“A scuffle. I heard a scuffle,” Belmar said. He did not follow Gunnar into the light.
“There is no one here. Just in case, I'll take my leave. Wait ten minutes before you do the same.” Gunnar stalked away from the office, heading for the main hallways that would take him to the stairs.
On the way to the upper, private floors, he found his phone and sent Mattias a text message.
It read: We have a situation. Your presence is needed immediately. Come at once.
Unless Mattias showed up or Sander woke from the coma, there wasn't much Gunnar could do to stop Paavo's plans for Latvala.
Chapter Seven
Twisting his chin left and right, Paavo tightened the knot of his tie against his throat. Smoothing his hand down the front, he examined the immaculate suit of black and crisp, pale green shirt beneath. It did interesting things to his eyes, the color of the button down, or so he liked to think.
Freshly showered and groomed, he departed his bedroom suite and made his way to the second floor, veering down another hall until he came to the parlor he'd chosen for dinner with Wynn. As instructed, the waitstaff had set up a new table near two tall windows and draped it with clean, cream linens and pristine china with a delicate pattern. He examined the layout with a critical eye. Satisfied his demands had been met, he turned to the vase of flowers flanking the table, set aside rather than in the middle where they might make an awkward obstacle during the meal. White lilies poked up from lush green fronds and an array of other colorful flora filled in the remaining space.
Noise from the doorway brought Paavo's attention around. Expecting to see Wynn, a young, thin man stood there instead. Large brown eyes peered out of an angular face, his nondescript clothing making him blend in with the background.
As was intended.
The young man bowed his head in respect. “Your Majesty.”
“Davin, come in. Have you news?” Paavo watched the boy come closer.
“I do, yes.”
“Tell me, then.” Paavo tapped his own ear to indicate he wanted the young man to whisper there.
Davin did as instructed, laying the words out in concise sentences that went straight to the point rather than danced around it.
Paavo straightened. “Very good. You'll find your payment where I said you would. Keep me updated if you find anything else.”
The young man bowed his head once more and exited with all due haste.
Staring across the room at nothing in particular, Paavo resisted the urge to backhand the vase of flowers. Busted ceramic and lilies all over the floor wouldn't help the image he wanted to portray for his dinner companion. Taking out his phone, he shot off three text messages.
“I hope I'm not late. My nightstand clock was a few minutes off.”
Paavo schooled his features and glanced at the door. There stood Wynn, looking a little nervous. He eyed her conservative outfit of black—pants and sleeveless button down vest—trimmed with white piping. She was a tiny thing, with frail shoulders and an expressive face framed by a bob of sleek, dark hair. It took effort for him not to show his annoyance in the open.
“No, right on time. Come, sit down. Dinner should be here shortly.” Paavo gestured to one of the chairs at the table as another text message came in. He tilted the phone up to read.
As Wynn made her way over, Paavo sent off one last text.
That should take care of at least one problem.
. . .
The heavy chime of a grandfather clock struck the midnight hour. Wynn matched her steps to the metronome, pacing the long hallway on the second floor with her arms crossed over her chest. She didn't care that she was dressed in pajamas or that her feet were bare. The lounge pants in hunter green with a long sleeved top were modest at any rate, more than adequate to wander the castle.
She couldn't get her mind off dinner. Off Paavo. His demeanor during the meal had been intense to say the least, with lingering eye contact and an accidental brush of his shoe against her calf that had put her on edge. The harder she tried to forget the resonance of his voice, his accent, the more it haunted her mind. And it shouldn't. Time and again she chided herself for the distraction, for allowing him to get under her skin. None of this could come to any good. Most of their conversation revolved around his plans for her and her job. Note taking, transcription, filing, preparing agendas for travel. None of it was unexpected.
Except she never meant to keep the job for longer than a few days.
