Murdoch flew face-first into the dusty road.
And immediately rolled upright, calling the wind in a blast so powerful it threw Ian as well as half a dozen villagers backward. Even in wrath, he concealed his gifts — an admirable restraint he must have learned recently, Ian thought, rising and dusting himself off.
“The Chalice of Plenty is on my side,” Murdoch declared. “Let it be, and all will be well. You have hoarded it for your own purposes for too long.”
“We protect it,” Ian protested, erecting a barrier of impermeable air between them. “Aelynn has no reason to exist if we cannot guard it. We will all die.”
“Or emigrate,” Murdoch said scornfully, “like the royal cowards. Leave, Ian. Go home.”
Without warning, Murdoch disappeared, leaving only a rippling iridescence where he’d stood.
Ian blinked to clear his eyes but saw only a blurry mirage where Murdoch had been. He shook his head in disbelief.
Invisibility was not an ability Aelynn bestowed upon the island’s inhabitants. What had Murdoch done?
Nineteen
“I hope you are well rested. We must leave for the border at once.”
Bathing her father’s brow with cool water, Chantal stared at the disheveled man who barged into the room. The normally unflappable, arrogantly assured man she’d come to know had metamorphosed into the equivalent of unstable gunpowder. Ian’s boots were scorched and covered in dust. With his queue undone and his thick curls windblown, he looked as if he’d fought an army. Fear clawed her insides at the glitter of fury in his midnight eyes and the rigidity of his unshaven jaw.
“What happened?” she demanded.
That her father let her speak for him revealed the extent of his weakness.
“The king has lost his escort. It will take a miracle for him to escape now. Messengers bearing the news from Paris have already reached these outskirts. The bloody future I predicted is almost upon us.” For a moment, regret etched lines about his mouth.
She might feel sympathy for him if the words future I predicted had not lodged in her brain, preventing any immediate reply.
Instead, Pierre rose from his prayers beside the bed to intrude upon the conversation. “I’ll ride alone to the border. There is no sense in endangering everyone for my sake.”
Taller and broader than the younger man, Ian did not move from the doorway. “Your sister and her children require your presence. We stay together,” he ordered, as if he had a right to do so.
“I cannot go with you,” Chantal pointed out. “Papa is too ill to travel. The border is not that distant. The rest of you should go and leave us here.”
After the words she and Ian had exchanged earlier, she was more determined than ever to be rid of him. He assumed too much if he thought he had any claim on her, or that she would trail after him like a camp follower — no matter how much she inexplicably desired him. He and Pauline had endangered her entire world, and now it seemed they had brought it crashing down. She could not forgive him.
And insanely, she still wanted him, clear down to the marrow of her bones. She wanted to cleanse his sweat-caked face with her cloth, press kisses to his bristled jaw, and comfort him with caresses. And much more.
The heated look he bestowed on her said he felt the same, and she almost burst into flames. This adolescent lust was impossible.
“You do not understand,” Ian said patiently. “The roads will soon be crawling with National Guards preventing anyone from crossing the border. We must go now.” Tearing his gaze from Chantal, he turned to Pierre. “Fetch your sister and the children, have the carriage brought out. Chantal, help them gather their belongings. I will tend to your father.”
He stepped aside to allow Pierre to pass. Chantal had expected Pierre to protest again, but he abruptly clamped his lips closed and hurried to obey Ian’s wishes — just as everyone else did.
Despite the terror Ian’s appearance struck in her heart, and the authority of his commands, she would not be so easily ordered about. “I have sent for a physician. We will not leave before he arrives. Take Pauline and her family, and we will follow later.”
Not wasting his energy to argue, Ian strode to the bed and tested her father’s pulse. “Orateur, tell your daughter she has no choice.”
“I suppose besides being monk and warrior, you are a physician as well?” she asked cuttingly when her father failed to reply.
