Honor’s Revenge: Masters’ Admiralty, book 4

by Mari Carr

  There was a fuck-off big elephant in this room. While the focus was on treating Sylvia, they were all ignoring it, but Lancelot knew that it wouldn’t take long before her older brothers started asking questions.

  They’d told Sylvia the truth about who they were, and what was going on. What were they going to tell the brothers?

  Walt withdrew the needle, pressing a small gauze pad to the tiny hole. “You should start to feel the effects in a minute or two.” Walt set aside the first needle and started prepping three more.

  “What are those for?” Hugo asked.

  Oscar crossed his arms. “Is it question-asking time? Because I have a few things I’d like to ask.” The words were mild, but the tone was aggressive.

  Apparently, Oscar couldn’t ignore the elephant any longer.

  “No.” Walt’s tone was firm. “We’re not doing this right now. First of all, the priority is taking care of Sylvia. Secondly, I want to be a part of this conversation, and I can’t set bones and question people at the same time.”

  When he questioned people, Lancelot was usually breaking bones.

  “Oh,” Sylvia said slowly. She lifted her head from Hugo’s neck. “This is nice. I see why people do this recreationally.”

  “Don’t get any ideas.” Walt lifted the first of the needles he’d prepped. “Hold her forearm,” he ordered Hugo.

  Without questioning, Hugo placed his hand on her arm, just below her elbow. Walt slid the needle into the back of her hand and pressed on the plunger.

  Sylvia’s nose wrinkled in apparent discomfort, but the sedative was doing its work. “I’m a poet,” she declared. “That means I’m practically required to have some sort of drug or alcohol problem.”

  “Yeah, you try that. I’m gonna tape it when Mama beats your ass,” Langston said.

  “But all the other artists get to do it,” Sylvia bitched.

  “All the other artists didn’t have a proper Southern mama.”

  “I mean, she named all of us after poets. She can’t be that mad.”

  “Walt Whitman didn’t drink hard alcohol,” Walt said as he turned her hand, sliding a second needle into her palm. “Neither did Langston Hughes, I think.”

  There was a collective grimace. Watching a needle sliding into a hand was disturbing.

  “Oscar Wilde,” Sylvia said triumphantly, “did all the drugs.”

  “Well, Mama had four kids, named us all after gay poets, and ended up with one poet, a doctor, and two engineers, all of us straight,” Langston pointed out.

  “I’m not that straight,” Sylvia grumbled.

  “Shouldn’t Valium make her sleepy?” Oscar demanded. “I do not want to hear about her girl-on-girl antics.”

  “It depends. It doesn’t do that for everyone. I’m almost done with the local anesthetic.” Walt inserted the final needle into the pinkie edge of her palm.

  “Not girl on girl. I had a ménage. With them!” Sylvia pointed at first Hugo, then Lancelot.

  The three brothers went still.

  “Merde,” Hugo whispered.

  Walt glanced at his open kit, as if considering what he would use to stab Hugo, who couldn’t do much to defend himself with one arm wrapped around Sylvia, his other hand on her forearm.

  Langston straightened and turned to Lancelot, pursing his lips in consideration.

  Oscar once more folded his arms. “We’re going to have a long conversation, you and I.”

  Lancelot still held the knife. Smiling slightly, he flipped it into the air, catching it without looking, then did it again, casually playing with the blade.

  “I will go full Indiana Jones on you,” Oscar snapped.

  “What?” Lancelot demanded.

  “He’ll bring a gun to a sword fight,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “And no fighting. It was my idea. I seduced them.”

  All three brothers winced as if in pain.

  “There are some things a big brother doesn’t need to hear about his baby sister,” Langston complained.

  Walt bent over her, his broad back hiding Sylvia’s hand from view. His arms and shoulders flexed and Sylvia blinked, her face going pale.

  “I felt that,” she said.

  “Did it hurt?” Walt asked immediately. “Did you feel pain, or just me manipulating your hand?”

  “I can feel you moving my bones.”

