Immortal Protector

by Claire Ashgrove

  As they descended the stone steps, her curious expression transformed into one of wonder. She reached out a hand to touch an aged iron sconce set into the wall. It emitted light that had no discernible source. Reverence slid over her face as her fingertips connected with the cool metal. But whether she felt the sense of power that rolled over Iain, he did not know. Some experienced the divine presence immediately. Some required years before they recognized the tingling of their skin for what ’twas. Some, though they had been in service for centuries, remained altogether immune.

  “Iain, how in the world . . .” She trailed off with a shake of her head.

  He gave her hand a squeeze and led her round a bend in the stone corridor. Ahead, at the end of the barren hall, an iron-studded wooden door marked their destination. Iain took a deep breath of fortitude. Would that he could face Raphael. Though both archangels were fearsome, Raphael possessed a gentler nature than his divine sibling Mikhail. He would be empathetic to Catherine’s circumstances.

  At Mikhail’s door, Iain lifted his hand to knock. Before his knuckles could make contact, Mikhail hailed from within.

  “Come in, Iain…and Catherine.”

  Catherine blinked at Iain. He shrugged his shoulders. “He is an archangel.”

  She shot him a reproachful glance, but offered no resistance as he led her inside. Once beyond the wooden barricade, however, she froze in place. Her gaze locked onto Mikhail, and all traces of color fled her face.

  Iain knew then, she no longer suffered doubt. The way she suddenly sagged, however, spoke of shock, and he rushed to wrap an arm around her waist. She swayed into his side. “Easy, mademoiselle,” he murmured in her ear. “I have you.”

  “Why?” As hard as nails and as sharp as broken glass, Mikhail’s voice ricocheted through the room.

  Iain flinched, but he refused to cower. Belligerence ran rampant in his bloodstream. He would suffer no one’s disrespect toward Catherine, not even an archangel’s. “I do not need to explain myself when you already know.”

  The steely eyes that narrowed from across the room sent a stab of warning through Iain’s soul. “Mind your tongue, Sir Knight.” He inhaled deeply, and his expression cleared. Only the undulation of his wings revealed his struggle to control his temper. In a calmer, less threatening manner, he asked, “Why is she here?”

  Recovering her scattered senses, Catherine blinked rapidly at the man who stood across the room from her. What she’d felt in Mass was nothing compared to the intense power that radiated off him. She felt, more than she logically understood, that he could crush her with a lift of his elegant fingers. And the anger that filled his brilliant eyes made her quake inside.

  Unbelievably, Iain didn’t shrink under that fiery stare. He stood his ground, maintaining outward calm as he held Mikhail’s gaze, his shoulders squared in subtle defiance.

  “There are demons at the abbey, Mikhail.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly, Catherine wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. But when words connected, her head began to spin all over again. Demons? At the abbey? That was sacred ground…or so she thought.

  Mikhail rounded the desk, his demeanor terrifyingly calm. “That does not explain why you have defied every vow and broken every oath you swore by bringing her here.”

  Wings. The man had wings. She could barely make them out, but when he stepped in front of the light, their shadow played on the stone wall behind him. Not man…angel.

  Sweet blue heavens, she stood in front of an archangel. One who clearly didn’t want her here. She tugged at Iain’s sleeve, wanting to leave before Mikhail followed through on the angry promise that reflected in his tight expression.

  Iain ignored the pull of her fingers. “She possesses a Bible, Armand Dupris’ Bible. It lists her as heir.”

  Fury gleamed in Mikhail’s eyes for a heartbeat. Long enough to make Catherine want to disappear into the ground. “He did not have heirs, Iain,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “The child was not his.”

  “Aye, I do not dispute that.” Releasing his supportive hold around her waist, he folded his arms over his chest and frowned at the archangel. “However, he believed ’twas his son, and he left him his possessions. I wish to know what interest Azazel has in Catherine.”

  Mikhail let out a scathing bark of laughter. “If I could read Azazel’s mind, we would have no war to fight.”

