If he could but exercise his sword, he would find a brief respite. But that too had been denied to him. The archangels had thrust him straight into a more damning hell than even Azazel could create. There was no escape, save for sleep, and he was too agitated to accomplish even a brief nap.
Turning on his heel, he headed for the stairs and the brothers he trusted most. At this hour, they would still be awake—if they were in their rooms and not out hunting.
He grimaced as he slowly took the stairs. The very thought Tane and Gareth might be engaged in a test of skills with demons annoyed him further. What use was a knight who could not fight? He had not succumbed so greatly to the darkness to warrant such a punishment. For that matter, if any of them truly deserved to be rendered useless in battle, ’twas Tane. His soul’s unstable state had already made itself apparent several months ago.
At the top of the third floor landing, Caradoc grumbled an oath. This idleness would send him into insanity. What he needed was exertion. Physical strain he would find if he had to issue the order to take up arms. Despite Mikhail’s limitations, he still commanded this mission, and Tane and Gareth had no choice but to listen to directives, so long as they did not conflict with the archangels’ desires.
He marched to Gareth’s room, determined not to let his gaze stray sideways to the heavy door that barred him from Isabelle. Long ago, he learned the quickest way to victory lay in waiting out one’s opponent. Whilst Isabelle was not his enemy, they were indeed at battle. Conquering her would require more patience than a siege upon a well-supplied stronghold. He needed to think on tactics before he rushed in headlong and followed his natural urges.
The mere thought of her, however, sent tension crawling through his limbs. As he stopped before Gareth’s door, his eyes betrayed his will. He turned his head, unable to ignore the fact she resided a mere ten feet away. His raised hand stilled, and he expelled a heavy breath. Did she still slumber in T-shirts? Did she still pull that long hair into a braid before she set her head upon her pillow?
God’s blood, she belonged to him. He wanted everything; the lightness of her laughter, the headiness of her kiss, and the absolute heaven of her body as it moved beneath his, her soft moans of pleasure filling his ears.
The vibrant memory of making love to Isabelle sent heat rushing to his groin. His cock swelled, craving the reality of unfulfilled fantasies. He had spent one too many nights imagining her silken skin, the scent of her perfume, the taste of her arousal. Three steps, and her kiss said he could know it all again. She might fight him tooth and nail, but she would yield. Willingly.
He took a step toward the center of the hall and came to an abrupt stop. Aye, she would yield for the night. Morning, however, would find them at opposite sides of towering stone walls, and he on the unprotected green with her holding a crossbow. Nay, best to suffer the torment until he had completely disarmed her.
Caradoc faced Gareth’s door once more. He knocked sharply and counted the seconds until heavy footfalls beyond announced someone’s approach. Tane answered, looking surprised to see him.
“I thought you had retired by now.”
Caradoc’s frown deepened. “I do not have the pleasure of working myself into slumber. My limbs are restless with idleness.” Resentment laced his words, and he winced inwardly. This sentence was not Tane’s doing. Tane did naught but follow orders.
Caradoc forced out a chuckle, attempting to soften his response. Instead, it came out harsh and choked.
Pity filled Tane’s eyes as he visibly flinched. Stepping back, he opened the door wide. “Do you wish company?”
“Nay, I wish a bit of sport. Take up your sword and meet me behind the villa.”
Behind Tane, Gareth pulled himself from his sprawled position on the couch and stood. “Caradoc, we cannot go against the archangels’ instructions. You may not fight with us.”
The simple logic snapped what remained of Caradoc’s straining self-control. He balled his hands into tight fists and pressed them into his thighs to keep from striking both men. “Damnation! I have never violated orders, nor will I begin to now!” His gaze narrowed on Tane, venom heating his blood. “I am not as heedless as some. I wished to spar.”
Crimson splashed Tane’s cheeks as he dipped his chin in chagrin. He lifted his left hand, bidding Gareth to hold his tongue. “I will get my sword.” Angling his shoulders, he edged past Caradoc, into the hall.
