“Can someone else not bid upon it? I could ask Tane…”
“No.” Though he might disagree, Caradoc needed time to think. Time to let September’s existence settle in.
A haggard sigh escaped him. “Isabelle, I do not know what to do with a child.”
Just as she’d expected, he intended to run. She tried to keep the inward twist of her heart off her face and bent over to rummage through her makeup bag. “I guess you’ll have to figure that one out, won’t you? Unlike you, I didn’t have any choice.”
Fisting her fingers around her lip-gloss, she fished it out and ducked under the arm he braced against the doorframe. No more hoping he’d come around. He’d as much as said he didn’t plan on becoming a part of September’s life. He’d just have to accept the fact that they were part and parcel. He couldn’t have her without their daughter.
She pulled out a trim black suit from the closet and lingered in the bedroom only long enough to dress. At the door, she stopped to look back at him. “Are you staying here? Or…?”
He closed his eyes as if something pained him and sat down on the edge of her bed. “I need a few moments.”
“Right.”
Unable to consider the fact that he might legitimately be hurting, she left him to his thoughts. No way in this world could his pain equal the way he’d just cut her heart into pieces. But damned if she’d let him know how deeply his rejection hurt. She’d told him too much. Cried on his shoulder one too many times. Confessing she’d held some girlish fantasy that he’d jump for joy about a child she knew he didn’t want would only cause them both embarrassment. Besides, he couldn’t just put a band-aid over that. No amount of kisses, of passionate lovemaking could change how he felt. He might want her, but he wasn’t ready to fill the overall role.
He hadn’t been for centuries, and he wouldn’t likely ever be.
Determined not to cry, she jogged down the stairs, through the villa’s front entry, and onto the drizzly streets outside. September came first, and now, it was up to Isabelle to somehow find a way to keep her safe. To figure out who this shadow was—or rather what—and how to keep it away from her daughter.
Ironically, she found a measure of comfort that Paul had chosen to kidnap September now. Locked away in his fortresses, nothing could get to her. Though Isabelle held no doubt Paul’s threat was legitimate, a simple man could be defeated. And she would do so by procuring his damned necklace. On the other hand, she didn’t have the faintest clue how to thwart a thing with claws and fangs that looked part human and part Stephen King creation.
Chapter 20
Caradoc leaned his head into his hand and stared at the carpeting alongside Isabelle’s bed. Here, in her room, she surrounded him. From her clothes strewn across the floor, to the clutter on her bathroom countertop, to her rumpled covers, she existed in every minute particle. ’Twas why he chose to stay in her absence—to understand, for a little while, all he could and drown himself in her until he could not hear the racket in his head that refused to accept he had fathered September.
He reached between his feet and picked up the discarded sweater she had worn the previous eve. Rubbing the soft wool between his thumb and forefinger, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the truths he knew about her.
They had shared much. More than many lovers, for in the few weeks they had spent together, they did not just share the enjoyment of their bodies. They shared dreams, hopes, and secrets. He suspected he knew more about her family than any other. Things she did not find it easy to confess. And though he had omitted specific details that related to his knighthood, he had told her the things closest to his heart. Most specifically his deep love for the land of Asterleigh and how it tore him into pieces to watch the last of it be divided and sold with the auction of Kiddington Hall.
In all that he had learned, she had not once spoken a falsehood. Had never hesitated to let him into the secret places of her soul. He believed in her love. ’Twas the one thing that had both kept him struggling to stay alive and simultaneously wishing for death. She would not have taken a lover so soon after they parted.
In the darkest fathoms of his heart, he knew she had grieved as deeply as he.
Which meant only that she must have come to him expecting and not been aware of her status. As she had said, the math put September’s conception very close to the first night they had spent together on the English cliffs.
September could not belong to him, but Isabelle believed she did. The child believed she did; he could not rationalize her ability to see him as he once was, and he did not care to try. ’Twould be logical for a seraph’s daughter to share her mother’s gifts. Mayhap the girl saw something of the future. A battle he might yet fight. He refused to acknowledge the nagging sensation that his explanation was mere delusion to content his upside-down mind.
Isabelle believed they had conceived a child, and for almost three years, she had raised this babe alone. ’Twas no wonder her venom held such poison. Had he walked in her shoes, he could not say he would have been so quick to stand in the same room with him, let alone stay the night in his bed.
But what was he to do with a child? The temple would not accept her within their walls. Aye, he could choose to live outside the gates and maintain his own household, but his time would be divided between both, and Isabelle would suffer. Not to mention upon their immediate return, her presence in the temple would be required for several weeks, if not months. She had much to learn, no matter how strong her gift was presently.
What would happen if he grew to love the girl, and when time passed, she died? He could not imagine how much more difficult ’twould be to face parting with one he had helped to raise.
What if she became ill before then?
Shaking his head, he stood and walked to the table where Isabelle had left her wallet. He flipped to a picture of September blowing the camera a kiss. Standing on a beach, she wore a yellow and pink bikini. Behind her, turquoise waves rolled across the sand. Indeed, she was a beautiful child.
Isabelle’s beautiful child.
And if he loved Isabelle, he must choose to learn to love this girl.
