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What the hell?
Weston and Marek retreated a few steps as Rose and her unknown assailant came down the stairs. Weston turned so he could see both the stairs and Marek. Marek looked calm and steady, facing the stairs head on, his eyes tracking the sword, but his knees were slightly bent, his weight shifted to one leg—he was poised to leap forward.
Marek caught Weston’s gaze. Weston took a deliberate step to the side, so he was at a right angle to Marek, and slightly closer to the stairs than the other man was. If Marek made a move on the unknown assailant, Weston was in a position to try to grab Rose and yank her out of harm’s way.
She took another step, and now he could see her face. Rose’s chin was tipped up, her eyes round with surprise. She didn’t look frightened, and Weston breathed out, calming himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to make smart decisions if she looked scared, or had been hurt.
He switched his attention to the man behind her. The sword across her neck was held away from her skin, and didn’t waver even as he took another step down, until he stood one stair up from Rose.
Weston saw the man’s face—and his shoulders slumped.
The man was blond, with slightly mussed hair and a day’s worth of blond beard. His eyes were golden brown. The hair, eyes, and slight tan—which no person who lived in England came by naturally— gave him an overall golden appearance, like a gritty Apollo.
Weston knew him.
Damn it all to hell.
The Masters’ Admiralty was here, and shit had officially hit the fan.
