She glanced at her thin black gloves and shrugged. “I have no idea. Brace yourself.”
She slapped the reins and sent the pony into a smooth stride. While Trystan might be able to run faster than the cart for a while, Mariel couldn’t. And he supposed that her aid created less likelihood that he would have to use his strengths to interfere in the working of her world, so he must accept her company.
He kept one hand on his sword and warily watched the passing shrubbery. They carried a fortune in gold from the loan against his ship, and he did not mean to surrender it until he had the chalice in his hands.
“We are not married,” she announced, finally taking offense at his kiss now that they were out of sight of the village.
“I agree. That was your tall tale.” That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take her to his bed at the first opportunity. He was already aroused just watching her luscious rosy lips from the corner of his eye and letting his mind drift to the ways she could put them to good use. Now that they were away from the aroma of baking bread, he could smell her spicy scent of lilies and surf.
“I will wave you off at the dock and then announce later that you were lost at sea,” she continued, obviously enjoying the tale she embroidered.
“You will be on the ship when I sail, and we’ll exchange vows on Aelynn,” he corrected.
“You said yourself that it is the duty of Crossbreeds like myself to look after the people off the island.”
“You may return to your home after we say our vows.” He was merely throwing away his future with that declaration. “Right now, I am only concerned about finding the chalice.”
“Is it like the Holy Grail to you?” she asked with curiosity. “In my father’s books, King Arthur’s knights went on quests in search of the Grail, and Pontivy was often mentioned.”
“I know nothing of King Arthur or knights, although I have heard of your Holy Grail. I seriously doubt that they are the same.”
“I always thought a Holy Grail ought to be able to find its own way to wherever it wanted to be, but the stories were interesting.”
“In our legends, the Chalice of Plenty left Aelynn by way of a dragon during the Black Plague. One legend makes it sound as if the chalice caused the plague. Another hints that it cured the disease. Still another claims the chalice was responsible for the repopulation of Europe, however that might be.”
Mariel chuckled. “I like the last one. A Chalice of Plenty should provide what is needed, and that would be births after so many deaths.”
“I don’t think I care to speculate on how that is possible. This is a modern age, and we should leave such superstition behind. But I refuse to be the one responsible for losing an object so valued by my people.” He hoped the legends were just superstition. He didn’t want to think what would happen to the island if the chalice took away the gifts the gods had granted them.
“Do your legends say how the chalice returned after the dragon stole it?”
“No. For all I know, it rolled down the road and up the gangplank of one of our ships. I don’t think I wish to wait for that to happen.”
“No, there are too many people like me who would see it as a means of putting food on the table.” She yawned and tried to hide it behind the back of her hand.
“Have you rested at all since you returned home?” Trystan demanded.
She shrugged. “A few hours. You sail faster than I swim. I’ll be fine.”
Trystan grabbed the reins from her. “In the back, now. Get some sleep. I can keep the animal on the road until we find an inn.”
She didn’t bother fighting him for the reins, but she didn’t climb in back either. “I am not sleeping with you, so you may as well keep going until we reach Pontivy. Unless you haven’t had any sleep either?”
He was unlikely to sleep until he had had the chalice and Mariel on a ship home, but Trystan didn’t think she fully understood his predicament. He had to complete his task and return to Aelynn before the full moon to reinforce the island’s shield. He glanced upward. Little more than a week now.
“I will look for an inn,” he informed her.
“Not many barns or inns in the forest. We may just have to tether the pony near a stream and sleep in the cart.”
“I thought you wouldn’t sleep with me.”
That shut her up. There was none to see or hear them out in the woods. They could do anything they liked. Perhaps he could persuade her that the physical pleasure of being mated was desirable enough for her to willingly accompany him home.
Trystan wondered if Dylys’s decree was her way of saying she didn’t approve of his marriage to Lissandra. That was a dismaying thought. The Oracle’s late husband had been in favor of their pairing. But Luther had been a Council Leader, not an Oracle. Had Dylys “seen” something unpleasant in his future if he wedded Lissandra?
Mentally cursing the unfathomable minds of women, Trystan slapped the pony’s reins and hurried it into another bone-jarring trot.
He glanced at Mariel. She had wrapped her unbecoming black dress in an old velvet cloak that even he knew had been out of style for a decade or more. Her eyelids kept drifting closed. The sun had set, but there was enough moonlight to see the shadows of Mariel’s long black lashes against her fair cheeks.
When he verbally sparred with her, she challenged him into thinking she was older and more stalwart than she actually was. With her lids closed, she was barely more than a weary girl, and a too thin one at that. Her cheekbones jutted against her pale skin, leaving dark shadows in the hollows beneath.
No wonder she had stolen the chalice. She was wasting away.
He supposed if he could find the chalice and right his world again, he could return to trading and bring cheap grain to port—but unless he smuggled it past the authorities, the tariffs would put the price well beyond the means of Mariel’s family.
Sighing in exasperation, Trystan wrapped his arm around her and tugged her against his side. She resisted briefly, but finally gave up and nestled against his warmth, nearly purring as she lay her head against the pillow of his shoulder.