’Twould indeed be easier if the thought of her did not remind him Isabelle had given herself to another. She had been no innocent when they had met, but he despised the idea that anyone else might have known her the intimate way he did.
Mayhap Gareth knew something of the curse that he did not. He had taken the oaths almost two hundred years later; they would be fresher to his memory.
He set Isabelle’s wallet down and let himself out of her room, nearly colliding with Declan.
* * *
Declan clamped his teeth, squelching a baleful curse. Until this moment, he had not believed Leofric’s assurances that Caradoc had already strayed from the Templar code of conduct. He had witnessed Isabelle only a few times at the villa. Reported on her acquisitions as Leofric bade him to do. But the little interaction she had with Caradoc spoke nothing of their pre-ordained fate.
Until Caradoc let himself out of her room.
“Brother, I did not expect to see you here,” Caradoc said as he regained his footing. His distraction was obvious in the creases on his brow, the way his eyes did not focus on Declan’s face.
Sensing advantage, Declan latched on to hope. Mayhap he could still influence Caradoc. He did not wish to report him to Leofric, for this time, Leofric had insinuated they would not be so slow to act upon a knight’s misdeeds. He could not stomach the idea of punishing Caradoc.
And yet, for the good of the Templar, he could not ignore his duty. He trained a smile onto his face and struck a casual tone. “Aye. I didna expect to see you either.” He nodded at Isabelle’s closed door. “You were with Isabelle?”
Caradoc answered with a vague shake of his head. His frown returned, his distance from the conversation as obvious as blood on a new snowfall.
“’Tis not her room?”
“Aye. She has gone to Shapiro’s.”
>
Declan forced himself to chuckle. He clapped a hand on Caradoc’s shoulder and gave him a brotherly pat. “I expect you are celebrating that Isabelle is your seraph?”
A brief flicker of surprise smoothed Caradoc’s frown. “You know?”
He had not—not until Caradoc confirmed it with the question. Something deep down Declan’s gut rolled over, regret combating with his instinctual urge to congratulate his brother. He glanced away, unable to look Caradoc in the eye as he lied. “Word travels through the brotherhood quickly.”
“Aye, I suppose it does.” Caradoc passed a hand through his hair, and his frown returned. “What brings you to Sicily?”
“Boredom.” He shrugged, doing his best to curb the natural suspicions that made Caradoc a great general of men and Merrick’s second in command. He must be careful. They knew each other too well. One wrong word, and Caradoc would see through the veil of deceit. “I have no duties in the temple and wished to stretch my legs. You ken I canna fight. Mikhail hasna seen fit to let me since you sliced my arm near in half.”
“And well he should not.”
Declan changed the subject. “Are you expected at Shapiro’s as well?”
As if the question jarred his memory, Caradoc glanced down at his watch and swore. “I should be there now.”
’Twas unlike his brother to let duty slip. More evidence that Leofric’s claims held truth. Declan grimaced inwardly, knowing what he must do, detesting every moment of it. Though he would always hold love in his heart for the men he had served with the longest, their crimes could not be overlooked. They must pay the price, and if the Order witnessed that their leaders were not exempt, the others would modify their ways. Once more, the Templar path would hold honor.
“You look troubled,” he murmured with false concern.
If they had spoken different languages, Declan would not require an interpreter to hear his brother’s answer. A pain Caradoc did not voice etched into his face, stealing the light from his eyes. For the slightest passing of time, the mighty knight looked weak, before his countenance smoothed, and he cocked his head to study Declan.
“Tell me, Declan, do you recall the oaths we took beneath the Temple Mount?”
’Twas Declan’s turn to be surprised. He blinked, his senses on high alert. Had Caradoc learned of his purpose here? Had Leofric sensed Caradoc’s gradual descent into full darkness and approached him to become part of the Kerzu? Cautiously, Declan answered, “Aye, I recall them well. Why do you ask?”
“We were stripped of our seed, were we not?”
Dumbfounded, Declan could do no more than blink a second time. It took a moment for him to realize Caradoc legitimately expected an answer every Templar knew. He stumbled over his tongue and stammered, “Aye.”
“And the prophecy of seraphs—it says naught about children?”
Declan squinted. What nonsense was this? For months now, men had studied the prophecy in hopes they might be the next to discover their own. Caradoc knew it as well as the next man. “It names the six, those who shall come first: the teacher, she who is blind, she who digs in dust, and you have found the jewel. Next will come she who understands the sword, concluding with the greatest loyalty.” He rubbed the back of his neck, anxiety setting in. Something was not right. Caradoc should not be questioning the prophecy that had been written before time. “Why do you ask, brother?”
Caradoc’s voice came as if he spoke through a distant tunnel. “She swears I have sired her child.”
“She speaks lies!”
A spark of anger lit in Declan’s gut. An impure seraph—’twas an insult to her very status. A foul presence worked its way through his veins, urging for this wrong to be righted. To spill blood. To employ the only method that would cleanse this foul taint from the Order and snuff out the life of the seraph who would dare to bring it upon them.
’Twould be so easy. She travels to Shapiro’s alone.
