Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (23 page)

Maybe Caradoc…

No.

Caradoc wasn’t ready to accept fatherhood, let alone the responsibility of protecting a child.
The last thing she wanted to do was ask him to help her on some crazy chase for a fantasy-creature when he didn’t want a thing to do with the girl in danger. He already thought she was making up stories. He’d tell her she’d lost her mind if she tried to describe that clawed beast.

Isabelle’s fingers trembled as she unfastened the top two buttons on her blouse, but the cool air served to calm her wooziness.
She waited for the room to stop its slow spinning, then grabbed the countertop and eased herself to her feet. Her legs still shook like she’d run a marathon. Her stomach still threatened to curdle anything she tried to consume. Still, she managed to drag in a few shallow breaths and splash cold water on her face.

She stared at her gaunt reflection.
Where had she gone so wrong? She’d done everything she could to stay far away from the people her father ran with. She’d worked her tail off to give September a normal life. How had she managed to open her daughter to the same dangers she’d known as a child?

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Isabelle blocked the thoughts.
Self-doubt wouldn’t save September. A diamond necklace was the only thing that might. Come hell or high water, she’d have that sparkling strand in Paul’s hands tomorrow night, and she’d kill anyone who tried to stand in her way. Including that damnable
thing
.

* * *

Caradoc stared at the closed bathroom door, waiting for Isabelle to reappear. Her mad dash across the room, combined with the look upon her face when her phone had rung, put his warrior’s instinct on high alert. Every fiber of his being crackled, on edge, waiting to attack. The longer she remained inside, the tighter his body became.

But with the tension came the dull, nagging, ache in his bones.
It intensified with each heavy thump of his heart, the relief he had known after making love to Isabelle rapidly fading. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged he could offer little physical aid should she need it. Mikhail had been right to order him off the field; he had come too close to transformation. Without her vows, should he be forced to eliminate whatever sent her scrambling into the bathroom, he would be lost. Lost to the Templar, and lost to her.

He must inform her of her place.
He had waited too long already. To do so would require his full concentration, which meant he could no longer amble through this assignment, allowing it to play out casually. ’Twas time to effect order.

Turning to face Gareth, he kept one eye on the bathroom door and braced himself for inevitable argument.
“When Tane has concluded our business here today, take the relics we have acquired to Raphael. Inform him of Declan’s presence, if he is not already aware. Tell him also that the necklace is secure and shall arrive in the temple in two days hence.”

With a bark of laughter, Gareth shook his head.
“I am no page. My duty is not to run errands and deliver packages. We shall phone Raphael and return together.”

After the frustrations he had faced with Isabelle, Caradoc almost chuckled.
This argument he could not lose. With victory certain, he raised his eyebrows and hardened his voice. “Who is commander here, Sir Gareth?”

The younger knight’s amusement drained off his face.
He pursed his lips, his displeasure evident. Yet he offered no objection. He would not. Only the rare few like Declan dared to defy orders.

Understanding his place, Gareth snapped to brief attention, shoulders squared, feet together, arms tight against his sides.
The narrowing of his gaze spoke to his annoyance, but the deferential dip of his head acknowledged his duty. He pivoted on a heel and stalked into the auction hall, leaving Caradoc free to attend Isabelle.

He started for the bathroom door, only to have it open.
Isabelle hurried out. Before a group of Germans blocked her from his view, Caradoc caught her slip out the garden doors.

On her heels, Declan followed.

Chapter
22

B
y the time Caradoc stepped through the garden doors into the sunlight, Isabelle was descending the stone stairs that led to the walk of fountains. Like a ghostly specter, the top of her flaxen hair bobbed along a high wall of evergreens, making her easy to follow. He jogged for the steps, but his sense of urgency diminished. She could not vanish the way she had turned. The path came to a dead end a few hundred feet from where she stood.

As he set his foot on the top tread, however, he came to an abrupt halt.
At the bottom of the stairs, an all-too-familiar figure approached the maze-like lane of greenery and marble. One who had no business following Isabelle—Declan. A whole new sense of apprehension slid into Caradoc’s veins, tightening his grip on the wrought iron railing into a choke-hold. He stared, caught between the reflexive urge to intercept his brother and the cautious instinct to observe Declan’s intent.

