"And the virtues, too. His courage and charisma will rally men to his cause." He wondered if an Englishwoman, no matter how learned, could understand the depth of Charles's appeal. Scotland's ancient tradition of freedom and independence had been betrayed by the nation's own leaders, and the Young Pretender represented a way out. "The Acts of Union were an abomination that all true Scots hate, and the English have done little to make them more palatable in the years since they were signed."

"You said the union will make Scotland wealthier in time. Isn't it worth putting up with some irritations in order to ease the kind of poverty we saw on our ride north?"

"Perhaps." He rubbed his temples wearily. "But sometimes I wonder if prosperity will come at too high a price. A nation's belly matters, but so does its soul."

"The fact that the prince knows how to woo a Scottish mind doesn't make him fit to rule," she said tartly. "As you said, the Stuarts had their chance, and most of them did badly. A man doesn't deserve to become king simply because he's better looking and and better dressed than his rival."

"The prince's personal attractions are undeniably an a.s.set. He looks royal. George II looks like a critical, mean-spirited shopkeeper."

Gwynne didn't try to deny it. "Nonetheless, war is not the answer. That's a basic Guardian principle. Defending oneself is a man or woman's right. Killing people who disagree with you is not."

"A pity more people don't accept that," he said dryly. "It would make the work of the Guardians easier. The last battle of the Fifteen was at Sherrifmuir. Afterward a song was sung that said, 'There's some say that we won. Some say that they won. And some say that nane won at a'.'"

"Isn't that true for most wars?"

"That battle might have seemed as if it had no winner, but the rising itself failed. This time could be different."

She frowned. "It's hard to imagine how the Jacobites can win with few weapons, no real army, and no foreign support."

"The matter is balanced on a knife's edge. A few victories and men will flock to the prince. Though the French did not support this adventure, they could easily change their minds if Charles shows signs of success. France came within a hair's breadth of mounting an invasion just last year, and they will be quick to try again if the Hanoverian government is sufficiently weakened."

Gwynne c.o.c.ked her head. "I heard that last year's invasion threat ended when a storm struck the French fleet at Dunkirk. Did you do that?"

He thought back to the night when he had stood on a French headland and conjured up a mighty tempest. It was not the equal of Adam Macrae's great gale, but it had sufficed. And on that occasion, there had been no question in his mind what was right. "The Macrae weather mages have a long tradition of keeping invaders from Britain's sh.o.r.es. It's the advantage of our island being protected by the sea. One good storm can scatter a whole invasion force."

"Surely you can do that again if the French decide to send troops in support of the Jacobites."

"Aye, I can." He sighed. "If that's the right thing to do."

"Do you truly doubt it?" Gwynne said quietly. "The Guardian Council, even the Scottish members, have feared the prospect of another Jacobite rebellion for years. Now it is here, and there will be terrible bloodshed."

"That will be true no matter what the outcome. Have you considered the possibility that a Jacobite victory will spill less blood and that a restored House of Stuart might be better for Britain than the Hanoverians?" He spoke the words hesitantly, because until tonight he had not considered that possibility himself. Now it would not leave his mind. "James II was a fool, but James I and Charles II ruled long and well. Perhaps Charles Edward has the same gifts of leadership."

To her credit, Gwynne considered his words rather than rejecting them instantly. "It's possible that a Jacobite victory would benefit Britain, yet my instincts say no."

With deep disquiet, he recognized that a breach could easily separate them over this issue. Not only was she English, but she had been raised in the heart of the Guardian establishment. The world did not always look the same out here on the wild edges of Britain. "Enough of politics." Shaking off his grim mood, he sat down at his desk. "I have something for you."

"Something indecent, I hope?" she said with forced brightness. He guessed that she found disagreement on this subject as upsetting as he did.

"That can be arranged later." He traced a swift pattern in the air with his fingertip, the glowing lines fading an instant later. Then he twisted a piece of decorative carving and his secret drawer slid open. The contents included a small, lacquered box. He handed her the box, wondering if she was adept enough to open it. "Now that you are Mistress of Dunrath, this is yours."

