Immortal Protector

by Claire Ashgrove

  “Yeah. I need to get cracking on my morning walk. Have a good day, Catherine. Remember what I said though, and give it some thought.”

  Anxious to be free of the uncomfortable turn in conversation, Catherine hustled to the front door, digging her cell phone out of her purse while she walked. She punched in the local cab company’s number as she opened the heavy doors.

  “Airport Express, how may I help you?”

  “Yes, I need a cab from the abbey to—” She came to an abrupt halt, her mouth still open to voice the forgotten words. Parked at the foot of the steps sat a silver pickup truck. Iain leaned against the passenger door, booted ankles crossed, arms folded across his muscular chest. He didn’t smile, but even so, he cut a magnificent picture. What a way to wake up . . .

  What the devil was he doing here?

  “To where, ma’am? I can have a car there in ten minutes, but I’ll need to know your destination.”

  Iain opened the car door, and with a sweep of his hand, gestured for her to sit.

  “Ah, never mind.” Catherine terminated the call and slowly descended the steps, forbidding her belly to flutter. It didn’t listen, just like the rest of her body failed to follow instructions when he was within ten feet. And now, true to the previous day’s habit, everything inside her lit with warmth. “Good…morning, Iain.”

  His frown was brief, but present all the same. “I trust you have not found a means of transportation?”

  “No, I—”

  “Then get in.”

  Leaving her standing at the curb blinking, he strode around the front bumper and climbed into his own side of the truck. Catherine let out a disappointed sigh, slid into her seat, and fastened her seatbelt. Iain said nothing as he turned the pickup around and navigated down the drive.

  When he finally did speak, it was after they’d crossed the river bridge and in a voice so low, she nearly missed it over the sound of an approaching train.

  “You said naught.”

  There it was—the pink elephant completely revealed. Catherine laid her head on the headrest, silencing a groan. “I know.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw, and his expression hardened. “I asked you to dinner, and you said naught. I asked to see you tonight, and you said naught.”

  “I know,” Catherine confessed with more emphasis. Good grief, she didn’t really need a play-by-play. She was very much aware of what she hadn’t said last night.

  Another mile passed in awkward, miserable silence. Catherine stared straight ahead at the road, mirroring Iain’s actions. But where his thoughts churned across his stormy expression, she prayed like mad hers didn’t show. She had to walk away from this man somehow. If he pushed her into a conversation about why she’d remained silent, she would never be able to turn this imminent train wreck around.

  “You said naught at the touch of our lips.”

  The memory of his mouth feathering across hers, a breath away from settling into place and sweeping her into senseless oblivion snapped to life. Chills broke over her body. A chasm of yearning opened somewhere deep inside, so sharp and keen Catherine quietly gasped. She scrambled through the impact of sudden sensation, managing a shaky nod and a breathless, “Yes.”

  Iain suddenly jammed on the brake. Her seatbelt locked as he steered the truck onto the shoulder, where he threw it into park. Another long tense moment of silence hit like a shockwave as he rapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Then he turned and looked at her. His usually soft brown eyes glinted like polished tiger’s eye. “I have thought of naught else, all night. I hunger for that kiss, mademoiselle.” His gaze flicked to her lips, before imprisoning her once more. “It shames me to want to defile you.”

  Defile her—a slow burn worked its way through her bloodstream to settle between her legs. As her heart slammed into her ribs, words broke free. “It’s not like that.”

  “Nay? Do tell where I have erred.” Harsh and cold, his tone insulted as much as it mocked.

  “I’m a novitiate. I’ve said no vows.”

  Iain’s bicep flexed as his left hand clenched the steering wheel. His entire upper body tensed as his gaze dipped once more to her mouth…and stayed there. She recognized the unveiled predatory gleam, felt the sear as if he’d physically touched her. And she wasn’t immune, not by any means. Her lips tingled, and the pressure between her legs made her want to shift in her seat. But she remained still, waiting, anticipating the way he’d cave to desire and lean across the console to reclaim the kiss he’d been denied. His mouth would be hard and possessive, fringed with the tiniest bit of anger. Intoxicating. And dear heaven, she wanted to feel that firm assault and surrender to the demanding stroke of his tongue.

