Mystic Guardian

by Patricia Rice

  Trystan disliked feeling as if he shirked his duty by walking away, but he did no one any good standing on a street corner. He had to find the chalice. Mariel would look after the boy if he’d returned to the inn.

  As he made his way to the castle and the baroness, once again wearing his silk, he was uncomfortably aware of the unusual number of armed soldiers in the streets. He fought the urge to keep his hand on his sword hilt. People stared enough at him as it was.

  To avoid notice once inside the stone fortress, Trystan turned his back on a priest and smiled at a pretty maid. Bowing, he inquired the direction to the baroness’s quarters.

  The corridors were chilly and lit only by sparsely spaced torches. His boot heels echoed against cold stone, and the tails of his frock coat rustled in the gloomy silence. He was a man of sea and sunlight. Dark figures lurking in shadows aroused suspicion in him. The words of rebellion heard earlier echoed in his ears. The urge to remove Mariel from such dangerous environs escalated.

  And the chalice. Imagining the ancient artifact roaming a land about to erupt in chaos, Trystan hurried faster.

  And almost ran straight into Nick.

  The boy grabbed his coat with an expression of relief, and contrary to expectation, began tugging him deeper into the bowels of the castle. “Hurry, hurry! I am sorry I was late, but I followed Madame Mariel.”

  They had not given the boy their full names, so he had none to call them by, Trystan observed as he raced down the stone corridor. An odd thing to think upon while his heart was about to leap from his chest in terror. Although why he should be terrified over a hellion like Mariel, who could get herself into and out of trouble faster than she could breathe, was beyond his capacity to reason at the moment. What the devil was she doing here?

  He heard her shouts before he saw her. Never had he been so eager to wring someone’s neck as he was now. Better that he do it than whoever menaced her at the moment.

  He slowed to a clipped gait as Nick raced around a corner and added his voice to the melee. Trystan’s first glimpse of Mariel was the impression of a mighty warrior about to smite de Berrier with her invisible sword. With her ebony hair piled high, she was as tall as the gentleman, and she wielded her slender hand with dramatic energy. Draped in the gauzy lavender silk Trystan had bought for her, her figure was graceful, but much too thin.

  He discarded his first impression when she swayed like a willow while reaching to hug Nick’s shoulders. It appeared as if she was using the boy for support.

  When she glanced up and gave him a blazing smile of welcome, Trystan nearly tripped over his own feet at the surprising warmth spreading through him. He could not remember anyone ever greeting him with such joy. He’d like to frame this moment to admire on lonely days in the future.

  Which was another insane thought, given that he had just thought about wringing her neck, but Mariel seemed to inspire insanity. Gripping the sword beneath his coat, Trystan nodded in her direction, then turned a cold gaze on de Berrier.

  “Your arrival is opportune, my dear,” she called, with only a slight quaver of—fear? Anger? “This gentleman seems to be under some misapprehension that Nick belongs to him. It is all very puzzling, and I fear my head goes weak with dizziness working it out.”

  Misapprehension? Trystan thought the point was to deliver Nick to his family, not keep him away. But given his doubts about the man earlier, he played ignorant. “You weren’t supposed to leave bed for the rest of the day, my dear,” he said in his best doting husband manner, adapting to the situation as Mariel did.

  Turning to the irate gentleman, he added, “She takes on too much. In her condition, it is best not to argue. What seems to be the problem, chevalier?”

  “As you have apparently ascertained, I am Marc Cassell, the chevalier de Berrier. That is my disreputable nephew.” De Berrier reached for Nick, who dodged behind Mariel’s skirts. “The authorities have been searching for him this past week or more. His father was murdered, and he is both witness and suspect. It seems he has also been haunting the duc’s forest as a bandit. I must take him into my custody.”

  “And we know that is nonsense, don’t we, dear?” Mariel simpered. “He has been with you on your ship, so he cannot possibly have done any of the things for which he is charged.”

