Honor’s Revenge: Masters’ Admiralty, book 4

by Mari Carr

  Chapter Nine

  Sylvia slid out from between them. With their two big bodies trapping her in the middle of her once seemingly spacious bed, she had no choice but to actually slide down to the bottom and out from under the covers that had come untucked somewhere along the way. Naked, and shivering after the loss of their body heat, she slipped into the bathroom. When she was done, she washed her hands and face. Other parts of her body were sticky, and she considered a sponge bath, but she wasn’t ready to lose the feel of them.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked the same, if perhaps a bit tousled, her lips fuller, thanks to the pressure of their kisses. It amazed her that profound events didn’t always leave profound marks on the face or body, only the soul. She’d seen the death of her grandmother etch lines into her mother’s face; Oscar’s laugh lines almost disappeared the year he broke his arm so badly there was talk of loss of function in his hand.

  And here she was, looking like the same woman she’d been hours ago, but she was new. She was bold and brave, having seized the opportunity to take two lovers at once. It had been more than she’d dreamed—more intense, more emotional, and above all, more pleasurable.

  And also…less.

  She pushed that wayward thought away, refusing to mar this after-sex bliss. Sylvia smiled at her reflection and lifted her robe from the hook on the back of the door.

  It was the middle of the night, but she didn’t want to go back to sleep. Oh, she would crawl back between their big bodies. Maybe she would wake them and see if the experience was as good the second time, but right now she wanted time to sit with this feeling.

  And perhaps find a way to commemorate this moment.

  She grabbed her sketch pad and the small wooden box she kept her charcoals in. Returning to her bedroom, she eased in, tiptoeing so she wouldn’t wake them.

  Moonlight streamed in the windows, painting everything in her room in tones of silvery-blue, turquoise, cobalt, and navy. Lancelot slept on his stomach, one arm up, curled around his face. The covers had slid down, exposing his upper back, and the tattoos on his left shoulder and upper arm. Hugo was on his side, the arm not folded under the pillow stretched out. That arm had been curled around her, and seeing that he was still reaching for her made her want to drop everything and slide back into the welcoming valley of their bodies.

  Instead, she perched on her slipper chair, bracing her feet on the small trunk under the window. Propping her sketch pad on her thighs, she took a stubby pencil from the box and did a quick sketch of Lancelot. She wanted to capture the moment, but more than that, she wanted to draw the scene as she saw it—to treat it almost like a still life. From her current perspective on Lancelot’s side of the bed, she’d have to settle for a hint of Hugo—the details of the curve of his shoulder and the side of his face.

  She switched pencil for a charcoal stick and went to work. Broad strokes and smudged lines for the bed and sheets. Details and shadow for the features of Lancelot’s back, including the Celtic-looking tattoo—a connected triple spiral, a triskele, she thought it was called. Then back to smudges and soft lines for Lancelot’s hair. For Hugo it was careful details for his shoulder and the muscles of his biceps, then soft shadows beyond, representing the pools of darkness in the part of her bedroom where the silvery moonlight didn’t reach.

  Sylvia finished and set down her sketch pad, flexing her hand. She was happy with what she’d done, happy to have these quiet moments.

  A quick trip to the bathroom got most of the charcoal smudges off her hand. She placed her robe on the hook. Naked again, she padded back to her bedroom. Picking up the pad, she looked at the sketch once again. It was both romantic and sexual. Real and wonderful.

  One of the reasons she liked charcoal was because it wasn’t a precise medium. It was sweeps of shadow, a thousand shades of gray against the creamy white of the paper. Her quick lines gave nothing more than the anatomy of two male bodies—or possibly the same man in two different poses, the swirl of the tri-spiral tattoo on Lancelot’s shoulder bold and dark compared to the few sketched lines that outlined the curve of his head.

  Impulsively, she grabbed her phone. Setting the sketch pad on the trunk, where it was washed in moonlight, she took a photo. She hadn’t included their faces, and wouldn’t name them, but it was a beautiful image, a piece of art she wanted to share. She uploaded the photo to Instagram with the caption, “Poetry without words.”

