Immortal Trust (39 page)

Glancing around, Lucan observed the fall of night. He had been inside several hours, but he had not anticipated to find the sun well beneath the horizon and the moon high in the sky. He must have been inside almost sixteen hours. He grabbed for the driver’s door handle. “Chloe?” His voice held impatience.

“At the château. Gareth stands guard at her new door.”

So she had been disgusted enough to flee his room. Lucan cringed. Still, for now, she remained unharmed.

He climbed behind the wheel and keyed the engine.

“If you must, Sir Lucan, bring her to the temple. Sometimes ’tis easier if you remove all exterior factors.”

Lucan read between the polite phrasing, hearing the real meaning—
force her to comply
. He shut the door and dropped the gearshift into reverse. Naught would make him force Chloe. If he tried, he would never obtain the words the Templar, and the archangels, desperately required.

Unable to sit idle, he tapped his fingers against the wheel as Raphael backed away from the fender. Lucan could not recall a time when the archangels had intervened to such a degree. That the European master of combat unhesitatingly used divine power to influence Lucan’s fate mystified him even more. By all rights, he should have been left in the cell to sort this out for himself. ’Twould not be the first time, nor would it be the last that a Templar found himself at the end of a short rope. Through the entire Inquisition the archangels remained silent. ’Twas not until the sentences had passed down, and they were forced to deal with burned bodies that would not die, that they stepped in and took the entire Order underground.

Why now? Why
him
?

As the golden specter shimmered, then slowly became one with the night, Lucan dismissed the questions. Why mattered not. Chloe’s life depended on his expedient return. True, Gareth could keep her safe for a short time, but she would not allow him close enough to keep her out of Julian’s clutches. Not when her brother implied Gareth spoke lies as well.

He sped down the empty highway, a death grip on the wheel. Time suspended as tree after tree passed. Urgency forced his foot to the floor, and he whipped around the curves like a high-speed train on well-oiled rails. He knew naught but one thing: he must reach Chloe before her brother could.

The château’s roof emerged over the tops of the trees, and Lucan willed the SUV to move faster. Yet with the pedal pressed as far as it could go, the vehicle could not comply. The last several yards that led to the garden drive seemed to pass at a snail’s pace; an intolerable crawl that left Lucan’s nerves raw.

At last the château rose against the night sky. He zipped into a parking spot, shut off the engine, and flew out the door. In seconds he was inside. Several more, and he stood in his room, the torc in his hand. He stuffed it into his pocket, rushed back into the hall, then took the stairs two at a time. On the second floor, he paused only long enough to poke his head into the corridor and verify Gareth did not stand in the hall. Which left the third. The same floor she had occupied before the demons attacked.

He bolted off the landing and around the corner, into the narrow corridor. To Lucan’s surprise, Gareth stood outside the door he had previously claimed as his own. Head cocked in curiosity, Lucan strode quickly toward his waiting brother.

A smirk broke across the younger man’s face. He dipped his head in greeting. “Raphael indeed moved quickly. He was most concerned when I phoned.”

Lucan frowned at the door, then at Gareth. “She is inside?”

Chuckling with immense amusement, Gareth nodded. “I vacated my room when I overheard her request another, to keep her close at hand. The hotel is otherwise full. Might I have your key?”

Fishing into his back pocket, Lucan produced the key to his room and passed it to his brother. “Leave me a place on the couch. I fear I shall need it.”

Two golden eyebrows arched with surprise. “You do not think she will believe the truth?”

She would believe. ‘Twas
when
she would believe that Lucan did not know. With Chloe, it could take weeks, if not months, for her to find faith in him once more. Time they did not have. He kept his thoughts to himself, unwilling to disclose her deep mistrusts and the confidences she had unwittingly shared in all she did not verbalize. “I will be late, I am certain.”

Gareth shrugged off his concern. “I sleep like the dead.” With the parting remark, the knight’s grin returned, and he touched his knuckles to Lucan’s shoulder. “Good luck, my brother. May your bed be warm, not cold this night.”

Indeed. Lucan almost snorted. Frigid was far more likely.

