“I am not a thief,” Trystan shouted, covering three strides to her one. “The chalice belongs to Aelynn. I am simply retrieving what is ours.”
“Simply retrieving it will land us both in the dungeon! Does your magic open locks?”
“I don’t have magic.” He slowed down enough to look at her with disgust. “Is that what you thought I could do? Raise a magic wand and produce food?”
“I had no idea what you could do. My mother predicted you would save us in a time of great trouble. You have wealth. Your island has wheat. Perhaps she meant you would share.” She was almost out of breath from running after him, and she was heartily tired of trying to explain herself.
“We don’t interfere in the affairs of the Outside World.”
She danced ahead of him and stomped his boot with her wooden sabot. Trystan yelped in surprise, then undeterred, lifted her by her elbows, set her aside, and continued down the street.
“That was unnecessary,” he said coldly.
“Perhaps you would have preferred a kick to the shin? You interfere in our world every time you sail a ship into it. You interfere by stealing the baroness’s wedding gift.” She would like to say, You interfere by tying me up like a dressed pig, but she preferred not to remind him of that episode.
“I’ll admit, we have become lax in our standards.” Obviously indulging in his masculine ability to think only one thing at a time, Trystan halted across the street from the silversmith’s.
The chalice was no longer in the window.
“Do you want to ask, or shall I?” she murmured, appalled.
“It could be on his workbench.” Setting his square jaw, Trystan flipped back the flaps of his satin coat to reveal his sword hilt, and stalked across the street and into the shop.
Mariel hurried after him. She didn’t know how much a foreigner understood of her tumultuous country, or how far his fury would take him. Somehow, Trystan and the chalice had become her responsibility, and she must look after them.
“The baroness has sent us for the chalice,” Trystan informed the smith with an intimidating authority that almost had Mariel convinced. “Where is it?”
A slight man with thinning gray hair, Daniel Dupre, the store’s owner, looked even more nervous now than he had earlier. Mariel sidled closer and smiled reassuringly at a man she knew only slightly.
“I-I’m s-sorry, m-monsieur,” Dupre stuttered, crooking his neck backward to meet Trystan’s piercing gaze. “A maid picked it up after you left. I told her you wished to speak to the baroness, and she promised to pass on the message.”
“Where is this maid who steals my chalice?” Trystan thundered with Olympian rage.
Mariel tugged at his silk-coated sword arm before he did anything rash. He cast her a swift glance, and with an odd shake, seemed to lessen his godly superiority until he appeared a normal, slightly irritated, and very large aristocrat.
“With the lady?” the smith answered, as if afraid to make a statement that Trystan might object to. “They left in a carriage for Pontivy. Perhaps you could catch up with them.”
Muttering words under his breath that Mariel could not translate, Trystan swung on his heel and marched out. Passersby darted out of his path as he rushed past them.
“Where can I find a carriage?” In his polished boots, with the tail of his coat flapping in accompaniment to his furious strides, he hurried down the street, gazing toward the east as if he could catch a glimpse of the baroness and her entourage. It was just past the summer solstice, and daylight still lingered at this hour.
“A horse would be faster and less expensive.” If her cousin had left only a little while ago, a good horse might have a chance of catching up. Maybe.
“We live on an island. We sail ships, not horses,” he said grumpily, his powerful legs in their tight breeches finally faltering to a stop as he realized he had no idea where he was going.
“The only carriages are at the castle.” Mariel couldn’t look at him, fearing steam would rise from his ears much as it did from a volcano. “We have only farm carts.”
“What would I have to do to obtain a carriage at the castle?”
From his tone, she knew he understood the difficulty. “Steal it?” she suggested. Carriages were rare on the coast. Everyone used water for travel, except Pontivy was not on the sea.
He heaved a sigh of exasperation and glanced around. “Let’s eat and discuss this further.”
“I cannot leave Francine alone much longer. Will you come home with me? We still have bread, and I brought a fish home. And the garden should have sprouted a few new greens.”
