Mystic Warrior (6 page)

Shoving her into a hummock above the peat bed, he grabbed his temples and concentrated with all his might. With Lis, he didn't have to pretend he was dousing the fires with dirt, but she shattered the concentration he needed to mentally snuff the fire.

Once the danger was past, with only a vague ache at the back of his head as a reminder of his incompetence, he had time to contemplate Lis's improbable arrival, but he was too stunned to do more than act on instinct and help her from the filthy ground. The reality of her slender hand in his callused palm jarred him even more than the delicious, unbelievable taste of her kiss.

The possibility that Aelynn had somehow exploded and existed no more—for what else could have brought her to leave it?—froze his soul. His home had always been an oasis in the back of his mind, an idyllic place he dreamed about to which he did not belong.

But if the princess had left her throne . . .

Then he remembered. Wincing, Murdoch rubbed his still-healing shoulder and, with horror, glanced at the glowing ring he'd been trying to ignore since he'd been shot. His Aelynn ring of silence was so much a part of him that he'd have to cut off his finger to be rid of the glow of condemnation that had settled there.

If there were gods, they obviously hated him. Nothing else could account for Lis's arrival now, after all these years, when he was in the midst of another odious disaster of his own creation. The blue flame hovering over his ring taunted him with his guilt.

Scalding memories tore through Murdoch's soul: of Luther falling to his death at his hands; of leading a troop to hunt down his former friend Trystan and setting fire to a harbor; of wearing a French uniform and shooting Ian, his brother at heart. Even conjuring up his pride in his officer's stripes as he'd ridden his valiant steed into battle, rapier flashing, could not ease the pain of knowing he'd fought for the wrong reasons. And then there had been the final horror that even he couldn't justify or understand. . . .

If the blue flame meant the gods had targeted him for retribution, they'd found no surer vessel of revenge than Lis. Regrettably, he knew that if Lis had made up her mind to hunt him down—for whatever reason—she would follow him to the ends of the earth. And Murdoch would lie down and die rather than harm Aelynn's goddess.

Yet she'd kissed him in all his unworthiness, with a hunger to match his own.
Impossible.

He'd hoped for far too long that she would forgive and forget and send someone looking for him. He'd given up that hope after he'd abandoned her brother in England.

He stamped out embers, trying not to recall how right her mouth had felt on his.

As usual, he hid his real feelings behind sarcasm when he finally spoke. “What the devil is the high-and-mighty Oracle's daughter doing here?”

“And a pleasure it is to see you, too,” she said, adjusting her foolish hat and shaking leaves and sticks from her garments. “Do you always greet visitors with fountains of fire?”

Lis never wore skirts and petticoats. He stared at the ethereal silver and gold woman he remembered, now weighed down by the crude heavy garments of this world, and couldn't integrate the two images. Even covered head to toe in clothing filthy with ash, she was the tropical goddess he remembered, and his heart was still blacker than her skirts.

He picked up his shovel and ax and looked for more hot spots. “The peat burns underground. Unless you've come to help put it out, you need to leave.”

“I see your charm has not improved during your years away.” Ice dripped from her tongue.

And still he smelled the scents of sea air and jasmine of the girl he'd once known. She was like a breeze straight from Aelynn, and he defied his longing by pretending to search for any lingering fire. “Have you come to punish me for my sins?” he asked coldly. He needed to walk away before he fell into his old role and reached out to rub a smear of soot from her beautiful peach-flushed cheek. She wouldn't appreciate the caress.

“I doubt that's possible.” She rubbed the dirt smear away herself. “I understand this time your fire killed an old woman.”

“I saved the woman,” he protested. “But she died of natural causes before I could carry her out of the flames.”

“And I'm sure there is an excellent explanation for the conflagration also,” she said in a rational tone that taunted him with his faults. “As I'm certain there was a logical reason for nearly killing Trystan and his wife with Greek fire, and attacking Ian with the intent to maim, if not kill. You always have an excuse.”

She sounded just like her condescending mother. He needed the reminder that she was no longer the adoring playmate she'd once been—and that he'd been the one to turn her cold.

He set the wind to clearing the murk around them so he could see her, really
see
her. Overhead, branches swayed and rattled in the breeze he'd summoned, but at least no more embers flamed to life.

With the smoke gone, the full impact of Lis's slender, radiant beauty an arm's breadth away nearly crippled him, but Murdoch refused to falter in her eyes any more than he would in the face of danger. As usual, her proud mask of scorn and arrogance tarnished the gentle spirit he had once known. Or thought he'd known. The last he'd seen of her, she'd been well on her way to becoming as judgmental as her harridan of a mother.

Lissandra studied him as he studied her. He dripped sweat, he stank of smoke, and his crude homespun trousers were plastered to his legs. Murdoch wickedly considered embracing her again, although finally having Lis in his arms would no doubt ignite his lust like dry tinder, and he still had the result of his last error to clean up. “I repeat, what the devil are you doing here?”

Her gaze finally found the blue flame flickering on his finger, and her expression of dismay was so poignant that he almost walked away.

“I was right,” she whispered. “The gods
have
chosen you.”

He snorted rudely. “If there are any gods, they wish to destroy me.” And had almost succeeded, if he accepted the glow as anything more than a lightning strike. Lightning was the only explanation that he could accept right now.

 

Lissandra had learned what she needed to know. The spirits had rejected her and Ian as Oracle and had chosen Murdoch.

Given that the spirits had not yet
entered
Murdoch, she supposed some doubt about his suitability must linger. For good reason, she knew. His crimes were many. It served him right to be reduced to a mere woodcutter instead of taking over the world as he'd probably intended.

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.”