Nothing she’d heard since she left her laboratory sounded better. Getting this over with meant home. Home meant freedom from this unfeeling man who seemed to thrive on insulting her. If she were witty enough to think of a comeback, his words wouldn’t cut so badly. As it was, however, she bled every time he opened his mouth.
“You know yours?” Mikhail asked Farran.
“Aye.” He turned to her, the light in his rich eyes hard and punishing. “Remove your armband, Noelle.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh for Pete’s sake. You know I can’t.”
He grabbed her wrist, slipped a hand beneath the oversized sleeve. Warmth seeped up her arms as his fingers worked over her skin, edging closer to the torc lodged around her bicep. Her stomach turned into a mass of wild butterflies desperate for freedom. So intimate, yet so benign, the simple caress steered her senses off course. She closed her eyes to brace against the onslaught of sensation and held her breath.
When his hand slipped free, she expelled her air on a hiss. Man, oh man, why did she have to like it so much when he touched her?
The scrape of steel against steel drew her back to the present. Opening her eyes, she found Farran with his sword drawn. He dropped the torc down the plain pommel and held it in place with his fist. “Meus vires, meus mucro, meus immortalis animus, fio vestry.”
Years of working with ancient artifacts translated the Latin automatically. My strength, my sword, my immortal soul, becomes yours. Nice vows, if he’d actually meant them. They sounded like something suited for a wedding. Especially given their Latin origin. The English translation wouldn’t carry the same effect. It lacked the depth of feeling only the ancient language could provide.
A strange shiver flitted down her spine, and Noelle struggled to ignore the pang of regret that followed in its wake. If he’d meant the vow, if he weren’t nuts, if such a thing existed as an immortal spirit, she might forgive his crabby nature.
Mikhail thrust the book beneath her nose and pointed at the matching line he wanted her to recite. My life, my love, my eternal light, becomes yours.
At once, everything clanged together within her head. His insults, her wounded pride, her stomped-on feelings—they all rushed together until Noelle couldn’t see through the flurry of tears that gathered in her eyes. Damn him for waking up all those dead feelings. Damn him for breaking open wounds she’d thought long healed.
She swallowed hard and lifted her chin, determined to prove to him she wasn’t some meager mouse. He’d insisted on her cooperation. Her freedom depended on this oath. Yet nothing would convince her to utter something so filled with meaning. Not when the words were empty lies. When this whole ordeal stemmed from some ludicrous claim. It was beyond time for Farran to learn he couldn’t have everything his way.
In strong, confident English, she uttered her vow.
CHAPTER 13
As the bronze serpents remained unmoving against his sword, Farran swiveled toward Noelle. Anger rushed through him, fast and furious. Glad he did not still hold her wrist, he curled his fingers into a tight ball and narrowed his gaze. The magic lay in the Latin, not the mere recitation of their meaning. She made a mockery of the very prophecy that carried the Templar through time. “You will say them in the language they are written.”
Lush lips lifted with satisfaction. She took another step backward and shook her head. “No. Or as you would say, nay.”
He resisted the fierce urge to grab her by the arms and shake her until she cooperated. Once upon a time, he would have slain one who dared show so much disrespect. Had on several occasions during his brief reign as lord of Clare. Yet her very sex prevented him from turning the blade he held to her throat. He had not killed Brighid, despite her greater offenses, and would not stoop to taking the lives of women now.
However, he did not shy away from punishing women who did not know their place. He tempered his outrage with a deep breath. “You will, damsel, or you shall find yourself regretting your defiance.”
Her short laugh only served to fuel his fury. Accompanied by Mikhail’s quiet chuckle, her amusement cut his pride into ribbons. Heat spread through his veins, and he snatched at her hand.
She pulled away faster. Her chest heaved with unspent anger. Pinpricks of color stained her cheeks. She marched forward, closing the distance between them and stabbed her finger into his chest. “I won’t say them in Latin. I won’t say them again, period. I’ve done what you wanted, and now I want to go home.”
