Immortal Surrender (15 page)

The soothing tone of Mikhail’s voice cracked as he exclaimed, “’Tis unacceptable!”

“Mayhap.” Farran punctuated his response with a curt nod. “Which do you desire more, Mikhail? The reinforcement of our Order or a petty vow that, should you force my hand, I shall not uphold?”

Long seconds passed as the two men stared each other down. Noelle pursed her lips so tight they began to tingle. How dare he. Wasn’t it bad enough he made his dislike of her known in private? Did he really have to go and shame her in front of someone else? She might not be anywhere near as beautiful as Anne, or likely the other women he associated with, but she wasn’t chopped liver either. She had good qualities. A brain for starters. And once upon a time, a guy had said her ass wasn’t half bad.

Damn him. He could add insensitive jerk to his ever-growing list of faults. Asshole too, if she cared to be blunt.

She willed her emotions under control and forbade the rush of tears to stop before they trickled down her cheeks. She didn’t care what he thought of her. It didn’t matter. He was nuts, and she was going home. One way or the other.

“I do not care for this, Farran.” Anger tucked away again, Mikhail resumed his soothing tone. “And yet you force my hand as well.” He turned on his heel and strode behind his desk. A heavy drawer complained as he jerked it open. Shoving a hand inside, he pulled out a stack of leather-bound journals and tossed them onto his chair. On the second delve into the drawer’s contents, he produced a thick, tattered tome. He thumped it down on his desk, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

Mikhail thumbed through the vellum pages until the book was three-quarters open. In jerky movements that revealed his masked anger, he turned it around and shoved it toward Noelle. A slender fingertip punched an inset block of Latin text. “These are your words, Noelle. Let us be done with this farce.”

Nothing she’d heard since she left her laboratory sounded better. Getting this over with meant home. Home meant freedom from this unfeeling man who seemed to thrive on insulting her. If she were witty enough to think of a comeback, his words wouldn’t cut so badly. As it was, however, she bled every time he opened his mouth.

“You know yours?” Mikhail asked Farran.

“Aye.” He turned to her, the light in his rich eyes hard and punishing. “Remove your armband, Noelle.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh for Pete’s sake. You know I can’t.”

He grabbed her wrist, slipped a hand beneath the oversized sleeve. Warmth seeped up her arms as his fingers worked over her skin, edging closer to the torc lodged around her bicep. Her stomach turned into a mass of wild butterflies desperate for freedom. So intimate, yet so benign, the simple caress steered her senses off course. She closed her eyes to brace against the onslaught of sensation and held her breath.

When his hand slipped free, she expelled her air on a hiss. Man, oh man, why did she have to like it so much when he touched her?

The scrape of steel against steel drew her back to the present. Opening her eyes, she found Farran with his sword drawn. He dropped the torc down the plain pommel and held it in place with his fist.
“Meus vires, meus mucro, meus immortalis animus, fio vestry.”

Years of working with ancient artifacts translated the Latin automatically.
My strength, my sword, my immortal soul, becomes yours.
Nice vows, if he’d actually meant them. They sounded like something suited for a wedding. Especially given their Latin origin. The English translation wouldn’t carry the same effect. It lacked the depth of feeling only the ancient language could provide.

A strange shiver flitted down her spine, and Noelle struggled to ignore the pang of regret that followed in its wake. If he’d meant the vow,
if
he weren’t nuts, if such a thing existed as an immortal spirit, she might forgive his crabby nature.

Mikhail thrust the book beneath her nose and pointed at the matching line he wanted her to recite.
My life, my love, my eternal light, becomes yours.

At once, everything clanged together within her head. His insults, her wounded pride, her stomped-on feelings—they all rushed together until Noelle couldn’t see through the flurry of tears that gathered in her eyes. Damn him for waking up all those dead feelings. Damn him for breaking open wounds she’d thought long healed.

She swallowed hard and lifted her chin, determined to prove to him she wasn’t some meager mouse. He’d insisted on her cooperation. Her freedom depended on this oath. Yet nothing would convince her to utter something so filled with meaning. Not when the words were empty lies. When this whole ordeal stemmed from some ludicrous claim. It was beyond time for Farran to learn he couldn’t have everything his way.

