Mystic Rider (36 page)

Turning away from the dock, Ian twirled his oak and watched
the canvas unfurl. “Perhaps it is best if we do not mention this at home. Not
yet, not until the future becomes more clear.”

“He was once my friend, too,” Trystan reminded him. “That
he’s still alive speaks well of your patience.”

Ian laughed and took delight in doing so. How incredible
that even in these trying circumstances, thanks to Chantal’s effect on him, he
could laugh. “I think it speaks well of my amacara. When she is happy, she
surrounds me with peace and joy. Come, you must meet her.” He started down the
deck to the gangway.

“What happens if she’s not happy?” Trystan asked with
interest.

“Given that she was weeping when I left her, you are about
to find out.” And still, Ian didn’t hesitate in his eagerness to see how
Chantal had fared. Even her tempers were endlessly fascinating to him. He
supposed he ought to hope his enthrallment wore off soon or he would never
accomplish anything, but the experience was far too new to surrender it easily.

“Best let me go down first,” Trystan said apologetically,
brushing Ian aside.

As they climbed down the gangway, two fierce toddlers
swarmed up the stairs to attack Trystan’s ankles. Barely able to balance on
their feet, they shrieked as if their cries could topple him, and waved their
swords in a manner destined to send them tumbling backward.

Ian watched in amusement as Trystan laughingly conquered the
toddlers, scooping up both children and carrying them into the cabin where the
women waited.

“They are certain to trip and break the necks of any
pirate,” Trystan crowed, leaning over to kiss Mariel’s brow. “Do you think we
might make the next one a docile sailmaker?”

Ian noticed that neither woman was smiling with her eyes,
although they both gazed fondly at the children.
Children.
That should be his purpose — creating a better world for
the children. It would be easier to remember that if he had one of his own.

Ian didn’t feel comfortable displaying his weakness by
kissing Chantal in front of Trystan and Mariel. He and the Guardian had grown
up together, but they’d always been aware of their unequal ranks and position. Since
Trystan had once aspired to the hand of Ian’s sister, their relationship had
often been more combative than comfortable.

“Monsieur Orateur is with Hans,” Mariel said, taking Danaë from
her husband but glaring at Ian. “Perhaps you would care to clarify what’s
happening before I say anything else that I shouldn’t? Keep in mind that I’m
new at keeping your secrets.”

“Your ring will prevent your saying more than you should. I
hope,” Ian added, since too many of his preconceived notions had been shattered
lately. “What secrets were you revealing?”

“Perhaps you would care to start by telling me where we are
going?” Chantal asked in modulated tones, saving Mariel from having to reply.

“I would rather show our friends your ability to spread
cheer,” he said dryly. “Why not choose a subject less apt to create chaos?”

“Chaos?” Trystan asked. For a block-headed Guardian, he was
amazingly perceptive. “I thought Murdoch was our Lord of Misrule.”

“There is no such thing as a Lord of Misrule, only
harbingers of change.” Ian had spent the night trying to convince himself of
this notion to justify bringing the Orateurs to Aelynn. “Chantal’s father is an
Orator. Her abilities are different. We have yet to explore them fully.”

“Who sent the porpoise message?” Mariel demanded, cutting
through his obfuscations.

“I did,” Ian admitted. “It seemed reasonable to believe that
if I have some small part of everyone’s abilities, I should share yours as
well. I have never been drawn to the sea, but it was an enlightening
experience.”

“You talk to dolphins?” Chantal asked, using her pleasant
voice.

Hearing the turbulence she hid from the others, Ian took her
hand and lifted her from the bench. “We have sworn the vows of amacara to each
other, but we have not yet done so before the gods. Until you wear my ring, it
is difficult for us to speak of our home. You have said that you trust me. Will
you take my word that all is well and will be explained shortly?”

To his relief, she seemed to consider his promise without
protest. Rising on her toes, she pressed a charming kiss to his cheek before
releasing his hand and stepping away.

“Of course, my love,” she said sweetly. “If you will
understand that I sleep alone until all is explained to my satisfaction.”

