Immortal Surrender (30 page)

At the same time, if she understood her oaths would give him back his light, she might be more inclined to take them. Assuming she cared if he lived or died.

Nay, he could not leap to such conclusions. Though tonight transformed them into lovers, it spoke naught of what she felt for him. Pleasures of the flesh had little to do with stirrings of the heart.

On a deep breath, he compromised with a half-truth. “I weaken over time. I can be killed by a Templar blade. Raphael infused our swords with divine light, and the weaker I become, the more I am at risk.” The explanation omitted the fact his taint made him vulnerable, that the blade was designed to eradicate darkness, but ’twould suffice. When he knew fear did not haunt her, he would supply the rest.

When she said naught, he waited. In the silence, her fingertips drew a lazy pattern on his chest. Her hair tickled his face. And though the shirt she wore prevented him from experiencing the full warmth of her skin, his body flushed where they touched. Saints’ blood, he could become accustomed to this. No woman had ever fit so neatly into his arms, nor had one evoked such a fierce desire to cast all else aside.

A hollow screech beyond the window stiffened her spine. As the sound drew out into a yawning howl with the brittleness of breaking glass, her fingers dug into his shoulder. She jerked her head up and struggled to rise. “What was that?”

Farran tucked her back into place. He looked over the top of her head at the window as he answered, “A nytym.”

“A what?”

“A creature of Azazel’s. Smarter than shades, they possess some ability to change shape. Unlike more intelligent demons, they cannot speak.”

’Twould only complicate matters to tell her the creature should not be so close. Distantly, he recognized the sound of a slamming door, the rush of boots through the entryway below. Beyond the thin pane of glass, mail clinked and swords clattered. He reached behind him to extinguish the light, then gathered Noelle in both arms and maneuvered her onto her side. “Sleep, damsel. They cannot hurt you.” Brushing his lips across her shoulder he murmured, “You are safe with me.”

The knock he expected resonated through the outer chamber. In answer, her cat meowed. He slipped his arm around Noelle’s waist and tucked her back against his chest.

“I should get that,” Noelle commented on a yawn.

“Nay,” he whispered. “They shall fight without me tonight.” Inhaling the sweet jasmine scent of her hair, Farran did something he had never once given consideration. He ignored the call to duty.

*   *   *

Noelle stared out the window and listened to the noises outside. The clink of steel, a faint bellow, another chilling scream. Down deep in her core, the chill the first grotesque howl created spread. It filtered into her veins, seeped through to prick her skin with goose bumps. Shivering, she huddled closer to the sheltering wall of warmth behind her. Farran’s arm lay across her like a protective shield, heavy yet comforting. She ran her palm down the hard perfection of his forearm and slipped her fingers through his, over the back of his hand.

He answered with a light squeeze, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest betrayed his exhaustion.

Demons. Immortality. Alternate theology. How could any of what he’d said be true? Yet she couldn’t think of any reason so many people would go to such fantastic lengths to maintain a fiction. While she’d like to believe they were all nuts, two hundred or more people couldn’t be that committed to make-believe. The cults she’d heard stories about—even at the height of their popularity, they didn’t twist
everything
. They focused on specific points, exaggerated portions of truth. Actively solicited members through condemning the accepted beliefs and offering utopian paradise. Children, and the need to train the young, played a prominent role.

Farran didn’t criticize. He didn’t offer her an escape from persecution. Hell, he hadn’t really mentioned the vow he wanted her to speak the last day or so. And no animal she knew of made the horrific noises outside, even if the people in this building were missing a screw or two.

Anne spoke of a prophecy. One where she was a teacher and Noelle was blind. Could it be possible that everything science could prove was only evidence of something more divine? All the theories, all the postulations, all the math … Until today, everything had a place, a pigeonhole to fit into. Artifacts had precise properties. Chemical compounds, carbon footprints, and exact atomic mass. Men didn’t find her desirable. Her father had been the only one to ever call her beautiful, and sex was something she’d written off to movies.

