Immortal Protector

by Claire Ashgrove

  Catherine nodded.

  “Did you know that every knight induced to the Order wore such a medallion?” He shoved a hand into his front jeans pocket. “The laymen, the network of laborers and common peasants who supported the Templar were not given such.” One corner of his mouth firmed. “You hold an item that belonged to a man who gave his life for mankind.”

  The shiver that gripped her this time had nothing to do with pleasure or desire. Like someone had walked over her grave, cold chills snaked down her spine. Something clung to his voice she couldn’t put her finger on—a touch of bitterness? Strange indeed. And the odd light in his eyes, a hardness that hadn’t been present ten seconds earlier unsettled her.

  “You honor him by wearing it,” Iain murmured quietly.

  She shook her head to ward off the sense of unease. “It’s just an old necklace.”

  The tension at the corner of his mouth gave, and a smile that made her heart stutter spanned across his face. “Come, Catherine. I have not eaten all day. Would you care to join me?”

  Dinner? She should say no. Tell him she needed to return to Atchison. Already she would miss prayers, and missing the community dinner…She groaned inwardly—she’d missed her meeting with her novitiate director. One more strike against her this week. Might as well make it worthwhile.

  “I could eat. What are you in the mood for?”

  Iain outstretched his hand, his fingers beckoning to hers. She looked at that large palm, debating for an instant, and then, with a deep breath, closed her eyes and slid her hand into his. His fingers interlaced with hers, his grip strong and comfortable. A heartbeat spanned between them as they stood in the doorway, unspeaking. A scant moment of time where electrified energy magnetized them. She wavered into the pull; his body swayed by fractions. Then, Iain cleared his throat and led them through the door.

  “I have been told there is an authentic place called Little Mexico?”

  Catherine laughed. “That’s not a restaurant. It’s a community. But there is a great place for tapas there. You…ah, drive. I’ll navigate.”

  A smirk danced across his mouth. “I am not so certain I wish to trust your navigation, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh hush.” She gave him a playful jab in the bicep, only to find it hard and unmoving. Sweet Mary, this man was temptation defined.

  His fingers squeezed, and his shoulders shook with amusement. “Very well then, Catherine, I shall trust this morning’s accident was naught more than a product of this city’s confusing streets.” Conspiratorially, he leaned closer and murmured near her ear, “I confess, they bested me as well. I was quite lost when I came to that intersection.”

  The wash of his breath against the side of her neck shamefully delighted her. This was a mistake. A huge disaster of a mistake waiting to happen.

  “Let’s go,” she answered through a laugh. “I’ll buy, to repay your help earlier today.”

  It was nothing more than dinner. And there were no regulations against having a meal with a…friend. Maybe about missing prayers, but she’d deal with that later. After all, she didn’t really have a choice. It wasn’t like she had a car.

  Four

  Iain combated demons of the personal kind as he drove Catherine through the winding hills of northwestern Missouri to Atchison, Kansas. All night he had been possessed by the remembrance of his family’s lands and the young maid, Ella. Not so much that Catherine resembled her physically—although, indeed, they bore a few similarities, such as the slight upturn of her nose and her aristocratic cheekbones. More significant was how Catherine awakened inside him a feeling he had not encountered since he met the simple maid who sold apples in the spring and gourds after the autumn harvest.

  He had been married, she the same. But whilst his wife would prefer he never touched her, Ella’s husband touched her overmuch. With fists, forced lust, and upon two occasions that Iain knew of, a tanned strip of hide. When he had witnessed the first beating upon the bailey green, he had issued one far more severe upon her barbarous husband, eliciting from him a vow he would never touch her in such a fashion again, or face death should Iain learn of it. He could offer her naught more. Family ties, tenacious agreements of peace struck only through the terms of his marriage, would not survive his taking of a mistress.

  The second beating—Iain blocked the memory before it could rise.

  Unlike the seraph he knew a scant few moments, he and Ella had been innocently connected but entwined by emotion far more intimate. He had never yearned to hold a woman more, or to taste the sweetness of soft pink lips. Until tonight, as he sat across the table from Catherine and became lost in the freedom of her laughter and bespelled by her angelic smile.

