Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars)

by Claire Ashgrove

  Twisting sideways, she lowered the blanket to her hip, careful to keep her breasts covered. He set a knee on the bed and supported her opposite side with a large palm. Roughened fingertips grazed over the purplish marks on her ribs, firm enough she could feel his caress, yet gentle enough he didn’t disturb the lingering ache.

  His touch sent a shiver down her spine. Warmth flowed through her veins, heating her from the inside out. It fanned into her belly, fluttered wildly, then spread lower. She averted her gaze and gnawed on her lower lip, trying to pretend this was normal. That men like Farran touched her intimately all the time. That this was no different than going to the doctor.

  As she did when she had to face the degrading necessity of a yearly gynecological exam, she sought conversation. “Where am I?”

  “In the adytum Louise tends.”

  His breath washed over her shoulder, stirring the fine hairs on her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed down a whimper. “The what?”

  “’Tis a friend of mine’s home. Does that pain you?” He pressed his thumb into the spot he had before.

  “No.” She snapped her eyes open. Stay normal, Noelle. She took a deep breath to temper the sudden erratic beat of her pulse. “How long have I been here?”

  “You have slept for thirty-six hours.”

  As he pivoted her to look at her back, his long hair tickled her arm. Unable to suppress a nervous giggle, she squirmed. The hand at her opposite side tightened. “Hold still.”

  “Sorry.” Thirty-six hours. That meant … She twisted out of his hold to face him. “Oh, crap! Father Phanuel.”

  Farran moved away from the bed. “The Sudarium is with Lucan. Phanuel has been informed. He is most understanding, I assure you.”

  She scanned the room, in search of her purse. Had it survived the crash? “My purse, Farran. Did you find it?”

  He pointed behind her, and she turned to look. Hanging from one of the mahogany posts, she found the oversized black bag. Relaxing, she sank into the wealth of pillows propped against the headboard and closed her eyes. “Thank you for taking care of me. I suppose I should be getting home now. I’ll have to call my boss and make arrangements for another flight.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  In answer to his question, her stomach rumbled. “I could eat.”

  “Very well then.” He crossed to an overstuffed wingback chair and picked up what she assumed was her clothes. Setting them on the bed beside her, he added, “I shall bring you dinner. You may dress. Your sweater was ruined. Louise has given you a sweatshirt.”

  With another disturbingly cold nod, he strode through the door.

  Noelle looked after him for several long minutes, a wistful smile playing at her mouth. He was out of her league. One hundred percent the kind of man who pointedly ignored her on the few occasions she went clubbing. But damn, he was handsome. And the eccentric way he spoke stirred something so deep inside her she couldn’t explain it. He made her feel alive in a wholly feminine way she hadn’t ever experienced before.

  For the first time in her life, she really wanted to be something other than the science geek with glasses. Especially something other than the terribly inexperienced twenty-nine-year-old she was.

  Sighing, she leaned forward to pick up her bra. A pillow snagged on her arm, and she glanced down to find that damnable torc still wound around her bicep. Damn it. She’d lost her clothes, but she hadn’t managed to get rid of that thing.

  Maybe not eating for thirty-six hours would help. She pushed at the trinket. Not surprisingly, it didn’t slip.

  With a mutter, she slipped into her bra and eased her legs over the side of her bed. At least Farran had left her in her panties. He hadn’t seen everything. If he had, she didn’t know how she’d ever look him in the eyes again. She tugged on her jeans and stood on unsteady legs. Now, to find some lotion and try to get this ridiculous gift of Gabriel’s off.

  Before Farran came back and found her half dressed.

  CHAPTER 5

  Farran hefted the wicker tray Louise had given him to one hand and twisted Noelle’s doorknob with the other. As he pushed the door open, he stilled, his head cocked to the side. Standing at the edge of the bed, engaged in a fit of temper, Noelle held her boot in one hand and smacked it into the heavy comforter. A throaty growl of frustration accompanied the harmless strike before she repeated the action again.

