Mystic Rider (27 page)

That she’d come after him was both wonderful and appalling.
It suggested she had felt his pain. And that she must suffer as he did now.

“You’re not eating,” she murmured worriedly, perched beside
him on the edge of the bed. She stroked his brow and offered him a spoonful of
broth from the tray in his lap, as she had offered Murdoch before he’d turned
up his nose at being spoon-fed. “Would you like to rest?”

He could interpret that offer in many different ways.
Perhaps she sensed his weariness as well as his pain. Or his desire to have her
to himself. Or she could just be trying to get rid of him. Ian wanted to pound
his head on something hard at this inability to understand even the simplest of
questions. He was a complete and utter misfit in her world.

And he didn’t want to be. He wanted to conquer her world as
surely as he had his own — a true challenge fitting an Olympus.

“I don’t wish to leave you alone to guard Murdoch,” he
grumbled with an irritation he seldom exhibited. “Holding him prisoner is
difficult enough while I’m fully armed, but this way it is nigh impossible.”

“I can ask the local militia if they have chains,” she said
dryly. “I doubt Murdoch’s royal mercenaries will provide them, and I can’t see
how we’ll leave as long as his men are out there. It’s a wonder both sets of
soldiers haven’t taken to shooting each other in the street.”

“I don’t suppose you could sing them to sleep?” Ian asked
facetiously, too weary to guard his words.

“Why don’t I
shriek
and make them drop their weapons?” Apparently annoyed, she stood up and
straightened her skirt.

She’d changed into what appeared to be one of her oldest and
simplest gowns. This one was a dismal dark green without a hint of the frilly
delicacy of the other confections she’d worn. Ian had the urge to rip the rag
off and provide her with the luxuries that would make her smile again, but the
inhabitants of his home seldom wore silk. His mind was obviously wandering.

He caught her hand and prevented her escape. “I need your
help,” he said before he could think better of it.

She halted instantly, offering him an uncertain — almost
hopeful — gaze. “How?” she whispered. “I feel so useless….” She gestured at the
room bursting with people.

On the feather-stuffed pallet beside Ian, Murdoch watched
them both, one sardonic eyebrow lifted.

“The chalice is more important than I can explain to you,”
Ian said, groping for the words to convey what his ring would not let him say
directly. “But so are you. I cannot leave you here while I chase after it. And
I understand that you go nowhere without your family.”

Chantal’s eyes widened, as if surprised that he’d understood
the difficulty they faced. Ian supposed he’d surprised himself.

Murdoch snorted. “Bit off more than you can chew, haven’t
you?” he said with a sneer. “Can’t hold me and have her and chase the chalice
all at the same time. How do you plan to win this one, wise man?”

“Do you know a funeral dirge?” Ian asked Chantal in
exasperation. “Perhaps we could bore him to death.”

Murdoch rolled his eyes heavenward. “Gods forbid,” he
muttered. “I don’t doubt that six feet of dirt would fall on my head should she
try.”

Ian was aware that Orateur was watching them with eyes
narrowed, but the older man had a lap full of children demanding a story, so
Ian hoped he could not hear their conversation. Orateur appeared immune to the
effects of his daughter’s voice, perhaps because she lavished only love on him.

Had her father turned a blind eye to abilities she’d
inherited from a world he’d left behind? Or tried to make her life normal by
not acknowledging them?

Ian clasped Chantal’s hand tighter when she tried to tug
away. “For all his wits, Murdoch has the common sense of a conch shell. Ignore
him, but listen to me and consider my words carefully. Does your father not say
that you speak sweetly and can sway the angriest man to reason?”

A tiny frown formed between her eyes. “Men are prone to fall
for feminine charms, for a small while, at least,” she said with a shrug of
discomfort. “What has that to do with anything? I cannot charm a troop of
militia or a dozen mercenaries.”

“Lovely as you are, my lady, it is not just your looks that
sway men, it is the beauty of your voice.” Ian waited to see if she fully
grasped what he said.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Then men are fools to
let a pretty song sway them. How will this help us escape?”

