Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (18 page)

With closed eyes, he changed position and stretched his legs before him to give his
insistent erection room. ’Twas too early. She was not yet willing to put the past behind her. Damnation, if she only knew how much he despised the fool he had been.

Several deep breaths
dragged his mind from thoughts of her wet and willing body to the memory of their conversation in Shapiro’s garden. Still unable to look at her for fear he would find himself unable to ignore the demands of his arousal, he asked, “Tell me what you began to say this afternoon?”

* * *

Isabelle scooted away until her back hit the armrest, and she tucked one leg under the other. In her lap, she worried her hands into a knot. Tell him about the nightmares. About September. About Paul. Where to start? Which first?

“Isa?”
Caradoc turned his head, his brows tight with concern. Rich hazel eyes bored into her soul.

“Um.”

His frown deepened. “’Tis unlike you to struggle for words.”

Nightmares were easier.
She’d rather risk his laughter than delve into the complicated subject of September. Besides, if she told him about his daughter first, he might get so angry she’d lose the very reason she’d decided to come.

“Promise me you won’t laugh?”

He pursed his lips and gave her look that said she knew better. But contrary to the perturbed expression, he grabbed her by the wrist, tugged her around so she mirrored his position, and tucked her against his side. His hand stroked the lengths of hair that fell over her shoulder. Lifting, sliding, drawing them through his fingers to let them fall gently against her arm.

Heaven soaked into her.
She couldn’t count the number of times they’d sat together like this, needing no words, content to bathe in each other’s presence. In his silence, she heard his unconditional support. Recognized the love he had given her so freely. The same love she craved more than anything, but the pain he’d caused refused to let her accept it.

Burrowing into his embrace, she
laid her head on his shoulder and rested her hand against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart beat strong and hard, a testament to the strength she needed. She absorbed it. Forced her mind to shut up and be still.

Gradually, the words worked into a sensible pattern on their own, and in a quiet voice she asked, “Do you believe in the supernatural?”

His hand stilled for an instant. But as he dipped his head, he resumed the rhythmic motion. “Aye. I have witnessed it.”

Surprised, she tipped her head up to study his handsome face.
“You have?”

“Aye.”
He looked straight forward, out the window. “I know a woman who can see the lives of others through touch. Another who can heal with her hands. And I have recently met another who can see unnatural beings.”

All of Isabelle’s doubt dumped on her shoulders.
She bristled. Maybe the last three years had been hell for her, but that certainly didn’t sound like he’d spent much time alone. A man like Caradoc didn’t sit around abstinent for almost three years. Hell, no man did. “All women?” She winced at the suspicious edge to her voice.

Caradoc blew out a hard breath.
“They are my friends’ wives.” He sat up straighter, twisted so he faced her once more. His hands found hers, and he twined their fingers together. “’Tis time for this to end, Isa. There is no excuse for my behavior, but I shall swear it on my ancestors’ graves that there has been no one since you.”

Chapter
17

Caradoc’s gaze was earnest, the clench of his fingers tight. It urged Isabelle to believe him, to give him the chance and trust once more in all the love they had shared. Beneath the intensity of his stare, her resistance faltered. She could. It would be easy to fall into his arms, go back to where they’d been a few minutes ago, and let him peel off her clothes. Let him make love to her like her body wanted.

Yet what he claimed was so unlikely, she didn’t dare give it consideration.
Celibacy and Caradoc didn’t match. She might have found a modicum of relief with her hands and the turquoise massager Rosa gave her when she’d gotten tired of seeing Isabelle mope around, but men just didn’t jack off for almost three years. Especially men who could take their pick of any woman and knew exactly how to pleasure them. The things he could do with his hands, his mouth, said loud and clear Caradoc hadn’t made it a habit to spend his nights alone.

At the same time, if for some crazy reason he was telling the truth
, that meant a world of things she didn’t know how to confront. Things like maybe his love for her might override all the reasons he didn’t want children. Like maybe there was some hope for a future together.

Things that were so far-fetched they made
Star Wars
look like reality. Better not to think about them at all. Her mind was already pretty close to resembling egg noodles.

