Mystic Warrior

by Patricia Rice

  She fought her feminine interest in the way Murdoch’s muscles rippled beneath his soot-blackened skin as he swung an ax to level a scorched oak. She’d grown up in a land of giant men, some larger and more muscled, but none as bronzed and hardened as this rogue had become. It had ever been Murdoch who had held her interest, who had laughed with her, teased her out of her sulks, taught her to ride the wind currents off the cliffs, into the sea.

  Of course, she’d broken her wrist attempting to match his accomplishments, but for one lovely summer before he’d sailed away the first time, she had believed the gods had intended him to be hers, and she’d felt blessed. That had lasted only until he’d sailed back and killed her father.

  And still, even seeing Mighty Murdoch reduced to this, she knew he was the only man who could stir her desire. At least she’d had the sense to end that self-destructive kiss before the longing in her lower belly consumed her. The flare of lust in Murdoch’s eyes had almost melted her shields.

  She watched as he did his rude best to pretend she didn’t exist. Had he caused the flaming geysers—or was he curbing them? With LeDroit, it was always hard to tell.

  “My mother tried to destroy you,” she said, acknowledging his earlier assertion, forcing him to admit the obvious. “I think the gods have other ideas. They left the island to seek you.”

  Wiping his brow with the back of his arm, Murdoch glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Dylys wouldn’t allow the gods to do such a thing.”

  “My mother is dead,” Lissandra said flatly. “She suffered a stroke two years ago and never recovered. She died a fortnight ago.” She’d tamped down her tears on the journey here, but even a hint of sympathy from him would raise them.

  Murdoch didn’t provide it. Without any sign of regret or sorrow for the woman who had mentored him since youth, he swung back to splitting a fallen oak tree into planks. Lissandra winced as the ax slammed into the wood with such force that it stuck. Murdoch pounded the scorched heel of his boot against the tree trunk until he’d dislodged the blade. His trousers tightened against the powerful muscles of his thigh and calf, and Lissandra closed her eyes against the memory of him striding bare-legged and strong across the island.

  She ought to leave. She couldn’t subdue Murdoch, truss him up, and haul him back to Aelynn on her own. If his control of his gifts was still unpredictable, she wasn’t even certain that returning home with him would be a wise idea. She had hoped . . .

  She didn’t know what she had hoped. She’d been a fool.

  Resting his hands on his thighs, Murdoch paused as if to catch his breath. “May the gods take her and bless her,” he murmured quietly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  As she had feared, tears flowed down her cheeks at just this hint of the considerate man she had once known. Lissandra picked up her hated skirt and petticoat and prepared to drag her ridiculous heels back down the rutted path. “The gods want you to take her place,” she informed him in arctic tones. “Anytime you’re ready to come home, just let us know.”

  Murdoch swung his ax again and again, splintering the scorched tree into a stack of lumber, determined not to soothe the tears he heard in her voice. Lis’s kiss still burned his lips and smoldered his insides. Loneliness for the family and friends he’d left behind swamped him as he watched her stride away, out of his life, her ridiculous skirts swaying. She belonged in loose linen tugged by a warm breeze, her hair flying like spun silk. He’d spent nights dreaming of his home and the woman who was meant to be his, imagining what it would be like to finally wrap her in his arms, and teach her the pleasures of her body.

  He tried not to wonder who had taught her those pleasures in his place, but pain grabbed his heart in both hands and twisted until he almost howled at the injustice of gods he didn’t even believe existed.

  Lifting the stack of lumber, he strode after her—only because her path was the same as his, he told himself. And possibly because he would never see her again and needed time to soak up this brief memory.

  He saw her ahead, fighting with her clothing and not attempting to use her Aelynn speed. He no longer cared if eyes watched them from beyond every bush. Even carrying a load too heavy to hold by normal standards, he covered the ground at a superhuman pace. Let them burn him as a devil. It would be simpler than living this life of torment.

