Maybe it had. Missouri was known for its caves. She’d explored several wild caves on weekend college trips. Maybe whoever built this house chose it because of the natural cubbies where they could store food. It certainly was old enough to support the idea.
The absence of stalagmites or broken stalactites reinforced her theory. If water ran through here once, it eroded the cavern until what was now a footpath stretched smooth.
As they rounded a corner, a series of thick wooden doors emerged in the hall. In the silence, her imagination leaped into action. Had the Mob been here? Had some gangster from the forties used this place during Prohibition? With cubby after cubby hidden behind those metal-studded doors, someone could hide a whole trainful of liquor and never worry about someone breaking in. For that matter, it would take a powerful gun to cut through those slabs of wood. Simple bullets wouldn’t make a dent.
Farran led the small group through a series of twists and turns. On occasion, a head popped out from behind one of the doors to inspect the procession, but no one made an attempt to speak. They wove through the maze of identical closed-off rooms until Noelle couldn’t decipher whether they walked north or south. Or any other direction in between. Everything was identical—soft sand-colored stone, mounted iron torches, metal-studded doors. Even the footing remained constant, with its complete lack of divots or lumps that would answer the nagging suspicion they were walking in circles.
He halted abruptly before a door engraved with the Templar cross. With a light rap of his knuckles to announce them, Farran opened the door, but pulled Noelle aside. The others filed in quietly.
She turned to him with lifted brows.
Farran dropped his voice and held her gaze, his look full of quiet meaning. “I care not how you look upon me. But, damsel, you will give the archangel the respect deserving of his station. Are we clear?”
It took all of her willpower to hold an amused snort inside. The deepening of the crease between his eyebrows, however, told her the humor reached her eyes. She didn’t know what Farran expected to happen once they entered, but she was pretty damn sure his expectations didn’t begin to match what she had in mind. Smothering a smile, she answered, “Of course.”
CHAPTER 12
Farran escorted Noelle inside Mikhail’s spacious chambers to stand before his desk, all too aware of the eyes that followed their path. Noelle had done everything possible to demean his claims, and on the chance she might denounce Mikhail, he would rather broach this alone. Where Anne had expressed disbelief, even Merrick’s headstrong lady had not dared insult the Almighty’s chosen warrior. Anne possessed faith. Noelle, as Farran well knew, did not.
His fingers still firmly wrapped around her delicate wrist, he guided her to a halt. Behind the massive wooden desk that bore the scars of centuries of work, Mikhail rose. His features warmed with an inviting smile, and he gave Farran a respectful dip of his chin. “Sir Farran, I understand you have discovered your seraph.”
From the corner of his vision, Farran caught the rolling of Noelle’s eyes. He squeezed her wrist tighter, silently instructing her to behave. “Aye. I wish to swear the oath as soon as possible. I have other matters to attend.”
Mikhail arched a reddish-brown eyebrow. “Do you, now? Perhaps ’twould be courteous for you to introduce your lady before you rush away.”
The low, flat tone of Mikhail’s voice scolded Farran for his impatience. He gritted his teeth, flexed the fingers on his free hand, and exhaled long and slow. With the demons lining the nearby lane, he dared not waste precious time with friendly overtures. Nay, better to see this done expediently and forget this night occurred.
“Introductions shall come with the pledge of loyalty. She already knows me. There is a matter I must speak with Merrick about, immediately.” He narrowed his gaze, pinning Mikhail with a hard stare. “A matter I presume you are aware of already.”
One corner of Mikhail’s mouth lifted with the hint of a smile. “You have met our guests.”
“Aye.”
“Very well then. We shall do things your way.” His smile returned to span his features, and Mikhail looked to Noelle. “Dr. Keane, is it?”
“Yes.” Short and concise, Noelle answered without hesitation.
Mikhail’s steely silver eyes sparked. He reached over the desk, clasped Noelle’s hand and brought the back of it to his lips. “We are indebted to the work you have performed, Noelle. Many centuries have passed with the Holy Son’s legitimacy in question. ’Tis long past time for the truths to be unveiled.”