“You brought fish?” He reluctantly fell into stride with her. “You do not feel guilty about eating your comrades?”
Mariel cast him a quick glance to see if he laughed at her. His stony face revealed no expression, but she was learning that the stiff god had a slight indentation beside his mouth when he smiled, and his jutting chin dimpled when he was angry. His eyes seemed to change hue with his mood, like hers. Right now they were a flinty gray.
“In our world, God gave us plants and animals so we would not go hungry,” she explained. “I have far more in common with whales than fish. A shark wouldn’t hesitate to eat me. I don’t hesitate to eat a fish. Do you not eat fish?”
“We live on fish. I was just curious.”
For a brief moment, a hint of sadness clouded his eyes and tired lines crinkled their corners. And then he shook off the mood as he’d shaken off his enraged god stance. With raised eyebrows, he waited when she stopped at Francine’s modest stone cottage.
Her sister had planted poppies by the gate and iris beneath the windows. The iris had lost their blooms, but the first of the poppies caught the evening sun in a burst of red. Mariel pushed open the sagging whitewashed gate and entered the tiny yard. A lamp flickered in the window. Francine was still making lace.
Nervously, Mariel eased open the carved wooden door. “My sister earns coins by making lace,” she murmured before entering. “Does everyone in your home dress as plainly as those I saw?”
“We are not inclined to wear lace,” he agreed, keeping his voice soft so anyone inside would not hear.
“A shame.” Sighing at this potential loss of income to a clientele who might actually have coins to pay, Mariel entered the narrow front room.
Francine was already struggling to her feet, looking anxiously to Mariel and then to the large man who had to bend over to dodge the low lintel.
“I am sorry to be so late, but I ran into a friend.” Mariel stepped aside. “Madame Francine Rousseau, Monsieur Trystan…d’Aelynn.” She did not have a better way of introducing him. The woman called Lissandra had introduced him as l’Enforcer, and that did not seem quite… appropriate.
“My pleasure, madame.” He bowed over Francine’s hand as if she were as noble as any court lady. His golden queue of hair fell over his shoulder. “Please do not disturb yourself on my account. Your sister was concerned about you, and I simply escorted her home.”
“Oh, you must come in and have a bite to eat,” Francine replied breathlessly, staring at Trystan the same way Mariel must have the first time. Stronger than Hercules… more beautiful than a sun-blessed day. The story was imprinted on their minds. Golden gods were hard to miss—especially when wearing a gentleman’s bejeweled sword and rapier.
When it seemed the golden idiot intended to take himself off without eating, Mariel murmured under her breath, “You will not find a carriage without me.”
He slanted her a look that could mean he might murder her or humor her. She was too overwrought to care. Francine would be expecting miracles now, when all Mariel had done was bring disaster.
“I’ll fry up the salted fish with some of the wild garlic,” Mariel told her sister. “Have you eaten? Sit down before you wear me out watching you. Monsieur d’Aelynn, have a seat at the table. The fare is simple, but we cannot let you go hungry.”
“Bring out the wine,” Francine called
as Mariel crossed the front room to the kitchen. “Eduard would be insulted if we did not provide our guest with wine.”
Eduard should be here looking after his wife, but glory, honor, and country came first, Mariel thought, slapping fish into a skillet.
At least the winter had not harmed the wine cellar. And they still had many of their parents’ cherished possessions, so their plates were hand-painted porcelain and the table a beautifully polished walnut topped with Francine’s lace cloth. Normally, Mariel stroked them with pleasure at the memory of sharing happy meals. At the moment, she only hoped Trystan was suitably impressed that they were not ignorant peasants.
The muscular gentleman standing formidably in front of delicate china and lace wasn’t a god, admittedly. He might be a prince, but mostly, he was a narrow-minded male who believed in duty above all, just like her brother-in-law.