At the end of the hallway, where it met the juncture of another, Wynn paused. She didn't want to go down to the lowest level and couldn't go up to the royal floor. A guard standing against the wall right at the corner caught her eye. She gave him a tight, cordial smile. Standing at least six feet, he filled out his uniform as well as any guard could. Wynn remembered seeing him several times earlier in the day at other posts around the castle, but hadn't been close enough to discern the gray of his eyes or the casual handsomeness of his features. He wore his light brown hair straight, the length hitting the edge of his whiskered jaw.
She filed away the details in a flash, one of those stolen moments that didn't detract from the mental deluge over Paavo. Not even the quirk of a return smile from the guard pulled Wynn from her reverie. Pacing back the way she'd come, she argued with herself that Paavo's draw was nothing more than natural charisma and an occasional sparkle of dry wit. He was unknown, untested, and she told herself that the man and the situation were challenges, a puzzle to be worked out and put away once she was done. Wynn, a lover of mysteries, only wanted to see this one through to the end.
Then why was she out here, pacing the hallway? Why couldn't she sleep? He shouldn't be so prominent in her thoughts that it kept her awake at night.
Making another circuit of the hall, she pivoted at the end, traded another shallow smile with the same guard, and began again.
Walking, pacing, wondering.
On her fourth pass, Wynn realized the guard changed positions. He wasn't leaning against the outer hallway, out of sight until she performed her pivot. He now stood near the opposite wall with a full view of the entire corridor. It meant she made eye contact with him for the last fifteen feet before she turned on a heel to start the other direction.
He probably thought she was crazy.
“Isn't that convenient,” she muttered to herself over his new 'view'. Her backside, to be exact.
“It's very convenient,” the guard replied.
Shocked that he heard, Wynn halted and turned around. Fighting off a blush, honing in on another detail, she said, “Wait. You don't have an accent. Do you?”
“How observant. No, I do not have an accent.” He maintained eye contact, slouching against the wall instead of standing erect.
“American,” Wynn said.
He flashed an unabashed smile, exposing a straight row of white teeth.
Wynn wondered what an American was doing standing guard, in guard's clothing no less, in a Latvala castle. Mysteries and puzzles abounded this evening.
He doffed a nonexistent hat when she continued to stare. “Leander, at your service.”
“Wynn.”
“I know.”
She scoffed. Rather than pelt him with question after question, Wynn returned to pacing. Knowing he was probably watching her disrupted the process. Gone was the ability to walk and think. Now she felt conspicuous and under observation.
Halfway down the hall, the muffled crack of a gunshot changed the entire dynamic of the night. She automatically ducked, tucking her chin, arms over her head. Before she knew what happened, Leander scooped her up like she weighed nothing and bulled into the nearest room. A bedroom, one of the many suites lining the corridor. He took her straight to a closet and set her down in the darkness.
“Don't leave this closet until I come and get you, understand?” He didn't wait for an answer. Turning around, he closed her inside. The sound of his footfalls receded.
Wynn couldn't even see her hand in front
of her face but questioned the wisdom of finding a light switch. That might only draw an unwanted visitor into the room and straight to her hiding place. What the hell was going on out there? Had a shooter made it past the layers of security to target one of the royals? Pressing her palms against her flushed cheeks, she regulated her breathing and tried to concentrate. Her thoughts were scattered.
She hated not knowing what lurked beyond the closet door. Anyone could be stalking the hallways. Somewhere, someone shouted. Another voice, male, responded. No shots followed. Wynn thought she heard running feet.
After ten minutes of listening to what sounded like half the house tramping up and down the hallway, Wynn cracked the closet door open. Moonlight falling through a window in the bedroom left shadows in the corners but as far as she could see, no one had taken refuge in the suite. Crossing to the next door, she opened it a hair. A body ran past. Opening it a little more, she saw two guards enter a bedroom all the way at the end, not far from her own borrowed suite. Men spoke in terse voices and another two guards raced along the corridor, weapons drawn.
If they were entering the room, then surely they had the perpetrator trapped. Too curious to stay put, she darted into the hallway just as Leander exited the far end bedroom.
