Mystic Rider (25 page)

She actually
felt
the shock rippling through both men. She didn’t want whatever this connection
was between them. She simply wanted her safe, sane life back.

“If you do not kill him, he will kill you,” she continued
ungraciously, now that she’d said it. “I’m sick to death of people I love
dying, so why not be done with it now? Just die and leave me be before I become
too attached to your rotting hide.”

Ian did not react to her words of love, and Chantal wished
she could take them back. Love and sex were not the same thing, she reminded
herself, biting her lip to stifle a sob.

Ian set the sword aside and curled a tendril of her hair
around his finger. He rubbed his thumb over her tear-streaked cheek. “Murdoch’s
soul is likely to come back to haunt us if I waste it in such a manner,” he
said in that illogical manner of his that drove her mad. “I prefer to let
others judge him. Sing, Chantal. I fear I will pass out otherwise, and then he
will free himself.”

Jarred by the quiet urgency of his command, she studied his
taut jaw, realized how much effort he was expending to stay upright, and
relented, although she saw no logic in his request.

She tried “Ça ira!” just so she might sound bold and brave,
but it did not ring true. Ian looked paler and more fatigued than before.
Behind her, Murdoch actually chuckled. “War tunes do not suit his priestly
tastes. You might try a child’s lullaby.”

If she had her piano or another singer, she could create a
harmony that would soothe the savage breast, but she did not. Fine then. If
they spoke in riddles, she would take them literally.

She switched to the children’s lullaby she’d composed.
Relaxing, Ian picked up the sword and used it as a brace to unfold his knees
and sit down properly. He breathed easier, as if her singing truly did ease his
pain. He leaned his head against a tree trunk while she struggled to wrap a pad
of linen to his shoulder. The bullet had torn through the muscle and
fortunately gone straight out the other side. He had to have been shot at close
range.

Battening down her rage in favor of her concern, she
continued singing while she examined the long scrape bleeding on Ian’s bronzed
chest, but he caught her wrist and halted her.

“It’s a scrape. Tend Murdoch, please. I would take him back
as prisoner, not corpse.”

“You would do better to leave me here to die and spare me
the fate of having my soul ripped from my body,” Murdoch muttered.

Thinking him delusional from fever, Chantal frowned. She
crossed the clearing to rest a hand on his forehead. He felt as cold as death,
and she jerked her palm away. He had not seemed so injured as Ian. She hated
touching him, but she would have to remove his clothing to reach the area that
was bleeding beneath his torn uniform.

“You would escape as soon as I was distant enough for you to
overcome your bonds,” Ian said wearily. “I cannot allow you to roam free after
what you have done. You must see that.”

The anger had gone out of both of them, Chantal noticed. She
continued singing, hoping reason would return soon. Besides, the song soothed
her frayed nerves. She was not usually so easily pushed to the brink of
hysteria. She needed the balance of believing that she was helping, that she
was needed, to continue.

“I am no danger to our kind,” Murdoch protested as Chantal
tugged his torn coat over his bulging shoulders.

With his hands tied behind his back, Murdoch could not aid
her in pulling the coat any farther than his elbows. A gash bled copiously from
his upper arm, saturating his fancy red waistcoat and shirt. She was amazed he
still remained upright, although trying to sit down while on his knees with his
hands tied would be difficult. He just resisted toppling.

“You are a danger to us simply by hoping to keep the chalice
for yourself,” Ian countered. “Without it, the weather has become erratic,
wells dry, and crops fail. There is no reason for our existence without the
sacred objects.”

They continued to talk in riddles as far as Chantal was
concerned. Humming softly, she probed Murdoch’s wound. It was a good thing her mother
had taught her how to care for injuries. She’d nursed Jean for years, so she
knew how to tend fevers and bedridden patients, too. She feared these two would
die before they could ever do anything so sensible as retire to a bed.

“There is no reason for the island’s existence,” Murdoch
asserted. He sounded weaker than earlier. “You do nothing for the greater good
despite all your gifts. You have the power to command kingdoms, bring peace and
prosperity to multitudes. Instead, you selfishly cower behind the walls you
erect to keep the rabble out and cling to your wealth like dragons hoarding
gold. I have no sympathy for your plight.”

