The Immortals I: Lucas by Cynthia Breeding (1)

Immortal: Lucas                               Cynthia Breeding                                              1

 

 

The Immortals I:

Lucas

By

Cynthia Breeding

( c ) copyright by Cynthia Breeding,  September 2009

Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, September 2009

ISBN 978-1-60394-

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction.  All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact.  Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Foreword

The Legend of Balor

An early Celtic sun-deity who evolved into a god of death, Balor wore a patch over one eye that, when lifted, could cause destruction with a look.  It was prophesized that only his grandson could kill him with a spear through that eye.  Consequently, he imprisoned his only daughter so she would bear no children.

But the Fates intervened.

Exiled from heaven, Balor vows to seek revenge by wrecking havoc on Earth.  Assuming human form as Adam Baylor has weakened him so he seeks the four Hallows of the lost Templar treasure: a spear, sword, platter and chalice whose powers will restore him to immortal strength…and then, he will destroy the world, one nation at a time.

The Fates intervened again, sending four medieval warriors to the New World to recover the relics before Balor does. Each of them has a special skill that will be needed to defeat the demon.

And that is where this story begins.

Chapter One

One strong hand cradled her head as the Templar’s mouth softly brushed hers, teasing, tantalizing her into wanting to taste more of him.  His face was lost in shadows, but his hot breath grazed her cheek as he pulled her lower lip between his, nibbling lightly until she parted her lips and invited him in.  His tongue, warm and velvety, leisurely explored her mouth while his other hand deftly undid the buttons to her silk blouse.  Calloused fingertips were surprisingly gentle as he kneaded her breast and flicked a thumb across her nipple.  It budded immediately.

With a sigh of pleasure, she let him lay her back against the bed, dark hair fanning across the pillow.  He tore off the white mantle with its square red cross and she savored the feel of his naked skin and the smooth, hard muscles of his arms and chest as he stretched out beside her.

He parted her shirt and trailed kisses down her throat to where her exposed, rounded mounds waited for him, nipples taut in anticipation.  He lolled his tongue over one, causing her to gasp and then took it in his mouth and began to suckle, long and—

DANGER!

With a start, Sara Kincaid sat up in bed, glancing around wildly.  She was alone.  And she’d dreamt of the Templar again.  Had been dreaming of him ever since the devastatingly handsome Lucas Ramsey came to work for her boss a short time ago.  Like she needed that kind of man in her life.  Loser Number Three’s betrayal still hurt.  She shook her head.  There was no reason to dream of Templars anyway.  The medieval artifacts at the auction she’d attended must still be on her mind.  The private research she did for Mr. Smith concerned Celtic history, not warrior monks on Crusade.

So okay.  She was attracted to the elusive Lucas and maybe seeing the Celtic cross pendant with its fleur-de-leis ends that he wore on a gold chain had influenced her imagination.  The mind was a powerful thing, as she well knew from the meditation and centering that was required before the Circle of the Sisterhood—she refused to call them a coven—performed a ritual.  Maybe the dream was a past life regression or something.

DANGER!   

Her head snapped up, remnants of sleep gone.  Nim, the faerie who resided in her home, hovered anxiously in the air beside her.  To most humans, she would have been no more than a slight shimmer in the moonlight that splashed through the window, but Sara could see her delicate features, long pale hair and ivory gown.  The faerie’s gossamer wings beat rapidly which meant she was highly agitated.  Or scared.

Then Sara heard it.  Just a slight swish, as if a curtain fluttered somewhere in the breeze.  But her windows were all closed and securely locked.

Silently, she reached for the Smith and Wesson .38 that she kept on the floor below her bed.  With all the wackos strung out on drugs these days, a single woman living in the Dallas-Ft.Worth metro-mess couldn’t be too careful. 

Another sound.  A footfall?  Was someone coming down the hall?  She knew she’d thrown the deadbolt and if someone had broken in, surely she would have awakened to the noise.  It wasn’t like she had been in the throes of a climax…yet.

But there it was again.  Closer this time.  She slipped out of bed and took the extra two pillows on her king-size bed and lumped them under the sheet.  Her eyes spotted a hairpiece she occasionally wore on those occasions when she had to dress up and look somewhat elegant.  Quickly, she unpinned it from the mannequin’s head and laid it on the pillow.  Then she padded silently to the closet and stepped in, leaving the door slightly ajar so she could see.  She covered the hammer of the revolver with one hand and quietly cocked it.  She might not have time for the safety of a double-action gun.

The door to her bedroom swung open slowly.  The man wore a ski mask, but he was tall and powerfully built, like a bouncer in some club.  A gang thug?  But what would they want with her?  And he was moving too stealthily to be on drugs.

She held her breath as he neared the closet and wondered if the thumping of her heart could actually be heard.  The man stopped at the dresser and started rifling the drawers tossing delicate, lacy panties and bras on the floor.  Not finding anything, he glanced at the closet.  Sara stopped breathing and readied the gun.

But he moved past her to the armoire and opened its drawers.  More clothing went flying to the floor and then he gave a grunt.  He’d found her leather portfolio at the bottom of the case.  Opening it, he shuffled the papers, apparently satisfied that they were all there.

He tucked the bag under his arm and started out.  At the door he paused and turned around and Sara saw that he, too, was armed.  The gun was an automatic—probably a 9mm that seemed so popular with criminals—and it had a wicked looking silencer on the barrel.

The man lifted the gun and fired at the bed.  Bing.  Bing.  Bing.  So soft.  So deadly.  And then he was gone. 

She heard the door click close and sank to the floor of the closet before her trembling legs gave out entirely.  Someone had just tried to kill her to get the manuscript.

So it was that important after all.  She almost smiled and then felt a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat.  Smiling when there were blackened holes in her bed?  Where her body might have been?

The manuscript itself was safe, of course, locked in concrete vaults beneath her boss’s mansion.  What she had was a copy and she had been careful to put that in her wall safe when she’d come home earlier.  The only thing the thief got were some notes she’d been making on the possibility of the Celtic queen, Gwenhwyfar, having been a Pict.  A totally different project for her boss.

But her life was still in danger.  Would the thief be back once he found out he had basically worthless stuff?  Or when whoever had tried to murder her saw her alive?

She walked to the dresser and looked in the mirror.  Her blue eyes were so dilated they looked almost black.  Her hand shook a little as she picked up the phone.  Then, slowly, she put it down. 

She couldn’t call the police.  Her eccentric boss was funny about stuff like that.  Probably because not all of the medieval artifacts he collected were reputably gotten.  That’s what the vaults were for, although she had never been inside some of them.  Mr. Smith fastidiously avoided the police as Howard Hughes had done germs and the media.   

Sometimes she thought she should return to running the Temp agency she owned or maybe go back to being an adjunct for the class in medieval folklore at the local community college.  Life had been safe before Mr. Smith had discovered her at a weekend workshop on sacred relics that had never been found.

But then, she wouldn’t have seen the manuscript.

Several weeks earlier…

Sara handed the ivory embossed invitation to the security guard at the entrance to Sotheby’s and pulled the collar of her lightweight jacket closer.  As pleasant as it was to get away from an unseasonably warm Texas spring, the damp morning air of London gave her a slight chill.  But hey!  She was in England!  Her first trip and expenses paid.  She couldn’t beat that. 

She craned her neck to look around.  Walking down New Bond Street and seeing all of the world’s great jewelry stores—DeBeers, Cartier, the interesting Folli Follie, Tavenier’s—had left her awestruck and she almost missed her turn on to Conduit Street and the fabled auction house.

But her boss hadn’t paid her to buy jewelry.  She was here to bid on an ancient Gaelic manuscript that had come up on Mr. Smith’s database.  The teasing lead-in had hinted that the paper might hold a clue about the whereabouts of the Holy Grail and her employer had been hooked.

John Smith—she grinned at the name since he was one of the richest men in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area, but insisted on hiding his identity in the art collector’s world—had a penchant for anything that linked itself to the Arthurian legends.  His home was a literal museum of swords and shields and chalices and the Goddess only knew what he had hidden in the concrete vaults below his mansion. 

She had been working on her own computer in his home when he’d admitted a strange squawk and staggered from his office, a well-manicured hand clenched dramatically to his throat.   

“You’ll never believe what I’ve found,” he said breathlessly, his voice pitched even higher than usual.  “You’ll just never guess!”

Sara refrained from rolling her eyes.  Her boss was given to theatrics, having had a bit part in an off-Broadway play in his younger years.  Short, plump and too average looking to tempt any film producers, he contented himself with capturing audiences in his home.  And, since the first love of Sara’s life had run off to Hollywood after taking $5000.00 from her, she wasn’t inclined to like actors.

“What?”

“The Grail!”  He nearly danced as he minced steps toward her and clapped his hands.  “The Holy Grail.  There’s a possible map in a manuscript that’s been found.  Oh, I must have it!”

And so, here she was.

She showed her passport to register for the auction and received a numbered paddle in return.  Then she walked in and looked around.  There were several other medieval items on display, including a wooden shield with white lacquer and a square red cross.  The gold card beside it simply read “Circa 1300’s: Paris”  Quite possibly a Templar shield left behind when the knights were so cruelly rounded up on that unlucky Friday, the thirteenth.  Briefly, she considered calling Mr. Smith and asking him if he wanted her to bid on it, but she reconsidered.  She had no idea how high the bidding would go for the manuscript; if no one else was insistent, she might have enough funds for both. 

She moved on and stopped again when she came to where a copy of the front page of the manuscript lay. It was hard to say how old the yellowed-parchment was, but the script was middle-Gaelic.  The page in front of her didn’t contain much more information that a modern title page did, but she made a note that the catalogue number for it was 333. 

Her mind clicked on the trivial fact of the Power of Nine.  In mathematical terms, if a number were multiplied by nine, the answer would always equate to nine.  In the Sisterhood, it meant something quite different.  There were nine Muses, nine priestesses of Avalon, nine aspects of the Goddess…and the Goddess was always represented in her triple form which multiplied by itself equaled nine. 

Sara returned to her seat.  Perhaps the number was just a coincidence.   

A thin, young man took a seat a short distance away.  He seemed nervous and looked back over his shoulder more than once.  Sara turned, too, catching a glimpse of a rather bulky man with a swarthy face far to the back of the room.  He wore a patch over one eye and could have been a middle-aged pirate, but she knew with the surveillance and security measures that auction houses used, the man would not be armed.  She blinked and realized that he was gone.  It must have been an illusion with the doors opening and casting shadows into the corners of the room. Shrugging to herself, she turned back as the auction began.

Unfortunately, the Templar shield came up for bid before the manuscript did.  The opening bid was $5000.00 and a couple of bidders drove the price to $6,500.00 before the gavel descended.  The item sold to a good-looking man impeccably dressed in an Armani suit and Gucci shoes.  But as she studied him, the clothing didn’t seem to fit his character.  His face was sharply angled and his body was tense.  He had dark hair that curled over his shoulders and the look in his dark eyes was alert, as if he were ready to spring at the first sight of danger.  This must be her day for oddities. 

She turned her attention back to the auctioneer as number 333 was announced.  The document was brought out and carefully displayed for a few moments.  Several people walked past it to get a look before it was taken away.  Again, the opening bid was $5000.00.  To her surprise, the nervous young man beside her cleared his throat and raised his paddle.  Sara quickly raised hers and the young man did the same.  They repeated the sequence several times until the price topped $10,000.00.  Just as the auctioneer began to bring the hammer down, the dark-haired man that had purchased the shield raised his paddle.  The auctioneer raised an eyebrow slightly and looked back at her.  Sara’s paddle went up.

The young man beside her was sweating now and glancing back more frequently as the price was driven up.  Finally, at $25,000.00 he gulped and gave up.  The dark-haired man smiled at her and lifted his paddle once more.  Sara gritted her teeth, tempted to hurl a curse at the man.  Then she remembered it would return three-fold.  Harm none. Mr. Smith was not going to be happy with the price, but he would be furious if she let it go.  Not that she thought it really contained a message about the Holy Grail.  But if her boss thought so and they couldn’t prove otherwise, there would be hell to pay for a long while.

Finally, at $35,000.00 her tormentor acquiesced.  The manuscript was hers.

As she moved toward Purchaser Accounts, the young man brushed against her on his hurry to get out.  He looked like he needed some fresh air. 

“I’m sorry if I drove the price up so high.”

She turned and looked into the eyes of the man in the expensive suit.  He was signing for the shield and looked down to smile at her.

“Did you really want it so badly or do you just like to irritate women?”

He looked almost affronted.  “The Order would never allow that.”

“The Order?”  Good Lord.  He couldn’t be a monk or a priest!

He gestured toward the shield.  “Some of us still exist.”

A Templar?  She knew that a lot of them had gone to ground after that fatal day in 1307, being absorbed by the Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights as well as the Portuguese Knights of Christ.  And the theory that the Masons had descended from them was still alive and well.  But…

“I can see you’re skeptical,” the man said.  “Perhaps it’s just as well.  When your eyes are ready to see— ”

“And my ears ready to hear?” she answered and received a fleeting look of surprise before he carefully masked his face.

“Something like that,” he said.  “But to answer your other question, no, I didn’t jack up the price on purpose.  I was bidding for someone else and my money ran out.”  He nodded toward the shield again.  “This was his.  The Grand Master’s.”

Sara wasn’t sure if he was talking about someone living or not, so she decided to let the subject drop.   “I was bidding for someone else, too.  I’ll just have to tell him a Templar drove up the price.”

He smiled at that and pulled up the collar of his suit.  Putting on sunglasses, he picked up the wrapped shield.  “Good luck.”

She watched as he walked away, wondering why he’d shade his eyes on a cloudy day.  Whom did he really work for?  Mr. Smith would probably like to know.

“Miss?”

She turned back to the man behind the Purchases counter.  He was holding a leather portfolio.  “The manuscript has been shrink-wrapped to prevent exposure.  But if you’d like to examine it before you leave, I can show you to a private room.”

“That won’t be necessary.  I saw it earlier.”

He nodded.  “Let me call a security guard to escort you to your transportation.”

The guard was young and friendly, more like a college kid than a private bobby.  “Let me hail a hack for you,” he said as they went outside to the curb.  He took a few steps into the street to signal one just as a small, black car careened around the corner of St. George’s Street with a screech of tires and raced straight toward them.  For a moment Sara stood transfixed as the front tire leapt the curb and at the same time she felt a huge tug on her shoulder.  Instinctively, she cradled the portfolio, but before she could turn around, someone caught her around the waist, diving to the ground with her as the car whistled past, regaining the road.