Once Gareth was out of sight, and the hall once more empty, Lucan raised his fist to the door. It shuddered under his single, forceful knock.

“Julian?” Chloe called from within.

He did not answer, knowing if he announced his presence, the barrier between them would not open. He would give her three seconds before he knocked again.

One …

From within, the noise from the television faded.

Two …

Light footsteps approached the door. The lock tumbled free. The brass handle turned.

Three …

As Chloe eased the door open a fraction, she let out a surprised squeak. Before she could slam the heavy wood shut, Lucan shouldered it open, barged inside, and quickly threw the lock. “We will talk. Now.”

“Get out, Lucan.”

“Nay. I shall not. We were speaking earlier, and I will finish what I have to say.”

Stubborn defiance lifted her chin. Her eyes narrowed into angry slits. “You lied to me. I don’t even know what name to call you. I don’t want to see you.”

Sheer arrogance drove him to an equally bitter retort. He leaned against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at her. “Call me what you wish. Bastard. Traitor. Murderer—I have answered to them all. But in the year of our Lord 1097, I was christened Lucan. Second son to Richard, lord and master of Seacourt, as established by the letting from the abbey in 1080.”

Chloe’s eyes widened seconds before her brows furrowed in a severe frown and she scoffed. “And I’m the queen of Persia. Who are you?”

Undaunted, he held her stare. “Not of Persia. Of Seacourt, or what exists in memory. You are my mate, my bride, if you wish to look upon it so, and indeed, Chloe Broussard, you are my queen.”

Her mocking laugh did little to hide the shock that registered behind her eyes. She shook her head and pointed at the door. “Just go. Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage, no need to make it worse with more lies.”

The barb stung. He had wounded her, but not of his own accord. Still he could not stop the needles that pricked his heart. Leaning forward, he caught her by the fingers and studied the back of her hand. He brushed his thumb over the soft flesh at the base of her palm. “Whatever you may think of me, ’tis one fact that shall not change.” He lifted his gaze to hers, held it steady. “I am in love with you, and I will not leave until you hear me out.”

He heard her breath catch. Witnessed the lowering of her lashes. Using her momentary weakness to his advantage, he asked, “Will you sit with me, or must we talk like this?”

She pulled her hand free, as if she could not stand the thought of touching him. “Fine. Sit. You have ten minutes.”

He required hours, but he would take the offered ten. Grateful he did not have to try and explain with the door at his back and a gaping distance between them, he sat down on the couch. She glanced at the chair, piled high with her unpacked belongings. Then, with a mutter, she seated herself beside him. “Talk. The clock’s ticking.”

“I must ask one thing first.”

“What?”

“Did you mean your words this morn? Or were they merely a product of the ecstasy we shared?”

Terror turned her complexion chalk white. Her eyes darted about, resting everywhere but on his face. In her lap, her hands twisted into knots.

Lucan leaned toward her to cup her chin between thumb and forefinger. Gently, he turned her face back to his. “Tell me, Chloe,” he whispered. “Did you yield to me your heart?”

The tears that pricked her wide eyes were answer enough. He dropped his hand away from her face. “’Tis your heart I want you to listen with, for your mind will most certainly object to what I must impart.”

She gave him silence. Permission to speak, but a complete lack of agreement. He let out a heavy sigh. “I have told you I am a Templar knight, and I have confided the year of my birth. Your brother was correct in two matters. First, my shield. I buried it with the man I spoke of, Gervais St. Soisson. I was there when he died. His shield shattered beneath the enemy’s attack.”

She recoiled with a grimace. “Stop.”

“I will not.” He grabbed her hand to thwart the distance she sought. “You know of the Templar. What you do not know is the purpose we serve. The demons you have seen—I exist to keep them, and others, out of the mortal realm. We are amidst a war, but I will share that with you in a moment.”

Chloe let out a sound that resembled a whimper. Her shoulders sagged. Lucan cast off all apprehension and drew her against his side. He held her tight and stared at the silent images that flashed across the muted television.

“The second.” He held his breath a moment, knowing this would affect her more than all the rest. ’Twas the single most likely reason to drive her away. For he had indeed misled her, and he could not get around that fact. “I do not work for the Church as you know it.”

