A Kiss of Fate

by Mary Jo Putney

�I've had this conversation with Duncan, and I've done my best to find clarity on the topic.� Simon sighed. �There are different levels of truth, and Duncan has found a . . . a short-term truth that speaks to his loyalties. He dreams of Scotland regaining her independence and prospering as a sovereign nation once more.

  �But there are larger truths, and in this case Duncan is not seeing them. The dream of the Stuarts restored in Edinburgh has romantic appeal�even I wondered if that might be a good outcome. The more I meditated on the matter, the more I felt the wrongness. If the Stuarts regained the throne of Scotland, how soon until the border wars begin again? An independent Scotland is a potential traitor at England's back door, and England will not allow that to happen again. She has enough enemies. And if the Pretender won England as well . . .� He shook his head, his expression stark.

  Different levels of truth�yes, that made sense. Bless Simon for his ability to put the situation into perspective. She was also grateful that a man with Simon's power and worldly experience agreed with her about the dangers of a Jacobite victory.

  The hour of betrayal had arrived. Oddly enough, she now knew how to accomplish that if she could bring Duncan close enough for her to work her wiles.

  Living with herself after committing her crime was something she would worry about later.

  �

  Simon was reluctant to spend the night, but Gwynne insisted. She put him in a guest room, laid an ignore spell on the door so no maid would disturb him in the morning, then returned to her own chamber.

  With the critical battle likely to occur within days, there was no time to waste if she was to bring Duncan to her side. She returned to her bed, closed her eyes, and tuned her senses to her magic. If forced to describe that power, she would say that it was like a fluid that filled her body, lighter than air but sparkling with subtle luminescence. When her power was focused, the light increased and there was a kind of inner tingling, as if she were more alive than usual.

  When her magic was as strong as she could make it, she reached out to Duncan, trying to touch his mind with hers. This wasn't just any man, it was her husband. The man she loved, body, mind, and soul. Surely she could find him. . . .

  Nothing. She continued to try, unaware of the passing time, until she had to give up in fatigue. She hadn't achieved the faintest sense that they were connecting.

  Temples throbbing, she wondered if there was another method than mind-touch. Body, mind, and soul. She caught her breath. Hadn't Simon said to use her enchantress power? Her magic was of the body, not the mind. Since she and Duncan were bonded by their mutual passion, that was how she might reach him.

  Once again she concentrated her power until she shimmered with magic. Then she visualized Duncan, but this time she concentrated on intimate details rather than worldly ones. The way his whiskers prickled under her fingertips, the smile that showed in his eyes when he looked at her even if his expression was serious. The way he could bring her to arousal with a single passionate glance. . . .

  Her heartbeat quickened and she touched her tongue to her lips. Duncan, my love, please come home, I need you most desperately.

  The provocative pressure of his mouth, the musky scent of sex, the damp clinging of their bodies after passion was spent. The explosion of ecstasy when he thrust into her. As the memories intensified, her hips began to pulse. My husband, I will try to be the wife you want me to be, if only you come home.

  Her hands moved over her breasts, caressing before they slid lower with urgent pressure. She kneaded her flesh in a feverish attempt to simulate what she wanted from Duncan. As she visualized their joining, tremors ran through her. She could almost feel that he was here, his mouth ravenous, his fierce desire focused on her. I need you as the earth needs the rain, as a body needs breath. Come home, beloved!

  Ah, God, what could be more sublime than passion shared with one's love? Waves of rapture convulsed her and for an instant she knew that they were joined, in soul if not in body. I love you, mo c?ran, I love you. . . .

  Her shudders faded, leaving her drained, satisfied, and embarrassed by her shamelessness. On some intangible level, she and her husband had made love, and she was sure that he had felt her presence as clearly as she had felt his. This time they had connected as they had not when she had tried the mind-touch.

  If tonight's plea didn't work to bring him home to her�well, she would try again.

  Body and soul.

  �

  Duncan jerked awake as if his flesh were burning. For an instant he had no awareness of where he was; the only certainty was that he'd just had the most extraordinarily passionate dream of his life.

  Or was it a dream?