  She’d never wanted a kiss more. Not like this. Every fiber of her being attuned to him, demanding he put those strong hands on her body. Anywhere on her body, so long as he touched her.

  Iain dragged his gaze to the road in front of them. He dropped the gear shift into drive and eased onto the gas. Wordlessly, he navigated the next bend. Catherine’s hands trembled as she tucked them into her lap. He hadn’t laid a single finger on her, and yet she’d swear he had stripped her bare. Exposed her in a way that left her both humiliated and unbelievably aroused.

  Dragging in one tremulous breath after another, she crossed her legs to stop the throb of desire, and swallowed down the heavy lump stuck in the back of her throat. She stared out the side window. Five years. Five years she’d survived without experiencing a way a man could light up a woman and leave her burning. Five long years that didn’t hold a candle to the eternity the next eight hours would create. He might not say another word the entire drive to her school, but he would pick her up from work. Of that she had no doubt. Because something significant had just transpired between them. She couldn’t say what, exactly, but in the depths of her soul, she knew she’d never be the same again.

  Six

  Iain stormed through the temple doors as if Azazel himself waited for him in the barracks below ground. He ignored the heads that turned as his heel connected with the heavy wood and slammed into the frame, rattling an iron sconce on the nearby wall. On a direct course to the stone stairwell, he paid no heed to the few knights who called out greetings.

  A novitiate still discerning her vows—sweet Gabriel, ‘twas not what he had expected to hear. She had rendered him dysfunctional with that confession. All he had been able to see for the duration of their drive into the city was Catherine, soft and pliant beneath him, begging for pleasure he had not given in so long he could scarce remember. But he could hear her enraptured pleas, and he ached to fulfill them.

  Only he could not indulge. Would not. ’Twas not honorable in any sense of the word to distract her from her journey. And whilst he was many things, dishonorable was not one.

  “Iain, you’re up early.” Noelle’s voice stopped him in the corridor. She stood outside the infirmary, yesterday’s clothing disheveled from the night she had spent healing alongside the archangel Uriel. Her appearance was naught but a stark reminder of his refusal to stand alongside his fellow brethren the previous eve as they battled Azazel’s unholy spawn, committed to a cause he could not make sense of. Her very presence brought forth memories of the seraph he had failed to protect.

  Iain gave her a curt nod. She too had fought alongside her mate, Farran, her powers of healing a most deadly weapon against the foul creations she touched. Surely she would ask why he slept whilst others gave their lives. He could not offer an answer she would care to hear.

  “I was wondering—”

  “Nay,” he barked more sharply than he had intended. Wincing inwardly, he continued to the small chamber lent to his use. ’Twas not her fault Bianca had been murdered. She could not be blamed for the indecision that resided in his heart about the oaths he had sworn.

  He closed his chamber door more quietly and sank into a simple wooden chair beside an equally simple wooden table. He must focus on why he had sought Catherine out this morning, not the wi
ld arousal that filtered through his veins. The odor of rot still lingered at the abbey when he had arrived. Azazel waited there—but why?

  A soft rap on his door pulled him from thought. He scowled at the iron-studded barrier. “Aye?”

  “Iain, could I come in?”

  Noelle—saints’ teeth, could she not see he was in no mood for conversation? He sighed heavily. ’Twould be a more uncomfortable encounter to deal with her mate, Farran. “Aye.”

  She slipped through the doorway, concern etched into her frown. “You left here in a pretty decent mood yesterday. I know it’s none of my business…but did I…offend you somehow?”

  Iain leaned an elbow on the tabletop and dropped his head into his hand. “Nay, Noelle, not you directly.”

  “Is it . . .” She hesitated before asking more quietly, “Bianca then?”

  His frown deepened as he realized he had not given a full minute of thought to Bianca, or her unnecessary death, since meeting Catherine. The guilt that came with that discovery punched him in the gut. He shook his head, unable to push words through the fierce clench around his ribs.

