A smile played on Merrick’s mouth before quickly disappearing behind serious black eyes. “Come. We must report to Mikhail. I am certain he did not anticipate the presence of a fallen knight.” He shouldered past Farran, heading for the road once more.
As Farran fell into step behind him, the severed head disintegrated into ash, marking it as one of the eldest fallen knights. Only those who had turned long ago disintegrated when death took their bodies. Giving his former brother the respect his death deserved, Farran stepped over the small gray mound and offered a silent prayer that the spirit’s journey would be swift.
Lucan and Caradoc joined him in the march to the temple’s front porch, both equally as silent. He knew the question that lurked in their minds, for it drummed inside his as well. Why was no seraph sent to save their brother’s life?
One other haunted Farran—why had he been spared, when he would have willingly exchanged places?
Beyond the wide front doors, the temple lay in silence, as it had since Anne’s coming. For a short time after her pairing, life returned to normal and men gathered in the communal room until the wee hours of morn. Yet now, with Noelle’s arrival, they retreated to their chambers early to tend the wounds of despair alone.
At the top of the stairwell leading to the barracks below, Caradoc clamped a heavy hand on Farran’s shoulder and brought him to a halt. “Your seraph rests upstairs, and yet your sword remains unchanged.”
The reminder of Noelle’s behavior brought Farran’s teeth together so hard he grimaced. His body tensed. Warily, he lifted his gaze to Caradoc’s.
Apology shone behind Caradoc’s hazel eyes. “Nay, brother, I meant no insult. Was I not the one who journeyed with you from Clare so long ago?”
Farran blew out a heavy breath and let his shoulders slump. Of all the people who would understand, ’twas Caradoc. “Aye,” he answered quietly.
“Your place is with her, Farran, not in the barracks amongst the men.”
Involuntarily, Farran’s gaze tracked up the ascending stairs. He chewed on his tongue, debating whether to tell Caradoc the difficulty his suggestion posed. Yet before he could find the words to explain Noelle’s reluctance, Caradoc forged ahead.
“Do you think that Azazel’s knight did not report to him the moment you drove down the lane? The fallen are the strongest of Azazel’s creatures. In a whisper he can relay what we could over the phone.” The grip on his shoulder intensified, urging Farran to turn around. “Mark my words, Farran. Azazel knows of Merrick’s transformation—his sword announces it as clear as a trumpet. The dark lord knows he cannot harm Anne.” Caradoc paused, his words taking on greater weight. “And he knows the woman you brought home is unclaimed.”
A heavy ball of lead rolled inside Farran’s gut. He swallowed against the truth—as long as Noelle refused the oath, her life was in jeopardy. She might detest him, he might find her unacceptable. But their personal concerns made no difference. The Order needed her. They needed the strength she would bring to his sword.
“You must convince her. You are a pair.”
“’Tis not as easy as you suggest. She is—”
Caradoc lifted a hand, cutting off Farran’s protest. “Whatever divides you, you must overcome. Do not retreat to your chambers, old friend. Go to her. Allow her to tend your wounds. There is no better time for you to learn to work together.”
The memory of Noelle’s gentle kiss as she set her mouth to his scar rose in Farran’s mind. Tend him. Would she? A traitorous flicker of hope stirred deep inside his soul. Her fingers would be soft. Her touch tender. He had been but a boy the last time a woman showed him such care.
He squelched the stirring feeling before it could take life. ’Twas not emotion he desired from Noelle. Whether she tended him, mattered not. ’Twas too likely that, like Brighid, the sight of blood would make her ill. “I shall go to her after I see Uriel. I am in no frame of mind to deal with a woman’s weak stomach.”
Caradoc’s fingers refused to release him. He bore down harder, biting into Farran’s sore shoulder muscles. “If she faints ’tis better she do so here than when she may be needed on the field. Make her accustomed to it now.” The warning ran clear in his firm tone—he would issue an order as second in command, if Farran refused.
