Without another word, he left her to stare in stunned silence at the smooth, unfeeling wood. She waited for her legs to give out. Willed the rising tears not to fall.
Neither happened. Though her limbs held, her vision blurred, turning the bright silver moonlight that lightened her room into shades of dull grey. A blink sent her tears splashing down her cheeks.
Isabelle didn’t know how long she stood rooted in the same place, silently weeping, thankful he’d left and praying he’d return. Gradually, though, she began to realize he wasn’t coming back no matter how much she secretly hoped he would. She’d kicked him out. Left him no alternative but to walk away once more. The very thing she’d swore she would do if he ever asked her to take him back.
Her gaze slid to the tablet on the table. Three years apart, and she finally possessed the one thing he hadn’t given to her in England—his phone number. Why now? Why not then when it would have mattered? When she would have called him and begged him to come back…
Swiping furiously at her cheeks, she crossed to the sheet of paper and ripped it off. It crumpled easily in her hand. She pitched it in the empty trashcan and flicked on the light. When she found the courage to tell him about September, she’d leave her number behind again, and if he wanted to initiate contact then, he could. She wasn’t about to call.
Drained from the encounter, Isabelle dropped onto the short sofa. Her hands shook as she clasped them between her knees and hunkered down in the corner. A quick glance at the wall-mounted clock told her she’d slept only three hours, nowhere near long enough to eradicate the exhaustion that clung to her like a heavy shroud.
The part of her that was running on pure adrenaline, desperately in need of a full day’s slumber, urged her to fish Caradoc’s number out of the trash and ask him to come back. His arms were the one place the dreams never tormented. Whether it was because he found other, more pleasurable ways to exhaust her, or whether it was something specific about him, she couldn’t say. But there was no getting around the fact that Caradoc brought peace.
The logical half of her, however, called her twenty kinds of fool for even entertaining the idea. All inviting him to stay would accomplish was a world of complications she couldn’t anticipate and a basket full of promises guaranteed to disappoint.
Yet he’d seemed so genuine. No, not seemed, she relented with a soft groan. He’d been sincere. He cared about what kept her awake at night, and damn it all, though it didn’t make sense, he loved her.
Loved her.
She’d known, in some remote part of her being, that despite his unexplainable disappearance his love had been real enough. Oh, she’d tried every which way she could to tell herself he’d told lies, that he’d used her. Some days she even succeeded in believing. Deep down though, she was deluding herself. Thinking he hadn’t ever cared made it easier. Kept the questions she couldn’t answer from driving her insane. If she weren’t careful, she’d get caught up in those truths.
Grimacing against the sudden twisting of her heart, she curled her nails into her palms. No matter how difficult it might be to resist, she couldn’t allow that to happen. Above and beyond his possible dislike of children, in a handful of days she was leaving. The tables had turned, and this time it would be her who couldn’t explain. Caradoc didn’t have first-hand knowledge of how thugs like Paul and her father worked. He’d insist on alerting the authorities, as any sane person would. One word to the wrong person, one slip of the tongue to a well-meaning law enforcement officer, and September would never see another sunrise.
On the off chance she’d misinterpreted Caradoc’s feelings about kids, the man who had barged into Isabelle’s room, looking every bit the intimidating knight September claimed him to be, would never back down. He’d insist on bringing Paul to justice. While the prospect of seeing Paul pay for his kidnapping and threats appealed, Isabelle didn’t intend to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder and waiting for him to claim vengeance.
No, she had to tell Caradoc about September, but she couldn’t explain why she needed to rush home to Chicago, and why he needed to stay behind. If he held connections in the FBI, maybe, maybe, she could take the risk. Caradoc, however was a scholar. He might be an expert on medieval culture, but he knew nothing about modern mafia life.
Isabelle frowned as unease sifted down her spine. Slowly she sat upright and looked once more to the trashcan. What was he doing here anyway? Shapiro owned a few collections from the ancient world, but the vast majority of his antiquities were Renaissance to Early Modern. Caradoc had passed up the Roman coin collection, by far the oldest pieces Shapiro had to offer. Hell, he hadn’t even placed a single bid.
