Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (11 page)

Oh, God, help me.

Fighting back hysterics, she tried to convince herself that Paul’s threats weren’t unlike those of any other kidnapper in the world. They all warned about the authorities. The statement was so cliché she should have expected him to say it earlier. But no matter how she tried to reason with her panicked brain, it did no good. Her pulse refused to stop tap-dancing, and the vise around her lungs wouldn’t let go.

The doors rolled open onto her floor, and she rushed out, desperate to escape into her room.
There, she’d call Paul back. Reassure him she’d bring back the necklace. Tell him, as she’d planned to do originally, that the ring was already on its way. Then, just maybe, he’d let her talk to September and she could assure herself that her daughter was okay.

Two steps away from her door, strong fingers caught her by the elbow.
Certain Paul had instructed his spy to insure she wouldn’t cause trouble, she spun around, her fist raised. Sheer terror compelled her to strike.

A muffled grunt dimly filtered into her awareness before another hand latched onto her unbound wrist and stilled her
arm at her side. “Isabelle, easy.”

Through her bleary vision, she recognized Caradoc’s handsome face.

* * *

At the sight of Isabelle’s wide-eyed fright, everything inside Caradoc ground to a sudden halt.
The words that had been on the tip of his tongue, firm instruction that they would now discuss what lay between them, vanished. His concerns meant naught. Something plagued her, enough that she had not heard his footfalls, and she had felt the need for self-defense.

When she stilled in his hands, he searched her ashen expression.
His stomach turned in on itself as he observed ’twas not only fear that brightened her eyes, but unshed tears as well. “What troubles you, Isa?” he whispered as he brought a hand up to sweep the loose tendrils of her hair aside.

Her sob struck daggers into his heart.

Winding his arms around her slender shoulders, he drew her cheek to his chest and held her close. “Shh, my sweet.”

In three weeks of life with her, he had seen her cry only once before, and that powerful emotion came from joy.
He had never witnessed such sorrow, nor experienced such helplessness at the feel of her trembling shoulders. His throat closed with emotion of his own, the need to take whatever this was from her, stronger than any other desire.

When her fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, and she held on tight, something inside him broke apart.
This was his Isabelle, the vibrant woman who knew naught but a love for life and the meaning of laughter. He could not bear to see her in such distress.

Guiding her gently backward
, he urged her toward the door to his suite. They would talk inside, where no one could overhear their words. As he shuffled forward, he slipped one hand into his pocket for his key. She made no move to protest whilst he fiddled awkwardly with the lock.

When the handle gave, he pushed the door open with his foot and led her inside.
At a flip of the light switch, the dusky grey of twilight faded. He glanced over her head in search of an appropriate place they could talk, but the stout armchairs did not offer the closeness he desired, or that she needed. With no other option present, he led her to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her.

Gathering her hands in his, he gazed into her watery eyes.
“Talk to me, Isa.”

She gave him a violent shake of her head.
As he braced for harsh words of refusal, however, she whispered, “Just hold me.”

Aye, that he could do, and would without hesitation.
His arms ached for the feel of her. He let out a tremulous sigh and drew her into his body once more. Her cheek landed on his chest, her hand following as before to rest over his drumming heart.

Despite her obvious upset and the concern that gripped his mind, a sense of overwhelming rightness stole over him.
No matter the cause, this was where she belonged. With him. In his embrace where he could feel the trip of her heart, soak up the warmth of her skin, and drown in the comforting scent of honeysuckle.

His hand moved of its own accord, drifting to the nape of her neck to free her bound hair.
He dropped the pins on the bed behind her, slipped his fingers into the woven knot. Pulling gently, he loosened the bun until those silken strands of gold slipped through his fingers. She burrowed deeper into his embrace.

Caradoc pressed a hand to the crown of her head and held her tight.
How long they sat together in silence, he could not say, but the light filtering through his balcony door faded from grey to utter black. The breeze drifting through the window took on the chill of nightfall. Beyond, music drifted up from the villa’s private harbor.

As her choked sobs gave way to intermittent sniffles, her body relax
ed. She rubbed her cheek on his shirt, and the hand she rested at his waist slid around to his back. What had begun as rigid acceptance of his offered comfort yielded to the familiar tenderness they had once known.

He stroked her hair, then slipped his hand beneath her chin and tipped her tear-streaked face to his.
Wide and full of all the love he had cherished for too many nights alone, her indigo gaze stole in to touch his soul. He had intended to ask her once again what caused her tears. But under the gentle light that reflected in her eyes, words eluded him. Driven by an unseen force he could not name, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

Chapter
10

The warmth of Caradoc’s mouth assuaged the last of Isabelle’s terror. She closed her eyes as his long lashes fluttered shut, and held her breath, afraid if she moved, he’d come to his senses and withdraw.

