Immortal Trust

by Claire Ashgrove

  She watched him, her doubt etched into her ashen face. “Lucan?”

  “I did not take it, Chloe. Why would I ask you about it, if I already possessed it?”

  “Mademoiselle, what do you wish us to do?” asked the gendarme at Lucan’s left.

  Her eyes flickered, wavering between what she knew in her heart and what visible facts lay before her eyes. Praying to the only power he knew who could intervene and right this intolerable wrong. He held his breath. Waiting. Hoping.

  * * *

  The blissful world of happiness Chloe had known only a few minutes earlier slowly crumbled into pieces and crashed onto her shoulders. Standing between her brother and Lucan, she stared helplessly as the walls around her closed in. Both expected her to believe in them. Lucan’s pleading stare demanded she remember his words. The promise he would never hurt her. His eyes hardened with each second that passed and she remained silent. Julian watched expectantly. His anger boiled to the surface, gleamed behind his eyes. The longer she stood quiet, the more triumph crept into his gaze.

  Whom did she choose? Whom did she cast aside? Did she turn her back on the only flesh and blood she possessed, or did she walk away from the one man she wanted most?

  “Chloe,” Julian pressed. “He’s not who he claims to be. Lucan Seacourt doesn’t exist.”

  She whipped her head around to blink at her brother. “What?”

  “I checked with the Church. They don’t know anything about him, or him.” He jabbed his thumb at Gareth. “They don’t work for the Catholic diocese. And Lucan Seacourt died in the thirteenth century. Lucan of Seacourt. He’s that man whose tomb they unearthed. His name was engraved in the shield they found.”

  Chloe gasped for air, but her lungs refused to fill. Lies? Oh God, it couldn’t be true. She grabbed for the back of the couch as her knees went weak, unable to bring herself to look at Lucan and see the defiance in his eyes.

  “You’re lying,” she whispered. Julian had to be. She’d touched Lucan. Given him entirely too much of herself for this to all be farce.

  “I’m not. Pick up the phone. Here’s the number.” He thrust a piece of paper beneath her nose.

  “Chloe, for the love of the saints, this is nonsense,” Lucan protested. Resignation filtered into his voice. There could only be one reason for such a lack of conviction—guilt.

  “Chloe, please listen to me. I just told you what I am.”

  A knight Templar … A story even more implausible than Julian’s claims that Lucan had stolen the ring. But if he believed it … If he truly felt some tie to the extinct order, or even pledged membership to a legacy Masonic organization … Wouldn’t that give him reason to possess the ring?

  A sob rose to cut off her words. Shaking her head, she turned away from both brother and lover. Dead. Lucan of Seacourt was the knight in the grave. Damn it all, they had talked about him in the car! No wonder Lucan knew so much. He’d studied the discovery enough to mimic the role.

  Oh, Lord in heaven, she couldn’t be a bigger fool. She’d fallen right into his game. She would have surrendered the priceless relic without question. And he’d done exactly what Julian forewarned—used her.

  “Arrest him,” she choked out. “Just … get him out of here.”

  “Chloe!”

  She grimaced at the harsh, unfriendly bellow. Let him protest. Let him rant. For that matter let him hate her. It would make forgetting him easier.

  “Monsieur, you come with us.”

  The commotion behind her back told her Lucan wasn’t making it easy to get him out of the room. She dug her nails into his couch and squeezed her eyes shut tight to block the hoarseness of his voice as he called out to her once again.

  The door slammed shut. Julian’s heavy hand settled on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, sis.”

  She shrugged his hand off. “Go. I don’t want to see you either.”

  He gave her back an affectionate pat, and she felt him leave her side. A few seconds later, the door closed once more. Quieter this time.

  The silence that remained was deafening.

  CHAPTER 35

  Lucan sank his head into his bound hands and raked his fingers against his scalp. Worry consumed him. With only Gareth to watch over Chloe, and her present state of disbelief, Julian could strike at any time. He could not fault her for believing her brother. Mayhap if he had been given a few more moments to tell her the truth, he would not be sitting on this hard bench, listening to the monotonous tick of an unseen clock, and feeling his life slip by with each passing second.