In fact, he’d purchased a statue of Anubis that was so old most of the facial markings had been worn smooth and a decrepit wooden cross. Again, nothing Medieval.
Yet he’d been in the room when she bid on both the coins and the ring.
Apprehension morphed into a shudder that gripped her from shoulders to ankles. Surely, Caradoc didn’t know Paul. He couldn’t, could he?
No, lack of sleep and stress had made her paranoid. Paul dealt in corporate buyouts, mergers, and he demolished historical sites to appease his shareholders. True, he liked fine wine, the art of the Masters, and had an exquisite taste for jewelry. But in all the times she’d met with him, not once had she noticed any sort of appreciation for the Medieval that could link him to Caradoc. The pair were as likely to get along socially as elephants were to migrate to Alaska. Caradoc despised airs; Paul wore them generously. Caradoc had money but preferred a simple life. Paul flaunted his wealth at every given opportunity.
Like oil and water, the two didn’t mix.
Still, Caradoc’s presence in Sicily made no sense. And who were the two hulking men he’d dismissed? In hindsight, she remembered seeing the pair when she’d first approached Caradoc at Shapiro’s villa. She had been too rattled by her encounter, however, to pay them any notice. Friends of his? Co-workers? That made no sense either, because they’d both clearly deferred to him. Maybe they were students. The blond looked young enough. The dark haired man—well, she supposed he could be an adult student. Maybe an associate professor at Oxford, where Caradoc had last been researching.
It sounded logical, but something didn’t feel right. Like a puzzle piece painted in all the right colors, yet cut just slightly off-kilter, the rationale didn’t fit.
She blinked as the realization why crashed into her. Swords. The two men had worn swords at their waists. Not in some costume fashion either. Those silver sheaths hung naturally, like they made a habit of wearing them. And what she’d thought were grey shirts were shirts of chainmail.
Good Lord, who wore swords in the middle of the night? Let alone armor?
The racket of her thoughts pounded against her skull, and Isabelle rubbed her temples. It was all too much for one night. She had three hours left until Shapiro’s villa opened, and tomorrow she needed to be alert. A rare pigeon’s blood ruby, mined by hand from the Mogok region in Mayanmar, would make an appearance on the podium at eleven in the morning. It was Paul’s second-most coveted item. Until she had secured that trinket, she couldn’t get distracted by anything else. Not Caradoc, not September’s safety, and most assuredly not nightmares about her daughter’s death. If Isabelle intended to prevent that very scenario, she didn’t dare become caught up in all the rest.
Pushing herself out of the soft cushions, she flipped on the television and went to the phone. It had been a long time since she’d had breakfast at four in the morning. Just shy of three years.
Chapter 13
The night breeze rolled off the harbor, wound through the trees, and washed across Caradoc’s face. With it came the scent of salt, a familiar aroma that transported him back in time to a simpler, less populated Europe. A time when each morning began before the sun crested over mountains farther north and men exchanged places on high ramparts, their eyes ever watchful, swords ever ready.
He sp
read his feet apart, sank his weight into his legs. Against his palm, the leather wrappings around his sword’s pommel felt comfortable. Reliable. He understood the weapon as well as he understood the two men opposing him. Far more than he could comprehend the woman who resided in the tiny room beyond his left shoulder.
Tightening his grip, he sidestepped right, shoulders open, reflexes primed. A sword’s length away, Tane and Gareth mirrored his position, stalking him the way he stalked them. Tane had already landed a memorable blow to Caradoc’s left shoulder. One he did not intend to suffer a second time.
Gareth moved in with a low sweeping arc meant for Caradoc’s belly. Caradoc dropped his shoulder, turned his wrist, and deflected the strike with ease. As he twisted out of reach of the backward return, Tane’s arm came down like lightning, nearly catching his exposed left side. Caradoc swore, evading the sharp tip a fraction of a second before it gouged into his mail.
