He glanced at the books on the table. "What are you researching?"

"Enchantresses. I found a journal by a French woman who had the gift, but she doesn't talk much about how she experienced it." Gwynne made a face. "I think she enjoyed her power a bit too much."

"One can see that would be a temptation." He set the tray down and leaned over for a firm kiss. Her lips were cool, probably a sign of hunger. He poured two steaming cups of tea and placed one beside her, then lifted a knee rug from the back of a wing chair and draped it around her shoulders. "Drink," he ordered as he sat down on the opposite side of the table and helped himself to shortbread.

"Yes, my lord," she said with suspicious meekness.

He recognized the velvet bag sitting on the table near her tablet. "I see you found Isabel de Cortes's scrying gla.s.s."

She nodded. "I did. And . . . and it works for me."

"Really!" He leaned forward. "How remarkable. Almost as if the gla.s.s has been waiting here for you. "

"I think it was," Gwynne said soberly. She touched the velvet bag. "I a.s.sume no one will mind if I take possession of this."

"Of course not. The fact that the gla.s.s speaks to you says that it's yours." He eyed her thoughtfully. " Scrying and use of the talking spheres are closely related abilities. You may end up on the council."

She looked startled. "I will never have that kind of power!"

"It appears to me that you already have. Now drink your tea and have some shortbread before you faint from hunger. Then you can tell me what you've seen."

After washing down two pieces of shortbread with the tea, she slid the scrying stone from the velvet bag. Her gaze searched the depths, as if not quite believing that it was truly hers. "I saw the Jacobite forces enter Edinburgh, and take the city without a drop of blood being shed."

He caught his breath. "That happened today? If so, Charles made good speed between here and Edinburgh."

"Not today. I think the city will be taken two days from now. But it's quite clear and definite-looking -a sure event, not a mere possibility. Prince Charles will ride into the city at midday wearing Highland dress. Red breeches and a green velvet bonnet with the white Jacobite c.o.c.kade."

"You can really see that kind of detail?" he asked, amazed.

"It's the stone." Her fingers tightened around it. "It holds immense power and the images are very clear. The prince will have his father proclaimed James III, King of Scotland, England, France, and Ireland."

"It's time England gave up pretending it has authority over France." Duncan said dryly. "What else did you see?"

"He'll declare that the Acts of Union are annulled."

Duncan was unable to suppress a flare of pleasure at the news. "That will certainly win him more support. Can you see the outcome of the rising?"

"That was one of the first things I looked for. As the council says, the result has not yet been decided." She grimaced. "Only blood and death were certain. The first battle will be fought very soon- within the next week, I think."

"Can you see how that will turn out?"

She returned the stone to its bag. "The Jacobites will win in a matter of minutes."

He felt a rush of pleasure at the news. The sun broke through the afternoon clouds and light poured into the library, taking off the autumn chill. "An easy victory will have men and foreign support flocking to his standard."

"It's not an easy victory for the hundreds of men who will be killed or wounded or captured," she snapped. "Most will be government troops, but their lives matter. A good number will even be Scots."

"I regret that, of course, but if there is going to be a battle, a quick victory will mean fewer casualties on both sides."

Gwynne's eyes narrowed. "You look far too pleased with the news of Jacobite successes. You are supposed to support the cause of humanity, not take sides as if this war is a horse race."

His mouth tightened. "I've not interfered unlawfully, nor do I intend to, but surely I have a right to my private emotions."

"You do not!" she exclaimed. "You are a mage and your emotions change the world. When you exulted over the Jacobite victory, the sun came out. If I'd said the prince did badly, thunder would have rocked the glen. You must control yourself, Duncan. Unbridled power flaring around this rebellion is too dangerous. You know the Family rules. We cannot allow ourselves to behave as irrationally as mundanes."

He flushed, knowing there was truth to her words but resenting her reprimand. "Do not give me lessons on the control of power, my lady. I have been a mage these last two decades, while a month ago you were powerless as an infant."

"Because power is new to me, I haven't had the chance to become complacent or arrogant." Her voice could have chipped ice, yet her anger was paradoxically alluring. With her red gold hair tied back simply and her eyes flashing, she was so desirable that he clenched his hands to keep from touching her.