“Power corrupts,” Ian replied without hesitation. “Already,
the rot has invaded your soul. Tell me you covet the chalice for the greater
good and not your own ambitions.”

“This is a charming argument,” Chantal intervened, “and I’m
sure if we returned to Paris, you could join the Jacobins and Girondins or the
troublemakers on the street and argue all day. May I suggest you use your
energy more wisely and figure out how I will get you out of here?”

Murdoch grimaced as Chantal attempted to draw the raw edges
of his wound together. Instead of responding to her suggestion, he addressed
Ian in a voice dripping acid. “Her tongue may be sweeter than honey, but your
mother will cut it out when you bring her home.”

Tired of being talked around, she ripped his linen off the
crusting wound until it bled again. “This needs cauterization,” she told him.
She chose to believe them delirious and shut out their nonsensical talk. “I
don’t suppose in all your wisdom that you carry fire on you?”

When Murdoch glanced down at the knife in his belt, Ian
shook his head. “Not now.” Resting his naked back against a tree trunk, he drew
up his knee and propped his injured arm upon it.

Chantal thought she could easily expire of desire just
watching his muscles ripple. As if he sensed her thoughts, he watched her with
boldness. Amusement twitched at his lips, and she had the urge to smack him,
even as she wondered when and how they could share a bed again.

“Your father will send the carriage after us shortly,” Ian
claimed. “You need only sing us to sufficient health to walk down to the road.”

“It’s a strange gift,” Murdoch murmured groggily, beginning
to sway as she tried to staunch the flow of blood. “She charms and enchants in
one voice, and shatters nerves in another. Can she really use her voice to heal?”

“Will the two of you quit speaking as if I’m not here? My
head and ears work as well as yours, better most likely, if you think singing
heals.”

“It’s a wondrous gift,” Ian agreed. “Trystan was right when
he said we did ourselves no favor by ignoring Crossbreeds. Their talents are
different from ours, admittedly, and not so obviously useful. They cannot
defend with sword, perhaps, but with knowledge and creativity — ”

The rattle of carriage wheels on the road below interrupted
this wildly improbable philosophical discussion, none too soon, in Chantal’s
opinion. Without bothering to explain herself, she finished tying a knot in
Murdoch’s bandage, then took off running down the path.

“She doesn’t understand, Ian,” Murdoch accused as soon as
she was out of earshot. “It is like taking a baby sparrow from its mother and
placing it in a hawk’s nest.”

“Only death can sever the bond between us.” Ian leaned
heavily against the oak, acknowledging the guilt Murdoch bestowed upon him. “And
the ring prevents me from explaining. By all rights, our kind should never
leave the island.”

Awkwardly, Murdoch braced his back against a tree trunk,
using it for support so he could climb to his feet, although sweat poured from
his brow with the pain of his effort. “There, we disagree. Take her and leave
me. The chalice is gone. You serve no further purpose by remaining in my world.
Go back and hide from reality until the end of time.”

Ian closed his eyes against a great weariness and pushed
aside Murdoch’s temper to focus on the imperative. “I cannot hear Pierre’s
thoughts clearly, but I suspect the chalice offers promises to go where it
wishes. He probably believes running with it will make his family safe.”

Murdoch glared at him. “The chalice talks?”

Ian shook his head. “I doubt it. It’s sentient in some
manner, but I suspect its power lies in influencing the minds of those who
behold it. It lured Trystan’s wife to take it from the island. I thought it had
been leading me to Chantal. Or to you. If so, now that I’ve found you, it’s changed
course. Pierre seems to be heading for the coast instead of Austria.”

“Perhaps he is catching a ship to Ireland. Or the Americas.
What does it matter? The chalice is gone again. What will you do now?”

Ian heard the thread of hope in Murdoch’s question and shook
his head. He had found Chantal and Murdoch. He was in no condition to attempt
to hold them and capture the chalice as well. He fought the weakness of sorrow
and anger at his failure. “My task is to return you, the chalice, and Chantal
to Aelynn. I cannot let you go in hopes of achieving the chalice.”

