Mystic Rider (28 page)

“I want to go with Pierre,” Pauline whispered wearily. “I
want to go to Le Havre and my parents. I want the madness to end.”

Chantal directed a challenging look at the two large men now
restlessly roaming the small room. “Can you take us safely there without fear
of arrest?”

Even now the revolutionary militia in their crude striped
trousers strutted defiantly down the street, playing fife and drum in the face
of the king’s boot-and-breeches-clad mercenaries. No doubt the Assembly’s
National Guard or spies blocked the roads. She could not imagine how they could
escape, but obviously, her imagination was lacking. She certainly couldn’t have
imagined influencing a surly rogue like Murdoch to do anything against his
will, yet he did not immediately slay everyone in sight and flee.

For all that mattered, she wasn’t entirely certain how he’d
been bound. It wasn’t as if drying vines were a deterrent to a man of his
evident strength, even when wounded. And why would the king’s men follow
Murdoch? So many odd things had happened since Ian had walked into her life
that she wasn’t certain what was normal anymore. She, who had woven her home
into a secure nest of peace, now teetered on the brink of falling into thin
air.

“To Le Havre?” Ian asked, directing the question at Murdoch.
“West of here?”

“On the coast,” Murdoch agreed with a snarl as he paced the
floor like a caged beast. “Not near Trystan,” he added, inexplicably.

Pauline caught Chantal’s hand and whispered in her ear. “Are
we all talking about the same thing, or is this some riddle I do not
understand?”

“I believe we are talking different things with the same
outcome,” Chantal concluded. “Pierre has their chalice. Pierre goes to Le
Havre. We wish to go to Le Havre. They want the chalice.
Alors
, to Le Havre we go.”

“How do they know where Pierre is?” Pauline asked sensibly.

“Magic,” Chantal decided. “Who cares as long as we get what
we want?”

Her father had returned to his chair and poured a large
goblet of wine. Swirling it in agitation, he scowled at the room at large.
Chantal felt his gaze become thoughtful as it fell on her, but she was too
rattled to understand what was happening.

Her voice could not possibly have persuaded a desperate man
to reason — or brought him to his knees with her shouts. That was not credible.

And yet, she had nearly caused a riot by screaming over a
chicken.

She needed her piano to sort all this out, but she did not
even have the bell…the chalice…to calm her. By dropping the valuable chalice
instead of holding it, as Ian had requested, she’d allowed Pierre to succumb to
temptation. This was all her fault.

Why? Why must she be the only one who could guard the
chalice? Ian was bigger. Her father was smarter. Pauline was prettier and more
deceptive.

She was simply a musician.

Ian stopped his pacing to lift her chin and kiss her nose.
“All will be clear soon, I promise. Will you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?” But when he looked at her like that,
his deep soulful eyes full of mystery and admiration, she would promise him
anything. She had grown up with Jean and adored him like a brother, but he had
never stirred deep sensual longings in her with just a look.

She yearned for the privacy of a chamber alone with Ian. He
smiled hungrily as if he wished the same and pressed his mouth to her lips. She
shivered in expectation, aroused by this simple caress.

“You always have choices,” he murmured, “except in how we
feel about each other. That is granted by the gods.”

“I doubt my God has any interest in carnal appetites,” she
said dryly. “You must have more primitive ones.”

“Let us say, more practical ones.”

He released her and strode over to confront Murdoch. “We
have agreed to try not to kill each other until we have found the chalice,
correct?”

“Reluctantly,” Murdoch growled. “It would have been simpler
if one of us had hacked off the other’s head as your amacara so pleasantly
suggested. You do realize that I cannot order a dozen mercenaries to traipse
across half the country for no reward? The king has been caught. Their goal now
is survival, and that lies across the border.”

Pauline gasped and dug her fingers into Chantal’s arm. “I
thought Louis merely lost the hussars. He may have met the other soldiers. How
could you know that he did not escape?”

Murdoch performed a stiff bow. “I never lie. I served in his
troops until I understood that the rabble are right — leadership without
knowledge and understanding is no leadership at all. I am sorry, madame, but
all the king’s troops failed. The rebels have discovered him.”

