Mystic Rider (35 page)

He had need to vent his pent-up frustration. Without staff
or sword, or even fist, Ian smashed the force of his mind and the wind against
the broad target of Trystan’s chest, staggering him backward. Then he mentally
tugged the Guardian’s feet out from under him.

The golden giant toppled like a fallen oak, crashing to the
weathered planks and shaking the crates around them.

Ian stepped from the shadows to straddle Trystan’s long legs
and drop the end of his staff dangerously near his crotch. As anticipated, the
oaf grinned back at him, sat up, and grabbed the end of the staff in a movement
so swift that none other than Ian could see him. A tussle with an Aelynner of
greater strength, someone against whom he didn’t have to restrain himself, was
exactly what Ian needed just then.

Trystan’s attempt to leverage the staff into tumbling Ian to
the dock failed as Ian spun the oak out of his reach. Calmer now, he resisted pounding
the Guardian’s head. “More respect, please,” he commanded politely. “My amacara
and her father await, and I would not have them think you are a buffoon.”

Rising, Trystan lowered his hand dangerously near the hilt
of his sword, but the competitive spirit of Aelynn men that caused them to fall
into battle at the drop of an insult did not usually extend to Ian. The
Guardian hesitated just long enough for Ian to mentally nudge his hand from the
weapon.

“You still fight dirty,” Trystan acknowledged with a nod.
“But Mariel will be displeased should I shame you in front of guests. She is
eager to know how you sent your message.”

“I hoped she would be sailing with you.” Aware that Chantal
could hear all they said, Ian kept his words neutral so as not to arouse her
fear. “We’ll talk later. There are soldiers hurrying this way as we speak. I do
not wish to disturb them any more than is necessary. If you have men strong
enough to carry the crates, we’ll transport our passengers on board in them.”

Trystan glanced toward the town. “I’d advise you to find a
hiding place as well. They have an arsenal.” He glanced back at Ian’s monk’s
garb. “And you are a tempting target.”

“I go nowhere until the others are safe.” Ian spoke without
turning around. “Chantal, if you and your father will enter the containers, I
will see you on board.”

“
Bonjour,
Monsieur
Trystan, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she whispered tauntingly from behind Ian.
“Good manners are seldom out of place.”

Ian bit back a smile. It was good to know Chantal kept her
sense of humor in even the most trying circumstances. “She is a lady,” Ian
explained. “Someday, you must teach me the meaning of
etiquette
.”

Trystan grunted. “Someday, I must teach you the meaning of
common sense. You are not lord over all you survey here.” He nodded toward the
half dozen blue-coated soldiers hastening toward the dock, sabers drawn,
bayonets at the ready. “Even you are not invulnerable to cold steel.”

“I know. I find the challenge fascinating.” Twirling his
dangerous staff into a blur that hid the people behind him, Ian faced the
soldiers who had dared earlier to chase Chantal off a cliff.

They did not look pleased to see him. And he was feeling
just mean enough this morning to welcome a bloody brawl.

Still weeping at the loss of Pauline and the children, and
the home she knew and loved, and for a man who did not know what to do with
her, Chantal almost preferred to cower in the narrow crate. She knew nothing of
ships or the men on them or even the unknown country to which Ian was taking
them. When the crate was opened, and she stumbled out into the lantern-lit hold
of a ship to meet the welcoming smile of another woman, she nearly toppled in
short-lived relief.

The tall, dark-haired beauty greeted her with open arms and
evident delight. “Are you the one who talks to dolphins?”

Chantal should have known Ian’s friends would be as
eccentric as he was. “I do not swim, so I hope I have no cause to speak with
fish,” she replied as politely as she could, shaking out her skirts and
surreptitiously studying her surroundings.

Ian was nowhere in sight. Neither was the blond giant. Or
anyone she knew. Pain clenched at her heart at the reminder that Pauline and
the children wouldn’t be stepping out of similar crates. They were in another
ship, sailing to distant shores.

She stifled the anguish and bounced a curtsy to her hostess
as a sailor pried loose her father’s box. “If you will excuse me, my father” — she
gestured as the crate opened — “he is ill.”

