Ian reached higher, shoving aside regret and focusing on Murdoch, trying to see what drove him, but the barrier of pain Murdoch had erected prevented any deeper probing. Murdoch was a man in agony, tortured by his past and his dreams, with a mind so complex, even the Oracle had not been able to penetrate its depths.
Without knowing what motivated his opponent, Ian was at a loss as to how to fight him. He could nudge people in the directions they wanted to go, but he could not nudge them to do what went against their natures. Murdoch had seldom been susceptible to Ian’s mental shoves, but sometimes, if his desire was strong enough…
As with Chantal this evening, Ian could manipulate minds through desires, whether for sex, wealth, pride, or ambition; there was always a means to use those insights. He seldom needed to, though, except when healing the ill. With Murdoch, he needed every weapon in his arsenal.
Blindly spinning his staff, visions whirling as he reached deep down inside himself where knowledge lurked, Ian could see the death of his father more clearly now. Luther had opposed Murdoch’s marriage to Lissandra for good reason. Lissandra’s spouse could someday become Council Leader, and Murdoch was far too unstable to lead the island. Murdoch’s desires were such that he would have rebelled against Luther’s opposition, if Lissandra had agreed to take vows at the altar. Rightfully, she had refused. No wonder they had argued.
Were they amacaras? Appalled, Ian had no way of knowing. Surely Aelynn would not be so cruel as to match Lissandra to Murdoch for eternity.
Stunned by his insight, Ian was unprepared for the bolt of lightning that struck a tree on the slope below him. The tree cracked and began to fall. Its branches swept toward Ian’s position at the top of the hill. He leapt aside with the speed and agility of his kind, but even so, some of the outer branches struck him, tearing his clothes and slicing his cheek. He remained on alert.
“Just give me the chalice,” Murdoch’s voice intoned on the wind. “I do not want to kill you.”
Spinning his staff in figure eights, Ian located his opponent climbing the hill behind a thicket of brambles. He still wore the garish blue frock coat and scarlet breeches of a royal officer. “I don’t intend to make it easy for you, you know that,” Ian called back.
“It’s foolish not to. You have a lovely amacara waiting. You can breed many new Olympians to hunt for the sacred object. She promises nights of pleasure and days of wonder. What does the chalice promise?”
“Survival of the home I love,” Ian replied without hesitation. “You cannot manipulate me so easily. If we must do this, it will have to be a battle of strength more than will.”
“You never fought fairly,” Murdoch said with disgust, emerging from behind the brambles. “It would have been far simpler if you’d just removed my head earlier.”
“Messier, you must admit,” Ian replied dryly, gauging the extent of his opponent’s temper as well as the weapons he carried.
“There’s no escaping bloodshed this time, old friend,” Murdoch replied with regret. “The fate of the world is greater than you are.”
Ian didn’t waste words after that. He swung his staff in a broad arc meant to break Murdoch’s upper arm.
Murdoch responded by producing a long-barreled pistol and firing.
* * *
Chantal woke up screaming.
Marie and Anton began to cry. The carriage jolted into a rut and shuddered to an abrupt halt.
Chantal kept screaming. Frantically, she leapt from the seat, letting the chalice fall to the carriage floor so she could climb over her father’s knees and throw open the door. Without waiting for aid, she gathered her skirts and jumped down, her breath searing her lungs as she gasped for air and screamed louder.
“Chantal, for heaven’s sake, what is wrong?” Her father eased from the carriage after her.
She didn’t know what was wrong. She just knew it was wrong — horribly, awfully wrong. “Where’s Ian? Where did he go?”
Fields and woods stretched around them, but ahead, she could see a village. Smoke curled from the chimneys of a few early risers in the hours before dawn. Her stomach rumbled at the scent of strong coffee and bacon, so she knew the others were hungry, too. But she didn’t care. She’d never eat again if she didn’t find Ian.
“He took off several hours ago, something about pursuit. His eyes must be sharper than mine,” Pierre said, climbing down from the driver’s perch. “We’re not far from the border, but I’d rather have a man of Ian’s authority with us to help us pass customs.”