The man had cushioned her fall with his body and she was aware of how very muscular that body was even dressed in a suit and tie.  He wore a hat over tawny hair and sunglasses—what was it with Londoners anyhow?—but she had a glimpse of a full, sensual mouth inches from hers before he rolled her off him.  Before she could thank him, the security guard was back, helping her on her feet with a worried look on his face.  Several people had come running out of Sotheby’s and a couple of witnesses were telling anyone who would listen what happened. 

“Are you quite all right, Ma’am?” the young guard asked.

Sara brushed dust off her skirt and nodded, trying not to look shaken.  Had the car been meant to kill her?  Or was it a distraction so the pickpocket could grab her case?   With the turmoil of a runaway car and a woman knocked down, no one would have noticed a snatching.  Or had he been only an opportunist?  No, she knew that answer was wrong.  Whoever the attacker had been, he knew what he wanted.  He didn’t even attempt to grab her purse.  And where was the hottie who had so gallantly rescued her?  She wasn’t used to being rescued; she could usually take care of herself.  Still, she should thank the man, but he seemed to have disappeared.  

Sara shifted her attention back to whom the pickpocket might have been.  The nervous young man who had brushed by her on his way out?  He would have had time to call someone, for she doubted he was bidding for the manuscript on his own.  If they wanted the manuscript seriously enough—and it appeared someone did—there would have been time to arrange it, especially if whoever the mastermind was had thought ahead with an alternative plan.

The other possibility was the dark-haired man who had purchased the Templar shield.  He, too, had walked out before she completed her purchase.  She looked around.  He was nowhere to be seen either.  And he had admitted he worked for someone else.

“We can arrange for someone to go with you to your hotel, if you wish.”

Sara gave the earnest guard a smile.  “No, I’ll be all right.  I just need to pick up my things and then I’ll head straight for Heathrow.  Airport security these days is about as tight as I can get.  But thanks.”   

The guard nodded and opened the door of the cab and she slid gratefully into the darkened interior.  She just wished she felt as confident as she sounded.  Too bad that well-muscled package of pure testosterone had disappeared.  She wouldn’t mind allowing herself to feel a little bit safe in his strong embrace.

* * * *

Lucas Ramsey felt the bristling fur begin to subside beneath the collar of his shirt as he watched the hack drive away.   He tugged at his necktie.  He hated wearing one on any occasion; when he began to shift it became a choke collar.  But he couldn’t very well walk around a fashionable neighborhood wearing his kilt and sash, unless he wanted to attract attention, which was something he definitely did not want to do.  It was, in fact, the reason he had sent Gavin to purchase the shield and bid on the manuscript, even though the vampire preferred to stay inside during the day.  The fewer people who knew that Lucas still existed, the better.

He had waited in a car down the street and Gavin had just finished explaining that the manuscript was bought by an American when the black car made its entrance.  Even though Lucas could move with supernatural speed when needed, he also had to control the wolf.  It always wanted to break free at times of crisis.  And if a colorful Scotsman walking down the street would attract attention, he didn’t even want to think what well-heeled shoppers would do at the sight of huge lobo loping along in the heart of the city.  Even the brief time his arm had encircled the American’s slender waist and he had felt her soft breasts pressed against his chest had made the wolf growl. 

The woman was safe now.  At least for the moment.  And he would be at the airport.   He gave himself a moment to appreciate her.  Long, glossy, black hair that had cascaded around his face like a curtain when she fell.  And then when she tossed it back, the most startling shade of blue eyes, like looking into the depths of an ocean.  An ivory complexion with high cheekbones, straight nose, and full lips.  Luscious lips.  The kind that made the man in him want to claim her and the wolf want to devour her.  Don’t even think about the glimpse of creamy thigh when her skirt hiked up… He had gotten away as quickly as he could. 

The wolf was the bane of his human existence.  It tended to emerge in moments of passion as well as times of crisis.  During the Dark Ages, it had been fairly easy to manage.  Peasants, even though they made the sign to ward off the evil eye when they saw him, simply took him to be one of many wolves who roamed the countryside. 

If only they knew whose evil eye they should be warding themselves against, he thought.  Balor.  Once a sun god, he became greedy for more power.  Personal power.  In her wisdom the Goddess banished Balor. Enraged, Balor swore to wreak havoc in the mortal world forever.  And he had done that well.  Never was the world so close to destroying itself.  The time was close when he must be stopped.  Well, that’s why I’m here.  I’m the grandson he doesn’t know he has. He fingered the ancient gold Templar cross he wore on a gold chain.  Although it kept him from recognizing—or being recognized—by other Immortals that might be about in the present day, it also protected his identity from Balor.

He refocused his attention on his friend, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Audi.  “How are you feeling?”

Gavin shrugged.  “The new meds make the light tolerable, but I still prefer the night.”  He turned the ignition. “Where to?”

“To the flat, first.  Then Heathrow.”  Lucas slid the slim laptop out from its special compartment under the glove box and tapped in a request for airline flights leaving for the United States that afternoon and punched in a reservation for each carrier.  Whichever flight she would be on, so was he.

Gavin put the car into gear.  “You’re going after her?”

And looking forward to it.  He hadn’t met a woman that plucky in centuries—not  since Gwenhwyfar had been tied to the stake and spat at her would-be murderers—but perhaps this woman wouldn’t need any more dramatic rescues.  He hoped not.  She had been scared—the wolf could smell it—but she hadn’t showed it.  Damn brave of her.  And she was smart too—had kept her wits about her and not let loose of that case.

“I have to.  If there’s any chance the manuscript is genuine, I must see it.  It would hold the answer to the Templar treasure.  Or, at least, the part I need.”

“I failed at getting the manuscript,” Gavin said in a dismal tone, “although I did get the shield.”

Lucas glanced at him.  The two of them had been lucky to have escaped the arrests that fatal Friday in 1307.  He knew Gavin had tried his best.

“Doona worry about it,” he said, slipping into the natural brogue he preferred using.  “Ye did well enough.”  Reaching into the back seat he brought the shield forward and unwrapped it.  “Tis really priceless.  The fools dinna know what they had.”

Gavin gave it an appreciative look before he turned his eyes back to traffic.  “It’s the one then?  Jacques de Molay’s?”

“Aye.”  Lucas still felt a moment of pain when he remembered standing in the crowd, helpless to do anything while the Grand Master burned.  The wolf had nearly gotten the better of him that day.  That evening he had loosed the beast, allowing it to tear out the throats of two of Jacque’s tormentors. 

He forced himself back to the present. “The shield is much older than that though.  It has been passed down from the very first Templar.”

“Godefroi de Boullion?” Gavin asked.

Lucas shook his head.  “Older still.”  At Gavin’s puzzled look, he explained.  “A king near Jerusalem who was a friend of Joseph of Arimathea’s converted to Christianity and changed his name from Evelake to Mordrains to prove his complete conversion. His uncle gave him this shield.  He called it the Shield of Wisdom.   Anyone who was not worthy to carry it would be severely maimed.”

Gavin slid a quick glance at Lucas.  “Who was the uncle?”

“Peter the Fisherman.”

Gavin whistled.  “Saint Peter was the first Templar?”

“No. For centuries, the shield laid hidden in the tomb of Nascien, Mordrains’ brother.   And then, a descendent of theirs—a knight pure in heart—found his way to the abbey on a quest for something else entirely.”

“What?”

“The Holy Grail.”

Gavin almost missed a turn.  “You’re saying Galahad…?”

“…was the first Templar.  Yes.”  Lucas leaned back and let that sink in.  Not only did the Templars adopt the square, red cross that Galahad had worn on a white mantle, but much of the original Templar philosophy had been taken from him.  Refusing to accept Lancelot’s wealth or his title, he had pursued his quest as a poor man, pure in heart and chaste.  Lucas grimaced at that.  A lot of the brothers had protested that rule, but Lucas had obeyed it stringently, mostly because he was afraid he’d lose control of the wolf in the midst of climax and hurt his partner.  Even today, he kept his emotions tightly under control, lest he loose the animal.

The Templars had been what he needed to still the wolf.  By the early Middle Ages, civilization had reared its head again and the wolf did not want to be tamed.  A century or two of strict adherence to discipline and penitence had been what he needed, although he allowed himself to fantasize if an alluring woman caught his eye. 

Which brought him back to the dark-haired beauty who owned the manuscript.

Getting it from her would be only half the challenge.  The other half would lie in keeping her safe from the beast inside.  Lucas liked strong, independent, clear-thinking women and this one also had a natural sensuality about her.  He squelched thoughts about running his hand up her thigh, letting his fingers slowly stroke between her folds and sighed.  The best thing he could do was keep his hands off her.  That would take some doing on his part.

* * * *

Adam Baylor adjusted the patch over his eye and surveyed the sorry lot of men who sat in front of his magnificently polished black oak desk in the massive library that he took great pride in.  Encased in a glass tome on an original Chippendale lamp table was the handwritten first draft of Mien Kamph, given to him by Adolf Hitler himself.  A good man, Hitler.  One of his best.

“So you let the manuscript get away from us?” he said in a soft voice to the nervous-looking young man who had been at the auction.

The young man, Toby, gulped, his Adams apple bobbing in his thin throat, only too aware that the soft voice spelled danger more than any shouting could have done.  “I’m sorry, Sir.  It was when that other man shot the price up—“

“What were your orders?”

He swallowed again.  “To buy the manuscript.”

“Did I tell you how much to spend?”

“No, Sir.”

“Did you think I couldn’t afford more than $25,000.00?”

“N…No, Sir.  It’s just…”

Adam Baylor raised his eyebrows.  “Just what?”

“Just…just that you’ve never given me more than that to spend and…and you weren’t there in the back of the room when I turned around,” he finished in a rush.

“I ask again.  What were my orders?”

The young man looked at the floor.  “To buy the manuscript, Sir.”

Baylor sighed and then sounded almost concerned.  “And I gave you a second chance.  When you called that you had failed, I initiated Plan B.  You failed at that as well.  You weren’t able to snatch the portfolio from that American bitch.”

“No, Sir,” he said in a voice that was barely audible. 

“You have disappointed me.”  Baylor kept his voice soft, almost sympathetic.  The stooge in front of him paled.  He lengthened the silence for effect until even his bodyguard shuffled a foot and then snapped back to attention.  “You do know what happens when someone disappoints me?”

A moan slipped out of Toby, but was quickly stifled.  “Yes, Sir.” 

The small group of  his other go-fors that Baylor had wanted to witness what he did with failures, looked away.

Baylor nodded at the bodyguard who went to the closet and retrieved a medieval cat-o-nine-tails.

Shaking, Toby removed his shoes and socks and then stood to disrobe.  In his boxer shorts he walked over to the patch of marble tile in front of the fire place and started to kneel.

“I prefer you naked,” Baylor said and quickly squelched the quiver of excitement from his voice.  “Fear and pain give a powerful erection.  I want to see that.”

Toby hesitated only a second before he closed his eyes and stripped.  He slipped to his knees on the hard floor. The bodyguard handed him the whip. 

His hand visibly trembled as he took it and began the self-flagellation.  He swung the scourge over his left shoulder and winced as the knotted cords stung his thin back. 

“That barely left welts,” Baylor said disinterestedly.  “Again.  In the same spot.”

The young man scrunched his eyes shut and flogged himself again, biting his lip as the ends split his flesh. 

“Again.”

He whimpered and did as he was told.

“Now the other side.”

He fought to control the tears as the blood flowed from open wounds. 

Baylor leaned forward over his desk.  “Still no erection, I see.”  He nodded to the bodyguard who took the whip and pushed the young man down unto his elbows, exposing buttocks and the soles of his feet.

“Feet first.” Baylor said.

The scourge bore down, flaying the tender insoles and then attacking the heels. The young man flinched and Baylor grunted in satisfaction.  It would be several days before walking could be done without excruciating pain. 

Toby was crying openly now, making no attempt to withstand the pain.  He screamed when the deadly whip began its assault on his bony buttocks, slashing the tender skin and causing blood to flow into his buttocks’ crevice, and over his testicles and onto the floor. Lifting his eyes, he began praying which caused Baylor to laugh. The tormentor began to drag the whip over his body slowly, almost tickling him with it. The light touch blended with the pain and he hardened suddenly.

“Ah.”  Baylor leaned back.  “You could have spared yourself a lot of this if you’d just let that happen earlier.”

“Y…yes, Sir.”  With a sigh of relief he rose to his knees, but Baylor held up a hand.  The guard dangled the cat-o-nine tails over his penis.

“Make yourself come.”

In sheer terror, tears rolling down his face, Toby grabbed himself and started jerking as though his life depended on it.  It did.

* * * *

Baylor frowned at a small spot of blood that had dripped onto the carpet as the guard led the stooge away.  He thought he had made a suitable impression on his small audience.  It should be a long time before any of them thought not to follow his orders to the letter. He almost laughed to himself how quickly the others had asked to be excused to see to his other requests.

Which was okay since he had satisfied his own rather lustful urge watching the whole thing and needed a bit of tidying himself in his executive washroom. 

But the floor was a careless mistake.  The blood cleaned up from the marble easily—it was why he had it there—but the carpet would have a brown spot.  He’d have to check and see if the cleaning lady was married or had kids.  Perhaps he would arrange for a small accident.  Nothing major.  Just enough to let her know that in the future she should be more circumspect with his Persian carpets.  She wouldn’t dare to tell him the spot hadn’t been there earlier.

He poured himself a cognac, settled in an ultra-soft leather chair, lit a Cuban cigar and pondered the outcome of today’s work.  He was not pleased that he had lost the manuscript, but the girl could be traced.  And the bitch would pay when he caught up to her.  He would think of special torture to compensate himself for this extra waste of his time. 

But what annoyed him more—he wouldn’t use the word “worry”—was the purchase of the Templar shield.  It held its own subtle magic vested by that meddlesome Merlin long ago.  Baylor recognized it immediately.  De Molay had been carrying it when King Philippe sent his men in to arrest him.  He smiled, remembering how easy it had been to instill insatiable greed into the French king and the weak pope…well, Clement hadn’t even given a Christian protest.  Not when the Templar treasure might be his.

Not that Baylor had any intention of letting the pope keep the relics.

He frowned.  That was one mistake he hated owning up to.  The Templar treasure had been whisked away before the arrests were made which meant someone within his ranks had turned traitor.  He’d spent most of the first half of the fourteenth century trying to find him and he never did.  And Baylor hated losing.  So the Templars and their treasure had become a personal vendetta for him.  And that’s why the manuscript was so important.  His informants had been quite serious that it was a map to the location of the Holy Grail.  He smiled again. The Grail lore was nonsense, of course, but if this were the Chalice—one of the four ancient Hallows—then the other three would reveal themselves as well. 

The squared power of four—the Spear, the Sword, the Dish and the Grail—well, together they would give him the power to be a god again.  And he would return to the Isle and do the final battle with that bitch grand-daughter Goddess, Brighid.  He would rule the world.  Literally.

