Immortal Protector

by Claire Ashgrove

  “Did you really leave the Order . . .” she paused half a second. The rest of her question came out in a whisper even she had to strain to hear. “For me?”

  “Aye,” he murmured, closing his eyes once more.

  The deliberately slow push of his fingers threatened to throw her off course. She sucked in a deep breath, twisted her hands into the sheets, determined not to be swept away. “Why?”

  This time he went utterly still for several long, intolerable heartbeats. Then his teeth raked over her scar, and he lifted onto his hands. Moving over her completely, he dropped his head to her navel, his tongue dipping into the dimple there, before he looked up once more. “Because I am falling in love with you, Catherine.”

  The words had only just connected with her mind when he dropped his mouth to the heart of her womanhood and speared her with his clever tongue. She didn’t know whether the cry that fell off her lips came from the pleasure of his intimate kiss, or the sharp, painfully perfect, halting of her heart.

  As Catherine’s body convulsed around him, Iain scolded himself severely. They were fool’s words. And yet, they were words he had never uttered. He had never experienced the things she provoked in him. Ella had come close, but even then, the poor maid could not produce such profound emotion that he could find no other words to describe it.

  Nevertheless, he should not have uttered the confession whilst Catherine lay sprawled on the bed, yielding to whatever desire he wished, while he ordered himself not to consider how perfectly he fit inside her. For if he thought about that singular splendor too long, he would spill himself against her thigh.

  There was nothing for it—he had said the words, and he had meant them. And now ’twas not the time to dwell on the appropriateness of his confession. His cock throbbed with need of her; if he did not find it soon, he would disappoint them both.

  Rising over her, he nudged her thighs wider apart and slid into the slickness his fingers had enjoyed. Unwilling to observe the fact she did not share his feelings, he did not intend to look at her. But in the precise moment that the tip of his hard shaft touched the mouth of her womb, their gazes locked. What he read in those pale blue depths caused Iain’s ability to breathe to fail completely.

  He had witnessed the way Noelle gazed at Farran. Had observed the similar way Anne watched Merrick. Not once, in eight centuries of life, had a woman ever looked at him in the same fashion, until now, when Catherine gazed up at him with so much affection that in that moment he knew the meaning of salvation.

  Deep inside her, his cock swelled. Release grabbed him by the throat, refusing to be tempered. He gasped for air, fighting the burn of ecstasy in his bloodstream. But ’twas futile. Bliss thundered through him, and he dropped his head to her slender shoulder, submitting to the demands of his body with a hoarse groan.

  One wave of pleasure after another coursed over him, each swell milking out another drop of his seed, until he was dry and his bones felt like jelly. The ringing in his ears cleared. Feeling seeped into his toes once more, and embarrassment launched through him. Barely finding the ability to move, he turned his head and whispered, “I am so sorry, my sweet.”

  She twisted to give him a befuddled frown. “What for?”

  “That I came so swiftly.”

  Her arms wrapped around his waist, and though she lay beneath him, she snuggled even closer. “I was already there, Iain. And it was perfect.”

  Simple acceptance—how he needed to hear it. ’Twas why he had wanted to touch her to begin with. She had a way of making him forget his many failures.

  Tucking his arms behind her back, he held her against him as he rolled over. She burrowed into his embrace. “Did you mean it?” she whispered.

  “Aye.”

  “I am too, Iain.” She drew a lazy finger down the centerline of his body. “Falling in love with you, as crazy as it sounds.”

  The last made him grin. “It does sound a bit crazy, does it not?”

  “Yeah, but I like it.”

  Setting his hand against the crown of her head, he held her close, struck once again by suffocating emotion. When he had recovered enough that he no longer felt as if he breathed through a narrow straw, he steered his thoughts away from the satisfaction that came with being deep inside of her, onto the issues they had yet to resolve. He dared not allow himself to relax, when demons plagued her and he would soon be required to subject himself to Raphael. He pushed Mikhail’s warning far from his mind, unable to consider the fatal consequence of loving this woman. He would broach that matter once he insured her safety.

