�So on the basis of your opinion, you stopped Duncan from saving his people!�
�He had become more Scot than Guardian, and the price of his partisanship would have been unimaginably high,� Gwynne said quietly. �You yourself have lost your faith in Prince Charles Edward. As a Guardian, can you honestly say that Britain would have been better off with a Stuart restoration?�
Jean hesitated, her eyes going out of focus as she sought the answer inwardly. She returned to the present with anguished eyes. �I wish to God that I could slit my wrists and drain every drop of Guardian blood from my veins.� Spinning on her heel, she left without saying good-bye.
So Jean, having been disillusioned by the prince, now recognized that the Stuart path would have been wrong. The knowledge afforded Gwynne no pleasure.
Sliding one arm under the saddlebags, she made her way down the back steps, stopping in the kitchen for provisions before she went outside to the stables. The castle was quiet in the wake of the visit by the Hanoverian soldiers, and Gwynne also used a don't-look spell so she would not be noticed. She didn't think she could bear talking to anyone else today.
Sheba was full of energy and ready for a ride. After saddling the mare and strapping on the bags, Gwynne walked the horse outside and mounted. She was about to set off when she heard, �Mrrowwrrrr!�
She glanced down to see Lionel crouching in the courtyard by the horse. He had run off after they left the cellars, but now he had found her again. �I'm sorry, I must go, Lionel.� She wiped her eyes, thinking how much she would miss him even though he wasn't her familiar.
�Mrrowp!� He sprang into the air, landing in her lap, then turning to find a comfortable position within her raised, crooked leg.
She'd never thought of it before, but a sidesaddle did provide a rather good resting spot for a feline. She stroked his silky neck. �I'm going on a very long journey and you can't go with me, darling puss.�
She tried to lift him away. His ears went down and his tail started lashing. As their gazes met, she tried to send him an image of a very long ride to a strange place. He snorted and tucked his head down, his tail draping over his nose.
Apparently the scrying glass was not the only thing at Dunrath that was truly hers. With a faint smile at the absurdity, she set Sheba in motion. It would be good to have company on her journey.
She only looked back once, at the crest of the ridge that overlooked the glen. This was where she and Duncan had stopped on her bridal journey. She had been a girl then, her power newly discovered and as exciting as the passion that had triggered it. Though she'd had reservations about how she was to balance Duncan, she had dimly recognized how lucky she was that fate had given her such a husband.
At Dunrath, she had found a home of the spirit in a place of incomparable beauty. It was the life she hadn't even known she wanted until it fell into her hands.
Now she was a woman and a powerful sorceress who had no fear of any possible dangers she might meet on the road. She had upheld her Guardian oath to the best of her abilities, exactly as the council had asked her to do.
Mouth tight, she resumed her journey. There was a saying among the Families that magic always had a price. But she had never dreamed how high that price would be.
�
Duncan slept the clock around, not waking until early the morning after the government troops had visited. Muscles stiff, he got to his feet and brushed straw from his kilt. Deliberately he banked his power, not wanting to know anything that was happening beyond the reach of his normal five senses.
When he left his cell, voices called out, �Good morning to you, Macrae!� and �'Tis good to be home!� and other cheerful greetings.
He waved a reply, trying to look equally cheerful. �You must all stay here another few days for safety's sake, but I'll see that your breakfast is down soon.�
�I'd sell my soul for a bowl of hot porridge,� someone said mournfully.
�Assuming anyone would want a dirty old soul like yours.� The taunts were good-natured. The rebels of Glen Rath were in the exhilarated mood that came when one had escaped certain death. Soon they would be eased back into the life of Glen Rath, and it would be as if they had never left. Duncan envied them.
The kitchen was already busy making breakfast for the rebels, including a great kettle of steaming porridge. He swiped a hunk of bread and climbed to his own bedroom, where he washed up with cold water and changed into fresh, English-style clothing. Now was not a wise time to ride out wearing Highland garb. He tried not to think of his lady wife, who was probably still sleeping the sleep of the virtuous.
