Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (28 page)

The moment of desperation over, Isabelle jogged along behind him.
September, and all the difficulties she presented, tugged at the back of her mind. She banished the concern before it could root in and grow. September wasn’t an obstacle between them. Tomorrow Isabelle would win the necklace. Once Paul let her go and Caradoc met his daughter, he’d accept the truth. And Paul
would
let September go, once he had the diamonds.

Meanwhile, Isabelle wouldn’t push.
Caradoc had all the evidence he needed, and short of immaculate conception, there could be no other explanation for September’s existence. As certain as she was of her own name, she was convinced he couldn’t harbor the foolish thought she’d been with another man. And if he considered their past long enough, he’d remember that she’d confessed he was the first man she’d slept with in a very long time. He’d also remember James, and how James cordially shook Caradoc’s hand with a warm smile at the same time he cautioned Caradoc to look after the woman he considered a sister.

Time and patience would resolve the questions.
Both of which she’d have, tomorrow, once she acquired the necklace Paul had sent her after.

Quickening her step, she hurried after Caradoc, anxious to begin the promised hope of a life she’d longed for.

* * *

Sophie MacPherson stared at the gathering churchgoers through a narrow window in the cathedral that had been her home for the last several months.
Not so very long ago she’d have chuckled at those who rushed to confess their sins in hopes a higher power would grant them salvation. Now, she could only wonder what they’d do if they knew the truth of the darkness surrounding them, or how that very power struggled to maintain his hold over mankind’s realm.

“You’re certain you’re ready?”
Gabriel’s smooth voice echoed off the high stone walls.

She turned around to face him, gave him a short nod.
What choice did she have? So she was bound to a monster. Fated to sacrifice herself in the name of the Almighty. Things could be worse. She could have died months ago when Chandler morphed into a hellish beast and attacked her for the armband she now proudly displayed.

Sophie ran her hand over the brass serpents around her upper arm.
“Yes. I’d like to see my sister.”

“Anne is anxious to see you as well.”

Sophie didn’t entirely believe that. Anne was busy playing wife and lady of the house. In a strange twist of fate, her twin had stumbled into the one life she’d dedicated herself to as history professor—the life of the Templar. Now she had Merrick, the Templar commander, and Sophie found it hard to believe Anne spent much time missing her.

Gabriel stepped out of the shadows, hands clasped before him, a warm smile radiating on his face.
“You’ve come far, Sophie. Accepted what many could not. I will not lie to you—your journey is more difficult than any other seraph’s. It will test the very strength of your soul.”

She gave him a perturbed glance.
“I’ve heard all this before. Could you just tell me when we leave? We’re wasting time here.”

He chuckled, shook his greying head.
“It is not time yet. But I assure you that you’ll not wait much longer.”

“Good.”
From a wooden rack on the wall, she withdrew a polished broadsword and ran her fingertips along the edge of the blade. Though her touch was light, the blade chafed, warning her another ounce of pressure would make her bleed.

The scrape of steel rang out at her side.
“Shall we?”

Sophie turned her head to find Gabriel grinning, his own sword poised in front of his body.
She let out a light laugh and set her feet apart, assuming a broad stance. “Yeah. Let’s.” Anne might have the loyalty of the entire Order, and she might have achieved everything she wanted, but there was something Sophie had that Anne couldn’t claim. She’d been taught to fight by an archangel, and Sophie would bet her angelic soul she could out-spar her beautiful twin.

Never mind that according to Gabriel, her proficiency with a sword would keep her alive when it came to her predestined mate.
She had yet to understand how her gift of seeing auras would contribute to much of anything.

Chapter
27

C
aradoc leaned a shoulder against the doorframe between his bedroom and balcony. The bright light of morning streamed into his suite, lighting the bed where Isabelle slept. Sprawled on her belly, sheets gathered at her trim waist, and her hair spilling over the pillows, she had not moved since he had risen an hour earlier. That she remained in such a state of obliviousness further evidenced the strain she had endured.

His gaze flicked to the bathroom beyond, where the mirror reflected a solitary wine glass sitting on the edge of the tub.
Towels lay in a crumpled heap on the floor where they had shed them when it became impossible to wait another moment. A modicum of guilt tugged at the back of Caradoc’s mind. He had contributed to her current state of exhaustion, even as he had sworn she needed rest.

Still, he would exchange the vision in his bed for naught.