Like he could feel Caradoc’s watchful gaze, Declan looked up.
Their eyes locked. A moment of hesitation passed between them, and in that short span of time, Caradoc recognized the truths he did not wish to see. Declan was no longer the brother he had once known. He stood before him, enemy. What purpose he sought in Isabelle, Caradoc could not say, but the brief flicker of challenge that glinted in the Scot’s stare spurred Caradoc to reach for the sword he did not carry.

At the motion of Caradoc’s hand, Declan took a step backward.
He inclined his head toward Isabelle in silent deference. Then, he turned, and jogged deeper into the intricate maze of flowers, greenery, and fountains.

Eight centuries of duty and loyalty to the Order bade Caradoc to follow his brother.
To root him from his hiding place and drag him to Gareth’s feet for the European knight to take him before Raphael.

Love for Isabelle commanded him to go to her.

He stood unmoving, torn between the swaying of branches that signaled Declan’s retreat and the gentle bob of Isabelle’s hair.

Once before he had chosen duty over Isabelle.
Never again.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended the long flight and rounded the corner where he spied her standing beside the farthest fountain.
Arms folded over her chest, she stared at the mighty face of Triton. Something deep down in Caradoc’s gut turned a slow circle. His breath caught.

Hair disheveled, shoulders hunched, she looked small and weak beside the marble god.
Defeated. A posture so out of place with the confident woman who knew only laughter. Caradoc could scarce believe they were one and the same. Who had phoned her? She had not been so frail before that call.

He approached cautiously, his footsteps muffled, fearing if she saw him she would bolt.
When he drew close enough he could smell her perfume, she looked over her shoulder. Before she could scurry away, he closed the distance between them with two swift strides and set his hand upon her shoulder. She tensed, but did not otherwise move.

Caradoc slid his hand down the length of her arm, moved in closer, and wound both arms around her waist.
Gently, he guided her back to his chest. She yielded to his embrace without protest, encouraging him to tuck his chin against her neck. The tendrils of hair that had escaped her neat bun tickled the side of his face. He inhaled, savoring her closeness. Like this, naught divided them. He could hear her unsteady breathing, feel the beat of her heart. Her skin was warm against his. But the tremor in her hands, as she laid them atop his, revealed turmoil he could not comprehend. ’Twas not a product of their argument. Nay, he knew her well enough to realize she had surrendered part of her fight when she surrendered to his kiss.

“Isa, ’tis not just dreams that plague you.
Tell me what has you so upset.” He pressed a soft kiss to her neck. “It eats at you like cancer.”

She gave a slight shake of her head, whispering.
“I can’t.”

“Aye, sweet Isabelle, you can.
I wish to share this burden with you. You should not have to carry it alone.”

* * *

Isabelle closed her eyes. Leaning against Caradoc’s powerful chest, feeling the strength of his arms, it was easy to get caught up in the warm whisper of his voice. This was the man she’d fallen in love with. The one who wanted to be intricately involved with her life, not the one who said one thing and did the opposite.

She bit down on her lower lip to curb a sudden rush of unexpected tears.
She didn’t
want
to do this alone. All brave and stubborn arguments about why she should keep him out of the situation aside, she wanted his support. To hold his hand and have him understand what was slowly ripping her apart.

The spy who was clearly tailing her, however, made the notion inconceivable.
To have Paul comment on her gentleman friend, moments after she’d kissed him, only made it clear whoever reported to him was nearby. Too close for comfort. Maybe behind the evergreens, maybe standing amid the group of people on the patio. One thing was certain: whoever it was knew what she was doing. She’d put money on it that Paul’s lackey could overhear her words too.

Taking an unsteady breath, she shook her head again, opened her eyes, and stared at the water that shot out the tines of Triton’s massive trident.
“It’s nothing really. I’ve got a buyer who’s putting demands on me. Heavy demands. My future depends on succeeding for him.” Not just her future, her life. If September died, she would also.

“’Tis all?”
The faintest suggestion of doubt clung to his question.

She nodded, unable to voice the lie.
Her explanation came close enough to the truth. She’d just omitted the part where her daughter was clawed to pieces by a creature of the night.

“You have had much to deal with for too long now.
I should have been there for you. I am sorry I was not.”

Her vision blurred again.
She blinked rapidly, willing herself not to cry. A hundred times or more he’d said similar things in her fantasies. But the reality of hearing them made her imaginings mundane and weak.