  God’s teeth, when he got free from here, he would rip that demon in half, regardless of his blood tie to Chloe. Her wrath would be immense, but ’twas a sacrifice Lucan was willing to make.

  He dragged his hands down his face and leaned back, resting his head against the cinder-block wall. Beyond the bars of his cell, footsteps trekked down the sterile hall. The same pair of polished steel-toe boots with a slight heel he had heard intermittently for the last several hours.

  His muscles twitched with restlessness. Chloe was out there. In danger. And the Almighty only knew what the person she trusted most had planned for her.

  If he did not find a way out of this suffocating cell, he would go mad.

  The clang of something hard against the bars drew him upright. A guard, no doubt the one whose shoes had worn a hole through Lucan’s thoughts, peered in. “Vous avez un visiteur.”

  A visitor? Lucan frowned. Chloe mayhap? Could she have changed her mind?

  As he pondered the possibility, a well-dressed man stepped from behind the gendarme. Long, golden hair tumbled freely about his wide shoulders and framed a face so beautiful, Lucan flinched.

  Raphael. God’s teeth, mayhap the Almighty had heard his pleas after all.

  Lucan shot to his feet. Before he could speak a word, however, the archangel lifted one hand, palm out, indicating he should remain silent. He turned to the guard with a smile as brilliant as gold. A subtle light flowed from his fingertips, drawing the gendarme’s attention to Raphael’s flawless palm.

  Lucan watched in fascination as the official’s eyes widened. At the low chanting words that issued from Raphael’s voice—spoken so softly Lucan could not make them out—the gendarme slowly nodded his head. The light dimmed. Raphael fell silent and lowered his hand.

  “Monsieur, un erreur a été comise.”

  A mistake made? Saints’ teeth, aye, ’twas one monster of a mistake. But the guard’s statement perplexed him further. Lucan squinted expectantly, awaiting further explanation. It came as the gendarme inserted one key from a ring of several and twisted the cell lock. Opening the heavy barred door, he stepped inside and motioned for Lucan to approach.

  Wary, Lucan looked over the guard’s shoulder at Raphael. A slow nod of the archangel’s head instructed he should obey the official’s request. Lucan moved closer to the guard.

  Pointing one stubby finger at the heavy handcuffs cutting into his wrists, the man instructed, “Vos mains, s’il vous plaît.”

  Understanding settled around Lucan. He lifted his hands toward the gendarme, complying with the request. The shorter man flipped through his multitude of keys, picked out a smaller, less obvious bit of metal, and thrust it into the hole at Lucan’s wrist. With one quick flick of a scarred wrist, the handcuffs released. “Vous êtes libre de partir.”

  Free to go.

  Lucan did not waste a moment as he hurried out of the cell and joined Raphael in the narrow corridor. “Thank you,” he murmured beneath his breath.

  “Say naught of it. Gareth told me of your predicament. Come.” He grabbed Lucan’s elbow and ushered him through the central processing room of the gendarmerie, across the lobby, and out the wide front doors. He did not stop until they had reached a silver SUV parked at the rear of the well-lighted lot. “You must take care not to be seen. I cannot follow behind you and alter the memories of all those who know of your arrest.”

  Glancing around, Lucan observed the fall o
f night. He had been inside several hours, but he had not anticipated to find the sun well beneath the horizon and the moon high in the sky. He must have been inside almost sixteen hours. He grabbed for the driver’s door handle. “Chloe?” His voice held impatience.

  “At the château. Gareth stands guard at her new door.”

  So she had been disgusted enough to flee his room. Lucan cringed. Still, for now, she remained unharmed.

  He climbed behind the wheel and keyed the engine.

  “If you must, Sir Lucan, bring her to the temple. Sometimes ’tis easier if you remove all exterior factors.”

  Lucan read between the polite phrasing, hearing the real meaning—force her to comply. He shut the door and dropped the gearshift into reverse. Naught would make him force Chloe. If he tried, he would never obtain the words the Templar, and the archangels, desperately required.