  Evidently not buying into that idea, Iain shook his head. Oh dear Lord, what was the matter with him? One did not argue with an archangel.

  “Nay, Mikhail. You know more than you choose to speak. What use is she to Azazel?” He bent forward, placing his hands on Mikhail’s desk, his own hard gaze challenging the divine being. “Why does the dark lord send his minions to watch her?”

  Watch her? An archdemon was watching her? Chills raced down Catherine’s spine. She couldn’t be certain though, which scared her more—the idea of unholy creatures spying on her, or the way Iain refused to back down from Mikhail.

  To her astonishment, Mikhail caved first. He huffed in annoyance, spun on his heel, and returned behind his desk. He dropped into his chair with a scowl. “Our knowledge does not extend to you, Iain. Nor should I have to explain this fact, as you have been aware of it for centuries.” Leaning back, he lifted that thunderous gaze to Iain’s. “In truth, I do not know why Azazel may possess interest in her.”

  Well, that was certainly enlightening. And this business of talking about her like she wasn’t standing in the same room with them was beginning to get old, though she wouldn’t dare voice the thought. Gaining her own confidence, she leaned a hip on the nearby chair, certain Iain would leave now that he had his answer.

  “Then she stays here, where she is safe, until we learn the answer,” Iain announced.

  While the declaration made her blink, it flat out infuriated Mikhail. His anger rolled off him in waves Iain couldn’t possibly be oblivious to.

  “She. Will. Not,” Mikhail bit out. “This is the temple of the Knights Templar, Iain Donnelly. While you might throw away your oaths, vows are intact within these walls. She is not a seraph. She may not stay.”

  Not a seraph—Catherine closed her eyes to a stab of regret. She hadn’t even realized she held the small hope that perhaps she and Iain were destined. That maybe, despite the fact his previously intended mate had died, he would be offered another chance at salvation through her.

  “You choose not to let her stay!” Iain roared, his own anger slipping beyond his control. His solid fist hit Mikhail’s desktop with a resounding thump.

  Mikhail’s countenance became eerily calm. “Aye, indeed I do. This temple is sacred, built for one purpose—to house the Templar and the seraphs named in the prophecy. She does not possess a drop of seraph blood. Would you have me open the doors to any mortal in need? Such is not my purpose.” Rising to his feet once more, he towered over Iain, angelic and menacing at the same time. “We are amidst a war. Greater things are at stake than the safety of one mortal. And I shall not compromise our purpose by bending edicts that were spoken from high and not meant to sway. Nor shall I subject knights more dedicated than yourself to distraction by allowing a common woman to reside within these halls!”

  Each word he uttered pricked at Catherine’s pride. Seraph she might not be, but she wasn’t a scrap of trash either. She’d spent the last five years dedicated to the faith. Her service might be meaningless to an archangel, but she was certain it meant something to the one Mikhail answered to.

  Driven by courage she didn’t know she possessed, she opened her mouth to tell him precisely that. Iain, however, beat her to words. “Then I go with her.” He straightened, his shoulders as proud as they had ever been. He reached for her hand and turned her toward the door. “I shall collect my things. You may tell Raphael of my decision. I am taking the truck.”

  Mikhail’s words rang quiet and ominous. “Consider your decision wisely, Sir Knight. Walk away, and your soul will be reclaimed, as you were warned ce
nturies ago.”

  As Iain grabbed the door handle, he stumbled and gasped. Clutching a fist to his heart, he turned to glare at Mikhail. Warning rumbled in his low voice. “’Tis not your decision, Mikhail. I am Raphael’s to command.” He jerked the door open, ushered her outside, and added, “And his to punish.”

  Iain slammed the door. His strides were long and purposeful, and Catherine struggled to keep up. Words fought for order in her head. Surely she hadn’t interpreted that correctly. Iain hadn’t walked away from the Templar, and Mikhail hadn’t taken a potshot at his life. Not…for her. One of the fabled seraphs, maybe, but not for what Mikhail dubbed a common woman.

  “Iain,” she said as she tripped, regained her footing, and protested, “slow down.”