Francine poured the wine into their crystal before taking her seat at the table. Trystan remained standing until Mariel returned with bread and fish and greens. She used a bit of the wine and a spoon of precious olive oil to create a vinaigrette, set out the costly loaf of bread, then took her seat beside Francine. Trystan finally lowered his large frame onto a sturdy chair.
“I am not accustomed to such fine dining,” he admitted after they said grace. “I spend much of my time aboard ship with men who eat off tin at a crude table carved with their initials. This is a luxury, thank you.”
Francine beamed as if he’d given her silver and gold. “This is a very meager repast, I fear. Next time, we will be better prepared.”
As if there would be a next time. Softened by his generous display of gratitude, Mariel sent their guest a surreptitious look. She appreciated his behaving nobly on Francine’s behalf. Impatience ticked his jaw muscle, but she saw no mockery in his expression.
“So, Monsieur d’Aelynn, what brings you to our fair town?” Francine asked.
Mariel willed her hands not to tremble while waiting for his reply. Trystan slanted her a flinty look that spoke volumes, but he answered as a gentleman should.
“Mundane business, I fear. Mademoiselle St. Just has been courteous in introducing me to the right people.”
“Do you stay at the castle?” Francine asked with interest.
“My business there is over. I will continue on to Pontivy this evening.”
Mariel couldn’t tolerate the polite evasions any longer. Reassured that she wasn’t in imminent danger of being strangled, she addressed both of them. “He’s a stranger and does not know our ways. I have told him I will help him find Pontivy.” She gave Francine a meaningful look, hoping her sister understood that she must help their mother’s prediction come true.
“Pontivy,” Francine murmured, trying to hide her dismay. “That is so far.”
“If we find a cart tonight, we could be there by sunset tomorrow,” Mariel assured her. Providing they didn’t sleep, the weather held, the road wasn’t mud, and they weren’t beset by brigands in the duc’s forest.
“It is not necessary that you come with me,” Trystan said stiffly. “I will be obliged if you will help me find transportation, but you must stay with your sister.”
“I will ask the neighbors to look after Francine,” Mariel persevered, “but I cannot in all good conscience allow you to travel without a guide.”
On the face of it, her argument was without basis. Trystan’s sword and size would terrify brigands into hiding. He might run afoul of a soldier or two should he be forced to steal the chalice, but Francine would not know that. Mariel simply knew she could not leave him to the task that her perfidy had caused. She knew the baroness. He did not.
Francine’s pale brow wrinkled in worry as she glanced between them, obviously balancing all the implications of danger versus savior, as well as the impropriety of an unmarried couple traveling together.
With a growl of exasperation, Trystan ended the dilemma. He addressed Francine but pointed his knife in Mariel’s direction. “Help your sister pack her belongings. When I return from Pontivy, she sails with me as my bride.”
“Over my dead body,” Mariel replied sweetly, rising to take her plate to the kitchen.
Francine’s startled gaze darted back and forth.
“That can and will be arranged,” Trystan shouted after her.
So much for politeness. Fighting a frisson of fear, Mariel kicked the door closed at the sound of Francine’s faint “Oh, dear.”
Her sister was made of stern stuff. She could deal with the lummox while Mariel let her temper reduce from boil to simmer.
She had no intention of marrying, ever, especially a man who would take her from home.
Ten
“I will heave you over my shoulder and start walking if you do not quit making up stories and get in that cart,” Trystan muttered into the perfect shell of an ear not inches from his lips. Admittedly, he would rather nibble that ear, but now was not the time to anticipate how they would share the journey ahead.
The ear might as well be deaf for all the woman attached to it indicated that she’d heard. Mariel stood tall and lovely beside the borrowed farm cart, like royalty bestowing favors.
“Bless you for looking after Francine,” Mariel trilled to the elderly neighbor she’d cajoled into this task earlier. “My beloved is impatient to have Eduard’s approval before he must set sail. This is so kind of you.”
His beloved was an improvisational liar of the highest caliber, although he assumed she was merely protecting her sister from gossip with this bit of stage dressing. Trystan leaned over and nibbled her seemingly deaf ear, and when she turned in shock, he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the rest of her lies before she could speak them.
