by Mari Carr
Marek slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back. Rose wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on as he lifted her out of the car.
Weston watched them with a haunted expression.
“Shall we go inside?” Marek asked.
Weston nodded his head woodenly.
They all turned to the door, but Knight stepped out from the shadows of the doorway. “You’re going to come with me.”
Weston sighed. “Damn it, Knight, I can explain, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“No, you don’t, Wes. You have twelve hours to convince me you aren’t a threat to us, and assuming you do convince me, you have three days to leave the country.”
“What? Damn it, Tristan.”
Knight lifted his hands. He held a gun in each. “You abused our hospitality.” Knight shook his head. “What the bloody fuck were you planning?”
Rose watched the muscle in Weston’s jaw clench, and she tensed.
“I’m here, Rose,” Marek murmured.
“I wasn’t planning anything,” Weston said. “And I’m close to having what I need. Give me twenty-four hours to get it.”
“If you can convince me not to have you dragged out of the country within the next twelve hours, you’ll have seventy-two hours to vacate the country. That’s more than enough.”
“Fine, just let me get my stuff.”
“No, Anderson. We’re going to my car, now.”
Weston’s expression went blank and hard.
“All of us?” Marek asked calmly.
“Yes, Mr. Lee. Once I know more about what exactly is going on, I’ll let you go.”
“I stay with Rose.”
Knight raised one golden eyebrow at that. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“I’m parked on the road.”
For the second time that day, Rose went down the hill, though this time it wasn’t at a breakneck run but in Marek’s arms. She offered to walk on the grass, but he insisted on carrying her. Once they went through the little gate at the end of the drive, they could see a large black SUV, which was hidden from the house by a tall hedge. It leaned precariously toward the ditch, but was pulled far enough off the road that another car could have passed by if it needed to.
Knight tucked a gun through the belt that held the sheath to his sword, and tugged keys out of his pocket. Weston opened the door and Marek placed Rose inside. She climbed into the third row of seats. Marek got in and started to join her, but she raised a hand and he stopped, instead sitting in one of the captain’s chairs in the middle row. Weston took the other.
Without another word, Knight climbed in, messing with his belt for a moment before tucking the sword into an odd pocket on his door.
Rose leaned forward between the middle-row seats. “Does he have a special sword holder where there should be a cup holder?”
Weston snorted and Marek’s teeth flashed as he smiled. There was a little bubble of something in Rose’s chest, a feeling she didn’t recognize.
Knight adjusted the rearview mirror. Rose leaned back and crossed her arms.
“Where are you taking us?” Marek asked.
Knight didn’t answer.
“Oh good, I’m getting kidnapped again. What a refreshing change,” Rose said.
Weston pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and Marek chuckled as Knight started the car and pulled onto the little lane.
Rose tried to stop herself, but she turned to look out the back window, at the little cottage in the country. Their little cottage.
* * *
They took the M3 in toward London. Marek looked out the window long enough to be sure he knew where they were headed, then shifted in his seat so he could see both Weston and Rose.
He looked at Weston, trying to see the young man Rose had described. It seemed likely that the physical damage—the eye, the weaker right leg—were related to what had happened to them when they were teenagers.
The piece of the story he was missing was how Rose had come to be with Weston now, though Marek thought he knew the answer to that, and why she’d been running from Weston when Marek got there. Weston had mentioned that she’d get answers if she stayed, and in that moment, he’d seen something in the other man’s face that made Marek think Weston still had feelings, strong feelings, for Rose.
But then he’d deliberately used a harsh tone of command with her, forcing her to respond with habits that had been quite literally beaten into her. That might be why she’d been running when he first got there. And if it hadn’t been for that glimpse of longing and heartbreak he’d seen on Weston’s face, he wouldn’t have questioned the situation further, but after that glimpse of raw, aching emotion, Marek was sure there were things he didn’t yet understand.
Despite the late hour, there was traffic on the M3, and it was nearly forty-five minutes before Knight got off the motorway. Marek saw a sign for Hampton Court Palace. That meant they were near Kingston upon Thames, which wasn’t far outside London. It was far enough out that the underground wouldn’t run there, but the London buses might.
Marek worked though several plans, fleshing them out from start to finish, making contingencies at each possible point of divergence. It was a habit he’d cultivated through the years. Anyone in the armed forces would tell you that a plan usually goes to hell about thirty seconds into engagement, but remaining calm and knowing what to do when it went to hell made all the difference.
He went over each plan twice, as Knight navigated through the winding streets, the river on their right, the expansive green of the lands around Hampton Court Palace on their left. They pulled up outside a large set of iron gates built into a stone wall. Beyond the gates, the palace was artistically lit. The moonlight provided just enough illumination to hint at the colors in the expansive gardens. Knight pulled up to a small keypad and typed in some numbers. Marek leaned close to the window and saw when the light on the cameras mounted above the gate went out. Then one side of the gate swung open and they pulled through, into the Hampton Court Palace grounds.
Rose leaned forward. “Where are we?”
“Hampton Court Palace,” Marek replied. “This was Henry the Eighth’s palace.”