  Breathing hard, he propped himself up on one elbow and glanced around the rough cave, which was faintly illuminated by the banked coals of his fire. Gwynne was a Guardian with ways of learning things unavailable to mundanes. She had seemed so real that he wouldn't have been surprised to find her lying on the blankets beside him. Dear God, he wished she were here!

  As sweaty and breathless as if they really had just made love, he lay back on the blankets and tried to analyze what had happened. He had had other passionate dreams of his wife�almost nightly, in fact. This had been different. Intensely sensual, but also embodying what seemed like a message.

  Mentally he went over the essence of his dream experience. It had been like mind-touch, but profoundly physical. A summoning of the body. My husband, I will try to be the wife you want me to be, if only you come home. Had Gwynne changed her mind about the rebellion? Or was her call a product of loneliness?

  Surely it was the latter, for he felt the same. He wanted her with a fever that never cooled. He had left Dunrath abruptly because she wouldn't be a wife to him while he supported the rising. But the summoning, if that's what it was, was not the call of a woman who would refuse her husband her bed.

  Dare he answer her call and return to Dunrath? He tried to think of all the objections. A major battle was drawing near, but it was still several days away. Time enough to go home, which wasn't much more than a day's ride.

  Might she be trying to lure him back to be arrested by the Hanoverian authorities? No, she would not betray him like that.

  Might she turn him over to the council? Several councillors waiting at Dunrath would be able to overpower him. But that would be an explosive and dangerous situation with a strong chance of casualties. He couldn't imagine Gwynne condoning that, no matter how much she disapproved of her husband's politics.

  Disapproval was not what she had expressed in the dream. . . .

  Wearily he rolled over. It would be worth taking a risk just to go home and take a proper bath. And if Gwynne welcomed him with open arms, that would justify almost any danger.

  Another, darker thought entered his mind. Though he hadn't been endangered at Falkirk, being in a battle zone could be lethal even for a mage. It was quite possible that he would not survive the upcoming hostilities. If so, a visit to Gwynne might be the last time he would see her.

  Flopping onto his back again, he decided to make his decision when he was less distracted by the aftermath of phantom lovemaking. If that's what it had been . . .

  THIRTY-TWO

  G wynne made the necessary preparations for her plan, then spent two more nights using enchantress power to summon her husband before she gave up. Despite her sense that they were connecting, either she had failed or he was resisting her invitation. Since time was running out, on the third night she simply burrowed into her pillows and ordered her dream mind to come up with another technique while she slept.

  She was jerked awake by the sharp knowledge that she was not alone. Rather crossly she thought that a disadvantage of Guardian life was the way members of the Families sneaked around and scared a person out of her skin. With a snap of her fingers, she lit a candle. Using small magics in daily life was becoming r
outine. �Duncan?�

  The candle flared, illuminating the figure of a massive bearded Highlander by the door. She caught her breath in alarm before she identified her long-absent husband.

  �My lady wife.� He stepped forward into the light as she lit another candle. In the months since Christmas he had produced a dark, auburn-tinted beard that masked his expression. He must have collected his Highland kilt and plaid and brass-hilted weapons during his Christmas visit. He looked barbaric, intimidating�and so compellingly masculine that her breathing roughened.

  He glanced at a lump in the bed. �Have you told your familiar to behave?�

  Lionel oozed out from under the covers, eyeing Duncan with interest but no hostility. Gwynne said, �He's a mild little moggy, as long as he senses no threat.� She stroked the soft fur, mentally saying, Go. The cat vanished soundlessly into the darkness.

  She slid from the bed, very aware that her carefully chosen nightgown clung alluringly. Her nipples tightened from his heated gaze, becoming rudely visible under the thin fabric. The atmosphere was thick with sexual tension and mutual wariness.

  Keeping his distance, he asked, �Dare I hope that you have summoned me because you have come around to my way of thinking?�

  She debated lying, but decided against it. She was a poor liar at best, and she could never fool a mage like Duncan. Which meant that everything she said to him at this critical meeting must be the truth, if not the whole truth.