She frowned when the box wouldn't open, then realized that it was sealed by magic, as the drawer had been. She took a deep breath, her eyes slipping out of focus for a moment, and the lid of the box popped up.

"Well done!" he said. Her progress was remarkable.

"Isabel de Cortes's ring," she breathed as she lifted the gold circlet reverently from its velvet nest. A brilliant ruby was set in the heart of a gold Tudor rose, the emblem of Queen Elizabeth's house. The ring was a feminine version of the one Duncan wore. She slid it onto her third finger, next to her simple gold wedding band. "It fits perfectly!" she said with surprise.

"They always do." He held up his left hand so that the sapphire of his ring glowed in the candlelight. " Both rings were enchanted by John Dee at the queen's request. Not only were they a reward for the destruction of the Armada. They are also a kind of connection to the rulers of England."

"That I didn't know. The great queen was shrewd." She spread her fingers and smiled at the ring with delight. "I can feel the energies of the women who have worn this. It's like . . . layers on an onion. The most recent would have been your mother?"

"Aye. Her energy was soft. Very different from Isabel's." His mother had been gentle-and as formidable as a storm at sea.

"The ring has belonged to six women before me?"

He counted the owners down from Isabel. "Only five."

"There is a sixth." Gwynne's eyes narrowed. "Queen Elizabeth herself wore this for several days before sending it to Isabel. She must have wanted to strengthen the connection to the royal house."

Duncan glanced at his ring, and wondered how he would have reacted to Prince Charles if he hadn't been wearing it. Might he have been more inclined to the prince's arguments? Better not to find out.

Yawning, Gwynne rose from her chair. Shadows of weariness darkened her eyes. "I'm so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. Do you think anyone will notice if I don't return to the ceilidh? Your people seem quite capable of entertaining themselves."

"Go and rest. If anyone notices, they'll understand." He smiled a little. "Since you're a dazzling enchantress, they'll forgive you anything."

She laughed. "I wonder if I'll ever be able to believe such a thing. It still seems like a joke that my mere presence can affect men so strongly."

"Never think it a joke." He studied his wife, who was tired, rumpled, and utterly irresistible. What would he do if she ever returned another man's interest? The thought was so horrifying that he couldn't bear to imagine it. Lightly he kissed her on the forehead. "I'll join you later."

She trailed fingers along the sensitive inside of his wrist, leaving fire in their wake, before she withdrew. He was tempted to follow her to her bedchamber and dissolve the tension between them with pa.s.sion. Instead he returned to the window, gazing sightlessly over the moon-touched hills. Scotland was in his bones, and he hadn't fully recognized how much he missed it until he was home again.

To be a Guardian was to swear to support what was good for the largest number of people. Yet what if the best path wasn't clear? Might his love for his native land distort his judgment so that he would support the wrong outcome? He shuddered at the thought. Partisanship was ant.i.thetical to the principles that had been drilled into him since he was an infant.

Yet what if the Stuarts were the best rulers for Britain? The Hanoverians were Protestant but pigheaded, and the Crown Prince, Frederick, was weak, extravagant, and deceitful. His own parents called him "the Nauseous Beast." By comparison, Charles Edward Stuart was a model of strength and virtue. Just as Duncan should not choose to support Charles only because of their shared Scottish blood, he should not blindly support the House of Hanover as the council was doing.

With great power came responsibility-and he had a disturbing premonition that the fate of this uprising might end up on his shoulders. Weather was very important in military campaigns. It would be easy to change the outcome of a battle. . . .

Another Guardian principle was, never interfere unnecessarily. Partly this was because meddling with the free will of a person or nation was inherently wrong, and partly it was because excessive interference increased the risk of the Guardians being identified as a dangerous minority.

