Immortal Hope (7 page)

His voice was brittle, full of underlying anger, as he said, “Farran de Clare.”

Anne’s eyes widened in recognition of another noble family’s name. Why it surprised her, she didn’t know. To be Templar, a man had to have descended from nobility. But seeing these men bow before her, she who didn’t have a drop of blue blood and would have been a peasant in that long-ago time, felt somehow wrong. She returned Farran’s sword, all too anxious to have this procedure over with.

The Scot’s easy smile lessened her discomfort. He bent over his knee with grace and flourish, and dipped his reddish head. “Declan MacNeill.” As she bent to retrieve his sword, he tossed her a wink. She smiled as she handed it to him but quickly sobered under Merrick’s smoldering stare.

Moving as a collective unit, the five men rose and filed out the door in silence.

The room now empty, save for Merrick and Mikhail, Anne returned to her chair and focused on their leader. His smile had disappeared, his features the same grim mask that Merrick wore. Great. She let out a sigh, pushed her hair out of her face, and looked to Mikhail. “I have students that expect midterm grades. I’ve got a thesis to finish by Christmas, or I lose a promotion. While I would love nothing more than to stay and learn your histories, I can’t stay here indefinitely. How long are you thinking I’ll be gone?”

“Eternally. You cannot go back. The things you will learn, the secrets you shall be trusted with—your place is here. I am sorry we do not have the necessary time to prepare you better. But this is more important than any grades, any test, and any promotion you might believe you need.”

Her stomach tightened with a knot of apprehension. Throw away her promotion? No way. Who knew when she might get another opportunity at a department chair? Another college would expect her to put in years of teaching that she’d already obtained at Benedictine. She’d thrown herself into medieval France and the Knights Templar since her parents’ plane crash, devoted everything she was to fulfilling her father’s research and proving the theories he began, and published internationally respected papers on many of them already. She had no intentions of starting over. Not when she was so close. The promotion meant far more than professional success. Her father died while traveling to prove the Church’s motives. Her thesis was personal.

Mikhail moved in front of her and caught her hand.

As if to assure she wasn’t trapped in some crazy dream, her second sight rose to the surface with a chilling image. Put to death in the Romans’ preferred method, an unclothed man suspended from a thick wooden cross. His chin rested against his chest. Long hair tumbled about his face. At his feet thousands wailed as legionaries whipped them, threw stones and rocks. A few even went so far as to kick the mourning in the gut and spit on their prostrated bodies. Her focus narrowed on the dead man’s bended head, lingering on a crown of twined thorns.

She closed her eyes when the image faded. Logic and reason combated with her spiritual affinity until her head felt dizzy all over again, but in the wave of nausea, those balmy sensations she’d experienced earlier returned to ground her. The tentacle of fear that reached out for her retreated, and she couldn’t fight back the overwhelming feeling of peace.

When she opened her eyes, Mikhail pulled his hand from hers and peered down at her in earnest. “You must listen carefully, Anne. Your fate lies with one of my men. You are bound to him. It was written in the heavens long before any of us touched this earth. There is a mark upon your body, a scar, a birthmark, perhaps even art. Something unique, that in its shape, its creation, or its meaning holds significance. It matches one of the men’s, and he who bears the identical symbol is your intended mate.”

She shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”

Mikhail didn’t flinch. “Deadly.”

“You really mean this nonsense? I’m some descendant of an angel? I’m supposed to give up my life and hide underground with a man I’ve never met?” She let out a soft snort. “I don’t think so.”

As if her remark didn’t warrant a response, Mikhail turned his attention to Merrick. “By Gabriel’s, and thus the Almighty’s, order, you will help pair her. Until her intended is found, you will protect her. She is your charge, Merrick. I expect you to devote yourself to her safekeeping. Now give her your oath.”

Anne spluttered as Merrick dropped to one knee. He bowed his head and tossed his sword carelessly in front of him, the
clang
as harsh as his expression. If body language said anything, the man was seriously pissed. She couldn’t blame him. Stuck with arrogant Merrick? What had she done to deserve misery?

