He caught Anne around the waist and swung her over his shoulder. The act required little effort as she weighed next to naught. Her softness molded against him in such an intimate manner, he sucked in a sharp breath. Saints’ blood, with the way she made heat surge to his loins, she ought to be a demon.
She struggled against him. “What are you doing? Put me down, jerk!”
“Nay. You will come with us.”
Her scream of outrage deafened him. She pummeled fists into his back, her concern for his injuries now a thing of the past. A knee connected with his stomach, and he let out a harassed hiss. Securing her in place, he set one hand at the back of her knees, the other he fastened over her thighs. Tempting as they were, he ignored the feel of firm muscles and sloping curves beneath his palm. “Farran, retrieve my bag. I have reconsidered returning to the temple.”
CHAPTER 3
A thousand visions slammed into Anne as Merrick carted her out the door. They came so quickly she caught only bits and pieces—a birth, a woman sobbing, a funerary of old, Merrick riding off to war, Merrick approaching some sand-infested, barren place. One by one, they flitted before her eyes, stealing her breath and stilling her limbs.
The last image lingered. Merrick lay unmoving. His eyes were closed. His hands clasped a plain pommel like the one at his waist. Again, it lay atop his chest, the funerary scene crisp and clear. Only this time, she noticed his face bore deep scratches. His lower lip split at the corner, and his left eye swelled with a deep purple bruise.
As the picture faded into nothingness, warmth filtered through her veins and erased the eerie chill. Where he touched her, her skin tingled. The hand beneath her buttocks hadn’t moved, yet she was so aware of him she blushed. Like candy set on a counter to tempt her, the brush of his thumb against her bottom made her want to squirm.
Mortified, Anne squeezed her eyes shut. This was insane. The man had broken into her home, threatened her at sword-point, and now carried her off to only God knew where. She ought to be screaming her head off, awakening her neighbors, doing all she could to escape these three barbarians.
But no matter how much she would like to be afraid, she couldn’t find a single ounce of fear. Whatever his intention, the energy patterns rolling off him carried no malice. She could sense his underlying anger, read loud and clear his frustration. But danger? Not a bit of it. If anything, his energy patterns hinted at incredible honor.
Besides, she couldn’t shake the visions of him she’d seen—in particular the one of him digging in the ground. He held knowledge of the Templar knights. Crazy or not, this man very likely had the answers she needed, and she’d hit such a devastating dead-end with her theory, she was willing to accept a bit of risk in proving it. The High Priestess had warned she would discover secrets—she didn’t dare turn away from opportunity.
At a silver SUV, Merrick tossed her roughly into the backseat. The blond man climbed into the driver’s seat while the man with the Scottish accent let himself in the passenger’s side. Which left her to sit with unpleasant Merrick.
Lovely.
He crawled into the seat beside her, his scowl still firmly fastened on his face. “Lie down. I will not chance Azazel’s motives by keeping you in sight.”
Anne’s lips parted in silent shock. Do what? If she stretched out, she would have to touch him. Another bout with rapid visions and she’d get nauseous. While she yearned for more information, that ceremonial death scene gave her the willies. She’d at least like the opportunity to choose when to open herself to the spirit realm’s messages. Further, her pride wouldn’t take another minute of his overbearing attitude. Their eyes clashed. “Listen, big guy. I’ve had it with you telling me what to do. I’m not going to lie down.”
Merrick gave her a hard look. “You will do so of your own accord, or I shall arrange you thus.”
Anne stared at Merrick. She wanted to tell him he couldn’t order her about like the serving girls he might have known once upon a time. The words, however, forced her to confront a truth she couldn’t explain. He was a knight. All three of them were men of old. If his talent with a sword or his archaic speech didn’t illustrate that, her second sight made his status impossible to ignore. She would stake her life on that impossible fact.
The blond man twisted in the driver’s seat to give her a scowl. “Best you do what Merrick says. I care not to hear any more of this argument.”
Anne harrumphed. So that one’s disposition was no better. At least the other had half a sense of decency. His laughter set him apart from the other two.