Farran sheathed his sword before his fury got the better of him. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her so close her breasts brushed against his chest. “You will not leave until you utter the vow.”
Her eyes glittered like amber gems behind her narrowed gaze. “I will leave. Mark my words, Farran, you cannot hold me prisoner forever. And when I do, you’ll wish you’d never met me.”
Mikhail cleared his voice, reminding Farran they were not alone. He straightened at the sound and relaxed his hold on Noelle’s arm, yet he did not turn her loose. Ordering his anger to subside, he turned to Mikhail.
“Perhaps you would both benefit from some time apart.” Mikhail lifted his eyebrows, a silent instruction Farran should not argue. “I believe you made mention of unwelcome guests. Perhaps you should attend to other matters and allow Noelle a reprieve from your tongue. I am certain she shall find her chambers to her liking.”
Noelle protested, “I’m not stay—”
“Aye, you are,” Farran gritted out. “You may have found a champion, but, Dr. Keane, you will stay until you assume your duty.”
He ushered her to the door, none too gently. Yanking it open, he thrust her into the hall ahead of him.
“Let go of me.” She pried at his fingers as he marched her down the stone corridor. “I’m not staying here. I’m going home, damn it. If I have to walk to town to catch a ride, I will.”
Clamping down on his tongue, he refused to give in to his temper. God’s teeth, this woman was far more infuriating than Anne. At least with Merrick’s wife, he could expect her to retaliate physically. In stark contrast to Anne’s forthright manner, Noelle struck out when least expected. She wove a web of words that offered encouragement, then used that silvery tongue to twist things in her favor.
Just like Brighid.
At the stairs, she sank her weight into her heels, refusing to budge. Undaunted, Farran gave her another push and sent her stumbling onto the first stone tread. Outclassed by his size, she stumbled up the steps ahead of him, muttering beneath her breath. He could not make out the words, but guessed he would not wish to hear them anyway.
At the top of the stairs, she twisted sharply to the right. “Let me go,” she hissed through her teeth. “You’re making a scene.”
Farran set his jaw and ignored her demands. ’Twas not a man within the temple walls who had not experienced a headstrong woman. All would have done the same, were they to face the humiliation she had caused. Many would not be as gentle. Many more would not have waited until they were out of earshot to make their displeasure known.
He hurried her up the stairs that led to the second story and the seraphs’ chambers. The door across the hall from Merrick’s stood open. Light spilled into the hall. He led her inside, thrust her away from him, and kicked the door shut with his heel. “You gave me your word.”
“My word?” she cried. Oblivious to her lavish surroundings, she stalked back in front of him. “My word? You insult me at every opportunity. You want me to believe this means so much to you, and yet you can’t bring yourself to follow your own delusional customs? Don’t you dare start in on me about my word, when yours is just as meaningless.”
A foreign pang of guilt stabbed through his thick skin as she flung the truthful accusation. He had spoken falsely. His vow held emptiness, and were it not for duty to the Order, he never would have spoken a single syllable. Yet he could not bring himself to admit the wrong. Duty stood above all. The strength that would come from their union demanded he
take the necessary measures. A fact he must make her understand.
He pushed a hand through his hair and willed his temper into submission. Studying her for several long moments, he focused on the easy in and out of his breathing. When he felt he had reduced his fury to a low simmer, he spoke low and clear. “Your role is to this Order, as is mine. What we think of one another is unimportant. There are greater things at stake.”
On a frustrated groan, she sank her head into her hands and dug her fingers into her scalp. “This is insane. You are insane. I just want to go home.”
“Then say the words, damsel, and you shall gain your freedom.”
Dragging her fingers down her face, she shook her head, then adjusted her glasses. “No. I’m not about to do one thing more for you. You’re all nuts, and I refuse to play your ridiculous game.”
Farran reached down to his sword and pulled the torc off its pommel. He tossed it onto the overstuffed plaid couch beside her thigh. “When you come to realize you have no choice, I shall be waiting.”
