by Mari Carr
In contrast, Cashtal Ny Tree Cassyn—which translated from Manx to English as Triskelion Castle, or more literally, The Castle of Three Legs—was a fortified manor house and estate. Tristan had, as part of being knighted, spent two nights in the manor house—which in the privacy of his thoughts he still referred to as a castle. The fleet admiral and his trinity lived in private quarters on the third floor. The second floor had six bedrooms and a receiving room, which had been redecorated and updated in the 1700s, and carefully maintained since then. Luckily, the second-floor bathroom was entirely modern.
The first floor of the manor had a foyer, library, offices, and kitchen. But the majority of the square footage of the first floor was given over to the great hall, which would have been more in keeping with Rushen’s medieval layout. It had been built to serve as a gathering place for the society, though now the room could not have held their entire membership, which was well over a thousand individuals all across Europe.
They spotted Triskelion Castle long before they reached it. They were headed downhill, from the high center of the island toward the north shore, when they came around a curve and the view opened up—green fields, fluffy white sheep, and the wild blue ocean. And there, standing tall against the wind and waves, was Triskelion Castle.
Ten minutes later, they pulled to a stop at the outer wall and gate.
“It’s beautiful,” Sophia said as they climbed out of the car. “I’d forgotten how beautiful.”
“I haven’t been here since I accepted my invitation.” James kept his voice low, in case the driver was listening.
“I’ve been here a few times.” Tristan passed the driver a handful of British pounds, which were accepted as payment anywhere on the island, before taking the bags out of the car. He set their bags by the whitewashed outer wall of the estate and peered between the bars of the gate, looking over the outside of the structure, reminding himself what he knew of the layout. The arched gothic windows, steeply angled roofs, and intricately carved capstones would not have been out of place in a cathedral. Between the wall and the gray stone castle were gardens and lawns.
The taxi pulled away, the driver giving them a considering look. Triskelion Castle was only open to the public one day a year. The owner of the castle was still one of the largest landholders on the isle and famously reclusive. The tall wall enclosed the fortified manor house, gardens, and a second modern-style house on three sides.
The fourth side of the estate was bordered by the sea, and from where they stood at the iron gates looking in, Tristan could just barely see the tips of the white sails docked in the private harbor. The castle sat on elevated land, the boats accessed via a path that had been cut into the cliff. He could faintly hear the crash of waves. The bleating of sheep was much louder. If the taxi had continued down the road, they would have come to the farmyard that belonged to the estate. As far as anyone knew, the owner made his money by exporting coveted Manx wool.
James stepped to the side and pressed the intercom button.
A moment later, the gates parted.
Tristan stared at the open gates, and for a moment considered turning back. He’d insisted on coming here. Lorelei had not been happy, but agreed that it was better safe than sorry, even if she would not officially send him.
If they were wrong, and if the fleet admiral took exception to being disturbed, he could lose his knighthood.
It would be a drastic step, and as annoyed as Lorelei was after the fiasco with the Americans, he was relatively certain that she wouldn’t sacrifice him for the sake of politicking. After all, she’d given him this assignment, which was not the “nannying” he’d first assumed it would be.
But he hesitated.
Being a knight was everything to him. It was who he was—who he’d become. He’d put that at risk once before, when he went against orders to help his American friend, Wes. The United States wasn’t part of the Masters’ Admiralty, their “territory” coming into play too late in the history. The British territory wasn’t about to include a bunch of wild rebels in its esteemed society, so the Americans were left to their own devices.
However, the founding fathers of that new country had enough knowledge to understand how most things worked, how countries survived and thrived, not because of what their leaders did publicly, but because of what happened in the shadows.
They’d formed the Trinity Masters, which clearly proved that some far-reaching branches of the Masters’ Admiralty—legacies who’d crossed the sea to live in a New World—had been amongst those so-called wild rebels.
His friend, Wes, had uncovered a secret sect determined to bring down the Trinity Masters, and along with it, information that had rocked both societies.
Sophia raised her chin and walked forward. James followed her.
Tristan scooped up their bags and set them against the inside of the wall. He wanted to be unencumbered.
A few quick steps and he caught up, walking just behind and to the right of Sophia, while James walked on her left.
As they approached the front entrance—a heavy wooden door set in a pointy-arched alcove—armed men appeared atop the walls. The walls of the house ended in a parapet, and there was a gap between the three-foot parapet and the angled part of the room, creating a walkway that could serve as a serene place to take in the views of the countryside and sea.
Or it could be used as a defensive post for snipers.
Tristan tensed and his steps slowed.
“No, no, no,” Sophia murmured. “Show no fear. You must walk in as if you belong here.”
“We do belong here,” James pointed out.
“Precisamente.”
Tristan forced his fingers to uncurl from his sword and followed Sophia and James into the cool, dark foyer of Triskelion Castle.
Chapter Nine
Sophia was no stranger to grand houses. Her father’s villa—the showpiece among his many properties—was far larger and grander than this house. Her father’s house in Rome, an historic and ornate place in the heart of one of the oldest cities in the world, was more memorable than this.
