Mystic Rider Page 7

  And in the carriage yard below her window, a steady thud and grunt drifted upward. She hugged herself tighter, fighting the urge to look again.

  Earlier, she’d given in to fear and crept to the window. The sight below had sent her scurrying back to bed, blood coursing heatedly to her cheeks.

  So now she sat here, fretting about her father’s absence while trying to avoid thinking about the incredible man practicing some form of weaponry in the carriage yard.

  She did not want to admit that the brave new Paris of the Revolution was less than perfect, but she feared for her father’s safety. His oratory was brilliant, but it irritated the more radical members of the Assembly, who thought all aristocrats ought to be executed for their crimes against the people.

  Her father wasn’t a violent man and believed reason would prevail. For the first time, Chantal wondered what would happen if he was wrong.

  The muted sounds in the yard reminded her of the danger beyond these walls. She had expected to see thieves and murderers when she’d peeked out earlier. She hadn’t expected her eccentric lover.

  She couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. She might be a well-bred lady, but she was also a woman. Throwing aside the coverlet, she crept on bare feet to the mullioned doors opening onto a small balcony above the yard.

  Below, Ian had scandalously stripped to his breeches and boots. Lantern light shadowed and accented the awe-inspiring muscles of his brown arms and chest. His long dark queue hung down his back, and perspiration streaked his bulging shoulders as he twirled his heavy staff over his head, apparently lost in thought and unaware of his surroundings. Lean, trim, and in fighting shape, Ian was definitely no scholarly monk.

  Chantal grew warm just watching him. He was a Greek statue come to life. What would he look like fully naked?

  The blur of motion he created terrified and thrilled her. No mortal man could move with such speed. His staff was a whirlwind — its force dangerously invisible.

  And he was her lover.

  She was still trying to adjust to that fact. As much as she would like to pretend she hadn’t behaved so wantonly, her body told her otherwise. She craved a chance to experience such sensations again, to prove she was still female and desirable to a man who looked like a god.

  She must have made some sound, for he glanced in her direction. The blur of his staff slowed to a more natural speed, although his muscles still bulged with his efforts.

  Chantal didn’t look away this time. Ian held her gaze as he brought the staff to waist height and began spinning it hand over hand around his torso, eventually slowing it to lazy figure eights. Enthralled, she admired the fluid movement. But mostly, she wanted to see what he would do now that he knew she was there.

  When he finally brought the oak to a halt and hid it in the shrubbery beneath her window, she should have fled and locked the door. But kneeling on the balcony’s tiled floor, she clung to the wrought-iron rail and let excitement pound through her as Ian studied the ancient vines covering the stone exterior.

  No civilized man in his right mind would attempt those thick, leafy ropes. Certainly no gentleman would. But no gentleman would be standing half-naked in her carriage yard either.

  Perhaps he was some throwback to medieval knights. If so, she was the maiden in the tower he meant to carry off. He was already halfway up the wall, fitting his boots into crevices between the stones and hauling his weight up with his arms, looking as if he regularly scaled walls while the rest of the city slept.

  Thrilled to the very marrow of her bones, she lingered to watch. She could argue that she wished only to make certain the foolish man did not fall and kill himself, but she could have done that from behind locked doors.

  Instead, she felt bold and eminently desirable while waiting for her prince to come….

  Scaling a wall…

  For her.

  She stood and eased backward as Ian’s powerful hands clasped the top of the railing. He wasn’t even breathing heavily as he vaulted into the narrow overhang. Bronzed, half-naked, gleaming in the moonlight, he stood not six inches from her nose, his male musk strong and enticing. And she had yet to scream for help.

  “I need a bath,” he growled in husky tones that brooked no argument.

  She heard, I need you. This time, her knees did buckle at hearing what wasn’t said. His voice held that kind of power. She grabbed the wall to steady herself, but it wasn’t necessary. Ian caught her waist and carried her inside. To the bed.

