Catherine let out a wistful sigh. “I’ve always wanted to see France. Guess that explains why you called me ‘mademoiselle’.” Combating nerves the only way she knew how, she laughed. Then immediately frowned. What was the matter with her—she’d never had trouble around men. Not the kind of trouble where her tongue wrapped itself in knots and she trembled like a leaf. She’d been around the block so much as an orphan teen…well, she didn’t like to think about the years she spent cycling through foster home after foster home.
So what was it about this guy that made her insides feel like melted butter?
Something he’d said clicked in her head. “You’re taking the couch to the homeless teens’ shelter? I didn’t know there was one specifically for teens in need.”
Iain turned his head and smiled, sending her pulse on another skyward leap. “My brother Tane is opening one at the end of this month.”
“Really? That’s wonderful! Kids hate going to the adult shelters.”
“’Twas what he discovered. As I have been told, a friend of his—Marie—had a need. To aid her, her brother, and those in their situation, Tane founded the home.”
She looked at him again, really allowed him to sink into her brain. His hands were fascinating. She’d seen them in action with the man she’d hit, knew the strength those fingers held. The faint dusting of hair at the back of his wrist continued up a muscular forearm. He wore a simple dark blue T-shirt that pulled across broad shoulders and a powerful chest. Nothing about him was weak. And yet, nothing about him was intimidating.
A chuckle shook his shoulders.
“What’s so funny?” Catherine asked.
“You, mademoiselle.”
She ignored the pleasant shiver that his accent stirred and tipped her head to the side. “Me? What about me?”
Deep brown eyes met hers for a flicker of an instant, before he looked back to the road and shifted position in his seat. He shook his head, an amused smile playing on his sensual mouth. “’Tis naught.”
“No, tell me. What did I say?”
“I do not wish to embarrass you.” He navigated a corner and eased to a stop in front of a newly renovated old warehouse. Sporting a full grin now, he opened his door and climbed out.
Just as Catherine began to think he’d close the door on her question, he braced his arms on the top of the pickup and ducked his head inside. “If I were to inspect you so thoroughly when I believed you could not notice, I am quite certain ’twould earn me the lash of your tongue.”
In a heartbeat, her cheeks blistered with heat. Oh good grief! But in the next heartbeat, the saucy attitude she’d worn with pride before she began considering life with the Church reared its head. Give it a try, and we’ll see. She stopped the thought an instant before it could slide off her tongue. But it echoed in her head even as she turned her back on his grin and exited the vehicle.
Catherine bit back a snort. Thinking like that would get her into deep trouble.
Before she could develop any sort of reply, the shelter’s crimson-painted wooden door swung wide, and another dark-haired man descended the short stairs. He clapped a hand on Iain’s shoulder, then embraced him in a quick masculine hug. “’Tis good to see you, Iain.”
She stayed a few inches behind the pickup’s rear fender, lingering on the sidelines, not wanting to intrude. The man had simply offered her a ride—sticking her nose in his business further wasn’t her style. But their similar accents intrigued her. Was this man from France as well? Had they immigrated at some point? They must have, for their native inflection to come through so strong.
As the new man turned toward the pickup, he stopped short, his gaze halting on her. Surprise passed across his face, then green eyes sparked with curiosity. Catherine gave him a hesitant smile.
“Tane, please meet Catherine Grady.” Iain gestured at her with a warm smile. “She found herself in need of a ride. I offered aid.”
Tane glanced at Iain, lifted eyebrows asking some question she couldn’t comprehend. She wouldn’t have noticed the slight shake of Iain’s head if she hadn’t been looking straight at him. Whatever the meaning, Tane’s brow smoothed, and he turned back to her, one hand extended in greeting. “I am Tane. A pleasure to meet you.”
Catherine shook his hand. “Likewise. It’s great what you’re doing for the teens here.”
