Chapter 21 The Order of the Temple
“I must know the truth, Montverre. What was your part in the militia raid? Were you aware of their plans or…mayhap did you organize it yourself?” Caleb followed the marquis into a large room that bore the unmistakable stamp of French aristocracy.
Velvet crimson curtains framed tall windows through which spears of sunlight struck polished mahogany and rosewood.
Snorting, the marquis moved to stand behind an immense desk of dark walnut, its surface crowded with quills, inkwells, ledgers and a brass compass and sextant. Shelves of books lined the wall to Caleb’s right while a pair of globes stood nearby.
Drawing in a deep breath, Caleb nearly choked on the heavy scent of tobacco, amber perfume, and the musky odor of old parchment and wax.
“Mon dieu.” The marquis sat in a flourish. “Do you think me so cruel?”
Caleb studied him, noting a drop of venom hidden behind the friendly gleam covering his eyes. “I grow weary of this verbal dalliance. What was your part in it? Geneviève believes she overheard whispers of a planned attack.”
“Geneviève loves you. She’ll say anything to make you happy.” Rising, he moved to a sideboard and poured what looked like port into crystal snifters. Spinning, he handed one to Caleb.
Caleb held up a hand in refusal even as he pondered the truth of his statement.
“Ah, oui, the missionary.” Montverre gave a huff of contempt.
“Then, pray tell,”—Caleb crossed arms over his chest—“what exactly will you admit to?”
Montverre swirled the ruby liquid in his glass before taking a measured sip, his eyes never leaving Caleb.
“I admit I found your family’s endeavors most…
curious. A strange mélange of nobility, pirates, and missionaries.
” He exhaled through his nose, the sound more disdain than breath.
“Vraiment, it is beyond comprehension that men of gentle birth should abase themselves so, to succor escaped slaves and mere peasants. I confess, Capitaine, I shall never fathom why your noble house would renounce its God-ordained station, to squander time and treasure upon common rabble.”
A sentiment Caleb oft heard, particularly from those in positions of power and wealth. “Yet, you aided our benevolence… sent food and supplies.”
The marquis shrugged. “One must do what they can to earn a spot in eternity, non?” He returned to his desk, quivering the light of two candles perched in silver holders as he passed.
Caleb glanced at the shelves of old tomes, wondering if the Holy Scriptures could be found among them. “You cannot earn your way to heaven by good works, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“Ah, your protestant beliefs.” The words dripped from his lips like arsenic.
“Was that the reason, then?” Caleb narrowed his eyes. “You despise our beliefs?”
“While I agree it was difficult to see such heresies spread, even among slaves, your mission became too large. The plantation owners on surrounding islands approached me, fearful of a slave uprising and being murdered in their beds. Too many of their own slaves had escaped, many making their way here.”
“Hence, you allowed them to attack us.” Caleb gave the man a venomous look.
The marquis hesitated for a moment, a debate raging behind his eyes.
Then, as if a winner had been declared, he said, “They paid me quite well.” A challenge rode on his grin, as if he wanted Caleb to draw his blade.
“Either way, I won. I disposed my island of you and your indulgent mission, and I was paid handsomely for it.”
Caleb had suspected as much, but to hear it from the man’s lips… “I should kill you for this.” Rage fired through his veins as his hand gripped the hilt of his blade.
“But you won’t. Your faith in your God prevents it, does it not?” He finished his port, set down the glass and smiled.
Fury broiled in Caleb’s throat until he found it hard to breathe. For a moment, he longed to put aside his faith and murder this man where he stood.
Still, the blackguard’s confession should bring a measure of peace to Caleb’s tormented soul, some assurance that even if he had known, he could not have prevented the attack.
But he could have prepared and perhaps saved lives.
Saved his sister from the humiliation and pain she still relived in nightmares.
Saved himself from the past two years of distrust, both in himself and God.
And all because of this bloated jackanapes standing before him, daring him to attack, to enact his revenge as every muscle within Caleb longed to do.
