Mystic Rider (14 page)

“I will, but your daughter will go with me. You can name
your price for her, and I will see it delivered. You know that I have every
port in the world at my fingertips, and that an Olympus does not break his promises.”

Unflinchingly, Ian met the other man’s glare. Before he
could negotiate further, Chantal burst into the study. She’d discarded her
short jacket, leaving her breasts covered by a teasingly diaphanous scarf
tucked into a bit of printed muslin. Ian couldn’t drag his gaze from her
breasts.

“I have come to see…” She halted in perplexity at seeing
Ian. “I thought you had gone for Pierre’s things.”

“I told you I needed to speak with your father. A footman is
far better suited to packing bags than I am.”

“Of course, whatever was I thinking? Asking a monk to help a
man in need — how foolish of me!” She turned her back on Ian and faced her
father. “May I bring you some broth or one of Cook’s tea cakes to hold you
until dinner?”

Ian’s patience stretched thin, but he held on to it in order
to correct his mate’s erroneous assumptions. “As you are fully aware, a man is
not the clothes he wears. I am not a monk. It is important that your father and
I come to some agreement as quickly as possible, or I will be forced to use
other means — ”

“Stay out of her — ” Alain’s shouted command broke off with a
wince, apparently from a tug of a reminder from his ring.

Chantal’s big silver-blue gaze darted in concern from one
man to the other. “My father does not have your chalice. We must wait for
Pauline to discover its whereabouts.”

“That man is not what you think,” Alain tried to warn her,
but his ring would not allow him to say more.

Ian was glad he wasn’t the only one who was having
difficulty talking around the very large elephant in the room.

“Oh, I daresay he is everything I think and more,” Chantal
replied. “But I am not the woman he thinks I am, so it matters little. I have
sent word to Pauline that Pierre is free. She should be here in time for
dinner.”

Almost ethereal in her blond loveliness, she flounced out
with the air of an angry goddess.

“I am a decade younger than your mother,” Alain said
wearily, pouring another glass of brandy, “but I remember her well. She had
just married your father and taken her place as Oracle about the time I left.
She was proud and unyielding in her belief that she was right and anyone who
disagreed with her was wrong. If she has not changed, she and Chantal will kill
each other. You are in over your head.”

“My mother was the reason you left?” Ian asked, skirting
around the argument presented in search of its deeper meaning.

“She would not allow me to marry her cousin because my
family was too far beneath the mighty Olympians. I saw no future in staying. I
could talk the Council into agreement, but it would only take her veto to turn
me down. She is far stronger than France’s royalty.”

“But more concerned about the welfare of her people,” Ian
pointed out. “It is difficult being responsible for an entire population. My
father was strong enough to support and guide her. Chantal will do the same for
me, once she is free to grasp who I am.”

“Are you sure of that?” Alain asked in disgruntlement.
“Haven’t you once considered that your gods, or your interpretation of them to
suit your needs, might be mistaken? Are you prepared to stand up in the Council
and take her for your wife and their leader?”

No, he wasn’t. Ian acknowledged the truth with a nod. The
Council would have great difficulty accepting an Other World leader, and he did
not know Chantal well enough to believe she might be a good one. But his faith
in Aelynn was strong.

“I have a sister. There are alternatives,” he argued. “I
only know that Chantal is my amacara, and she will give us the heir we need for
the future. How can you deny your homeland, your own kind, the leader they require?”

“I am not denying anything. Chantal makes her own choices. I
give you permission to court her, but I do not give you permission to take
apart her mind to convince her to think as you do. If she says no, you must
accept her decision. That is the promise I will have of you.”

Ian hesitated, and his gut churned. He had skills,
experience, and knowledge beyond the comprehension of most of humankind, but he
could not tell Chantal any of that — until she formally bound herself to him at
the altar. She shielded herself well from his mental skills, but he knew that
given time and circumstances, he could seduce her into lowering her shields.

He did not have the luxury of time. If he gave his promise now,
he would have to woo her as would any normal man.

