Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  The relief that crept into his expression almost made her laugh aloud. Evidently, knights and finer things didn’t go well together. Or maybe knights and big, inviting beds.

  He sat down with a heavy sigh. One powerful thigh rested against hers, and as he reclined against the overstuffed cushions, his hand dropped to her knee. Her gaze pulled to where his fingers rested on the denim, her pulse picking up an extra beat. Intentional? Hard to say with the way he frowned at the window across the room, his expression telling her that his mind was far away.

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “You,” the answer popped out before she could stop it. But in that instant, she couldn’t think of anything more truthful. She wanted to know about him, not archangels and nails. Seeing a thin white scar that spanned across the back of his hand, she traced the mark with her nail. “I want to know about you,” she added more quietly. “What caused this?”

  Merrick looked down to where she touched him. Using his opposite index finger, he traced the same path her fingernail had taken. Briefly, their fingertips touched. “’Tis a mark from a lance.”

  “A lance?” Anne struggled with the urge to twine her finger around his.

  “Aye. ’Twas a battle that came to us unexpectedly. I was not given time to don my armor before the riders set upon us. The knight struck me there, and here.” He touched his ribs beneath his right arm.

  Anne’s gaze lifted to the vulnerable spot and pictured the battle as it might have occurred: Merrick standing down an armored knight on horseback, the sharp metal spear that punctured his flesh, the way his face might have contorted as he bit back a painful cry. Impulsively, she gathered his hand in both of hers and lifted it, bringing it to her lips to place a gentle kiss over the scar. “I’m sorry.”

  Merrick said nothing, and in his silence, she began to question maybe she’d taken one too many liberties. They’d hardly begun to get along—what if her unchecked impulse just crossed some invisible boundary? Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her gaze to his. What she found in his fathomless dark eyes, however, said nothing of anger or annoyance. They gleamed with startling intensity, light bright enough to make her catch her breath.

  “Do not be sorry,” he murmured. His eyes canvassed her face, lingered on her mouth. “’Twas a scar borne from duty. An order I was sworn to obey.”

  The husky quality of his voice sent shivers coursing up and down her spine. She tried to look away, ordered her eyes to settle anywhere but on the sudden softening of Merrick’s expression. But her body refused, leaving her unable to do anything but choke down a dry swallow. When her thoughts cleared enough to form coherent words, she sought to lighten the moment with a bit of humor. “Orders can do that to you, I guess. Like now, you’re stuck with me.”

  “I cannot say I find these orders entirely displeasing.” Merrick lifted his free hand to push a length of her hair away from her shoulder.

  The back of his hand grazed the side of her neck and goose bumps scattered down her arms. “No?” She closed her eyes a heartbeat too long, time enough for Merrick’s thumb to stroke the line of her jaw and heighten her awareness of his touch.

  When she looked again, Merrick had moved closer. Or maybe she had, she couldn’t say. But his thumb caressed the same sensitive spot a second time, the slow stroke oddly gentle for the strength in his hands. “Nay.”

  He was going to kiss her, she knew it in the core of her being. Common sense screamed for her to stop him. Longing she’d buried for five years demanded she sit utterly still and wait for the fall of his lips against hers.

  Anne chose longing. Afraid the moment would pass before she could fully savor it, she held his gaze, accepting what burned in the dark light of his eyes. One kiss. She’d gone five years without one. She wanted this, wanted his.

  Time moved slowly as Merrick leaned forward. Her lungs tightened, her pulse bounded so fiercely she thought her heart might leap out of her chest. His long eyelashes lowered, his fingers cupped the side of her face. And then his mouth brushed hers, warm and soft, hesitant and seeking. Anne’s breath caught. Her thoughts collided with the devastation of two freight engines in a head-on collision. The vision she’d seen of Merrick and her in bed burst to life, and she parted her lips, inviting him to take her to that heady place of absolute pleasure.