  He could have passed Lis by and strode on into the village, but he’d never been one to resist temptation. Despite the ashes she’d rolled in, the scent of the sea clung to her like an exotic perfume, and he breathed in deeply as he drew alongside her. Lis had the ability to stand straight and tall and glare down at everyone as if from a summit. He’d forgotten how small she really was. Even though she wore heels and a hat, the top of her head barely reached his eye level. He shifted the stack of lumber to a more stable position and fell in stride beside her.

  “Who brought you here?” he demanded. “They should not let you wander alone.”

  “Why do you care?” she asked snidely. “It is evident you prefer grubbing in the dirt to the duties for which you’ve been chosen.”

  “I don’t believe in gods or tall tales,” he said with a scorn he’d developed over these past years. “Legends are just that, legends. If we believed them all, we’d believe giants once walked the earth, the world was covered with an ocean, and unicorns gamboled about with fairies.”

  “Just as there are no mermaids and Weathermakers, Healers and psychics—all with gifts beyond ordinary human comprehension on an invisible island called Aelynn,” she retorted.

  Aelynn was home, not a fairy tale. He was so pathetically eager for news from home and conversation with his peers that he nearly revealed too much without thinking. He bit his tongue and walked faster. If he worked quickly enough, he’d complete repairs on another roof by morning. If he stayed away from Lis until she left, he might even survive her visit.

  Ian was likely waiting in town, prepared to slit his throat. Despair washed over Murdoch. He’d let down everyone he’d ever loved or admired, and failed to accomplish anything in the process. He would do this one thing, rebuild the village he’d destroyed, if it killed him.

  Undeterred by his rudeness, Lis caught up with him. “To these people, we’re legends. Our history may not be written, but Aelynn exists. How can you ignore what we are, what we are meant to be, in favor of . . . ?” She gestured to the burned-out fields and the desolate village ahead.

  He gazed at her incredulously. “Your mother banished me from Aelynn. She attempted to strip me of my powers and leave me useless. I am hated by every man, woman, and child on the island. Have you become so arrogant as to believe you can just present me to the Council and say, ‘Here he is,’ and they will accept me as the chosen one?”

  “They have to accept you!” she cried. “There is no one else.”

  He snorted and walked faster. “Then Aelynn is as doomed as France. At least here, I can be of some use.”

  In this world, redemption was still possible.

  “What happened to set the village on fire?”

  “Nothing extraordinary,” he said, refusing to mention the blue flame that had distracted him, almost causing his death. To admit it existed was to accept the plausibility of Lis’s theory. He swallowed to clear his suddenly obstructed throat. “I left Paris with a cartload of escaped prisoners, thinking I could take them to the coast. We ran into brigands. I inadvertently started a fire.” If that didn’t send her fleeing, he couldn’t imagine what would.

  She shot him a quelling glance that said she hadn’t expected less.

  Once they reached the village, he flung the boards down in front of the priest’s house and waited for her to go back to Ian. He refused to open his psychic senses to Find her brother’s whereabouts. Being scolded by a woman was bad enough. He didn’t need it from a man who had once been his friend.

  She looked down her nose at him as only the queenly Lissandra Olympus could do. “If you are the one who burned the village, I am sure they will b
e delighted at having a destructive monster like you to aid them.”

  He refused to wince as her barb hit its mark. Turning his back, he began scaling the stone wall of the parsonage with a board over his shoulder.

  He knew the instant she strode off.

  Once safely on top of the wall, Murdoch threw the plank over the post he’d already nailed in place, satisfied he’d done the right thing. Just to test that he wasn’t losing his instincts, he opened his mental barrier to the town below. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t.

  Hell and damnation. Lis was storming blindly down the street with her Empathy sealed off, and the Public Safety Committee had started drinking early this evening. The simmering hatred and violence of the uniformed squad rose above all the everyday emotions of the townspeople. The committee had already condemned the mayor for “never having good republicans at his table” and sent him off for execution before Murdoch had arrived.