Farran nearly groaned aloud. Of all the things to say to Noelle, Mikhail chose the worst. Farran could think of naught that would spur her faster into giving freedom to her tongue. And what would inevitably tumble off those soft lips, he did not wish to hear.
To his surprise, Noelle merely chuckled. Her long hair washed over her shoulders as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but really, I’ve done nothing. It was a job, among many others.” Her laughter died immediately and every inch of her five-foot frame tightened. Behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her gaze sharpened into pinpoints of harsh light. “A job I must return to. I’d like to speak to Gabriel, and I know someone here knows how to reach him.”
Farran’s stomach turned over. The urge to drag Noelle into the hall and shake sense into her possessed him. One simple request. He had asked one small favor. Yet she did not hesitate to shame him mere moments after she uttered her promise. Why this pained him, he could not say. ’Twas no more than any other woman would do. He had come to expect such. But that spark of hope had lit. The damnable cinder that only served to remind him how vulnerable he could become if he did not keep his wits about him.
Mikhail released her hand with a weary sigh. He gave an absent shake of his head and shuffled through a stack of papers atop his desk. “I fear that is impossible, Noelle. Gabriel travels to find the rest of your kind. His work cannot be interrupted. He shall return in due time.”
Seeking to put an end to the disastrous conversation, Farran took a step forward. “The oath, Mikhail. We would speak it now.”
* * *
Noelle clamped her teeth down tight and scowled at the back of Farran’s head. The oath. The damned oath—this had gone on long enough. She had work to do. An entire stack of boxes from a site in the Middle East awaited her. For two days, she’d allowed herself to be dragged across the countryside on this ridiculous journey. It was time to give up the game. Allow her to return the Sudarium and get back to normal life.
“Sir Farran, you will bide your time until I am ready.”
At Mikhail’s sharp reprimand, Farran’s spine stiffened and his shoulders snapped to attention. His simmering gaze focused on the wall behind Mikhail, not on the man’s face. A face, Noelle reluctantly admitted, that rivaled some of the oils she’d seen in the Smithsonian. Mikhail, whoever he was, was so flawlessly perfect he almost hurt her eyes.
Rich chocolaty hair carried just the faint hint of red. Angled features, that on another man would look harsh and severe, blended smooth against a complexion that had surely never seen a day of acne. Tall and every bit as strong as the other men in the room, Mikhail cut a striking figure of power. One who clearly demanded the men’s respect.
Particularly Farran’s if his rigid posture was any indication.
“Noelle.”
Her thoughts snapped back in place as Mikhail addressed her once again. “Yes?”
“Farran has told you what you are, has he not?” He moved around the desk, across the room, and stood beneath a hanging kite shield that bore the legendary Order’s seal. With a touch of reverence, he pressed long fingertips to the pitted metal. “He has told you of the Templar plight?”
“Yes, but—”
“I am certain you have many questions. ’Twas the same for Anne when she arrived.”
Noelle glanced at the petite redhead who sat in a chair beside Merrick. Had she too been brought here against her will? She didn’t look at all uncomfortable or unhappy.
For that matter, she looked completely content. And the way her eyes communicated with her husband left Noelle strangely envious. Affection like that only happened in the movies.
“Dr. Keane?”
Noelle blinked. As she looked back to Mikhail, she felt the weight of Farran’s stare scorch into her. “I’m sorry. What?”
Humor glinted behind Mikhail’s steely silver eyes. He covered a smile with a fist and a forced cough. “I asked you if you are prepared to bind yourself to Farran.”
Bind herself? Hell no. But whatever it took to gain her freedom at this point, she’d try. If he wanted a few simple words from her, then so be it. She had a backup plan if that approach backfired. The Sudarium waited, and one way or another, she’d get out of this mess.
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
The warm light in Mikhail’s expression dimmed. “I am not certain you understand the seriousness of your status. You must be dedicated to your purpose. When you leave this room, your life shall be changed forever. Men will depend on you. Men will die for you, should such need arise. This is not a matter deserving of a flippant attitude.”