As expected, her spine stiffened. She tried to push away, to sit up and extract herself from his protective hold. He tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I work for the archangels. Mikhail is my superior. ’Twas Raphael who released me from the cell you sent me to. Gabriel, Uriel, Zerachiel, Phanuel, and others known to mankind for their roles in the creation of the world.”

“You’re insane,” she whispered.

“Nay, I am not. Your heart knows this too.”

She said naught, but the resistance against his hand diminished. Lucan relaxed with her. The worst of it over, the rest of what she must know would not bring them to battle. She would not accept it easily, but ’twas unrelated to any wrong he might have committed.

“My brother slaughtered my family to ensure he could obtain the woman, and the property, he wanted, though they were both beneath him. He was to inherit the larger, more prosperous lands, and upon our father’s death, I would receive the smaller Seacourt. She was my betrothed, and her dowry pitiful compared to what my brother would receive with his agreed-upon pairing.”

Lucan paused to draw in a breath. He frowned as the past played within his mind. “I would have surrendered the woman and Seacourt if I had known they meant so much. He chose a night when I was away to kill our father, our mother, and our youngest brother to ensure his desires could not be overruled. I returned, and he intended to see me to the grave as well. The last I saw of him was at the end of my sword. I went then to the Holy Lands and swore myself unto the Templar.”

Memories rose to the surface, as vivid as if they had occurred yesterday. His introduction to Merrick. Time spent learning the Code and devoting himself to the purpose. The night he had learned the true calling of the Templar and stood before Gabriel willing to receive the curse of immortality, and along with it, the first touch of darkness that would torment him the rest of his days.

As the images scrolled through his head, he recited them to Chloe. Minutes passed, turned into hours. Beside him, she sat still as stone, taking in what he said, asking no questions and providing no further commentary. He showed her their matched birthmarks, told her of Gervais’ death. Spared no detail as he described the horrific dark knight that had attacked his brother, and how he had witnessed the life drain from his eyes.

All of this, and more, she listened to. ’Twas not until he returned to the present, and the reason he now sat at her side, that she participated in the conversation.

“You are a descendant of the Nephilim, Chloe. In your veins, the blood of angels flows. In your soul, you harbor the light that will heal the taint inside mine. We were fated before the beginning of time. ’Twas not until Gabriel demanded I come here that I knew ’twas you I would spend eternity with.”

“What?” she softly cried in disbelief.

“’Tis true, I swear to you. But the oath of loyalty I gave to you last eve has naught to do with any preordained pairing. It came from my heart. Although my soul needs you to survive, I, the man you see before you, cannot draw breath without you.”

“Angels? Immortality? Lucan, you can’t be serious!”

“Why else do you possess the ability to wound demons with mere thought? It is a seraph’s gift—each of you possess specific, unique abilities.”

Her frown returned, sharp creases that marked her inability to explain the supernatural talent. He gave her silence to process the explanation. Sat with bated breath and waited for the furrows in her brow to smooth and acceptance to touch her eyes.

It did not come.

With a violent shake of her head, she abruptly stood. “Leave. I can’t believe you expect me to buy into this.”

“Chloe—”

“Go! I’m done being lied to!”

The determination in her face made further argument futile. His heart as heavy as if it had been cast in stone, he stood. “I will go. But ’tis one more thing I must tell you.”

“What?” she snapped with impatience.

Lucan steeled himself against her certain fury and delved into the one subject she would never believe. “Your brother knows Azazel’s touch. I will swear my life on it. You must say naught of this to him. To anyone. If you feared the demons, you do not wish to meet what will come if your status as a seraph reaches Azazel’s minions.” He added in a lower voice, “Not even I can protect you from the unholy one.”

Chloe gritted her teeth so hard a tick pulsed at her temple. She glowered at him, her chest heaving with unspent fury. “Get. Out.”

With naught else left to convince her, Lucan pulled the bronze arm torc from his pocket and set it on the table. “Show this to no one. When you are ready to wear it, you know where to find me.” He gave her one last meaningful look, then quietly left the room.