Pauline sagged against Chantal’s arm, and grief hung heavily
in the room. It did not take a Gypsy to predict the end of an old regime.
Wrapping an arm around her sister-in-law’s shoulders, Chantal gestured at the
children. “Come along,
ma petites
,
let us take your
maman
for a nap.
While you sleep, I will find those prizes I promised you.”

The children cheered and raced each other to the door,
oblivious to adult concerns and sorrows. Chantal threw a glance to the men they
left behind. “I assume we leave tonight?”

“The carriage is too slow,” Murdoch said scornfully. “You
have an entire herd of swift beasts out there who could catch up to the thief
before he reaches the coast.”

Chantal shot him an unsympathetic look and replied with the
disdain Ian seemed convinced reduced argumentative men to tatters. “If you
think we are slow, you should see Pierre ride. Pauline and I wish to go to the
coast. We will take the carriage.”

To her pleasure, Murdoch winced at her tone and seemed to
acquiesce. Ian grinned. Normal men tended to scowl at her attitudes, but she
liked thinking that after a lifetime of feeling small and helpless, she could
actually affect two great beasts like these.

Hugging Pauline’s shoulders, she did her best to flounce out
of the room with her friend, though her old gown lacked sufficient petticoats
to be effective.

* * *

“She has always twisted people around her little fingers,”
Alain Orateur complained as the women and children departed. “Encouraging her
will produce a monster.” He glowered at the other two men in the room. “Just
like the two of you.”

“Another rebel in the Olympian court,” Murdoch murmured
sarcastically. “But I doubt we will convince the crown prince that his mother
is as ineffective as French royalty.”

“I’m not a prince, and my mother is not royalty,” Ian
replied without hostility. “If we did not fulfill our duties, the Council would
remove us.”

“In favor of Lissandra.” Murdoch laughed. “No wonder you
seek so eagerly after a chalice that can only be caught if it wishes to be.
Lissy as Oracle would drive half the island to emigrate. And I cannot imagine
your amacara would be any more acceptable to Aelynners.”

“Those are not our concerns now.” Ian discarded his own
unease on the subject in favor of the present. “If you cannot bribe your troops
to escort us to the coast, what will you do with them?”

Murdoch attempted to shrug, winced at the pain from his
shoulder, then walked to the window and stared down. “The king’s troops have
two choices, to follow and fight for their king, or to slip away while they
can. A few down there are more loyal to me than to their pockets. I can order
those few to do as I wish. The others, I must release to find their own way.”

Ian recalled the bloody images he’d seen in the stars and
tried not to picture Murdoch leading trained soldiers into riot-torn Paris, but
the image persisted.

“Do you see yourself as king in this land?” he asked,
masking his horror that an Aelynner would interfere in such a manner.

Orateur looked equally horrified. And very tired.

“Someone must lead this country out of the dark ages,”
Murdoch said without inflection. “If not me, then someone equally strong.
Anarchy cannot exist forever. Usually, the most corrupt with the willingness to
kill without qualm will win out. I, at least, have some scruples and a greater
than average ability to lead. I don’t expect you to see that.”

Ian shook his head. He’d experienced Murdoch’s arrogance and
ambition firsthand. In some ways, he understood them, but that did not mean he
approved. “It is not an argument either of us can win. My duty is to return you
and the chalice to Aelynn. We will seek the chalice first. The gods will decide
who wins in the end.”

Still watching out the window, Murdoch crossed his arms and
leaned his uninjured shoulder against the frame. “For old times’ sake, then, we
will see who is the better prognosticator. Perhaps you’ll see sense by the time
we reach the coast. I’ll send two of my men ahead to find the trail of your
runaway, and we’ll keep two guards with us.”

“You retain your capacity to guide men’s thoughts?” Ian
asked warily.

Murdoch shrugged. “As in everything, it’s erratic. It was
never my area of expertise.”

“Monsters,” Alain muttered. “Monsters who play with the
minds of men.”

“No more so than you with your persuasive oratory or Chantal
with her enchanted voice,” Ian corrected. “With our gifts come
responsibilities.”

“I’ll take Chantal to America,” Alain grumbled.

