A Kiss of Fate

by Mary Jo Putney

�Guardians don't have familiars. He's just a cat. A loyal cat who thought I might be in danger.� Her gaze went to his left hand. �You're not wearing Adam Macrae's ring. Did you take it off so you could deny your clan's connection to the English throne?�

  He had intended to put the ring back on before entering Dunrath, but had forgotten when Gwynne met him up in the hills. Pulling the ring from his pocket, he slid it onto his finger and received an unpleasant sting of energy. He stared at the glittering sapphire, wondering if Adam's ghost was chastising him. Silently cursing the whiskey for causing superstitious thoughts, he pulled the ring off and returned it to his pocket.

  �We cannot both remain under Dunrath's roof, or we'll drive each other mad,� she said quietly. �I shall leave on Boxing Day.�

  �No!� he exclaimed, horrified by a sense that if she left the glen, she would never come back. �If anyone leaves, it will be me. I only intended to stay until Hogmanay, so I'll be off tomorrow instead.�

  �I can't drive you from your own home, Duncan. Especially not on Christmas.�

  �This is your home also, and with Jean and me both gone, Dunrath needs you.� He thought of the bleak winter campaign that lay ahead for the armies. �When the rising is over, I'll return and we can . . . make our peace.�

  She sighed but didn't argue with him. He wondered what horrors she saw in her visions, then decided he'd rather not know.

  At least with increased power she should be able to protect the glen and its people if the war came too close. The Jacobite troops had usually treated civilians honorably, but heaven only knew what the Hanoverians might do. Not all the soldiers would make a distinction between rebels and Scots loyal to King George. He thought of Jean, and hoped that she was practicing her own defense spells.

  He got shakily to his feet, still feeling the effects of the incredible blast of energy Gwynne had wielded. �I'll be gone in the morning before you wake.�

  Tears glinted in her eyes. �Stay at least for the church service.� Even though she was now shielding her allure, she was infinitely desirable.

  His mouth twisted. �As you said, we'll drive each other mad if we are under the same roof yet not mates to each other. Good-bye, mo c?ran.�

  She set the cat aside and stood as if to come to him, then quivered to a stop as she recognized that touching would be folly. �Be careful, Duncan. In all ways. And if your opinion of this rebellion changes�for God's sake, come home!�

  �I learned Guardian principles as a child, but I'm a Scot in my blood and soul,� he said with bitter humor. �I'll not abandon my country or my prince.� He pivoted and left the room, praying that Charles Edward would lead the rising to a swift and relatively bloodless victory, then be magnanimous to his defeated foes.

  Nothing less would bring Duncan and Gwynne together again.

  �

  Despite Gwynne's best efforts to read all of Jean's letters when they were being written, this latest message had come the normal way, along wintry roads from Glasgow to Dunrath. Though Jean attempted to sound cheerful, the strain of the campaign was showing. According to her, the rebels were about to withdraw to the north and wait for spring to launch a new offensive.

  When would it all end?

  Gwynne didn't bother with her scrying glass. Instead, she sat down in her favorite library chair and closed her eyes to see if meditation would help her see the broad shape of events.

  As her racing mind gradually stilled, she sensed that an indecisive battle was imminent, and that the crisis would come with the spring. Perhaps in April. From there, the future branched in two main directions. Either way, the repercussions would reverberate down through the years, changing Scotland forever. Though both futures contained wrenching change and tragic violence, one was far, far worse�and that was the future that Duncan might bring into being.

  Calm gone, she opened her eyes and reached for her scrying glass to see if she could locate Duncan. As always, she failed. She guessed that he was shielding himself from Guardian eyes, and that meant her as well as the council. She hadn't heard a word from him since he left Dunrath on Christmas Day.

  Did he hope that absence would make her heart grow fonder? Impossible�she already loved him with all that was in her even though she had been afraid to say the words aloud. Separating herself from him was the most difficult thing she had ever done.

  If she was supposed to save Duncan from destruction by capturing his heart and using her influence to change his mind, she had failed. He was too stubborn to turn from his path even if his heart was breaking.

  She wondered if he would be glad to know that hers was, too.

