Mystic Warrior (20 page)

“I want to help you,” she whispered. That was about as daring as she could be in the face of his blatant masculinity. If that was disappointment in his eyes, so be it. She could either help him or make love with him but not both at the same time. Helping had to take priority.

“How?” He straightened now that she'd voiced her preference.

Just his act of straightening to his full height forced her to step back. She gestured at the nursery. “This is hardly the place.”

He glanced over her shoulder. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

He scrambled her wits so thoroughly she could not think straight. Of course, she had lovemaking on her mind, and so did he, but that wasn't what he needed now. He needed to learn how to tame his dangerously unpredictable powers. She tightened her fingers into her palms and nodded. “Then take a seat in the rocking chair. I need to See into your head first.”

He shot her a doubtful look, carefully eased past her, and lowered himself into the rocker as if it were a chair of execution. “Explain,” he commanded.

“You have some Healing ability.” Feeling a little more assured now that he was seated and not looming over her, she stood behind him, held her hands above his damp hair, and closed her eyes. “You must know how it feels to sense blood vessels and ligaments and so forth.”

“I know a broken bone when I see one,” he agreed, spine rigid, clenching the rocker arms.

“I have trained myself to See even deeper, to smaller parts. The medical texts are muddled. Some call them humors, I suppose, but the more scientific texts in the Aelynn library call them nerves and say they come in motion and sensory forms.”

“Nerves,” he said flatly. “Like puppet strings that pull our limbs.”

“The motion ones, yes.” She circled his head with her hands, and he almost imperceptibly relaxed. “Aristotle claimed they originate in the heart, but dissections show their source is in the brain. And that's how I sense them, originating in our heads, although I cannot prove that the heart doesn't affect them.”

“And the sensory ones?”

“Those are the puzzle. I wish I could work on Other World heads a few times so I could understand the differences between ours and theirs.” Absorbed in the sensations of the energies pulsing in Murdoch's mind and talking to someone who understood, she forgot to be reserved. “For instance, I sense you have”—she hesitated, trying to think of a descriptive word as she pressed her fingers to a spot on the right of his crown—“more heat, more pulsations here than in the rest of your brain. The area is highly complex, more so than in that of a hedge wizard I examined after he was hit by a falling coconut. This part of Ian's brain is also very active.”

“You've done this to Ian?”

“Once. He becomes impatient. Mariel and Chantal have allowed me to examine them, but they're Crossbreeds and female. The brains of men and women do not seem to work alike.”

He snorted with what almost sounded like laughter. “I think I've observed that.” She snapped her finger against his skull in retaliation, and he chuckled. “I wouldn't want it any other way,” he assured her.

“I should hope not. Men are amazingly simpleminded, actually.” This time, she laid her palm directly on that part of his skull where she sensed the most energy. “Energy pulses back and forth in a woman's mind faster than I can follow, but men”—she shrugged and placed her other palm on the other side of his skull—“think one thing at a time. And your thoughts right now aren't on scientific observation. That's over here.” She knuckled the left side of his head.

“You don't want to know the path of my thoughts,” he warned. “You see nothing broken?”

She didn't need to observe the way his body coiled and tautened like a panther prepared to pounce to know he feared her reply.

“Not broken,” she agreed. “But as Benedetti said, ‘The pathways of the senses are distributed like the roots and fibers of a tree.' I would have to follow all the paths, and even then, it is difficult to know if they are twisted the wrong way or connected improperly, because I don't have enough experience.”

“Or the right teachers.” Murdoch rose abruptly from the chair, turning to catch the arms and lean toward her. The colors of a nighttime storm swirled in his eyes, flashing lightning much as the storm brewing outside the walls. “I would have to bed you for you to know all of me.”

“I would have to bed many men, then, to compare.” Summoning all the dignity she could find, Lissandra walked out in search of another chamber, leaving him to simmer alone.