  Sylvia tossed her phone down on the trunk and yawned. Satisfied artistically in the way she’d so recently been satisfied sexually, she crawled back into bed. Hugo’s arm curled tight around her waist, pulling her into his body. Lancelot shifted in his sleep, turning to face her, his hand settling on her thigh.

  With Hugo’s hand so close to her breasts, Lancelot’s so close to her sex, she held her breath, her body starting to hum with anticipation as she recalled the sketch she’d shown them in the restaurant.

  Sadly, neither man moved, and then, much to her surprise, she yawned again, her eyes drifting closed.

  * * *

  HUGO WOKE IN STAGES, sleepily aware that he was in a strange bed, yet he felt safe and satisfied. As he surfaced from sleep, he remembered where he was and who he was with. He opened his eyes, half wondering if this were a hyper-realistic dream.

  Sunlight streamed in the windows, illuminating the empty space where Lancelot had been and making Sylvia’s hair glow. She was asleep on her stomach, hair a wild tangle that half covered her face. He brushed it back, exposing her cheek and the delicate swirl of her ear. Her legs were tangled with his, and when he shifted to touch her, his cock came into contact with the sweet curve of her hip.

  Hugo leaned down, prepared to kiss her awake, but stopped himself. Last night had been stunning and wonderful. It had been one of the most erotic nights of his life, and he had lived a far from celibate life.

  But that didn’t mean she’d want more of the same this morning.

  Hugo rolled out of bed, then carefully positioned the covers so she wouldn’t get cold. Sylvia shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back, arms and legs akimbo so she almost took up the whole bed.

  He turned to find Lancelot leaning against the doorjamb, his pants on but chest bare. Hugo paused, considering his companion. Last night had been an intimate experience, yet Hugo felt vulnerable, standing there naked before the half-dressed knight.

  Hugo glanced at Sylvia. “We need to go.”

  “We’re not just going to leave,” Lancelot said. “She’s our best lead. We’ve got to get back to Oscar’s house, need him to give her Alicia’s address.”

  Hugo’s shoulders slumped, and he lowered his voice. “We shouldn’t have done this, and the faster we leave, the better. She deserves—” He stopped speaking as Sylvia shifted on the bed.

  Lancelot shook his head as Hugo walked to the door, where he could whisper without fear of waking her. “Lancelot—”

  “She does deserve better. We’re lying to her about why we’re here, and I feel bad about that, but it doesn’t change our objective. The mastermind is killing our people—lots of them. Sylvia is our best shot at finding the woman who knows who he is. Last night was…”

  “Was?” Hugo prodded when Lancelot didn’t appear willing to finish his thought.

  “Bad judgment. Having sex with her wasn’t part of the mission. Dammit, it’s not like I came to this bedroom with the intention of seducing information out of her. God, Sylvie…knowing her, she would just…”

  Hugo clenched his fist, feeling irrationally angry even though he knew Lancelot was right. “Tell us whatever we wanted to know. She’s trusting, kind, and welcoming.”

  “Too kind. Too welcoming.” Lancelot shook his head. “I’m worried about her. Someone could hurt her.”

  “Someone like us? All the more reason to leave now. Alicia is dangerous. If she finds out Sylvia is helping us, even unwittingly…”

  Lancelot shook his head. “We can’t leave. For the reasons I just listed, plu
s…come on, la. Talk about your dick moves. She gives us one hell of a night to remember and you want to sneak out like thieves. We’re staying. We’ll have breakfast and hang out, show her a bit of respect.”

  “You’re not talking about respect. You’re following orders.”

  Lancelot scowled but didn’t deny it.

  Hugo wasn’t finished arguing. “You realize that sleeping with her certainly counts as ‘contact.’ I sent the Trinity Masters an email last night, and of course lied, and said we were not questioning anyone. But what if they know that last night, we didn’t sleep in the house they provided for us?”

  “They’re probably already checking on that,” Lancelot said.

  “So soon?”

  “If I were them, I’d be watching us. Monitoring us,” Lancelot said. “If they don’t know where we are yet, you can be sure they will soon.”