  “We won’t repeat this afternoon,” he assured her, laying her crossways over the bed so her lower legs dangled over the edge, scarcely covered by her filmy gown.

  Before she could scramble up from that vulgar position, he slid the muslin above her hips with a strong caress of her buttocks, then kneeled between her legs. As his tongue stroked the aroused bud of her sex, Chantal finally cried out.

  But calling for help was the furthest thing from her mind.

  * * *

  Ian gentled his nervous mate by stroking her hips and cupping her buttocks while he applied his mouth to give her what she wanted without offending her with his perspiration-soaked body. She dug her fingers into the covers and bucked and writhed against him. She aroused him to painful proportions, but he was a man who knew restraint.

  He deepened his kiss, and she moaned, then froze with the tension building within them both. He didn’t need any empathic ability to know what to do next. Suckling the sensitive bud of her sex, he filled her with his fingers, and she came apart in his hands.

  He would have liked to linger and take his time bringing her to the crest again, then hunt for a mark that might prove she carried gifted Aelynn blood. He would have liked to take a bath and come to her clean. But trouble was on the wind. This time, his vision had shown Murdoch riding at the head of French troops somewhere in the countryside.

  He did not need the stars to hear the more immediate danger riding this way now. He might have only this one opportunity to give her the child her body craved and his family needed.

  Standing, he peeled down his breeches. For now, he would be crude and give her pleasure without subjecting her to his offensive stench. He lifted Chantal’s legs to his shoulders, and kissed and nipped his way along her delicious flesh. She tensed as his ministrations woke her from her lethargy, but it was too late to stop him now.

  Before she could pull away, he thrust deep within her tight passage. Arching his spine in a paroxysm of gratification at this joining, Ian closed his eyes and absorbed the wonder of her inner muscles convulsing around him.

  He needed so much more time….

  But already, the galloping of horses in the distance rushed to end this moment.

  He leaned forward and greedily suckled at her breast through the gauze of her bodice. She moaned and moved against him. That was all the encouragement he needed. Lifting her hips to adjust the angle of their joining, he thrust even deeper until he touched the entrance of her womb.

  He’d spilled his seed inside dozens of women without creating a child, but the gods had promised him this mate. Sending up a prayer, he freed the animal inside him, plunging without restraint until the wave of lust reached its pinnacle. As Chantal arched eagerly to accept him, the beast broke free and, with a growl of possessive delight, filled her womb with the seed of life.

  Beneath him, Chantal shuddered and writhed in release, while Ian relentlessly held her in place, preserving their joining as long as he could. He wanted to start all over, lick her skin, kiss her senseless, and find new ways to excite her, but the rattle of carriage wheels had already rounded the corner and entered the street outside.

  Still, he waited to feel that spark of life he’d been told he’d feel when his seed found hers and a child began. Trystan had sworn he’d known the instant his twins were conceived. If Trystan could, surely Ian would.

  Maybe not. Ian felt an immense physical relief at the power of his release, and deep gratitude for the woman who even now reached for him ag
ain, but nothing that spoke of life. Still, he didn’t want to part from her. Sheathed in her tight passage, he felt a new rush of blood quickening in him.

  But there wasn’t time. As ever, duty called. Even Chantal heard the shouts and musket fire now. Reluctantly, he released her, shuddering as he slid free into the chilly night air.

  She scrambled to her knees, letting the gown cover her again as she stared in fear at the window. Ian regretted that he had yet to see her fully undressed so he might learn if the mark of the gods was on her.

  He pulled up his breeches.

  “What is happening?” she asked in panic.

  “I believe your father is returning. Dress quickly. You will be needed downstairs.”

  The peaceful street erupted in shouts and curses.

  Without so much as a by-your-leave, Ian rushed out the glass doors and swung over the rail before the gates to the drive could burst open.

  * * *

  Chantal grabbed her robe and ran to the balcony.

  Her father often kept late nights, but he never arrived at this speed and with this commotion. How could Ian know who it was? The crack of a whip, pounding hooves, and racing carriage wheels resounded across the cobblestones beyond the townhouse walls.