"If you're not arrogant, it's only because you haven't had power long enough to start misusing it," he retorted. "Soon you'll be manipulating every man in sight! You're d.a.m.nably close to that now. Stop using your s.e.xual magic to try to influence me!"

"I am not using power on you!" she sputtered. "The fact that you're always randy doesn't mean that I'm trying to enchant you."

He jumped to his feet and leaned forward, hands braced on the table. "At least I'm aware of what I'm doing! Don't pretend that you don't know the effect of your power!"

As she drew back instinctively, anger and desire flared into a scarlet energy that swirled through the room. Above the castle, thunder crashed with window-rattling force. Horrified, he recognized how far out of control they were.

Rounding the table, he caught her in his arms, desperate to end their conflict. "Gwynne, mo caran, we mustn't let this happen!"

After an instant's resistance, she hugged him back, hard, as if trying to melt into his body. She was shaking, on the verge of tears.

He spun his anger into one of the Celtic knot patterns that helped dissipate unbalanced emotions. Aching with tenderness, he whispered, "We're tearing each other apart, mo cridhe. We must never let this happen again."

Raising her head, she kissed him with devouring need. The raging forces they had released flared into frantic physical pa.s.sion. As her fingers clawed into his back, he lifted her onto the edge of the table and stepped between her legs, raising her skirts so they foamed around his thighs. He was her Lord of Storms, the irresistible force whose power could sweep her mind from her body.

She gasped when his deft fingers touched her intimately, and waves of sensation dizzied her. No matter how their minds disagreed, their bodies were in perfect accord. As soon as he released himself from his breeches, she guided him into her, thrusting against him. They both cried out as they came together with fierce urgency.

Their mating was swift and violent, but it trans.m.u.ted anger into a searing harmony that left them both drained and panting for breath. As she clung to him, shaking, he repeated in a strained whisper, "We must not fight like this again, Gwynne. It frightens me how my control vanishes where you are concerned. "

She nodded, her face buried against his shoulder. "This is the dark side of power, isn't it? When we fight, we risk damaging more than each other. Perhaps we should avoid discussing the rebellion until it is ended."

"That would be impossible, but we must not allow ourselves to become so partisan that we lose our detachment." He stepped away, leaving her bereft. "Try to believe that I know my duty, Gwynne. If the circ.u.mstances are right I might intervene to save lives, but I won't try to change the course of the rising."

"Fair enough." She stepped down to the floor and poured two more cups of cooling tea with a hand that was still unsteady. When had he started calling the rebellion the "rising," as the Jacobites did? Telling herself that that subtle shift in language didn't mean he had turned rebel, she offered a tentative smile. "I was impressed at how well you faced down the prince. He is very compelling."

"Worse, he may be right." Duncan sat and stretched out his long legs as he sipped wearily at his tea. "I've pondered this all day, and I believe there is a strong possibility that a Stuart restoration might benefit all of Britain. Lord knows the Hanoverians seem to have no great love of our island. The Prince of Wales is sly, weak, and deceitful. If he becomes king, he could be a disaster far worse than Prince Charles Edward."

"Perhaps, but a Stuart on the throne feels . . . alarming to me. If only the scrying gla.s.s could tell me more!" she said with frustration.

"We must be patient. Events will reveal themselves in time."

The caution was simple to say. Almost impossible to live by.

Tired by the emotional demands of the day, Gwynne retreated to her room for a late-afternoon nap. Discovering Isabel's scrying gla.s.s had been all the excitement she needed her first full day at Dunrath. She could have done without the raging fight and reconciliation with Duncan, though she supposed the argument was inevitable and had done much to clear the air. On the positive side, if all arguments with her husband ended in such spectacular pa.s.sion, at least there were compensations. . . .

She dozed off with a smile on her face, and woke at a knock on her door and Jean calling, " Gwynne, may I come in?"

Gwynne sat up and yawned as she pushed the coverlet aside. "Please do."

Jean entered, face rosy with fresh air and happiness. Today she wore a proper green riding habit that complemented her bright hair and fair complexion. "I've been riding with Robbie. He has to return to the army tomorrow, but he can stay here tonight."

