Treachery’s Devotion_Masters’ Admiralty Page 2

  Tristan thought he looked a bit like a bear who had been stuffed into a lab coat and then jammed into the little room.

  “Mr. Rathmann?”

  The bear turned, and a black-haired man with the coloring and features of a native of the Polynesian islands regarded Tristan with a flat look.

  Tristan tensed. He’d seen that look before—on the streets of Croydon where he’d grown up. It was the look young men learned to adopt to hide their fear. And as those men grew up, the expression became a mask they pulled on just before they swung their fists or pulled a knife.

  The bear—whom Tristan recognized from his picture in the vice admiral’s file as James Rathmann, England’s foremost expert on old and rare coins—looked like he was about to start breaking heads in a back-alley brawl.

  Tristan didn’t take a step back, and he managed to keep his hand from going to the hilt of the sword, but he did shift his weight onto the balls of his feet and bend his knees.

  James Rathmann’s dark gaze moved from his face to the sword at Tristan’s side…and the flat look melted away into a welcoming smile.

  “A knight. Fuck me if that ain’t cool. Come on, man, you wanna see this?”

  James waved Tristan over with one big bear-like paw. The other man’s accent was a bit odd. It wasn’t precisely low-class English—it was more lyrical and melodious than Tristan’s own original accent, which was as cockney as anything that could be found on one of the BBC gangland documentaries. There was a hint of maybe Australian or Kiwi in the way he spoke. If Tristan hadn’t known that James was English born and bred, and a legacy to boot, he would have guessed the other man was a Kiwi and native Maori.

  Tristan nodded—it was a nice neutral response—and walked over to the long counter. James rolled his stool to the side and motioned for Tristan to look through one of the lighted magnifying glasses that had been positioned over the table. Tristan started to refuse; it wouldn’t be smart to turn his back to the other man, and bending forward to look through the glass would put him in the perfect position to have his head smashed into the counter.

  Nanny. This is a nannying job. Not a dangerous assignment. Not an important assignment.

  And James Rathmann was the one he was supposed to be babysitting. Well, technically, he was escorting him to Rome, where James was due to consult on something. Tristan hadn’t been given many details. All he’d been told was that he was to escort and protect James.

  Tristan very much doubted that an expert on rare coins was going to be in any kind of danger, but like a dutiful knight, he’d accepted his assignment. Seeing James in person made it very clear that if this man did run into problems, he wouldn’t have any trouble dealing with them himself.

  Yet another sign that he was being punished for the fiasco with the Trinity Masters. Bloody Americans.

  England’s Vice Admiral Lorelei Madden clearly hadn’t been satisfied with blistering his ears. She’d cooked up the most insulting assignment she could think of, just in case Tristan hadn’t understood exactly how little faith she had in him.

  Tristan bent at the waist and looked through the magnifying glass at a small gold coin. He was prepared to say something polite about the coin, but frowned when he actually saw what was printed on it.

  “Is that an elephant?” he asked.

  James slapped him on the shoulder so hard, Tristan rocked forward.

  “Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? It is an elephant. And on the other side…” James slipped on a white cotton glove, then reached out and carefully turned the coin over, revealing a Roman-style bust. “That’s Philip the first. They called him the Arab.”

  “Roman?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes. Kids found a cache of coins outside Bristol.” James motioned to a green and beige lump. “That’s the first one I’ve cleaned.”

  “Those are coins?” Tristan looked at the lump.

  “Yes. Wrapped in cloth. They were stored together, probably buried.”

  “When?” Tristan asked.

  James’s brows rose. “Two hundred seventy A.D.”

  Tristan started to whistle then stopped himself. Whistling was low-class.

  “You a collector?” James asked.

  “Of coins, no.”

  “Intelligent then.”

  “Well…” Tristan frowned. “Just curious.”

  James shook his head. “Intelligent. Figures. The knights are smarter than the security goons. Isn’t that the way?”

  Tristan looked around, reassuring himself there was no one there to hear James casually discuss the inner workings and structures of their secret organization.

  “Mr. Rathmann, it’s best if you don’t mention things like that in public.”

  “True enough.” James waved a hand casually. “Off to Rome then?”

  “Yes. I’ve made our travel arrangements. Do you have everything you need?”

  James picked up a small suitcase—maybe it was a regular-size suitcase and it just looked small in his hand. “Yep. Enough for a week.”

  Tristan had been distracted trying to figure out how tall the other man was. Tristan wasn’t short at just over six feet. James didn’t seem to be more than an inch or two taller than Tristan, but he was big.

  Finally, his words penetrated and Tristan shot the other man a glance. “A week? You expect it will take that long?”

  “It depends on what they have. Rome is being tight-lipped.”

  “I’d like to know more about what you’ve been told on the way.” Tristan and James both reached for the door. Tristan took hold of the knob firmly, opened the door, and motioned James forward.

  James frowned slightly, then stepped through.

  It was only then that Tristan noticed the other man’s uneven gait. When he walked, James didn’t bend his left leg—he swung it out to the side and forward in a shallow semicircle.

