Mystic Warrior (8 page)

He'd already discovered that he could never have a real relationship with any woman in the Other World. Sooner or later he always revealed himself for the monster he was. With Lis, however . . . she already knew him, inside and out, good and bad. There were far larger reasons why he couldn't have her, yet it was a comfort to be
known
.

“I assume you have some means of transport?” she asked.

“And you knew this how?” Acknowledging the correctness of her supposition, he grabbed her arm and steered her toward a structure the fire had not harmed.

“Because that is what you do—plan and scheme and look so far into the future that normal people do not understand your intent. Most of the time, it is vastly frustrating because you do not communicate well.”

Entering the stable, he lit a torch hanging on the wall just inside the door. “I doubt that I have improved since you saw me last.”

He set the torch in a bracket. A horse whinnied and kicked its door, and he scooped a handful of oats from the barrel.

“Was hanging that soldier from a tree branch intentional or accidental?”

“A little of both,” he said. “I wanted to kill him but restrained myself.”

“Before, you would not have bothered restraining yourself. Perhaps you exhibit signs of improvement.”

He knew his flaws better than she did. He deserved her scorn and so did not respond to it. He reached for the homespun shirt he kept in the stable, and shrugged into it, not wanting to feel so naked in front of her. Under the circumstances, he couldn't expect to start up where they'd left off.

He led the mare out of its stall and fed her oats. She bucked her head affectionately, hitting him in the chin. Murdoch scratched behind her ear and in the torchlight considered his “wife” with an interest he could barely conceal. What the hell should he do with her?

He knew what he would
like
to do with her, but that would be perilous for all concerned.

She offered her hand for the mare to sniff, then rubbed the horse's white-striped nose. “I've wanted to learn more of these horses Ian told me about. She has a delightful mind.”

Her gesture of friendship to an animal destroyed all his belligerent defenses just as her kiss had shredded his wits.

“You didn't come here to learn about horses.” He brought out the small cart he'd made. “So why are you here?”

“Because it is my duty.” Then she added, in that studious, observant manner he would have given years of his life to hear again, “The gods must be testing you.”

If he still believed in fair and just gods, he'd have to agree with her.

 

“You've been planning this hiding place‚” Lissandra said without inflection, sitting stiffly beside him on the narrow bench as the cart rolled up to a woodcutter's cottage.

The floral scent that was Lis's own spun Murdoch's head so thoroughly that he could scarcely think straight. “Of course I planned it,” he snarled in retaliation for what she was doing to him. “It is only a matter of time before the committee decides I am a spy or worse.” He jumped down to tie the mare to an oak sapling. “This place is well concealed, and they're too lazy to look for it.”

She ignored the hand he offered and stepped down on her own, retrieving the satchel he'd stopped to fetch from the widow's. She halted in the doorway of the musty cabin, waiting for him to locate a candle or lantern. “Why stay at all? Wouldn't it be simpler to just leave?”

“I'd forgotten how heartless you and your family can be.” With his mind, he lit the kindling he'd left in the fireplace—one small task he managed without creating an inferno. “It is my duty to fix what I have harmed.”

“Are you to blame for that ugly pair of soldiers?” she asked while looking around at the hovel.

“The committee arrived before the fire. France is currently being governed by a Tribunal that is desperate for more cannon fodder for its war against Austria. Bretons and much of the western part of the country have ever despised the control of Paris. The provinces gathered an army of their own some months ago to march against the Tribunal, but the National Guard annihilated them. So when the Tribunal's committee arrived to conscript all able-bodied men, they disappeared into the forest. The town has no desire to sacrifice their men for a war created merely to ease the fears of cowards and bullies.”

Lissandra looked at him blankly. “Are there ever good reasons for war?”

“Self-defense, perhaps.” He waved away the question as irrelevant.

She nodded and returned to the subject at hand. “And so you are helping the village rebuild? How do you avoid this committee?”

He watched in fascination as Lis unfastened her crushed hat and set it on the rickety table. In the fire-light, her lustrous blond hair sparkled like ocean pearls and crystals, even more so when she pulled out the pins and shook the tresses free. He almost bit his tongue when she dragged her fingers through that waterfall of shimmering light to massage her scalp. How could she not know she was crippling him with her provocative gestures?

She couldn't still be that innocent, could she? He preferred not knowing the answer to that question. He threw another log on the fire and watched it flare. “I pretend I'm a simpleton, a beast of burden, useless for conscription.”

“And that's why the priest believes you are a miracle worker?”

He could tell she didn't entirely believe him, but he refused to explain himself. It was not as if he'd given his actions a great deal of thought. He just knew the violent life he'd been leading had to end. He'd hoped he could find peace in this remote village surrounded by mountains, hidden from the world. “I plant their fields, and they feed me with their best bread. The loaves they eat in their homes are hard and full of weevils. I'm not the saintly paragon here.”

She smiled, and Murdoch realized he was pacing. He'd nearly burned out the soles of his best boots fighting the fire, and his feet had blisters that didn't need further irritation. He halted and glared at her. This was an impossible situation. He couldn't stay here. Not with her. He'd explode into a thousand tiny bits. Or blow the roof off the house.

“You're no saint,” she agreed. “You had a white horse of your own, did you not? What became of it?”

