The Bodyguard's Bride-To-Be

Chapter 2

Tahra floated in a sea of disjointed memories. Carly was there, and her parents. Then her parents were gone, and seventeen-year-old Carly was kneeling in front of ten-year-old Tahra, saying gently, “They’re not coming back, honey. They’re never coming back. But I’m here. And I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Tears and years.

There was Carly, fiercely confronting the secretary of state. “You think you can sweep this under the rug? Hell, no. That’s not going to happen. The State Department is going to come up with a better solution, and this had better not impact Tahra’s career in any way, you hear me? Not in any way. Believe me, you don’t even want to be thinking along those lines, understand? Because I’ll blow the lid off this scandal so fast it’ll make your head spin. And you won’t be the only one affected by the fallout. You got that?”

Carly, so protective of her baby sister, who, Tahra was ashamed to admit, had always had trouble standing up for herself in any confrontational situation. She’d fought off the foreign diplomat who’d attacked her—at least she wasn’t that much of a coward—and had saved herself from being savagely raped by stabbing him repeatedly. But when the State Department had tried to blame everything on her and throw her to the wolves, Tahra had called Carly from jail as her world crashed in around her. And Carly had come charging to the rescue again, bailing her out, then storming the secretary of state’s office. Carly, who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything...except losing those she loved.

In the way of dreams, Tahra was a little girl again, watching from the sidelines as most of the kids in her kindergarten class played Red Rover during recess. She knew she would be good at it. She could run like the wind and she was stronger than she looked—the locked hands could never hold her in Red Rover, she’d break through the line in a heartbeat. But the other kids never asked her to join in the game, and she was too shy to force her way into their charmed circle the way Carly would have had no trouble doing.

Then, through the murky depths of her dreams, she heard a voice. A masculine voice. Deep. Strong. Just a hint of an accent that made the English words sound unbelievably sexy. A voice she knew she should recognize...but didn’t. What was he saying? At first she couldn’t quite force her brain to comprehend, but then...

“I am back, Tahra. I promised you I would be, and here I am. I will always keep my promises, mariskya. Just as I will always honor and cherish you. Just as I will protect you with my life.”

The words floated in the ether surrounding Tahra, but there was something incredibly appealing about them. About the simple way they were uttered, too. There was also something about the voice she responded to instinctively. And she knew he spoke the truth. Whoever he was, she was safe with him, the same way she was safe when Carly was there.

She didn’t recognize the foreign word, though. Mariskya. Didn’t know what it meant. But she wanted to. The way he said it, she knew the word was important. She also desperately wanted to know who he was. Because—like the word—the man who’d spoken it was important, too. She just didn’t know why.

* * *

“The Zakharian Liberation Front,” Colonel Marianescu announced in Zakharan to the seven other men and one woman sitting around the conference table in the War Room inside the royal palace. “They have claimed responsibility for yesterday’s bombings. What do we know about it?”

Marek exchanged a rueful glance with Angelina because he knew the answer was “Nothing.” The Zakharian Liberation Front had never popped up on anyone’s radar until yesterday. And while technically this wasn’t an indictment of Angelina or him because she was responsible for the queen’s security and he was responsible for the crown prince’s, any threat to national security could be a danger to the royals, and they both knew it.

The silence in the room was deafening. “I see,” said the colonel. His lips thinned. “Needless to say, the king is not pleased.”

His last five words were a lash against the pride of all his listeners, but especially Marek. Until he’d met Tahra, nothing had been more important to him than the king he was proud to serve. Keeping the queen safe—and subsequently the crown prince when the king had personally asked him to take over protection of his son—had been especially important to him because those things were of paramount importance to the king. The king had made it abundantly clear that in any life-and-death situation, the safety of the queen and the crown prince came first. Then the king. That had required an adjustment in thinking, but everyone on the three security details had eventually come to accept it.

But from the moment Marek had met Tahra, the royal family had slid one notch in his personal priority hierarchy. Had he somehow overlooked a threat to them because of that? He didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at his gut. Because duty was everything to him. Or at least it had been...until Tahra.

Marek dragged his attention back to Colonel Marianescu with difficulty. The colonel was saying, “It is fairly obvious from the one-sentence credo stated in their press release that the Zakharian Liberation Front’s political agenda is in opposition to the refugees Zakhar has recently welcomed inside its borders. ‘Zakhar for Zakharians’ leaves no room for any other interpretation. And all the targets of yesterday’s bombings were—”

The door to the War Room opened, and King Andre Alexei IV strode in. Everyone scrambled to their feet, but the king said quickly, “As you were, gentlemen. I apologize for being late—I had intended to be here from the beginning, but I was detained by the Privy Council.” He spoke softly with his cousin, Colonel Marianescu, then nodded and faced the room again, standing. “What I have to say will not take long.”

