Mystic Rider (8 page)

Perhaps she could send Girard back to find him —

Which meant she was hoping the mysterious Monsieur d’Olympe
would follow her home.

Gulping at that stunning realization, she hurried the
children along and led Pauline to their waiting cart.

Frustrated, Ian traversed the prison’s corridors,
attempting to locate the source of the faint tingle that told him he was on the
right track.

The tingle abruptly ended.

Ian cursed. Either the chalice had left the premises, or his
ability to sense it had departed in the tumult of violent emotions in the huge
edifice.
He’d lost the chalice.
He
clenched his staff and resisted the urge to swing it in the midst of the mob.

He needed the stars and an open field where he could
meditate without the constant bombardment of human passions. He was better at Seeing
than at Finding
.
The gods must be
toying with him to send him here, or teaching him the meaning of living without
their aid.

It did not take long to determine that asking questions was
a waste of time. The chalice had undoubtedly been taken as a bribe, and no one
would admit to accepting one. He left suggestions that he was in the market to
buy such an object and gave Chantal’s direction should anyone wish to take up
his offer.

Then nudging the mind of the gate guard as he had earlier to
free Pauline, he walked out of the prison and into the street.

He was coming to appreciate Kiernan’s difficulty in locating
the elusive chalice. It was as if once the chalice had led him here to free the
woman and her children, it had gone on to new pursuits. Ian prayed that
whatever the chalice did next would not include Murdoch. The thought of having
a dangerous rogue loose in the same city as the sacred object chilled him to
the bone.

Perhaps his task was to find Murdoch first and hope the
chalice would follow.

Unaccustomed to failure, Ian walked off his annoyance,
returning to Chantal’s home on foot. Perhaps the gods heard him only on Aelynn,
and that was why he had not succeeded. He must learn to practice his gifts
without divine intervention.

He had little difficulty using his ability to direct others
out of his way. Opening a path through a crowd was a game he’d practiced since
youth. Even men as gifted as Trystan and Kiernan seldom noticed when he
influenced their direction, so these Other Worlders were no challenge.

But he could not extend the game to include persuading
others to do what they did not wish. Had the guards not been bored and ready to
go home, he could not have maneuvered them into allowing all the visitors
entry. Admittedly, it was much easier manipulating people whose emotions he
could read clearly. Genuine boredom was easy to detect even without his special
abilities. Finding a soldier willing to take a valuable bribe like the chalice
would be more tricky.

Ian wearily approached Chantal’s elegant residence. He
couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten or slept. Perhaps with a little rest and
meditation, his course would become clear.

Could he hope to share that rest with Chantal under her
father’s roof? The hope of once again attempting to create the child the island
needed hurried his footsteps. He had no doubt that the gods had chosen Chantal
as his amacara for a reason he had yet to grasp, but for now, it suited him
just to know she was the most enchanting creature he’d ever met. Her music
enthralled, and her sexual responsiveness was beyond anything he’d expected. He
would welcome such enjoyment after a day’s work.

Perhaps he would discover the mark of the gods on her and
prove that she was a gifted Crossbreed of Aelynn blood. Except those born with
the dark skin designs designating the favor of a particular god were rare and
of greater ability than Chantal had revealed thus far.

The guard at her gate let him pass without question. Away
from the river, the air was less chilly, and Ian opened his robe to allow a
breeze to freshen his shirt as he strode toward the door. He still found the
breeches confining, but considering his body’s response to Chantal’s presence,
perhaps the discretion of confinement was necessary. Restraint had never been a
problem until he’d met his amacara.

Food, rest, and bed play should restore him by morning.

As he had earlier, the servant at the door allowed Ian in
after only a minor mental nudge. He offered to take Ian’s robe, but Ian had
some understanding that appearing without an outer garment was improper, so he
kept it on. With his drab robe flapping at his boot heels, he took the wide
marble stairs two at a time.