“You have to sleep sometime,” Murdoch pointed out. “You
cannot hold these bonds forever.” He’d already made it to his feet.

Ian knew full well that Murdoch had the ability to set fire
to rope stronger than those vines, once Ian’s mental reinforcement collapsed.
Iron might hold him, but such manacles would be hard to come by in the few
hours remaining before Ian passed out from exhaustion and loss of blood. They
had reached another impasse.

“Give me your word of honor that you will not harm me or
mine, and I will let you free so we can go after the chalice together,” he
suggested.

“Why?” Murdoch scoffed. “I need only wait until you fall
asleep to free myself.”

Ian shook his head sadly. “So much talent, so little wisdom.
You are reacting without thought again. You were taught better than that.”

“I was taught I ought to rot in your grotto thinking how
wonderful it is to be an Aelynner and submissive to your god-almighty parents,”
Murdoch said scornfully. “I have better things to do than regret what I can’t
have.”

Ian understood that Murdoch meant Lissandra. If the pair
truly shared an amacara bond… He shook his head at the impossibility of such a
cruelly disparate match.

The overwhelming realization that he would undergo the fires
of the damned if he had to give up Chantal didn’t hit Ian as hard it should. It
simply
was.
He’d already accepted the
bond, even though it hampered his ability to go after the chalice. He could
only imagine Murdoch’s torment at being forever denied his mate. Ian didn’t
understand why the gods chose to torture them with such impossible companions,
yet he would not go back to his former sterile life.

“I think I will make you suffer a little longer for your
insults,” Ian said genially, hearing Chantal returning.

Murdoch gave a derisive snort. “At least I’m on my feet.”

Relaxing against the tree, Ian grinned. “I have good reason
to save my strength.”

Chantal entered the clearing as he uttered this and shot him
a look that boiled his blood.

“I should hope so,” she said. “There’s apparently a troop of
National Guards asking after us already.” She stood aside to reveal two
strangers in the sabots and tunics of farmers. “Pierre generously hired these
gentlemen to act as drivers in his place, since he seems to have run off with
your precious chalice.”

Murdoch slid down the tree trunk, unable to hold his ears
against the agony of her sharp words.

“Do you begin to understand, my friend?” Ian asked softly.
“She only wishes to beat me over the head with my staff. You, she would flay to
shreds.”

Murdoch twitched from the pain. “How do you turn her off?”

“Not angering her helps,” Ian answered in satisfaction,
climbing to his feet and catching Chantal’s arm before she could decide to
swing at him.

And once she was in his arms, it was too much for a man to
bear to resist kissing her.

“I came back,” he reminded her with a murmur. “You owe me
for not dying.”

On the carriage ride back to the inn where the rest of
their party had taken refuge, Chantal closed her eyes and leaned against Ian’s
uninjured shoulder, sheltered by his wide chest and strong arm, his heated kiss
still burning on her lips. She had stood on her own for so long that even
though she knew better than to depend on anyone else, she craved the comfort of
sharing a moment with a man who at least pretended to care about her. She loved
her father, but she knew she came second after his zeal to make France a better
place — rightly so, but once in a while…

Of course, she would never have dared accept this luxury had
Ian been awake, but he’d dozed off some miles back — after his prisoner in the
seat across from them.

Both men were striking in their harsh, angular features and
lean, hard bodies, but Ian’s mouth could be tender, and his gaze held peace and
assurance, whereas Murdoch possessed nothing soft or safe about him. She wished
Ian could have left him behind or turned him over to the authorities for
whatever he’d done. She could see no good coming of traveling with a man who
was willing to kill for what he wanted.

“Just shriek if he breaks loose,” Ian murmured into her
hair, proving he did not sleep at all.

She should have jumped in startlement, or at least eased
away so she was not so comfortably ensconced in his embrace, but she remained
where she was, absorbing the steady beat of his heart. “I do not shriek,” she
asserted. “I merely hit notes others cannot.”

Ian chuckled, and she loved the rumble of it coming from
deep in his chest.