Orateur watched him with wry amusement. “Wishing for that
magical altar of yours, aren’t you? Tie her up, seduce her, and have your way
with her. That’s what they did with your mother’s cousin. Took her away from me
with that foolish magic. I’ll not have the same done to my child.”

The gauntlet was thrown. Ian bowed his head in acceptance of
the challenge. “I will not take her against her will, but you must remember,
that ‘foolish magic’ is from the gods. I cannot control how they will use it.”

“As long as I know you’re not controlling her, I’m
satisfied.”

Ian knew he did not need the altar to seduce Chantal. He’d
already done that. Or she had seduced him. The attraction seemed astonishingly
mutual.

The act of procreation wasn’t the problem. What he needed
was a miracle to convince Chantal to bond with him for all eternity and leave
all she knew and loved behind, when she had no idea of who or what he was or
where he would take her.

If he failed to make that bond, he could doom his home to
the same chaos that reigned here, which meant that failure was not acceptable.

Tucking three-year-old Marie between the sheets, Chantal
smoothed the child’s fine blond hair and kissed her forehead. “Your mama will be
up shortly to check on you, so show her how well you rest,
ma petite.
”

“Will Uncle Pierre have to go away like Mama said?” Anton
asked gravely from the other bed, sounding much older than his five years.

She hated seeing the children grow up so quickly. They
should have no more concerns than she’d had at that age. They should be chasing
butterflies through the fields.

She remembered Ian’s talk of a country with no war and
plenty for all, then reminded herself it had no dogs or horses either. No place
was perfect.

“Perhaps for a while, little one, but Papa Alain will talk
reason to people, and they will see this new law is wrong, and soon we will
have Uncle Pierre back again.” She did not fear making such a promise. Her
father could talk the sun from the sky given enough time.

“Will you sing to us, please?” Marie asked.

“Yes,” Anton agreed, snuggling beneath the linens. “I sleep
good when you sing.”

“Close your eyes, then. And I will sing of rocking horses to
fill your dreams.”

She’d created this song when Anton was born. It reminded her
of happier times and always eased her petty angers and anxieties. Preferring
the nursery to the argument that was going on in the rooms below, she sat down
in the rocking chair and began to sing softly.

Pauline, Pierre, and Ian had appropriated the study after
dinner, presumably to discuss matters of which she would not approve. Her
father had left to attend one of the many political salons to which he
belonged.

At the beginning of the Revolution, the salons had been
filled with excitement and the promise of a glorious future. Lately, the
discussions had deteriorated to angry partisan quarrels, and she no longer
enjoyed them. She wanted to play her music and laugh, watch the children run
and jump, and dream of a man with whom she might share such simple pleasures. Her
father fondly called her frivolous. If anger and hatred were serious, then she
preferred frivolity.

Which meant she much preferred wondering whether Ian would
come to her bed tonight than fretting over what he was plotting without her.

By the time her song ended, the children were asleep. She
brushed kisses across their brows and returned downstairs to her music chamber,
deliberately keeping her distance from the study. She was no good at plotting. All
she did was worry about consequences.

* * *

“Von Fersen has been driving Baroness von Korff’s fancy
carriage around Paris at all hours, so no one will be suspicious when he parks
near the house of his mistress,” Pauline explained. “He has been planning this
for months. It is smuggling the entire family out of the palace that is
problematic.”

And no doubt the reason the chalice had found its way into
the hands of the king, Ian assumed, although he could not say it aloud. He
wished he knew the chalice’s goal, if it had one, but it had freed Pauline, so
he must believe it meant to aid the royal family’s escape.

“And you want me to ride with the royals?” Pierre asked in
confusion. “How can I help?”

“In exchange for my chalice, I will provide cash for their
journey and arrange for loyal men to guard the king once he leaves the city,”
Ian explained.

“The king can trust no one,” Pauline said bitterly. “Even
our troops mutiny in favor of the radicals these days. Peasants, all of them!”

“Since the queen cannot even trust her brother, the Holy
Roman Emperor, we can’t say they are all peasants,” Pierre said dryly. “All of
Europe waits for France to die. What foreign court would dare take in our
king?”