She rolled her eyes. “Just drive.”
She ignored the flash of fury that glittered in the blond’s ale-colored eyes and slunk down in the seat. Let him be mad. She’d had more than enough of this dictatorship.
When he refused to start the engine, Anne grumbled beneath her breath. She caught the twinge of laughter in the third man’s smirk. When she looked to Merrick though, her rising humor strangled in her throat. His coal-black eyes glinted with unspoken fury, and the twitch had returned to bounce along the side of his jaw. Evidently she didn’t have a choice. Well, she might as well use the situation to her advantage and try to scour through the visions for the information she wanted. If she put a little more effort into controlling her second sight, with luck, it would cooperate.
Carefully, she set her ankle-high boots in Merrick’s lap, then reclined against the door, mentally channeling the resulting surge of energy into a narrow band she could manipulate.
Tuning them all out, she shut her eyes.
Merrick’s forearm came down upon her shins, and the weight of his hand settled over her ankle. The SUV rolled backward, crunching gravel beneath its tires. As they navigated onto the paved road, Anne chanced another glance at Merrick through lowered lashes. His head was resting on the back of the seat, his eyes closed, and she could see his features were still and smooth. His long, shaggy hair brushed his shoulders and gave him a gentler appearance.
In the early light of dawn, she caught the faint reflection of a scar that ran down his cheek and reached beneath his jaw. Merely a thin vein of white, she’d missed it before. Had one of those nytyms put that mark upon his face? She shuddered as she recalled the shredded nature of Merrick’s back. A frown niggled at her brow. Odd, she hadn’t seen a drop of blood beneath the tattered fabric of his shirt when he carried her to the SUV.
Though leather separated his hand from her skin, heat radiated from his palm. Comforted by the warm sensation, Anne relaxed and allowed the energy to flow through her mind.
Dressed in homespun wool, a raven-haired woman knelt before a small boy. Her face radiated joy as she pushed a long braid over her shoulder. Her features were kind, full of the adoration a mother would give a child, but they held faint lines of worry around her brow. Her hands were long and elegant. Her dirty apron and the tattered hem at her ankles marked her as a servant, or maybe a peasant woman. The boy turned, his features unmistakable despite his youth. Merrick’s onyx eyes gleamed with a bright smile.
Like a shot from an old movie, the vision went dark. With Anne’s next heartbeat, another image rose to her mind.
Fully mature, Merrick shook hands with a man about the same age. They shared the same dark hair, but his companion was far fairer. Brothers maybe? They clamped fists over their hearts, a gesture she understood to be a pledge. Maybe an emphasis of some spoken word.
Scene by scene she caught fragments of Merrick’s life. She learned snippets, past and present, but never enough to give her a full story. He fought numerous times, claimed both human and demon lives. A glimpse of him addressing a massive army said he led men as well.
Time and again, Anne recognized the legendary crimson cross. Painted on stone walls in an ancient hall, engraved in the shield he carried, stained across his surcoat—it surrounded all the images of him as an adult. Clearly, he had been Templar. Judging from the scenes of him in ropes and suspended from rough-hewn rafters, he had paid the price when the
noble order fell from grace too.
But how did a man who had been born in the tenth or eleventh century show up in her living room? Come on, she pled to the unseen forces that governed her gift. Go back to the tunnel.
Her second sight morphed again, surging a fission of excitement down to her toes. She opened her mind completely, not wanting to thwart any portion of her gift.
She lay naked in a bed, the light of the moon illuminating the dark. Merrick’s face loomed before hers, and by the brief glimpse of his bare chest, she assumed he was just as nude. His body lowered into hers with such stunning clarity she could feel the warmth of his skin. His mouth danced over her face, touching her lips, her eyes, her throat. A caress so soft and gentle she shivered.
Shocked to the core, she snapped her eyes open. Her heart tripped into double time. The same enticing heat that her visionary kiss stirred swam through her veins, making the weight of Merrick’s hand suddenly unbearable. He was too close, too far away, all at once.