“I can work some healing,” Ian agreed without dispute. He sent her a meaningful look that she felt in every place he’d ever touched her. “I can do it better without your charms to distract me.”
Just when she was prepared to smack him for his temerity, he offered flattery to rearrange her thinking. That he even hinted at such vulnerability drained her of all her righteous anger.
“Go, Chantal,” her father said hoarsely. “Do as he says. I’ll be fine.”
“You are not fine for traveling,” she argued, but neither man listened. Tense and unsettled, she wanted a rousing quarrel, but upsetting her father wouldn’t help anyone.
Channeling her irritation into a low hum, Chantal picked up the chalice she’d hidden under her skirts beneath her foot, prepared to walk out and not come back until Ian was gone.
“Take time to calm yourself,” Ian called after her. “We do not want to stir the populace into another riot.”
Calm herself, indeed! His presumption knew no bounds. She should heave the damned lump of silver at his inflated head. That would show him what happened when she wasn’t calm.
She was not as good at persuasive argument as her father was, one of the many reasons she buried her soul in music. Thinking rebellious thoughts, hugging the chalice, she flounced out. Only after she slammed the door did she feel Ian’s pain. Or was that her father? And why, by all that was holy, would she think she felt anything except her own wounds?
At least the children had had a nice nap and did not complain when they were loaded into the carriage again. Their driver had decided to return to Paris, most likely to report their escape, Chantal thought grimly. It was full dark as Pierre retied the baggage, and she harnessed the horses. The moon was losing its plumpness, but it was still bright enough to see.
As much as she enjoyed cradling the soothing chalice like an infant, Chantal needed to tend to the real children. She stored the valuable object under her seat and played games with them while they waited for the rest of their party.
Pauline was too distraught to be useful. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she wrung her hands in her skirt. Pierre had evidently told her that the escape plans were falling apart.
Chantal preferred not to think about it. A king so weak that he would abandon his people was no king at all, in her opinion. She would contemplate no further than that. Except, in her heart, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.
No longer protected by her cozy bubble of security, she recognized the danger of Paris erupting in flames, and a tear crept from her eye. Her home was lost to her.
Ian arrived, acting as her father’s support until he settled the older man on the seat beside her. She would curse Ian for dragging an ill man into the night, except she sensed the urgency of the situation. She wanted to be furious with him, but no matter how hard she tried, reason ruled her head. Or maybe it was lust clouding her reasoning.
She tried to test her father’s forehead, but he shrugged her off.
“I’m well enough. I have all eternity to rest. Let us be on our way.”
Ian leaned through the doorway. “Hold the chalice, Chantal. Do not let it go again. Sing songs, and all will be well.” He shut the door without waiting for a reply.
How could he see through the darkness to know the chalice wasn’t in her arms?
In the street outside the inn yard, a pipe picked up the notes of the “Carmagnole,” and a drummer pounded the beat as the local militia began their nightly parade. She shivered in fear at what would happen should they suspect that the inn’s guests were not heading
to a wedding party.
She would have to disturb everyone to kneel on the floor and lift her father’s seat to gain the chalice. It was much safer where it was. But because she thought it best to keep the children happy, she began singing while the men tethered the string of horses.
Once that task was completed, she expected Pierre to roll the carriage out of the yard. Instead, Ian returned, yanked open the door, and bodily lifted her father to the ground, propping him against the side of the carriage. When he reached for her, she smacked his hand.
“I am not a piece of luggage,” she hissed. “What is wrong with you?”
“You must hold the chalice,” he insisted. “I ask no more of you than that.”
He asked a great deal more, and they both knew it. “You are mad! It’s a lump of silver and not a child that needs coddling.”
Ian growled and reached for her again. Hastily, Chantal kneeled on the floor and opened the seat. Pauline leaned over to help her hold the velvet cushions while Chantal dug around to find the chalice among the carriage blankets and children’s toys.