Giving the subject a
stadium-sized berth, she replied, “I have prophetic dreams.”

His consternation was evident in the set of his jaw.
Instead of pushing the subject he’d opened, however, he ran his thumbs over the back of her hands and urged, “Go on.”

Go on.
Just that. No chuckle, no twist of his mouth. A simple, supportive command.

Isabelle nodded.
“I’ve had them for years. Usually they’re just simple things, a glimpse at something fairly insignificant.”

“But not now?”

“No...” She drew out the word, hesitant once more. How far to go? If she mentioned September, she’d be thrown into the one topic she wanted to avoid tonight.

Caradoc lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been dreaming about a child for several weeks now. A little girl. She’s in danger, and I know I’m trying to stop her from being harmed. I’m in this overgrown cemetery, or a garden, or something. I don’t know; I can’t really make out everything through the shadows. It’s nighttime.”

He cocked his head and tightened his grip a fraction.
A gentle bounce of her hands encouraged her to keep talking.

“She keeps screaming for help.
And there’s something following me. Again, I don’t know what, or who. But I don’t want it to catch me. I’m not
afraid
of it. I’m not afraid for myself, frankly. Just the little girl.”

Now that she’d said it aloud, she realized she should have known the dream was about September the first night it occurred.
Only a mother would be concerned for a child, with absolutely
no
regard for her own safety. Especially with something threatening on her heels.

“You’re certain it’s not just a nightmare?”

Isabelle bobbed her head emphatically. “I’m positive. There’s a difference between my normal dreams and the ones that are going to happen. It’s like the whole thing is framed by an orange, ethereal light.” She took a breath before adding in a quieter voice, “She’s so scared. I can’t get to her.”
My daughter’s going to die.

Tears burst
forth at the thought, the visual of September’s body crumpled at the feet of that hellish angel as vivid as a fire opal. Isabelle jerked her hands free and covered her face to hide the unbidden emotion.

“Shh,” Caradoc whispered.
He slid his arms around her and guided her into his embrace. “’Tis all right, Isa.”

“No.”
Clutching at his wide bicep with one hand, she settled her cheek against his chest. A sniffle slowed her tears to a manageable trickle. “No, it’s not. I can’t sleep. Every time I try, it’s there, waiting.
Every time.
I can’t eat. I can’t think about anything else.”

Slowly, his hands traveled up and down the length of her spine.
Beneath her ear, his voice reverberated, amplifying his soft utterance. “Tell me how to help.”

“It’s silly.”

The shake of his head stirred her hair. “Nay.”

Hot color crept into her cheeks.
Despite the fact he couldn’t see her face, she turned it into his chest, embarrassed by the reason she’d decided to come to him. Her whisper came out muffled. “Just hold me. I don’t dream when I’m with you.”

* * *

Caradoc had thought he could know no greater physical pain than the aches that lived in his bones, until he heard Isabelle’s quiet request. His heart twisted upside down, taking with it his gut. For a moment, he thought he had been skewered by a hot shaft of iron. But the tremor that ran through her torso told him his pain came from hers. He had known she was not well, but had never considered her seraph’s gifts might be the cause.

“Aye, love,” he murmured into her hair.

Leaning backward, he shifted so his head would rest against the armrest. He carried Isabelle with him. His feet still rested on the floor, the sofa’s length too small to accommodate his size. The position put her body in line with his and gave her room to uncurl her legs.

On a soft sigh, her body went limp.
“You feel good.”

He could not swear he heard her correctly, her words were so soft, but his blood warmed all the same.
Smoothing her hair over her back, he chose not to respond. If he had misheard, he would only embarrass himself. If he had not, he was quite certain she would not wish to discuss the slip of her tongue. Best to let her relax, as she so obviously needed to do.

He focused instead on what she had revealed.
’Twas no question about his beliefs in her claims. The seraphs’ gifts were strong. Clearly, hers was the ability to prophesize, and she had learned how to distinguish between the acts of the subconscious and messages granted from the Almighty. Only Anne had come to the Templar understanding her gift. That Isabelle should be so in tune with hers spoke to the strength it would eventually hold. In time, she would see more clearly, understand the details she could not decipher in this nightmare.