“The queen’s family must,” Pauline argued. “Luxembourg is
under Hapsburg rule and the fortress at Montmédy is on their border. The
marquis de Bouillé’s can safely gather troops there. The duc de Choiseul will
guard us on the road once we reach his lands. The king still has some loyal
followers.”

“I repeat, how may I help?” Pierre demanded.

Ian knew nothing of the people Pauline mentioned but hoped,
for her sake, that she was right. He could explain only his part. “Von Fersen
will escort the royal party to the city gates, but once outside the city, they
will need guards and good horses. You will direct them to the place where they
must wait. You need only ride in the king’s company until he is safely on the
road to Montmédy. Then you may accept the chalice as payment for our services,
and I will arrange a faster route for you and meet you along the way.”

“It will be safe, you’ll see,” Pauline insisted. “The queen
will be dressed as the governess of the baroness’s children, and King Louis has
the passport of her steward. The baroness traveled east a few months ago, so
the guards at the gate shouldn’t be suspicious if her family returns that way.
You need only dress as one of her footmen. It will be simple.”

“Nothing is ever simple,” Pierre argued, but at last he
entered the discussion with more attention than he had earlier.

Ian had to concur with the unworldly priest, but he would
not complicate their schemes with his own. How to retrieve the chalice,
persuade Chantal to go with him, and prevent Murdoch from intervening were
problems that he would not share.

* * *

Playing a sprightly tune to buoy her flagging spirits,
Chantal faced the piano and not the music room’s entrance, but when her notes
changed to a sensual melody of spring breezes, birdsong, and love, she knew Ian
had entered. He radiated masculinity in ways that stimulated her senses,
confusing and exciting her.

He bent to kiss her brow much as she had done to the
children earlier, but his broad hand cupping her breast was not so innocent.

“The bath is being filled,” he murmured suggestively against
her ear.

She’d never bathed with a man, or even considered it. To
state it so boldly in a public room…

“Come, let us enjoy the warm water while we may.” Without
waiting for her consent, Ian took her elbow and urged her from the bench. He
was already barefoot!

Before she could so much as think of a protest, he pulled
her into his arms and kissed her, and the room became a garden of lush roses,
summer heat, and the pounding of surf in her ears.

Or perhaps it was just her heart beating. She clung to Ian’s
neck, stroking the fine hairs at his nape to verify his physical reality while
his lips and tongue performed a magic that reached her soul, erasing all
objection when he swept her off her feet and carried her from the room.

If they simply enjoyed the physical sensations binding them,
then she had no argument with him. Perhaps if they never talked…

He carried her down to the bathing room and barred the door.
Here, they were far enough from the main floor that no one could hear them. The
small marble-tiled room was filled with steam from the heated tub. The tub
itself was built in the Roman style, sunken into the ground, tiled, and large
enough for two or more. She knew her father had gone to great expense to
install pipes from a well and a stove to heat them, but she had little
understanding of how they worked. She merely laced the waters with bubbles and
appreciated the result.

She inhaled the intoxicating scent of jasmine as Ian lowered
her feet to the warm tile. Her bodice slid off her shoulders without her
awareness that the sash had been unfastened, and she hastily caught the muslin
before it slid past her bosom. She didn’t wish for him to see her naked.

“I want to admire all of you tonight,” he said, tracing his
knuckles over the top of her breasts and gently removing her grip on the
bodice. “This time, we will go slowly.”

He paralyzed her with his gentleness. She didn’t want to
fight him. He ran his hands into her hair, scattering the pins. In the steam,
her carefully fashioned curls fell limp, and her hair tumbled in thick tendrils
over her shift.

Chantal panicked slightly when Ian leaned over to kiss her
jaw, lowered his hands to her waist, and untied her skirt. Her head spun from
his caress, and she grasped his shoulders to steady herself. He ravished her
mouth with increasing arousal and shrugged out of his robe. The heat through
his shirt melted her hands as if they were wax, shaping them to his chest.