  If the situations, the continents, were reversed, Lancelot or another territory’s knight would be the one making decisions about monitoring foreign visitors, so he had to trust that Lancelot was right. Which led to another problem. Juliette Adams wasn’t a woman to be crossed, and they’d broken every rule she’d given them.

  They were running out of time.

  “I’m going to step outside and put a tracker on Sylvia’s car so we can keep an eye on her. Might call Lorelei to see if she was able to utilize any of Oscar’s tricks for tracking people,” Lancelot said.

  Hugo nodded, wondering if Lancelot was placing that tracker as part of the job, or if he, like Hugo, was feeling overwhelmed by the need to keep Sylvia safe. They’d thrust her in the middle of this investigation, opened her up to danger without warning her of the risks, and then taken her to bed. “We crossed a line.”

  “And it’s one we can’t cross back over, so it’s time to regroup. We’re staying, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Hugo bristled. Lancelot’s words were the equivalent of putting his foot down, and it rubbed against the grain. Regardless, he slipped past Lancelot and into the bathroom without retort. When he was done, he found and pulled on his discarded clothes. He winced as floorboards in the old house creaked, but Sylvia didn’t move, even when he walked around the bed, picking up pieces of Lancelot’s attire, too.

  Hugo sat on the trunk by her window. It was only then that he noticed the open sketchbook. There was a drawing of two men sleeping. No…not just any two men. Him and Lancelot. That was Lancelot’s tattoo.

  Hugo looked at Sylvia. He wanted to have extra pictures in his mental bank because he was sure he would think about her and last night more than he should. She was such an odd mix of trusting and aware, insightful and blunt.

  He returned the sketch pad to its place, glancing over his shoulder and out the window. He could see Lancelot in the backyard, still bare-chested and talking on his cell phone.

  Despite the guilt he suffered, once Sylvia woke up and joined them in the kitchen, the day actually passed in a quiet, lazy-Sunday-morning fashion. The three of them worked together to make a brunch fit for a king for themselves, Lancelot flipping pancakes while Hugo manned the espresso machine and argued the merits of crepes over pancakes. Sylvia set the table with her grandma’s “fancy dishes” and even went outside to clip several sprigs from her blooming lilac bush, the sweet scent filling the kitchen.

  Lancelot had offered to put together a plate that they could take to Oscar’s, expressing his strong desire to talk to her brother more about his tech designs, but Sylvia—still miffed about Oscar’s bad behavior toward them the previous day—had said he could spend a day listening to his stomach grumble, for all she cared.

  After that, Sylvia insisted on taking them to the French Huguenot Church to view the Neo-Gothic architecture. According to Sylvia, the church was built by French refugees who fled France after Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes. Hugo could have spent hours studying the finials, scalloping, hood moldings, and pinnacles, but Lancelot’s ability to pretend to give a shit about architecture started wearing thin after a couple of hours. The knight was getting antsier by the hour; every minute that passed was time they were wasting in their mission to find Alicia.

  They went out for a late lunch on the waterfront, then returned to Sylvia’s place. She invited them in once more and, while Hugo started to refuse, Lancelot accepted her offer of a glass of wine.

  None of them had discussed the previous night, but it was evident it was at the forefront of each of their minds. Hugo had been determined to put a proper distance between himself and Sylvia, but that resolution failed over and over. Mainly because Sylvia refused to remain in her own personal space. Each time they climbed out of the car, Hugo offered her his hand, but once she’d taken it she didn’t let go. When they stood together, looking out across the water, she molded her body to his. He did not push her away, both because doing so might hurt her, or worse, make her feel used—as if he’d gotten what he wanted from her and now rejected her affection—but also because he didn’t want to. He wanted to hold her, touch her. It was both easy—right—and thrilling. Sylvia’s fingers fit perfectly in his, her body molded to his easily and comfortably.

  She offered the same closeness to Lancelot, who either didn’t bother to restrain himself, or who, like Hugo, simply couldn’t resist the need to touch her.