  They were bloody-minded tyrants, bored and waiting to pounce on anyone for the least infraction. Their Parisian arrogance and hatred for those unlike themselves put them at odds with the simple people they’d been sent to protect.

  Murdoch tried to tell himself that Ian would defend Lissandra, but his senses Found no trace of her damned brother. What the devil were they thinking to let her out here on her own? Lis knew nothing of the hazards here. She evidently couldn’t even walk without being forced to shut off the Empathy that would warn her of danger. The chaotic, often violent emotions of this world must be pure torture for someone of her sensitivity.

  Uttering another curse, Murdoch scanned the scene below—and found Lis wisely skirting the tavern. He was already halfway down the wall before a pair of soldiers sauntered from the inn as if they’d been watching—which was what they were paid to do.

  Murdoch’s keen hearing picked up their words even before he reached the ground.

  “If it’s a man you seek, I’m at your disposal,” the older soldier called. He swaggered into the street to intercept Lis’s progress, clutching the hilt of his sword as if it represented his masculinity.

  If Lis refused the invitation, he would demand to see her papers. And she wouldn’t have any. That was all the excuse needed to condemn her as a spy and be treated as worse. Even though Murdoch raced to join her, he had no way of stopping the confrontation. One threat to Lis and he let months of practicing composure and stifling his temper go by the wayside.

  He curled his fingers to restrain his lethal instincts, but the fury he worked so hard to bank combusted, and a wind howled down the street in the direction of his rage. Intensifying with distance, it bent tall trees, rattled doors, blew off hats and shingles—and blasted the uniformed soldier out of his boots.

  The soldier’s terrified shriek as he flew backward pierced the stormy air.

  Having served its purpose, the wind died as abruptly as it had begun. After peering from their doors and windows, the villagers left their hiding places and crept into the street, gawking at the debris that lay scattered in the wake of the sudden wind burst, then glancing around until they found the source of the screams amid the tree branches.

  The soldier dangled by his bandolier high above the tavern roof. The limb supporting his weight bent dangerously low, in imminent peril of snapping.

  Lissandra sensed Murdoch’s approach even before he grabbed her arm and jerked her backward into the gathering crowd as men raced to find ladders and rescue the shrieking soldier.

  She’d dropped her mental shields at the first sign of danger. Now, buffeted by the piercing agony of the mob’s fear, she could barely stand, and she clutched Murdoch’s arm rather than brush him away.

  “You protected me,” she accused him. That he had done so—again—in a tempestuous manner that only he could generate weakened her knees as much as the chaos did.

  “You thought I would not?” he asked coldly. “Or that I couldn’t?”

  She needed to keep her wits about her. This was no time for their argument to boil to a head. They’d called attention to themselves. Not good.

  People turned to stare and whisper as the crowd’s fears found a focus on the strangers among them. Lissandra, not Murdoch, had been the one standing closest to the soldier. She could sense their fear of her, which had only escalated with Murdoch’s abrupt arrival.

  This incident seemed simple to resolve without their immediately running away.

  Lissandra leaned her weight on Murdoch’s arm until he was forced to hold her upright. He seemed prepared to do so, but she abruptly grabbed her hat to straighten it, hoping to distract the mob with the mundane.

  “The wind,” she exclaimed loudly. “I’ve never felt such wind! Is this place cursed?” With what little mind control she possessed, she nudged the villagers to look back at the man in the tree and associate the curse with the villain they all feared.

  They did so with gratifying alacrity, murmuring among themselves, shaking their heads in bewilderment.

  The second soldier glanced suspiciously from the place where she had been standing to the screaming man in the tree, then back to the two of them edging out of the crowd.

  Before the soldier could speak, a priest pushed through the throng, quieting his more-frightened parishioners. He, too, glanced at the screaming bully, then at the second soldier.

  “We are blessed,” the priest declared loudly, stopping beside Lissandra and Murdoch. “The saints protect us from drunkards. Come, my friends, you are fortunate you are not harmed.” He offered his arm. It took a moment before Lissandra realized she was meant to take it.