With his choice made for him, Farran yielded to the pressure on his shoulder and turned. He looked to the dilapidated window on the landing between the floors and drew in a fortifying breath. Reason lived in Caradoc’s urgings. To put off duty only increased the odds another night like tonight would occur. As much as he longed for the comforting solitude of his sparse chambers, duty obligated him to take the stairs.
* * *
Noelle refused to look at the torc. Looking at it would mean thinking about how it ended up wrapped around her bicep, and she’d thought herself in circles trying to figure it out. She knew she damn sure hadn’t put it there. Anything else meant …
With a shake of her head, she grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tightly. She wasn’t going there. The only explanation possible was that she’d picked it up, absently stuffed it back on her arm, and had been too distracted with anger to remember.
The ever-tightening knot in her stomach clamped down another notch. She huddled into her pillow to fight back the bitter taste of rising bile and concentrated on her breathing. For the first time since she’d met Farran, icy particles of fear pricked at her conscious. As much as she wanted to believe the tripe she’d created about forgetting to wear the torc, the brutal reality loomed before her—she hadn’t.
Scat Cat nudged his way under her elbow, forcing her to give him room. When she released her death grip on the pillow, the feline crawled into her lap. Eyes narrow slits of gold, motor running, he massaged his paws against her thigh. She absently dropped a hand to the scruff of his neck and slid her fingers through his thick gray fur.
A knock at the door startled her. Her chin snapped up, her gaze locked on the barrier. Yet before she could do anything more than give Scat Cat a reluctant push, the door swung open. Farran entered, his gaze canvassing the room and finally settling on her. The tight lines around his mouth eased, and he dipped his head in a casual nod. “You are not asleep?”
Her nerves chafed at his bold intrusion. But the sight of him rendered her unable to speak. She stared, wide-eyed, at the strange man who had seemed so outwardly normal only a few hours earlier. Where he’d worn jeans and a casual long-sleeved shirt, he now dressed in a costume straight out of the Middle Ages. A long white surcoat, embellished with a bold crimson cross, draped down to his calves. Beneath it, he wore a hauberk of linked chain, complete with a coif to cover his sandy hair. Well-worn vambraces on his forearms matched the supple leather of his boots. The sword he’d brandished in Mikhail’s office hung from a belt pulled so tight, it accented the trimness of his waist.
Only, where the actors she’d seen at the Renaissance festivals looked stilted and uncomfortable in their costumes, Farran wore his with the practiced comfort that belonged in the movies.
As if he wore the stuff daily.
Noelle blinked. She found her cobweb-covered tongue and managed to squeak, “What are you doing here?”
He pulled at the fingers on his gloves. One by one, they gave, and he slapped them lightly against his thigh before setting them on the small table near her door. “We are paired. Here is where I shall stay.”
“Oh.”
The short retort was all she could find, and she sagged back against the couch cushions. She ought to be surprised, ought to be furious. But the dilemma with the torc had sapped her energy so completely she didn’t care. She’d spent the last two days with Farran. It was becoming almost natural to have him in her personal space. Besides, while she’d never admit it aloud, she’d rather not spend another minute alone and let her mind run away with possibilities.
“I shall sleep where you sit. The bed shall remain yours.” Farran’s hands dropped to his waist to give the buckle a tug. His belt fell aw
ay from his hips, and he leaned his sheathed sword against the wall. “I require a bath. Then I require rest.”
His fingers stilled over the vambrace strings. For several silent seconds he gave her a thoughtful stare. He opened his mouth, then shut it. His brows tugged together. Then he let out a nearly inaudible sigh. “If you wish to watch your television, I could rest in the other room. I would remove myself when you are ready to retire.”
The bone was small, nearly tooth size. Yet Noelle realized the thrown offering in an instant. His quiet tone, the warm light in his eyes, the sheer work it took to summon the words—Farran was trying to be friendly.
“No. That’s okay. I can go in the bedroom. We can talk in the morning, right?”
Ale-brown eyes widened a fraction. “You wish to talk? Do you require something of me?” He slid the vambraces off and tossed them on top of his gloves.
A fool would blow past this intriguing side of Farran and push him back to his gloomy demeanor with complaints. The surprising politeness, the willingness to listen to her was too much of a treasure to spoil the few minutes of peace his newfound demeanor offered. She shook her head, dismissing the nagging need to plead to him to take her home. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until morning.”