  Instead of slowing, he came to an abrupt stop in front of another nondescript wooden door. He didn’t bother to knock, simply flung the door open wide. It crashed into the wall, then shuddered on its hinges.

  “I shall only be a moment.”

  She followed him inside, watched speechlessly as he shoved clothes from a wardrobe into a duffel bag, then hefted it over his shoulder. His own anger showed in his tense movements, the unrelenting clench of his jaw. “Iain, stop.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, but reached for a sword behind the door. In one fluid movement he had it strapped around his waist.

  Catherine shut the door. “Just…stop a minute,” she said quietly. “This isn’t necessary. You—”

  He shook his head, reached around her, and tugged the door open a sliver. “I do not wish to speak of it right now, mademoiselle.” He pulled again on the door. “Please, Catherine, let us leave this place. We shall talk when we reach the shelter.”

  She eyed him warily. “We will talk, right? This isn’t just you putting me off in hopes I’ll let it go?”

  “Nay.” Softening ever so slightly, he brushed a fleeting kiss across her cheek. “We shall talk.”

  Fifteen

  The fifteen-minute drive to Tane’s shelter was the most excruciating experience of Catherine’s life. The thick silence that blanketed the truck was more unnerving than standing in front of Mikhail. Iain’s quiet, the varying degrees of emotion that flashed in his expression, made her thoughts bounce from one radical end of the spectrum to the other. Did he resent her? Was this some sort of…landmark…to this crazy thing they’d started? Or had he leapt to a gallant, but fatal, end?

  She’d never wanted to arrive at any one place more than she did tonight, and when Iain parked beside the curb, she jumped out of the truck as if it were on fire. He shot her a questioning glance, which she conveniently dodged by looking away.

  At almost four o’clock, the shelter was unlocked, and Iain didn’t bother with knocking. Nor did he bother with a word of explanation when he nearly collided with Tane in the hall. Tane didn’t ask. He took one long look at Iain, his duffel bag, and his sword, and simply stepped aside. At least he gave Catherine a welcoming lift of the hand.

  She returned the gesture but stayed fast on Iain’s heels, following as he led her to the stairs and up two levels to a dormitory floor. She barely had time to notice that again Tane had made the floor personal by discarding industrial lighting, painting the walls an inviting shade of green, and installing thick carpet, before Iain ushered her through a door.

  He flipped on the light, shrugged off his duffle bag, and unfastened his sword, piling them all in the corner as he removed them. Then, denying her the opportunity to drag him into conversation, he set his hands on her waist and dragged her against his chest. “I need to touch you,” he whispered into her hair.

  Catherine closed her eyes, absorbing his unsteady confession. So the encounter with Mikhail had provoked something other than his anger. She rested her cheek against his chest, unaware until this moment how very much she needed the same contact. So far, the day had been splendidly awful, full of surprises at every turn. It felt good to stand still, let the world spin around her, and soak up his comforting body heat.

  She didn’t know how long they stood that way, silently gaining strength from one another. It felt like hours passed before Iain leaned away and cupped her face between his large hands. His gaze poured into hers, revealing pain she wanted to understand. Hurt she didn’t know how to heal.

  When he lowered his head and his mouth descended to hers, she opened herself completely, absorbing all he was and all the emotion that flowed through the languorous stroke of his tongue.

  “Just let me touch you,” he whispered hoarsely. “For a little while.”

  At her faint nod, he swept her into his arms and crossed the room to the bed near the shuttered window. Gently, he deposited her on a comforter of down. She didn’t understand what emotion drove him, but she related to the need for contact. So many times she’d craved the same, yearned for a bit of human compassion. So many times she’d been left alone. And truth to tell, she shared a little of that longing right now as well.

  Iain’s strong fingers tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt, and Catherine lifted her back off the bed, allowing him to pull it over her head. His gaze swept over her bare breasts, the troubled light there transforming into the bright burn of desire. Beneath his thorough perusal, her nipples beaded. Moisture gathered between her legs.

  The first smile she’d seen since she left him that morning played on his lips. Much as she wanted to scold his arrogance, that look of satisfaction turned her on like crazy. She squirmed to escape the sudden aching throb of arousal.