“Merrick du Loire.” His tight-lipped response sounded more like a snarl.

She was half tempted to let him retrieve his sword on his own, just to see how long he would sit there on a bended knee. When several seconds passed and she hadn’t moved, he tipped his head up. His eyes spoke silent fury. That telltale twitch tugged at the side of his jaw, and he clenched his teeth so hard his lips turned into a tight, cruel line.

“Fine,” she muttered. Bending over, she picked up his sword and thrust it toward him. He snatched it out of her hands, jumped to his feet, and stuffed it into the metal scabbard that dangled from his waist.

“What is the meaning of this, Mikhail?” Merrick demanded. “She is a woman. Not strong, not a fighter. How can
she
help us?”

Anne stiffened at Merrick’s condescending remark. No wonder he hadn’t hesitated to carry her like a sack of potatoes and gave little thought to what she wanted. His brain was still firmly rooted in the twelfth century. Good God. She was supposed to stay with
him
until this supposed predestined husband was found? She wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to protest, but Mikhail didn’t give her the opportunity.

One coppery eyebrow arched, and a rueful smile spread across Mikhail’s face. “You cannot mean to tell me you’ve forgotten the prophecy, Merrick. She carries the light that will balance one knight’s tainted soul. She is a seraph.”

Anne almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of Mikhail’s statement. Ludicrous.
Light
in
her?
Someone evidently neglected to tell Mikhail she’d had a little too much fun in college. So much so, she had almost flunked her freshman year. It had taken five more to graduate. Her parents’ death the following year finally pushed her into responsibility, but it had still taken another three years to get her master’s, and then another two for her doctoral thesis. By now, she’d settled down. She might
look
light and innocent, but there was far more darkness in her soul than she cared to admit.

The way Merrick’s face drained of color and his mouth parted suffocated her humor. Whatever Mikhail meant by those cryptic words, Merrick took seriously. Too seriously for her liking. Fighting down a sickening sense of foreboding, she asked, “Balance?”

Mikhail nodded. “You will keep someone alive, Anne. Now go, and discover who it is.”

Keep someone alive? He had to be kidding. She didn’t want that kind of responsibility. She killed plants for God’s sake. Gabe had made a mistake. A terrible, awful mistake. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. Not by any means.

Thwarting her protest, Merrick clamped his hand around her wrist. “Let us get this over with quickly. I have no care to stay here long.”

Having had her own desires ripped out of her control, Anne refused to tolerate another moment of his overbearing attitude. She twisted free of his hold. “I’ll walk without your help. So help me, if you put one hand on me, I’ll kick in your knees.”

She stormed through the door, Merrick on her heels. Behind them, she could have sworn she heard laughter. But before she could peek through the crack and investigate, Merrick swung his arm wide, indicating the dimly lit corridor. “That way,” he barked.

*   *   *

Merrick followed Anne down the corridor, all too aware of the commotion her presence caused. A legion of men, once forty-thousand strong, dwindled to less than a thousand scattered throughout the world before the Almighty deigned to reveal those who carried the holy light. Nearly nine hundred years they had waited for the coming of the seraphs. So long, that he had forgotten the very prophecy designed to offer the Templar hope. Even now, he could not recall the entirety of the promise, but the opening passage rang clear in his head.
First comes the teacher.

Aye, she was a teacher, but her duty would mean more than the lessons she taught. She would guide the seraphs yet to come. Mikhail spoke true—this headstrong maid was the key to Azazel’s defeat. Moreover, she would begin their healing.

As Anne stalked on ahead of him, her presence and her purpose sank into him fully. He could not ignore the way men who had not broken from prayer in hundreds of years found themselves silent when she passed by open archways. Heads turned. Murmurs rumbled through the ranks gathered in the barracks’ small communal area. He did not need to hear their words to know the question that burned in their minds—Who would she save? Who would she say oaths with, thus forever blocking the darkness from entering his soul and healing the damage already done?

Accusation registered behind more than one face when they looked upon him, as if he somehow had some hand in Anne’s fate. Would that he did. He would pair her with Declan and have the whole ordeal over with. Declan possessed the character to deal with this woman’s trying nature.

