Mystic Warrior (42 page)

“I have tested my endurance and skill in the Outside World,” he continued. “I no longer need to play the games of boys and challenge others to prove my superiority. My father was an Agrarian. My mother sets houses in order. I am a caretaker by birth and a warrior by training. The gods have blessed me with abilities beyond those common ones, and it has come time to study and practice them. In order to do so, I ask your forgiveness for the sins and wildness of my youth and your acceptance and guidance in the future that knocks even now at our door.”

Only a man of great character could humble himself to ask for the forgiveness and acceptance of his enemies. Had Lissandra any doubts at all, they would have been banished at this moment. With his words, he freed them all to find their own strengths. Tears of joy slid down her cheeks as she tugged Murdoch's arm so that he would lean down for her kiss.

“I love you,” she murmured, not caring who heard.

“Which Olympus will be Council Leader?” Alain Orateur called, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for the answer looming large in all their minds. Alain had led the Council these past two years in the absence of any traditional leader.

Chuckling, Lissandra stepped behind Murdoch, and Ian joined her, along with Murdoch's mother. They flanked him, letting him take the brunt of the brawl to come.

Murdoch didn't protest their departure. Nor did he seem to notice it. His broad shoulders blocked her view of the crowd, straight and stiff and . . . vacant. She knew if she looked into his eyes right now, they would be glazed and empty, as hers were when her spirit fled her body.

A second later, he jolted back to the moment as if he'd never left.

“An Orateur can talk an audience into believing the moon is blue,” he said, “but that does not mean believing in blue moons is a wise choice. I speak not only for the gods but for all the people on this island”—he nodded at the men and women who had followed him in—“when I say that we need a leader who is strong enough to defend what is ours and to provide justice for those who are too weak to defend themselves.”

Rustles and murmurs of anticipation filled the chamber in the silence as he paused to give them time to absorb what he was saying.

A blue light tinted the sun from the windows, casting an odd glow over the chamber, one that Lissandra recognized well. In awe, she listened as the gods spoke through Murdoch—as she'd never heard them speak through her mother.

She took the hands of the two people beside her as Murdoch announced, “It is not my place to choose the Council Leader. Over these next years, let the Sword of Justice and the gods choose who leads us—all of us”—his gesture swept the room—“into the next century.”

Astonished silence was followed by roars of agreement that raised the roof without need of Murdoch's aid. He was opening the door of opportunity to every man and woman on the island to earn a place as head of the Council.

The choir broke into a triumphant melody accompanied by excited drumbeats and a clear crystal flute that could come only from Chantal. In the rear of the usually staid and solemn chamber, a farmer swung a maid in a dance of joy. Liking the idea a little too well, some of the bachelors turned to the other young women and an impromptu reel spilled across the room and out the door.

The drums beat faster and the choir shifted to a dancing rhythm.

Eyes laughing, Murdoch turned and swept Lissandra from her feet. Before she could even think to protest, he was dancing her across the dais in dizzying circles that felt
right
.

She flung her arms around her husband's neck and threw her head back to let her happiness flow free as she swirled weightlessly in his strong arms—dancing, at last.

“I want laughter and music to greet all celebratory occasions,” he murmured against her ear. “And I want every day to be a celebration for you.”

Leaning back so she could admire her husband's expression of relief and hope, Lissandra smiled. “Let us have music
and
dancing. I think I like this form of entertainment.”

He laughed and swirled her around again.

Wind chimes all over the island tinkled as the earth moved to the rhythm of their feet.

Lissandra hugged Chantal and Ian and then Trystan and Kiernan while the ship preparing to sail for England bobbed in the harbor. “Please, you are not so far—you must return as often as you can,” she told them all. “I want to see the babies, and we must find some way of schooling them here as well as there. They must know their heritage.”

Smiling almost benevolently, Murdoch hugged her waist. “We will start a boarding school for all the hel lions who disrupt the Outside World. Perhaps we should send Kiernan hunting for Crossbreed Teachers.”

“Our home in England is yours,” Chantal said softly. “You must visit there as often as we do here.”

Even as he spoke with Trystan and lifted Ian's son to his shoulder, Murdoch tugged Lissandra against him and gave her his strength to reply.

She shook her head at Chantal's invitation. “I go nowhere without Murdoch, and as Oracle, he can never again leave Aelynn. Our traveling days are done. We leave that to you and Ian and all those who wish to follow you. All our worlds are changing.”

“For the better,” Murdoch reassured them. “The more knowledge we accumulate, the more effectively we can teach our children to face changes in the future. Then, it might be safe for Aelynn to rejoin the rest of the world.”

With tears in her eyes, Lissandra watched her family and friends board the ship that would take them out of her reach. Until Murdoch had taught her it was healing to release the emotion inside her, she'd been unable to weep her farewells. She had no such trouble any longer. She waved until the ship sailed through the invisible barrier and disappeared from sight.

And then she buried her tears in Murdoch's broad shoulder and let him wrap her in his love and ease her anguish.

“I will melt if you cry any more,” he said gruffly, swinging her into his arms. “Must I make you angry so we can return to normal?”

She laughed into his shirt. “Will you make it thunder if we fight?”

“I will not,” he said, carrying her along the path that led to the privacy of the Oracle's cave. “I am a peaceful man these days.”

She made a face and nibbled on his ear. “And what did the peaceful man decide we should do about adding a nursery? Will you build it yourself or ask the gods to do it for you?”

“I think we'll wait to see if the child is a monster as great as me or a rational human unlike either of us before I decide whether or not to raise him in a cave,” he grumbled, although his tone reflected pleasure more than irascibility.