Dismissing her earlier question, the stranger hurriedly
replied, “Oh my, yes, of course!” Dark gown rustling, she hurried to lift the wooden
lid. “You must call me Mariel, please. As you may have noticed, we do not rest
on formality. It seems a trifle foolish given the circumstances.”

Standing in a smelly, dark ship’s hold, Chantal had to
agree. She held out her arms as her father rose from his hiding place, but he
was so weak, she staggered under his weight. The sailor stepped up to offer
assistance.

“I’m Chantal, and this is my father, Alain Orateur. Is there
somewhere…?”

Mariel was already hurrying toward the stairs. “This way.
This is a small ship, with only one cabin. We do not have far to go.” She held
up the lantern at the bottom of the ladderlike stairs. “It is a pleasure to
meet you both. I am eager to make the acquaintance of another Crossbreed. You
cannot know how exciting this is for me!”

With that remarkable statement, she ushered them ahead of
her.

The stairs led to the living quarters below the main deck. The
floor bobbed beneath Chantal’s feet, and she could hear a clash of steel that
sounded like fighting coming from above her head.

Fear wrenched her stomach, but her companions didn’t seem
concerned. Aside from Mariel and the sailor, no one was around to watch them
navigate the trestle table and hammocks of the crew.

“What is happening?” Chantal whispered worriedly as they reached
the door of the captain’s cabin in the stern.

As the sailor helped the invalid into a bed inside the
cabin, Mariel glanced upward at the shouts and clanking of chains. “Not as much
as you fear. I don’t know how well Ian does in this world, but Trystan is a
diplomat. They will be fine.”

As far as Chantal understood, there was only one world, and
they were in it, but again, she held her tongue, afraid of the damage she might
do should she unleash her voice in her current state of near hysteria.

She slipped into the cabin to hold her father’s hand. To her
surprise, two toddlers, both younger than Marie, played quietly under the
doting eye of a slender young man.

“This is Hans. He’s a healer.” Mariel indicated the young
man before swooping up the golden-haired girl who ran to catch her skirts. “Monsieur
Orateur, if you will allow Hans…?”

Despite the pain in his chest, Chantal’s father observed the
cabin’s occupants with interest. He nodded at Hans. “Helen is your mother? You
look just like her. She healed my broken arm when she was about your age.”

The lad looked pleased. “She is, indeed. She works mostly
with women these days, so she was happy I could take on some of her duties.”

Chantal nearly bit her tongue in two at this confirmation
that her father came from Ian’s “world.” As a child, she’d asked why her father
didn’t have parents like her adored maternal grandparents, but he’d merely said
they were “gone.” Later, she’d assumed that was a euphemism for dead. She’d
worn blinders and assumed a great deal for many years, apparently.

Her father turned to Mariel. “I would not put your family
out. I would be fine in the main cabin.”

“Nonsense,” Mariel said. “If I am understanding correctly,
you are a man of rank and should be treated as such. My hooligans are more
familiar with this ship than their own beds. Come along, Davide. Papa will join
us shortly. Let us be ready for him.”

Too confused and worried to absorb all this, Chantal
followed Mariel and the children so Hans could visit privately with her father.
With hair the gleaming ebony of his mother’s, the little boy strutted over to a
trunk, withdrew a wooden sword, and, holding it in battle stance, waited at the
foot of the gangway.

Not to be outdone, the golden-haired cherub in Mariel’s arms
scampered down and did the same. Grasping tiny sword hilts, they both adopted
fierce expressions and waited patiently for their father’s arrival.

“I objected to the swords,” Mariel said with a mother’s
sigh, taking a seat on a bench. “But Trystan said it was in the blood, and we
could not resist it. Although I think even he was a little startled when Danaë
insisted on having her own weapon.” Mariel’s smile was as proud as it was
rueful. “My sister’s daughter is nearly a year older, and she is terrified of
them.”

Chantal’s heart melted at the sight of the two adorable
toddlers. Would she ever have a child of her own? She had never worried about
it while she had her niece and nephew to spoil, but now… if she married Ian… A
rush of need and desire swept through her, and she had to clench her hands in
her lap to hide it. He’d asked her to marry him, but then said he’d send her
away. She did not know where she stood with him.

