Loyalty’s Betrayal

by Mari Carr

  He should have come clean with Dimitri and Cecilia, but he didn’t know how to explain his actions without telling them why he’d done what he had.

  “Mateo?” Charlotta turned and saw him. Her expression was wary, curious. “Where have you been?”

  “London,” he said as he approached her. “There were loose ends to attend to after Kacper’s death.”

  “Murder,” she corrected.

  He nodded. “Yes. Murder.” Mateo leaned against the fence, absentmindedly looking at the sheep as they grazed in the field. “It looks like there have been changes here since my short time away.”

  “There was a lot to deal with after Kacper was killed. We’ve been busy. There are questions we need answers to. How the drone operator knew Kacper would be on the balcony. How he got onto the property. How the tainted medicine was brought into the castle.”

  “I’ve been conducting a similar investigation.”

  “How?” She bit the word off. “You haven’t been here.”

  He’d become accustomed to her resentment over the past year. For several months after their unwise night together, she’d pursued him with a fervor, insistent that they should continue the affair. Charlotta had created some dream future for them, certain they could work together as a couple until they aged out of the guard, at which point, they could ask the fleet admiral to place them in a trinity together.

  She was a good member of the Spartan Guard because she was driven, intense, with a laser focus on every objective, every detail. Those were admirable things in a work colleague. They were frightening when placed in a romantic mindset.

  Charlotta had set her sights on him, making their future lives together her top priority. It had taken him months—and in the end, some fairly hurtful words—to convince her their affair had been a mistake and that it would be the height of unprofessionalism to enter into a real relationship. When she professed her love, he was forced to tell her he didn’t return her feelings.

  Her jilted-lover persona was as terrifying as her woman-in-love one had been. Derrick, privy to the entire affair, had warned him Charlotta was not the type to forgive and forget.

  It was those words that kept playing in his head as he considered Cecilia’s belief that someone was trying to frame him.

  Charlotta had changed in the last year, grown more distant from the guard, more aggressive and argumentative. Not just with him, but with everyone.

  He’d overheard her making a disparaging remark to another guard about Kacper’s desire to take his breakfast in his bedroom instead of his office. Charlotta had been of the belief that the fleet admiral should step down due to his declining health.

  Mateo had pulled her aside once the other guard was out of earshot and told her in no uncertain terms that the fleet admiral’s ability to continue in his role was not hers to pass judgment on. Her only job was to ensure that he was protected.

  She had apologized for her comments and he’d forgotten about the entire conversation.

  What if Charlotta had expressed her desire for a healthy, strong fleet admiral to Manon?

  What if Manon had viewed that opinion as a way to sway Charlotta to her cause?

  Did Mateo believe that Charlotta could predict the future leadership of the Masters’ Admiralty? No. He didn’t. But he couldn’t deny that Charlotta was probably quite pleased by the current turn of events.

  “My investigation is ongoing. Until I have proof of wrongdoing, I’m not going to discuss it.”

  Charlotta narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

  “I want to talk to you about the security detail in regards to the new fleet admiral.”

  Charlotta smiled, but there was no happiness in the expression. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Word travels fast. You’re about to be married, which means the position of head of the guard is no longer yours. Eric Ericsson is not your concern.”

  “I am still the head of guard until the end of the week.”

  Charlotta shrugged as if unconcerned. “Mere days. And then we can elect a new head.”

  “And who do you think that will be?”

  This time, her grin was genuine as she shrugged. “All I know is it won’t be you.”

  * * *

  Dimitri spread the paper map of the island on the hood of the car. It was safer to use paper than in-car or app-based maps. The fleet admiral, whose past meant he, like Dimitri, knew how to operate with an abundance of caution, had given it to him.

  Right after Dimitri had reaffirmed his promise to kill Mateo if he was the traitor.

  The thought made Dimitri sick. With the ease of practice, he pushed the emotions aside and focused on the task at hand.

  “What are the dots?” Cecilia asked quietly. She seemed to have picked up on his mood.

  There were four black dots on the map. Three were on the north side of the island, not more than a mile or two from the border of the Triskelion property. The last was on the south side of the island, not far from Douglas.

  “They’re places Manon, the murdered fleet admiral’s other wife, might have met with her lover.”

  Cecilia took a steadying breath. “And we’re going to investigate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why us?”

  “Because there’s a traitor in the Spartan Guard.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth. Dimitri knew how to keep secrets. He wouldn’t tell her that the fleet admiral had been escaping the guards, roaming the island, doing an investigation of his own, and had identified these four locations—each of which was a holiday home, a property rented by people who vacationed on Isle of Man to enjoy the pastoral beauty of the island.

  “I thought Manon left the isle, and that was part of the problem—Mateo didn’t tell anyone because he was protecting their privacy.”

  “Yes.” He studied the map, folded it small, and returned it to his back pocket. “But that kind of betrayal and loyalty takes years to build. Not months.” He opened her door for her.

  She waited until he climbed in and started the car before saying, “You think Manon and her lover—the American sniper—were secretly meeting somewhere on the Isle of Man.”