He felt aimless today, not sure how to talk to Gwynne. Would she resist leaving? Or would she be delighted at the prospect of returning to her English life? Since divorce was virtually impossible, he supposed that they would each develop discreet liaisons with partners who could never be legal spouses but who would warm their beds at night. He almost retched at the thought.
In the breakfast room, he found tea, toast, and his sister. Jean looked up, then came straight into his arms. He hugged her hard. �Ah, Jeannie, my lass, you've had far too many adventures in the last few months.�
�Enough adventures for a lifetime.� She stepped from his embrace and poured him a cup of tea. As he drank it thirstily, she said, �This morning, I thought about the Friday night gathering where I announced I'd lead our men to the prince. Remember the spell of protection we made together at the end?�
He nodded. That night seemed eons ago.
�I've just realized that everyone who was present that night survived the campaign, and so did the glen.� She drew an unsteady breath. �I only wish that Robbie had been there.�
He offered a silent prayer for the soul of Robbie Mackenzie, who had lived and died with valor. �I'm so sorry you lost him, Jean.�
�He died without losing his faith in the cause. I'm glad he had that, at least.� Jean returned to her tea.
Bracing himself, he asked, �Has Gwynne risen yet?�
His sister glanced up with surprise. �You don't know? She left yesterday. Saddled up Sheba and headed off to England. I don't suppose we'll see her again.� Jean sighed. �I don't know whether I'm glad or sorry. I have trouble forgiving what she did to you and the consequences of that, and yet she did so much good for all of us.�
Shocked, Duncan scanned the castle. No Gwynne. She had really left.
He should have been relieved that he had been spared an ugly scene. With so much anger and recrimination between them, they wouldn't have been able to talk without hurting each other even more. Yet instead of relief, he felt . . . hollow.
�Are you going after her?� Jean asked, her voice neutral.
�No. The marriage is broken beyond mending.� Betrayed beyond forgiveness. And yet . . . �But . . . she left too soon. There are things that must be said between us.�
Jean said nothing, only watched with great wide eyes as if she expected more of him. She didn't know how agonizing it would be for him to confront the wife who had betrayed him. Of course, it was equally painful not to talk to her.
Reluctantly he accepted that he really had no choice. �Very well, I suppose I must go after her. Not to bring her back, but to . . . to ask all the unanswered questions. To make an official ending.�
�That's wise, I think.�
He wondered if his little sister found his words as lame as he did. Probably, but she'd learned tact in the last months, and the beginnings of wisdom.
It was more than he had learned.
�
Gwynne woke when hazy sunshine slanted through the empty doorway of the bothy. Yawning sleepily, she wrapped a plaid around her shoulders and ambled outside. Ethereal mists gave the dramatic hills the look of a magical kingdom. Later the sun would burn off the mist and the morning chill. Springtime in Scotland was glorious with burgeoning life, and it soothed her frayed spirit.
Her first night on th
e road she had stayed at a small inn, but the night before she'd had to settle for this crumbling hut. It offered more the illusion of shelter than real protection from the elements, but it had been good enough.
Two snaps of her fingers were needed to light the kindling under her small tin pot. Candles were easier. As the water heated, Lionel appeared with a still-struggling mouse locked firmly in his jaws. She made a face. �I'd rather you ate that elsewhere.�
Obligingly he withdrew a few feet away. Not so far that she couldn't hear the crunch of little mousy bones, but apart from his eating habits, he was a good companion. She hoped he liked England.
She was toasting a piece of cheese on a stick over the fire when Duncan appeared, quiet as an evening zephyr. Tall and dark and pitiless, he was the Lord of Thunder in full dramatic mode. She gasped and dropped her cheese into the fire. How the devil had he come so close without her hearing or feeling him? Damn Guardian stealth! And damn her heart, for surging with joy at the sight of him.
Shaking, she jumped to her feet and backed away, the toasting stick clenched in her hand. Their marriage was supposed to be over. Why couldn't he leave her alone? She didn't think he looked murderous, but this interview was going to be very, very difficult. If only she didn't still want him. . . .