He pointed a finger at her, as if that might halt her where she stood.
And it did. Caught red-handed, she stopped and pleaded for information. “What's going on? Who got shot? Did you capture the shooter?”
Leander jogged the rest of the way, gun held down at his side. Scooping an arm around her waist, he bodily lifted her straight off the ground and walked her the opposite direction. “You don't listen. As soon as we know more, you'll know more.”
“But my room is down there--”
“Too bad. You'll have to find another in a different wing tonight.” He carried her past more guards to the staircase. When another guard came up from the lower floor, Leander spoke quickly—in the Latvala tongue.
Wynn translated the important parts, surprised at what she heard. Apparent suicide. One of the councilmen. Cover the back stairs and don't go anywhere unless you're in pairs.
“Suicide? Someone committed suicide?” Breathless, Wynn hung on with her arms around Leander's neck.
“Apparent suicide.” He stalked past running waitstaff and other guards coming and going through the halls. Turning into one of the empty conference rooms, he set her on her feet and made strict eye contact. “Listen this time. You can't go back upstairs tonight. Wait for Urmas or someone like that to tell you where you need to sleep.”
“But--”
“No buts.” Leander pointed a finger at her again and exited the room.
Exasperated, Wynn slumped into a chair, lamenting the lack of her cell phone. She couldn't even call Chey.
All she could do was sit there while she waited, wondering if the suicide was really a suicide and if not, who might have been the one to pull the trigger.
. . .
“I said, I want to see the body.” Gunnar, in a stare down with Ingvar, refused to relent. “If you're so sure it's suicide, then there's no danger letting me on the scene.”
Ingvar, resplendent in his military uniform, was an immovable wall between the Prince and the hallway. “I'm sorry, your Highness--”
“Don't placate me, Ingvar. Just let me by. The castle's on lockdown, no one is going in or out and we both know it.” Gunnar ground his molars together. The news that Belmar had committed suicide tonight of all nights set off alarm bells. Earlier, when Belmar confessed the contents of the meeting, he'd been overly paranoid about being found out. Now he was dead. The math didn't add up in Gunnar's mind and he wanted answers. A few had already presented themselves, ones Gunnar didn't want to acknowledge. Paavo wouldn't stoop to murder. Would he?
“I can't. The scene is still being investigated--”
Impatient, Gunnar shoved Ingvar's shoulder. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been able to move the soldier. Tonight, the General back-stepped, raising his hands, and allowed Gunnar past.
Striding out of his suite, Gunnar headed for the stairs and the next floor down. Guards were everywhere; two flanked him once he departed the royal level and followed him through the corridors toward the room where Belmar apparently ended his life. Disregarding more guards stationed outside, Gunnar stepped across the threshold. A coppery, metallic scent hit his nose first, before the scene distracted him from the smell. Adjacent to a sitting area was the kingsized, four poster bed. Across it, sprawled with his arms akimbo, lay Belmar. Once pristine covers in light blue were now drenched with dark red blood, the spray dotting material all the way up to the pillows. It appeared the councilman had perched on the very edge of the mattress and put the gun in his mouth. The gore looked especially harsh surrounded by such rich luxury.
Far from a forensics expert, Gunnar observed a handful of men in suits and gloves, taking pictures, taking samples. They handled everything with utmost care, tiptoeing through the room while bagging a tiny piece of this and sliding a bit of that into a clear glass vial.
“Which one of you is in charge?” Gunnar asked. Everyone stopped and looked his way. One man stood straighter, then picked his way over to the door.
“I am, your Highness. Larss Hansen.” He did not offer to shake hands.
“What are the findings?” Gunnar did not offer to shake hands, either. He studied Larss' blue eyes, searching for evasiveness or shifty nerves. Larss met his gaze head on.
“Suicide, your Highness. Has no one told you--”
“With absolute, one-hundred percent certainty? You're positive there could have been no foul play?”
Larss stiffened. “We have found no evidence to remotely suggest that, your Highness.”