  If he were not quite certain her mind was intact, he would have questioned her sanity in that moment. For such a tiny little woman, her temper seemed wholly out of place. She looked much like a hornet attempting to break through a glass prison. All fury, yet no bite. God help him—he chuckled.

  The noise so surprised him, he nearly dropped her supper. He could not remember when last he laughed.

  Yet he was not the only one surprised by his humor. At his short bark of amusement, she dropped the shoe and turned wide eyes his way. Her features changed to ash. Her jaw dropped with a squeak of surprise.

  He could not still his tongue. “Tell me, damsel, what offense did the bed commit?”

  She puffed out a breath that stirred the stray tendrils of hair around her face, and her shoulders slumped. ’Twas then she recalled her state of dress. Crimson flooded her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around her to cover her bra. Her modesty intrigued him. If he allowed himself, he could almost liken her to the maids he had once known. Those who would have rather died than be caught unclothed with a man in their chambers when they were unwed.

  “I can’t get this thing off.” Her back half turned, she presented her left arm and the serpentine torc.

  The subtle reminder of their circumstance squelched his misplaced humor. His smile died before it could take life. They would have to speak of this soon, for he could not keep her from the temple. Nor could he selfishly ignore his duty and pretend he knew not what she was. Still, he could not bring himself to confront the truth. Once he informed her, there would be no turning back.

  He set the tray on the nearby dresser. “I brought you a bit of everything. I did not know what you would like.” He indicated a bowl of fruit, several slices of roast beef, a fried chicken leg, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a hunk of sourdough bread.

  Her gaze followed his upturned hand, her eyes widening at the feast. “Thank you.” Still holding her arms over her chest, she bent awkwardly to retrieve her sweatshirt. As she slipped her unadorned arm in, she paused. A deep frown creased her brow, and she glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose … Would you see if you can get this thing off?” She extended her arm.

  Farran bit back a mutter. He eyed the twin serpents, debating. When he touched the torc, he could no longer delay explaining her circumstance. What happened then, only God knew. He held no hope she would embrace the knowledge. At best, she would do as Anne did and deny. At worst, she might well turn that temper on him.

  Noelle wagged her arm in the air. “Yoo-hoo? It’s stuck. Can you give it a try? I put lotion on it.”

  With a heavy sigh, he went to her and took her hand. Like a willing lover yielding to a mate, the torc slid easily to her wrist. Noelle’s gasp of surprise cut through the room. “How’d you do that?”

  “’Twas not difficult.” He slid the torc back up her arm, fitting it neatly into place.

  She gave him a look of disbelief. “Why’d you go and do that? I’ve been trying to get it off since we were at my apartment. I’ll never get it free now.”

  Farran sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling much as if leaden weights hung off his legs. “I am quite certain ’twill give you no trouble.”

  Her features scrunched together as if he had spoken in his native tongue. Testing his claim, she pushed at the torc with one finger. It dropped to her elbow. ’Twas the last bit of proof Farran needed to know, without a doubt, they were fated. As long as he was present, the torc would feel no need to lock itself in place.

  “Did you stretch it?” She peered at him quizzically, then tried the armband once mo
re. Again, it glided over her skin with no resistance.

  “Nay. It recognizes me.” He let out a heavy sigh and pushed a hand through his hair.

  “Huh?”

  “Sit down, Noelle. We must talk.”’Twould not be easy either, judging from the cockeyed eyebrow she arched his way.

  She tugged the sweatshirt over her head, pushed her left arm through, and flounced onto the bed at his side. With a teasing smile, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “You aren’t going to tell me it’s magical, are you?”

  He hesitated for a heavy heartbeat. Then, he locked his gaze with hers and answered, “Aye, I am.”

  * * *

  The giggle started before Farran finished his brief response. It bubbled up Noelle’s throat and skipped free, the first bit of humor she’d felt since she’d rolled out of bed the morning of the accident. Magical torcs. Of all the absurd things. His sense of humor crept out at the most unexpected times. “Uh-huh. Nice try. You stretched it, didn’t you?”

