Rural peasants slept together before the wedding, too, Mariel thought with a smirk. She hoped her cousin had enjoyed her bedding as much as she and Trystan had.
While the chevalier lingered to speak with a footman, Lady Beloit admired the bedecked trestle tables heaped with delicacies in the castle hall. Servants scurried to and fro carrying ice sculptures and monumental platters heaped with meats, cakes, and fruit. Mariel’s stomach rumbled in appreciation, and she wished she was close enough to snatch even a small cake from a laden tray.
“Why did you decide to marry the chevalier?” she asked, easing her curiosity since she could not reach the table where marzipan glistened temptingly. “You decided it so abruptly.”
“Marriage suddenly made sense,” the lady replied. “And that afternoon, Marc dropped down on one knee and begged me again to marry him. This time, he said he could not bear to return to his lonely home without me. I had thought he only wanted my money, but I finally understood that he needed me.”
The day the lady had acquired the chalice both nobles had waxed romantic, against their practical natures. Had the chalice made them realize they were suited?
Odd, that two couples had been brought together because of a piece of silver. Would her cousin have accepted the chevalier’s proposal without it? Had the chalice affected her and Trystan in a similar manner?
Trystan intruded upon this odd notion by claiming two raisin buns, handing one to Mariel. “You have not yet eaten,” he said without apology. “I will not have you fainting again.”
“Oh, my dear, I had no idea! Please, help yourself. Shall I call for some champagne to toast our upcoming nuptials?”
The lady signaled a servant, but the chevalier stepped beside her and shook his head to send the man away. “Afterward, my sweet. The priest is waiting, and the crowd grows restless.” His tone was more doting than annoyed as he caught the lady’s elbow and steered her in the direction of the chapel.
Grabbing chicken legs from another platter, Trystan handed one to Mariel and fell in step behind the bride and groom.
“He married her for the damned chalice,” Trystan grumbled.
“No,” Mariel said after swallowing a bite of bun. “He did not know of the chalice when he offered.” Licking her fingers, she stared after the couple ahead of them. “I don’t know how the chalice is involved, if it is at all. De Berrier has land and Celeste has wealth. Together, they will have land, money, and title, which gives them a position of power.”
“Politics and power, just as at home,” Trystan said with a shrug. “It makes sense.”
She watched as the chevalier gently caught the lady’s elbow to balance her over the chapel threshold, and they exchanged a loving look. “Despite all appearances, I really think they are in love.”
At her tone, Trystan gave her an odd look but did not question her idea of love. “Then, perhaps the chalice has no part in this. Do you think he truly sent it to the king?”
Mariel didn’t want to accept that appalling possibility. She couldn’t go to Versailles if she needed the sea to live, unless she could be certain there would be tubs of water and ample supplies of salt along the way. And unleashing a man with Trystan’s uncanny abilities into the increasingly anarchic environs of France could be wildly dangerous.
They entered the chapel where white lilies scented the air. White lace and satin ribbons adorned the aisle. Heads turned at their entrance, and Trystan hastily tugged Mariel into a pew while the couple proceeded up the aisle to the waiting priest.
“There is not much ceremony involved, is there?” he asked with interest as the couple kneeled before the altar.
“This is more than most,” she admitted. “At home, the couple would speak privately with the priest in the days before the ceremony to be certain they understood the solemnity of their vows. Close family might attend to witness that the vows are said. But the food and the gift giving afterward are the big entertainment.”
“There is not so much difference between us then.” He studied the ornate carvings of the wooden chapel. “We prefer the outdoors, but then, our weather is better. An ama match is a religious ceremony similar to what you describe. The Oracle speaks with the participants in advance, explaining the meaning of the vows, then when she is certain the couple is prepared, she purifies them with oils and takes them to the altar where the mating is consummated.”
Mariel looked at him with horror. “In public?”