  THIRTY

  D ark clouds scudded across the sky as Duncan found a high, unobtrusive vantage point that allowed him to see both Jacobite and Hanoverian forces. He kept the storm at bay, thinking it might be useful during the battle that was on the verge of beginning.

  His eyes narrowed as the rebels took position on the Hill of Falkirk, a moor that overlooked the encampment of the Hanoverian army that had been sent to lift the siege of Stirling Castle. Though royal forces outnumbered the rebels by over two thousand men, they were not well positioned and their officers didn't take the rebel threat seriously. The idiot English commander, General Hawley, wasn't even with his troops�he was enjoying a drunken luncheon with the Countess of Kilmarnock. The longer he stayed away, the better chance the rebels had of smashing the government forces.

  Besides watching the troop movements, Duncan sometimes checked his scrying glass to see if there were interesting developments elsewhere. His mouth twisted when General Hawley galloped up in a frenzy to join his threatened troops. The man was rumpled and wigless�what had he been doing with the countess? Perhaps that passionate Jacobite lady had decided to contribute her virtue to the task of rendering the general useless.

  Since Hawley's artillery was bogged down in mud, the general began to organize regiments of dragoons to storm the hill before the rebels became entrenched at the top. It was a critical moment. If Duncan released the winds he had gathered, it would destroy any chance that the royal dragoons would achieve success.

  It would probably also end the battle sooner with fewer casualties. Action on his part could be justified as benefiting both sides, but it would help the Jacobites more.

  How far was he from crossing the line into renegade territory? Or was he there already? Each small interference on his part had made the next one easier. Gwynne had been right, damn her cool Sassenach logic. Though he could stand before the council and justify his actions, in his heart he had already crossed the line.

  At a signal from the general, the dragoons began their charge up the hill. Duncan watched them, saw their superiority in equipment and numbers and training, and the last of his objectivity splintered. Quickly, before he could think more, he released the winds.

  His gale blasted into the faces of the Hanoverian dragoons as they attempted to attack up the steep slope. They were in disarray by the time they reached the top. The rebels held their fire until the last possible moment�then released a shattering volley. Dozens of horses and riders fell, mortally wounded.

  Duncan closed his eyes as he tried to slam the door on the pain of the wounded men and their mounts. The fact that he supported one side didn't spare him the other side's agony. Good men were dying, and his stomach twisted at the knowledge that he had made himself part of this battle.

  He opened his eyes to a chaotic battlefield. Rain blasted down from the darkened sky, reducing the visibility as Hanoverian troops fled in panic. With muskets made useless by water, combat became a bloody matter of swords and dirks.

  In twenty minutes it was over and the Jacobites had won a tremendous victory. Concealed by the pounding rain, Duncan quietly withdrew from the area. Because of the vile weather, the death toll would be relatively low. He had saved lives on both sides, and if the Jacobites followed up aggressively, they would soon be maste
rs of all Scotland.

  He hoped to heaven that happened. The sooner this war ended, the sooner he could return home to Gwynne.

  �

  Gwynne sighed over Jean's latest letter. It had taken almost a fortnight to reach her even though Dunrath was not terribly far from Inverness, the current headquarters of the rebel army.

  Though Jean's overall mood was weary resignation, she told an amusing story about how five Jacobites had created a great enough ruckus to scare off a whole army of Hanoverians one stormy night. �The Rout of Moy,� as it was being called, had allowed the prince and his followers to escape capture. The weather that night had a strong scent of Duncan about it.

  Duncan. Still no word from him. All Gwynne could do was wait.

  Wait and pray.

  �

  Expression grim, Duncan put away his scrying glass. The Jacobites had squandered their advantage in the days after Falkirk. Instead of pursuing the demoralized enemy or heading east to recapture Edinburgh, they had returned to their futile siege of Stirling Castle. Damned fools!

  Scowling, he rose to put more wood on the small fire burning in the mouth of the cave where he had found refuge. Since he could not afford to be traced, he'd been living rough most of the time since leaving Dunrath. The entrance to his cave was high on a hill and not visible from below, so he should be safe enough here.

