Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars)

by Claire Ashgrove

  “You must eat. You are naught but skin and bones.”

  Behind her, the refrigerator thumped shut. Something heavy rattled against the island’s counter. The clatter of silverware and plates followed.

  Noelle meandered alongside the wall, taking in the rows of hanging photographs. Old photos. Men dressed in military uniforms and women dressed in bustles and long, draping skirts. An occasional black-and-white of a country farm interrupted the portrait gallery. “Who are these people?”

  “Bethany’s family.”

  Wow. It must be nice to have heirlooms as old as this. Most of Noelle’s family relics had disappeared over time. She owned a quilt her great-grandmother made as a young girl, but nothing like the pictorial timeline hanging in Bethany’s kitchen.

  “Will you have soup, or a pastrami sandwich?”

  As she traced a finger over the brittle glass that covered the face of a little girl with springy curls, Noelle forgot about the slight Farran dealt her. “Pastrami.” She moved further down the wall and stared at a black-and-white wedding scene with the very house she stood inside rising in the background.

  “So this must have been her family’s home then?”

  “Aye. Bethany was born here.”

  Another stab of longing lanced through Noelle. Family … Some days she missed her parents so much she wanted to pack up her things and leave D.C. forever. The family she had now amounted to little more than cousins she’d met at a handful of small reunions. People who would come to her aid, but folks she really only knew by name. Her parents had been the only people to ever understand her, to really accept her for all her social flaws. But running away wouldn’t bring them back. Nothing could reverse that fatal tornado.

  “Come. We shall eat in our rooms.”

  Noelle snapped her head up, Farran’s voice jerking her out of memories. A quick glance around showed he’d already cleaned up after himself and now stood waiting at the door with two plates in hand. Embarrassed to be caught so deeply in thought, she hurried to join him. Halfway across the room, however, she failed to notice the island stool that sat cockeyed from the bar. Her toe caught on one leg, and Noelle tripped.

  Half lying on the stool, she scrambled to right herself before it scooted all the way out from under her and she went flying to the ground. Her glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose. Her hair flipped forward into her face. Time suspended as she waited for the wobbling to stop, each agonizing second adding to the increasing heat that burned into her cheeks. What a fool she must look like. Talk about a bull in a china shop. She was the only person she knew who could fall over a toothpick lying on the ground.

  When the stool steadied, she took a deep breath. Expelling it, she puffed her hair out of her face, slid her glasses back into place, and glanced at Farran, hoping against all hope he hadn’t noticed.

  He had.

  Leaning on the doorframe, he stared at her. His mouth quirked with amusement. Those mesmerizing ale-colored eyes sparkled. “’Tis a wonder your cat survived kittenhood.”

  Noelle pushed herself upright. Shooting him a scowl, she grumbled, “Oh, shut up.” Before he could comment further, she adjusted her lopsided purse and scurried through the door.

  As she passed, however, she caught the muffled rasp of a chuckle.

  He stepped around her, effectively leading her up the stairs. A narrow hall spanned left and right at the landing, and Farran gestured to the left with a plate. “Where I will sleep.” He inclined his head to the door directly in front of them. “Your room is here.”

  Noelle took the plate out of his hand and opened the door. One foot over the threshold, Farran caught her elbow. She swiveled to look up into his narrowed eyes.

  “There is no trellis outside your window. My door shall remain open. Need I remind you what will happen should you attempt to run?”

  Only the dull ache of her empty stomach curbed the urge to throw her sandwich in his face. She jerked her arm free, stalked inside, and shut the door. For good measure, she pushed the lock in place.

  For several long minutes, she waited for him to pound on the door with a demand to unlock it. When the only sound that met her ears was the retreat of his feet, she gave in to the brimming string of curses. Run? Here, where she didn’t have a clue about where to go? Did he really think she had no sense? D.C. was different—she could find her way back to her apartment from any main road. If he thought she’d try to flee when she was as lost as a sailor without a compass, he had to be stupid.

