by Mari Carr
When he managed to make it to the bow, his heart stopped.
This was one scenario he hadn’t prepared for.
Sylvia was unconscious, slumped over the starboard railing, her hands tied behind her back. Alicia was lifting Sylvia’s legs, preparing to tip her into the ocean.
Time moved in fast-forward, everything happening in the blink of an eye.
“Stop!” Lancelot lunged for Alicia, but he was too late to prevent her from dumping Sylvia overboard.
He acted without thought, diving into the water after Sylvia.
The chill of the ocean water had jolted her awake, though without the use of her arms, she began to sink fast. He could see her terrified expression even through the painful haze of the saltwater.
Lancelot swam deeper, reaching out to grasp her. He managed to close his fist around a handful of her shirt, then her upper arm. Mercifully, Alicia hadn’t bound her legs, and as Sylvia felt his grip, she began to kick, the motion helping him draw her back to the surface.
Both of them sucked in huge gasps of air, Sylvia choking and sputtering. A swell washed over them, knocking them back beneath the gray water. They kicked back up, Lancelot fighting to keep a grip on her, to hold them both above the surface. He caught a glimpse of the fishing boat just briefly before another swell tossed them under.
The boat was speeding toward the horizon, far out of reach.
Alicia had escaped.
Sylvia gasped, taking in as much water as air. He shifted his hold so she was facing up, her back to his chest. That allowed him to keep her head above the glassy surface and swim the two of them back to shore. He’d only managed a few awkward strokes when Oscar reached them. Between the three of them, they were able to make it to shore. Though Sylvia was still coughing, he sensed she was struggling to remain conscious.
Hugo had waded chest deep and was waiting for them. He took Sylvia from Lancelot and Oscar, lifting her in his arms. She was coughing deeply, water spurting from her lips, which were tinged blue from the cold. Her eyes were open, but not focusing. Whatever drug Alicia had used was clearly very potent.
Hugo’s face said it all. He’d been terrified they had lost her.
Lancelot hadn’t had a chance to feel that same horror until the second she was safe. Now it crashed in on him, and all he could think was “please God, don’t let her die.”
One look at her told him they weren’t out of the woods yet.
* * *
HUGO UNTIED SYLVIA’S HANDS, then cradled her against his chest and thighs as he knelt in the sand. She was wet and freezing cold. Though her eyes were open, she was blinking and staring into middle distance, not wholly aware. Whatever she’d been drugged with was still in her system, but being tossed overboard into the cold Atlantic had shocked her partially awake. She moaned something about her hand when Hugo pulled her against his body.
Her right hand looked…wrong. The middle finger looked like it had one too many knuckles. Hugo gently took her wrist, praying it wasn’t hurting her, and folded her arm so her hand rested against her chest.
Oscar had backed up a few steps. He’d gone to the truck and retrieved his phone, his worried gaze on his sister. He was talking too quietly for Hugo to hear what he was saying.
Hugo pushed her damp hair back from her face. When it was wet, it was so much darker. Without the emotion and intelligence of her personality lighting her too-pale face, it seemed like the life was drained from her.
Lancelot was knee-deep in the ocean, staring out at the retreating form of the boat, which had almost disappeared. Lancelot had his back to Hugo, but he could tell the other man was upset from the set of his shoulders.
Strange that they’d known each other for such a seemingly short amount of time, yet he knew how Lancelot felt. Finally, the knight gave up, turning his back to the ocean and trudging across the sand to where Hugo held Sylvia. About the time Lancelot arrived, Oscar ended his phone call.
Hugo hugged Sylvia tighter, adjusting her so that she could rest her head on his shoulder. He felt her sigh and, for a moment, his heart stopped in sheer terror. Then she inhaled, and Hugo went light-headed with relief.
After watching her go in the water, all he wanted was to keep her safe. Their mission, the mastermind…none of that mattered. He hadn’t wanted to involve her. Coming to her had always been his last resort. The guilt he’d felt when they’d slept with her was nothing compared to how he felt now.
They’d used her, and she’d almost died.