And then he frowned again, remembering the man who had appeared in time to save the American broad.  It was the Templar who had killed two of his best men the night that de Molay had burned.  The Immortal who probably still wore the cross that protected him. 

Baylor’s eyes hardened.  So the war wasn’t quite over. 

Ah, but he already had some players in place.  Terrorists were like children, easily led and gullible.  How easy it was to make people intolerant and living only to hate.  And those jihad fanatics thought they were killing for their GOD. 

He tittered.  If only they knew. 

Chapter Two

Feeling the effects of jet lag slightly, Sara sank gratefully onto the overstuffed settee in Mr. Smith’s study while he examined the manuscript.  Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been in London and here she was, back in a pre-summer heat wave.

She had been nervous going through airport security and had carefully scrutinized the passengers in front and behind her before she’d laid the portfolio on the conveyor to pass through the x-ray machine, but no one had seemed particularly interested.  She had also kept alert to whom sat next to her in the waiting area, but again, no one had seemed sinister or threatening so perhaps the incident with the car had been coincidental…or the pickpocket had no idea of where she went.  Her friend, Michael, always teased her about “situational awareness”, but then he had a natural bent for it.  He was a warlock.

For the most part, the flight had been uneventful.  Except for the good-looking cowboy in boots and tight Levis who looked remarkably like her hero from earlier.  If the clothes hadn’t been such a drastic contrast to the well-dressed hunk, she would have sworn they were the same man.  He took a seat behind her and across the aisle.  Well over six feet, his broad shouldered, well-muscled frame had hardly fit the coach seat.  For a moment she had wondered why he wasn’t in First class or at least Business class where he’d have more room to stretch those long, muscular legs.  He had shoulder-length tawny hair, the color of a lion’s mane, full and luxurious.  The kind she’d love to run her fingers through.   He wore glasses with lens shaded dark enough that she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but they did nothing to disguise the strong cheekbones or the straight nose.  Full sensual lips and a chiseled jaw made him look like Adonis.  Since he hadn’t even noticed her—well, how could he with all those female flight attendants blocking the aisle and hovering over him?—she figured he was a cover model, or more likely, an actor.  Her defenses went up.  She’d had enough of those.  Still, it had made the trip a little more pleasant.  Okay.  A whole lot more pleasant.

“It certainly seems to be authentic,” Mr. Smith said as he carefully lifted a piece of brittle parchment and turned it over. 

She hoped so.  She’d nearly gotten killed for it.  Or maybe not.  But either way, she had decided not to tell Mr. Smith of the adventure.  He might not send her on any more trips if she did.

“I hope the price wasn’t too high.”

He waved away the thought.  “My, dear, if this is truly a map that leads to the Holy Grail, no price is too high.  Just think of what the collectors’ world would think…the Grail authenticated, but owned by the mysterious, reclusive “Mr. Smith”.”  He giggled and clapped his hands at the thought.

Sara wondered if her employer had any idea of what the spiritual value of finding the Grail would be.  Probably not.  He concerned himself acquiring objects.  Mainly medieval weapons.  She glanced at the far wall, across from the fireplace, where a collection of swords from the Scottish claymore to the Roman spatha hung. 

She really doubted that the manuscript would lead to the Grail.  After all, it had been written centuries after the Grail disappeared.  Not that she didn’t believe in the Grail.  She did.  She was a white witch, after all, a follower of the Goddess.  And chalices were symbols of the Great Mother. 

“It’s too bad you don’t read Gaelic,” Mr. Smith said, eyeing her hopefully.

Sara smiled.  “I don’t.  But I know someone who does.”

His round face broke into a big smile.  “Ah, I knew I could count on you!  Who is it?  Is it someone I know?  We must invite him here, by all means.”

She shook her head.  “He was my professor in ancient Celtic history.  He’s quite elderly now, confined to a wheelchair, and somewhat reclusive.” 

Mr. Smith’s eyebrows knit together.  “But wasn’t Celtic history mostly a study of Ireland?  This is Scotland we’re talking about.”

Sometimes, it was hard to be patient with people and remember that not everyone had a love of history.  Even if they did try to collect some of it. 

“Scotland was first Pictland, of course, and the Picts spoke their own language.  But the Roman word for the Irish invaders was Scotti.  The language is very similar.” 

His brow smoothed and he waved his hand in the air.  “No problem then.  I will simply make a copy of this document and you can take it to him.  And you might tell him he will be well paid.”

As he moved to the copy machine, Sara thought that the money would matter little to the old professor, although on an educator’s pension, he could certainly use it.  But for him, the love of actually reading a document this old would be enough.  She could hardly wait to see the look on his face when she showed it to him.  Whatever it said, it was still a rare find for a historian. 

“I’ll tell him,” she said as she accepted the copies and put them in her purse.  She looked up as Mr. Smith’s butler approached the doorway, looking somewhat flustered, which was highly unusual.

“What is it, Benton?”

“A visitor to see you, Sir.”

Smith looked annoyed.  “I’m busy.  He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then send him away.”  Mr. Smith picked up another piece of parchment. 

But the butler hesitated and Sara’s ears perked up.  Alcott Benton had been a very proper English butler whose employer in Britain had some trouble with one of the Royals over a financial investment—apparently Benton had felt the need to loyal and took up the point with the Royal’s butler—which resulted, ultimately, in his downfall.  Mr. Smith had acquired him just like he did other unique objects.  No one else he knew had a real English butler.  Sara sometimes wondered if Smith ever realized that half of what Benton said was insult couched in smooth words.  But that he didn’t immediately click his heels and give that short deferential bow spoke louder than any words.

Smith looked back up.  “You still here?”

Benton grimaced ever so slightly.  “Yes, Sir.  The…gentleman…was quite insistent that he see you.”

Her employer was working himself up into throwing a theatric fit for not having his wishes carried out immediately, so Sara interrupted.

“Did he leave a card, Benton?”

“Indeed.”  The butler produced it from the pocket of his short jacket with a rather flourished air. 

Sara smiled.  When Benton had first come to this rather strange household, he had tried placing the mail and business cards such as this on a small silver tray which Mr. Smith had carelessly put a sticky apple pie dish on.  The pinched look on the butler’s face had been almost too much.  Regency England and modern America just didn’t mix that well.

She looked at the card and raised an eyebrow in surprise.  “It says he’s an archeologist.  Lucas Ramsey. Specializes in medieval Celtic artifacts. ”

Mr. Smith pursed his mouth and let out a little whoosh of air.  “How strange since I just happen to be looking at one.”

“Not so strange,” a voice said from the doorway.  “I was on the dig in the Highlands where your manuscript was found.”

Sara twisted around in her chair and was suddenly very glad she was sitting down.  He was the stranger from the plane.  The one who looked like he had been on the cover of a dozen bodice-ripper romance novels.  Only today, he looked more like he might have stepped right out of history itself, even with the dark glasses he still wore.

His golden hair was pulled back with a leather thong.  Without the distraction of wanting to run her fingers through it, she realized she was also looking at her rescuer.  Black leather boots came nearly to his knees and his black jeans hugged and defined very well-muscled thighs.  A crisp, white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up over strong, tanned forearms, stretched across wide shoulders and tucked into a narrow waist.  Across his chest he wore a red, green and blue tartan sash.  Slung diagonally across lean hips was a leather belt and sporran.   A Highlander come to life, sans kilt.  Sara began to wonder if she was suffering from more severe jet-lag than she thought or if watching a repeat of The Highlander last night had suddenly gone to her brain.  And she wasn’t sure she cared.  This man was hot.  And then reason kicked in and she sat up straighter.  He was at the auction and on the plane with me.  

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Standin’ in this wee doorway at the moment, lass,” he answered with an easy smile and rich baritone brogue that reminded her of smoky wooden casks of smooth Scotch whisky and heather moors.  “May I come in?”  

“It appears you are, indeed, in, Sir.”  Benton raised his head and sniffed.

Mr. Smith laid down his paper and gestured.  “Please have a seat.”  He turned to the butler.  “You can go.”

“As you wish.  I shall be close by.” He looked at the stranger and then back to his employer. “If you need me, Sir, simply ring.”

A small smile quirked up one corner of Lucas’ mouth as he sat down on the settee beside Sara.  Instantly, she was all too aware of the maleness of him.  He smelled like leather and soap and his body gave off a heat that sent her own blood racing through her veins.  Or maybe she was having am estrogen moment.  Did he have to sit so close?

Hah!  Like you mind that! Her faerie had suddenly materialized beside her ear.  Sara tried to ignore her, thankful that the imp was invisible to the rest of the world.  Trust Nim to pick this day to follow her to work.  She usually stayed home.

“I can assure you,” he said, “that I am not armed, although it’s reasonable of your butler to be concerned.”  He turned to Sara with a slow smile that quirked up one side of his sensual mouth.  “I’m glad to see ye are well.”

The smile was pure animal magnetism.  Luckily, she was immune to such things.  Really.  She lifted her chin. “Thank you,” she replied well aware that Mr. Smith ears  perked up like a terrier’s.  “Have we met?”

He hesitated a minute and the smile spread into a grin.  He took off the shades and held out his hand.  “I’m Lucas Ramsey.”

His eyes.  They were slanted a bit at the corners and were the same tawny color as his hair.  Clear as single malt Scotch, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen eyes the color of amber before.   And they were penetrating too, looking right through to her very soul.  Her senses sharpened and she felt her aura expanding toward him.  Great.  So much for immunity.

He cleared his throat, only it sounded like a small growl.  Sara realized she was gawking and felt her face flush.  I’m almost thirty years old, for crying out loud! I’m no schoolgirl!    “I’m Sara Kincaid,” she said and took his hand.

Big mistake.  If she’d been warm just sitting near him, now she sizzled.  The touch was almost electrifying, sending pulsations to nerve endings everywhere.  Including, she realized as her face grew even hotter, down there.  Abruptly, she pulled her hand away and managed to regain some control.

“Ummm,” Nim said dreamily.  “This one’s a keeper.”

“Stop it!”  She turned away from the giggling faerie. “What brings you here, Mr. Ramsey?”

“Lucas.  The document, of course.”  He nodded to Mr. Smith’s desk.

At least, he didn’t try to cover that up.  “You were on the plane yesterday.”

He nodded again.  “I wasn’t able to afford the bid, so I did the next best thing.  I followed its new owner home.”  He smiled lopsidedly.  “Just like a puppy.”

That smile was disarming, as he probably meant it to be, but she refused this time to be distracted.  He followed me?  Damn.  So much for my knack of situational awareness. 

“I don’t believe I saw you at the auction.”  I couldn’t have missed him with all that testosterone flowing!

He shrugged benignly.  “I spoke to the accounts clerk afterwards.”

“And he gave you the information?”

“Well, not exactly.  But his ledger was open and I…have the ability to read upside down.  It comes in useful sometimes.” 

Sara wondered what other little skills he had that might come in useful sometime.  Like addling her brain with those exotic eyes.  Or what those strong fingers would feel like stroking her bare skin…  Stop this! Concentrate on the topic!  With her not-so-great record with Bad Boys of America, she didn’t need to go falling all over a perfect stranger.  Especially a devastatingly handsome one.  She should know what good-looking men could do.  Breaking hearts is what they did best.

“How did you get by security, by the way?” Sara asked.  Her boss may be an eccentric, but he was a lucid one, well aware of the high risk of burglary.  He had surveillance cameras posted around his estate and every gardener, handyman and servant had also been trained as security guards.  In addition to the uniformed ones and the off-duty officers who had been waiting for her at the airport.

Lucas looked a bit sheepish, making him seem like a small boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.  Sara began to wonder if he had, indeed, done professional acting.  He reached inside the attaché again and produced a badge.

“Scotland Yard?” Sara said as she examined it.

“It’s the real thing,” he answered and she blushed somewhat guiltily and handed it back.  “I do a little…investigative…work for them occasionally.  Usually when they need to authenticate medieval artifacts that have been reported stolen and pop up somewhere.”

That explained his little skill of being able to read upside down.  Detective training, no doubt.  Fleetingly, she wondered if the Yard trained its men in the art of seduction too.  Lucas Ramsey could make James Bond look like a geek.  Goddess, she needed to get a grip.  Sara leaned back against the settee.

“So, then.  Why are you here?” 

His eyes held hers a moment longer and then he turned to Mr. Smith.  “As I said, I was on the dig, but I never got to look at the manuscript.  It was sealed in a metal container when we brought it out.  I’d very much like to read it.  That’s all.”  He opened an attaché case and pulled out papers that he laid on the desk.  “Letters of reference.  I think you’ll find that I am who I say I am.”

“The manuscript is in Gaelic,” Sara said dryly. 

“And I’m a Gael,” Lucas replied with a grin. 

“You could read this?” Mr. Smith interrupted.

“If you’ll permit me?”  Lucas held out his hand.

Mr. Smith considered for a moment and then reluctantly turned over one piece.

Lucas accepted it carefully, holding it by its edges.  His eyebrows rose as he scanned the paper and when he looked up, his gaze was sharp and alert, almost like an animal sensing danger.

“This document needs to be locked away someplace where it can’t be stolen.”

“Why?” Sara asked as she felt soft hair on her arms begin to rise.

“Because if this falls into the wrong hands, it could mean the destruction of civilization as we know it.”

* * * *

“So the document is in Dallas.”  Baylor leaned back in his desk chair and stared at Alan Caldwell, the con man who had yet to fail him. 

“One of the suburbs,” he answered with a shrug.  “A pity I couldn’t just nab her at the airport, but there were two policemen waiting for her.”

“I expected as much,” Baylor replied.  “She probably called her boss after the incident at Sotheby’s.”  His face hardened as he thought of that idiot, Toby.  This could all have been avoided if that fool had done his job.  The kid was still in his private infirmary healing.  He was tempted to make him soak in very salty water and let those wounds burn awhile.   “She didn’t spot you?”

Alan looked slightly affronted.  “I’m a pro.  Has any mark ever made me?”

“Don’t get cocky. You do your job.”  Baylor smiled slightly.  “You’re the only one who’s escaped the whip.”

“I prefer pleasure, not pain,” Caldwell answered.

Baylor nodded.  “Did you case the place?”

“Security’s tight,” he answered.  “I got as close as I could without having my picture taken.  There’s a gatehouse, electric fences, and, if I’m not mistaken, a whole lot more guards than just the uniformed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Every hired hand looked like a bouncer from a bar in a shady neighborhood.”

“Why so many?  Is the guy guarding Ft. Knox?”

“Seems like the guy collects medieval weapons and other expensive stuff.  The place is supposed to be a friggin’ museum.”

Baylor raised the eyebrow over his uncovered eye.  “Do I want to know how you found that out?”

