Beloved Sacrifice: Trinity Masters, book 9

by Mari Carr

  There’s one time I remember when a ship docked in the middle of the night.

  Weston sat up, then raised his hands, pressing them over the headphones so he wouldn’t miss a word she said.

  I was out with Father, helping him. It was late, after dark, but there weren’t many dockworkers left, too many had gone to fight and didn’t come home. The fish needed to be unloaded, nets mended. We worked all night sometimes. America had just entered the war so this must have been February or March nineteen forty-two, and the mood was up that night.

  Then this ship comes in.

  It was a ship, not a boat. You know the difference? No? Well, it was a ship. Might have been a cruising ship before the war. It was flying a British flag when it pulled into port, but when I grabbed the line I saw one of the crew stashing away a Spanish flag. Spain had remained neutral. Flying their own flag protected them from both sides.

  We had no record of it coming in, but I saw my father talking to a London man. You could tell just by looking at him, he was from London. Well off, expensive clothes, but his face was…his face made it seem like he’d been in the mud in France.

  They talked, then the man went back to one of the warehouses. It was standing empty, every scrap of material that had been stored inside already sent off to the factories. But this London man went in. He opened the door, and men started pouring out, carrying trunks and boxes of all sizes—a lot of narrow ones. I promise you, those boxes hadn’t been there long, because I knew that warehouse was empty. These men doing the loading, they didn’t look like hands. They were dressed as nice as the London man, but they all looked grim.

  Narrow boxes—the kind art was stored in. This was it. Weston pumped his fist once in the air, and Marek looked up. Weston grinned at him, but kept listening.

  When all the boxes were loaded, the men went back in, and this time they came out… There was a pause in the tape, and he heard Frances take a deep breath before speaking again. They came out holding the hands of children. A dozen at least. Most too young for primary school. A few older girls, but none older than ten. The kids were crying, and by then some of the men were too. They led them up the gangplank onto the ship. Then one by one, the men got off. The children were crying for their daddies, but the men got off. The first man, the London man, stayed on long enough to speak with the captain. Then he came down, too.

  The ship pulled out, almost the moment the man was off. You could hear the children crying until they were hustled inside. I watched that ship pull out and I was crying. Imagining if it was my little brother and sister, and my parents were sending them away to keep them safe. The blitz was over, so we thought things like that weren’t happening any longer.

  We’d been smiling and laughing, those of us working that night, but not once we saw those children.

  The interviewer spoke. “What happened to the ship, do you know?”

  Frances replied, “Esperanza. She was the Esperanza.”

  Weston went still. The Esperanza. This was his proof. The Esperanza had docked in England. He could now directly tie the painting that had belonged to the Ellingtons to the ship. But there had been children on the boat too. Weston’s stomach knotted.

  She must have been captured by the Germans after she left here. Probably dropped the children and goods off in Wales or Northern Ireland. A week or two later, I saw a notice in the paper that she’d been sunk by an American ship. I never did figure out who the Londoner was, but I told myself those kids spent the war out in the fresh air, on a nice farm in Wales, and that their parents were still alive when the war ended.

  It’s probably a bit of a fairytale, but those were the kinds of things you had to believe to get through it.

  The rest of the tape was just the interviewer thanking Frances.

  Weston hit the stop button and pulled the headphone off, dropping them to the table.

  “Weston, what’s wrong? Did you not find what you were looking for?”

  Weston unplugged the headphones, then shoved the entire Walkman into his pocket. “We need to go.”

  Marek rose with him. “Wes?”

  “I…I need to think.”

  Without saying goodbye to Elliot, Weston left the little library. He walked down to the waterfront and started pacing on the wooden walkway. Marek watched him, a silent, patient presence.

  The Esperanza hadn’t been captured by the Germans and used as a German supply ship. That was the lie that had been reported in the papers. Based on the journals he’d read, the USS Bluebird had gone after the Esperanza specifically because it was carrying treasure.

  Yes, it had been carrying art and antiquities, but after what he’d just heard, he doubted that was the treasure they were talking about.

  Children. There had been children on that boat.

  What happened to them? The USS Bluebird took the art that had been onboard. Had they rescued the children?

  The purists had stolen the art. That he was sure of. But had they stolen the children too? If so, where were they?

  Who were they?

  And there was a worse possibility.

  Maybe the children had gone down with the Esperanza.

  Weston felt ill. This was much bigger than he’d expected it to be. Yes, he could make a very good argument that the purists had stolen valuables belonging to the Masters’ Admiralty, using the painting as proof.

  But he didn’t give two fucks about that damned painting now. He needed to find out what had happened to those kids.

  He paced for another ten minutes, working through what he needed. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Rose and Tristan approaching. Rose wore dark jeans, a berry-red T-shirt and a trim leather motorcycle-style jacket. Large sunglasses with black frames covered her eyes and most of her upper face, and she wore black boots.

  Rose was looking at Marek, and he only shrugged in return.

  Weston stopped pacing and faced them. “We have to go to Boston.”