  She set her plate down on a round, claw-foot table and shrugged her purse off her shoulder. The rumbling in her belly demanded she eat. But before she could take so much as one bite, she needed to do something with the Sudarium. Once she had it appropriately hidden, she could consider her stomach.

  With a quick glance around the room, she surveyed the antique furniture—sleigh bed, tall ornately carved wardrobe, wood and metal traveling trunk, vanity with an oval mirror. All done in deep cherry. On the bed, a thick off-white quilt bore a flowered circular pattern in the middle, it’s off-centeredness a hint it had been made by hand. Here too, the portraits on the walls carried age, only where the ones in the kitchen had been small photographs, these were vibrant oils.

  Much to her disappointment, she found no closet. But then, that shouldn’t have surprised her—houses built in this one’s day didn’t often contain them. They were considered rooms and taxed accordingly.

  Hands on her hips, she gnawed on her lower lip. Under the bed was out—too obvious, and the lack of a bed skirt made the empty underneath visible. She went to the wardrobe, pulled the doors open. The pungent aroma of mothballs flooded her nose. Holding her breath, she flipped through empty hangers to the concealed corner and rapped on the wood in search of a fabled false side.

  When no deeper echo resonated, she tapped lightly along the rest of the walls and the bottom. No difference. Dismayed, she eased the doors shut and went to the vanity. Six drawers all produced the same results—empty, save for the fine liner of tissue paper, and no false bottom.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  This was supposed to be easy. Not an exercise in frustration.

  She crossed to the foot of the bed and the old trunk adorned with various customs stamps. Inside, she discovered bedding and more old quilts, these with the telltale must clinging to the worn fabric. She rubbed at her nose to stifle a sneeze and shoved her hands along the neatly folded stacks until she reached the bottom.

  Nothing.

  Straightening, Noelle scanned the portraits. A sizeable depiction of a woman in pink silk hung cockeyed, drawing her attention. She squinted. Had dusting knocked it sideways? Or was something behind it?

  She took a step forward, onto a threadbare Oriental rug. The thin fabric muffled the heels of her boots, but she slowed her step anyway as the overwhelming feeling she was snooping filtered into her consciousness. If something was behind that portrait, it had been hidden for a reason. And her eyes were most likely not welcome.

  Halfway across the room, a board creaked beneath her step. As she moved off the plank, her heel connected with a hollow thump. Noelle froze. No way. She had to be imagining things.

  She looked to her boots, lifted her right heel, and tapped it against the floor. The same dull sound answered. Checking to ensure she hadn’t misjudged the obvious sound of a normal floor, she tested the surrounding area. With each drop of her heel, the boards answered in sturdy fashion. She tried the off-sounding board once more and bit back a squeal of delight.

  No doubt about it, that particular board was different.

  Rejuvenated by a burst of excitement, Noelle hurried off the rug and picked up a corner to ease it out of the way. When she had the place where she’d been standing revealed, she tested the floor a final time. The distinctly hollow echo confirmed her suspicions.

  She dropped to her knees and ran her hands over the plank. Fingertips met a raised corner, found tiny nail heads standing above the smooth surface. Pulled loo
se on purpose, or just a product of time, she couldn’t say. It didn’t matter either.

  Prying her nails beneath the lifted edge, she pulled.

  The board offered no protest as it bent in the middle and lifted away from the floor a good four inches.

  Noelle peered into the opening, noting bits and pieces of lint, thick dust bunnies, and a handful of mouse droppings. Nothing indicated Bethany knew this board was loose, or that anyone other than the mice cared about this little gap between the ceiling below and the guest room’s floor.

  Delighted, she let the board fall into place and went to the trunk for a pillowcase. She shook it out, straightened the pile of linens, and shut the arched top. From her purse, she retrieved the Sudarium’s canister and twisted off the top. The hole wouldn’t hold the unbendable metal, but out of its container, the thirty-three-inch cloth was a perfect fit.

  She eased the Sudarium inside the pillowcase, folded it into a narrow strip, and returned to the board. It took a little maneuvering, but the protected cloth wedged in tight. A perfect place to hide it, until she needed to retrieve it.

