The Bodyguard's Bride-to-Be Page 13

  “Miss Edwards?” the man asked courteously. He was dressed in regular business clothes, but something about him made her instantly think, military. When Tahra nodded, he offered her his hand and said, “Major Lukas Branko, at your service,” confirming her supposition. “The king has ordered me to see you safely to and from the hospital.”

  He held the limo door open for Tahra. She glanced back at the door through which she’d just come, praying Marek would miraculously appear...but he didn’t. So she allowed Major Branko to hand her into the limo, then go around and get in the other side.

  They rode in silence almost the entire way. The major reminded Tahra a lot of Marek—a little older perhaps, but that same military air, that same old-fashioned courtesy. Handsome, too, she acknowledged, even more handsome than Marek, if that’s possible. But somehow the major left her cold, and it wasn’t just because he didn’t talk to her except for some banal comment on the weather.

  Tahra’s checkup went smoothly. She was taken for X-rays first—and no waiting in line. She was whisked in and out with smiling promptitude, which made her wonder if that was just the way it was in Zakhar, or if she was being accorded special treatment because of what she’d done and the interest the king had taken in her case. Probably a mix of both, she thought with a little smile.

  Her surgeon examined her nicely healing scars, including the laparoscopic one from her surgery, and reviewed her X-rays with her, explaining in detail what he was looking for and that there was absolutely no cause for concern. He questioned her at great length about her lost memory, which still hadn’t returned. Tahra found herself confiding in him the flashes of certainty she’d had about some aspects of those missing months, even though she still didn’t remember.

  “I was afraid when I saw his note,” she confessed. “Not physically afraid, more like I...I dreaded reading it.”

  The surgeon nodded. “I understand. The mind is a very complex organ, Miss Edwards. And yet very simple in some ways. It tries to protect us from being hurt. For instance, we learn early not to touch something on the stove that could burn us. Most of us do not consciously remember the moment our fingers were burned...but our subconscious brain retains the lesson and stops us from doing it again.”

  Her thoughts were churning, but all she said was “I...see.”

  “Perhaps you received a note in the past from your fiancé containing bad news. Your brain might subconsciously equate a note from him with bad news, and the unthinking dread is generated.” He smiled. “Do not be alarmed. This is actually a good sign. Those memories are still there in your brain—otherwise your subconscious would not react as it does. Be patient. Give yourself time.”

  He mentioned again how lucky she was her broken wrist was really a simple fracture that would heal quickly, but cautioned her not to try to use her right hand too much too soon.

  “I won’t,” she promised, hiding the dart of guilt over the things she’d already done.

  Major Branko was waiting for her when she exited the doctor’s office, guiding her back through the bewildering series of corridors and doors they’d used to get here in the first place—he was taking no chances with her safety, so they hadn’t just walked in the hospital’s front door.

  As the limousine pulled away from the curb, Tahra suddenly remembered something she’d intended to do while she was out. “Could we stop at my apartment? I want to pick up some books and a few more clothes.” Then she realized, “Oh, but I don’t know the address.” She began fumbling in her purse, which had been recovered from the park and restored to her intact, hoping any identification she might have would have the address. “Marek—Captain Zale—took me there when I was discharged from the hospital, but I—”

  Major Branko interrupted her. “Just a moment.” He leaned forward and slid open the privacy glass to speak to the driver in Zakharan, but too quickly for her ears to catch. The driver nodded and immediately signaled a lane change. The major closed the window and sat back. “He is the same driver who drove you the other day, and he remembers.” The major unbent enough to smile at her. “Your wish is my command, Miss Edwards.”

  Tahra was smart enough to interpret this statement to mean, the king’s wish is my command. And since Zakhar’s ruler had placed Major Branko at her disposal for this trip, her wish—by extension—was almost the same as if the king had uttered it. She hadn’t yet met King Andre Alexei IV—not that she remembered, anyway, although the queen had said they’d previously been introduced at a reception. But the unswerving devotion he evoked in the men who served him—including Marek and Major Branko—as well as the wife who obviously adored him, made Tahra hope she would have the chance soon. He loomed large, and encountering him could possibly be daunting. Nevertheless, she wanted to meet Marek’s king in person.

  Major Branko followed Tahra into the elevator like a tall, determined shadow, and his protective air—so like Marek’s—made her ask, “You’re a bodyguard, too, aren’t you? Like Captain Zale?”

  “I have the honor to be one of the king’s bodyguards, yes.”

  “Ahhh.” Tahra almost giggled at the way he said this, as if the major thought being the king’s man put him in a different class than Marek, who was “only” responsible for the crown prince. But she managed to maintain an expression of bland interest when his gaze swept her face.

  Tahra’s purse still contained her apartment key, and she used it to let herself and Major Branko into her apartment, the same way she’d done last week with Marek. And just as Marek had done, the major made her stay by the door while he inspected the apartment.

  “All clear,” he said as he returned to the living room. “Let me know if you need assistance. Otherwise I will wait here for you.”

