* * *
The slow rise and fall of Farran’s chest told Noelle he’d fallen asleep. She dropped her hands in her lap and sat back to study her handicraft. Contrary to his conviction, he’d need to see a doctor in the morning—if for no other reason than to get a good dose of antibiotics. Until then, her bandages would suffice.
She traced a fingertip over a curling edge of tape and let her eyes drift across the broad expanse of his chest. A strange giddiness tumbled around inside her at the sight of hard muscles and taut bronzed skin. She’d never been so up close and personal to such blatant masculinity. The closest she’d ever come to a naked chest—let alone one as magnificent as Farran’s—was her father’s. Even her almost lover kept his T-shirt on during that brief disaster.
Her gaze tracked down to the shocking scar on Farran’s abdomen, and Noelle surrendered to the part of her that was all woman. She deliberately forgot about why she wanted to leave, dismissed Farran’s mental instability, and allowed compassion to fill her veins. For tonight, he was nothing more than a man. A man who had suffered too much for his thirty-some-odd years. A man who stirred something so profound within her, her fingers trembled as she reached out to trace the whitened flesh.
His skin jumped beneath her light caress.
She drew away with a wistful sigh and looked back to his face. Long lashes dusted his high cheekbones. The softness in his features told tales of a time when he hadn’t always been angry. Faint crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes even hinted at laughter. Had the war done all this to him? Changed him so much? She’d heard stories about returning veterans, but nothing quite like this.
A shame it had affected him so greatly. But then, if it hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here admiring a stranger whom she ought to hate.
With a faint smile, Noelle brushed his long locks away from his face and bent over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well, Farran,” she whispered.
She stood and collected her nursemaid’s supplies. As she tucked them away in the bathroom, logic turned to torment. No matter what sympathy she felt for Farran, nothing had changed. She still needed to return the Sudarium to Spain and get home. This little holiday might have its perks now and then, but she had bills to pay. And her job wouldn’t wait for Farran to come to his senses.
While they may have established a fragile truce this evening, tomorrow she had no choice but to shatter it. She had to make him understand she couldn’t play along with his little game. Maybe he could live off veterans’ pay and disability, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The whole compound was nuts.
Or were they?
Her mind drifted back to the torc and the unexplainable way it came to be around her arm. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she blocked the thoughts before they could root in. Nevertheless, the chill that had invaded her blood returned. She rubbed her arms to ward it off and braved a glance at Farran’s sleeping form.
What if he isn’t crazy?
No. Impossible. There was a logical explanation for everything. She’d been too angry to remember putting the armband back on. That’s all. Nothing more.
Decided, she stalked back to the front room and the comfort of the couch. Scat Cat blinked up at her, then offered a wide yawn. With the remote in one hand, Noelle stretched out on the cushions, careful to tuck her knees around her cat, and flipped the television on.
As luck would have things, she found herself staring at the History Channel. Ancient ruins filled the screen, creating the picture of old world Israel and the al-Aqsa Mosque. The narrator’s voice flooded the speakers:
Yet it seems the noble Templar may have been pardoned after all. Whatever they discovered beneath this timeless structure certainly contributed to their demise. But despite the Inquisition’s torturous—and often successful—attempt to elicit confessions, discovery of the Chinon Parchment absolves them of heresy. If so, why did they feel the need to run, to dig underground, and vanish into time? Could it be they meet in secret now, and the Freemasons of today guard the truth?
She swatted the button on the remote so fast the controller fell to the floor. No more legends. No more unanswered questions. In particular, that one. It struck too close to home.
But the chill returned, as did the prickling of fear.
Maybe Farran wasn’t crazy. Maybe Anne and the rest of them weren’t really influenced by a god who didn’t exist, but maybe they were on to something. Maybe they were the guardians of tradition and brotherhood that society had condemned.
Even so, that didn’t explain Farran’s wild story about her or why he’d brought her here. Nor did it explain the mystery of Gabriel’s cursed piece of jewelry.
