Mystic Rider (24 page)

Ian didn’t waste words after that. He swung his staff in a
broad arc meant to break Murdoch’s upper arm.

Murdoch responded by producing a long-barreled pistol and firing.

* * *

Chantal woke up screaming.

Marie and Anton began to cry. The carriage jolted into a rut
and shuddered to an abrupt halt.

Chantal kept screaming. Frantically, she leapt from the
seat, letting the chalice fall to the carriage floor so she could climb over
her father’s knees and throw open the door. Without waiting for aid, she
gathered her skirts and jumped down, her breath searing her lungs as she gasped
for air and screamed louder.

“Chantal, for heaven’s sake, what is wrong?” Her father
eased from the carriage after her.

She didn’t know what was wrong. She just knew it was wrong — horribly,
awfully wrong. “Where’s Ian? Where did he go?”

Fields and woods stretched around them, but ahead, she could
see a village. Smoke curled from the chimneys of a few early risers in the
hours before dawn. Her stomach rumbled at the scent of strong coffee and bacon,
so she knew the others were hungry, too. But she didn’t care. She’d never eat
again if she didn’t find Ian.

“He took off several hours ago, something about pursuit. His
eyes must be sharper than mine,” Pierre said, climbing down from the driver’s
perch. “We’re not far from the border, but I’d rather have a man of Ian’s
authority with us to help us pass customs.”

Frantically, Chantal turned and scanned the road they’d
traversed. In the distance, a riderless horse cantered toward them.

Rapscallion.

No-o-o!
her soul
screamed.

She would not see Ian die, his strong body cut down in the
prime of life to become dust in the ground. She could not, would not, let it
happen, not while there was an ounce of breath left in her. All her life had
been spent waiting for events she could not control. She refused to ever sit
idly by and wait again — even if it meant riding a killer horse.

She yanked the hem of her skirt between her legs, tied it up
in front, and, ignoring her father’s gasp of shock and Pierre’s outrage, caught
the reins of the terrifying stallion as he slowed down to approach them.

“Behave,” she told the fearsome beast as she led it to a
fallen tree trunk. “Take me to Ian
now.
”
The stallion snorted and pawed and shook its mighty head. She ought to run for
safety. Instead, she climbed up on the trunk, and put her foot into the
stirrup, while clinging to the reins.

Her father was too weak to follow, but Pierre ran up and
caught the folds of her skirt, preventing her from gaining the saddle. “Wake
up, Chantal! You must be dreaming. You cannot ride that horse. Come down from
there.”

Once upon a time, she would have listened. Not now.

Surely, she must be dreaming, but she could not wake. Pain
engulfed her, and she nearly doubled over with anguish. She only knew that she
must find Ian, prevent still more deaths. That this certainty was not rational
did not matter.

Rapscallion danced restlessly, but she was beyond heeding
fear and caution. She caught her hand in his mane, shook off Pierre’s grasp,
and hauled herself into the saddle by sheer strength of will. Her skirt tumbled
down around her legs, loosened by Pierre’s grip, but she had enough of it under
her to ride. She kicked the stallion and turned him back the way he’d come.

“Lots of oats,” she promised the prancing animal, “after we
find Ian.”

Pauline and the children had clambered out of the carriage,
but Chantal ignored their weeping. “Find Ian,” she commanded again, as if
expecting the stallion to obey her.

The powerful horse broke into a canter. Clinging to
Rapscallion’s neck, she gave him the reins and let him run with the wind.

Not until then did she remember that Ian had told her to
treat the chalice as an infant and never let it go, but she’d dropped the
damned thing before she’d left the carriage. Let Pauline mother it. People were
more important than objects.

This time, she would stop the Grim Reaper in his tracks. She
would fight and not give in unless he took her along with Ian.

* * *

Chantal no longer
held the chalice.
Ian grimaced the instant she dropped it.

Murdoch sensed it, too. He’d cast aside his empty pistol and
been prepared to track the sacred object, until Ian had pulled his sword and,
despite his wounded shoulder, cut into his opponent’s arm. Murdoch had been
forced to draw his saber and fight back.