Marek had rarely seen the king like this—cold anger was coming off him in palpable waves. “I will not speak the name of this organization because its very name is an affront to every decent Zakharian. Nor will I repeat their credo for the same reason. All I will say is that this organization’s actions are unacceptable. Unacceptable!” The king paused and clenched his jaw against the anger that obviously threatened to get away from him.

When he had himself under control again, the king continued. His voice was soft, but no one in the room took his words as anything other than a direct order. “I want three things. First, I want the refugees who are here at my invitation to be protected at all costs. Second, I want the individuals involved in these murderous and cowardly acts caught and brought to justice. Third, I want this organization rooted out and destroyed. It is one thing to espouse this credo—every man is entitled to his own thoughts. It is another thing entirely to take violent action to force that on others, and it will not be tolerated. Is that understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Sire” echoed through the room.

The king nodded with satisfaction. “Very good, gentlemen. I will leave you and Colonel Marianescu to work out the details. Thank you.” He turned and spoke privately with his cousin for a moment, then they headed for the door together. As they had when the king had entered the room, everyone stood and remained at attention until he was gone.

Angelina caught Marek’s eye. “Have you ever seen him this angry?” she whispered as they took their seats again. “Not even the assassination attempt on his son generated this kind of reaction as I recall.”

“I did not witness it myself, you understand,” Marek replied in an undertone that couldn’t be heard by the others sitting around them. “But he nearly killed Prince Nikolai for attempting to kill the queen. That was before she was the queen,” he clarified. “The man who did witness it said the king’s anger was awesome to behold—similar to his reaction today, I would imagine. I do not know how the queen convinced the king otherwise, but somehow she did, and Prince Nikolai lived that night—he went on to stand his trial before being convicted.”

Angelina nodded her understanding. Prince Nikolai was dead now, which they both knew, but not at the king’s hand. Then quickly, as Colonel Marianescu returned to the head of the table, she asked, “What is the word on Tahra? Has she regained consciousness yet?”

Marek shook his head, fighting off his own surge of anger at what had nearly happened to her. “She is still in a medically induced coma. Until they bring her out of it, she will not... That is, she is still—”

“Shh,” whispered the man on Marek’s left. “Colonel Marianescu is speaking.”

“Suggestions?” the colonel was saying.

No one spoke, and once again Marek and Angelina exchanged speaking glances. They were the only two captains in the room, included in this high-level meeting because they headed the security details for the crown prince and the queen, and neither felt comfortable speaking up first. But when the silence dragged on, Marek asked, “Do forensics on all the bombs confirm it was the action of one group? Yes, the Zakharian Liberation Front has taken public credit, but before we rule anything else out...”

“Good point, Captain Zale.” The colonel’s gaze swept the room. “Forensic analysis is not complete, but yes, the preliminary assessment supports the theory that the bombs were all the work of one group. In fact, that they were all the work of one man.”

“That tells us something,” Angelina pointed out. “If all ten bombs were assembled by the same man, we may be looking at a relatively small organization.”

The colonel nodded. “Possible, of course. A good working theory.”

“Especially since the organization has managed to fly under the radar until now,” Marek added. His eyes sought out those of Major Stesha, the head of the secret intelligence service, who had sat himself at the far end of the conference table that could seat many more than the nine who had congregated there, and who—up until now—had avoided catching anyone’s eye. As if he felt the shame of failure more keenly than anyone else. “It is also probable the Zakharian Liberation Front has only recently come into existence,” Marek continued, welcoming the change his words wrought in the expression on Major Stesha’s face. “‘Zakhar for Zakharians’? As Colonel Marianescu said, that credo can only refer to opposition to the influx of refugees who have settled here over the past two years, and in even greater numbers in the past six months.”

“Confirmed by the targets of yesterday’s bombings, at least here in Drago,” Angelina threw in. “A train from the eastern border, carrying mostly émigrés. The refugee processing center in downtown Drago. The Zakharian National Forces facility where new recruits were training—almost seventy percent of whom were male refugees eighteen and older who had joined pursuant to Zakharian law.”

Marek, along with every other man in the room, knew what Angelina was referring to. All Zakharian men were required to join the military when they turned eighteen and serve for at least four years. Service in the military would be part of the émigrés’ path to Zakharian citizenship.

