Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Damn him. That her body responded to his nearness only made her hate him more. She should hate him. Should let him have his conversation if for no other reason than to tell him how many ways he could go to hell. Yet, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t kill the feeling that resided in her heart.

  His tender gaze still made her believe in fairy tales and dreams come true.

  The reality of her circumstance, however, turned the idea of happily ever after into a farce. He’d mistreated her beyond all means of forgiveness. She had no business softening toward him, but the more she saw his handsome face, the more difficult it became to remember all the reasons why she didn’t want him. Standing next to him, she knew only the happiness of three weeks in England where two strangers stumbled into a torrid affair of passion.

  A teardrop trickled down her cheek. Isabelle swiped it furiously away. She would not cry. Most certainly not for Caradoc. He’d received more than his fair share of her tears, and if she yielded now, all the panic for her daughter that she’d somehow managed to stuff into a corner of her mind would surface. Weakness she couldn’t allow, for with it she would never stay focused on the only thing that would guarantee September’s safety—the necklace.

  Sighing, she leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes. Exhaustion pulled at her senses. If only she could rest, really rest, she’d wake up with a clear head. Caradoc wouldn’t seem so daunting. September’s kidnapping wouldn’t have her lungs in knots. She’d be able to find a solution to both problems.

  Sleep, however, was out of the question, the nightmare more terrifying than even her daughter’s kidnapping. Paul wouldn’t harm September so long as the necklace came back to him, and he wouldn’t be stupid enough to hurt her while Isabelle waited to procure it. He might disguise himself with elegance and refinement, but beneath all the dignified costumes, Paul Reid was no better than the mafia men that had surrounded her growing up. She understood their mentality. Knew how to deal with thugs like him.

  The mafia might have its own means of justice, but so long as no wrong was committed, they’d harm no one. That very premise had allowed her to separate from the world of guns, power, and secrets, on her father’s death. Isabelle owed them nothing, and excepting a few of her father’s enemies in the short time after his passing, they granted her absolute escape. The exceptions had gone away as well, when they realized they couldn’t manipulate her.

  Paul was only seeking to protect his investment. He had called September insurance. Isabelle refused to work herself into a panic over the possibility he’d be so foolish as to do anything that would guarantee losing the diamonds. He wanted them too much.

  Her heart stilled as an unexpected thought crept through her mind. What if he planned to do away with them both once she gave him the necklace?

  As a chill wafted down her spine, Isabelle banished the thought. She wouldn’t go down that road. He had no reason to kill them. Other than to guarantee my silence.

  No.

  Isabelle pushed herself to her knees then eased to her feet. Paul wouldn’t kill them. He might have murdered Rosa, but they’d signed a contract. They’d even had it notarized. A paper trail linked them together, and if something happened to her, he would be the prime suspect, leading him into an investigation his corporation wouldn’t want to navigate.

  He wouldn’t risk his entire reputation by killing her. She was certain.

  Well, mostly.

  She regrouped with a deep breath and went to her wardrobe. Time for business. Paul wasn’t her only client, and aside from the ring he wanted, she had a collection of rare Roman coins to acquire for her neighbor, Harry. The bidding began in an hour and a half.

  Time enough to wake up fully with a shower.

  Isabelle wandered into the spacious bathroom and turned on the faucets. As she peeled off her sweaty running clothes, she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. What a mess she must have looked like when Caradoc cornered her at the elevators. At least it had been him, not one of her colleagues who’d seen her with her hair in her face and sweat stains on her clothes. She couldn’t explain it, but those dark wet blemishes, even if they were well earned, stole her confidence.

  Maybe it was just that they made her human, and in a cutthroat world of money, jewels, and competition, she didn’t need the wolfish fiends realizing she could bleed.

  Isabelle slid the bronze, double-headed snake torc from her upper arm and laid it on the sink top. For a moment, she studied the brilliant chips of topaz that formed tiny eyes. They glinted in the light, giving the ancient craftsmanship an indefinable allure. Almost as if the creatures could think for themselves.