  “I need to stop by the abbey,” Catherine said quietly as they drove over a bridge across the river. “I was to meet with a sister tonight and must apologize. I’ll walk home from there. It’s at the top of the hill.” She pointed out the window to a thick rise of trees.

  Regret pulled through him at the thought of parting. But ’twas for the best, he supposed. He would leave within the week, returning once more to Europe and the Templar cause. He had naught to offer her, and his mind was in no state to handle the additional burden of becoming entangled with a woman.

  Nay. The objection rose with such violence, his innards seized. He could not tolerate the thought of walking away tonight and never seeing Catherine again. He glanced sideways and experienced the same rush of desire that flooded his senses each time he looked at her. Nay, he could not allow this eve to become forgotten amidst memories. He was on sabbatical, his vows temporarily set aside whilst he searched to find his purpose. He did not owe the Order that had damned him this rare lightness of heart he had not experienced in centuries.

  “Catherine,” he began, his voice unsteady. He cleared his throat, tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I return home in a short while. But I should like to see you again.”

  She went absolutely still.

  Horns of warning echoed in his head. A woman who returned his interest would not behave as if she had suddenly turned to ice. And yet, he could not still his tongue. “I have not enjoyed an evening so much in too many years to count.”

  Her teeth worked at her lower lip. In her lap, she twisted her hands together. “I’ve enjoyed it too. A lot.”

  Her confession came so quietly, several seconds passed before it fully registered in his head. When the words connected, the space behind his ribs contracted pleasantly. “Then tomorrow—”

  “Turn here.” Her unadorned fingernail rapped on the passenger-side window.

  Iain navigated the turn and pulled into the abbey’s small parking lot. He nosed into a spot, turned off the engine, and jumped out to hurry around and open her door. She slid out of the seat, and her gaze connected with his. Before she quickly averted it and took a step toward the entrance, he caught the flash of appreciation that had so oft filled those pale blue eyes throughout the night.

  She desired him, though for some reason she did not wish to acknowledge it.

  Iain fell into step beside her, taking her small hand in his once more. She did not fight the contact. Indeed, her fingers slid between his in a most welcoming manner. “Tomorrow is Friday—do you have transportation to your school?”

  “Not…really . . .” she answered hesitantly.

  “Then what say you about allowing me to drive you in, come morning. After, I will take you to dinner, and I shall spend tomorrow planning the rest of the eve.”

  She came to a halt on the top stair and turned to face him. “Iain, I—”

  Her eyes locked with his, and her words fell into silence. A riot of emotions reflected in those blue depths. Desire, hesitation, uncertainty, and curiosity captured Iain like a tightly woven net cast over his person. The air around them transformed, filling with subtle heat. Her gaze lowered to his mouth. When she drew her upper lip between her teeth, an invisible fist thumped into Iain’s gut. Saints’ blood, he wanted to know the softne
ss there. Wanted to taste the sweet sugar that lingered on her tongue from the minted tea she drank through dinner.

  Wanted to feel her delicate body compressed against his until this ache inside him subsided.

  He settled his free hand on her waist, took a half-step closer. She did not move, save to release the lip she held trapped and swallow. His own throat closed as he lowered his head.

  A breath away from her parted lips, he closed his eyes. Anticipation tightened the fingers he held against her hip. The scent of peppermint engulfed his senses as she expelled a breath of surrender. And then, everything inside him aligned into perfect bliss as he brushed his mouth across hers.

  The door rattled behind them, jerking Iain upright. Catherine stepped back, her cheeks inflamed with color. Her gaze darted away from his as if she were ashamed. A smile wavered on her lips as the door squeaked open, and she turned to greet the elderly woman who stood inside.

  Before she could utter a word, relief washed over the woman’s wrinkled features, and she crossed herself. “Oh, thank heavens! We have been so worried about you. Sister Mary Louise found your cell phone in your dormitory, and when you missed dinner . . .” She shook her head, threw herself at Catherine, and hugged her tight.

