And chains were still chains. From the family histories, Gwynne knew that Adam had been put in shackles to keep him from escaping the Tower. The touch of iron had been most effective.

She followed her husband into the cell. One reason she had chosen this one was the rusted but solid iron ring that was set in the wall. A long chain attached to the ring suggested that this chamber had housed other iron-sensitive mages in the past. Snapping the open end of the left manacle to the chain, she said, "You should have enough length to move around the cell easily."

His brows arched. "What an unnatural wife you are to keep me in chains when I'm going to be locked in a cell that no one has ever escaped from."

His comment was for Maggie's benefit, since the older woman didn't know about Guardians and Duncan's susceptibility to iron. "Think of the chain as my respect for your cleverness, my lord husband."

She took a last look around the bleak cell and made a mental note to bring down a tinderbox, since he wouldn't be able to light his candles by magic. Though there was no fireplace, it was April now and there were plenty of blankets, so his captivity shouldn't be too uncomfortable. It was the best she could do. "Let me know if you have any particular requests."

Taking the plaid from her shoulders, she warily wrapped it around him. Bleak and exhausted, he was beyond striking at her again, but his iron-dark eyes still burned with the fury of betrayal. "How long will you keep me here?"

"Until the rebellion is over. Less than a fortnight, I think." Throat tight, she added, "I'm sorry."

"If you were sorry, you would set me free," he said grimly.

"I'm not that sorry." On the verge of tears, she left the cell. After Maggie joined her in the pa.s.sage, Gwynne turned the heavy key in the lock. There was a second key that the housekeeper could use to bring food to the cell. There was only one manacle key, and Gwynne would carry that herself until the day Duncan could be released.

As she and the housekeeper made their way through the maze of pa.s.sages, she said, "Thank you for supporting me, Maggie. I feel ghastly doing this to Duncan, but I don't know what other choice I had."

"A pity more women don't have your courage and resolution." Maggie glanced at her askance. "The lairds of Dunrath have always been an uncanny lot, and you're cut of the same cloth, Gwyneth Owens."

Gwynne tried to conceal her surprise. She should have realized that despite the Guardian spells meant to reduce curiosity among their mundane neighbors, great power would not go wholly unnoticed by people who lived with members of the Families.

As they reached the foot of the steps that led up to the ground floor, Maggie asked haltingly, "My Diarmid . . . can you see if he will survive the battle?"

Gwynne winced, wishing the question hadn't been asked, but since it had been, she must try to answer. After visualizing the boy's youthful face, she mentally moved him forward through time, frowning as she tried to sort out the possibilities.

Maggie made a despairing sound at Gwynne's expression. Quickly Gwynne said, "I don't see him being killed fighting. But remember that the sight is far from perfect."

"Then he'll come home safely?"

Eyes unfocused, Gwynne struggled to clarify her impressions. "I don't know. After the battle, the victorious army will pursue the defeated soldiers with . . . great fierceness." A swift image of a mounted man overtaking a fleeing boy and slicing off his head made her want to vomit. Was the boy Diarmid? She didn't think so-but he would be facing such dangers as he tried to make his way home.

Maggie swallowed hard. "Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

Gwynne swayed a little as she thought of the enormous responsibility she was taking on. Dear G.o.d, what if she was wrong? You will know what to do. Though Lady Bethany had made it sound simple and logical, now that the crisis was here her choices were neither. "Yes, I am. Perhaps the Young Pretender has the strength and will to win the throne, but he'll have to do it without Duncan's aid."

Maggie sighed. "I don't think the prince can win, so I shall pray that the end comes quickly. The longer this rising lasts, the more lads like Diarmid will die."

Gwynne would be praying just as hard.

As soon as the key grated in the lock, Duncan stumbled to the narrow bed and collapsed. Never in his life had he been forced to endure the touch of so much iron for so long, and he felt as if he had been beaten to within an inch of his life.

Yet what he felt wasn't really physical pain. It was more like a disruption of his nature that paralyzed the deepest part of him. He felt like a woodland creature that had been struck by lightning and left alive but helpless, prey to any pa.s.sing beast.