Instantly, Caradoc regretted his choice of words. His reference had been toward Declan, not Tane’s previous wrongs. He clapped a hand on Tane’s thick shoulder, halting his brother. A squeeze of his fingers apologized. “’Tis no need. I have reconsid—”
A blood-chilling scream filled the narrow hall. Caradoc dropped his hand to his hip, reaching instinctively for the sword that stood in his room. His gaze jerked to Isabelle’s door as fear tightened a fist around his heart.
* * *
Isabelle bolted upright, panting. One hand clenched at the base of her throat, she scrambled to sift dream from reality and ground herself in the dim confines of her bedroom.
Not September. For God’s sake, her daughter couldn’t be the child screaming in the nightmare. She hadn’t seen September huddled at the base of cloaked marble statue. The faceless head hadn’t looked down on her lifeless body, and foreboding broken angels’ wings had not cast her in grey shadows.
Isabelle refused to believe it was anything other than a product of the combination of her reoccurring nightmare and her worry for her child.
The sudden, fierce banging at her door, however, told her the sound that had ripped her from sleep wasn’t just the imaginary child’s terror. She’d screamed as well.
She pushed a mass of damp hair away from her forehead, threw off the covers, and slid from the bed. The thumping became more demanding.
“Signorina! Open the door, or I shall have to let myself in,” a rich Italian voice barked.
Hotel security, no doubt. Damn. Had she really been that loud? Or were the walls just paper thin?
Grumbling, Isabelle made her way through the dark to fumble with the chain lock. “Just a minute.”
Before she could finish turning the handle, the door flew inward. She stumbled, catching herself on the thick frame. Four men filled the narrow entryway, one dressed in a crisp villa uniform, two she didn’t recognize but who looked like they’d have been more than capable of turning her door into splinters if she’d waited a moment longer.
And Caradoc.
She swallowed hard at the deeply-etched concern on his face. He couldn’t really care, could he?
“Signorina, are you hurt?” The Italian peered through silver wire-framed glasses. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitched at the corners of his mouth.
Though she answered the employee, her eyes remained locked with Caradoc’s. “No.” She swallowed to wet her sticky throat again and summoned a shaky smile. “I’m fine. I didn’t mean to concern you. It was just a dream.”
Doubt flashed within Caradoc’s gaze, accented by the tightening of his lips. Great. Just what she needed—more reason for him to keep hounding her.
“Are you certain, Signorina?” the Italian looked beyond her, as if he sought to inspect the room for an intruder.
Isabelle put more effort into her smile and more enthusiasm into her words. “Really, I’m fine. It was just a nightmare. I’m sorry to cause you trouble.” Leaning her weight into the door, she eased it shut several inches.
To her immense relief, the suspicion in the Italian’s eyes faded. He gave her an abrupt nod and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Apologies, Signorina. Enjoy the remainder of your night.”
She breathed a sigh of relief as he edged his way backward, signaling for Caradoc and the other two to follow. A dark frown clouded Caradoc’s handsome features, and for a moment, he hesitated, looking very much like he intended to challenge her claims. But in the next, he too stepped back, allowing her to escape his imprisoning gaze.
Or s
o she thought until the door was four inches away from locking shut and a scuffed boot wedged between the edge and the frame.
“Isabelle.”
Rolling her eyes, she groaned inwardly. “Go away.”
He pushed with one hand, forcing her to either let go of the handle or fall on her ass. One way or the other, he was coming in. Damn it! With her choices removed, her fingers slid free from the brass, and she folded her arms over her chest.
Caradoc wasn’t the only man still waiting, evidently unconvinced. Behind him, his two companions still blocked the hallway. To keep her nerves under control, she studied them, instead of the man who strode into her room as if he had some inherent right to her space. One dark haired, one dishwater blond, both men watched her so intently goose bumps broke over her skin. She rubbed at her arms, wishing she’d worn something heavier than the flimsy tank top that had seemed so comfortable after a hot bath. Her fingertips brushed the thick band of bronze around her bicep, offering her a degree of comfort. Maybe the charm could ward off them as well.