He shrugged. “If it is both civil and religious, sometimes, perhaps for a great match. But an ama match is usually private. The gods act as witness. And a child born exactly nine months later is proof enough that the vows were made. The families give their gifts at the birth.”
“What if a child isn’t conceived? It takes longer than once for most people.”
“Not for couples united at the altar. That is the purpose of the temple, to hold the spirits and power of our ancestors to be passed on to the next generation. Is that not what your cousin is asking now? For the gods to grant her children?”
Mariel was still struggling with the idea of instant children. If she and Trystan had mated in his temple, she’d be with child now? His child. One carrying his strength. Why did the idea suddenly appeal when it went against everything she had ever feared?
She tried to concentrate on explaining her dislike for what the baroness was doing. “She is giving up her right as an independent woman and agreeing to be de Berrier’s chattel. He is promising to care for her until they die. In a love match, this might happen, but in actuality, it seldom does. The man acquires the woman’s worldly goods, and she acquires his name. She becomes a childbearing nonentity, and her husband makes all the decisions. Marriage is not an institution that interests me greatly since only I know what is best for me.”
“Ah, marriage, not bonding,” he said with a knowing nod. “That is entirely different. The civil marriage ceremonies of our more powerful families are conducted in the council courtyard, so that all the island knows two families have joined legally and financially. But generally, a civil contract is a business transaction that requires no more ceremony than signatures. Mostly it decides what seat the couple may take in the council.”
“What seat?”
Mariel didn’t think he intended to explain. He looked uncomfortable and studied the ceremony taking place instead of replying. But when the groom leaned over to kiss the bride, Trystan looked resigned.
“If I marry Lissandra, our joint family positions would qualify us for the highest seat on the council. We would be acknowledged as the chief legal authority in the land. If I marry an Outsider with no Aelynn abilities, I would lose the family seat to which I’m entitled and could not vote on island matters. If I marry a Crossbreed with powers but no property, my seat would be decided on the value of what I own and our joint abilities. We could hope that our value to the island would eventually increase our holdings and thus raise our position in the council, but it would take time.”
Mariel looked at him blankly. “The vows you say we made last night? They were not marriage vows?”
“No,” he said curtly, without a change in his stern features. “They were bonding vows, which are much stronger since they are made under the authority of the gods instead of the courts. I have agreed to take care of you for life, and to make you the mother of my heirs.”
“To forsake all others?” Mariel asked warily.
“I can still legally marry another,” he said with a shrug. “But the gods promise only one amacara at a time. I could take a wife and a dozen mistresses, but those couplings provide no guarantee of children or assurance of progeny who will carry my abilities. Amacara matches are rare and much treasured. Aelynn has arranged it so that an amacara match produces the offspring with the characteristics the island needs.”
The sugary bun Mariel had just eaten churned in her stomach. “And if I die without producing a child?” she whispered.
“Only then may Aelynn find another amacara for
me.”
He spoke this with such finality that Mariel believed him.
Another thought struck. “What happens if I do not go back with you?”
He pressed his lips together and stared ahead.
“Tell me. It involves me. I have a right to know.”
He explained in terse, brief sentences, his voice tight.
“Banished,” she whispered, stunned. “You will lose everything?” She absorbed the truth of it as he continued to hold his head high, saying nothing. “Your world is as cruel as mine,” she said, finally understanding that they could find no compromise.
Twenty
“Come, join the dancing.” The bride tugged on Trystan’s arm.
Outside the chapel after the ceremony, de Berrier had stopped to converse with a uniformed guard. They had only this one chance to speak privately with the lady.
“The chalice, my lady?” Trystan inquired. “We really must return it to the church so Mariel may go home to her sister.”
The baroness waved a dismissive hand. “There has been a minor delay. I have sent a servant after it. Enjoy the food and wine and music. You and my cousin are much too solemn.”
“This is a serious matter,” he warned. “We cannot enjoy the frivolity until we are assured the sacred vessel is returned where it belongs.”