Lying down, he felt a small return of strength. Would he grow accustomed to the iron and regain some of his power? There was nothing in Macrae family archives to suggest that. The most he could hope for was some reduction in the psychic discomfort. Mentally he apologized to Adam Macrae for not properly understanding what his ancestor had suffered during his year and a half in the Tower of London.

From where he lay, he studied the cell, looking for a weak spot, but saw nothing. His b.l.o.o.d.y Sa.s.senach bride had used his love and trust to entrap him when he was least expecting it, and she had put him in a prison he could not escape.

If fate had brought them together, it was a fate unspeakably cruel.

In a bothy south of Inverness, Simon, Lord Falconer awakened to dawn with a surprising degree of well-being despite a damp, chilling mist. He stretched, his muscles complaining about another night spent on the hard ground with only a blanket for warmth. Yet he felt more optimistic than he had in months. What had changed?

Mentally he searched the landscape of events, and found the answer. Relief rushed through him with giddying intensity. In the chess game of war, Duncan Macrae had been taken from the board.

Gwynne had succeeded.

THIRTY-FOUR.

14th April 1746 Inverness Dearest Gwynne, I wish that I had not started training my power, because I now have a horrid, uncanny feeling that the end is near, and it will not be a good one. My scrying shows that the Duke of c.u.mberland and his army are only a few miles east of Inverness, and they look well fed and well rested, not like our men.

The prince's Scottish leaders like Lord George Murray have urged him to disband the army and send everyone home. Rebels who know the country can easily hara.s.s the Hanoverians, then fade back into the mountains. Later the army could be gathered again for a new campaign.

But the prince listens only to his Irish and French advisers, who urge him to stand and fight. Can't they see what a disadvantage we'll be at against a larger, better-equipped army? Even I, a mere woman with no military training, can see the dangers in taking the field against a vastly superior opponent. The courage of our men has carried the day against great odds before, but I feel in my bones that our luck is running out.

I wish I could do something. Anything. If only I had studied my lessons more when I was young! If only I had inherited the Macrae weather-working magic. Though I know that using power for partisan reasons would be a violation of my oath, I am desperate enough that if I could, I might conjure a great storm to allow our men to escape if that becomes necessary. I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that Duncan is made of sterner stuff and will not break his vows.

Be strong, dearest Gwynne. My intuition tells me that you are Dunrath's best, perhaps only, hope. And if this is my last letter, know how blessed I feel that for at least a time, I have had a sister.

Jean Macrae of Dunrath Gwynne's eyes clouded with tears till she could no longer see the letter in her scrying gla.s.s. By the time her vision cleared, the image was gone.

Would her sister-in-law be so affectionate if she knew that Gwynne had imprisoned Duncan to stop him from aiding the Jacobite cause? Probably not. Of course, Jean also a.s.sumed that Duncan would never consider breaking his oath. Would she be shocked to know that he had not only aided the rebels in small ways but was preparing to change the very outcome of the rebellion? Or would she be glad to know he shared her partisan convictions?

Thank heaven Jean wasn't a weather mage. Gwynne could not have borne to imprison two Macraes.

Two days after Gwynne watched Jean write her letter, the inevitable battle was fought at a boggy place called Drummossie Moor, a few miles southeast of Inverness. Gwynne monitored the movements of the armies, watched them take their positions.

When she saw the smoke of the first ragged artillery volley, she was tempted to put the scrying gla.s.s away so she could not see the battle, but grimly she forced herself to watch. By imprisoning Duncan, she had insured that the rebellion would run its natural course. The least she could do was bear witness.

The starved and exhausted Highlanders fought with a courage that was heartbreaking to watch. Gwynne watched dry-eyed, beyond tears. The fighting ended in less than an hour, leaving the field strewn with the dead and dying. Death filled the air, hammered in her head, saturated her with grief.

The brutal pursuit of the defeated troops was what she had envisioned, and worse. When she could bear no more, Gwynne rose from her library table and headed for the dungeon. In the days since she had locked Duncan up, she had been shamefully glad that Maggie Macrae was tending the prisoner, but this news must come from Gwynne.