  It wouldn’t surprise her to discover Gabriel had actually given her some magically charged charm. They’d talked about her gift of dreams enough times that she came to realize he shared a special passion for the metaphysical and believed in supernatural power. He’d even claimed the torc would guide her if she allowed it, when he’d given it to her.

  Another chuckle possessed Isabelle as she stepped beneath the hot spray. Then again, Gabriel was the same man who’d encouraged September to believe in the angels she thought visited her in dreams. He hadn’t possessed the heart to tell her they were likely women she’d meet someday, just like all the people who invaded Isabelle’s sleep. No, Gabriel claimed it would be wrong to force her see the “angels” as anything beyond what her three-year-old mind could comprehend.

  He had also allowed September to fantasize about her father and adamantly refused to allow Isabelle to correct her daughter’s skewed perception that Caradoc was a knight in shining armor. To listen to September, Caradoc even rode a dappled grey warhorse.

  Fat chance there, baby girl. Last time Isabelle had checked, knights lived by honor. A word Caradoc couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  Holding her breath, Isabelle washed the conditioner out of her hair, then let out a heavy sigh as the water streamed down her shoulders. Ugh. Caradoc was right about one thing—they needed to talk. She didn’t really have a choice whether to tell him about their daughter or not. September longed to know her father. The last thing Isabelle wanted to do was give September any reason to believe her mother had deliberately kept them apart. If Caradoc wanted to dig his own grave by continuing to ignore his daughter, that was his choice. Isabelle didn’t intend to influence that failure under any circumstances. Even if he didn’t deserve the precious gift of September’s love.

  No, she owed it to September to have the conversation. But when was the operative word. It didn’t seem right to spill that kind of news over a casual dinner, and she didn’t dare risk having a private discussion behind closed doors. She craved his touch entirely too much to trust she wouldn’t cave again to his natural charm.

  What to say also proved difficult. Hello, Caradoc, you have a daughter, seemed inappropriate. At the same time, she didn’t want to have an extensive talk. Quick, simple, and painless.

  At least, she hoped it would be painless.

  Muttering, she shut off the shower and quickly toweled dry. She certainly didn’t have time to dwell on that now. She’d figure it out later. After she’d secured Harry’s collection and Paul’s ring.

  Maybe then, when she’d made arrangements for the ring to ship to his estate, Paul would release September.

  Chapter 8

  As the auctioneer’s voice droned in monotone through Shapiro’s spacious grand hall, Caradoc’s attention riveted on the back of Isabelle’s head. At the nape of her elegant neck, a loose bun tamed her normally free hair, highlighting strands of platinum within a bed of wheaten gold. He cared little for the fashion, much preferring the way her hair cascaded over her shoulders as it had on every appearance she had made within his dreams. ’Twould be akin to divine experience to pluck those pins. To slip his hands into the gathered lengths and savor the silken slide between his fingers.

  He grumbled inwardly as restlessness crept into his bones. Shifting position, he crossed the opposite ankle over his knee and forc
ed his gaze to the program in his hands. Two more hours. They had secured the tiny statue of Anubis that Raphael desired, and in two more hours they would obtain the final object for the day, the wooden cross crafted from the sacred crucifixion timbers. Two hours before he could be free from this sea of suits and able to pursue a resolution with Isabelle.

  Caradoc sighed. Shifting once more, he sank deeper into his metal chair and scoured the men lined up on the wall nearest the doors. Expressions rapt, they anxiously watched the flutter of fans as bidders battled over a small, but extremely rare, collection of Roman military coins. From the corner of his eye, Caradoc saw Isabelle lift her number.

  At the same time, his gaze skimmed over Declan, who stood nearest the wide curtained window. Cell phone in hand, he looked at the screen, not at the room of buyers.

  Caradoc’s jaw tightened. All morn, Declan had lurked in the sidelines, never once attempting to make contact with his Templar brethren. But as Caradoc’s gaze narrowed with suspicion, the Scot looked up. His gaze locked with Caradoc’s.