Forgive him.
Caleb had not heard that still small voice in quite some time, but the peace it brought was unmistakable.
But forgive him? This man who glared at him now with hubristic condescension? Caleb tightened his grip on the hilt, his fingers itching to rid the world of one more monster.
?
Despite her anger at Caleb for lying to her about meeting Geneviève, Desi sank into a lonely despair after he left the parlor.
And that bothered her most of all. She’d never needed a man, never depended on one for anything—money, support, protection, and especially that fickle thing called love.
Too many men in her life had let her down, her father first for leaving her and her sister alone in the world.
Then there was Jimmy Hanson in seventh grade who dumped her after a month of going steady.
And what about Rich Kyle, the football quarterback in high school, the envy of every girl?
He’d promised to love Desi forever, when what he meant to say was that he’d love her until someone prettier came along.
Add to that the countless uninspiring dates since, in which every guy only wanted to hook up on the first night.
But Caleb. He was different. Brave, honorable, a noble champion. When he was near, she felt complete. And that was the biggest injustice of all.
Foolish man. He walked into a trap. She knew it. Couldn’t he see this marquis dude only had it out for him?
So absorbed with her thoughts, she didn’t see Geneviève approach, her silk skirts flouncing over the rug, her smile polished, yet cool.
Alden said something to Liam before speeding out the door. Good. Maybe he was going to ensure Caleb’s safety.
Liam popped a piece of candied pineapple into his mouth and grabbed another cup of hot cocoa before sitting in the high back chair Montverre had vacated.
Geneviève lowered to sit beside Desi. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced, mademoiselle.” Her smile was gentle, kind, revealing rows of pearly white teeth. Unusual for the time. “Je suis Geneviève de Montverre.”
“Desi Starr.” Desi flashed a quick smile, not at all interested in conversing with Caleb’s Ex.
“Enchantée, mademoiselle.” Her eyes traveled over Desi as if weighing her and finding her wanting. “Pray, from where do you hail? I cannot place your accent.”
Heat flooded Desi’s face. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“Vraiment? How mysterious.” Geneviève’s lips curved in mock amusement as she cast a glance at Liam who had taken an interest in a gold statue perched on a side table.
Then leaning closer, her tone softened to a murmur.
“You should know that Caleb and I have mended our quarrel. We are courting once more.” She paused, the faint trace of her perfume drowning Desi in sudden sorrow.
“Indeed, we sealed it with a kiss only nights ago.”
The words sliced like a blade through Desi’s heart. So, that’s what happened. No wonder Caleb had seemed distant lately, avoiding her. The room seemed to tilt, and she clung to the arms of her chair, forcing a placid expression, refusing to let the French vixen glimpse her pain.
Uncomfortable, she rose. “I have no idea what that has to do with me, mademoiselle, but I hope you and Caleb will be very happy.” The words burned in her throat as she turned to leave, longing to be anywhere but in this woman’s presence.
Geneviève’s hand shot out, her slim fingers clasping Desi’s in an iron grip. Fire burned in her eyes, the searing fire of jealousy. “Listen well. Caleb is mine. He has always been mine. N’osez pas—do not dare—to imagine he has any affection for you.” Her voice was glass. “Or ever will.”
Desi’s heart thundered. She yanked back her hand and flattened her lips. “No problem. A man like Caleb could never betray a woman he loved. Unless, of course, his heart is not as fixed on you as you say.”
The words hung between them, silken yet edged, before Desi fled out the door.
Thankfully, Liam didn’t follow. She needed time alone. She needed to get far away from the beautiful and cultured Geneviève. She needed not to care if the woman’s words were true.
Making her way down a long hall, lit by filtered sunlight streaming in through windows, she descended a flight of stairs, intent on making her way to the gardens.
Haughty eyes followed her from a row of paintings lining the wall, portraits of men in powdered wigs and rich clothing, their expressions bold, their chins in the air. The marquis’s ancestors. Same arrogant bearing, same pinched nose and lips.