In strong, confident English, she uttered her vow.

CHAPTER 13

As the bronze serpents remained unmoving against his sword, Farran swiveled toward Noelle. Anger rushed through him, fast and furious. Glad he did not still hold her wrist, he curled his fingers into a tight ball and narrowed his gaze. The magic lay in the Latin, not the mere recitation of their meaning. She made a mockery of the very prophecy that carried the Templar through time. “You will say them in the language they are written.”

Lush lips lifted with satisfaction. She took another step backward and shook her head. “No. Or as you would say,
nay
.”

He resisted the fierce urge to grab her by the arms and shake her until she cooperated. Once upon a time, he would have slain one who dared show so much disrespect. Had on several occasions during his brief reign as lord of Clare. Yet her very sex prevented him from turning the blade he held to her throat. He had not killed Brighid, despite her greater offenses, and would not stoop to taking the lives of women now.

However, he did not shy away from punishing women who did not know their place. He tempered his outrage with a deep breath. “You will, damsel, or you shall find yourself regretting your defiance.”

Her short laugh only served to fuel his fury. Accompanied by Mikhail’s quiet chuckle, her amusement cut his pride into ribbons. Heat spread through his veins, and he snatched at her hand.

She pulled away faster. Her chest heaved with unspent anger. Pinpricks of color stained her cheeks. She marched forward, closing the distance between them and stabbed her finger into his chest. “I won’t say them in Latin. I won’t say them again, period. I’ve done what you wanted, and now I want to go home.”

Farran sheathed his sword before his fury got the better of him. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her so close her breasts brushed against his chest. “You will not leave until you utter the vow.”

Her eyes glittered like amber gems behind her narrowed gaze. “I
will
leave. Mark my words, Farran, you cannot hold me prisoner forever. And when I do, you’ll wish you’d never met me.”

Mikhail cleared his voice, reminding Farran they were not alone. He straightened at the sound and relaxed his hold on Noelle’s arm, yet he did not turn her loose. Ordering his anger to subside, he turned to Mikhail.

“Perhaps you would both benefit from some time apart.” Mikhail lifted his eyebrows, a silent instruction Farran should not argue. “I believe you made mention of unwelcome guests. Perhaps you should attend to other matters and allow Noelle a reprieve from your tongue. I am certain she shall find her chambers to her liking.”

Noelle protested, “I’m not stay—”

“Aye, you are,” Farran gritted out. “You may have found a champion, but, Dr. Keane, you will stay until you assume your duty.”

He ushered her to the door, none too gently. Yanking it open, he thrust her into the hall ahead of him.

“Let go of me.” She pried at his fingers as he marched her down the stone corridor. “I’m not staying here. I’m going home, damn it. If I have to walk to town to catch a ride, I will.”

Clamping down on his tongue, he refused to give in to his temper. God’s teeth, this woman was far more infuriating than Anne. At least with Merrick’s wife, he could expect her to retaliate physically. In stark contrast to Anne’s forthright manner, Noelle struck out when least expected. She wove a web of words that offered encouragement, then used that silvery tongue to twist things in her favor.

Just like Brighid.

At the stairs, she sank her weight into her heels, refusing to budge. Undaunted, Farran gave her another push and sent her stumbling onto the first stone tread. Outclassed by his size, she stumbled up the steps ahead of him, muttering beneath her breath. He could not make out the words, but guessed he would not wish to hear them anyway.

At the top of the stairs, she twisted sharply to the right. “Let me go,” she hissed through her teeth. “You’re making a scene.”

Farran set his jaw and ignored her demands. ’Twas not a man within the temple walls who had not experienced a headstrong woman. All would have done the same, were they to face the humiliation she had caused. Many would not be as gentle. Many more would not have waited until they were out of earshot to make their displeasure known.

He hurried her up the stairs that led to the second story and the seraphs’ chambers. The door across the hall from Merrick’s stood open. Light spilled into the hall. He led her inside, thrust her away from him, and kicked the door shut with his heel. “You gave me your word.”

