Immediately, he felt a feather-light stroke of her energy. It gently flowed through him, sliding behind his weakened defenses and soothing scorched places in his spirit. He had felt nothing comparable since his training with his grandfather when he was a boy.
But his grandfather was stern and male, while Isabel was profoundly female. An object of desire whose touch sparked reactions that fizzed through his body. He moved involuntarily, for the effect was as alarming as it was exciting.
Masking his reaction, he said, "You reached very deeply. It is a good beginning."
She sighed. "So little time."
Feeling stronger than when he first woke, he asked, "Are you a healer?"
"Only in a small way." She rested her palm on his forehead again. "Sleep, Macrae. Tomorrow we will begin our second campaign."
He slipped into deep slumber, dimly aware that she had begun to heal the source of his power.
Since Macrae's fever had broken and his wits were well on the way to mending, Isabel left him alone to sleep. He needed the rest, and so did she.
Nonetheless, her night was troubled. Macrae was disturbing at the best of times, like a barely leashed lion. To allow him access to the darkest secrets of her soul—she shuddered at the thought.
The prospect of knowing his darkest secrets was even worse. Raised by protective, baffled parents, her life had been a sheltered one despite her studies. With Dee's guidance she had learned the disciplines of power, and her scrying ability had given her rare access to the workings of her society. But that knowledge was of the mind; Macrae was of the earth, intensely physical and experienced in matters beyond her imagination. The depths of his mind would not be… safe.
She should think of their joint endeavor as an opportunity to broaden her knowledge and understanding. Certainly the work was vital, for the Armada was a sword poised over Britain. Nonetheless, she felt like a mouse about to be seized by a hawk.
Reminding herself that she was a mouse armed with powerful fangs, she rolled over and forced herself to relax, one muscle at a time. She must hope that a hawk and a fanged mouse could between them stop the Spanish.
She was rising after a night of restless dreams when her housekeeper entered the bedroom in a rush. "Sir Adam is gone!"
Isabel muttered an oath under her breath. "I think I know where he might be. Don't worry—his fever broke last night, and he's as sensible now as he's capable of. Pack food in a basket while I dress."
Reassured, Mistress Heath left to do her mistress's bidding. After donning a plain country gown of cream-colored linen and dressing her hair in a simple knot, Isabel collected the basket and walked down to the stone circle at a leisurely pace.
As she expected, Macrae was there, sitting on a stone as he looked out to sea. His beard needed trimming—he looked more pirate than gentleman.
Her relaxation vanished when she saw his despair. "What has happened?"
"There is even less time than I thought."
She settled on the stone beside his. "Tell me."
"If events are not changed, the Spanish will sail into the Firth of Forth to provision and regroup, and end by razing Edinburgh."
Isabel frowned, wishing she had spent more time scrying Edinburgh. "Surely Scots and Spaniards are allies—both hate the English enough."
"The intent will not be war, but tempers will clash. The Spanish commander, Medina, will infuriate my countrymen, and soldiers will become drunk and riot. The city will be left a ruin of blood and bones and ashes."
She shuddered at the images he conjured in her mind. "When will this happen?"
"In two days, the first Spanish ships will moor at Leith. No more than two days more before trouble breaks out."
Less than four days for them to change the course of a great Armada. "I did not know you had such skill in seeing the future."
"Usually I don't, but Scotland is bound to my blood." He drew a rough breath. "I'm glad I seldom see the future. It's a terrible gift. My attempt to drive the Armada onto the Zeeland shoals might have increased the danger for my countrymen."
"Don't think about that!" They could not afford for him to become weakened by guilt. "You already had fears for Edinburgh. Perhaps what you foresee now will be less terrible than what might have happened. We cannot be sure."
His mouth twisted. "How arrogant we mages are, to think we can make the world better by wielding our powers. Perhaps Britain would be better off without Guardians."
