Immortal Hope (11 page)

He held out his hand.

Anne stared at it as if he offered her thorns. He anticipated her refusal. But then she slipped her palm into his, her dainty fingers clasping gently, and she stood. The smile she gave him stuttered his heart. He said a silent thankful prayer they met at sword point, for if she had smiled at him thus, he would have done anything to make her his.

Anything.

With a gentle tug, he led her out the door.

They walked in silence down the corridor. Where their palms met, his skin warmed. Caught by the rush of pleasant sensations that worked their way up his arm, he shifted his hold to twine his fingers through hers. A gentleman would release her hand, tuck the delicate digit into the crook of his elbow. But Merrick had never been such, and she seemed uninclined to twist free. In fact, lest his imagination had gotten the better of him, she tightened her grip.

“How is Declan?” she asked at the juncture of three corridors.

Merrick bristled. She liked Declan. She had even given the Scot a gift of her smile. He ought to embrace the possibility Declan and she might share eternity together, but for a reason Merrick could not understand, the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. He fought it down with effort and kept his gaze fastened straight ahead. “He will survive. Uriel will tend his wound.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught Anne’s apprehensive glance. “Uriel? I don’t think I heard you right.”

“You did.”

Her brows puckered as she struggled with something internally. “I thought…” Her frown deepened, and she pursed her lips.

“You thought what?”

“Doctrine says Raphael heals, not Uriel.”

Merrick shook his head. “Through time, much information has been misreported. Raphael holds Mikhail’s position in our European temple.”

She digested this with a slow nod. Then her confusion fled and her features smoothed. “So tell me, big guy. If there’s an archangel tending Declan, why was there ever any worry? Can’t he just wave his hands or something, and those wounds will go away?”

Merrick chuckled. “Nay. Uriel will not. He uses only the tools known to mankind to heal.”

“But
why
?”

He grinned down at her and gave her hand a squeeze. “Because the archangels are peculiar in their ways. Would that I understood them, I suppose I would be one.”

“Well we know you are no angel.”

Merrick frowned. Yet as he opened his mouth to return the insult, he caught the gleam of humor behind her gaze and took in the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. Saints’ blood, she was teasing him.

The playful banter stirred a lightness in his heart that made him feel much like the young knight he had once been when the world lay before him, ready for his conquest. His mouth quirked. “Aye. You are one to speak,
demon Anne
.”

Her throaty laugh stirred something else. His pulse quickened. His lungs felt too tight, and against his thigh, his shaft rose in answer. Bollocks! Could he not spend a moment with her without suffering this accursed desire?

Grinding his teeth together, he banged on Lucan’s door.

*   *   *

Anne stifled her laughter as the door cracked open and Lucan stuck his head out. On seeing her, he swung the door wide, grabbed her free hand, and brought the back of it to his lips. “Lady Anne, a pleasure.”

She blushed until the tips of her ears burned. “Stop that.” She pulled on her hand, but with the friction, her second sight tugged on her mind. Where seconds earlier she’d looked at Lucan’s laughing face, she stared now at a man on his knees. Head bowed, his shoulders shook as he mourned. Before him, three bodies lay on a cold stone floor beneath a hanging banner that bore a yellow and blue coat of arms. The eldest of the dead, a gray-bearded man, lay on his back, his sword clutched uselessly in an outstretched arm. At his left, a young boy not much older than ten or eleven, sprawled facedown in a pool of his own blood. The fingers on his right hand stretched over his head to touch a woman’s bloodied palm. She lay on her side, her other hand tucked against the deep gash in her midsection.

Lucan rose on shaky legs and drew his sword with a vengeance. Wearing a surcoat of the same blue and yellow, he lifted his chin at the same time he raised his blade. He turned around, the hate and repulsion turning his face into a grotesque mask of rage as he stared at another man who lurked in the doorway to the hall. Blood dripped down the second man’s blade, smeared across his chest. The deep crimson stains turned an identically matched surcoat into a fingerprint to patricide.

The horrific vision faded, leaving Anne shuddering in its wake. Tugging her hand free, she tucked it securely in her pocket. His family. All of them murdered save for the man in the door. What Lucan had suffered she couldn’t begin to fathom, and yet he still managed to laugh. She didn’t think anything could make her forget such a terrible portion of her past.