When she opened the cell door, Duncan looked up from the table where he was reading. "How gracious of you to visit your prisoner." Before he could make another caustic remark, he saw her expression. He jumped to his feet. "What has happened?"

It took her two tries to say, "The government troops have won a great victory. The Jacobites suffered ma.s.sive casualties." She drew an unsteady breath. "The rebellion has been crushed."

His face paled. "Is the prince dead? What of my sister? How many men of the glen have died?"

"The prince escaped the field, but other than that, I know few details." She fumbled for words to explain what she had seen. "Battle creates a fog of agony and frantic emotions and b.l.o.o.d.y images that makes it almost impossible to narrow my focus to individuals. I looked for Jean and Diarmid and others from the glen, but couldn't see them." She wondered if that meant they were dead. Surely not everyone she knew and loved who had fought for the rebel cause could have been killed.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" With one tormented sweept of his arm, he knocked the table over, sending books flying and smashing a Chinese porcelain teacup. "I could have saved them! Yet you in your self-righteous bigotry prevented me." He turned to face her, anguish and rage equally visible in his face. "My sister may even now be raped and murdered beside the road."

"Jean should be safe in Inverness." Gwynne prayed that was so.

"You think my sister a coward? Unlike you, she would not hide in safety when there was work to be done. If she dies, it is on your head, Gwyneth Owens." His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "May you live in guilt and pain for the rest of your life."

Her lips twisted bitterly. "You may take pleasure in the knowledge that there is nothing you can do to me that is worse than the guilt I already bear."

His expression changed and they stared at each other, alone in their private h.e.l.ls. They had each done what they believed right-and it had brought them to this.

Duncan was the one to break the silence. "When will you release me?"

Tiredly she tried to see the shape of coming events. "You'll be freed in a few days, when the chaos from battle dies down. No more than a week."

"So you will have a few days' head start in your flight." His eyes were like ancient ice. "When I am not bound by iron, there is nowhere you can go that is far enough away that I will not find you."

"At the moment, death would not be my enemy." Gwynne left the cell, carefully locked the door behind her, then slumped trembling against the rough stone wall of the corridor. If she had refused the council's wish for her to marry Duncan, she would still be safe and innocent in England. She would have deplored the rebellion and been concerned for the toll in human pain, but that concern would have been distant.

Instead, she'd seized her courage and married Duncan, discovering power and pa.s.sion together. They'd been so happy. . . .

It would have been far easier to stand aside, to be a demure wife who wouldn't dream of opposing her husband. Then she wouldn't feel blood on her hands.

As she wearily climbed the narrow stairs to the main level of the castle, her inner voice whispered, You did the right thing. If Duncan had interfered to allow the rebels to escape, it would only have prolonged and increased Scotland's suffering.

Even that knowledge was no comfort.

THIRTY-FIVE.

G wynne, help us!"

Gwynne jerked from a dark, exhausted sleep, thinking her name had been called. But that was not a real voice, only part of a tortured dream.

Two and a half days had pa.s.sed since the battle. News had reached the castle the day after the defeat in the form of a fleeing Jacobite lucky enough to have a horse. Gwynne couldn't bear hearing the horrible tales of the Hanoverian pursuit, which had included the slaughter of anyone wearing Highland dress. She had already seen the images in her scrying gla.s.s.

She gave orders that fugitives should be granted food and a brief rest before they moved on. Even that was a risk; if government troops found rebels at Dunrath, the castle and the glen would probably be razed, exactly as Maggie Macrae had dreamed.

"Gwynne, please, in the name of mercy!"

With cold shock, Gwynne recognized that the voice was real-Jean was using mind-touch, and from the clarity of the words, she must be very close. Thank G.o.d she was alive-but clearly in desperate trouble.

Gwynne jammed her feet into slippers and threw a heavy robe around her nightgown before she grabbed a lamp and raced downstairs. Her clumsy fingers fumbled with the latch to the outside door before she managed to fling it open. She stepped outside-and by the ghostly light of a fitfully clouded moon, she saw that the courtyard was full of battered fugitives: several dozen men, and one woman.