  He impaled a tired piece of black pudding on a stick and held it close to the flames, wanting something hot to eat. When it began to sizzle, he laid it on a crumbling oatcake and began to eat his meager dinner. Was Gwynne missing him?

  As soon as the thought formed, he felt her grief and longing as sharply as if he were touching her. But there were no regrets in her mind. She was convinced that he was wrong, and if he returned home he ran the risk of her reporting him to the council.

  Thinking of her made him tighten with yearning. Any lapse of his self-control and he'd be on Zeus's back and heading to Dunrath.

  He took a sip of the tea he'd made earlier, gloomily thinking how hard it was to change the course of events, or cure stupidity. When younger, he'd read books on military history. The principal lesson drawn from his study was that war was a confused and clumsy affair, and victory often went to whoever made the fewest mistakes. No wonder Guardians were strong supporters of peace.

  He was sipping the last of the tea when he froze, his hackles rising. He was being hunted. Scarcely breathing, he analyzed that faint, questing pulse of power.

  Simon. The council's hound had returned to Scotland and was seeking him. He was close, too, within a mile. Duncan had a mental image of Simon riding relentlessly through the cold dusk, all his senses alert as he hunted his prey.

  Duncan smothered the fire so not even a tendril of smoke was visible. Zeus was behind him in the cave, lazily munching some hay. The climb up to the cave was difficult for the horse even when Duncan led him, but a Sassenach like Simon, who was used to English mounts, would think it impossible. Duncan rested his hands on the horse's neck and laid a calming spell strong enough to prevent Zeus from being interested in any other horses that might traverse the rough road below the cave.

  Then Duncan lay down on his blankets and prepared himself to be overlooked. The cave was shielded with a don't-see spell. He strengthened that, taking care to eliminate any marks of magic that might attract Simon's attention, and triggered the mizzling rain that had been threatening all afternoon.

  Lastly, he diminished his own energy to the lowest level possible in which he was still conscious. He lay like a banked fire that should not attract Simon's attention.

  Yet the hunter was drawing closer. In the stillness of the hills, Duncan could hear slow hoofbeats and sense Simon's approach. Closer . . . closer . . .

  The hoofbeats stopped directly below the cave. Duncan had a vivid sense that the other man was probing the energies of the area, frustratingly aware that his quarry had been here at some time, but unable to detect Duncan's present position.

  He closed his eyes, not allowing himself to feel satisfaction, since a change in his energy might attract Simon's hypersensitive awareness. Barely breathing, he waited.

  After an endless interval, the hoofbeats started again, moving north. He was safe.

  At least for now.

  THIRTY-ONE

  G wynne gazed absently into the darkness, one hand stroking Lionel and the rest of her yearning for her husband. It had been three months since she had seen Duncan, and in that time she'd heard not a word, received not even one of his terse letters, and seen no image of him in her scrying glass. If not for the way her body remembered his, she might start to think she had imagined him.

  The one thing he couldn't block was her sense that he was alive and well. She would know if he were dead. Others from Glen Rath had not been so lucky. Two local lads had been killed in skirmishes in the area around Inverness, where small groups of Jacobites and Hanoverians ran afoul of each other regularly.

  She was drifting into sleep when a sudden awareness of a presence, male, caused her to sit bolt upright in the bed. �Duncan?� she whispered, feeling the tingle of power.

  �Alas, no.� A snap of fingers lit a candle, which illuminated the elegant, weary face of Simon, Lord Falconer. �I'm sorry to intrude on you this way, but I prefer to come and go as invisibly as possible.�

  Simon looked ten years older than on his last visit to Dunrath. Even his shining blond hair seemed dimmed. �You must be hungry,� Gwynne said. �Come down to the kitchens with me.�

  �With pleasure.� Another snap of his fingers and a globe of cool light glowed on his palm.

  �I need to learn how to do that,� Gwynne said admiringly. �It looks like a very convenient spell.�

  �It is, especially for people like me who sometimes hunt in dark places, which I've done entirely too much of lately.� He sighed. �If you like, I'll show you the trick of it when I'm not so tired.�

  �Time you were fed.� She swung from the bed and donned Duncan's blue velvet banyan, which she used because she took comfort in the imprinted essence of his personality. It was also good protection from the icy drafts in the older parts of the castle.

