She followed him into the sitting room. “Who’s Fulk?”
One hand on the door, Merrick’s shoulders stiffened. He glanced behind him, his mouth set in a grim line. With a shake of his head, he answered, “We will speak of it tonight.”
Anne hurried across the few feet that separated them and flung her arms around Merrick’s neck. “I don’t want you to go,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Stay, Merrick. You can choose to stay.”
With the patience one might give an obstinate child, Merrick unwound her hands and held them between their bodies. “I do not wish to leave, but ’tis my duty.” He bent down to press a chaste kiss to her lips.
Before she could say anything more, Merrick stepped through the door.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d waited. Anne couldn’t speak. She stared, her heart plummeting to her feet. In his last embrace, her second sight had returned with a vengeance. Though she caught only two fleeting glimpses, what she saw chilled her to her soul. A knight, clad similarly as Merrick, brandished an identically plain broadsword. But where Merrick wore white, and his broadsword shone like a well-cared-for blade, this knight dressed in black from mail to surcoat to boots. His sword held the same dark hue.
The chilling vision gave way to what haunted her most—a fleeting glimpse of Merrick dressed for the grave.
She stumbled against a rush of dizziness and clutched at the back of a nearby chair. As certainly as she knew her name, she knew that vile knight waited for Merrick.
* * *
Four hours later, Anne left her room long enough to send for Gareth. Knowledge had nothing to do with her summons either—the inner sanctum hadn’t crossed her mind since Merrick’s departure. Preoccupied with worry, she couldn’t tolerate another idle moment of watching the television and pretending Merrick wasn’t in danger. She needed something to do, something to take her mind off the horrible images of Merrick’s funerary. Arguing with the cook presented the perfect outlet. And it gave her the ability to focus on a positive. Something she could do for Merrick, who’d done so much for her, and the rest of his men.
Gareth arrived with a jaunty knock on her door.
Anne leapt off the couch, flipped off the television with a press to the remote, and hurried to the door. Swinging it wide, she nearly threw herself at Gareth, his bright smile had such a profound effect on her taxed nerves.
“Milady.” Gareth caught her hand and brought her knuckles to his mouth. “You called for me?”
“Yes,” she answered with a light laugh. Tugging her hand free before any more damning visions could assault her, she tucked it into her skirt pocket. “I can’t stay here a minute longer. Merrick told me if I needed anything I should send someone for you.”
“Aye, Mikhail informed me of such.”
She backed up a step and opened the door a bit more. “You don’t mind baby-sitting then?”
Gareth’s soft brown eyes lit with humor. “Nay, I do not mind. ’Tis a pleasure to spend time in your company. Du Loire is a very lucky man.”
Anne felt the heat climb into her cheeks and dipped her head to hide her embarrassment. “Yes, well, let’s get one thing clear. No more of this formality. Deal? You are Gareth, and I’m Anne. Not Lady Anne, not milady, just plain old Anne.”
His mouth curved into a boyish grin, setting off that charming dimple again. “If you shall admit you are not plain, nor old, I shall concede to call you Anne.”
“Whatever,” Anne grumbled beneath her breath. “Let’s go. I need to speak to the cook, and I need you there in case he gets angry with me.” Ushering him out of the door, she pulled it tight behind her. With a wave of an impatient hand, she indicated he should descend the stairs.
“Why would Simon become angry with you?”
It was Anne’s turn to grin. With a mischievous wrinkle of her nose, she answered, “Because I’m changing his menu and hiring a new cook. The men here are being tortured with their meals.”
Gareth stopped on the stairs, his loud laugh echoing through the tall-ceilinged enclosure. He fished at his belt for something, then produced a small dagger. Flipping it so he held the point, he passed her the polished bone hilt. “Mayhap you best carry this. Simon is difficult, to say the least.”
Anne pushed aside the blade and shook her head. “That’s why I have you. Now let’s get this over with.”