  The one thing Hugo feared he and Lancelot hadn’t managed to hide from Sylvia was the heaviness of two men who weren’t seeing eye to eye. Too many times today, he and Lancelot had traded barbs, Hugo angry for Lancelot’s laissez-faire attitude, while Lancelot disapproved of Hugo wearing his guilt like a second skin. If Sylvia had noticed their antagonism, she didn’t mention it.

  They followed her to the kitchen and Hugo accepted the bottle of red she handed him, as well as the bottle opener. He popped the cork, then she poured each of them a glass.

  “To old friends,” Hugo said, tapping his glass against theirs.

  “And new lovers,” Sylvia added.

  Hugo swallowed heavily. The invitation in her words and her eyes made it clear she was hoping for a repeat of the previous evening.

  “Lovers,” Lancelot repeated.

  Merde.

  Chapter Ten

  They carried their wine to the living room, each sipping it quietly as the late-afternoon sun slanted rays of bright light across the floor. Sylvia and Hugo shared the couch, while Lancelot sat across from them in her grandmother’s favorite chair.

  Sylvia decided it was a good time to address the elephant in the room. “Why are you angry with each other?”

  Hugo sighed and seemed reluctant to answer.

  “Does it have anything to do with me?” All day, Sylvia had feared her professor regretted what had happened between them. Not that he had been cold to her, but he also hadn’t kissed her or made any other overt advances.

  Hugo reached for her hands. “I’m concerned we overstepped the bounds of propriety last night. Taking advantage of—”

  Sylvia squeezed his hands, shaking her head. “I’m not a young girl in your class anymore, Hugo. You don’t need to feel guilty about anything. Surely you can see that I wanted everything that happened.”

  “Perhaps, but…you deserve more than a casual affair, a one-night stand.”

  His words filled her heart, made her warm inside. Hugo was a brilliant, passionate man. She’d recognized those things when she was in his class, but she hadn’t considered how those attributes could produce different feelings in different settings. In the classroom, they’d made him a good teacher, the type more concerned with learning than grades. In the bedroom, they proved he’d pleasure her, protect her.

  She glanced at Lancelot. “And you?”

  “Hugo would prefer it if I feigned at least a little remorse.”

  She laughed. “It would be a pretense?”

  He nodded. “Of course. I’m not the type of man who wallows in regret. I own up to my actions. Right or wrong.”

  “And where does last night fall?”

  “Honestly, p
robably right smack in the middle.”

  She considered that answer, appreciating his honesty, even as she wondered about it. “Last night was very nice,” Sylvia said with a smile. “You’re both very…gentle lovers.” It was true. Last night had been wonderful, and physically very intense.

  Hugo smiled in return, and she sensed that at least some part of the regret he’d felt was fading. “I am glad. I enjoyed it, too.”

  Lancelot wasn’t smiling. He was frowning at her. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean last night was very nice,” she repeated. She wasn’t lying.

  And she certainly wasn’t going to admit to these two wonderful men, each of whom was a dynamic lover on his own, that as memorable as the sex had been, it hadn’t exactly lived up to her fantasy.

  That was the problem with fantasies.

  “Nice,” Lancelot repeated.

  Hugo’s smile turned into a frown. “Ah yes. Nice is not always a good thing in English.”

  Dammit, she wasn’t hiding her feelings, and because of that, had hurt theirs. “It is in this case. It was really good.”

  Hugo folded his arms. “I think that is worse, yes?”

  “Yes,” Lancelot replied. He stood up and joined them on the couch, leaning toward her, peering at her face as if he could see into her brain. “You’re disappointed.”

  “Not at all.” And she wasn’t really. How many women could say they’d had a night of intimate, emotional sex with two men? Very few.

  It was hardly Hugo and Lancelot’s fault that her fantasies about a ménage had always gone a different way.

  “She is.” Hugo looked affronted. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” she stammered. “I was just surprised by some of what happened.”

  “What surprised you?” Hugo asked.

  “It’s just that there was so much…talking.”

  “You’re a poet,” Hugo said. “Words are your forte. Your medium.”