  For several heavy heartbeats, they stared at one another, before something dark and unfamiliar crossed Declan’s expression. It lasted no more than an instant, but that brief passing of time was enough to spark apprehension within Caradoc’s veins. Then the Scot’s expression transformed into a cordial smile of acknowledgement.

  Mistrusting Declan’s unexplained appearance in Sicily, Caradoc leaned closer to Gareth, their shoulders touching. “Mind the cross on my behalf.”

  Before Gareth could question his meaning, Caradoc slid from his seat and strode out of the grand hall, into the adjoining solarium. In the relative quiet, he pulled his cell phone from his inside coat pocket and hastily punched in Merrick’s number. ’Twas time to obtain explanations.

  The North American commander answered on the second ring. “Merrick.”

  “’Tis I. How fares Anne?” Caradoc leaned against the wall, his free arm folded over his chest.

  A prolonged pause restored Caradoc’s frown. Anne had taken her seraph’s vows, ’twas no sickness that could claim her life. She should be healed by now. “Merrick?”

  “Aye. Anne rests.”

  “She has not recovered from her illness?”

  Again, Merrick paused before answering, “Nay. But ’tis naught worthy of concern. It appears she still is subject to a few of mortality’s weaknesses.”

  A possibility Caradoc could understand. Whilst immortality could be gained on the utterance of the vows, it took far longer for the dark taint on the Templar souls to heal. Mayhap the same worked for the women as well. Mayhap it took equal time for them to lose their susceptibility to illness.

  In either case, Merrick’s voice did not carry the strain of concern ’twould have if Anne’s condition had worsened. Caradoc allowed a smile to touch his words. “At least she cannot cause trouble with talk of retrieving her sister from California.”

  Merrick chuckled. “Aye. She has let that matter go for the moment. How is Sicily, my friend?”

  The memory of Isabelle’s cold words and the tension around her eyes flashed in Caradoc’s mind. Sicily was fraught with frustrations. More strain than he could have ever imagined would accompany the return of the tears. Yet, he did not wish to discuss the finding of his seraph with Merrick. ’Twas not the time, nor the place. Too many unseen ears could overhear, and he would not chance the resulting risk to Isabelle.

  Instead, he focused on the reason he had phoned. “Tell me, Merrick, did Mikhail explain why he sent Declan as well?”

  “Declan?” Merrick barked in surprise. “He is there?”

  The fact Merrick knew naught of the Scot’s arrival tightened the fist at the base of Caradoc’s spine. Alarm spread through his limbs, tensing muscles that knew only the habit of battle. He clenched the phone more firmly and turned into the wall to shelter his words. “Aye. He arrived this morn.”

  “He was not sent, Caradoc. I assure you such. Mikhail does not trust him. A moment.” Merrick sighed. The sound of a door shutting drifted through the line. “Apologies. I did not wish to wake Anne.” His voice came with more authority. “Declan has spent too long in the shadows of the Temple. Mikhail would not send him on any duty, most especially alone. Has he said anything to you?”

  “Nay. But he is here, observing the auction. He has spoken to no one.”

  “I cannot help you, my friend. Keep him in your sights. Mayhap you can achieve the explanations for his behavior that we all desire.”

  ’Twas doubtful, but Caradoc did not object. Lifting his head, he ventured into the one subject he did not wish to dwell on. “I do not suppose you have been informed if there should be seraphs involved in this assignment?”

  Merrick chuckled. “Nay. For once, the temple is quiet. No construction keeps me awake at night whilst the men prepare rooms. I suspect ’tis only the tears the archangels have sent you and Tane for. With Azazel’s recent attempt on Chloe, and the death of Iain’s seraph, I cannot fathom Gabriel would not insure the next seraph’s safety.”

  Gabriel indeed, had taken no such measures. Isabelle stood in the open, unprotected, unshielded from Azazel’s dark might. Caradoc bit back an oath. “Aye, ’twould not make sense for him to leave another unguarded.”

  The door behind Caradoc swung open, and Tane stepped into the shaded alcove. Not wanting his conversation overheard, Caradoc straightened his shoulders and willed the frustration out of his expression. “Very well, Merrick. I thank you for your information. I must go now. ’Tis time to attend to our purpose here.”

