Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Dainty fingers laced with his, drawing Merrick from his thoughts. He turned his head to find Anne’s smile on him, her blue eyes bright with tenderness.

  With a gentle pull on his hand, she urged him to sit at her side. “Nap with me, handsome.”

  He chuckled despite his grey thoughts. “’Twould not be napping. I fear I would exhaust you more.” Bending his head closer to hers, he brushed a soft kiss across her lips. “You have given me a gift even greater than your love, Anne.”

  “So you finally believe me?” Her mouth quirked with amusement.

  The days he had spent arguing with her, insisting she see Uriel about the sudden weakness that possessed her, cycled through his mind. He had refused to believe, refused to even consider, what she claimed. ’Twas only after the second week of fighting that her fantastic claims registered. He had been foolish. Stubborn as an ass. She should be boxing his ears, not inviting him to rest at her side.

  Uncustomary heat rose to his cheeks, and he bowed his head, ashamed. “I am sorry for my behavior.”

  Her light laugh danced through his heart. The gentleness of her fingertips as she trailed them over his cheek spread warmth through his veins.

  “It’s okay. I understand you better than you think I do.”

  ’Twas all Merrick needed to know she had forgiven him for his boorish manners. He surrendered to the love he felt for her, the unequivocal feeling that filled him to overflowing, and stretched out alongside his wife. Sliding an arm around her waist, he pulled her body flush to his and drew her into a languid kiss.

  Anne snuggled into his embrace, a contented sigh tumbling off her lips. “Did you tell Caradoc?”

  “Nay. I wish to savor this a while.”

  To Merrick’s surprise, Anne set a palm against his chest and pushed out of his hold. A frown marred her strawberry eyebrows. “You will need to.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Aye?”

  “When I sent him the packet he requested in France, I saw a glimpse of his future.”

  Rolling onto his back, Merrick folded his hands on his belly, long accustomed to the gift of Anne’s foresight. “What did you see this time?”

  “His seraph has a child, Merrick. His child.”

  Merrick could not help himself—he laughed despite Anne’s serious expression. In a thousand years, Caradoc would never believe the impossible. He would resist the knowledge as much, if not moreso, than Merrick had. For where Merrick had craved the idea of fatherhood for as long as he could remember, Caradoc did not desire children.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Merrick shook his head, struggling for control over his amusement. “I believe Gabriel enjoys this torment. He has not once made the bonding of seraphs easy.”

  Amusement pricked at the corner of Anne’s eyes. She gave him a false frown. “Don’t you think you should prepare him?”

  “Nay.” He laughed again. “He would never believe it. Besides, listen to the blessed silence.” Sweeping a hand toward the door that opened onto the hall, he indicated the empty rooms beyond where the next seraph and her knight would take up residence. “No seraphs are to come from Sicily, else we would be plagued by hammers.”

  Anne let out a soft sigh and curled into his arms once more. Her fingers splayed over the steady drum of his heart. “True. I still think he ought to know, though.”

  Turning his head, Merrick dusted kisses through her hair. “When I am ready to share my joy, I will, my sweet.”

  A deeper realization swept over him as he closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle. If Caradoc already possessed a child, he already knew his seraph. “Anne?” he asked quietly. “How old was this child?”

  On an expansive yawn, she answered, “About three.”

  Only one woman fit those parameters, the same woman Caradoc had left behind when he had gone to bid farewell to his beloved Kiddington three Septembers hence. Isabelle. A fist clamped around Merrick’s innards. Caradoc must know. Mayhap not about the child, but about Isabelle herself. Though Caradoc stayed away from her, naught could convince Merrick that his brother did not know how to reach the woman who held his heart.

  Yet, telling Caradoc now would only provoke his speedy flight from Sicily, and they dared not risk losing the tears. Tane could not be trusted to accomplish the acquisition solo, and whilst Gareth was present, the duty fell to Mikhail’s men, not Raphael’s. Orders were not meant to be abandoned under any circumstance. Mikhail must also know of Isabelle’s status, and if he feared for her safety, he would not have sent Caradoc to Sicily.