  “Nay, Noelle, I did naught.”

  His deadpan expression made her giggle even harder, and she covered her mouth with her hand. If she could count all the artifacts she’d dated that came with some legend about curses or magical properties, she’d end up near a thousand before she slowed down enough to think. Not a one of them had brought her bad luck. Nothing helped her win the lottery, and no single object had healed the chemical burn on her hand.

  Gabriel had tried to pull a couple of good ones on her too. Like the spear she’d dated for him three years ago. He claimed it tied back to the days of Christ. He’d sworn its authenticity so vehemently he’d almost convinced her. Until her research, however, disproved his theory when the data indicated it couldn’t be older than the late dark ages.

  But Farran wasn’t laughing. Which meant—if he was anything like Gabriel—he wasn’t ready to confess his joke. She’d play along, humor him until he became satisfied he convinced her enough to grin and tell the truth. She swallowed down her smile and assumed a sober expression. “Okay. Tell me more.”

  He pulled a leg up onto the bed and twisted to face her more fully. “’Twas created before the angels fell from grace and succumbed to Azazel’s influence. The serpents symbolize Nehushtan, the sacred snake of healing and salvation. It identifies those born from divine power, the descendants of the Nephilim.”

  Oh, now this was definitely interesting. He’d even twisted theology to exclude Satan. Noelle choked down another renegade laugh. The man was good.

  “When the floods came, they were given a choice—keep their powers and die, or surrender their divinity and become as man. Those who chose to live returned their torcs and were stripped of their longevity. The Almighty promised when the need arose, they would return to his grace and serve. They lived, they labored, they died.”

  Interesting indeed. New theology even. If there was a modicum of truth in this, it would turn the zealots upside down. Everyone would be screaming for the angels to return. Especially in this politically charged world.

  Noelle dipped her head, encouraging Farran to continue.

  “You are a descendent of that power, damsel. The living breath of the Nephilim. The torc recognizes you. ’Twill use whatever means necessary to ensure you assume your place.”

  Aha! He had slipped. Time to turn his words back on him and watch him squirm. Her mouth curved with a smirk. “But you said it recognizes you.”

  Without missing a beat, Farran agreed, “Aye. It does. I am…” He paused, looking to the ceiling. Noelle resisted the urge to call his bluff right there, and leaned back on her hands as he furrowed his brow in search of what to say next.

  The deep frown returned to his handsome features, and he cast his gaze to his lap. “Nine centuries ago, I joined a small gathering of men in the Holy Land. You would know them as the Knights Templar. I have spent centuries fighting Azazel’s evil creations and protecting man from his unholy desires. Our power weakens with each evil life we take. The seraphs…” His eyes gleamed with soft light as he lifted them to hers. “You … are the strength we need. I am your mate. We shall take vows. You shall gain my immortality, and I shall gain the light that lives in your soul.”

  Noelle couldn’t help herself—she burst out laughing until tears gathered in her eyes. Wiping them away, she expired into chuckles. “Oh God, Farran, that’s a good one. I’ve heard some doozies, but that’s great. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I don’t mean to spoil your joke. But that’s just amazing.”

  In the blink of an eye, his serene expression morphed into a dark scowl. “You do not believe me.”

  “No,” she answered on a chortle. “Did you really expect me to? I’m sure someone else would—you’ve put so much feeling into the tale. But I’m a scientist. I don’t even believe in God.” To soften his disappointment, she reached between them and patted his hand. “You did good though. Better than some of the things Gabriel has told me.”

  He abruptly pulled his hand away. “Everything Gabriel has ever told you is true, damsel. He is an archangel. Whilst he may behave most strange, he is God’s messenger and cannot lie.”

  Gabriel an archangel. Oh man, the two of them were in this together. When she saw him next, she’d buy him a drink for this. She grinned at Farran and shook her head. “You two are something else. I swear, I should have known. He tries to do this to me all the time.”

  “Woman,” Farran barked. “’Tis no jest! You are branded as mine.” He grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head. “Look for yourself.”

