Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 8

  More like a demon than an angel.

  He grumbled beneath his breath. In all of his journeys, he had never met a woman with such fierce spirit. She feared him not. Did little more than flinch at the first sight of a nytym. Quite possibly, she did not know the meaning of fear. True, she had nearly fainted in front of Mikhail, yet even then, she did not exhibit fright.

  His body moved against his will. He trailed a fingertip across her cheek, marveling at the silken nature of her skin. Unable to stop himself, he moved lower, breaching the shirt’s neckline to touch the swell of her breast. Beneath his fascinated gaze, her flesh broke out with goose bumps, and her nipples puckered at the fabric.

  Merrick tamped down a groan. He should not take such liberties, but saints’ blood, he could not help himself. She called to him like the trumpet of a horn upon a battlefield, and his blood quickened with the same fiercely instinctual response. He knew the darkness in his soul drove him to take liberties he should not, and yet in some twisted, wicked way, he wanted naught more than to tug down her jeans, rouse her from sleep with his mouth, and sheathe himself inside her body.

  He closed his eyes to the torment. But when he opened them once again, she had not disappeared as he had hoped she might. Drawn by a force he could not resist, he crawled over her and eased down into the bed. The scent of her perfume assaulted him, stirring the embers of his desire like wind upon a campfire. He draped an arm around her waist and inhaled deeply. So completely feminine. So incredibly intoxicating.

  With a mutter, he flopped onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut.

  * * *

  Anne woke in a blanket of warmth. Merrick’s bed was more comfortable than she’d imagined, and she snuggled into the soft mattress, unwilling to get up and face the cold, unfriendly stone of his room. As she nestled deeper into the comfort, her back pressed into something firm and unmoving. Awareness seeped through the haze of sleep, and she cracked one eye open.

  Merrick lay behind her, holding her as a lover might. The heat that soaked into her came from his body and warmed her all the way down to her toes. Especially where his hand delved beneath the gaping neckline of the shirt she’d borrowed and cupped her breast.

  Her eyes widened as she followed the contours of his fingers. Tiny scars marred the back of his knuckles, his olive skin a stark contrast to her pale complexion. A dusting of dark hair shadowed his wrist, traveled sparsely up a corded forearm.

  Her mind pulled as another image attempted to rise. She shoved the haziness away, unwilling to see another glimpse of past or future and stared at his hand.

  There was something strangely erotic about seeing herself held in such a way. It had been far too long since she’d known a man’s touch. So long, that at times she joked with Sophie she’d reclaimed her virginity. Merrick’s possessive hold, however, brought all those repressed memories of desire back to the surface in one clang of her heart. Her stomach fluttered, and that incredible warmth fanned through her veins, taking root between her legs.

  Shocked by her body’s unexpected reaction, she shoved at Merrick’s arm to escape his hold. Only the harder she pushed, the tighter his fingers squeezed her breast. A painful pinch shot down her spine, and she let out a soft cry. When the sensation wore off, and his fingers unclenched, she changed her tactic. Bunching her hand into a fist, she beat on his shoulder. “Get off me.”

  The yell did the trick. Merrick startled awake. He jerked his hand away and sat up, eyes wide, as if he was equally surprised to find himself curled around her.

  Anne jumped out of the bed. Whirling around to face him, she fisted her hands on her hips and glared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Merrick’s mask of shock gave way to his usual surly frown. He kicked the quilts off his feet and stalked across the room to pound his way through the small bathroom door. A rush of water splashed, then the flush of the toilet gave way to the thump and bump of cabinet doors. Anne flounced down into the chair and rubbed her arms to fight off a sudden chill. She’d liked Merrick touching her. Too much, frankly.

  She’d gone five years without a man—not for lack of offers either. Out of devotion to her father’s memory, her career had taken priority, and relationships were a distraction she didn’t need. She’d avoided the urges, ignored her own desires, and did a reasonable job at convincing herself life without a man was better, less trouble. Why, then, did this one suddenly make her all weak in the knees? This too-big, too-arrogant man who had to be several hundred years old.

