Immortal Hope (24 page)

“Nay,” he answered on a hard swallow. “Nay, Anne. If I stay another moment, I will have you in that bed.”

He shoved a hand through his hair and reached for the doorknob.

“But that’s where I want you,” she whispered.

He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. Pulling the door open, he answered, “I know.” Another protest, and he would turn right back to her waiting arms, cart her off to that oversized bed. When he finished with her, he would hate himself.

He entered the hall and shut the door.

Determination narrowed his gaze as he descended the stairs. He trained his thoughts to his cousin, focused on the oath he swore to Fulk. The very moment Anne discovered her intended, he vowed to leave. No sacred nail, no protected relic, no other oath would he honor until he fulfilled the promise to his kin. In so doing, he would free himself from this torment and lift his blade in Azazel’s name. It was a price he no longer feared to pay.

CHAPTER
18

Anne stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Though the room was dark, and a ballad drifted from her clock radio, sleep felt like some distant, intangible dream.

Beneath the covers, she rubbed one sock-clad foot against the other and let out a bone-deep sigh. Merrick should be here. She should be curled up in the crook of his strong arm, one hand on his powerful chest, and basking in the sweet afterglow of incredible sex. Yet because of some godforsaken mark, she lay alone.

She supposed she ought to be grateful he had the good sense to stop. Her intended or not, getting further tangled up in Merrick would only make it more difficult to leave. Only for some insane reason, she didn’t particularly care about the consequence or the possibility of heartache. She wanted Merrick. Everything about him spoke to her soul. Yet if Mikhail told the truth—and she didn’t dare question an archangel’s wisdom—staying with Merrick, revealing the tattoo on her ankle, would bring that damning vision into painful reality. As long as she kept herself hidden, she kept Merrick alive.

But in the meantime …

She sighed again, the breath stirring a long strand of her hair. It fell over her nose, and she brushed it aside, annoyed.

In the meantime, she wasn’t making any progress on learning the Order’s secrets.

Worse, where she’d planned a week-long, strictly physical affair, Merrick was bulldozing his way into someone she deeply cared about. If tonight didn’t evidence she had feelings for him, she didn’t know what might. If he could have seen the way she’d paced her room for the full hour before his return, he would have laughed.

Or maybe not, given his reaction to her admission that she worried about his safety.

Which made things even more confusing. One minute he acted as if he wanted her affection. The next, he washed so cold he could pass for an iceberg.

What kind of man pulled away from a willing woman, seconds away from burying himself inside her?

The honorable kind.

She groaned at her conscience. Merrick and his honor—how one man could be so loyal to a concept of preordained matches blew her mind. Her body yearned for him. Mark or no mark, consequence be damned, she couldn’t walk away from this fierce desire. She wanted Merrick. She’d discover a way to have both him and her career later. There had to be a way to have
him,
without this damning business of fate. A way to work so far under his armor that he’d stop running from the passion that threatened to consume them.

Restless, she flopped over onto her stomach and turned her face to the curtained window. Behind a thick layer of clouds, the moon shone dully. The only thing she could think of that got under Merrick’s skin was herself. Her wit annoyed him. When she ventured out alone, he lost his temper. When she visited his injured friend, he turned all grumpy.

Her thoughts ground to a stop. She lifted her head, her eyes wide.

Declan.

When she’d told Merrick she’d visited Declan, he turned all eleventh century on her again. Damn it all—the man was jealous.

Which meant his armor wasn’t all that polished after all. At the very least, he had weak spots, and she’d just discovered a potent one.

In all her years, she’d never once manipulated a man with that base emotion. Her sister didn’t have the same theories, however, and Anne had learned a great deal about what jealousy could achieve. If Sophie could do it, so could she.

Anne pulled in a deep breath, summoning courage. She was desperate for answers and time was racing past. All she needed to do was voice an appreciative comment, and when a hundred men or more surrounded her, finding compliments would come easy.

Especially when one had a mark and needed to see others to verify a match.

*   *   *

Lucan stopped in front of Merrick’s door and lifted his hand to knock. But the string of angry oaths on the other side of the barrier stopped his knuckles before they made contact. Frowning, he leaned closer to the door to listen.

