Mystic Rider (34 page)

He laughed, tossed aside the towel, and reached for his
breeches buttons. He brimmed with the pride of male possession as he approached
the bed. “Men marry their
mates
 — women
who match them in strength and wit. You are mine.”

It wasn’t just the thrill of his words but the intense
satisfaction with which he said them that won Chantal’s heart. Without further
question, she lifted her arms to accept him into her bed.

And into her life, forever, if such a thing were possible.

No longer shy, she let him explore her as he would, and they
kissed and tasted of each other’s flesh until Ian tossed her over to begin on
her back.

Chantal quivered as his hands cupped her breasts, and he
threw his powerful legs across hers, covering her from behind. She was moist
and ready to accept him as he raised her to her knees and stroked her into
opening for him.

He was pushing his thick sex into her when she felt his
hesitation. She froze at the image rising between them of the strange brown
discoloration marring the skin at the base of her spine, a spiral with a broken
arrow through it, curving into the crease of her buttocks.

“Chaos,” he muttered with disbelief, and what she thought
might be horror. “I should have known.”

She tried to pull away, but he pushed deep inside until she
cried out with the enormity of his filling. Then he bit her shoulder until she
shuddered and began to move with him. Their mutual release sang a song to the
heavens, but the harmony had already been tarnished.

The group of voyagers huddled between crates and barrels
on the pier was unusually silent as the morning tide rolled in, carrying with
it two sleek sailing ships. The sun gleamed on the flapping white canvas as
sailors scampered through the rigging, rolling up the larger sheets and
adjusting the smaller to catch the wind.

“Sorry, but they were sailing together,” Ian murmured to a
scowling Murdoch, who was lounging, arms crossed, against a barrel. “Waylan is
less likely to rip your head off than Trystan. I’ll load Pauline and the
children on his ship while you perform that fascinating invisible act and slip
aboard behind them. He can do nothing to you once you’re at sea.”

“The Weathermaker must have blown the storms off the channel
for them to have arrived so swiftly,” Murdoch growled.

Murdoch had been irascible all morning, Chantal noted, but
his was a tormented soul, and she spared him no concern. Unreasonably, she
blamed him for her family’s plight. Had Ian not come here in search of him and
the damned chalice —

She would never have known true lovemaking. Or learned the
thrill of releasing the strength inside herself. Or found someone who
understood her so well. So maybe she’d forgive Murdoch, eventually. Especially
if Ian trusted him enough to send him after the chalice so they could take her
father home to get well.

She wished Ian had explained his comment about chaos last
night. He’d been remarkably uncommunicative ever since.

Despite Ian’s surliness, she still felt light enough to fly,
so great was the freedom she’d discovered in his company. All her life she’d
obediently poured her volatile emotions into her music and let others act for
her. Never had she considered acting independently — until Ian.

The same Ian who had been pacing about with a black cloud
over his head, constructing their hiding places, ordering people about until
they were stumbling over one another to comply. No one questioned his commands,
while she stood here with a million questions on the tip of her tongue. Even
Pauline had acquiesced to his high-handed demand that she travel with Murdoch
to England, and Pauline did not even
know
the man! But Ian was telling Pauline what she wanted to hear — that Murdoch would
take her to Pierre and safety — so she’d agreed.

Chantal wanted to scream her protests, but she submerged
them in humming as always. Just because she felt free to act didn’t mean she
was in a position to do so. The blue uniforms of the National Guard were all
over town, hunting the “traitors” who had aided the king. Much of Ian’s pacing
and Murdoch’s growling had to do with the tension of hiding everyone in plain
sight, among boxes and barrels of cargo. How Ian had known the ships were
coming was another of those questions she couldn’t ask. All she could do was keep
her questions to herself and calm the children.

“This is no way to prove our innocence,” Chantal muttered as
the tall ships sailed closer.

“The mob is not looking for justice,” her father replied
wearily from where he sat propped out of the sun. “They are looking to lay
blame. This day would have come sooner or later. D’Olympes do not hold power by
being wrong.”