  “Take care, Caradoc. We shall welcome your return in a few days.”

  Caradoc dropped his phone inside his coat and nodded to Tane. “Declan was not sent by Mikhail.”

  “Aye, and he stands inside, staring at your Isabelle.”

  A sudden, unexpected flash of anger shoved Caradoc away from the wall. He reached for the door, intending to storm inside and chase the Scot down, demanding answers.

  Tane, however, caught him by the jacket sleeve. “Nay, do not be reckless. We will learn what he is about soon enough.”

  Caradoc relented with a frustrated hiss. Tane was right. To march in and demand answers would only further distance Declan. Watching Isabelle harmed naught. Besides, Declan was not the only man who kept her in his sights. Her beauty drew much attention.

  He allowed Tane to take the lead and resumed his seat as the auctioneer placed a small box on the display table. Behind the balding man, a screen lit up with a magnified view of a man’s ring set with a large cabochon sapphire. The monotone voice filtered through the room, rich in its Italian melody. A few moments later, he repeated the description in stilted English.

  “Lot number 637, an 18th century signet ring, engraved with the Duke of Parma’s crest. Who will begin the bidding at twenty thousand Euros?”

  Isabelle lifted her number. At her poise and grace, the absolute calm with which she approached her profession, Caradoc’s heart turned over. The tightness in his chest spread through his limbs, until his joints festered with it and staying in his chair became impossible. Without a word, he excused himself, unable to tolerate the vast distance that separated him from the woman he desired. He strode swiftly through the villa’s front doors, out into the car-lined street.

  There, he braced a forearm on his SUV’s sturdy frame and sucked in deep breaths. One way or another, he must convince her to yield. Another night could not pass without a resolution. ’Twould kill him if it did.

  * * *

  Merrick entered the rooms he shared with Anne, his footsteps soft, his pace slow. He returned to the edge of their large bed and looked down on the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Stretched on her side atop the covers, she slept undisturbed, as she had each afternoon since the weakness had set upon her. Yet even in slumber, her full mouth carried the undeniable upturn of a smile.

  Wanting to take her in his arms and indulge in the paradise of her body, he resisted the urge to crawl atop the downy mattress and stre
tch along her side. Instead, he swept her thick red hair away from her shoulder and skimmed his eyes along the length of her petite form. His affectionate gaze lingered at the slender tuck of her waist and the tight flesh there that would soon swell.

  A father. In seven months, he would hold his child.

  His heart beat a little faster as he felt the same lightness touch his face. He yielded to the smile, though with it came a beat of fear.

  Of all the people he could trust with the truth about Anne’s illness, ’twas Caradoc. ’Twas that fear, however, that kept Merrick from speaking of the miracle. For nine centuries, he had existed, believing he could never sire a child. Accepting that he would never know how it felt to look into the eyes of innocence or hear his son’s cries in the middle of the night. He had never dreamed a seraph could be excluded from the curse.

  Why he had never considered the matter, he did not know. Anne’s light worked miracles on his soul. Her angelic blood restored his faith. He had accepted the prophecy, believed a seraph could undo centuries of evil. And yet, he had never once considered that by the very meaning of her nature, he might well know all the joys he had once dreamed of as a mortal knight. Home. Wife. Children.

  The reality was still too fragile to accept. He feared ’twas some mistake. That once the archangels learned of Anne’s pregnancy, they would somehow steal the babe before he could ever set his eyes upon it.

  The compounding worry that the taint still lingering in his blood might somehow kill the child before it arrived also kept him silent. Or worse, that Azazel might have some hold over the babe and could somehow squelch air from fragile lungs.

  Merrick took a deep breath and lifted a shaking hand to the graceful slope of Anne’s hip. Fanning his fingers, he slid them over the smoothness of her belly. A strange protective fierceness burst within his chest. He would challenge Azazel and stand toe-to-toe with Mikhail, ready to fight to the death if he must. As long as breath remained in his body, no one would harm his child.