Hugo looked at Lancelot. Arms crossed, jaw tight, Lancelot looked angry and powerful, his wet shirt clinging to his arms, his hair plastered to his temples.
“She got away,” Lancelot said in a low voice.
Hugo shot him a vicious look, ready to snarl that he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter.
“We’ve gotta get her medical attention,” Oscar demanded. “Sylvia—”
“Not the hospital.” Lancelot shoved his hair back. “They’ll involve the authorities.”
“Considering that my sister was kidnapped—”
“You do not want the bizzies involved in this.”
“She needs a doctor.” Hugo snarled the words at Lancelot.
“I’m gonna take my sister to a doctor,” Oscar’s voice was hard, “then we’re goin’ home.”
“Fookin’ ’ell, la.” Lancelot looked over his shoulder to where the boat had disappeared. “You can’t take her back to her house. Rutherford knows where she lives.”
“I’m taking my sister.” Oscar squatted down and reached for Sylvia.
Hugo tightened his arms around her.
Oscar looked at him, and there was both rage and fear in the man’s eyes. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Believe me when I say there will be a reckoning—but right now, all that matters is my sister.”
Hugo wanted to hold her, to protect her.
He had no right.
No right.
Hugo needed to let her go. The sooner he was out of her life, the safer she’d be. Protecting her from any further pain was the priority. Hugo forced his fingers to relax so that, though he still cradled Sylvia, he wasn’t holding her possessively.
“Her hand. There’s something wrong with her right hand,” Hugo warned her brother.
Oscar paled. “Her drawing hand.”
Hugo was hit with a vivid memory of her jotting down notes in one of her omnipresent journals, and the way she held a charcoal pencil when she sketched. Hugo wanted to scream and rage, he wanted to find Alicia and hurt her. Not punish her, not see her brought to justice. Hurt her.
“Fook,” Lancelot cursed again. “Hugo, hold her.” He pointed to Oscar. “Take Hugo’s right side. I’ll take his left. We’ll help him stand. Jostle her less.”
Hugo held her tight and when they lifted, he used his legs to stand, Sylvia cradled against his body. They were careful, but she groaned in pain.
“Je suis vraiment désolé,” Hugo murmured.
Oscar’s face was stark with worry. “Hurry. You carry her.”
Hugo moved as quickly as he dared, trying not to jar her while walking across the sand.
They reached the truck, and Oscar opened the back door. Hugo slid in with Sylvia. Oscar ran around to the driver’s seat, and the car was already moving by the time Lancelot closed the front passenger door.
“We’re taking her to a doctor,” Oscar said. “Not a hospital, and not because of what you said, asshole.”
“Where are we going?” Lancelot asked.
“A doctor we know. Make sure it’s safe for me to drive her home.”
“We’ll go with you,” Lancelot said.
“Like hell you will. I’m dropping your asses off at the nearest rental car place. From there, you can go to the airport and fly the fuck away from us…from her.”
“It’s too dangerous for you to be alone,” Lancelot replied.
“My sister was plenty safe before you two showed up. You can go to hell in a handbasket for all I
care.”
Sylvia shifted in Hugo’s arms.
“Shut up, both of you,” Hugo snarled. “We’re going with her to the doctor. We are not leaving her. Not until we are sure she’s safe.”
An hour later, a still-groggy Sylvia—now wearing scrubs, sporting a temporary cast of molded plastic and Ace bandages on her right hand and small sutures on several cuts—was loaded into the front seat of Oscar’s truck. They laid the seat back as far as it would go, put ice packs on her swollen knee and ankle, and then covered her up with a blanket. Oscar set a timer on his watch so they’d know when to pull over and take the ice packs off.
The doctor had given Sylvia something for the pain so they could splint her fingers. She wasn’t making much sense. She kept calling her brother Langston, but the other man didn’t seem worried. Perhaps it was his middle name.
Hugo and Lancelot got into the backseat of the truck. They’d worn Oscar down, and the young man had finally agreed they would all return to Charleston together, and once they were there, they would take Sylvia to the Trinity Masters’ safe house—though Lancelot hadn’t called it that.
