Didn’t stop Monsieur d’Olympe. Using his staff as a walking stick, he strode firmly toward the gate, nodded at the guard, and waited for the gate to swing open as if he were king and the soldier a mere footman meant to obey his orders. Given that during this turbulent time the king was a prisoner in his own palace, that was not a good comparison.
The gate opened. The guard waved them on without asking for visiting passes.
Uncaring how this came about, Chantal shooed her small flock ahead of her, making certain they were safely past the grille before rushing out to join them.
The gate slammed, leaving Ian behind.
Gasping, Chantal sent him an anxious look, but he was already turning away, intent upon his own business. Humming a trifle frantically now, she held tight to her nephew’s small hand and, shoulder to shoulder with Pauline, hastened through the medieval great hall until they reached the humid air of the darkening street.
A motley band of neighborhood militia stamped past — aging muskets and rusty sabers held over their shoulders, a drum and pipe playing marching music — leading a parade of idlers through the evening dusk. The military sights and sounds were increasingly familiar, and Chantal shivered as if she’d seen a portent of things to come.
“What just happened in there?” Pauline murmured, hugging her youngest and observing the normal street scene in confusion.
“We may have met a whirlwind,” Chantal replied. “Did Girard find you?”
“He did. He said he was working on our release, but he could not say how long it would take.” Pauline set Marie on her feet. “I did not expect it to come so precipitously. I owe you everything for this.”
“You owe me nothing.” Chantal dismissed the sentiment while watching the street in hopes of seeing a tall figure in robes striding after them. “Did Girard have my bell with him?”
“Bell? No, he carried nothing.” Pauline threw her a worried glance. “Your friend did not trade himself for us, did he?”
Chantal shook her head. “As noble as I grant his actions are, I think they were in his own interest as much as ours. I just worry that he does not fully grasp our customs here. He claims to be Swiss and raised in a cave.”
Pauline laughed shortly. “All Parisians behave as if they were raised in caves these days. I fear what the wolves will do to Pierre.”
“Your brother brought this on himself. We have not gone to the Palais yet to ask where he’s been taken. My father can find him tomorrow and see what must be done. I wish Girard would come out. I need to take you home, but I hate to leave Monsieur d’Olympe.”
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.
Six
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.”
Ian’s lips parted in an intimate smile that reached his eyes and said he’d like to consume her. The effect was so devastating, her knees nearly buckled. He could have carried her off in that moment, and she would not have protested. What the devil was wrong with her?
“I am glad to hear that,” he said solemnly. “I do not like to share a woman with others. When your father arrives, I will make whatever arrangements you desire to satisfy your need for respect. And if that is your wish, I promise I will not repeat our earlier encounter.”
Somehow she thought they were not quite speaking the same language, but she nodded anyway. “You assume too much on the basis of that encounter. It is as if it never happened. We will find your chalice, and you can be on your way.”
His smile widened against his exotic dark features until she feared she would fall forward and into his arms unless she escaped his magnetic attraction.
Before she was forced to run, Ian bowed slightly, sending his long queue tumbling over his shoulder. Then he straightened and retrieved his walking stick.
“Later,” he promised, and strode briskly from the room, leaving Chantal to simmer in desire alone.
Seven
Wearing only a light muslin nightshift, Chantal sat up against the pillows of her bed and listened to the noise of the city from her open window.
Paris never slept. When militia weren’t marching, or mobs gathering on street corners to protest the latest vitriolic political pamphlet, she could hear the sounds of a normal city. Carriages careened down stone streets carrying jovial theatergoers and inebriated young men. Farm carts rattled through the city gates bearing the produce the city’s inhabitants would consume on the morrow. Passersby sang and chatted and argued on their way home. The clip-clop of metal-shod horses bounced against buildings and carried down alleyways.
Mystic Rider Page 6