“I have taken care of the matter. I regret the delay, but you will have the chalice in your hands by evening,” she said, confirming what he’d already surmised.
The lady’s ruby lips parted in greeting as the chevalier hastened their way, and her hand released its grip on Trystan’s arm. “Hurry, darling, our guests grow impatient.”
On the verge of reaching for his sword and cutting someone’s throat, Trystan instead stepped back and grabbed Mariel’s hand. Hard. “She’s sent someone to fetch it,” he muttered for her ears only.
Mariel looked worried as they joined the other guests trailing after the new couple toward the great hall. “I do not know her well enough to know if she will be true to her word. Should we find out more?”
“We can try, but it won’t be easy. If he’s sent it to Versailles, you cannot follow,” Trystan predicted, letting his thoughts roam to what could happen now.
The last he’d seen of Murdoch, the other man had been acting as one of the mercenaries in the king’s army near Versailles. Should the chalice cross Murdoch’s path—Trystan fought a shiver of horror. He prayed that Dylys had been as successful as she claimed in suppressing Murdoch’s varied abilities, or he would know by now that the chalice was within his reach.
When he focused his gifts properly, Murdoch had a visionary ability to rival Lissandra’s, a gift for finding almost as strong as Kiernan’s, and a strength and swordsmanship to match Trystan’s. With even part of those powers, he could find the chalice and hold it for ransom—at the very least.
It seemed an ominous coincidence that the vessel should escape into the world at the same time an Aelynner of such exceptional strength as Murdoch was banished from the island. Trystan wished he could consult with the Oracle. And Lissandra. And maybe even Iason—although, after allowing Mariel to escape, the Oracle’s son seemed less than trustworthy.
“You can’t go to Versailles on your own,” Mariel was protesting in a heated undertone as they proceeded down the corridor. “You may be strong as an ox, but you are only one man. You would need an army to steal the chalice from a king.”
He’d encountered very few obstacles in his privileged life, he was starting to realize. He had vastly overestimated his abilities to let a cunning lump of silver escape him. He had the dread fear now that the legends were all true—the chalice came and went as it willed.
“If the chalice gets too far ahead of me, I may need help in locating it.” He could admit no more fear than that to Mariel. “Let us speak with the servants and see if we can find out who is taking it to Versailles.”
“First, we have to know who the servants are,” she said dryly, gazing at the throng gathering around the feast.
“This is where Lissandra would be useful. Most days, her ability to read minds is frightening.”
“The lady is frightening without any such abilities,” Mariel grumbled. “She has the soul of a shark.”
“And you should know about the souls of sharks?” he inquired, trusting it was simple jealousy that made her speak so. He hoped it meant his amacara was feeling possessive. That would be a good sign, he thought. When she merely glowered at his question, he offered a more sensible, if equally volatile argument. “If we cannot locate the servants, I think it will be best if I take you to the cart. It will be noon soon. Young Nick can see you home.”
She shot him a scathing glare that almost made him smile. Children of a Guardian needed a strong mother, and Mariel was certainly no vaporish maiden.
“I cannot go home until I know your chalice is safe. I will speak with my cousin’s maids and you will speak with the chevalier’s footmen, and we will discover who has taken the chalice and where and who my cousin sent to fetch it back.” Without waiting for his response, she swung around and marched into the crowd.
Trystan swore under his breath and contemplated the satisfaction he’d derive in dunking Mariel in another salt bath if she survived the mob intending to storm the castle’s gates.
He couldn’t hear shouts over the noise of the musicians and crowd. Were they out there yet? He prayed his warning had given the baroness time to divert the rebel’s plans.
***
The church bells chimed noon as Mariel circled the hall in search of more servants to add to the small store of information she’d garnered. If he was following their plans, Nick would be heading to Pouchay to return the cart. She wished him a safe journey.