  “Gross,” Langston said fervently. “Lean back, Walt, I can’t see.”

  “It is gross, it feels…wrong.” Sylvia swallowed. “I think I’m going to close my eyes now.”

  Walt was working quickly, manipulating her hand. Langston had scooted closer, Oscar had backed away, his own fingers shoved into his pockets. Out of morbid curiosity, Lancelot edged closer, watching as Walt grabbed her ring finger, holding it just above and below the middle knuckle, and started to pull and wiggle.

  There was a visible shift—her swollen finger suddenly relaxing into a natural curl when the bones were aligned.

  “Fook,” Lancelot said. He wasn’t someone who was scared off by gore, but dammit, that was gross. Somehow watching or feeling a bone dislocate in the middle of a fight or torture wasn’t as disturbing as watching it being set in this elegant parlor.

  Walt finished and then grabbed several metal finger splints. He placed one on the underside of each of her four fingers, taping them in place so each finger was held immobile. Then he formed a longer piece of foam-backed metal to her palm and wrist, and held that in place with an Ace bandage.

  “That’s all?” Hugo asked. “Her fingers are broken and she gets only this?”

  “For now. There will be some swelling in the joints that needs to go down before we do anything permanent. The wrist brace is just to stop her from making a fist.”

  Walt carefully moved her arm off the pillow on his lap onto her own knees. Sylvia’s eyes were closed, her head on Hugo’s shoulder.

  Walt picked up yet another needle. This time he pinched her upper arm, putting the shot into her biceps.

  “What was that?” Hugo asked.

  “Naproxen to help with the inflammation, and tramadol. I’ve got some kinetic tape that would help with all those bruises, but we can deal with that in the morning. She’s probably going to fall asleep, thanks to the combination of drugs.”

  “Give me the tape,” Lancelot said. “I’ve used it before. I’ll put it on.”

  Once again, three big men turned to look at him.

  “How about you don’t touch our sister?” Oscar said.

  “A bit late for that.” It was a factual statement, but Lancelot had to admit he enjoyed the way the words made Oscar’s nostrils flare with rage.

  “Bed,” Sylvia said. “Going to pass out now. Want a bed.”

  Hugo slid an arm under her knees. With an impressive display of leg strength, he stood, Sylvia in his arms.

  Hugo cleared his throat, and there was a sense of quiet authority to him. Lancelot could imagine him making that same noise as he stood in front of a classroom.

  “I’m taking Sylvia to the bedroom on this floor. I’ll stay with her to ensure her comfort. Walt, I would prefer it if you stayed here this evening, in case she needs anything.”

  “We’re all staying,” Oscar declared.

  “There are bedrooms on the second floor,” Hugo stated. “There are also things that need to be said, to be discussed, but not tonight.” Hugo looked at Lancelot, and Lancelot knew what the other man wanted. They were in sync, able to read one another’s body language.

  Hugo walked toward the door, and Lancelot fell into step beside him, casting a look over his shoulder at the brothers, making sure they knew that Lancelot was watching Hugo’s back not by chance, but by design.

  “Her hand needs to be elevated,” Walt called out. “Prop it up on a pillow.”

  Hugo carried her quickly down the hall and into the bedroom.

  Sylvia was semi awake when Hugo lay her in the center of the large bed. She laughed. “You didn’t know I had three brothers. You thought Lang
ston was Oscar.”

  “They’re identical triplets.” Hugo carefully positioned a pillow beside her and then placed her right arm on top of it. “It’s an understandable mistake.”

  “But they’re so different… Is my head floating?”

  “Your lovely head is still attached.”

  “That’s nice.” Sylvia closed her eyes.

  Hugo pulled the sheet over her, careful not to cover her right arm.

  Lancelot put a hand on Hugo’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab us some food.”

  Hugo blinked. “I don’t remember the last time we ate.”

  “We’re in the eye of the storm. We eat and get some rest, while we can.”

  Hugo pinched the bridge of his nose. “We should talk, plan.”

  “There will be time later.”