�Don't bother poking me with that stick,� he said dryly. �You have better weapons.�
He was right. She dropped the stick. �Why are you here?�
�Not to murder you.� He glanced at Lionel, who had abandoned the mouse and now crouched in hunting position, striped tail lashing. �You can call off your familiar.�
�He senses when I am threatened.� She locked her shields in place. The last thing they needed was enchantress magic in a situation that was already far too volatile. �Why are you here?�
�We have . . . unsettled business.�
�I think we've said all that needed saying, and probably a good deal more. I'm sorry for the pain we caused each other, Duncan, but given the people we are, I don't know how it could have been any different.�
�I suppose you're right.� The sadness in his voice was vaster than the sky. He started to say more, then stopped, his eyes narrowing. �Ye gods, you're pregnant!�
She should have known this wasn't a secret she could keep from a mage of his power. �I did want your child, but I'm still amazed at how quickly it happened.� That had been a blessing, since the night she put him in irons would surely be the last time they would ever make love.
A cascade of emotions showed in Duncan's face. Shock, joy, concern, then determination. �He shall have to be raised at Dunrath.�
She had known he would say that. It was one of many reasons for leaving Dunrath. �Impossible. I will raise my own child. He is your heir and he must certainly spend time with you in Scotland, but until he's well grown, he is mine.�
Duncan's mouth thinned to a hard line. �If you want him all to yourself, all you need do is turn me over to the government as a Jacobite.�
�I went to considerable effort to save you from both the government and the council,� she snapped. �I'm not about to betray you now.�
�You can't possibly betray me worse than you already have,� he said softly.
His words stabbed more painfully than a dagger. �You put me in the position of having to betray either you or my sworn oath.� She sighed, �You should have chosen a more malleable wife.�
�I don't think I chose you at all. Fate and the council threw us together. Now that your task has been accomplished, you are running away to your pale, safe Sassenach life.� He tossed another branch on the fire. It exploded into sparks.
�Considering that you were threatening murder, it seemed wise to leave Dunrath,� she said, trying to match his dry tone.
�Did you believe I would really do that?�
�No,� she admitted. �But the fact that you could say such a thing was a measure of your fury.� She unconsciously placed a hand on her belly, where there was a faint glow of extra energy. �I would have informed you when the child was born. That would have been soon enough. Why the devil did you follow me, Duncan? Isn't this difficult enough already?�
�As I said, there is unfinished business between us, Gwyneth Owens.� His eyes were the color of pale winter ice. �Have you reached any conclusions about why a Stuart victory would be so devastating that you chose to betray your own husband? Or could it be that there were no reasons, and you were merely arrogant in your ignorance?�
�No,� she said, aching. �I feel with every particle of my being that I am right, but I have never been able to get beyond a wall of fear and pain that blocks me from seeing more.�
�There is a way that might give you the answer.�
Not liking his expression, she asked, �What?�
�If we mate with our shields down, we might be able to reach a deeper level of knowledge. If the bond still exists between us�if we can trust each other, even if only for an hour�we might find a deeper understanding than either of us can reach alone.�
�No!� She backed up until she ran into the wall of the bothy. �Dear heaven, Duncan, haven't we hurt each other enough?�
He stepped around the fire and halted within arm's length of her. �You hate my touch that much?�
�I have never hated your touch, blast you! But I fear what intimacy with you will do to my heart.�
�And here I've wondered if you even have a heart within that wickedly provocative body.� He cupped her cheek with surprising gentleness. �Don't you want to know the reason why you destroyed our marriage? I'm curious. More than curious.�
She began to weep silently, wishing that he had stayed away, wishing that he had come to forgive her and take her home to Dunrath. Anything but this cool, exquisitely painful dissection of what had separated them.
His lips brushed the tears on her cheeks. �A truce, Gwyneth Owens. And perhaps from that . . . who knows?� His mouth came down on hers, light and controlled.
