Immortal Trust (9 page)

Why oh why couldn’t Lucan be like Caradoc—a little less handsome, though striking all the same? She’d have no problem telling Caradoc to go to hell. And if Lucan didn’t have such compelling good looks, she suspected she’d find telling him the same quite a bit easier.

As Caradoc nosed the vehicle forward, she caught sight of her car and sense slammed into her. Seeing the promised relief from Lucan’s presence clearly, she cried, “Wait! My car. I need my car.”

Caradoc applied the brakes, slowing near her Mercedes.

“Nay,” Lucan argued. He gestured at the road. “Drive on, Caradoc. We will take Chloe to the site come morn.”

At her outraged squeak, he twisted in his seat. “We are having a bit of a disagreement about the safekeeping of the Veronica.” The tip of his head, combined with his cocksure grin, dared her to argue. Dared her to spit out the real reason she wanted her car—that she was desperate to escape his presence before attraction got the better of her senses.

Oh, damn him. He could read her like a book and he’d only known her a short day. Not even that. Very well, two could place his game of emotional chicken. “Yes, we are. Lucan wants to closet the trunk away from the public. I, however, am adamantly opposed to the idea. I’m not going to be a
pawn
to the Church and let it dictate what the public does, or doesn’t, have a right to know. That’s not what archaeology’s about.”

Lucan’s mouth tightened, and the hand on the passenger’s seat cushion clenched into a tidy fist. But he failed to give her the argument she wanted. Instead, he acquiesced with a slow nod. “Very well, Chloe, I shall not fight you on your desire to store the reliquary in your safe. You may take it with my blessing.” He reclined in his chair, his stare fixed out the front windshield. “Tomorrow it stays with me, and we shall endeavor to learn trust in one another.”

Oh for all the vile things … He’d tricked her! Now, if she protested, she’d look like the nonsensical reactionary. And confound it all, he’d just admitted he didn’t trust her. Grumbling, she crossed her arms over her chest and flopped back against her seat. “Fine,” she grit out between clenched teeth.

“And tomorrow you shall dine with me.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

The rest of the short ride to the château passed in silence. When they pulled into the long drive, Chloe bolted outside before the tires had completely stopped moving. It had been a long time since a man pushed her to give in to an argument in front of someone else, and she was more than anxious to be free of both men. She jogged around to the back of the vehicle and waited for Caradoc to open the door.

When he did, Lucan appeared at her side. He shook off his coat and wrapped it around the box. Then, lifting it from the cargo bay floor, he placed it in her hands. “On the morrow then.”

“I’ll be up by five, no later.”

“I shall be waiting in the lobby.”

“Good night.”

He nodded toward the front door. “Good night.”

So why wasn’t she moving? As that damnable dark eyebrow quirked once more, and his mouth twitched with amusement, Chloe expelled a harsh breath and stalked to the door.

*   *   *

Lucan’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as he watched Chloe storm through the château’s front entry. He rounded the back of the Templar vehicle to join Caradoc on the driver’s side and shook his head. Pride would become her downfall. But today he had learned something far more important about his seraph. She did not trust him. Gaining that trust was a task he looked forward to.

“Dare I ask what that was all about?” Caradoc asked as they mounted the steps.

Lucan laughed more heartily. “Aye. My seraph does not wish to admit her body is in conflict with her mind.”

Caradoc groaned aloud. “God’s blood, I would not wish a seraph upon any brother. They are naught but trouble.”

True enough, Lucan admitted. Though he would take his current circumstances over that of Merrick’s or Farran’s in a heartbeat. At least Chloe did not provoke noble knights to kidnapping, and he felt quite certain he would not lead her to her death. Trust was easily gained, particularly when the offering was sincere.

They stepped into the lavish front hall, and Caradoc paused at the foot of the stairs. “You do not concern yourself with her safety and that of the Veronica?”

Lucan chuckled again. “Nay. I intend to bunk with Gareth for the night. His room is across the hall from hers.”

“Good then, we are heading there. Alaric requested we brief him over the phone. As Gareth will wish to know as well, I have arranged a conference call.” Caradoc glanced down at his watch, the only remembrance of Isabelle he allowed himself. “We are to call in ten minutes.”

As the hearty aromas from the restaurant wafted up the stairs to his nose, Lucan patted his belly. “I shall ring for service in the room. I cannot go another night without a meal.”