  “But what about—”

  “I called my vice admiral. A coward’s move, but I wasn’t ready to deal with the Viking. The shit will hit the fan soon, but for now we rest, protect Sylvia.”

  Hugo nodded once. “You’re right.”

  Lancelot went to the kitchen. The brothers were crowded around a table in the breakfast nook, talking quietly. They shut up when he walked in. Lancelot nodded once, grabbed two white Styrofoam boxes off the counter, and walked quickly back to the bedroom.

  The containers each held a burger with cheese and bacon, chips, and a small container of potato salad. Lancelot closed the bedroom door, put a chair back against it, and took a seat. If anyone tried to come in, they’d have to shove him out of the way, which was no easy task.

  Hugo looked at the container of unhealthy food and sighed, but made short work of his burger. There was no vinegar for the chips, but they were nicely salted, so Lancelot took what he could get.

  When they were done, they took turns washing their hands in the en suite bathroom. When Lancelot walked back into the bedroom, Hugo was seated on the bed on Sylvia’s right side, his back against the headboard. He was reading a book he must have plucked from one of the shelves.

  Lancelot moved the chair he’d sat in to eat, and opened the door.

  “Where are you going?” Hugo asked.

  “I’m keeping watch. I’ll leave the door open a bit so I can hear you if she needs anything. Get some sleep. If something goes…goes wrong, I’ll slam the door closed. That will be enough to wake you up. If I yell for you to ‘shelter,’ you take Sylvia and lock yourself in the bathroom. If I tell you to ‘go,’ you take her out the window and get to a public place.”

  “You think we’re in danger?”

  “Always.”

  “What about you?” Hugo asked. “You need to sleep.”

  “What I need is to keep you safe.”

  “You mean keep her safe.”

  “No, I need to keep you safe. Both of you.”

  Hugo blinked, then nodded. Lancelot’s stomach was tight with emotion as he looked at the other man. The need to tell him the truth, to tell Hugo who he really was, nearly overpowered him.

  Lancelot hauled the chair into the hall, pulling the bedroom door nearly all the way closed. He positioned the chair in front of the door and took a seat. He would keep watch.

  He would protect them not because it was his job. It wasn’t. He was here to get information.

  He would protect them, even if he had no right.

  He would protect them because he loved them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hugo sat up, sleep completely defeating him. Perhaps his restless night would be better spent taking a turn at watching the door.

  Lancelot, who hadn’t fully closed it, must have noticed his movement.

  The door slid open a bit more. The small strip of light from the hallway widened as the knight peered in.

  “Okay?” he whispered.

  Hugo nodded, glancing down at Sylvia. She was tucked under the voluminous covers, while he had remained fully dressed, opting to lay on top of the duvet on the opposite side from her injured hand.

  Hugo looked at the clock.

  Four a.m.

  Lancelot walked farther into the room. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked like weariness personified. Hugo suspected he looked just as rough himself. Though he’d lain with the intention of sleeping, he hadn’t managed more than a few minutes of restless slumber. His mind whirled over everything that had happened, and everything yet to do.

  Sylvia’s brothers had commandeered the bedrooms on the second story, refusing to leave their sister alone with him and Lancelot. He’d heard them all settling in shortly after they’d carried Sylvia to bed. Given what had happened to her since their arrival, Hugo could hardly blame them for wanting to remain.

  Meanwhile, he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact there were three of them—all brilliant, all protective of their sister, all ready to break his and Lancelot’s necks for sleeping with her.

  Despite the fear enveloping the house, Hugo grinned as he recalled her dropping the fact they’d engaged in ménage sex.

  Lancelot tilted his head. “Something funny?”

  Hugo kept his voice low. “I’m considering how Sylvia will feel when she realizes she told her older brothers about our ménage.”

  Lancelot scowled. “That’s grin-worthy? You realize we’re not only facing a danger from outside these walls, but from upstairs, too.”

  Hugo sighed, but his smile didn’t falter. While there was no denying her brothers were angry, Hugo could acknowledge that they had an ace up their sleeve. “She’ll never let them touch us.”

