Part 16 (1/2)

He glanced at the books on the table. ”What are you researching?”

”Enchantresses. I found a journal by a French woman who had the gift, but she doesn't talk much about how she experienced it.” Gwynne made a face. ”I think she enjoyed her power a bit too much.”

”One can see that would be a temptation.” He set the tray down and leaned over for a firm kiss. Her lips were cool, probably a sign of hunger. He poured two steaming cups of tea and placed one beside her, then lifted a knee rug from the back of a wing chair and draped it around her shoulders. ”Drink,” he ordered as he sat down on the opposite side of the table and helped himself to shortbread.

”Yes, my lord,” she said with suspicious meekness.

He recognized the velvet bag sitting on the table near her tablet. ”I see you found Isabel de Cortes's scrying gla.s.s.”

She nodded. ”I did. And . . . and it works for me.”

”Really!” He leaned forward. ”How remarkable. Almost as if the gla.s.s has been waiting here for you. ”

”I think it was,” Gwynne said soberly. She touched the velvet bag. ”I a.s.sume no one will mind if I take possession of this.”

”Of course not. The fact that the gla.s.s speaks to you says that it's yours.” He eyed her thoughtfully. ” Scrying and use of the talking spheres are closely related abilities. You may end up on the council.”

She looked startled. ”I will never have that kind of power!”

”It appears to me that you already have. Now drink your tea and have some shortbread before you faint from hunger. Then you can tell me what you've seen.”

After was.h.i.+ng down two pieces of shortbread with the tea, she slid the scrying stone from the velvet bag. Her gaze searched the depths, as if not quite believing that it was truly hers. ”I saw the Jacobite forces enter Edinburgh, and take the city without a drop of blood being shed.”

He caught his breath. ”That happened today? If so, Charles made good speed between here and Edinburgh.”

”Not today. I think the city will be taken two days from now. But it's quite clear and definite-looking -a sure event, not a mere possibility. Prince Charles will ride into the city at midday wearing Highland dress. Red breeches and a green velvet bonnet with the white Jacobite c.o.c.kade.”

”You can really see that kind of detail?” he asked, amazed.

”It's the stone.” Her fingers tightened around it. ”It holds immense power and the images are very clear. The prince will have his father proclaimed James III, King of Scotland, England, France, and Ireland.”

”It's time England gave up pretending it has authority over France.” Duncan said dryly. ”What else did you see?”

”He'll declare that the Acts of Union are annulled.”

Duncan was unable to suppress a flare of pleasure at the news. ”That will certainly win him more support. Can you see the outcome of the rising?”

”That was one of the first things I looked for. As the council says, the result has not yet been decided.” She grimaced. ”Only blood and death were certain. The first battle will be fought very soon- within the next week, I think.”

”Can you see how that will turn out?”

She returned the stone to its bag. ”The Jacobites will win in a matter of minutes.”

He felt a rush of pleasure at the news. The sun broke through the afternoon clouds and light poured into the library, taking off the autumn chill. ”An easy victory will have men and foreign support flocking to his standard.”

”It's not an easy victory for the hundreds of men who will be killed or wounded or captured,” she snapped. ”Most will be government troops, but their lives matter. A good number will even be Scots.”

”I regret that, of course, but if there is going to be a battle, a quick victory will mean fewer casualties on both sides.”

Gwynne's eyes narrowed. ”You look far too pleased with the news of Jacobite successes. You are supposed to support the cause of humanity, not take sides as if this war is a horse race.”

His mouth tightened. ”I've not interfered unlawfully, nor do I intend to, but surely I have a right to my private emotions.”

”You do not!” she exclaimed. ”You are a mage and your emotions change the world. When you exulted over the Jacobite victory, the sun came out. If I'd said the prince did badly, thunder would have rocked the glen. You must control yourself, Duncan. Unbridled power flaring around this rebellion is too dangerous. You know the Family rules. We cannot allow ourselves to behave as irrationally as mundanes.”

He flushed, knowing there was truth to her words but resenting her reprimand. ”Do not give me lessons on the control of power, my lady. I have been a mage these last two decades, while a month ago you were powerless as an infant.”