Hugo buckled his seat belt and looked at Lancelot. When he spoke, he used French, and a hushed tone, hoping Lancelot’s skills with the language were good enough for them to converse. “We have to tell her the truth.”
“We can’t.”
“She almost died.”
Lancelot’s French really was lousy, but Hugo could figure out his meaning just the same. “No merde.” No shit. “Je saute dans l’eau.” Hugo assumed he meant he’d jumped in the water. “Pas de capture Alicia. Encore.” He was upset he’d failed to capture Alicia again. “Eric botter mon cul.”
Hugo wasn’t sure he agreed with the last. Eric would be angry, but he wouldn’t kick Lancelot’s ass for doing his duty. “You’re a knight,” Hugo pointed out. “Of course you saved Sylvia. That was more important. He’ll understand.”
Lancelot’s cheek twitched as he clenched his teeth. Oscar gave them both a funny look as he backed out of the parking spot outside the small private medical facility.
This mission was never going to be easy. Hugo hadn’t even been sure it would be a success, but he hadn’t expected to make such a mess of it. So far, all they’d managed to do during this mission was fuck up Sylvia’s life, and now, by revealing themselves, they’d also let Alicia know they were hunting her. Surprise had been one of their assets. Hugo had feared that capturing Alicia would be a difficult task, but this morning’s actions might have made it impossible.
And yet, he wouldn’t change what they’d done. If Lancelot were called to task, Hugo would stand by the knight’s side and defend him, even if he was currently angry with the man.
“We’re telling her,” Hugo murmured one more time before looking out the window at the passing scenery. He didn’t care if Lancelot agreed. Contrary to every single thing he’d done since landing in America, he knew what was right and what was wrong.
It was time to make things right.
“Fine,” Lancelot whispered.
Hugo glanced back at his friend and saw the knight gently stroking a sleeping Sylvia’s hair. Lancelot wasn’t as unmoved by her as he seemed.
Hugo recalled his own possessive grip on her at the ocean.
Confession or not, this wasn’t going to end well for any of them.
Chapter Sixteen
Sylvia fought to hold her eyes open. Everything kept happening in tiny, disconnected scenes. Pain. Cold. Water. Darkness. The sensation of drowning. One time she looked up to see her brother carrying her. The next time, she woke to find herself in a bed in a room she’d never seen before. She heard several men speaking in murmured voices, but she couldn’t see them. As her eyes drifted shut, a door opened and closed.
When Sylvia was finally able to pull herself out of the haze that had kept her in a pleasant fog, she did so with a jerk as everything that had happened with Alicia crashed in on her at once.
“Ah!”
“Shh.” A firm hand on her shoulder pressed her back to the bed. “You’re okay, Sylvie.”
She fought to focus her gaze, though the mere sound of Lancelot’s voice calmed her. She was vaguely aware of a throbbing pain in her hand and she recalled the car door slamming on it.
She tried to lift it, but Hugo’s hand was resting on her wrist. When he felt her try to move, his grip tightened.
“Try not to move your hand too much, ma cherie.”
“My hand,” she said, her voice weak, more whisper than sound.
“You’ve broken several bones that need to be set. Right now, it’s just wrapped up temporarily. Your brother has gone out to pick up someone he said could do that. He also promised to bring back food,” Hugo explained.
Sylvia nodded, trying not to think about how bad the damage might be. She wrote with that hand, drew. She closed her eyes, struggling to fight back the fear, the panic still clawing at her chest.
Though the practical part of her brain knew she was safe, she was having a hard time beating back the terror she’d felt in that car with Alicia.
“Alicia,” she whispered, still trying to believe that her beloved teacher, her mentor, had tried to kidnap her, had drugged her. Had lost her ever-lovin’ mind.
“She got away,” Lancelot said, his tone telling her how much that fact enraged him.
“Good,” Sylvia said. “I never want to see her again. I can’t…”
“Can’t what?” Lancelot prodded.
“Can’t believe how crazy she was. You should have heard the things she was saying…about the world. About Europe. About…” she paused again, recalling all that Alicia had told her about the Masters’ Admiralty. About Hugo and Lancelot being members.