  Before she could contemplate it further, Merrick stormed back into the room. His glower pinned her to the chair. “We start this now. ’Tis night, the men shall rise soon,” he barked from his wardrobe.

  “Start what?”

  He unfolded a fresh T-shirt with a shake. “Discovering the mark and your intended.”

  “Oh.” That again. She let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t do this, Merrick. This place is like a prison. I can’t stay here. I need color. Laughter. Television for God’s sake. Above all, my work. Allow me to go back home, and I’ll work with you every day after I finish my classes.”

  “Nay. ’Tis impossible. You must remain here until you gain the protection of your intended’s immortality.”

  Immortality? Now that was almost tempting. But the fact remained, she couldn’t stay. “I don’t think you understand—I’m not really asking. I can work each day at the college. Mikhail mentioned I could chose to aid from my home. You and I can meet each evening, and I’ll help with whatever it is you want. But I’m not staying here, Merrick. I have research to finish, classes to teach.”

  “Nay, damsel.”

  “But—”

  He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “You shall find a television in the common room upstairs. Mayhap your intended shall watch it with you.”

  The ludicrousness of his suggestion was enough to temporarily sidetrack her from convincing him into seeing things her way. “In the common room?” Her voice rose in indignation. “When I find this … this … intended, I can’t even watch television alone with him? What happened to privacy?”

  He looked at her with such a quizzical expression she almost laughed. Giving her a shake of his head, his frown deepened. “’Tis our way. We own very little, as is mandated by the oath we swore centuries ago. Anything of luxury is shared by all.”

  Anne rolled her eyes. “A TV isn’t a luxury. Cable maybe. TV—not hardly. And what about books? I have research to do, reports to write—I can’t focus in a room full of people or in one maddeningly silent. And I need my books.”

  He shrugged. “We have books in the library—far more than you would ever expect. You may read to your heart’s content there. I am certain you can find something of merit.”

  She flopped back against the chair’s thick stuffing and grumbled. Obviously, he didn’t understand how important key research materials were. She’d spent too long accumulating everything she needed to start over with new references. Under her breath she muttered, “Maybe my intended will be more compassionate.”

  Merrick must have heard her, for his eyes glittered coal black. He cocked his head and gave her a hard stare. “You think I lack compassion?”

  Anne let out a soft snort. “Listen to yourself, and you tell me.”

  As the twitch started along his jaw, she hurried to end their argument. Enough of this. It wasn’t as if she planned on staying permanently. She’d spend some time here, learn the secrets history couldn’t record, and get out of this prison. Back to her classroom and her uneventful life. Maybe she could find something new and useful in the library he mentioned. In the meantime, however, humoring him would work to her advantage. If he believed she intended to stay, he’d likely be more apt to tell her things he otherwise wouldn’t. Feigning a harassed sigh, she answered, “Fine, let’s begin.”

  He stared down at her, imposing in his size and demeanor. “You will swear to me, if I agree to your terms, you shall admit the truth when you see it.”
<
br />   “Whatever. I’ll tell you if I see it. Are you happy?”

  His mouth pursed. “Nay. Kneel and swear.”

  Kneel? Oh hell no. She tightened her hands around the chair’s arms. “You’ll just have to trust me. I refuse to kneel.”

  The tightening at his shoulders indicated he didn’t care for her refusal, but when she didn’t budge, he gave her a shrug. “So be it. Since we are so obviously incompatible, let us get this out of the way first.” In a fluid motion, he fisted his hand at the nape of his torn shirt and doffed it.

  Anne almost choked. Smooth taut muscles bunched and pulled across his broad chest. Pectorals she’d only seen in magazines confronted her, marred only by a long white scar that ran beneath one, wrapped around his ribs, and disappeared somewhere behind his back. Her gaze dropped to his belly, and she counted four … no eight … tight cords across the washboard surface. Oh good Lord.