“Tell me what you need, damsel. As I said, we are paired. We must learn to speak to one another freely.”
“No, it can wait.” One more night wouldn’t change anything. If she really wanted to be honest with herself, he looked tired. Who could blame him—he’d driven almost two days straight. While she longed for freedom and her apartment, she wouldn’t pick a fight with him tonight. His efforts deserved at least that much consideration. She tried for a smile and added in a quieter voice, “I’m tired too.”
“Very well.” He took a step toward the paneled doors. “I shall wash.” Halfway through the doorway, he stopped to glance over his shoulder. The perplexed look returned to his features, and the same war of wills played on his eyebrows. “If you would aid me in the removal of my mail, ’twill go much faster.”
Oh, so that was it—he wanted her help. She, whom he couldn’t stand. Whose touch repulsed him. No wonder he had such a hard time asking.
Her pride rose up, taunting her to toss the request back in his face. After all the demands he’d made, the insults he’d given her, she shouldn’t lift a finger to help. If he’d been Seth, she’d have laughed in his face.
Only he wasn’t Seth. He was handsome, grumpy, insane Farran. A man who probably didn’t have the first clue about his mood swings and behavior.
Her gaze tracked across his broad shoulders, followed the high planes of his cheeks. Scratches littered his face, tiny marks she hadn’t noticed until he stepped beneath the light that poured from the bedroom.
“What have you been doing?” She asked as she rose to her feet. “Isn’t it a little late for fencing?” Then again, when she’d been on the team in high school, there had been several who practiced at every stolen opportunity. Maybe he was no different.
A soft snort accompanied the bemused shake of his head. “You would not believe me.”
She smirked. “You’re probably right. Tell me anyway.”
He leaned a shoulder on the door frame, and his gaze settled on hers, intense and probing. “There were demons in the woods. Sent for you, I am certain.”
Demons? She’d expected something related to the Templar purpose and being the best he could be, regardless of the hour. But demons? The notion stirred her amusement once again. If he could put half these things down on paper, the man would make a fortune as an author. His imagination topped the charts.
She swallowed down the rising laugh and checked her expression. But what brought her to a stop wasn’t the challenge in his eyes that dared her to argue. Nor was it the harsh line that his mouth had once again assumed. What rooted her in place and dropped her jaw was the jagged vein of crimson that flowed from under the crushed links of his coif and trickled down his temple. “Farran, you’re bleeding!”
CHAPTER 16
Farran tensed. Eyes closed, he waited for the shrill scream, the shout for Anne to help. If he looked, the brief shock that had passed across Noelle’s pretty face would be replaced with the hardness of anger. Silent repulsion would glint behind her doelike eyes. Too many times, he had seen the same in Brighid’s sky-blues. He had been too blind with love to recognize it then, yet he now understood he had disgusted her even on his greatest successes.
’Twas foolishness to allow Caradoc to convince him …
The light press of Noelle’s fingertips on his forehead brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. He drew back in surprise. Opening his eyes, he found her on tiptoe, concern etched into her delicate brow.
“Hold still,” she scolded softly. Setting her hand upon his shoulder, she steadied herself and reached for his coif again. “This doesn’t look good.”
“’Twill heal,” he murmured.
As she pushed at the mail, it caught in his hair and scraped against the rent flesh beneath. He winced, reflexively avoiding her touch. Her eyes darted to his, her slight frown chastisement enough. Holding his breath, he did his best to obey and yield to her gentle probing.
With the care a woman would give to a babe, she eased his coif away until it draped around his neck. “I think you need stitches. What did you do to yourself?”
Farran could scarcely draw a breath. Disbelief stole his words, shock cemented his tongue. Deep inside, something soft and wholly unfamiliar stirred. She did not tremble at the sight of blood. Did not draw away as if she could not stand the thought of touching him. Nay, in fact she stood so close the faint scent of jasmine that clung to her tickled his nose. He did not know what to do with this. What to do with … her.
