Mystic Rider

by Patricia Rice

  “You will overcome that impression momentarily,” Ian said in a dry tone that caused Chantal to glance up at him.

  He’d shaved closely that morning, and pulled his unruly hair into a tight knot bound by leather. But bare legged, with his loose shirt blowing in the breeze, he still appeared a pirate, especially when he scowled toward the shore.

  Cautiously, she studied the people waiting there as the ship prepared to dock. If this was to be her new home — even temporarily — she must learn the ways of its inhabitants. At least she did not feel underdressed for meeting Ian’s family. The men on shore wore little more than Ian did, and the women were wrapped in what appeared to be linen sheets.

  “Am I allowed questions yet?” She could not keep the mockery from her voice. Ian had shown her the marvel of freedom, then imposed limits on the one strength she possessed.

  “You may do as you wish,” Ian whispered against her ear, “but it might be safer and better for our future if we wait until we reach the grotto where no one may disturb us. And with luck, we cannot disturb others. There is a hot spring we can enjoy.”

  His tone spoke of steaming waters and lovemaking and shivered down Chantal’s spine. For a sensual promise like that, she might manage to hold her tongue — just barely.

  “I assume that’s your mother in white,” her father said, in a note bordering on dread. “I thought she would be too busy to greet us.”

  Her father had once single-handedly brought an unruly Assembly into order. Angry aristocrats, clergy, lawyers, and merchants alike had bowed to his wise oratory. Why would he fear Ian’s mother?

  “She does not normally meet ships, but she fears for our future,” Ian responded. “I do not always abide by her wishes, which causes her greater fear.”

  He spoke of his mother with fondness and respect. Chantal studied the older woman dressed in flowing white robes. She had high cheekbones, and silver hair caught in a long braid from which wisps as unruly as Ian’s escaped. She stood straight and proud, slightly apart from the fair-haired woman on her left, who also bore a striking resemblance to Ian — his sister, no doubt. Chantal doubted that his family expected Ian to return with a fiancée. She shivered nervously.

  Mariel joined them. “Council members,” she murmured, explaining the men on the shore. “They’re waiting for the chalice and Murdoch. What happens now?”

  Ian’s jaw muscles tightened, and Chantal sent him a look of concern. She had not comprehended the importance of his task — or its failure.

  “Nothing happens,” he claimed. “They wait until I am ready to pursue them again.”

  The studious Ian she knew was disappearing behind a haughty shield of arrogance. Gone, too, was the sober monk and the seductive lover. In his place was an implacable authority who ruled his world.

  She recognized the truth of her shocking revelation without need of proof. She heard it in the gravity of his voice, finally recognized it in the deference of the crew, who kept their distance, even acknowledged her father’s behavior in his presence. The man she loved had the power of royalty in his home.

  She recalled Murdoch’s insulting tones when he’d called Ian a prince. That Ian used no titles did not mean he lacked nobility or power.

  She despised men of rank who wielded their influence as if they were gods and no man was their equal.

  Surely, not Ian —

  Yet he’d just said the Council would have to wait until he was ready to finish his tasks. That was like the king telling the Assembly that he wouldn’t accept their terms — thinking he was a law unto himself, without any consideration of his effect on others.

  Chantal stared at the shore in horror. What in the name of heaven had she done?

  Thirty-two

  Ian barely noticed Chantal stiffening beneath his hands. That he arrived home with his amacara instead of the Chalice of Plenty or Murdoch was a slap in the face to everyone who relied on him. He regretted that, but he refused to regret his decision. If he was being selfish in following the stars and choosing Chantal over the chalice, then so be it.

  “Mariel, take the children off first, please,” he requested as Trystan leapt to the pier to tie the ship in place. “Then you can take them home without their witnessing adult quarrels.”

  Mariel snorted lightly. “And I was so looking forward to the fireworks.” She reached over and squeezed Chantal’s hand. “The Oracle is terrifying in her ability, but keep in mind she is still a mother, and Ian is her pet. Not that he looks like one,” she granted, glancing at Ian’s square jaw, “unless one thinks of panthers as pets.”