The pair exchanged glances, then stepped forward as if they too intended to invade her room. Like hell. She might not be going back to sleep anytime soon, but she didn’t intend to explain herself to anyone. Not Caradoc, and most certainly not two strangers who could make giants feel small with their intimidating presence.
“I think you all should leave. It’s the middle of the night.”
Caradoc snapped to attention, swiveling to turn his frown on the other two. “Go,” he ordered quietly. “This does not concern you.”
Isabelle harrumphed. As if her nightmare concerned him.
A moment’s hesitation passed between all three men, then the strangers deferred with a nod and backed into the hall. Caradoc closed the door behind them. Slowly, he turned. Eyes as tawny as a tiger’s, and every bit as intense, rooted her feet to the floor. “We will talk now, Isabelle. ’Tis no mere dream that makes you scream. I will know the reasons why.”
Chapter 12
Sheer fury forced Isabelle to lift her chin in defiance. He would know now? He should have stuck around! How dare he waltz in here and act as if he had some right to her personal life? These were her rooms, her nightmares. What they had known lay in the past. He’d given up whatever interest he’d once held.
“Isa, I do not wish to fight with you. ’Tis peace between us that I desire. Tell me what troubles you, what ’tis that brings you terror in the night.”
Genuine concern softened the insistence in his voice. When she remained silent, unable to protest for fear the truth would tumble free, he moved behind the overstuffed sofa and leaned against the arched back. His gaze held hers, laden with the tenderness she treasured in her heart. His concern was real enough. But it came too late. If he had called once…
She shrugged off the pang of regret. He hadn’t phoned. Hadn’t shown up on her doorstep with apologies when they would have made a difference. Gathering her resolve, she shook her head. “Don’t do this, Caradoc. You made your choice. You didn’t want to be a part of my life.”
Of September’s life.
“Nay!” He launched to his feet in a startling display of anger.
All six foot two inches of his body tightened, including one hand that dug into the couch’s arched back. For the first time since she’d met him, that size spoke of power. Strength she’d known lay beneath taut muscles and bronzed skin but had never experienced in its full glory. He wasn’t just buff eye-candy. No, he might have treated her to gentleness, but he knew how to inflict wounds. Damage far more deadly than what he’d done to her heart.
Intimidated, Isabelle took a step back.
Caradoc followed her retreat. “I left because I wanted you overmuch. I did not know then that you were mine to have.”
The oddity of his explanation snapped her out of her stupor. She took another step backward and tipped her head up to meet his angry glare. “What do you mean you didn’t know? For God’s sake, I shared your bed every night for three weeks! What other evidence did you need? You had my body, you had my love, and you walked away.”
As the memory of that terrible morning slapped the wind out of her, she covered her face with her hands and pushed her fingers through her hair. Drawing in a deep breath, she forced the anger and humiliation down. “I’m not a fool. I won’t buy into your pretty words this time.”
“Bloody Christ!” A tick crept across his cheek as his gaze narrowed to a fine point. “They are not pretty words, Isa.”
She couldn’t control a flinch as he swept an arm across his body, reaching for her. Back as stiff as a board, she braced for his attempt to haul her into his embrace. Not this time. She wouldn’t cave so easily.
Instead, strong fingers latched around her wrist, and Caradoc dropped to one knee at her feet. Time stood still as his eyes searched her face. He said nothing, his shoulders rising in great heaves as he breathed. His thumb swept over the back of her hand, and to Isabelle’s horror, something inside her softened. She felt it untwist, recognized the slow spread of emotion as it crept into her veins. This was the man she understood. The gentleman who could say so very much with a solitary touch.
When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “Isabelle Speranza, not a day has passed that I do not regret my departure. I deserve your anger. But my love for you is real enough. It has never died. Nor shall it.”