The urgency of the situation forced Ian to phrase his idea
delicately, but firmly. He still had difficulty thinking straight and hoped
he’d worked out all the angles — and that he knew Murdoch as well as he thought
he did. “Murdoch is overly sensitive to your voice, especially if you direct it
at him. First, do not talk
too
sweetly to him.” He shot his prisoner a warning that brought the familiar
mockery to Murdoch’s harsh face. “He may get ideas he shouldn’t.”

Chantal smiled faintly. “I doubt there’s any chance either
of my being sweet to him or of him forgetting where he is.”

“Sensible,” Murdoch muttered, shifting to a less painful
position.

“Just something to keep in mind,” Ian warned. “He does not
trust me, for good reason. But he is a man of his word for all that. You must
try your most charming voice on him to persuade him that it’s in all our best
interests for him to work with us.”

Chantal laughed. Murdoch grunted and strained against his
bonds.

Ian raised his eyebrows expectantly. Chantal had no idea how
her presence reduced him to a groveling imitation of himself. Instead of
ordering
her to do as he asked, he
waited for his lovely, talented amacara to trust him. She gave him unreasonable
hope.

Possibly some of his hope reached her, for she turned a
sweet smile on his captive.

“Ah, Monsieur LeDroit, I did not understand!” she cooed in a
mockery of a coquette. “So charming a man should not be treated in such a
despicable fashion.
S’il vous plaît,
would you listen to Monsieur d’Olympe’s reasoning? Unless, that is, he has
knocked all the brains from your simple head.”

Murdoch tried to sink deeper into the pallet, and Ian
chuckled. His amacara might be a sweet confection on the outside, but on the
inside, Chantal was a double-edged sword. She was still angry at him, but her
fear and fury were directed at Murdoch. If Ian could feel her cut, Murdoch must
truly be squirming.

“Very good,” Ian complimented her. “A little less tart and a
little more sweet, and he will be putty in your hands.”

“This is ridiculous.” She jerked her hand free and propped
it on her lovely hip. “It is unfair to tease me in some jest I do not
understand.”

“I do not tease. Watch.” He turned to glare at Murdoch. “We
can work together to recover the chalice, or I can haul you home trussed like a
pig. Which would you prefer?”

Murdoch replied with a string of curses that had all heads
in the room turning.

Chantal picked up a pillow and swatted him with it until he
stopped. “There are women and children present, monsieur!”

“Ow, ow, cease and desist, woman!” Murdoch cried in a pained
voice.

“Milksop,” she said in disgust, throwing the pillow to the
bed. “It is but feathers.”

“No, it is your voice,” Ian insisted. “Your anger is like a
bludgeon to him. Ask him the same thing I did. Use the exact same words, if you
like, but mean what you say.”

Torn between feeling as if she were a figure of fun and
wondering if Ian had lost what little remained of his mind, Chantal tapped her
toe. Since she could think of no good solution to their difficulty, she played
the game just to appease him. She groped for the phrasing he’d used.

“We can work together,” she said reasonably, “or Ian can
haul you home trussed like a pig.” She added her contempt to her tone. “Which
would you prefer?” she demanded.

“Damn and blast you all to hell,” Murdoch muttered,
writhing. “Hack my head off. Give me my sword and let me fight fairly. This is
cruel torture.”

Chantal shrugged. “Do I sing him a lullaby and put him out
of his misery now?” she asked with sarcasm.

“Did he tell you no and curse you as he did me?” Eyes
laughing, Ian straightened, looking stronger than he had just moments ago. “His
resistance is strong, but your charms are stronger. Try again, in your own
words. It seems you have had much practice at this.”

“Since I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, I cannot say.” But
Chantal’s heart flipped with delight at Ian’s laughter. He was actually
handsome when the burden of his responsibilities was lifted from his shoulders.
If it would make him happy… It would make her very happy.

She considered a moment, channeling her true desire into her
tone. “We are in a bit of a pickle, monsieur,” she said with less sugar and
more wile. “The chalice is on its way to the coast. Both of you are injured and
in no condition to race after it, and there is a troop of militia on our
doorstep who might decide we’re all traitors. A little cooperation might aid
all our goals, do you not agree?” she said, willing him to accept.