  “It’s not?” Surprise lifted her voice. “Farran said—”

  “I hardly knew her,” Iain responded quietly. Lifting his head, he clasped his hands on the table and studied his thumbs. “I failed to save her life, and her death assures mine, but the woman…I did not know her, Noelle. I met her as she died.”

  He could not say whether he justified his lack of emotion for Bianca to Noelle, or to himself. Yet there was no escaping the stark nothingness that resided in his heart. And that nothingness affected him more than his inability to protect her from Azazel. He should feel something other than guilt. She had been his seraph. His salvation. Catherine provoked far more emotion. Catherine who bore the Templar medallion and resided where Azazel’s presence lingered.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Thoughts locked into place. “Aye.” Swiveling, he gave her a thoughtful look. “Ask Farran if he recalls a knight by the name of Armand Dupris. My memory says he came here, to the American Temple, around the time Merrick and Farran arrived.”

  “Armand Dupris?”

  “Aye. See if he has ties to the abbey at Mount Saint Scholastica.” He stood and moved to his wardrobe, where after a moment of rummaging, he found his own Templar medallion. Withdrawing it, he let it dangle from his fingers. “There is a woman there who wears one of these. It bears Armand’s name. And Azazel’s presence is strong at the abbey.”

  “Oh, I hate the fact you still have yours.” Noelle let out a soft laugh. “Farran buried his in some lost battleground. I could throttle him for that.” Grinning, she opened the door. “I’ll ask and let you know what I find out.” Halfway into the corridor, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder with an impish grin. “Is she pretty?”

  Immediate heat infused his cheeks, and Iain turned away before she could notice. But her lighthearted chuckle said he moved too late.

  “Is who pretty? And what are you doing down here, damsel?” Farran’s voice rumbled from within the hall. It grew louder as he stopped in front of Iain’s door. “Anne looks for you. Another seraph has been identified. Lucan and Caradoc go with Gareth to France in a short while.”

  Bloody hell. Iain did not need the other knights learning of his interest in Catherine. Nor the archangels. And he had no wish to hear more of seraphs and preordained pairings. He stuffed his medallion inside the wardrobe once more and grabbed his jacket.

  “Good morn, Iain,” Farran greeted as he let himself inside Iain’s room.

  “I was just talking with Iain a bit.” Rising to tiptoe, Noelle brushed a kiss across Farran’s cheek. His hand fastened possessively on her waist, the slight clench of his fingers betraying the effect she had upon him. “He found a medallion.”

  “Aye?” Farran released Noelle and pulled Iain’s chair out to make himself comfortable.

  “Yeah. I’ll let him tell you himself, and I’ll go see what Anne’s got brewing.” She clasped his hand briefly, then disappeared out the door.

  Farran stared after her retreat long after her footsteps could not be heard. One corner of his mouth crinkled with personal amusement, some secret he harbored that Iain possessed no desire to know. He knew too well Farran’s appetite for women. That Noelle had tamed him said enough.

  His thoughtful gaze shifted to Iain. Clearly, Farran held no intention of allowing him to leave as he intended, and Iain dropped his jacket onto his bed.

  “Your sword was missed last night, brother. We had all hoped you came to find peace with your oaths.”

  Iain’s bitterness seeped out beneath Farran’s quiet judgment. “’Tis easy for you to say, Farran. You no longer need to concern yourself with death.”

  “Then ’tis fear that you fight? You are a knight, Sir Iain.”

  In one fell swoop, fury blistered through Iain. He slammed an open palm onto the table in front of Farran. “Nay! ’Tis not fear! Draw a tainted blade, and I shall show you ’tis not fear that stays my sword.” He bent down, bringing his narrowed gaze even with Farran’s. “If ’tis my death you wish, deliver me unto Azazel, and I shall stand my ground unhesitatingly. But I will not blindly follow to my death for a cause I doubt.”

  Anger sparked behind Farran’s unblinking stare. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. Yet old friendship, as jaded as it now was, stilled the fist he slowly clenched atop his thigh.