Lissandra laughed aloud, replacing the sorrow of parting with dreams of their future, as her all-knowing husband knew any new mother would do. “Oh, I have Seen our
daughter
. She is a red-haired witch. The two of you ought to get along splendidly.”

Murdoch spun her in circles with glee. Lissandra shrieked, but he threw her over his shoulder to carry her the rest of the way up the hill.

“A redhead! We haven't had a true redhead on the island since . . .”

“My mother,” she reminded him drily from her upside-down position. “Just because her hair turned gray early does not mean she was always gray.”

She kicked his thigh and wiggled until he set her in front of him. He bunched his fists at his waist and grinned down at her, his eyes blazing with blue light, his dark hair falling over his shoulders.

“We will call her Marina,” he commanded.

“We will call her Dylys!” She knew this game well. She wrinkled her nose, tagged his shoulder, and raced for the safety of the cave.

“Over my dead body,” he roared, racing after her.

“That can be arranged, my love!”

Laughing, Lissandra fled to the Oracle's bedchamber and let her gown fall to the floor before Murdoch burst through the doorway.

He ran after her and stopped short to stare at her hungrily as candles flamed to life around the room.

“As long as we are overthrowing traditions, it is only fair that we profane the sacred chamber of the Oracle with physical pleasures,” she taunted.

“I'll build a bigger bed.” With that, he tumbled her to the narrow cot and plied his kisses against her throat until she screamed with laughter and purred with pleasure.

The fire of Aelynn burned steadily.

Read on for an excerpt from
Patricia Rice's next book, the first in
her exciting new historical romance series,

A YOUNGER SONS NOVEL

 

 

Coming in July 2010

 

“I need a man,” Abigail declared, so decisively that a squirrel leapt from the fence and hid under the hedge. “I need to marry a rich solicitor,” she amended, applying her hoe to the rhubarb bed. “A responsible gentleman who loves children and would take my case to the highest courts. An upright, respectable man with enough wealth not to worry about the expense!”

Rather than cry more useless tears, Abigail was stubbornly contemplating solicitors and selling her pony cart for fare to London when the mail coach rattled to a halt on the tree-lined road. The mail wasn't delivered personally to Abbey Lane, but she couldn't prevent her heartbeat from skipping with hope. Perhaps a letter of response from a marquess required hand delivery. She wouldn't know. She'd never received one.

Please, let him say he would help her fetch the children back. If she couldn't find a rich solicitor to marry, she needed a wealthy London gentleman like her father's distant titled cousin, who might be willing to fight for her cause.

The coach lingered, and she hurried toward the gate, hoe still in hand. Perhaps their guardian had relented and sent the children home for a visit. The coach might stop out here for young children—

“Keep the demon hellion off my coach until you've tamed or caged her!” a cranky male shouted.

“I hate you, you bloody damned cawker!” a child screamed.

Despite the appalling curse, Abigail hurried faster. She did not recognize the voice, but she recognized hopeless desperation on the verge of tears. She would not let harm come to any child under her notice.

“Your generosity will not be forgotten,” a wry, plummy baritone called over the thump of baggage hitting the ground.

Abigail almost halted. Sophisticated aristocrats with rounded vowels and haughty accents were not a common commodity in these rural environs. She wasn't young or foolish enough to believe the heavens had thrown a wealthy noble onto her front lawn in answer to her plea.

Her innate social insecurity kicked in, and she froze until a small figure darted through the hedgerow, dragging a ragged doll and shouting, “Beetle-brained catch-farts can't catch me!”

“Penelope!” the gentleman shouted. “Penelope, come back here this instant.”

Oh, that would turn the imp right around. With a sniff of disdain at such parental incompetence, Abigail intercepted the foulmouthed termagant's path, crouching down to the child's level and murmuring, “If you run around behind the house, he won't find you, and Cook will give you shortbread.”

Tearstained cheeks belied the fury in huge, long-lashed green eyes as the child gazed warily upon her. With her heart-shaped face framed by golden brown hair that was caught loosely in a long braid, she could have been a miniature princess, were it not for her threadbare and too-short gown. And the outrageous expletives that had just polluted her rosy lips.

“Hurry along now. I will talk to the rather perturbed gentleman opening the gate.”

The child glanced toward the gate and, setting her jaw in mulish determination, raced across the lawn to the three-story brick cottage Abigail called home.

“Penelope!” A fashionably garbed Corinthian caught sight of the child and gave chase.

Abigail almost gaped at the intruder's manly physique, accentuated by an impeccably tailored, long-tailed frock coat, knitted pantaloons, and Hessians polished to a fare-thee-well. She thought her heart actually stumbled in awe—until alarm startled her mind into ticking again.

She might be inclined to be generous and reserve judgment of a man who had made a child cry. But the gentleman's expensive coat and boots in the face of the child's pitiful attire raised distressing questions.

She was even less inclined to be reasonable when he seemed prepared to run right past her as if she did not exist. She was painfully aware that she was small and unprepossessing. And she supposed her gardening bonnet and hoe added to her invisibility in the eyes of an arrogant aristocrat, but she wasn't of a mind to be treated like a garden gnome.

She stepped into the drive and held the hoe so it would trip the elegant stranger if he didn't pay attention. He might be large and fearsome, but no man would intimidate her into abandoning a hurt child. He halted in startlement at her action.

She scarcely had time to admire his disheveled whiskey-colored hair and impressive square chin before he ripped the hoe handle from her grip and flung it into the boxwoods. He was formidably male from his whiskered jaw to his muscled calves and smelled so deliciously of rich male musk that she trembled at the audacity of her impulse.