  Breathing more deeply, Merrick let the matter go. ’Twas no need to dwell on it. Mayhap even, Isabelle would make an appearance in Sicily. In which case, ’twas no need to worry for her safety, or the child’s.

  Chapter 9

  Isabelle tried to keep the pinched nature of her toes from settling into her face as she gingerly entered the cliff-top Des Arcades bar. She dropped into the nearest wing-backed leather chair and stared up at the arched stone ceiling, feeling much like she’d just traversed backward in time.

  Beneath the cover of a heavy mahogany tabletop, she toed off her painful high heels and let out a sigh of relief. She should have known better than to wear the pointed monstrosities. But vanity had gotten the better of her when she’d dressed. That, along with a deep need to justify the frivolous three hundred dollar expenditure. In all her adult life, she’d never caved to such ridiculously priced shoes.

  A waiter appeared at her left, seemingly coalescing out of thin air. His dark hair and olive skin spoke of his Sicilian heritage. “What may I get you, Signorina?”

  She tried for her usual brightness, but her smile fell short, limited by the stress of the day. A sigh escaped before she could stop it. “A glass of Chardonnay, please.”

  “Would you care for the house, or—”

  Isabelle held up her hand, unwilling to sit through a dissertation on wine selections and lacking the mental strength to sift through her assorted, but minimal, wine knowledge. “House is fine.”

  “Would Signorina care for a menu? Antipasto perhaps? We have the finest—”

  “No, thank you.” As if she could eat. She hardly possessed the energy to remain upright, let alone digest food. The wine was merely to take the edge off so she could collapse into her bed and give over to the blissful dreamlessness of absolute exhaustion.

  The waiter lifted his chin a fraction, and she’d swear he looked down his nose, his distaste for her abruptness evident. Without another word, he turned sharply, the crisp white linen of his apron snapping at the backs of his thighs.

  Isabelle allowed her body to sink into the soft leather, and she reclined her head against the high seat back. For a moment, her eyes drifted closed. Today marked success. No one had offered much challenge on Paul’s ring, and while the coins demanded about five thousand more than she’d anticipated, she had succeeded there too. Both items were already en route to the States. Henry and Paul would have their new trinkets in less than a week.

  Assuming Paul was at his residence in St. Louis, where she’d met with him a half-dozen times while planning out this trip. She could only hope; he still wasn’t answering his phone.

  She refused to allow her worries about September to creep into her mind. They lingered, ever-present, but as long as she didn’t dwell on what she couldn’t immediately resolve, they didn’t immerse her in panic. She’ll be fine, she assured herself again as she sat forward and opened her eyes against the pull of sleep. Just bring back the tears.

  The waiter stood at her table, bending over to set her glass on a coaster.

  “Will you put this on room 307, please?”

  His mouth took a sharp downturn, and he answered with a curt nod. Probably worried about his tip. She made a mental note to avoid him in the future. Servers who forgot their manners when confronted with the possibility of a slim tip tended to carry grudges.

  Not that she intended to spend much time alone in the bar. This eve
ning was an exception. The wine was a necessary evil if she intended to make it through tomorrow without collapsing.

  As Isabelle drank from the glass, her thoughts reverted to her earlier encounter with Caradoc and how secure she’d felt in that one brief moment at the elevator. The worry in his eyes gleamed so genuinely. For the hundredth time, she found herself questioning whether it could be possible he did care. That, despite whatever reason he’d walked away, he still felt a modicum of concern for her.

  A disdainful chuckle worked its way out of her throat. Who was she fooling? Men who cared didn’t disappear in the middle of the night and go three years without contact. They didn’t lie about vasectomy’s, and they didn’t throw around the words I love you like they were pennies.

  She’d been just a passing romp for Caradoc, and it was high time she got it through her head. No matter how he coerced, she wasn’t going to become his fool again. Her heart hadn’t let go enough from the first time.