  Iain drew back. Straightening, he reigned in his own temper and continued in a low, flat tone. “Do not speak to me as if I am a page, unseasoned to the ways of war. I have seen death, and I have brought it. I have devoted my life to service, and I now ask myself if my life is not mayhap worth more. Why, Farran? Why do we fight, when there is naught before us but eternal damnation?”

  “For the hope,” he answered quietly.

  A derisive snort slid past Iain’s lips. “Hope? What hope? Others may possess such, but there is no hope for me. None for the men who passed last night, who never knew their seraphs. Hope is naught but false illusions offered by the archangels to keep their armies intact.” He shook his head, bitterness twisted his mouth. “Six of you are guaranteed salvation. The rest must survive long enough for the prophecy to be fulfilled before they may have a chance. Six, out of hundreds. There is no hope in those odds. Only disappointment. Meanwhile, good men who have done naught but act honorably, die.”

  Farran’s heavy sigh weighted the air. He rose slowly, reached for the door. Sorrow flashed behind his grim expression. “I am sorry, Iain, that I was chosen for salvation. I love Noelle deeply, but I am not ignorant of the pain in others’ eyes.”

  “Nay.” Iain gave him a half smile. “Do not be sorry, Farran. You are blessed. But do not falsely judge those who cannot embrace the oaths we once believed in with all our hearts. Not a man amongst us knows fear, though many question.”

  Unwilling to part on unsteady ground, Iain changed the subject. “Tell me, what do you know of Armand Dupris?”

  “Dupris?” Farran blinked. “’Tis a name I have not heard in centuries. He passed at the hands of Azazel himself. Why do you ask?”

  Taken by the Lord of Darkness? Most strange. No Templar Iain knew would be foolish enough to lift a sword against Azazel.

  “What brought him here? As I recall, he was of my generation, sworn to his oaths a hundred years after yours. There was some…upheaval concerning his departure, aye?”

  Slowly nodding, Farran answered, “Dupris believed he sired a child.”

  “’Tis impossible. We are incapable of such.”

  “Indeed, but the mother was convincing. I confess, on hearing her theatrics one afternoon, I questioned the possibility myself.” Farran leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “The mother presented the babe at the temple doorstep early 1790, demanding we take the child off her hands. How she came to know our secrets was unclear, but Dupris indeed had a hand in the telling, and he quite adamantly believed her, though she was a
common whore. When Raphael gave the child to the nearby prioress, Dupris attacked him.”

  ’Twas Iain’s turn to blink. “He was daft enough to raise his sword to Raphael? Over a child who was not his?”

  “Aye. It did not go well.” Farran chuckled. “After he was soundly defeated, his life barely intact, he was ordered here with us, away from Raphael…and away from the boy. Why do you ask, Iain?”

  Iain assumed the chair Farran had abandoned. “I will tell you in a moment. What happened to the man after he arrived?”

  A wry smirk of amusement lifted a corner of Farran’s mouth. “Say naught of the man’s determination—he sent for the boy. I have always suspected he and Mikhail struck an agreement; he could not have funded the journey without aid, and the child traveled with the Sister who cared for him. Not long after the pair arrived, they were placed with a church in St. Louis.” Farran shoved off the door and moved to sit on the edge of Iain’s bed, the only available seat for him to take. “Dupris died within months of the boy’s arrival. An explanation was never given for his death, only that ’twas Azazel. Now, pray tell, Iain, why do you ask?”

  “I met a woman who wears Dupris’ medallion.” He swiveled in his chair, looking out the window at the enclosed courtyard beyond, where four pairs of men worked through their paces. “What happened to the boy?”

  “You would have to ask Mikhail.” He shrugged. “’Twas never something that concerned me. How did the woman come by the medallion?”

  Unease stirred in Iain’s gut. If Azazel, or even Mikhail, had played a part in Dupris’ death, the dark presence hanging over the abbey took on new significance. It could not be coincidental that Iain’s path crossed so benignly with Catherine’s.