 

“I thought of a new way to study your mind. Why must we leave so soon?” Lissandra said in frustration when she came downstairs the next morning to discover Murdoch already dressed in borrowed clothing. He wasn't as barrel-chested as Trystan, so the frock coat hung loosely from his wide shoulders. Still, she admired the fall of white lace against his dark throat and the borrowed boots reaching his knees. He was as handsome and elegant in the clothing as she'd anticipated, and she dearly longed for a husbandly kiss, even though she knew the danger.

He'd buckled on sword and rapier as if he was expecting trouble. Perhaps he meant to hold her at bay by blade point.

She'd hoped they could play house here while she learned more about his headaches, pretend they were truly man and wife and do normal things like cook meals and watch the roiling sea outside the windows. But Murdoch's restless energies weren't suited to domesticity.

“France isn't safe,” he said. “It's imperative that we leave before we attract notice. You're protected here until I find a ship.” He was paying more attention to his weapons than to her. The lust they'd denied last night pulsed almost visibly between them this morning—he was running from it.

That was the penalty for letting him get too close, she knew. Men hated rejection. Fine, then, two could play that game. She would pretend he was a block of wood instead of a man who wanted her. “I have no grand desire to come looking for you a second time should you end up in trouble or decide to go on without me,” she said nonchalantly, removing a straw hat from a hook.

She adjusted the brim over her distinctive silver-blond hair. Mariel's dresses fit her well enough. The outfit created the illusion of propriety, but perhaps she ought to create an illusion of invisibility to force the damned man to recognize that she didn't need to be sheltered like a helpless babe—from him or anyone else.

“Even in a harbor town, they're suspicious of strangers,” Murdoch argued. “They'll ask for our documentation, and if we can't provide any, they'll think we're émigré spies.”

“Then perhaps we should wait for evening instead of parading around in daylight.” Satisfied with her image in the small wall mirror, she adjusted her borrowed shawl, picked up her bag, and faced the kitchen door where Murdoch blocked her path.

The heated hunger in his eyes shot straight to her damnable desires. In retaliation, she gave him a syrupy come-hither look and stepped forward until her breasts nearly brushed his coat—forcing him to back off or grab her. For now, he stepped back.

“Why don't we just introduce ourselves to the local surveillance committee and ask them to escort us to the nearest prison?” he countered, still not opening the door, although the steam in his eyes ought to scald.

“And how many men do you want me to neuter in self-defense?” she asked serenely, deciding a reminder of what she could do to him ought to deflate some of his male arrogance. “I have done this once on my own. Do you think that your unreliable energy can do it better?”

Murdoch growled in exasperation and flung open the door. “I have lived here for four years without your help. I don't need a nanny.”

“A leash and collar, perhaps.” Stepping into the fresh morning, she inhaled salt air, much as a starving person gulped food. The fresh air did not cool the heat between them, however.

“Why am I so blessed as to be the one you practice your independence on?” Murdoch replied, and strode briskly toward the stable.

“I thought perhaps you hadn't been tortured enough,” she offered, taking comfort in knowing she affected him as much as he did her.

A sudden rush of wind tossing tree branches reminded her that he was still Murdoch, ruthless and unsettling. “Or maybe I've been sent to teach you restraint,” she amended.

He swung abruptly around, caught her in his powerful arms, drew her hard against him, and shut her mouth with his.

Lissandra grabbed his shoulders to steady herself, then melted into the fire that consumed her from the inside out.

His muscles rippled beneath her fingers where she clung to him. Her breasts were crushed against the unforgiving wall of his chest. His hands slid to cup her buttocks and lifted her more fully against him. And she gasped at the extent of his arousal. And hers.

She'd felt safe teasing him in daylight. She'd been wrong.

She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, clinging as she'd wanted to do all her life. His tongue plundered her mouth, and his breath filled her lungs more sweetly than sea air. She became so much a part of him that she no longer needed her legs to support her.

