Immortal Surrender (23 page)

He caught her, but not before her nose flattened against his chest. The biting sting made her eyes water. Strong arms steadied her as she leaned back to rub the offended cartilage. “Damn,” she mumbled.

When she blinked away her tears, she found him looking down at her. His eyes danced with amusement. “You have forgotten your glasses again.”

Lips pursed, she extracted her foot and shook off his hands. “My vision’s fine.”

“I see that.” He checked what resembled the beginnings of a smirk with a light cough.

“Oh hush,” Noelle muttered. She plucked her glasses off the nightstand and slid them onto her throbbing nose.

To her surprise, Farran reached out and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. His fingers smoothed the strands as he dropped his wrist to her shoulder. Warmth filled his voice. “Would you like some ice? We can stop by the kitchen.”

She didn’t want his compassion. All it did was make her skin tingly. He’d made it clear he found her unacceptable—he shouldn’t act like he cared. She twisted away.

Undaunted, Farran caught her hand. He took two steps toward the door, and Noelle dug her heels in. No way was she going to meet anyone with him. “Farran, really. I’d rather stay here. I’m too hungry to do anything else.”

“Then you shall eat.” He gave her arm a tug.

She grabbed at his fingers, intending to pry them loose. At the same time her nails grazed his knuckles, she felt the slide of cold metal around her bicep as the serpents shifted. The faint pressure increased, squeezing into her skin. Not enough to pinch, not even enough to make her wince. Obvious all the same.

For one heavy exhale, she froze in place. Her thoughts turned frenetically. Argue and suffer that sort of torture again, or follow and face a room of angry men. Possibly imprisonment. If she fell to her knees in agony, she’d have to explain to Farran. Explaining meant admitting the torc held power.

In a blink, she rushed to meet Farran’s long stride. She couldn’t admit that. Until she discovered what chemical caused the torc to react with her skin, she wouldn’t give Farran an ounce of room to feed her more fantastical stories. Not until she could fully explain them.

Each step she took closer to the door eased the pressure around her arm. By the time she stepped into the hall, all that remained was the faint sensation she might feel if she’d worn a necklace or a ring.

A shudder tumbled down her spine. Biting on her lower lip, she silenced a whimper. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t
natural
.

The sharpness of Lucan’s gaze, combined with the stiffening of Farran’s spine, drew her thoughts off the torc.
That
wasn’t right either. From her brief observance earlier, those two were supposed to be friends. But Lucan looked as if he’d be perfectly willing to stuff a fist in Farran’s jaw.

She slid her gaze sideways. Farran didn’t look any too hesitant to do the same, for that matter.

What in the world?

Wordlessly, Farran led her past a stoic Lucan and held her elbow as he guided her onto the stairs. She shot him a quizzical glance, but the short shake of his head denied her curiosity. At the brief landing, he murmured, “’Tis not of your concern, damsel.”

Of course—leave it to Farran to change the rules. Last night, he’d claimed they were a pair. Evidently, that only meant when he felt like sharing. She grumbled beneath her breath and trudged down the remaining stairs.

The rich scent of meat engulfed her as they stepped onto the main level. In response, her neglected stomach rumbled. She pressed a palm to her belly to ease the gnawing ache and did her best to ignore the delicious aroma.

Beside her, Farran’s low chuckle rumbled. “Why did you not speak of your hunger earlier?”

Dumbfounded, she gave him a look that asked him if he’d lost his mind. “Um. You weren’t here?”

“Nay,” he conceded. “I was not. My apologies. Let us see to your meal.”

Before she could think of urging him to get this meeting over with first, he ushered her through long rows of empty tables to a pair of swinging silver doors that stood at stark contrast with the simple furnishings of a dining hall.

“The men will not sup for another hour. We shall have to negotiate a plate from the cook.”

“Negotiate? You have to negotiate food around here?”

Farran opened his mouth, but a deep bark from behind an overhead warmer cut him off. “Out! Out of my kitchen! How many times do I have to tell you the new menus will not be revealed until the meal is served?”