Noelle reached for the torc and hurled it at his head. Her aim failed by several inches. The torc thumped into the wooden door, bounced off, and landed on the hardwood floor. He watched it roll on its edge before it toppled sideways and came to a stop near the toe of his boot. ’Twas no matter—the holy relic would find its way to her arm soon enough. ’Twould not leave her as long as it sensed her true intentions lay in leaving it behind.
With a disappointed shake of his head, he turned for the door. Mikhail spoke wisely. A battle of words and wills would accomplish naught. She needed time. And he had demons to address.
He left her in silence and rapped on Merrick’s door. Anne opened it quickly, her smile bright. “Farran, I’m so happy for you.”
Giving her a perturbed look, he let himself inside. “Aye, you would be.”
Anne drew back, her blue eyes wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She who does not hesitate to bully everyone into her demands would find Noelle’s reluctance amusing.” Though his voice held the sharpness of annoyance, his heart lacked conviction. In truth, much as he despised admitting it, Anne grew on him with each meeting.
Merrick stepped through the French doors that separated their sleeping chambers from the front room. “She gives you trouble, Farran?”
“She plagues me overmuch.” He massaged his temples between thumb and forefinger.
Merrick’s mouth contorted with a smirk. His gaze flicked to Anne, then back to Farran. “’Tis the way of seraphs.”
Farran shook off the humiliating encounter with a heavy sigh. “I wish to speak of it no more. I need your sword.”
All traces of humor vanished from Merrick’s expression. He dropped a hip onto the arm of their sofa. “What is your need, brother?”
Gesturing at the window and the trees outside, Farran answered, “There are demons lining the lane. We must dispose of them before Azazel learns of Noelle’s arrival. She remains vulnerable until she swears her word.”
Merrick stood and went to the rack of armor behind the door. As he pulled his chain hauberk free, Anne gnawed on her lower lip. It took only seconds before her attempt at silence failed, and her worry tumbled free. “Is that wise, Merrick? Your leg’s only begun to heal.”
When Merrick bent to place a gentle kiss to Anne’s cheek, Farran looked away. Of late, he found he could not stomach the affection they openly shared. It rent wounds over scars long healed and brought back disturbing memories of a time when he too had loved deeply.
“I shall be fine, little demon. ’Tis a good way to test my strength.”
Anne’s sharp tone scolded. “And a good way to find yourself back in bed.”
“A fate I would not mind overmuch,” Merrick answered on a chuckle. “Come, Farran. Let us descend in to the barracks. We shall gather Lucan and Caradoc. Declan, if we can find him. The fight will do you good as well.”
Aye, indeed. If he were lucky, he would not survive to see the light of morning.
* * *
The faint sound of a cat’s meow brought Noelle’s trajectory toward the exit to an abrupt halt. Her hand stretched toward the waiting doorknob, she slowly looked toward the closed pair of sliding panel doors on the opposite wall. “Scat Cat?”
Mrrf. Mrrf.
The inability to produce a full meow could come from only her cat. All thoughts of fleeing the temple fled, and Noelle marched over to the closed doors. She eased one cherry-stained panel into the wall, far enough that he could slip through. Like a wisp of smoke, he sauntered into the front room, then wound himself around and between her feet.
“Scat Cat,” she whispered. The feline had always made coming home after a long day of work a delight. Yet never before had she felt so incredibly glad to see her fat, lazy, and often opinionated pet. She bent down, picked him up, and buried her nose in his thick fur.
His overly enthusiastic motor returned her affection.
With a heavy exhale that stirred his silky coat, she lifted her face. “What are we going to do, fella?”
He caught the finger she rubbed under his chin with both forepaws. Sharp claws urged her hand toward his mouth where he could contentedly lick her fingers.
A glint of silver from the corner of her eye brought her attention back to the glass-topped coffee table positioned in the center of the room. Her eyes widened. Situated in the middle of a carved inlay sat a distinctive ceramic bowl. A Beaker Gabriel had presented to her in the middle of summer. She’d aged the artifact as Middle Bronze Age. Other particles identified its origin as British, specifically part of the early settlement near Thanet. The Beaker Period.