She told herself nothing he could say would make her cave. He could swear from the top of the villa that he still loved her, and she refused to believe. He’d said it before. Why should now be any different? She’d give in, and he’d light out of here when he’d resolved whatever business he had at Shapiro’s.
“Stop. I’m not doing this again. I’ve told you that. We’re finished, Caradoc. It’s the decision you made.” Isabelle pulled on her hand.
He closed his fingers a little more tightly, forbidding her retreat. “Have you never committed an error? You feel the same as I do. Tis in your eyes…in your kiss.” Calloused fingertips scraped pleasantly up to her elbow. “Is forgiveness too much to ask?”
Was it? She no longer knew. Three years she’d waited for this moment, the one where he came crawling back, begging her to forgive. Now, the derisive laugh she’d planned lodged between welling emotion and rising tears. She wanted him. Wanted the love he offered. But believing it was altogether different. She’d made that mistake once, and without some sort of guarantee he meant things this time, she didn’t dare take the risk.
Besides, he’d hinted he didn’t want children. Had insinuated the possibility of becoming a father was why he’d gotten snipped. Granted, his vasectomy hadn’t worked, but that didn’t change the likelihood that no amount of love he felt for her would change his thoughts about fatherhood, if indeed he didn’t want that responsibility.
“I can’t do this right now, Caradoc,” she managed through a tightening throat. “You need to leave.”
Slowly, he rose to his feet and brought his free hand to the side of her face. His touch carried the same gentleness he would afford a fragile doll. Yet the tender caress of his fingertips offered strength Isabelle desperately needed. It took every last drop of willpower she possessed not to turn her head and press a kiss into his palm. To not erase the foot of distance between them by stepping forward and taking shelter in his embrace. She dragged in a shaky breath, willed her weak knees to hold.
Caradoc tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Is what plagues your dreams the same fear that brought you to tears?”
“No,” she whispered.
At least she hadn’t thought so until she’d witnessed September’s tiny little form crumpled in an unmoving heap. Now that Caradoc raised the possibility, a whole new fear surged down her spine and threatened to buckle her legs. Paul had taken September—what if the nightmare was true? It had held the same orangish halo all her prophetic dreams did.
But accepting that possibility meant September was in very real danger. Isabelle wasn’t ready for that. S
he couldn’t allow herself to believe she might fail to secure the necklace, or even worse, have it taken from her before she could return it to Paul.
“Are you certain?” Caradoc tipped his head, as if he sensed her self-doubt.
“It’s just a dream.” It must be a dream. Paul Reid had no reason to kill September. Certainly not in some decrepit old garden with statues of eerie angels.
Caradoc’s body heat soaked into her, making her painfully aware of how little distance separated them. Nerve endings, rubbed raw from too many months of separation, arced upright, seeking the comfort of his warmth. She inhaled sandalwood and sage that flipped her heart wildly into her ribs. He smelled so good. She’d always associate that old world aroma with him, no matter how much time passed. It contented some unnamable part of her soul. Against her will, her gaze pulled to the soft contours of his mouth. How easily she could forget…
“Caradoc, you have to go,” she whispered. Before she did forget.
“Aye.” His mouth moved, but he showed no sign he intended to follow through. He remained otherwise still, his only motion, the subtle rub of his thumb against the sensitive underflesh of her bicep.
“Now.”
His sigh sank into her blood, weighing her down like a rock thrown into water. Damn it, after all this time she was still in tune with him. Still able to feel his emotions as if they were her own. And right now, regret poured through her veins so profusely her resolve wobbled. Maybe if she let him stay she could make sense out of why he left. Maybe these whispered words would reveal something she’d missed before. A reason why he couldn’t stay.
Caradoc released her in the next heartbeat. With a sad smile, he stepped away. “If there is anything I can do for you, you need but ask.” He stopped at the late Victorian writing table near the door and jotted something down on the complimentary tablet. With his index finger, he tapped the sheet of paper. “I am available at this number.” At the door, he paused to add, “Anytime.”
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 10
