he said.

"The body of our dead will not be handed over to you, but of the living. When Jacob sees that his wife is alive and well he will trade himself for her. When he sees she is alive and well," he repeated. "I wish to see so myself."

"When he presents himself you shall see."

"For your sake I hope she has not been harmed. She must present herself well. Otherwise, if she claims to have been mishandled in any way, he will not give himself over to you. And she will make it known one way or another whether she has or has not been harmed."

He merely thought on his words.

"Also know this," Marcus found himself continuing, "The lady is with child and has had complications. She needs care. The maiden travelled along to tend to this condition. One of your men killed her. Jacob would only give himself up if she is well, utmost the child which is all he truly cares about. And she will tell him if the child has departed from her because of this, and risk her own harm, and he will not give himself up to you. That, I promise."

His brows came together. "With child," he repeated.

"Under these conditions the child will not live. Not if she does not receive the proper care. I know what this care is...and can guarantee to Jacob that she is well, so that he will hand himself over in her stead."

"You would not do so."

"I would!" he loudly insisted, and then quieted his voice. "I will. No matter what becomes of me, her condition is all that matters, and her life."

"Why does her life mean so much to you and not that of the man whom you work for?"

He paused before saying, "because I love this woman. Her life means more to me than that of Jacob Trent's. And the child is truthfully mine. I wish to spare her and the child. Whatever becomes of Jacob Trent...that is not my concern. I will tend to her and her condition. Otherwise, I will go to him myself and say that she is dead, and you will not get him to come except with an army to defeat you and your men."

"And suppose I keep you and kill you. Suppose I kill you now."

He raised an arm quickly. The man's eyes followed it. "That," Marcus began, "Is a message to those watching who have survived this attach that my death has just been mentioned. One more raise of the hand will let them know that the child is dead, and the news will be delivered to Jacob and he will come not alone as you wish, but with an army. Now, tell me, what is your answer?"

The man stared at him a long while before guiding his horse toward the left. "Stay put," he simply told him before trotting his way back toward and disappearing behind the walls of the fort. Five or so minutes later, he returned, this time with two other men.

"Get off your horse," he demanded.

"Beforehand, I will have you to know that my livelihood will also be required. This, I promise you."

The man peered at him, and he dismounted. "Remove your armor," he commanded.

Marcus did so although inwardly despising with all his might having to follow the orders of an enemy. He shed his armor and his weapons, raising his hands. His arms were instantly taken and held behind him and he was ushered away. Now, this fort had been there and abandoned for centuries, but he hadn't a clue the extent of its layout up until now. For not only was it an aboveground structure, but below ground as well. He was led down some old steps. It was cold and damp, this passageway, the room he was taken across, the same shape as the aboveground portion. The belowground was a replica of it. He kept this all in mind, but most of all the fact that he was so close to seeing Rachel's livelihood. Nothing else had ever been so important to him as that one thing at this very moment.

******

She was lying on a cot in a small, musky room, and had cried herself to sleep. The sound of a key in the lock and then of the door popping and creaking opened aroused her. She opened her eyes, seeing a very blurry image of one of her captors and—no, it could not be.

She blinked puffy eyes and with a palm began pushing herself up. No, she was not mistaken. It was Marcus. He was alive. He was there. The door slammed shut behind him after he was shoved inside. She stood, very weak and exhausted and frazzled. He went to her and embraced her. "Marcus," she whispered in his ear, and almost fell. He held her up, a hand pressed to the back of her head, another her back to keep her from falling. "Rachel," he whispered back to her. "Are you well? Have they harmed you?"

"Marcus," she simply whispered, and then pulled away. He put his hands to either side of her face, and as if from some magnetic force, pressed his lips to hers. He embraced her again. "Have they harmed you?" He asked again, this time an unusual catch in his breath, as if dreading the worst.

She shook her head. "No, they—"

"—have they asked if you are with child?" He asked quietly close to her ear knowing they were likely being heard.

"No," she whispered back to him.

"As we communicate, you must speak as if you are with child, and you must not refer to me by anything other than Marty. Can you remember to do this?"

She nodded her head quickly. "Yes."

He breathed with relief, simply glad to be there with her, to be holding her alive and well. "Be calm," he advised her. "In your heart know that you will live. I promise it."

They pulled away from one another again. Tears streamed down her cheeks, just a few. With his thumbs he wiped them away, and without a thought, he pulled her face to his and kissed her lips. "Rachel," he said, and then again kissed her. "Rachel, Rachel, my dear Rachel. Have they harmed you?"

"No." Her eyes searched his, and once again, their lips pressed together and they embraced. "I am so glad you are here," she said. "I was frightened. Why is this happening? What are they doing? Who are these men?"

"Think on these things another time. For now, be at peace. All will be well. You must believe so."

"You were correct to warn me. Yet I...I did not listen."

"Do not think about it now, or even ever."

"And I scolded you. Now I see. I was such a fool not to trust you, even knowing how much Jacob entrusts you with even his very life."

He squeezed her upper arms. "Try to be calm," he whispered, hating to see her in such a shape, and racking his mind, wondering how long these men would allow him to be there with her, deciding he could not leave her. He could not. He would fight his way out if need be. He would not leave this very spot without her.

"Who has done this?" She asked. "And why?"

"It is an enemy of Jacob's. They would release you in exchange for him, but we must not allow it. I must not," he corrected. "I must not let Jacob trade himself for you. He will die, I know. Possibly in the cruelest way."

"We may all die."

"No," he disagreed. "You mustn't think that way. You must be strong."

"How? What do I do?"

"What you have always done, milady," he said, and with very sad eyes kissed her again. He pulled away and said, "Pray. You must pray."

******

The news had reached Jacob, and his roar of anger echoed throughout all the palace.

How could this have happened? How could this be and why?