As she followed Merrick inside, Lucan flashed him a grin, a testament that he had indeed somehow put it behind him. When he slid his smile to her, amusement warmed his gray eyes. “I see Merrick has decided you can walk with only the aid of his hand?”

As if he’d realized they still held hands, Merrick jerked his free. With it went her comfort, and still suffering the chilling effects of her second sight, Anne rubbed her arms. Uncertain what to say, or even whether she should sit or stand, she leaned against a massive bedpost and gave Merrick an expectant look.

As she waited for him to lead the conversation, it occurred to her that not once since she’d awakened with Merrick wrapped around her had her second sight given her any further insight to his past. Nor, thankfully, had it shown her anything else about his future. She furrowed her brows at the oddity. She’d hardly seen all of his past—in fact, what she’d glimpsed could only encompass a handful of years, if even that much. How had she managed to shut him out?

“We are here, Lucan, to see your mark,” Merrick stated in a flat, unemotional tone.

Anne flinched inwardly. This all felt suddenly strange and surreal. It had all seemed like some fantastic story—at least the part about a preordained mate. But there was no doubt about it, Merrick matched her, and for that, there simply wasn’t explanation. He obviously hadn’t staged the events, for if he had, he’d have called her on her lie.

Mark or no mark, she wasn’t staying here. Not like Merrick expected. He had answers she needed. He held the key to her career; he could tell her what drove the Church to eradicate the Order. She was only humoring him so she could get out of here faster. Besides, it wasn’t as if he actually needed her help as Mikhail insinuated—Merrick was more than able to protect himself.

But then, if that were true, just what did the vision of his death mean?

With a grin, Lucan turned to Anne and bowed with a flourish, jarring her out of her confusing thoughts. “I would be honored, milady, to spend eternity at your side.”

Uncomfortable by his formal display, Anne shifted her weight and hugged herself tighter. Definitely not staying here. She’d never survive that kind of constant flattery. Maybe someone else would find it pleasant, but she’d rather have someone with Merrick’s rough edges.

Lucan straightened. “However, I cannot show you my mark. I fear it would be indecent.”

Anne’s eyebrows lifted at the same time Merrick smirked. “Indecent?” she echoed.

“Aye. ’Tis on my backside.”

Her gaze dropped to Lucan’s hip, appraising firm buttocks. An impish thrill jumped up her spine. This could get interesting. She’d never considered that this mark stuff might give her a bird’s-eye view of prime male flesh. There was certainly nothing wrong with looking. But as soon as she caught Merrick’s dark expression, she choked down her amusement. Maybe not. At least
he
didn’t look inclined to let her investigate for herself. Damn.

She summoned a sober, polite smile and asked, “Tell me what it is?”

“’Tis a mark from birth.” He paused to grumble beneath his voice. Averting his eyes, he looked to his boots. “A spot which takes the form of a damnable heart.”

Merrick’s guffaw brought the first scowl Anne had seen to Lucan’s handsome face. Gray eyes glinted like hard bits of charcoal, and as he squared his shoulders, he gained two inches in height. He stood taller than Merrick, but as Anne looked between the two, a burst of pride infused her blood. Taller Lucan might be, but more handsome he was not. Merrick’s untamed hair gave him a roguish quality the more eloquent knight lacked. Never mind how Merrick’s grin made Anne’s heart tumble upside down.

He should laugh more often. Humor made features that were already handsome, breathtaking.

Their gazes locked, and as Anne’s breath hitched, she felt weightless, like she’d fallen down a bottomless chasm. Merrick’s smile faded. The light in his eyes took on an intensity that made her shiver. “Does it match?” he asked quietly.

Unable to find words, she shook her head.

“Come then. As I recall you are hungry.” His hand closed around her elbow, setting off a wave of tingles that rippled up to her shoulder. Again, she noted, she didn’t receive even a buzz in her head that would indicate a coming vision.