  She dropped a little curtsy that Ian’s wife, Chantal, had taught her. “It was most frightening, monsieur.”

  “Père Antoine,” Murdoch whispered in her ear, falling into step beside her as the crowd parted, their fears apparently relieved by the priest’s presence. “Or citoyen, if you wish to respect the new republic.”

  It was almost like having the old Murdoch back, whispering wicked commentary in her ear through Council meetings. She swallowed and fought her gratitude at his correcting her error. She had once been easily swayed by him. Never again.

  “I apologize. I am much shaken, Père Antoine,” she said to the priest.

  “Of course, mademoiselle,” he said, proving he preferred the old terms, “it is understandable. Where do you stay? I will take you there.”

  She had left her bag at the widow’s, prepared to remain there until she found Murdoch. Now that she’d found him, she had no reason to linger. Except that going home without Murdoch, no matter how far he’d fallen, felt like failure, and she refused to accept defeat so easily. She ignored the priest’s question while pondering her choices. “Do you often have winds like this?”

  “Only since Abel has come to stay with us.”

  Abel? She glanced at Murdoch, but his expression remained enigmatic.

  “Abel,” the priest continued, “it would be best if you stay in the chapel until I can speak with you again.”

  Lissandra understood the priest’s fears. She knew enough of the ignorance of the Other World to grasp the danger they faced if Murdoch refused to leave the village and couldn’t restrain his gifts. And if he refused to leave, she could not either. Despite all rationality, her decision was made without a second thought.

  “He is my husband,” she told the priest, defying Murdoch’s fingers digging into her upper arm. “I heard he was ill, and I have been looking all over France for him.” There, let Murdoch react to that declaration.

  He released her arm, and faded into the shadows of the alley where they walked. He was still there, listening, judging, but not interfering.

  The priest stopped short and stared at her in dismay. “Surely he did not abandon you, madame. He is a paragon of strength who mends our village as our government will not.”

  “Paragons don’t throw men into trees,” Murdoch corrected with sarcasm, crossing his arms and leaning his wide shoulders against the burned-out skeleton of a house. “It is only a matter
of time before the committee decides I am a demon traitor.”

  “That is ridiculous,” the priest argued. “What you have accomplished in so short a time is a miracle blessed by God. The whole town supports you.”

  At being called a miracle, Murdoch shot Lissandra a glance that should have sizzled, but she ignored the warning. “My husband”—she sought some explanation for Murdoch’s behavior—“seems not himself. Was there some accident in which he was hurt?”

  Père Antoine’s eyes widened. “He was shot from behind while saving his friends from thieves. He healed so well. . . .”

  Shot! Someone had almost killed a potential Oracle? Lissandra glanced in horror at the half-hidden man, but he offered only an angled eyebrow, daring her to comment. Aelynners healed quickly, and Murdoch faster than most, since he possessed Healing abilities of his own. She shook her head free of fretting thoughts to concentrate on getting what she wanted.

  She touched the priest’s arm earnestly, willing him to believe her. “I don’t think it’s wise for my husband to travel until he recovers fully.”

  The priest relaxed. She felt sorry for the man. The villagers’ homes and livelihoods had been ruined, and only Murdoch had come to their aid. The priest protected his people as fiercely as she guarded hers.

  “Your . . . husband . . . has gifts that we need,” the priest murmured, “gifts from God. I do not understand how he does it, but in only a few days, he has restored the church. And in the absence of our menfolk, he has begun replanting the wheat fields all on his own. He is a miracle worker.”

  “He has studied under great men from around the world,” Lissandra assured him.

  Murdoch coughed to cover a snigger. She knew him that well, even after all these years. At least he wasn’t raging and throwing a tantrum at the lies she was telling. She would no doubt pay for them later. If human behavior was the same here as at home, he’d be scorned by all if he did not eventually leave with his “wife.”