“You’ll scare the maids to death. Let me go in first. I’ll send them on errands and distract the cook.”
Murdoch started to object, but Ian quelled him with a look. “Do what you can. We’ll handle the rest.”
She didn’t know what that meant, but eager to settle her patients somewhere safe, she hastened into the kitchen. Facing the entrance so the maids had to turn their backs to it, she set them to heating water to take up to her father’s room, then engaged the cook in a discussion of healing broths for invalids.
Neither maids nor cook seemed to notice the blood-stained, bedraggled ruin of her clothes, which she thought odd, but she used her most charming voice to keep the cook’s back to the door until Chantal saw Ian and his prisoner slip safely past. With a grateful nod, she thanked the cook for her understanding and wisdom, and scampered after them.
The inn had only three doors upstairs. Ian unerringly aimed for the center door and went in without knocking. She followed her father’s voice inside. He was sitting in a wooden chair by the window, appearing somewhat less gray than when she had left him. He smiled at her appearance, until he took note of her clothes. Then he scowled at the two bloody men entering with her.
“This is a pretty predicament,” he growled. “Perhaps we ought to send Chantal and Pauline across the border on their own. They’d be better off than burdened with the lot of us. What the devil do you intend to do with a king’s officer?”
Ian studied Murdoch’s tattered uniform. “In my country, he is a criminal.”
“You have criminals now?” Alain snorted in derision. “My, how the mighty have fallen. You can’t even hold on to that damned chalice anymore.”
Arms still tied behind his back, Murdoch rested his good shoulder against the wall beside the bed and slouched as if distancing himself from the argument, yet Chantal had the distinct impression that he was absorbing a great deal more than it appeared.
“Chantal does not yet understand that the chalice is worth more than all of us together,” Ian replied. “But now that we have Murdoch, we should be able to catch up with it. Did Pierre take one of your horses?”
“The oldest one,” Alain agreed. “But even though he’s a poor rider, he’ll have time to catch a ship before we escape this mess.”
Although Chantal sensed Ian’s tension, outwardly, he didn’t appear worried. “Why the sea when the border is so close?” he asked, reasonably enough.
“I don’t know what got into the boy. He’s always had an idealistic bent. Perhaps he hopes to sell the chalice to save the church.” Alain looked tired. “Le Havre is our home. His parents have an estate there. And that was his direction.”
Ian nodded as if filing this information in the appropriate corner of his formidable mind. “Our ships can find him on the sea. The main problem is how we will travel to the coast.”
“The main problem is finding a physician who won’t go running for the National Guard,” Chantal said when none of them seemed to care that both men were swaying from their wounds. “The bed is empty. Sit down, both of you. You make me dizzy just watching you.”
Both arrogant roosters remained standing in an apparent challenge to see who submitted to his weakness first.
“Fetch your sewing kit to mend Murdoch’s arm. That is better than cauterization,” Ian suggested. “We do not need physicians. Once we’ve eaten and rested, we will set out again. I think the local troops can be made to look the other way, if Murdoch’s men can be diverted.”
Murdoch snorted but remained otherwise silent.
“Fine, have it your way,” Chantal replied with a shrug. “I have nothing left to lose. But if you don’t start listening to me…” She raised her voice sharply on the last words.
Murdoch visibly shuddered and collapsed into a sitting position on the bed’s edge. With a degree of weariness, he leaned against the headboard and dragged his legs up onto the mattress. Grinning, Ian did the same.
Her father stared from them to her in astonishment.
“Don’t ask,” she told him. “I’ll fetch Pauline’s sewing kit.”
She opened the door and let in a maid carrying a bucket of water and another with a tray containing bowls of broth. Bread was still too expensive, so she had not asked for it. She did not know how they would draw on their bank funds if they were forced to leave France, so she must mind their small store of coins. Perhaps Pierre had seen the chalice as a king’s treasure and an opportunity to provide for his sister and the children.
Her stomach rumbled in protest, but she hurried to Pauline’s room first. She needed to see for herself that the children were safe and sound.
At her entrance, Pauline looked up with relief, then widened her eyes at the state of Chantal’s clothes. “Are you all right? Shall I send for a bath? A physician?”
Chantal couldn’t let exhaustion catch up with her. She crouched down to hug the children and kept her voice warm. “After a while, a bath. I must do some mending first. Do you have a needle and strong thread?”
“Pierre?” Pauline asked in fear. “I know he means only to help, not harm.”
“He’s safe, for all I know. I’ll explain later.” She kissed Marie and Anton on their foreheads. “I will read to you later, yes? You have been such good children, I will have to think of a lovely reward for you.”
“Sweets?” Marie suggested, her blue eyes lighting with hope.
Making promises she feared she could not keep, Chantal took the sewing kit offered and hurried back to her father’s room.
As much as she loved the chalice, she saw no purpose in risking the children’s safety to follow it. She could not imagine what had inspired Pierre to steal the cup, but knowing his idealism, she was certain it was for the good of all, as Pauline said. If he had chosen the road to his and Pauline’s childhood home, she couldn’t blame him. She longed to return to the carelessness of youth as well, but she feared he hadn’t made a wise decision. The roads of France were no longer safe, and the route to the coast was long. She would not feel comfortable until they rode the few short miles to the border. Once safe in the Netherlands, they could decide where to go.