Now she confronted objects she could touch and hold, and yet by all scientific reason, they didn’t exist. She lay in Farran’s arms, the heat of his half-mast erection nestled against her bare bottom evidence he desired her even in sleep. He hadn’t only told her she was beautiful, he’d made her feel that way. And she knew, without being told, he’d give up his last breath to protect her.

But protect her from what? Whom?

She closed her eyes on a heavy sigh and took a deep breath of the woodsy-orange that ebbed off his body. Another haunting moan beyond her window had her edging backward into his body as far as she could go. She trembled as the sound died off on a high-pitched whine, and another memory of Anne’s words resonated in her mind.

You will die.

CHAPTER 27

As sunrise turned the heavens into lavender, Lucan sheathed his sword. He bent down to collect the onyx blade at his feet. Beside it, the broken remains of his brother, William, lay in a headless, bloody heap. Three dark knights had come. Three they had conquered, but with great loss. Five Templar gave their lives. One returned to Azazel’s lair with the retreating demons. The others perished at the end of holy blades, before the darkness turned them on their brethren. Including William, who met the angels’ songs at the end of Lucan’s sword.

He stepped back from the lifeless body as strong hands hefted it off the ground. His gaze lifted to the curtained window beyond the iron gates where Farran slept. If any were to know the extent of darkness that descended on Farran, ’twould be the man himself. Mayhap his soul suffered enough he dared not lift his sword. If indeed such were true, however, Noelle faced greater risk.

Each day they spent together placed her in greater peril. She grew to trust him, and as long as Farran resisted the oaths, he came closer to fulfilling Anne’s prophecy.

“Lucan, join us inside. James shall see to William and informing Mikhail. Your watch is soon to start.” Caradoc hollered from the open gates, his arm raised to beckon Lucan inside.

Aye, his watch. Though he delayed assuming his position, he had not forgotten. ’Twould be another shift of minding a closed door. Another opportunity lost to warn Noelle of the danger she faced.

He took one last look at the ground where William had lain and kicked fresh dirt over the blood-soaked soil. Though few seldom traveled this road, the evidence of death would only raise suspicion. As he crossed the road to join Caradoc, his conscience nagged. His suspicions were naught else but Azazel’s power. What he accused Farran of bordered on treason. Farran was a hard man, scarred and weathered as they all were, but his loyalty had never faltered. He would not risk the Order’s future.

Good reason existed for why he failed to join his brothers on the field.

Reason mayhap Lucan could learn if he stayed at Noelle’s side, instead of guarding her door. If she chose to leave, he could draw her into conversation. Discover what Farran may have told her, and in passing conversation guide her to be wary.

Inside the temple’s gates, he shed his surcoat and mail. His gaze followed the procession of men and decapitated brothers through the front doors. Mikhail would bless them. After, the broken shells that once held gentle souls would join those who fell before them in the crypt beneath the temple’s cold stone floor.

With his armor slung over one arm, Lucan fell into step behind the solemn march of brethren now turned pallbearers. Anne waited in the entry, her arms laden with towels meant to clean the mess. Her gaze rested briefly on Merrick, and she offered him a faint, supportive smile. They would grieve together later.

Lucan departed from the group to ascend the stairwell leading to Noelle’s rooms. In the shadows, he set his mail on the ground and leaned against the wall. His stare fixed on the barred door ahead of him, his thoughts deviated from their usual course. He exchanged his suspicion for a fleeting stab of envy. Many centuries had passed, but well he could remember the comfort of a woman’s arms.

Mayhap he would live to know that peace again.

*   *   *

Farran awakened to the low call of a dove, every bit aware of the woman sleeping next to him. The swollen nature of his cock, along with the accompanying ache in his loins, made her impossible to ignore. He lay embraced by her, the firm cheeks of her delicate bottom framing his hard length. Her feminine warmth called like a siren’s song, and against his will, his hips lifted into her, seeking that sweet haven. The slow undulation brought her body closer. Moisture dampened his straining flesh.

God’s blood, he would spill himself if she moved again. That, or he would bury himself so deep inside her she would not have time to decide whether she desired the invasion or not. He drew away, teeth clenched tight.