“The one with all the wives?”
“The very same.”
“Fun guy,” Weston murmured. Rose snorted out a laugh.
There was something between Weston and Rose. A rapport.
“I’m going to assume there are dungeons?” Rose sighed. “I would hate to not be held captive. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”
Though the words were biting, her tone was wry. Weston laughed abruptly, as if it had been startled out of him.
“I very much doubt we’re going to be locked in the dungeons of Hampton Court,” Marek said.
“Really? Well, that’s disappointing.” Rose put her elbow on her bare knee, her chin on her fist. “I was hoping to add a bit of historical melodrama to it all.”
“I’m taking you to Oak House.” Knight turned off the headlights once they were past the palace, which was illuminated by elegant landscape lighting.
Marek rolled down the window to let the night air in. There was the sound of the river and, farther away, the sound of cars on the motorway. The air was scented by nature—lavender, roses, cut grass.
They took a paved road that bisected the park, and Marek understood why Knight had the lights off—it kept anyone in the surrounding area from noting a car driving through Hampton Court Home Park. They passed a small building with carts and mowers parked outside—the background areas that kept the palace functioning as a historical site and made the gardens the envy and destination of every gardener in southern England. They pulled up to black metal gates in a tall stone wall.
Knight rolled up Marek’s window as he started to brake, then locked the windows so Marek couldn’t roll it down again.
“I wasn’t going to jump out, Knight,” Marek assured him.
“On
ly crazy people would jump out of a moving car,” Rose quipped from the backseat.
Again, Knight pulled up to a keypad. The metal gates, these made of solid sheets of painted metal, not decorative iron, opened.
Knight turned right out of the gate, pulling onto a normal public road. If Marek remembered correctly, there was a public road that bisected Hampton Court’s surrounding grounds. The area was so big that not allowing traffic through the grounds would have crippled the surrounding villages and created mad gridlock.
On either side of the road were tall stone walls, the tops of a few buildings visible above them. They were on the road for no more than fifty meters before Knight turned left, onto a short drive that stopped at yet another black metal gate, set into the brick wall opposite the one they’d just passed through. The building beyond it was tall, tall enough that he could see the upper part of second-story windows—old fashioned narrow things with white-painted frames—in a stone face, with a black slate roof. There was a wrought iron pedestrian gate a few yards from the driveway gate. A plaque was set into the brick wall beside it, though from this angle, Marek couldn’t read it.
Knight keyed in another code and this gate swung open. It was only just wide enough to let the big car pass through. They drove past the two-story brick house, parking between the back door and the small garage building, which had clearly been a stable in its first iteration.
Knight unlocked the doors. “Climb out, everyone.”
Marek opened his door and got out, turning to offer his hand to Rose. She ignored it, stepping out onto the paved drive and looking around. Large trees cast the drive and one side of the house in shadow. A small rose garden dominated the space behind the house and to the side of the stable, stretching to a low iron fence, beyond which there was manicured grass and stately old trees.
Weston moved slowly, keeping one hand on the car.
“You can put your hand on my shoulder,” Knight said softly.
“Fuck you, Tristan,” Weston murmured.
“Don’t be such a wanker,” Knight muttered.
That was another mystery Marek needed to get to the bottom of.
The golden-haired man wasn’t just named Tristan “Knight,” he was a knight. A knight of the Masters’ Admiralty was a formidable person, and not to be crossed lightly, but Weston was talking to him as if…as if they were friends.
Knight took Weston’s elbow, as if he were escorting a prisoner, and started toward the back door of the house.
“Is it his eye?” Rose asked quietly.
“What’s that?” Marek replied.
“He…he only has one eye. Does that make it hard for him to see when it’s dark?” There was definite concern in her voice.
“I’m not sure. If that’s the case, then Knight knows him well.”
They continued walking, but they weren’t hurrying to keep up. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have the faintest fucking idea what’s going on?” Her tone was casual, almost light, but threaded with a rueful note.
He grinned and waved for her to proceed him. “An idea, but no more than that. Perhaps we can have a cup of tea and a chat.”
Rose halted, looked down at herself, and Marek took stock of her appearance too—her mangled pants, her bare feet. “Of course. A cup of tea.”
By that time, Weston and Tristan Knight were inside, and light spilling out the back door guided them along the flagstones set into the earth, soft moss growing up between them. Marek and Rose hurried now, and two steps up brought them to the door. They stepped through into a narrow hall, dark paneled wainscoting on the bottom half with white-painted walls above. The place smelled of wax and slightly stale air. On the right, there was a partially open door showing a toilet tucked into the space under the stairs, which were steeper than modern-day staircases. Tristan and Weston were waiting for them, standing near the front door. Light came from three sconces along the hall.
“Upstairs,” Tristan said, motioning with one hand. His sword was back on his belt.
“Where are we?” Marek asked.
“A safe house.”
Weston whirled on Tristan. “Give me an hour to explain and then I have to go.”
“I can’t let you leave.”
“Damn it, Tristan!”
“No, damn you. You’ve abused my hospitality.”
