Mystic Rider (18 page)

Chantal held back her tears as she completed each task on
her list. It wasn’t as if she were leaving home forever, she reminded herself. They’d
be back within a few days, and everything would return to normal, except
Pauline and her children would no longer be in her life. Her heart already
ached with grief at their loss.

Perhaps she should adopt a child of her own. There were
orphans aplenty running through the streets. She would think of it later, when
she returned.

Ian hadn’t said where he would go, but his gestures spoke
what his words did not. He’d climbed into her bed in the early hours and simply
held her tight until daybreak. She’d understood then that he would be leaving
once he had his chalice.

She refused to cry over that as well. He was
nothing
to her. Could never be anything
to her. Except the best lover she’d ever had or would ever have again.

They’d made love again at dawn, and he’d left her bed while
she dozed afterward. On the pillow where his head had rested, he’d left her a
perfectly pitched silver flute. She’d wept over its beauty and his
thoughtfulness — and the fear that it might be a parting gift.

She’d barely seen him since, but then, she’d been as busy as
he apparently was. She’d helped Pauline pack trunks for the children, advised
the servants on the food to send with them, arranged for enough fresh linen for
everyone, and carried out her father’s errands as if it were an ordinary day.
There were spies everywhere, and if anyone surmised they were contemplating
illegal actions, the militia would be at their door.

All except Pierre had proper documentation, and even he had
the best facsimile her father could arrange. Her father had devised a story of
their attending a wedding party in their home town, so she’d packed a small
trunk as well. For Pierre’s sake, they must act relaxed. Pauline went to the
palace to bid her adieu to the queen. Papa had gone to his usual political
salon. The children chased each other around the house and kept the servants
too busy to gossip.

Ian had returned from his tasks by dinner time, and they’d
all sat down to enjoy the meal together. But the hours had passed swiftly, and
the summer sun had set, taking with it the heat. Now it was time to depart.

For some melancholy reason, Chantal felt as if she’d never
see her beloved city home again. The rising moon illuminated the clean lines of
pillar and post, and the decades-old vines twining up the limestone. Watching
the flicker of lantern light in the glazed windows, she tried to put herself in
Pauline’s shoes and be grateful for escape. She could not. Pauline would not
want to lose her home any more than Chantal wanted to lose her friends and
godchildren. Or Ian.

So she hugged a sleepy Marie and passed her into the carriage;
helped Anton in with his toy soldier; checked that the trunks were double-tied
on top and that Cook’s basket was under the seat. Garbed in a coachman’s
attire, holding a whip, Pierre huddled on the driver’s seat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched her father and Ian
talking quietly, holding the steeds they would ride beside the carriage. She
still could not believe her father had agreed to this plan. There were
important bills to be discussed, laws to be made. It was her father’s participation,
more than anything else, that rattled her secure little world.

“See that the beds are freshly made before we return,” she
ordered the head housekeeper. “And the brandy barrel is almost empty. Have the
supply replenished. It will probably be late when we come home, so bread and
cheese will suffice upon our arrival. That will give Cook time to go to market
the next morning. Is there anything else you can think of?”

“The candles, madame,” the servant reminded her. “Shall I
restock?”

“Yes, excellent thought. Girard will be in charge of
purchases, so check with him. Just look at the moon! It will be such a lovely,
cool night for traveling, don’t you agree?”

The housekeeper did not look reassured, but she nodded
obediently.

Ian took Chantal’s elbow. “The horses are restive. We need
to be on our way.”

“Of course.” She scanned his face in the light from the
carriage lamps, but she could see nothing beyond the grim set of his lips to
indicate his state of mind. He hadn’t shaved since morning, and his beard
shadowed his jaw, adding a raw masculinity to his striking bone structure that
tugged a primal chord inside her. “Thank you for the flute,” she whispered. “It
is beautiful.”

His hand squeezed her elbow harder, as if he felt the same
as she. It was unnerving how he did that. “I know you need your music with you.
I am sorry we cannot bring more.”

