thick lashes. “Tane du Breuil.”
Something about the way he glanced up at her made her uneasy. A flash of envy? Desire? Whatever it was, it made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Moving more quickly, she returned his broadsword with grace.
Blond hair tumbled as the surly driver dropped his gaze to the ground. She noticed for the first time that this man also doubled her in size. Good grief, compared to her petite stature, they were all giants. But man, they were nice to look at. A girl could get used to this.
His voice was brittle, full of underlying anger, as he said, “Farran de Clare.”
Anne’s eyes widened in recognition of another noble family’s name. Why it surprised her, she didn’t know. To be Templar, a man had to have descended from nobility. But seeing these men bow before her, she who didn’t have a drop of blue blood and would have been a peasant in that long-ago time, felt somehow wrong. She returned Farran’s sword, all too anxious to have this procedure over with.
The Scot’s easy smile lessened her discomfort. He bent over his knee with grace and flourish, and dipped his reddish head. “Declan MacNeill.” As she bent to retrieve his sword, he tossed her a wink. She smiled as she handed it to him but quickly sobered under Merrick’s smoldering stare.
Moving as a collective unit, the five men rose and filed out the door in silence.
The room now empty, save for Merrick and Mikhail, Anne returned to her chair and focused on their leader. His smile had disappeared, his features the same grim mask that Merrick wore. Great. She let out a sigh, pushed her hair out of her face, and looked to Mikhail. “I have students that expect midterm grades. I’ve got a thesis to finish by Christmas, or I lose a promotion. While I would love nothing more than to stay and learn your histories, I can’t stay here indefinitely. How long are you thinking I’ll be gone?”
“Eternally. You cannot go back. The things you will learn, the secrets you shall be trusted with—your place is here. I am sorry we do not have the necessary time to prepare you better. But this is more important than any grades, any test, and any promotion you might believe you need.”
Her stomach tightened with a knot of apprehension. Throw away her promotion? No way. Who knew when she might get another opportunity at a department chair? Another college would expect her to put in years of teaching that she’d already obtained at Benedictine. She’d thrown herself into medieval France and the Knights Templar since her parents’ plane crash, devoted everything she was to fulfilling her father’s research and proving the theories he began, and published internationally respected papers on many of them already. She had no intentions of starting over. Not when she was so close. The promotion meant far more than professional success. Her father died while traveling to prove the Church’s motives. Her thesis was personal.
Mikhail moved in front of her and caught her hand.
As if to assure she wasn’t trapped in some crazy dream, her second sight rose to the surface with a chilling image. Put to death in the Romans’ preferred method, an unclothed man suspended from a thick wooden cross. His chin rested against his chest. Long hair tumbled about his face. At his feet thousands wailed as legionaries whipped them, threw stones and rocks. A few even went so far as to kick the mourning in the gut and spit on their prostrated bodies. Her focus narrowed on the dead man’s bended head, lingering on a crown of twined thorns.
She closed her eyes when the image faded. Logic and reason combated with her spiritual affinity until her head felt dizzy all over again, but in the wave of nausea, those balmy sensations she’d experienced earlier returned to ground her. The tentacle of fear that reached out for her retreated, and she couldn’t fight back the overwhelming feeling of peace.
When she opened her eyes, Mikhail pulled his hand from
Something about the way he glanced up at her made her uneasy. A flash of envy? Desire? Whatever it was, it made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Moving more quickly, she returned his broadsword with grace.
Blond hair tumbled as the surly driver dropped his gaze to the ground. She noticed for the first time that this man also doubled her in size. Good grief, compared to her petite stature, they were all giants. But man, they were nice to look at. A girl could get used to this.
His voice was brittle, full of underlying anger, as he said, “Farran de Clare.”
Anne’s eyes widened in recognition of another noble family’s name. Why it surprised her, she didn’t know. To be Templar, a man had to have descended from nobility. But seeing these men bow before her, she who didn’t have a drop of blue blood and would have been a peasant in that long-ago time, felt somehow wrong. She returned Farran’s sword, all too anxious to have this procedure over with.
The Scot’s easy smile lessened her discomfort. He bent over his knee with grace and flourish, and dipped his reddish head. “Declan MacNeill.” As she bent to retrieve his sword, he tossed her a wink. She smiled as she handed it to him but quickly sobered under Merrick’s smoldering stare.
Moving as a collective unit, the five men rose and filed out the door in silence.
The room now empty, save for Merrick and Mikhail, Anne returned to her chair and focused on their leader. His smile had disappeared, his features the same grim mask that Merrick wore. Great. She let out a sigh, pushed her hair out of her face, and looked to Mikhail. “I have students that expect midterm grades. I’ve got a thesis to finish by Christmas, or I lose a promotion. While I would love nothing more than to stay and learn your histories, I can’t stay here indefinitely. How long are you thinking I’ll be gone?”
“Eternally. You cannot go back. The things you will learn, the secrets you shall be trusted with—your place is here. I am sorry we do not have the necessary time to prepare you better. But this is more important than any grades, any test, and any promotion you might believe you need.”
Her stomach tightened with a knot of apprehension. Throw away her promotion? No way. Who knew when she might get another opportunity at a department chair? Another college would expect her to put in years of teaching that she’d already obtained at Benedictine. She’d thrown herself into medieval France and the Knights Templar since her parents’ plane crash, devoted everything she was to fulfilling her father’s research and proving the theories he began, and published internationally respected papers on many of them already. She had no intentions of starting over. Not when she was so close. The promotion meant far more than professional success. Her father died while traveling to prove the Church’s motives. Her thesis was personal.
Mikhail moved in front of her and caught her hand.
As if to assure she wasn’t trapped in some crazy dream, her second sight rose to the surface with a chilling image. Put to death in the Romans’ preferred method, an unclothed man suspended from a thick wooden cross. His chin rested against his chest. Long hair tumbled about his face. At his feet thousands wailed as legionaries whipped them, threw stones and rocks. A few even went so far as to kick the mourning in the gut and spit on their prostrated bodies. Her focus narrowed on the dead man’s bended head, lingering on a crown of twined thorns.
She closed her eyes when the image faded. Logic and reason combated with her spiritual affinity until her head felt dizzy all over again, but in the wave of nausea, those balmy sensations she’d experienced earlier returned to ground her. The tentacle of fear that reached out for her retreated, and she couldn’t fight back the overwhelming feeling of peace.
When she opened her eyes, Mikhail pulled his hand from
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