But she loved them, so she must restrain herself. Love bound her more thoroughly than her music, confusing her. She’d loved Jean, but in the pragmatic way of a good friend, always seeing reason and able to act on it.
There was nothing reasonable about the sensation of being so much a part of another person that she could not tell where she left off and he began. To part from Ian would be like cutting off her own head.
Last night, after they’d made love and he’d left her to meet the carriage, she’d known he’d stayed away because of her birthmark. And still, she followed him this morning. Love was irrational, and at the moment, she resented it.
As if he heard the confusion inside her head, Ian finally took the time to catch her elbow and drag her deeper into the shadows of the crates where they could not be overheard. “I did not want to have to say this.”
His tone struck her with black fear. Eyes widening, she clutched her hands together and waited.
“You have gifts, abilities, that I do not totally comprehend.” He held up his hand to stop her from objecting. “Your ability to hear character in voices is a gift of great import. But I cannot judge the significance of your emotional ability to use music and voice as both shield and weapon. The gods granted this gift for reasons I don’t understand. I hadn’t realized the consequences of your emotional gifts until last night.”
He hesitated, as if searching for difficult words. Chantal held her breath, feeling her heart bleeding from the puncture wound of his tone. Ian was nothing if not honest, and anguish colored his voice.
As tonelessly as he could, he continued. “Because of your gifts, your unhappiness has the potential to destroy my home. For this reason, I promise that if you are not happy there, I will take you anywhere you wish to go. I simply ask you to bear with me for as long as you are able. Can you do that for me?”
He is not saying farewell. He accepts me as I am, flaws and all.
She covered her mouth with her hand rather than speak her questions. Tears welled, but she nodded her agreement. Ian looked miserable as he brushed his hand over her hair. She understood — if she was not happy in his land, he would send her away, but he would not follow. She was throwing away her home to protect her family, but he could not do the same for her.
A shout from one of the sailors gave warning of trouble, and Ian was gone like a shadow, slipping past her hiding place and into the sun, leaving her shivering with unshed sobs.
She clenched her precious flute in her pocket, understanding nothing at all except that the man who was joined to her heart and soul might cast her off.
The children began to quarrel, and Chantal hastened to rejoin them. She bit her tongue to avoid humming an angry tune. She had to watch herself. She didn’t grasp how she could affect others with her voice, but horribly, so far, Ian had been right. She crouched down to speak soothing words that returned smiles to the children’s faces.
Murdoch’s blade-thin shadow cut across their pocket of safety. He spoke in a neutral monotone to prevent frightening Marie and Anton. “The soldiers are two streets away. We’ll load the little ones first.”
Chantal closed her eyes and prayed for strength at this parting. With a false smile, she hugged her niece and nephew and kissed their fair brows. “Your mama is waiting for you. Let Monsieur LeDroit show you how a ship sails.”
The children eagerly looked to their new friend, apparently sensing none of his reluctance and discomfort. Murdoch muttered for Chantal’s ears alone, “Ian is an ass because he was raised that way. Have patience, or leave him rather than kill him. There are others who will help you.”
Lifting Marie and holding Anton’s hand, he disappeared in a narrow alley between crates, leaving only a shimmering glimmer of air in his wake. Even knowing where he’d gone, Chantal couldn’t see him. How did he do that?
Too stunned by his warning and Ian’s declaration, she almost let Pauline escape without saying farewell. But she caught a glimpse of her sister-in-law’s blue skirt hurrying past Ian’s bulk, and she jolted back to the moment.
“I must say good-bye,” she said fiercely, practically walking on Ian’s boots when he would not let her pass.
“I don’t possess Murdoch’s talent for disappearing,” he said without inflection. “I’ll stay with your father. Follow Murdoch. He’ll take you to Pauline.”
The glance she cast his stony expression was that of fear and worry, but she nodded and hastened down the alley of crates in the direction of the tall ships tying up to the pier.
* * *
“I take it you are having doubts,” Orateur said dryly, muffling his harsh breathing.