He received the first report...from the maiden Zaria who'd made it to him shortly before Marty. Jacob instantly gathered together a small army, thinking quickly and commanding them on what to do. They did not travel together, but in distances, and faraway places at every angle, and had all been trained to handle such situations, to strike suddenly, secretly without being seen. How was he to know if the culprits were watching from every angle themselves, even despite the agreement to hand her over in exchange for him? They could attack at any given moment. But not like this, not if they were wise. He'd planted a generous number of men in regiments all about him, sending them out by groups, some ahead of him as he intended to travel swiftly. He could not help ride swiftly...he and Marty together off to themselves trusting that those surrounding from distances would keep any harm from befalling him ahead of time. An image of his dear, beloved wife stayed fixed in his mind...one of her as he'd last seen her and another of this and whatever condition she was in. Trapped, no matter the case. Held hostage. Possibly abused.

He sped his horse, his teeth ground together. Marcus, damn him. He should have protected her. He'd failed. How could this have happened? How?

"How?" He came to ask aloud. "Damn him, how?"

"He did his best to protect her," Marty defended, although with little emotion. "He fought, milord. Only he sent the driver away who had been commanded to return with some word from him, and possibly for instructions on what to do next."

"Then why did he not send him? Where, for the love of god, did he send him to?"

"To Rylan to see if the life of the handmaiden could be preserved. She had been injured, but still lived."

"To hell with the handmaiden."

And to hell with Marcus, he thought to himself, for making the situation even worse by going against the commands of the captors, whomever they were. Time would tell. Yes, he would hand himself over...but only in exchange for her freedom.

******

A very long amount of time passed. How long one could not tell. Although little communication passed between them, they did purposely mention an unborn child—one that did not exist. Food was brought to them. Not much, but enough. He didn't eat but encouraged her to do so, whispering in her ear from time to time to mention the supposed child, and that it be nourished, that she would eat for the sake of the child.

She did everything he said to do, becoming weaker by the hour, however many had passed. It could have been four, five or dozens. How could one tell? There was no light, only from narrow slits in the top of the rock wall, a wall that as she slept, Marcus observed, pacing the floor, racking his mind, thinking of only one thing. Getting her out before Jacob could have a chance to give himself up, to spare them both. To spare them all.

She lay sleeping on the cot. Exhausted by the circumstances. Dirty. Her hair all mangled and tangled. Occasionally the man who kept the door would peep inside asking if they were well. Yes, the story he had concocted about a child had served to their benefit.

They wanted Jacob and badly.

He racked his mind on and off. If only he knew exactly who was behind it. One could not tell by these men. He'd never saw them before, not any of them. Not the first, not those who'd stood afar, not the one who kept the door. What would they do to Jacob if he fell into this same situation?

This now seemed more an act of revenge. He thought about the king, the brother of the previous king whom Jacob had beheaded for the emperor's sake, and to serve as a reminder that no such opposing activity would be tolerated. Yes, he thought to himself, observing places here and there in the wall where the rocks had chipped and cracked and broken with time. This had nothing to do with the Great City. It was an act of aggregated revenge. He continued to observe the wall, sharp points here and there, and then Rachel, sleeping, and then his arm. He began to react, not even thinking his thoughts specifically thru, but moving with the ideas in his head; as his mind imagined...so he spontaneously reacted, giving no place to mind over matter or any consequence at all. Only the idea. The imagination. A prospect.

He glanced at the door, and then the wall, and again his arm. Swiftly but quietly he rolled up his left sleeve moving toward a very sharp point in the rock wall. He glanced at the door one last time before closing his eyes, clenching his teeth, raising a fist and then slicing his lower arm across the sharp edge. His flesh stung. Pain coursed thru him, rippling every inch of his being. He opened his eyes. Blood began to ooze out of the self-inflicted wound. He inhaled a deep breath, grinding his teeth together, and closed his eyes with one last, hard slice.

He nearly cried out from the pain, but kept his teeth ground together and simply stood there a moment, adapting to it. Without looking, eyes squeezed shut, he raised his other hand, palm upward, and his heart triumphed in a way. The warmth of his own blood filled his palm. He focused upon catching it, and while his flesh did burn, he rushed to the spot where Rachel lay. He knelt, taking hold of her skirts, pulling them upward while he allowed the blood to freely fall and flow onto her skirts, and then onto and thru her underclothing, the flesh between her legs where a child could certainly be either born or lost. He moved his arm slowly in a circular like motion, allowing his very own life to seep onto and through her garments.

He did begin to feel weak, for a lot of blood it was. The gash was not a small one. It was deep, and produced a perfect amount of blood to cause a perfect scene. He rose, pulling his sleeve down over the wound and pressing so as to prevent the flow, and went to the door. He held his arm to the side, squeezing together with his fingers the wound he'd created, and called out very loudly to the guard, hoping he was near and had not ventured away any place else.

His voice was such that it was instantly hearkened to. The door swung open and Marcus instantly as if in a state of panic, dashed toward her, saying, "She is losing it for sure. The child. She is losing it."

And just as his imagination had led him to believe, the guard was alarmed. Quick strides brought him close to her so that he had a very clear view of her condition. His eyes rounded, for the amount of blood was substantial. And it was as he slightly bowed to get this closer look, panic covering his features, Marcus caught hold of his collar, punching him once in the face while taking hold of his sword, and before he could arise, Marcus pierced him thru the chest, clamping his other hand over his mouth so that no sound could be heard from any distance. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth. Wide eyes stared into Marcus's. He gasped, his body going limp...and he died.

Rachel had stirred from the commotion, and was terrified by the sight of this blood. She'd touched her skin and raised her hand, breathing hard. And suddenly she was taken by the arm, and her mouth was covered. Marcus held her backside against his stomach telling her in the ear. "Be silent."

His blood coursed thru his veins and his eyes searched the doorway while his mind searched what lied beyond. He recalled the layout of the structure, the separate ways one could go, and very fleetingly wondered if the opposite direction would lead out or to a dead end. It was too risky to try it. Better to go the original where an exit was guaranteed.

