Mystic Rider

by Patricia Rice

  “Perhaps for a while, little one, but Papa Alain will talk reason to people, and they will see this new law is wrong, and soon we will have Uncle Pierre back again.” She did not fear making such a promise. Her father could talk the sun from the sky given enough time.

  “Will you sing to us, please?” Marie asked.

  “Yes,” Anton agreed, snuggling beneath the linens. “I sleep good when you sing.”

  “Close your eyes, then. And I will sing of rocking horses to fill your dreams.”

  She’d created this song when Anton was born. It reminded her of happier times and always eased her petty angers and anxieties. Preferring the nursery to the argument that was going on in the rooms below, she sat down in the rocking chair and began to sing softly.

  Pauline, Pierre, and Ian had appropriated the study after dinner, presumably to discuss matters of which she would not approve. Her father had left to attend one of the many political salons to which he belonged.

  At the beginning of the Revolution, the salons had been filled with excitement and the promise of a glorious future. Lately, the discussions had deteriorated to angry partisan quarrels, and she no longer enjoyed them. She wanted to play her music and laugh, watch the children run and jump, and dream of a man with whom she might share such simple pleasures. Her father fondly called her frivolous. If anger and hatred were serious, then she preferred frivolity.

  Which meant she much preferred wondering whether Ian would come to her bed tonight than fretting over what he was plotting without her.

  By the time her song ended, the children were asleep. She brushed kisses across their brows and returned downstairs to her music chamber, deliberately keeping her distance from the study. She was no good at plotting. All she did was worry about consequences.

  * * *

  “Von Fersen has been driving Baroness von Korff’s fancy carriage around Paris at all hours, so no one will be suspicious when he parks near the house of his mistress,” Pauline explained. “He has been planning this for months. It is smuggling the entire family out of the palace that is problematic.”

  And no doubt the reason the chalice had found its way into the hands of the king, Ian assumed, although he could not say it aloud. He wished he knew the chalice’s goal, if it had one, but it had freed Pauline, so he must believe it meant to aid the royal family’s escape.

  “And you want me to ride with the royals?” Pierre asked in confusion. “How can I help?”

  “In exchange for my chalice, I will provide cash for their journey and arrange for loyal men to guard the king once he leaves the city,” Ian explained.

  “The king can trust no one,” Pauline said bitterly. “Even our troops mutiny in favor of the radicals these days. Peasants, all of them!”

  “Since the queen cannot even trust her brother, the Holy Roman Emperor, we can’t say they are all peasants,” Pierre said dryly. “All of Europe waits for France to die. What foreign court would dare take in our king?”

  “The queen’s family must,” Pauline argued. “Luxembourg is under Hapsburg rule and the fortress at Montmédy is on their border. The marquis de Bouillé’s can safely gather troops there. The duc de Choiseul will guard us on the road once we reach his lands. The king still has some loyal followers.”

  “I repeat, how may I help?” Pierre demanded.

  Ian knew nothing of the people Pauline mentioned but hoped, for her sake, that she was right. He could explain only his part. “Von Fersen will escort the royal party to the city gates, but once outside the city, they will need guards and good horses. You will direct them to the place where they must wait. You need only ride in the king’s company until he is safely on the road to Montmédy. Then you may accept the chalice as payment for our services, and I will arrange a faster route for you and meet you along the way.”

  “It will be safe, you’ll see,” Pauline insisted. “The queen will be dressed as the governess of the baroness’s children, and King Louis has the passport of her steward. The baroness traveled east a few months ago, so the guards at the gate shouldn’t be suspicious if her family returns that way. You need only dress as one of her footmen. It will be simple.”

  “Nothing is ever simple,” Pierre argued, but at last he entered the discussion with more attention than he had earlier.

  Ian had to concur with the unworldly priest, but he would not complicate their schemes with his own. How to retrieve the chalice, persuade Chantal to go with him, and prevent Murdoch from intervening were problems that he would not share.

