10. O that her shining hair was in the sun
O that her shining hair was in the sun
He hadn’t brought his jacket. When he’d dressed that morning, pulling on the same blue crewneck Louna had given him the night before, he’d favored ease of movement over warmth.
His jacket was oversized, too bulky to allow him to do what he wanted to do, so he’d left it behind.
Now, the cold stole through his limbs as he stood in the deserted garage, and he couldn’t bring himself to wish he’d brought it.
Telling Louna to leave was the right move. She would be safer in France, and so would Jean-Claude and Philippe. Tennyson would tell them the same thing when he summoned the will to follow Louna upstairs.
When he could get the hurt in her eyes out of his head.
“I hope you were listening,” he said dully.
The Verdier brothers wouldn’t be. He doubted Louna was, after he’d manipulated her into hearing information she hadn’t asked for.
“I know I’m reaping what I’ve sown,” he said. “I’m not trying to excuse what I’ve done. But I hope…”
He swallowed, unable to voice the rest of the thought. It didn’t matter. What was done was done, and there was no use wishing it were otherwise. Wishes weren’t for people like him.
But in the silence answering his stilted words, he let himself finish what he would never say out loud.
I hope you don’t think worse of me.
Tennyson pushed away from the wall and walked across the garage, into the narrow passage and up the stairs, and trying to give Louna enough time to do whatever she needed to do before his arrival.
Whether she wanted to reveal his plan to the Verdier brothers or curse his name to them, pack her things or throw his out, he would accept it. He didn’t blame her.
At the top of the stairs, he hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, inhaling the smell of dust and lumber. There was the barest hint of bergamot in the close space, so faint he wondered if he was imagining it.
How long would he keep imagining it after she left?
He forced out a breath and opened the door, stepping into the sun-drenched loft and assessing the potential threats it contained in seconds, the way he was trained to.
Philippe sat before the screens, and Jean-Claude paced before the windows with his phone pressed to his ear.
They glanced at him when he came in, but otherwise didn’t react—so Louna hadn’t said anything to them.
Maybe because Jean-Claude was on the phone, maybe because she was waiting for Tennyson to do it himself.
He tried to keep his attention on them, but his gaze ticked through the room of its own volition, seeking her out. She was in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of tea and watching Jean-Claude’s movements with wary eyes, ignoring Tennyson completely.
“Of course,” Jean-Claude said, spinning to face Tennyson as he closed the door behind him. “Yes, thank you. We will be there.”
He ended the call and stared at them all, his mouth slack. “They’ve moved the date for Lindsey’s trial.”
“To when?” Louna asked.
Jean-Claude blinked at her. “Today. In an hour.”
“What?” Tennyson’s voice was sharper than he meant it to be, but Jean-Claude seemed to be feeling the same. “Why so soon? Is his lawyer even in the country yet?”
“I don’t know,” Jean-Claude said. “They wouldn’t give me any information, just the date and time. We can watch from the gallery, but we won’t be able to speak with any of the defendants beforehand.”
“I can,” Louna said. Tennyson shot her a look, but she avoided it and went on. “I still have my badge. I can go in as a part of their legal team.”
“They’ll have real State Department officers there,” Tennyson said. “They’ll know you’re lying.”
Louna pinned him with a glare. “I’m very persuasive.”
“It’s our best bet,” Philippe said, frowning as he glanced between the two of them. “Louna has the credentials to get in. What other way is there?”
There wasn’t. That was obvious even to Tennyson, but at the satisfied look on Louna’s face, he grasped for an argument anyway. “We can swap out her name and picture on the badge. If I go instead—”
Jean-Claude took up his coat from the back of one of the dining room chairs and tossed another to Philippe. “There’s no time. The trial starts in an hour. If we’re going to get there in time, we have to go now.”
Tennyson opened his mouth, but clamped it shut when Louna swept past him and into her bedroom. “Come with or stay here,” she said icily. “The rest of us are going.”
Tennyson swore, but there was nothing else he could do.
She passed through a beam of light as she moved, and it flared across her face, haloing her dark hair in an ethereal ring of white.
He tracked her movements until she closed her door, blocking him out with a finality that made him clench his jaw.
O that her shining hair was in the sun,And I distilling from it thence to runIn amorous rillets down her shrinking form!To linger on her lily shoulders, warm…
He swallowed, blinking away the vision in Keats, and turned to find both brothers watching him.
“Something wrong?” Philippe asked carefully.
He cleared his throat. “Harlow didn’t mention either of you when we talked, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t in danger. If the trial has been moved up, maybe you should—”
“Check the comms,” Louna called from the bedroom. “Has Lindsey said anything about what’s happening?”