"The blood is mine," he said against her ear. "Now we have our chance. You aren't harmed." He slowly lowered his arm. His sleeve was now saturated, crimson red from all the blood. He took Rachel by the wrist, pulling her with him to the door. "Hold on to the back of my shirt," he whispered, and then, "Hold on tightly and do not let go."

He peeped out from the door, and began creeping up the passageway, Rachel doing just as he'd commanded. He could feel her fist clenching his shirt. Her eyes were wide now, and the sound of both her breath and his could be heard between them. Her heart thumped with anticipation. There was hope. They could escape.

It was not so difficult a task. Yes, the hardest part was over. He once found himself face to face with another man whom being caught off guard was not difficult to overcome. Marcus merely thrust him thru the heart with the blade of his sword. This happened twice. Two men he thrust thru, doing so vengefully, caring not to take the life of such men as these.

On the outside, he cast his gaze about, and swung her around to the outer side of the wall of the fort. He kept them there for a moment, their backs pressed against the stone wall, him telling her, "keep holding to my hand, Rachel. Do not let go."

And he simply listened. When she realized that's what he was doing, she listened as well, and could hear the faint sound of men talking to one another...a sound that seemed to get closer and closer but then trailed off as the two men speaking moved further from where they were. Marcus scanned the area ahead, knowing for certain that Jacob's guards, those remaining alive from the original incident, would not have fled the scene. They would have stayed and watched so as to have some sort of report, not only for the messenger of these criminals, but for Jacob as well.

He scanned the area closely, thankful that his vision was perfect. It always had been, and for causes as these he supposed he'd been so gifted.

Where would they be?

He was certain he saw a hand and something white waving in the air. Yes, it was a sign. They were there, and they would act where action was due, whatever action it would be.

"When I say so, Rachel, you must run with me. Run as hard and as fast as you can. Run as if you were running for an unborn child. Run, as it means life or death for your husband."

He looked down at her feet. "Take off your sandals."

She did so swiftly, slipping them from her feet.

"When I say," he said, keeping his eye on that movement up ahead, and noticing a second movement, that of something white...another handkerchief, a sign that it was well for them to go, and that there was protection for them. So soon as they were safe, these men would attack.

"Run," he said, and they darted away from the wall, and with his teeth clenched, holding one hand to the sword and the other her arm, he said it again, harshly this time, "Run!"

And they did. Fast as they could. With all their might. She could not recall having ever run so fast. They heard as they came near the woods a man shout out from behind them, from the fort...and it happened swiftly, those who remained from Jacob's guard came out from their hiding places and attacked.

In the woods, they both fell to the ground. He did not let her loose. He did drop the sword as he saw with his own eyes in the distance the guards taking the lives of the foes, overcoming them one by one. He then loosed her arm. His entire sleeve was now soaked, and much of his shirt as well. His breeches and his face were also blotched with blood, mostly his own, some belonging to his assailants.

"It's done," he said, feeling as if he would pass out. He dropped his back to the ground and lied there staring upward at a very blurry sky.

Rachel dropped to her knees. "Marcus," she breathed, observing his arm, his sleeve, the front of his shirt. "You have lost too much blood." She patted his face when it seemed he would sleep. "Please, Marcus," she pled. His eyes opened and she quietly and weakly commanded, "Stay awake, Marcus, you must stay awake."

She glanced up to see the guards simply roaming about the fort. They had succeeded in their mission. The place had been scouted out, and those remaining men killed on the spot. No, not one was spared. So said one of the guards who came to them, and then another and another.

One of them brought a horse. They all observed her livelihood.

"Milady," said one. "Your husband is heading this way. We will meet him and you will be reunited."

"Sir Marcus," another called, getting on his knees beside of him.

"I....I do not know what happened to him," she said.

He was pulled up by his good arm and with a hand behind his back. "We'll get him on a horse. Milady, you must ride. You will stay close to us. Lord Trent should not be far by now."

Marcus allowed them to pull him up, but then shoved them away and stood on his own, staggering a few paces. "I can ride on my own," he told them. "She will ride with me. She will not leave my side. No, not until I have handed her over to Jacob." He then observed the fort. "Some of you must stay. There is no certainty that they are all dead. The fort is...it is deeper than it appears. But if it be at all possible, we must take some of them alive."

And so it was, despite their concern that he would not survive, and that he was not even able to ride, that his orders were followed and he did ride. From time to time he swayed, forcing his eyes to stay opened, although they barely stayed that way at times. He focused continually on the feel of Rachel's chest against his back, and her arms around him that at times began to slide away as if to become limp from sleep. She quickly put them back in place, refusing to let go of him. And she would not.

They were surrounded by the majority of the remaining guards, those who had not stayed in sight of the fort, all of whom continually looked upon him to be sure he still sat upright, prepared to react if anything went awry, and keeping their eyes opened for any sort of intrusion, in the case there were more of the rivals than they even knew of.

******

It was as Jacob rode onward, one of the guards he'd sent out ahead of him came riding swiftly toward him. Sir Edward, out of breath as if he'd been running. Jacob slowed his horse while he came near and announced, "I see some of our own in the distance approaching. Your men, milord, I am certain."

So he and Marty rode with him to the spot he spoke of. "Milord, 'tis your men, indeed," said Marty, "and Lady Trent as well, I do believe, with Sir Marcus."

Jacob tightened his grip on the reigns and they all rode toward the small convoy. His heart swelled with relief. Yes, the men did belong to him. Most importantly he recognized Rachel, truly alive, seated behind Marcus who so far as he could see was injured and barely sitting up straight.

At the same time, one of the guards who travelled with Marcus and Rachel stopped his horse ahead of them all having noticed a trio coming from afar, and having recognized them.

One by one the others stopped at well, and the first called out, "Sir Marcus. Lord Trent is up ahead. I see him and Marty and Sir Edward."