  * * *

  Playing a sprightly tune to buoy her flagging spirits, Chantal faced the piano and not the music room’s entrance, but when her notes changed to a sensual melody of spring breezes, birdsong, and love, she knew Ian had entered. He radiated masculinity in ways that stimulated her senses, confusing and exciting her.

  He bent to kiss her brow much as she had done to the children earlier, but his broad hand cupping her breast was not so innocent.

  “The bath is being filled,” he murmured suggestively against her ear.

  She’d never bathed with a man, or even considered it. To state it so boldly in a public room…

  “Come, let us enjoy the warm water while we may.” Without waiting for her consent, Ian took her elbow and urged her from the bench. He was already barefoot!

  Before she could so much as think of a protest, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, and the room became a garden of lush roses, summer heat, and the pounding of surf in her ears.

  Or perhaps it was just her heart beating. She clung to Ian’s neck, stroking the fine hairs at his nape to verify his physical reality while his lips and tongue performed a magic that reached her soul, erasing all objection when he swept her off her feet and carried her from the room.

  If they simply enjoyed the physical sensations binding them, then she had no argument with him. Perhaps if they never talked…

  He carried her down to the bathing room and barred the door. Here, they were far enough from the main floor that no one could hear them. The small marble-tiled room was filled with steam from the heated tub. The tub itself was built in the Roman style, sunken into the ground, tiled, and large enough for two or more. She knew her father had gone to great expense to install pipes from a well and a stove to heat them, but she had little understanding of how they worked. She merely laced the waters with bubbles and appreciated the result.

  She inhaled the intoxicating scent of jasmine as Ian lowered her feet to the warm tile. Her bodice slid off her shoulders without her awareness that the sash had been unfastened, and she hastily caught the muslin before it slid past her bosom. She didn’t wish for him to see her naked.

  “I want to admire all of you tonight,” he said, tracing his knuckles over the top of her breasts and gently removing her grip on the bodice. “This time, we will go slowly.”

  He paralyzed her with his gentleness. She didn’t want to fight him. He ran his hands into her hair, scattering the pins. In the steam, her carefully fashioned curls fell limp, and her hair tumbled in thick tendrils over her shift.

  Chantal panicked slightly when Ian leaned over to kiss her jaw, lowered his hands to her waist, and untied her skirt. Her head spun from his caress, and she grasped his shoulders to steady herself. He ravished her mouth with increasing arousal and shrugged out of his robe. The heat through his shirt melted her hands as if they were wax, shaping them to his chest.

  In the next instant, her skirt and petticoat slipped down her hips. Gasping, Chantal grabbed to keep them from falling. Undeterred, Ian began unhooking her corset.

  This was happening much faster than she’d anticipated. She had never bared herself completely even to Jean. Even in her bath, she’d always worn a shift. She could pretend her body was unflawed if she kept some modesty.

  But Ian had no concept of modesty. He’d lit all the lamps and set candles along the rim of the sunken tub. She could see the hairs on his chest through the fine weave of his shirt where the steam plas
tered it to his skin.

  His hands teased at her nipples as he unfastened the last hook and cast aside her stays, and she shivered at the erotic thrill. His dark look scorched the flimsy fabric of her shift. When he untied the ribbons, she had to let her skirt go to catch the shift from falling, but her grasp served only to raise her bosom like a plump offering. His hungry gaze aroused wicked sensations, letting her forget, just for this moment, her imperfections.

  In his shirt and breeches, he was all magnificent raw male animal. He was right — clothes did not make the man. Ian was no delicate gentleman or scholarly monk, but a muscled knight without armor.

  If she had but this one night of pure pleasure, she would enjoy it while she could. If she kept his masculine gaze appreciating her bosom, she could do this.

  Taking a deep breath to quell her fears, she released the chemise to untie Ian’s cravat. She almost panicked when the shift fell past her breasts and caught on the fabric pooling around her hips. Instead, she diluted her anxiety by sliding her hands beneath his shirt so she might admire the hard strength of his broad shoulders.

