Mystic Warrior (13 page)

She snorted in cynical amusement. She didn't need her Sight to realize she would never desert Murdoch. Until she understood differently, she had to assume the gods wished him to be Oracle. For now, she must be a true vestal virgin and sacrifice herself to Healing Murdoch's emotional wounds for the good of Aelynn.

Gods forbid that she do what
she
wanted for a change.

Not that she knew what she wanted.

She threw together flour and lard and began crumbling it between her fingers. If she had yeast, and an oven, she would punch bread dough as Murdoch punched walls. Lacking essential ingredients, she would have to be content with flat bread.

She had time to ponder why the villain she'd unmanned had been looking for them. He'd been paid, she was certain. Money had been the thought uppermost in his mind when he'd grabbed her. Beneath that had been the usual male lechery. She supposed she should have questioned him. Murdoch would have. But her attacker had left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, and she'd wanted him gone.

Coming from a land where men were giants of strength, she scarcely considered the incident more than squashing a bug in the woods. She knew he wouldn't be back. She simply disliked a world in which people would cause harm for something so vulgar as coin. Telling Murdoch would only exacerbate his fury, which would not be conducive to achieving her goals.

Murdoch didn't return until sundown. Unshaven, his dark hair covered in sweat and twigs and bark, he'd evidently set himself some Herculean task to test his wounded arm. His shoulders strained the seams of a shirt he hadn't been wearing when he'd left. Did he keep an endless supply in saddlebags somewhere? More likely, lonely village women were sewing for him.

Lissandra was grateful he wore the loose trousers of a peasant and not the knit breeches of a gentleman. She didn't think she could resist this longing to linger in his arms if his masculine physique were any more visible.

“I'll take you to the coast in the morning.”After throwing that startling announcement into the air, he drew off his shirt and crossed the room toward the bath.

He smelled of perspiration and male musk, and Lissandra's knees weakened. She clenched the table until her knuckles hurt to prevent herself from going after him.

He meant to abandon her on the coast and return?

“I will follow you back here,” she warned. “You risk reopening the wound by overexerting yourself,” she continued, admonishing him for his filthy state rather than cursing his intent to send her away. “You might be strong, but you're not immortal.”

“I'm not stupid either. The committee is seeking me. I don't know if it has anything to do with the incident in the woods, or my catching the timber, but they have concluded I'm not a simpleton after all. The next step is to demand my documents, then conscript me. Would you like to imagine what will happen then?” He called this last from the pool.

No, she wouldn't like to imagine what would happen if soldiers attempted to drag Murdoch off to war if he didn't want to fight. If he could call up thunder over a mere wound, his fury would most likely eradicate the village.

“I'll need to hide until my task is done, and you're too visible,” he called from the bath.

She tried to block out the distracting image of a naked Murdoch in a heated pool. While she worked her Healing, she could look on him as a patient, but not now. Now, he was all perfectly formed male, and the only one she'd ever craved. Rather than wallow in lust, she needed to consider this new development.

Had the villain in the woods been the first sign that they were being spied on? If so, she agreed that she needed to leave. She might have been isolated on Aelynn, but she'd listened to the crew of every ship that had arrived, and read the newssheets they'd brought back. She was aware of the fear and anger driving the vengeful actions of the Paris Tribunal, which preferred imprisonment and bloody executions to impartial trials. They
both
had to leave.

And she realized she didn't want to go, that she was enjoying this respite. Was that selfishness? She wanted Murdoch to herself, to share the bath he'd made with his own two hands, to watch her rosemary seeds grow, to live as a normal person did, for just a little longer.

She had thought she was running to find Murdoch. Was she, instead, running away from herself? She acknowledged the possibility. To endure the duties of an Oracle without any of the recognition or authority seemed pointless. She'd done that all her life, with no reward but the loss of the one man she wanted. Here, she was in charge of her own destiny, and she was developing a taste for it. And a hunger to know more of what she'd been denied.

Perhaps . . . if they had to leave this place, she could accept that Murdoch was right—she couldn't take him home, not while his suppressed angers caused unpredictable destruction. If her task was to help him learn to control his talents, then she had reason to linger in this world a while longer.

Unthinkingly, she rubbed her aching nipple as she wanted Murdoch to do. Recognizing her desire, she acknowledged that staying with Murdoch tempted fate.

Lissandra knew about the physical attraction of an
amacara
bond—those whom the gods intended to mate for life had instant, magnetic pulls that were difficult to resist once they were recognized. And the bond was impossible to break once they indulged in sexual congress.

The physical bond between her and Murdoch had always been that strong. She feared that if they made love, the gods would unite their fates for eternity.

Being physically bound to a dangerous man like Murdoch, one who could capture her heart, would be suicidal. No matter how much she desired to learn the pleasures of lovemaking, she'd not enjoyed her freedom long enough to wish for that form of slavery.

She heard Murdoch splashing in the warm water, felt the physical draw of his presence. Even as she went outside to cool off, she wondered: how could she Heal him if she had to keep him at a distance?

 

Later, when it came her turn to bathe, Lissandra applied a mental bolt to the curtain. She didn't have to read Murdoch's mind to grasp the reason for his restless pacing. Their proximity affected him as much as it did her. She'd left him testing his Healing arms by pushing his weight up from the floor. She suspected the instant she left the room, he used the kitchen knife as a sword to practice his thrusts and lunges. Perhaps she should find some way of retrieving his weapons. If only she knew why he'd given them up.

She needed guidance—should she leave this humble cottage as Murdoch insisted? Could she possibly take him back to Aelynn while his gifts were still so volatile?

She sank beneath the water scented with herbs of peace, felt the tension seep out of her, and let her mind drift to that cloud where she could converse with her spirit guide.