What had happened that she’d dropped it so hastily? Needing
to ensure Chantal’s safety was the one reason Ian still stood upright, battling
with the last breath in him. He sensed the chalice traveling beyond his Finding
ability, but Chantal was coming closer. If he could just hold on…

With the physical strain of combat keeping the bullet wound
open, Ian’s shoulder bled freely, draining him of his life’s essence as metal
slammed against metal. Unable to divert his concentration to halting the flow,
Ian wearily swung his borrowed sword. With his left shoulder incapacitated,
he’d lost his ability to wield his staff.

He still had the strength to swing a sword with one hand. He
could only be grateful that Other World guns were notoriously unreliable and
Murdoch had missed his intended target — Ian’s heart. Still, Murdoch’s two-handed
saber blows were taking their toll.

Dawn sent feelers of light through the trees and cast a
reddish glow over the clouds. Sweat poured down Ian’s face, and he knew he’d
have to find Murdoch’s weak spot soon or die in the effort.

“Your lover comes to your rescue,” Murdoch taunted, “leaving
the chalice to tempt another. How does she hide it, I wonder?”

Distracted by this confirmation of his fears, Ian
momentarily hesitated.

The tip of Murdoch’s sword sliced through Ian’s shirt and
drew blood before he raised his weapon to counter it.

“Remember how we used to fight to the skin in melees?”
Murdoch taunted. “I will beat you this time. Surrender now. Let me fetch the
chalice, and you’ll live to fight another day.”

Grasping his sword hilt with both hands, knowing this might
be his last chance to save the chalice and Chantal, Ian gathered the remnants
of his strength. Concentrating, he swung his blade in an arc so forceful that
the wind cried. It caught Murdoch beneath his upper arm and sliced deep,
driving him backward.

Chantal’s shrieks pierced the dawn.

The birds took up her cry, squawking, and screeching,
bursting from the treetops in a massive flapping of wings.

Chantal cried out again, a war cry of such high-pitched
potency that Ian wondered the trees did not bend from it.

With a groan, Murdoch fell to his knees, holding his hands
over his ears to protect his eardrums.

Staggering but still upright, Ian heard Chantal’s cries with
a delight that eased his hurts and brought a smile to his lips. He did not
entirely understand her ability to incapacitate Murdoch while reassuring
himself, but taking the slim advantage offered, he dropped his sword, grabbed
Murdoch’s hands from his ears, and twisted his wrists behind his back.

“Surrender, or I’ll tell her to shriek you a lullaby,” Ian
said with genuine mirth. With Murdoch paralyzed by pain, Ian easily bound his
wrists with tough vines, using his mind as iron reinforcement.

Ian’s shoulder throbbed. Blood ran down his shirtsleeve, and
his head spun. Red seeped through the front of his tattered linen from cuts on
his chest, and dried blood caked the scratches on his cheek. He was exhausted
beyond all mortal limits. But he exalted in this triumph as if he’d just been
given the keys to a kingdom.

And maybe he had. The chalice had found someone else to
carry it on its journey to the unknown, but watching Chantal riding down the
path, concern and grief etched on her heart-shaped face, Ian learned true
happiness. He was no longer alone in the world. Someone thought him human
enough to care about.

This was what being a mate was about — his pain had called
her, and she’d come running.

Of course, she would probably murder him shortly, but the
triumph of watching Chantal racing to his rescue was worth whatever price he
must pay.

Finally able to let down his guard, Ian crumpled to the
ground.

She was too late!

In horror, Chantal watched a blood-drenched Ian collapse on
the forest floor. His agony mixed with her fear, and waves of despair
threatened to crush her. She cried out in frustration as she fought to untangle
her skirts and petticoats from the stirrups and saddle. Her gaze fastened on
Ian…on the blood soaking his garments…so much blood…

His arm moved. His chest rose.

Not too late…

Fighting the crippling anguish of his pain, she grabbed a
stout branch so she could swing one leg over the back of the horse and climb
down. “Damn you to Hades, Ian! If you die, I shall follow you to the gates of
perdition to kill you again,” she shouted to steady her rampaging emotions. The
stallion stood patiently as she struggled from her high perch.

With obvious effort, Ian pushed to his knees and strained to
remain upright while holding his wounded shoulder. “Meet my sweet-natured
amacara,” he responded dryly.

