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How did the life of one American woman stack up against all of that?
He had a feeling he knew what the fleet admiral would say.
Which meant…he’d failed his commander.
Yet, even now, he couldn’t summon up an ounce of regret.
He looked toward the bed, surprised to find Sylvia’s eyes open, her gaze on his face.
He stood so that he could bend closer, his face next to hers. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Are you?”
God only knew what unguarded emotions she’d seen before he realized she was awake. “We almost lost you.”
She gave him a sad smile. “You saved my life.”
“I was the reason you almost lost it.”
Hugo shifted closer as well. “Sylvia. I know this doesn’t make up for all the pain you’ve suffered, but I’m sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry for putting you in harm’s way. For not warning you that Alicia was dangerous.”
“No more secrets?”
Hugo kissed her softly. “No more secrets.”
Lancelot looked away from them, silently praying she didn’t ask him for the same confirmation.
“What will you do now?” she asked instead.
Before they could answer, there was a knock at the front door.
Lancelot looked at Hugo, who immediately moved closer to Sylvia, putting an arm around her waist and helping her to rise, placing a finger over her lips as he did. She was still pale and in pain—though the more intense pain was muted by whatever drugs the doctor at the small clinic in Florida had prescribed her. She went with Hugo, smartly not objecting as he pulled her toward the back corner of the room. There was a floor-to-ceiling armoire—real, solid wood, sturdily built. Lancelot shot a glance back when he reached the doorway to the hallway that led to the foyer.
Another knock.
Hugo pulled out the decorative chair tucked into the small alcove created by the corner and the edge of the armoire, urging Sylvia into the space, then standing squarely before her, hiding her from view and protecting her with his body.
Lancelot pulled the knife from the sheath on his ankle and stepped into the hall. He hadn’t had a chance to clean it yet. Using it to slice someone open would be one way to get saltwater off the blade. He mourned the loss of one gun to the ocean. Luckily he had the backup. The bad news was that it was in his knapsack in the front parlor.
There was a beep—the digital keypad lock—and then the door opened.
Oscar stepped in, stopped short when he saw the naked knife in Lancelot’s hand, and froze. Shock morphed quickly to a hard mask. “Where’s my sister?”
Lancelot lowered the knife and tilted his head toward the bedroom. “She’s fine. Get in and close the door.”
“I’ve got food and stuff in the truck,” Oscar said, turning and exiting the front door.
Lancelot walked quickly back to the bedroom doorway and nodded to Hugo, who relaxed, moving so Sylvia wasn’t boxed into the corner. He offered her his arm to help her back to the bed, but she bypassed it. Lancelot adjusted his grip on the knife so the blade was flat against his forearm, and hidden from view.
Keeping his eye on the open front door, he stood in the bedroom doorway, more than ready to pick her up and put her back in bed if she was going to be stubborn.
“I’m hungry,” she said softly.
Lancelot’s heart clenched, and Hugo slipped an arm around her waist, steadying her. As much as he might want to put her back on the bed and keep her there, where he could watch her and protect her, he knew she needed to be up and moving around—it would help with the stiffness he could see in the way she walked.
Lancelot moved so they could exit the bedroom, then led the way down the hallway to the front parlor.
Hugo helped her sit down in a chair where the warm late-afternoon light streaming in through the front window fell across her, adding gold highlights to her hair.