  “You probably know more than me,” James said. He turned right, rather than left, which was the way Tristan had come from. Tristan hesitated for only a heartbeat, then followed James.

  “I doubt that,” Tristan replied. “All I was told was who you are, and that I was to escort you to Rome.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rathmann.”

  “James. Call me James. Which one are you?” James turned and started down a different set of stairs than the one Tristan had come up. James’s progress was slow, almost painfully so. He always led with his stiff left leg. Tristan debated offering to carry the other man’s suitcase, but held his tongue. Whatever was wrong with James’s leg, it clearly wasn’t a new injury, and he doubted the big man would appreciate being treated like an invalid.

  “Which one?” Tristan repeated, unsure what the question meant.

  “Which one are you?” James repeated. “Wait, let me guess. Percival?”

  “No.”

  “Galahad?”

  “No. Tristan.”

  “Tristan. That’s a good one. Nice choice.”

  “Thank you.” The words came out flat and hard.

  James stopped and looked at him. “You going to be like this the whole way?”

  “Like what?” Tristan knew his words were clipped.

  James’s lip curled a bit. “Fucking uptight prick.”

  “’Bout you watch your fucking mouth?” Tristan shot back, letting his speech patterns fall back into the accent of his youth. “Fucking” turned into “foohkin.”

  James’s brows rose. He nodded once and started down the stairs again. Once at the bottom, they exited into a short hall, and from there into the atrium.

  Damn it, that had been a much shorter route.

  “Our car is waiting out front,” Tristan said.

  James nodded again, and they walked side by side through the atrium. The crowds parted before James like the Red Sea for Moses. Most people didn’t seem to be consciously moving out of the way. They simply saw a large someone coming and moved aside.

  They didn’t speak again until they were in the American-s
tyle chauffeured car, complete with a barrier between the driver’s areas and the back seats.

  “How are we getting to Rome?” James asked, breaking the silence.

  Tristan turned to face the other man, keeping his polite, neutral mask in place. “Private plane.” He hid the wince. The last time he’d ordered a private plane had been for Wes—the lying fuck.

  “Good. I don’t do so well in commercial.”

  “I’d suspect not.”

  “I’m guessing we’ll have to go to the crime scene tonight.”

  Tristan stared at James, sure he’d heard that incorrectly. “I’m sorry?”

  James raised his raven-black eyebrows, and his dark eyes sparkled with hints of amusement. “They didn’t tell you anything?”

  “Only that I was to escort you to Rome and stay with you. What crime scene?”

  “One of the members in Rome was murdered. Ritual killing.”

  “Ritual killing?” Tristan shifted in the seat to fully face James. This was not what he’d expected to hear.

  “Yep. They wouldn’t say much over the phone. And no pictures. But they found some coins.” James tapped his fist against his chest. “That’s where I come in. They want a coin expert. She’s meeting us at the airport.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Yesterday or the day before. They found the body yesterday morning. Vice Admiral called me last night.”

  She’d called Tristan to give him the assignment this morning.

  “Rome’s security minister must be keeping this from the Italian authorities.”

  “Not hard for them to do. The admiral of Rome has a lot more control over his territory than we do over ours.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” Tristan said.

  James shrugged. “I have a cousin who’s a member in Rome.”

  “I forgot you’re a legacy.”

  “I don’t look much like a legacy, eh?”

  Tristan shook his head. “I meant no offense.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  Tristan felt like a racist prick. “Please accept my apologies. You’re right, you don’t look like most of the legacies, and you don’t sound like them either. Your accent is…what is your accent?”

  “Mom was ambassador to New Zealand so I spent some time there. But my grandfather was Samoan.”

  Tristan nodded. He’d been right about the other man’s ancestral origins.

  “I grew up there, then stayed to play for the All Blacks.”

  Tristan blinked. “You played rugby for the New Zealand All Blacks?”

  “Yep.”

  Tristan whistled. He didn’t care if it was low-class. That deserved a whistle.

  The car pulled into London City Airport, and they climbed out. It took them about an hour to deal with the abbreviated security procedures and board the plane. They’d fly to a small, private airstrip outside of Rome proper, where they’d be met by an escort from Rome.

  Once they were settled in the plush seats, which were large enough to seat even James comfortably, Tristan leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees.

  James took a drink of the beer the flight attendant had provided. “Tighthead prop.”

  Tristan blinked in surprise.

  “That’s what you were going to ask. What position I played. I was front row for two years.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Tristan said honestly. “But actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

  “Oh?”

  “You said ‘her.’ That we were going to meet ‘her.’ Who were you talking about?”

  James smiled, and Tristan started to get a sinking feeling.

  “She works for the Carabinieri Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage. The Italian art police. She consults for Interpol too.”

  “Is this a murder or an art heist?” Tristan hoped James didn’t notice the way the words art heist had made his eye twitch. Fucking Weston and his art were what had landed him in hot water to begin with.

  “A murder, but a crime scene with lots of art clues. At least that’s what they think.”

  “And this art police woman, she’s a member?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Fuck, man, just tell me,” Tristan said, all reserve gone.

