Mystic Rider (13 page)

A healer? Ian’s understanding of her language must be more
limited than she had noticed. And how the devil did he know the spaniel was
hurting? Or was this a novel excuse to introduce himself to a beautiful
courtesan?

The lady expressed no curiosity as to how Ian knew about dog
ears, but merely conveyed appropriate feminine horror over her “poor, dear
poopsie-whoopsie.” In exasperation, Chantal imagined the woman bending over the
pretty spaniel, exposing her generous assets for Ian’s benefit while she petted
and hugged the dog in a manner that would allow a gentleman to envision himself
as beneficiary to such cosseting. Would Ian recognize the wiles of a courtesan?

Chantal would have walked away if Ian were any other man,
but for him, she lingered. She simply could not resist hearing his thoughts on
spaniels and courtesans and whatever else came to mind. He seemed to view her
ordinary world through an unusual lens.

Or maybe it was just basic sexual attraction that held her
hostage.

He strolled around the shrubbery a few minutes later, this
time actually offering his arm rather than forcing Chantal to appropriate it.

“She is a desperate woman who keeps a young child sheltered
outside the city. I feel sorry for her, but she spies on the king. You must
warn Madame Pauline.”

“I’m sure Pauline already knows,” Chantal said brightly,
attempting to disguise her shock at his knowledge after just one meeting. “Did
she whisper all those sweet nothings in your ear?”

He didn’t immediately reply. “I am unsure of how much I can
tell you,” he finally said, as if that answered her question. “You and I have
no formal arrangement between us. And even once that matter is resolved, it
will take time for us to know each other. Perhaps it is best to concentrate on
our tasks for now.”

“That
matter
won’t
be resolved,” she informed him. “I like my independence. And once you have what
you want, you will leave. So there is no future for getting to know each
other.”

“There, you are wrong,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I
understand that the heavens cannot predict the future with great accuracy,
particularly the distant future, since we all have free will, and our choices
affect the outcome of events. But there is no doubt that you are meant to be my
mate, and I will do whatever is necessary to make that so.”

His
mate
? Shocked
at this outrageous declaration, Chantal halted in the middle of the gravel path
and gawked. “You believe in astrology?” she asked, unable to find words to
question his more bizarre assertion.

He studied the question in the same thoughtful manner he
studied everything around him. “Not precisely in the science of which you
speak, although if I had time to examine the theory, I might connect the interworkings
of your planets with my heavens. You will simply have to believe what I have
Seen until you understand better.”

Believe what he’d
seen
?
That he assumed they were fated by destiny was too close to the edge of madness
 — or the heights of arrogance. To admit that he could predict the future was
beyond belief.

Dropping his arm and picking up her skirts, Chantal strode
from the garden, humming under her breath. A dove squawked and burst from the
bushes as she passed. An old nag pulling a dusty coal cart whickered and fought
his reins. Chantal wished for her piano. Or the lovely bell
chalice
, she amended. Perhaps she could
have a bell made. She needed to calm herself.

“I thought you wished to look for your father and Madame
Pauline’s brother.” Ian appeared beside her, sauntering and swinging his stick
as if she weren’t walking as fast as she could to get away from him.

“Why don’t you just ask your
heavens
where they are?” she asked cynically.

“Is it the heavens you doubt, or the idea of us as mates
that you reject?”

“Both. This is just some new form of male manipulation. I
expected better of you; that is all. I live in a nice house and have the
trappings of wealth, and you thought it might be pleasant to acquire them. But
that won’t happen. Ever.”

“I have little use for nice houses,” he said with what
sounded like regret. “I must return to my country shortly, and houses cannot be
moved. What I desire to keep is you. Surely you do not deny what is between us?
I’m finding it very difficult to ignore.”

She was finding it damned difficult to ignore, too, which
made her even angrier. “I am not a possession you can pack in your trunk and
carry away. I have a life here, family, friends. It is insane to think I’d
throw them all away for the pleasure any man and woman can share.”

