Mystic Rider (11 page)

She had not realized she’d been living as if half-dead for
so long. She wanted to feel truly alive again, and Ian did that for her.

She walked into the parlor to find Ian and Pauline with
their heads cozily together over cups of coffee, and her spirits dropped to her
feet.

What had she been thinking?

He was a strikingly exotic stranger, a traveler who took his
pleasure where he found it. She
knew
that, had acknowledged that by assuming they didn’t have much time together. So
why was she so disappointed that she wasn’t the only woman he had his eye on?

She supposed she shouldn’t be so old-fashioned as to believe
men and women should have only one partner at a time, but she’d just discovered
a strong streak of jealousy she had not known she possessed  — for a man who had
not even acknowledged her entrance.

Apparently caught up in his conversation with Pauline, Ian
didn’t rise from the table as he should have. After Chantal poured coffee from
the silver pot on the sideboard and sing-songed her good mornings with false
gaiety, he slowly rose to tower over the table, wearing a quizzical expression,
as if he’d been kicked into doing the proper thing and didn’t understand why.
Perhaps her song had been a little too false.

He wore his monk’s robes open over crisp linen and lace that
someone must have laundered for him overnight, but he exuded a raw maleness
that was far from saintly.

She had to wonder whether Ian had gone to Pauline’s bed last
night instead of hers, if he preferred her friend’s more experienced
lovemaking. She couldn’t bear to look at Pauline to see if she wore a satisfied
expression.

She could barely unclench her teeth as she took a seat while
Ian returned to his chair. “I see you have learned more of our etiquette,
monsieur,” she said politely.

Did she sense amusement beneath his serious exterior? Was
her jealousy that evident? Maybe she ought to kick him into rising again.

“I do not fully grasp this word
etiquette
,” he acknowledged, “or the reasons for bobbing up and
down like a puppet on a string.”

“Etiquette is how one shows
respect
, another word you do not seem to fully grasp,” she replied
sweetly.

His amusement seemed to heighten, and he regarded her as if
she were a particularly ripe plum on his plate. “Your voice is an enchanting
song in my ear, even though your intention is to drive nails into my flesh. I
am to show respect for this fascinating talent?”

Chantal tore off a bite of croissant with more force than
the flaky pastry deserved. She did not recall anyone ever laughing at her.
Perhaps she did not want this stranger here so much after all. She’d forgotten
that the pleasures of sex came accompanied by the nuisance of submitting to the
annoying notions of men.

“Monsieur d’Olympe believes the chalice has been taken to
the king,” Pauline interrupted Chantal’s snit with excitement. “I am to go to
the Tuileries this morning and see what I can learn. Isn’t this fascinating? He
rescues me, and then it turns out that I can be of help to him!”

Chantal feigned a bright smile as she examined the monk over
the top of her cup. He’d let his cowl fall back, and his inky hair gleamed.
Fine curls sprang from the tight queue. His high bronzed brow spoke of wisdom
and intelligence, and his eyes…

She shook her head. They were so changeable that she could
never tell if they were brown or black or just a very deep blue. They had the
power to enthrall her, so she dipped her gaze back to the table rather than let
him heat her blood.

“The king might appreciate coins rather than a bell that
doesn’t ring or a chalice too clumsy to drink from,” Chantal responded, trying
to think clearly when her soul was crying ridiculous protests. “But he is so
tightly guarded, I cannot see how such a thing would be smuggled out, or even
how we might get in to see His Majesty.”

“I do not understand why the leader of your country is not
free to do as he pleases. I understand it might be difficult to see a busy man,
but that is not what you’re saying, is it?”

Pauline’s pointed chin lifted while she waited for Chantal
to answer this very complicated question. They’d argued over it before, without
coming to any good conclusion.