At Gareth’s door, Caradoc inserted a key, reminding Lucan he ought to do the same and request a copy of his for his brothers. He took note of the task and filed it away for the following morning. Inside, dressed in shorts, Gareth lounged on the couch, his injured leg propped atop the coffee table.

Lucan took a seat beside the phone. “How fares your injury?”

Gareth scowled. “’Tis but a minor annoyance.” He rotated his knee to reveal an angry red scar spanning across his calf. “It has begun to itch.”

A tinge of envy stirred at the base of Lucan’s spine. Would that his injuries healed in such a short frame of time. By the looks of the jagged tear, it had cut to the bone. For those who did not share the strength of the European knights, an injury so severe would take a week to heal. Longer depending on the injured state of one’s soul. If he had become so infected with the darkness, it could take a month. Little more than a mortal’s rate of healing.

Lucan picked up the phone. “My belly protests its emptiness. I am ringing for food. Do either of you wish something?”

Both men shook their heads, plaguing Lucan with a touch of guilt. But when Gareth explained he had eaten within the hour, and Caradoc mentioned his preference to dine at a table, Lucan dialed the front desk. He indulged in roasted lobster and a steak. Enough food to make up for nearly two days without a decent meal. And though he hated to admit it, since Anne had rearranged the menus in the American temple, he had become accustomed to more refined dishes—unlike many of his brothers who protested the lack of simple stews that had once been standard fare.

When his order was placed, he folded his arms behind his head and sank into the soft cushions whilst Caradoc arranged the call.

“How is your seraph?” Gareth asked.

He answered with the only truth he knew. “She pleases me.” Immensely, but a man did not admit such. At least not if he cared to avoid the brand of
soft.

A wry grin brightened Gareth’s expression. “I noticed ’twas not a crone Gabriel paired you with.”

He acknowledged the younger man’s observation with a slow nod. No crone at all. Indeed, Chloe defined the very meaning of beautiful. Aye, if he were completely honest with himself, she possessed the kind of face a man would never tire of looking upon. Curves he could entertain himself with for days on end. And her soft mouth would provide hours of pleasure.

Were it not for the presence of demons he could not explain, he would fall upon his knees and swear his loyalty the next time he saw her. Regardless of her questions.

“Sir Caradoc, how good it is to hear from you. I have been awaiting your call. How fares … my homeland?”

The sound of Alaric le Goix’s voice pulled Lucan from his thoughts. He sat forward to better hear the European commander.

In his typical fashion, Caradoc answered with complete honesty. “You would not wish to see it, Alaric. ’Tis naught but rubble.”

A heavy sigh drifted through the line. “Aye, ’tis as I thought. You have found the Veronica and the seraph?”

“Aye,” all three men answered in unison.

“And they are safe? Oaths intact?”

Caradoc looked to Lucan for the answer.

Lucan rubbed his hand down his thigh and shook his head. “No oaths have been spoken. The Veronica, however, is safe. The reliquary will be opened on the morrow.”

“I wonder, Alaric,” Caradoc said in a thoughtful tone, “if you would seek consult from Raphael and find an explanation as to why Azazel’s minions are so close but show no interest in the Veil. He needs it to decode the sacred language that will give him the power to merge the tears with the spear.”

“I do not need to consult with Raphael.” Alaric coughed, cleared his voice, then continued. “When I was charged with freeing the Veronica from Charles’ troops in 1527, I left Rome and came to the temple. As the Veil’s fate had spurred such concern, Raphael, Mikhail, and Gabriel added another divinity to the reliquary. The cloth itself is not protected, but as the seraphs’ serpents can recognize intent and will not release themselves if those with ill intentions try to pry them free, the trunk will not open for those who are impure.”

“Impure in which sense?” Gareth asked. “Our souls are not wholly pure.”

“Nay, I do not mean tainted. Azazel’s minions cannot access the cloth without aid. Once opened, the spell dissipates. But until then, he must rely on others.”

Lucan’s pulse jumped. That explained why the demons clung to Chloe. But it did not answer why they followed only her. He leaned closer to the phone. “Would whoever possessed the reliquary be in any greater danger than we had initially assumed?”