”Because power is new to me, I haven't had the chance to become complacent or arrogant.” Her voice could have chipped ice, yet her anger was paradoxically alluring. With her red gold hair tied back simply and her eyes flas.h.i.+ng, she was so desirable that he clenched his hands to keep from touching her.

”If you're not arrogant, it's only because you haven't had power long enough to start misusing it,” he retorted. ”Soon you'll be manipulating every man in sight! You're d.a.m.nably close to that now. Stop using your s.e.xual magic to try to influence me!”

”I am not using power on you!” she sputtered. ”The fact that you're always randy doesn't mean that I'm trying to enchant you.”

He jumped to his feet and leaned forward, hands braced on the table. ”At least I'm aware of what I'm doing! Don't pretend that you don't know the effect of your power!”

As she drew back instinctively, anger and desire flared into a scarlet energy that swirled through the room. Above the castle, thunder crashed with window-rattling force. Horrified, he recognized how far out of control they were.

Rounding the table, he caught her in his arms, desperate to end their conflict. ”Gwynne, mo caran, we mustn't let this happen!”

After an instant's resistance, she hugged him back, hard, as if trying to melt into his body. She was shaking, on the verge of tears.

He spun his anger into one of the Celtic knot patterns that helped dissipate unbalanced emotions. Aching with tenderness, he whispered, ”We're tearing each other apart, mo cridhe. We must never let this happen again.”

Raising her head, she kissed him with devouring need. The raging forces they had released flared into frantic physical pa.s.sion. As her fingers clawed into his back, he lifted her onto the edge of the table and stepped between her legs, raising her skirts so they foamed around his thighs. He was her Lord of Storms, the irresistible force whose power could sweep her mind from her body.

She gasped when his deft fingers touched her intimately, and waves of sensation dizzied her. No matter how their minds disagreed, their bodies were in perfect accord. As soon as he released himself from his breeches, she guided him into her, thrusting against him. They both cried out as they came together with fierce urgency.

Their mating was swift and violent, but it trans.m.u.ted anger into a searing harmony that left them both drained and panting for breath. As she clung to him, shaking, he repeated in a strained whisper, ”We must not fight like this again, Gwynne. It frightens me how my control vanishes where you are concerned. ”

She nodded, her face buried against his shoulder. ”This is the dark side of power, isn't it? When we fight, we risk damaging more than each other. Perhaps we should avoid discussing the rebellion until it is ended.”

”That would be impossible, but we must not allow ourselves to become so partisan that we lose our detachment.” He stepped away, leaving her bereft. ”Try to believe that I know my duty, Gwynne. If the circ.u.mstances are right I might intervene to save lives, but I won't try to change the course of the rising.”

”Fair enough.” She stepped down to the floor and poured two more cups of cooling tea with a hand that was still unsteady. When had he started calling the rebellion the ”rising,” as the Jacobites did? Telling herself that that subtle s.h.i.+ft in language didn't mean he had turned rebel, she offered a tentative smile. ”I was impressed at how well you faced down the prince. He is very compelling.”

”Worse, he may be right.” Duncan sat and stretched out his long legs as he sipped wearily at his tea. ”I've pondered this all day, and I believe there is a strong possibility that a Stuart restoration might benefit all of Britain. Lord knows the Hanoverians seem to have no great love of our island. The Prince of Wales is sly, weak, and deceitful. If he becomes king, he could be a disaster far worse than Prince Charles Edward.”

”Perhaps, but a Stuart on the throne feels . . . alarming to me. If only the scrying gla.s.s could tell me more!” she said with frustration.

”We must be patient. Events will reveal themselves in time.”

The caution was simple to say. Almost impossible to live by.

Tired by the emotional demands of the day, Gwynne retreated to her room for a late-afternoon nap. Discovering Isabel's scrying gla.s.s had been all the excitement she needed her first full day at Dunrath. She could have done without the raging fight and reconciliation with Duncan, though she supposed the argument was inevitable and had done much to clear the air. On the positive side, if all arguments with her husband ended in such spectacular pa.s.sion, at least there were compensations. . . .

She dozed off with a smile on her face, and woke at a knock on her door and Jean calling, ” Gwynne, may I come in?”