Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Read Online Free PDF

but more so, a strong glimpse of her heart. She may not like him presently, but she had not grown to hate.
    Hope took hold of his soul.
    Impulse drove him to reach for her hand. Bringing it away from her face, he set it on the glass case and covered it with his. “Isabelle, I wish to explain. I cannot bear this ice that flows between us. If you would but give me a few moments tonight, I will swear not to ask again, should you find my reasonings unacceptable.”
    For a moment, he thought she would agree. Her gaze drifted to their joined hands. Beneath his fingertips, he felt her pulse take flight, and the severe frown etched into her delicate brow smoothed. She looked up, her eyes searching his face. He did not need words to know the questions in her mind; her expression voiced them plainly. Could she? Would he hurt her again?
    His chest constricted at the obvious reminder of the grief he had caused her. Could she not recognize he suffered the same? That each day he had thought of naught but her and despised himself for doing what he believed was necessary? If he could but only turn back time, and instead of crawling out of their bed to disappear, crawl out of their bed to kneel at her side and swear his loyalty.
    “Isa, please,” he whispered.
    In the next moment, all hesitation fled her face and stern lines took up residence around her mouth. She pulled her hand from beneath his and tucked it against her hip. “I’m afraid I have plans tonight. My papers please.” She held out her hand.
    “Then tomorrow.”
    A slow, sad shake of her head sent his hope tail spinning to his feet. Her words cut him open once again.
    “No, Caradoc. I’m here for business, not pleasure.”
    Three weeks with her taught him many things, not the least of which was her stubborn pride. It had taken him days to convince her he wanted to bear the brunt of their expenses and would not accept her offer to split their cottage’s rent, or their meals, jointly. A trifle matter compared to this. In the era of his birth, the dishonor he cast upon her by leaving was worthy of swords. Had she a brother, a father, even an uncle, Caradoc would have had to answer for his offenses with blood.
    No matter how he longed to, he could not force this. He had made his wish clear. ’Twould be her choosing, if or when the conversation would occur. And ’twould be his penance should she choose to deny him completely.
    Reluctantly, he answered with a slow nod. “I understand. Should you change your mind, I am staying at the Villa Igiea Hilton, Room 305.”
    Her soft mouth twisted into a grimace. “I won’t make that mistake again.” She plucked her papers from his hand, pivoted, and stalked away, head held proud, shoulders erect.
    Mistake. Caradoc cringed inwardly. ’Twas one fight he was unprepared for. No matter how he tried, she managed to land felling blows. Lifting his gaze, he searched the frescoed ceiling for a sign of divine inspiration, some signal of how to proceed.
    Naught moved amongst the colorful depiction of Bacchus lounging in a Roman vineyard.
    Bo llocks! He lacked the patience to deal with such a trial. And yet, he could think of naught that would see this resolved more quickly. Isabelle would not tolerate pressure. The relics Caradoc and his men had been assigned to protect inhibited him from taking her to the Temple where she had no choice but to listen. If he thought going there might accomplish something useful, he would do as Merrick had with Anne and toss Isabelle over his shoulder, forcing her to comply.
    Why, oh, why, could Gabriel not make this joining of seraphs easy?
    Unease sifted into Caradoc’s blood as the thought occurred. Had Gabriel visited Isabelle and delivered the seraphs’ torc? If so, she faced danger she could not begin to fathom. Azazel had already taken one seraph, and whilst Lucan had successfully returned Chloe, the archangels’ suspicion Azazel desired a new mate became clear. If he claimed one who carried the