“Sleep. I will let you know if I get lost.”
“Don’t bother,” she murmured. “I don’t need to know.”
He chuckled and settled her more comfortably against him.
He might thoroughly resent this unexpected upheaval in his carefully plotted life, but he could appreciate the altar’s choosing an interesting amacara for him.
Eleven
Mariel woke when the wheels stopped rolling, but Trystan made reassuring noises as he lifted her to the back of the cart. Once she was snuggled into her cloak, she fell into a deep sleep, feeling incongruously safe for the first time in a very long time.
She woke to the dawn calls of mating birds and Trystan’s bulk stretched out beside her, sheltering her from the cool and damp. She’d never slept with anyone before, and it felt strange. She knew she ought to be alarmed, but her companion’s hard thighs warming her rump made a cozy bed, and his muscular arm around her waist provided a comforting blanket.
It felt even odder, and definitely shocking, when she stirred, and his hand cupped her breast through her clothes.
“Shall I whistle a mating call like the birds?” he murmured into her hair.
Mariel’s stomach knotted in understanding of his intent, but apparently the power of his kiss yesterday had drained her resistance. She could not seem to object to the fascinating sensation of his stroking fingers. Her nipples ached to be caressed. Even his breath against her nape was seductive, and she had the urge to burrow backward into his embrace.
She didn’t need to act at all. He pressed her backside with the hard male length of him, until it became impossible not to recognize the danger she courted. She might be physically innocent, but she had listened to enough old wives’ tales to know what he was about. Men often woke aroused and ready for rutting.
But what he was doing just didn’t seem quite so unpleasant as she had expected. Hi
s explorations had located the ties of her bodice, and his hand slid over her thin chemise to heat her breast. Warmth flowered in her woman’s place.
She was falling victim to physical sensation without need of the island’s mystical altar.
Before she could focus her fuzzy thoughts on escape, Trystan caught her shoulder and urged her back to the cart floor. Then he leaned over and covered her mouth with his.
His kiss produced a powerful drugging sensation that captivated her. With his beard stubble scraping her jaw, Mariel clung to the muscled arms pinning her to the cart and drank in the rich wine of his mouth. She parted her lips to accept the invasion of his tongue and felt the tenderness of his possession all the way down to the place that already rippled with desire.
Trystan whispered foreign words Mariel assumed were endearments, while dragging his kisses across her cheek. The loving tone seemed more important than the translation. She greedily inhaled the scent of his stubbled jaw, the male musk of yesterday’s sojourn overriding the faint scent of his sandalwood soap. His hand returned to its depredations, opening her chemise and corset completely, so he could fill his palm with her bare flesh.
Her hips rose in expectation, meeting his.
He groaned and pressed greedily into her. “You are an answer to a man’s prayer,” he said fervently.
His fingers found her aroused nipple and pinched it in such a way that Mariel nearly rose from the cart on the pure pleasure of it, but common sense intruded. “No,” she whispered, finally finding her tongue and putting it to its proper use.
“Yes,” he insisted, tugging her skirt upward so that the morning air caressed her stockinged legs but did nothing to cool the heat building between them. “The gods have blessed us with this physical bond. This is meant to be.”
It felt as if it was meant to be, but Mariel knew better than to trust physical sensation. She might revel in the scent of last fall’s leaves and the fresh earth of spring, but that did not mean she should wallow in them like an animal.
She struggled against Trystan’s greater strength, pushing at his powerful arms and wiggling away from his invading fingers. “No. I will not. I cannot.”
He slid his broad hand up her bare thigh, urging her to part her legs, weakening her will. “Why fight it? You are mine, and I take care of what is mine. You have nothing to fear.”
Promises like that were double-edged swords. As much as she’d like to believe the temptation of a golden god, he was but a man who would take what he wanted and then do as he pleased. When he raised up to gather more of her skirts, Mariel brought her knee up as quickly as she could. She missed her target as Trystan tumbled sideways to avoid her blow. His big body hit the side of the wooden cart, splintering one of the old boards with his weight.
“I said no.” Scrambling to pull her skirt in place and tug her corset closed at the same time, she leaped from the back of the cart. “I am not yours, nor will I ever be.”
She stalked to the stream and hid behind the bush where he’d hobbled the pony. She was shaking all over. It was all she could do to stick to her morning routine and pretend a golden god hadn’t turned her insular world upside down. She wasn’t at all certain she knew the woman he made of her. Her insides ached. She had wanted—needed—his caress and missed it now that it was gone. This was not at all like her.
Trystan’s angry stomps shook the forest floor like an earthquake. She waited until she heard him further upstream before she emerged from her ablutions. An angry man was a dangerous man, she knew, but he hadn’t come after her. She could take offense at his insult of thinking her a loose woman, and start walking home, but she was level-headed enough to know she’d encouraged him. Maman and Francine had criticized her more than once for acting without thinking.
But how could one think when wrapped in bliss?
Don’t consider that. She knew better than to let Trystan touch her now. No more touching. Ever. At all. She would sleep on the ground before sharing a bed with him.
