Mystic Warrior (22 page)

“Find them clean clothes. I'll need the strongest alcohol you can find,” Lissandra ordered as if she were a general and he, her lieutenant. “Ask the innkeeper for blankets. We need a larger cart to take them to Trystan's. They would both benefit from his bathing pool.”

She spoke in Aelynn's language. Both father and child stared at her in bewilderment. Murdoch knew how they felt. He had to distinguish between the Olympian commanding general and the Healer. Lis would never be an easy woman to understand. He carefully laid the shoemaker on the floor by the fireplace. “We can't linger past the evening tide.”

“You brought them here. You can't very well argue about the danger now.”

He could, and he would, but not until the Healer had a chance to work her magic. “Don't make me fight you,” he warned, drawing off his coat, and covering the shoemaker.

“If it is me that you worry about, know that I can Heal with one hand and still lash a man into bacon strips with the other. Fetch the cart,” she ordered in that imperious manner he remembered well—there was much of her mother in her.

“You must Heal them quickly,
mi ama
,” Murdoch said harshly, not allowing her the upper hand in this. “We're leaving tonight.”

That neither of them mentioned his choice of endearment acknowledged what they both knew and continued to deny—despite their differences, they were bound to each other by more than circumstance.

 

The trouble began when Murdoch returned to town in Trystan's farm cart. Lis had him thinking like a peaceful Aelynner instead of the wary warrior he'd been. He knew the horse was a coveted asset and a temptation, the large, comfortable cart even more so. And without Lissandra beside him to add her mental manipulation, he failed to disguise them adequately.

Openly wearing his weapons was another invitation for trouble.

A soldier stopped him on the edge of town, stepping out before Murdoch could react. “Your papers,
citoyen
,” the lad demanded, holding his sword at rest and his hand out.

Having no documentation approved by the Tribunal for his presence in this corner of France would land him in prison. Stoically, Murdoch bit his tongue to tamp down any violent reaction, and sought a means of solving the problem without blasting anyone to purgatory.

It was too late to attempt mind manipulation. He could call down the wind or attempt a small earthquake, but the result would alarm Lis. With someone else to worry about besides himself, he must act with caution first.

Lips tightening at being reduced to this powerless-ness, Murdoch mimicked reaching for a coat pocket that wasn't there, and frowned. “
Mon Dieu
, I was in such a hurry, I've forgotten my coat,” he exclaimed. “My wife is taken ill, and I've come for her cousins. If you will come with me, they can vouch for me. My humblest pardons,
citoyen
, for the inconvenience.”

The fresh-faced boy frowned. “I am not supposed to leave my post. You must wait here while I send for someone—”

Murdoch produced a coin and held it out. “It is all I have. Hold on to it, and I will bring back the cousins to vouch for me in exchange, if you will let me pass. My wife is very ill, you understand. I must hurry.”

The lad looked confused, as he was meant to be. Wishing he'd practiced more of Ian's mind tricks, Murdoch tried nudging the young soldier to agree. The lad wanted the coin far more than the documents, and curtly, he nodded and stepped back.

“Just this once,
citoyen
. Next time, have your papers.”

Clinging to his illusion of humility, Murdoch hurried the mare down the cobbled street.

The next incident occurred when he drove the cart down the backstreet behind the inn to the stable. Climbing down to hand the reins to the stableboy, Murdoch was confronted by two older and more battle-hardened soldiers emerging from a stall to one side, as if they'd been expecting him. Was the Aelynner he hadn't found involved in this harassment? His suspicion was aroused, but there was little he could do about it.

His hand went to the sword on his hip before he remembered he was posing as a simple peasant and the weapon was supposed to be hidden by illusion.

“Your passport,
citoyen
,” the mustached officer commanded.

Murdoch sensed that humility would only get him thrown into prison this time. These two had no compassion. Hunting aristocratic spies who would endanger their revolutionary independence, they bristled with mistrust.