  Chantal managed a weak smile. “Haven’t you heard? Ian claims I tame wild beasts.”

  Mariel’s laughter trilled the air. “Then you ought to do just fine.”

  “Tame them and rile them,” Ian corrected, keeping his hand firmly on her waist. He nodded at her father, who leaned against the rail, scanning the shore. “Orateur, would you like to go down with us, or do you prefer to disembark quietly with the crew?”

  “Unless Dylys knows I’m here, it might be preferable for me to keep a discreet distance. I’ll only exacerbate the situation.”

  Ian agreed. Bringing a potential Lord of Chaos onshore in accompaniment with his equally marked daughter could cause a riot. One obstacle at a time. At least no one knew Chantal’s origins. Yet.

  “Besides, I left a fine set of drums here after one of my voyages,” Orateur continued. “If they haven’t fallen apart, I would like to find them before the shouting begins.”

  Ian wasn’t about to ask what he wanted with them, not now. There hadn’t been music on Aelynn in his lifetime, but he supposed the talent could have departed with the Orateurs. He took Chantal’s hand and led her toward the gangplank. She was such a whirl of emotions that they spilled past her usual serenity and into his heart. He did not have her efficient means of calming them. “You’re not humming,” he noted, wishing she would.

  “You would risk toppling mountains with my voice?” she asked with sarcasm.

  “I was thinking your humming might calm stormy waters, but maybe not.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Are you familiar with Shakespeare’s plays?”

  She shook her head, startled from her anxiety by his question, as he intended.

  “I studied some in my youth. He often wrote about strong-willed women who accept no one’s authority. Think of my mother in those terms, and you see the task we face.”

  “Like Marie Antoinette, who thinks herself above the king?” she asked derisively.

  “Not even close.” He squeezed her hand again, and amazingly, her apprehension seemed to settle another notch. “Your queen is weak, with little influence over anyone, including herself. Dylys Olympus has complete and total dominion over everything in sight, in ways you cannot fathom. She is the one who shattered a man as formidable as Murdoch and banished him from home. Only her wisdom prevents her from becoming dictator and keeps her power in check.”

  “Like the queen in a game of chess,” she said coldly. “I never was good at games.”

  Nevertheless, Chantal followed him from the ship with head held high. She might not understand the power struggle they faced, but instinctively, she prepared for it. Ian appreciated his mate’s courage.

  He knew his mother would not surrender her rank gracefully, especially to a Crossbreed, and particularly to an Orateur. He did not need the protocol of explaining to her that Chantal was his amacara. He had declared his intentions by bringing Chantal home instead of leaving her in the Other World. The only question remaining was the legal one of marriage, and that had to be decided by the Council, since his wife traditionally became their Leader.

  His family behaved politely while Ian introduced Chantal, using her married name to avoid the conflict over her father for now. His mother and sister weren’t the warmest people on the island. From his own experience, he knew decades of bearing responsibility for an entire demanding race had taken a toll on their sympathies. He hoped Chantal un
derstood that in the same mysterious way she had trusted him from the first.

  “Your amacara does not have Aelynn eyes,” his mother declared as her opening volley the moment the introductions were complete. “She is at least a Crossbreed, is she not?”

  “I am a French woman and an Orateur,” Chantal replied, revealing her dangerous identity before Ian could deflect the question. “Not a cross anything. Bigotry carries an unpleasant note that grates on my ears, so you cannot hide it.”

  Now that his queen had knocked all the chess pieces flat, Ian studied Aelynn’s peak for signs of an impending explosion.

  Dylys froze, and someone behind them gasped in shock. Ian squeezed Chantal’s hand in warning, but her mental barriers were as strong as his family’s, preventing him from nudging any of them to peace.