  “I don’t know this person,” Nick growled, jerking his head in de Berrier’s direction. The boy’s head barely came to Mariel’s shoulders but he sounded man enough.

  “This isn’t your uncle?” Trystan asked in mock surprise. “You told me he was a wealthy man in Pontivy and would reimburse me for your fare. You would not lie to me, would you?”

  “No, monsieur, I would not lie, but I have never seen this man in my life,” Nick asserted. “My uncle would not tell terrible stories about me. I think he is like those men in the baths today. You warned me not to talk to men like those.”

  The chevalier scowled. “Père Joseph was merely doing his duty by apprehending you so he might bring you safely to me, you ungrateful wretch.” He turned a steely gaze to Trystan. “I shall be forced to call the authorities if you do not hand him over at once.”

  Trystan was tempted to do so and get rid of the lying, thieving brat, but Mariel’s eyes reflected the sea-green of trust, and to his amazement, he couldn’t disappoint her any more than he could abandon the boy to a questionable fate. He’d gone against Lissandra’s wishes on any number of occasions, but he could not turn a thief over to his uncle—because Mariel asked him not to. Now he knew he’d officially taken leave of his senses.

  “You must understand that I am responsible for the child since he was placed in my care. Until the proper authorities prove your relationship, I must ask you to leave him with us.” Trystan clasped Nick on the shoulder and offered his arm to Mariel. “Come along, dear, we must return you to your room. You look positively faint.”

  She looked to be a ghost of the woman she’d been on Aelynn, but Trystan refrained from saying so. Anxiety was starting to pound rhythmically in his head, and he wanted no more than to be out of here. Except they still had to find the chalice.

  “But the baroness, dear…” Mariel leaned on his arm for support rather than just resting her hand there, and another shiver of unease rippled through him. “We really must see her this evening or we will have no chance on the morrow.”

  “Guards!” de Berrier shouted, waving to a pair of liveried servants at the other end of the corridor.

  Trystan debated throwing Mariel over his shoulder and running.

  “The Baroness Beloit will be most displeased,” she argued, refusing to give ground as the men hurried in their direction. “We have traveled a long way to be with her on this occasion. If you will send word to her,” she addressed the arriving servants, “all will be well. This gentleman is mistaken.”

  “For your information, madame, my fiancée,” the chevalier said coldly, “has expressed no interest in the arrival of any cousin. Take these impostors out of here, and leave my nephew with me,” he ordered.

  Rolling his eyes, Trystan reached for his sword.

  Fifteen

  Mariel hadn’t been lying earlier when she’d said her head was spinning, and de Berrier’s announcement that he was the man her cousin was marrying didn’t help. She should have remembered the lady had called him a chevalier. She clutched Trystan’s arm and struggled to stay upright.

  Amazingly, Trystan was already wielding his sword, forcing de Berrier and the servants to stand back. She hadn’t seen him unsheathe the weapon. Had she briefly lost consciousness?

  “You touch my wife at peril of your lives,” Trystan said in a tone that would strike cold chills in the hearts of the most stalwart of men.

  The liveried servants didn’t seem to be that stout of heart. In fact, they appeared to be looking at the chevalier as if he were the worm who’d turned. She grabbed the advantage Trystan offered.

  “Come along, Nick. We will settle this in the morning. I really must lie down.” She smiled
weakly at the servants. “Please, tell the baroness that I was not well enough to correct her betrothed.”

  She held her gown over her arm to keep from falling on her face, and teetered down the corridor as if she were wearing heels. She had to hope the train still covered her ugly shoes. Trystan prodded Nick into going ahead of them, and when the servants offered no argument, he sheathed his sword to escort her back the way he’d come.

  De Berrier’s deep voice boomed in fury behind them.

  “To the right,” she whispered.

  Nick darted down the side hall first, and Mariel followed. Trystan checked over his shoulder, and apparently deciding they weren’t being pursued, hurried after them.

  “What in the name of the gods did you think you were doing?” Trystan muttered near her ear as they raced after Nick.