“But you have not shared it with any but one other man, have
you?” he said with confidence. “For whatever reason, the gods have decreed that
we be together. I’m sure that in the fullness of time, we will understand why.”

“Your gods cannot tell me what to do. I’m not at all certain
that I even believe in
my
God any
longer, not if his church lets babies starve, so don’t expect me to comply with
the wishes of fickle deities.”

“Where I come from, babies do not starve,” he said
implacably.

They turned down the residential street of imposing mansions
that Chantal called home. A familiar carriage was just pulling through the
gates, and, relieved, she hastened to follow.

“And you expect me to believe your god only looks after your
country and your people? Forgive me for doubting, but that is extremely
selfish, even for a deity. Now, I must see if Papa has found Pierre.” She
picked up her skirts and began to run.

Ian arrived at the gate before she did, cool and neat
despite the summer heat, looking as if he hadn’t exerted a single muscle. “And
then I will speak with your father. This city will not be safe much longer.”

He took her elbow and marched her up the front stairs as if
she did, indeed, belong to him.

The cold cave of marble and stone that Chantal called home
had erupted in chaos by the time they entered the front door. Laughing, crying
children and a crowd of servants surrounded a drawn and silent young man. Apparently
the prodigal priest had returned.

Chantal angrily fought Ian’s grasp, but he held on to her as
a ship clung to an anchor in a raging sea.

In his world, he was nearly all knowing and all powerful. In
her world, he did not even know how to answer his mate’s questions without
violating every law of Aelynn.

“Pierre, you are free,” Chantal cried from the doorway.
“Thank heavens!”

“Your father paid my bail,” the young man acknowledged over
the heads of the children. “Thank him.”

Ian held Chantal back when she would race to her
brother-in-law. “He was in a prison cell of such filth that he fears to harm
those he loves,” he murmured close to her ear. “He needs peace and a bath.”

She shot him another wary look but, surprisingly, did not
argue.

“Marie, Anton! Let your uncle Pierre wash and get the fleas
out of his hair while we go to the kitchen and fix his favorite meal,” she called
with a cheeriness that brought smiles to all the faces around her.

She did not seem in the least aware that it was her voice that
eased their anxiety, Ian noted. She was too accustomed to everyone responding
to her moods.

Even the weary priest smiled gratefully at her
understanding. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Chantal.” His dark gaze drifted
to Ian. “Monsieur, I understand you helped free Pauline, for which I owe you
much gratitude.”

“Go, bathe, we will find clothes for you,” Alain Orateur
said, patting Pierre’s shoulder and pushing him toward a waiting footman. “Then
we will have a feast and tell our stories.”

Ian assessed Orateur’s haggard, weary look. His limited healing
abilities might be of little value in Aelynn, but they were greater than most
in this world. He had eased the dog’s pain earlier, although he lacked the
necessary herbs and compresses to cure the infection. He could conceivably ease
his host’s weariness and the ache in his knee, but first the other man would
have to allow it. And it was apparent from the unbending shields in Orateur’s
mind that he was unwilling to submit to the access Ian needed.

“See to the children, and I will see to your father,” Ian
ordered Chantal, expecting obedience as he would at home.

“He’ll want brandy and a footstool. The servants can supply
them,” she countered. “What we need is clean clothing for Pierre. Have one of
the footmen accompany you to his rooms. They’re not far from here. It might be
best to take a portmanteau and pack everything. We need to get him out of
France.” Chantal strode briskly after the children, as efficient at giving
orders and expecting them to be obeyed as he was.

The gods surely tested his patience by giving him this
contrary woman when he already had more than enough of them in his family.
Since he knew more, she must learn to listen to him.

“Find a portmanteau,” he told a waiting servant as the hall
emptied. “I am sure you know more of what Monsieur Pierre will need for a
journey than I do. Be quick, if you please.”