“There is much between us to work through, Isa.
We may well fight again before we can make peace.” With the tip of his nose, he affectionately nuzzled the sensitive spot beneath her earlobe. As he spoke, his warm breath tickled the fine hairs along her skin. “There is also much between us that needs no aid.”

Mm.
Yes.
That
part of their entanglement. The part where her heart refused to remember all the reasons she didn’t want to be at his mercy and threw her headlong into his arms. And into his bed.

She sighed, too contented by the light kisses he scattered down her neck to argue.
Even now, when her world was crumbling around her shoulders, she wanted him in a way that seemed shameful. With September in danger, Isabelle had no right to pleasure of any kind. Still, it felt too nice to relax, if even for just a few minutes, to argue.

“Let us go back there tonight.”
His teeth grazed across her earlobe. “’Tis after four. The sun sets in two hours. Will you put aside buyers and the wrongs I have committed and watch it with me on the cliffs?”

Could she?

How could she not? Alone, September’s predicament would eat her alive. Caradoc held the uncanny ability to make Isabelle feel like she could weather any storm.

His embraced tightened, pressing her more fully against his body.
His heat soaked into her, drowning her in absolute peace. She could spend the night alone in her room and think herself into hysterics, or she could grab onto the life support Caradoc offered and make it through to morning. She had no idea where September might be, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do until tomorrow when she had the necklace in her hands.

“Yes,” she murmured.
She yearned for the escape, however fleeting it might be. With him, she could stop thinking about all the horrible possibilities she couldn’t control.

The security of his warmth fled as he stepped back, and longing arced through her.
She flipped one hand over, unwilling to let go of the only anchor she possessed, and twined her fingers through his. As he drew her to his side, Caradoc gave her a tender smile.

Silence fell between them as they walked down the wide pavestones toward the side entry gate that stood open to Shapiro’s private drive.
Isabelle took comfort in the grip of his fingers, the scrape of his roughened palm against hers. Just having him here with her, even if he knew only half of the truth, relaxed her tight muscles. She breathed more easily. Walked with a freer stride.

“Where are we going?”

Caradoc gestured at a colorful
piazza
flecked with bright awnings at the top of the narrow north-south via. “There.”

“But I thought we were going to the cliffs?”

“We shall.” Giving her hand a light squeeze, he chuckled. “How long has it been since you have eaten, Isa?”

Her stomach growled at the mention of food.
Too long
. At once, she became aware of the hearty aromas on the light breeze, rich flavors of seafood, bold spice, and citrus. One of the things she’d looked forward to on this trip was the chance to sample Sicily’s fabled cuisine. But keeping food down had become impossible. “I’m not sure I can.”

“You are naught but skin and bones.”

She glanced down at her waist, self-conscious about the way her skirt hung on her hipbones. A stranger wouldn’t notice the loose fit—her suit jacket covered enough. But Caradoc knew her too well.

“When we were in Oxfordshire, ’twas you who insisted we taste everything.
That you have said naught here tells me much.”

She sighed.
There was no use trying to talk herself out of his keen observation, and she’d already told him one too many half-truths. “It’s that dream.”

“You cannot starve yourself into a solution.”

“I know.”

“Then will you try to eat?”

Worst-case scenario, her food would make a reappearance. For the moment, however, her stomach seemed as at peace as the rest of her body. Maybe she could choke down something light. “Yes.”

As they entered the lively
piazza
, Caradoc steered her through the gathering evening crowd, across the wide-open square, around busy merchant’s stands, and to a corner café. They bypassed bold, red plastic patio furniture, heading for the window to place their order.

A thin brunette slid the glass open, her smile radiant.
“Buona sera, Signore.”

Caradoc released Isabelle’s hand and pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket.
“Parli inglese?”

“Sì.”
She bobbed her head. “What can I get for you?”

Above the woman’s head, a wide menu displayed a variety of treats.
Smooth dishes of gelato framed vegetable and cheese wraps, fruit pastries, and pizone-style sandwiches. Isabelle’s mouth watered. She’d take one of each. A dozen of the custard-filled miniature pies. Oh, Lord they had cannoli. Almond and honey, no less. She could almost taste the way the powdered sugar would melt on her tongue.