  A round of husky laughter pulled her gaze to the lavish front entry and made her heart skip a beat. How well she knew that sound.

  It took less than two seconds to find him, laughing with his two companions as he passed before the bar’s entrance, heading for the stairs. Isabelle sank into her chair, unwilling to have Caradoc see her sitting alone. In her present mindset, she didn’t have the strength to fight off the inevitable conversation.

  He strolled on, but the faint limp in his stride brought her upright with a frown. Hurt? What had he done to himself? Or was his arthritis bothering him again?

  Isabelle cringed. She didn’t care if he’d lost a toe or if he’d broken a bone. He didn’t deserve her concern.

  Still, her heart twisted a little, and to her dismay, sympathy seeped through her anger. She couldn’t stop it, no matter how she wanted to. He was hurting, and the instinct to take away that pain ran deep.

  Appalled by her inability to control her reaction, she downed the rest of her wine in three gulps and pushed out of the chair. If she were smart, she’d check out of the villa and find another hotel. That way she wouldn’t run the risk of accidental encounters. Nor could her fickle heart get the better of her brain.

  But in some strange, unexplainable way, she despised the idea of running away from him even more than the idea of an unexpected collision.

  Because you’re a fool, and you need sleep.

  Exactly. Sleep would fix things. She’d wake up in better control of her chaotic emotions.

  Convinced of the idea, she marched out of the bar and headed toward the elevators. On seeing Caradoc round the first landing on the stairs, she slowed her steps to buy herself time and stopped to examine a brightly colored oil painting on the wall.

  Her skin prickled for the second time since she’d left Shapiro’s, the unsettling feeling she was being watched descending around her. Nervous, she glanced over her shoulder. Two young boys played with matchbox cars on the marble hall, not far from their parents who sat reading on a nearby sofa. A feeble old man trudged by, relying heavily on a sturdy, brass-tipped cane. The restaurant hummed with activity, but no one looked her way.

  She rubbed at her arms to smooth the goose bumps. Ridiculous. Her imagination was getting the better of her. No one was following her. No one here gave a damn what she did, except maybe Caradoc, and he’d already gone upstairs.

  Her cell phone burst into song, nearly making her jump out of her skin. She swore beneath her breath, fished a hand into her purse, and withdrew the device. Her pulse skittered as she stared at the all-too-familiar number.

  With shaking fingers, she flipped the phone open. “Hello, Paul.”

  “Isabelle.” Warmth oozed from his voice, as if he greeted a long-lost daughter. “I’m so proud of you.”

  She blinked. “P-proud? What are you talking about?”

  “Thirty-two thousand dollars for my ring. I expected it would take nearly forty.”

  Ice flooded into her veins. How did he know she’d saved him eight thousand dollars on the ring? As her world took a nosedive to the left and dizziness swamped her, she backed up and pressed her back firmly to the wall. Her gaze skipped through the people once again. Who had told him?

  “Though I’m glad the Roman coins aren’t my concern. They were a little steep, don’t you think?”

  “Y-yeah.” Who the hell was his informant? No way could he know these things—the auction wouldn’t post the winning bids until after it closed. Then, Christies would post what pieces brought in, but even then, only those worth interest. Like the diamonds, or the statue Caradoc had spent nearly fifty thousand dollars on, but not a glass case of coins that were, in the scope of antiquities, fairly common.

  Much less an old ring, even if it did have ties to Sicilian nobility.

  “Paul, how’d you know all this?” she asked tenaciously.

  “It’s my job to make sure you’re doing yours. After all, I have to consider September’s arrangements.”

  At the mention of her daughter, anger surged past Isabelle’s trepidation. She straightened like a pike, and a hard edge crept into her voice. “You leave her out of this, Paul. I got your damn ring. I’ll get your fucking necklace.”

  “Such vulgar words.” He scolded with a condescending tsk-tsk. “They don’t become you, Isabelle. Nor do I appreciate them. You don’t speak that way in front of September, do you?”