  Last week Tahra had packed what she’d thought she would need for her stay in the palace, but she only had the one dress. She wanted a second for Friday night’s dinner date with Marek and the Joneses.

  Dresses were her weakness. She didn’t mind suits or slacks and a blazer for work, but she loved dressing up and always did so for a date. Now she went through her closet, searching for another one that wouldn’t reveal the scars on her back and the backs of her arms. Dark nylons would cover the backs of her legs nicely, so she wasn’t worried about that.

  She found another dress she thought would do, although she didn’t recognize it—a lightweight voile in swirling shades of blue, one of which matched her eyes—with a floating skirt. Must have bought this here in Zakhar, she reasoned. For Marek. She smiled to herself. The dress was delightfully feminine, designed to hint but not reveal. Which made it perfect for covering up what she didn’t want to display in public.

  Then she searched for dark nylons to go with it, first pulling open one drawer, then another. And that was where she found the notes from Marek. They were hidden beneath two unopened packages of nylons—but how had she missed them when she was packing last week? Because you just grabbed the first pair in the right shade, she reminded herself, and closed the drawer.

  The dread she’d experienced before returned in waves. The dread her surgeon had said was a good sign because her subconscious was remembering and making a connection. But it didn’t feel like a good sign. It felt...well...almost as if her heart had been squeezed. As if unbearable pain was about to descend.

  The envelopes weren’t sealed—the flaps must have been tucked inside and the notes hand delivered. But the flaps were pulled out, as if she’d read the contents, then returned the notes to their envelopes and hid them away. Out of sight. But not out of mind?

  Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she picked up the first one, drew the thick paper out, unfolded it and began reading.

  Dearest Tahra, the note began. It is not unknown to you that I have found uncommon delight in your company since the moment we met. And you cannot deny you have indicated the same to me. You must know I would be a good provider
, would never hurt you in word or deed. I would be a good father should God bless us with children. And I would honor and cherish you all the days of my life.

  The dread faded, and Tahra smiled with tenderness as she read Marek’s words. “I knew Zakhar was fifty years behind the times,” she murmured to herself. “But Marek sounds practically Victorian.” There was something appealing about it, though—the old-fashioned courtesy, the formal way he put things. Enumerating his qualifications as a husband and father, without once mentioning the passionate love they shared, passion that flared between them every time they kissed. Every time they touched. As if—in the long run—these other things were equally as important as passion.

  Which...when you got right down to it, they were. Not that passionate love couldn’t survive over a lifetime. But that alone couldn’t sustain a relationship. Not for the long term. She knew it, and apparently Marek did, too.

  But Tahra’s smile faded as she continued reading. You are upset because I kept a secret from you. You returned my ring—

  She stopped right there. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I just knew it.” She’d suspected he wasn’t being completely honest with her since she’d come out of the coma, and now she knew what he’d been concealing. They weren’t really engaged. He’d broken her heart and she’d given him back his ring.

  Tahra glanced down at the ring on her left hand. Despite everything, though, the ring seemed...right somehow. And the man who’d placed it on her finger...it seemed right when she was with him. So what had happened?

  She picked up reading where she’d left off. You returned my ring—the ring you first accepted with joy and then returned because you said you could not marry a man who did not trust you. That is not true—I would trust you with my life. I cannot believe you will let this insignificant truth irrevocably separate us.

  I am still the same man. I am still Captain Marek Zale, still a professional soldier. Still the head of the crown prince’s security detail. This is work I do because I am the best there is—I will not pretend otherwise. But I have not confessed to something that besmirches my moral character. I am still the same man you profess to love. How can this secret make a difference in how you feel?

  Which begged the question. What secret?

  And why hadn’t he told her...whatever it was? It had to be important, or why would she have returned his ring after accepting it? Why would she have accused him of not trusting her?

  The note was signed merely Marek. Not Love, Marek. Just Marek. As if he would not presume on their love...or as if it was a given. Either way it was a telling thing. She put the first note down on top of its envelope and picked up the second one.

  Dearest Tahra, this note began, just like the first. Your silence tells me you are still upset, and I apologize. It was never that I did not trust you. But you must understand I had a good reason not to tell you before now, a reason I cannot put on paper.

  “What reason? And what secret?” she asked herself. She kept reading, and the second question was quickly answered. But not the first one.

  I am ambitious, yes. But ambition does not rule me. Like Colonel Marianescu—Prince Xavier, I should say—I have never cared to use my inherited title. I earned my rank in the Zakharian National Forces, and I am proud to be a captain. Proud of the job I do protecting the royal heir.

  “His inherited title. So that was it.” Tahra’s thoughts flew back to her lunch with Queen Juliana, to the moment when the queen had first mentioned the name Viscount Saint-Yves...and her own reaction. The sudden chill at hearing a name she felt she should recognize, but didn’t. The feeling had disappeared when the queen had revealed that not only was Marek Viscount Saint-Yves, he was also a Marianescu.

  Then Tahra remembered Marek’s startled and guarded reaction when she’d greeted him at the door to her suite that evening with the accusation, “Why didn’t you tell me who you really are?”