  James grinned. “The woman we’re meeting is Sophia Starabba.”

  Tristan blinked. “Wait, isn’t she…”

  “The principessa. The daughter of the admiral of Rome.”

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t a long flight from London to Rome, and the private plane journey included a hot meal and seats that reclined almost all the way, making it seem even shorter than it was. James exited the plane via air stairs, taking them one at a time, always leading with his bum leg. He felt refreshed and loose, instead of cramped and tired.

  His left leg ached from the changes in altitude, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it would have been if they’d flown in a commercial plane, even if they’d flown first-class. At six foot three and nearly three hundred pounds, James wasn’t sized to fit in most things—he stood in the Tube, had to fly premium economy or higher, and got most of his clothes custom-made.

  As a legacy member of the Masters’ Admiralty, he—almost by definition—came from a family with money. Added to that, his carefully invested earnings from his days playing pro meant he had the option to upgrade his seats and take black cabs, which wouldn’t have been realistic on a curator’s salary. Still, the private plane was a new experience, and one he’d happily repeat.

  James made it to the bottom of the stairs and stepped to the side to let the knight pass him. Hot, golden afternoon sun—a particular light that was unique to Rome. He closed his eyes, and let the warmth and heat soak into him. After a moment, he felt Tristan pass by.

  The knight was a bit of a puzzle. Good-looking—golden blond, broad shoulders, and trim waist. Except for the bit of scruff on his jaw and his slightly shaggy hair, he fit the image of a knight—noble and stalwart. Yet there was a tension in him, and a terseness to the way he spoke, that made Tristan seem aggrieved or vexed.

  James might have thought it was his natural state of being, but he’d seen Tristan relax. Or maybe it would be more appropriate to say “drop his guard.” James had first seen it when Tristan studied James’s new baby—the coin with Philip I on it. Tristan had even dropped the clipped, upper-class accent once or twice.

  James had never met a knight before. He’d seen them when he’d accepted his invitation to join, but they’d been in their formal robes, and had been nothing more than intimidating, armed, hooded figures standing behind the admiral.

  Tristan cleared his throat slightly, and James opened his eyes.

  “If you need a moment, we can wait.” Tristan spoke bluntly, not snidely. James appreciated that.

  “No, I’m grand.”

  Tristan nodded, then took the handle of the suitcase and started walking. It was James’s suitcase, and Tristan had looped his own duffel bag over the handle.

  “I can roll my own bag,” James said mildly.

  “I mean no offense,” Tristan replied, but he didn’t hand over the case.

  “Shattered knee.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s why I limp. I shattered my knee. Broke sideways. They replaced it, but the replacement wasn’t wholly successful. It bends, but not easily.”

  Tristan stopped, and once more that tension slipped, along with the crisp diction and precise grammar that had marked his speaking voice. “Damn. I remember that game. You were playing savage, and then they just rammed you.”

  “I think I still rank as one of the top five worst rugby injuries of all time,” James agreed.

  “That’s fucked is what that is. That had to bloody hurt.”

  “Lucky for me, I don’t remember most of it.”

  “Ended your career, right?”

  “It did.”

  “I’m sorry, mate.”

  “No worries.”


  They walked on in companionable silence, and James was glad some of the tension had left Tristan. James prided himself on his ability to disarm almost anyone—at his size, it was a skill he’d learned when he was young. A man as big as he was had to know how to put people at ease.

  They followed the directions of the flight attendant to the small terminal building. Just before they reached the doors, Tristan asked, “The victim—do you know who it was?”

  “No. And I’m guessing you don’t?”

  James hadn’t meant it as an insult, but Tristan tensed. “No,” the knight said. “I wasn’t given any information besides your name and the destination.”

  James made a humming noise of consideration, then said, “You’re probably here to chaperone.”

  “Chaperone?”

  “The ladies love me. They probably don’t want an international incident when the principessa falls in love with me.”

  Tristan snorted out a laugh and relaxed again. “I’m not a chaperone. I’m your nanny.”

  “Nanny?”

  “You academic, art-history types always end up getting yourselves into trouble.”

  James laughed. Tristan held open the door and James went through, not bothering to try to fight to be the one who held the door.

  “Be careful,” James warned Tristan. “The principessa is an art historian and a cop.”

  “A geek with a gun. Yep, I’m the nanny.”

  They were both grinning as they entered the small, tasteful lounge area that served as the check-in gate and waiting area.

  A woman rose. She’d been seated with her back to them. As she turned and took a step forward, a ray of that too-gold sunlight fell over her.

  Tristan and James both stopped. Stopped talking, stopped moving. After a moment, James realized he’d even stopped breathing. He exhaled noisily.

  “Jay-sus,” Tristan breathed.

  The most breathtakingly beautiful woman James had ever seen raised one dark eyebrow as her lips curled into a faint smile. Her hair was black and fell around her heart-shaped face in big, loose waves. Her eyes were a bright, clear gold, lined with dark lashes. Her cheeks weren’t all boney, the way magazines seemed to love—they were sweetly rounded, paired with a small, delicate chin and lush lips.