Whilst he could not make out the muffled mumblings, he deciphered Merrick was alone. Any idea he might have had about telling Merrick of Anne’s unsettling conversation vanished as something hard thumped into the wall. Clearly, his brother needed no further fuel for his ire.

Another heavy thump, however, brought a frown to Lucan’s face. ’Twas not like Merrick to exhibit unrestrained temper. In all the years they had fought together, Lucan could recall only one occasion Merrick had given in to a fit of rage—when the Inquisition strung him up with ropes at Chinon and demanded he confess to sins against the Church. His defiance earned him swifter punishment, and Merrick had lost the use of both arms for several months after his shoulders dislocated so severely the muscles tore.

Concerned, Lucan turned the knob and opened the door with care. From atop a chair poised near his wardrobe, Merrick whipped around. “What do you want?” he barked.

Lucan took in his brother’s chambers. Clothes littered the floor. The footlocker normally situated at the foot of Merrick’s bed sat upended in a corner. His bed looked a rumpled mess. “You bang about like a blind man on stilts. What plagues you?” Lucan entered and shut the door.

“’Tis none of your concern.”

“Nay? Eight centuries of friendship, and I am to turn a blind eye when something is as obvious as blood upon snow?”

Merrick did not deign to answer. He turned his attention back to the wardrobe and pitched another stack of shirts over his shoulder. They tumbled through the air, scattered, and fell in disarray. “Damnation,” he muttered.

“Du Loire.” Lucan scowled at Merrick’s back. “You will tell me what stirs your temper.”

“Very well,” Merrick grit out, his voice thick with annoyance. “There is a flask here somewhere. Find it.”

Drawing back, Lucan’s eyes widened to twice their normal size. Merrick du Loire did not drink. Not since he had left the fertile fields near Chinon, where he left his mother’s body to float down the river Loire and drowned his grief with a cask of ale. After three days of suffering the ill effects, he rode for the Holy Land. He had not imbibed since then.

Lucan did not have to think hard to discover the reason for Merrick’s behavior. ’Twas either Fulk, or the Lady Anne. He reflected on Merrick’s arrival at his door this morn and guessed the latter. “When was the last time a woman drove you to spirits?”

Merrick’s grumble, accompanied by the malice in his glare, told Lucan his assumption proved correct. Lucan let out a sigh and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “You would be wise to inform Mikhail and request release from this duty.”

As Merrick stormed to the trunk beneath the window ledge, he growled, “Find the flask.” He jerked open the lid and shoved his hands inside. Out came a dagger, a pair of ruined mail gloves, two torn surcoats, and a coif that had seen better days. “Never mind.”

Producing a dented silver flask, Merrick held it to the light with a victorious grunt. He waved it in Lucan’s direction and twisted off the top. “To sanity.” Lucan watched as Merrick tilted his head back, drew deeply, and swallowed.

He jerked forward, spewing the remnants of the mouthful and set his hands on his knees. “Bollocks!” He swiped his mouth across the back of his arm. “’Tis naught but rot.”

Lucan’s mouth quirked with a smile he dared not loose.

“Have you ale, Lucan? I require several pints.”

The question did not warrant answering. Save for those who hid their drink as Merrick had, the Order forbade the use of spirits within the temple except for ceremonial wine.

Merrick dropped onto the edge of his bed. “Leave me to my misery, Lucan. You can do naught.”

“’Twould do you good to spend time with the men. You would not wish to hear the rumblings off their tongues about the time you devote to Anne.”

The sardonic smirk that played at Merrick’s mouth twisted his features cruelly. “If I could rid myself of her, I would.”

Indeed, ’twas the maid. Lucan resisted the urge to scold. From the looks of things, Merrick already punished himself enough for the both of them.

“Go with Farran. Oft I see his surcoat outside his door. A wench will cure you of this.”

Merrick shook his head and chuckled bitterly. “Go, Lucan. You cannot imagine the trials I have suffered this night.”