  “How I talk in front of my daughter isn’t any of your concern. She’s my daughter. Mine. And I swear to God, if you touch her, Paul, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”

  “Enough!” The furious bark gave way to the creepy smoothness once again. “Threaten me again, Isabelle, and you’ll regret it. So will your daughter. And by the way, if you’re smart, you won’t mention our little arrangement or get the bright idea to involve the authorities. You won’t see her again if you do.”

  The line went dead in her ear.

  Stunned, Isabelle struggled to hold on to her phone through the trembling of her hands. Tears welled in an instant, threatening to blind her. Before they could tumble free, she managed to stuff her phone into her purse and ran for the closed elevator.

  The doors swished open, and Isabelle couldn’t rush inside fast enough. She jammed her thumb on the door close button, praying no one else would slip inside. When the steel panels rolled shut, leaving her to solitude, she collapsed against the rear wall, her legs too wobbly to hold her upright

  She’d been wrong. September was in danger. That kind of threat didn’t relate to the necklace. Paul wanted power, and he was intent on making Isabelle submit. Which conjured a whole new series of atrocious thoughts about what he might be doing to her daughter. What if September cried too loud? What if she talked back to him, as she was prone to do?

  Oh, God, help me.

  Fighting back hysterics, she tried to convince herself that Paul’s threats weren’t unlike those of any other kidnapper in the world. They all warned about the authorities. The statement was so cliché she should have expected him to say it earlier. But no matter how she tried to reason with her panicked brain, it did no good. Her pulse refused to stop tap-dancing, and the vise around her lungs wouldn’t let go.

  The doors rolled open onto her floor, and she rushed out, desperate to escape into her room. There, she’d call Paul back. Reassure him she’d bring back the necklace. Tell him, as she’d planned to do originally, that the ring was already on its way. Then, just maybe, he’d let her talk to September and she could assure herself that her daughter was okay.

  Two steps away from her door, strong fingers caught her by the elbow. Certain Paul had instructed his spy to insure she wouldn’t cause trouble, she spun around, her fist raised. Sheer terror compelled her to strike.

  A muffled grunt dimly filtered into her awareness before another hand latched onto her unbound wrist and stilled her arm at her side. “Isabelle, easy.”

  Through her bleary vision, she recognized Caradoc’s handsome face.

  * * *

 
; At the sight of Isabelle’s wide-eyed fright, everything inside Caradoc ground to a sudden halt. The words that had been on the tip of his tongue, firm instruction that they would now discuss what lay between them, vanished. His concerns meant naught. Something plagued her, enough that she had not heard his footfalls, and she had felt the need for self-defense.

  When she stilled in his hands, he searched her ashen expression. His stomach turned in on itself as he observed ’twas not only fear that brightened her eyes, but unshed tears as well. “What troubles you, Isa?” he whispered as he brought a hand up to sweep the loose tendrils of her hair aside.

  Her sob struck daggers into his heart.

  Winding his arms around her slender shoulders, he drew her cheek to his chest and held her close. “Shh, my sweet.”

  In three weeks of life with her, he had seen her cry only once before, and that powerful emotion came from joy. He had never witnessed such sorrow, nor experienced such helplessness at the feel of her trembling shoulders. His throat closed with emotion of his own, the need to take whatever this was from her, stronger than any other desire.

  When her fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, and she held on tight, something inside him broke apart. This was his Isabelle, the vibrant woman who knew naught but a love for life and the meaning of laughter. He could not bear to see her in such distress.

  Guiding her gently backward, he urged her toward the door to his suite. They would talk inside, where no one could overhear their words. As he shuffled forward, he slipped one hand into his pocket for his key. She made no move to protest whilst he fiddled awkwardly with the lock.

  When the handle gave, he pushed the door open with his foot and led her inside. At a flip of the light switch, the dusky grey of twilight faded. He glanced over her head in search of an appropriate place they could talk, but the stout armchairs did not offer the closeness he desired, or that she needed. With no other option present, he led her to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her.

  Gathering her hands in his, he gazed into her watery eyes. “Talk to me, Isa.”