“Indeed,” Alaric confirmed. “The divinity is not flawless. ’Tis not perfect like the torcs that identify the seraphs. They were created by the Almighty. What guards the reliquary was crafted by angels. It cannot read shades of gray. It knows only true evil. A ward would become a target, a token for Azazel to bend to his vile desires.”

The confirmation of Lucan’s suspicions shot ice through his veins. Chloe leapt into his mind, erasing all thought of anything else. The story of Iain’s seraph loomed in Lucan’s memory. Chloe was in danger. Even now, as she rested in her room, Azazel or his foul creations could enter through her window. He stood up, his meal forgotten.

As if Caradoc read his mind, he held Lucan’s gaze and asked, “Are we quite certain Azazel possesses no knowledge of Lucan’s true purpose here?”

A hush descended on the room, and Alaric’s answer came so quietly Lucan had to strain to hear it. “The knowledge has not been passed beyond those who are trusted. Merrick, myself, Farran, the three of you, and the archangels. Azazel found Iain’s mate by following Gabriel, and he has never visited Lucan’s intended. If Azazel knows, ’tis through some miracle.”

Lucan released the breath he had not realized he held. Still, the deep-rooted need to verify Chloe’s safety refused to release the fist around his lungs. With a curt nod, he abandoned the call and exited the room. Across the hall, the murmur of the television drifted through the door. He paused, searching his mind for an excuse. He could not very well confess he came to ensure her safety. Nor could he claim he wished to see her—she would turn him away before he finished the utterance.

However, he could use the reliquary. Claim he wished to tell her more about the craftsmanship. She would entertain a conversation if she believed she had knowledge to gain.

Decided, he rapped on her door.

CHAPTER 8

Chloe answered the door in her bathrobe. Despite the cotton sweatpants that protruded from the hem of the soft white terry and told Lucan she was not undressed beneath, his blood warmed at the sight. ’Twas too intimate a glimpse into her personal life to keep his mind from wandering down the path of when she might wear naught under that alluring wrap. Visions of tugging loose the belt and peeling away that layer of cotton peppered his thoughts.

“Lucan? What are you doing here?” She stood between the door and the frame, barring him from glimpsing her living quarters.

He swallowed to cure the sudden dryness of his throat and fumbled to recall the excuse he had created. “The reliquary. I wanted to discuss it with you.”

An exasperated sigh tumbled from soft pink lips. She rolled her eyes and pushed her long auburn hair over her shoulder. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow? I’m eating. I’m relaxing, and I’m not about to have people start whispering about what you’re doing in my room.”

“’Tis important.” Perturbed, he gave her door a gentle push. It gave beneath his hand, allowing him to sidestep into her room. Her world engulfed him. Books piled on the coffee table, an array of colorful spines and different sized bindings. The topmost cover portrayed the lighted Egyptian Sphinx against a backdrop of night sky. Magazines scattered beside them, and beside those, her laptop sat quiet and dark.

Her clothes dangled over the backs of the furniture. On the armchair closest to the bed, he recognized the sweater she had worn today. Neat she was not. Yet comfort came with the clutter. ’Twas as if each bit had a purpose for resting where it fell. He could almost make out the path she had taken when she arrived. Sweater landed on the chair. Then boots beside the desk. Turtleneck on the edge of the bed. In the doorway to the bathroom, he found her jeans, one leg inside out. Her hairbrush sat on the stand beside the television, as if she had been brushing her hair when she turned on the set.

As he inhaled the soft perfume of roses, the scent of meat drifted to his awareness. His hunger returned with a vengeance, and his gaze tracked through the room until he located the source of the aroma. A tray sat before the loveseat, piled high with American fries and a sandwich that looked too large for her dainty mouth. One solitary glass of white wine stood beside the plate.

Giving her meal a wide berth, he took a seat on the edge of the armchair and looked to Chloe, who stood at the closed door, arms folded over her chest, chin lifted with a touch of stubbornness.

Lucan gestured at her meal. “Eat. Where is the reliquary?”

“In the safe.” She returned to her tray. “Like I told you it would be.” Popping a fry into her mouth, she chewed.

He did his best to ignore her food. But as she lifted the sandwich to her mouth, his stomach clamped down like steel, and he deliberately forced his eyes away. Saints’ toes, he knew not which was worse—watching her, or watching her eat. He should not have neglected his dinner.