  “I should like to see that Bible, mademoiselle. And I should like to do so before dark.”

  An unmistakable shiver rolled through her and vibrated into him. “Before dark sounds really good.”

  At least she had taken the threat of danger seriously—’twas one less thing he needed to worry over. If the Bible she had discovered held answers, he could concern himself with securing an enjoyable future for the both of them.

  “Iain?” She asked after several long moments of silence.

  By the hesitant nature of her voice, he surmised the direction of her thoughts and tensed. “Aye?”

  “What did he mean by reclaim your soul?”

  He let out a heavy sigh and stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. How he did not wish to confront this now. He answered quietly, “He will take it back.”

  “Does that mean…what I think it—”

  “Aye,” he murmured.

  He felt her entire body stiffen before she rolled over and braced her elbows on his chest. Her gaze searched his, her brow tightly furrowed. “No.” She shook her head. “I won’t be responsible for that.” Pain flashed behind her eyes, and her frown deepened by several more degrees. “I won’t lose you like that.”

  Iain slipped his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and drew her head to his chest. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, securing her tightly into his embrace. “Shh. Naught has been decided yet. I will speak with Raphael.” What good it would do, he did not know—the penalty for desertion had been clearly instilled upon them all. He had made his decision out of a desperate need to keep her safe, and in so doing, he would break her heart.

  Guilt threatened to draw him under. He swallowed thickly, twisted his head, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. No matter what path he chose, death would be his only promised fate. He could not protect her from heartache—they had come too far too quickly. But he could devote himself to securing her safety from a far worse agony at Azazel’s hands. And in whatever time that remained to him, he would do exactly that.

  Sixteen

  Iain’s plans to arrive before dark failed. Caught up in the newness of each other and the truths they had shared between them, they had indulged in each other once again before he found he was able to force himself from the bed. Their ride remained amicable, their earlier tensions and the unanswered fate of their future now dissolved by the deeper emotions that flowed between them. For now, happiness was his to enjoy, however briefly it might linger.

  But as they approached their destination, Iain sensed something was wrong the moment they reached the bottom of the hill that led to the abbey. The streetlamps that usually lit the street were dark. In the air, hung the scent of rot and decay. And inside the abbey atop the rise, not a single light shone.

  He slanted a glance at Catherine. She sat on the edge of the passenger’s seat, her right hand gripping the door, her stare fixed and unblinking on the road ahead. “Iain.” Apprehension made her voice vibrate.

  “Aye. ’Tis not right.”

  “Look! The sanctuary light just came on.”

  Indeed, the colorful stained glass that marked the most sacred heart glowed steadily. Yet the sight did little to quiet his instincts. The abbey had not been built by Templar hands. It remained vulnerable in all but the holiest of holy rooms. And the other lights that remained dormant only awakened the warrior inside him.

  Slowing his speed, h
e made the turn into the parking lot, eyes peeled for a glimpse of Azazel’s foul shadows. They lingered close by. Far closer than any other time he had visited.

  No sooner did he nose into a parking spot, than the main doors opened and a woman ran out. He opened his door to hear her frantic call.

  “Catherine!”

  Iain exchanged worried glances with Catherine before they both climbed out of the car.

  “Catherine! Thank heavens you’re all right! No one knew whether you were inside or not.”

  He watched the trees as Catherine embraced her friend. “What happened, Regina?”

  “I…I…don’t know.” She pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “We were eating. Most of us at least. There was a huge crash, breaking glass, and . . .” Her frown deepened as she struggled for words. “This…scream.”

  Demons. The woman need not say more. Iain grabbed Catherine by the hand and pulled her back to the truck. “Take the truck to Anne’s. Return for me when I phone.”