Possessed by the need to hold on to the tangible she reached down and scooped her cat into her arms. But the feel of his fur against her face only stoked her apprehension further. Scat Cat shouldn’t be here. He should be at home, mewling at the door because she hadn’t returned to feed him. Clearly this had been planned—her abduction. They’d brought her cat. The drawers in the bathroom held her personal effects. And while she hadn’t inspected the dresser or closet, she knew without a doubt she’d find her clothes inside.
What kind of people kidnapped a person and brought everything important along with them? They treated her with kindness. They hadn’t locked her away—Farran hadn’t even locked the door. In no way did she feel threatened, beyond the fact she’d lost control of her decisions.
Anne had been brought here against her will too. Yet she seemed happy. Had they brainwashed her? Convinced her somehow all this was normal?
Noelle shivered as her thoughts slammed together in a mass of confusion. Each one took her down a dark path that only made her question all the things she couldn’t explain further. And each one led right back to the inexplicable torc.
Desperate to find some fragment of understanding, she wrapped her fingers around the serpentine band of gold and tugged with all her might. As before, it refused to move. Helplessness engulfed her. Tears brimmed, trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away, refusing to cry. She’d find a way out of here, a way back to the world of logic she understood. A world where jewelry laid in a box and waited for someone to pick it up. A world where men ignored her. A world where the most threatening thing she had to consider was what brand of cat food to buy for Scat Cat.
She had to leave, and there was only one way to accomplish that. Tomorrow she’d tell Farran about the Sudarium. The relic’s hiding place was her ticket out of here. He’d be furious, but what he thought of her didn’t matter. By his own word, he didn’t want her. He ought to be happy he wouldn’t have to interact with her further. Then again, all those things they hadn’t done to her yet might come to fruition once he found out.
Nevertheless, she had no choice. She’d stand her ground until Farran conceded and allowed her to return the Sudarium to Father Phanuel. Then, when she managed to get overseas, she’d ask the priest for help.
CHAPTER 17
Farran walked in silence at Caradoc’s side, the sun hot on his back. Ahead, the mighty wooden door to Clare’s great hall stood open. Had word of his return reached this far? He could not control the nervous trembling in his legs or the way his heart skipped several beats at the thought of Brighid waiting within. How he ached to hold her. To run his fingers through her golden hair.
“You worry,” Caradoc observed.
Farran nodded. “Aye. Two years is a long time.”
Caradoc clapped a hand on Farran’s shoulder with a short laugh. “Two years is time enough for a wife to forget her anger. Relax, brother. She has forgotten her imagined slight on her blood and shall welcome you with open arms.”
Imagined, the slight was not. To Brighid, born of Saxon kings, the aid Farran gave to the Normans made him a traitor—even if William’s war ended years ago. He held no hope she had forgiven the duty he owed to his best friend. His salvation lay in the possibility his service in the Holy Land would overcome the wrongs she vowed he committed to her kin.
&nbs
p; He forced himself to smile. “Aye. ’Tis a warm bed I shall have tonight. And a willing wench.” Glancing sideways, he gave Caradoc a teasing wink. “’Tis more than I can say for you.”
Caradoc’s usual good humor rumbled on a throaty laugh. “If Gabriel had not seen fit to allow those already married to retain their vows, you would not banter so freely.” His expression sobered as they stepped onto the wooden planks that hung suspended over a rampart of wooden spikes. “What do you expect Brighid to say when you tell her what has happened?”
Farran chuckled for the first time since they had dismounted at the gates. “She shall be glad she no longer has to worry when duty takes me to the battlefield. She does not like it when my sword is called to arms.”
“Nay, I cannot imagine she would. A mother does not wish to have her son fatherless.”
Farran’s heart stuttered at the mention of his son. Alefric would be six now, halfway to a man. He had lost count of how many times he had replayed the memory of their last summer together. The boy’s laugh lived in Farran’s heart, a sound that gave him courage even through the darkest secrets the archangels revealed.