With his weapons momentarily concealed on the far side of the cart, Murdoch wished he could lie as swiftly as he could run, but his thoughts scattered like leaves in a breeze. Only the knowledge that Lis waited for him prevented him from drawing his rapier.

“Let me buy you a drink while the innkeeper fetches my coat,” he suggested, boldly assuming the air of a man of authority and swaggering from behind the cart, letting the gold hilt of his sword flash in the sun.

Their misgivings lightened at his perceived honesty, but that would last only so long as it took for them to realize he had no papers. Murdoch wished he hadn't led them to Lis and her patients. It was much simpler when he was alone.

He glanced up at the sky, but there wasn't even a hint of a cloud. Where was a good storm when he needed one? Maybe he should irritate the duo until they angered him enough to raise thunderheads.

Using reason instead of temper wasn't working so well.

It worked even less well when he heard Lis scream an angry obscenity just as they entered the inn.

Looking for a servant, Lissandra hadn't paid enough attention to the muddled wits of the drunken sailor staggering down the hall—until he grabbed her from behind and squeezed her breast. She yelped in surprise and dropped the pretty painted bowl of water she'd been holding, then cursed herself for letting down her guard in her haste to be useful.

Recovering from her surprise, she reacted as Ian had taught her by screaming to attract attention. Directing her elbow backward with all her considerable strength, she connected with the lout's soft midsection and was rewarded with an
oomph
of pain. Pulling from his clumsy grasp, she swung around in a swirl of skirts, and dug her fingers into his wrist. She focused her mind on the fragile bones beneath her grasp and snapped one.

Her assailant's wail shook the walls. Or, more likely, unless the area was prone to earthquakes, Murdoch had heard her screams and caused the walls to vibrate with his rage.

She refused to let the thought distract her from teaching the villain a lesson. She increased the pressure of her fingers, and the drunk bellowed in agony and dropped to his knees. Her gown and the floor were soaked, and she considered rubbing her assailant's face in the wet filth of the floor as extra measure. She was resisting that impulse when Murdoch burst into the hall, followed by two uniformed soldiers and the innkeeper.

“She's murdering me!” the stout sailor cried in hopes of rescue from his fellow men.

The floor stopped shaking, and Lissandra appreciated that Murdoch was able to control himself once he saw she had the situation in hand. In fact, the insufferable superman appeared to be biting back a grin.

“This churl assaulted me,” she said in the tone of command she'd heard her mother use. “I wish to press charges before he hurts some other helpless innocent.”

“That is not possible,” the innkeeper protested in an accusatory tone that insinuated Lissandra had brought this on herself. “I run a decent inn. Such things do not happen here!”

Perhaps she
was
to blame, if being female was all that was required to be accosted by strangers. Lissandra considered twisting the pompous innkeeper's nose, but Murdoch took care of the offensive man for her. His rapier was under the innkeeper's chin before any could notice he'd even removed it from his belt.

“You will apologize profusely to my wife for the assault on her person under your roof,” he said in a tone of cold command that would curdle the blood of any who truly knew him.

The innkeeper stammered, and Murdoch's grim expression grew more fierce. A knife appeared in his other hand, pressing to the man's belly.

“I apologize, madame, monsieur,” the innkeeper whispered, stepping backward until he bumped into the soldiers behind him.

“I did nothing, nothing, I say!” her assailant cried. “Make her release me!”

In a swirl and flash of silver, Murdoch spun to neatly slice her attacker's shirt from his back and trousers from their binding. Releasing the man's wrist, Lissandra swallowed an inappropriate laugh at the sight of his fat white rump before turning her attention to the astonished soldiers. She appreciated that Murdoch did not draw blood, but she could find more productive uses for the belligerent instincts of the men with him. She mentally nudged their thoughts into more suitable patterns.

The soldiers looked from her to the burly sailor on the floor. “The lady does not appear to need help,” the clean-shaven officer said snidely, no doubt wondering whether he'd be able to bring such a large man to his knees—and keep him there.