He tried to see. Even as good of vision as he had, it was difficult to make out the scene of his friend, Jacob. He'd never been happier to see the man in all his life.

Rachel also lifted her head and noticing her husband felt the greatest sense of relief ever. She would not die. Jacob would not die. Marcus...he would not die. There was hope. There was help. He could be nursed and the physician would help him.

After having come so far, Jacob dismounted and his men with him and hasted toward that direction. They all stopped their horses. Marcus shoved away the assistance of the guards; dismounting and reaching up to help Rachel do the same.

Just as her feet hit the ground, and as Jacob stalked toward them, Marcus brought her to his side. "Milord," he greeted, guiding her ahead of him. "Your wife...alive...and well." With that, he collapsed, falling into a very deep darkness.

******

Jacob instantly embraced her. She clung to him, thankful it was over. Thankful they were safe and sound. She knew it now for certain.

"Rachel." He was kissing her head, her cheek, her lips. "My dear Rachel." He saw the blood and panic took over him. She shook her head while he took her face between his hands. "It is not my blood, it is Marcus. He-he...."

She didn't know how to say it, didn't even know what had happened, but had an idea he may have injured himself in order to stage the possible loss of the made-up child.

It was when she turned she realized Marcus had fallen to the ground unconscious. The guards surrounded him. Jacob studied the scene a moment, very uncertain, confused—so much confusion. He nodded at one of the guards saying, "Put him on his horse."

Rachel noticed men on horseback coming out from this direction and that, and felt afraid all over again. Jacob sensed her fear. "These are my men," he told her. "You are safe. We'll go home now. We'll go home." And they did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The mood of the palace grounds had shifted since Rachel's return and as news of what'd happened spread. Hardly anything else was talked about besides the incident that could have possibly taken her life. Not that anyone knew the entire truth of it—only that the caravan had been attacked, Rachel held hostage and...well, the rest nobody could say for sure.

From those who'd returned—some injured, others not—Zaria was most acquainted with a portion of the invasion. She, herself, had clamored out of the carriage, claiming the horse of a dead man and hasting back to the Great City and to the palace to alert Jacob. Marty had soon-after followed. He could not say a whole lot about the incident altogether, neither could Zaria.

Servants and maidens were placed over the well-being of the injured: Rachel, Marcus and several guards...also Tilly who'd been recovered from Rylan and returned to the palace.

Marty had taken a small army to the fort to collect not only the bodies of those guards who had not survived the attack, returning them to their families for a proper memorial, but also of those who had made the attack. The hope was that at least one of them could be identified. Jacob, feeling quite frustrated with the driver, turned him over to the prison keeper until all involved could explain exactly what had happened and be sure he had not been involved in any way. The whereabouts of Lionel were yet to be heard of. The driver upon questioning merely insisted he'd taken off...to where or to do what he hadn't a clue.

In a week's time, most of the injured arose, going about their business and proceeding with their duties. Jacob questioned them individually. It was unanimous. Nobody knew who the attackers were. Nobody could identify them. It was assumed, though, that they were acquainted with the king of Roark. The main cause, an accent to the voice that some of them had heard.

Marcus eventually awakened in his quarters at the palace. His clothing had been removed. His skin cleansed and his arm bandaged. He was only awake for a short time. He slumbered, very exhausted from the entire ordeal, but content that he would actually live, and fearless enough now to purposely close his eyes and sleep.

The next time he opened them, he spotted Jacob sitting by the bed, an elbow to his knee, a hand to his chin, simply staring at the floor however as if into nowhere. Marcus watched him a while before shifting, making it known that he was conscious. Jacob lowered his hand and lifted his head to get a look at him. His posture straightened while his expression went from relieved to sad and then simply sincere. Marcus thought about Rachel, hoping she, too, had recovered from the ordeal. Not that she'd been physical injured, but he still felt a sense of dread to think of her suffering at all. Such an episode was sure to take a toll on the mind.

He parted his lips, closed them, parted them again and asked, "Is she well?"

After a short hesitation—the cause of which one could only wonder—Jacob quietly answered, "Yes. A bit shaken is all."

This relieved Marcus. He leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling for a time. Jacob studied his profile and then his bandaged wound.

"Your arm," he came to say.

Marcus raised the injured limb so slightly, but automatically felt a sting in his damaged flesh. He lowered it so as to not cause any more pain.

Jacob reached for and took up a chalice. "Here," he urged. "Edison has prescribed this to you. It will ease the pain and help you rest."

"I have likely rested enough," he commented, but still pushed himself up with his good arm as best he could so as to rest his back against the pillows behind him. He accepted the chalice. "How long have I lain here?"

"Six days altogether."

"Six days," he quietly repeated. "Too long for a wound of this size."

"You lost a great deal of blood. Edison is determined to keep you here so long as he can."

Marcus raised the rim of the chalice to his lips and drank. He frowned upon the taste of the concoction, doubting he would follow any orders to drink it.

"Perhaps strong drink would better suit you," Jacob decided. "I will have the maidens bring some, if you wish."

Marcus agreed with silence. Jacob's eyes swept briefly over him during a decent span of silence before he said, "You, um, gave yourself this injury? On purpose?"

Marcus simply ogled the chalice, thinking back to the incident and not really knowing what to say about it...any of it. For some peculiar reason he did not want to look the man in the eye, so he continued to focus upon the chalice, saying nothing at all.

"Rachel has rested and recovered a great deal from this horrible incident. She has been able to speak about it, although with very few words. She is in shock, so to speak. She has been given something to help her rest. So she sleeps again, even now. She could not say exactly what occurred. She does not seem to know anything for certain...only that you concocted some tale about an unborn child in order to get to where she was, to become captured yourself when you could have remained a free man, risking your own life in the process. It seems you may have purposely injured yourself in order to spare her life...and mine, in return."

Still, Marcus said nothing. Such sincerity as this made one feel emotional...sentimental. Not in any horrible way, but very unique. It seemed as if his friend was going to cry.