  Iain’s smile morphed into a smirk.

  “Oh hush,” Catherine chided.

  Shaking his head, he backed away a step. “Nay, it pleases me to know I am not the only one affected thus.” He shucked his clothes, revealing his thick erection and the truth to his words.

  Though she had held that burgeoning weight in her hands the night before, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. It bobbed against his abdomen as he set a knee on the bed. Thick veins running the length of his shaft called to her fingers. She reached out to trace the smooth tip with her finger.

  Iain sucked in a sharp breath, going still for a heartbeat. When he exhaled, his smile returned. “It pleases me as well, that you are unafraid to touch me as you wish.”

  As she wished—the man had no idea. There were a dozen things she’d like to do to him, but he had a way of rendering her senseless before she could accomplish much of anything.

  Like he was doing now.

  She closed her eyes as his lips fluttered across her ribs beneath the crease of her breast. Dizzying sensation flooded her awareness, making it impossible to do anything more than lift her hand to the back of his head and curl her fingers into his thick dark hair. His tongue followed the path of his mouth, teasing and full of promise all at once. Each breath he released danced over her skin like the brush of a butterfly’s wings. She shifted a leg, her body awakening to the deeper, more intimate language flowing between them.

  Sensing her rising need, he changed position to help her out of her jeans. The denim scraped down her thighs, taking her panties along as well, leaving her fully exposed to Iain’s hungry perusal. Good grief, it was shameful how her body melted without his ever having to touch her.

  His warm, calloused hands slid up her calves to her thighs, higher still to the spread of her ribs. He moved over her, his muscular chest grazing over her sensitized nipples. She gasped at the blissful contact, and Iain used that moment to his advantage, lowering his head to capture her with a thoroughly intoxicating kiss. She lost herself then. Not just to passion, but to everything that had been brimming inside her since she first laid eyes on this man. To the way he lit her up on the inside, the way he made her feel somehow necessary, the way he provoked feeling she hadn’t known could be possible.

  When Iain finally drew the mind-boggling kiss to a close, she was shaking. His gaze latched onto hers for a heartbeat, but instead of the satisfaction she expected to witness, raw emotion scorched her. He lowered his lashes before she could decide
what that specific emotion was. Nevertheless, it twisted her heart violently.

  She felt him tremble as he inched kisses down her body. Needing to touch him, Catherine curled her fingers around his thick bicep. He was picking her apart, spreading her soul open even as her body opened to his tender touch. And blast it all, she couldn’t stop it from happening. She didn’t want it to stop.

  “I love this,” he whispered against the indentation at her waist.

  She lifted her head to look down her body, observing the three-inch long scar that ran behind her ribs, a gift from her teenage years. The uneven red line turned white beneath the press of his mouth. “Why on earth for? It’s ugly.”

  “Nay. ’Tis unique to you.” As his hand drifted over her curls, the tip of his finger encircled her clitoris. She tried to clamp her teeth down on the cry that bubbled to her throat, but the sound escaped, only barely muffled. Her hips arched forward, creeping into the stroke of his fingers. He slid one thick digit easily inside.

  Though need arced through her bloodstream, another part of her spirit quieted. Lapsing into silence, she closed her eyes and allowed her body to move freely with the stroke of his hand. He slipped a second finger inside, spreading her wider, and her thighs fell apart, allowing him to push in deeper, to change the alignment of his caress so he stroked her in that perfect way that rendered her incapable of doing anything else but lie beneath him and lift her hips in time with his gentle thrusts.

  She resisted the pull of mindless pleasure, grasped at her senses until she could drag the nagging question she’d wanted an answer to since the scene in Mikhail’s office. Her timing couldn’t be worse—deep down she knew this. But in that instant, the necessity to know became as demanding as her need for fulfillment.

  Turning her head, she took in the softness of his features as he devoted the attentions of his mouth to that ugly scar. “Iain?”

  “Mm?” Not taking his lips from her, he looked up through long smoky eyelashes.