  “Yes.”

  “Right under the Spartan Guard’s nose? Her husband’s nose?”

  “Exactly.”

  Dimitri knew what drove people—or at least the less noble aspects of human nature. From what he’d learned of Manon, what Mateo had recounted about what she’d said when confronted, he suspected meeting with her lover near to Triskelion was part of the appeal. The very nearness would satiate her desire to undermine and repudiate her spouse, the fleet admiral.

  That was why, of the four locations the Viking had identified, he chose the one that he suspected would have a view of Triskelion Castle.

  He merged onto the winding country road, bringing them almost into Douglas before turning east, and then north, backtracking, but staying on the winding road that hugged the east coast of the island.

  They stopped in Laxey, Dimitri racing into a pharmacy to get some seasickness pills and a bottle of water for Cecilia, whose queasy stomach hadn’t appreciated the scenic drive.

  After some cursing in Italian and the application of damp paper towels to the back of her neck, Cecilia was ready to go. Needing to take care of her helped pull Dimitri out of his grim frame of mind, and when they turned inland, taking A14 up to the high center of the island, passing Tholt-e-Will Plantation and neighboring Tholt y Will Glen, he was chuckling at Cecilia’s running commentary on how much she hated the countryside.

  “In Singapore, there are parks. Beaches. That is nature. This is…rustic.” She spat the last word, then took a sip from the bottle of water.

  “I think British people all secretly want to be farmers.”

  “Sono deficienti.”

  “They are morons,” he agreed.

  He caught sight of the small sign reading “Testraw Treen Self-Catering Cottage” and
turned into the gravel driveway.

  The cottage sat atop a small rise and had a panoramic view of the northwest shore of the isle, including the distant and distinct pointed rooflines of Triskelion Castle.

  The flaw in the plan was if the cottage was currently occupied. Dimitri had planned for that, deciding he’d pretend to be maintenance or from some vague government office come to inspect something like the gas line.

  There was no car in the drive, and after looking in the windows of the single-story white house with a gray roof, he was betting it was currently empty. No lights were on, no clutter visible anywhere.

  “How are we going to get in? Do you know how to pick a lock? Or break one of these?” Cecilia gestured to the dial-code lockbox by the front door, partially hidden by a wall basket of pink flowers.

  “Window,” he said. He started around the house, checking to see if any had been left off the latch. He made it back to the front door without finding any—only to see that the door was now open.

  He tensed, reaching for the knife the Viking had given him, which was tucked into his pants at the small of his back and hidden by his shirt.

  Cecilia stuck her head out, grinning. “The code was the year the cottage was built.” She pointed to a plaque on the wall, which read “Testraw Treen Cottage. 1740.”

  Dimitri snorted and followed his fiancée inside.

  * * *

  Mateo left Charlotta, uncertain what could be gained by engaging her in further conversation. He was more convinced than ever that she was the traitor.

  She’d had everything to gain by joining forces with Manon—getting rid of Kacper, framing him, then grabbing the promotion. The admirals naming a fleet admiral from her territory might have been merely icing on the cake.

  Or maybe she’s figured out the possible results, and gambled on them making the decision to make Eric fleet admiral.

  If that was true, was Eric in on it? Was he the Domino?

  Dammit, he’d been spending too much time with Dimitri. He was suspicious of everyone.

  Since Dimitri and Cecilia had gone into Douglas, he went to rest in his own room in the barracks. He hadn’t gotten much sleep lately.

  He unlocked it and walked in, sinking down on the bed. Looking around, he realized he and Derrick had a great deal in common. Both of them lived a monk’s style of existence, only surrounding themselves with the necessary furniture and skipping the special touches that might make the place feel homey.

  That had never bothered him, or even occurred to him, in the past few years, but after spending the last three days with Cecilia and Dimitri, he was reminded of his parents, of the home they’d shared, how warm and inviting it had always been.

  He could see himself living in a place like that with Cecilia, could imagine her delight in decorating their home, in picking out the colors and theme of a nursery for their baby.

  What surprised Mateo was discovering it wasn’t that hard to picture himself with Dimitri, setting up a crib and moving the same heavy dresser this way or that until Cecilia was satisfied with its placement.

  There were too many things wrong with those images, but Mateo let them come anyway. He’d spent nearly half his life fighting memories. He thought that made him stronger, better able to do his job.

  He wasn’t sure that was true.

  Walking to the small stack of books placed on the edge of his desk, he pulled out an old medical journal he’d kept that had belonged to his mother. Enough dust floated from the cover to make him cough. It had been years since he’d touched the thing.

  Opening the hard cover, he flipped through the pages until he found what he was seeking—an old photograph. It was taken just a few weeks before his parents were murdered. His futbol team had won a big match against their cross-city rivals, and his mom and dad had rushed over to congratulate him for his key role in the win. The mother of a teammate had snapped the picture of the three of them. Mama’s hand rested on his cheek affectionately, while Papa had his arm slung around Mateo’s shoulders. All of them were smiling widely.

  Mateo swallowed deeply, his throat thick with unshed tears. His chest ached as he acknowledged how much he missed them.

