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 worked 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.

A hall extended off the kitchen on one side, and opposite that, an entire wall of glass offered a panoramic view of the ocean. Huge sliding-glass doors had been pushed open, eliminating the division between outdoors and indoors, and the breeze that fluttered past was flavored by the sea.

“Come,” Greta said. “I’ll remind you that your loyalty is to the Masters’ Admiralty, above even your territories. If you’re asked to keep secret anything you learn here today, then you will do so.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command.

“Of course, ma’am,” Tristan said.

They stepped out onto a balcony that had been built off the side of the castle. It was made of dark wood that was just now starting to bleach in the sun. Sophia looked around, and realized that from the gate and main entrance to the building, the pitch of the roof would hide the balcony from view. Below them was manicured grass that gave way bit by bit to rocky terrain before ending in weather-worn cliffs. Pristine white boats bobbed gently, the docks clean and well cared for.

Behind her someone sucked in a breath, and Sophia whirled. She’d headed right for the railing, wanting to take in that view and let the ocean play with her hair. In doing so, she’d walked right past the fleet admiral without even realizing he was there.

She too gasped when she caught sight of one of the most powerful men in Europe.

He sat hunched in a large wicker chair, a blanket over his legs, two sweaters draped around his shoulders. He looked up at her and smiled, his eyes bright with intelligence in a face that was gaunt and marked by lines of pain.

Tristan moved first. He carefully drew his sword, setting the tip against the decking. Then he knelt, bowing his head, both hands on the handle of his sword. “My lord,” he greeted the fleet admiral.

“Rise, rise, Tristan. Though it’s nice to see someone who treats me with the kind of respect I deserve. The ladies are full of sass.” He grinned, as if pleased by the word. Kacper Kujakski still retained some of his Polish accent.

Tristan raised his head. “My lord, how may I serve you?”

Greta poured her husband a glass of water from a pitcher that waited on the table beside him. “Drink, Kacper.”

“See what I mean, no respect.” He took a long sip of water, his hand shaking as he raised the glass to his mouth. Some of the water spilled down his chin. Greta took the glass and dried his face with a corner of the blanket.

The fleet admiral looked around at each of them. No one spoke or moved. His eyes hardened, the joviality replaced by an incredible force of will. “Sit,” he commanded.

Sophia found the first empty chair and sat down.

“My body is old, not my mind. I am not dying. I have arthritis. But lack of physical strength can be misconstrued as weakness of will. I have mellowed somewhat in my old age.” Kacper looked at Greta, and for a moment that jovial expression returned. Then it was gone so suddenly, Sophia wondered if she imagined it. “But I am the fleet admiral of the Masters’ Admiralty. You will not look at me with pity, because I would take that as a sign of disrespect. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He stared at each of them in turn, and Sophia could only hold his gaze for a moment before she looked away.

When they’d each been stared into submission, Kacper let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve still got it, Gretie.”

“Of course you do, schnucki.”

“Now then. I got a call from the admiral of England telling me that I might be in danger, but probably I’m not, but maybe, so one of his knights is coming to tell me about it.” Kacper grunted. “That man was a born politician. He can talk without saying anything.” The fleet admiral’s gaze turned to Sophia. “Imagine my surprise when the knight arrives and he has with him the princess of Rome.”

Sophia’s cheeks heated with both embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because she had no right to be called princess. It was her father’s arrogance that had started the trend. And anger, because as false as the title might be, she’d spent her life trying to live up to it, and the people of the territory of Rome respected and loved her. The amusement in Kacper’s tone felt as though he were insulting not just her father, but everyone in Rome who used that appellation.

“Tell me.” The fleet admiral’s attention had returned to Tristan while she fought with her emotions. “Why do you think I’m in danger?”

“I am not the one who should explain it, my lord. Mr. James Rathmann decoded the clues.”

“Good.” Kacper raised his voice, and in a sharp, commanding tone said, “To me.”

Armed men appeared from inside the living space, leapt up over the railing, and even slid down from the roof.

Tristan leapt to his feet, his sword in hand. Not that it would do much good against the automatic weapons the men all carried.

Each man wore a black long-sleeved shirt, black pants, and a black tactical vest. The tactical vests had a small gold logo embroidered on the shoulder—a profile of a man in a Greek-style helmet.

Sophia leapt to her feet and wrapped herself around Tristan. “Wait, wait! It’s the Spartan Guard.”

Tristan vibrated like a live wire, his body humming with tension.

“Put the sword away, my knight,” Kacper said, not unkindly. “Though it does you credit to see how well and how fast you reacted.”

Tristan’s tension eased with painful slowness. “They’re the Spartan Guard? They were not so…”

“Military and imposing last time you were here?” Kacper asked. “Yes. I have a new captain of the Spartan Guard. Mateo Bernard. He’s changed how they operate.”

One man stepped forward. Mateo’s stereotypical dark coloring would have betrayed his Castilian blood if his first name hadn’t. However, Sophia was struggling to make Bernard, a very French moniker, fit. “Sir, please go inside. This area isn’t secure.”

“There’s nothing but the sea here, and I like the fresh air.” Kacper hit Mateo with a look, and the other man glanced away, but not before holding the fleet admiral’s gaze for far longer than Sophia had been able to.

“This is one of England’s knights,” the fleet admiral said. “He’s here because he and his companions think I’m in danger. If there is a threat, you should hear about it.”

“Sir.” Mateo made some complicated hand gesture. Four of the nine guards who’d appeared took up positions on each corner of the deck. The others disappeared, two of them leaping over the side of the balcony. Sophia resisted the urge to run to the railing and see if their broken bodies lay mangled on the grass three stories below, or if they’d sprouted wings and flown away.

Mateo stood, hands behind his back. Tristan sheathed his sword, but did not resume his seat. When Sophia headed for the chair she’d occupied before, Tristan caught her elbow, guiding her into the chair he’d vacated.

“Stay close,” he breathed as she sat.

Kacper watched all of this with a hard, intelligent gaze. He turned his head toward James. “Mr. Rathmann, tell me why you think I’m in danger.”