Frantically, Chantal turned and scanned the road they’d traversed. In the distance, a riderless horse cantered toward them.
Rapscallion.
No-o-o! her soul screamed.
She would not see Ian die, his strong body cut down in the prime of life to become dust in the ground. She could not, would not, let it happen, not while there was an ounce of breath left in her. All her life had been spent waiting for events she could not control. She refused to ever sit idly by and wait again — even if it meant riding a killer horse.
She yanked the hem of her skirt between her legs, tied it up in front, and, ignoring her father’s gasp of shock and Pierre’s outrage, caught the reins of the terrifying stallion as he slowed down to approach them.
“Behave,” she told the fearsome beast as she led it to a fallen tree trunk. “Take me to Ian now.” The stallion snorted and pawed and shook its mighty head. She ought to run for safety. Instead, she climbed up on the trunk, and put her foot into the stirrup, while clinging to the reins.
Her father was too weak to follow, but Pierre ran up and caught the folds of her skirt, preventing her from gaining the saddle. “Wake up, Chantal! You must be dreaming. You cannot ride that horse. Come down from there.”
Once upon a time, she would have listened. Not now.
Surely, she must be dreaming, but she could not wake. Pain engulfed her, and she nearly doubled over with anguish. She only knew that she must find Ian, prevent still more deaths. That this certainty was not rational did not matter.
Rapscallion danced restlessly, but she was beyond heeding fear and caution. She caught her hand in his mane, shook off Pierre’s grasp, and hauled herself into the saddle by sheer strength of will. Her skirt tumbled down around her legs, loosened by Pierre’s grip, but she had enough of it under her to ride. She kicked the stallion and turned him back the way he’d come.
“Lots of oats,” she promised the prancing animal, “after we find Ian.”
Pauline and the children had clambered out of the carriage, but Chantal ignored their weeping. “Find Ian,” she commanded again, as if expecting the stallion to obey her.
The powerful horse broke into a canter. Clinging to Rapscallion’s neck, she gave him the reins and let him run with the wind.
Not until then did she remember that Ian had told her to treat the chalice as an infant and never let it go, but she’d dropped the damned thing before she’d left the carriage. Let Pauline mother it. People were more important than objects.
This time, she would stop the Grim Reaper in his tracks. She would fight and not give in unless he took her along with Ian.
* * *
Chantal no longer held the chalice. Ian grimaced the instant she dropped it.
Murdoch sensed it, too. He’d cast aside his empty pistol and been prepared to track the sacred object, until Ian had pulled his sword and, despite his wounded shoulder, cut into his opponent’s arm. Murdoch had been forced to draw his saber and fight back.
What had happened that she’d dropped it so hastily? Needing to ensure Chantal’s safety was the one reason Ian still stood upright, battling with the last breath in him. He sensed the chalice traveling beyond his Finding ability, but Chantal was coming closer. If he could just hold on…
With the physical strain of combat keeping the bullet wound open, Ian’s shoulder bled freely, draining him of his life’s essence as metal slammed against metal. Unable to divert his concentration to halting the flow, Ia
n wearily swung his borrowed sword. With his left shoulder incapacitated, he’d lost his ability to wield his staff.
He still had the strength to swing a sword with one hand. He could only be grateful that Other World guns were notoriously unreliable and Murdoch had missed his intended target — Ian’s heart. Still, Murdoch’s two-handed saber blows were taking their toll.
Dawn sent feelers of light through the trees and cast a reddish glow over the clouds. Sweat poured down Ian’s face, and he knew he’d have to find Murdoch’s weak spot soon or die in the effort.
“Your lover comes to your rescue,” Murdoch taunted, “leaving the chalice to tempt another. How does she hide it, I wonder?”
Distracted by this confirmation of his fears, Ian momentarily hesitated.
The tip of Murdoch’s sword sliced through Ian’s shirt and drew blood before he raised his weapon to counter it.
“Remember how we used to fight to the skin in melees?” Murdoch taunted. “I will beat you this time. Surrender now. Let me fetch the chalice, and you’ll live to fight another day.”