  “What?” She shook her head adamantly. “Not on your life. I’m not leaving you.”

  “Catherine.” A hard note that warned he would not accept her objections crept into his voice.

  “Iain, I wasn’t here. Something else was.” She shouldered around him, returning to Regina. “Did you see it?”

  “No,” she whispered. “But Helen Margaret . . .” Tears burst in the woman’s eyes, and she covered her face with her hands. “She went outside, convinced a tree had fallen. She’s…she’s . . .”

  “Dead.” Catherine finished for her.

  Regina managed to nod her head between sobs.

  Resigned to the fact he could not convince Catherine to leave, Iain moved to stand at her side and whispered into her ear. “The demons are still present, mademoiselle. You should gather in the sanctuary with supplies to stay until they are gone.” Addressing Regina, he asked, “Is anything missing?”

  His logical question seemed to crack through the sister’s upset, and she sniffled. “That’s the thing. The side entrance is smashed. The door to the archives splintered like it was glass. But the archives themselves—nothing’s out of place.”

  Catherine’s gaze shot to Iain’s. He did not need words to understand the dawning that brightened her eyes. The same realization hit him simultaneously. They were not after her, but something that belonged to her.

  “Regina, go inside. Gather the sisters in the sanctuary and do whatever you must to make them comfortable. They may be there a while,” Catherine instructed calmly.

  Everything inside Iain demanded he insist she wait outside. But he could not escape the fact that only she would know what, if anything, was missing from her things. Grudgingly, he took her by the hand again and started for the gaping hole in the exterior wall where the side door had once stood.

  Halfway across the parking lot, he turned them around and returned to the truck.

  “What are we doing?”

  Answering her with only lifted brows, he reached over the bed of the pickup and retrieved his sword. At Catherine’s short “Oh,” he winked.

  Whether the sister who lingered on the abbey’s doorstep thought it odd, he did not care. Nor did he intend to attempt to explain. He fastened the supple leather around his waist, reclaimed Catherine’s hand, and marched her to the broken wall. Climbing carefully over the rubble, they followed a path of smashed paintings, torn carpeting, clawed walls, and cockeyed hanging lights to the stairwell, which fared no better. The light refused to come on, prompting Iain to take the lead. Two steps into their descent, he drew his sword, holding it at the ready as they climbed into the dark.

  Behind him, light flickered. Iain looked over his shoulder to find Catherine holding a small lighter. His frown morphed into puzzlement.

  “I lit a prayer candle before you picked me up.” Her grin served to lighten the dismal atmosphere. “It was in my pocket.”

  When this was all over, he would thank the prioress for encouraging her former commitment. He knew few others who would keep a lighter at the ready. Mayhap he would begin to carry his own.

  Guided by the light of her small lamp, they made their way to what remained of the archives door. Splinters of wood pocked the floor, stuck straight out from the very walls. Iain amended his earlier assumption. ’Twas not the work of demons, but something stronger. Dark knights had walked these halls. Templar who had succumbed to their curse and would forever fight against the Almighty. Yet they were gone from here now. Nothing of the dark stirrings in his soul signified they lingered still. Just the demons who lurked in the trees. If Mikhail had cared about those, or the sisters in this abbey, he would have already sent men here.

  He swallowed down a rise of anger.

  Much to Iain’s consternation, Catherine stepped around him and entered the dark archives, cutting a direct course to three boxes that stood, untouched, near a small desk. She bent over each of them in turn, shining her light inside, her frown darkening with each new one she inspected.

  “It’s not here,” she announced.

  “What is not here?”

  “The Bible.”

  Moving closer, Iain bent over her shoulder. From the corner of his eye a thick shadow caught his attention. He turned her shoulders so she faced the desk, where a book sat on the corner. Time-weathered pages reflected her lighter’s flame. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Catherine picked up the old tome. “The cover’s missing.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “The cover?” What could possibly be contained in a square of material-covered cardboard? “Are you…certain?”