“I’ve arranged for your horses to be shipped on a more suitable vessel,” Ian said, as if Orateur had asked. “I’m pleased that your friends have recovered the stallion. They have promised to look after the horses for now. Some of them may be willing to travel with the animals. The Weathermaker has family in England who will stable them until you decide what you want to do.”
“They’re yours now, and you know it,” Orateur said with as much scorn as he could muster. “They go to Chantal when I die. I have land here, and wealth, but it will be worthless if she cannot return to claim it.”
“You won’t die. You’ll live long enough to divide Chantal’s loyalties for a long time to come.” Ian’s troubled anger simmered just below the surface. He’d sacrificed both Murdoch and the chalice for an amacara with the mark of chaos, one who might cause more harm than good for everyone but him. He was being selfish, yet he could not seem to help himself. “I do no one any favors by taking you home.”
Orateur’s shoulders slumped. “You’ve seen the mark, then.”
“You know what it means?” Ian asked. “Only my family is familiar with the symbols.”
Orateur gave a weak snort and glared at him through eyes glazed with pain. “It is a family mark. I bear it as well. Why do you think your mother prevented my marriage? Your family has done its very best to wipe out those who bear the symbol of change.”
“That’s not so. The gods mark few, that is all.” The Lord of Chaos had marked none at all, Ian had believed, until he’d seen Chantal. Even Murdoch had not worn the symbol, although all declared he was a straight descendant of the bastard god of misrule. He wished Orateur would offer solutions to his dilemma, but so far, he’d only confirmed what Ian already feared.
“Then do us both a favor,” Orateur said. “Don’t let your mother anoint Chantal if you take vows. And unless you trust your sister, I’d recommend that she not see the mark either. I have protected my daughter from the disapproval of your kind all these years. Now it’s your turn.”
Ian frowned. The symbol of rebellion was troublesome, indeed, but to condemn the person wearing it — “Nonsense,” he said scathingly. “All marks are direct blessings from the gods. You’ve lived too long with your resentment, and it has twisted your thinking.”
As his parents’ beliefs were in danger of twisting his, Ian realized. He must keep a clear head, think this through on his own, and not allow his prior prejudice to influence his future.
“I don’t resent you or your family,” Orateur said. “I am grateful that I was given the opportunity to live in a wider world and raise my daughter in freedom and comfort. I am simply telling you that if you are intent on binding Chantal to you, then her protection becomes your duty.”
“You may trust me with her life,” Ian affirmed coldly. “Do not go filling her head with foolish tales.”
Orateur relaxed against the crate. “Perhaps Aelynn matches her with an Olympus for good reason. Your family resists change.”
Achieving her father’s approval was a mixed blessing, indeed, Ian decided.
Chantal reappeared, her tear-stained face speaking her heartbreak at this parting. In that moment, Ian suffered her grief and wished he could return the lovely bubble of happiness she’d lost. Despite his concern for their future, he was thoroughly grateful that she had not taken the opportunity to run aw
ay with Pauline.
Distracting both of them, a towering golden god shivered the planks of the dock beyond their narrow hiding place. He halted, and his shadow blocked the morning light creeping between the cracks. “Do I just haul the crates into the hold without question, or will our fearless leader step out of hiding and introduce his new playmates?”
Ian was almost grateful for this reprieve from his turbulent thoughts. He rolled his eyes and glanced apologetically to Chantal and her father. “Trystan is a doltish clod, and an acquired taste. Pardon me while I remind him of his manners.”
He had need to vent his pent-up frustration. Without staff or sword, or even fist, Ian smashed the force of his mind and the wind against the broad target of Trystan’s chest, staggering him backward. Then he mentally tugged the Guardian’s feet out from under him.
The golden giant toppled like a fallen oak, crashing to the weathered planks and shaking the crates around them.
