She couldn’t disagree. France’s war was one of aggression, not defense, fought for glory and greed, as far as she had been able to discern from Ian’s explanations. The idealism of the early revolutionary years was lost in cynicism and violent dissension among factions. Murdoch was well out of it—if that was what his retirement here meant.
She stood, and the men passed by her, tugging their forelocks in farewell. Murdoch stepped out of their way. They didn’t address him, but they offered nods of what appeared to be respect to the man honed like a blade of steel, standing aloof and alone.
Lissandra repacked her bag once their guests had departed, and when Murdoch continued his stoic silence, she approached their earlier argument from a different angle. “You’ve been raised as a leader of men. I cannot understand why you reject the opportunity the gods offer.”
“I’ve always been a peasant,” he said in evident displeasure at the topic. “My father was an Agrarian and my mother is a hearth witch. They’re called farmers and maids here. You’re the closest thing Aelynn has to a princess. Should you be Healing peasants?”
“Aelynn doesn’t have nobility or peasants,” she protested, then frowned at the sound of her mother speaking through her. “The gods give us only the burdens that we can bear. It would be far easier if I were just a Healer, but they chose some of us for heavier loads. We all work equally, each according to our ability.”
“Some people are more able than others, then,” he said sarcastically. “Did my mother have any choice when your mother took me away?”
Lissandra stared at him in puzzlement. “I was barely old enough to speak at the time, but I do not remember any argument over your joining us. Your mother should have been pleased that you were given the best education possible. Would she rather you plowed her fields?”
“She doesn’t have fields. Hearth witches may eat at your table and walk through your homes, but they cannot earn land with their labors. Which means she had no vote and no say in what your parents chose to do. You need to look beyond your own privileged life, princess.” He walked out.
Drat the man! If she had to follow him to the ends of the earth, they would have this discussion. He had avoided the subject of leadership with his ridiculous arguments about equality. He’d been immersed in revolutionary ideas for too long. She caught up with him as he turned toward town. “I am not a princess.”
“Be glad of that. The average citizen here despises the aristocracy. In Paris, the nobles are paying for their arrogance by losing their heads.” Murdoch had forgotten how blind Lis’s naïveté could be. She needed to see the world from a fresh perspective.
Lis nodded as if he had imparted nothing new. “Trystan and Mariel explained that to me. I don’t think anyone would mistake me for a noble.”
“They’d be fools if they didn’t,” he muttered. “You haven’t a subservient bone in your body.”
“Nor do you,” she said with a hint of amusement. “I traveled from the coast with everyone thinking me a poor widow. You are not the only one with unexpected talents.”
Talents. An odd description for the things he did. Calling up a wind and flinging men into trees was a talent . Setting fires with his mind was a talent. Talking to horses in his head—
As if conjured by his thoughts, a pony with a small boy on its back raced to meet them. Murdoch caught Lis’s arm and pulled her to the side of the road. She shook him off, as usual, and approached the widow Girard’s son, who spoke to her quietly, throwing nervous glances in Murdoch’s direction.
“That is thoughtful of your mother,” Lis said, accepting the basket the boy removed from his saddle. “I have made the tisane I promised her. If you’ll wait a moment . . .”
The lad stared at Murdoch while Lis returned to the cottage to gather some packages. With nothing better to do, Murdoch stared back.
“My mother says you’re a saint,” the boy said.
“Boys should not argue with their mothers,” he replied. Lis was right, damn her. He didn’t know how to converse.
“Do not let anyone follow you here, Jean,” Lis warned, returning to hand the refilled basket to the boy. “We cannot have too many people visit.”
“My pony is fast,” the lad said with confidence. “No one can follow me. Père Antoine says that when Abel has time, he can teach me to grow giant beans for my mama’s cassoulet.”
“Save your pony’s manure,” Murdoch told him. “Let it rot behind the shed. Add old bean vines and scraps from your table until it all composts into a dark soil for your garden. Then plant the beans beside your garden wall so they will stay warmer in spring.”
The boy beamed. “Thank you, monsieur. Citoyen,” he corrected in confusion, before tugging the pony’s reins and galloping off toward town.
“Changing the world takes time,” Lis remarked. “The people of France do not even know what to call one another.”
Murdoch shook his head. “Making up new names changes nothing. The people would be fine if their leaders listened to them instead of serving their own selfish greed and ambitions. But people who fight for power are the least likely to be reasonable about sharing it.”
Lis studied him as if he’d just sprouted wings. Only then did he remember she was an Olympus with the power he’d just disparaged. So much for communicating.
“An interesting theory,” she said noncommittally. “If you are returning to the field, I will remain here to plant a few seeds for our own use, in case we must stay for any length of time.”
“There is a manure pile behind the stable,” he called mockingly as she departed.
The moment she shut the door between them, Murdoch’s whole world emptied, and he slipped into a pit of despair. He’d thought if he isolated himself in rural tranquility, he could smother his unpredictable reactions and live normally—until Lis walked back into his life, reminding him of all he could not have.
No matter how wrongheaded she might be, Lis was the one shining, pure vision in his life. And he must not sully her—which he would certainly do if he couldn’t chase her away.