All the reasons why she should keep her distance vanished as longing blazed through her. She wanted his hard, passionate body, his wry humor, his tenderness, the strength that could be both courage and stubbornness. Most of all, she wanted the heart-deep closeness that had once bound them, even if it was only for a handful of moments.
�Ah, God, Gwynne . . . ,� he breathed as she kissed him with fierce urgency. Their arms locked around each other as if passion was their last hope of heaven. In a tangle of limbs, they stumbled into the bothy and sprawled onto her blankets, tearing at the garments that separated them.
She writhed against him, desperate to come together one last time, while bitterly aware that if he wanted to punish her, he had found the perfect way. How could she bear to never know his touch again? He was a drug in her blood, a need great as water and air.
They had mated with every shade of tenderness and scarlet passion, but nothing had ever matched the blaze of power that scalded through them when he entered her. She cried out as his spirit penetrated hers as stunningly as his body.
In the white heat of desire, she barely remembered that he said they must come together with shields down if they were to find a deeper truth. The thought terrified her, but she owed him this. Layer by layer, in instants that seemed like hours, she stripped away the barriers that had protected her secrets, her fears, her deep ambivalence about her marriage.
The process took so much of her splintered concentration that only when she was finished did she realize that his formidable defenses were also gone, and lowering them had been as hard for him as for her. Their naked, vulnerable spirits flowed together, and in that ultimate intimacy she gained visceral understanding of how profoundly her betrayal had wounded him. He had always dared more than she. He had risked love while she had hung back, accepting his love but afraid to admit to her own because of the hazards that surrounded him. He had given her all a man could give a woman�and she had used it against him.
Whether her reasons were
good was irrelevant. She had committed a crime against love, and only love might heal the damage she had inflicted. She poured herself into him�her love, her admiration, her apologies and deep, deep regrets. Forgive me, beloved, forgive me.
�Ah, Gwynne, my heart . . . ,� he whispered. Though he had known he must expose himself as thoroughly as she to find the answers he sought, he had foolishly not anticipated what that meant. In this place of no barriers, only essence, his anger crumbled in the fountain of her anguished, sorrowing love.
It was he who must apologize for putting her in an impossible position. Though he had loved her as much for the pure strength of her spirit as for her stunning sensuality, he hadn't wanted to accept the consequences of her integrity. �I'm sorry, mo c?ran,� he said, barely able to say the words before passion swamped his mind. �I was wrong. . . .�
Lightning crashed through the sky as they culminated together, and in that searing flash of earthly and magical energy, the shape and form of Gwynne's nightmares became shockingly clear. He almost blacked out from the combined intensity of passion, fulfillment, and the horror of the future that he might have created with his headstrong acts. He looked into the abyss, and found himself.
As aftershocks tingled through him, he rolled to his side and crushed her close, needing the sweet solace of her body to anchor him. She was shaking, yet strong in ways no mere male could ever match. �You . . . you saw that?� he asked raggedly.
�God help me, I did.� She drew a shuddering breath. �A Jacobite victory would have been followed within five years by the new king's attempt to convert the nation to Catholicism, by the sword if necessary. It would have become the worst religious war in Britain's history�worse than Bloody Mary's burnings or the rampages of the Puritans.�
He nodded as her words crystallized his understanding. �When the people resisted, King James would have invited French and Spanish and Irish troops into Britain to force conversions. The attempt to return Britain to the Roman Church would have failed, but the price would have been monstrous. Beyond belief.�
Her eyes squeezed shut as if that would stop the images. �When I dreamed of rivers of blood, it wasn't a metaphor, but a prediction. Merciful heaven, Duncan, did you see what would have happened in London . . . ?�
�Hush, my love.� He stroked her silky hair, awed by the power and compassion beneath those shining red gold tresses. �I saw it all.� And those images would appear in his nightmares until the day he died. �Those horrors would have come true if not for you, Gwyneth Owens. You are a heroine.�
�If I am a heroine, I am also a fool.� She stared at him with dazed eyes. �I should have realized what the ultimate danger would be. The potential for religious conflict was always present. I am a scholar, I know history. Yet I couldn't see it. If I had realized sooner��
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