He didn't ask how she knew that. Lis had always been able to See him—if she put her mind to it. He was just surprised that she'd tried. “I sent it to the coast with some . . . friends.”

“Then how did you acquire the horse outside?”

He headed for the door. “I didn't steal it, if that's what you think. She was badly abused and kicks or bites anyone who comes near her. Except me, so I adopted her.”

He strode out before he could hear her opinion on that.

Lissandra sighed and released the tight clasps of her fitted jacket. She supposed, in this cooler climate, more layers were required than at home, where they wore little in the way of clothing. Murdoch was accustomed to seeing her with her hair down and barely clothed, so it wasn't as if modesty was necessary.

But tonight, his reaction to her loosened hair had been so strong as to seep through his Empathic barriers, warning her that his self-control was fragile. His gifts had always been erratic, but until her mother had attempted to strip him of his abilities before she banished him, he'd always possessed a formidable restraint around her.

How could she possibly persuade him to come home and save his people with this . . . awareness . . . between them that blocked reasonable discussion?

It would be easier if she kept her distance, but that did not seem likely in these close quarters—and given their explosive reunion. She had
known
it was Murdoch and still had not resisted his kiss. She might have killed him, but she had surrendered like a fool instead.

Still picking twigs out of her hair and clothing, she deflected her self-recrimination by studying the hut to which he'd brought her. A new, well-stuffed mattress rested on leather thongs bound to stout tree trunks. That showed signs of Murdoch's creation. On the island, wood was rare and expensive, so furniture was usually not elaborate.

The table had a plank top and was aged enough to be something the woodcutter had left behind, but the gray wood had been neatly sanded and polished to resemble one of Aelynn's communal tables. At home, they believed that food and company mattered more than the decor.

But Murdoch was a warrior trained since childhood to wield knives and swords like extra hands; he was not a farmer or carpenter. Despite their peaceful neutrality, Aelynners were bred to protect the sacred chalice and sword. Murdoch had been the most powerful warrior on the island until his banishment. This humble abode revealed an interesting domestic side of him she'd never expected, but where were his weapons? Both Ian and Trystan had said he still used them. She shuddered. She had
Seen
the warrior's bloody weapons at work.

Murdoch returned from putting up the mare in the shelter beside the cottage. She watched him warily as he flung logs on a fire and dumped a bucket of root vegetables on the table. That he knew his way around a kitchen didn't surprise her. He was trained for survival, and one must eat to survive. That he ignored her was unsettling. She'd expected fireworks and fury, not this frigid indifference.

“How long will it take you to repair the village?” she asked, determined to have this discussion done.

“As long as it takes.” He took the empty bucket, threw aside a cloth covering the wall beside the fireplace, and disappeared into another room she hadn't realized was there.

Following him to peer into this new chamber, Lissandra gasped in surprise when a dozen tiny candles flared into life, illuminating a rock pool of steaming water. “A hot spring! No wonder you chose this place.”

All Aelynners were accustomed to the luxury of hot springs and regular bathing. She had discovered such niceties were hard to come by in the Other World, but apparently Murdoch had learned to provide his own. She longed to shed her clothes and plunge into the bath, but the awareness between them was such that she could actually feel him daring her to indulge.

She might not be able to read his mind, but now that she knew about the bullet wound, she sensed the pain in his shoulder, and the ache of muscles he had strained with his hard labor. She would not be a Healer if she didn't know these things. He wanted the bath as much as she did. “I've brought my medicinal bag with me. A hot soak in water laced with herbs would ease your soreness,” she suggested. As a Healer, she could do no less. As a woman—she was asking for trouble.

Maybe it was time she asked for trouble.

His crude shirt prevented her from admiring the play of his muscles in the dim light. He filled his pail and waited for her to step aside so he could return to the main room. “I don't need your help, but the water is warm. Use it if you wish.”

At his harsh tone, Lissandra retreated and let him carry the bucket to the fire, where he dumped the water into a kettle. A bath could wait until she was alone. “How long have you lived in this village?”

He shrugged. “Long enough to know I'm not leaving. Ian can have his castle in England. This place suits me. I've been looking for an excuse to claim the cottage, so I thank you for it. It's built into the side of a hill, and the bathing chamber once stored vegetables. It's warm on cool nights, cool on warm ones. Now that I have water, I have all I need.”

As he spoke, his Aelynn ring of silence flared with blue fire. Fascinated, Lissandra couldn't drag her gaze away. Were the gods warning that he lied? Or that he had just denied the obvious? She swallowed hard and sought words, but they wouldn't come.

If she remembered her legends correctly, the blue glow proved he was not ready to accept the gods, so the spirit stayed with the ring that had been a part of him since it had been placed on his finger at birth. No wonder his essence had seemed so dim. His inner demons were battling with the gods.

“I see that you and France have self-destruction and denial in common.” She was no simpering miss terrified of Murdoch's black glares and masculine sulks. Defying his challenge, she removed her confining jacket and returned to examine the bathing room, feeling his tension escalate as she did so.

This root cellar couldn't duplicate the spacious grotto they had enjoyed on Aelynn, but his ability to produce a hot spring where there was no volcano said much of why the gods had chosen him. His ability to manipulate earth, wind, fire, and water went well beyond that of any other man she'd heard about. If anyone could save Aelynn, it had to be Murdoch.

And he had every reason to wish them all dead. She had to be crazed to believe he'd help.