At this moment, Chantal’s presence was much more vivid in
his mind than the need to locate the chalice. Ian thought he could find her
anywhere, if only by the music she radiated. By the time he reached the top of
the stairs, he followed voices instead of instinct.

He came upon the women in a pretty room lined with flowered
paper and filled with delicate-looking chairs he wasn’t certain he dared sit
upon. Pauline sat nervously on the edge of her seat, and Chantal was at a
writing desk, pen in hand, looking worried.

Her expression of relief upon his arrival was so delightful
that Ian crossed the floral carpet to kiss her. The gasp of the other woman
reduced his enthusiastic salute to a less-than- satisfactory peck on the lips.
He had to remember this was not his home, and Chantal not yet his.

“I was about to send Girard in search of you,” she exclaimed
with concern when he stepped back. “Have you eaten? I will send my maid for a
tray.”

She didn’t wait for his reply to signal a young girl and
order a repast. Ian’s belly rumbled in anticipation. He turned to the woman
clutching a china cup and staring at him in apprehension. The contrast between
Pauline’s dark hair and pale face was stark.

“I mean you no harm,” he said reassuringly, answering the
fear he heard in her mind.

“How did you release us?” Her cup rattled against the
saucer, and she set them aside. “Will they come looking for us here?”

“Not until the court orders you presented for trial. The
prison is too crowded and their records are” — he gestured to indicate his
inability to explain — “not reliable.”

“And Pierre?”

“I have inquired about your brother. He is to go before a
judge tomorrow. I will seek him out there.”

“You will?” Chantal’s friend breathed the words with hope.
“Please, what can we do for you in return?”

“I assume the gods have a plan. I will consult them later.”
Glancing around, he found a sturdy wing chair that might suit him and took a
seat as if he belonged there. Sinking into concentration, he focused on Chantal
to study his impressions of her…and her mysterious music.

* * *

Chantal stared at the man making himself at home in her
feminine sitting room. At the moment, despite his declaration that he spoke to
gods,
Ian d’Olympe was very much a man,
not a monk. His robe fell open to reveal the broad width of his shirt and the
snugness of his fawn breeches as he crossed one booted foot over the other. She
heard Pauline smother a gasp and could only imagine what her friend thought,
especially after his kiss.

This was all happening too fast. Whether he intended it or
not, Ian had assumed the role of lover with familiar access to her chambers.
She had never before taken a lover, but apparently she had one now.

A thrill coursed through her as she realized his gaze
conveyed a hunger for her as great as for the food the maid hastened to set
before him. The silence after his rash statement stretched long, and she rushed
to fill it.

“The gods normally consult with you?” she asked in what she
hoped was sophisticated amusement.

“Do you not consult with your god?” He tasted the wine set
before him and nodded in approval. “Pure ambrosia. Your wine is a part of
your…country…that I fully appreciate.”

He bit into a round of cheese before realizing they were
waiting for an answer.

Chantal noted he ate with a gentleman’s manners, using his
napkin appropriately and not guzzling his drink, but he also ate with the
enthusiasm of a healthy, famished male. She was unaccustomed to seeing food
disappear so quickly.

With the damask napkin, he removed a bread crumb from the
corner of his mouth and studied her with a piercing gaze. “My mother’s wisdom
in the matter of gods is greater than mine. She claims the ones we worship are
the same as your god and saints. We simply speak of them differently. If your
brother is a priest” — he nodded at Pauline — “I would like to discuss such matters
with him. There are many aspects of your…country…that I wish to learn more
about.”

Chantal noted that Pauline relaxed at this reply, but she
had heard Ian’s hesitation over the word
country
several times now. Why did she feel as if he substituted
country
for
world
?

“I’m certain he would be delighted to have that
conversation,” Pauline said shyly. “But I fear my brother must leave France
immediately should he ever be released from prison.”

Chantal knew her sister-in-law well. Pauline was one of the
queen’s ladies-in-waiting, as her mother had been in her youth. Jean and his
sister came from noble parentage, with estates near Versailles and Le Havre.
Pauline’s older brothers ran those estates now. Her late husband had left her a
small townhouse in Paris where she left the children with governesses while she
was at court. Since the royal couple had been effectively incarcerated in the
Tuileries Palace, Pauline now spent most of her nights at home.