Before his senses could flee, he reached up and caught her wrist. He pulled it away, terminating the mystifying contact. As he held her hand level with his chest, her gaze pulled to her bloodied fingertips, and she nibbled on her lower lip.
“You need stitches, Farran. I’ll drive if you give me the keys.”
“Nay, damsel. ’Twill heal come morn. ’Twould have already healed, were it not for the taint that infects my soul. Tonight the wounds need to be cleansed. If you would but bandage my head, you shall see.”
He read her doubt in the set of her mouth. But for a reason he could not fathom, she did not protest. She stepped away and gestured at the door. “Go lay down. I’ll get a washcloth. If you bleed to death, or you have a horrible scar, you can’t blame me. You try, and I’ll give you a bump to match on the other side.”
Farran bowed his head to hide a budding smile. She could not begin to heft the weight of a kite shield. Yet, if she insisted, he would allow her to try. The battle to bring the shield to her shoulders would be well worth the risk of injury.
At the edge of the bed, he stopped. Humor under control once more, he called out, stopping her near the bathroom. “Noelle?”
“Yeah?”
“I need your aid in removing my hauberk.” The request felt strange to his tongue. Had she been Lucan, or any of his brethren, he would not have hesitated to ask. But the removal of armor was a task left only to a knight’s most trusted—a dedicated page, squire, or in some instances, a wife. To ask this of Noelle was like entrusting his sword to a stranger’s care.
She hesitated only a moment before she pivoted on a heel and slowly approached. “Tell me what to do.”
“Pull off my surcoat. I lack the strength to maneuver it over my head.”
Noelle studied him for a heartbeat. Then she climbed up on the bed to stand behind him. Her hands dropped to his waist. She tugged the heavy fabric up over his shoulders and eased it over his head. To his surprise, she managed to avoid all contact with his injury. The garment hit the floor at his feet.
“Now what?”
He bent at the waist, intending to remove his hauberk himself. But the pounding against his skull as the blood flowed to his head rendered him helpless. He grimaced against the pa
in. Through clenched teeth, he issued the rough instruction, “Guide it over my shoulders.”
When she did as he desired, he took the heavy chain from her and laid it over the nearby chair. She vanished into the bathroom, giving him the opportunity to remove his sweaty shirt. It joined the soiled surcoat on the floor, and as water ran from the faucet, Farran stretched out on her bed.
Downy softness engulfed him, a stark contrast to the firm bed in his chambers that had served his needs for centuries. Savoring the mattress’s embrace, he closed his eyes and relaxed. A bed like this spoke of luxury. ’Twas no wonder Merrick slept so soundly, if he too finished his day on feathers.
“Okay. I found peroxide in the cabinet. And a stack of gauze and tape.” Noelle’s voice came from beside the bed.
Farran forced his eyes open. He could not sleep here, no matter the temptation. ’Twas her bed, not his. This blissful respite he could not claim.
She nudged his hip with her knee, and he scooted over to give her room to sit.
“Oh. You’re wounded here too.” Her fingertips glided over his shoulder.
Looking down his nose, he inspected a short puncture he had not realized he bore. A jagged hole, about the width of a quarter, sank into the flesh above his left pectoral. The perfect size for a demon’s claws when it lost the ability to hold its magical human form. He would have to inspect his mail come morning. Quite likely, the rend in the links was large enough to create a point of vulnerability.
He let out an annoyed grunt and pursed his lips. The hours required to repair his armor would eat a good portion of his morning.
“Well. Sit tight. This might hurt.”
Her quiet murmur was the only forewarning he had before a warm washcloth grazed the lump on his head. He sucked in a sharp breath. Noelle’s expression took on heartrending softness that stirred that unfamiliar feeling inside once more. He averted his gaze, unable to stomach the sensation.
“I’m sorry. Just a bit more.”
She rubbed at the cut, dunked her cloth into a pitcher of water. Warm droplets rolled into his hair, then seeped down the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes to the tickle. ’Twas not bothersome. Nay, ’twas such a comforting glimpse of heaven he did not feel the touch of the cloth to his chest.
Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars) Page 14
