Immortal Surrender (11 page)

After that kiss, if she’d thought she had a chance at all, she’d have thrown her hat into that race too. But she
didn’t
stand a chance. He’d made that perfectly clear—he’d rather have a whore.

She shook off the misplaced envy and forced her attention on the house. Whom Farran preferred didn’t matter. She’d be gone in a few days anyway.

He parked in front of the porch and let himself out. Making no attempt to get her door for her, he bounded up the steps. With a mutter, Noelle climbed out and slung her purse over her shoulder. She huddled into her sweatshirt, joining him beneath a hanging iron porch light.

Farran let them in without ever producing a key. The hall light burned bright, as if the caretaker expected his arrival, despite the fact he hadn’t phoned during their drive. This had to be family. An aunt, a great aunt—no one just walked into a house without so much as a knock unless he visited family.

“Bethany? ’Tis I, Farran.”

A door opened at the end of the hall. A woman stepped out, her white hair in a long thick braid. She wore nothing more than an ankle-length gown with long sleeves, attire that made her look every bit as old as the house itself. “Sir Farran?” Her frail voice carried a note of delight. “Would you like some tea? Are you hungry?” She approached at a slow shuffle, then stopped as her gaze fell on Noelle. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. You have company.”

To Noelle’s surprise, Farran smiled. Not an all-encompassing smile that lit his eyes, but one of genuine affection. Almost like a son might give a mother. Definitely like a nephew would give an aunt.

“Nay, madam. Do not trouble yourself. The hour is late. I did not wish to alarm you, however.”

“Are you certain?” Bethany’s gaze flicked between Farran and Noelle, her curiosity unmistakable. “It’s really no trouble.”

Farran dipped his head with respect. “Aye. Rest, good lady. We shall help ourselves to the kitchen, and I recall where the rooms are.”

Noelle shifted her weight as Bethany’s curious stare penetrated through her clothing. Farran couldn’t be ignorant of the woman’s subtle hint at an introduction. Even she, who’d never faced the awkward situation of meeting a boyfriend’s family, recognized the unspoken question, Who is she?

Noelle glanced around in search of a hole to crawl into. Spying an inviting velvet-covered chair in the front room, she sidestepped away from Farran.

He grabbed her wrist before she could escape. Firm fingers pulled her back into the hall as Bethany’s door closed. “The kitchen is this way.” He skated his hand up her arm to her elbow and steered her in the opposite direction.

The kitchen was the only room in the lower level of the house without a light on. He fumbled at the wall, in search of the switch. “I apologize for not introducing you. She would make the association with who you are and feel obligated to wait on us. I cannot allow her to jeopardize her health.”

Though the explanation carried a significant degree of compassion, Noelle heard what he didn’t say—he didn’t want his family thinking she was his girlfriend and asking questions later. The truth shouldn’t bother her. But her pride refused to accept the slight. She might not be beautiful, she might not be a man’s ideal catch. Still, she wasn’t a scrap of yesterday’s trash.

She bit the inside of her cheek to temper the sting and pulled her arm out of his grasp.

The lights came on, a row of recessed luminaries along the far wall above the sink. Another flip of a switch, and the lights over the island glowed steadily. Noelle shrank back against the wall as Farran wandered to the refrigerator to rummage through the contents.

“What do you wish to sup on?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Sup?” His odd speech caught her off guard.

He continued to rummage through the shelves. “Eat.”

“Oh.” She wound her arms around herself, wanting nothing more than to fade into the woodwork and disappear. Man, it just didn’t get worse than this. She’d screwed up one kiss so badly not only did he feel it necessary to tell her how displeased he was, but he evidently didn’t find her worth the time to give her the courtesy of a name. “I don’t think I’m really hungry.”

“You must eat. You are naught but skin and bones.”

Behind her, the refrigerator thumped shut. Something heavy rattled against the island’s counter. The clatter of silverware and plates followed.

Noelle meandered alongside the wall, taking in the rows of hanging photographs. Old photos. Men dressed in military uniforms and women dressed in bustles and long, draping skirts. An occasional black-and-white of a country farm interrupted the portrait gallery. “Who are these people?”