He knew Merrick well enough to know when words would be wasted breath. Sympathizing with his brother’s torment, Lucan set his hand on the door. “She is a pretty maid,” he mused as he tugged it open.

“Aye.” Merrick’s voice dropped, his whisper nearly inaudible. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

That solitary confession lifted the hairs along Lucan’s arms. He needed naught else to confirm his deepest suspicions. Merrick cared for the lady. The pair were as mismatched as oil and water, yet somehow she affected him in ways Lucan would have never imagined. Their fates bound otherwise, this marked trouble for all. For as certainly as he knew his brother would never lay down his sword, he realized Merrick would never surrender Anne.

*   *   *

Merrick flung himself onto his bed. His one remaining salvation—to drink Anne out of his system—held the flavor of hot horse piss.

He was damned. Of that he felt certain. By the Almighty, by the archangels, by the brothers he would inevitably fail. He could still feel her fingers around his cock, still burned with want of her. When he closed his eyes, he saw her face, heard the hitch of her breath. Against the tips of his fingers, her feminine silk still scalded.

A blind man would have better luck navigating this field of bottomless caverns.

Restless and agitated beyond all measure, he rose again and set about righting his belongings. What use was there in attempting to sleep? He would find no quarter there, for she would plague his dreams, and he would wake in a mood far darker than his present temper.

But as he stuffed his things back into his footlocker, an exhaustion greater than a full day of battle beneath the desert sun crept into his bones. He found he cared not about the chaos of his chambers. Whether he ever righted the mess held no purpose. What did it matter? He rose, he supped, he fought. Year after year, century after century. Tomorrow would be no different from today, the only alteration to a routine that never varied, the woman two stories overhead.

He dropped the handful of clothing he held and stared at the clutter, unable to find a single reason why he should pick up the scraps of cloth. ’Twas all meaningless.

His gaze drifted to his bulging duffel bag, and briefly he considered whether he should put away his sword and armor. He dismissed the duty and left them lying in the corner. The sharpest blade, the strongest armor could change naught.

Dragging a hand down his face, he noticed the scrape of whiskers he had neglected. Had they chafed Anne’s cheeks?

Harassed, he stepped over his clothes and stalked to the bathroom. A shower he had not tried. Mayhap he could wash her from his blood.

Merrick shucked his clothes outside the small doorway and stepped inside to flip on the faucet. When it ran near scalding, he stepped beneath the spray. The droplets pounded into him, stinging the marks upon his face. He had completely forgotten about the shade’s attack. It seemed so long ago, and beneath Anne’s lips, the scratches disappeared.

He pulled a small mirror away from the wall and inspected his cheek in the moonlight that seeped in through the small window. Thin and narrow, they no longer bled. His flesh had pulled together enough to scab over, but in portions it had yet to seal. A week ago, he would have found naught but stubble, the thin marks so insignificant they would have healed before he left the cavern.

Twisting, he inspected his back and the nytym’s damage two nights past. The marks were nearly invisible, and he could just make out the faint line of new, pink flesh. Those too should not exist.

Confronted by the telltale evidence of his faltering soul, he hung his head and let his shoulders slump. How much longer did he have? One fight? Two? Mayhap a single kill? If he discovered Fulk, did he possess the strength to fulfill his oath, or would he join his cousin as an ally? Did his soul contain enough light that his brothers could drag him back here so Mikhail could grant him peace?

Will Anne grieve for me?

He squeezed his eyes against the selfish query. He should not hope for her tears. Saints’ blood, she had turned him soft. Though he had not realized ’twas even possible, she had crawled beneath his skin and burrowed deep. Like the demons crept into his soul. His little demon.

Nay, not his.

He thumped a fist against the wall and shoved her to the back of his mind. Lathering quickly, he washed and shaved, and turned the water off. A few quick swipes of the towel, and he was dry, save for his hair.

Returning to his chambers, he crawled into bed and dragged the covers to his chin. But the faint scent of her perfume that lingered in his pillow brought her to the forefront of his mind. His blood warmed. His cock swelled against his thigh.

Forbidden fruit—Gabriel must enjoy tormenting him.