Curse it all, it would be easier to move an island than Lis once she made up her mind.
Kneeling beside the newly turned earth, patting her precious rosemary seeds into the soil, pondering whether she could summon heat and moisture as Murdoch did, Lissandra glanced up at a sudden gust of wind.
In minutes, dark clouds scudded across the sun, and thunderheads loomed over the trees.
She would think France had unusually swift storms, except she sensed the explosive tension that could be only Murdoch approaching. He’d been gone most of the day, but it was not yet dark. She hadn’t expected him to return until he could no longer see to plant.
Alarmed at the pain she sensed in him, she gathered up her skirt, leapt to her feet, and raced down the road. She should never have left him alone for a minute.
“Go away,” he ordered, holding his hand against his chest awkwardly. “I can Heal myself.”
He probably could, and had frequently done so if the scars on his back were any evidence, but Lissandra couldn’t bear to feel pain and do nothing. She clenched her fingers in her skirt to prevent herself from reaching for him. “What happened?”
“A minor altercation. It is nothing. Go burn some soup or something.” He strode faster while the sky darkened.
“It is something if you end up flooding the valley with the storm you’re conjuring.” She danced in front of him, attempting to get some glimpse of the hand he hid—the hand with the ring on it.
He glanced skyward and shrugged. “I didn’t do that. It’s a summer storm.”
He lied. Or refused to accept the truth. “Look at your ring.”
He glanced at the glowing black pearl on his finger. “It could light a cave. I’ll save on candles,” he said dismissively.
Lissandra watched as the glow faded with his distraction. “When you are calm and accepting, the spirits enter you and the ring’s light diminishes. When you reject the
gods with your fury and frustration, the spirits flee to the ring.”
“Superstition,” he muttered, stalking into the cottage.
“How can you deny the gods?” she asked in exasperation. “Superstition is merely ignorance mixed with old wives’ tales to explain the inexplicable. Some people blame their troubles on evil forces, but the most evil force I’ve ever met is human nature. Magic exists in all the beautiful gifts from the gods, the twinkle of stars and a baby’s smile. They’ve given you more than you deserve.”
Without asking permission, he rummaged through her bag for a bandage. “You sound like the priest.”
“That’s because I am the closest thing to a priest that we have on Aelynn. People need explanations, and I’ve been trained to provide them. Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“No.” He threw back the curtain over the doorway to the bathing room.
Determinedly ignoring his hostile vibrations, Lissandra followed him. “If you’re spilling all your energy into raising a storm, you won’t have any left for Healing.”
He knelt down beside the rock pool and dipped his injured arm into it. She winced at the bloody gore and torn tissue visible beneath the thin cloth of his sleeve. “Shall I help you off with your shirt?”
He shot her a scathing look that said he’d drown before he’d let her help him.
“Oh, botheration.” Without a second thought, she stepped forward, planted her foot between his shoulders, and shoved Murdoch headfirst into the pool. Only because she caught him unaware and off-balance did she succeed. The splash caused by his massive weight soaked them both.
“What in Hades did you do that for?” Cursing, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes, he floundered to a seated position, keeping his arm below the water’s surface.
His crude shirt clung to his broad shoulders and was plastered to his chest, revealing the dark whorls of hair there. Lissandra fought her attraction by firmly thinking of him as her patient. “Stubborn cantankerousness harms the Healing process but usually dissolves in hot water. You are not the first recalcitrant male to refuse my services.” She knelt beside the pool and reached for his wrist.
He ought to smell of sweat and blood and anger, but to her, he smelled of musky masculinity sweeter than flowers in spring. She wanted to splash the warm water in frustration, but that was not how an Olympus behaved. Dignity and decorum at all times, her mother’s voice said inside her head. Shoving Murdoch wasn’t dignified, but she considered it justified.
“Services? Is that what you call it?” He leered down her wet bodice while she raised his arm to examine it. “Had I known you offered services, I would have helped myself long ago.”
She’d earned her icy reputation by freezing rowdy men into silence with a practiced glare, which she granted now, while she slid her fingers over the irregular tear in his flesh. “You’ve cracked a bone. You can’t Heal this yourself.”
Applying her energy, she knit the fracture to give it strength, then located and sealed torn blood vessels, concentrating on taking away the pain. He threw back his head and grimaced at the ceiling, and his wet hair streamed down his neck. She had to let down her shield to Heal, so she was grateful he kept his in place.
“Look at your ring,” she ordered, distracting him from what she was doing.
He glanced at it and scowled. “It’s not as bright as it was outside.”
“Do you hear thunder?” His sword arm was so heavily muscled that she had some difficulty mending the torn ligaments. Her own flesh sang with the joy of stroking his. The connection between them was so close that she could feel his heart beating in tandem with hers.
But years of restraint had taught her well, and her placid demeanor revealed none of her inner turmoil while she applied her skills.
He concentrated on the blue glow on his ring. “I only hear light rainfall.”
“The thunderheads must have spread into normal rain clouds. I’d love to know how you do that without even thinking about it.”
“The same way I create wind and fire.” He allowed no regret to tinge his harsh words. “My energy builds until it finds some release. I can suppress it only to a point.”