  “Helping.” Her train slipped, and she tripped over the hem. She didn’t have time for foolish weakness. “But then the chevalier saw Nick, and there was a lot of shouting, and I didn’t get to see the baroness.”

  “We can no longer wait until morning. Is there somewhere I can leave you and Nick while I search for the chalice?”

  He sounded gruff. With Trystan, it was difficult to tell if that meant he was angry or worried. She simply knew she had seen no one so welcome as the sea god wielding his sword in her defense. “Why isn’t there time? What is happening?”

  “This is your preposterous country. I don’t know what is happening. But there are a lot of unhappy people out there who don’t think it fair that the wedding participants will be feasting while they’re starving. I want to be gone before the two sides come together.”

  Mariel nodded, understanding his concern about the unrest seething through the heart of France. “If the rich would simply invite the poor to dinner, there wouldn’t be riots,” she replied.

  Nick halted at a grand hall. “Where are we going?”

  “That is the baroness’s suite.” She nodded at an ornate set of doors to one side of the hall. “But if de Berrier is returning there, we cannot visit. We must draw her out.”

  Trystan narrowed his eyes at their young companion. “Nick, is that man your uncle?”

  The boy shrugged and stared at the floor. “Could be. I was little when I saw him last, but my father thought he was a miserly snob with no soul,” he finished defensively, “although he is said to be a brilliant financier. He will no doubt beat me and hand me over to the authorities.”

  Trystan pressed harder. “Your father did not call the chevalier a thief or worse? Would he trust de Berrier as your guardian?”

  Nick glowered. “My mother’s family is of the finest. They are not thieves.”

  “Then you are the first of the sort?” Trystan asked dryly. Before the boy could object, he continued, “Have you no other relatives?”

  “None, monsieur. I will go with you as your cabin boy,” he said eagerly. “You did say you had a ship, did you not?”

  “That is out of the question. Can the chevalier be trusted with the guardianship of you and your inheritance?”

  “At best, he will send me off to school and make my life a misery!” Furious now, Nick took off at a run.

  Trystan reacted so quickly that he had the boy’s coat in his fist before Nick had gone two steps. “You have a choice. You may return to the inn, remove our bags to the cart, and take the cart to the woods to wait for us.”

  Nick’s eyes widened, and he glanced back and forth between the two of them. “You would let me go with you?”

  “Do you wish to stay here?” Trystan asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Nick shook his head vigorously. “Most certainly not.”

  “Even knowing the chevalier will have your inheritance if you do not claim it?”

  Nick looked a little less certain. “He threatened to turn me over to the authorities.”

  “True,” Trystan agreed, releasing the boy’s coat. “He may simply not understand children. I cannot tell you who to trust. If you wish to make your decision from a distance, you may go with us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nick suddenly looked as young as he was. “How long should I wait?”

  “We should be back by noon. If not, you will have to make your own decision as to how you should go on. It is a great responsibility, I place on you, I know.”

  Nick straightened, visibly growing two inches. “I will guard your possessions with my life, monsieur.”

  “They’re hardly worth that,” Mariel said with a laugh, deciding the poor boy had enough of a burden on him. “But the pony and cart belong to a neighbor, and I would hate to lose them. If we do not return in a timely manner, I’d recommend taking them back to Pouchay. My sister will find you a place there. Just ask for Francine Rousseau.”

  “I will not leave you,” Nick said in horror. “I will come find you.”

  “No,” Trystan replied curtly, cutting off Mariel’s softer reply. “I do not want to have to come looking for you. If you and the cart are not at the edge of the woods when we arrive, we will assume you have gone on to Pouchay. If only the cart awaits us, we will assume you have decided to stay here and claim your inheritance. It will be much easier for me to persuade my lady to leave if she believes you are safe.”

  Nick bit his lip and uncertainty wavered in his eyes. Mariel quit leaning on Trystan to brush her fingers over the boy’s smooth jaw. “We will take a river barge home if necessary, but I’m certain we will be joining you in a few hours.”