Farran’s fingers dug into her wrist, warning her to mind her tongue. Silently telling her if she didn’t, she’d have to deal with him. Did she really want to risk his anger? She’d caught glimpses of it, but from the grim set to his features, she’d already pushed her boundaries too far. Still, it chafed to have her hand forced. To find herself without alternatives and the only present option to do what these people expected.
She took a deep breath and forced her expression into what she hoped was sincerity. “I am prepared to take this oath, or whatever it is, if it will let me go—”
“Noelle,” Farran bit out between clenched teeth. Low and threatening, the husky growl sent a shiver racing down her spine.
She swallowed, cleared her voice, and nodded. “I’m prepared.”
For several long seconds, Mikhail stared at her as if he could see through to her soul. More correctly, as if he looked through her and could sense the dishonesty behind her words. The eerie feeling that he knew exactly how she felt settled into her stomach and churned it in a slow roll. She shifted her weight, tore her eyes away from his.
“Very well,” he murmured. With a lift of his hand and a wag of his fingers, he beckoned to the three knights to her right. “Swear yourselves unto her.”
Merrick untangled his hand from Anne’s and drew his sword. As he moved in front of Noelle, the embellished blade glinted in the dim light. As the men had done when she first arrived, he dropped to one knee, set his elbow on his thigh, and bent his head. He laid his sword on the ground in front of the toe of his boot. His rich voice rumbled in the silence. “Merrick du Loire, commander of the Templar.”
Wide-eyed, Noelle looked to Farran. Was she supposed to speak again? Damn it, someone could have at least prepared her for this insanity.
In a voice so low she had to strain to hear him, Farran said, “Return his sword, damsel.”
Noelle bent forward to retrieve the blade. She wrapped her fingers around the ornate pommel, noting the familiar weight in her hand. How often had she dated blades dug up from the ground? This one certainly resembled the ancient craftsmanship. Nicely balanced, leather-wrapped pommel, and it even bore the telltale nicks along the blade that marked it as handcrafted. Sect, cult, renegade SCA members—whatever Farran’s little group was, they took authenticity seriously.
She gently rested the flat of the blade on her fingertips and offered it to Merrick. Onyx eyes locked with hers, full of warmth and welcome. No wonder Anne looked at him as if he could move mountains. Those eyes held feeling. Genuine emotion. Under other circumstances, Noelle would have liked to get to know him better. He at least didn’t suffer Farran’s eternal grumpiness.
Then again, Farran didn’t share the scar along the side of Merrick’s jaw either. Nor did that comforting scent of woodsy citrus linger in Merrick’s wake.
She steered her wayward thoughts back into line and summoned a smile as Merrick stood. He resumed his place at Anne’s side, and Lucan stepped before her. “Lucan of Seacourt.”
He too dropped to one knee, offering his sword in the same way. Noelle didn’t wait for Farran’s coaching. Anxious to have the whole ordeal over with as soon as possible, she gripped Lucan’s plain broadsword and passed it to him. He quickly tucked the blade into his scabbard, then captured her hand before she could retract it. Lifting it to his mouth, he placed a kiss on the back of her knuckles. “Milady, welcome home. Should you want for anything, you only have to ask.”
His gallantry floored Noelle. Men weren’t supposed to treat women that way. Not anymore. And if they were … Well, what little she knew about the male population suggested many could learn from Lucan. Uncertain how to respond, or if she even should, she pulled her fingers free and tucked them behind her back. He rose with a cordial smile, then offered her a brief bow before assuming his former position against the far wall.
The third man approached slowly, as if it pained him to make the effort. Though he smiled, the gesture didn’t reach his eyes, and the light behind those hazel depths carried a haunted effect. Sandy blond hair tumbled over his wide shoulders as he bent over his knee. When he set his sword on the stone, a soft grunt accompanied the action. Pain indeed. Enough that Noelle’s heart twisted just a little.
“Lord Caradoc of Asterleigh.”
Even his voice carried a heavy degree of effort. A sympathetic smile broke free, and Noelle hurried to relieve him of the uncomfortable position. She curled her hands around the guardless pommel and offered his sword. As he accepted, she dropped her hand to his shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze. Whatever he’d done, he had no business playacting tonight. He should be relaxing. Curled up in some comfortable chair where whatever ached could rest.