“My thanks, good lady.” Releasing her, he stepped toward the pickup again. “’Twill be meaningless if they lack a place to sit. Let us move this inside, Iain.”
His grin turned harsh features into handsome ones. Good genes must run in their family. He matched Iain in height, but his build was stockier. A touch of uncertainty plagued the way he moved, whereas Iain’s movements held the same appealing confidence she’d observed as he drove. And Iain exuded warmth with his constantly laughing eyes, while his brother’s countenance remained closed, walled off from strangers.
She followed behind them as they hefted the couch through the door. What she found inside astounded her. Instead of plain white walls and industrial fluorescent lighting that so many shelters sported, Catherine discovered layer after layer of welcoming warmth that contradicted the man behind the idea. Aged bronze fixtures washed walls of rich, dark green with soft incandescent light. Instead of tile floors, she walked on polished, laminated wood. And she didn’t enter a sterile, wide front room set up with card tables and chairs, but rather a long hallway—as if she’d walked through the front door of a residential home. Dark wood-framed entryways opened into comfortable rooms: an entertainment room with a wide flat-screen television, a room with individual computer desks situated in each of the four corners, a smaller library with fully stocked shelves.
Iain and Tane angled through another doorway and led her into a back room, where they set the couch down beneath a wide picture window that overlooked a fenced-in yard, complete with an inviting patio.
He hadn’t created a shelter. He built a home.
“This is amazing, Tane. But there’s five floors—what’s on the rest?” And where in the world had he come up with this kind of money?
“Tane! I need you in the kitchen! I can’t get this stupid stove to work!” a feminine voice called.
He sighed, shook his head, and cast an apologetic glance at Catherine and Iain. “Iain, do show her around. I must help Marie. My apologies, Catherine.”
He hurried out of the room, leaving Catherine alone in Iain’s company. His devastating smile pinned her in place. The flicker of appreciation that lit in his eyes turned the spacious area surrounding her into a room no larger than a closet. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the erratic pounding of her heart. An old familiar feeling stirred. One she knew she should ignore. But the sharp clamping of her womb and the rush of heat that flared through her body was so incredibly pleasant, she didn’t care. For just this moment, she wanted to revel in the simple pleasure of being a woman.
Iain sucked in a sharp breath as Catherine’s gaze held his. He had not anticipated he’d be so affected by the way she had looked him over as they drove. Nor had he expected to find himself so thoroughly aware of her. The appreciation that glinted in her stare mystified him. Aye, centuries of battle blessed him with a strong and healthy body, but prior to joining the Order, too oft women passed him over in favor of another’s charm, another’s height, another’s silver tongue. And he had never particularly cared to work at winning a woman’s attentions. None had affected him, save one, and she had belonged to another.
Yet now, as he stood across the room from Catherine Grady, he found his care immense.
He glanced at the door. “There are dormitories and a school room above stairs. Would you care to see them?”
“A school?” Sheer delight infused her voice. “He has a school here?”
Iain nodded, crossing the room to take her elbow once more. But she moved at the last moment, and his fingertips brushed the small of her back. He hesitated. Then, with firm resolve, settled his hand at the base of her spi
ne and ushered her toward the exit. When she did not scurry away, he breathed more easily.
As if they had known each other longer than the scant hour they had, she matched his stride, allowing him to guide her up the stairs. The subtle sway of her hips beneath his palm enticed him beyond reason. That she fit so perfectly only made it more difficult to recall why he could not indulge in the lust that heated his body. Yet he dared not forget. His duty was to combat Azazel’s evil, and he had lost his seraph. Too soon he would die. He refused to injure another by involving them in the penance he deserved.
When they reached the top of the stairs, he pushed on a set of double doors to his right. They opened onto a classroom that spanned the length of the second floor. ’Twas the room in which Tane invested the most of his borrowed Order funds, according to Anne’s claims. New textbooks sat on desks that were equally unused. The far wall of shelves held a variety of reference materials, each bound in durable leather, no doubt also blessed by the archangels to keep them from fraying even longer.