  Unable to sit idle, he tapped his fingers against the wheel as Raphael backed away from the fender. Lucan could not recall a time when the archangels had intervened to such a degree. That the European master of combat unhesitatingly used divine power to influence Lucan’s fate mystified him even more. By all rights, he should have been left in the cell to sort this out for himself. ’Twould not be the first time, nor would it be the last that a Templar found himself at the end of a short rope. Through the entire Inquisition the archangels remained silent. ’Twas not until the sentences had passed down, and they were forced to deal with burned bodies that would not die, that they stepped in and took the entire Order underground.

  Why now? Why him?

  As the golden specter shimmered, then slowly became one with the night, Lucan dismissed the questions. Why mattered not. Chloe’s life depended on his expedient return. True, Gareth could keep her safe for a short time, but she would not allow him close enough to keep her out of Julian’s clutches. Not when her brother implied Gareth spoke lies as well.

  He sped down the empty highway, a death grip on the wheel. Time suspended as tree after tree passed. Urgency forced his foot to the floor, and he whipped around the curves like a high-speed train on well-oiled rails. He knew naught but one thing: he must reach Chloe before her brother could.

  The château’s roof emerged over the tops of the trees, and Lucan willed the SUV to move faster. Yet with the pedal pressed as far as it could go, the vehicle could not comply. The last several yards that led to the garden drive seemed to pass at a snail’s pace; an intolerable crawl that left Lucan’s nerves raw.

  At last the château rose against the night sky. He zipped into a parking spot, shut off the engine, and flew out the door. In seconds he was inside. Several more, and he stood in his room, the torc in his hand. He stuffed it into his pocket, rushed back into the hall, then took the stairs two at a time. On the second floor, he paused only long enough to poke his head into the corridor and verify Gareth did not stand in the hall. Which left the third. The same floor she had occupied before the demons attacked.

  He bolted off the landing and around the corner, into the narrow corridor. To Lucan’s surprise, Gareth stood outside the door he had previously claimed as his own. Head cocked in curiosity, Lucan strode quickly toward his waiting brother.

  A smirk broke across the younger man’s face. He dipped his head in greeting. “Raphael indeed moved quickly. He was most concerned when I phoned.”

  Lucan frowned at the door, then at Gareth. “She is inside?”

  Chuckling with immense amusement, Gareth nodded. “I vacated my room when I overheard her request another, to keep her close at hand. The hotel is otherwise full. Might I have your key?”

  Fishing into his back pocket, Lucan produced the key to his room and passed it to his brother. “Leave me a place on the couch. I fear I shall need it.”

  Two golden eyebrows arched with surprise. “You do not think she will believe the truth?”

  She would believe. ‘Twas when she would believe that Lucan did not know. With Chloe, it could take weeks, if not months, for her to find faith in him once more. Time they did not have. He kept his thoughts to himself, unwilling to disclose her deep mistrusts and the confidences she had unwittingly shared in all she did not verbalize. “I will be late, I am certain.”

  Gareth shrugged off his concern. “I sleep like the dead.” With the parting remark, the knight’s grin returned, and he touched his knuckles to Lucan’s shoulder. “Good luck, my brother. May your bed be warm, not cold this night.”

  Indeed. Lucan almost snorted. Frigid was far more likely.

  Once Gareth was out of sight, and the hall once more empty, Lucan raised his fist to the door. It shuddered under his single, forceful knock.

  “Julian?” Chloe called from within.

  He did not answer, knowing if he announced his presence, the barrier between them would not open. He would give her three seconds before he knocked again.

  One …

  From within, the noise from the television faded.

  Two …

  Light footsteps approached the door. The lock tumbled free. The brass handle turned.

  Three …

  As Chloe eased the door open a fraction, she let out a surprised squeak. Before she could slam the heavy wood shut, Lucan shouldered it open, barged inside, and quickly threw the lock. “We will talk. Now.”

  “Get out, Lucan.”

  “Nay. I shall not. We were speaking earlier, and I will finish what I have to say.”