Ian must choose his own course. If he elected to chase after the chalice, it was no matter to her any longer. Her family came first.
She hummed to shut out the sickening wrench of her heart at that decision.
Twenty-three
He lacked the required concentration to keep Murdoch bound by mental restraints, Ian decided wearily as the whole family gathered in the sickroom to discuss their next step.
It was one thing to focus his gods-gifted mind while performing serenity-enhancing exercises on a barren hill. It was quite another to do so while confined in a small chamber with a woman whose presence kept him in a perpetual state of arousal. It was still another to do so while surrounded by an irascible diplomat with a sharp tongue; two laughing, quarreling children; and their weepy mother; not to mention Murdoch — a man with unknown gifts, some greater than his own.
For the first time in his life, Ian felt the helplessness of Others. How did they survive? He could scarcely think straight much less filter out all the conflicting thoughts and emotions while keeping Murdoch mentally bound.
Obviously, there was a reason he’d been alone all his life.
Ian couldn’t tell how much of his pain his amacara could sense. He knew that once the vows were said, mates shared their gifts, even if in a small way, but until now, Chantal had exhibited little awareness of anything extraordinary. He’d certainly not taken up singing as a means of dealing with this damned violent world. So he watched her every action for a sign that they were matched in all senses of the word.
That she’d come after him was both wonderful and appalling. It suggested she had felt his pain. And that she must suffer as he did now.
“You’re not eating,” she murmured worriedly, perched beside him on the edge of the bed. She stroked his brow and offered him a spoonful of broth from the tray in his lap, as sh
e had offered Murdoch before he’d turned up his nose at being spoon-fed. “Would you like to rest?”
He could interpret that offer in many different ways. Perhaps she sensed his weariness as well as his pain. Or his desire to have her to himself. Or she could just be trying to get rid of him. Ian wanted to pound his head on something hard at this inability to understand even the simplest of questions. He was a complete and utter misfit in her world.
And he didn’t want to be. He wanted to conquer her world as surely as he had his own — a true challenge fitting an Olympus.
“I don’t wish to leave you alone to guard Murdoch,” he grumbled with an irritation he seldom exhibited. “Holding him prisoner is difficult enough while I’m fully armed, but this way it is nigh impossible.”
“I can ask the local militia if they have chains,” she said dryly. “I doubt Murdoch’s royal mercenaries will provide them, and I can’t see how we’ll leave as long as his men are out there. It’s a wonder both sets of soldiers haven’t taken to shooting each other in the street.”
“I don’t suppose you could sing them to sleep?” Ian asked facetiously, too weary to guard his words.
“Why don’t I shriek and make them drop their weapons?” Apparently annoyed, she stood up and straightened her skirt.
She’d changed into what appeared to be one of her oldest and simplest gowns. This one was a dismal dark green without a hint of the frilly delicacy of the other confections she’d worn. Ian had the urge to rip the rag off and provide her with the luxuries that would make her smile again, but the inhabitants of his home seldom wore silk. His mind was obviously wandering.
He caught her hand and prevented her escape. “I need your help,” he said before he could think better of it.
She halted instantly, offering him an uncertain — almost hopeful — gaze. “How?” she whispered. “I feel so useless….” She gestured at the room bursting with people.
On the feather-stuffed pallet beside Ian, Murdoch watched them both, one sardonic eyebrow lifted.
“The chalice is more important than I can explain to you,” Ian said, groping for the words to convey what his ring would not let him say directly. “But so are you. I cannot leave you here while I chase after it. And I understand that you go nowhere without your family.”
Chantal’s eyes widened, as if surprised that he’d understood the difficulty they faced. Ian supposed he’d surprised himself.
Murdoch snorted. “Bit off more than you can chew, haven’t you?” he said with a sneer. “Can’t hold me and have her and chase the chalice all at the same time. How do you plan to win this one, wise man?”
“Do you know a funeral dirge?” Ian asked Chantal in exasperation. “Perhaps we could bore him to death.”
Murdoch rolled his eyes heavenward. “Gods forbid,” he muttered. “I don’t doubt that six feet of dirt would fall on my head should she try.”
Ian was aware that Orateur was watching them with eyes narrowed, but the older man had a lap full of children demanding a story, so Ian hoped he could not hear their conversation. Orateur appeared immune to the effects of his daughter’s voice, perhaps because she lavished only love on him.
Had her father turned a blind eye to abilities she’d inherited from a world he’d left behind? Or tried to make her life normal by not acknowledging them?
Ian clasped Chantal’s hand tighter when she tried to tug away. “For all his wits, Murdoch has the common sense of a conch shell. Ignore him, but listen to me and consider my words carefully. Does your father not say that you speak sweetly and can sway the angriest man to reason?”
A tiny frown formed between her eyes. “Men are prone to fall for feminine charms, for a small while, at least,” she said with a shrug of discomfort. “What has that to do with anything? I cannot charm a troop of militia or a dozen mercenaries.”