Grasping his sword hilt with both hands, knowing this might be his last chance to save the chalice and Chantal, Ian gathered the remnants of his strength. Concentrating, he swung his blade in an arc so forceful that the wind cried. It caught Murdoch beneath his upper arm and sliced deep, driving him backward.
Chantal’s shrieks pierced the dawn.
The birds took up her cry, squawking, and screeching, bursting from the treetops in a massive flapping of wings.
Chantal cried out again, a war cry of such high-pitched potency that Ian wondered the trees did not bend from it.
With a groan, Murdoch fell to his knees, holding his hands over his ears to protect his eardrums.
Staggering but still upright, Ian heard Chantal’s cries with a delight that eased his hurts and brought a smile to his lips. He did not entirely understand her ability to incapacitate Murdoch while reassuring himself, but taking the slim advantage offered, he dropped his sword, grabbed Murdoch’s hands from his ears, and twisted his wrists behind his back.
“Surrender, or I’ll tell her to shriek you a lullaby,” Ian said with genuine mirth. With Murdoch paralyzed by pain, Ian easily bound his wrists with tough vines, using his mind as iron reinforcement.
Ian’s shoulder throbbed. Blood ran down his shirtsleeve, and his head spun. Red seeped through the front of his tattered linen from cuts on his chest, and dried blood caked the scratches on his cheek. He was exhausted beyond all mortal limits. But he exalted in this triumph as if he’d just been given the keys to a kingdom.
And maybe he had. The chalice had found someone else to carry it on its journey to the unknown, but watching Chantal riding down the path, concern and grief etched on her heart-shaped face, Ian learned true happiness. He was no longer alone in the world. Someone thought him human enough to care about.
This was what being a mate was about — his pain had called her, and she’d come running.
Of course, she would probably murder him shortly, but the triumph of watching Chantal racing to his rescue was worth whatever price he must pay.
Finally able to let down his guard, Ian crumpled to the ground.
Twenty-one
She was too late!
In horror, Chantal watched a blood-drenched Ian collapse on the forest floor. His agony mixed with her fear, and waves of despair threatened to crush her. She cried out in frustration as she fought to untangle her skirts and petticoats from the stirrups and saddle. Her gaze fastened on Ian…on the blood soaking his garments…so much blood…
His arm moved. His chest rose.
Not too late…
Fighting the crippling anguish of his pain, she grabbed a stout branch so she could swing one leg over the back of the horse and climb down. “Damn you to Hades, Ian! If you die, I shall follow you to the gates of perdition to kill you again,” she shouted to steady her rampaging emotions. The stallion stood patiently as she struggled from her high perch.
With obvious effort, Ian pushed to his knees and strained to remain upright while holding his wounded shoulder. “Meet my sweet-natured amacara,” he responded dryly.
Chantal gave a hasty prayer of thanks that he was well enough to keep his wits about him. His pain kept her moving forward instead of collapsing into a weeping ball of uselessness. “Uncouth beast, you’re supposed to introduce the lady first,” she informed him, finally noting the other man — the one who’d nearly brought Ian to his death.
Tears sliding down her cheeks, she ignored the royal officer with his hands tied behind his back. She fell to her knees in front of Ian and cupped his bristled jaw. He’d bound his unruly hair, but strands escaped to fall across his cheek. She brushed them back as he watched through blazing eyes that seared her soul. She could not bear so much passion directed toward her.
Glancing away from his penetrating vision, she caught the torn edges of his shirt and ripped it off. His chest was strong and hard, and she felt his heart beating soundly beneath her fingers. She would not think prurient thoughts while his wide chest ran with blood. She tore the clean portions of the linen to use as a bandage.
“Chantal Deveau, meet my oldest friend and greatest foe, Murdoch LeDroit,” Ian said with a trace of amusement, using the good manners she requested.
“I cannot say I am happy to make your acquaintance, Madame Deveau,” Murdoch muttered, twisting at his bonds. “The circumstances could be better.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly, causing Murdoch to grimace and nearly topple. “Men are like little children who think the only way they can get what they want is to take it. I have no sympathy for either of you.”