She returned to the cart and produced the basket Francine and the neighbors had packed for them. The bread was still fresh enough and the cheese was delightful. A sip of watered wine, and she was quite restored. If she was very careful, their provisions would last several days. Bodice fastened, cap on tight, she harnessed the pony, then sat primly on the cart seat, waiting for Trystan to quit angrily splashing in the stream.
She tried not to look too closely when he returned from his bathing. Men had been known to beat women for what she had done. Then rape them. She wasn’t a complete naive. She was simply naïve enough to believe Trystan was different from other men.
When he took his seat beside her and accepted the basket without knocking her to the ground or having his way with her, she let out her breath with relief, picked up the reins, and set the cart back on the road. Only then did she dare a surreptitious glance at him.
He was stoically eating his bread and cheese, but quaffing the watered wine rather heavily. The muscle over his square jaw jumped, and his drug-inducing mouth was pressed tight as he chewed.
“I do not intend to have children,” she told him boldly. She was discovering it was liberating to talk with someone who knew what she was so she need not fabricate or hedge around every topic. “I do not wish to bring another freak like me into the world. I could not help the fishermen if I were in Francine’s condition. So it’s best for all that we do not repeat this morning’s episode.”
“Freak.” He cast her a glare. “Is that what I am? What we all are? Freaks?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you are. You speak my language. You live in a country that is not like mine. That is unusual, but I see nothing freakish in it or you—except for that strange bed,” she amended. “And that…wall of jelly in a cave. I’m not well versed in geography, so if your island doesn’t exist on maps, it doesn’t seem odd to me.”
He ripped off another hunk of bread and studied blackly on that for a while. “You will understand better when we return to Aelynn. Explaining isn’t the same as showing you the differences in our worlds.”
“I will help you find the chalice because I stole it, but I will not leave my home again,” she insisted. “You live on an island. You know you cannot hold me.”
Putting the basket of food behind the seat, he glared at her and took back the reins. “The island is protected by a barrier that I control. You were rendered unconscious the first time you went through it. I don’t know how you survived the second time.”
Mariel had tried not to think about that. She stirred uneasily but she could not comprehend invisible barriers or a man who produced them. That was the stuff of myth. “I left in a dory. I woke up outside the fog. I don’t remember the part in between.”
“Aelynn or the chalice must protect you,” he said grimly. “I cannot imagine any other explanation. The barrier accepts only those who wear the ring of silence or who sail with us.”
She cast him a sideways look. “If you are the one who produces the barrier, could this…this bond you say exists between us affect it?”
He fell silent. The birds had stopped singing at the creak of the cartwheels. The June day was warming rapidly, even beneath the shade of the new green foliage overhead. Mariel removed her cloak and pretended not to notice her awareness of the man who sat so close that his lean hip jostled hers when they hit a rut.
They needed to hurry and find the chalice so she could send him off. Perhaps she should have stayed home and scoured the ocean floor for riches so she could buy back his ship while he went to Pontivy, but she felt responsible for this journey and wanted to make it right.
Was that feeling of responsibility also part of the bond between them?
“The gods work in mysterious ways,” Trystan muttered, unable to explain better.
“That’s always been my thought,” she agreed. “You will have to ask your Oracle when you return. I’m certain my speaking with Father Antoine would not be enlightening.”
Trystan
assumed from her tone that this was an understatement. He mused on their differences and how they could possibly make a match when she did not know his culture or believe in his gods. But the Oracle would never have decreed it if it were not possible, and it did seem as if his language abilities made him more suitable than most.
They stopped at a farmhouse when the sun was high and exchanged one of their small coins for bowls of vegetable soup, a refill of their flask, and oats for the pony.
Mariel fretted over the creature, brushing it down, checking its hooves, and insisting it rest. Trystan wished for his trusty ship, but followed her advice since he knew nothing of horses.
They learned from the farmwife that the baroness’s carriage had been seen that morning. Trystan surmised an aristocrat’s entourage would have turned off the forest road last evening and found its way to the manor house that owned the farm.
According to Mariel, the forest was a duc’s personal hunting preserve. To poach even a rabbit would result in a death sentence, another inanity he did not understand.
“Your country is much too large,” he muttered when they started out again. “An island is easier to traverse.”
“I suppose that is one reason the tariffs here are high. Transporting goods must be expensive,” Mariel said.
“But this should be a wealthy country,” he argued. “We pay dearly for your wines. You have trees that can be sold at high prices. I cannot understand why you starve.”
Trystan had made certain that his amacara ate more of their provisions than he did, and that her soup bowl had been filled consistently until she pushed it away. She was still paler than he thought healthy, but her cheeks had a hint of color now that she’d eaten. He hoped they reached the city soon so he could find better fare for her. She might be his bitter downfall, but she was also destined to be the mother of his child.
“I do not understand economics,” she admitted. “The nobility owns the forests, so we cannot sell the wood. Eduard says that workers pay medieval taxes to duchies that no longer provide any services, but I think the king should put an end to that.”
Mystic Guardian Page 11