  Her exasperated expression silently scolded. “Yes, I’m certain. It was barely hanging on, but it was here. It had a beautiful picture on the backside too.” She sighed heavily and set the Bible back down.

  Thoughts locked into place, and unease sifted down his spine. “What was depicted in the picture, Catherine?”

  “An angel.”

  “Only an angel?”

  Her delicate brow scrunched as she considered his question. After a moment, she gave a slight shake of her head. “No. The angel was throwing a spear, into a cliff.”

  The Spear of Destiny—Iain swallowed a groan. But she must have observed the grimace he could not control, for in the next breath, she asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Do you recall my telling you of Azazel’s quest to overthrow the Almighty?”

  “Iain, I do pay attention when you’re talking.”

  “Indeed.” He cleared his throat, her scorn rightfully earned. “The Spear of Destiny is the last relic Azazel requires to complete his ascension. We all know Raphael threw it into a rock, and I suspect Azazel now knows which one.”

  “Oh, dear God.”

  The sound of the Almighty’s name sounded so odd coming off her lips, Iain almost laughed. But the gravity of the situation returned before his humor could eke out. Azazel possessed knowledge of the spear. His creations still clung to the surrounding trees when their evidential purpose had been fulfilled. Mayhap the picture was not all they desired.

  “Catherine, these are your friends, I know. But ’tis naught we can do for them this eve. They will be safe in the sanctuary until daylight. Please come with me to Lady Anne’s, where I am assured of your safety. I must inform Merrick of the missing picture.”

  He could see her immediate objection register in the purse of her lips, and he braced for confrontation of the most severe kind. Naught she could say would convince him into remaining where he could not directly protect her. To his surprise, the conflict never came. The firm press of her lips did not relent, but she stalked around him to where they had entered once again.

  When they arrived in the parking lot, her friend was absent. Catherine turned to look at him, questions working across her shadowed expression. Before she voiced one, she shook her head and climbed inside the truck. He removed his sword, returned it to the bed of the truck, and joined her.

  “You are angry with me.”

  “No,�
�� she answered abruptly.

  ’Twas a lie, but one he did not choose to pursue. His larger concern was for her safety. They would discuss things in greater detail once she was inside the rooms at Anne’s, rooms that the Templar had reconstructed after Azazel breeched its boundaries. Rooms the dark one could not enter again.

  Iain’s gaze scanned the trees as they rolled slowly out of the parking lot. All remained still and quiet, though the evil stirred within. He turned onto the street, hating that he must leave, but aware he could not confront the waiting creatures on his own. His soul was strong compared to many, but not strong enough. And Mikhail had made his decision clear with his lack of action.

  Catherine’s disquiet made itself known at the bottom of the hill. “You must tell Merrick about the missing picture—I thought you left the Order.”

  As he opened his mouth to assure her he indeed had separated himself, a chain of approaching headlights rounded the curve ahead. The vehicles neared, a long silver row of identical SUVs heading straight for the abbey. His brothers. Mikhail had not forsaken the abbey after all.

  Centuries of duty and ties that ran deeper than blood pulled Iain in two. He had walked away. Their battles were no longer his. But some would give their lives tonight, fragile souls who would shudder under the weight of darkness and breathe their last. Good men who deserved to live. They were expecting demons, not dark knights. If some remained buried in the shadows of the forest, would they be prepared?

  He could not walk away and leave them to a fate he might somehow influence.

  Iain eased onto the brake pedal and steered to the curb. For a long moment, he remained silent, searching for how to voice what he must do in a manner that Catherine would understand. Giving up on the impossibility, he turned to her in the dark. “My future, however long or short it may be, is yours to navigate, Catherine, and although I shall never answer to another archangel, I will always be Templar. Those men are my family.”

  She digested this calmly, the only sign that she had even heard, the twisting of her hands in her lap. When she spoke, he had to strain to hear her.