Templar's Code

CHAPTER 44

“Was Juliana your wife?”

“Good God! No!”

Caught off his stride, well aware that he’d overreacted to Edie’s question, Caedmon cleared his throat.

He began again, calmer this time. “No, Juliana was not my wife.”

“Okay, we’ve cleared that hurdle. So, who was she?”

Hit with a barrage of painful memories, Caedmon got up from his chair and walked over to the bed. His memories were more violent, more brutal, than most. He tried to block the horrific images of charred, mutilated flesh. Tried and failed miserably. He wrapped his hand around the elaborately carved post. Holding on for dear life.

In a carefully measured voice, he replied, “Juliana Howe was the woman that I loved.”

“I see,” Edie replied in an equally measured tone.

“No, you don’t. Because the truth of the matter is that Juliana died a horrible death that I could have prevented had I only—” He stopped abruptly. Although no longer in MI5’s employ, he was duty-bound to keep silent.

Lies and deception. It was happening all over again. The silence between them lengthened. Edie wordlessly stared at him with her sad, beautiful brown eyes.

To hell with my duty. Edie had a right to know—although there was a very good chance that once she found out about his sordid past, she’d want nothing more to do with him.

Uncertain how to begin, he picked up a leather-bound volume from the bed. An eighteenth-century edition of Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language. He absently thumbed through it. Belatedly realizing that he was stalling, he put it back on the bed.

“As you already know, when I left Oxford I was recruited by MI5. Juliana Howe was a rising star at the BBC. Five learned that she had extensive contacts in the North African community here in London and decided to insert an officer. I went undercover as Peter Willoughby-Jones specifically so I could meet Jules, establish a rapport, and, once I gained her trust, find out everything I could about an Algerian arms-smuggling ring.”

“ ‘Establish a rapport’—is that spy lingo for sleeping with the enemy?”

“She wasn’t the enemy,” he replied, quick to come to Jules’s defense. “She was a brilliant investigative reporter who had a very low opinion of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. That said, yes, I did sleep with her. I then made the grievous mistake of falling in love with her. Grievous because I was forced to keep Five’s dirty little secret. The charade must be maintained. National Security depended upon it.” He caustically laughed.

Getting up from her stool, Edie walked toward him. “If it caused you so much distress, why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”

“I couldn’t. . . . She wasn’t vetted by Five. And, even if she had been, I would have lost her had I ever confessed that the absentminded man who kept the antiquarian bookshop in Cecil Court was a spook in Her Majesty’s Security Service. Although in the end, that’s exactly what happened. . . . I lost her. And all because of my damned spook job.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“I had a last-minute briefing at Thames House, which caused me to be an hour late picking up Juliana.” As he spoke, the muscles in his belly began to painfully tighten. “In those sixty minutes, Juliana Howe became the random victim of a well-planned bomb attack. Had I put Jules before my bloody job—” He stopped in midstream, the memory no easier to bear now than it had been five years ago.

“It wasn’t your fault, Caedmon.” Then, no doubt thinking him a dense bloke, she again said, this time more forcefully, “The bomb blast wasn’t your fault.”

“Intellectually, I know that. But here”—he put his hand over his heart—“in this visceral place that obeys no law of reason, I am very much to blame. And knowing that I was to blame, I used the resources of British Intelligence to track down the ringleader who ordered the bomb blast. And then I killed the Irish bastard. In cold blood. Old Testament vengeance.”

“Wh-what happened next?”

Caedmon heard the hitch in her voice. Saw the tears in her eyes. He feared it was the beginning of the end.

“Inundated with New Testament guilt, I sought solace in a gin bottle. Dove right in. Stayed in a pickled state until the boys at Five dried me out. I was then sent packing, seconded to MI6. It was quite a demotion. I spent the next few years operating a safe house in Paris before Five finally decommissioned me. Booted me right out the door.” Free to grapple with my demons.

“How’s your scar tissue?”

It was a strange question, but he knew what Edie meant.

“It took a while, but I managed to exorcise the grief. Even the blind rage. Although I have yet to rid myself of the memories. Even now, after all these years, they cling to me like a guilty conscience.” A self-deprecating laugh escaped him. “Yes, I know, it’s a boringly tragic tale.”

“No, it’s not. Although it explains why you never have more than two drinks. Why you’re so secretive. Why you take such care with your emotions.”

And why their long-distance relationship suited him so well. The quiet comforts of his Paris flat provided an emotional safety net.

“While I learned to live after love died, the transition didn’t come easy.” Extending a hand, he smoothed a flyaway curl from Edie’s face. “Am I in danger of losing you?”

“I don’t scare easily.”

He smiled, relieved. Although he reveled in the solitude of living alone, he frequently missed Edie’s cheery companionship and irreverent humor. Those were the times when he ardently yearned for the pleasure of her company. He just needed more time.

“Come here.” Taking her by the hand, he pulled Edie into his arms. Bending his head, he kissed her, leisurely exploring the soft swell of her lower lip before thrusting his tongue inside her warm, sweet-tasting mouth.

Two packets of sugar indeed.

Edie moaned softly and swayed toward him.

“Good God!” Rubin bellowed from the open doorway where he stood holding a tray. “You’re at it again!”

They instantly broke apart, Edie’s shoulders shaking with barely suppressed mirth.

Caedmon glanced at the martini pitcher and three iced cocktail glasses on Rubin’s tray. “A bit early for that, don’t you think?”

“Nonsense. Never too early to celebrate renewed friendships.” Pronouncement made, their host proceeded to fill their glasses from the sleek Waterford pitcher.

Edie also seemed surprised by the choice of “refreshments.” “Silly me. I was expecting tea and crumpets.”

“Of course you were. No doubt served by Miss Moppet.” Rubin handed Edie a cocktail garnished with a sliver of lemon. “No maraschino cherries, no ridiculous paper umbrellas. The dry martini is a civilized drink, ‘the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.’ ”