  Slowly, his hand crept to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. The tip of his tongue touched hers, and everything inside Anne awakened to his rich flavor. His cologne saturated her senses, luring her into the incredible magic of a man who knew exactly how to kiss a woman until her toes curled.

  She didn’t bother with restraining herself. Tangling her tongue with his, she took what he offered and curled one hand into his long thick hair. He let out a startled murmur, then settled in deep, returning her eagerness with a kiss so thorough fire sparked in her veins, the warmth spreading through her body.

  And then Merrick was gone, the kiss ending as abruptly as it had begun. He cleared his throat and shot to his feet as if she’d burned him. “You requested McDonald’s, aye?”

  If it weren’t for the smoldering look behind his onyx eyes, she’d swear she had imagined that incredible kiss.

  “Yes,” she answered in a mystified whisper. But Merrick couldn’t have heard her—he was already out the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  Merrick jammed the truck into third with a mutter as another image of Anne in that too-soft bed flashed in his head. God’s teeth, he never should have entered her bedroom. Nay, it had been the fool’s thing to do. Yet he could not help himself from opening those doors, could not bear the curiosity of where she would sleep and what the archangels had lavished upon her beyond the magnificent outer chamber.

  Possessed by the wild imaginings, he had done the unspeakable and kissed her as well. She, another man’s seraph. Not only had he kissed her, she had returned his advances with eagerness he had never experienced. It had surprised him, but only for a heartbeat before her sweet flavor intoxicated him so completely he could not hold on to all the reasons he should not indulge.

  Now all manner of inappropriate thoughts drifted through his mind. Would she sleep in her jeans, or his shirt alone? Would she curl one of those long pillows around her supple body? Would that silken hair drape them in seclusion as she sat atop him while he indulged in the sweetness of her mouth?

  He bit back a grumble and rounded a corner. The rear wheels squealed in protest to his speed. Saints’ blood, she was not his. He could not allow these thoughts to consume him. She was not his right to claim, and he would not dishonor the brother the archangels intended.

  To take further liberties with Anne would break oaths and ties none had tested in nearly a thousand years.

  As he punched the overhead button that released the iron gates, Merrick let out a heavy sigh. Gabriel surely meant to test him. No other reason could explain why the archangel forced the two of them together. Though he could not imagine what he had done to spark the messenger’s ire enough to warrant such a trial. Unless ’twas still punishment for his transgression so long ago.

  He eased into the parking space and shut the engine off. Temptation brought this life upon them, and temptation now plagued him once again. Had he not learned the folly in claiming what was not rightfully his the first time?

  Aye, he had. He would resist Anne, no matter how it pained him.

  Grabbing her sack of food, he marched up the steps and let himself inside the house. As he headed for the elaborate front stairwell, he felt the weight of several pairs of eyes bore into his back. They all wondered. Half suspected he took liberties already—what man would not? She was but a woman, meant for such pleasures.

  The men who regarded her in the dining hall all carried hope behind stares that centuries had turned hollow. Even those who had stood at his side the longest could not hide the flicker of despair when Anne refused their mark.

  Her presence would cause unrest. He needed to find her mate before a knight who suffered breached
the vows and planted the seed of discord amongst the ranks. With so many close to darkness, the longer Anne remained unclaimed, that risk doubled. By God, a full day had passed, and he had lost sight of his purpose—he had not thought of Fulk all afternoon. If a tie of blood could be so easily forgotten, what would prevent lesser bindings from tearing free? And if he, who put more stock in the oaths of brotherhood than others, could be swayed, little would restrain those who treated the Code as guidelines, not law. She had already drawn Ranulf’s attention. Those who shared his same lack of morals would be sorely tempted.

  Still, no matter the logic and the sound reasons, Merrick could not forget the gentle glide of her tongue, the pressure in her fingertips as she urged him to become lost in the sudden passion that flared between them. He ached for more. Yearned for Anne to be a simple woman whom he could enjoy as he wished and become lost in the pleasure she awakened.

