Mystic Rider (5 page)

His inflection was foreign. She didn’t even know
his name
. She only knew she trusted him
because of the character revealed in his voice.

Embarrassed, she couldn’t open her eyes while he towered
over her. Searching for reality, she absorbed the pain where he’d entered her,
felt the whisker burns on her cheek, and knew her mouth was swollen. Still, she
wanted him again, ached for a repetition of the act, perhaps in her perfumed
bed. She wanted him naked. She throbbed with desire as she never had before.

He brushed aside her skirts — they hadn’t even undressed! — and
sat near her hip. She couldn’t possibly keep her eyes closed any longer.
Fearing that she had imagined him, she opened her lids to gaze into strange
dark eyes that reflected the dying light from the windows. She could have sworn
she saw straight to his soul, so transparent were his pupils.

He’d fastened his breeches but not yet donned his robe, so
she could see more of the square shape of his shoulders, the powerful strength
of his chest beneath a finely woven linen shirt, the narrowness of his hips. He
didn’t need the pretty beauty of court nobles. He was beautiful in his strength
as a man.

“Who are you?” she finally had enough sense to ask.
Remembering the monk’s robe, she continued, “Surely you are no celibate.”

He seemed to consider for a moment before answering in a
clumsy French accent, “Ian d’Olympe.
Again, I apologize for my discourtesy, but not for what we have done. You have
granted me a gift greater than I deserve, and I thank you. But I still must
have the chalice.”

“I will have the
servants bring every chalice in the house, and you may choose among them,” she
suggested generously. She probably ought to be calling for help instead of
offering access to her entire household, but she was still acting on the
honesty she heard in his voice. She did not detect a single untrue note in him.

“I wish only the
silver one with the gem-encrusted stem. It is awkward and ugly, and by itself,
it is of no use to anyone.”

He spoke with such sincerity, she had to believe him. She
must have his chalice —

Chantal stared at him in surprise. “The silver bell! You
want my bell!”

A V formed over the bridge of his nose. “It does not ring,”
he argued, “but it is silver. Might I see your bell?”

Dismay filled her as she realized she must disappoint him.
“It is gone. I sent it away hours ago.”

Ian would have liked time to process the amazing
synchronization of his body with his mate’s that had produced such pleasure.
He’d known many gifted women on Aelynn, but they had wanted marriage, power,
and heirs. They had expected him to use his empathic talents to make the
encounter memorable, without making much effort to return their gratification.

Never had he experienced such natural responsiveness, such a
giving sensuality as this woman’s. Now he understood the spiritual as well as
the physical differences between a legal wife and an amacara. She’d lifted the
exhaustion from his overworked senses, harmonized his thoughts, and restored
him. She was amazing, a rejuvenating elixir he didn’t want to give up.

He would have liked to simply study her beauty and the
alluring way her blood pulsed through her veins when she looked upon him. He’d
given up hope of ever meeting his physical match, and he needed time to ponder
what it meant that she was not an Aelynner.

And that was only the beginning of what he wanted to do. She
looked so deliciously shocked at what had happened between them that he could
not resist leaning over and enjoying the intimacy of stealing another kiss, to
assure her that this moment could be repeated again in the future. He was not a
sentimental man, but he sensed her hunger for his touch, and he willingly
complied.

He lingered on her lips to imprint them firmly in his mind
before he straightened and returned to his task. As heir to the Oracle, he must
put duty before pleasure. He was disappointed that a child had not come of
their joining, but he was not disappointed that his future obligation lay in a
continued attempt to create one.

For now, he would return to his foremost task. “If you will
tell me where you have sent the chalice, I will fetch it and return here as
quickly as I can,” he promised.

Her hair fell in a waterfall across the arm of the
oddly-shaped chair on which she lay. Ian filled his hand with gold and indulged
in the sensual luxury of stroking the silken strands with his callused fingers,
while he waited for her to gather her wits.