Good Lord, what was the matter with her?
She lifted her gaze to make sure he was still asleep, and her throat closed. His eyes locked with hers. As if he knew her thoughts, heat burned behind his unwavering stare, enough to make their confined space uncomfortable. A spark of nervous anticipation bubbled through her veins, settled in her belly, and turned it upside down.
In the next instant, Merrick reclaimed his mask. His mouth pursed, his gaze narrowed, and suspicion glinted in his eyes.
* * *
With effort, Merrick tore his eyes off the woman across from him, wishing he had not tried to steal a moment of sleep. Though a good two feet spanned between them, he felt Anne as keenly as if she were pressed against his side. Her perfume taunted him, reminding him of the all-too-vivid dream that still clouded his thoughts. God’s teeth, he could still feel the softness of her mouth, the caress of her breath against his cheek. And his blood still burned with want of her.
He shifted in the seat, attempting to alleviate the discomfort of arousal. If she was no demon, then what curse had she put upon him? He could not recall a time when a dream had felt so very real. The stain of color in her cheeks professed her guilt, but how had this woman managed to invade his head thus?
She tempted his sanity, threatened his oath. They were Templar, each sworn to a vow of chastity. Though they all had broken that minor vow many times, Merrick took care to choose women he could easily forget, ones who would not distract him from his higher purpose. This one held the power to wend herself into his memory, and he could not allow that. Fulk’s salvation lay in his hands. He would not put aside their pact to dally beneath Anne’s skirts.
Saints’ blood, he could not be free of this redheaded witch fast enough.
He took a deep breath to tamp down his rising frustration. This would end upon their arrival. Mikhail would take the serpents from Anne, and Merrick would be free of her. A day at the most, and he would return to searching for his cousin.
To his relief, the SUV stopped in front of a towering early twentieth-century estate in the midst of repair. Three stories of brick spanned across a rolling, isolated hillside, the windows darkened in the daylight. Between the dilapidated shutters, he recognized scaffolding, ladders, and tools that dangled from the tiled roof. Three columns supported a half-moon front porch illuminated by a corroded copper hanging lamp.
Anne sat forward, her feet thumping to the floorboards. “I know this place.” She leaned around the passenger’s seat, moving entirely too close to Merrick for his comfort. He edged his thigh out of the way.
“The Odd Fellows Home. This used to be an old hospital. Wow. When did they decide to fix it up?”
Declan gave her a smile. “’Tis always been ours.”
“Yours?”
“Aye, ours,” Merrick interjected. “Let us go inside. I wish to have this over with so I may rest.” He kicked open his door and stepped onto the browning grass. Before Anne could open hers, he reached in and grabbed her wrist. With a none-too-gentle tug, he pulled her out his side.
“Let go.” She jerked her arm free and scowled at him. “Don’t you know how to be nice? Why are we here?”
“To see Mikhail,” Farran grumbled.
Merrick shot his companion a look of warning. Until they knew exactly how Anne came to possess the armband, they dared not reveal too much of themselves. Bantering the names of archangels certainly did not work in their favor if the woman possessed some tie to Azazel.
Farran nodded crisply.
Merrick started for the front doors, but Anne dug her heels in, refusing to budge. He turned back in exasperation. “We go inside.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going in there. I don’t know you. I don’t know these two, and if you’ve got a fourth friend around here, he can come outside. I’ve come this far, it’s as good as it gets, big guy.”
Gritting his teeth together, Merrick stared at Anne. Exasperating. The woman simply did not know when to hold her tongue. She was in no danger, and this sudden apprehension of hers was unnecessary. “Mikhail will not come outside.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Declan cover a grin with his hand. The Scot cleared his voice and gave Farran a nudge toward the door. “We shall meet you anon,” he said to Merrick.
“’Tis not wise to stand out here and argue. Though the grounds are protected, they are not always safe. Now come.” Merrick tugged on Anne’s hand again, but found her just as immobile. He spun around and threw his hands in the air. “Damnation, woman, what is the matter with you? Do you purposefully seek out danger?”