“My word?” she cried. Oblivious to her lavish surroundings, she stalked back in front of him. “My
word
? You insult me at every opportunity. You want me to believe this means so much to you, and yet you can’t bring yourself to follow your own delusional customs? Don’t you
dare
start in on me about my
word,
when yours is just as meaningless.”

A foreign pang of guilt stabbed through his thick skin as she flung the truthful accusation. He had spoken falsely. His vow held emptiness, and were it not for duty to the Order, he never would have spoken a single syllable. Yet he could not bring himself to admit the wrong. Duty stood above all. The strength that would come from their union demanded he take the necessary measures. A fact he must make her understand.

He pushed a hand through his hair and willed his temper into submission. Studying her for several long moments, he focused on the easy in and out of his breathing. When he felt he had reduced his fury to a low simmer, he spoke low and clear. “Your role is to this Order, as is mine. What we think of one another is unimportant. There are greater things at stake.”

On a frustrated groan, she sank her head into her hands and dug her fingers into her scalp. “This is insane.
You
are insane. I just want to go home.”

“Then say the words, damsel, and you shall gain your freedom.”

Dragging her fingers down her face, she shook her head, then adjusted her glasses. “No. I’m not about to do one thing more for you. You’re all nuts, and I refuse to play your ridiculous game.”

Farran reached down to his sword and pulled the torc off its pommel. He tossed it onto the overstuffed plaid couch beside her thigh. “When you come to realize you have no choice, I shall be waiting.”

Noelle reached for the torc and hurled it at his head. Her aim failed by several inches. The torc thumped into the wooden door, bounced off, and landed on the hardwood floor. He watched it roll on its edge before it toppled sideways and came to a stop near the toe of his boot. ’Twas no matter—the holy relic would find its way to her arm soon enough. ’Twould not leave her as long as it sensed her true intentions lay in leaving it behind.

With a disappointed shake of his head, he turned for the door. Mikhail spoke wisely. A battle of words and wills would accomplish naught. She needed time. And he had demons to address.

He left her in silence and rapped on Merrick’s door. Anne opened it quickly, her smile bright. “Farran, I’m so happy for you.”

Giving her a perturbed look, he let himself inside. “Aye, you would be.”

Anne drew back, her blue eyes wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She who does not hesitate to bully everyone into her demands would find Noelle’s reluctance amusing.” Though his voice held the sharpness of annoyance, his heart lacked conviction. In truth, much as he despised admitting it, Anne grew on him with each meeting.

Merrick stepped through the French doors that separated their sleeping chambers from the front room. “She gives you trouble, Farran?”

“She plagues me overmuch.” He massaged his temples between thumb and forefinger.

Merrick’s mouth contorted with a smirk. His gaze flicked to Anne, then back to Farran. “’Tis the way of seraphs.”

Farran shook off the humiliating encounter with a heavy sigh. “I wish to speak of it no more. I need your sword.”

All traces of humor vanished from Merrick’s expression. He dropped a hip onto the arm of their sofa. “What is your need, brother?”

Gesturing at the window and the trees outside, Farran answered, “There are demons lining the lane. We must dispose of them before Azazel learns of Noelle’s arrival. She remains vulnerable until she swears her word.”

Merrick stood and went to the rack of armor behind the door. As he pulled his chain hauberk free, Anne gnawed on her lower lip. It took only seconds before her attempt at silence failed, and her worry tumbled free. “Is that wise, Merrick? Your leg’s only begun to heal.”

When Merrick bent to place a gentle kiss to Anne’s cheek, Farran looked away. Of late, he found he could not stomach the affection they openly shared. It rent wounds over scars long healed and brought back disturbing memories of a time when he too had loved deeply.

“I shall be fine, little demon. ’Tis a good way to test my strength.”

Anne’s sharp tone scolded. “And a good way to find yourself back in bed.”

“A fate I would not mind overmuch,” Merrick answered on a chuckle. “Come, Farran. Let us descend in to the barracks. We shall gather Lucan and Caradoc. Declan, if we can find him. The fight will do you good as well.”

Aye, indeed. If he were lucky, he would not survive to see the light of morning.

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