  Muscle rippled beneath taut golden skin as he tugged the shirt over his head and flung it aside. Her breasts ached to be crushed against his nakedness.

  As if understanding that words were unwelcome, Ian bent to capture her mouth again. He slid his palm along her cheek and into her hair, holding her so that his tongue could invade, incite, and persuade hers into retaliation.

  At last, her breasts brushed his flesh, and she could feel the swelling of his arousal against her belly. She did not notice when her clothing finished the journey to the tile. She wanted to unfasten the buttons of Ian’s breeches, but her hands could not abandon the breadth of his shoulders and strength of his back as his embrace lifted her from her feet.

  “Sweetness,” he murmured as his hand slid down her buttocks and a long finger swept along the crack between.

  She shuddered and almost came undone right then. She had never bared that part of her person to anyone since she had learned of her defect. His wickedness elicited a thrill of arousal.

  “I would hear you sing for me,” Ian whispered, releasing his buttons.

  She wrapped her legs around him so that he could not see what he had just touched.

  * * *

  Chantal clung to his neck, humming a song so sweet that Ian feared he would have to dive into her before he had his breeches off. Cursing Other World clothing, he shoved the cloth off his hips while her song teased and aroused. He nearly exploded from the pressure in his loins.

  Steam enfolded them as he carried her down the steps into the tub. If he had less faith in his gods, he would insist on searching her beautiful body for the mark that would assure him that she would be the helpmeet he needed — before he committed an act that would seal them for eternity. But he could not release her when he was only a heartbeat away from paradise.

  Among other things, he was a priest in his land. Not only did he have faith that Chantal was meant to be his, but he knew the vows he must make to bind her to him. That she did not understand did not deter him so much as knowing he endangered the future should she refuse him. Once he said the words, he could be bound forever. If she did not repeat the vows, she would be free to walk away, leaving him without an heir — and without relief. Then he might as well become a monk since he would find no other woman to satisfy him as Chantal did.

  It was an enormous risk, but the prize was worth the peril. He trusted in the stars, his gods, and his senses. All three claimed that this sensuous, rebellious, and contradictory woman was the life mate he needed. Whether she was gifted did not matter.

  After he took her to Aelynn, they could have a formal ceremony at the altar where he would give her his ring. For now, all he could offer were the promises and his body.

  The tub was deep enough to immerse him to the waist. He rested Chantal’s shoulders against a pillow on the tub’s sloped edge. Her hair floated in long tendrils as she slid down to keep her legs around his back. Suggestively, she rubbed her heels over his buttocks. Ian’s arousal strengthened, and Chantal smiled seductively through the steam as she urged him closer.

  This time, he would take her slowly, as he had not before. Letting her float, he cupped her beautiful breasts and suckled gently. She moaned and writhed and grabbed his arms for support, then urged him with her heels to hurry. He did not succumb to her generous offer.

  While his arousal slid temptingly along her cleft, Ian played an erotic tune upon her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers, and stared down into her eyes. “I worship thee with my body,” he said with feeling. “I take thee for amacara, keeper of my future. With these vows, I do promise to cherish you in sickness and health, from now until Aelynn calls.” The promise filled and became a part of him, providing the hook that would hold them as one.

  Her silver-blue eyes widened as if she felt the connection, too. His arousal pushed at her nether lips, eager for the physical manifestation of his vow. As the pull between them increased, her lids lowered in sleepy desire, and her hips rose to urge him to complete their union. She did not understand. Not yet.

  “Repeat the words after me,” he requested, teasing her nipples into tight buds and nibbling her ear. “I take thee…”

  She lifted her mouth to nip at his jaw. “I take thee anyway I can,” she repeated with a husky giggle.

  If time wasn’t so short, he wouldn’t resort to such devious means of binding her. Her father had forced his hand. If he was not allowed to urge her to do this with his mind, he must use his body. He limited the vows to words she understood, hoping the gods would accept this truncated version from an uninitiated Crossbreed.