“And the preschool that was targeted but was miraculously spared due to one woman’s bravery?” Angelina reminded them all. “When the king decreed that as many refugee children as possible be placed in the same schools to keep friends together and ease their assimilation into Zakharian life, that preschool was one of the magnet schools chosen for placement. Nearly half the children in that yard yesterday were émigrés.”

Pain slashed through Marek as Angelina spoke, reminding him of how close Tahra had come to dying. But while he fought to retain his stoic demeanor, this time the pain was accompanied by an intense wave of pride. From the moment he’d heard the news about Tahra, all he’d focused on was how much she was suffering and how he’d nearly lost her. Now he realized just how courageous she was, risking her life without hesitation to save those children. If he hadn’t already loved her to the last drop of his blood, he would have for that selfless act alone.

He’d slept in her hospital room last night. And he had every intention of doing the same tonight and every night until she regained consciousness and was able to tell the nurses herself that Marek was not her fiancé and had no business being there. Some men might not have been able to sleep slouching in a chair, but Marek was not one of them. He was a soldier—he could sleep anywhere. And where he chose to sleep was at Tahra’s side.

He couldn’t guard her 24/7—there were soldiers posted outside the door to her hospital room to do that. And besides, it would be unthinkable to request leave during this national crisis, despite his desperate worry over Tahra.

But he could guard her when he wasn’t on duty. He could sit beside her. Sleep beside her. Express his love—the love she didn’t believe in—the only way he could while she was unconscious. He would do this because he couldn’t not do this.

And when Tahra came out of her coma? When she banished him from her side the way she’d done when she’d rejected his marriage proposal just over two weeks ago? I will cross that bridge when I come to it, Marek thought, his eyes narrowing with determination. For now, she is mine to protect.

* * *

Marek abruptly halted on the threshold of Tahra’s hospital room when he saw a strange woman sitting in his chair beside the bed. The woman looked up, and though he’d never met her, he recognized her from a picture Tahra had shown him, and from his own research into Tahra’s family. Carly Edwards. Tahra’s famous older sister.

Someone must have called her, he realized. Guilt stabbed through him because he should have called Tahra’s sister himself, as soon as he learned Tahra was in the hospital. But the idea had never occurred to him—too many other things to worry about. Alec, he thought. Alec must have called her.

His supposition was confirmed when Tahra’s sister stood and walked toward him, then took his arm and led him out of the room, saying softly, “The embassy notified me immediately because I’m Tahra’s next of kin. I’m Carly Edwards, and you’re Marek, right? Captain Marek Zale? I want to talk with you, but I don’t want to do it where Tahra might hear.”

She dropped his arm once they were outside, and she headed down the wide hospital corridor, not even looking to see if Marek was following her. He smiled a little to himself, remembering the bits and pieces Tahra had mentioned to him about her older sister...and Carly’s formidable reputation in the world of journalism. “Tiger Shark” was her nickname—a well-deserved one—and his smile faded as he followed her to the waiting room on that floor. Alec hadn’t called him on it when Marek had declared Tahra was his fiancée, but he didn’t think Carly would afford him the same consideration. Which meant he’d better come up with a story—in the next sixty seconds. One that would satisfy Carly. Or else his little fiction was going to be blown out of the water.

She stopped when she reached a quiet corner of the waiting room, then turned to confront him. “Imagine my surprise,” she drawled in the soft Virginia accent that reminded him of Tahra, but at the same time held a note of steel Tahra’s voice never had, “when my fiancé’s brother called me to say Tahra was in the hospital...but her fiancé was keeping close tabs on her and could keep me apprised of her condition.”

Marek had forgotten. Tahra had mentioned her sister had recently become engaged to Senator Shane Jones, who—in one of those quirks of reality—was Alec’s oldest brother.

“I can explain.”

“I hope you can, Captain. Because I’m this close—” she held her thumb and forefinger up to show him exactly what she meant “—to having you thrown out of this hospital, and arrested if I can swing it.” When Marek didn’t immediately speak, she pounced. “You are not Tahra’s fiancé. She told me all about your proposal, and why she turned it down. So you have no business being here.”

His face hardened. “Whatever Tahra may have told you about that fiasco is meaningless. She loves me. If she confided anything to you, she would have confided that. Yes?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Carly countered quickly.

“If you know that much, you know I love her, too.” The words poured out of him, the words he hadn’t been able to say to Tahra herself, but which she’d known were true when he proposed.