Pauline had no desire to leave Paris, but she doted on
Pierre, her youngest brother. It would break her heart to see him exiled.

“Perhaps Pierre can live in Brussels with the émigré court
until things settle down,” Chantal suggested to soothe her friend’s anxiety.
Marie Antoinette, the queen, came from the Hapsburg empire that extended from
France’s borders all the way to the English Channel. “Many of the queen’s
friends are there.”

Pauline twisted her hands in her lap and feigned a smile. “I
hope you are right and that someday the Assembly will recognize that they need
the king as much as he needs them. And then perhaps King Louis will be able to
bring back the real church. But I fear that before that happens, the king’s
brothers will raise an army to free him, and the result will be war.”

In the brief time they’d conversed, Ian had consumed half a
plump hen, a small loaf of bread, a carafe of wine, and Cook’s famed creamed
vegetables. Chantal waited with interest to see whether he would belch and
slide under the table, or surprise her as he had been doing all day.

Using his finger bowl and napkin, Ian angled forward in the
chair, indicating his interest. “You are expecting war? With whom?”

“Pauline is afraid of change,” Chantal answered for her,
“and admittedly, the political climate is uncertain these days, but I’m sure it
will right itself once the country has wealth again. The theaters are still
open. We entertain as always. The duchess gives her usual ball tomorrow night.
Only the royal
ducs
are sulking
because they can no longer rob the poor as freely as before. You will see. We’ll
be fine.”

“The queen is virtually a prisoner,” Pauline argued quietly.
“She could not even leave the palace to attend Easter services, and she is
questioned and followed within her own walls. She cannot attend parties! It is
not the same at all.”

After that unexpectedly heated diatribe, Pauline hastily
stood and shook out her skirts. “I apologize, Chantal. I am not myself today.” She
turned to Ian. “I owe you my deepest gratitude, monsieur. Please, if you ever
have need of anything, do not hesitate to call on me. As soon as my family is
made aware of the great favor you have done us, they will feel the same. I beg
your leave this evening, however. My children are sleeping upstairs, and I wish
to join them.” She curtsied and departed.

Chantal was relieved to note that the monk knew to rise when
a lady did. Her relief was short-lived when he turned a heated gaze in her
direction. She could feel that look straight through flesh and blood to her
womb. No man had ever reminded her so forcefully of her sex.

“I have not found my chalice,” he said formally. “I must
speak with your servant about it. There is much I have yet to learn about your
country. Is your father home yet?”

“No, I’ve not heard from him” — which worried her more than
she would admit. Until today, the constant piping and drumming of marching
soldiers had not bothered her greatly, but now, the military notes drifting by
outside created cold shivers of alarm. “He may have been delayed and decided to
wait until morning. Shall I have a maid show you to a room?” She rose from her
chair to offer him a candle to light his way.

“I will find you later,” he said gravely. “First I will
speak to your servant. Then I must meditate on what I have learned. I will not
be long.”

His voice rumbled deep inside her with an erotic promise she
shouldn’t acknowledge. Instead of correcting him, she wanted to walk into his
arms and refuse to let him leave. Only, giving any man everything he desired
would be a serious mistake and a certain path to heartbreak. Giving this man
all he wanted would only encourage his presumption.

“You’ll find Girard in the kitchen. I can call for him if
you prefer.”

“No, I will find him. I thank you for the delicious meal.”
He approached her, and Chantal’s heartbeat escalated.

Now that they were alone, she ought to straighten out
matters before he assumed too much. Unfortunately, her tongue had difficulty
speaking what the rest of her disagreed with.

“Do not assume we will repeat what happened this afternoon,”
she managed to admonish despite her arguing body parts. “I live a respectable
life and do not wish to mar my father’s good name by behaving in a less than
circumspect manner.”