Ian flinched as she probed his shoulder wound. “Did I mention that my amacara has the voice of ten thousand angels?” he asked.
“I probably missed that after she deafened me,” Murdoch responded in the same dry tone. “Is she your mother’s secret weapon? A voice that can shatter walls would be valuable.”
“Use the water skin on Rapscallion’s saddle,” Ian told her when she glanced around in search of a stream in which to soak the cloth.
“I’d swear you were reading my mind except you’d be stung with a thousand barbs if you could see my thoughts right now.” Furious at Ian’s imperturbable confidence, trembling with fear at the amount of blood that still spilled, she located the water skin and brought it back.
“Where is your family?” Ian asked upon her return.
Chantal assumed he really wondered about his damned precious chalice, although mentioning it in front of his enemy was probably not wise. “I left them near an inn. I daresay they’re eating a lovely breakfast as we speak. You will notice I cannot climb on and off horses as easily as you, and I thought your life a little more important than carrying extra baggage.”
“Pierre?” Ian inquired with an intensity she did not understand.
“Probably riding for the border. It is only a few miles away, and he’s anxious to prevent his presence from harming us. He’s been praying for your safety.” As if prayers would help, but Chantal left her opinion in her tone, without saying it aloud.
She thought the men exchanged a glance over her shoulder, but she was obviously on the verge of hysteria and could not trust anything she thought.
“Her voice cuts like a knife,” Murdoch complained, wincing and sitting back on his heels. “Have you taken to wearing hair shirts as well, or is she sufficient torment?”
Her breath flowing more evenly with every foolish insult, Chantal ignored their false valor. She wished she had her piano so she could play the complex notes of Murdoch’s voice. She sensed in him a strong honor and idealism that had little to do with a man who would kill his oldest friend.
She tensed to say something scathing, but Ian’s gaze dropped to her perspiration-dampened bodice, and a different passion slid through her. They may as well have been one, the way their thoughts traveled together. She held her tongue and pressed a folded cloth to his cle
aned shoulder wound. His gaze torched the frail cloth over her breasts, and even though he could scarcely have an ounce of blood in him, she noted that what was left had traveled southward to stir his breeches.
“Chantal’s voice reflects what’s in her heart,” Ian explained through teeth clenched in pain. “She wants to kill you and save me. I don’t recommend earning her wrath.”
“That’s preposterous,” Murdoch muttered.
“Sing sweetly for the oaf,” Ian recommended caustically. “Elsewise, he will stupidly wear out what little strength he has left attempting to undo his bonds.”
Chantal picked up the sword lying in the blood-saturated dirt and handed it to Ian. “There, finish the job you started. Hack his head off.”
She actually felt the shock rippling through both men. She didn’t want whatever this connection was between them. She simply wanted her safe, sane life back.
“If you do not kill him, he will kill you,” she continued ungraciously, now that she’d said it. “I’m sick to death of people I love dying, so why not be done with it now? Just die and leave me be before I become too attached to your rotting hide.”
Ian did not react to her words of love, and Chantal wished she could take them back. Love and sex were not the same thing, she reminded herself, biting her lip to stifle a sob.
Ian set the sword aside and curled a tendril of her hair around his finger. He rubbed his thumb over her tear-streaked cheek. “Murdoch’s soul is likely to come back to haunt us if I waste it in such a manner,” he said in that illogical manner of his that drove her mad. “I prefer to let others judge him. Sing, Chantal. I fear I will pass out otherwise, and then he will free himself.”
Jarred by the quiet urgency of his command, she studied his taut jaw, realized how much effort he was expending to stay upright, and relented, although she saw no logic in his request.
She tried “Ça ira!” just so she might sound bold and brave, but it did not ring true. Ian looked paler and more fatigued than before. Behind her, Murdoch actually chuckled. “War tunes do not suit his priestly tastes. You might try a child’s lullaby.”
Mystic Rider Page 18