She still found Triskelion Castle imposing. It reminded her that this organization was greater than she was. It was greater than her father. It was greater than any one member.
The foyer had a low roof—only ten feet tall. The walls were hung with oil paintings, many of them scenes of the Isle of Man. The floor was not stone, but beautifully polish hardwood that gleamed with wax and age. A large oriental-style rug in pale tones of taupe and silver ran down the center of the long, narrow foyer, muting their steps as they walked. Light came not from any windows, but from sconces that looked like they should have held candles, but instead had electric bulbs.
High above them on the third floor were the private chambers of the fleet admiral and his trinity. She had met the fleet admiral twice in her life. Once when he’d come to visit her father in Rome, and again when she’d accepted her membership. She’d been only a girl when the fleet admiral came to Rome. She’d been a prop—as she so often was—in the grand production her father had put on for the man he privately called the emperor. She had been dressed up like a little doll in designer clothes and brought out so she could curtsey and smile and sing an Italian aria for him.
His trinity had been with him. The fleet admiral had two wives, both of them lovely, but unlike her father’s wives, who had been chosen for their beauty and social skills, the fleet admiral’s wives were both powerful in their own right, each with a will of iron that she’d been able to sense even as a little girl. In a way, seeing those powerful women who stood not behind, but beside the most powerful man in her reality had helped her to find her own strength. One of the fleet admiral’s wives, Manon, held a powerful position within the EU. The other, Greta, served as the financial head of the Masters’ Admiralty. That was not a role given to her because of her position as the fleet admiral’s spouse, but because of her own fierce intelligence. She had been an investment banker who w
orked for the Swiss National Bank before marrying.
Tristan was the last one to enter, and he closed the door behind him. The sound it made was solid and sure…and more than a little alarming. Her unruly imagination reared up once more, silently whispering in her ear that the door was locked. That they were trapped here now, and no one would ever find their bodies. They were fanciful thoughts, crazy thoughts. She knew better. Yet she wanted to turn around, reach for the door and jiggle the handle, just to make sure it was still unlocked.
None of these thoughts showed on her face.
She was the princess of Rome.
She’d chosen her outfit for this meeting carefully—nothing too formal, because she wanted her clothing to convey that this was an emergency. If she looked like she’d had time to dress to impress, her words might be dismissed. Instead of a tailored designer dress or even a gown, she wore wide-legged brown pants. Her white silk shirt had elegantly flowing sleeves. Her accessories were a gold belt made of actual gold links and a trio of different-length gold chain necklaces. Her hair was down and loose, her makeup minimal. Considering how she normally appeared when at Masters’ Admiralty functions, this was the equivalent of someone else showing up in workout gear.
“Where is everyone?” James asked.
“I’m not sure.” Tristan was looking around, and his hand was back on the hilt of his sword.
“Don’t do that.” Sophia gestured with one hand, a brushing motion, as if she were trying to sweep his movement under a table.
Tristan looked at her. Their gazes met and he nodded, releasing his sword. Sophia felt a little thrill go through her that he’d not only listened, but he’d obeyed her command. Between her father and brother, it was rare that she was listened to, though her brother was always the first to acknowledge her intelligence and capability.
At the opposite end of the foyer from the main entrance were two large double doors, which she remembered opened onto the great hall. The stairs up to the second floor were accessed through a small recessed archway on the left. She always found it a bit odd that there wasn’t a grand staircase leading to the upper floors, but considering that this place had been built in a time when swords were the height of defensive technology, and that even now the manor was meant to serve as a stronghold, it was no surprise that the spiral staircase—designed to be easily defended by men with swords—was still the only way to access the second and third floors.
“Well, this isn’t creepy,” James said. “Here we are in an empty house where the doors seem to open all by themselves.” Tristan snorted a laugh and Sophia smiled.
It was then that they heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later, Greta Meier stepped into the foyer.
Sophia changed her smile from amused to polite and waited with all the patience in the world as Greta approached. She was in her early sixties, with white hair cut in a chic chin-length bob. She wore a pebble-gray sleeveless sheath dress that fell to her knees and showed off muscular arms with skin only slightly wrinkled and marked by age.
“Ms. Starabba, it is a pleasure to see you again.” She inclined her head to Sophia, speaking Italian.
Greta turned to James and switched to English. “Mr. Rathmann, it is good to see you. How is your father?”
“Which one?” James put a teasing note into his question, and Sophia tensed. James’s informality was inappropriate at best and stupid at worst.
Greta laughed.
Sophia blinked in surprise, though perhaps it was her surprise that was foolish. She’d known James less than twenty-four hours and yet was comfortable with him. For all his intimidating size, he was both charming and disarming.
“A very good point, Mr. Rathmann. I meant your father Fetu, since I think we can all acknowledge Fetu is more than likely your biological parent. But you are quite correct, so how is Mr. McGregor?”
“He’s well, thank you, Frauline Meier.”
“That is good to hear. And your mother?”
“She is well. Her roses are looking particularly good this year.”
“The cutting she sent me years ago has matured into a beautiful bush.”