“Bethany’s family.”

Wow. It must be nice to have heirlooms as old as this. Most of Noelle’s family relics had disappeared over time. She owned a quilt her great-grandmother made as a young girl, but nothing like the pictorial timeline hanging in Bethany’s kitchen.

“Will you have soup, or a pastrami sandwich?”

As she traced a finger over the brittle glass that covered the face of a little girl with springy curls, Noelle forgot about the slight Farran dealt her. “Pastrami.” She moved further down the wall and stared at a black-and-white wedding scene with the very house she stood inside rising in the background.

“So this must have been her family’s home then?”

“Aye. Bethany was born here.”

Another stab of longing lanced through Noelle. Family … Some days she missed her parents so much she wanted to pack up her things and leave D.C. forever. The family she had now amounted to little more than cousins she’d met at a handful of small reunions. People who would come to her aid, but folks she really only knew by name. Her parents had been the only people to ever understand her, to really accept her for all her social flaws. But running away wouldn’t bring them back. Nothing could reverse that fatal tornado.

“Come. We shall eat in our rooms.”

Noelle snapped her head up, Farran’s voice jerking her out of memories. A quick glance around showed he’d already cleaned up after himself and now stood waiting at the door with two plates in hand. Embarrassed to be caught so deeply in thought, she hurried to join him. Halfway across the room, however, she failed to notice the island stool that sat cockeyed from the bar. Her toe caught on one leg, and Noelle tripped.

Half lying on the stool, she scrambled to right herself before it scooted all the way out from under her and she went flying to the ground. Her glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose. Her hair flipped forward into her face. Time suspended as she waited for the wobbling to stop, each agonizing second adding to the increasing heat that burned into her cheeks. What a fool she must look like. Talk about a bull in a china shop. She was the only person she knew who could fall over a toothpick lying on the ground.

When the stool steadied, she took a deep breath. Expelling it, she puffed her hair out of her face, slid her glasses back into place, and glanced at Farran, hoping against all hope he hadn’t noticed.

He had.

Leaning on the doorframe, he stared at her. His mouth quirked with amusement. Those mesmerizing ale-colored eyes sparkled. “’Tis a wonder your cat survived kittenhood.”

Noelle pushed herself upright. Shooting him a scowl, she grumbled, “Oh, shut up.” Before he could comment further, she adjusted her lopsided purse and scurried through the door.

As she passed, however, she caught the muffled rasp of a chuckle.

He stepped around her, effectively leading her up the stairs. A narrow hall spanned left and right at the landing, and Farran gestured to the left with a plate. “Where I will sleep.” He inclined his head to the door directly in front of them. “Your room is here.”

Noelle took the plate out of his hand and opened the door. One foot over the threshold, Farran caught her elbow. She swiveled to look up into his narrowed eyes.

“There is no trellis outside your window. My door shall remain open. Need I remind you what will happen should you attempt to run?”

Only the dull ache of her empty stomach curbed the urge to throw her sandwich in his face. She jerked her arm free, stalked inside, and shut the door. For good measure, she pushed the lock in place.

For several long minutes, she waited for him to pound on the door with a demand to unlock it. When the only sound that met her ears was the retreat of his feet, she gave in to the brimming string of curses. Run? Here, where she didn’t have a clue about where to go? Did he really think she had no sense? D.C. was different—she could find her way back to her apartment from any main road. If he thought she’d try to flee when she was as lost as a sailor without a compass, he had to be stupid.

She set her plate down on a round, claw-foot table and shrugged her purse off her shoulder. The rumbling in her belly demanded she eat. But before she could take so much as one bite, she needed to do something with the Sudarium. Once she had it appropriately hidden, she could consider her stomach.

With a quick glance around the room, she surveyed the antique furniture—sleigh bed, tall ornately carved wardrobe, wood and metal traveling trunk, vanity with an oval mirror. All done in deep cherry. On the bed, a thick off-white quilt bore a flowered circular pattern in the middle, it’s off-centeredness a hint it had been made by hand. Here too, the portraits on the walls carried age, only where the ones in the kitchen had been small photographs, these were vibrant oils.

