He offered nothing more, no explanation for why he’d failed to mention this during our surveillance operation, when we had been stationed less than two miles from where he apparently slept every night he was not on mission.
I filed the question away. There would be time to pursue it later, when Oliver was stronger and I could focus on anything other than his recovery.
He stirred.
“We’re here?” he asked.
“We’re here,” I confirmed.
He straightened, winced, then stared out the window at the castle looming above us. “Bloody hell. Archon liveshere?”
“So it appears.”
His laugh was weak. “I thought my family’s estate was impressive.”
Archon came around to help Oliver out of the car. When he wrapped his arm around his waist, steadying him, a muscle flexed beneath his shirt as he bore the burden without any effort. Oliver was not a small man, but Archon handled him as though he weighed nothing.
He led us inside to a great hall with three-story ceilings. It smelled of centuries of habitation, of lives lived and ended within the walls where tapestries hung. Their colors had faded, but their images remained visible—hunting scenes, battles, a family crest repeated in threads of gold. Flames leaped and crackled from the fire that blazed in a hearth large enough to stand in, but the warmth barely reached us across the vast stone floor.
A silver-haired woman waited near it. Her hands were weathered by decades of work, and she wore a gray dress that seemed designed to blend with the stone around her.She assessed Oliver’s unsteady gait, my hovering proximity, and Archon’s bearing as he led us forward. The rapid evaluation was familiar—the same swift categorization of threat levels and power dynamics that I’d been trained to perform. This was no average housekeeper.
“Lord Greymarch,” she said. “Welcome home.”
She’d called himLord Greymarch.
I steeled my expression as my mind raced. He was titled if the form of address was correct. Which meant this estate had been held for generations.
Who was this man, and why had he hidden his identity?
“Millie.” Archon’s voice carried differently here, deeper and more resonant, as if the castle itself amplified his presence. “These are colleagues who will be staying for a few weeks while one of them recovers from an injury.”
Millie’s gaze settled on me with open curiosity before looking at Oliver, who leaned against Archon’s side.
“I’ll ready the guest wing,” she said. “The blue rooms?”
“Yes.” Archon paused. “And please prepare a substantial dinner. They’ve had a long journey.”
Millie nodded and slipped through a doorway without waiting for further instruction.
When Archon turned toward me, the firelight caught the planes of his face, throwing shadows across his jaw and his cheekbones. In the flickering light, his irises seemed almost black.
I thought about his hospital visits and how his attentiveness had seemed like more than casual concern—focused in a way I’d attributed to shared worry over Oliver. Now, I wasn’t sure.
“Archon, I was wondering?—”
“While we’re here,” he said, “use first names. No more ‘Archon.’ Here, I’m Kiernan. You’re Ophelia and Oliver.”
“Kiernan,” I said under my breath. Had I known his first name before now? Most likely, I’d read it in a brief at some point but hadn’t bothered to file it away in my memory.
As Kiernan led us through the castle, Oliver would rest a hand on the wall when his balance wavered, but I remained close enough for him to lean on me if necessary.
We passed by portraits lining the corridors, of generations of Lockharts who bore a strong resemblance to Kiernan. Men posed in military uniforms from wars I’d studied in school while women wore silks that had gone in and out of fashion half a dozen times.
“Your family has served in the military for generations,” I observed.
“Every Lockhart man since the estate was granted has served the Crown.” He paused before a portrait of a soldier in Napoleonic-era uniform; the resemblance to Kiernan was striking enough that it could have been a mirror. “Some more honorably than others.”
He moved on without explaining.