The Families had survived as long as they had because of their discretion, supported by spells that kept their children from casually revealing power to mundanes. When necessary, spells of forgetting were laid on mundanes who saw things that might make them suspicious. Even such small enchantments were discouraged unless absolutely necessary.

Duncan prayed that the rising would play itself out without his needing to pick a side. If he was forced to choose, he couldn't guarantee he would make the right choice.

It was well past midnight when Duncan retired. Most people had gone home under the light of a waxing moon. Others snored quietly in corners of the hall, and one last happy quartet was singing, badly, around a keg of ale. It had been a jolly good party.

Because of the late hour he considered going to his own bedchamber, but he and Gwynne had slept together every night since their marriage. He needed to be with her.

Her room was pitch-dark, so he touched the wick of a candle into soft light. His heart tightened unbearably as he studied her soft sleeping features. Did other men feel this same anguished need whenever they looked at her, or was it worse for him because they were wedded and bedded? If all men found her so enchanting, no wonder young William had felt compelled to abduct her.

He stripped off his garments and slid into the bed beside her. He had intended only sleep, but when she instinctively shifted toward him, his resolve faltered. She was tired and deserved her rest, and yet . . .

He rested his hand on her breast. Under the muslin of her nightdress, it was soft and perfectly rounded. Slowly he moved his thumb, stroking the nub until it hardened. She made a purring sound and moved closer yet.

A gentleman wouldn't wake a sleeping lady to demand intimacy, but if she awoke with pleasure she could decide for herself. Her pulse was slow as the beat of a seabird's wing, until he licked the silky skin of her throat and the tempo quickened.

She was all sensuality as she molded herself against him, her hand exploring with sleepy finesse. Unsure if she was waking or sleeping, he continued a gentle lovemaking, each advance on his part met by a response on hers.

"You are mine, mo caran," he whispered. "Now and forever, only mine."

Perhaps she agreed, because she drew him to her with welcoming arms. Restraint exploded into frantic need and he buried himself in the lush haven of her body. She responded with the pa.s.sion that could bring a man to his knees. This was the essence of enchantment-a woman who could supply pleasure and fulfillment so intoxicating that it was impossible to imagine life without her.

They were joined by fate. Surely mere politics could not separate them. . . .

TWENTY.

T he next morning Gwynne behaved as a dutiful bride and gravely inspected the inner workings of the household with Maggie Macrae as her guide. After a thorough tour of the kitchens, laundry, dairy, brew house, and other functions, she said frankly, "Mistress Maggie, Dunrath ticks like a fine clock in your capable hands. I truly hope you will continue to manage the household. I need to know what is going on and important decisions should be discussed, but I'll be happiest if I have time every day for my own work."

Maggie said with equal frankness, "It's glad I'll be to continue as I have before. What is your work?"

"I'm a scholar. I read, I take notes, I make translations, sometimes I write." Gwynne smiled disarmingly. "The results are of interest only to other scholars, but it matters to me. When Duncan proposed, he said that Dunrath has a fine library. I look forward to seeing it."

The older woman grinned. "And you're perishing to go there now that you've done your duty. Be off with you, Mistress. I think we shall deal well together."

Gwynne needed no further permission. She had woken that morning knowing that her honeymoon was over. The magical interlude of travel had given way to the reality of daily life. Now it was time to lay the foundation for the rest of her life, and she saw no reason to take on any more domestic work than was absolutely necessary.

She hadn't seen Duncan since they breakfasted. He had gone off with Jean and Auld Donald to ride through the glen and see how the land and people were faring. She would see none of them till the day was done, she suspected. His att.i.tude this morning had been brisk, and she had been unsure if it was because his thoughts were on the day ahead or if he was withdrawn because of the political tensions between them the evening before. She wasn't too worried, though. Any man who came to bed as pa.s.sionately as Duncan wasn't withdrawing very far.

She was beginning to appreciate the mixed blessing of enchantress power. It would be very easy to use it to manipulate others, which would be wrong in all kinds of ways, both human and Guardian. Yet- very easy. Fortunately Duncan was not the sort to be manipulated.