  Then he flipped farther in the book and pulled out the second picture.

  This one was newer, but it evoked the same painful response. He was standing next to his second father, the two of them posing for the photograph right after Mateo’s initiation into the Masters’ Admiralty. Neither of them smiled, their faces more serious, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t love. It was simply more guarded, less open.

  Mateo ran his finger over the face of the admiral of Castile, and let the first tear slide.

  He hadn’t had time to mourn the death of his father. He’d been too wrapped up in the investigation surrounding the Domino and the murder of the fleet admiral.

  The Domino hadn’t merely taken their society’s leader. The villain had also stolen the lives of a knight and two admirals…one of whom had walked into his parents’ house on the darkest day of his life and given him a new home.

  He rubbed his eyes and swallowed down the rest of the tears. There was no time to shed them. He was determined to discover the traitor in the guard, desperate for retribution and perhaps even some sort of closure.

  “Bernard.”

  Mateo jerked at the unexpected voice, standing too close to him. He dropped the two photos he was holding.

  The fleet admiral bent down to help him retrieve them, picking up the one of his parents and glancing at it. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he made no remark. Mateo took it from him as they straightened, with a quick word of thanks. He tucked both photographs back into the book and closed it.

  “I didn’t hear you come in, sir.” Mateo kicked himself for admitting as much. He was already on shaky ground with his new boss. It wouldn’t help him to point out his shortcomings when it came to people sneaking up on him.

  Eric’s gaze was hard, his face stern when he said, “I think it’s time you and I have a talk.”

  * * *

  Dimitri and Cecilia checked the cottage, which was clearly meant to be charming and rustic. In places, the plaster had been chipped away to show the original stone of the walls and timeworn beams crossed the ceiling.

  Cecilia sniffed. “Ideally, buildings like this are restored, not left to look so…vulgar.”

  He finished reading through the guest book, which was on a table by the door. There was nothing in there of use. “In Ukraine, people have homes that look like this because they do not have the money to fix them or find better. Perhaps we should market to British tourists.”

  Cecilia started opening cupboards in the kitchen. “Dimitri?”

  “Yes, Cece?”

  “Do you think…do you truly think Mateo is the traitor?”

  “No.”

  The lie rolled easily off his tongue, and he frowned.

  Was it a lie?

  He’d told the fleet admiral he didn’t think it was Mateo, not that it wasn’t Mateo. He had to be careful. Make sure what he said was based on fact, not on Dimitri’s own hope that it wasn’t the other man.

  Cecilia sighed then flipped open a small folder set prominently on the counter. She read quietly, flipping a few pages, while he checked the undersides of furniture and pried at the baseboard in the small sitting room. It was routine to check. He was hoping for some sort of drop point, a hidden place Manon and the sniper could have left each other notes, or where she might have hidden records she didn’t dare keep at Triskelion Castle.

  “There are stables,” Cecilia said, reading from the book. “You can rent horses and keep them in the stables while you visit. How is this a holiday if you have to care for livestock?”

  Stables that weren’t always used would make a safer drop point than anywhere in the house. “Smart, koxaha.”

  “You keep calling me that. What does mean?”

  “Sweetheart,” he lied, hoping his clever woman didn’t decide to attempt to
learn Ukrainian anytime soon. If she did, she’d soon discover his feelings for her had grown into genuine affection.

  “And of course it was smart.” She followed him out the back door, and across a large garden of abundant flowers and herbs. The smells—rosemary, lavender, the spice of thyme mingled with the floral scents of a dozen different kinds of flowers—reminded him of his grandmother’s house.

  The stable was clean and seemed newer than the house. There were two stalls on opposite sides of the aisle from one another, a tack room, and an open space where bales of hay were stacked. A lean cat opened its eyes when they walked in. Dimitri stopped to pet her, praising her in Ukrainian.

  Cecilia joined him and tried to pet the cat, who hissed. “The cat likes you.”

  “I am very likeable.”

  “Ha!”

  “You like it when I pet you,” he crooned.

  She narrowed her eyes, but he didn’t miss the obvious desire he saw in them.

  Dimitri was tempted to toss her onto one of the hay bales to show her just how easily he could make her purr. However, doing so without Mateo felt wrong, so he dismissed the idea.

  It was easier for his head to let go of the image than his cock, which had grown thick at just the mere thought of getting inside dear Cecilia.

  Cecilia went to check one of the stalls, while Dimitri continued petting the cat and looked around. The tops of the exposed beams would be a good option, as would inside or behind the hay bales.

  Finding nothing of interest in the stalls, Cecilia opened the door to the tack room, which was about the size of the stall beside it. She flipped on the light, then grabbed a packet of laminated pages off the wall, an instructional booklet similar to what she’d read in the house.

  Dimitri thanked the cat for allowing him to pet her, then walked to the tack room, hoping for a stool or mounting block he could use to check the beams.

  “There’s a page for each horse you can rent. Apparently, it’s very relaxing to go for ‘scenic trail rides.’” She snorted, as if that very idea was ridiculous.