“Thank you,” Ian said stiffly once they’d located the object and returned the cushion to its place. “Think of it as an infant you must care for.” He assisted her father back in and strode off.
“Honestly, who does he think he is?” Chantal muttered, but she’d already unwrapped the cloth and stroked the chalice to calm herself, so her anger had no edge to it.
“You brought this on yourself,” her father replied tiredly. “Do you have any idea what you did by promising yourself to him?”
“I did no such thing,” she murmured while Pauline sang to the children and the carriage lurched into motion.
“He thinks you have, and he’s not the kind of man who would make a mistake in that.”
“You would take his word over mine? I barely know the man.” The chalice grew warm, and she snuggled it beneath her breasts. The warmth seeped through her skin and radiated through her blood. She suffered an embarrassing desire to share her body with Ian again.
What was wrong with her? She never felt such strong urges, and now she couldn’t think of anything else. But she was no longer angry with Ian. Instead, she sensed the genuine concern beneath his curt orders, and a loneliness in him so strong that she longed to comfort him.
“Then he tricked you into doing his will,” her father said wearily. “I don’t have the knowledge to unbind that kind of vow. You will have to go with him to find out more.”
Chantal tested her father’s forehead to see if fever had addled his brains, but out of the inn’s heat, he felt cooler. “I don’t know what you mean. I go with you. Do you think there is any chance that the servants will not mention our absence? We could go home, if so.”
“No, damn his blasted foresight, Ian is right, and I have been a fool. All hell will break loose now, and the streets of Paris will run with blood. Maybe someday we can return, if you still wish to do so, but not now.”
With that, he fell silent, leaving Chantal cold and afraid. How would they survive without their work? Their homes? Her father lived for his duties in the Assembly. The piano she had left behind was her life. Stunned, she sat back against the seat as her heart slowly turned to stone.
It might be some consolation that she was free to stay with Pauline and the children, but she could not picture such a future. She’d never been one to plan ahead, because it was too impossible to predict the disasters that inevitably occurred.
Ian seemed to think he could predict the future, but he was wrong. He had to be. Seeing the deaths of loved ones would be too devastating to endure. She would far rather embrace the moment.
Which was how she’d ended up in this position in the first place.
“We are not following the Châlons road,” Pauline whispered over the head of the sleeping child in her arms.
“If that is the route the royal party took, it would be too dangerous,” Chantal whispered back. “Pierre must have decided to go straight north.”
Pauline wiped her tears on the shoulder of her gown rather than disturb Marie. “I hate this,” she whispered vehemently.
Chantal nodded her agreement, but there was nothing she could say that would ease her friend. Beside her, her father snored lightly.
The moon was visible out their western window, and Chantal had nodded off when she heard Ian’s stallion take off at a great gallop. She was riding on the rear-facing seat next to the eastern window. Ian had been trotting nearby just a moment ago, but when she looked out, he and his horse were merely a speck disappearing over a hill to the south.
The carriage faltered and lurched in a rut, then continued, more slowly than before. Pierre was not an experienced driver. What was happening?
She stroked the chalice to ease her anxiety, but it did not seem to calm her as well as usual. Oddly, she could sense Ian’s fury and his fear for her and their party. Most likely, she was dreaming. Groggy from lack of sleep, she shivered and wished for her cozy bed.
She nodded off, dreaming of what she and Ian had done in that bed. Aroused, she squirmed in her seat while desire rose like a heated arrow into her midsection.
She could almost hear Ian’s soft murmurs of assurance, feel his fingers where she needed his touch. And if she concentrated hard enough —
She quivered as her inner muscles spasmed with release. Briefly, she almost sensed Ian’s sorrow at parting, but the lethargy carried her back to sleep.
In the distance, lightning flared and thunder boomed, even though not a cloud blocked the stars’ light.