Bootsteps sounded. Someone was coming. French words shot back and forth, followed by laughter. Close. Too close. Desperate, Desi searched for a place to hide. There. A door handle. Not locked, she opened it and slipped inside, then gently closed it behind her.
The voices passed, fading away. Desi released a breath and spun around.
Shelves of books decorated every wall from floor to ceiling except the back one where an open French door led out to a patio.
Dust sparkled in streams of afternoon sunlight that spread over a large table in the center of the room.
An odd chill permeated the scent of dust, ink, old leather and secrets.
She hugged herself. This must be the marquis’s library.
No doubt these ancient copies would be rare and pricey back in her day.
Moving to the shelves, she trailed her fingers over the spines, their titles faded in gilt letters. She should leave. Immediately.
Making her way to the French door, she noticed a large map stretched across the table.
Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a map of the world, though the continents were separated into two circles.
Drawings of people, sailing ships, and flags adorned the chart, while decorative borders framed its edges.
It was a beautiful work of art. So, why would the marquis destroy it by marking these—she counted them—seven crimson circles across the continents and sea?
She peered closer. One of the marks lay off the coast of Florida, near shallow shoals where she’d discovered the Sentinel’s broken hull.
Another smaller circle marked a spot in the Caribbean beneath Puerto Rico.
The next one…she shook her head. How odd.
From studying the chart on Caleb’s desk, it appeared to be right over the very island where she now stood.
The rest were scattered across the map, one in the shadow of a pyramid near the Nile; another over England where strange stones were etched; another in the far Pacific, where lonely statues stared at the sea; and the last one high in the Andes.
“What in the world…?” What was so special about these places? An icy chill prickled down her back as her pulse raced.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside the door.
?
The marquis leaned one arm on the mantel and stared at the gilded coat of arms hanging above the fireplace. “The Montverre line traces back to Sir Géraud de Montverre, a knight who joined the Order of the Temple in the twelfth century.”
Caleb studied the large wooden coat of arms, decorated in gold leaf with brass accents. Impressive in both its size and design with its knight’s helmet, two charging destriers, and a shield adorned by a Templar cross and sword. “I did not come to learn your pedigree, Marquis.”
“Géraud fought in the Second Crusade,” the marquis continued, “and later returned to France where he founded a Templar commandery on the family’s land, one of the last to be absorbed into the crown following the suppression of the order in 1307.
” Pride lifted his tone. “Centuries passed, yet rumors lingered that my family safeguarded hidden relics and documents of the Templars locked away beneath the chapel crypt. Ancient scrolls that spoke of the famed Ring of Solomon and the power it wielded.”
Caleb’s blood ran cold.
Montverre snapped an incriminating gaze to Caleb. “My father spent his life searching for Solomon’s Ring, following ancient maps and documents. Before his death, he believed it was in the hands of the Jews in Spain.”
Despite the sudden tightening of his heart, Caleb forced a sigh of boredom. “And they were dispersed in the 1400s, many coming to the Caribbean. But what does this have to do with me?”
“Because, mon cher capitaine, I have traced it to your family.”
Air vacated Caleb’s lungs. Blood raced to his head. Yet recent confusions sorted into understanding—this French fop’s kindness, the reason he summoned Caleb here today. Yet how could he know?
The marquis flipped the curls of his wig behind him. “Do not attempt to tell me you don’t have it. I know the mission your father has tasked you with.”
Caleb’s insides raged with shock and anger. Still, he maintained a calm demeanor. “Then you also know I will never hand it over to you.”
A rap on the door brought Montverre’s, “enter”, and a servant slipped inside, gave the marquis a nod, and then left.
Montverre circled his desk, a grin of victory reaching his eyes in a devilish twinkle. “Au contraire, I believe you will give it to me. And quite willingly.”
Caleb chuckled. “And why would I do that?”
“Because, otherwise, I will be forced to do much harm to Miss Starr, that is before I end her short, miserable life.”