  The board in place, she rolled the rug out straight and gave in to a self-satisfied smirk. Now, when Farran and his friends discovered the satchel Lucan had held nothing but her clothes, she would be home free.

  CHAPTER 10

  With morning’s light, the shadows in the hallway dimmed. Farran turned his gaze from the doorway and rolled onto his back. The ceiling proved no more interesting than it had throughout the night. Nor did the light of dawn chase the images of Noelle from his head. As the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs droned the passing of each hour, she rooted into his mind. Each time he closed his eyes in search of sleep, she lay waiting, those fawn-colored eyes beckoning. Her silky mouth inviting.

  He relived their kiss a hundred times or more. Bathed in the memory of her sweet jasmine perfume. Suffered the tantalizing weight of her breast beneath his palm.

  God’s teeth, she tormented long after the stirrings behind her door ceased. ’Twas a miracle he had slept at all. Were it not for the rest the previous day denied him, he would still be chasing the elusive arms of slumber.

  A rustle through the walls snapped his eyes wide. He lay still, listening as Noelle moved through her room. Did she dress? Don that scrap of silk and satin he had once removed from her? The vision tugged at his mind once more. Against his thigh, his cock stirred. With an annoyed hiss, Farran sat up and swept the covers aside. He jerked on his jeans.

  Ten hours more, and he would be free of her. They would speak their oaths, and he would not waste one moment longer to find comfort in Leah’s embrace. Once he expelled this rush of lust, Noelle would cease to plague him.

  Her door opened, bringing his gaze to the hall. Soft footsteps padded closer. Through the gray light, her silhouette took shape. She poked her head through his doorway and greeted him with a hesitant smile. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  As if a cool breeze caressed him, his body tightened at her whisper. His gaze swept over her. Tousled long hair revealed her night had not been as restless as his. Sleep still clung to her features, softening her full lips and the brightness of her eyes. She wore the sweatshirt the larger, more robust Louise provided. And ’twas all she wore.

  His gaze locked on the thick fabric that dusted the tops of her trim thighs. Barely long enough to qualify as decent covering, it gaped near the juncture of her legs. When she shifted her weight, he caught the briefest glimpse of ivory that covered her feminine flesh.

  Jesu.

  Farran swallowed hard and coiled his hands into the bedding at his sides. He dragged his eyes away, but made the mistake of following the short length of her slender legs. She rubbed a toe against the inside of her dainty ankle. Fire lit in his gut. A slow burn that threatened to spread and consume him. The tightening in his groin intensified, and he struggled to breathe.

  “Farran? I need to use the restroom.”

  He jerked his gaze back to her face. Before he could collect himself enough to direct her to the opposite end of the hall, she lifted a hand to cover a yawn. The sweatshirt pulled. Lifted to expose one hip. A strap so insignificant he could gnaw it in half wound around her waist, securing her damnable undergarment. Though he had glimpsed her underclothes whilst he attended to her injuries, they had not vexed him whilst she slept. She had not moved, had not animated limbs. Had not yet poisoned him with the taste of her silken mouth.

  Self-conscious in his silence, she dropped her hands and smoothed her shirt. Her dark eyebrows pulled with worry. She reached around behind her and tugged the hem over her buttocks. “Um.” Glancing at her legs as if she inspected herself for spots, she fidgeted side to side. “Farran?”

  He shook his head to clear away the fantastic images that leapt to life within his mind, and glared. ’Twas women’s trickery. The innocent guise. The widening of her eyes. The act as if she knew naught of what her near-nakedness would cause. She wanted something—likely her freedom. As Brighid had done countless times, she sought to soften him. ’Twould not work. He had been the fool once. He would never make the same mistake again.

  He pushed to his feet, strode across the room, and grabbed her by the shoulders. With gritted teeth, he turned her so she faced the door at the end of hall and ground out, “There.”