  She let her stare travel down a thick line of dark hair that led beneath his jeans, and couldn’t keep her gaze off his groin no matter how she told herself she wouldn’t look. To her complete surprise, the light denim pulled tight. Oh, he wasn’t … He couldn’t be … She swallowed. Yes, he was. Hard. A flush crept into her cheeks, and she jerked her gaze to his face.

  Merrick’s eyes flickered, the only indication he was aware of her appreciative stare. In the next heartbeat, however, the interest in his gaze gave way to the cold impassiveness she’d begun to associate with him.

  He turned around and presented her with his left arm. “Does it match this?”

  Anne’s eyes widened a fraction. There, twining around his bulging bicep were two tattooed snakes, joined head to head. Where their bodies intersected, they formed the same Templar cross that the pair on her ankle created. Both deep ebony. Both with eyes of gold.

  Just like hers.

  Oh shit.

  She recovered enough to pretend she inspected the design with an eye for details. No way in hell was she about to tell this man who didn’t think twice about throwing her over his shoulder to get what he wanted, that she belonged to him. Beyond all the other very logical reasons she couldn’t stay, the one repeated vision she’d had of him showed him dead. She would not be party to that—either active participant or passive observer. And she certainly wouldn’t give Merrick any more reasons to hawk over her or confine her in someplace even smaller with fewer modern comforts.

  “No,” she murmured. In a stronger voice she added, “Nice art, but I’ve never seen it before.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A piece of Merrick’s soul crumpled and died with Anne’s rejection. He turned away, unable to look at her until he was certain the unexpected ache would not present itself in his expression. He had known better. They were too incompatible. Too ill-suited to possess a preordained fate. And yet, some traitorous portion of his spirit had dared to hope mayhap she would take this darkness from him and allow him to live.

  He tugged his shirt over his head and took a deep, fortifying breath. So she was not meant for him—all the more reason to find her mate and rid himself of her quickly. Each passing day her intended took a step closer to damnation, and Merrick would not carry the burden of a brother’s fall because, in some secret forbidden place in his heart, he enjoyed the saucy maid.

  “I shall return.” He reached for his sword and buckled it around his waist.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To retrieve my men. Mikhail has ordered them away. Before they go, we must see if you belong to one of them.” Her harassed sigh as he reached for the door gave him pause. “Something distresses you?”

  She worried her fingers through her long hair. “I don’t want to sit in this room any longer. Please, take me with you.”

  The renegade part of him he had not fully beaten into submission took pity on her. His frown faded, and he gave her a slow nod. “If we do not find your intended in my men, we shall talk, and I shall take you to the dining hall. Until you understand the nature of the temple, however, you must remain here.”

  “Merrick, take me with you. Please. I can’t take another minute more in this room.”

  The pleading quality behind her bright blue eyes stabbed into him like a red-hot poker. He gave little thought to his chambers; they serviced his need for sleep, naught else. He had never considered how they might appear to someone else—guests were forbidden, and the men shared identical small enclosures. As he glanced around his sleeping quarters, he understood how she would find them bland and boring. It could hurt naught to take her with him. She faced little threat from the less honorable men amongst their ranks as long as she stayed close.

  He held out his hand.

  Anne stared at it as if he offered her thorns. He anticipated her refusal. But then she slipped her palm into his, her dainty fingers clasping gently, and she stood. The smile she gave him stuttered his heart. He said a silent thankful prayer they met at sword point, for if she had smiled at him thus, he would have done anything to make her his.

  Anything.

  With a gentle tug, he led her out the door.

  They walked in silence down the corridor. Where their palms met, his skin warmed. Caught by the rush of pleasant sensations that worked their way up his arm, he shifted his hold to twine his fingers through hers. A gentleman would release her hand, tuck the delicate digit into the crook of his elbow. But Merrick had never been such, and she seemed uninclined to twist free. In fact, lest his imagination had gotten the better of him, she tightened her grip.