She shook her head, and he hastily released her hair,
thinking his rough caress might not cause her such pleasure as it did him. She
did not give off all the usual cues to which he was accustomed.

“I cannot call the chalice back,” she informed him. “It is
all I have that might release my sister-in-law and her children from prison.”

Ian did not have time for disappointment. He should have
known the task would not be easy if Kiernan could not complete it. But he had
already found his amacara. Gods willing, he would have the chalice soon.

Then he must ponder the problem of Murdoch. Leaving a man
with powerful, unpredictable abilities to roam in a world already torn with
strife appeared to oppose the most basic laws of Aelynn.

He stood and picked up his cloak. “I will offer coins to whomever
has the chalice. Tell me how to find your family, and I will bring them back
with me.”

Theoretically, he was not supposed to interfere in the Other
World except in self-defense, or if one of his kind had caused harm. But if the
chalice was meant to save his amacara’s family, then it seemed reasonable that
he should assist it.

“You do not know Paris,” she stated, pushing her hair from
her face and looking a little less dazed.

He swelled with male pride that he’d been able to fluster her
as thoroughly as she had disturbed him. Perhaps it had been a new experience
for both of them.

“You cannot find Pauline until I know where she is being detained,”
she insisted. “I have sent my servant to find out.”

Ian disliked delay. He preferred a methodical accomplishment
of his duties before indulging in further pleasure. Proper meditation and
gratitude for the gift given him in this gentle lady was called for as well. In
his heedless youth, he had occasionally exploded into emotional tumult, disregarding
the necessity of quiet contemplation — at great peril to his own life and limb
and to the people around him. He did not repeat mistakes. Indulging in further
passion would be dangerous until he had accomplished his goals.

He slipped his robe over the Other World clothing Kiernan
had insisted that he wear. He found the breeches constraining, but the shirt
was loose enough that he could swing his staff as needed.

He’d refused to wear one of the tight coats that would
hinder his ability to act quickly, and waistcoats were frivolous baubles of no
use for comfort or protection. The Finder had found the robe when they’d first
landed in Brittany. He’d presented it with a grumble about Ian’s living the
life of a monk, so he might as well look like one, a comment Ian had
disregarded. Kiernan’s disrespect for his leader’s asceticism was well known.

“I have been unforgivably rude,” Ian said again.

“Rude is not the word I would use,” she murmured, still
attempting to straighten her clothing and locate her hairpins.

He almost smiled at her dry remark. They were very much in
tune, it seemed. “I do not even know your name or how you would like to be
called.”

She looked startled and then ashamed. “I think your bell or
chalice or whatever has affected my mind,” she muttered. “I cannot believe what
we have done. You’re a stranger. Perhaps you should leave. My father is
expected to return from Versailles this evening.”

“There will be time to explain later, after I retrieve the
chalice,” he said soothingly. “I will present myself to your father, and we
will have a discussion about your future. I promise, you have done nothing of
which to be ashamed, but I am concerned I have given you a wrong impression. I
am not usually so impulsive.”

That was an immense understatement. He had not anticipated
giving in to spontaneous arousal. Or the need for apologies. He’d never had to
apologize, until now. “Please forgive me.”

She sighed, and pushed high by her confining garments, her
beautiful bosom rose and fell. Ian had to tear his gaze away and study the
plaster garlands and painted cherubs on the ceiling to prevent his body from
responding again. He supposed if one must hide from the Other World’s
intemperate climate in these huge dark caverns they called houses, it was best
to do so in artful surroundings.

“I think it is your voice that makes a muddle of my brain,”
she said distractedly, rising and offering her hand. “I truly do know proper
etiquette and do not generally behave as an uncivilized heathen. I am Chantal
Deveau. It is a… pleasure… to meet you.”