Molten heat inundated them, and in some distant part of her mind, Lissandra recognized Murdoch as the embodiment of Aelynn's volcano—hot, dangerous, and unpredictable. Why had she never seen that?

And like the volcano's fire, he fed on air—and that was her, cool, formless, and consumable, fanning the flames higher.

Overwhelmed, she returned his kiss with regret as well as desire. She
wanted
to be devoured by him. But she could not let herself be consumed. For Aelynn's sake, she had to be strong, stronger than Murdoch—and she could not be if she was bound to a man who weakened her will and tempted her from her duties.

Sensing the change in her mood, Murdoch carried his kisses to her cheek and hair and lowered her to her feet again. He held her face between both his hands and kissed her with desperation, and when she still withdrew, he bent his brow to rest against the top of her head.

“I dreamed of you every night that we were apart. I burn for you every day. To have you here and not be able to touch you is like a whip flaying my soul,” he muttered.

“The French must have taught you how to flatter,” she retorted, stepping backward and nearly falling to her weak knees. “I am more easily won by action than words.”

And that was half a lie. She knew the words had been dragged out of him. Murdoch seldom said what he thought and never willingly admitted weakness. That he did so now showed he was as frantic as she to satiate the desire between them and would go to any lengths to have her in his bed—except he knew as well as she that they could do neither.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Let me attempt Mariel's feat of swimming beyond the English barricade. I'll send Waylan back for you. You've done what you could. The rest is up to me.”

Lissandra considered his request. He was no doubt right. She'd accomplished what she'd set out to do, found the man the gods had chosen. If she couldn't help him without falling into his bed, then she could do no more.

Her lips burned and her breasts ached, and she was in no state for rational thought. Murdoch had the ability to reduce her to nothing but animal instinct, and it frightened her.

“I can't let you out of my sight,” she admitted. “I'm terrified I'll lose you again.” She nodded at his glowing ring. “The gods are telling us something, but I can't interpret their message.”

“The ring does not glow as much now. Perhaps you are wrong and the gods do not want me now that they know me better.”

Which frightened her even more. If Murdoch wasn't the next Oracle, would Aelynn, left leaderless, fall into ashes and be destroyed, its population left to starve or scatter to the winds?

She tried not to think it, but the possibility was there, lurking in the back of her mind—did it mean her fears were well-founded and the only way Murdoch could control his gifts was through her? That she must sacrifice her freedom totally to become no more than his servant?

As she had been her mother's. The gods surely wouldn't do that to her.

“I asked for guidance last night,” she admitted, refusing to voice her worst fears, “but I'm still only shown clouds of turbulence. Our paths are unclear.”

“Blood, violence, war,” he said curtly, striding toward the stable once again. “I See no peace in our future.”

“What do I tell our people?” she whispered, distraught.

“To stockpile what food they can and prepare to live like the rest of the world.” His voice was gruff as he bridled the mare, though regret tinged his warning. “Providing we survive this forsaken place to tell anyone anything.” Relenting, he helped her into the cart.

They rode boldly into town, appearing on the surface like any poor farmer and his wife dressed in their Sunday finest, with little worth stealing. They carried Lis's bag, disguising it to look innocuous. People glanced their way, but Aelynn illusions deflected the interest of onlookers and reduced any speculation. Passersby returned to hurrying about their business.

It was only when they used their superhuman skills that they were in real danger.

“You do this well,” Lissandra said quietly, hanging on to her hat as they approached the windy harbor.

“I developed a talent for mind manipulation after I saw Ian last. I don't even need my sword to concentrate on the illusion.”

“Extraordinary. You must have the ability to absorb and mimic the talents of others. I had no idea. . . .” But then, she knew so very little beyond her own limited interests. She should have worked with Ian and Murdoch more when they were growing up, but they'd been older and preferred swordplay and staring at stars, and she'd wanted to play dolls. Perhaps it wasn't just her that he needed, but all Aelynners. “I can't even tell if my illusion is actually turning people away or if they wouldn't have noticed me anyway.”