Ian stepped from the shadows to straddle Trystan’s long legs and drop the end of his staff dangerously near his crotch. As anticipated, the oaf grinned back at him, sat up, and grabbed the end of the staff in a movement so swift that none other than Ian could see him. A tussle with an Aelynner of greater strength, someone against whom he didn’t have to restrain himself, was exactly what Ian needed just then.
Trystan’s attempt to leverage the staff into tumbling Ian to the dock failed as Ian spun the oak out of his reach. Calmer now, he resisted pounding the Guardian’s head. “More respect, please,” he commanded politely. “My amacara and her father await, and I would not have them think you are a buffoon.”
Rising, Trystan lowered his hand dangerously near the hilt of his sword, but the competitive spirit of Aelynn men that caused them to fall into battle at the drop of an insult did not usually extend to Ian. The Guardian hesitated just long enough for Ian to mentally nudge his hand from the weapon.
“You still fight dirty,” Trystan acknowledged with a nod. “But Mariel will be displeased should I shame you in front of guests. She is eager to know how you sent your message.”
“I hoped she would be sailing with you.” Aware that Chantal could hear all they said, Ian kept his words neutral so as not to arouse her fear. “We’ll talk later. There are soldiers hurrying this way as we speak. I do not wish to disturb them any more than is necessary. If you have men strong enough to carry the crates, we’ll transport our passengers on board in them.”
Trystan glanced toward the town. “I’d advise you to find a hiding place as well. They have an arsenal.” He glanced back at Ian’s monk’s garb. “And you are a tempting target.”
“I go nowhere until the others are safe.” Ian spoke without turning around. “Chantal, if you and your father will enter the containers, I will see you on board.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Trystan, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she whispered tauntingly from behind Ian. “Good manners are seldom out of place.”
Ian bit back a smile. It was good to know Chantal kept her sense of humor in even the most trying circumstances. “She is a lady,” Ian explained. “Someday, you must teach me the meaning of etiquette.”
Trystan grunted. “Someday, I must teach you the meaning of common sense. You are not lord over all you survey here.” He nodded toward the half dozen blue-coated soldiers hastening toward the dock, sabers drawn, bayonets at the ready. “Even you are not invulnerable to cold steel.”
“I know. I find the challenge fascinating.” Twirling his dangerous staff into a blur that hid the people behind him, Ian faced the soldiers who had dared earlier to chase Chantal off a cliff.
They did not look pleased to see him. And he was feeling just mean enough this morning to welcome a bloody brawl.
Thirty
Still weeping at the loss of Pauline and the children, and the home she knew and loved, and for a man who did not know what to do with her, Chantal almost preferred to cower in the narrow crate. She knew nothing of ships or the men on them or even the unknown country to which Ian was taking them. When the crate was opened, and she stumbled out into the lantern-lit hold of a ship to meet the welcoming smile of another woman, she nearly toppled in short-lived relief.
The tall, dark-haired beauty greeted her with open arms and evident delight. “Are you the one who talks to dolphins?”
Chantal should have known Ian’s friends would be as eccentric as he was. “I do not swim, so I hope I have no cause to speak with fish,” she replied as politely as she could, shaking out her skirts and surreptitiously studying her surroundings.
Ian was nowhere in sight. Neither was the blond giant. Or anyone she knew. Pain clenched at her heart at the reminder that Pauline and the children wouldn’t be stepping out of similar crates. They were in another ship, sailing to distant shores.
She stifled the anguish and bounced a curtsy to her hostess as a sailor pried loose her father’s box. “If you will excuse me, my father” — she gestured as the crate opened — “he is ill.”
Dismissing her earlier question, the stranger hurriedly replied, “Oh my, yes, of course!” Dark gown rustling, she hurried to lift the wooden lid. “You must call me Mariel, please. As you may have noticed, we do not rest on formality. It seems a trifle foolish given the circumstances.”
Standing in a smelly, dark ship’s hold, Chantal had to agree. She held out her arms as her father rose from his hiding place, but he was so weak, she staggered under his weight. The sailor stepped up to offer assistance.
“I’m Chantal, and this is my father, Alain Orateur. Is there somewhere…?”