“Our kings held the power of gods for too long,” Chantal
responded carefully. “It is never wise to give any one person that much
influence. People are human, not gods, and they have weaknesses. So it has
become necessary to take some authority away from the king and queen and give
it to the Assembly. There are some who disagree with this change.” She cast a
glance at her friend. “But that is mostly because it takes away the authority
of the nobility as well as the king’s. Since all of France is bankrupt, power
is our strongest currency.”

“Ah, I think I begin to see,” he said. His eyes flashed with
understanding. “Those who wish to return to the old ways guard your leaders in
hopes of retaining what they once had.”

“And those who wish to change the world overnight would lock
our rightful leaders in cells and never let them out,” Pauline finished for him.

“Without a leader, there will be chaos,” Ian predicted.

“We are not trying to be rid of the king!” Chantal
protested. “But he must put the needs of his own people above those of foreign
popes and corrupt aristocrats. It is all much too complex to argue now. We
should make some plan of retrieving the chalice once Pauline discovers if it is
truly at the palace.”

She would like to ask why Ian thought it was there, but
instinct told her there were some things about this man that she’d rather not
know. “Where is Papa? Perhaps he can help us.”

“He has gone to find Pierre,” Pauline said with a return of
her worried frown.

“He should be resting his injured knee! No judge will be
about to set bail at this hour.” Chantal glanced at Ian. Had he spoken with her
father?

He returned her gaze enigmatically.

She’d like to smack him.

That was not like her. She seldom let her impulses overcome
her to the point of acting on them — but Ian seemed to have broken the barrier
she’d built around her passions. Humming under her breath to pacify her
turbulent emotions, she tapped her fingers on the table and wished for the bell
back. If wishes were horses…

Understanding Pauline’s concern for her brother, Chantal
shoved aside her selfishness. “I cannot think it is safe for you to leave the
house until Papa has settled this matter.”

“I can always take sanctuary with the queen,” Pauline said
stiffly.

“The queen can’t provide sanctuary for herself these days. I
am terrified every day you return to her.”

Ian intruded upon the argument. “Perhaps, while Madame
Racine attends the queen, you might show me about your city?”

Did she imagine it, or did she detect a strong desire behind
his words, one that could not be translated easily? Just because she heard
harmonies in the breeze didn’t mean she heard things that weren’t being said.
Ian d’Olympe was simply a very… forceful… man. She would say
intense
except she sensed no tension
about him.

“Usually, Papa leaves me a speech or pamphlet to edit and
take to the printers. If he has not done so today, I’m at your disposal this
morning. My students arrive in the afternoon.”

Insanely, she was already squirming in her seat beneath
Ian’s penetrating gaze, wondering what he intended, if they could find a way to
steal off somewhere private…

She had to
stop
this.

“If it would not be too much trouble, I would enjoy a tour.
Perhaps you could show me this palace of your king. Are there other places I
should see while I am here?”

“If Papa is looking for Pierre and arranging for his
release,” Chantal said with an assurance she didn’t feel, “perhaps we could
look for them while we’re out and about.”

“Would you?” Pauline asked. “I’d be forever grateful.” She
still looked anxious.

As she had every right to be. Pierre must leave Paris if he still
refused to take the oath of loyalty. What would Pauline do then? Little by
little, all the royalists were fleeing France. If Pauline took the children…

Chantal would be deprived of all her family except her
father. Already her heart cried in loneliness.

* * *

Ian was now thoroughly convinced the gods meant to teach
him the humility of living without the power of his position.

On Aelynn, his rank and abilities gave him almost complete
control over his environment. If he wanted a woman, a woman came to him. If he
wanted the Council’s support, he could call on Aelynn to smoke and rumble. He
could ignite fires if he was cold.

That he generally chose to do none of these things was
irrelevant to his current frustration.

On Aelynn, he would have the status to order Chantal’s
father to a meeting of the Council where he could negotiate the terms of
marriage or amacara. That was a power he would use now, if he could. But
Alain’s deliberate disappearance prevented it.

On Aelynn, Chantal would be delighted to grace his bed
without question. Instead, he was forced to woo her with subterfuge and
promises, and even then, she remained frustratingly elusive. He had no idea why
she had vibrated so strongly with what felt like jealousy this morning, then
looked at him as if he were the dirt beneath her feet.