Caradoc stood and joined the others. At her side, she felt Farran tense. She let her gaze skim sideways in search of the reason. But his blank expression held no clue—beyond the fact his scowl had disappeared.
Mikhail’s head snapped up. A quizzical frown tugged at arched eyebrows as he peered at Merrick. “Where is Declan?”
“I do not know,” Merrick answered.
Something passed between the two men. Something Noelle couldn’t identify. But whatever it was had Farran sucking in a sharp breath and Anne sitting on the edge of her chair. Tension crackled through the room. The two remaining men exchanged meaningful glances, and jovial features morphed into masks of harsh angles.
Trouble in the ranks? Or had one of their bunch of merry men decided this Robin Hood charade wasn’t worth his time? Maybe some of them had sense after all.
“Very well.” Mikhail strode across the room to swing the door wide. “You are dismissed. The rest is reserved for Farran and Noelle alone.”
In single file, the four traipsed out of the room. The door closed heavily in their wake, and Mikhail moved to stand in front of Farran and Noelle. He studied Farran with a curious frown. “’Tis your duty to pledge loyalty to her, Sir Farran.”
“Nay.”
Shock washed across Mikhail’s face. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. With a frustrated hiss, he shoved a hand through his hair, then folded his arms across his broad chest. “Nay? Sir knight, must I remind you why we are here? On your knee.” He gestured at Noelle. “Pledge yourself to her, as duty demands.”
Farran puffed his chest out, every ounce the picture of rebellion. He met Mikhail’s hard stare with equal determination. “Nay. My duty is to the Order. I will take my oath as is expected. My loyalty she may not have.”
Noelle bristled. In one heavy heartbeat, the annoyance she felt over being kidnapped gave way to anger. He had insisted she belonged to him. Yet he, of all people, would not follow through on his expected role? Game or no game, farce or reality, Noelle’s pride refused to back down. She tossed him a defiant glare and jerked out of his hold.
But before she could free the obscenities that lurked on her
tongue, Mikhail lifted his hand to silence her. His pale features colored a faint shade of crimson. “You insult her. You insult the Almighty.”
Farran set his chin and looked beyond Mikhail, to the wall once more. “I care not. I will do what is asked of me otherwise. I will lend my strengthened sword. I will work at her side. But I shall not swear loyalty to her. My vows are to my brethren.”
The soothing tone of Mikhail’s voice cracked as he exclaimed, “’Tis unacceptable!”
“Mayhap.” Farran punctuated his response with a curt nod. “Which do you desire more, Mikhail? The reinforcement of our Order or a petty vow that, should you force my hand, I shall not uphold?”
Long seconds passed as the two men stared each other down. Noelle pursed her lips so tight they began to tingle. How dare he. Wasn’t it bad enough he made his dislike of her known in private? Did he really have to go and shame her in front of someone else? She might not be anywhere near as beautiful as Anne, or likely the other women he associated with, but she wasn’t chopped liver either. She had good qualities. A brain for starters. And once upon a time, a guy had said her ass wasn’t half bad.
Damn him. He could add insensitive jerk to his ever-growing list of faults. Asshole too, if she cared to be blunt.
She willed her emotions under control and forbade the rush of tears to stop before they trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t care what he thought of her. It didn’t matter. He was nuts, and she was going home. One way or the other.
“I do not care for this, Farran.” Anger tucked away again, Mikhail resumed his soothing tone. “And yet you force my hand as well.” He turned on his heel and strode behind his desk. A heavy drawer complained as he jerked it open. Shoving a hand inside, he pulled out a stack of leather-bound journals and tossed them onto his chair. On the second delve into the drawer’s contents, he produced a thick, tattered tome. He thumped it down on his desk, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
Mikhail thumbed through the vellum pages until the book was three-quarters open. In jerky movements that revealed his masked anger, he turned it around and shoved it toward Noelle. A slender fingertip punched an inset block of Latin text. “These are your words, Noelle. Let us be done with this farce.”
Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars) Page 11