Mariel was already hurrying toward the stairs. “This way. This is a small ship, with only one cabin. We do not have far to go.” She held up the lantern at the bottom of the ladderlike stairs. “It is a pleasure to meet you both. I am eager to make the acquaintance of another Crossbreed. You cannot know how exciting this is for me!”
With that remarkable statement, she ushered them ahead of her.
The stairs led to the living quarters below the main deck. The floor bobbed beneath Chantal’s feet, and she could hear a clash of steel that sounded like fighting coming from above her head.
Fear wrenched her stomach, but her companions didn’t seem concerned. Aside from Mariel and the sailor, no one was around to watch them navigate the trestle table and hammocks of the crew.
“What is happening?” Chantal whispered worriedly as they reached the door of the captain’s cabin in the stern.
As the sailor helped the invalid into a bed inside the cabin, Mariel glanced upward at the shouts and clanking of chains. “Not as much as you fear. I don’t know how well Ian does in this world, but Trystan is a diplomat. They will be fine.”
As far as Chantal understood, there was only one world, and they were in it, but again, she held her tongue, afraid of the damage she might do should she unleash her voice in her current state of near hysteria.
She slipped into the cabin to hold her father’s hand. To her surprise, two toddlers, both younger than Marie, played quietly under the doting eye of a slender young man.
“This is Hans. He’s a healer.” Mariel indicated the young man before swooping up the golden-haired girl who ran to catch her skirts. “Monsieur Orateur, if you will allow Hans…?”
Despite the pain in his chest, Chantal’s father observed the cabin’s occupants with interest. He nodded at Hans. “Helen is your mother? You look just like her. She healed my broken arm when she was about your age.”
The lad looked pleased. “She is, indeed. She works mostly with women these days, so she was happy I could take on some of her duties.”
Chantal nearly bit her tongue in two at this confirmation that her father came from Ian’s “world.” As a child, she’d asked why her father didn’t have parents like her adored maternal grandparents, but he’d merely said they were “gone.” Later, she’d assumed that was a euphemism for dead. She’d worn blinders and assumed a great deal for many years, apparently.
Her father turned to
Mariel. “I would not put your family out. I would be fine in the main cabin.”
“Nonsense,” Mariel said. “If I am understanding correctly, you are a man of rank and should be treated as such. My hooligans are more familiar with this ship than their own beds. Come along, Davide. Papa will join us shortly. Let us be ready for him.”
Too confused and worried to absorb all this, Chantal followed Mariel and the children so Hans could visit privately with her father. With hair the gleaming ebony of his mother’s, the little boy strutted over to a trunk, withdrew a wooden sword, and, holding it in battle stance, waited at the foot of the gangway.
Not to be outdone, the golden-haired cherub in Mariel’s arms scampered down and did the same. Grasping tiny sword hilts, they both adopted fierce expressions and waited patiently for their father’s arrival.
“I objected to the swords,” Mariel said with a mother’s sigh, taking a seat on a bench. “But Trystan said it was in the blood, and we could not resist it. Although I think even he was a little startled when Danaë insisted on having her own weapon.” Mariel’s smile was as proud as it was rueful. “My sister’s daughter is nearly a year older, and she is terrified of them.”
Chantal’s heart melted at the sight of the two adorable toddlers. Would she ever have a child of her own? She had never worried about it while she had her niece and nephew to spoil, but now… if she married Ian… A rush of need and desire swept through her, and she had to clench her hands in her lap to hide it. He’d asked her to marry him, but then said he’d send her away. She did not know where she stood with him.
“They are beautiful, and so precocious,” she said with genuine admiration. “Are they the same age?”
“Twins, a year old this past March,” Mariel acknowledged, “although it’s hard to tell they’re brother and sister, they look so different. I had hoped one of them would take after me, but they are both determined to be Guardians. I can’t blame them when they see their father conjure up an island and glow like the sun. My accomplishments as a mere mermaid must seem a puny thing after that.”
Mystic Rider Page 26