  “How is Declan?” she asked at the juncture of three corridors.

  Merrick bristled. She liked Declan. She had even given the Scot a gift of her smile. He ought to embrace the possibility Declan and she might share eternity together, but for a reason Merrick could not understand, the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. He fought it down with effort and kept his gaze fastened straight ahead. “He will survive. Uriel will tend his wound.”

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Anne’s apprehensive glance. “Uriel? I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “You did.”

  Her brows puckered as she struggled with something internally. “I thought…” Her frown deepened, and she pursed her lips.

  “You thought what?”

  “Doctrine says Raphael heals, not Uriel.”

  Merrick shook his head. “Through time, much information has been misreported. Raphael holds Mikhail’s position in our European temple.”

  She digested this with a slow nod. Then her confusion fled and her features smoothed. “So tell me, big guy. If there’s an archangel tending Declan, why was there ever any worry? Can’t he just wave his hands or something, and those wounds will go away?”

  Merrick chuckled. “Nay. Uriel will not. He uses only the tools known to mankind to heal.”

  “But why?”

  He grinned down at her and gave her hand a squeeze. “Because the archangels are peculiar in their ways. Would that I understood them, I suppose I would be one.”

  “Well we know you are no angel.”

  Merrick frowned. Yet as he opened his mouth to return the insult, he caught the gleam of humor behind her gaze and took in the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. Saints’ blood, she was teasing him.

  The playful banter stirred a lightness in his heart that made him feel much like the young knight he had once been when the world lay before him, ready for his conquest. His mouth quirked. “Aye. You are one to speak, demon Anne.”

  Her throaty laugh stirred something else. His pulse quickened. His lungs felt too tight, and against his thigh, his shaft rose in answer. Bollocks! Could he not spend a moment with her without suffering this accursed desire?

  Grinding his teeth together, he banged on Lucan’s door.

  * * *

  Anne stifled her laughter as the door cracked open and Lucan stuck his head out. On seeing her, he swung the door wide, grabbed her free hand, and brought the back of it to his lips. “Lady Anne, a pleasure.”

  S
he blushed until the tips of her ears burned. “Stop that.” She pulled on her hand, but with the friction, her second sight tugged on her mind. Where seconds earlier she’d looked at Lucan’s laughing face, she stared now at a man on his knees. Head bowed, his shoulders shook as he mourned. Before him, three bodies lay on a cold stone floor beneath a hanging banner that bore a yellow and blue coat of arms. The eldest of the dead, a gray-bearded man, lay on his back, his sword clutched uselessly in an outstretched arm. At his left, a young boy not much older than ten or eleven, sprawled facedown in a pool of his own blood. The fingers on his right hand stretched over his head to touch a woman’s bloodied palm. She lay on her side, her other hand tucked against the deep gash in her midsection.

  Lucan rose on shaky legs and drew his sword with a vengeance. Wearing a surcoat of the same blue and yellow, he lifted his chin at the same time he raised his blade. He turned around, the hate and repulsion turning his face into a grotesque mask of rage as he stared at another man who lurked in the doorway to the hall. Blood dripped down the second man’s blade, smeared across his chest. The deep crimson stains turned an identically matched surcoat into a fingerprint to patricide.

  The horrific vision faded, leaving Anne shuddering in its wake. Tugging her hand free, she tucked it securely in her pocket. His family. All of them murdered save for the man in the door. What Lucan had suffered she couldn’t begin to fathom, and yet he still managed to laugh. She didn’t think anything could make her forget such a terrible portion of her past.

  As she followed Merrick inside, Lucan flashed him a grin, a testament that he had indeed somehow put it behind him. When he slid his smile to her, amusement warmed his gray eyes. “I see Merrick has decided you can walk with only the aid of his hand?”