Free Immortal Hope by Claire Ashgrove Page B

excuse his selfishness. At the scrape of steel, he snapped them open. Sunlight glinted off the tip of Caradoc’s blade. Held at the ready, his brother regarded him with such regret, Declan shuddered. So it would come to this. Caradoc would take his life here. Declan ought to praise the Almighty ’twould be swift—for Caradoc would ensure no less. Yet he could not shake off the chill that settled in his veins.
    “I will not risk everything for your pride, Declan,” Caradoc murmured. “’Tis too much at stake.”
    Before Declan could take a step backward and assume a defensive stance, Caradoc swept the mighty broadsword across his body. Cold steel dug in deep, searing heat through Declan’s arm. He grasped at his bicep in a vain effort to hold the flesh together. Blood trickled through his fingers, ran down the length of his hand. His eyes widened, and he stared, unable to believe he still breathed.
    “You will not fight,” Caradoc grit out as he wiped his sword on Declan’s bed. More quietly, he added, “Not for a while.” He snatched a shirt off the floor and tossed it at Declan. “Tie off your wound.”
    As Declan wound the cloth around his arm and tugged it with his teeth, Caradoc jerked open the door. “Best you pray the girl is yours,” he muttered before he slammed the portal shut.
    Declan sank to his knees. His brother had spared him in the only way he could. Struck by a Templar blade, Declan would not enjoy immortality’s prompt healing. Nay, ’twould take weeks, mayhap longer, before the bone-deep gash would mend enough so he could wield his sword.
    He sniffed back his gratitude and struggled to his feet. A wave of light-headedness bowled into him, making him stumble as he reached for the door. He caught himself on the iron handle and sank once again to the floor. Bloody hell, Caradoc meant to see him suffer.
    *   *   *
    Seated beside the window, Anne watched Merrick sleep. With not even a book present, it was either watch him sleep, take a nap herself, or stare out the window at an empty, sand-filled courtyard and hope someone would come out and work with weapons or something to entertain her. She was bored and restless, and her mind worked overtime. Nothing, absolutely nothing, she could think of could describe what had happened in Mikhail’s office. There was only one answer, and Anne’s affinity for the spiritual realm embraced the impossible without hesitation. It was the logical side of her nature that kept interfering, arguing that if she accepted what she’d experienced as fact, someone would think she’d lost all her sense.
    But did that really matter? No one, except these men here, would ever really know if she’d decided to believe. When she got out of here, she didn’t have to tell anyone. She’d be the only one able to snicker behind her hand or ridicule her actions.
    In either case, angels or no angels, nothing would convince her that Merrick—and probably the other men—were not Templar. Though she hadn’t touched the others, what she learned from Merrick told so many truths it was almost frightening.
    Almost.
    She found it fascinating, and the part of her desperate for knowledge did a jig so merry inside her head, a strange giddiness swept over her. Somewhere in these halls, she’d likely find everything she needed to finish her thesis. The trick would be discovering it before classes began Monday morning. No one in the school would believe Mikhail’s story about her running off with someone, and as long as she showed up for her 9 A.M. lecture on medieval social structure, no harm would come from spending a day researching in some weird temple underneath the old Liberty Odd Fellows Home. When she went back, she’d be more than happy to help Merrick after hours, from within her house.
    She just had to figure out how to get Merrick and his friends to go along with her plans before she ran out of time.
    A heavy thump in the hall brought Anne to the edge of her chair. At