Catherine’s quiet gasp ricocheted through him. He halted, halfway through the doorway. “Is something amiss?”
She shook her head as she surveyed the room. “It’s just…I . . .” She chuckled. “I’m jealous.”
“Jealous?” Iain crossed to a desk and cocked his hip against it, watching as she moved through the room, inspecting the textbooks, running her hand over a smooth writing surface, bending to examine the references.
She paused, one knee resting on the ground, one hand against a thick book. “Let’s just say my classroom has seen better days. Far better days. The desks are carved on, half of them have at least one leg shorter than the rest, the chalkboard’s so pitted it’s difficult to use.” Plucking the book from the shelf, she thumbed through the pages. “And I’d kill for reference material like this. Everything I have is a good ten years old.”
Enchanted by the reverence in her voice, he could not temper a smile. “What do you teach?”
“Right now it’s world literature. That is, assuming my students show up for class.” She pushed the book back into place and stood, dusting her hands on her thighs. “I’ve taught a little of everything, from theology to remedial math, to grammar. Only thing I haven’t taught is history.” A slight shudder rocked her shoulders. “Blech. Boring stuff.”
At that, Iain’s smile morphed into laughter. What would she say if she knew he had seen the passing of seven centuries?
But another aspect of her response caught his attention. From what he understood, American public schools did not offer courses in theology. He cocked his head. “Where did you teach the Almighty’s lessons?”
Catherine pulled out the chair across from his and took a seat, tucking her hands between her knees. “Private school. Catholic school. I left that though, and am in the heart of Kansas City’s public school system.”
Iain blinked. She chose to leave a well-funded institution for the rigors of inner-city schools? How very curious. “It did not agree with you?”
“Not really. I didn’t feel I was making a difference.” She lifted a hand and pushed her shoulder-length hair out of her face. “For the most part, all I saw were rich kids, sent for better educations by well-to-do families. They didn’t need me.”
Her explanation did not make sense. From what he knew, inner-city schools suffered worse problems. Indeed, she had just admitted attendance was not high. “And you are needed now?”
“There’s that one or two, you know? When you make contact, when you break through those barriers, it’s worth every head-banging moment.”
Nay, he did not. But the fire that lit her gaze, the passion she showed for her work, made him wish he comprehended more. ’Twas no wonder she taught—her enthusiasm for learning was catching. Hoping he did not sound like the idiot he was, he prompted, “One or two?”
“Kids. The one or two kids that come into my classroom wearing attitude and leave wanting to know more.”
Her expression turned so wistful, Iain’s heart twisted. Once he had shared a zeal for his chosen path. The fate that awaited him, the curse of bearing tangible evil in his soul, mattered little. He lived for the battle. Took pride in every demon and dark knight he slayed. But in the last hundred years, his passion faded. Rising each night to join his Templar brothers in combat became a chore. Watching his brothers die, feeling the darkness eat away at his soul—more oft than not he had wished to escape.
With his seraph’s murder, his desire to fight snuffed completely out. Now he questioned his purpose daily. Questioned whether he wished to continue, whether dying would be a worthy sacrifice.
Catherine bent forward to straighten the cuff of her jeans. As she moved, her necklace tumbled free from her shirt. Silver glinted in the light, before her hair cloaked the pendant from view.
But that singular moment before those satin blond locks secreted her necklace away had been long enough for Iain to glimpse what she wore. No jewel, no trinket of personal significance. Nay, what hung about her neck bore the Templar cross.
He stiffened, unable to believe what he had witnessed. Surely it could not be. His eyes must have deceived him.
Yet when Catherine straightened, and that chunk of silver flattened between her breasts, he witnessed far more than an inlaid Templar cross. The edges bore a scalloped pattern that time attempted to flatten. The cross sat prominent, but in the small space beneath it, he could just make out the words, Milites Templi—the same engraving that dangled from every Templar Knight’s neck, lest he had lost the medallion in battle.