For a fraction of a minute, the teasing light left Gareth’s eyes and his stare became serious. He pushed the dagger at her once again. “If Merrick feels you must be escorted through these halls, ’twould be wise for you to keep this close.”
She stared at the long thin blade, trying to ignore the unease that filtered into her veins. Carrying a weapon felt out of place. Wholly against her character. But two men now expressed concern over her safety—Merrick in word, Gareth in deed. She gave him a hesitant nod. “Keep it for me, for now. I have no place to put it.”
He sheathed the dagger, and his smile returned. “Very well. To Master Simon’s chambers then.”
Following on Gareth’s heels, Anne wound her way through the large commons. As they passed, a group of men gathered around the communal television turned to stare, and Anne edged closer to Gareth. After her encounter with Ranulf, she had no intentions of giving any of the strangers a chance to separate her from her guard. Once was enough. Maybe the dagger wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
He set his hand in the small of her back and nudged her in front of him. “They are good men. When your intended is announced, you will be surprised by their loyalty.”
“Shouldn’t they be loyal now?”
“They are, in their hearts.” He indicated a set of double doors with a nod of his head. “But you cannot comprehend how long we have awaited the seraphs’ arrival. Until your oaths are sworn, the hope lives on that mayhap they contain the mark needed. Mayhap you overlooked something.”
Backwards logic as far as Anne was concerned. But his next statement made far more sense.
“We were born of a time when all was free for the taking if we worked hard enough to attain it. Loyalty to man outweighed loyalty to woman. She could be had, as long as the ties of brotherhood were not strained. Once a man set claim, the noble distanced himself. Aye, those of lesser hearts paid little heed to spoken vows, but the men within these walls, Anne, are not of that cloth.”
Once again, she was reminded she’d walked into a world straight out of the twelfth century. Gareth’s logic was the truest statement of the rule and laws that bound medieval society she had ever heard. All her studies, all the research did nothing to drive the reality home. She nodded slowly, comprehending far more than Gareth’s simple statement.
He stopped in front of a wooden door beside a set of surprisingly modern chrome swinging doors, through which she glimpsed an even more surprising modern kitchen.
“Master Simon,” Gareth called as he banged on the door. “You have a visitor.”
The man who answered looked nothing like the rest of the knights. Long gray hair tumbled past his shoulders. Watery gray eyes glinted bright above a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. Stockier than the knights, he dressed in a long black robe marked with a red cross that he had tied beneath his right shoulder, concealing the remnants of his arm.
“What do you want?” he grumbled.
Anne bristled at the gruffness of his gravelly voice and braced herself for inevitable confrontation. Summoning courage, she offered him a smile. “I’d like to talk to you about the menu, Master Simon.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “There is nothing amiss with my menu. I will not have a woman dictating how my kitchens should operate.”
Gareth’s reminder of the men’s mindsets fresh in her memory, Anne recognized pride behind Simon’s rebuke. Suggesting his meals weren’t fitting for the knights would only insult him. Refusing to let his gruffness intimidate her, she strengthened her smile, caught his hand in hers, and changed tactics. “I would never presume to insult your talent
or ability. You’ve worked hard, and your skills are notable. But it’s come to my attention that there will be more women here in short order. I thought I might consult with you before they arrived, so you wouldn’t have them in your hair.”
He cocked a wiry eyebrow. “Aye?”
“Oh yes.” From the corner of her eye, she caught Gareth’s amused smirk. He turned sideways, as if he surveyed the hall, and she noticed the way he covered his mouth with a false cough.
Encouraged, Anne continued, “I thought we could discuss giving you a staff as well. Trusted cooks—men of course—who would be willing to learn from you. It would give you some time to enjoy your hours off as well. A man with your success shouldn’t have to slave over the oven. He should be able to sit back and admire his accomplishments when he wants to.”
Simon rubbed a gnarled hand over his beard, his expression thoughtful. Anne held her breath, silently praying her attempt at flattery would work. When he nodded at first slowly, then bobbed his head with more enthusiasm, the tension fled her shoulders, and she exhaled deeply.