He looked away while Jacob bowed his head. His eyes were very red when they came back up to meet his, as if burning with the sting of tears. The grin on his face was not genuine, but forced and fake.

"I....I was cursing you all along the way. Yes, I...I cursed you Marcus. Meantime, this?" He extended a hand toward Marcus's arm. "And the gash is deep, they say. Very deep. According to Edison, it appears to have taken not one but two attempts to create such an injury." He gradually stood, and hands behind his back stared up at the ceiling. "You are even more faithful than I knew you to be. You put your life on the line to spare ours. This idea of finding another to replace you can no longer apply; it just simply cannot be. You cannot be replaced at all, and I will never trust any man the way I now trust you."

"I reacted as any decent man would," Marcus said, still without looking at him. "Especially under hire," he added and then, "especially a friend."

"No, no." Jacob shook his head and began to pace. "These are not average deeds of a hired man or of a friend or of an ally or of any man at all. These are not average thoughts let alone deeds. You think quickly, Marcus, and react just the same. You...you are a different sort of man." He finally stopped at the foot of the bed, turning to stare down upon him. "You may leave here. You may have your manor house and your city...who's to say what great things will become of it. Nonetheless, no matter where you are, near, far, none the matter, I am forever indebted to you."

He went on to say, "The bodies of the dead, both of my men and theirs, have been transferred. Those of my own have been returned to their families for a proper burial, although I do intend to hold a memorial in their honor sometime in the nearest future. The others have been kept as best as possible, but have not been identified at all. I had hoped you would be able to rise and look at them yourself. I have questioned the guards, even individually so as to get so close to the truth as possible. Some of them claim to have heard an accent similar to that of a native of Roark. I am eager to hear your opinion of the matter. Their corpses were brought to me. I, myself, cannot identify any of them. Could you, perhaps?"

"I will arise and look before it becomes impossible to tell. Those I did see...none of them were familiar to me. But with or without the accent, which I heard as well, I perceive they were, indeed, natives of Roark."

"I remember those who warned me in Arlington."

"They did not warn you of a personal attack."

"No, but you did." He paused a brief moment. "Perhaps they are correct and we should invade and overthrow King Alfred and the nobles who support him. But I could not bring myself to mention that meeting to the emperor when I sent a message to him in regards to this. Do you suppose I should mention it?"

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.

"Do you still pray, Rachel?"

It was a peculiar question. At any other time it would have probably infuriated her. But she could only stop and think of how rarely she did pray. In the beginning...well, at one time it had been not only a daily obligation, but a pleasure. To call out upon God for the sake of everyone around her, her siblings scattered about, New Ebony in general, and then herself. At a young age she had begun to do this.

Prior to coming into the Great City, she'd reached some sort of peak of spiritual perfection, one she'd imagined could not be overthrown, no, not by any man or woman or title at all. But she had failed. She had failed altogether; even for thinking something of herself that had not been so...that she was incapable of falling short of everything she'd proven herself to be in the small town of Westerly. Simply Rachel the Elder.

She realized then and there that she had been wrong altogether to accept Jacob's proposal. True, she had begun to love him, and had fallen in love with him, but could she lie to herself and insist she had not been intrigued by the lifestyle he lived and that his wife would certainly live as well? Could she honestly say that this, too, had not contributed to her decision?

"Yes," she quietly answered his question. "I do." She inhaled a deep breath to force out what she would say next. "Although not so often as once upon a time, I must admit."

"I was meditating," he answered in response to her original question.

"Upon what?"

"Many things," he said, and that was all.

She examined his wounded but bandaged arm. The thought of what he'd done caused her to care about him all the more, to undergo a very strong urge to embrace him, just as she had in that horrible little room when he'd first entered.

"Is it healing well?" She came to ask.

"Yes," he very simply answered.

She inhaled a deep, uneven breath, and with an exhale began to say, "I have not heard word of what truly happened. It does not seem you have fully explained to anyone."

"I would rather not go back to what occurred in that room, Rachel."

Her name upon his lips was suddenly the most soothing and sweetest thing of all. "If you could tell me."

"Why?"

"I want to know."

"Does it truly matter?"

"It does, of course. It matters a great deal."

He paused a moment, turning toward the altar. He took three steps up to stand beside of a statue of an angel and ran a palm down the side of it. "Tell me this, Rachel, is it ever appropriate for a man to lie?"

She knew he was thinking about the lie he had concocted about the unborn child. Why would he question such a motive now?

"Do not think for a moment you were in the wrong."

"I don't. I just wonder..." He paused and then began to enlighten her curiosity. "There were places in the wall, broken up. Sharp points in the rock. I sliced my arm over one of these. The first time was not so successful as the second."

She exhaled a breath, searching the floor with troubled eyes while she imagined him doing such a thing and how painful it must have been.

"I dread to think of it as well," he admitted, reading her mind.

She shook her head, thinking not only of the actual deed and feeling the pain of it, but the cause of the deed which was to spare her and Jacob, for Marcus had been a free man to begin with.

Marcus dropped his arm and turned to peer down at her. "I made it seem as if you were losing the child."

"You think very quickly. The idea of the child, of these complications...and this." She shook her head. "No other man would have done such a thing to himself."

"That cannot be said for sure." He took the steps down, and upon reaching the bottom said, "I must be on my way. Jacob will be awaiting me for a meeting with the council."

He started to stalk by her, as if to purposely just get away from her. She touched his shoulder and he stopped, turning to stare at her. With her eyes she searched his.

"I am grateful to you for sparing his life, for he would've given it up for mine."

He studied her lips. "Your life was spared as well," he came to say, "and has become equally as important to me, possibly even more."

They stared at one another long, deeply in the eyes. Then he turned, and began to stalk away.

She could not contain herself. She could not be silent.

"Sir Marcus!" she called after him.

He stopped in his tracks and turned, his shoulders not nearly as straight as she had grown accustomed to seeing them.