The musicians played loudly and enthusiastically, if not perfectly, in the balcony above the grandiose hall. Filled with wine and food, the aristocratic guests had reached a high state of jollity that had them dancing reels like simple peasants. Watching powdered wigs and richly embroidered satins bobbing and dipping like a bunch of drunken farmers was almost as amusing as joining the dancing would have been.
Toe tapping, Mariel glanced around in search of Trystan. She was quite capable of continuing her search alone, but she had an odd need to be close to him, to tell him of what little she had discovered. And perhaps to dance with him. One ought to have at least danced with the man one had made love to.
Just thinking of what they had done last night caused a tightening in her womb that she was starting to recognize. They must not do that again. But try as she might to resent him for introducing her to such dangerous desires, she still wanted to make love again.
Unconsciously, she traversed the edge of the crowd, searching for the man who made her crave cool sheets and heated flesh. Her lips tingled with the need for Trystan’s kiss. Her breasts ached for the press of his palm. A simple dance might suffice, though she wanted far more.
A hand reached from behind a column to grasp her arm and drag her into the shadows beneath the balcony.
She might have screamed, except she knew his touch, his smell, and she fell into his arms without a sound, standing on her toes and seeking his lips. As Trystan sought hers.
His tongue took possession of her mouth, quieting any protest. His hand dipped smoothly into her gown, lifting her breast free of encumbrance. “I had a sudden craving for this,” he muttered. He rotated his thumb over her aroused nipple, and she nearly wept with pleasure.
He steered her into a curtained niche in the shadows beneath the overhang. “You came,” he said with what sounded like surprise. “Even though you have not said the vows, you came when I called.”
She might have questioned his statement, but Trystan’s golden head dipped and his mouth took her breast.
Even as desire flooded her senses, and she gripped his arms and offered herself to him, Mariel realized what he meant—as he’d warned, she’d come when he’d called, not with a shout, but with the tug of the mental and emotiona
l bond between them. Alarm washed through her at the strength of their mystical union.
Except, instead of fighting him as her mind screamed to do, she sought his mouth when he raised his head, and returned his passionate kiss while he lifted her skirts.
She stiffened in response when his clever fingers slid along her cleft and found the swollen, sensitive bud there. She wasn’t at all certain that her reaction was in protest, or from frustration because she did not know how to reach that part of him that would satisfy her craving.
“I have decided to wait until we are at the temple before finishing this,” he whispered, lifting his head to study her as he spoke. His eyes burned with the amber of lust, and a strand of his silken hair had escaped its binding. “If you are the one woman bound to carry my heir, I would see that child conceived properly before you slip away again.”
She could only use the wall as brace for her shoulders and whimper in need and writhe beneath his questing fingers. Trystan smiled wickedly at her predicament while he continued to play a merry dance between her thighs. “Do you sing a different tune today? Are you ready to return to Aelynn with me?”
Mariel wanted to scream her frustration. “Don’t toy with me, curse you!” she forced from between clenched teeth while her body’s needs climbed higher, demanding immediate satisfaction. Trapped against the wall by Trystan’s greater size, she retaliated by lifting her leg and wrapping it around his knee, forcing him to press his arousal into her midsection.
“I’m merely proving a point, mi ama.” He brushed kisses across her cheek but did not remove his hand from its depredations, although she’d seriously restricted his movements. “I have verified with the lady’s servants that she has sent a footman after the chevalier’s courier, and I have a description of both. If I set out now, the chalice should be in our hands by nightfall. I have been assured a barge can be found at the river tonight. If all goes well, we’ll be on Aelynn in three days’ time. I want you willing and ready when we reach the temple.”
Shifting his position, he introduced a second finger, and to prevent crying out, Mariel leaned into his shoulder and bit into his coat. The relief of knowing the chalice could be recovered scarcely registered beneath her burgeoning desire. She dug her fingers into the soft silk of his sleeves while Trystan’s fingers worked their magic.
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