Simon opened the door wide, revealing a long row of books on the far wall. Colorful titles that stood out against the dark wood shelves and gave the room a cozy feel. “Come inside, Lady Anne. I am of a mind to hear your thoughts.”
CHAPTER 27
As twilight descended on the temple, Anne finished off what could reasonably be called a bowl of soup in a private dining area beside the kitchen. She ate the last of a hunk of dried bread, then pushed the empty bowl aside. Across from her, Gareth folded his hands beneath his chin and fixed her with an amused grin. “You possess the skills to manage vast holdings, Anne. I have never seen Simon more agreeable to change. Are you certain you have not negotiated with servants before?”
Anne returned his grin. “Nope. Just students, professors, and the usual politics associated with higher education.” She stretched and gave into an expansive yawn. “Though it certainly isn’t easy.”
“Are you tired?”
“Yes. That took a lot more work than I expected. I think I’ll go curl up with the TV for a while.” And wait for Merrick to come home, she added silently. Lord knew she wouldn’t sleep until he walked through her door. If he didn’t … She shook off the thought along with the chill that filtered through her blood. He’d promised he would come back. As much stock as he put in vows, he wouldn’t break his word. And he hadn’t gone to protect the nail, hadn’t said oaths with her—she needed to remember that. Without the combination, her vision couldn’t come true.
Rising to his feet, Gareth extended his arm. “The men will be dining in the great hall. Allow me to escort you properly.”
“Of course.” Anne pushed her chair away from the table, rose, and fitted her hand in the crook of his elbow. Grateful for the comfortable companionship he provided, she gave him a smile and patted the hand that covered hers. “Thank you, Gareth. I’m sure you had other things you would’ve rather done than sit while I talked about recipes and chefs.”
“And miss the decisions that shall affect my stomach for the rest of my stay in America? Surely, you jest. I would not have spent my afternoon any other way.”
His wink belied his sarcasm, and Anne couldn’t help but chuckle. With a shake of her head, she followed him down the darkened hallway toward the great hall and the common area.
At the doorway, the all-too-familiar tugging at the back of her mind brought her up short. Her second sight. Twice in one day—it hadn’t fled her after all. She tamped down a rush of excitement and closed her eyes, opening her mind to what the supernatural realm wanted her to see.
Like a portrait of a long-ago battle, several men gathered on a hill, blades in hand, bows at the ready. They wore the white surcoats of the Templars and beneath, hauberks of chain. Opposing them, a terrifying legion of men in ebony blended with the fiendish creature she’d witnessed in her living room, and others she’d never seen before. Foul beasts whose mere presence turned her pulse into a staccato tap dance.
What made the picture far more chilling, however, was the eerie light that played across the ground. Where men would have once held standards, both sides brandished crude torches, the combination of smoke and orangish light creating wispy shadows that reached between the opposing armies like a ghoulish hand. Waiting to reach in and steal souls.
The vision shifted as quickly as it formed. The armies clashed, sounds of clanging steel rang in her ears. Bellows and cheers drowned out anguished cries, and where boots tread, they tromped through blood. In a small cluster of three, separated from the massive sea of knights, Gareth fought against a nytym and a hellish knight. The black visage lifted an ebony blade, let out an unholy howl. It slashed across his body, driving deep into Gareth’s side. He doubled over, one hand clamped beneath his ribs as his sword faltered.
Horrified, Anne pushed at the images. She could not witness his death. Not here. Not like this. She struggled through the chaos in her mind, shoved beyond the cacophony of noise, desperate to surface and rejoin the present.
But the vision refused to let go. Shifting once more, the sounds of battle disintegrated into terrifying silence. Torchlight flickered on a long stone wall, giving life to thick shadows. Beneath the play of yellow light, her sight centered in on the same damnable vision of Merrick laid out in death. His sword clasped in his hands, it lay atop his chest. Battered and bruised, his face was pale, and the spatter of bloodstains on his surcoat left no question as to where he’d been.