“If anything happens to me, you’ll take her to Aelynn,” Ian
said, doing his best to think calmly. Chantal belonged to Aelynn, to the
chalice, and to him. Any other outcome caused a buzz of rage in him that defied
rational thought. “She deserves the explanation I promised her. She’s made her
vows, so Aelynn will accept her if she is accompanied by you or me. Trystan,
our current Guardian, lives in Brittany and will help you, if need be.”

Alain looked even more gray at that pronouncement. “If
anything happens to you, there is no one to force me to do anything against my
will.”

“Besides Murdoch, you mean?” Ian said, doing his best not to
offend his amacara’s father. “Besides the reality that your heart is failing
and needs more healing than I can provide, we have other means of influence.
Trystan is Guardian these days. His wife is a Crossbreed who has dominion over
the sea’s depths and speaks with the fish. How long do you think it will be
before Kiernan the Finder comes looking for my amacara?”

Murdoch lifted his surly glare from the window to Ian. “The
whole world’s your oyster, isn’t it? I don’t suppose that you have questioned
why the gods do not grant you an heir?”

Because the gods were waiting for Ian to bring Chantal to
them, was Ian’s belief. But his personal life was of no concern to others.
Without explanation, he opened the bedroom door. “I leave you to sort out your
men. I will see to the horses.”

* * *

Chantal did not protest when Ian sought her out in
Pauline’s room and quietly led her into the hall. She was exhausted beyond
measure, and the idea of the long ride ahead did not fill her with joy. But
Ian’s presence did.

He did not say a word, yet she understood his desperate
desire and need for time to themselves. Lust that she had not thought possible
in her weary state immediately made its presence known.

“You cannot be serious,” she murmured as he drew her
inexorably down the hall.

“Test me,” he replied, opening the third door.

Inside, he discarded his robe, and she glanced down to his
breeches placket. Testing was not necessary. Heat formed in her womb just from
imagining her fingers releasing his buttons.

“Exactly,” he said, as if she’d answered him.

Swiftly shutting the door behind them, he pulled her into
his arms and pressed her back against the wooden panels. “I need to have you to
myself all night and day, but this will have to suffice for now.”

Ian’s mouth clamped down hard against hers. Chantal grabbed
his arms to thrust him away, but she fell under his spell too quickly. Parting
her lips, she offered him entrance, and clung to his iron strength when his
tongue invaded and possessed like a conquering warrior, emulating the invasion
he would impose on her sex if she did not stop him.

She didn’t wish to stop him. She pressed her breasts into
his chest, then, remembering his injured shoulder, tried to pull back against
the door. With no patience for coddling, Ian crushed her against the wooden
panels and unfastened the hooks holding her bodice in place. She gasped against
his mouth as his hands shoved aside fabric to find her flesh. With a persuasive
tease of her nipples, he had her melting in his arms.

“I want to see all of you,” he said roughly when they came
up for breath.

Before she could argue, he dropped to his knees and lifted
her skirt and lone petticoat.

“Ian!” Little light seeped through the room’s shuttered
windows, but still… She was self-conscious of her less-than-flawless skin. She
grabbed his shoulders and tried to push him away, but she may as well have
tried pushing mountains.

His bare hands grasped her buttocks, separating them as he
leaned in to kiss between her legs. Unprepared, Chantal lost the use of her
knees. She slid down the door and collapsed in a puddle of skirts on the floor
to frantically tear at his buttons.

Without hesitation, Ian helped her, then lifted her so he
could bring her down on his straining sex. He muffled her cries with his mouth
as they came together, and she tasted herself on his lips. She shuddered and
clenched him tighter.

“It’s not enough,” he muttered against her mouth, while his
sex filled hers. “I need more time.”

More time
? She
could scarcely think as primal need exploded in her brain, and she rose and
fell with the plunge of his thick staff inside her. She choked back a moan as
her climax broke and rolled over her, and she fell limp in his arms.

Still engorged and in place, Ian lifted her and carried her
to the edge of the bed, where he tugged her skirts completely to her waist and
ran his hand over her belly and thighs. “I know somewhere you bear a mark….”