Caldwell grinned.  “There was a nice looking piece of ass in the next driveway, polishing her Mercedes.  I struck up a conversation.”

“Ah.”  Baylor said. Alan worked out several hours a day and had one of those chiseled, square-jawed faces that women seemed to like, which was an asset he used.  He had no trouble getting women between the sheets.  As he mentioned to Baylor, it was amazing what a woman would tell him when he said he wanted to “cuddle and talk” after sex. 

“Do you want me to seduce the mark?  I wouldn’t mind,” Caldwell said.  “She has nice tits.”

Baylor considered it.  He liked biting women’s nipples.  Hard enough to put real fear into them.  If they screamed, so much the better.  And he would bet that this bitch would be a real fighter.  He liked those.  But better to leave this one alone.  At least for now.

Baylor steepled his fingers and thought.  Breaking and entering was not a viable solution.  Accosting the bitch would do no good. She’d no longer have the document.  No doubt it was under lock and key in some vault.  He sighed.

“You’re going to have to go in.”

“What’s my cover?”

“Free-lancer.  You’re doing a magazine article for Guns and Swords.  A period piece of ancient weapons.”

“Um.  Guns I know.  Swords I’ll have to study up on.”

“Use the Internet,” Baylor said and opened a drawer.  He removed a small box and slid it toward Caldwell.  “GPS tracking device inside.  No bigger than a dime.  Slip it into the woman’s purse.  It won’t hurt to keep posted on her whereabouts.  She might come in useful later.”

Caldwell nodded and stood up to leave, slipping the box inside his jacket.  At the door he turned.  “Just one more thing.”

Baylor looked up from the cigar he was lighting.  “What?”

“The guy that you saw at the auction—the one you called the Templar—he was there too.”

Baylor forced his hand to keep hold of the cigar.  “He was with her?” 

Caldwell shook his head.  “Nah.  He came later, while I was talking to the broad.  Just thought you might want to know.”

“Yes.  Thank you.”  Baylor listened to the door click shut and then blew a smoke ring.  He had thought the Immortal was only at the auction to get de Molay’s shield—Ramsey had a sentimental streak which was something Baylor couldn’t understand in a man.  But now…if the Templar had followed the bitch to Dallas, then he must know about the Hallows too.  And if he got to them first, he’d put them to use for some altruistic good for the universe.  The power of the Hallows was neutral, but the one who owned them directed that power.

Baylor thought of all the years he had spent carefully cultivating the seeds of hate in the Middle East:  Jordan, Syria, the Gaza strip, Iraq—damn the Americans for meddling there, Baghdad was to have been his base of power—but Iran was coming along nicely and he was working on Nigeria.  But with the Hallows, he could destroy the earth and return to the Isle for the final battle…  

Time was suddenly of the essence.  Baylor reached for the telephone.  He was going to Dallas.

* * * *

Lucas paced the hotel room he’d rented.  The beast wanted out.  Reading just that first page had sent his blood roiling, stirring the muddy sentiment from six hundred years ago.  And the wolf still wanted revenge for the Scottish Inquisition.

Steady.  Stay in control.  Smith will call.  He’d taken a gamble, handing back that first page without reading the rest.  But he needed to establish trust if he were going to succeed.  And, as much as he tried to ignore the fact, he wanted that dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty to trust him.  He had felt her aura brush his and the actual physical contact of taking her hand had sent heat to his groin, but there was something else too.  Something he couldn’t quite define.

“Please put this in your strongest safe,” he’d said when he handed the parchment back to Smith.  “I can interpret this for you, but you might not believe what I tell you.”

“Is it about the Holy Grail?” Smith asked hesitantly.

“In part.”

“Are you deliberately trying to be mysterious?” Sara asked, “or just trying to scare us into thinking that paper spells Armageddon?”

“There could be some truth to that,” he answered and Sara stared at him, her mouth slightly open in surprise.  He tried not think of how soft those parted pink lips were or how much he wanted to slide his tongue between them and taste her.  Not now.

He had stood with reluctance and nodded toward Smith.  “When I finish reading that—if you’ll allow it—I want you to know that I’m telling you the truth.  I want you to call those references I gave you and check me out.  You need to know I am who I say I am.  If the rest of that document says what I think it does, we are going to be in this search together.  And for what will come, there must be trust.”

There had been a moment when Smith had narrowed his eyes and looked thoughtful.  Then he had nodded. 

“How can I be in touch?”

And Lucas had given him the number for the hotel.  That had been almost forty-eight hours ago.  Patience.  References take time.

One of the things Lucas had learned to do when he re-invented himself every sixty or seventy years, was to form a complete identity.  In the Dark Ages, no one had really asked.  There were so few literate souls.  During Arthur’s time, it had been easy to don armor and fight beside the Briton king.  His respect for Arthur ran deep.  That was a man who understood the power of the hallowed sword.  He slept in Avalon.  Perhaps Brighid would send him back to the world one day. 

The original nine Templars had accepted Lucas into the Brotherhood without many questions either.  But then, he had pretty much appeared out of nowhere to stand on the Temple steps, his unusually light hair a target for the Saracens.  When he had suggested a place for Godfrey to begin digging and they unearthed the first treasure, they had sensed he was different, perhaps not truly of this world.  But they had embraced him and made him the tenth Templar.  The secret one.  And the secret of his immortality was still protected by the inner circle today.

Technology was a fantastic thing.  Gavin had managed to create birth certificates, passports and other legal documents as needed.  However, the letters of reference were genuine, for Lucas had carefully cultivated relationships with trustworthy men in established businesses in England and Scotland and France.

His cover was good.  All he could do was wait.  And try not to think about Sara.

* * * *

“Sara, lovely child.  Please come in and sit down and keep an old man like me some company.”

Sara closed the door to Professor MacDonald’s office.  He sat in a wheelchair behind a magnificent cherry wood desk that was cluttered with a dozen books and papers strewn everywhere.   More books sat in stacks beside him.  The professor’s cardigan was mis-buttoned and tufts of white hair stuck out from his head, an indication that he’d been running his fingers through it.  Ink stained those frail fingers now as he put down the pen he’d been holding.

“Your housekeeper let me in,” Sara said as she walked around the desk and hugged the old man.  “She was just leaving for the day.  Where’s Robert?”  She hadn’t seen the manservant when she’d come in.

“Oh, he’ll be along,” the professor said with a smile.  “You worry too much about me.  Now sit and tell me why you’ve come.”

Sara pulled her chair closer and sat down with a mischievous smile.  “I have something that I think will make your day.”

His faded blue eyes twinkled.  “You’ve already made my day, dear.  I never hear from any of my other students.”

Which was a shame, Sara thought as she removed the sheets of paper from her purse.  Professor MacDonald had been one of those rare teachers who had infinite patience and took time to personally know who his students were.  And his mind was like a huge computer data base of history.

“How would you like to interpret a document written in middle-Gaelic?”

“Aye, it would be givin’ me a fine wee memory of me homeland,” he said with a fake accent.

Sara laughed and tried not to think about the soft rolling brogue that Lucas had spoken with yesterday. The sound of his rich baritone enveloped her in a cocoon of warmth, just as if she were standing in the embrace of his strong arms, pressed against that hard, broad chest.  Warm and safe.  She shook her head.  Why was she thinking safe?  He was probably anything but safe.

“Sara?”

The old man’s voice jogged her out of her fantasy.  She took a deep breath and handed him the papers.  “My boss just bought the original.  This is a copy that I’d like for you to interpret if you can.”

He took it from her.  “I’ll have to refresh my memory and dig through a couple of language books to do this proper credit.”  He adjusted his bifocals and squinted at it.  “It appears to be some sort of letter addressed to a Mr. Sinclair, something about a fate accomplished.”  He put the copies down.  “The script will take some deciphering.  Could you give me a couple of days?  I know how impatient your employer gets.”

“Don’t worry about him.  A Scotsman showed up who just happens to read Gaelic.”  Even now, his scent of leather and soap haunted her.  “He followed me from London.”

The old man reached over and patted her arm.  “You must be more careful, dear.  Are you sure his intentions are honorable?”

She rather doubted it.  Those mesmerizing amber eyes had lingered on her mouth long enough for her breathing to become shallow and she’d had to fight the urge to suddenly lick her lips.  But that wasn’t what the professor meant.

“He seems to be.  He’s an archeologist and works for Scotland Yard as a consultant.  He provided other documentation.  Mr. Smith is checking it out.”

“Ah, good.”  Professor MacDonald leaned back looking relieved and then puzzled.  “But why do you want me to read this then?”

“I couldn’t not let you read it.  Your love of medieval lore is as great as mine.”  She looked up as the door opened and Robert popped his head inside to acknowledge that he had arrived.  “And for back-up,” Sara said as she stood to leave.  “I want to make sure

that Lucas—Mr. Ramsey—is telling us the truth.”

“You don’t trust him, child?”

She shrugged.  “It doesn’t hurt to know that there wasn’t a mistake in translation.  He read the first page and reacted a lot more strongly than you just did.  And Mr. Smith is sure that the thing will reveal where the Holy Grail is hidden.”

Professor MacDonald raised a furry eyebrow.  “Well.  This is indeed a fine gift you’ve brought me then.  Mystery and perhaps a little magic?”

She started at that, wondering if the professor had ever guessed that she was in the Sisterhood.  If the translation proved to be a dire as Mr. Ramsey had made it sound, perhaps her group could do work some white magic with it.   

Lucas. She smiled wanly as she let herself, thinking of Professor MacDonald’s question.  Trust?  It was herself she didn’t trust.  Not around Lucas Ramsey.

* * * *

When she returned to Mr. Smith’s mansion early that evening, Adonis was sitting on the settee in the office.  Now why had she thought of Lucas Ramsey as a Greek god? 

Nim giggled near her shoulder.  “Because he looks like one!”

Sara nearly jumped.  Usually she could tell when the faerie was near.  This man was addling her brain.  No doubt about it and she needed for it to stop.  By the Goddess, her knees even felt weak just from being in the same room with him.

“Come in and sit down, Sara!”  Mr. Smith was beaming from behind his desk.  “I’m delighted to tell you everything checked out with Mr. Ramsey and he’s agreed to help us!”

She could feel those golden eyes studying her even as looked around for a place to sit that wasn’t on the settee.  One of the overstuffed easy chairs held an assortment of knives and daggers that her boss had meant to categorize before the document had caught his attention.  As shaky as she felt, she wasn’t about to pick up knives that were sharpened on both edges.  The other chair was heaped full of open boxes that contained parts to a new computer system.  Too heavy and messy to move.  Reluctantly she took a step toward the couch.  

“I won’t bite.  I promise.” 

His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and made him look even sexier.  His gaze traveled to her bare throat and she could almost hear the unspoken words:  “Unless you want me to…”

She felt her face grow warm and tugged at the spaghetti straps of her top, not that it helped.  Goddess!  What was happening to her?  With her uncanny ability to have picked, not one but three, loser relationships in her adult life, she thought she’d become immune to men.  Or at least good-looking ones who made promises with their eyes. 

She lifted her head.  She was an adult and she owned her own business.  And, she had just traveled to Europe on her own.  In spite of the incident with the car and the pick-pocket, she had successfully returned with the document.  Surely she could handle sitting on the same piece of furniture with this man.  She plopped down unceremoniously.

“That’s better,” Lucas said in that husky voice that made her think of warm cognac.  She wished she had a whole decanter full.

He picked a paper off the coffee table and handed it to her.  “My credentials.”

His fingers brushed hers as she took the report and the same electric tingle shot through her, but he appeared not to notice.  Fine.  Maybe it’s just me.  It’s been more than a year…  Stop it!!   The words on the sheet finally swam into focus. 

“Everything seems to be quite in order,” she said and was surprised that her voice didn’t shake.  “It will be interesting what your interpretation of the manuscript will be.”

She turned to Mr. Smith.  “Professor MacDonald said he probably wouldn’t need more than two days.”

Beside her, she felt Lucas tense and his face changed subtly, its angles sharpening.  She blinked.   It must have been a trick of the fading sunlight for when she looked again, he looked normal.

“There’s someone else who knows about this?” His voice was curiously flat as though tightly controlled.

“Well, yes.  An old college professor of mine who’s a medieval historian.”

“Does anyone else know you’ve given him a copy?”

“No.  Why?”  She thought briefly of Robert.  The copy had been lying on the desk but he hadn’t really come into the room far enough to see it.

Lucas looked over to Mr. Smith.  “It’s very important that no one, besides us, is even aware that this work exists.”

“The professor isn’t going to tell anyone!” Sara insisted.  Poor man was in a wheelchair and lived alone.  Whom would he tell?

He turned to her.  “If this document says what I think it will, letting the information get into the wrong hands could mean the destruction of civilization.”

“So you implied before.”  Sara was beginning to wonder if the man really was an actor in addition to his other lines of work.  “You needn’t make it sound so melo-dramatic.”

Lucas’ eyes darkened and again she had the perception that his face angles sharpened.  “I wish ‘twas what I was being.  But I am quite serious, lass.  Ye doona know what ye are getting into.”

There was the brogue again, thicker this time.  She wondered about his ability to fall in and out of it.  Looking into his eyes, there was no sign of mirth.  They were a pale gold and steady, almost as if he were an animal weighing whether to attack.

Attack?  Her imagination was really getting away on her.  He was just setting the scene to make this translation thing more intriguing.  Still, the fine hair on her arms began to rise. 

“Fine, then.  Why don’t you start reading the document so we can all find out when the world will collapse?” 

“Sarcasm,” he said quietly.  “Perhaps I deserved that.”  He turned to Mr. Smith.  “I’d like to get started reading this evening, if I may.”

A troubled looked swept across Mr. Smith’s face.  “I put it in my most secure safe,” he said.  “It has a twenty-four hour timer.  It won’t be able to be opened until tomorrow morning.” 

“Very well.”  Lucas stood to leave.  “What time should I return?”

“Nine o’clock,” Mr. Smith answered, “and check out of the hotel room.  I’ve plenty of guestrooms.  If this is as important as you say it is, I’d rather have you here around the clock.”

Lucas considered and then nodded. “That might be a wise choice. Thank you.  I doubt that I’ve been followed, but right now, I can’t be too careful.”  He glanced at Sara and his tone lightened.  “Do you live here too?”

“No!”  Sara said startled.  “I have an apartment.”

“Perhaps it would be wise of you to stay, too, Sara,” Mr. Smith said.

She saw the little smirk on his face.  Her boss loved to play matchmaker.  Her latest fiasco had been someone he thought was perfect for her.  If one didn’t mind finding out that the bastard was already married, but had conveniently forgotten to mention it. 

“No thanks.  I have…my plants to look after.” 

“Plants?”  Lucas arched an eyebrow.