"It is human nature to seek and use power. At least you Guardians do your best to serve the greater good." She drew her knees up and looped her arms around them as she had in childhood, her gaze unfocused as she watched the waves roll into chalk cliffs. "I envy you for being raised with others of your kind."
"It would be difficult to be as alone as you, Isabel. Yet it has made you strong."
She felt him in her mind, closer than was comfortable. She wanted to slam the doors and hurl him out. Instead, she forced herself to accept his demanding male presence, proud that she could say calmly, "Though the hours are few, there is time enough to eat, and you'll be stronger for it."
She investigated the basket. Fresh bread and cheese and ale, all made on her estate. Pulling out her knife, she sliced the bread and cheese, then poured ale into the pewter tankards.
His expression eased as he accepted the food, "You're a practical woman. That is no bad thing."
"Someone has to be practical, and usually it will be a woman," she said tartly.
Macrae's amusement reverberated within her mind, a surprisingly pleasant effect. As they ate, she cautiously experimented with this unwonted closeness. She could not read his thoughts, and for that she was grateful, but she could sense his emotions with increasing accuracy. As they spoke, his mind shadowed his words with extra richness.
She also could enjoy his ravenous hunger. His startlingly sensual enjoyment of the simple food was so intense that it distracted her from her own meal. As he swallowed the last of his ale, he said, "Sunshine, a fresh breeze, and plain country food. When I was in the Tower, I never thought I would know such simple pleasures again. A pity that my freedom was granted for such a dire reason."
She stopped herself from saying that he might as well enjoy while he could, only to have him say, "You're thinking I might as well take pleasure while I can, since my next attempt at weather working might send me to an early grave."
She flushed and glanced away. "Can you read my thoughts?"
"Only your emotions, but they are clear enough." He set his empty tankard in the basket. "Now it is time for work. Do you see that dark cloud in the middle distance?"
She shaded her eyes against the bright sky. "Yes."
"We are going to make it rain." He laid his large hand over hers. "The thought intrigues and alarms you. Well enough. You will enjoy this, I think."
And she did. Though his mental powers had not fully recovered from his collapse, his instinctive understanding of wind and cloud was glorious. If he was a hawk, she was now his companion, swooping through the air, feeling the cool damp of the cloud, then disintegrating into a swift shower of raindrops.
She laughed aloud when he drew her back to normal awareness, delighting in the new sensations. "Wonderful! I felt this much more clearly than when we worked together before." Catching a sense of his sadness, she said more soberly, "But it's a very small achievement compared to what will be needed."
Though his face was controlled, she sensed that he was trying to shield her from his doubts. "It is much more than I could have done on my own," he said. "We are blending our energies well, so far."
Her pleasure in what they had accomplished faded in the knowledge of how much further they had to go—and that they had only another day to prepare.
They spent the rest of the long day delving into ever deeper levels of intimacy and sharing. The power of Isabel's mind and spirit amazed Macrae. Her commitment was also profound, but the deeper he probed, the more she resisted.
The last exerc
ise of the day took him for an instant to an area of her emotions he had not yet explored. Raw passion exploded like the devil's own fire, triggering his own passions—and then she hurled him from her mind with numbing power.
Gasping, he bent and buried his throbbing head in her hands. "You have a kick that would do a stallion proud, Isabel."
He could feel her distress when she laid her palm on his brow. "I'm sorry, I—I could not control my reaction."
He closed his eyes, welcoming her soothing touch. "I am trying to teach you in a day what a Guardian learns over years. You are progressing remarkably well."
"But not well enough."
He wasn't sure if her soft words were thought or spoken aloud. "Perhaps tomorrow we will find a good summer storm to work with." He tried to project confidence. "That will do most of the work for us."
She didn't believe that any more than he did, but she didn't argue the point. The two were joined in fatalism.
They had no choice but to try another major spell in the morning, this time at a much greater distance than the Zee-land attempt and with no major storm available to build on.