Two to one challenges brought danger, yet they had always been his preference. Far more practical for training, they simulated battle better than any one-on-one spar. Particularly with Azazel’s creations that outnumbered the knights threefold. Once it had not been so, but eight centuries of darkness had claimed more than half the Order. Where the Templar had been forty-thousand or more strong in their inception, their numbers dropped below three thousand across the world this last winter.
Numbers that made Isabelle’s oath that much more imperative, despite her steadfast insistence they ignore the passion that flowed between them.
He pushed her out of his mind before she could creep in and consume his thoughts, and held his sword horizontally across his body, blocking a coordinated dual strike. Steel clashed, echoed off the tall mountain face. In the nearby brush, a wild animal scampered away.
Caradoc eyed his opponents, calculating their timing, assessing their tactics. Experience told him he had but one chance to emerge the victor, and in the wake of Isabelle’s rejection defeat was unacceptable. He would suffer no more losses. Not with his brothers, not with her.
Spying an opening, he lunged forward, inserting himself between Tane and Gareth. They whirled simultaneously, surprise evidenced in the faltering nature of Gareth’s blade. His hesitation left his stance unguarded, giving Caradoc the advantage he desired. He cut in with a quick upper thrust, swinging his broadsword from hip to shoulder, and brought it down with a lion’s fury. The sharp edge clanged off Gareth’s mail-covered bicep. He doubled over with a hoarse grunt, his sword tumbling free as he clutched at his arm.
One opponent down. All that remained was Tane, who exhibited more aggression than Caradoc had witnessed in the last fifty years.
Using the momentum of his attack, Caradoc spun in a tight circle. At the same time, he arced his sword across his body. The blow would have cleaved a lesser man in two. Had, on several occasions in the hot sands of the Holy Land. It also threw Caradoc off balance when his blade failed to connect with Tane’s body. The same momentum pitched him sideways, leaving him stumbling for his footing.
An error Tane quickly turned in his favor. He grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and lifted it high over his head. With the full power of his body behind him, he brought it down like a sledgehammer, his target Caradoc’s lower back.
By the grace of the Almighty, Caradoc caught the flash of steel from the corner of his eye. He lunged out of the way, reducing the crippling blow to a mere glance. The blade, however, slipped between the links of chain and scored into his flesh. Pain seared through his ribs.
He clamped his elbow to the superficial wound and let out a hiss. Undaunted by the warm sticky flow of blood, he renewed his attack before Tane could effectively reposition. Tane had learned much these last few weeks with Merrick, improving on skills that were already well honed. But the commander inside Caradoc refused to allow a subordinate to best him. He had fought and conquered men more fearsome than Tane.
In a display of rarely used speed that could work against him if he were not careful, he drove in again and again, each blow harder, faster than the one before. To Tane’s credit, he blocked each one with little more than a pivot of his elbow, a dip of his arm. But the unrelenting attack took its toll. Tane’s already hard breath became more labored. Uncertainty passed across his face. His timing slowed.
Step-by-step, blow-by-blow, Caradoc drove him backward, pushing him down the slight incline. Higher ground kept advantage in Caradoc’s favor, adding strength to his sword arm. Blades sang in the still night, boots crunched through dried debris.
Tane’s heel caught a protruding boulder, and he stumbled. Before Caradoc even sighted in on the tender flesh of his unprotected neck, defeat dimmed the light in Tane’s eyes. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head, forcing Caradoc to lower his broadsword.
For the first time since he had risen that morning, a smile spread across Caradoc’s face. “You have improved, brother.” He sheathed his weapon and extended his hand.
Tane accepted the offered aid. Dark eyebrows knit together as he rose. “Victory comes from a rock.”
Though Tane’s surly tone spoke to his displeasure, Caradoc laughed. He clapped a hand on Tane’s shoulder. “Lesser things have won full wars.”
Loose pebbles rolling past their feet announced Gareth’s emergence from the higher ground above. His unfaltering good nature was evidenced by the broad grin that spanned across his face. Unconcerned about the blood that trickled down his arm, or the rend in his mail, he thrust out a meaty palm. “Good match. It has been many months since I have lost to such skill.”
Chuckling, Caradoc shook his hand. “Thank you both. I find my spirits much improved.”