What in the world was that thing doing here? Gabriel had said he was consigning it to a museum.
Scat Cat tucked in her arms, she moved closer. The same cracked edges, the same unique pattern of symbols along the jagged rim. The same damn piece.
Frowning, she exchanged her cat for the aged artifact and held it beneath the light. No doubt about it, no matter how she tried to search for a difference that would mark the object as a replica, she held the artifact that had been the highlight of her career. The piece that had established her lab as the premier experts with small quantities and accelerator mass spectrometry.
Unease shifted around in her belly as she looked to the glass-front bookcase. Her heart slowed to a heavy thump-thump as more objects she’d seen in her lab looked back from their places beneath a soft filtered light. A Grecian pot depicting Dionysus, a Mongolian helmet from the Yuan dynasty, a four-inch solid gold Set figurine from early Egypt—one by one, she recognized the familiar treasures.
She turned around, slowly taking in the rest of the room. Amid a scattering of wall hangings that shared the same age and value of the things on the shelves, comfortable furnishings lavished the room. The sofa was simple in color, a soft tan hue. Ebony accent pillows filled the corners and matched the two plush end chairs. Hardwood lay beneath her feet, adorned with a thick white rug. Comforts that matched her decorating style and mirrored her living room in D.C.
But how? Clearly Gabriel had a hand in decorating this room, but she’d never once invited him to her apartment. How in the world could he possibly know what she’d like? Seth maybe? Had to be. Yet that too spurred more questions—was Seth part of this? Had their run-in on the road been part of some plan Gabriel designed? Surely not. Seth wouldn’t set her up like that. He’d know she would fire him in a heartbeat if he did, and his position as her assistant meant too much to his career. He wouldn’t take that kind of risk. Not if he ever intended to work in their field again.
With Scat Cat at her heels, she wandered through the pocket doors into her evidential bedroom. Similar to her room at home, this one followed the same pattern of simplicity. A four-poster bed in cherry matched the dresser and large vanity. Though the furnishings bore carvings, the patterns were straight lines, neat designs that didn’t detract or stand out ostentatiously. An overstuffed mattress was covered with a heavy down
comforter, as was the bed she’d slept in the last ten years. The only difference between the two rooms—the color patterns. Where her apartment’s bedroom sported muted blue and off-white, this room was a rich teal and deep burgundy. Not feminine. Not masculine. Elegant all the same.
Curiosity consumed her. She traipsed to the adjoining bathroom and flipped on the light, then drew back with a soft gasp. A large tub, easily able to accommodate three of her, took up the entire far corner. Veins of muted gold weaving through the marble matched the polished brass fixtures. And the same dark cherry wood stood out against an eggshell backdrop. As if someone had plucked a picture straight out of her imagination.
A shiver rolled down her spine. Someone must have overheard her talking at some point. Nothing else could explain how the very bathroom she’d seen in the one house she’d considered buying—and the sole reason she’d considered the house—now stretched out before her.
Feeling suddenly as if a pair of unseen eyes watched, she picked up her pet. His purr served to soothe the way her nerves stood on end. The feel of his soft coat beneath her roaming fingers eased the trip-trip of her heart.
She backed out of the bathroom and swallowed hard. “We gotta get out of here, Scat Cat,” she murmured. “Before we can’t.”
No way would she spend another minute in this eerie place. And Gabriel San Lucee would never again set foot in her laboratory.
Determined to make her escape while Farran was occupied, she hurried to the door. Halfway across the room, she froze against the hollow echo of a knock.
CHAPTER 14
Noelle took a deep breath and lifted her chin. If Farran had returned already, she didn’t dare give any sign she intended to escape a second time. She had no doubt he’d make good on his promise to turn her into a prisoner. If he bound her, or locked her away somewhere down in that maze of tunnels, she’d never get the chance again. No, she’d be better served by playing his game. Going along with things until he gave her a few minutes alone again. All she had to do tonight was lock herself in that enormous bedroom and cooperate a little while longer.
Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars) Page 12