Chantal gave a hasty prayer of thanks that he was well
enough to keep his wits about him. His pain kept her moving forward instead of
collapsing into a weeping ball of uselessness. “Uncouth beast, you’re supposed
to introduce the lady first,” she informed him, finally noting the other
man — the one who’d nearly brought Ian to his death.

Tears sliding down her cheeks, she ignored the royal officer
with his hands tied behind his back. She fell to her knees in front of Ian and
cupped his bristled jaw. He’d bound his unruly hair, but strands escaped to
fall across his cheek. She brushed them back as he watched through blazing eyes
that seared her soul. She could not bear so much passion directed toward her.

Glancing away from his penetrating vision, she caught the
torn edges of his shirt and ripped it off. His chest was strong and hard, and
she felt his heart beating soundly beneath her fingers. She would not think
prurient thoughts while his wide chest ran with blood. She tore the clean
portions of the linen to use as a bandage.

“Chantal Deveau, meet my oldest friend and greatest foe,
Murdoch LeDroit,” Ian said with a trace of amusement, using the good manners
she requested.

“I cannot say I am happy to make your acquaintance, Madame
Deveau,” Murdoch muttered, twisting at his bonds. “The circumstances could be
better.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly, causing Murdoch to grimace
and nearly topple. “Men are like little children who think the only way they
can get what they want is to take it. I have no sympathy for either of you.”

Ian flinched as she probed his shoulder wound. “Did I
mention that my amacara has the voice of ten thousand angels?” he asked.

“I probably missed that after she deafened me,” Murdoch
responded in the same dry tone. “Is she your mother’s secret weapon? A voice
that can shatter walls would be valuable.”

“Use the water skin on Rapscallion’s saddle,” Ian told her
when she glanced around in search of a stream in which to soak the cloth.

“I’d swear you were reading my mind except you’d be stung
with a thousand barbs if you could see my thoughts right now.” Furious at Ian’s
imperturbable confidence, trembling with fear at the amount of blood that still
spilled, she located the water skin and brought it back.

“Where is your family?” Ian asked upon her return.

Chantal assumed he really wondered about his damned precious
chalice, although mentioning it in front of his enemy was probably not wise. “I
left them near an inn. I daresay they’re eating a lovely breakfast as we speak.
You will notice I cannot climb on and off horses as easily as you, and I
thought your life a little more important than carrying extra baggage.”

“Pierre?” Ian inquired with an intensity she did not
understand.

“Probably riding for the border. It is only a few miles
away, and he’s anxious to prevent his presence from harming us. He’s been
praying for your safety.” As if prayers would help, but Chantal left her
opinion in her tone, without saying it aloud.

She thought the men exchanged a glance over her shoulder,
but she was obviously on the verge of hysteria and could not trust anything she
thought.

“Her voice cuts like a knife,” Murdoch complained, wincing
and sitting back on his heels. “Have you taken to wearing hair shirts as well,
or is she sufficient torment?”

Her breath flowing more evenly with every foolish insult,
Chantal ignored their false valor. She wished she had her piano so she could
play the complex notes of Murdoch’s voice. She sensed in him a strong honor and
idealism that had little to do with a man who would kill his oldest friend.

She tensed to say something scathing, but Ian’s gaze dropped
to her perspiration-dampened bodice, and a different passion slid through her. They
may as well have been one, the way their thoughts traveled together. She held
her tongue and pressed a folded cloth to his cleaned shoulder wound. His gaze
torched the frail cloth over her breasts, and even though he could scarcely
have an ounce of blood in him, she noted that what was left had traveled
southward to stir his breeches.

“Chantal’s voice reflects what’s in her heart,” Ian
explained through teeth clenched in pain. “She wants to kill you and save me. I
don’t recommend earning her wrath.”

“That’s preposterous,” Murdoch muttered.

“Sing sweetly for the oaf,” Ian recommended caustically.
“Elsewise, he will stupidly wear out what little strength he has left
attempting to undo his bonds.”

Chantal picked up the sword lying in the blood-saturated
dirt and handed it to Ian. “There, finish the job you started. Hack his head
off.”