“Again, not germane to the situation.”

He didn’t know what germane meant—he prided himself on his English, but it wasn’t perfect. He could infer the meaning by the context, however, and there was even more steel in his voice than in Carly’s when he answered her. “The hospital would give me no information on Tahra’s condition until I said I was her fiancé. Have you never told a lie for the purest of reasons, Miss Edwards?”

A flash of something that might have been guilt crossed her face, but she raised her chin and said, “Ms. Edwards. Not ‘miss.’”

“I apologize, Ms. Edwards,” Marek said stiffly. “We do not have that distinction in Zakhar, and Tahra never—” He chopped that sentence off before he could finish it, then returned to his initial point. “I would tell any lie I had to in that situation. I would do it again, no matter the consequences. In my heart Tahra is mine to cherish, and I could not bear—”

He broke off as emotion threatened to swamp him. When he had himself under control, he said, “My deception has harmed no one, least of all Tahra. Ask yourself what you would have done under the circumstances, Ms. Edwards.”

Her eyes searched his face for a full minute before they softened. “Okay, I’ll buy that. But what are you going to do when Tahra regains consciousness?”

“That will be up to Tahra. If she asks me to leave, I will leave.” He hesitated, then added, “I pray she will not, but that is in God’s hands.”

“Okay,” Carly repeated, and the confrontational tone in her voice was noticeably absent. “So what can you tell me about how Tahra was injured? Alec wasn’t all that specific when we talked on the phone, and I came directly to the hospital from the airport.” She gave a delicate snort. “And though the guards on the door let me pass—after I showed them my passport and they checked with their commanding officer, who consulted with the US embassy—they either wouldn’t or couldn’t give me any details.”

“I can tell you what I know...but only as Tahra’s sister.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “This information cannot be broadcast because these attacks are a breach of national security, and an investigation is underway. You are a journalist, and—”

She cut him off. “You have my word. Anything you tell me as Tahra’s sister will be in strictest confidence.”

Marek quickly relayed the facts he knew. “So you see, Tahra could still be in danger. We do not know this, but it is very likely. If the terrorist who left the bomb at the preschool thinks she can identify him, he will likely stop at nothing to silence her.” Marek let that sink in before adding in a low voice, “There are guards protecting her, but I...I slept in her room last night because I could not stay away. Because I had to protect her myself. I will do the same every night until she regains consciousness. Until she personally rejects my protection. Can you understand this?”

“I understand.” A tiny smile flickered over Carly’s lips and spread to her eyes. “I understand something else, too. You really do love her.”

It wasn’t a question, but Marek answered anyway. “But of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it.”

Marek shook his head. “To know Tahra is to love her,” he said simply. “I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” she insisted.

“Not with Tahra.”

* * *

Tahra was tired of swimming through the murky waters of her memories. She swam and swam, but no matter how hard she tried there was something just out of reach. It was important—she knew it was important—but her head ached dreadfully whenever she tried to force herself to remember.

Giving up for now, she latched onto the memory of her sister, so fresh and crisp in her mind. There was Carly at Tahra’s high school graduation. So proud. So happy. Tahra hadn’t known it at the time, but Carly had passed on an exclusive interview to be there for her little sister. Carly had done something similar when Tahra had graduated from college. “Don’t sweat it,” Carly had told her. “You’re more important than the senior commander of the US forces in Afghanistan.” Tahra hadn’t really believed it, but it had made her love Carly even more...if that were at all possible.

Love. That was it. The thing she couldn’t remember had something to do with love. Not the love of sisters for each other, but someone else. And though she couldn’t remember the details, she knew one thing for sure. Whatever it was—whoever it was—she’d wept bitter tears. Then she’d picked up the shattered remnants of her life and forged ahead. Just like Carly.

The room was shrouded in darkness when Tahra groggily opened her eyes. She didn’t know where she was—this wasn’t her bedroom in the quaint apartment she’d just moved into a half mile away from her job at the US embassy. She liked her new apartment better than her old one, even if it was farther away from work. And she liked her new boss, too, a lot more than her old one. She hadn’t worked for Alec Jones very long—less than a week. And he wasn’t an easy man to work for unless you were a perfectionist like him—which she was. The previous regional security officer had done a slipshod job, in Tahra’s estimation, and she’d been glad when Alec had replaced him with almost no notice.

Tahra gave herself a little mental shake as she suddenly realized she’d allowed her thoughts to wander. Where am I? she wondered now. She wasn’t in her bedroom. She wasn’t in her bed. Where am I?