  She took a step forward and he tightened his grip. Bending near to her ear, he warned, “Do not attempt to bend me to your wishes by parading your wares beneath my nose. I assure you, damsel, you will fail.” He loosened his fingers. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

  With a none too gentle shove, he pushed her toward her destination and barred her from his sight with the slamming of his door.

  * * *

  Noelle spluttered as she gaped at the barred doorway. Her wares? Bend him to her wishes? Had the man lost all his marbles? It wasn’t as if she had a dresser full of nightgowns to wear. Judging from his half-dressed state, and the way his fly hung partly open, he hadn’t slept fully dressed either.

  She glanced down at the hem of her borrowed sweatshirt and rolled her eyes. Midthigh, it exposed nothing. Summertime would find her in far less, even if she couldn’t bring herself to wear a bikini to the beach. He really believed she’d chosen this as provocative?

  The pressure on her bladder increased, and she mumbled beneath her breath. She stalked to the bathroom, shoved open the door, and flipped on the light. A sweatshirt seductive—of all the ludicrous things. If she’d known heavy cotton that bagged around her torso could do the trick, maybe she’d have had a lover or two by now.

  The cold porcelain stool made her shiver, and she huddled down into the thick material. Catching her reflection in the wide mirror, she stared at the fuzzy lines of her face. Even without her glasses, she could see the dark circles under her eyes, the wild mass of knots her hair had become. How Farran could think she’d try to seduce him when she looked like the Wicked Witch of the West defied all rationality. On her best day, she wouldn’t get far enough to elicit a response. She wasn’t stupid enough to believe Farran would find her attractive after a restless night of sleep.

  Her business finished, she flushed and turned on the sink. A few splashes of cold water eliminated the drowsiness that clung to her eyes. She gasped at the icy sensation and blindly fumbled for the towel that hung near the light switch. Drying off, she peered at her reflection again.

  Nope. No better. Sleep removed, there was simply nothing there to add credence to Farran’s ridiculous insinuation. Her glasses at least made her look intelligent. And her hair … it would take hours to try and tame that mess.

  Opting for the easiest solution, she turned to the bathtub and spun the tap. When the water ran a comfortable lukewarm, she stuffed her head beneath the faucet. A tiny bottle of hotel-room conditioner sat on the overhead ledge next to its twin shampoo. She quickly applied a liberal dose and combed her fingers through the tangles. When her hands slid freely, she rinsed and wrung out the ends.

  Rising, she re
turned to the mirror. Wet hair wasn’t much better than tangles. But at least in an hour or so, she’d have somewhat manageable locks. If she were lucky, she wouldn’t catch a cold as well.

  As she exited the bathroom, she observed Farran’s door stood open once more. A glimpse of wide bronzed shoulders had her scurrying into her room and shutting the door before he could turn around. She took a deep breath, determined to ignore the way her heart tripped into her ribs at the sight of powerful muscles and a tapering waist. Damn … Why did the nuttiest man she’d ever met also have to be the most gorgeous one?

  She refused to give the splendid vision further thought and dressed with haste. Judging by his sour demeanor, it wouldn’t be the wisest move to keep him waiting. Jeans, boots, and coat donned, she yanked her hair into a ponytail then picked up her purse. With a backward glance at the hidden board, she stepped into the hall, ready to confront whatever Farran concocted.

  As she stepped onto the top stair, her gaze slid to Farran’s open door. Dark and empty, the room held no sign he’d been there moments before. He’d even made the bed—more than she could say for herself.

  Shaking her head at the man’s idiosyncrasies, she descended the stairs. One minute, he created the perfect ideal of what a man should be. The next, he turned into a psychiatrist’s dream project.

  She found him in the kitchen, wolfing down a bowl of cold cereal. He paused long enough to lift his spoon and gesture at an identical bowl near the countertop’s edge. “Break your fast.”

  It took a moment for his meaning to register. When it did, she declined with a shake of her head. “No, thanks. I’m not really a breakfast person.”

  He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Three more spoonfuls, and he set his bowl into the sink. “You are ready then?”