Now to find if he had exaggerated the size of the Dunrath library. She entered and took stock of the contents. The room faced south so the light was excellent, always an advantage when reading old texts, and lush Persian carpets softened the floor. A long table, a desk, and half a dozen straight chairs were scattered about, while a pair of wing chairs and ottomans sat cozily by the fireplace.

But when she scanned the book t.i.tles, she was dismayed to find no arcane texts at all. Though it was a very fine gentleman's library, there was no Guardian lore.

There had to be more. Perhaps there was a second room housing the secret texts, as was the case at Harlowe?

Frowning, she scanned the library with her inner eye and immediately discovered a door in the corner. It was shaped and painted to fit into the molded wall panels. More important, it was bespelled so that a mundane eye would pa.s.s over it unseeing.

She moved a chair that partially blocked access and placed her hand on the flat k.n.o.b. As soon as she touched it, she recognized that another spell was involved. Frowning, she felt her way through the spell as if walking a garden maze. Ah, it was a repulsion spell. Even if a mundane with a touch of wild magic happened to notice the faint outlines of the door, he would be uninterested in learning more.

Feeling vastly pleased with her ability to navigate the library's defenses, she opened the door and found a second, smaller room furnished in a similar fashion to the main library. But where was it in terms of the castle layout? It was strange to have s.p.a.ce to hide a whole room.

Heavens, there was another spell! A very clever one that made people incurious about how the s.p.a.ce was arranged. No one would notice that a room-size area was unaccounted for unless they took careful measurements of the whole floor. She hadn't noticed herself, until she had penetrated the arcane library's magical barriers.

This time when she crossed the room to the bookshelves, she recognized texts that could be found in any Guardian library. There was plenty of s.p.a.ce for new bookcases, too. Duncan had said she was free to expand the collection. If she were a cat, she'd be licking her chops.

Many of the volumes were deliciously unfamiliar. Much Guardian lore was in journals and workbooks since the information could not be distributed publicly and printing was too expensive when only a handful of copies were needed. Wondering if the library contained any information on enchantresses, she decided to try a technique her father had used.

Concentrating hard on the desired subject, she moved her open hand along the nearest bookshelf, her palm a few inches from the spines of the books. Nothing. The next shelf. Again, nothing.

Unsure whether she was doing this wrong or if there simply wasn't any material on enchantresses, she tried the bottom shelf. Halfway along, she felt warmth emanating from a slim volume. She pulled it from the shelf and found that it was a treatise on powers most often found in females. A quick scan suggested that there was little on enchantresses, but she set the book on the table for closer study.

She returned to her search, and struck gold when one narrow, faded volume almost scorched her palm. The book was the journal of a French enchantress of the previous century. This was exactly what Gwynne had hoped for. It was written in a French regional dialect, but she could understand it reasonably well.

Book in hand, she headed toward one of the chairs by the fireplace-then stopped in her tracks when she saw the portrait hanging over the mantel. It was an oil painting of Isabel and Adam Macrae. Though Gwynne had once seen an engraving of the couple, that had been pale and lifeless in comparison.

She stepped forward to study the portrait more closely. Isabel de Cortes had been her heroine when she was a girl. She still was.

To a half-Guardian child with no power, Isabel had been a shining example of what a woman could be. Gifted with wild magic, she had no Guardians in her ancestry and she'd been raised by a mundane family that loved but didn't understand her. A student of John Dee, Queen Elizabeth's own sorcerer, she had become a great mage through her fierce determination and discipline. Gwynne had thought it was ironic that she was Isabel's opposite: raised with every Guardian advantage, but no innate ability.

In the painting, the couple were in their middle years and Adam's dark hair had silvered at the temples. Beside him an open window revealed a turbulent Scottish sky as a symbol of his weather mastery. Underneath his Elizabethan beard, his features were very like Duncan's. The Macraes bred true. His hand rested on the head of a tall dog that resembled dogs that lived in the castle now, so it wasn't only the humans that pa.s.sed down their resemblance.