  Stubborn defiance lifted her chin. Her eyes narrowed into angry slits. “You lied to me. I don’t even know what name to call you. I don’t want to see you.”

  Sheer arrogance drove him to an equally bitter retort. He leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at her. “Call me what you wish. Bastard. Traitor. Murderer—I have answered to them all. But in the year of our Lord 1097, I was christened Lucan. Second son to Richard, lord and master of Seacourt, as established by the letting from the abbey in 1080.”

  Chloe’s eyes widened seconds before her brows furrowed in a severe frown and she scoffed. “And I’m the queen of Persia. Who are you?”

  Undaunted, he held her stare. “Not of Persia. Of Seacourt, or what exists in memory. You are my mate, my bride, if you wish to look upon it so, and indeed, Chloe Broussard, you are my queen.”

  Her mocking laugh did little to hide the shock that registered behind her eyes. She shook her head and pointed at the door. “Just go. Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage, no need to make it worse with more lies.”

  The barb stung. He had wounded her, but not of his own accord. Still he could not stop the needles that pricked his heart. Leaning forward, he caught her by the fingers and studied the back of her hand. He brushed his thumb over the soft flesh at the base of her palm. “Whatever you may think of me, ’tis one fact that shall not change.” He lifted his gaze to hers, held it steady. “I am in love with you, and I will not leave until you hear me out.”

  He heard her breath catch. Witnessed the lowering of her lashes. Using her momentary weakness to his advantage, he asked, “Will you sit with me, or must we talk like this?”

  She pulled her hand free, as if she could not stand the thought of touching him. “Fine. Sit. You have ten minutes.”

  He required hours, but he would take the offered ten. Grateful he did not have to try and explain with the door at his back and a gaping distance between them, he sat down on the couch. She glanced at the chair, piled high with her unpacked belongings. Then, with a mutter, she seated herself beside him. “Talk. The clock’s ticking.”

  “I must ask one thing first.”

  “What?”

  “Did you mean your words this morn? Or were they merely a product of the ecstasy we shared?”

  Terror turned her complexion chalk white. Her eyes darted about, resting everywhere but on his face. In her lap, her hands twisted into knots.

  Lucan leaned toward her to cup her chin between thumb and forefinger. Gently, he turned her face back to his. “Tell me, Chloe,” he
whispered. “Did you yield to me your heart?”

  The tears that pricked her wide eyes were answer enough. He dropped his hand away from her face. “’Tis your heart I want you to listen with, for your mind will most certainly object to what I must impart.”

  She gave him silence. Permission to speak, but a complete lack of agreement. He let out a heavy sigh. “I have told you I am a Templar knight, and I have confided the year of my birth. Your brother was correct in two matters. First, my shield. I buried it with the man I spoke of, Gervais St. Soisson. I was there when he died. His shield shattered beneath the enemy’s attack.”

  She recoiled with a grimace. “Stop.”

  “I will not.” He grabbed her hand to thwart the distance she sought. “You know of the Templar. What you do not know is the purpose we serve. The demons you have seen—I exist to keep them, and others, out of the mortal realm. We are amidst a war, but I will share that with you in a moment.”

  Chloe let out a sound that resembled a whimper. Her shoulders sagged. Lucan cast off all apprehension and drew her against his side. He held her tight and stared at the silent images that flashed across the muted television.

  “The second.” He held his breath a moment, knowing this would affect her more than all the rest. ’Twas the single most likely reason to drive her away. For he had indeed misled her, and he could not get around that fact. “I do not work for the Church as you know it.”

  As expected, her spine stiffened. She tried to push away, to sit up and extract herself from his protective hold. He tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I work for the archangels. Mikhail is my superior. ’Twas Raphael who released me from the cell you sent me to. Gabriel, Uriel, Zerachiel, Phanuel, and others known to mankind for their roles in the creation of the world.”

  “You’re insane,” she whispered.

  “Nay, I am not. Your heart knows this too.”

  She said naught, but the resistance against his hand diminished. Lucan relaxed with her. The worst of it over, the rest of what she must know would not bring them to battle. She would not accept it easily, but ’twas unrelated to any wrong he might have committed.