"Where are you going?" She asked him

"I have told you."

"You are lying," she quietly guessed.

Tears began to brim in her eyes, and a few drops fell, sliding down her cheeks. Marcus took slow steps toward her, and upon reaching her, raised a hand, taking her chin with his fingers. Her head fell back, her eyes closing and then barely opening while a few more teardrops fell from them.

Marcus raised his other hand to the side of her face, using a thumb to wipe the tears from her left cheek. Her eyes closed. She could not keep them opened. She felt the warmth of his body, and almost the pounding of his heart as he took her closer, and then of his lips touching hers, sweeping over them again and again. And for a time nothing existed anymore. Nothing at all but she and him and the sensual feelings between them.

She had but a moment to see the dark gleam of lust and desire in his eyes after he'd pulled away, before he turned. This time she did not say a word, but watched him go, feeling as if she would never see him again, fearing it, and then later hiding herself away, telling them all she was ill, that she needed more time to rest, that she had arisen too early. That she needed more time. She just needed more time.

******

Days more passed. She refused to eat. She refused to speak to anyone at all, even to Jacob except for short moments at a time. She refused to see the physician when he insisted she do so. She turned them all away. She did not hear anything about Marcus. She did not ask. She did not seek an answer, for she knew he was gone. That he was gone for good. She would never see him again.

******

Jacob became concerned not only for her, but Marcus as well when he left without a word, skipping several meetings in regards to a possible war with Roark. It was serious business, and not like Marcus at all to dis-include himself.

He had heard that Marcus was in Rowan or somewhere near it and decided if he did not return or nothing was heard of him, he would send someone for him.

So he delivered a message by the hand of Amos, who in turn came back to confirm that Marcus was, indeed, in Rowan in the house of one Madame Patrice, and that he had no reply, that he had not even opened the message, that he had not said a word.

Jacob sent others after him, all of whom returned quickly with words that were not reassuring, so he decided in himself that he would go into Rowan and speak to him personally, one on one, and get to the bottom of the matter, whatever it was.

******

And he did this, catching Marcus completely off guard when Patrice rapped her knuckles against the door of the room he'd occupied...however long it had been. He could not say for sure. One, two weeks. Maybe three.

Jacob stood in the doorway, a peculiar sight considering the place. It was a part of his personal life which Jacob had never been given access to, not that it was hidden from him. They just simply did not discuss the most intimate details of their lives.

Jacob came inside, closing the door quietly behind himself. Marcus had sat peering at the wall, a glass of strong drink in hand—a glass that hardly stayed occupied for any long amount of time. As soon as he filled it he emptied it again.

"What are you doing?" Jacob asked, and when he didn't get an answer in return went on to say, "are you ill? Is that it?"

"No," he calmly returned. "I am in good health."

"If this has something to do with what happened in Ebbs Valley..."

"It doesn't."

"Then what is it?" He became evidently disturbed. "With these matters in the balance you speedily disappear and seclude yourself...even while the nobles discuss prospective war and even prepare for it. You ignore my messengers, send them away. According to one, you physically removed him. Tell me, Marcus, what have I done to you? Hum? Have I wronged you in any way?"

"No," Marcus plainly replied, and then louder as he stood from the chair he'd sat in the past little while. "No, no, no. You have done no wrong."

"Then why have you avoided me? And worse yet mishandled those I've sent to bring you to me?"

Marcus raised a slow hand. "Jacob, please...please go."

"I will not...not until I have received a suitable answer."

"There is no suitable answer."

"There is!" he loudly maintained. "There must be. A man I hold dearer in my heart than a son has decided to be my enemy. I will not leave this place without an answer."

"You _must_ leave without an answer," he calmly said, and then sat down again. "Because I have none to give."

A hand to his sword, Jacob turned and gazed out the window. When he turned again, his expression was hard with anger. "After fifteen years—if this is how it must be. Now, if you must turn your back on me for no apparent reason at all. If you must seclude yourself for whatever cause. So be it. But you could be a rational man and tell me what it is. There could be nothing so bad, so wrong."

"It is wrong. Very, very wrong."

"It can't be."

"It is," he argued.

"There could be nothing bad enough to come between us."

He banged his fist atop the table and shot to his feet. "Dammit it is wrong, Jacob, it is. I'm in love. There I have said it. I am in love with your wife."

A look of astonishment came over Jacob. Regretting having lost his temper and admitting what he had, Marcus shook his head, massaged his forehead and turned around.

There was a horrible silence. It went on for a long while. He turned again to face him as the man he knew he was, a man in the wrong but able to admit it. A man with pride although he couldn't recall having ever felt so small.

Jacob's gaze had fallen to the floor. "In love," he quietly repeated. His brows drew together. "With Rachel?" He yet held to the handle of his sword and Marcus decided he wouldn't blame the man if he suddenly pulled it from its sheath and executed him right then and there. Jacob stared at the floor, silent for a while. Finally he raised weary eyes to his. "Since when?" He asked him. "Since the trip to the manor? Since Westerly? Is that it? Should I have sent someone else?"

"This is no fault of yours."

"When?" He demanded a second time.

"I don't know," he loudly returned. He calmed his voice, avoiding Jacob's downtrodden gaze. "I do not know."

"Does she know this?"

"I don't know."

"Have you told her?"

"No."

"Do you think she knows?"

"No. I don't know. That I have some sort of feelings for her, yes, but it hasn't been discussed, this idea of love."

"What has been discussed?"

"Nothing."

Jacob's brows drew together. "I don't believe you."

"Then I will not bother persuading you otherwise."

"How long has this been?" He asked, his gaze set so hard upon him that he could not possibly look into it.

"I don't know. Over time, I suppose. Over time."

He stepped slowly away from his spot, his eyes to the floor. "How did I not see it?" He stopped. "I know you are very skilled at the art of deception, but to me." He looked at him rather plainly. "I should have noticed." His brows furrowed. "You should have told me. In the beginning, you should have made it known."