Despite her attempts to conceal it, the emotion in her voice
had been so strong that he’d actually sensed her desire for him to stand up and
had done so. He’d never acquiesced to the command of another in his life, not
even for his powerful sister, and it irked him immensely that he had now.
Still, although he had no certainty of how he could bind her to him, he was
determined to have this maddening female.

Of course, the one thing he had not been able to control on
Aelynn was Murdoch, and that remained unchanged here in the Other World.

Strolling through the garden of the Tuileries Palace, Ian
glared at the medieval stone buildings housing the king and his guards and knew
Murdoch was not inside. Ian was just realizing that France had many soldiers,
but they did not all share the same loyalty. He didn’t know which side Murdoch
was on. Although Ian had Seen Murdoch leading troops, he had sensed that his
nemesis did so outside of Paris. Last night’s efforts to Find him had been as
unsuccessful as earlier attempts.

He didn’t know if that meant Trystan was wrong and Murdoch
was now completely powerless, or if Murdoch was simply beyond the range of
Ian’s abilities in this world.

“Isn’t the garden lovely?” Chantal asked, strolling along
the riverbank and admiring the imposing view of gnarled old trees against
ancient stone.

She wore another confection of a hat today, one that
concealed her eyes but exposed the curve of her nape beneath her heavy chignon.
Ian wished she would let her hair loose, but he could tell from the people
around him that only the lowest of slatterns did so in public. Another
pointless custom he must adjust to.

He disliked the palace immensely. The very stones reeked of
terror. The crowd in the park seethed with resentment, hostility, and fear.
Only the children chasing a rolling ball and a few heedless lovers enjoying a
summer’s day seemed content with the beauty of the greenery.

And Chantal. Living inside her own enchanted bubble, humming
happily to herself, she whirled her frothy umbrella and glided along sunny
walks, admiring fountains as if all was right in her world. He would think her
an idiot except he’d seen her happiness expand to capture others. She was far
more complex than even she was aware.

After meeting her father, Ian was convinced she had
Crossbreed powers. He simply must observe her more carefully to understand
them.

“Your king does not mind having the public cavort on his
lawn?” he asked.

After talking with Pauline this morning, he had begun to
form a plan that might accomplish all he needed, while rescuing the besieged
royalty behind the moldy walls of their stone prison — walls that concealed the
sacred chalice, as he’d seen in his meditations last night. Pauline had warned
him not to tell Chantal, and instinct verified her conclusion that Chantal
would not approve of their scheming.

“Since the king preferred to isolate himself from his people
by living in a vast palace in Versailles until forced to return here, I daresay
he’s not thrilled,” Chantal admitted. “Paris is rife with rumors of escape
attempts. I would not want to be royalty. Too much is expected of them.”

“Granted, one should not give power to leaders who are
incapable of wielding it wisely, but one assumes there is some reason your
royalty inherits their power.”

That had been his experience, at least. He was the nominal
leader of Aelynn since his father’s death because he possessed the abilities to
carry out the duties of that position, abilities inherited from both parents.
In Chantal’s world, he assumed those abilities included the power of
influential connections as well as vital strengths such as diplomacy and
foresight.

“Our royalty claims they were appointed by God and stand
second only to the pope. That may have been true a few hundred years ago, but
no longer.” She shrugged, and the red, white, and blue ribbons of her hat
fluttered in the breeze.

Ian’s family had been appointed as caretakers of the island
by their gods on the basis of his family’s powerful attributes. Should his
people attempt to imprison him and render him helpless, he’d be appalled and
furious, and the gods would surely scorch the land with fire. Such treason went
against the natural order of things.

He thought the poor beleaguered French king deserved better
than this cold fortress at the mercy of bitter, angry mobs like the one last night.
Rescue seemed obligatory, even essential, if he were to retrieve the chalice.