  Lancelot’s gaze shifted to Sylvia, and his expression softened. “I hadn’t considered that. You’re right.”

  Then the knight turned back toward the door, peering down the hall once more. Ever alert. Ever focused.

  Hugo hated this feeling that they were exposed and vulnerable. Though the night was quiet and peaceful, it was a façade. They were in danger. And while there was very little chance Alicia would find them at the safe house, it would be the height of foolishness to believe themselves safe. Sylvia may be able to protect them from her brothers, but there was the matter of the Trinity Masters. They hadn’t had time to figure out for certain who the masked man was, though they both thought it safe to assume he’d been a member of the Trinity Masters. If that was true, more dangers lurked outside these walls than just Alicia.

  As a librarian, he’d been one of six Masters’ Admiralty members charged by the fleet admiral with the task of studying the mastermind’s crimes in an attempt to find the villain and see him brought to justice. Considering that the first clue left by the mastermind had taken both James Rathmann, one of Europe’s best coin experts, and the principessa Sophia, who worked for the Carabinieri Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage—the Italian art police—to decode, it had been a stroke of brilliance on James’s part to call into service the group of intellectuals now called the librarians.

  Hugo, along with James, Cecilia St. John, Josephine O’Connor, Karl Klimek, and Nyx Kata, had met several times at Trinity Library in hopes of using the scarce information available, along with the amassed knowledge and research capabilities of the six of them, to make evidenced-based assumptions about who the mastermind might be. Two of them had suffered for their efforts. Karl had nearly died at the hands of one of the mastermind’s serial killers, while Nyx was still recuperating in the Ukraine following a brutal attack by the same man.

  During their discussions about who the mastermind could be, Hugo had learned one very real truth. Never underestimate the enemy.

  So while it seemed unlikely Alicia would find them here, would put her own freedom at risk to recapture Sylvia, that didn’t mean it was impossible.

  They’d also underestimated the mastermind’s ability to have multiple pieces in play at once. That had proven nearly fatal for Karl and his new spouses in Rome, when they’d defeated a serial killer, but had nearly been taken out by a bomb.

  Hugo walked to a window, gazing out. A qua
rter moon hung in the dark sky, surrounded by countless stars. It was truly beautiful in Charleston. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed visiting and playing tourist.

  Lancelot stepped next to him. Hugo knew the knight wasn’t enjoying the beauty of the place, rather he was scanning the surrounding area for threats. Lancelot was a knight through and through. Men like him simply couldn’t turn the need to protect others on and off like a light switch. Though they’d only known each other a few short days, Hugo understood what made Lancelot tick.

  “Why don’t you try to get some rest?” Hugo murmured in a quiet voice. “I’ll take a turn at watch.”

  Lancelot rubbed his neck, then shifted to face Hugo. A ghost of a grin appeared even as he shook his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Professor, but—”

  “But you’d be wiser not to finish that sentence, Lancelot.”

  Lancelot and Hugo both looked at Sylvia, who, for the first time since they’d rescued her from Alicia, actually sounded more like herself. Her voice was stronger, no longer weak with pain. She was sitting up, grinning at them.

  That didn’t matter. Both of them hastened back to the bed.

  “Lay down, ma cherie.”

  “On one condition.”

  Lancelot crossed his arms. “Under no conditions. You need to rest. You’re recuperating.”

  Sylvia waved her good hand as if that argument was inconsequential. “There’s room for three of us in this bed, even with my crappy hand.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Because it was a safe house for the Trinity Masters, the beds were made to accommodate three people rather than two.

  “Sylvia,” Hugo began, intent on arguing.

  The clever, sexy woman clearly was feeling better because she adopted that voice certain to ensure she got exactly what she wanted.

  “Hugo,” she said sweetly. “Please get in the bed. I’m cold and lonely and scared.”

  “And manipulative,” Lancelot pointed out.

  Hugo chuckled even as he gave in to her demand. “Your wish is my command.”