Sweeping back her bedraggled skirt as if it were the silk
and lace of a princess, she sashayed to the cabin where her father rested and
quietly but firmly shut the door between them.

A moment later, she played a note on her flute, and the
glass of the hanging lantern above Ian’s head shattered.

“If you would come with me, I’d like to show you the
passage to my home.” Ian stood diffidently outside the open door to the cabin
where Chantal sat by her father’s bedside.

She glanced up to see him in the garb he’d worn since they’d
set sail. He’d discarded his robe, boots, and cravat, and now wore only
breeches and an open-necked linen shirt. At least he had not cut the sleeves
off his shirt like many of the sailors had. He looked so delectable just as he
was that she wanted to lick the brown V of skin revealed by the open neckline.
She did not dare look at his bare toes without thinking she could start there….

Apparently the savages of his country thought nothing of
going bare legged and barefoot. When she had joined the others for meals,
Chantal had done her best not to stare at all the muscular masculinity barely
concealed by thin linen, but she was feeling decidedly like a fish out of
water. No wonder her elegant father had preferred the civilization of France
and had not mentioned his barbarous background.

Only the music of her flute had kept her calm. She blessed
Ian for the thoughtful gift every time she played. And cursed him whenever she
did not.

In deference to the heat and humidity and the difficulty of
navigating the narrow stairs of the companionway, she wore a frock without
petticoats as Mariel did. But her stockings clung to her legs, and she wished
she dared go barefoot, too.

She swallowed the lump of fear that had been with her since
the ship cast off, and followed Ian into the main cabin. “We are there?” she
asked with some trepidation. At least they had not sailed an ocean away from
France.

“Almost. But you need to be at a distance to appreciate the
full effect. Trystan is already pacing the bow. He feels it first.”

She’d promised not to ask questions until he was free to
explain. She didn’t understand, but despite her fears and worries, she vibrated
with eagerness to see the world he called his own.

“Try not to burst with impatience,” he said with laughter as
she ran up the companionway. “I would try to answer all your questions now, but
your fears may sink the ship before I’m done.”

“I can’t sink ships.” On deck, she glanced around with
disappointment. She could barely see the dawn through the fog drifting over the
water. No land was in sight. “You exaggerate.”

“Possibly,” he admitted. “Since you have no training, you do
not truly understand what you’re capable of, but I think you have a natural
capacity to keep your passion tightly reined. ’Tis a pity you were not around
to teach Murdoch such control. But I know you have driven even me to actions I
cannot explain, so your effect on others would be multiplied.”

“As usual, you raise more questions than you answer,” she
complained, leaning on the rail and watching the dolphins that followed the
ship. Just standing alone beside Ian with her hair blowing free in the wind was
exciting. If she did not have so many questions and concerns, she could learn
to enjoy this adventure. “That we cannot stay in the same room without thinking
of lovemaking may be obsessive, but I can swear I do not have that effect on
anyone else.”

“Thank the gods for that,” he said fervently. “Admittedly,
it is difficult for me to know whether I made love to you the first time
because your voice called me to you or because you’re my destined mate or if
they are the same thing. But our physical attraction has nothing to do with my
need to slay everyone in sight when you’re afraid, or my berserk behavior when
I thought you were about to ride your horse over a cliff. I am a man of peace,
but your war cries struck chords in me that could have led entire armies to
battle.”

“That’s still obsession,” she scoffed. “I loved your chalice
as much or more than my piano. But I gave it up for Pauline because I loved her
more. Sometimes, we act against our best interests for those we love. Since you
don’t know me well enough to love me, you must be obsessed.”

The fog thickened, but Chantal thought she saw black cliffs
or tall boulders looming straight ahead. She prayed the ship’s captain knew
what he was doing or they would wreck very messily on those craggy rocks. Any
normal captain would be frantically ordering the sails reversed to escape this
death trap.

“I am not certain I grasp the concept of love,” Ian
admitted. “I cannot separate it from my physical need to be with my amacara.
But I think neither would affect an inanimate object like my staff. And yet it
vibrated when I thought you were in trouble.”