“Yes.  Orchids. They take a lot of care.”  Too bad her apartment wouldn’t allow pets.  That would have sounded a whole lot more convincing. 

“I see,” he said gravely.  “Plants can be demanding.”

So now he was being sarcastic.  Well, better that than sleeping just down the hall from him.  As if she’d sleep, thinking about him lying naked, draped with only a thin sheet over what was probably a shaft of memorable size.  How would it feel opening her legs to him, having him stretch her…

Stop this. Haven’t you learned your lesson?

Putting space and distance between her and Lucas Ramsey was the best thing she could do.  By the Goddess, she needed time to think.

Chapter Three

When Lucas arrived at the mansion the next morning, a rental car was parked in the driveway.  Frowning, he knocked on the door wondering if there was another guest.  Sara had driven away last night in Mustang convertible.

The frown left his face when he thought of her.  It had been centuries since a woman had actually elicited electric-like sparks from him.  He was pretty sure she felt them too, and for some reason, was resisting the chemistry.

Perhaps it was just as well.  When he had teased her about not biting, the wolf had growled and the thought of nuzzling and nipping her bare throat had stirred deep desire.  He couldn’t help holding her gaze until she parted her lips and the tip of her tongue almost emerged.  How he wanted to capture that tip while his mouth captured hers in a soul-searing deep kiss.  But he also knew that when he took a woman, he must remain somewhat distracted to control the beast.  Giving in to raw emotion was dangerous and he had a feeling that was the way it would be with Sara.  A sudden image of her nude, legs spread wide to receive him, arching her back to take more, writhing beneath him in unbridled passion made him hard instantly.  He forced the picture aside even as the wolf stirred from slumber.  He couldn’t take the chance on hurting her.

Twice last night the beast had tried to break through.  Once, he thought she had might have noticed for she looked startled.  He simply had to concentrate on the manuscript.  Stay focused.

But something about her called to him on an otherworldly level.   He wondered if Sara were aware of the dormant power she possessed.   And the faerie…he hadn’t seen Nimue since she’d bested Merlin in a battle of wits that left him imprisoned in a tree.  Arthur had had a devil of time convincing her that enough was enough. 

The door opened, jarring him out of this thoughts.  The butler inclined his head slightly.  “Mr. Smith has been expecting you.”

He made it sound as though Lucas were late, which he knew he wasn’t.  He resisted looking at his watch to check.  He had visited in far too many homes where butlers and seneschals tried to be intimidating.

“I’ll take your bag, Sir.  Mr. Smith is in the study.”

He could hear voices as he approached the room.  Male voices, not Sara’s.  He sighed, wondering how long this guest would be staying.  There could be no looking at the manuscript until he left.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Ramsey!”  Mr. Smith turned away from the sword wall that he was showing his guest.  “It seems that my collection of things has suddenly become more public than I thought.  Mr. Caldwell, here, is interested in doing an article on my medieval weapons.  And he’s from England too.  Isn’t that a coincidence?”

It certainly is.  His cross burned against his chest in warning, yet his lupine senses could detect no magic from this man.  Caldwell was almost as tall as Lucas, but more stockily built.  He had the thick neck and bulky shoulders of an American football player and reminded Lucas somewhat of an army tank. 

The man held out his hand.  “Al Caldwell,” he said cordially, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Lucas shook hands and the fine hairs at the back of his neck began to bristle.  This man was not whom he seemed to be.  Before he could hone in on what he didn’t like, he heard Sara arrive.

“Mr. Ramsey, did you rent a—” She stopped as she saw Caldwell.

“The car is mine,” he said with a disarming smile and stepped forward to take her hand.  “You must be the lovely assistant Mr. Smith told me about.  I can’t believe my good luck in having access to these weapons and a beautiful woman to work with.” He bent low and brought her fingers to his lips.

Con man.  Lucas’ eyes bore holes through the man’s back, but he didn’t notice.  Sara was looking flustered, but at least she withdrew her hand.

“Have we met?” she asked.

Mr. Smith hastily made the introductions.  “Mr. Caldwell will need a few days to go through my authenticity papers to have the facts straight on each weapon.”

Lucas caught the questioning look in Sara’s eyes and shook his head slightly.  They would have to wait on the manuscript.  She nodded imperceptibly.

“I can pull those documents,” she said and set her purse on the coffee table and walked toward the door.  “Where would you like for me to put them?”

Mr. Smith frowned, apparently just realizing that Caldwell presented a dilemma.  Sweat broke out his balding forehead and he dabbed at it hastily with the linen handkerchief from his breast pocket.  “Well…”  Then he brightened.  “What about the billiard hall?  It has several tables and chairs and Mr. Caldwell could spread out the paperwork.  That would leave us free to look at the manu—“

“Ah.  Don’t worry about that,” Sara interrupted quickly.  “Professor MacDonald is already working on the matter, remember?  And Mr. Ramsey, I believe you wanted to examine some Scottish earthenware from the sixteenth century?”

“Aye, lass,” Lucas said promptly, going along with her story and admiring her quick thinking.  “I canna believe the wee bit of luck that led me here.  Laird Smith ‘tis a most generous mon to let me have a peek at the artifacts.”

Mr. Smith preened little at being called a laird and Lucas almost laughed, but realized that Caldwell was regarding him strangely.

Sara caught the look too.  “He’s an archeologist,” she said.

“Ummm,” he said slowly as he assessed Lucas.  Then he gave Sara an engaging grin.  “May I help you carry the documents that I’ll be needing?”

“That won’t be necessary,” she answered.  “I’ll just need my key for access and be right back.”  She started for her purse, but Caldwell put up a hand to stop her.  “Allow me.”  He leaned down to pick up the purse, but his hand brushed against a brass candlestick that toppled onto the purse knocking it off the table. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said as he quickly slid the tube of lipstick and a few coins back into the purse.  “How clumsy of me.” 

“No problem.”  Sara had reached him by that time and took the handbag, digging through for her key.  “I’ll be just a few minutes.”

Both men watched her go and again, the hair began to bristle on the back of Lucas’ neck again.  Caldwell turned to look at him and gave him a cold smile.

“She’s going to be mine, Highlander.  I just wanted you to know.”

The wolf growled, straining to be released.

“Well, well,” Mr. Smith said.  “This should be interesting.”

* * * *

Sara latched the door to the library and crossed the thick Aubusson carpet.  She reached up and tugged at one of the leather-bound books.  The bookcase slid silently to one side and Sara pressed her thumbprint against the small technology pad that would allow her access.  The door clicked and she descended the steps into the concrete-lined bunker that her boss had especially built in case of nuclear fallout.   It was comfortably furnished with overstuffed leather chairs and sofas and a huge master bed.    In a strange mix of the twenty-first century and the Middle Ages, there was storage for six months of Army rations, supplies of batteries to run laptops, radios, and a small T.V.,  oxygen tanks and protective body gear and several thousand beeswax candles, for the one thing the bunker lacked was a generator.  There was no way to ventilate it.  The other intriguing thing about this underground secret was the vaults.  The big walk-in one she didn’t have access to, but the files she was looking for were available.  She pulled several portfolios and stacked them.  Then she paused.

There was another smaller vault recessed into a wall, hidden by a rather imperfect replication of the Mona Lisa.  The irony of her smile in a cheap painting protecting the valuables in the safe always made Sara smile too.

She glanced at her watch.  In five minutes the timer would go off and she would have exactly one minute before it reset itself.  Should she wait?

Sara knew that Professor MacDonald would be diligent in his work, but she knew also that Lucas did not want to wait.  And, she admitted to herself, neither did she.  As much as she didn’t want to admit it, his dire prediction had struck a note of alarm deep inside.  The Sisterhood was going to meet tonight.  The moon was full.  If she knew where the danger lay, she could use the energy of the circle to call on the power to help.

The vault clicked softly.  She swung the picture out, opened the door and removed the manila envelope.  Returning the picture to its place, she gathered the portfolios and climbed the stairs.  She slipped the document behind a book and returned to the study.

“Ah!  There you are,” Mr. Smith exclaimed.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Sara explained a bit breathlessly.  “One of the files was misplaced and I had to hunt for it.”

Her boss frowned, but she didn’t give him time to react.   “Mr. Caldwell, if you’ll follow me?”

“Call me Al,” he said with a smile and took the portfolios, letting his hands run over hers slowly.  “Will you help me sort through these?”

Sara hesitated.  There was something unsettling about the man.  Maybe it was just that he too smooth-talking or maybe it was the fact that he had actually held her hands in a most proprietary way.  His touch had made her shiver.

“I believe I had an appointment for this morning,” Lucas spoke from across the room. 

“Yes,” Sara turned quickly and caught Mr. Smith trying to hide a grin.  “You did.”  She turned back to Caldwell.  “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble sorting things out.  The billiard hall is the first door on your left.”

His eyes hardened, although his smile stayed in place.  “I may have some questions later.”

“Of course,” Mr. Smith interrupted.  “I’ll just show you to the room myself.”

Sara waited until they were both gone.  “I pulled the document.”

Lucas’ eyebrow rose.  “Do you think that wise?”

Now he was questioning her?  First he made it sound like the Apocalypse was headed their way and now he had all the time to wait?  “I thought we needed to save the world before something evil destroyed it.”  She softened the tartness in her tone with a small smile.

He didn’t return it.  “Don’t even jest, Sara.  It’s too close to truth.”

She stopped herself from rolling her eyes.  What could a document written in middle-Gaelic say that would have such an impact?  She wondered if he were trying to go all da Vinci Code on her with his grim predictions of news that would shake the world.  Well, she’d soon find out.

“Come,” she said and then, as the corner of his mouth quirked up, she realized how that had sounded and felt herself grow warm.  “I’d like to,” his eyes said and heat blazed through her.  Damn, but he was unsettling.

Sara ignored the look and led the way to the library, closing the door behind them, but not locking it.  She didn’t need to be giving this hot little fantasy of hers any more ideas.  She pulled the envelope out from behind the book and handed it to him.

He sat down at a small desk and spread the papers in front of him and began reading.  Sara sat down on the sofa near the desk and watched him.  He was as tense as a mountain cat ready to spring.  The fingers of his large, strong hands flexed and stretched on the table as he read, reminding her of a big cat retracting its claws.  He raised an eyebrow from time to time and on occasions, he frowned, but he didn’t look up.

It was nearly lunchtime when he finally gathered the documents and put them carefully inside the envelope.  He sat back and rubbed his eyes.

“Well?” Sara was about to burst from curiosity.  He started and she wondered if he’d forgotten that she was there. She had hardly moved a muscle for nearly three hours and not spoken a word.

“It’s as I suspected,” he said.  “The Sacred Hallows are in the United States.  I have to find them.”

“Hallows?” she repeated, her mind running a rapid data search through Celtic history.  “Are you speaking of ancient Hallows of the Tuatha de Danaan?”

Lucas looked surprised.  “You’re familiar with them?”

How much to tell him?  That the Tuatha de Danaan were the people of the Goddess?  When she had told the second important man in her life—the one after the crook and before the adulterer—that she practiced the Old Ways of Brighid, he had called her a witch—not the good kind—and accused her of bewitching him. Blessed be.  As if that’s the way the Goddess worked.  He’d also tried to sully her reputation and nearly ruined her business.  Best error with caution.

“The Celts, their culture and religion, have been an interest of mine.  Kincaid is an Irish name.  I’ve done some research.”

“And?”

“The Spear of Lugh always flies true.  The Sword of Nuada protects its bearer.  The Dish represents the Round Table and makes men equal, and The Cup of the Dagda provides healing.”  No need to divulge the inner truths about the Hallows.  Not yet.

“Can you imagine what power a corrupt and evil man might have if he were to possess all four?” Lucas asked softly.

“There’s plenty corruption as is,” Sara answered.  “From terrorists to heads of business and government.”

“And that corruption would endure for eternity, multiplying itself.”   

“So what does the manuscript say should be done?”

He studied her as though assessing how much he should tell her.  And that irritated her.  It still seemed a little melodramatic to her that Fate hinged on an anonymous source, but if the Hallows really did exist, there was more than one way to save the world.   The inner, hidden path of the Goddess was subtle, but stronger than the outward path of men.  She leaned forward.  “I risked my life for that document.  I want to know what it says.  All of what it says.  Now.”

For what seemed like an impossible amount of time, he said nothing as he continued to appraise her, his amber eyes penetrating hers.  She forced herself to hold his gaze and not drop hers to that full sensual lower lip he was worrying with his very white teeth.  Then finally, he nodded.

“It’s hard to know where to start.”

“The beginning would be good.”

“Are you familiar with the history of the Knights Templar?”

She stared at him.  Like who wasn’t?  There’d been enough books out about them recently.  “Well, let’s see,” she said.  “There were nine Frenchmen who made the trip to Jerusalem, supposedly to make the path for pilgrimages safer.  Only for years, they never left the site of Solomon’s Temple nor did they increase their numbers.  They did some excavating.  When Acre fell, they escaped the area carrying whatever treasure they found and managed to make themselves rich by establishing banking in Europe.  How’s that?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up.  “In a nutshell, pretty good.  And you’re aware of the Inquisition that nearly destroyed them?”

Sara nodded.  “The French king, Philippe, owed them a lot of money.  To pay his debt would have weakened France and put his kingship in jeopardy.  But the Templars owed allegiance to no one except the Pope.  Fortunately for Philippe, Clement V was weak and easily convinced that the knights were really heretics trying to bring down the Church.  There were mass arrests made on October 13, 1307.  A Friday.  That’s why we’re superstitious about Friday the thirteenth.”

Lucas tilted his head.  “I’m impressed.  What else do you know?”

She tried to ignore his hooded look.  “I hope my little history lesson has something to do with what you just read?”

“It does.  Please continue.”

“Their treasure—Solomon’s treasure—was never found. The banks had been emptied prior to the raid.  Supposedly they had been tipped off and had ships waiting at  La Rochelle and Le Harve.  But the ships were never found either.  An interesting story.”  She became aware that he was watching her mouth as she talked and her breath caught.  “What does it have to do with the manuscript?”

“Do you know anything else about the Templars?”

She was getting exasperated.  How could the man be so sexy and stay so focused? And why couldn’t she?  Stay focused, that is.  Sara took a deep breath.   “Only that some of the Templars supposedly made it to England and Scotland and were given refuge.”

“Tis true.  ‘Twas a secret squadron of them that helped the Bruce take Bannockburn.   It was on the orders of the Bruce himself that Commander Randolph hold back his contingent until Edward’s men felt sure the victory was theirs and let down their guard.  Aye, it was grand, the Brits tripping over themselves to flee in the face of the red crosses.  The fact was, the Bruce’s spearmen could fair walk across the Burn without getting their feet wet, thanks to Edward’s dead men.”