“It doesn't matter what you think you've found. I know this wasn't suicide, so start examining the evidence more closely. Report directly to me when you find clues as to who might have done this.” Gunnar left a surprised Larss standing there. Leaving the room, angrier than he'd been in some time, Gunnar stalked the hallways until he hit the royal floor. He went to Paavo's bedroom door and banged three times with a fist.
“Paavo!”
The door swung open. Paavo, in casual nightwear of solid black, frowned at Gunnar. He appeared studiously groomed, hair combed away from his face, jaw clean shaven.
Gunnar's fist came around, aiming for his brother's chin.
“Gunnar! What are you doing?” Natalia shouted from her room across the hall.
Paavo's head snapped aside at the contact. He staggered back one step and snarled. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”
“You ordered that hit. We both know it. I want to know what you're up to, because it can't be anything good. Murder in your own house, Paavo? Is that what you'll stoop to?” Breathing hard, hands in fists at his side, Gunnar ignored the guards crowding close at his back in favor of staring his brother down.
“Gunnar!” Natalia ran across the hall, peach silk robe flapping against her ankles.
“Watch yourself, Gunnar,” Paavo said, with clear warning in his tone. “You're blindly throwing accusations around, and may I remind you that I am your King now.”
“Don't throw your title at me when a man lies dead one floor down, caused by your own order. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you killed him as surely as if you had. This is not the way Ahtissari men take care of business.” Infuriated beyond good reason, Gunnar tugged his arm out of Natalia's hands.
“What are you saying? Gunnar, Belmar committed suicide. It wasn't murder,” Natalia said.
“You speak ignorantly, sister, because you don't know what I know. Belmar came to me earlier today, frantic and nervous, to tell--”
“Gunnar,” Paavo said, taking a step forward. “Do not speak of those things.”
“Why?” Gunnar shouted. “So no one else will hear the truth for what it is? So they'll look at you and know your hands are bloodied?”
Without warning, Paavo snatched
Gunnar by the front of his clothes and yanked him into the room. The door closed on Natalia's surprised face with a hard bang. Paavo threw the lock, then bulled Gunnar deeper into the elaborately decorated chamber.
Gunnar knocked Paavo's hand from his person. “You killed him.”
“Not true. Belmar took his own life for reasons I can only guess at. Now then, you need to calm down.” Paavo stopped within inches of Gunnar, face to face.
“He wanted very badly to live earlier this afternoon, and now he draws breath no longer. You were the one who told them not to say anything to anyone, and now Belmar is dead. I am not so big a fool, Paavo, to overlook the obvious.” Not quite as tall as his brother, Gunnar was nevertheless unbothered by it. He did not allow Paavo's aggressive stature to diminish his righteous indignation nor his belief that Paavo ordered the strike. The longer he thought about it, the more positive he became of the truth.
“You have two choices,” Paavo said, voice gone low and persuasive. “You can stand with me and take control of your empire, the land I will give you to rule, or you can find yourself in the other camp, the one where I make your life as difficult as possible until you see reason. There can be no other way going forward, brother.”
“That is as good as an admission of guilt.” Gunnar clipped the words out, furious all over again. Belmar, a decent man with a family, hadn't deserved to die.
“I think you fail to understand the seriousness of the situation, Gunnar. You're young, with the least experience of us all. Trust me when I say—you want to be on my side right now.” Paavo slid his hands into the pockets of his silk pajama pants.
Gunnar spun away, not trusting himself or his actions. He paced the room, oblivious to the splash of masculine colors, all in browns, reds and cream. Gleaming gilt accents flashed by in periphery as he faced Paavo from a different vantage.
“Tell me, Paavo. Were you behind Dare's 'accident', too? Have you planned this the whole time? During the months of summer, pretending to be over your ideas for dividing the country? Hm?” A muscle flexed in Gunnar's jaw. He didn't know what he might do if the answer was yes. It was too nefarious, too treasonous.
The Wrath of the King (Royals Book 5) Page 6