Ian had warned her that Murdoch’s powers had lost almost all focus, even more so than before their mother had banished him and attempted to strip him of his gifts. Lissandra wondered whether she could somehow heal Murdoch’s inner wounds and give him the control he needed. But believing she could do what her parents had not was no doubt arrogance on her part.
“I don’t think there is anything innately wrong with strong emotion, even fury, if that’s what stokes your energy,” she said, thinking aloud. “But the energy is more useful if directed toward a purpose. Say, if you’re angry because your ax has become stuck in a tree—instead of calling up a storm, you could direct all that pent-up frustration toward tugging out the ax.”
“Or splintering the tree,” he corrected. “How should a skilled swordsman direct his frustration? Removing the blade from a dead body won’t bring it back to life.”
“Rain rusts metal, so calling up a storm is scarcely a productive direction if you wish to control your sword.”
“Maybe I wish to destroy it.” His pent-up storm of emotion finally dissipating with the rain, he leaned back against the rocks and let her work her Healing on his arm.
She heard the thoughtful man she’d once known behind his comment, and wished she knew what had finally evoked his attentiveness. “We generally don’t cast off our hands if they offend us,” she replied carefully. “A warrior’s swords are extensions of his hands.”
“But if I react with anger, with weapons in my hand . . .” He frowned and didn’t finish his thought, no doubt contemplating the destruction he could wreak. Had wreaked.
“From what I know, your weapons are the only thing you can control. You use them as your focus. Perhaps we ought to find you a magic wand if you don’t wish to use a sword again.”
He snorted and picked up a candlestick, waving it as if it were the wand of which she spoke. “You are toying with my mind.”
“Somebody needs to. You’re not using it.” Now that she knew he was not seriously injured, Lissandra had difficulty restraining that part of herself that admired Murdoch’s physical attributes. He was sprawled in the water, his clothes plastered to his long limbs, narrow hips, and . . . aroused masculinity. Desire coaxed her to join him, to show him that she was all he needed. She wanted to know how it would feel to have his hands on her. . . .
Common sense warned she would be playing with fire . . . literally. Sensing the bullet hole in his shoulder, she sent Healing energy up his arm.
He lazily pointed the candle at her as if it were a magic wand. “Ka-zaam, you’re a beautiful princess.”
She laughed, well aware of the dirt she’d rubbed into her cheeks and her hair straggling from its pins. “You would have to turn me into something I am not if you wish to prove your magic wand works. Perhaps turn me into a clean princess.”
“Not modest, are we? Do all men proclaim your beauty these days?” he asked, finally succumbing to her soothing energy and relinquishing the violence in him. Momentarily.
“I’ve seen my reflection and will not deny what gifts the gods have given me.” She ignored the jealousy leaking from him and brushed a stray lock of hair from her nose, leaving a streak of diluted blood on her cheek, while she sought an answer he would accept without anger. This business of tamping down her own temper so as not to escalate his didn’t ease her frustration. “Men who admire power and prestige will always see beauty in the person who possesses both. I’m sure that in this world where I have no authority, I am seen as no more than a pale‚ skinny wench.”
“Men aren’t that blind,” he scoffed. “Is that what you thought I saw in you—power and prestige?”
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “But they’re also what kept us apart, so there was no beauty in them.” She returned to applying pressure to his arm.
<
br /> “I was not such a dolt as to ignore your true beauty,” he protested. “Even a man with no eyes must see the worth of a woman who is willing to track him down to the ends of the earth.”
That declaration would have thrilled her, except there was nothing beautiful about their hopeless situation. Until Murdoch accepted the gods and learned to control his dangerous energies, he could not return to Aelynn. Could she admit failure and return without him?
Eight
“Quit treating me like a piece of porcelain.” Murdoch shrugged off Lis’s aid in applying the confounded bandage.
Physical torture by gods would have been less excruciating than the tempting scent of Lis beneath his nose and having no means of touching her. Or, worse yet, having the means and not the right. He’d escaped the bath to get away from her, but she’d followed him back into the cottage instead of staying behind to take advantage of the warm water to bathe.
Stripped of his torn shirt, his loose peasant trousers still soaking wet, painfully aware of his physical reaction to her presence, he backed off far enough that he couldn’t reach out and grab her, then finished wrapping the wound himself.
“You must learn to control all your passions, not just your temper,” she replied obliquely, without any indication that his words had affected her. He’d believe the woman was made of solid ice except her remark alluded to his obvious state of arousal. His ice princess knew what she was doing to him. Even years apart hadn’t reduced their physical attraction—a no-doubt fatal attraction, should they act on it. Half Aelynn would have his head if he touched their princess with his tainted hands. But the temptation was very real . . . and very powerful.
He retreated as she approached to help him, until he hit a wall. Which meant he needed to consider an escape route. “You say the gods wish me to contain my passion ?” He repeated the euphemism with mockery. “You may as well ask me to fetch the moon.”
“Other people do it all the time,” she replied mildly.
“Not me. I’m a man. You’re a woman. If we share meals and a roof, the natural way of things is to think of sharing a bed.”
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