At the end of the hall, Anne stopped. Her back stiff, she did not look at him. Nor did she inquire which way to turn. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. What would the haughty little general do now?

Nothing, he realized, as she remained motionless, her chin held high, tiny fists balled at her sides.

With a grumble, he stalked past her and continued down a private corridor to the left. He could think of naught else that displeased him more than having to guide this woman. His shin still ached from the punishment of her boots. Saints’ blood, what had come over her? He minded little that she felt the need to take her frustrations out on him, but he greatly cared she had done so in front of his men. Such disrespect he would not tolerate. Most certainly not from a woman, seraph or not.

He pushed open the heavy door to his small, private chambers and stepped aside, allowing her entry. Dimly, it occurred to him he had not thought to ask where she would reside. But he dismissed the concern as quickly as it rose. In a few moments, she would take up residence with her intended.

As Anne entered, her perfume tickled his nose. He closed his eyes to the smell of sweet lavender as his lungs constricted. He refused to consider the possibility of her meaning, refused to let the question rise in his mind as it had every other knight’s. Were she meant for him, it mattered not. One man could not defeat Azazel’s poison. Gritting his teeth against a traitorous rise of hope, he opened his eyes to find her seated on the edge of his bed.

The sight of her sitting there sent a whole new rush of sensation surging through his veins. Early morning light poured in through his small window, catching her hair and making it shimmer as if she were some ethereal creation of the Almighty’s divine plan. Her features were soft, if not a touch bewildered, and something akin to sympathy tightened his chest. Aye, she was strong. She had yet to give over to a woman’s tears, even if her tongue did run away from her. She did not protest her fate, did not demand to return to her home.

The sight of her smile as she had returned Declan’s sword lingered before Merrick’s eyes, and with it, a foreign spear of envy jabbed him in the gut. Surprised by how strongly that simple gesture affected him, Merrick scowled. Had it been so long since he had spent time in a woman’s company that one smile could give him reason to want to strike his brother?

Nay, it must be the darkness in his spirit. He had gone too long on too few hours of sleep. No simple woman was cause for discord between men. He had never allowed one to divide him from his men, nor would he allow this one.

He would find this mark Mikhail claimed she bore and rid himself of her. “Take off your clothes.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Excuse me?”

“I do not think your hearing fails you. Take off your clothes.”

A chuckle stirred her shoulders, and a smirk turned up a corner of her full mouth. “Most men try dinner and a movie first, Merrick. Maybe a little wine. Definitely some pretty words. A kiss usually sets the mood.”

He nearly choked on her implication. “You think I wish to bed you?”

She shrugged, but her blue eyes were not nearly as impassive. A storm waged inside them, and they flashed with the deadly brilliance of lightning. “Tell me what else I should think? You’ve ordered me around, bullied me, insulted me with your
demon Anne
. Do you think I’m thrilled to be here?” She scrunched her features together, cocked her head, and lowered her voice.
“I have no care to stay here long.”

Merrick stared in disbelief. She mocked him. This woman who stood only at his shoulder in her heeled shoes
mocked
him. She even assumed his slight accent. He had slain men for less.

Amusement rolled around in his chest, worked its way up his throat. He gave in and let it escape. With a shake of his head, he laughed.

The look of astonishment that settled into her delicate features only stirred his humor more. For one priceless moment, she sat speechless. But her silence quickly gave way to a punishing frown that stifled his chuckles. He ceased his laughter, but he could not contain his grin. The temptation to tease her was too much. “I do not wish to bed you,
demon Anne.
”

Another chortle threatened to break free as her shoulders stiffened. He did not give her time to reply. “’Tis the mark I seek.”

Visibly, she relaxed. “I’m not taking off my clothes. I have a tattoo, but I’m in no mood to show it to you.”

He took a step closer and glared at her. “You will—”

“No. I won’t.” Shooting to her feet, she stabbed a finger in his chest. “I will
not
do one more thing you tell me to. You want something, you ask. Got it?”