“’Tis no wonder they were dark.” If such were possible, Gareth’s grin broadened even more. “’Twould seem the archangels delight in making the seraphs most infuriating.”
Everything inside Caradoc ground to a halt. Gareth knew. ’Twas no mere assumption; confidence radiated in his voice. Caradoc slid his gaze to Tane, observing his flat expression and the tight lines of displeasure around his mouth. They both knew.
“Seraphs?” Caradoc struggled to disguise his surprise.
The pair exchanged confused glances.
“Aye,” Tane grumbled with a measure of displeasure. “She is yours, as I suspected and you denied.” He pivoted on his heel and took the rest of the downward slope in double time.
Caradoc watched him depart, apprehension tightening his tired muscles. This did not bode well. As he had feared, Tane’s envy could not cope with Isabelle’s status. For his own sake, lest he wished to meet the point of Caradoc’s sword, Tane had best learned his lesson with his recent excommunication. There would not be a second. Only death. For Caradoc would not be as forgiving as Merrick, should Isabelle suffer Tane’s taint.
“He has been quiet since we left you with Isabelle.” Gareth began the downward climb at a casual pace.
“How did you discover her status?”
Gareth blinked. “’Twas on her arm. Did you not notice she wears the serpents?”
Nay, he had not. He had been so concerned about her troubles that he had not realized she wore the torc undisguised. God’s teeth, had anyone else witnessed the band of bronze?
“I will keep a watchful eye on our brother,” Gareth offered quietly.
Caradoc nodded, accepting the unspoken implication. Gareth had been present. He knew the details of Anne’s abduction.
Sudden chuckling at his side interrupted Caradoc’s darkening thoughts. He frowned at Gareth. “What amuses you?”
“I am most glad the archangels have not seen fit to pair me. I would not wish these trials on my worst enemy.”
A wry smirk lifted one corner of Caradoc’s mouth. “Nay, you would not wish to be limited to one.”
“Mayhap I shall be lucky and find myself bound to twins.”
“’Twas all Caradoc could do to not roll his eyes. But the absurdity of Gareth’s remark served to restore his good humor. The day would arrive when Gareth found hi
mself chained, whether he wished it or not. When it came, Caradoc would sit back with Isabelle and watch with great amusement.
Gareth’s seriousness returned. “Were you forewarned she belonged to you?”
“Nay.”
“She has made her distaste for you obvious. How did you discover her status?”
Caradoc turned his gaze to the villa, focusing on Isabelle’s brightly lit window. Her slender shadow moved across the partially drawn curtains, creating vibrant images in his mind of long lithe legs, cascading blond hair, and mesmerizing indigo eyes. In an instant, he was transported back to the first day he had witnessed her walking through the forgotten cemetery at Kiddington Hall. She had been oblivious to his presence, distracted by the weatherworn tombstones of his ancestors, until she had quite literally tripped over his boots. He had caught her fall. Looked up into an angel’s face.
A smile accompanied the invasion of pleasant warmth in his blood. In a low voice, he answered Gareth. “I touched her.”
* * *
Tane flipped the lock on his door and embraced the darkness of the room. He could not tolerate another moment of pretending Caradoc’s pairing did not bother him. Indeed, it ate away at his thoughts, fueling an anger he could not explain. He had tried to exorcise that darkness, hoped beyond all measure that a brief dual of arms would expel the envy from his veins. Instead, all the spar had served to do was intensify the burn. Each time he looked at Caradoc, he saw the man Caradoc would become—a warrior of equal skill to the mighty Raphael. A knight whose injuries would heal within seconds, immune to even the terrific power of a holy blade.
Tane heard the laughter they had all once shared so freely. He witnessed Caradoc’s freedom from pain.
All things any faltering Templar cherished. Why Tane must suffer the curse of envy, he could not understand. He was no different from the rest of them. They had all sacrificed, donated their holdings and belongings to the noble Order, and adopted the simple life. What he had left behind was, in truth, significantly less than Caradoc, less than Gareth. Even less than Declan. And yet, he was the one to suffer this intolerable affliction.
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 11