Her eyes widened to twice their normal size, and she spluttered. Then surprise gave way to annoyance, and her blue eyes narrowed to furious slits. She set her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with me? You barge into my house. You kidnap me. And you think I should trust you? You’re crazy! I’m all for learning about this armband, but I’m not going inside. Go get your friend.”
If there was one thing Merrick could not stand, ’twas a delay in his plans. He wanted answers, he wanted freedom from this woman, and he could not wait a moment longer. His body ached with exhaustion. His eyes were so tired they burned. The short nap on the way here had done naught for his mood either—except torment him further. Knowing only one way to put an end to this maddening argument, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder once more.
Tuning out her shriek of protest and the pounding of her fists, he strode inside.
Heads turned as men who gathered in the billiard room overheard her string of curses. Merrick ignored them and descended a wide, stone staircase that led to a maze of caverns modern society had not touched.
Beneath the ground, torchlight illuminated high stone ceilings and cast shadows through the corridors. His boots echoed dully, blending with the distant murmur of prayer. He recognized the chant as one of mourning, and a dull ache settled in his heart as he realized they had lost another brother. The deaths mounted. Brave men who did not ask for this fate gave their souls to a cause that had no hope. Azazel’s power grew stronger. Soon there would be too few Templar to defend the crumbling gates between his unholy realm and the mortal world.
Merrick let out a heavy sigh and shoved an iron-studded door open. Inside, he found Declan, Farran, and Mikhail assembled, along with three other faces he had not seen in far too long. The ache in his heart lessened as he nodded to Tane, Lucan, and Caradoc. United against the mighty hand of William, together they had spilled their first blood and saw a young knight’s first victory.
“Merrick, put the lady down.” Mikhail’s voice held a touch of censure that matched the creases in his brow.
Merrick guided Anne to her feet, a mistake he realized too late. Every soft curve of hers slid down the front of his body. Her knee slipped between his, and she inadvertently glided down his thigh. A sudden, fierce rush of desire slammed into him as the contact set every nerve ending afire. His blood warmed. He felt his cock rise. He clamped his teeth together to silence a gas
p and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose.
Thank the saints Mikhail took charge, for Merrick could not speak if he tried.
Mikhail bowed over Anne’s hand. “Milady. Do forgive my knights their rudeness. They have been away and evidently forgotten their manners.”
Anne flashed Mikhail a smile that made Merrick’s lungs feel small. “Excuse me a minute?” Her dainty eyebrows lifted with the question.
At Mikhail’s nod, Anne whirled on Merrick. Wrath replaced her breathtaking smile, and her glare shot daggers meant to kill. He braced himself for a verbal assault. Instead, she drove her toe into his shin.
* * *
Satisfaction poured through Anne as Merrick grunted. The sound made the dull throb that worked its way up her ankle tolerable. “You’re an ass!”
In the back of her mind, she knew she ought to be wary of the sudden fury that filled his features and his stoic silence, but she’d had it with his behavior. “What the hell is wrong with you? This is America. I get a say in what you do with me! I thought knights were supposed to be chivalrous.”
She cocked her foot again, but Mikhail stepped between them, thwarting her attack. “Milady, I am certain Merrick is deserving of a beating, but please, put aside your anger. The both of you will need to learn to work together.”
In slow motion, both Anne and Merrick’s heads swung toward Mikhail. “What?” they cried in unison.
“Indeed,” Mikhail confirmed on a nod. His gaze slid to Merrick. “If Merrick had seen fit to return to the temple last month when I summoned him and his men, he would not have made an ass of himself today.”
If it were possible, Merrick’s features grew even harder. He didn’t look at Anne, but kept his stare fixed on Mikhail. At his thigh, one hand clenched into a fist so tight, his knuckles turned white. The muscle along his jaw began to twitch, and the faint scar on his cheek pulled as he clamped his teeth together.
So the mighty knight couldn’t handle a bit of criticism. Interesting.
Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 4