  Noelle gaped at the vision that sat before her. Smooth bronzed muscle lacked any trace of hair and bulged even as he sat still. The chest she remembered so vividly was nothing less than a wall of corrugated stone. Thick forearms led to even thicker biceps, arms so strong she felt three times smaller than normal. He could crush a man—or so her imagination said.

  Her appreciative stare dropped to his belly and stopped on her gasp. Scored into his taut abdomen, a white scar ran from his ribs down beneath the waistband of his jeans. A good three inches wide, and easily three times as long, the scarred flesh assumed the distinct shape of a ring-hilted dagger. Someone had heated metal and pressed it to his skin.

  “My word,” she whispered.

  Drawn to the horror of the mark, she leaned in and traced a fingertip down the length of the hilt. The pain he must have felt—her heart twisted hard. “What happened to you?” She glanced up at his face.

  Eyes closed, he sat utterly still. “’Twas meant to gain my confession.”

  Noelle winced. Looking back at the ugly scar she couldn’t take her hand off of, her chest tightened. What sort of person could do that to a man? His stomach bunched beneath her fingertips, mystifying her even more. As deep as the wound had been, he was lucky he could feel anything at all. Whoever had done this was sick. Sick, sick. “Were you in the war?” she asked quietly.

  “Aye,” he exhaled.

  “Oh, Farran, I’m so sorry.” And she was—sorrier than she’d ever been for anyone. All the stories she’d heard about beheaded captives, tortured soldiers, and political screw-ups amounted to nothing when faced with the stark truth of what he’d been through. He’d suffered. Through some miracle, he’d survived a wound that would have killed a lesser man.

  On sheer impulse, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the ringed pommel.

  As she leaned back, Farran’s palm cupped her chin. He lifted her face, locked his eyes with hers. The light that always burned so bright within those ale-brown depths now glowed a rich golden color that reached down into her and touched some unnamable part of her soul. Her heart skipped a beat, then launched into erratic rhythm. She drew in a short breath, and Farran’s lips touched hers.

  She’d been kissed a handful of times before, but nothing like this. Compared to the sloppy, inexperienced searchings she knew, no hesitation came with the caress of Farran’s mouth. He slid his hand from her chin to her hair and settled in, knowing what he wanted and exactly h
ow to take it. Velvety warmth nudged her lips apart, and Noelle yielded with a surprised gasp. The tip of his tongue coaxed hers to join its seductive dance. As the quivering in her belly turned into liquid heat, she all too willingly complied.

  Sensation burst through her veins as his woodsy-orange scent soaked into her. So clean, so tempting, so completely masculine. The softness of his mouth, so unlike the hardness of his body, had the effect of wine on her thoughts. It made her dizzy, yet she couldn’t get enough. She braced a hand on his shoulder to steady the rapid swirl of her head and eagerly tangled her tongue with his.

  A husky murmur rumbled in the back of Farran’s throat. His fingers tightened against her scalp, and he tipped her head back. Where he wanted it, where he could explore more thoroughly. As his mouth took on more pressure, demanding something she didn’t fully comprehend, the heat pooled in her belly fanned into her blood. Her skin felt tight. Restlessness possessed her body.

  The feel of Farran’s palm against her breast soothed the need to move. Those strong fingers lifted and squeezed. Firm, but like every other time he’d touched her, filled with an underlying tenderness. So unlike the fumbling attempts of her one, almost lover right after college, he knew how to touch a woman. Knew it well. And the unrelenting caress stirred that aching need to move to intolerable limits. When his thumb grazed across her swollen nipple, Noelle shuddered. Her womb contracted. The heat in her blood spread uncomfortably between her legs.

  Then everything changed. Farran abruptly drew away, his kiss terminating with his raspy gasp. He stood. Ramrod straight, his back faced her. He stared at the wall as he spoke. “We are fated. You will come with me.”

  It took a minute for his words to reach her brain. When they did, she laughed. That again. If he wanted to date her, this was a bit ridiculous. All he needed to do was ask. “I have to get home, Farran.”