Her father’s pallor frightened her — another reason she waited
here without questioning. Her father needed help, but the best physicians had
departed Paris along with half the court. Last night, her father had finally
admitted it was time he went home, although neither man would say where that
was. If she truly meant to fly free, she’d tell them both to jump off a dock.

But she loved them, so she must restrain herself. Love bound
her more thoroughly than her music, confusing her. She’d loved Jean, but in the
pragmatic way of a good friend, always seeing reason and able to act on it.

There was nothing reasonable about the sensation of being so
much a part of another person that she could not tell where she left off and he
began. To part from Ian would be like cutting off her own head.

Last night, after they’d made love and he’d left her to meet
the carriage, she’d known he’d stayed away because of her birthmark. And still,
she followed him this morning. Love was irrational, and at the moment, she
resented it.

As if he heard the confusion inside her head, Ian finally
took the time to catch her elbow and drag her deeper into the shadows of the
crates where they could not be overheard. “I did not want to have to say this.”

His tone struck her with black fear. Eyes widening, she
clutched her hands together and waited.

“You have gifts, abilities, that I do not totally
comprehend.” He held up his hand to stop her from objecting. “Your ability to
hear character in voices is a gift of great import. But I cannot judge the
significance of your emotional ability to use music and voice as both shield
and weapon. The gods granted this gift for reasons I don’t understand. I hadn’t
realized the consequences of your emotional gifts until last night.”

He hesitated, as if searching for difficult words. Chantal
held her breath, feeling her heart bleeding from the puncture wound of his
tone. Ian was nothing if not honest, and anguish colored his voice.

As tonelessly as he could, he continued. “Because of your
gifts, your unhappiness has the potential to destroy my home. For this reason,
I promise that if you are not happy there, I will take you anywhere you wish to
go. I simply ask you to bear with me for as long as you are able. Can you do
that for me?”

He is not saying
farewell
.
He accepts me as I am,
flaws and all.

She covered her mouth with her hand rather than speak her
questions. Tears welled, but she nodded her agreement. Ian looked miserable as
he brushed his hand over her hair. She understood — if she was not happy in his
land, he would send her away, but he would not follow. She was throwing away
her home to protect her family, but he could not do the same for her.

A shout from one of the sailors gave warning of trouble, and
Ian was gone like a shadow, slipping past her hiding place and into the sun,
leaving her shivering with unshed sobs.

She clenched her precious flute in her pocket, understanding
nothing at all except that the man who was joined to her heart and soul might
cast her off.

The children began to quarrel, and Chantal hastened to
rejoin them. She bit her tongue to avoid humming an angry tune. She had to
watch herself. She didn’t grasp how she could affect others with her voice, but
horribly, so far, Ian had been right. She crouched down to speak soothing words
that returned smiles to the children’s faces.

Murdoch’s blade-thin shadow cut across their pocket of
safety. He spoke in a neutral monotone to prevent frightening Marie and Anton.
“The soldiers are two streets away. We’ll load the little ones first.”

Chantal closed her eyes and prayed for strength at this
parting. With a false smile, she hugged her niece and nephew and kissed their
fair brows. “Your mama is waiting for you. Let Monsieur LeDroit show you how a
ship sails.”

The children eagerly looked to their new friend, apparently
sensing none of his reluctance and discomfort. Murdoch muttered for Chantal’s
ears alone, “Ian is an ass because he was raised that way. Have patience, or
leave him rather than kill him. There are others who will help you.”

Lifting Marie and holding Anton’s hand, he disappeared in a
narrow alley between crates, leaving only a shimmering glimmer of air in his
wake. Even knowing where he’d gone, Chantal couldn’t see him. How did he do
that?

Too stunned by his warning and Ian’s declaration, she almost
let Pauline escape without saying farewell. But she caught a glimpse of her
sister-in-law’s blue skirt hurrying past Ian’s bulk, and she jolted back to the
moment.

“I must say good-bye,” she said fiercely, practically
walking on Ian’s boots when he would not let her pass.