Isabel knew the dangers—after all, she had nursed him through near-lethal brain fever when his first attempt failed. She had accepted the fact that they might die trying. In fact, she accepted it better than he.
When he fell into his bed, exhausted, he uttered a silent prayer. May God grant them success for the sake of Scotland—and if a life must be forfeit in the process, let it be his.
5
Macrae jerked to wakefulness, heart pounding as he picked up a distant note of changing weather. Clouds, rain, and wind were sweeping in from the Atlantic.
How long had he been asleep? Only a few hours, he guessed, since there was no sign of dawn. He lit a candle and scrambled into his clothing, then made his way through the silent house to Isabel's room. As he opened the door, he said, "Isabel, rough weather is approaching quickly from the west. Not a major storm, but enough to give us a better chance if we start work immediately."
He swept back the bed curtains. His candle revealed Isabel blinking sleepily as she pushed herself to a sitting position. Her dark hair fell over her shoulder in a thick braid, and she looked younger and more vulnerable than her daytime self.
He froze as he realized that she was dressed only in her night rail, and the lightweight fabric did little to disguise her softly curving body. Knees weakening, he stepped back, putting the heavy carved bedpost between them. Damn the successful effort to lower barriers between them, for now it was impossible to conceal his desire. Isabel would justly see him as a great randy brute.
She flushed scarlet as she read his reaction. Emotions reverberated between them like images in opposing mirrors, and the hair prickled on his arms at the sheer erotic tension in the room.
Recovering first, she yanked the blankets to her shoulders. "Very well, we shall begin. I will meet you in the stone circle."
Grateful for the excuse to retreat, he ignited one of her candles with his, then bolted. He was a fool for allowing attraction to muddy the waters when all their attention must be fixed on their mutual goal.
He was bleakly aware that, even with the changing weather, the odds did not favor them. Though he was recovering well from his earlier collapse, he was still far below his normal strength. Despite Isabel's enormous power, she hadn't an inborn talent for weather working. If he was unable to weave the spells well enough, they would fail.
Worse, though they had lowered the barriers between them enough for embarrassment, they were still woefully short of being fully capable of sharing energy. If he needed more than Isabel was ready to give, she might lash out at him instinctively, with disastrous results.
But try they must. The Armada was critically near Edinburgh, and if they didn't act right away, it would be too late.
His mind still chasing itself, he stopped in the kitchen for a quick meal of bread and cheese, then picked his way down to the stone circle. It was a night fit for witches, the ley lines that intersected at the circle a glowing spiderweb of power. The wind was rising in fitful gusts, shaping and tearing clouds so that footing on the lane was uncertain. The sea beyond the bluff was lighter than the land, and he could hear the harsh beat of waves against the shore.
He felt a curious fatalism as he cleared his mind and began to lay the foundations of his spell. He would do his best; no man could do more. If he did not survive this last great working, may God defend Scotland and those he loved.
Silent as the wind, Isabel joined him, almost invisible in a dark cloak. She handed him a similar cloak. "Wear this. The night is chill, and fair weather will not return soon."
He accepted the cloak but said mildly, "A sorcerer should be able to rise above heat and cold."
"Why waste energy suppressing discomfort when it can be used on your weather working?"
He smiled into the darkness. A practical sorceress. The contours of her face were barely discernible. He had thought her austerely beautiful from their first meeting, and the intimate knowledge he had gained during their work together had multiplied her beauty a thousandfold. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I can be."
Knowing he might not survive the night's work, he made a formal courtier's bow to her, the cloak flaring around him. "It has been a pleasure working with you, Isabel de Cortes." Then he buried personal thoughts, grounded himself in the circle's earth energy, and reached for the winds.
As his awareness spiraled upward, he saw that the North Atlantic was blanketed with a vast patchwork of choppy clouds and gusty rain. The Spanish ships were strewn along the Narrow Seas, the leading wave already approaching the Firth of Forth, the gateway to Edinburgh.