“Come,” he instructed Caradoc at the doorway. “Tonight we shall feast and celebrate.”
The sound of feminine laughter drifted through the wide opening, giving Farran pause. He cocked his head and listened, unable to recall the sound. In seven years of marriage, he had never heard such gaiety. From the day he met Brighid, she had been as serious and stern as a matron. ’Twas one of the things he appreciated about his wife—he did not concern himself with the possibility she would flaunt and flirt herself into another’s arms.
Anxiousness clamped a fierce hand around his gut. He swallowed against the ghostly finger that ran down his spine. “Brighid?” His call broke in the back of his throat, turning it into a hoarse rasp, as opposed to the strong bellow he had hoped for.
Caradoc encouraged him with a warm smile. “’Tis your home. Go in.”
Farran strode forward, entering the shadowy darkness of the towering stone walls. Torchlight flickered around him, and the light laughter intensified. It drifted from the adjoining hearth room, where he and Brighid had spent countless evenings before a cozy fire. Farran followed the sound, his pulse aquiver with the way she would run into his longing arms.
As he pushed aside a heavy tapestry, he came to an abrupt stop. His wife, the woman he had taken these foul oaths of immortality for, sat upon a man’s lap. She wriggled as he tickled her, squealed as his teeth nipped the side of her throat. Like a child, she beamed down at a face Farran knew only as enemy, and planted a kiss on Hrothgar’s bearded cheek.
“Brighid!”
Two heads snapped his way. Hrothgar dropped a hand to his waist and curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Reflexively, Farran did the same. But his gaze remained fastened on his wife, frozen in place by the pain that lanced through his heart. “What is the meaning of this?” he croaked through a tightened throat. “You are my wife.”
She possessed the grace to slide out of Hrothgar’s lap. As she stood, Farran’s bleeding heart splayed in half. He near choked at the sight of the swollen belly that protruded beneath her lavish gown. A child. She had sworn to him she desired no more than their son. He had heeded her request, content with his small family. And here she stood, laughing with the man whom he had gone to war against, proudly displaying the proof of her betrayal.
“Farran,” she answered coolly. “You have returned.”
Rage surged through Farran. He clenched his sword tighter, his muscles twitching with the need to wrest it free and slice off Hrothgar’s head. Only the fall of Caradoc’s warning hand stayed Farran’s arm.
“A year late, I might add.” She lifted her chin in disdain.
Farran glowered at Hrothgar. “Get out. I will not have your foul presence taint my home further.”
Hrothgar’s bushy upper lip curled into a sneer. With a gentle push to urge Brighid aside, he rose to his feet and drew his sword. “You are dead, de Clare. You stand in my hall. You will take your leave, or I shall remove you piece by piece.”
Dead? Hrothgar’s hall? This was Clare. Awarded to him by his uncle, Walter de Clare. ’Twas not Hrothgar’s, ’twas not even Saxon land. Farran searched Brighid’s placid expression for answers. But in her cool stare, he read all the things he could not stomach hearing. “You did this?” he asked in disbelief. “You told them I was dead?”
She shrugged. “What else was I to believe when you did not return?”
He ground his teeth together and bit back the bile that rose. Inhaling against the fierce desire to take her beautiful neck between his hands and squeeze the life out of her, he fought off the violent twisting of his heart. “You were to believe I would return, or someone would send word to you. As is custom. As you well know each time I leave for battle.”
“Ah.” The corners of her mouth turned with a faint smile. “I see my error. The noble Farran who runs with Normans expects his wife to remain loyal when she cannot stand to look upon him. Be glad you are dead, or Clare thinks you are. For I would have taken my knife to your throat, had you stayed.”
He staggered backward, her blow more deadly than any blade of metal. Caradoc gripped Farran’s elbow, halting his lunge at the deceitful pair. His bellow of rage strangled as Caradoc pulled him back. With a swift jerk, Caradoc spun Farran around to meet his warning gaze. So low Farran had to strain to hear him, he instructed, “You cannot. They cannot learn of our secrets when your wounds heal before their eyes. Fetch your son.”