  “I’m fine, and I’m sorry. I had an accident. Iain—” Catherine released the elderly nun and gestured at him. “He gave me a ride home.”

  As the elderly lady stepped back, another appeared in the doorway. Censure reflected in her hard gray eyes that landed on Iain. He bristled, sensing an immediate threat. To what, he could not say for certain. But he was immediately reminded of the unforgiving nature of the nuns he had encountered in his earliest years.

  Her severe frown left his face and landed on Catherine, who visibly paled. “I’m glad you are unharmed. In the future, perhaps you could consider borrowing a phone to let us know you are okay. Please do come inside, Sister Catherine Elizabeth. Dinner is cold, but waiting if you’re hungry.”

  Sister Catherine Elizabeth? Iain’s eyes widened to twice their normal size. Saints’ blood—he had nearly kissed a nun!

  The apology that reflected in Catherine’s embarrassed expression said he did not leap to incorrect conclusions. He backed away, stunned to the depths of his being. Why had she said naught? Why had she stood there without objection as he bent to kiss her?

  “Come along now. Prioress Mary Suzanne would like to speak with you.” The second nun placed bony fingers on Catherine’s shoulder and all but pulled her inside. The door shut heavily in Iain’s face.

  He stood there for a moment, sifting through his confusion, trying to form logic out of the night’s events. Not once had she mentioned her conviction to the faith. Not once had she pushed him away. He did not know whether to be angry or…or . . .

  He was not angry. Confused, aye. Embarrassed as well. And disappointed. Terribly disappointed that the one woman who had provoked such intense feeling inside him was once again, obligated to another. Only ’twas no mere man he could overpower that held her bound, but a force he had already learned he could not combat. The Almighty held Iain’s fate in his hands, and once again, crushed him in a single whisper.

  His shoulders tensed as he bit back oaths. Swiftly, he made his way to his truck. He had asked for none of this. Aye, when he had discovered Ella’s broken body, he had been more than willing to pay penance by offering his soul to the Almighty’s warriors and becoming a Knight Templar. He had failed to protect her, but he had not asked to suffer eternally. In exchange for his service, for the centuries he willingly devoted to combating evil, his seraph, Bianca, had been murdered on the day he discovered her. Now, one small bit of happiness had been ripped from his hands.

  Perhaps he did not deserve the happiness, but Saints’ teeth—why?

  He jerked open the door and slid behind the wheel, wrinkling his nose at the scent of a dead animal somewhere nearby. Was this punishment for failing to protect Bianca as well? Had his seraph’s death been somehow his fault? He had traveled the instant he received Gabriel’s directive. Had not wasted time. And he had suffered the agony of Azazel’s wounds. Even now, the poison lingered in his skin and the scars upon his body burned.

  He had paid his penance. He had served faithfully, voicing no objection until he brought his lifeless seraph’s body to Raphael’s feet.

  Iain navigated the roads, distracted, absorbed by the fury that came not from Catherine’s omission, but from the false promise of archangels and too many years of oaths he no longer saw purpose in. Minutes passed, each longer than the one before. He would return to the North American Temple, pack his bags, go home to Raphael and the others in Europe, and then, he would . . .

  He sighed heavily as he turned onto the lane that led to the temple. He would wait to die. ’Twas the only fate left to him. He could not control the outcome; he could not withdraw his oath.

  Nearing the gates to the protected land, the foul odor of death and evil filtered through the vents to assault his nose. He grimaced against the stench of nearby demons and eased onto the brake to await the opening of the iron barricade.

  When those heavy spike-tipped gates swung inward, Iain’s foot remained immobile. He stared straight ahead, not seeing the white columned porch, recalling the scent of rot he had encountered at the abbey. Not a dead animal, but something that had never truly lived.

  Images flashed in his memory, cycling through the night he had spent with Catherine. The way she smiled shyly when silence passed too long between them, her laughter at something he said—one by one he replayed everything until his mind locked onto the medallion she wore round her neck. It could be no small coincidence she bore the Templar cross. He would stake all he was on the certainty she did so for a reason. What that reason was, he intended to discover.