Sara narrowed her eyes.  “You make it sound like you were there.  How do you know all of this?”

His golden eyes widened and then he grinned.  “I’m a Scot.  Twas the fodder of childhood stories.  When Scotland had its own king.”

“Would you please get to the point?” Her patience was beginning to wear thin.

He stood and stretched and Sara tried not to notice that the polo shirt he was wearing this morning stretched tight across his chest and revealed bulging biceps.  She noticed a fine gold chain around his neck that dipped into the vee of his shirt and wondered what hung at the end of it.  It was enticing looking at it and her hand itched to reach inside his shirt and pull it free.

He came around the desk to sit next to her on the couch, one khaki covered thigh brushing hers slightly.  Damn, there was that heat again, sizzling its way to her very core.  A slow pulsing began between her thighs and her breathing shallowed.

His amber eyes fixed on her mouth and for a crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her.  Wanted him to.  No, she didn’t.  She needed some space.  She shifted away from him slightly.  If he noticed, he didn’t say.

“Will you please go on?”  Goddess, even her voice was raspy.  “What does Bannockburn have to do with the document?”

“It’s Commander Sinclair, actually,” Lucas said.  “Henri Sinclair inherited the Earl of Orkney title and it was in those northern islands that the Templar ships landed.”

“Along with their treasure?”

“So it’s told in Gaelic lore.  In 1398, Henri sailed a well-armed ship across the Atlantic to a place he called New Scotland…Nova Scotia.  The legends say it carried Solomon’s treasure with it.”

“But wait.  That would have been nearly a hundred years before America was even discovered!”

Lucas shrugged.  “In 1434 a map was produced that matches parts of what is now Massachusetts, well before Columbus made his trip.  Anyway, the Sinclairs had also received the barony of Roslin and as peace began to become a reality, another descendent, William, was appointed Hereditary Patron and Protector of Scottish Masons.”

Sara rubbed her forehead.  “I’m beginning to get a headache.  And the Masons were Templars?”

“Not directly.  But Sinclair was.  And the Templars were always and forever guardians of the Treasure…and especially, the Hallows.”

She groaned a little.   For a man who was so powerfully built and virile, Lucas really could wind around a tale like an ancient bard. “Are we actually speaking of the Holy Grail?”

“Bear with me.  It’s a long story.”  As she winced, he lowered her hands and began tracing small circles on her temples with his thumbs. 

She was amazed at how surprisingly gentle his touch was.  Not only did the pain slip away, but her shoulders relaxed and the tightness in her neck disappeared.  The pain slipped away and the tension in her shoulders left as well.  She closed her eyes.

“That’s it,” his voice soothed like warm honey mixed with bourbon.  “Let go.  I need for you to understand what I’m about to say.” 

His fingertips massaged her scalp lightly alleviating the last bit of tension and impatience.  She could have stayed cradled in his hands forever.  Reluctantly she opened her eyes to find him gazing at her intently. 

“Ready to go on?” he asked.

She was more ready to go on then he knew.  But he hadn’t meant that.  Lucas was all scholarly at the moment.  Inwardly, she sighed.  “Yes.”

“There had always been a Templar centre at Ballantradoch—Roslin—but with Master masons at his disposal, William began building a chapel with plans for a grand cathedral to keep the Church happy.  Or so it was told.”

Sara knit her eyebrows together.  “You’re saying that the cathedral was never meant to be?”

Lucas shrugged.  “Perhaps.  But the chapel was built for a definite purpose and it wasn’t particularly Christian.”

She nodded.  Any follower of Brighid was aware that Rosslyn Chapel had more pagan symbols than Christian.  There were well over a hundred pictures of the Green Man in the chapel.  One couldn’t get much more pagan that the God of Fertility, sometimes known as Cernunnos or the Horned One.  And on the Goddess path, all things seek balance.  The rose, associated with the Divine Feminine for time beyond Time, was evident everyway, even in the name of the chapel itself.

“I’m familiar with Rosslyn Chapel,” Sara said. “It’s part of the curriculum for a course that I adjunct.”

Lucas sat back and grinned.  “You don’t look like a teacher.”

“And what are teachers supposed to look like?”

His grin broadened.  “Not like you.  But go on.”

Hmmm.  If he wanted her version, he was going to get it.  She had visited Rosslyn

just two years ago.  “Well, for one thing, the William Sinclair you speak of has a floriated cross on top of his tombstone with eight points—symbolic of the eight years it takes the morning and evening star, Venus, to complete a cycle. The rose at the center of that cross, along with five-pointed stars and pentacles everywhere, conveys the path she took.” 

She paused to see if he was keeping up and then wondered if that had been a mistake.  His eyes were trained on her like he was a hungry wild beast who’d just found dinner.  She cleared her throat.

“Roses are associated with Mary Magdalene.  The five petals of the rose also symbolize the five stages of female life. Eros in the Green Man and Venus in Mary Magdalene.  The balance of masculine and feminine.”

“I’m impressed,” Lucas said.

For a moment she thought he was being sarcastic.  Men often were when she

started talking about the real strength of women, but Lucas looked serious, his amber eyes studying hers.

“Go on,” he urged.

“There are also rumors and speculation,” she said.  “That a vault lies beneath the chapel that can not be accessed…that it contains everything from Solomon’s treasure to a manuscript written by Jesus himself.  And what it has to say may not be in keeping with Christianity as we know it.”

Lucas smiled.  “I think you’ve been reading too many recent bestsellers.”

“Maybe.  I said it was speculation.  I’m sure it’s good for tourism at any rate.”  She let her eyes slide to the envelope.  “But there is another rumor about the Holy Grail being embedded in the Apprentice Pillar.”

“I wish it were so simple,” Lucas answered with a sigh.  “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about the wrong people getting a hold of it. William didn’t complete the chapel.  His son, Oliver, did and set sail to Nova Scotia to bring back whatever had been taken there earlier.  Perhaps it was the treasure.  They wanted the vault to hide something.  But the Hallows are no longer there.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Do you know what happened in 1590?”

“That really isn’t my area of expertise,” she said and then thought.  “Wait.  Wasn’t there another witch hunt started? This time in Scotland?”

“Aye, lass.  Your knowledge of history is good.  There is nothing like mass hysteria to launch a feeding frenzy.  Evil reigned.  Women were burned because their husbands found themselves impotent.  Children were stoned because they might have eyes of different colors.  There was no reasoning with the zealous priests who made a mockery of their own church.  Anything of real value--like the Hallows--was moved to a place of safety.”

“Nova Scotia?”

“I don’t think so.  Or, at least not all of them.” Lucas motioned toward the papers lying on the desk.  “It seems they were to be separated, hidden in different parts of the New World.  That way, if a Hallow were found, the power would not be compounded four-fold.  The document basically rambles on about exploration in the New World.  And it ends with the words.  “Fait accompli.  Whatever it was, the mission had been successful.”

“So does the paper offer any clues?”

“Several, but one important one from what I can tell.”  He reached over to the desk and picked up his notes.  “On every page, there was a line that didn’t quite fit in with the rest of a paragraph. I took them out and put them together.”  He handed her the paper.

“Where roses climb to heaven,

Lugh’s lance will wait,

Near to the Druid’s tree,

Enter dawn’s gate.”

“Does this mean anything to you?” Sara asked.

“Only that it refers to the Spear, obviously.”

Voices sounded in the hall.  Sara jumped up and grabbed the envelope. She stuffed it behind the closest book just as the door opened.

“There you are!” Mr. Smith said cheerfully.  “I was wondering where the two of you had gone off to.  It’s lunchtime!” 

Beside him, Al Caldwell was frowning.  Sara took a step away from the bookcase and backed solidly into Lucas.

“Steady there,” he said as he put a hand on her shoulder to balance her.  With his other arm he reached around her to return a book she hadn’t noticed he taken.  For a moment she was engulfed in his embrace and she breathed in the scent of him.  His warm breath teased the nape of her neck as leaned into her to give the book a push. 

“Stubborn book,” he murmured against her ear, whetting her appetite for something other than lunch.

Both Mr. Smith and Mr. Caldwell were openly watching them, the visitor with narrowed eyes.  Her boss was smirking.

Sara reluctantly stepped away from Lucas.  “Perhaps we can finish this discussion…”  She looked wildly at the title of the book,  Le Morte D’Arthur, that he had just shelved.  Pick a character.  Quick!  “…about, uh, Lancelot later.”

Lucas’ eyebrow arched.  “Lancelot?  By all means.  I think I may know a few stories you haven’t heard.”

It wasn’t until later that she wondered what he’d meant by that.

* * * *

Baylor picked up the phone in his expensive Dallas hotel suite.  He’d been waiting all day for this phone call and he didn’t like waiting.  Not at all.  “Yes?”

“The tracking device is in her purse,” Caldwell said.

“Good.  Any problems?”

“Nah.  I just was really clumsy and overturned it—“

“I meant, have you been able to locate the document?”  Sometimes even his best men seemed daft.  Baylor hated not being able to get directly involved himself, but with his eye patch he was too memorable in case of trouble.

“Oh.”  Caldwell hesitated.  “I haven’t seen it.  But Ramsey is here and he spent the entire morning with the girl in the library.”

Baylor growled in frustration.  That damn Templar had been a thorn in his side for centuries, fouling up some of his best evil intentions.  He often wondered just what gods had created another immortal.  In his time, Ramsey had not been on Avalon.

“Do you suppose,” he asked sarcastically, “that they may have been reading the manuscript in there?”

“No doubt,” Caldwell replied somewhat defensively, “but my host—who’s crazy as a loon if you ask me—stayed with me the whole morning, jabbering on about his stupid swords.  I had to actually take notes.”

“Don’t underestimate Mr. Smith,” Baylor said softly.  “He’s a wealthy man and didn’t get there by being stupid.”

“No, Sir.”  Caldwell said promptly.  “I did try to get in the library after lunch, but it was locked.  I didn’t think it would be good to pick it.”

Baylor sighed.  “And why not?  It’s one of the things you do, isn’t it?”

“True.  But there’s a copy of the document that may be available.”

“Oh?”  Baylor reached for his brandy snifter and swirled the contents and sniffed.  “Where is it?”

“Some old professor named MacDonald has it.  I heard the girl mention it when she cut off Smith.  I’ll just put a tail on her when she goes to get it.”

“You do that,” Baylor said, “and soon.  If the Templar has already read it, that puts him ahead of us in this race.”

“No problem.”

“And one more thing.  Make sure the tail cleans up.  I hate messes.” 

“Understood.”

Baylor hung up the phone and poured another brandy.  “This time, I will win, Templar.  I will win.”

* * * *

It was near mid-afternoon by the time Sara turned into Professor MacDonald’s driveway.  Robert met her at the door. 

“He’s in the library, waiting for you.”

The professor’s faded blue eyes were almost glowing.  “Sit, dear!” he said excitedly.  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed reading this document.  It really is a confirmation of hope.  If I never read another important thing, this will have been enough.”

Sara sat down on the sofa near his wheelchair.  “So what can you tell me?”

“Well, much of it is written like a travel diary,” the professor began, “but I got the feeling that somehow the writer was trying to encrypt some other message.”

Sara told him about the verse that Lucas had dug out of it.  The old man nodded. 

“Yes, I noticed that too.  But there’s more, I think.”

“More?”  She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Lucas alone after lunch since Mr. Smith had decided to monopolize both of his guests’ time.  It had, at least, given her the opportunity to return the manuscript to the safe.  “Tell me!”

He patted her hand.  “If the Hallows are to be found, there is an order in which to do it.  There were other references about “first” seeing something and then “proceeding” on and “lastly” finding the holy grail.”

She perked up.  “It says the “Holy Grail”?  Lucas hadn’t mentioned that.”

The professor shook his head.  “The writer says that he came across a pool in so beautiful a setting it was like finding the holy grail of inner peace.”  His eyes took on a far-away look.  “Odd, that choice of words.  Pool.  Not “lake”.  Not “pond”.  The only body of water that I’ve heard called by that name was Dozmary Pool in Cornwall.”

“The pool that Bedwyr threw Excalibur into?  What does King Arthur have to do with this? Or England? I thought the Hallows had been brought to America.”

The old man leaned back and plucked at his cardigan, a sure sign he was about to tell a story.  Sara always enjoyed listening to him when he did.  She sat back and relaxed.

“The Hallows have traveled far.  It’s not so strange that Arthur, or at least one of his knights, would be involved in this.  We are talking about the Holy Grail, you know.”

“Well, yes,” Sara said.  “We all know that Galahad was the only knight pure enough in heart to receive it.” 

“And Galahad went to Sarras after Camlann and from there to Jerusalem.  But I get ahead of myself.”

“Go on.”

“Well, as you know, Arthur owned the Sword of Justice.  Galahad’s father, Lancelot—or the Lancer—wasn’t called that for nothing.  He owned the lance, the Spear of Truth.  The cup, of course, was mystically hidden to protect it from unwanted hands.”

“And what about the Dish?”

“Ah, that.  It was actually a round plate, more of a platter, you know. It came with the first Scotti settlers from Tara to Pictland.  When Arthur defeated Fergus Mor, he brought the dish to Britain and established the Round Table.” 

“So all four Hallows were in Arthur’s possession?”

Professor Macdonald nodded.  “It was what made him so successful for so many years.  Until Mordred came along.”

“The evil that men do lives after them,” Sara quoted from Shakespeare.

“Ah, yes.  And the true Evil One is still among us, I fear.  But Mordred was not able to get his hands on any of the Hallows.  Galahad took them all to Jerusalem.”

Sara shivered, even though it was not cold.  “Jerusalem.  Solomon’s Temple.  So is that what the Templars were really searching for?”

“Who can say?  What matters is that they found the Hallows, took them to France, then escaped to Scotland.  And, with the Inquisition, to the United States.”

They were both silent for a long time, thinking about it.  Finally, the old man handed Sara a piece of paper. 

“From what I can tell, using the “first” and “then” and “last” sentences, you have another riddle to solve.  Or at least an order to do it in.

Sara looked down at the paper.

“Seek first the Spear

And then, the Sword

Third, the Dish

And the Grail will appear.”

The professor suppressed a yawn.  “I believe I’m ready for a nap.  Not as young

as I used to be.”  He reached over and squeezed Sara’s hand.  “If you trust your young man, share this with him.”

She felt herself blush.  “He’s not “my” man.”  She chided herself as the unbid memory arose of being enclosed in his arms, his mouth close to her ear, tickling her senses.  Heat pooled in her lower belly and she stood quickly.  “I’d better be going.”

She let herself out.  Robert was nowhere in sight, but she had heard water running earlier and figured he was probably drawing a bath for Professor MacDonald.