He didn’t.
Instead, he captured her lower lip and slowly traced it with the tip of his tongue. His warm, moist breath mingled with hers, calling to the part of her soul she’d tried to beat into forgetting him. Dismissing all the reasons she shouldn’t allow him to kiss her, she slid her hand over his collarbone and twined her fingers into his long hair. Straightening her spine a fraction, she lifted into his kiss.

The subtle invitation shattered his hesitancy.
He nudged her lips apart and slipped inside to slide his tongue against hers. Bliss rocketed through her body, lighting her up from the inside out. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d craved, for nearly three years. Caradoc holding her, kissing her, telling her all the words he’d once whispered with just the touch of his tongue.

Apologies flowed between them, words she no longer cared about and yet somehow inherently understood.
Urgency replaced the gentleness of his mouth. The slow, sensual stroke of his tongue became demanding. Possessive.

Isabelle surrendered with a muffled cry, and they came together with startling ferocity.
He hauled her close, eroding every last bit of her rational thought with the press of his strong, hard body. Heat filtered through their clothing, warming her skin and warding away the lingering chill in her veins.

Too long she’d known this only in memory.
Too long she’d relied on distant sensations to nurse her soul-deep yearning. But now it was real. Caradoc was here. Kissing her as if nothing had changed between them and they were once more locked away in a cottage in England, lovers who couldn’t get enough of one another.

The slide of his hand along the length of her spine stirred her heartbeat into an erratic rhythm.
Each staccato pulse shot zings of ecstasy to every nerve ending she possessed until they all stood on end and her body trembled with sensory overload. His powerful arms surrounded her. His mouth dominated. His broad chest offered shelter from every catastrophe she could imagine.

She couldn’t get enough.
Hungered for every bit of raw emotion that Caradoc had once exposed her to. Craved the feel of his skin sliding against hers, the sensation of taking him into her body and knowing him only as a lover could. She squirmed against the building ache within her womb and gave in to a soft moan.

The sound, however, jolted her back to reality, and the harsh realism sent her crashing through ecstasy to land in a bruised heap on the
cold hard truth. This wasn’t the man who made her believe in dreams and fairytales. This was the man who’d sworn his love then left her to wake up confused and alone.

Isabelle shoved out of his embrace.
“I’m not doing this,” she rasped. Not in a hundred years. Make that a hundred centuries.

She
straightened her skirt then bent over to pick up her purse that had landed on the floor some time earlier. Slinging it over her shoulder, she bolted for the door.

“Isabelle, wait!”
Caradoc caught up with her in four determined strides. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. “I did not mean for that to happen.”

“Of course not!”
She gave her arm a fierce jerk at the same time she opened the door. “You didn’t mean it before, why should you now?”

A pained look crossed his face before a frown darkened his tawny eyes.
“Give me a moment to explain.”

Shaking her head, she laughed aloud and stepped into the hall.
“Save it, it won’t work. I’m not falling for the comfort Isabelle charade.”

He followed her down the short length to her door.
“By the saints, cease your arguing and let me speak.”

“No.”
With a snap of her wrist, she dunked the keycard into the slot and twisted the door handle. “You took advantage of my tears, but I refuse to be that easy.”

Before he could conjure up a response that might make her convictions falter, she slammed the door in his face and stormed into her bathroom to shower off the lingering scent of his cologne.
The anger she’d felt toward him, however, turned to anger at herself. She’d known spending time alone with him would lead to disaster. It nearly had. A few more moments, and she’d have peeled off his clothing whether he’d made a move to do the same or not. He wouldn’t have refused. No man in his right mind would turn away a willing woman after a mind-boggling kiss like that.

No, a few seconds more
, and she’d have been naked, stretched out on his bed, encouraging him to do wicked things to her body. Things she only allowed herself to consider in dreams.

Damn it!

She’d even been aware that he was taking her to his room. Had
let
him do so, for God’s sake. No wonder he’d taken her need for comfort as an invitation to more. She hadn’t given him a single sign she would refuse if he tried. Hell, she’d even stayed silent when he deliberately escorted her onto the bed.

Isabelle thumped a closed fist against the marble sink top and doubled over with a groan.
How foolish could she be?

The cool surface against her forehead gradually soothed the mess of
brambles her insides had become. She took a deep breath, lifted her head to gaze at her mascara-smeared reflection. Three days, and she’d be far from here. Far from him. She’d be back at home with September, and this would all be a distant dream. She’d tell him then, when September was safe and he couldn’t sway her traitorous body into betraying all logic. Until that time, however, the smartest thing she could do was stay far away from Caradoc.