Touched that he’d thought of her in such a way, she accepted
his assistance and climbed into the shadowy carriage to take the seat facing
Pauline. The city gate would be the first test of their documents and Pierre’s
disguise.

As the carriage horses trotted into the open street and
tension mounted, Chantal wondered if this was how the king and queen would
someday attempt their escape. Rumors were rife all over Paris that the queen
had purchased a berlin and sent an enormous wardrobe ahead to Brussels. Chantal
did not understand why the king would want to leave his throne and people when
France most needed a strong leader, but she assumed his brothers and the war
cries on the border had much to do with it.

She hoped the royals would not be so foolish as to try to
escape, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Putting herself in the place
of the queen, she shivered uneasily at the sight of soldiers lounging on street
corners, peering into every vehicle that passed. The little bubble of her
secure world weakened as she finally realized that this task they undertook was
not a pretty game.

The beautiful, sophisticated Paris she knew had become a
tinderbox. Intellectually, she’d known any little incident could incite a riot.
But until this moment, she’d not feared these skirmishes. She’d always thought
of herself as part of the protesting crowd. She feared now that she’d been
living an illusion. If the soldiers saw so much as a suspicious face or form,
they would stop the carriage, and violence-prone mobs would descend to search
them.

Music and revelry rang out in the street ahead, and Pauline
huddled her children closer under her cloak. Chantal could not see her face,
but she sensed her tension. What was the world coming to that they should fear
a party? Paris was known for its gaiety, was it not?

And sadly, she realized, the city had not been gay for a
very long time. There had been many triumphs, yes, and there was hope for the
future, but years of bankruptcy had taken their toll. People were angry.

She tried a few soft notes on her new flute to play away her
unease, but she could not find the right tune. She should have asked Ian if he
had his chalice yet, so she could hold it awhile longer. If she could just tap
it one more time —

Music played outside, abruptly interrupted by sharp voices
as the carriage attempted to traverse a street filled with revelers. She dug
her nails into her palms as she listened to Ian’s deep voice reply in a
soothing manner that almost reassured her. He had a magical way of making
people do what he wanted. Something in his voice must produce such excellent
results. Except, she remembered, he’d said nothing at the Conciergerie, and
people had still moved out of his way.

Her father called jovially to some of the merrymakers,
asking the reason for the celebration. Lewd jokes about weddings followed, with
her father and Ian explaining they were attending one also. The party in the
street shouted their good wishes, and the carriage rolled on under the harbor
of false pleasantries. Chantal breathed deeply when she realized she’d been
holding her breath.

“I believe your lover has as persuasive a tongue as your
father,” Pauline whispered. “He could make pigs fly with his silver words.”

“And stallions behave and women make fools of themselves,”
Chantal agreed grimly.

“All very worthy attributes,” Pauline agreed with a chuckle,
trying to ease the tension.

“A pity we will never see him again once he has what he
wants. Did you help him trade his coins for the chalice?” Chantal tried to keep
her tone neutral, but she knew what the king would do with the money. In some
manner or another, she feared Pauline was helping him escape. She stroked the
flute and tried not to believe that Ian was a spy or worse.

“There were messages exchanged,” Pauline agreed quietly. “After
he rescued us, it would not be fair to keep him here by concealing what he came
for, would it?”

“No, I suppose not.” She stared out the window as they
approached the first customs post. Ian rode one of her father’s carriage horses
and not the stallion. He still looked as if he were one with the animal,
controlling its nervous sidesteps with his powerful thighs while speaking with
authority to the guards to whom he handed their documents.

Ian was in all ways a stronghold of influence, a veritable
prince among men. Even she could see it now that he’d discarded his robes and
donned a fashionable costume. Before, his deep eyes and grave expression had
fooled her into thinking him a spiritual man, but she knew better now.

As if he sensed her desire, he turned his head and saluted
the carriage with a touch of his whip to his hat. Just the acknowledgment
thrilled her as if she were a lovesick adolescent.