The same feeling of unease she’d felt at the resort when Alicia pointed out the holes in Hugo and Lancelot’s reason for being together in Charleston came back to her.
The two men shared a pointed look.
That look told her there was something they weren’t saying.
That look told her perhaps her mentor wasn’t as crazy as she’d seemed.
Her body hurt and her head was fuzzy. She had that slightly disconnected feeling she was fairly sure was due to prescription painkillers, not whatever Alicia had pumped into her.
Even with that, she wasn’t sure she could handle anything more. She could close her eyes, pretend she hadn’t seen the way they looked at each other. She could, but she wouldn’t.
“Why are you in Charleston?” she asked. “Is there really going to be a book, Hugo?”
Hugo rubbed his face wearily while Lancelot cursed under his breath.
She closed her eyes, her chest going tight as she fought to suck in a deep breath. Her eyes flew open again when the darkness, the difficulty breathing, reminded her of falling into the ocean. Sleep wasn’t going to come easy for a while. Maybe forever.
“There isn’t a book,” Hugo admitted.
“So it’s true?” she whispered, the horror she’d felt with Alicia returning when she realized she hadn’t truly escaped the nightmare. The only difference right now was who her captors were. “Everything she said…”
She tried to sit up, had to get out of here, away from them, but her limbs felt heavy, her head foggy. “What did she do to me?”
“Ketamine,” Lancelot replied. “And they gave you something for the pain when they splinted your hand. It’s going to take time to get it all out of your system.” He pressed on her shoulder once more.
Though her body was failing her, her voice—though hoarse, sore from sucking in too much saltwater from the ocean—worked just fine.
“Don’t touch me!”
Lancelot pulled his hand away like he’d just touched a piping-hot stove. “Sylvie—” he started.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that!”
“Please, Sylvia,” Hugo said. “Give us a chance to explain.”
“Explain what? That everything you’ve said and done since you�
��ve gotten here has been a lie?”
“We had good reasons for lying,” Lancelot insisted.
“And for sleeping with me?”
Lancelot winced as if she’d reached out and slapped him.
“That was…” He stopped himself from finishing the sentence, but she knew what he’d meant to add.
“A mistake.” Her voice broke on the words, and she hated herself for the tears suddenly clouding her vision. She blinked rapidly to stem the tears, wiping them away with the back of her good hand. “It was a mistake.”
Hugo shook his head. “No. It wasn’t.”
She and Lancelot both looked at the Frenchman. Hugo’s features had hardened, his voice strong and sure. “It wasn’t a mistake. Lying to you was, but nothing that happened between the three of us in your bedroom, in that living room, was a lie. Not one second of it. It was the most real thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.”
“He’s right,” Lancelot said, drawing her attention back to his face. There was guilt in his expression, deep lines around his eyes and mouth drawn there by regret. “We were wrong to lie to you about why we were really in Charleston, Sylvia, wrong to take you to bed without telling you the truth first, but what we did, the things we shared…I can’t regret that, and I can’t pretend it was a mistake. It was…fook.” Lancelot ran his hand through his auburn hair. “It was perfect.”
She closed her eyes, cursing her foolish heart for beating faster, for allowing their words to touch her, warm her. Sylvia fought hard to batten down the shutters. “This Masters’ Admiralty…it’s real?”
Hugo nodded. “It is.”
“What did Alicia tell you about it?” Lancelot asked.
Sylvia shook her head. “I’d rather you tell me about it.”
Both men were sitting in chairs they’d pulled next to the bed, but at her request, they shifted, each moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. She should have told them to keep their distance, but the truth was…she was still cold, even with the pile of blankets on top of her. The chill of the ocean, the fear of almost dying, had gone bone-deep, turning everything inside her to ice. With Hugo and Lancelot closer, she could almost feel the heat they radiated. It was all fanciful imaginings on her part, but real or not, she needed their warmth and longed for some sort of closeness that might drive out the terror of seeing the sun vanish as the dark, cold water of the ocean swallowed her. She needed someone here, near, to remind her she was alive, she was breathing, and she wasn’t alone. Even if she had to take that comfort from these two men who’d lied to her.