  Nick held out his hand to Trystan. “Thank you, monsieur. You may rely on me.”

  They shook, and with worry wrinkling her brow, Mariel watched the boy run off. “A boy like that should be in school and playing in the street. I do not like the way the world is headed.”

  “It is just your world that is unsafe,” Trystan said arrogantly. “Mine is secure and normal. You will see that you are far better off with me.”

  She shot him an exasperated look. “And you will take my sister and all of Pouchay with you to this sane world of yours?”

  Not expecting an answer, she swept up her skirt, looped her hand around his elbow, and started for the stairs.

  She hated letting Nick go off on his own. She disliked sneaking about. Circumstances being what they were, subterfuge simply seemed the safest and fastest way to retrieve the chalice.

  “Behave as if we are a couple on an assignation and watch for a maid or footman,” she commanded as arrogantly as he did her.

  “An assignation is what I wish more than anything in the world,” Trystan murmured silkily in her ear, leaning over and brushing his lips against her hair, behaving just as she’d ordered him to do.

  His playacting sent warm shivers down her spine. “No, the chalice is what you wish more than anything in the world,” she replied sweetly, smiling as if they were exchanging flatteries, for the benefit of a guard hurrying past.

  “The chalice exists. It is a task I must accomplish,” he argued. “That is not the same thing as wanting it for myself. Have you never felt a need to hold someone, to cherish them, to be closer to them than anyone else in the world? Share your secrets, your lives, your dreams?”

  She had dreamed such things ever since she was a small child and realized she was not like anyone she knew. After her mother died, she’d spent many adolescent nights weeping with loneliness, longing for someone to whom she could speak honestly. That Trystan could be such a man would be the answer to her prayers.

  But menial prayers like hers didn’t deserve an answer, and Trystan was merely a man who wanted his own way.

  “Share their bodies and their beds, you mean?” she said mockingly. Before he could answer, she saw two maids enter a room down the corridor, and she hurried toward them, forcing Trystan to increase his stride to keep up with her.

  “Mademoiselles,” she whispered loudly to the two maids folding linen in the closet. When they curtsied hastily, she put a finger to her lips. “My…friend…has only just arrived. We have but a few hours together, and the baroness’
s rooms… How should I say it? They are very busy. Is there an empty chamber, somewhere we might go undisturbed for just a little while?”

  She giggled with the maids and hid behind Trystan’s muscled arm while he gallantly looked stoic with his hand on his sword, prepared for anything. Golden gods need not say much. They must only exist, she observed. The maids were quite awed by his presence.

  One of them pointed to the ceiling. “Above. The rooms have not been opened there.” She offered a stack of clean linen, which Mariel accepted.

  Taking charge now that the situation was clear, Trystan handed out silver coins and thanked them gallantly, then placed his hand at Mariel’s waist and hurried toward the stairs.

  She was gasping for breath and scarcely able to hold the linen by the time they reached the next floor and located a narrow unused chamber overlooking the courtyard. Mariel did her best to hide her weakness by releasing Trystan’s arm to examine their hiding place. From the moon’s light they could detect the silhouettes of a tester bed draped in satin hangings and a dresser with a tall gilded mirror.

  “Excellent,” Trystan said with satisfaction. “There is even a bar on the door. You may rest here while I fetch the chalice.”

  As much as the idea appealed, she could not let him barge about, running his sword through people. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied more sharply than she intended. “The lady does not know you, but de Berrier does. He will never let you near her. Here, I think I’ve found a lamp. Have you a flint?”

  Once he took the lamp, Mariel perched on the edge of the naked mattress for fear of falling over. The lamp flared to life without her even noticing the spark of a flint. She glanced up nervously to see Trystan hovering too close, his bronzed face all harsh angles in the shadows flung by the flame, his large frame so much more—physical—than hers. Her heart pounded a little faster as she realized they were alone, and his intentions toward her were plain. He might be a man of mystery, but not subtlety. She was in no condition to either fight him or give him what he wanted. Distraction was her only hope.