Once they were past customs, the full moon lit an easy road
through the countryside. On any other occasion, she might have thrilled to the
beauty of trees thrown into silver silhouettes. A song would have appeared in
her throat, and she would have had everyone singing along with her.

Tonight, her songs were silent. Perhaps that was a good
thing. They most likely would have been dirges.

Drums rolled and a small band of local militia drunkenly
paraded through the single street of the village where her father kept his
stable. Only a few days ago, the drums would have reassured Chantal that all
was well. Now she waited tensely as her father greeted the militia leader and
exchanged pleasantries. Alain tipped his hat as the guard let them pass. Just
one wrong word, and all could end badly.

In silence, they stopped at the stable to exchange horses.
Rather than ride one of the nervous thoroughbreds, Pierre retained his seat
beside the coachman. Chantal was not surprised when Ian emerged riding the
stallion, but the string of brood mares her father led out shocked her. They’d
not been bred this winter, so there were no foals, but these horses were not
trained for traces.

She opened the carriage door and leapt down. She didn’t dare
approach the stallion, although the animal seemed calm in Ian’s hands. Instead,
she confronted her father.

“Where are you taking the mares?” she demanded.

“I’m selling them,” her father said with a trace of sadness.
“The military would only confiscate them otherwise. It is time to admit that
our racing days are over.”

Pierced by the sharp arrow of truth, Chantal crumpled, and
her tears fell in a deluge. The horses were her father’s pride and joy,
representing decades of careful breeding. Sobbing, she rested her wet cheek
against the neck of the old mare he rode. Her world was tumbling rapidly out of
its orbit.

Wordlessly, she wiped her eyes and returned to her seat, not
glancing toward Ian. Her father would not sell his horses to just anyone, so
she knew he had a buyer already. And that buyer must be Ian. He was far richer  — and
more ruthless  — than his monk’s robes revealed.

* * *

Ian deliberately shut his mind to the sorrow emanating
from the carriage. Chantal had the ability to close off her thoughts, but the
new bond between them opened channels he’d just as soon not yet explore, not
while he had harsh duties to accomplish.

He’d not met the royal household and could not differentiate
their thoughts or emotions from hundreds of others in the countryside through
which they traveled. But he’d learned the thought patterns of the Swedish
diplomat. He kept his inner ear attuned to von Fersen’s mind, as well as to the
chalice’s presence in the king’s trunk. It was finally within his reach.

He had caught a whiff of the count’s concern when his coach
ran into the wedding festivities at the Paris gate. But Ian hadn’t sensed the
horror of capture, so he assumed the royal party had passed safely. They were
to exchange von Fersen’s carriage for the royal berlin in a village not far
from Orateur’s stables, where Ian’s chosen guards would meet them, dressed in
the baroness’s livery.

Hours later, as the moon sank toward the western horizon,
Ian dropped the stallion behind Chantal’s carriage, hoping to catch some sense
of von Fersen’s whereabouts. Dawn brought new dangers, and he would feel better
if the chalice were closer, especially since the count would part company with
the royal household once the switch was made.

Ian knew when Chantal finally fell victim to the carriage’s
rocking and slept. An entire layer of awareness fell away, opening his mind
more clearly to the stars. He frowned at the realization that his attachment to
Chantal caused an interference with his abilities. His parents had never told
him of that handicap.

With the stallion walking smoothly beneath him, Ian connected
with the sky and let his mind float over the moonlit landscape. He found the
chalice first, carefully wrapped and concealed in the royal luggage. He offered
a prayer of thanks to the gods, then sought von Fersen.

He read the count’s impatience at the slowness of the royal
couple, their children, and the servants as they switched from his speedy
carriage to the cumbersome berlin. Haste was not a familiar attribute for a
court bogged down by ceremony. This did not bode well for their ability to act
with swiftness under pressure. The royals would have done far better to have
taken horses and flown like the wind to the border  — as Ian planned to do once
he had the chalice in hand.