Philippe glanced at Tennyson, then raised his voice to answer her. “No, it’s been quiet. He may already be at the courthouse.”
Louna emerged in a pencil skirt and blazer, twisting her hair into a bun as she stalked toward the staircase. “Let’s go, boys,” she said, her voice as clipped as her steps. “Justice waits for no one.”
The Verdiers hurried after her, and Tennyson took one more look at the security feed before trailing them down the stairs and into the garage.
They piled into the sedan with Jean-Claude behind the wheel, Tennyson in the passenger seat, and Philippe and Louna in the back.
Philippe distributed earbuds without speaking, and they received them in silence.
Tennyson strained to hear anything through his, hoping for a clue of Lindsey’s whereabouts, but there was nothing.
This was Harlow’s doing. Moving up the trial meant the court would have to appoint a lawyer rather than using one from JAG, and it meant less time for a proper investigation, fewer chances of the story leaking to international presses.
And as long as Harlow controlled the narrative, he controlled the outcome.
Something like this was risky. It was a gross suppression of the Marines’ rights, and it wouldn’t hold up for long.
The military would fight it, and there would be Romanian pushback as well, but by the time the courts got everything straightened out, it would be too late.
Harlow would take advantage of the confusion and make a second, more targeted strike.
Which meant he had to have help pulling the strings. Someone with power, someone who could take the heat from cutting corners on such a high-profile case.
Someone in the US military.
His gaze drifted to the rearview mirror to check their six.
Harlow had never told him about connections within the military…
but then, he was smart enough not to. He knew Tennyson’s background, and that corruption in the ranks was one of the few lines Tennyson wouldn’t cross.
Harlow would have kept that information hidden.
It meant Tennyson was working blind.
Again.
They arrived at the courthouse with twenty minutes to spare, and a bailiff ushered them into a nearly empty courtroom. The only occupants were a woman in a white naval uniform and a man in a dark suit waiting at the prosecutor’s table. The defendant’s side of the aisle was empty.
“What’s going on?” Philippe muttered. “Where is everyone?”
“Let’s see,” Louna said. She lifted her chin and strode toward the officer, hand outstretched.
“Leah Wilson,” she said, in a friendly but slightly rushed voice. “State Department.”
“Commander Masters,” the officer said tersely. “Trial Counsel. And this is Gabriel Dalca, Romanian counsel.”
“Romanian prosecutor,” the man said, shaking Louna’s hand. “Commander Masters is the counsel.”
Trial Counsel. That was the prosecutor in a court-martial, not a civilian trial. “Louna,” Tennyson said. “There shouldn’t be a naval officer at this trial, not on the prosecution.”
Louna looked between the two lawyers and tilted her head. “Forgive me, but I thought this case was not being prosecuted by the United States. Has that changed?”
“If you needed to know,” Commander Masters said coolly, “you would.”
She spoke with a British accent, her voice echoing between the earbud and the empty room, and she shot a suspicious look toward Tennyson and the Verdiers.
Louna gave her an appraising look, then turned to Gabriel Dalca.
“How diplomatic of you to allow the United States to take over the trial,” she said in gracious tones.
Dalca’s smile was stiff. “You misunderstand. Commander Masters is here in an advisory role, nothing more.”
Masters glared at him, but Dalca kept his expression pleasant. “It’s a custody battle,” Tennyson said. “Something’s changed. The US wants to be a part of the proceedings, but Romania is holding its right to prosecute.”
“Which is better?” Jean-Claude asked.
“That depends on who Harlow’s working with,” Tennyson said.
Louna gestured toward the defendant’s table. “I see. Well, I was told to meet the rest of my team here, but it seems I’m the first one to arrive. Has the trial time changed again?”
“Not that I know of,” Commander Masters answered, before Dalca could.
Louna started to speak, but broke off when the chamber door opened at the front of the room. The judge entered and frowned at the empty defendant’s table, then called something in Romanian to the bailiff, who responded with a shrug.
“They have a few minutes yet,” Jean-Claude said hopefully. “They may just be running a little late.”
Tennyson moved into the aisle. “I’m going outside.”
“Wait,” Louna whispered. The bailiff had leaned into the hall to speak in muffled tones to someone outside. In another moment, he stepped back into the room, his expression hard and dark.
“Something’s wrong,” Jean-Claude said, watching the bailiff hurry toward the judge and sputter something into his ear. The judge stood, his expression grave, and spoke sharply to Commander Masters. She answered him in Romanian, shaking her head and gesturing toward Louna.
Louna swore.
Alarm raced through him, but he forced it down and did his best to speak calmly. “What is it?”
“The defendant,” Commander Masters answered, turning to answer him with a glare. “Gunnery Sergeant Lindsey Fox. He’s disappeared.”