This newness of feeling confounded him. In years past, waking to find a woman in his bed brought no hesitation. She was present. Therefore, willing. Yet this was not his bed. ’Twas not his room. And the woman slumbering beside him had yet to welcome him between her legs.

He eased from the bed. Last night he had found comfort. A strange peace his matrimonial bed denied. He had rutted with Brighid enough to produce a child, and yet all the passion they had shared lacked in comparison to one night spent sleeping beside Noelle. It unnerved him. How could he experience such intimacy, when he had done little else but talk?

Farran stood naked at the foot of the bed, watching as Noelle slept. The goose bumps on her skin where he had blanketed her told him of the room’s chill. Yet he felt none of it. His body thrummed with heat, a fire he could not quench.

Part of him insisted he return to the bed, rouse her with his mouth, and entice her until she could not think to deny him. That insolent part of his mind refused to acknowledge the suffering she could bring. It screamed at him to let go, abandon his fears, and trust in the divine promise that she was his salvation.

The other part of his soul raged that he had already allowed her in too far. Demanded he retreat behind barriers of stone before she could land a felling blow. She had already coerced him into neglecting his duty. He had sent his brothers off to battle, too unwilling to leave her warmth.

Mayhap his first idea, to remove himself from her, had been the best. If he did not have to look upon her each day, he could not become soft. For as certainly as the sun peeked from beyond the gray sky, he traversed a dangerous path.

He shook his head. The thought of leaving her produced an equal agony. He knew not when she had become his weakness, when lust had overridden common sense, but he must stop this nonsense. He must make her understand that though he treasured what had happened between them, he wanted naught more from her than her seraph’s oath.

’Twould hurt them both. But he must protect himself before she made him bleed.

He quickly donned his clothes and strode from the room. Tonight he would press her. By morn, he would be gone.

Outside her rooms, he greeted Lucan with a glower. Silently he dared his brother to speak and give him reason to engage his fists. But Lucan merely averted his gaze, denying Farran a means of soothing his internal ache. Farran stomped down the stairs, hand on the pommel of his sword. He would seek the training yard. Find a partner who did not mind a beating.

Caradoc stopped his angry march to the indoor arena with a crisp shout. “Farran!”

Slowly he turned, his annoyance creeping out through narrowed eyes. “Aye?”

“We missed your sword.”

The subtle reprimand cracked through Farran with the power of a lash. He grimaced inwardly, turned on a heel, and strode for the arena. Caradoc followed, his heavy step a matched cadence to the footfalls of Farran’s boots.

Farran punched through the doors with enough force to rattle them on their hinges. When they slammed shut behind him, he drew his sword and whirled on his brother. “Come at me. I crave the fight.”

Caradoc frowned, but made no move to grab for his sword. Instead, he set his hand on the tip of Farran’s blade and pushed it toward the ground. “I shall give you your outlet. But first you will hear my words.”

Farran shook his sword free with a snap of his wrist. “I have talked enough to last me a lifetime, brother.” Lifting his blade, he widened his stance and stood at the ready. “Come at me, before I leave you no choice.”

On a slow shake of his head, Caradoc drew his blade. He mirrored Farran’s position, feet braced wide, shoulders loose, arm at the ready. Caradoc moved around him in a slow circle. Methodically, Farran stepped in the opposite direction, matching his pace, looking for weakness.

Caradoc caught him by surprise. In an act uncharacteristic of the seasoned swordsman, he rushed at Farran. Farran met the wide arc of Caradoc’s blade. Steel clanged together, echoing through the wide arena. The impact rolled down Farran’s arm and jarred his bones. Yet he welcomed the harsh burn, the tingle in his fingers.

Lifting his sword high, he returned Caradoc’s strike. The battle had begun, though Farran fought not the man opposing him. He combated himself. All the rage and frustration he could not channel into any useful means poured through the arc of his arm, the twist of his body.

Step-by-step he pushed Caradoc toward the wall. Blow by blow Caradoc countered, driving Farran back to the spot where they began. Equal partners, matched in skill and experience, they sparred as if their lives depended on victory. Years of fighting at Caradoc’s side gave Farran advantage, but weakness came with the fact his opponent shared the same knowledge.