She wore a part of the Order. A token that belonged to those who served the archangels. And he must discover why.
Reaching across the narrow distance that separated them, he slipped his fingers beneath the medallion, determined to ignore the compelling softness where his knuckles pressed against her breast. “Where did you find this?”
Three
Certain Iain could feel the sudden, chaotic thumping of her heart, Catherine lowered her gaze to his hand. The sight of those short manicured nails, those strong fingers so near to her breast left her momentarily incapable of mental reasoning. She willed her voice not to tremble. “It was a gift.”
“A gift?” He slid off the desk and took a step forward, bringing that big powerful body near to hers. The faint scent of soap from a morning shower tickled her nose. She fought the urge to set her hands on his narrow hips and steady herself. She would not lean away, although she should. Sweet blue heaven above, she should move now.
“A gift from whom?”
Her throat felt sticky, like she’d just eaten too much peanut butter straight out of the jar. She swallowed hard. Oh, he was too close, too devastatingly near.
He tucked his fingers beneath the medallion a little more, the shift of his hand stirring her long-neglected flesh. To her shame, her nipples tightened beneath her bra, and a layer of gooseflesh pricked her breasts. She forced her eyes away from his fingers and stared at his belt. If she looked up, he’d know without a doubt how very much he affected her. And that was one bit of truth she didn’t dare reveal.
“From the prioress at Mount Saint Scholastica,” she answered.
“The prioress?” Surprise lifted the normal baritone timbre of his voice.
“Yes.” Nodding, Catherine lifted her gaze, braving those warm, inviting portals of soft brown. As her thoughts slid slowly back into place, she leaned her shoulders away. The press of his knuckles against her breast lifted, but he refused to let go of the necklace. His stare penetrated into her, curious, intense, and…oh, dear heavens…lusty.
With a twist of her shoulders, she terminated the link between them. Her necklace thumped against her breastbone where it laid heavily, a stark reminder of how it felt to have him touch her so innocently, and yet so intimately.
She cleared her throat and rose to her feet, hoping that doing so would force him to step out of her personal space. He didn’t. He remained rooted in place, dominating her in a way that was str
angely appealing.
“What cause would a prioress have to possess such a thing?” His gaze flickered to the necklace, then fastened on her mouth.
“I volunteer . . .” No, you ninny, tell him the truth. “I volunteer there frequently. In the archives room. I discovered it in a box, showed it to her, and she offered it to me as a gift.” Catherine swallowed with effort again. Good grief, she had just deliberately lied about her dedication to the abbey. What on earth was the matter with her? She steeled her resolve and added, “For the time I put in to organizing the dusty old records.”
And because she knew my father’s family had Templar ties.
But she didn’t volunteer the latter. She didn’t care about her father. He was just a sperm donor, and she’d learned a long time ago that the less she talked about him and the woman who gave birth to her, the less it hurt that she had not been wanted. Mentioning him now would only spark more questions about her family, or lack thereof.
It was the one stain on her spirit she absolutely could not make peace with, no matter her prayers, no matter how she opened her heart to the Almighty’s way. She hated her birth parents, and there was still a piece of her that needed to feel wanted more than anything.
Which was why she must, absolutely, step away from Iain right now.
She edged out of his large shadow and drew a deep breath. A sense of immediate relief flooded her.
“May I see it, Catherine?”
Her necklace? No one had ever been so interested in the old thing. She shrugged, lifted the heavy silver chain over her head and passed it to him. Their fingers grazed as he took the medallion, sending another delightful zing surging up her arm.
She watched as he turned it over in his hands. His strong brow furrowed with a contemplative frown. Fine lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. He ran a short thumbnail over the name that was etched into the back—Armand Dupris. She’d looked up the name, but nothing remained in history. Whoever he was, he’d vanished with time.
Iain passed the medallion over again. “’Tis very old.”
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