“I don’t possess Murdoch’s talent for disappearing,” he said
without inflection. “I’ll stay with your father. Follow Murdoch. He’ll take you
to Pauline.”

The glance she cast his stony expression was that of fear
and worry, but she nodded and hastened down the alley of crates in the direction
of the tall ships tying up to the pier.

* * *

“I take it you are having doubts,” Orateur said dryly,
muffling his harsh breathing.

“I’ve arranged for your horses to be shipped on a more
suitable vessel,” Ian said, as if Orateur had asked. “I’m pleased that your
friends have recovered the stallion. They have promised to look after the
horses for now. Some of them may be willing to travel with the animals. The
Weathermaker has family in England who will stable them until you decide what
you want to do.”

“They’re yours now, and you know it,” Orateur said with as
much scorn as he could muster. “They go to Chantal when I die. I have land
here, and wealth, but it will be worthless if she cannot return to claim it.”

“You won’t die. You’ll live long enough to divide Chantal’s
loyalties for a long time to come.” Ian’s troubled anger simmered just below
the surface. He’d sacrificed both Murdoch and the chalice for an amacara with
the mark of chaos, one who might cause more harm than good for everyone but
him. He was being selfish, yet he could not seem to help himself. “I do no one
any favors by taking you home.”

Orateur’s shoulders slumped. “You’ve seen the mark, then.”

“You know what it means?” Ian asked. “Only my family is
familiar with the symbols.”

Orateur gave a weak snort and glared at him through eyes
glazed with pain. “It is a family mark. I bear it as well. Why do you think
your mother prevented my marriage? Your family has done its very best to wipe
out those who bear the symbol of change.”

“That’s not so. The gods mark few, that is all.” The Lord of
Chaos had marked none at all, Ian had believed, until he’d seen Chantal. Even
Murdoch had not worn the symbol, although all declared he was a straight
descendant of the bastard god of misrule. He wished Orateur would offer
solutions to his dilemma, but so far, he’d only confirmed what Ian already
feared.

“Then do us both a favor,” Orateur said. “Don’t let your
mother anoint Chantal if you take vows. And unless you trust your sister, I’d
recommend that she not see the mark either. I have protected my daughter from
the disapproval of your kind all these years. Now it’s your turn.”

Ian frowned. The symbol of rebellion was troublesome,
indeed, but to condemn the person wearing it — “Nonsense,” he said scathingly.
“All marks are direct blessings from the gods. You’ve lived too long with your
resentment, and it has twisted your thinking.”

As his parents’ beliefs were in danger of twisting his, Ian
realized. He must keep a clear head, think this through on his own, and not
allow his prior prejudice to influence his future.

“I don’t resent you or your family,” Orateur said. “I am
grateful that I was given the opportunity to live in a wider world and raise my
daughter in freedom and comfort. I am simply telling you that if you are intent
on binding Chantal to you, then her protection becomes your duty.”

“You may trust me with her life,” Ian affirmed coldly. “Do
not go filling her head with foolish tales.”

Orateur relaxed against the crate. “Perhaps Aelynn matches
her with an Olympus for good reason. Your family resists change.”

Achieving her father’s approval was a mixed blessing,
indeed, Ian decided.

Chantal reappeared, her tear-stained face speaking her
heartbreak at this parting. In that moment, Ian suffered her grief and wished
he could return the lovely bubble of happiness she’d lost. Despite his concern
for their future, he was thoroughly grateful that she had not taken the
opportunity to run away with Pauline.

Distracting both of them, a towering golden god shivered the
planks of the dock beyond their narrow hiding place. He halted, and his shadow
blocked the morning light creeping between the cracks. “Do I just haul the
crates into the hold without question, or will our fearless leader step out of
hiding and introduce his new playmates?”

Ian was almost grateful for this reprieve from his turbulent
thoughts. He rolled his eyes and glanced apologetically to Chantal and her
father. “Trystan is a doltish clod, and an acquired taste. Pardon me while I
remind him of his manners.”