  In the kitchen, a kettle of thick lamb-and-barley soup was steaming gently on the hob, so she dished up a bowl while Simon lit the lamps. She added bread and sliced cheese, along with a glass of the castle's best claret for both of them.

  He elegantly wolfed the food down, if wolves were ever elegant. When he finished, he poured them more wine, looking less like a stone effigy than when he had arrived. �Your control at not asking questions is stunning, Gwynne. Now it's your turn. Ask away.�

  She hesitated, wondering where to start. �I gather that you have not seen Duncan for some time.�

  �Unfortunately not. It was my idea to separate because I wanted to pursue what felt like a rogue Guardian. I had no success there�I think the rogue felt my search and stopped stirring up trouble. That's fortunate, but once Duncan was on his own, his Jacobite leanings took over.� Simon's mouth twisted bitterly. �I should have known better. We were meant to balance each other, but I thought that the crisis had passed when the rebels began to withdraw to Scotland. I was wrong.�

  Which meant it was Simon's duty to hunt down one of his closest friends. How damnable. �It's not your fault,� Gwynne said. �Duncan was already quietly aiding the rebels even before you went your separate ways. I saw him last at Christmas. At that time he was justifying his interventions as preserving life, but I fear that he was well on his way to discarding his rationalizations and committing fully to the rebel cause.�

  �If I had stayed, I think I could have prevented him from passing the point of no return.� Simon tilted his goblet at the lamp, ruby lights sparkling through the wine. �I have been seeking him for weeks without success.�

  Gwynne pressed her hand to her lips. If the two came face-to-face, with Simon charged to stop Duncan�she shudde
red at the thought. �So he can hide even from you?�

  �I have found traces of his passing, but haven't been able to locate his living presence.� He sighed. �Unless in my heart I don't want to find him and that is undermining my power.�

  She leaned forward and covered his hand with hers. �Don't torment yourself over this, Simon. He has great power, and a great desire not to be found.�

  His lean hand tensed under her fingers. �You've become adept at controlling the enchantress power,� he said with unnatural calm, �but your touch is not yet harmless.�

  �Sorry.� Blushing, she pulled her hand away. She would have to work on that.

  �Do you know where he is?� Simon asked.

  She shook her head. �He is able to shield from me very effectively. He is well, and somewhere near Inverness, I think. Beyond that, I know as little as you.� Gwynne thought a moment. �Jean is also in Inverness. She writes me, but if she has seen Duncan, she hasn't mentioned it.�

  �I spoke with Jean. She said she hadn't seen him, and I believe her.�

  Gwynne studied his drawn face. They had always been friendly, and she now suspected that part of that was because she was a Guardian without power. He could relax with her because she knew what he was but didn't have the ability to see him with the eyes of power. Those who were capable of seeing his full self tended to be wary unless they had equal magical ability, she now realized. He had too much tightly controlled power to be restful. �It must be hard to be so alone,� she murmured.

  His head came up. For a moment, she thought he would ignore her comment, or brush it aside as if he didn't understand. Instead, he said, �It is. The curse of being a Falconer. One adapts.�

  And he did not wish to discuss the matter further. She nodded acceptance. �The armies are drawing closer and closer. The crisis is near, isn't it?�

  �Very. A fortnight at the most. Probably sooner.� He leaned forward, his gray eyes fierce. �You must stop Duncan, Gwynne. You are the only one who can. If you don't, I fear for the consequences.�

  �I would if I could, but how?� She spread her hands helplessly. �If you can't find him, I certainly can't.�

  �Don't seek him. Bring him to you.�

  She stared. �How can I make that stubborn Scot do anything?�

  �Send out a mental call. Plead with him using every iota of enchantress power,� Simon said crisply. �I don't think he will be able to resist you. Use your knowledge of his strengths and weaknesses as ruthlessly as necessary, but stop him!�

  She bit her lip. �Duncan is so intelligent, with worldly experience far beyond mine. Have you ever wondered if he's right and we're wrong? Might the prince be the best available choice?