Nay! He recoiled, stunned by the nature of his thoughts. He would not kill a woman, not for the Order, not for Leofric, not for the very Almighty himself. Women were to be protected at all costs. Particularly seraphs. ’Twas the reason he must report Caradoc’s misdeeds.
Anxious to be free of Caradoc’s presence, he stepped around him. “Excuse me, brother, I have forgotten something I didna attend to.”
“Aye,” again, Caradoc spoke as if his mind were leagues away from the hallway they occupied.
Shaken from the reaction of his subconscious, Declan hurried down the stairs to the front entry and out the villa’s front doors. In the cool fresh air, he leaned against the side of the building, pulling in deep breaths. Where did these vile thoughts come from? He could not be capable of producing them—could he? Had the darkness of his soul become so close to transformation that he had begun to think like a fallen Templar?
Right the wrong.
He shook his head, tipped his face up to the light rain. ’Twas not his voice. He did not recognize who it belonged to, but ’twas not his own. He had brought death to his wife, but he could not kill a woman. Isabelle could be a two-bit whore, and he would not raise a finger to her.
With a jittery hand, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He dialed Leofric. There must be an explanation. If any would know, ’twould be him.
“Declan,” Leofric answered.
He turned into the building to muffle his voice. “What is the meaning of these thoughts that have begun to plague me?”
“Thoughts? I know naught of what you speak.”
Grimacing, Declan pressed his forehead to the wet stone. “I hear a voice. It urges me to do unspeakable things. I wasna warned of this.”
A moment of silence passed through the line before Leofric replied. When he spoke, his words held warmth. “Ah, aye. Do not be distressed, Declan. ’Tis merely evidence that you have become committed to our purpose. I have struggled with the same, but like the rest of your duties, it too becomes manageable.”
If it became as manageable as turning his brothers in for crimes he had once indulged in, he wanted naught to do with it. However, he had learned the futility of protest. Leofric would only offer assurances, bid him to be patient. Words he did not care to hear.
“Did you have news for me, Declan?”
“Aye.” He expelled a heavy breath, not wanting to relay what he had learned. The others had erred, yet he could find no fault with the outcome. Oaths were taken, men were healed.
“Well, what is it?” Leofric snapped.
Declan squeezed his eyes shut to drown out the protests in his head. The end did not justify the means. The only way the Order would be restored was if they all returned to the Code. “Caradoc has stumbled, as you ken he would. But Isabelle herself is also impure.”
“In what fashion?”
“She has borne a child. One she claims is Caradoc’s. Her lies place a stain on our honor.”
Another exaggerated pause drifted through the line. A heavy thump echoed in the background.
“Brother?” Declan asked.
“Keep her in your sights. Do naught more than what you have been assigned.”
Before Declan could agree, the phone clicked, signaling Leofric had disconnected. For several seconds, Declan held the phone to his ear whilst he swallowed down a litany of curses. He tired of Leofric’s arrogance. For eight centuries, Declan had served the Templar. He was no greenhorn, nor a boy wet behind the ears, deserving of such disrespect.
Yet he was the newest member of the Kerzu, and he supposed some degree of deference was expected. When this assignment concluded, he would speak to Leofric. Until that time, he would do as he had been tasked—watch, report, and remain true to the noble purpose of the Knights Templar.
A distant church bell tolled the noon hour, reminding Declan that Caradoc, Gareth, and Tane would soon be leaving for Shapiro’s. He dared not risk confronting all three. They would ask questions, demand answers he could not give. Pushing away from the wall, he jogged to the street corner to
catch the bus. He would arrive before them and watch Isabelle…as he had been ordered.
Chapter 21
After three hours of attempting to speak to Isabelle and being avoided, Caradoc found her standing at the long row of cases that held the premiere jewelry, including the necklace of tears. This time she did not have people surrounding her who she could hide behind or dance around to escape him. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure Gareth and Tane remained in the auction hall for the acquisition of another of the archangels’ insignificant trinkets, a silver Templar dagger. On finding his brothers seated where he had left them, he strode across the room to stand at Isabelle’s side.
“You are avoiding me.”
As if she had been lost in thought, she startled. Her cool blue gaze met his displeased frown. “I’ve said everything I have to say.” She made to move around him. “I have things to do. Excuse me.”
Caradoc caught her by the elbow. He took a step forward, setting his foot between hers and forbidding her departure. “We have more important unfinished business to attend to, Isa.”
She let out a light laugh. “Like what? More beating my head against the wall with you refusing to believe the truth?”
Her sarcasm snapped him straight into anger. He had intended to tell her that he understood he must accept her daughter, even if the idea struck terror in his veins. He had intended to apologize for his brutish behavior. Further, he had intended to offer an olive branch by telling her until they could speak to Mikhail, he would not argue her claims about September’s parentage. But standing in the shadow of the harsh smile on her face, his rehearsed speech evaporated like water poured on hot coals.
Instinct took command. Grabbing her other elbow to still her attempts to squirm free, he moved closer, invading her personal space. His actions forced her to lean backward against the case to avoid contact. Caradoc would have none of it. A harsh jerk brought her forward, her breasts crushing into his chest. She gasped at the same time his mouth settled over hers.
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 17