“I don't recognize him,” the mustached officer decided, lifting her attacker by his neckcloth—the only whole garment left on him. “We'd better take him in for questioning.”

The younger soldier looked confused, glancing from Murdoch to their new prisoner. With his fury discharged, Murdoch jovially pounded the man's back and shoved him after his companion. “I will be down directly to press charges,” he said in his impeccable French. “It is a scandal and a shame the way these foreigners think they can assault our women. I wager he's the émigré spy you've been looking for. My wife is the honey that ever catches flies.”

The innkeeper's gaze darted nervously from Lissandra to Murdoch to their ill patient wrapped in blankets in the chamber behind them. She ought to feel sympathy for his confusion, but he was broadcasting concern only for himself, and she wasn't feeling generous.

Returning to the small parlor, Lissandra pressed a reassuring finger to Amelie's nose to make the terrified child smile in trembling relief, then knelt to cradle Pierre Durand's head so she could help him drink the herbal tea she'd prepared. “All is well. We'll take you home now.”

Still struggling with his volatile emotions, Murdoch offered the innkeeper a coin to quiet his protests and sent him away.

“I think I've reduced the infection and balanced his energies so that it will be safe for him to travel in the cart,” Lissandra said, hoping she could distract Murdoch from his desire to fling her on a ship and sail away. “And Amelie mostly needs nourishment. A few good meals and a bath, and she'll be fine.”

She thought it was a good sign that Murdoch had conceded to fetch the cart and take them back to Trystan's house. He wouldn't renege on that agreement, although she assumed the soldiers who had tagged behind him were an ominous portent.

Instead of speaking his thoughts, Murdoch turned to the child. “I think, back at the house, I saw some pretty gowns lying around, looking lonely,” he said in an almost genial tone, while he lifted Durand from the floor. “I believe they might be just your size.”

If Murdoch hadn't already stolen her heart, Lissandra would have handed it to him there and then. The promise of pretty clothes easily diverted the child's attention while his voice covered up Durand's moan of pain.

Murdoch had always been kind to Lissandra as a child, but she had assumed that was part of their rapport. No matter how tense their relationship became over the years, they'd always danced around each other like two expert swordsmen feinting without actually fighting.

Perhaps, if they were ever to get beyond their polite surfaces to the truth, it was time to quit parrying and engage weapons.

They tucked Pierre in the back of Trystan's cart as best as they could and listened to Amelie's happy chatter while they drove out of town.

They blended their illusions to disguise the cart without discussing it. Murdoch touched his brown fingers to Lissandra's when they passed the puzzled young soldier on the outskirts of the village, letting her know she need do no more.

And they both simmered in different kinds of frustration as they returned to Trystan's comfortable house, which they'd thought never to see again.

“Baths first,” she murmured after Murdoch unhitched the horse and lifted their unconscious patient from the cart. “They have fleas.”

“I'll not have you bathing a stranger,” he grumbled in a low tone. Even though they spoke in their language, he tried not to disturb the child, who was warily studying her new surroundings.

Lissandra was not unfamiliar or uncomfortable with naked men, and Murdoch knew it. He was simply being jealously stubborn. “Male anatomy does not differ with name or familiarity of the individual,” she argued. “Pierre cannot travel until we remove the infection and he regains his strength. The heat of the bath is the best way I know.”

“Then add your herbs and incense and leave me with him,” Murdoch insisted while she opened the kitchen door to let him pass with his unconscious burden.

“You are being deliberately thickheaded about this. The infection is in his lungs. I must find it and apply my energies there.”

“And exhaust yourself in the process. I have some of your ability. Let me use it.” Murdoch's jaw was rigid with obstinacy.

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. Murdoch was being his usual domineering self, expecting everyone to obey his commands. She'd never seen anyone win against him, except her parents. And occasionally Ian. She certainly never had.