Much to her disappointment, she found no closet. But then, that shouldn’t have surprised her—houses built in this one’s day didn’t often contain them. They were considered rooms and taxed accordingly.

Hands on her hips, she gnawed on her lower lip. Under the bed was out—too obvious, and the lack of a bed skirt made the empty underneath visible. She went to the wardrobe, pulled the doors open. The pungent aroma of mothballs flooded her nose. Holding her breath, she flipped through empty hangers to the concealed corner and rapped on the wood in search of a fabled false side.

When no deeper echo resonated, she tapped lightly along the rest of the walls and the bottom. No difference. Dismayed, she eased the doors shut and went to the vanity. Six drawers all produced the same results—empty, save for the fine liner of tissue paper, and no false bottom.

“Damn,” she whispered.

This was supposed to be easy. Not an exercise in frustration.

She crossed to the foot of the bed and the old trunk adorned with various customs stamps. Inside, she discovered bedding and more old quilts, these with the telltale must clinging to the worn fabric. She rubbed at her nose to stifle a sneeze and shoved her hands along the neatly folded stacks until she reached the bottom.

Nothing.

Straightening, Noelle scanned the portraits. A sizeable depiction of a woman in pink silk hung cockeyed, drawing her attention. She squinted. Had dusting knocked it sideways? Or was something behind it?

She took a step forward, onto a threadbare Oriental rug. The thin fabric muffled the heels of her boots, but she slowed her step anyway as the overwhelming feeling she was snooping filtered into her consciousness. If something
was
behind that portrait, it had been hidden for a reason. And her eyes were most likely not welcome.

Halfway across the room, a board creaked beneath her step. As she moved off the plank, her heel connected with a hollow
thump
. Noelle froze. No way. She had to be imagining things.

She looked to her boots, lifted her right heel, and tapped it against the floor. The same dull sound answered. Checking to ensure she hadn’t misjudged the obvious sound of a normal floor, she tested the surrounding area. With each drop of her heel, the boards answered in sturdy fashion. She tried the off-sounding board once more and bit back a squeal of delight.

No doubt about it, that particular board was different.

Rejuvenated by a burst of excitement, Noelle hurried off the rug and picked up a corner to ease it out of the way. When she had the place where she’d been standing revealed, she tested the floor a final time. The distinctly hollow echo confirmed her suspicions.

She dropped to her knees and ran her hands over the plank. Fingertips met a raised corner, found tiny nail heads standing above the smooth surface. Pulled loose on purpose, or just a product of time, she couldn’t say. It didn’t matter either.

Prying her nails beneath the lifted edge, she pulled.

The board offered no protest as it bent in the middle and lifted away from the floor a good four inches.

Noelle peered into the opening, noting bits and pieces of lint, thick dust bunnies, and a handful of mouse droppings. Nothing indicated Bethany knew this board was loose, or that anyone other than the mice cared about this little gap between the ceiling below and the guest room’s floor.

Delighted, she let the board fall into place and went to the trunk for a pillowcase. She shook it out, straightened the pile of linens, and shut the arched top. From her purse, she retrieved the Sudarium’s canister and twisted off the top. The hole wouldn’t hold the unbendable metal, but out of its container, the thirty-three-inch cloth was a perfect fit.

She eased the Sudarium inside the pillowcase, folded it into a narrow strip, and returned to the board. It took a little maneuvering, but the protected cloth wedged in tight. A perfect place to hide it, until she needed to retrieve it.

The board in place, she rolled the rug out straight and gave in to a self-satisfied smirk. Now, when Farran and his friends discovered the satchel Lucan had held nothing but her clothes, she would be home free.

CHAPTER 10

With morning’s light, the shadows in the hallway dimmed. Farran turned his gaze from the doorway and rolled onto his back. The ceiling proved no more interesting than it had throughout the night. Nor did the light of dawn chase the images of Noelle from his head. As the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs droned the passing of each hour, she rooted into his mind. Each time he closed his eyes in search of sleep, she lay waiting, those fawn-colored eyes beckoning. Her silky mouth inviting.