  She saw Ian hit the ground running, snatching up his staff and racing for the entrance, but she couldn’t see what happened farther down the drive.

  She could still sense the blunt force of Ian’s masculinity inside of her. Jean had been scarcely more than a boy when they married. Ian was a full-grown man, twice Jean’s size. She would be sore for days, pleasurably sore, since each movement reminded her of what they had done and aroused her all over again.

  Her father would be disappointed with her if he knew. If she came with child, she’d have to leave Paris and abandon their work here. Still, she could not regret what she had done.

  She jumped back, startled, as the rusty carriage gate slammed open faster than she’d ever seen it swing. Galloping horses foaming at the mouth rushed in, dragging a coach that appeared to fly on two wheels before it crashed to a halt at the entrance.

  Musket fire and shouts ensued, and she tugged her robe closed, terrified. Part of the mob slipped through the open gate, before it swung closed with a force that caught a man’s hand as he tried to shove inside. He screamed in agony, but no one attended him.

  She didn’t know whether to race downstairs to offer help if that was her father in the coach, or run to Pauline’s room and rush her and the children out a back door for fear of arrest. She kept searching for some sign of Ian, for some signal as to what was happening.

  A mob formed behind the gate, waving weapons and cursing as the guard secured the lock. Even though she could barely see Ian’s shadow, she knew he, not their aging gatekeeper, had been the one to open and shut the gate.

  The yard was black except for the flickering of torches beyond the wall. She could see only shadows and hear grunts and scuffles. One of the intruders groaned after a particularly hard thud, and in her mind’s eye, she could see Ian using his staff to double his assailant in half. She didn’t know how, but the image was there, reassuring her that he had matters under control.

  The coach driver and a footman climbed down to help out the carriage’s occupant. Wearing a familiar cockaded bicorne and powdered wig, a tall man stumbled out of his own volition, grabbing the footman’s shoulders before he fell.

  Without further question, Chantal flew from the room and down the stairs.

  Her father was injured.

  And like a knight of old, Ian was single-handedly fighting off their enemies.

  Eight

  “I’m fine,” Alain Orateur said, waving his hand dismissively as Chantal raced into his study. “I’ve just hit my bad knee. Have Girard arm the servants and send them into the yard. That should suffice to turn the rabble away.”

  Her father’s face was white beneath the sweat-streaked dust of the road, and Chantal’s heart lurched with fear. But understanding the wisdom of his order, she hurried back to the corridor. She nearly bumped into Girard hastily tugging on his coat, his shirt half outside his breeches. She repeated her father’s command, sending him back to the kitchen to find help. She was much more accustomed to telling servants what to do than acting on her own, but she couldn’t leave Ian out there alone. Retrieving the loaded pistol her father always kept in the foyer armoire, she bit her lip and approached the front door.

  It was unlatched. She’d heard no one but her father enter. It was hard to believe that anyone in her beloved Paris would attack her generous father. It would be akin to attacking the beloved revolutionary soldier Lafayette. But the mood of the city swung with the tides these days.

  She tugged the handle, and the door swung in effortlessly. Still barefoot and in her robe, she couldn’t venture far without knowing her purpose. Attempting to stand behind the door and peer around, she scanned the darkened drive.

  A mob still jeered and struck weapons against the iron bars of the closed gate. She winced at the thuds coming from the graveled drive and smelled the stench of spilled blood.

  Now that her eyes had adapted to the dark, she could see Ian more clearly, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

  Ian’s staff held his opponents at bay, but despite their bruises, the swordsmen were quick on their feet. If one feinted to draw Ian’s blow, the other rushed in on his undefended side. Ian was deftly transferring the staff from hand to hand, holding them back, swinging surely and soundly, landing quick blows, but he did not have eyes in the back of his head. A man wearing the Phrygian cap of a radical, with hair straggling to his uncollared shirt, crept up from behind him.

