Mystic Warrior (19 page)

“Tell that to our Guardian when you see him,” Murdoch replied in the familiar tone with which he'd always referred to the man who had once been his rival for Lissandra's hand. “I've a little of his ability and have strengthened the barrier. Maybe that's what he hopes will happen—that someone will renew it regularly. It's more pure energy than his moon shield around the island.”

The gray stone house loomed tall against the western sky. It wasn't a pretty house, although someone had planted climbing roses along the walls to brighten it. The Guardian's energy shield shimmered slightly in the slanting sunlight. Normally, it couldn't be seen at all.

“I didn't realize he could create a shield to divert strangers,” she mused aloud.

“If Ian was here, they would have worked on it together. Ian has the knowledge, if not the full extent of Trystan's ability.”

There was so much she didn't know—about the Outside World, about her own brother.

“We don't need these things on Aelynn,” Murdoch reminded her. “We learn and grow from our experiences here.”

Which said it all—Murdoch had grown apart from her here. Once he understood the extent of her ignorance, would he still desire her?

Foolish question. The
desire
part had been with them since adolescence. If all she'd wanted was their physical connection, she could have had it at any time. Perhaps she should settle for mere physical coupling, but the shackles of amacara bonding held her back—for both their sakes.

They fed and watered the loyal mare before advancing on the silent house from the rear. Aelynn people went in and out of one another's homes with regularity. Even the hearth witches and hedge wizards wandered freely through the abodes of the more skilled classes. For that reason, it did not seem extraordinary to enter Trystan's home uninvited.

But for all that, this Other World house was strange to Lissandra. Aelynn houses did not have towering walls of thick stone, or floors of rooms built one on top of another. They entered through the kitchen, and Lissandra gazed around Trystan and Mariel's low-ceilinged room with interest, identifying familiar objects like fireplaces, kettles, and cupboards, before stepping into the airless, dark chambers beyond.

More comfortable with his surroundings, Murdoch lit candles and lanterns and set a fire to burn merrily in the kitchen grate. By the time Lissandra followed him to the larger rooms, they did not seem so gloomy. The sea wind beat against the glass, blowing up a storm, and she was grateful for the shelter.

“Mariel told me this was once her father's house,” she said, just to hear a voice in the stale air.

“Her mother was a Crossbreed with a large dowry.” Murdoch closed the draperies so the lantern light wouldn't be visible when the sun dipped below the horizon. “I thought it interesting that her mother seemed to have a form of Sight. Either there is a stray strain of that gift in our blood, or she is related to your family.”

Lissandra had thought the same. That Murdoch's Sight equaled Ian's seemed to indicate that the gods chose whom they willed without consideration of family name—although most Aelynners would disagree with her theory. Perhaps they
all
possessed some degree of all talents but through family tradition acknowledged and honed only one or two.

“I'm glad Trystan and his family escaped before the Tribunal established a strong footing here,” he continued. “Mariel's father was an aristocrat, and her brother-in-law is on the losing side of politics in Paris these days. I trust he had the sense to leave the country with Trystan.”

“Trystan's in-laws were with him when he left.” She longed to stand beside Murdoch in the glow of his lantern but resisted. She looked around for a hall that might lead to the bath.

He nodded toward the front entrance. “Try taking those stairs. I sense water below us.”

“There's an ocean below the cliff—of course you sense water. Have you been here before?”

“I've not been inside.” He followed her to the stairs, holding up his lantern. “I know you will not believe me, but just before I was waylaid in the village, I was on my way to warn Trystan that the Tribunal was sending soldiers here.”

“I have no reason not to believe you. Trystan was once your friend.” She lifted her skirt and followed the stone stairs down. “The warning had reached Trystan when I arrived. Perhaps your escaped prisoners carried it.”

“I'd like to believe they made it here safely after all the trouble I took to get them out.” Murdoch held up the lantern at the bottom of the stairs. “It's a warren down here.”

Lissandra followed her nose and found the bathing room.

They stood in the doorway and admired Trystan's grotto. The old cellar room had been transformed into a wonder of limestone tile the sandy color of the beach below, with a bathing pool that reflected the ocean's blues. The corners had been walled off to form an octagonal room, and padded benches and Roman niches holding oil lamps had been built into them.

“Trystan never struck me as a sybarite,” Murdoch said as he turned the spigot of a dolphin fountain and steaming water poured from the sea creature's mouth.

“Trystan has three children and a fourth on the way. I think he's found someone to share his secret sensuality.” Lissandra supposed she ought to be embarrassed to say such a thought aloud, but she envied Trystan's relationship with Mariel.

Slipping off her shoe, she tested the warm water with her toe. “It's perfect. Almost like the hot spring at home.”

“Food first, while the tub fills.” Murdoch caught her elbow to steer her from temptation.

So many temptations . . . food, the lovely bath, the firm grip of Murdoch's hand, the combination of all three . . .

Panicking at the strength of her desire, she jerked free. “I'm not hungry. Leave me here.” She wanted him gone—now—before she was foolish enough to let down her shield and act on the lust simmering between them. If he so much as looked at her wrong . . .

“Don't be foolish. You need food, and the bath takes time—”

She whirled and glared at him. “Don't start telling me what to do, LeDroit. I found you on my own, and I can leave you anytime I want. I don't need you to take care of me. I don't need
anyone
to take care of me, and it's time people realized that.”

He stared at her, as he had every right to do. She should have said those things long, long ago. She wasn't the fair-haired princess who must be sheltered from reality. She was simply a woman who wanted her own life, without everyone hovering.

“We
want
to take care of you,” he said flatly. “We cherish and worship you and would lay down our lives for you. And you walk on our backs as if we were doormats.”