  His steps felt as if he tried to move boulders as he approached her door. The longing to take her in his arms, to lose himself in the softness of her curves, ate at him like salt poured upon a canker. His little demon … Aye, indeed she was. For she possessed him like a vile curse.

  Merrick let himself inside and found her where he’d left her—curled on the couch. Only now, the flash of light and sounds of sirens filled the room as she watched her television. She looked up with a smile at the same time she picked up the remote and shut off the noise.

  “Food!”

  Like a child on Christmas morn, she burst to her feet and snatched at the bag. Digging through it as if she had not eaten in days, she stuffed fries into her mouth. Her eyes closed. Her features softened, and she let out a sigh that reached in and fisted around Merrick’s heart. Bliss. Would the same expression cross her face when she lay with her intended?

  Bollocks! He would not think of such.

  Tearing his gaze off her, he sank onto the couch. “You wished answers from me. Would you now desire to talk?”

  “Yes,” she answered around a mouthful of hamburger. “I want to know what you found, what Mikhail meant—everything. Why am I here, Merrick—really?” Taking a seat beside him, she licked her fingers.

  He had no idea where to start. At the beginning, in the middle, personal involvement, the effect of the darkness … So much ran together. He could not bring himself to tell her of the shame that lurked in his soul, the darkness that tainted him and the rest of the Templar. Whilst she might be more agreeable if she knew they would turn into evil without her oath, he did not want her to look on him with pity. Or worse, with repulsion. Nay, the depth of her purpose would be her intended’s responsibility. He could explain the Templar curse when once his soul began to heal, as it would, with the speaking of her vows.

  The very likely possibility she would reject the unknown history remained, yet ’twas the most logical place to begin. She understood the time when he was born, and Merrick searched for a place where her knowledge would work to his benefit.

  “You know of the Crusades. You know of the Order’s origin.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve studied everything I can get my hands on about the Knights Templar.”

  A rush of pride lighted in Merrick’s blood. Far too many years had passed since he had heard the respect that filled her voice. Too many more brought only disrespect, resentment, and even mockery. He could only hope when he finished speaking that the same would not come from her. Furrowing his brow, he met her gaze. “I assure you, Anne, naught of what you presume to know is true.”

  * * *

  Anne’s heart tripped a beat. Fascination blended with a touch of apprehension, and she dropped her hands to her lap, her dinner temporarily forgotten. Years of study, countless hours of research, and all the answers were a breath away.

  “’Twas 1119, and I was but a young knight desperate to prove himself worthy. I grew up in the shadow of the first victory in Jerusalem and longed for the respect the returning knights received. The cause presented, and I rode to it with Hugues. ’Twas a noble endeavor, a fight worth spilling blood. Protect the pilgrims on the road to the holy places we claimed from the heathens, defend what rightfully belonged to Christians.”

  Anne nodded, attempting to hurry him along. What he recited was recorded fact—she needed the unrecorded. “Yes, I know the history of the First Crusade. I know how King Baldwin II gave you territory on the Temple Mount and how the Order gained his approval.”

  As if the story distressed him, Merrick sank into the couch. He rested his head on the back and closed his eyes. Hands fisted at his thighs, he pulled in a deep breath. “We were told to not venture through the tunnels. Yet I was young, foolish…” With a shake of his head, he sat upright again and drummed a fist against his leg. “I ignored the order and dug within the tunnels, seeking rumored treasure. I found scrolls. Old things written in a language I did not recognize. I called the others. Together we discovered the words of the ancient Essenes, Hebrew writings never canonized and what the ignorant would call apocryphal. Only there was one we could not reason. Stamped into copper, the language was cryptic. A cipher of some sort.”

  Anne’s mind grabbed at the information like a hungry viper. She resisted the urge to squirm in her seat and folded her hands together tightly. The scrolls needed little explanation—the Dead Sea Scrolls. And the only one that could possibly match his description of cryptic was the legendary Copper Scroll. A known documentation of what many believed to be the lost treasure of Jerusalem. “Archaeologists dig for that treasure now on the Temple Mount,” she blurted out.