  With no time to think, Chantal shouted, “Behind you!” and hurried down the drive with pistol raised. She nearly slipped on a wet patch on the bricks, and fought back an urge to gag when she realized it was blood.

  Without turning his head, Ian spun his staff behind his back, slamming his unseen assailant in the ribs, before swinging the stout oak low to the ground, forcing the other two to leap out of its way.

  From the other side of the gate, the mob shouted as if they were watching gladiators.

  Chantal was struck with the sudden impression that now that Ian had locked the mob out, he was toying with the invaders for his own amusement.

  She had seen him spin his staff in a blur so quick that the human eye couldn’t follow. He could have brought all three men to their knees in a heartbeat. For some reason, he chose not to.

  Men! She could easily smack them all. The mob had deteriorated into a bunch of drunken louts looking for entertainment. A cockfight would do just as well, as long as blood was spilled.

  Let Ian play his game with the swordsmen. She needed to return to her father, and she couldn’t do that until the mob dispersed. She donned a smile for her own sake since it was unlikely that anyone could see it. Waving the pistol above her head, she began to sing “Ca ira!”

  Thud. A sword clattered across the stones, and one thug went down. The mob jeered.

  She sang louder, using the tenor of her voice in a manner she’d learned to encourage others to join in. Someone in the back of the crowd took up the refrain. This was why she loved Paris. Even in abject misery, the people remained proud and defiant. She poured her love for her home into her song, and the crowd responded.

  The ruffian with the cracked ribs staggered in retreat toward the narrow arch of the pedestrian gate. Hands reached over the wrought iron to haul him across to the other side.

  More voices sang in triumph, as if they were winning this battle.

  Oomph. Ian’s third opponent doubled up from a blow to the midsection.

  Chantal switched to a laughing child’s song and marched forward, gaily swinging her pistol. Ian grabbed his crippled adversary by the back of his shirt and flung him across the low pedestrian gate with his companion.

  The mob cheered, apparently transferring its allegiance to the winner.

  The man who’d l
ost his sword had finally retrieved it. Instead of rushing at Ian, he raised the weapon in salute and sauntered toward the exit, happily singing Chantal’s tune.

  Ian let him through, then slammed the gate shut and shot the bolt in place.

  Chantal gleefully called out, “Farewell, my friends. We will see you when our flag flies in freedom and equality!”

  The mob began to disperse, singing drinking songs and shouting rebellious verses.

  Staff in hand, Ian approached her. She felt his disconcerting gaze piercing her as if he could see into her head. “You have a remarkable voice,” he said dryly, dropping an arm over her shoulder and steering her back toward the house.

  “People like to sing. I learned long ago that it’s hard for people to be angry if they’re singing.” Taking in Ian’s male musk and sweat as if they were fine wine, she was nearly dizzy from his proximity. She caught up her robe and hurried beside him.

  “And this is the usual result when you sing?” he inquired off-handedly, as if they hadn’t just confronted a mob and won.

  “I don’t usually sing in public, and turning away rabble is scarcely a habit, but, yes, whenever I have the opportunity to join others in song, I do feel better.”

  “I would hate to see you truly angry, then.” He nodded at the servants gathering up their brooms and axes while humming under their breaths. “They act as if they’re preparing for a party.”

  “You saved us from being terrorized by thugs. They have every reason to be happy. Ask them for anything you like, and they will most likely hug your neck.” In a more seductive undertone, she added, “I would like to hug your neck. Thank you.”

  He squeezed her shoulders but didn’t offer flattery in return, as a normal gentleman might. He still seemed remarkably calm about the evening’s events. He exhibited more interest in her singing than in a radical mob crazed with bloodlust.

  “We have much to learn about each other,” was all her suggestive gratitude elicited before they stepped into the hustle and bustle inside.

  Girard handed Ian his discarded monk’s robe, and he shrugged it on, enveloping his admirable shoulders, to Chantal’s disappointment. But it was time to return to reality. She hurried in the direction of her father’s study with Ian at her heels. She had no idea how she would explain his presence.