As she drove down the driveway, she smiled to herself.  Lucas.  Her man.  What would it be like, having him?  How would he take her? Fast and hard?  Easy and slow?   He was definitely all alpha, sheer animal magnetism about him, but he had a gentle touch.  How she’d like to find out just what he’d do.  The thought sent fever and chills to every nerve ending.  Her whole body tingled.

She didn’t even notice the black car that waited just down the street. 

Chapter Four

Sara was still pondering the possible meanings of the verses that Lucas and Professor MacDonald had put together as she sprinkled rose petals into the tub late in the afternoon.  Soaking in the bath, clearing her thoughts, and breathing in the fragrance of Venus’ flower, prepared her for ritual ahead.

Not exactly the way most single women would spend a Friday night, she thought as she dressed in the green robe that was associated with both Venus, the goddess of love  and the new growth of spring.  She smiled.  The real fertility ritual wasn’t until Beltane, still weeks away.  That night, in ancient times, when men and women abandoned their inhibitions and coupled beneath the stars.  Her thoughts turned to Lucas suddenly. 

She could see him, bare-chested, his skin bronzed by the light of the need-fire, his tawny hair blown back by the night breeze as he stood, splay-legged, high on a rugged Scottish moor.  Those intriguing amber eyes glowed in the soft light and he reached out and drew her to him, his mouth slanting over hers in a deep, demanding kiss…

Stop this!  I’m not a schoolgirl!  But what was it about him that made it seem so natural to put him into such a medieval setting?  He seemed to belong there.  And she, independent, self-sufficient twenty-first century woman that she was, had an overwhelming desire to submit—submit!—to him and let him have his way with her.  Let him take her any way he wished, as often as he wanted.  Goddess, I must stop this!     Maybe Michael can talk some sense into me.

She was more than glad to see that he was already waiting near the shore of the lake in the county park that the Sisterhood met in.  He was the only male allowed to attend for he would counter-balance the feminine powers when needed.  Tonight he was dressed in Druid’s white.

“Hi,” she said as she hugged him.  “How’s everything going with the agency?”

“Good,” he said.  “All twenty of your clients had full-time jobs this week.  No complaints other than I don’t get to see you enough.”

She picked up just the hint of flirtation.  She and Michael went back a long way.  They had met in college, in a course called Comparative Religious Thought.  He had played the Devil’s Advocate through much of the heated debates that arose; he had a dry sense of humor, and seemed unusually aligned with her thoughts.  But it wasn’t until one evening, when she’d arrived at class tired and stressed-out from trying to get her business started, that he had touched her and she felt the energy vibrating from him.  “Warlock?” her mind had asked and his dark eyes had flashed mischievously.

Since then, every year on Beltane, he had asked her to perform the Hieros Gamos, the old rite of Sacred Marriage that united a king to his land through sex with a priestess of the Goddess.  Sara knew, that even today, such a ritual would draw in powerful energy, but World Peace would have to wait until she had the courage to be naked and in the throes of climax in front of eleven other women.  An image of Lucas standing in front of the fire in those rugged Highlands flashed through her mind.   What kind of an energy charge would they ignite if Lucas thrust hard, swollen manhood into her willing, wet core?  She was suddenly glad that Nim was confined—for some unknown magical reason—to her home and workplace.  The faerie would have a field day with her fantasy.

Her thoughts were cut off as three cars approached bringing the other women who were dressed in robes of light blue, the color for spiritual truth.  She took notice that Morgan, their youngest and newest member, looked at her in envy.  Whether it was because Sara, as the officiating priestess, was the only one who could wear Venus’ color or whether it was because she was standing beside Michael, she wasn’t sure.  Morgan had made no efforts to hide her interest in the dark-haired, dark-eyed warlock.

Sara greeted her best friend, Brianna, who was the real Seer for the group and into anything New Age.  They complimented each other well for Sara’s love of history lent itself to bringing back the Celtic goddess while Brianna wanted to move forward into the age of self-enlightenment and establish the real Age of Aquarius.

Sara handed the rest of the sisterhood small, blue glass globes, each of which held a white candle. They assembled into their circle, plain silver diadems on their heads.  She placed her own coronet on, its three moonstones dangling on her forehead.  Then she nodded toward Michael.

He stepped inside the circle and faced south.  Sara gave him a startled look.  Calling the quarters was always done facing east first, where dawn and Time began.  But Michael had closed his eyes and lifted his arms. 

“Tanio, God of Fire, I call you to join us.” 

The candles in the women’s hands flamed to life.  Inside Sara’s flame a salamander took shape, a good sign that the elementals were attending the ritual.

Michael turned toward the west.  “Llyr, Master of Water, be with us.” 

Behind them, the water stirred and waves rippled toward shore.  Small, green-haired asrai-faeries splashed near the surface, their webbed feet keeping them afloat.

Pivoting north, the warlock proclaimed, “Pridd, Lord of Earth, I summon you.” 

A rack of antlers appeared in the ethers above Michael’s head and a small gnome skittered behind the nearby trees.

Then Michael faced east.  “And mighty Awyr, Commander of Air, come forth!”  All around them, tree leaves rustled and a gust of wind nearly blew out the

candles.  Sylphs, their butterfly wings shimmering, hovered in the air.

Sara was amazed. Never had all the elementals heeded the call to Quarters before.     Michael had broken tradition by calling the eastern quarter last instead of first. Sara widened her eyes.  East.  Sunrise.  Lugh.  God of the Sun.  The Light-bearer.  Keeper of the Spear.  The hallow that they were searching for.  She glanced at Michael to find him watching her with a knowing smile.  She hadn’t even told him about the manuscript yet!

She bent to pick up the silver goblet she had set at her feet and moved toward the lake.  The other women did the same.  It was still dusk, the perfect “between Time” and the moon was just rising, casting its illumination across the now still water.  She knelt to dip the goblet in and then rose to watch as the golden sphere slowly rose in the sky and turned to silver.

They reformed the circle and she took her place in the middle of it.  Holding the goblet with both hands she raised her arms.  “As the moon lights the sky, and guides our path this night, we each seek enlightenment.  We ask to receive for the good of all, with harm toward none.” 

She lowered the cup to catch the reflection of a moonbeam and felt the calming influence of the Goddess wash over her.  Unfocusing her eyes, she gazed into the water and her breath caught in her throat.

A warrior, mounted on a powerful golden destrier, charged across rough terrain.  He was turned from her and she couldn’t see his face, but long, golden hair streamed out behind him.  He guided the horse only with his thighs, for in one hand he held a shining spear and in the other, a white wooden shield with a square red cross painted on it.  She glimpsed a similar cross sewn unto the white mantle that he wore.  A  Knight Templar.

And then a cloud of darkness mottled the picture, causing the warrior to grow dimmer until all was swirling darkness.  Her throat constricted as a man dressed all in black, riding a black horse, charged toward her.  His face was swarthy and hidden by a beard. A patch covered one eye.  As he came closer, Sara could sense evil and chills invaded her bones, her hands growing stiff with cold.  In his hand a spear threw bolts of lightening that destroyed everything in its path.  Closer he came, his eyes flashing red fire, his lips bared in a feral grin, showing deadly fangs.

Sara gasped for air and collapsed on the ground. When she came to, Michael was holding her, the women gathered around with worried looks on their faces.  Only Morgan hung back, looking petulant. 

“Are you all right?  What happened?” ten voices clamored.

Sara shook her head weakly and reached for Brianna’s hand.  “Did you See?” she whispered.  Had her friend experienced the vision…

Brushing back her golden hair, Brianna nodded and leaned down.  “A Templar,” she whispered back.  “And he was overcome.”

“Let’s get you home,” Michael interrupted.  “Brianna, would you drive Sara’s car?  You can follow me.”

Morgan stood at the edge of the group, silently staring into her own small glove of fire as Sara was belted in the front seat of Michael’s car.  As they drove off, she lifted her head, her face hard.

Michael was silent for most of the way back.  As they neared the city lights, he glanced at her.  “Want to talk about it?”

Slowly she nodded and told him what she had seen in the cup, then she told him about the manuscript, and the appearances of Alan Caldwell and Lucas Ramsey.

“So you trust these guys?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered.  “Alan Caldwell has not even mentioned the manuscript.  It could be a coincidence that he showed up to do an article on medieval weaponry.  In spite of my boss using the name “Mr. Smith”, his collection is known to certain sectors of society.”

“And the other guy? Ramsey?”

She hedged.  Instinctively, she wanted to trust Lucas, but she didn’t know how much of that was governed by her lust for him.  And, Goddess help her, even after numerous lectures and admonishments to herself about her lousy track record for picking the wrong men, she was incredibly drawn toward Lucas.  Lust was a part of it, but not all.  She just couldn’t put her finger on what the other part was.

“He was honest about saying why he followed me to Dallas,” she finally said.

“Hmmm.  Could be a red herring.”

“Why?”  She hoped her voice didn’t sound bristled.

Michael gave her a quick look, but his voice was calm.  “What could be more beguiling than saying someone’s out there who wants to destroy the world and you want to save it?  Sounds a little much, to me.  Let’s suppose Ramsey has a personal reason for wanting the Hallows.   After all, power corrupts and total power—“

“He’s not like that!”

Michael raised an eyebrow.  “Personal interest?”

“No,” she said quickly and tried to push away the earlier picture of Lucas’ bared broad chest and well-muscled arms.  Arms that she would love to feel around her, holding her tightly, pressing her breasts against him, relieving the achy need that was building just from thinking about him.  “No,” she said again and changed the subject.  “You called the east quarter last tonight.  How did you know about the Spear of Lugh before I even told you?”

He grinned at that.  “I’m a warlock, remember?  Your psychic shields were down.  I just tapped in.”

Sara mentally raised a shield regarding Lucas and Michael stopped smiling.  “Maybe I should meet this guy,” he said as he pulled over in front of her apartment.

There were problems with having mind-reading warlocks for friends.  He’d sensed the shield and now his curiosity was hooked.  And he could be tenacious, if nothing else.

“Whatever,” she said with a shrug and hoped she looked nonchalant.  “So…back to the Spear thing?”

He gave her a tight smile that said he’d go along for the moment.  “Well, when I saw the image in your mind, I just put the symbols together.  Spears—wands in the Tarot—are symbolic for Intuition.  Their element is Air.  The quarter for air is east.  It’s spring.  Spring’s direction is also east, signifying beginnings.   If you’re starting a search…  I just thought having the god of Air and Light might be more powerful for your scrying if he came in last.”

“You outdid yourself there,” she said wryly as she opened the door and stepped out.  “I could have done without that black monster riding at me.”

“Sorry about that,” he said and then grinned.  “Do you want me to stay the night and make sure the bogeyman doesn’t bite?”

She shook her head, glad that he was back to light-hearted teasing.  Or maybe he wasn’t.  Sometimes she wasn’t sure.  But she was saved from finding out with the arrival of her car and several of the ladies.

“We decided to stop and get some wine,” Brianna said as she handed over the keys.  “You looked a little haggard back there.”  She glanced at Michael.  “Sorry, this is a girlie thing.”

He acknowledged her with a nod of his head, but his eyes were on Sara.  “I’ll be by to meet your other friends tomorrow.”

She sighed as he drove away.  Just what she needed.  A suspicious warlock, a smooth-talking jock who wanted her help and a roguish Highlander who looked an awfully lot like the Templar she’d seen in the cup.

* * * *

After last night’s talk with Michael, Sara needed to spend some time alone to think.  Away from Mr. Smith and Alan Caldwell and Lucas Ramsey.  Especially Lucas.  He haunted her dreams, and last night, after the vision, he’d been dressed in the Templar mantle, a slow grin on his face as he disrobed and stretched out naked beside her, his impressive cock showing her how much he wanted her…  Goddess, she was probably defiling some ancient religion seducing a Templar.  Even if it were only a dream.

She slowed the Mustang and turned off of U.S. 180 and headed north on S.R. 4.  In a few miles she turned west onto a small, one-track gravel road that led to a ranchette nestled in the hills and canyons of Palo Pinto county.

Sara stopped the car in front of the rustic cabin and got out, taking a deep breath of clean, country air.  This had been her parents’ getaway before they’d been killed in a car accident right after she had graduated high school.  She’d had to sell their comfortable three-bedroom rambler in Ft. Worth to pay for her college, but she’d managed to hang onto this. 

She took another deep breath.  The silence was amazing.  No traffic snarls, no wailing sirens, no humans.  Even the vast expanse of sky looked bluer.  Probably because of no smog, she thought as she became aware of the small sounds of nature around her.  Something—probably a rabbit—rustled softly in the undergrowth of sagebrush nearby.  A cardinal, his red coat brilliant against the thin green leaves of a mesquite tree tri-whistled, calling his mate.  A mockingbird swooped low, settling on the wooden frame of the well near the kitchen.

Passing the old hitching post that still stood in the yard, Sara climbed the porch steps, unlocked the door and stepped inside.  To the left stood a sturdy oak table and four high-backed wooden chairs, the kitchen behind them.  To her right the small living room held a sofa with one of her mother’s hand-knitted afghans draped over the back and an overstuffed leather chair that her father had loved.  A small hallway led to the back where two bedrooms shared a bath.  No television.  No computer.  No phone.  Simply furnished for a simple life that didn’t involve cars careening around corners nearly killing her or ancient documents with mysterious clues.  She needed a break.

She frowned.  When she had been here just before Christmas, she had lit a fire in the stone-walled fireplace that filled most of one side of the small living room.  The ashes still lay on the hearth.  Her mother would have been horrified to leave such a mess, but then, Sara hadn’t been in a particular frame of mind to care.  If she remembered correctly, she’d finished nearly a whole bottle of Grand Marnier—a small bottle, to be sure, but a whole one—while she used every cuss word she could remember to erase the memory of the adulterous fraud that had forgotten to mention he was married.  He was just lucky she hadn’t landed a curse on him that made his penis fall off.  But even in a drunken stupor, she hadn’t wanted that curse to reverse itself on her!

She set her backpack down and went outside to bring in the sack of groceries she had brought and then opened the windows to let the air blow through.  Even though her parents had conceded the need for electricity, her father had balked about installing air-conditioning.  The Comanche hadn’t needed it when they roamed these hills, so why should he?  Out of respect for him, Sara had not installed it either.  Anyway, this was spring; the heat wave had passed and the wind was pleasantly cool.  The thick adobe-plastered walls were insulating. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone.  Chiding herself for not remembering to turn the thing off, she dug through her purse.

“Hello?”

“Sara.  Where are you?”  Mr. Smith asked in a petulant tone.

She sighed.  She had left a message on his machine that she wouldn’t be in, but she should have known he’d want more details.  Being nosy was one of his quirks.

“I’m at La Ranchita,” she answered.  It was silly calling this small cabin on its two acres of land even a little ranch, but her father had always liked using Spanish words.