  Rose and Marek looked at him with expressions of shock and consideration, respectively. Tristan nodded.

  “Tristan, can you get us a plane?”

  Now he frowned. “You’re about to lose your asylum. You can’t seriously be asking to use our resources.”

  “I am. I have to get to Boston.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I…I’m not ready to say yet.”

  “Then no.”

  “Tristan. You know what I’ve been doing.” Weston took a step toward his friend. “I found what I needed, but it’s…it’s bigger than I thought. Lives may be at stake.”

  Technically, that could be true. The children on that boat could, theoretically, still be alive, living in America with no memory of who they really were. Their parents were most likely dead, but they might have family somewhere. And most of all, they—the children who might not have any idea of what had happened to them, if they’d been as young as Frances thought—deserved to know the truth.

  Tristan searched his face. “Weston, I wish I could help, but…”

  “The people whose lives are in danger might have ties to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

  “What?” Tristan rocked back on his heels. “Explain.”

  “Get me a plane. We need to leave for Boston right now.”

  “If you’re making this up—”

  “I’m not. And if I am, you can drag me before your Admiral and then rendition my ass to a dark hole somewhere.”

  Tristan stared at him for a minute more, then looked at Rose and Marek. Weston turned so he could see them too. They both looked baffled, though most of Rose’s expression was hidden by the glasses.

  “Fine.” Tristan turned and walked away, tapping at his phone.

  “Wes?” Rose asked.

  Marek put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going on, or what you’re talking about, but I’m going with you to Boston.”

  Rose stiffened.

  “Not to return you to the Grand Master. I’m going with you
to help you.”

  Weston sighed. “Good, because we need your help. Actually, I think we need your grandmother’s help.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was both awesome and awful that only five hours after the conversation on the docks they were boarding a private plane headed to Manchester-Boston Regional Airport.

  Rose didn’t know much about the Masters’ Admiralty, but arranging a last-minute international flight on a private plane was a Herculean task. You needed money, power, and connections to do it. Even more so because Rose was traveling on a fake EU passport. She hadn’t thought to ask how Weston had gotten her into the country, but Marek had asked when they drove the two hours back to Weston’s house.

  Wes had pulled out a small lockbox and opened it to reveal three bundles of passports. Each bundle had four passports—one each for Weston, Rose, Tabby, and Caden. For the return trip to the U.S., Weston gave her a passport with her mother’s last name, rather than Hancock. The passport she’d entered England with had the same name. It was a common enough practice among people who held two passports to enter Europe on the European one and then return to the U.S. with the American one, so she should be safe enough, as long as they didn’t realize it was a fake.

  Tristan was able to drive his SUV right onto the tarmac at the private plane jet center at London City Airport.

  Rose slipped out of the car then went to the trunk, taking the backpack Weston had given her, mostly so it seemed like she had some sort of luggage. No luggage was suspicious. A porter took Marek’s and Weston’s suitcases, throwing them into a little cart and driving them into the hangar to be scanned. A small table was set up at the foot of the stairs, and one by one they placed their carryon bags on the table, where a gloved attendant hand-checked each, before waving them up the steps.

  A trim young man in a flight attendant’s blazer welcomed them onboard with glasses of Prosecco.

  The interior of the G6 was divided into three sections—the foyer/kitchen area, where they’d entered, and two seating areas. The middle seating area had only four seats, two on each side, facing each other. There was a bulkhead that separated these seats from the back of the aircraft, where there were two couches along each side, facing in toward the center aisle.

  Rose dropped into one of the rear-facing seats. Marek took the one across from her, looking strong and unflappable, his shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms.

  Weston sat in the other forward-facing seat. Tristan didn’t look pleased by that, but took the last chair, across the aisle from Rose. The flight attendant gave them a quick briefing, they buckled up, and then the plane started taxiing.

  Weston looked tense. He had yet to explain why they were willingly returning to Boston. She’d gotten Tristan out of the way so he could listen to those tapes. Curiosity was eating away at her. What could he have heard that made him so tense and grim?

  The only thing she could think was that he hadn’t found anything. If the proof he hoped for wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have the leverage he needed to threaten his parents and get the Grand Master to back off.

  But if he’d found nothing, she would have expected more frustration. Perhaps he would have insisted they go back to the cabin so he could consult his serial killer room for another lead.

  Once they’d climbed to thirty-thousand feet and the captain announced they could unfasten their seat belts, Weston yanked at the tab and jumped to his feet.

  “Rose, come on.” He held out his hand.

  She froze, her nerve endings tingling. A lifetime of conditioning had her bowing her head even as she undid the seat belt.

  Marek pushed to his feet, strong, solid, and sure. He stepped between her and Weston. “No, Weston. You don’t speak to her like that.”

  Rose couldn’t see Weston’s face, but she heard the noise he made. A noise of pain and sadness. Her heart lurched in response, as if his pain had hurt her too. Which was ridiculous and circular.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” There was a sigh. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Marek said.

  “I’m not going to hurt her.”