Tears rimmed her eyes, but with head held high, she would not let them fall. “I thought you, of all people, would understand. Go upstairs, Murdoch. Leave me be.”

 

Murdoch left. It was either leave or take her in his arms and ravish her, and she would no doubt neuter him if he tried the latter, no matter how much they both wanted—
needed
—the physical joining. It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the craving, but he summoned his will and turned his thoughts elsewhere.

What was he failing to understand? Lis had everything anyone could ever want. Everything
he
had ever wanted. Was he supposed to feel
sorry
for her?

There was no understanding women, and he had too many puzzles of his own without starting on hers.

Murdoch tried not to think of Lis undressing and stepping naked into the steaming water. He was walking around in a permanent state of arousal as it was. Instead of food, perhaps he ought to look for a woman.

But the woman he wanted was just below, and no substitute would suffice. Grumbling, still puzzling over her words despite his vow not to, he searched Trystan's larder for aged cheese and smoked meats. He munched on those while taking a large chopping knife and relieving his frustration by whacking into mincemeat vegetables he'd found in the root cellar. He'd learned to cook over campfires these past years. This was a feast compared with what he'd eaten then.

Maybe he should have accumulated wealth instead of whatever in hell he thought he'd been doing lately. An expensive fortress like this one would make an excellent safe house for transporting those who would avoid the guillotine. . . .

The soup was bubbling by the time a lilac scent indicated Lissandra's approach. Mariel must have left her bath powders behind.

Murdoch tried to rein in his lust as he had these past days, but that had been before he'd revealed his weakness. Before he'd blasted the barriers in his head. He'd been a fool as a youth to deny them the final bond of lovemaking for the sake of a few words spoken over an altar.

At the time, he thought he'd been
protecting
her.

He rolled his eyes as her earlier words returned. She hadn't wanted his protection. She'd once wanted him to court her, to make love to her. She had seen his refusal to do so without vows as a form of blackmail, an effort to bind her to him and claim his right as Council Leader.

And maybe she'd been half-right.

Examining his behavior from the distance of time was a damned painful business. He glanced up at her entrance. She'd washed her hair and bound it tightly in a braid but donned only her lightweight Aelynn garb. He closed his eyes against the strong image of his hand cupping her unfettered breast and gestured at the table with his knife. “I've set out bowls. Help yourself.”

“Have you eaten?” she asked stiffly.

Sensing her discomfort with the sexual tension between them, Murdoch set down his knife. “Not yet. I think I will bathe first, too.” He kept the table between them until he left the room.

He felt as if he were ripping his soul into a hundred different puzzle bits and now had to piece himself back together again in a different order before he could know how to act.

Having barely tasted a bite of Murdoch's meal, Lissandra cleaned up the mess he'd made of the kitchen, then wandered through the house rather than wait for him to return from his bath. Upstairs, she paused to admire the nursery. If she'd married, would she have babies now?

She fought the itch under her skin that was her awareness of Murdoch in the bath, simmering with desire—for her.

Growing up surrounded by an island full of powerful, bullheaded males, she ought to be accustomed to their blustering lusts. But Murdoch's acute intellect and overt sexuality made him more desirable than any male she knew. She was amazed he didn't terrify mere mortals. He must use his illusions to hide his considerable . . . virility.

If she wanted to discover who she really was, what she was truly meant to be, she had to be honest. Everything she'd ever learned told her that the gods intended Murdoch to be her amacara. She didn't think there could be any other reason for her heightened awareness of him to the exclusion of all other men.

But she could not submit to an eternal bond with an unpredictable menace. Perhaps the gods meant for her to suffer. Two strong, independent-minded individuals would likely kill each other with their passions if they did not agree. Murdoch's warlike temper and her need to avoid conflict would put them constantly at odds.

Other Worlders prized virginity in their spiritual leaders. Perhaps she should learn from them.

She ran her fingers along the rocking cradle that loving hands had fashioned for Mariel's babies, and her own womb ached at the lack. She'd never given real thought to children except as the Olympus heirs Aelynn required. If she wasn't meant to be Oracle, would her children matter to anyone but herself? Would she still want them?

How could she consider children when she hadn't experienced lovemaking? She simply knew that she felt empty and unfulfilled, but that could be because she no longer felt needed or valuable to anyone. She had sufficient understanding to recognize that children shouldn't be used to fill her own lack.

Impatient with useless fantasies, she chose the nursery cot so much like her own, and began preparing for bed. How could she even think of touching Murdoch's emotions to help him stabilize his erratic powers when an entire three floors between them didn't smother their smoldering desire? Just because she couldn't hear Murdoch roaming the house didn't mean she wasn't aware of him. She'd been aware of him for four years when he hadn't even been in the same country.

She knew when he hesitated outside the nursery door. She held her breath, uncertain whether to will him to come in or to go away.

They both hesitated. This was
ridiculous
. They were adults. Adolescent desire shouldn't prevent them from carrying out the wishes of the gods.

She opened the door and nearly slammed it shut again.

Freshly shaved and no longer scruffy, shirtless and wearing short Aelynn trousers he must have borrowed from Trystan's dresser, barefoot, with his thick hair hanging sleek and wet down his bare back, Murdoch stood before her. He was the childhood friend she desperately missed, the lover she'd never had, the man she wanted beyond all reason. He propped his hands on either side of the doorjamb as if sensing she would run, and his muscles rippled beneath her gaze. The hair under his arms and down the center of his chest was as slick and dark as that on his head. She craved the right to touch and explore. . . .

“What do you want to do with me?” he snarled, flinging their dilemma in her face.

Now, there was a question she didn't dare answer.

The blue spirit light on his ring wavered as if trying to send her a message that she couldn't interpret.