“People can accomplish extraordinary things when they are
frightened for their loved ones,” she replied with careful nonchalance. He’d
said he didn’t know if he loved her, which was somewhat better than saying he
was
certain
he didn’t. He’d shattered
her fledgling hopes days ago, but now Chantal heard notes in his voice that
offered hope. “I knew a man once who lifted an overturned carriage to release
his family inside. Once they were free, he could not ever lift it again, no
matter how hard he tried.”

“Your war cries stopped Murdoch in his tracks,” he reminded
her with a hint of humor. “That alone saved lives, since he’d become so angry
that he made the earth quake.”

She slanted him a look of disbelief. “Men don’t make the
earth quake. Your explanations are no better than the hallucinations of those
who suffer from opium dreams.”

His smile was so devastating that he made
her
earth quake, and she had to grab the
rail to prevent herself from falling. She wanted to kiss him, but she was aware
of Trystan in the bow not yards away. And sailors scurried through the rigging,
no doubt watching their every move.

“I do not need to artificially alter my mind,” Ian assured
her. “My world already possesses more wonders than opium dreams, more than a
man of science or blind faith can explain. The time has come for me to
introduce you to my home. I hope that, in some way, you will help me understand
those things that puzzle me.”

“Like etiquette?” she asked tartly, unable to express her
confusion elsewise.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “That, too. Now, watch
Trystan.” Standing behind her so that she could feel the length of him
shielding her from the wind, he turned her chin so she faced Trystan in the bow
and the ominous black rocks looming through the thick fog.

“He is our island’s Guardian,” he explained. “The volcano we
call Aelynn — after our most powerful god — heats the waters and raises the fog
that renders our land invisible. Trystan creates the barrier that prevents all
but the fish in the sea and the birds high in the sky from entering these
straits. Only Aelynners may pass these waters. The vows we spoke bind you to me
so that you can cross the barrier, but Pauline could not. She is not one of us.
Your father is, and thus, so are you, almost.”

None of this made sense to Chantal, so she remained quiet,
watching for this oddity that would allow her in but keep Pauline out. She did
not understand what vows she may have exchanged with Ian other than those
they’d made with their bodies, but she was willing to believe those were strong
enough to create miracles.

The fog silenced even the cries of the gulls. They sailed so
close to the walls of the narrow strait that Chantal thought she could reach
out and scrape her knuckles. But Trystan remained in the bow, his fists clamped
around the railing, his golden hair blowing in the wind like that of some
fierce god.

Then he straightened and raised his bare arms, and a gleam
of light struck the strange bands he wore on his upper arms. It was a primitive
gesture that shook Chantal to her shoes. Ian wrapped his arms around her waist
and pulled her back against him.

The glow brightened, streaming down Trystan’s arms and
chest, until in an instant, he gleamed like a golden statue. The fog parted
with an oddly colorful shimmer, and the ship sailed out of the gloomy channel
into a sunny bay that had been invisible just moments before.

Chantal gasped as an emerald island spread across the
horizon. A volcanic peak smoked lazily into a distant cloud. Gentle waves
lapped against crystalline black sand beaches. Strange trees dipped their
fronds in a soft breeze. The rich floral scents of exotic gardenias and jasmine
perfumed the air. Not since she’d been invited to walk through the king’s
orangerie had she inhaled such a marvelous fragrance.

She leaned back in Ian’s embrace, and he hugged her tighter.
If this was the world he’d brought her to, she heartily approved.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” her father asked from behind them.

Chantal whirled around. Ian stood broad and tall behind her,
with one hand remaining at her waist, keeping her close. She was grateful for
his steadying influence.

Her father looked better already. Color had returned to his
beard-stubbled cheeks. He had always kept what remained of his hair cropped
short for comfort under his wigs, but the dark blond strands had turned an iron
gray over the years. The brilliant sun revealed wrinkles and deep creases in
his face that she’d not noticed until now. But his eyes gleamed in appreciation
of the view.