Farran hesitated, the war between what Gabriel demanded and his need for vengeance proved overwhelming. Brighid … He had loved her. Would have surrendered his life for hers. In return, she killed him more fully than if she had wielded a weapon. As heartbreak engulfed him, he bowed his head in acquiescence. Caradoc was right. The vile bitch could not be trusted, and though he despised her, he could not bring himself to take her life. If she witnessed how the Templar oaths changed him, he would have no choice.
“Where is Alefric? He will leave with me.”
“He stays,” Hrothgar countered.
“Nay, love,” Brighid answered with a trace of the decency Farran had believed her to possess. “Alefric is his son. Let Farran take him … if Alefric will go.” A rustle of her skirts said she sat back down. “He is in the yard behind the kitchens, Farran.”
Unable to set his eyes upon her again, Farran strode from the room, through the hall, and out the door into the bright sunlight. He did not slow his step as he marched around the castle’s wall, aware of the heads that turned to follow. Former servants made no move to acknowledge him, despite the fact he recognized several. Brighid’s poison had spread to them; nothing could be more obvious.
Behind the thatched roof building where the scullery maids labored over hot fires, Farran found his son. Blond hair that matched his own swayed in the breeze as Alefric skipped a large rock into a small pile of pebbles.
“Alefric?”
The boy turned around, puzzlement written into his angelic face. “Aye?”
Farran’s heart swelled with pride. He had grown taller. His skin spoke of good health. Strong, robust—Alefric would become a man to reckon with. Farran cleared the emotion from his throat and tried for a smile. “Do you remember me, son?”
Miniature eyebrows tugged together, and Alefric shook his head.
Farran dropped to one knee, his hand extended. “’Tis I. Your father.”
A stubborn chin jutted forth. “My father died in the Holy Land. And if he lived, I would not wish to see him.”
Another lance of pain stabbed through Farran. On a choked whisper he asked, “Why do you say such?”
Alefric’s boyish features hardened into stone, and his blue eyes assumed a glint as sharp as glass. “My father is a traitor. He turned against my ancestors and disgraced my mother’s name.”
“Nay!” The bark broke free, against Farran’s will. He stood up, clinging to the las
t of his control. “I disgraced no one. I did what was right.”
For an instant, indecision passed across Alefric’s face. Farran grasped at it and did something he never thought he would live to hear. He begged. “I live, Alefric. Do you not remember my face? The way we caught frogs in the creek the summer before I left? How I told you stories each night before you fell asleep? I am no traitor. You must believe me.”
Slow, hesitant steps brought Alefric to stand before Farran. He tipped his head back, scoured Farran’s face with inquisitive eyes. “You are Farran de Clare?” he asked quietly.
“Aye,” Farran breathed.
As the fist around his lungs slowly eased, and he began to believe his son would embrace him, Alefric drew back. One tiny upper lip curled into a sneer before he spit on Farran’s boots. “My father is dead.”
* * *
Farran bolted upright in bed, the nightmare making him gasp for air. Sweat trickled on his brow, loosening the tape Noelle had used to secure his bandage. He ripped it off and tossed it aside. In the dim light of her bedside lamp, he glanced around the room, certain he would find Brighid laughing in a corner. When he found himself alone, he pressed a hand over his pounding heart and closed his eyes to the pain he could not escape.
Centuries had passed since Alefric’s denouncement haunted his sleep. So many years he had begun to believe he had put the nightmare behind him. ’Twas Noelle’s fault, this sudden stirring of memories he wished to escape. The angelic touch of her hands, the compassion in her fawnlike eyes. She roused feelings he had not allowed himself since that dreadful summer afternoon in 1130. And with those stirrings, she brought his past to life.
Aye, indeed he had erred in staying here. He dared not spend another moment longer than he must.
He frowned as he realized she did not lie at his side. ’Twas long after midnight; she should be asleep. Had she used his exhaustion as a means to find escape?
Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars) Page 15