  She’d been distracted, though, by wanting to know what mariskya meant, and they hadn’t gotten around to discussing his title until after their picnic dinner. But it hadn’t upset her unduly because she’d thought he’d told her a long time ago. That the knowledge of his true identity was in those missing memories. Which it was, but...she hadn’t realized he’d kept it a secret until after he proposed.

  She forced herself to put those thoughts aside and keep reading.

  Everything important about me you have known for months. Yes, I am a viscount and will someday be a count, and yes, I am related to the king. But how can this impact our love? Do not let this meaningless secret assume importance beyond forgiveness, mariskya. Life is too short, and we can never know what the future holds. You trusted me once—your trust was not misplaced. Please let me explain. Marek.

  Trust. Marek said she’d trusted him. But she’d trusted a man once before—and had almost paid too high a price. She didn’t want to believe Marek was like him...but how could she know for sure? If he could deceive her about one thing, what else would he deceive her about? Besides, trust was a two-way street. Marek hadn’t trusted her. How could she do the same?

  She put the second note down on top of the first and picked up the third and final one.

  Dearest Tahra, I will not write to you again. Nor will I try to see you again. I will wait with the patience I have shown for all these months for you to realize we belong together. That what we share is precious and granted to very few. When you are ready to hear my explanation with an open mind and the loving heart I know you possess, I will give it. Until then, may God hold you in the palm of his hand and keep you safe. Marek.

  Tahra slowly returned each note to its envelope. Then tucked all three envelopes in her purse to take back with her. Her heart was aching—not just for herself, but for Marek, too. Because the last note reminded her that Marek had shown unbelievable patience in their relationship. That he’d never pushed her for sex. Had never even taken advantage of her desire for him. She didn’t remember, but he couldn’t have. Which meant he wasn’t anything like the foreign diplomat she’d trusted, the one who’d deceived her and eventually ended up trying to rape her.

  Why hadn’t she given Marek the chance to explain? That was what she couldn’t understand. Or had she? Had Marek explained...and his explanation wasn’t worthy of forgiveness?

  One thing’s for sure, she thought as she gathered a few more things to take with her back to the palace, gathering up her courage at the same time. I’m going to ask Marek about it the first chance I get.

  * * *

  But Tahra was doomed to wait for an explanation. No sooner was she back in the limousine and they were heading to the palace when Major Branko volunteered, “It is too bad Colonel Marianescu sent your fiancé to the eastern border. Otherwise the king would most likely have assigned him to guard you today instead of me.” He smiled, the second smile she’d seen from him, but somehow this smile, like the first one, didn’t soften the hard lines of his face the way Marek’s did. “The king is thoughtful in that manner.”

  “Marek’s not here?” She hadn’t known, and she couldn’t help the touch of dismay in her voice. “We’re supposed to have dinner on Friday with—”

  “Captain Zale will return tomorrow or the next day,” the major assured her.

  “What about...you know...the crown prince’s security detail?” Tahra couldn’t imagine what Marek could possibly have to do at the eastern border. Not when the crown prince was here in Drago.

  “Major Kostya is covering for him. And the king is aware, of course. Colonel Marianescu would not send Captain Zale and— That is, Colonel Marianescu would not undertake this action without the king’s blessing.”

  What action? she wondered. But she didn’t ask the question out loud. And why didn’t Marek tell me he was leaving? She sighed softly. She totally got that there were things Marek couldn’t share with her about his job. But telling her he
was leaving town wasn’t one of them. So now she’d have to confront him about this, too. And unlike her sister, she didn’t do confrontation well. At all.

  * * *

  Marek buckled into his seat on the military plane that had flown Angelina and him to Timon Tuesday afternoon, which was now taking them back to Drago early on this Friday morning. Mission accomplished...thanks to Angelina.

  He smiled over at the woman who had once worked for him, who had earned her promotion to captain by outstanding work—saving the crown prince’s life as well as interrogating their prisoner and tricking him into revealing information he had no intention of revealing...just as she’d done here. “You could write a textbook.”

  Angelina buckled her seat belt and shook her head. “My interrogation techniques would only work in Zakhar,” she said drily. “And only on men.”

  Marek laughed. “Perhaps.” He stretched his tired muscles, but it was a good ache. They hadn’t had much sleep over the past two and a half days, but success made it worthwhile.

  “And do not downplay your own contributions,” Angelina added. “I could not have succeeded without your astute observations.”

  “We make a good team,” he agreed. “We always did.”

  “How did you know which one of the three was most vulnerable to my...brand of interrogation? It is amazing and saved us many hours.”

  He grinned at her. “I picked the one most like Alec...and me.” Angelina shot him a narrow-eyed look; she didn’t take criticism of her beloved husband well, even if said in jest. “I honestly do not know,” he confessed. “I just had a feeling, and it turned out to be correct, thank God.” His smile faded. “That is the good news. That, and the fact he does not know he revealed we have played into their hands by diluting our military force here in Drago. As far as he and the Zakharian Liberation Front are concerned, we know no more now than we did before. The bad news is I was right. I did not wish to be.”