  Recovering from brief shock, Iain gunned the pickup forward and skidded to a stop in the gravel lot. He would find his answers when he picked her up tomorrow morn.

  Five

  At dawn, Catherine scurried down the stairs to the abbey’s central room and made a beeline for the coffee pot. She didn’t intend to have another run-in with the novitiate director, Sister Helen Margaret. Last night had been grueling enough. The woman went on and on, and on some more, until Catherine felt like she’d been beaten with a bat. Catherine, if it’s men you wish to entertain yourself with, your faith has weakened. Catherine, you are so well suited for the community, do make your decisions wisely. Prayers are a necessity, Catherine, and without them we will stray from our true path.

  Over and over, the veiled insults came, peppered with just enough guilt to make Catherine ashamed. No way, no how, was she starting her morning out that way. Not with an important meeting with her principal about the fall semester’s curriculum waiting for her at 9:00.

  And she still had yet to figure out what to say to Iain. Not that it mattered much, she supposed. Last night had certainly been effective in disclosing her situation. He was as good as gone, and she didn’t have the faintest idea how to contact him to apologize.

  She gulped down one cup of coffee and was refilling her travel mug when footsteps clicked across the floor behind her. Catherine froze, dread balling up in her belly. Not Helen Margaret. Please, God, not her.

  Slowly, she turned. Regina, a younger member of the abbey who had just finished her scholastic and taken vows last fall, glanced around the room as if she were hiding something, then hurried to Catherine’s side. “I heard about Helen Margaret’s lecture last night. How are you doing?”

  Relief washed through Catherine. She summoned a smile, though exhaustion made it waiver. “I survived, but I’m hoping I don’t see her anytime soon.”

  A wry smirk tugged at Regina’s mouth. “You and half of the abbey. I don’t know how she manages to stay on as novitiate director. Part of your journey as a novitiate is to look inside yourself for your true calling. If it isn’t here, it isn’t.”

  One of the few passionate sisters who refrained from crossing into the territory of ze
alot, Regina had always been someone Catherine felt close to. One of the things she appreciated most was the unhesitating way she spoke what was on her mind. “Thanks, Regina.” She passed her the creamer.

  “So what’s your punishment this time?”

  “More penance in the archives room.” Catherine sipped from her mug, then cupped it in both hands, warding off the room’s early morning chill. “I’m to stay there all weekend, except for prayers and Eucharist.”

  Regina rolled her eyes. “I hated the archives. Really, how many times can you rearrange shelves that are already catalogued? It’s not like anything new ever comes in.”

  “Actually, I guess that’s why I’m there this weekend. Helen Margaret and Prioress Mary Suzanne accepted an estate from some pioneer missionary’s family. They have three big boxes of stuff coming in.”

  The groan Regina gave echoed through the empty room. “I don’t want to be you.” Chuckling, she leaned against the long table that would hold pastries and breads in another hour. “So tell me about this man who dropped you off. Who is he?”

  Iain. Catherine’s stomach twisted as his shocked expression drifted to memory. “He gave me a ride home after I wrecked the car.” She drank slowly, focused on the curl of steam rising from her mug. “And took me to dinner.”

  As anticipated, a beat of silence hung between her and Regina. Her expression remained unreadable. Flat and unassuming like the woman she was. After another long draw on her coffee, she looked over the brim of her mug with lifted brows. “Dinner?”

  Catherine nodded. “A very long dinner.”

  What she didn’t say spoke for itself, and Regina possessed a sharp mind that easily connected the pieces. She set her mug down on the table. “Sometimes, no matter what we do or how we try to convince ourselves otherwise, the path we’d like to take isn’t the one paved for us.”

  Had it been anyone but Regina who questioned Catherine’s purpose, she’d have blown a fuse and given the sister a good piece of her mind. But because it was Regina, who rarely ever preached about anything, Catherine stared, momentarily speechless, as the veiled lecture sunk in. When she’d absorbed the words fully, she bit back a sharp retort and forced a tight smile. “I better get going. Meeting with the principal first thing this morning.”