He glanced down at his watch and pursed his lips. ’Twas near ten, and the necklace would be auctioned just before the lunch intermission. An event certain to place them at odds once more. He had gone over and over the possible ways he could broach the issue. From saying naught and allowing her to bid against him, to facing the inevitable clash before the event began. Now, as he looked upon the dark circles that lingered beneath Isabelle’s eyes, he found he could not bring himself to wake her at all.

She would be furious, aye.
But he would not allow her to throw herself into work at the risk of her health. She needed sleep more than she needed a commission. And in truth, she needed no commission at all—the Order would see to her needs until the end of time. Money was the last thing Isabelle would ever need to concern herself with.

Decided, he pushed away from the entry and quietly crossed the bedchamber floor.
Entering the attached sitting room, he pulled the door between the rooms closed. Indeed, she would be irate. Then again, she would be no less angry when he, inevitably, won the highest bid. No matter what he chose, today they would clash.

He grabbed his phone from the interior pocket of his suit jacket, intending to alert Gareth.
As his thumb hovered over the auto-dial key, however, he frowned. He had sent Gareth to the Temple. He palmed the phone and paced.

If he left Isabelle here to sleep and attended the auction himself, ’twould look as if he sought to skew the winning bid.
Yet, if he remained here, as he desired, he must trust Tane to carry through. Whilst Tane had done well with the lesser relics, Merrick and Mikhail would never forgive Caradoc, should Tane fail to obtain the tears.

“Damnation,” he muttered as he sank into the high-backed chair.
He dropped his elbows to his thighs, holding his phone between his knees.

In truth, Tane had performed his duty well.
Caradoc had never doubted he could—’twas Merrick who remained unconvinced. Even Mikhail showed his approval, else he would not have assigned Tane to Italy.

Caradoc sat up and jammed his thumb on a button.
Nay, ’twas his mission to command. Merrick was not present to override his decisions. Tane would execute the duty, and the tears would reside with Raphael tonight. Tane’s need to prove himself would demand no less.

“Aye, Caradoc?”

Feeling more at ease, Caradoc reclined and propped one ankle over the opposite knee. “Good morn, brother. I require your service.”

On the other end of the line, the television went silent.
“What do you need of me?”

“I am running behind this morn.
If I am not at Shapiro’s when the bidding begins, you must handle the acquisition.”

A long moment of silence passed before Tane cleared his throat.
“You are certain?”

“Aye.”

“And of…Isabelle? Gareth mentioned—”

Caradoc glanced at the closed frosted door that barred Isabelle from his sight.
A smile played on his mouth. “She is with me.”

“Indeed.”
The volume from the television increased. “I shall do as you request. Shall I take it on to Raphael?”

“Nay, we will accompany you.
Bring it here to my room.” By then, archangels’ willing, Isabelle would have recovered from her temper.

“Very well.
I will see you later this afternoon in that case.”

“Luck be with you, Tane.”
Rising to his feet, Caradoc moved closer to the door, anxious to return to his sleeping seraph. “Keep a watchful eye for those who would wish to take it from us.”

“Aye.”

With a touch of his thumb, Caradoc disconnected and eased open the door. He set the cell phone on his dresser as he entered, then placed a knee on the bed. The mattress gave with his weight, bringing Isabelle closer as he stretched out alongside her warm body. The vast expanse of her creamy skin called to his fingers, and he settled his hand in the small of her back.

Head propped on one elbow, he studied the refined angles of her face, the too-deep hollows of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips.
He was avoiding the one conversation they must have. If he were not, he would have traced the delicate skin of her compressed breast where it peeked beneath her arm and roused her with his mouth. Then, when she was caught between that place of wakefulness and slumber where she would be the most receptive, he would confide the last of his secrets and gain her oath.

’Twas the fact he was not so certain she would be entirely willing that kept his hand flat against her spine.

He let out a soft sigh and pushed the thick wealth of her hair away from her shoulder, exposing the armband that marked her as a seraph. Using a solitary finger, he traced the serpent’s body, rested his fingertip on one detailed head. She wore the torc as if she knew the meaning, as if she took pride in the symbol. Thank all that was sacred she did not display it in public; Caradoc could not tolerate the risk that Azazel would learn her status and set his beasts upon her.

“What are you doing?”
Isabelle asked thickly.

Annoyed that he had disturbed her, Caradoc grunted.
“I did not mean to wake you.” He lowered his head to the pillow, brushed her cheek with one knuckle, and offered her a smile.