Without waiting for the footman’s response, Ian strode after
Alain Orateur. Here was one task he could accomplish immediately. They must
come to an understanding about Chantal.

Her father was settling into a comfortable chair in his
study while a maid provided a footstool and another poured a strong drink from
a decanter. Alain grimaced at Ian’s appearance.

“Do we have to do this now?” the older man grumbled.

“I don’t believe there is time to waste.” Ian mentally
nudged the maids from the room. They fluttered a moment, throwing a comforter
over their employer, setting the decanter close to his hand, but within seconds
they were gone.

“I always hated how your kind could do that,” Orateur
complained. “My daughter won’t appreciate it either.”

“Life is short, and time is of the essence.” Ian preferred
pacing the intricately woven carpet to taking a chair. Motion helped him
concentrate, and he needed all his wits about him. “At home, I do not need to
use my psychic ability so much, but here, it is difficult for me to explain
myself. And I cannot use it easily on Chantal. She is as resistant as you are.”

“Just explaining why an Olympus has come off the mountain
could involve hours,” Alain complained, sipping his drink. “My abilities are of
such insignificance that I daresay your family breathed a sigh of relief at my
departure, if they noticed at all. So why are you here?”

“Chantal is my amacara. She could not come to me, so I had
to come for her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Alain spluttered. “Chantal has no gifts
other than her musical ones. Aelynn has no use for music, or storytellers, or
actors, or any of the creative arts. You cannot take her where she will not be
appreciated. She’s my only daughter, and I would see her happy.”

“I understand what you say.” Ian refused to admit his own
doubts about the match. Logically, he should agree with her father. But his
desire for Chantal would not allow that. He was not normally a man who acted on
passion, but he had learned from Trystan’s experience that amacara bonds were
not based on logic.

“I do not understand the choice of the gods, but that makes
no difference,” he continued. “Two years ago, the Chalice of Plenty left
Aelynn. Since our duty is to guard the chalice, the gods have expressed their
displeasure, with droughts and hurricanes that even the Weathermaker has been
unable to alleviate. I have foreseen that Chantal and the chalice are connected
in some manner that I cannot comprehend. You know I can do no less than take
the chalice back with me, and to do that, I must have Chantal. You are welcome
to come with us, if you wish.”

Ian thought Alain might have an apoplexy. He tried to send
healing thoughts, but they didn’t penetrate the older man’s thick skull. Chantal’s
father pounded his fist on the chair’s arm.

“Stop that! Stay out of my head. I don’t need you or your
kind, I tell you. I have everything I need, more than I ever had on the island.
I have a say in how we are governed. I am respected for my ability to speak
clearly and forcefully. I married a woman of great wit and beauty without
permission from your damned Council. Why should I return?”

“Because Chantal loves you. But I would not force you to
live where you do not wish, as you cannot take away Chantal’s choice for your
own selfishness. You know what an amacara match means. You know my family. You
know she will be safe with me. And you must be aware that this country will
soon go up in flames. Perhaps you have never experienced war, but surely any
man of intelligence would understand what happens to women at such times.”

“There will be no war. The king has agreed to consult the
Assembly. We have a new constitution. I will be a man of great power in this
new government. Chantal can have any man she wants. She doesn’t need to breed
more arrogant monsters like you.”

Ian clenched the book he’d picked up but refrained from
heaving it. He was a rational man. He could win this battle without physically
pounding sense into thick heads.

“There
will
be a
long and terrible war. When the stars show devastation of that magnitude, there
is no denying the event will happen. And if you think I am a monster, then you
have not met Murdoch. He killed my father, was stripped of his powers and
banished by my mother, and still attempted to burn one of your ports with Greek
fire. He’s on the loose in France as we speak. I have come to suspect that he
is a Lord of Chaos who should have been thrown into the volcano when he was
born.”

Orateur looked alarmed and tightened his shields more. “Then,
go after him and leave my daughter alone. If he’s all that you say, then he’s
after the chalice as well. Find it, and go.”