He started by sharpening the winds across Scotland, making it difficult for the Armada to sail up the estuary. But that was only a temporary measure to delay them while he constructed a tempest.
Piece by meticulous piece, he began to weave vicious winds, drowning rain, and lightning that could rip the sky and blaze through rigging. It must be so powerful, so well-wrought, that it would continue onward even after his own strength failed. The storm must rage for days, sinking ships, driving others onto rocky shores and into the grip of deadly North Sea currents. The Armada must be destroyed to the point where it offered no threat—and may heaven have mercy on the souls of the sailors.
Already he was drawing heavily on Isabel's deep reserves of power. Her bright awareness followed him as he spun the winds into a pattern that fed on itself. She helped him concentrate the rain from many thousands of square miles into a smaller, more lethal storm. And she soared with him when he forged the lightning.
A dark, sullen dawn was breaking, the sun only a dim glow on the horizon. The overall spell was complete, but the structure was fragile. He needed a massive infusion of energy to set the pattern so that the tempest could become a force in its own right.
A gust of rain knocked him to his knees. Gasping, he reached for his partner, but for the first time he was unable to tap her strength. Though she had reserves still, they were beyond his reach.
"Isabel…" He tried to call, but his voice was a thin whisper lost in the rising wind. He was on all fours, most of his strength and awareness devoted to stabilizing the tempest with none left for holding him upright.
Her arms came around his shoulders. Though her touch stirred a wisp of energy, it was nowhere near enough to seal the spell. He tried harder to connect with the silvery pool of her power. She was struggling equally, he sensed her frantic effort, but there might have been a glass wall between them. Impenetrable. Impossible…
"Macrae." Her husky voice whispered in his ear. "The alchemical marriage—the mating of opposites to form a greater whole. It is the only solution left."
With shock, he realized that she meant a physical mating. His dazed mind tried to evaluate whether her proposal had a chance to work. There had been strong attraction from the beginning. In another time and place he would have courted her, o
r perhaps swept her onto his horse and carried her off to the Highlands, but he had buried such thoughts as inappropriate to the work they were doing together.
She might be right that passion could forge their spirits into a single invincible blade, but the cool voice of his conscience pointed out that he wanted desperately to believe that surrendering to lust was the key to victory. Was he a Guardian, a man of honor, or a randy male who would lie to gain what he desired?
Her lips touched his in a hesitant kiss. Her scent was of rain-washed roses.
His numb body began tingling to life. Sensing the change, Isabel's kiss became fierce, a demand laced with power.
Primal passion exploded through him, bringing every fiber of his body to blazing life. Be damned to his doubts—he wanted and needed Isabel more than reason, more than conscience, more than honor.
As he kissed her back, the shields he had borne from the cradle dissolved, allowing her access to the depths of his soul. Her fierce determination to conquer entered into his own soul, making them the invincible sword he had imagined. The gentle rain intensified into a downpour, fluid and fertile as it mated with the earth.
"Isabel, my enchantress…" He rolled above her, pressing her long body into the wet grass as he kissed her hungrily, blending his essence with hers.
Their lovemaking shattered the skies as the last barriers collapsed. Power was abundant, limitless, flowing through them and into the tempest, stabilizing the intricate structure of the spell. Lightning blazed until he was unsure if they were in Kent or soaring high over the North Sea in the heart of the storm.
As their spirits melded, he discovered that at the heart of her power was a lonely child who was an outsider among those she loved, convinced she was too strange, too unattractive, to ever find the closeness she craved. Even John Dee, greatest alchemist of the age, had found his student disconcerting.
Tenderly, Macrae showed her his vision of her unique, bewitching beauty. How she was a paragon among women, a mistress of mages. In return, she mirrored him back to himself. Was he really so darkly intimidating? Yet she was drawn to his strength, intrigued by his contradictions, so he gloried in his darkness.
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