"Why? What could you have done? Excused me only to afterward peep around corners watching my every move, leery of me, or to even have you excommunicate me? What purpose was there? I would have nothing come between our friendship. But now, with this...my feelings, since they cannot be persuaded to stop, no, not even with time or separation, I have excommunicated myself, not only because I love her, but because I love you as well. The guilt has become too hard to bear."

Jacob sat down and bent his head to massage his temples. Finally, he raised his head and with tired eyes studied Marcus from head to toe and then his eyes. "Is there anything else?"

"No."

"If I brought this to her attention, there is nothing she would say that has not been said."

"She has not betrayed you, Jacob. She loves you. And I would prefer you did not mention this to her at all."

"Yes, yes...well, I suppose you would." With that, Jacob stood and without a word left the room.

******

Rachel sat staring out the window, a fist pressed to her chin, watching the clouds scroll across the sky, studying some children playing off in the distance.

She heard the door open and turned her head to see Jacob entering the room. She stood to get a clear view of him. He had left the day before. She was glad to see him back although it was very clear that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

She searched his eyes while he came closer. "What is it?" She asked. "What's wrong?"

He still just stared at her, as if giving time for her to figure something out on her own. A deep crease formed between her brows. "Is it Marcus? Is he well? Has something happened?"

He walked past her, making his way to the bed. He eased down, sitting on the edge, and simply sat there. Uncertain she went toward him and slowly seated herself beside him. She tilted her head to the side, asking, "What is wrong?"

He would not look at her.

"Jacob, what is it?"

As if by force, he turned his head so that their eyes met. "Foolish of me to think I could bring you here and keep your heart all to myself. Very foolish. I suppose I have brought this upon myself. I should have thought so far ahead."

"What are you talking about?"

"Marcus," he said and held her gaze.

"What about him?"

"The man has surrendered himself to exile...and for a reasonable cause. I returned from Rowan where he has kept himself secluded, refusing my messengers and behaving violently toward some of them."

"Is he well?"

"No."

"No?" She searched his eyes. "What's wrong? Is he ill?"

"Yes." His saddened eyes met with hers. "Ill with guilt. Ill...with love."

She immediately turned her gaze away, avoiding his although a harsh one it wasn't. He continued.

"I went to him, demanding an explanation which, I must say, would probably be better left unknown—for a little while longer, anyway. The man is in love, Rachel. He is in love with you."

"What?" She almost laughed. "Jacob that is—"

"He told me so, Rachel."

"When? Where?"

"You didn't know?"

"No, I...I don't know."

"Or could it be that now after having heard it said, you, as I, can look back and see it very plainly."

She simply shook her head.

"A man shouldn't suffer for his feelings if they are wrong but never acted upon." He paused before asking, "Did he ever act upon them?"

"No." She assured him. "He has not misbehaved toward me."

"My hope is that this will pass. Perhaps now that he has gotten it out in the open it _will_ pass. That's sometimes the case with a man." He would have stood, but taking his hand she kept him there.

"You shouldn't despise him because of me. You are friends and should remain so."

"I agree," he said, patting her hand. "I agree." He bent, dropping a kiss on her temple and stood, making a quiet exit from the room, and leaving her in total despair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A few very long, dreary days passed. The end of the week, after Jacob had kept himself from her and everybody else, hidden in his private quarters, Rachel went into Rowan and searched for Marcus.

Jacob had been correct in saying the day would come when riding horseback would perhaps come in handy. She'd dressed in her riding apparel which had lay dormant for some time, and acquired a horse in secret from Linus who, although hesitant, agreed to offer a steed for the ride.

"It will be a short trip," she lied, knowing well the journey was a decent one. She'd located Rowan on the map, discovering a route to it that would certainly be the quickest. Linus also suggested a few guards to go along, ones who would not speak of her whereabouts. To this she agreed, thinking they could very well ride with her in silence...agreeing to the journey for the sake of her safety. Once they realized she intended to travel to Rowan, she had already gone so far, and they would not turn around, nor could they persuade her to do so. They only briefly tried.

So she rode into Rowan, wondering what sort of place he would reside in. Zaria had once named a woman by the name of Patrice. So she went about asking for a lady by that name. It was quickly answered, and he was, indeed, to be located at her place of residence.

Patrice knew who she was immediately. Her eyes skimmed over her. She peered quite suspiciously upon her for a time before greeting, although with absolutely no apparent desire to do so, "Lady Trent, what a surprise." She then went on to slyly and suspiciously ask, "What do you want?"

Rachel's shoulders straightened, "Is he here?"

"Who?"

"Marcus," she said, remaining calm although knowing good and well this woman knew exactly who she was talking about.

Again her sleek, dark eyes skimmed over her. "He does not want to be bothered much less by you."

"Tell him I am here."

"No."

"I will not leave until you do so"

"You may stay in Rowan so long as you wish...only in time your husband will come for you."

"My husband is not well. Marcus must be told."

This changed the woman's attitude instantly. "Is he dying?" She asked.

"I will answer only him," she said to her.

Patrice, with a sly sidelong glance stepped aside, allowing her inside, and lifting the hem of her skirts, led the way up a narrow flight of steps. She stopped in front of one particular door, rapped on it with her knuckles and after a brief, narrow stare, walked away.

There was no response from the other side. Rachel placed a hand on the knob, hesitating before turning it and opening the door. She instantly spotted Marcus and he her from a seat at the opposite side of the room. He'd lifted his head and their eyes met. Her heart stopped beating altogether. It appeared his may have as well. In fact, his face went pale, as if he had seen a ghost.

Without taking her eyes from him, she began to close the door, but not altogether. At the same time, his expression changed...it changed abruptly to one of pure irritation.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded.

"I need to speak to you," she simply stated.

"Are you so foolish as this, to visit me like this now?"

"Am _I_ foolish? You should rather ask yourself that question."

"You should not be here."