“I’ll let her know. How is Manon?”
Sophia couldn’t help it. She twisted to stare at James. Tristan was looking at him with a mildly flabbergasted expression as well.
James looked at them and grinned, but his smile faded when Greta’s gaze turned to Tristan.
“We don’t have time for any more niceties. Knight,” Greta said.
Tristan inclined his head, the heel of his left hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword.
“I believe you insisted on coming here, Knight.” From the way Greta said the word “knight,” Sophia wasn’t sure if she was using it as a title or as a name.
“Yes, ma’am. I believe…”
Sophia saw the indecision and doubt on Tristan’s face. Tristan didn’t turn his head, but his gaze slid to James.
Sophia and James both started speaking at once.
“I am the reason—”
“We’re here because of me and—”
Tristan held up his right hand, and Sophia and James both stopped speaking. He stepped forward, passing close enough to Sophia that she was able to reach out and lay her fingers on his back for a fraction of a second. A gesture of encouragement and support.
Greta’s gaze focused on Sophia’s hand, and one iron-gray eyebrow rose.
“Ma’am.” Tristan’s voice was calm and sure. He stood tall, and there in the foyer of a building that had stood since medieval times, he seemed every inch the knight. All he lacked was chainmail and a noble steed. “We are here because we believe the fleet admiral is in danger.”
“Your admiral said as much when he called, though he said that he was allowing you to come in order to encourage your initiative, not due to the credibility of the threat.”
Greta wasn’t going to make this easy on Tristan. Sophia clenched her teeth, feeling protective of him.
“There was a murder in Rome. I went to escort Mr. Rathmann, who was called in to examine some of the evidence.”
Greta’s blank expression shifted into a frown. “I thought you were a curator for the British Museum?”
“I am.” James’s voice had lost the light teasing note. As if he too didn’t like the way Greta was talking to Tristan.
“There were pieces of art and,” Tristan paused, searching for the word, “treasure at the crime scene.”
“Treasure? Surely you are joking, Knight.”
Sophia stepped up, speaking Italian rather than English. She could control the subtleties of language much more precisely in her native tongue. “This honorable knight is not joking. Treasure is the appropriate word. Paintings, a jeweled box, and a cache of coins were found in the cave, along with three mutilated bodies. We are here because we believe the fleet admiral is in danger. We know that if we are wrong, there will be repercussions, especially for this knight. Yet we are here to protect the fleet admiral, and you.”
Greta blinked twice. Sophia wasn’t sure if it was due to shock or surprise. Sophia held her breath, waiting for a reply.
Greta inclined her head to Sophia, speaking Italian. “Thank you for explaining, Ms. Starabba.” She switched to English. “Please follow me. A cup of coffee and something to eat will serve us well.”
Greta turned on her sensible heel and disappeared into the stairs. Tristan and James looked at Sophia.
Sophia shrugged and pushed her hair back. “I merely informed her that treasure was the appropriate word.”
“Uh, it sounded like you said more than that.”
Sophia slipped her arm through Tristan’s and held out a hand to James. He took it, and together they followed Greta to the stairs.
Tristan was warm and solid at her side. James’s large hand enveloped hers, making her feel whole and safe.
She’d reached out to both of them, united them, on instinct.
At the foot of the narrow stairs, she released her hold
.
But not before Greta, standing four steps up, saw them. Again she raised one brow, cocking her head to the side and looking at Sophia, asking a question without words.
Sophia raised her chin and started up the steps. Greta turned away and preceded her. James and then Tristan followed.
She’d expected that they would go to the second floor, where there were bedrooms and a small sitting room. However, instead of stopping on the second floor, Greta led them down the hall and onto a small interior balcony that overlooked the two-story great hall. The balcony served as stage and pulpit when the fleet admiral needed to address a gathering, and ran the length of the short side of the gathering room, which took up its own wing of the building. At the end of the balcony, a tapestry concealed another spiral staircase.
Sophia’s heart started to thump in her chest. They were being taken to the private quarters of the fleet admiral. She didn’t know anyone, anyone, who’d been up to the third floor.
She risked a glance over her shoulder and could see the surprise and shock on her men’s faces.
Control your imagination, girl! They’re not your men.
At the top of the stairs, a heavy steel door stood open and sunlight spilled down onto the staircase. When she stepped over the threshold, she had to stop and blink a few times before her eyes adjusted.
The third floor was full of light and soft, modern furnishings. The staircase let them out directly into a large living space that housed two separate seating areas, one positioned before the cold fireplace. There was a large dining table with comfortable-looking chairs, and an open-plan kitchen. The kitchen was done in tones of white and gray—gray cabinets, a white marble countertop, stainless steel appliances, and lovely white dishes edged in silver, visible through the glass cabinet fronts.
The flooring throughout the entire area was weathered wood that held tones of gray, taupe, white, and mossy brown. The furnishings were brown leather, cream sailcloth, and gold brocade. It had the lived-in look that none of her father’s residences could boast, but even as simple as the furnishings were, the place reeked of wealth and good taste.