Rising to her elbows, she gave in to an expansive yawn.
“It’s okay.” Wriggling up the bed, she snuggled into the crook of his arm. Her short nails scraped pleasantly across his chest. “I can think of worse ways to wake up.” With a teasing grin, she skated her hand down the length of his torso and dipped her fingertips beneath the waistband of his lounging pants. “I can think of better ways too.”

Despite the instinctual tightening in his groin, Caradoc chuckled.
He wound his arms around her slight waist and hauled her flush with his body. His heart tripped into his ribs as she burrowed close and rested her cheek against his chest. But now was not the time for pleasures of the flesh. He had kept her awake long through the night. He would not further exhaust her, no matter how his blood might hum. Pulling his fingers through her tangled hair, he murmured, “You need your rest.”

“Mm.”
She pressed a kiss to his skin. “Speaking of—you hate to get up early. What time is it?”

Caradoc cringed inwardly.
’Twould seem the time for arguments was already upon them. Seeking to distract her, he dropped his hands to her waist and guided her hips into a slow roll that stroked her warm feminine center against his filling cock. “Ten-thirty.”

As if she had felt nothing, she reared off his chest.
“Ten-thirty?” Shock raised her voice an octave. “Damn it! I’ve got to get to Shapiro’s.” Pushing back, she struggled to escape his imprisoning arms.

With a grin, he used the force of her resistance to flip her onto her back.
He lowered himself into her body, using one knee to deliberately nudge her thighs apart. “Shapiro’s will get along without us for a little while, I think.”

To his surprise, she yielded to his kiss.
Her arms wound around his shoulders, and all the fight in her limbs expired with a quiet sigh. Softly, slowly, her tongue slid against his. Where he had felt only the stirrings of desire moments before, he became keenly aware of the numerous places they touched. The way her breasts tightened against his chest. The sudden heat where his hardening shaft nestled against her center.

Craving that sweet warmth, he shifted his hips and rubbed the length of him against her damp folds.
Her low, quiet moan encouraged him to repeat the motion. When he did, she moved in perfect counter rhythm, parting her legs, inviting him to splendor.

“Mm.
What are you doing?” Isabelle whispered huskily. Her hands glided down his back to give his buttocks a squeeze. She arched her body into his, increasing the pressure points of blissful contact.

Caradoc chuckled.
With a shake of his head, he dropped his teeth to the fragile skin at the base of her neck and nipped. “Not what I intended.”

“Then why are you?”
She tugged at his lightweight pants, edging them off his hips, exposing his swollen, heated flesh, then with a graceful foot, tugged the fabric all the way down to his ankles. Smiling at him through lowered lashes, she gyrated her hips against his and sucked in a sharp breath.

Her breathless exhale came with a shudder that vibrated into him and coursed down his spine.
He braced his elbows at her shoulders and lifted his upper body, driving his hips forward, deeper into hers. Sliding through her damp flesh, grazing across her slickened opening. His gaze latched on to hers and he gave her a teasing grin. “Do you wish to protest?”

“God, no,” she rasped.

“Nay, I did not think so.” Dropping his head, he swept his tongue around one erect, rosy nipple. He kept his gaze fastened on hers, delighting in the flash of dark indigo that colored her eyes. Her nails raked up his back, across his shoulders, and her hands curled into his hair. Rapture washed across her expression.

Taking a moment to indulge in the sheer perfection of Isabelle, Caradoc closed his eyes and allowed her to seep into his deeper awareness.
Her heart beat hard beneath his lips. The lingering scent of honeysuckle clung to her skin, mixing with the musk of her arousal. He inhaled deeply, knowing no more delightful perfume. She moved her body in time with his, and though he had not yet penetrated her womanly depths, the ebb and tide of their slipping skin held just as much pleasure.

He explored her gentle curves with a blind man’s caress, recommitting to memory what he already knew by heart.
The slope of her waist, the rise of her narrow hip. Her skin was like silk, and he luxuriated in the simple act of touching her.

Lifting his head, he let her nipple slip from his mouth.
“Isa, turn over.”

Her eyes opened with the briefest hint of surprise, but she rolled to her side.
Guiding her to her belly with one hand, he scattered feather-light kisses against her shoulder, around slowly, ever so slowly, ever so lightly, to the nape of her neck. Down her spine.

His fingertips followed the path of his mouth, trailing along behind the flick of his tongue, the faint graze of his teeth.
Her skin pebbled with goose bumps. To smooth away the chill, he flattened his palms as he wended his way down her body.