Twenty
Crushing the stallion’s reins, Ian closed his eyes and cast a mental shield against the psychic blow vibrating the universe — the royal party had been captured. Despite the shield, his mind suffered terror and despair as grim soldiers in the unadorned blue uniforms of National Guardsmen surrounded the king’s berlin.
Emotions he’d contained for decades abruptly tore through the newly opened crack in his heart. How could he hope to lead Aelynn into a safe future if he could not manage even a small part of this chaotic Other World? The anguish of loss and failure reduced him to a spill of ash.
Into this momentary weakness, a bolt of lightning exploded, splintering an oak tree not a hundred yards in front of him. Rapscallion reared, nearly unseating Ian, startling him from despair.
Murdoch. No thundercloud darkened the stars. No other bolts lit the sky. Only Murdoch could produce lightning from the blue.
Murdoch was the reason Ian had put a distance between himself and the carriage. The renegade had left the company of the duc’s guards and abandoned the royal party to their fate. If it was Murdoch’s desire to end France’s monarchy, as he’d insinuated, he’d all but sealed the death warrant.
Ian set aside his anguish and lowered his shield to search his surroundings. He found his nemesis approaching, no doubt intent on gaining the chalice. Now that the royal party was captured, Murdoch was free to take the next step to further his ambitions. That he meant to aid the revolutionaries was evident. That his resentment of the Olympus leadership of Aelynn had led him to his choice was equally evident, and right now, Ian blocked Murdoch’s access to the chalice.
Rapscallion pawed the ground, refusing to proceed further. Reluctantly, Ian acquiesced. He had no bloodlust for the duel Murdoch demanded, and the horse should not be made to suffer for the decisions of mankind — or of Aelynners.
Apparently Murdoch had been so attuned to the chalice that he’d sensed the brief moment when Chantal had let it out of her arms. Now that he knew where it was and how easily it could be obtained, there would be no stopping him.
With Chantal as his incentive, Ian could no longer afford to fail in this final task.
With heavy heart, he dismounted. He removed his staff, tied the reins to the saddle, then smacked the creature into following the mares. Rapscallion willingly departed without his rider.
Shrugging out of his coat, Ian studied the battlefield Murdoch had select
ed. Tall trees surrounded the narrow deer path leading away from any form of civilization. No eyes but those of the forest would see them. They could use their gifts more freely here. For now, Murdoch was some distance away. Ian had time to choose the best position.
Unfastening the scabbard he’d borrowed from Chantal’s father, he worked his way to the top of the nearest hill, regretting his amacara vows. Chantal’s desire coursed through him, and his own body mindlessly responded. Desire was a powerful inspiration to avoid warfare. He wanted to be breeding heirs, not fighting with a man who’d been like a brother to him.
Finding a clearing beneath the stars, Ian clenched his staff in both fists and slowly began to twirl it. Chantal’s desire flooded through him, destroying any hope of concentration. With his mind, he sought hers, touching it briefly, thinking of her lovely breasts, the downy patch between her slender legs, probing with his mind until he felt her clench on the brink of orgasm, then gently pushing her over.
Her release flowed through him, easing some of the ache in his own loins. He hoped she slept now. He did not want her to feel his pain. He’d known the amacara connection was strong, but he had not realized how strong. Chantal was already learning to recognize the sensations of his body that he could not block from his mind — and he, hers. In an ideal world, that would guarantee open communication between a couple, but this world was far from ideal.
He spun his staff in front of him, hoping to return his focus to the stars and Murdoch. If anything happened to him tonight, Chantal and the chalice should be safe — as long as she held it so Murdoch did not know where they were.
Those were not thoughts conducive to concentration. Ian worked harder, spinning the staff around his waist, lifting it higher, straining his muscles to carry the stout oak above him so he might find the future in the stars.
Blood stained the constellations. Death shuddered along the heavens. A barrage of heavy artillery exploded in the night sky. Through it all rode Murdoch, his uniform untouched, at one with his horse.
Mystic Rider Page 17