She gave him a nod, lifted her hand to wave to Lucan, and allowed Merrick to steer her into the hall. There she took a deep breath. But her guardian didn’t give her time to find her composure. With a stride that equaled two of hers, he hurried her to the end of the long corridor where he rapped on another heavy door.

“Enter,” a bitter voice called.

Anne wrinkled her nose. By now, she’d gotten used to that harsh voice. Farran. Joy. Exactly what she needed before dinner—a good dose of crankiness.

Merrick pushed the door open. “Farran, we have come to inspect your mark.”

Seated at an unadorned desk, Farran didn’t bother to look up from a thin book. “Does she have a burn? ’Tis the only mark I bear.”

At Merrick’s lifted brows, Anne shook her head.

“Nay,” he answered for her.

Farran turned a page, still not bothering to take his nose from his reading. “Good, then. I have no desire to be shackled with a woman’s petty needs.”

Anne gawked. She’d show him petty. She’d show him needs—right after she showed him a woman’s slap.

She took a step forward, only to be thwarted by Merrick’s backward yank. He set both hands on her shoulders and turned her firmly toward the door. “I think not, little demon,” he murmured near her ear.

“Jerk,” she muttered under her breath as Merrick propelled her into the hall. When he shut the door, she gave in to a very satisfying stomp of her foot. “Rude, arrogant bastard.”

“Bastard he is not. Come, we shall visit Caradoc. Leave Farran to his brooding.”

“What’s his problem?”

Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, Merrick slowed his steps to match her shorter stride. “Would you not be angry if your birthright fell to your enemy, and your bride, your son, as well?”

“How does that happen?”

He fell silent, the tight line of his jaw an indication he found the subject uncomfortable. Anne waited. It would do no good to push. He was too stubborn.

After several long seconds of quiet, he answered, “It happens when nine knights pledged to serve the Almighty wander in tunnels not meant for man, and one digs where he was forbidden to explore.”

Anne slowed to a stop. A thrill wafted down her spine as she looked up at him with wide eyes. In less time than it took to catch her breath, the long-ago vision that came with touching the cross in her basement door took root in her mind. Merrick had dug in the dirt there, he had to be referencing himself. She wasn’t just with a man who held the knowledge of the past; she stood side by side with one of the original founders of the Knights Templar.

“You founded this,” she breathed.

He did nothing more than close his eyes. But before dark lashes dusted chiseled cheekbones, she caught the anguish reflected there.

As her thrill gave way to a burst of uncontainable excitement, she clutched at his forearm. “The Templar knights went to the Temple Mount in 1119. Merrick, you were … are…” She trailed away unable to voice the thought.
The unknown ninth knight.
All the rest of the original Templar had documented origins. The ninth, however, had disappeared along with the relics they’d uncovered, his birth, his relation to de Payans, his very name, now lost to time.

“Aye,” Merrick answered quietly. “Nine of us rode with Hugues de Payens to the Holy Land. The following year, seven more joined with me. The five who swore loyalty to you are all who remain. Hugues, Harold, and my cousin were all lost to Azazel. Tell me how you come to know of such?”

She shook off her stupor and found a faint smile. “I’m a professor of early medieval history, and I’m working on my PhD.” She’d tell him the rest when they weren’t standing in the hall where anyone might overhear. Alone, she could explain her need for his help and why it was so important she return to Atchison and Benedictine College. Certainly he’d understand.

One dark eyebrow arched. The hint of a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Then mayhap you know more than I.” He took hold of her elbow once more. “Come, little demon. We shall speak on this later. To Caradoc we must go.”

Anne’s mind whirled as he led her through the maze of corridors. The Templar knights had found something beneath the Temple Mount. Sure, she’d accepted that fact, but hearing it now made everything so much more real. Better even, if what he found brought these men to where they were now, it was almost a certainty it carried the power to threaten the Church and instigate eventual sabotage. She couldn’t hope to discover anything better than this.

But few artifacts carried that kind of power. Some historians theorized the Templar discovered the Holy Grail and it now lay in the modern order’s possession, carefully hidden and cared for. Others swore the knights discovered the ark of the covenant, and now ancestors of Ralph de Sudeley kept it secret. Still others claimed the Order found lesser relics, like pieces of the true cross, shrouds, and articles belonging to saints.