A portly, salt-and-pepper-haired man rounded the cooktop. He brandished a long knife. “I cannot have you coming in—” He stopped to openly gape at Noelle. Spluttering, his ruddy features reddened to deep crimson. The man recovered enough to exclaim, “Milady!”

Noelle grinned, despite herself.

“Milady, accept my apologies.” The man dropped to his knee, long dark robes pooling around him on the floor. “I did not expect to find you here. I am Simon. Master of the kitchen.” As he bent over his knee the way the men had in Mikhail’s office, Noelle understood why this man did not wear a sword at his side like the rest of them. Where the arm that would have held it should have been, the sleeve of his robe was neatly pinned at his shoulder to hide an obvious amputation.

“Hi,” she answered. “I’m sorry we barged in, but I’m awfully hungry.”

“Of course.” He stood with a flourish and swept an arm toward a long countertop of silver platters and earthenware bowls. “Whatever you desire is yours.” His eyes rested briefly on Farran. “My apologies, Sir Farran.”

In his typical churlish manner, Farran accepted the apology with a nod. He steered Noelle toward the counter and handed her a heavy plate. “Fill it, and we shall take it with us.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. Take it with them? Maybe this wouldn’t turn out half bad after all. They couldn’t mean to lock her up and abuse her if they intended to let her eat. Unless this was her last …

She refused to complete the thought. Diving in to an array of greenery, she helped herself to a heaping salad. Moving down the long bar, she added a bit of shredded carrot, some crumbled egg, bean sprouts, and cucumbers. The finishing touch came with a generous dose of Italian dressing.

When she finished, Farran looked on with laughing eyes.

“What?”

“It appears Lady Anne did not err with her insistence there should be salad.”

She glanced at her plate, then back at him. “Is there something wrong with salad?”

Farran fitted his hand in the small of her back and guided her through the swinging doors. “Naught at all. Only that it has not been a part of our menus for many years.”

“I don’t want to know.” Reinforcing the statement, she plucked out a cucumber and popped it into her mouth. It hit her stomach like a rock, and she greedily stuffed another in.

“Aye, I assumed as much.”

Too absorbed in the simple pleasure of eating, she vaguely realized the shift in her surroundings as they descended the central stairs. The cool air stirred her anxiousness, but she forced it down with a heavy swallow. If not for the patience Farran exhibited, and the relaxed nature of his usually harsh features, her fears would have mounted higher. Strange how a few days cooped up with a stranger could teach her so much about reading expressions. Two days ago, his lack of a smile would have made her swear he was angry. Now, the ever-so-slight upturn at the corner of his eyes spoke to good humor. Maybe not amusement, but something pretty close.

The look soothed her nerves and told her he couldn’t possibly be leading her to a horrific fate. If anything, the restless brush of his hand against the waist of her jeans hinted he was anxious to reach their destination. He was always so still, always so in control of his actions. The motion of his thumb and the tap of his fingers revealed an additional layer of the man.

At the end of a long corridor, mounted torches cast an eerie orange light over a darkened opening in the wall. Two stairs peeked from the shadows, but the rest blended into the dark, creating the illusion they dropped into nothingness. Only when Farran took her by the hand and helped her down into the inky depths did she find it was merely a trick of lights. She could see, as well as she might under a full moon.

Noelle climbed down the narrow stone treads, delving deeper into a cavern of hand-carved glyphs and sigils. Icons of Christianity blended with images of the Templar. A Star of David, a horse with two riders, fleur de lis, and strange Gothic heads she’d never seen in any documented history—one by one they merged into a mosaic of art that could have adorned any medieval European structure.

They reached the long end, and Noelle froze in place at the image carved into the rock above her head. Twin serpents wound around each other, twining into three loops that matched the coils locked around her arm. Only, in this depiction, the snakes’ heads lifted to stare up at a meticulous depiction of an angel with widespread wings.

“Come.” Oblivious to her transfixion, Farran gave her a gentle tug.

She shook off the chill that weaseled into her blood with a short exhale and entered an enormous cavern that rendered her unable to breathe. Gold gilt columns extended several dozen feet above her head and spanned out across a carved and painted ceiling that rivaled the craftsmanship of London’s Temple Church. Where stained-glass windows would have adorned the apex of the high arches, someone had even painted replicas in bright colors.