The imp whirled with impatience. Nothing new. It was one of the reasons Lissandra had learned outward serenity, to conceal her inner impatience.

How can I help him?
she asked.

The mental image of a fairy that Lissandra had given to her spirit guide shook her tiny head and pointed through the clouds.

Sighing, wishing she would get answers to her questions instead of being shown paths that led to even more bewilderment, Lissandra mentally drifted to follow her spirit's direction. She should have been more specific as to whom she wished to help.

The vision was alarmingly clear for once: the priest, bound to a chair with a cloth tied over his mouth. The priest's eyes were wide with terror as one of the soldiers poked a knife threateningly at his throat. She could not hear the words, but the soldier's expression grew angrier as the priest kept shaking his head in denial.

Trying to restrain her panic, she edged backward from the vision, scanning the room. More soldiers. More than the lazy two she had encountered earlier.

And another presence—one she could not see but who seemed more menacing, more smug, as if he had arranged the priest's capture and torment.

She renewed her concentration, sending her senses in all directions. It wasn't as easy here as it was on Aelynn. Her powers were more diffuse the farther she traveled from home. Of course, she usually sought counsel only on individuals she knew. She didn't think she knew the shadowy man.

Or did she? There was something vaguely familiar. . . .

Her spirit guide leapt up and down in agreement.

Lissandra struggled to identify the stranger, but he was not someone with whom she dealt regularly. A sailor, perhaps, one of the men who were not happy to stay in one place, who traveled to all parts of the world, returning only occasionally to visit with family.

Why was an Aelynner with the soldiers? Aelynners were expected to do no harm in the Other World. As far as she knew, only Murdoch had dared defy the gods' edict. What powers did this man have to threaten soldiers and a priest? And
why
?

Were the soldiers torturing the priest in hopes of finding Murdoch? Or—she remembered her sense of an Aelynn presence when she'd arrived in Pouchay—were they looking for
her
?

Her spirit guide nodded approval and popped into oblivion, dropping Lissandra abruptly back to earth.

She stared at the dancing candle flames around the pool and tried to pull together her vision, but fear throttled her thinking. Had she Seen the future or—worse yet—the present? The peril seemed imminent.

She needed Murdoch's advice, but she could no longer trust it. He would do anything to send her home.

She couldn't let that poor priest come to harm. This was why Aelynners did not belong in this world. How could she ignore injustice and
not
use every power within her grasp to help—even though revealing their gifts was forbidden by Aelynn law?

Lissandra smacked her hands on the bubbling water and pushed out of the pool. What good did a spirit vision do when she had no understanding of what she was shown? She was useless in this foreign land. Her education was lacking.

Which was what Murdoch had told her for years.

Mind screaming with frustration and uncertainty, she dried off and donned a tunic rather than take the time to wrestle into the heavy Other World gown.

She returned to the cottage's main room to discover Murdoch lying flat on his back on the floor, lifting the heavy bed for exercise. The tendons of his bare arms bulged and strained, and his wide chest swelled with his efforts. The display of strength incited an unholy desire in her, nearly distracting her from her purpose.

She almost vowed to become his sex slave right there.

Only the way he deliberately ignored her and continued to overexert his newly mended wounds reminded her of the pigheaded man she was dealing with. She kicked the sole of a sandal he'd obviously made himself, for no cobbler would claim its workmanship.

“Stop that. You will pull apart every bone in your body. I need to speak with you.”

She'd never know whether he would have obeyed. A rapid pounding and a frightened cry from outside drew their attention.

Murdoch lowered the bed and scrambled to his feet, placing his bulk between her and the door. Lissandra glared at his broad bare back and debated kicking him again, or biting his tempting shoulder and licking his brown flesh. Wondering how he would taste was not logical.

“Who goes there?” he called.

“Me, monsieur,” piped the widow's son. “The committee has found our men in the forest and summoned many soldiers to arrest them! Even now they hold Père Antoine for questioning. Mama says they will send them all to the Tribunal!” His fear was tangible in his choked words.

Lissandra edged around Murdoch and opened the door. She had little understanding of the Tribunal or its formidable
committee
, but her vision had enlightened her to the reason for the boy's terror. She had Seen not the future, but the present. The soldiers must be torturing the poor priest in pursuit of any other secrets the town held—like Murdoch. And his weapons.

Murdoch reached for his shirt. “I'll be there shortly,” he told the lad. “Do you know where Père Antoine hid my swords?”

Jean shook his head. “No, monsieur.”

“I'll find them. Stay with the lady,” he commanded.

Lissandra considered giving the imperious idiot a mental swat, but she decided it would not be conducive to peaceful understanding. “You know it is more than the priest they want, Murdoch,” she warned. “Use your head instead of your strength for once.”

He swung around and glared at her, but she could tell she'd curtailed his natural propensity for violence. His eyes narrowed as he pondered the problem.

“Why did you give the priest your swords?” she demanded.

He shot her a glare. “After seeing the damage I can do, you have to ask? I had hoped to mend instead of destroy for a change.”

He was even more appallingly attractive when admitting his faults. His dark hair had dried and curled loosely around his bronzed throat and intelligent brow like some Roman god of old. Every feature of his lean face was chiseled stone, with nothing soft about it, unless he smiled. At the moment, his mobile mouth was stern and taut with concentration.

“It is not the swords that cause harm,” she reminded him. “It is the anger in your heart.”

He scowled at that. “I told you, the committee has been watching me,” he said, dismissing her admonition. “If they have found the others, they will blame me and will not let the priest go until they have me. He has not sworn loyalty to France. They may have discovered this also.”

She could not speak of her vision in front of the boy so she chose her words circumspectly. “There is some possibility . . . I have Seen that one of our people followed me to this village,” she warned.