Jean's horse carried two slumped figures, wounded men apparently. Jean herself was on foot, at the head of her ragged band. Her beautiful hair was tied back like a man's and she wore breeches as she stumbled forward. "Please, Gwynne. Help us." She swayed, staying upright by sheer will. "The government troops are no more than a few hours behind."

Gwynne darted down the steps and caught Jean in her arms before the girl collapsed. "How did you get this far, Jean? Most of the fugitives were cut down within a few miles of the battlefield."

Trembling, Jean rested her head on Gwynne's shoulder. "I took the wild paths through the hills. Whenever I sensed Butcher c.u.mberland's men approaching, I ordered everyone off the road and masked them with don't-see spells. I don't know how I managed it." She looked up, her eyes pleading. " I know coming here is a danger to everyone in the glen, but I didn't know where else to go."

"That you made it this far is a miracle!"

Jean looked around. "Where is Duncan? I can't feel his presence."

"He's not here," Gwynne said vaguely as she scanned the fugitives. They stared at her with varying degrees of hope, exhaustion, and despair. Most seemed to be men of the glen. They knew as well as she the danger to Dunrath if she gave them sanctuary.

What should she do? In rough country, a don't-see spell would be enough to conceal men that were fairly well hidden to start with. The glen was a very different matter. Even if men returned home and pretended never to have left, a search of the castle and crofts would turn them up quickly. Wounds and blood and ruined garments would make most of the rebels easily identifiable, with disastrous results for everyone else who lived in the glen.

Unless-might it be possible to conceal them in the dungeons with strong don't-see spells on the doors? Other spells would be required as well. Gwynne doubted that one mage had enough power for the work that would be required, and Jean was too exhausted to help. But Duncan's power combined with Gwynne's might be enough.

"Please, Gwynne," Jean whispered. "I canna bear to see more death."

Any lingering doubts vanished from Gwynne's mind. "This is the home of the Macraes of Dunrath. Of course they are welcome here."

"Mistress?"

Auld Donald's incredulous voice sounded from behind Gwynne. She turned to see him staring at the battered rebels.

"Our men have made it home safely, and we are going to hide them in the dungeons," she said calmly.

He frowned. "It's a great risk we'll all be taking."

"Yes, but we cannot turn them away," Gwynne replied. "Is there anyone in the glen who would turn rebels in to the government troops?"

"No," Donald and Jean said simultaneously. The steward added, "There were many that did not approve of the prince, but all will be loyal to our own."

Gwynne hoped the other two were right. After a moment of thinking about what must be done if they were to have a chance of success, she said, "Wake everyone in the castle. We'll need food and drink and blankets, and surely medical help as well. Also, it would help if the tracks can be obliterated so it won't be obvious that a large group of men has come here."

"I'll send a herd of cattle back along the northern road," Donald said. "That should do the job."

"Perfect!" Turning to the ma.s.sed men, Gwynne raised her voice. "Come inside quickly now! I think we can keep you safe in the oldest section of the castle. Does anyone need help climbing the stairs?"

As weary men started up the front steps, Maggie Macrae called out, "Diarmid!" A plaid thrown around her nightgown and her feet bare, she raced down to the courtyard, risking a broken neck, and unerringly went to a slight figure that was supporting a more seriously wounded man.

Heedless of their filth, she wrapped her arms around both fugitives, tears running down her face. " Thanks be to G.o.d!" Forgetting that he was man enough to go to war, Diarmid embraced his mother, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

Allowing them privacy for their reunion, Gwynne began giving crisp orders to the servants and crofters who were pouring into the courtyard. She kept an arm around Jean for support, knowing the girl would not rest until her rebel band was under cover.

In the midst of the clamor of soldiers, Gwynne had a quiet moment to speak to Jean. "What about Robbie Mackenzie?"

Jean's face twisted. "He died leading his men in the final charge while that d.a.m.ned cowardly Italian fled the field!"

"You mean the prince?"

Jean spat. "He was a pretender indeed. He pretended to honor, to loyalty, to courage. All he wanted was power and glory for the Stuarts. I hope c.u.mberland finds him so he can be drawn and quartered."