  �I still believe that Prince Charles Edward should go back where he came from, but I can no longer let that come between us.� Her voice wavered. �I fear for you, Duncan, as I fear for Scotland and England. If . . . the worst happens, I don't want to live with the fact that our last meeting was in anger. I would rather it would be with passion.�

  His dark brows arched. �After the way you condemned me, do you think I can be so easily seduced back to your bed?�

  For an instant she was dismayed. Then she saw the glint of humor in his eyes. �Yes,� she said with a tentative smile. �I do.�

  �You're right.� A pulse throbbed in his throat, but still he didn't move toward her. �But don't think that you can enchant me into a different point of view.�

  She smiled with rueful honesty. �I know better.�

  �Passion is enough for you to be willing to consort with the enemy?�

  �You are my husband, not my enemy.� If he wanted more reasons, she had them. �I want your child, Duncan. If disaster lies ahead, I want something of you to last the rest of my life.� Consciously pouring energy into her enchantress allure, she stepped toward him, her arms raised in supplication.

  His resistance collapsed. �Ah, Gwynne, sweet Gwynne,� he breathed as he tilted her face up. �No man could resist you. I don't even want to try.�

  Kiss and betray. The thought lanced through her mind. She instantly suppressed it, fearing he would catch an off note in her response unless she was totally focused on the passion of their reconciliation.

  In the snow at Christmas they had come together without reservation. Tonight the hunger was even more desperate, but each movement was slower, more tentative. She felt as if they were relearning each other, not quite certain of the response. As she pressed against him, she felt a hard shape jabbing her. Smiling wryly, she said, �Pray remove the dirk and the sword. You're well enough armed without them.�

  He laughed and removed his weapons and belts and plaid, tossing them onto a chair. She stopped him before he could remove more garments. �I've thought that a kilt presented certain wicked possibilities.�

  As she kissed the sensitive skin visible at the throat of his shirt, she slid her hands up his thighs, under his kilt. The hard muscles turned rigid and he groaned at her caress. �A kilt makes a man far too vulnerable,� he said raggedly.

  �Should I stop?� She slipped her hand around to the front of his body and clasped the hot, steely length of him.

  �Don't you dare, my Sassenach witch!� He swept her onto the bed, raising the hem of her nightgown at the same time. He followed her down in a tangle of bare limbs and breathless laughter. As their lower bodies pressed flesh to flesh, he suckled her breast through the thin gown.

  She whimpered, barely able to remember that she had a purpose beyond passion. There was something she should be doing. . . .

  But nothing mattered beyond the exquisite satisfaction of receiving him into her, the frantic dance of thrust and retreat, the scalding heat and slick fluids of fevered intimacy until she shattered into rapture. As she returned to the normal world, she began crying soundlessly.

  Spent, Duncan rolled to his side and kissed the tears on her cheeks. �Why so sad, mo cridhe?� he said softly. �We have just been blessed by the enchantress.�

  �I can't bear to see you go back into danger,� she whispered, throat tight, wondering if she was capable of doing what must be done. �Why can't we always be together like this?�

  �Too many such nights and I'd be dead, though with a smile on my face.� He stroked back her hair. �The world is a complicated place, and love is only one of the great commandments. Duty and honor must have their day, too. I am a loyal Scot as well as a Guardian, and I must do what is best for my country.�

  She sighed and closed her eyes, unable to bear looking into his beloved face. �I like the beard. It feels nice.�

  �And here I thought it made me look savage.�

  �That also.� She burrowed against him. Soon she would do her duty. Until then, she would savor what would be the last happy moments of her marriage. . . .

  �

  Dawn would break soon. Moving carefully so as not to wake Gwynne, Duncan slid toward the edge of the bed. Perhaps his beard didn't make him a savage, but sleeping in his rumpled kilt and shirt was definitely uncivilized.

  He bent to kiss Gwynne's forehead, wondering if they had managed to create a child together. He hoped so, and wondered if he would live to see it.