He’d said he was a mason—had he and his friends created this? Surely, they didn’t possess this kind of talent. How could they have? Down deep in the earth this far, it would have taken years, maybe even decades, to work this kind of art.

And if they had, why on earth had they kept it secret?

CHAPTER 21

The awe that widened Noelle’s eyes took Farran back to the first time he had stepped beneath divinely inspired work of the Order’s masons centuries ago. He too had looked on in wonder, caught his breath at the carvings of masters. Marveled at the interwoven veins of gold.

Over time, the beauty became ordinary. Aye, he still experienced the same holy presence beneath the canopy, but seldom did he stop to appreciate what the Templar elders crafted long ago. Now, as he looked on, he saw the embellishments through Noelle’s eyes. Felt the pride rush through his veins. He was part of this. It lived inside him, breathed as he did.

As it lived inside her. A fact she must soon accept.

Though he hated to drag her from beneath the splendor, he slipped his fingers through hers and pulled her closer. She would learn the truth no faster by gazing at the handiwork. What would change her mind lay beyond the distant pair of doors.

Echoing boots pulled her out of her daze before he could utter a word. He looked as she did, observing Declan’s approach. The Scot walked with Leofric, their heads bowed in private conversation. ’Twas not the sight, however, that gave Farran pause. ’Twas the room they exited. Reserved for the singular purpose of offering last respects to those Mikhail freed when their souls became too dark to save, the room was forbidden to casual use. The pair should not have been within.

Suspicion narrowed his gaze, and he watched as Declan accepted something from Leofric. Gold glinted in the dim light as Declan held the object before his face. A medallion, Farran realized, hung suspended from a rope of leather. Though what the gold depicted, he could not say.

A smile broke across Declan’s face. He eased the trinket over his head, then tucked it beneath his shirt. Leaning a shoulder against a wide pillar, he folded his arms across his chest and listened to whatever Leofric said.

Farran urged Noelle toward the relic room. Leofric had long ago isolated himself from the rest of the Order, swearing he could not tolerate the leniencies the archangels granted to the men. Of all the people Farran did not trust, Leofric topped his list. He would not allow the man to catch a glimpse of Noelle until she spoke her vows.

As he pushed the heavy door open and ushered her through, her soft gasp cut through the air. He stopped, half expecting to find a foe waiting in the shadows. But fear did not turn her eyes to saucers or part her lovely lips. Nay, she gaped at the wall of shelves, laden full with objects from the Templar past.

“Farran,” she breathed. Rushing forward, she barely tossed her plate onto a table before she caught a jewel-encrusted goblet in her hands. “What is this place? This is…” She trailed off as she turned the goblet bottom up. A manicured nail traced the molded metal, tapped against a large sapphire. “My word, this is museum quality,” she murmured.

Turning wondrous eyes on him, she asked, “What’s it doing here?”

He could not answer. ’Twas all he could do to remember to inhale. Beneath the low-hanging lamps Gabriel had arranged, Noelle’s delicate features radiated the first true glimpse of happiness he had witnessed. Her bright smile held the sparkle of the jewels in her hands. Her eyes danced with the intensity of open flames. And in the radiant light, her hair held the glint of an angel’s halo.

Jesu, she was beautiful.

His heart kicked against his ribs. Spellbound, he watched as she reverently restored the goblet to its place on the shelves and picked up an iron-handled dagger. Her fingertip tested the blade’s sharpness, then slid down the shaft of metal to follow the path of the curved guard. As she tilted the tip toward the ground and sighted down the short length, his gaze dropped to her backside. Faded blue jeans hugged a heart-shaped bottom, fit snug around slender thighs.

To his amazement, he felt his cock shift against his thigh. Stunned by his body’s profound reaction to her simple clothing, he clenched a hand at his side and ground his teeth together. ’Twas the relic room—she did no more than he had hoped she might. She gave him no reason to react physically when all she did was pick up trinkets.

Yet his blood warmed as he brought his gaze up the long lengths of her silken hair. It had felt so perfect against his palms. More splendid than any tresses he had ever touched.

“Where did you find these things?” Noelle spun around, incredulous.