“Lovely as you are, my lady, it is not just your looks that sway men, it is the beauty of your voice.” Ian waited to see if she fully grasped what he said.
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Then men are fools to let a pretty song sway them. How will this help us escape?”
The urgency of the situation forced Ian to phrase his idea delicately, but firmly. He still had difficulty thinking straight and hoped he’d worked out all the angles — and that he knew Murdoch as well as he thought he did. “Murdoch is overly sensitive to your voice, especially if you direct it at him. First, do not talk too sweetly to him.” He shot his prisoner a warning that brought the familiar mockery to Murdoch’s harsh face. “He may get ideas he shouldn’t.”
Chantal smiled faintly. “I doubt there’s any chance either of my being sweet to him or of him forgetting where he is.”
“Sensible,” Murdoch muttered, shifting to a less painful position.
“Just something to keep in mind,” Ian warned. “He does not trust me, for good reason. But he is a man of his word for all that. You must try your most charming voice on him to persuade him that it’s in all our best interests for him to work with us.”
Chantal laughed. Murdoch grunted and strained against his bonds.
Ian raised his eyebrows expectantly. Chantal had no idea how her presence reduced him to a groveling imitation of himself. Instead of ordering her to do as he asked, he waited for his lovely, talented amacara to trust him. She gave him unreasonable hope.
Possibly some of his hope reached her, for she turned a sweet smile on his captive.
“Ah, Monsieur LeDroit, I did not understand!” she cooed in a mockery of a coquette. “So charming a man should not be treated in such a despicable fashion. S’il vous plaît, would you listen to Monsieur d’Olympe’s reasoning? Unless, that is, he has knocked all the brains from your simple head.”
Murdoch tried to sink deeper into the pallet, and Ian chuckled. His amacara might be a sweet confection on the outside, but on the inside, Chantal was a double-edged sword. She was still angry at him, but her fear and fury were directed at Murdoch. If Ian could feel her cut, Murdoch must truly be squirming.
“Very good,” Ian complimented her. “A little less tart and a little more sweet, and he will be putty in your hands.”
“This is ridiculous.” She jerked her hand free and propped it on her lovely hip. “It is unfair to tease me in some jest I do not understand.”
“I do not tease. Watch.” He turned to glare at Murdoch. “We can work together to recover the chalice, or I can haul you home trussed like a pig. Which would you prefer?”
Murdoch replied with a string of curses that had all heads in the room turning.
Chantal picked up a pillow and swatted him with it until he stopped. “There are women and children present, monsieur!”
“Ow, ow, cease and desist, woman!” Murdoch cried in a pained voice.
“Milksop,” she said in disgust, throwing the pillow to the bed. “It is but feathers.”
“No, it is your voice,” Ian insisted. “Your anger is like a bludgeon to him. Ask him the same thing I did. Use the exact same words, if you like, but mean what you say.”
Torn between feeling as if she were a figure of fun and wondering if Ian had lost what little remained of his mind, Chantal tapped her toe. Since she could think of no good solution to their difficulty, she played the game just to appease him. She groped for the phrasing he’d used.
“We can work together,” she said reasonably, “or Ian can haul you home trussed like a pig.” She added her contempt to her tone. “Which would you prefer?” she demanded.
“Damn and blast you all to hell,” Murdoch muttered, writhing. “Hack my head off. Give me my sword and let me fight fairly. This is cruel torture.”
Chantal shrugged. “Do I sing him a lullaby and put him out of his misery now?” she asked with sarcasm.
“Did he tell you no and curse you as he did me?” Eyes laughing, Ian straightened, looking stronger than he had just moments ago. “His resistance is strong, but your charms are stronger. Try again, in your own words. It seems you have had
much practice at this.”
“Since I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, I cannot say.” But Chantal’s heart flipped with delight at Ian’s laughter. He was actually handsome when the burden of his responsibilities was lifted from his shoulders. If it would make him happy… It would make her very happy.
She considered a moment, channeling her true desire into her tone. “We are in a bit of a pickle, monsieur,” she said with less sugar and more wile. “The chalice is on its way to the coast. Both of you are injured and in no condition to race after it, and there is a troop of militia on our doorstep who might decide we’re all traitors. A little cooperation might aid all our goals, do you not agree?” she said, willing him to accept.
Murdoch sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “Yes, I agree.”
Ian grinned like a fool. Undeterred, Chantal pushed her odd advantage. “Then, if we unbind you, will you ask your men to help us locate the chalice instead of foolishly chasing innocent people across the countryside?”
“If you will give me real food instead of this swill,” Murdoch ground out from between clenched molars.
“He always did insist on keeping the upper hand,” Ian said almost jovially. “Have him swear that he will help and put his men at our disposal. He will attempt to wiggle out of his promise otherwise.”
Chantal was aware her father had set the children aside and limped weakly over to stand behind her. She didn’t know what to make of what was happening, but if she were being made jest of, her father would soon put an end to the nonsense.
With more confidence, she said, “Murdoch, please swear that you and your men will help us find the chalice.”
With an air of resignation, he swore, “My men and I will help you find the chalice, but no more than that.”
Mystic Rider Page 20