But who was the child?
She said naught about recognizing the voice. Naught about when this dream might take place. He did not care for the possibility the child might be in a cemetery. Only Azazel would lure an innocent into a place where the dead rested. There were too many such locations where Azazel gained power, as well.

He did not care for the spaces between Isabelle’s ribs either.
He frowned as his fingers slid over pronounced bone. God’s teeth, he could not stomach her suffering. ’Twas his duty to protect her. Without even knowing, he had already failed her, a fact he could not accept. If he had not walked away, mayhap he could have prevented her current torment. At the very least, he would not have to concern himself with what distance was proper and what amount of closeness he should offer.

She twitched in his arms, and the fingers she had curled into his
shirt loosened. Despite himself, he smiled. To hold her like this was an unspeakable pleasure. For a little while, he could pretend mountains did not span between them.

The tingling in his legs, however, would not let him stay in their current position.
Hating to disturb her, he curled forward, cradled her body in one arm, and guided her knees over his other. Then he stood and headed for the sleeping chamber. Isabelle murmured something he could not interpret, but the way she snuggled closer hinted she found no protest with his movement. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of hers.

At the doorway, he nudged the light switch with his elbow, cloaking them in only the soft light the lamp on the nightstand emitted.
Caradoc lowered her to the mattress, released her legs, and pulled the covers back. With great care, he then slid her the rest of the way into the bed. She lay on her side, as he knew she preferred to sleep, the way he had cradled her leaving her facing his pillow.

He could not help but smile.
She belonged thus.

Before all the turmoil that brewed inside him could fester, he quickly discarded her shoes.
It took only a heartbeat of indecision before he decided she would sleep more comfortably without her jeans and stripped them off. Through sheer force of will, he managed to cover her body without noticing more than the scrap of red that identified her thong underwear.

Those bits of cloth he loved a
lmost as much as he loved her. ’Twas great play to use his teeth to—

At the abrupt tightening of his groin, he stopped the thought and expelled a hiss.
She had not come here for pleasure. He would be damned if he robbed her of the sleep she desired.

Gritting his teeth, he crossed to his side of the bed, snapped off the lamp
, and shucked his jeans. As he pulled his shirt over his head, a flicker of light from the balcony doors announced an incoming storm. For Isabelle, there could be no more perfect combination for a night of slumber. Like he enjoyed sleeping with the fresh air on his skin, she slept deeply when the heavens clashed.

Caradoc climbed into the bed, careful not to jar the mattress.
As if she could sense his sudden presence, she scooted toward him. Her hand fell so close to his chest her pinkie grazed his skin. Her nose nearly touched his. He inhaled the sweet perfume that clung to her hair and tried to ignore the increasing swelling of his cock.

“Ah, Isa, I have missed you,” he whispered.

Another flash of light brought with it the long low roll of distant thunder. It also illuminated the room enough he glimpsed her face, the angelic innocence that clung to regal cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose. Her hair cascaded over her shoulder, and he caught a lock of it between thumb and forefinger. He lifted the silken strands to his lips, dusting them with a kiss.

“I know you do not believe me, but I hate that I caused you pain.
I never meant for it.” In the darkness, he found the freedom to speak what she would not let him say. The words brought comfort to the ache within his gut, even if she could not hear them.

Dropping the lock of her hair, he covered her hand with his own.
“I would spend the rest of eternity making up for the years we have been apart.” His throat closed, choking his whisper, as a plea worked its way out of the depths of his heart. “If you would but give me the chance.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed down the emotion.
’Twas no good to beg for opportunities when she could not hear his words. In the morning, when she had rested, he would try again. Mayhap a dreamless night would make her more willing to listen.

His heart ground to a halt as Isabelle’s mouth captured his.
Nay, ’twas a dream. He had fallen asleep. This coaxing of her lips could not be real.