  That spurred her from the submissive silence his command had locked her into. She pushed to her feet. “I’m right here. I don’t need you to protect me.” She put her hand on Marek’s arm. “But that’s who you are. I understand that. Sometimes…sometimes I react.” She tried to put a note of humor into her voice but it was shaky. “All the brainwashing.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll just…” Weston sighed.

  Rose kept one hand on Marek and took Weston’s hand with her free one. “What do you need, Wes?”

  “Ah, for fuck sake, you three.” Tristan had his arms folded and eyes closed. They were standing only a few feet from him, but he was clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t there. “The couches in the back convert into a bed. Get on with it.”

  Weston met her gaze and jerked his chin in a brief nod.

  Rose changed her posture, resting her elbow on Marek’s shoulder. “A bed?” she purred, watching Tristan out of the corner of her eye. “I hope you’ve got headphones, Blondie.”

  Without looking, he reached into his carryon, pulled out noise-canceling headphones, and put them on.

  Weston led them through the small doorway to the area with couches, then closed the small door, separating the seating areas. It wasn’t soundproof, but between the noise of the plane and Tristan’s headphones, they might not be overheard when Weston told them…

  Told them whatever it was he’d heard on that tape.

  * * *

  Rose sat back as Weston stopped the tape. The Walkman sat on the couch between them. Marek sat on the couch opposite, his brows beetled in a frown.

  It wasn’t until Marek slipped to one knee in front of her, and Wes reached out and tentatively took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles, that Rose realized she was crying.

  “There were children on the ship?” she asked in a choked voice.

  “Treasure. The reason the Bluebird went after it was because they’d intercepted communications that said there was treasure.”

  “My God.” The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. Belatedly, she could feel the cold lines on her cheeks where tears made flesh wet, and the air pumping through the plane’s jets cooled the tracks of them.

  Rose reached up and wiped her cheeks, doing it carefully to remove any eyeliner or mascara that had run down her face. To buy time, she’d insisted Tristan take her to several stores until she’d found the “perfect” makeup, telling him it was necessary because she had allergies. Putting on eyeliner made her feel much more in control of the world.

  Marek held out his hand, offering it to her. She placed her fingers in his, so each hand was held.

  “I can see that this information is hurting you.” Marek offered his other hand to Weston, who looked surprised—and was he blushing? Then Wes placed his hand in Marek’s. Rose stared at their joined hands, and a little thrill ran through her, as if by taking hands they’d completed the circuit, and now an electrical current was running through them.

  As if they were three pieces of a single whole that, once together, sparked with life and power.

  Rose started breathing deeper, and her body felt heavy. The feeling was both familiar and foreign. Arousal. She was aroused. But it felt bright and delicious, like a mouth full of Champagne. She was used to arousal feeling like a shot of Jaeger—hard and burning.

  On reflex, her fingers tightened around theirs. Marek returned the squeeze. Weston hesitated.

  “Rose?” Weston asked.

  “I…I want this. I want you, both of you.” Stupid useless tears welled in her eyes. She normally never cried but in the last week, she’d cried more than she had in years. “But I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Marek’s voice was calm and steady.

  “Because I don’t know how to be with someone without BDSM.” Her voice cracked. “And I think if…if either one
of you topped me…” How could she explain the anxiety that roiled through her like a bubbling cauldron? “I couldn’t take it.” She let out a hard, bitter laugh. “I could, of course, take it. Put a collar around my neck, tie my hands together, and I’ll do what you say, anything you order me to. And if either of you did that, I wouldn’t be able to…it would kill me.”

  Rose shook her head. “No, that’s not the right way to put it. It wouldn’t kill me. It would snuff out the stupid little bit of hope inside me.”

  “Hope?” Weston asked.

  “Hope. Hope that maybe one day we…” She paused to take a breath. “I always hoped that Caden was right. That someday, he and Tabby and I would get out. We’d be free. And maybe, once we were free, Caden would change. And if he changed, maybe I would have been able to love him.

  “If you use me, master me, the way he did, I would start to hate you, and it would kill that little bit of hope.”

  “Then we won’t touch you that way,” Marek said softly.

  Weston took his hand from hers. “I’m not going to touch you, Brown Eyes. I don’t ever want to hurt you. I’m sorry, so sorry, for the cuffs. I thought it would make you more comfortable.” He shifted away from her, turning so that his blind right side faced her. “I thought that Caden was giving you what you wanted. What you needed. I thought that I had fucked up all those years ago by not acting as your Dom.”

  Rose laid the hand he’d held only moments ago against his shoulder. “We can’t change our past.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  Marek cleared his throat. “But we can make a new future.”

  Rose didn’t miss the way he’d said “we.” What they weren’t acknowledging, or talking about, was the fact that they were behaving like a trinity.

  Marek climbed to his feet, then went to the couch he’d been sitting on and fiddled with it.

  Rose slid her hand down Weston’s arm, until her fingers lay on his wrist. It took a moment, but he turned his hand palm up, offering it to her. She slid her fingers over his, and that warm, bubbly feeling returned.