"Good. I'd like to get to know him better." Gwynne's gaze was caught by a lithe creature that followed on Jean's heels. The beast leaped on the bed a mere yard from Gwynne and regarded her with baleful green eyes. Sleek and striped, it was definitely feline, but like no cat she had ever seen.

Evaluation finished, the cat b.u.t.ted her ribs in a blatant bid for attention. She automatically scratched behind the tufted ears. "Is this a typical Scottish cat? He's enormous!"

"Lionel seems taken with you." Jean perched in the chair by the dressing table. "His papa was a wildcat, which explains the size and arrogance. He comes and goes as he pleases, but until now, he hasn't shown much interest in people."

"A wildcat? I've never seen one. Not even a half wildcat. What a very bushy tail you have, Lionel." Gwynne stroked down his back. He began to purr, his claws kneading her thigh.

Jean grinned. "I think you have a pet. Crossbreeds have a reputation for attaching themselves to one person. Isabel de Cortes had one."

"Ouch! Impressive claws." Gwynne removed his paws from her leg. Now that Jean mentioned it, Lionel did resemble Isabel's cat in the library portrait. "How does one detach from an overenthusiastic wildcat?"

"One doesn't. If you were a witch, Lionel would be considered your familiar."

"Guardians don't have familiars."

Lionel reached out a paw and curved his claws into her skirt as if to say, "Mine." Gwynne began to laugh. "I had to leave my sweet old tabby behind. I planned to find another, but I didn't expect a brute like this to adopt me."

"You belong here, Gwynne. Lionel is just another sign of that. But the reason I stopped by was to tell you about our traditional Dunrath Friday night dinner. Has anyone mentioned that to you?"

Gwynne glanced out the window at the setting sun. "No, and since it's Friday and almost dinnertime, I'd better learn."

"Family, staff, and a rotating group of crofters dine together in the great hall," Jean explained. " There's a bit of ritual led by the mistress of the household. I've been doing it, but after tonight it will be your responsibility."

So much for Gwynne's vague idea of having a quiet supper in her room after the full day. "Very well, I shall watch closely."

"When I first saw you, I thought you would be a terrifying London lady," Jean said shyly. "I'm so glad you're not."

"No wonder you looked horrified when we met. The most London thing about me is my wardrobe, Jean. I'm used to a quiet life with books and horses." A heavy paw batted her thigh. "And cats." She frowned at Lionel, who looked remarkably possessive. "Do you think he understands English?"

"It wouldn't surprise me if he did. Crossbreed cats are very bright, and very loyal to their chosen humans." Jean got to her feet. "We dine in half an hour. I'll send your maid up to help you dress."

Jean left. Lionel didn't. Instead, he rolled on his back with his large paws in the air so Gwynne could scratch his striped tummy. As she obliged, she wondered how the cat and Duncan would get on. A castle had room for only one king. . . .

There were easily twenty people in the great hall when Gwynne arrived, with more coming in the front door. Fires roared in both fireplaces and the trestle tables usually set against the walls had been pulled out and placed end to end to create one long table. Four ma.s.sive silver candelabra were set along the tabletop.

She had vaguely thought this would be a formal occasion, but the atmosphere was warm and relaxed. Duncan crossed the hall to join Gwynne when he saw her. The expression on his dark face was wary. Though they had settled their disagreement earlier, it was impossible not to remember their argument. "I just realized that I didn't tell you about the Friday night dinners."

"Jean did." Gwynne glanced around the hall. People were chatting casually, many of them sipping tankards of ale. "This is so different from England. Servants at Harlowe were treated well, but they never dined with the family."

"Since everyone at Dunrath is more or less related, this is a family gathering. Isabel de Cortes began the custom. She thought we should take time every week to celebrate our blessings, not solemnly the way we do in the kirk, but joyfully."

A deep musical sound boomed through the hall, echoes resonating from the ancient stone walls. Gwynne jumped. "What was that?"

"A gong from China." Duncan grinned and offered his arm. "We enjoy the eclectic at Dunrath. May I show you to your seat, my lady?"