“No, I haven’t.”
Tristan braced the heel of his hand on his sword and Marek took a step forward, standing at Weston’s back. He felt protective of the other man. Maybe it was because of what Rose had told him. Marek laid a hand on Weston’s shoulder to let him know he was there.
Weston stiffened, and then relaxed.
“We’re going to talk in the morning,” Tristan insisted. “Upstairs, there’s a bedroom and a bathroom. I’m fairly certain your female companion would like to shower.”
“I’m moving up in the world,” Rose said caustically. “I’m no longer a token pawn—”
Marek was close enough to see and feel Weston flinch at her words.
“—now I’m a convenient excuse for you to get them to do what you want them to do. I have an idea, Blondie, why don’t you ask what my name is?” Rose’s voice was acidic.
Marek expected Tristan to react, but he only shifted to face her. “I don’t need to ask who you are. I recognize you.”
Rose stiffened as Tristan went on.
“You’re Rose Hancock, the woman he’s stupidly in love with. You’re the reason he’s here, being a pain in my arse, trying to find a way to ‘free’ you from those Trinity Masters morons.”
“Shut up, Knight,” Weston whispered.
Tristan stared Rose down. “I’ve seen your picture. It’s the bloody wallpaper on his phone. A pint or two in and he’ll go on and on about you. You’re the reason he kept bouncing around looking at different cottages, until we finally found ‘your’ cottage.”
Rose made a soft sound, her gaze on Weston. His shoulders were hunched. As if to protect himself from a blow.
“You’re an asshole, Knight.” Weston’s words were rough and gravelly.
Tristan didn’t answer. He looked over each of them in turn, his golden eyes piercing, like that of a cat.
Weston grabbed the railing of the stairs with one hand, pulling himself forward. He started pounding up the stairs. Rose glanced at Marek, then she headed up.
“There may be spare clothes in the wardrobe,” Knight said to her retreating back. In response, she raised one hand, her middle finger extended as she climbed.
Marek looked at Tristan. “May I borrow your phone?”
Knight fished it out. “I hope you’re calling your grandmother.”
Marek nodded and dialed. He spoke to his grandmother for a minute before hanging up and passing the phone back.
“Why are you here, Lee?” Tristan asked.
“The leader of the Trinity Masters asked me to help find Rose.”
“And Weston?”
“No.” He could have said more. Could have told Tristan that the Trinity Masters didn’t know Wes was alive. He could have told him about the purists, about the precarious position the Trinity Masters were in, how fractured their organization seemed to be.
But he owed no loyalty to the Masters’ Admiralty. His job was saving Rose.
Tristan sighed. “There’s a spare room down here. Back that way, second door on the left. I’ll sleep in the parlor.”
“There’s only one room upstairs?” Marek asked.
“Yes.” Tristan paused before saying slowly, “This is one of the honeymoon cottages, not really a safe house, though it has enough security to be one.”
Marek’s eyes widened, then he nodded. The Masters’ Admiralty had various cottages, condos, country estates, and hotel suites that were permanently reserved. When a new trinity was formed, they had their choice of private, secure destinations. He only knew about it because they were also offered to trinities who hit major anniversary
milestones. His grandparents had a rather spectacular argument about where they’d go for their fiftieth anniversary. It had included his grandmother listing the places she couldn’t go because “I murdered someone in that godforsaken town. He needed killing.”
If it was a honeymoon suite then there was probably only one bedroom, and one extra-large bed.
“I’m going upstairs.” Marek nodded to Tristan and started up.
“What are they to you?” Tristan asked.
“Only time will tell,” Marek replied, and the comment surprised even him.
He heard Tristan’s footsteps as he walked away, leaving Marek to make his way upstairs to confront Rose and Weston.
Chapter Eleven
There was a small landing at the top of the stairs with a window. Heavy fabric blinds were drawn. Light came from a small, elegant lamp sitting on an equally elegant side table. Immediately to the left at the top of the stairs was a lovely carved door. A small hall ran along the right side; the railing that protected the hall from the opening of the stairwell was made of glossy dark wood. There were three doors off the hall.
Rose looked around at the four possible doors, shrugged, and tried the one closest to the top of the stairs. It was pitch dark beyond until her groping hand found a switch on the wall.
The room was large, taking up nearly half of the footprint of the house. Pale green walls with crisp white trim were complemented by Oriental rugs in colors of gold and moss green atop the worn but still lovely hardwood floor. It was dominated by a bed.
A massive bed. It was probably nine feet square. The duvet cover was pale gray shot with silver threads. A massive headboard and footboard, both of dark wood, had posts that stretched nearly to the ceiling. A couch and two wide, low armchairs made up an elegant seating area near the door.
Silver sconces with white glass shades were evenly spaced along the wall, illuminating the room.
Rose stared at the big bed for a moment, then practically leapt back and pulled the door closed. She turned her back to the room, a sinking feeling weighing down her stomach.
At the foot of the stairs, there was the quiet murmur of voices as Marek and Tristan talked. Weston was nowhere in sight.