  “Can you hear honesty as I do?” Chantal continued conversationally, as if she hadn’t just offended an Oracle of the gods. “Ian sometimes hears things others can’t, but I think he would have told me if he heard your deception.”

  “A Crossbreed is merely someone who has only one Aelynn parent,” Ian explained in the resulting silence. “It is not an insult.”

  Chantal’s long lashes swept upward and her silver-blue eyes turned to frozen tundra. “To your mother, it is. Her voice screams with dismay and fear and desperation. Despite what you’ve told me, I think your queen may suffer the same dislike and fear of those who are different from her as mine does. It is a universal hazard for those who isolate themselves.”

  Quite capable of eavesdropping, whether mentally or from a distance, the assembled members of the Council began murmuring among themselves. Ian had intellectually accepted the challenge of what he’d done by allowing his passion to rule instead of his head, but he was now experiencing the consequences of his choice. Chantal’s very first words caused dissension.

  Still, his faith held strong. “I will need to speak before the Council of the things I have learned,” he said, diverting the tension of his family’s shocked silence and overriding any retort his mother might make once her fury abated sufficiently to allow her to speak. “But Chantal and I need time to prepare for our vows so I may answer her many questions. And then we must find teachers who can help with her gifts.”

  He nodded at the elder who had stood in his place while he was gone. “If you would arrange to assemble the Council on the morrow, I would appreciate it.”

  Lissandra closed the distance between them and spoke in low tones. “You would make her Council Leader?” she asked with a horror she did not attempt to conceal.

  “I will not allow it,” their mother declared. “It is impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Ian retorted, “although some things may be impractical. That is a discussion for the Council. It may be time to part with more of our traditions.”

  “Those traditions have kept us safe and in peace for thousands of years!” Dylys hissed. “We have lost our leader and the chalice, and the island suffers for it. It was your responsibility to correct the situation!”

  “And I will, as soon as you allow me to complete what I have begun. You abdicated your responsibilities when you stepped down after your failure to completely strip Murdoch of his powers. If I am to act in your place, you must allow me to do as I think best.”

  “I will take back my position before I’ll allow you to make this mistake!”

  Chantal sighed, crossed her arms, and began to hum. Ian winced, but he couldn’t resist a scientific interest in the result.

  “If you marry her, you will have to abdicate,” Lissandra insisted, escalating the argument. “You have to know she’s unsuitable as leader.”

  Chantal’s low hum took on a decidedly warlike edge. The council members began arguing more loudly, and Trystan’s ship banged against the pier, bobbing on whitecaps. Ian considered the possibility that her voice might contain vibrations that resonated with matter. He would have to experiment, if Chantal didn’t kill him first. How interesting, to find his equal in power in a woman scarcely half his size.

  Caught in the midst of the three strong women in his life, Ian debated between creating a gale to drive them all home or simply picking Chantal up and carrying her off. Aware the Council leadership judged his every action, Ian resisted a malicious desire to appoint Alain Orateur as leader in his place. Instead, he nodded to his peers, caught Chantal’s elbow, and practically dragged her toward the path away from the beach.

  “We will discuss this in a more appropriate time and place,” he declared firmly as the wind whipped the palm trees and Lissandra grabbed her sarong to keep it from blowing off.

  “Stop that,” he whispered to Chantal as they walked past their protesting audience.

  “Stop what?” she demanded in a low, angry voice. “I thought I was behaving exceedingly well by not scratching their eyes out. How dare they speak to us that way? They do not even know me, and surely they know you do what is best for all.”

  With a surge of elation that his amacara thoroughly believed in and supported him, Ian halted at the edge of the jungle, lifted her from her feet, and kissed her soundly in front of one and all.

  The wind died and the waves calmed. So maybe he was causing some of the turmoil.

  Setting her back down again, Ian smiled in response to the gasps drifting up from their audience. Even Chantal glanced warily at the fronds now waving in a gentle breeze.