  “In sickness and health,” he rumbled enticingly, caressing her buttocks and finding the place that had excited her earlier.

  “I’ve done that before,” she murmured, arching eagerly into him, pushing him farther inside her. “Health is more fun.”

  “Play along with me,” he purred, “or I shall turn you over my knee like a naughty child.”

  “I like the sound of that. Maybe later.” She tried to slide down and take all of him, but he clamped his fingers into her sweetly rounded derriere and slid backward.

  “In sickness and in health,” he insisted.

  “In sickness and in health,” she agreed, “so long as you are around to pleasure me.”

  “For all eternity,” he corrected, using terms more familiar to her.

  She wriggled upward, caught his neck, wrapped her legs tighter, and sank down on him.

  It was a wonder his eyes did not roll back in his head at the white-hot heat suddenly enfolding him. Ian shuddered in ecstasy. He had to be as large as a ship’s mast by now. She still had not taken him fully, although she rocked against him with enchanting little gasps as she realized what she was doing to him.

  “For all eternity,” he insisted, holding still.

  “For all eternity,” she agreed, without an ounce of understanding beyond the fierce need pumping between them.

  Ian’s blood heated to boiling, his ring flared, and the candle flames shot high into the darkness, as if a breeze had entered from beyond. The gods had accepted their vow. The bond was irrevocably knotted in ways more deeply physical and spiritual than their sexual congress.

  Thank all the heavens, he could have her now. And into eternity.

  In triumph and gratitude, Ian gripped his amacara and gave her all she wanted and more — he plunged his sex to the hilt, until she screamed and opened herself entirely to him, body and soul. Feeding on the desires stretching their bond taut, he tilted her to the angle that most suited her, rubbing the center of her pleasure with their movement. He closed his eyes as her ecstasy became his.

  The knot between them was too new and too close to resist her mounting need. Abiding by the pace she set, he thrust repeatedly and deeply. Even as she convulsed in glorious release, he did not let go.

  Grateful for Chantal’s trust and unquestioning acqui
escence, Ian applied all his considerable skill and desire to making the moment of conception perfect. He suckled her breasts until she wept with need, angled her so he could reach her womb, caressed the sensitive cleft of her buttocks, and when she was quivering and moaning and bruising his arms with her grip, he reached outside of himself to let her ride the sky.

  The energy of the universe flowed through him and into her as he plunged still deeper, taking her higher, opening the heavens to reveal the secrets there. She cried out her joy, and he succumbed to her cries. They quaked with their mutual release, and he flooded her with his power and his life.

  * * *

  Chantal exclaimed in startlement as her body seemed to come apart in a thousand tiny pieces. A joyous vision of children playing on a grassy lawn came to her, and then dissipated, and she became one with the water in which they lay. The stars exploded inside her head, and the man whose hot seed seared her womb seeped into her blood until she felt him under her skin as well as under her heart. He was so huge, he nearly cleaved her in two, but the caress of his hands and the water molded them together again until he was a part of her in a way that did truly seem eternal.

  If she did not conceive after this mind-opening cataclysm, then she never would. She did not care either way, as long as she knew they could repeat this ecstasy. She felt possessed with a desire that was not quenched but increased with satiation.

  Ian leaned over to ply her mouth with tantalizingly tender kisses. She was too spent to do more than nip at the corners of his mouth and settle more comfortably around him. He was already growing hard within her again. Excitement tugged at her womb, and to her amazement, her body easily adjusted to accept him.

  “You are humming with pleasure,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “You should smile more often,” she told him drowsily, admiring the way his stark features softened with tenderness. “It makes you almost human.”

  A hint of sadness crept behind the midnight blue of his eyes. “Almost,” he agreed. “Too human, sometimes.”

  Leisurely, he stroked her from within, and a growing knot of anticipation vibrated.