But it was Isabel who drew most of Gwynne's attention. She was no beauty. Her dark face was too narrow and exotically un-English, her features too angular. Yet the intelligence and humor in her gaze were vividly compelling. On her lap was a large tabby cat, and in her right hand she held the famous obsidian scrying gla.s.s.

Last night Gwynne had sensed Isabel's energy on the ruby ring, and today she saw Isabel's face. The combination brought her heroine alive as never before.

Curious what else she might have missed when she made her beeline for the books, she examined the room more carefully. A cl.u.s.ter of miniatures hung on the wall behind the wide desk. She could identify none of the people portrayed, though the men were clearly all Macraes.

Clothing style allowed her to guess which woman was probably Duncan and Jean's mother. She had a lovely, enigmatic smile. The late Lady of Dunrath, who had died about six years earlier, had been a Macleod from the Isle of Skye. In fact, she had been the sister of council member Sir Ian Macleod. They had the same misty gray eyes.

Next Gwynne investigated a gla.s.s curio case full of interesting objects from around the world. The dragon figurine was surely Chinese, and there was a mask from somewhere in Asia that she could only guess at. The Dutch East Indies, perhaps. There was also a silver box that looked like a turreted tower, perhaps from Spain or Italy. Other objects were less identifiable, but all possessed a faint glow of magical power.

She knelt to look at the lower shelves, and caught her breath when she saw what was surely Isabel's scrying gla.s.s. Duncan had said it was among the treasures of Dunrath even though the obsidian lens had gone blank after Isabel's death. It sat quietly on top of a small padded velvet drawstring bag, the smoky stone giving no hint of its significance.

Surely no one would mind if the new mistress touched it. Reverently Gwynne opened the gla.s.s door, hoping that she would feel Isabel's energy more strongly than in the ring, where it had been overlaid with other energies.

She lifted the scrying gla.s.s from the cabinet, the translucent stone cool against her palm-and was blasted by a wave of energy that knocked her onto her backside.

Her heart was pounding and she must have blacked out for a moment, but as she retrieved her scattered wits she found that she still held the scrying gla.s.s. Glad for the thickness of the carpet, she got to her feet and sat in one of the wing chairs. Isabel's vibrant energy had been deeply imprinted in the obsidian, along with a background chord of powerful masculinity.

Gwynne glanced at the portrait, knowing that the male energy was from Adam Macrae. Strange how the force and individuality of their personalities lived on so many years after their bodies had been laid to rest in the cool green Scottish soil. It was said that they had died within an hour of each other. Gwynne felt a tightness in her throat, and wasn't sure if it was grief for the fact that Isabel and Adam were no more, or regret that her marriage to Duncan was not rooted in such powerful love. Perhaps in time they would develop that-if the Jacobite rebellion didn't tear them apart.

Her eyes a little misty, she looked down at the scrying gla.s.s-and found that the long-dormant obsidian had come alive.

TWENTY-ONE.

I t was late afternoon when Duncan returned to the castle, having called on as many of the glen homesteads as possible. The familiar hills and faces had soothed his tension of the evening before. He was home, where he belonged.

He was unsurprised to learn that his bride had disappeared into the library hours earlier. Guessing that she might be hungry, he ordered a tray with hot tea and shortbread and took it upstairs. She had managed to find and enter the private library. Mentally he was already beginning to think of her as a fully trained mage. He must be careful of that. Remarkable though her progress was, she was still a neophyte in many ways.

"Gwynne?" Balancing the tray on one hand, he opened the door to the inner library. "You must be starving."

She sat at the long table, books scattered about and a tablet full of notes under her right hand. At his entrance she looked up, blinking as if not quite sure where she was. "You were right, this is a fine library, and I look forward to making it finer yet."