  “They will not find it. All they will discover is an unimaginable hell.” He opened his eyes to give her a hard look. “Anne. The scroll does not mark coin, or jewels, or even gold. ’Tis a device of Azazel’s, disguised to tempt the foolish.”

  As everything she’d ever read shredded into pieces of worthless paper, Anne drew back. “To tempt? Why?”

  “The sixty-three listings mark the gates of hell. The sixty-fourth marks the final location of Azazel’s ascension—should he achieve his desires.”

  “But.” She tried to put into words the screaming protests in her head. “Archaeologists found the Copper Scroll in the caves at Khirbet Qumran in the forties and fifties. It’s been translated—scholars have deciphered the listings.”

  “Nay,” he insisted. “There is no preciseness in the language. Sixty-three places, written as if one would be familiar with the locations. ’Tis trickery, Anne, of the greatest kind. As for the deciphering, aye, scholars found and translated the specific words, but not the meaning. When we discovered what it was, we sealed the scroll and reburied it. How would we know that centuries later, the battles of our ancestors would be doubted and the danger of that document would be lost? That Azazel would lead men to the hidden caves as his power grew.”

  He had a point. But that sounded a bit fantastic. Azazel was just a fallen angel, according to doctrine. A demon. Not a being capable of claiming supreme power.

  “’Tis so much to tell you, Anne. I shall try to simplify. Bear with me.”

  “Of course.” Anything to make sense of this. To understand how it tied into the Church’s desire to sabotage the Order—if it even did. If it didn’t relate, all her father’s research, and her thesis, would be blown to bits.

  “I, along with my men, was punished for digging where it was forbidden, for unearthing the sacred writings, for they revealed truths the archangels sought to keep from men. For that knowledge, we were punished with immortality.” Hesitating, his eyes searched her face.

  Anne gazed at him, seeing the pain within his dark eyes. Though he told his story simply, he had suffered. Greatly.

  The same compassion his scar had aroused surged through her veins. Instinctively, she reached a hand between them and set it on his thigh. He had been through so much. So many years of fighting, of watching those he knew die. How he managed to drag himself out of bed without surrendering to the heartache that touched his eyes, she couldn’t imagine. But he ha
d, and that inner strength did something she couldn’t explain to her heart. Made it topsy-turvy, nudged it open more than she’d like.

  His larger hand covered hers. Strong fingers squeezed as he took a deep breath. “The nytym you witnessed. Those, and others, we must fight. This is my curse, to guard the gates of hell and keep Azazel’s minions from mankind. Your house—our adytum—offers sanctuary for those who battle far from this temple. I had come from such a battle the other night.”

  His gaze shifted to the bookshelf, and he studied it with sudden interest. His throat worked as he swallowed, and she observed him stiffen ever so slightly. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Something he skimmed over.

  She didn’t press for more. In time, she’d learn the secrets he was reluctant to share. The information he’d given was enough to make her wait for however long that took. Not to mention, she didn’t care to consider the implication of what his story did to her thesis. To her career. What he referenced made everything she understood about history into virtual fiction. This was life changing, and she couldn’t process it all at once.

  “Abigail Montfort guarded the adytum and the sacred crucifixion nail within, until her death. ’Twas the same with Maggie. Gabriel saved both women from a time when witches were burned and he used their knowledge of spirits to guard certain relics the Templar have sworn to protect.”

  “Relics? You mean like holy relics?” Here it was, the information she’d been waiting for. Possibly, as legend suggested, they harbored the Holy Grail or the ark of the covenant. Those two items alone would be enough to threaten the Church.

  “Aye.”

  Oh this was too good to be true! Unable to disguise her excitement from her voice, she asked, “The shroud of Turin? The Holy Grail? The holy chalice? Do you really guard their hiding places?”

  His gaze jerked back to her, his frown firmly intact. “Anne. I told you we guard the gates of hell and keep Azazel’s minions from mankind.”