With a smile, she took his arm. His seat was at one end of the table, and he placed her beside him in another mark of the evening's informality. After everyone was seated, Jean entered the hall carrying a slender burning taper. As she lit the candles on the table, the talking stopped and people settled into comfortable silence.

When the candelabra were radiating warm light, Jean moved to her chair at the opposite end of the table from Duncan. Before sitting, she said in a clear voice, "This is the last time I shall act as Mistress of Dunrath. Welcome to Glen Rath, Gwyneth Owens." She beckoned to her sister-in-law with both arms, her palms facing up.

"Welcome, family and friends." Another beckoning gesture as her gaze moved over the a.s.sembled group. "And welcome to any visitors who may be joining us tonight." She smiled warmly at Robbie Mackenzie beside her and gestured once more before sitting. "Now let us offer thanks for the blessings of family, food, and fellowship." She covered her eyes with her hands, as did the a.s.sembled guests.

Gwynne followed Jean's lead, but she didn't pray, because her thoughts were full of wonder. When the moment of prayer ended, she leaned over to Duncan and whispered, "Do you know the origin of this ceremony?"

He looked puzzled. "As I said, Isabel de Cortes started the custom."

"Once my lord Brecon took me to dine at the home of a friend of his, a Jewish scholar. It was Friday night, and the lady of the household led a ritual very like this one to welcome the Sabbath." Gwynne smiled. "Even though Isabel and her family had converted to Christianity, they kept some of their ancient traditions."

Duncan's face lit up. "And those traditions live on here in the wilds of Scotland. I'm glad to know that." He took her hand, and they shared a moment of perfect accord.

Gwynne knew there was more conflict ahead of them, but she also knew beyond doubt that she was in the right place-and with the right man.

TWENTY-TWO.

J ean was so immersed in a letter that she didn't notice when Gwynne entered the breakfast room. The letter was from Robbie Mackenzie, Gwynne a.s.sumed. He wrote at least twice a week, and the letters were fat. So were Jean's replies.

In the weeks since the Jacobites occupied Edinburgh, there had been little action except for the Battle of Prestonpans. As Gwynne had predicted, it was a swift triumph for the prince's forces. Since then, the rebels had been drilling and gathering strength for the next move.

Gwynne took a seat, Lionel leaping into the chair beside her. His manners were excellent and he wouldn't climb on the table, but he did expect to be rewarded for his forbearance. She gave him a bit of cheese, then leaned forward to top up Jean's cup with fresh steaming tea. Her sister-in-law looked up, blinking. "Oh, sorry, Gwynne, I didn't know you were there."

"I'm practicing invisibility," Gwynne said with mock seriousness.

Jean grinned. "As a child, I always thought it would be lovely to be invisible. Think of the mischief one could get away with!"

"It's hard to be invisible with red hair." They shared a laughing glance of commiseration.

Gwynne tucked into her breakfast, thinking that Duncan had been right to say that she would soon find a place at Dunrath. The new mistress's lack of sn.o.bbery, acceptance of existing household customs, and progress with spoken Gaelic had endeared her to everyone in the castle. The Scottish-looking red hair hadn't hurt, either. Auld Donald had commended Gwynne on her tact. She hadn't explained that her motive was not tact but sloth. Why wrest control of the household from the hands of those who enjoyed managing it, when her own interests lay elsewhere?

She spread berry preserves on a piece of bread. "Does Robbie say anything about the situation with the rebel army, or is it all sweet words for his lady's ears alone?"

Jean blushed and folded the letter. "The latest news is that several French ships managed to slip through the English blockade with arms and supplies and money."

Gwynne's bread tasted suddenly dry. "How fortunate for the prince."

"Though you wish Charles Edward at Hades," Jean observed, "the rising is growing more powerful every day. The Jacobites can win all, Gwynne. How I would love to be with the army! But Robbie says I would only be in the way."

Gwynne was grateful for Robbie's good sense in keeping his impetuous sweetheart in a safe place, though Jean did not appreciate his consideration. She had a warrior heart and would have joined the rebellion in a heartbeat if she were male. Several young men from Glen Rath had gone to the prince. Their absence was not discussed.

Thinking it time to change the subject, Gwynne said, "This morning I'm going to be working on some interesting spells. Would you like to join me?"