And find another hotel.

She flipped on the faucets to the tub and stripped out of her clothes. First, she was going to bathe him off her skin. Then, she intended to sleep, if even for a few hours. Come first light, she’d begin the search for new lodging.

* * *

Though he knew ’twas fruitless, Caradoc knocked on Isabelle’s door. As he had expected, silence greeted the firm rap of his knuckles. He waited, drawing in shallow breaths, dimly aware of the aches that crawled back into his bones, silently cursing himself for his lapse in judgment.

When no sounds drifted through the heavy wooden barrier, he swore beneath his breath and stalked to his room.
The slam of his door served to satisfy anger he could not spend. Anger he could not direct at anyone but himself.

He had not meant to kiss her.
Had known on some gut level to do so would thrust her further out of his grasp. And yet, naught could have stopped him once he witnessed the emotion in her eyes. He had craved her for too many years.

You didn’t mean it before, why should you now?

Her words echoed in his head and sliced through his already torn and bleeding heart. In that venomous question, he began to comprehend how deep her pain ran. ’Twas not just the heartbreak of his abandonment, but something far greater, for now she doubted the very real truths they had shared.

“Damnation,” he hissed as he threw himself into the chair.
Clenching his temples between thumb and middle finger, he dropped his head into his hand with a grimace. He had waited too long. Left her alone one too many nights.

A heavy sigh escaped the tight confines of his chest.
Saints’ blood, the first night was one too many nights. He never should have left her side. Not for all the demons in this world. Foolishly though, he had thought to keep them both from the inevitable pain of his inevitable transformation. To save
her
from witnessing the monster he would become when his soul died completely.

In so doing, he opened wounds he now feared he could never sew closed.

’Twas there no mercy left in the Almighty?

Caradoc blinked back the rising mist in his eyes and stared out through the wide window that overlooked the harbor.
To dwell on mistakes would accomplish naught. He had erred, grievously, but his happiness was not the utmost concern. Somehow, he must move beyond the longing for what they had once known and convince her of her greater purpose. Above all, she was a seraph, a woman who bore the blood of angels, and destined to heal the sacred swords. If he could not gain her favor, for the sake of the Order’s survival, he must gain her oath.

How he would accomplish that, he could not fathom.
Not when she harbored such mistrust. Add in the worry she presently suffered, strain she could not hope to hide, and he faced an impossible task.

Feeling as if the walls were slowly closing in on him, he shoved out of the chair and went to the balcony door.
The chilly breeze engulfed him as he stepped onto the darkened alcove. He closed his eyes and breathed in the brine-filled air. With the salty scent, a wealth of memories flooded through him. Isabelle’s hair streaming out behind her as they walked along a sunset beach. Her laughter moments before she had tickled him until they tumbled together breathless. Her soft smile when she looked into his eyes, telling him of her love without words.

Caradoc clenched his fingers around the metal rail.
Nay, he would not do this now. Would not walk in what had once been, when he must focus on how to alter their present course. Something had terrified her beyond all reason tonight. She had been primed to attack, would have, had he not bound her hands and stilled her fists. What could cause such fear?

Demons mayhap?
She would not be the first seraph to be tormented by Azazel’s creations. If the dark one were aware of her status, he would do all he could to taunt her into his unholy embrace.

The very thought of what Azazel might do should he capture Isabelle made Caradoc’s stomach curdle.
Such a fate would be worse than death.

Opening his eyes, he gazed out at the brightly lit yachts in the private harbor and ordered his thoughts off that vile path.
If she were already pursued by demons, none lingered close enough he could sense their presence. Another fact that pointed to something else being the cause of her upset.

He searched through the recesses of memory and latched on to the one possibility that carried more weight than even Azazel’s pursuit
—her family. At the time they had met, her father had just passed. She confessed to receiving occasional threats. Did she still suffer the same? With the familial ties to Sicily, ’twould not be a stretch of possibilities.

The slow burn of anger seeped into his blood, replacing his earlier chill.
Isabelle should not have to live in fear of paying for her father’s mistakes, and the men who sought to hold her responsible deserved a slow, torturous death. One he would be more than willing to deliver.

Then again, if Tane spoke true, and Declan watched Isabelle, mayhap
’twas something altogether different.

Frowning,
Caradoc shoved away from the railing and returned to the warm confines of his room. He closed the glass panel, turned the lock, then marched to the door. Mikhail might not have sent Declan, and by all rights Declan was Mikhail’s alone to order, but mayhap Gareth or his commander, Alaric, had some connection to the Scot. Tane had said naught about discussing the matter with their European brethren.