  Her eyes opened. Seeing him sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached out to catch his arm. �You can't be going already!�

  �I must, mo c?ran. It will be a long ride back.� He cradled her warm breast, reluctant to stop touching her. �But this has been worth it. If . . . something happens, remember me with fondness even if you think I'm a damn fool Scot.�

  �Don't leave yet!� Expression frantic, she reached up and drew him back to bed. With surprising strength, she rolled him onto his back and straddled him. �One last time, Duncan. Please.�

  The heat of her loins and mouth dissolved his resistance. Even if he was half-dead with exhaustion later, he wanted this final mating as much as she did.

  Like the enchantress she was, Gwynne teased him with kiss and caress and warm breath till he could hardly bear it. He was on the verge of pulling her under him when she raised herself on her knees, then slowly sheathed herself on him. �Ahhh . . . ,� she breathed as she began rolling her hips with a motion that stunned his senses.

  Her supple body shimmering with movement, she bent into a kiss, capturing his mouth, then pinning his wrists down in a delicious illusion of captivity. To hell with approaching dawn and the risk of being seen if he left. He gave himself wholly to the wildfire sensations that scorched through him. They were joined in spirit as closely as body, her anguish and her love palpable with every shattering thrust.

  Passion exploded into ravishing release. Gwynne cried out and clasped him with intimate power, over and over until the last flame of desire had burned into ash. He gasped for breath, half dead and not caring. How could he walk away from her? How could he live without the feel of her silken form against his?

  Weeping again, Gwynne pushed herself up, their bodies still joined. �I'm sorry, my love,� she whispered. �So, so sorry.�

  Scalding tears dropped on his cheek as she braced herself above him, her hands still pinning his wrists to the mattress.

  He was about to say something soothing when she released his left wrist. She
tugged at the mattress�and then, with a clanking of cold iron, his sweetly passionate wife clamped a manacle round his wrist.

  THIRTY-THREE

  D uncan's eyes widened with disbelief as he realized what she had done. Then he exploded with rage. �Damn you!�

  Frightened, she snapped a manacle cuff onto his right wrist, then scrambled from the bed. On his left wrist was the cuff of a manacle with the opposite end secured to a bedpost, while his right wrist had a cuff without an attached chain. Would the iron bands on his bare skin be enough to weaken him?

  He lunged toward her, but the anchored manacle brought him to a halt. �You vicious, betraying whore,� he swore, his eyes glittering as he yanked at the chains.

  She could see that he was struggling to use magic, but he couldn't. She exhaled with relief. Though she had seen him weakened after the knife wound inflicted by William Montague, she hadn't been sure whether an iron cuff on each wrist would be enough to block his power. Apparently it was.

  �Now what, you Sassenach bitch?� he snarled, his anger unable to conceal how weak he was. �Will Cumberland be coming by to collect me? Or the Guardian Council? Or Simon?�

  �None of them. I may betray you myself, but I'll not turn you over to your enemies.� Blinking back tears, she quickly changed from her nightgown to a plain morning gown. �I'm going to keep you locked up in the dungeons until after the battle.�

  �You are that sure you are right?� His eyes were the color of sleet.

  �I am.� She held his gaze steadily. �You are blind to the larger consequences of what you intended to do.� She caught her breath as an image formed in her brain. �Dear heaven, if the Jacobites fared badly in the upcoming battle, you were prepared to conjure a tornado to turn the tide!�

  �Aye,� he ground out. �I've been practicing and become quite adept at managing whirlwinds. It would be an easy matter to halt the government forces till the prince and his men escape to fight another day.�

  She shook her head in despair. His earlier interventions might be justified as reducing casualties, but now he was planning to use his power to change the outcome of the whole rebellion. His previous actions might be forgiven, but never that. �Then thank God I have stopped you.�

  �I will kill you if you ever let me go,� he snarled, but under his words she felt his anguish at her betrayal.

  �I have done what I must, and so will you,� she said quietly. �But for now, I will take you to the dungeon before the castle starts stirring. I don't want anyone to learn that you're here and set you free.�

  She flipped the covers back. He still wore his rumpled kilt and shirt, and his plaid would give warmth, but his feet were bare. She reached under the bed and pulled out warm woolen socks and buckled shoes. She had prepared most carefully for his return.