“They are beautiful, and so precocious,” she said with
genuine admiration. “Are they the same age?”

“Twins, a year old this past March,” Mariel acknowledged,
“although it’s hard to tell they’re brother and sister, they look so different.
I had hoped one of them would take after me, but they are both determined to be
Guardians. I can’t blame them when they see their father conjure up an island
and glow like the sun. My accomplishments as a mere mermaid must seem a puny
thing after that.”

Chantal’s throat closed, and she didn’t know what to say to
this casual narrative of incredible deeds. Mariel’s French was spoken in an
unpolished Breton accent, a far different tongue from Chantal’s aristocratic,
Parisian French. Perhaps she misunderstood.

The shouts above became heated, and heavy heels pounded the
planks. Canvas snapped as if caught in a strong wind, and Chantal half expected
to hear a deluge of rain, although the skies had been clear. She glanced toward
the stairs, instinctively starting to rise.

Mariel caught her hand to the table. “Don’t. You won’t see
anything, and the children will want to follow you.”

“I really wish someone would explain,” Chantal complained,
feeling her breath constrict in her lungs as the ship rocked with more force.
At least she heard no musket fire.

“They are allowed to cause no harm except in defense of
themselves and their families. They have the ability to slaughter armies, but
spilling blood tends to make one unwelcome, so it’s avoided. You never told me
if you were the one who sent the message that we were needed. I’ve been told
I’m impulsive, so I’ve been trying to be patient.”

“I can’t send messages to ships,” Chantal murmured, still
listening to the sounds above and marveling at the stillness of the two fierce
toddlers. She didn’t understand the question well enough to do more than answer
plainly. “Perhaps if I had a carrier pigeon…”

“How odd. If you can’t talk to dolphins, then who can? Your
father? He did not look well enough to swim in the channel.”

The image of Ian dripping wet, standing over her bed,
appeared in her mind’s eye. He’d been swimming in the middle of the night — in
the sea.

“Dolphins can’t talk,” she asserted, although she no longer
had confidence in anything she once thought she knew.

“Not the way we do, admittedly. They emit a series of
squeals and high-pitched noises that would be difficult to learn if their vocabularies
weren’t so limited.”

Chantal swung her dazed gaze to the seemingly normal woman
sitting across from her. Mariel appeared to be close to Chantal’s age, and wore
an ordinary gown that might be outdated by Paris standards, but it wasn’t worn
backward or fastened crazily like a madwoman’s.

Only — Chantal hesitated as she met her hostess’s eyes. Hadn’t
they been a lovely clear turquoise a moment ago? Now they darkened to
changeable shades of midnight… just like Ian’s.

“You received a message from a dolphin?” she asked faintly.

Mariel studied her with uncertainty and didn’t reply as
openly as before. “I thought you were Ian’s amacara. If I am wrong… Perhaps I
ought to wait to explain until they return.”

“Perhaps,” Chantal agreed quietly.

* * *

“You did not even allow me to draw my sword,” Trystan
grumbled as they stood beneath canvas cracking in the stiff wind and watched
the blue uniforms of the National Guard marching away. “It would have been in
defense and perfectly legal.”

Ian had been the one to wield his staff, and his mental
abilities, to drive the soldiers back. There had been a few protests, a few
swords drawn and fists thrown, but all in all, they’d escaped with little more
than bruises and bad feelings.

Yet Ian was still itching for a fight. And the reason waited
below.

“This land will see enough bloodshed in the years to come
without our adding to it,” he replied. “Should we need to return here, it’s
better that we leave the inhabitants confused rather than dead. I wish we all
had Murdoch’s trick for invisibility.”

“Invisibility!” Trystan’s golden brown eyebrows shot up.
“You’ve seen Murdoch? Or should I say,
not
seen him, if he’s learned invisibility?”

Ian glanced to Waylan’s ship in the distance, lifting sail,
fighting the Channel’s tide. The Weathermaker would be working the wind to
allow both ships to leave the harbor before the French soldiers changed their
minds and came after them. “With any luck, Murdoch is aboard the
Destiny,
where Waylan can keep an eye on
him.”

Trystan stilled and watched Ian guardedly. “You let him go?”