Ian was aware of the custom of greeting others with
outstretched hands. Conscious of the irony, considering the intimacy they had
already shared, he took her offered fingers and bowed over them. “My pleasure,”
he said as he’d been taught, but truly meaning it. He stroked her palm, causing
her to look startled and as interested as she had earlier. She had a way of
lowering her lashes and appearing sleepily seductive that would divert him were
he any ordinary man.

“Now, if you will instruct me as to where I might find the
prisons in which your family might be detained, I will attempt to return with
them before your father arrives.”

* * *

Chantal couldn’t decide whether it was the man or the
lovemaking that was making her brain whirl unsteadily. Surely she’d misheard
him. Had he just offered to break her family out of prison without even asking
why they were there? And what had he meant about her future?

“I don’t know where you come from that justice is so easily
accomplished, but it could take days to find Pauline and arrange for her
release,” she argued. “Most monks have fled France since the Assembly
confiscated their property. You cannot hope to pass even the first guard
dressed as you are. Paris is in turmoil, and people are very suspicious of
foreigners. I trust your passport is in good order.”

“I am sorry, I do not have days to wait,” he said with an
impatient gesture that might be interpreted as arrogance in a man not wearing
an ascetic’s robe. “As much as I would enjoy learning more of your world, I
have a mission to complete before I return home. I would discover the level of
difficulty for myself.”

He conveyed an implacable authority that she’d sensed
earlier, a superior attitude that she resented in most men, but oddly, not in
him. Perhaps because she trusted him to use his authority wisely? Her mind must
be completely lacking. She hardly knew the man.

“Fine, then, I will come with you,” she announced. “Let me
have the maids instruct my students to return tomorrow. I will admit I am anxious
about Pauline.” She must truly be crazed to suggest this, but she could detect
no uncertainty in his voice. He
knew
he could free Pauline. Who was she to argue with a man who was willing to give
her exactly what she wanted?

She blushed as she realized how thoroughly he had given her
what she wanted, even when she hadn’t realized what that was. And she
had
needed their lovemaking, it seemed.
Her jangled nerves had settled. She felt much better and braver now.

She rang the bell for a maid before Monsieur d’Olympe could
object. She could see his thoughtful frown, but he didn’t outright refuse her
aid.
A man among men
, she thought
dryly.

She would see how he behaved when confronted with
circumstances beyond his control. That always revealed a person’s character.
She was terrified that for the first time in her life she had not interpreted
the notes of a voice correctly.

She was in no humor to change from her fragile at-home gown.
Instead, she retired to her chamber to wash away the evidence of their encounter.
She was a widow and had done nothing that every other woman in this city hadn’t
done far more often than she. This was Paris, the city of love. The court could
not function without sexual power plays. She had no reason to be ashamed of her
behavior — other than that she didn’t know this man.

She sent for her cashmere shawl in case the June evening
turned cool. Then she donned her wide-brimmed straw hat to cover the shambles
Monsieur d’Olympe had made of her hair — and to conceal her blush whenever she
thought about what they’d done.

She returned to find her guest frowning at a large oil
painting of a bloody cavalry charge. He turned at her entrance, and his frown
disappeared. She took that for approval since he didn’t seem to smile a great
deal.

A footman hurried to open the front door for them. Girard
generally accompanied her when she walked to her father’s office, but she had
sent him off with the bell — the chalice. Now she had her strange…beau?…to act as
escort.

Ignoring polite etiquette, he did not offer his arm for her
support, but picked up his staff and followed her as she swept down the
circular drive.

The largest prison in the city, la Conciergerie, was located
on the Ile de la Cité, next to the Palais de Justice, and since Pierre and
Pauline had just been taken, they would most likely still be there. Girard
would have driven over in the pony cart. Chantal could easily walk to her
father’s office and the market, but crossing the bridge where filthy radicals
assembled to cast their insults could be unpleasant.

Oddly enough, while she hesitated, her companion began to
twirl his walking stick in circles with ever-increasing speed. She blinked in
astonishment as it became a blur of lightning that he whirled from front to
back and over his head in a manner she could not quite follow.