Anne’s knees threatened to buckle. Unable to stifle her heartbreak, she let out a sob as she clutched at Gareth’s arm to hold herself upright.
“Anne.” Gareth wound a thick arm around her waist. “Are you all right?” His warm brown eyes searched her face, concern shuttering his normally vibrant humor.
She expelled a shaky breath. “No.”
“Here, sit down.” He ushered her across the hall to a rickety bench fastened into the stone.
Anne shook her head, her legs feeling far more steady. “No. Take me to my rooms.”
He hesitated, looking very much as if he intended to forbid her request. His features pulled tight with a frown. “You possess the wisdom of the heavens.”
With a sigh of regret, Anne nodded. “I have visions. Please keep this between us, Merrick doesn’t know. Would you take me to my room, Gareth? I feel sick to my stomach.” She pressed a hand to her midsection to stop the churning in her belly. Merrick and Gareth. What more did God want from her? Wasn’t one man enough?
Taking a tighter hold on her arm, Gareth ushered her through the common area. Dimly aware of the heads that turned, Anne focused on the far stairwell, anticipating the salvation that would come with being locked inside her room. There she could crumble. Give in to the tears that welled in her eyes. For the first time in her life, she found herself wishing she’d never been given her psychic gift. But then, if she hadn’t, nothing would have stopped her from telling Merrick about their matching tattoos. This way, with the foresight, she could alter the present course and keep him off that damnable battlefield. She still had control, and she’d do whatever it took to keep Merrick safe.
She’d leave tonight. Once she knew Merrick was safe, she’d steal out of the house, borrow a car until she reached the nearby town of Liberty. There she’d call a cab and go straight to the airport. No more visions. No more promises of death.
No more Merrick.
To hell with her career, she wouldn’t lead him to the grave. And the longer she stayed, the more she risked he would discover her tattoo and demand her oath.
Her heart twisted.
Then again, maybe he would leave with her. If she could convince him to return to Atchison with her, there was still some hope she could achieve both of her heart’s desires—a life with Merrick, and professional success. He cared about her, she could feel that in his kiss, let alone the way he made love to her. If he knew they were fated, and understood they’d be separated if she took the oath, surely he wouldn’t insi
st on maintaining archaic vows when they could have a real future together.
As she stepped on the stairs, the hair on the back of her neck bristled. She turned her head toward the billiard room and swallowed hard. There, standing against the doorframe, Tane watched. His unblinking gaze locked with hers. His energy hit her like a square of bricks—cold, detached. Dangerous.
Anne moved closer to Gareth and hurried up the remaining stairs.
* * *
Several paces ahead of the rest of the men, Merrick moved through the twisting cavern tunnel silently. Behind him, his friends joked, they chuckled, they told tales of previous hunts and victories they had achieved. They had discovered early on he was in no mood to join in their banter and did not attempt to involve him.
Leaving Merrick to listen to the plip-plip of distant water and the ching-ching of his mail.
And wallow through his thoughts.
A Templar did not leave the field of battle. He did not allow himself to be taken captive. He fought until death claimed him, but for the first time since Merrick had touched a childhood wooden sword, he combated the fierce desire to retreat.
He had promised Anne he would return. How he would accomplish such, he did not know. He could not command his men to fight whilst he stood and watched. He could not dismiss the threat upon the gate and order them to return to the temple. Yet somehow he must find a way to hold on to the last of his soul and honor his oath to Anne.
“Merrick.” Caradoc’s low voice reverberated near his ear.
Merrick turned, acknowledging his companion.
“We are twenty paces away. ’Tis too quiet.”
Cocking his head, Merrick observed the silence he had not recognized before. This close to the gate, they should hear the ghostly scratchings, should have encountered at least one escaping fiend. He lifted his hand, signaling the men who followed to halt. For several long moments, no one moved. Their breaths came in shallow draws. Their fingers curled around steady swords.
Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 26