  “Perhaps chaos is simply not knowing what to expect,” he said cheerfully as he guided her into the shaded, flower-lined shrubbery. “We need new thoughts and ideas and people like you and your father to challenge us with them. I can see you now, raining plaster on the Council’s heads when they defy us. Or perhaps you could just crack their eardrums occasionally. Or better yet, make them dance jigs upon their chairs!”

  “You are the one hallucinating, not me,” she muttered.

  “Fine, then, don’t believe me. But next time my family begins sniping like that — and they will look for an excuse to do just that — I want you to think of Anton and Marie, or maybe Trystan’s twins. Hum prettily, or play a happy tune on your flute. Humor me and try, please?”

  “May I think of them dancing jigs in their chairs?” she asked spitefully, although a smile tugged at her lips.

  “That might be asking too much for a first try, but if it makes my lovely bride happy…” Unreasonably cheerful, Ian caught her shoulders and pointed out the temple of the gods in an oleander-lined clearing. “Tonight, at that altar, we will formalize the vows we’ve made, I will give you my family ring, and we will conceive our first child. All else is irrelevant for now.”

  Chantal stared at him. “I’m not in the habit of marrying mad princes.”

  His smile never dimmed as he stroked her dainty nose. “You already have, my lady. Until eternity, if you’ll recall.”

  * * *

  Those had been marriage vows? But there had been no priest —

  Later, the steam and incense of the grotto brought it all back — Ian’s seduction, the bath, the giddy promises they had both uttered as he taught her body to climb to heights she’d never previously explored.

  Marriage vows. She’d uttered them without a qualm….

  And would do so again. The realization brought a kind of peace, as if all the mislaid bits of her world had fallen into place. They were promised to each other, if only in their hearts.

  Standing on the edge of the dark pool, Ian slid Chantal’s bodice off her shoulders just as he had that first night. “You may argue until you turn blue, my love.” He kissed her bare shoulder, and she shivered with the passion already building between them. “But this obsession we share is the result of those vows.”

  He shoved bodice and skirt to her feet and pressed both his thumbs to her midsection. “You feel me here, just as I feel you here.” He lifted her hands and flattened them against the shirt covering the hard muscle of his waist. “It is a physical connection as well as a spiritual one, and can be severed only with death.
And that is only an assumption, since we cannot know how the dead feel. Amacara bonds are quite rare, and I know none who share them again after a spouse is lost, so it may last into eternity as the vow promises. We are blessed with such a bond.”

  They were blessed with a passion for lovemaking that transcended all reasonable bounds, but Chantal did not think he meant that. Her hands trembled as she pushed up his shirt to stroke his flesh. “Blessed is not the word I would use,” she said with an edge of hysteria. “We made no choices, no decisions based on logic and what is right. You have reason to regret that vow.”

  He shrugged and unhooked her corset. “I am learning that sometimes our hearts understand more clearly than our heads. I have faith that the gods would not choose unwisely.”

  Untying her chemise, he lifted her from her feet to suckle at the nipple he’d bared, and Chantal moaned in hunger, catching his wide shoulders for balance.

  “Ian!” His mother’s voice echoed from the cave’s entrance, but she was barred from entering by the barrier Ian had said he drew from the earth. “You cannot exchange vows unless I initiate her.”

  Chantal stiffened and tried to push away. As if prepared for this intrusion, Ian refused to release her. “Chantal is a widow and no virgin,” he called back. “She has no need of your rites any more than I do. I can anoint her as required.”

  Without waiting for his mother’s reply, he lowered Chantal into the grotto’s steaming water, where the only sounds she heard were the bubbling of the spring and the happy humming of her heart. As Ian began to strip off his clothes, the protests inside and out silenced without a whimper.

  She might despise arrogant princes, be terrified of dangerous queens and the mother-in-law from hell, regret losing her home and her family, and have no rational reason to marry this man, but he was right about one thing. The bond between them required no thought.

  And she trusted him, as she had from the very first.

  She opened her arms as he stepped into the water beside her, pressed her wet breasts to his chest, and let nature take its course.