Mariel squeaked in surprise. Her eyes widened. Then, to his satisfaction, her lashes swept downward, she balanced her hands on his shoulders, and she kissed him back, with as much enthusiasm as he could possibly desire.
So much enthusiasm that he almost didn’t come up for air. Her plump lips tasted of sunshine and sea and promises far beyond all he’d come to expect…
Gasping, he pulled back. She stared back with as much astonishment as he felt.
Struggling to regain control of his situation, Trystan wrapped his arm around her shoulder, knowing she had to comply with the loving gesture to verify her story. She shot him a glare from beneath lowered lashes, and with a smug grin, he hugged her tighter.
“It is the least we can do for the generous gentleman who brought us wheat,” the old lady assured them, beaming happily at their lover-like behavior. “I hope Jacques’s cart will suit.”
Trystan didn’t know when he’d become the hero of the wheat story, but he was quite certain it had to have been at Mariel’s behest. Odd, that she didn’t bask in the effusive gratitude the villagers had displayed in their every encounter this evening. His amacara was as modest as she was devious.
The bakery was apparently working overtime. The entire town smelled of yeast. People were literally dancing in the street. He’d never been hugged and kissed so much in his life. But it was Mariel’s kiss that had him rethinking his disdain for emotional displays. His impatience gathered new momentum, and he tugged her toward the cart.
“We will fly on dreams,” Mariel promised the couple as he dragged her onward.
“Come along. The moon will light our way for a while yet.” Trystan bowed to Mariel’s sister, who had watched them worriedly throughout the evening. He understood Mariel’s concern for her. Francine seemed overly frail in her pregnancy.
“We have plenty of time to reach Pontivy,” Mariel murmured, tugging her skirts around her limbs as he practically heaved her into the cart. “I’ve learned the baroness is determined to wed on Saturday, before her chevalier leaves for his new appointment in Versailles.”
He ought to be worrying over returning her to Aelynn. He ought to be horrified imagining what would happen to the chalice in the hands of an infidel. Instead, Trystan was admiring Mariel’s trim ankle and wondering how lo
ng it would take to reach the next inn. He was surely ensorcelled.
She was his match. Even though he might not understand the reasoning, the gods had decreed it. He might as well enjoy the arduous task he’d been assigned. If he got her with child before they reached the altar, the chance of producing his heir was less, but there would always be next time. The gods had never failed to provide what the island needed.
First, they had to reach an inn. He’d always stayed in seaports during his travel, having no need to journey inland. Trystan glared dubiously at the swinging tail of the pony as he took his seat in the big-wheeled cart. He was a seafarer. He hadn’t driven a vehicle since he was a child and had hitched a goat to a garden cart.
“Shake the reins so they hit the pony’s sides,” she murmured beside him, straightening the lace cap that hid her magnificent hair.
Trystan slapped the leather up and down and winced when the pony broke into a trot, throwing him back against the hard wooden seat. “Walking would be simpler.”
“But not faster. Rein him in a little or you’ll run over someone.”
“Why aren’t you driving if you know so much about it?” He pulled back on the leather a little and breathed easier when the pony slowed. The jostling trot would have driven his tailbone into his skull if he’d maintained it much longer.
She eyed him skeptically. “You would let me?”
“Why should I not?” he asked. “Goats are the biggest beasts we have at home. I know nothing of even a small horse like this.”
“Here, men do not let women drive. A widow might be excused for using a pony cart, but no man would allow a woman to take the leather. It would offend their honor.”
Trystan snorted. “Your world is ridiculous.”
“No more so than one made of powerful gods who refuse to aid those who are different from them,” she retorted.
The argument was specious, and he refused to take her up on it.
The seaside village of Pouchay had only one main road inland, so Trystan had no difficulty following it. Once they were beyond the last cottage, he handed the reins to her. “Are those gloves thick enough to protect your hands?”
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