Murdoch sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “Yes, I agree.”

Ian grinned like a fool. Undeterred, Chantal pushed her odd
advantage. “Then, if we unbind you, will you ask your men to help us locate the
chalice instead of foolishly chasing innocent people across the countryside?”

“If you will give me real food instead of this swill,”
Murdoch ground out from between clenched molars.

“He always did insist on keeping the upper hand,” Ian said
almost jovially. “Have him swear that he will help and put his men at our
disposal. He will attempt to wiggle out of his promise otherwise.”

Chantal was aware her father had set the children aside and
limped weakly over to stand behind her. She didn’t know what to make of what
was happening, but if she were being made jest of, her father would soon put an
end to the nonsense.

With more confidence, she said, “Murdoch, please swear that
you and your men will help us find the chalice.”

With an air of resignation, he swore, “My men and I will
help you find the chalice, but no more than that.”

Chantal waited expectantly.

Ian appeared to be considering the vow. “He means to keep
the chalice when we find it, but you cannot force a man to go against his
nature or his conscience, and I suspect forcing him to give up his goals would
be asking too much. Perhaps have him promise to protect you and cause no harm.
Let’s see how far he’s been corrupted.”

“Damn you, Ian! I am not corrupt! I won’t hurt your charming
amacara and her family. There is no reason for me to. All I ask is that you
leave me alone, go home where you belong, and let the chalice do as it
pleases.”

Chantal’s father put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed
it gently. “I see Monsieur
d’Olympe
exploits your talents already. Be very careful that you do only as you want to
do,
ma petite.
He has a manner of
twisting people to think as he does.”

“How do you know this?” she asked, puzzled. She’d sensed
before that her father and Ian knew each other in some manner, although neither
man had said as much.

Her father hesitated for the first time in her memory. With
a sigh, he admitted, “I know his family. They are cut from the same cloth.”

Ian rubbed his shoulder and protested, “If she speaks with
her heart, I twist nothing, and I would never harm Chantal.”

“You already have,” her father replied angrily.

Chantal rubbed her temples, attempting to straighten out the
nuances in their voices. There was more her father would say, but he seemed
restrained from adding it.

Murdoch unexpectedly burst his bonds and began rubbing his
wrists. He winced at the disturbance to his upper arm but otherwise looked
relieved. “Madame Deveau, I can send word that you were visiting sick relatives
and had no part in the king’s escape. Go home. Stay out of Ian’s clutches.”

Chantal watched Ian stiffen and grow wary. Murdoch’s offer
caught her by surprise. On top of her astonishment that he had actually
capitulated to Ian’s request — if the capitulation had not been something planned
between them — she didn’t know how to respond. How had Murdoch so conveniently
broken free immediately after swearing he would not escape?

She felt as if she’d not only left her safe world behind,
but entered one on the moon where she did not know the customs.

Murdoch offered to give her back her home. He dangled
temptation…

“He has a better chance of escaping if you are not with me,”
Ian said. “That is why he is being so agreeable about sending you home. But it
is your choice. Paris is no longer possible, but I can arrange for you to
proceed to Le Havre. If Pauline wishes to follow her brother, I can help.”

Ian might as well be offering her the choice between the
devil she knew or a step off the brink of the unknown into the valley of the
unseen. She was torn in two, her sensible half demanding that she pack up and
go home where all was safe and comfortable and predictable.

But she’d lost her blinders and knew Paris was no such thing
any longer.

The buried half of her — the one that had trusted Ian from the
first, taken him to her bed, and caused her to throw caution to the winds and
do appalling things like sweet-talk a uniformed officer into a bargain against
his will — clamored to continue on this wild adventure. That a strong man like
Ian needed her…

Perhaps she did not want to be parted from him just yet.

She looked up at her father, who looked sad and vaguely
disoriented. He’d not been telling her the whole truth any more than Ian had.
These two knew each other in some way that she did not understand.

“Let us see what Pauline wishes to do,” she said decisively.
“I go where the children go.”