“But, dear, that’s absolutely in the middle of nowhere!  And you don’t have A/C.  How will you ever survive?”

She could almost see him wiping his forehead for imaginary sweat with his expensive linen handkerchief.   She bit back a grin.  “I’ll survive.  I got the paper back from Professor MacDonald and I want some time to study it.”

“Oh.”  There was silence for a moment and then, “I’m sure Mr. Ramsey would like to be included.”

She couldn’t tell him that Lucas Ramsey was the real reason she was here.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.  I’m sure he can wait.”  She could hear muffled voices in the background.  Mr. Smith was obviously relaying the message. 

He came back on the line. “Mr. Caldwell has some questions about the swords.”

She hoped he hadn’t been able to hear their exchange about the manuscript.  “Tell him I’ll be happy to help tomorrow.  I really must go.”  She hung up before Mr. Smith could start complaining about her absence further.

She stretched.  I’ve got to clear my head.  Get outside and enjoy nature.  She looked around and noticed the woodbin was empty.  It might be cool enough for a fire tonight.  Chopping some wood is just what I need.

Whistling lightly under her breath, she picked up the small ax and headed outside.  Ah, it felt good to be totally alone in wild country!

* * * *

“She’s alone,” Caldwell said on his cell phone in his car.  “Alone in the country and she has a copy of the manuscript.  I can take care of it tonight.”

“You have the exact location?” Baylor blew a smoke ring from his cigar in his hotel room.

“Close enough.  When I get within range, the GPS will bring me to her doorstep.  Do you want me to break and enter or do you want me to finish her off?”

Baylor thought.  The little bitch deserved to be tortured first.  She’d upset his plans to purchase the manuscript and then he’d had to chase her half-way across the world and here he was, stuck in a hotel room instead of his own well-appointed and well-serviced quarters in London.  Even if the room cost $500.00 a night, the food didn’t rival his own French chef.  Yeah, the girl definitely needed to suffer.  And he hadn’t really had an opportunity to experience the wide open spaces that made Texas bigger and better than anywhere else in the world.  Or so the advertisements said.

“Neither. I don’t want her seeing you.  She might still be useful.  I’ll take care of this little matter myself.”

There was a moment of silence at the other end.  Then, “Did I do something wrong?”

Baylor almost smiled.  So, even the con-man was a little bit afraid of him.  Good.  It would keep him on his toes.  He wished he had been able to bring his whip.  Cracking it over the air might have been the thing to do.

“Not at all,” he said benignly.  “But I do want you to stay on the assignment.  It won’t do any good to have suspicions aroused if you don’t show up tomorrow.”

“Right.  Got you.  Oh, and Boss, a hot little number dropped by this afternoon.  Said she was a friend of Sara’s, but the look she gave her was anything but friendly.  The girl’s name is Morgan.  We might be able to use her.”

“Good work.”  Baylor hung up the phone, poured a neat Bourbon.  Perhaps he’d get to know this Morgan better.

* * * *

Sara made a sandwich later that afternoon and curled up on the sofa with the copies of the manuscript spread in front of her, but she found she couldn’t concentrate on the verses or where a good place would be to start looking.  A tawny-haired Scotsman with amber eyes kept intruding on her thoughts.

Could Michael have been right?  After all, Lucas had followed her back to the States on the same airplane.  But then, he’d admitted he done that.  How had he appeared out of nowhere at the auction?  Could he really have an ulterior motive?  What proof did she have that he was as altruistic as he said?  What if HE were the one who wanted to yield the power for evil?

And what about Alan Caldwell?  It seemed awfully suspicious to her that he would show up right after the manuscript had been purchased.  But truthfully, he had not mentioned the document at all or even shown any sign that he knew it existed.  And his credentials as a free-lancer writer had checked out.  Maybe she just mistrusted him because he was one of those good-looking jocks who looked smirky when they smiled at women.  She’d had quite her fill of handsome men who thought they were superior.  The last cad had even managed to look affronted that she was upset to find out he had a wife.  “But you like my body,” he’d said.  “We make beautiful music together.”

Sara gathered the papers together and stuffed them back into her backpack and then stretched out on the couch.  She did some deep breathing and tried to meditate, but always, Lucas hovered in her sub-conscious.  Even now, it seemed as though he were in the room with her.

He settled beside her on the sofa, his thigh pressing against her hip as he bent over her, one hand lightly cupping her face while the fingers of the other slowly stroked downward from her shoulder to her breast, flicking the nipple lightly.  It hardened immediately and Sara instinctively thrust her chest out, letting the silk of her blouse draw tight against the other one, creating friction that fueled her need.

Lucas laughed softly and mouthed the bud gently through the material, the heat of his breath spreading flames deep into her belly.

Sara groaned and then his mouth was on hers, claiming her in a way that was neither soft nor gentle.  He slanted his lips across hers, hot and demanding as his tongue plundered her mouth, thrusting deeper as his body pressed against her, his erection prodding her...

With a gasp, her eyes flew open.  By the Goddess, what was he doing to her?  How could her body want him so badly—had she not learned her lesson about charming men?—when she didn’t even know if she could trust him?  Talk about sleeping with the enemy…

“I must have been more tired that I thought,” she muttered as she got up to turn on a lamp.  Outside, the sun had set, leaving streaks of pink and violet and burnt gold—the color of Lucas’ hair, her mind mischievously reminded her—across the western sky.  In the distance she could hear coyotes singing.  Or at least, she had always thought of it as song.  She was probably one of a few native Texans who liked coyotes.

Sara took the papers back out and moved closer to the lamp.  They had already established the spear’s element was air and the quarter for it was east, which was backed up by “the dawn’s gate” thing.   But roses climbing to heaven?  Did the writer mean on a trellis?  Or along a wall?

A wolf howled suddenly, so close and clear that Sara jumped, scattering papers across the floor.  It sounded like it was at the front door, certainly not further than the yard.  She glanced uneasily at the open windows.  Wolves normally avoided humans and she’d never heard of one attacking a building…  Still, it might be good to close the windows.  She moved toward the one near the front door.  Twilight lingered, maybe she could get a look at the area.

She wasn’t prepared for the crash as the animal leaped through the fluttering curtains near the kitchen.  Its fangs were bared, its ears flat and its eyes feral.  It stopped and shook itself and then sighted her.  With a low menacing growl it began to stalk toward her.

For a split second, Sara stood paralyzed, thinking oddly that this must be how a deer felt caught in the headlights.  Then instinct took over.   Her hand felt for the knob of the door.  Goddess, don’t make me have to take a step…  Wildly, she tried to remember…was she supposed to stare the animal down or was she supposed to avoid challenging him?  It didn’t really matter. With the wolf’s lip curled, those deadly fangs were exposed.  She found she couldn’t look away.

She groped frantically.  The animal was circling now, closing in.  How many seconds did she have before he’d make that final leap? 

Her hand struck metal.  She hardly allowed herself a breath of relief as she turned the knob and swung the door open.  The wolf’s head snapped up, scenting the air, momentarily distracted from its prey. 

Sara took advantage of the moment and ran out the door, pulling it shut behind her as the wolf’s heavy body landed solidly against it.  She heard its howl of rage and sprinted toward her car, praying she had left it unlocked.  She could hear the wolf scratching at the wood as it pulled itself up toward the kitchen window.  Her hand trembled as she reached the car and gave the handle a yank.  It didn’t budge. 

Fighting back rising panic, she tried to think.  Her keys were in her purse.  Her purse was in the cabin.  The wolf was nearly outside, but she doubted she could get back inside before he spotted her.  And she didn’t feel like standing on the front porch posing as his next meal.

Trees.  Wolves didn’t climb trees.  The mesquite were probably too low to offer protection, but there were scrub oaks not far.  She started to run and then skidded to a stop not five feet from her car.

Another wolf stood near some sage.  It was massive, easily the size of a wolfhound—Sara felt a bubble of hysteria rising at the irony of conjuring up a dog bred to hunt wolves—but much bulkier.  Its thick, shiny fur was so pale a brown it seemed blond, and looked almost groomed.  Another bubble of hysteria rose.  What was she going to think of next?  Petting him?

She forced a deep breath.  At least, this one wasn’t growling at her.  In fact, he was not menacing at all.  His ears were pricked forward, his nose up, his golden eyes trained on something behind her.

The tiny hairs on her arms rose.  She felt, rather than heard, the first wolf approaching, silently this time.  Almost frantically, she tried to center herself.  If she could stay calm and draw in energy, she might be able to create an astral shield.  Animals could sense well on the astral plane.  But she had to be in control of her own emotions to do it.

The wolf behind her snarled and Sara would never be too sure of what happened

next.  The pale wolf brushed past her, knocking her to the ground as it attacked the first wolf.  Sara rolled out of the way of snapping jaws and sharp fangs as the animals fought and then ran for the cabin. 

When she reached the door she heard a whimper.  She glanced around as she opened the door and nearly gaped.  The wolf who had tried attacking her was limping away, its head drooped, its tail between its legs in defeat.  The huge lobo stood in the middle of the yard watching her. 

“You really are beautiful,” she said softly and then wondered if she gone totally insane to be talking to an animal that could kill her if she didn’t get inside.

The wolf’s amber eyes blinked once and then his tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted slightly before he turned and trotted away as well.

To Sara, it looked like the lobo was grinning.  She shook her head as she went inside and secured the door.  Grinning wolves.  She needed sleep.  But not before she knew every window was closed.

* * * *

The lobo loped along the road, trying to pick up Balor’s scent.  It lingered in the air and he followed it to where the rubber of car tires overcame it.  The man was gone.  At least for now. 

Lucas felt the Shift begin, his muscles beginning to compact and become tighter, even as his torso lifted and his back legs reshaped into human thighs.  The bones of his skull widened and the lupine nose shortened.  He reached his bundle of clothes just as the transformation was complete.

Lucas pulled the polo shirt over his head and tucked it inside his jeans.  His adrenaline was still pumping from the fight with the other wolf but he knew the crash would soon come.  It always did and it left him vulnerable.

Silently, he made his way down the gravel road to where he had left his car parked.  Smith had called Sara while Caldwell and he were in the study. When Caldwell started asking questions about where her cabin was, he’d become suspicious, even though the guy acted as if he were interested in doing some deer hunting on maybe a private lease.  And Lucas hadn’t much liked the idea of her being so isolated either, not that he’d tell her.  All that would get him would be an irritated glare and a lecture on how women could take care of themselves.

He reached the car and slid into the driver’s seat, checking under it to make sure his sgian dubh was still there.  He had planned to take it with him to the cabin since he was fully expecting to find Caldwell there, compromising Sara.  But what had happened tonight hinted of something much darker. 

The wolf had been be-spelled.  Lucas could smell the taint of evil even as he approached Sara’s dwelling.  For a fleeting second, he had considered that Caldwell might have been a shape shifter, but the animal only gave off its own scent and the stench that Lucas recognized as Balor’s doing.

And if the animal had been be-spelled, Lucas would not kill it.  It had been easy enough to instill in its mind that he was the alpha-male of the pack and the wolf had limped away.  It would wake in the morning with no permanent harm done.

But Balor was another matter.  If his grandfather were this close, it meant he knew about the manuscript.  He thought back to the auction and the careening car and the pickpocket.  He hadn’t seen Caldwell there and Balor would have kept himself hidden, but all of Lucas’ senses told him that his grandfather was definitely involved.  And the one thing that Lucas must prevent is letting Balor gain more power.  Civilization stood to lose if he did.

Lucas slumped against the steering wheel, trying to fight the lethargy that always swept over him after the beast was loosed.  It was the one time in his immortal life that he was weak and vulnerable.  He brought the knife out and laid it on his lap.  It would have only temporary impact on Balor, of course, but it would put a definitive slash in Caldwell if he were behind this.

So she thought I was beautiful?  Lucas smiled groggily, remembering how vulnerable she had looked standing there alone in the middle of the yard.  And yet she had held her ground with him and not panicked.  He admired that courage.  And, he’d liked her dream.

He felt the hard nipple beneath the soft cloth as he pressed his lips over it.  In another dream minute, he would guide her hand to touch him while his own fingers hiked up her skirt and stroked her thighs, then dipped into her hot well to slide the slick wetness between her folds and caress the nub that would send her into ecstasy…

He gave himself a shake and struggled to sit up.  He was a fool.  He had allowed himself to slip into her dream and it had almost cost her life.  The enchanted wolf had already been at the window before he’d taken notice.  All he could do was howl in warning.  It almost hadn’t been enough.

He could never fulfill that fantasy anyhow.  Even though he had more control of the beast now than he did in the beginning, he knew what it could do when he was lost in climax and what could happen to the woman he was with.  He couldn’t take that chance with Sara. 

Keeping things platonic with Sara wasn’t going to be easy, not when she exuded feminine sensuality without even knowing it.  He tried not to think about her wide, blue eyes that reminded him of the Highland sky, nor the full lips as pink as the first sprigs of heather.  Lucas sighed and began reciting the Templar Rules that he had so long ago pledged to, even though the modern world no longer strictly required their adherence. 

Rule:  Chastity is certitude of heart and healthiness of body…   

But it was Sara’s body, nude and supple beneath him, that kept intruding.

* * * *

Baylor snarled his own annoyance as he watched the wolf he’d ensorcelled slink away.  He’d recognized the big, light-haired lobo for he had watched him tear apart two of his best men after De Molay’s burning.  Damn the immortal Templar.  Baylor’s fingers itched to tighten around Ramsey’s throat, but he doubted that it would do any good.  Until he knew the source of the man’s immortality, he was indestructible.  And even if Baylor could kill him, he’d destroy himself too.  Ending immortality for one ended it for him as well.  Some stupid Universe Rule.

He could go into the cabin and finish the job himself, of course, but that would leave questions to be answered.  He didn’t like leaving trails.  Finding a girl half-ripped to shreds by a wild animal in a desolate area could be an open-and-shut case, neatly filed away in some rural police office.  No one would ever have known she had the papers.  But any means of human murder would be under investigation and that would eventually lead to her employer and the discovery that she had a copy of the manuscript.  Better he leave Caldwell in place. 

And they could always use the Morgan woman.  Caldwell had learned that she had the hots for some man named Michael who was one of the bitch’s friends.  Information he could use later, but for now, perhaps it was time to throw the gauntlet down.  Caldwell had bragged countless times of his prowess in bed and his ability to make women talk.  Perhaps it was time for him to prove it. 

The bitch had a copy of the manuscript.  A few special drugs and a good rutting until she passed out would do the trick.  Maybe he’d have Caldwell take a video after she was out.  Baylor liked watching powerless women being taken.  He’d tell Caldwell to make sure it was hard and rough.

He felt himself harden in anticipation.  He’d put Caldwell on it tomorrow.