She pushed the door with a palm so that it snapped shut. "Why did you say those things to him? Marcus, what were you thinking? There was absolutely no reason, none at all. Why? Marcus, why?"

He stood, turning his back to her and his face toward the empty fireplace. "For the sake of the truth, which you obviously know nothing about."

"What truth? Marcus, nothing has happened."

"It _has_ happened."

"We've done no wrong."

"No wrong?" He turned from the hearth. ""Did I not kiss you? Did you not allow me? How can you say we've done no wrong? You of all people? Have you forgotten the difference between right and wrong?"

"I've forgotten nothing."

"And you call me foolish for being honest? For the love of god, Rachel, I love you. My dearest friend's wife. My friend, closer than a brother, than any man I've ever known." He barely shook his head. "You may see nothing wrong with it, even with hiding and pretending, roaming about a man's home, lusting after his wife, and of kissing her. You may see nothing wrong with those things...but I do."

She dropped her head back and stared up at the ceiling, fighting to keep control of her emotions, to even piece all of these things together. It'd all had happened so suddenly.

"Jacob is not just any man," Marcus said, bringing her attention back to him. "Otherwise, I would not give a damn."

Both of their gazes dropped to the floor. For a while there was complete silence.

"How is he?" He came to ask.

"I don't know," she softly replied. "He is not speaking to anyone." She suddenly shook her head and swung around. "I must go." But before she could, he had her by the wrist keeping her in place, swinging her about to face him.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she threw at him. "I'm going home."

He slung her arm away. "You still refer to Westerly as your home?"

She said nothing at all.

"So that is it. You are going back to Westerly."

"I will go insane if I don't go away from you and him and everything. From here, from there. From everything and everyone."

"And what will you then do? After you've run away? Will you forget? Pretend as if Jacob Trent did not exist? As if you are not married or never were to begin with? As if I do not exist?"

"What else am I to do? What good is anything? My world is falling apart."

" _Your_ world," he repeated, mocking her. He forced a laugh that was evidently faked. "Yes, indeed, your world. Yours."

"Yes, my world," she agreed, her eyes slanting at him. "It has been nothing but hassle since I received that summons, since I accepted it—since I met him _and_ you."

"Since you were given a taste of the real world," he implied. "Now look at what you've become. A coward."

Her eyes rounded. "I am not a coward," she said slowly through her teeth.

"Such a woman who cannot face her own heart, her own thoughts, the truth about herself, and who would run from the consequences of those things...what else would you call such a woman?"

"This is not who I am," she decided, her eyes stinging but without tears. She said it louder a second time, "This is not who I am."

"Then you have been pretending all along." He cornered her, making a point that she was already aware of. She understood exactly what he was saying. "Since the beginning, you have been pretending to have feelings for anyone at all, even to the point of marriage?"

"I love Jacob and you know it. I have not pretended. But now look at me, what I've become. This person I.....I am not who I was."

"No, you are not," he agreed, and stared upward as if to recall something, and indeed he did reminisce, recalling what'd been said of her in the beginning. "Rachel the Elder, known for her humility and honesty and faithfulness to those she loves, and to those things she sets her heart upon. Even then you were not who you truly are, or even what you were capable of. And now you will walk away from your commitments. That should not surprise me, just as it did not the first."

So soon as he had said it, a hand came up automatically, and she slapped him hard across the face. She then stood back, shocked by her own actions. She'd never stricken anyone in all her life.

He didn't budge, not even to touch a hand to his cheek which reddened before the very eye. He appeared a bit disappointed with himself, his choice of words. His gaze lowered and skipped about before coming to rest sadly upon her. "You thought yourself faultless," he said.

"I did not."

"And deceived yourself...not seeing that your ultimate fault all along was pride."

"I was not proud, and I certainly am not now."

"Because you thought you were perfect, and that you were incapable of anything besides perfection."

"I never claimed to be perfect."

"And now you threaten to run away. From what? None other than the very imperfect person you have become. You cannot face yourself let alone Jacob or even I. Yes, by all means leave. Go. And build again that perfect nature you'd adapted to."

"You don't understand."

"I do understand. Can you not see it? You despise what you claim we have made you become. You were capable all along. You merely secluded yourself from the prospect of it. Not that I disagree with that seclusion. For the sake of it all, I wish you would have stayed in Westerly and continued to be the woman you wanted to be."

His words sank in. Her emotions were torn in all directions. She felt grieved and angry and sad and then all of those things all over again.

"Do not run away," he calmly commanded. "Stay put and face these conditions. That, Rachel, is what people in the actual world do. They do not run and hide behind veils."

"Then what would you call this?" She asked, skimming a hand from left to right. "Have you not hidden yourself?"

"This, milady, is a temporary arrangement. I will do what is required of me as a man, as I already have done by even speaking the truth. Now I must face it. I must face him. I will do what reasonable people are known to do. We confront our wrongs and admit them until it is no longer necessary to do so. We face whatever becomes of it. But you seem to find no fault in yourself at all."

"I did not say I am without fault."

"I shared my feelings, you needn't share yours. You have no obligation to admit anything. I am the one he will now detest, not you."

"What could come of any of this? Jacob is hurt. I cannot see him this way. I do not want to see him this way....hurting as he is."

"I suppose you think I do."

"I don't know what you want."

"I did not spill my heart out to him in hopes he would shove you out of his life and into mine. His friendship means more to me than any woman ever will."

"Then I will leave and the two of you can settle it between yourselves."

"You truly think it that simple."

"I can handle my own hurt, Marcus, but I cannot handle his and yours, too."

"Then by all means, leave us be to handle it. By all means, do that very thing."

She studied his words before swinging around. This time he did not stop her, but allowed her to go, and Patrice no longer appeared offended by her presence as she swished by her at the bottom of the staircase where she'd escaped after overhearing the conversation from the other side of the door.

Rachel left, and made a stop...back to the Great City. And then back to a portion of the reality she'd once known.

To be continued

[290]

