"Don't lie to me!" The colonel pressed his sword and blood appeared on the major's throat. "I'll see you hanged for this. You're a disgrace to His Majesty's army!"

Gwynne brushed her hair back with a trembling hand. She had distracted attention from the illusory wall, but Duncan would not be able to maintain the illusion at this strength for much longer. She must get the royalist officers away. And what was she to do about Huxley? He was a filthy swine, but Gwynne was too much a Guardian to let him die for an a.s.sault she had deliberately provoked.

Voice unsteady, she continued, "I don't think the major would have attacked me if you hadn't all been so hard-pressed for days on end. Perhaps in the poor light, he misinterpreted something I said or did."

Ormond frowned, and she knew he was thinking about his wife and what he would do to any man who a.s.saulted her. "Are you saying that you don't want him punished?" he asked.

She drew a shuddering breath. "I don't want him hanged. Just . . . just get him away from me. And don't allow him alone with any other female of any age."

For a long moment, the colonel's expression reflected his desire to slit Huxley's throat. But he was an honorable man. Reluctantly he sheathed his sword. "You should fall on your knees and thank G.o.d for her ladyship's mercy, Huxley."

Sullenly the major got to his feet, keeping a wary eye on Gwynne and the tail-lashing cat in her arms. "This was just a misunderstanding, I swear it, Colonel Ormond."

"I wish I were sure of that." Ormond scowled. "You're a decent officer and I need you. If you get through the rest of this campaign with a blameless record-and that means you won't raise a hand to any woman or child, even if they are wearing Highland dress-I will allow this matter to drop. Is that satisfactory, Lady Ballister?"

She nodded. "If my ordeal spares the life of some poor woman without a man like you nearby to protect her, my suffering will not have been in vain."

Her speech was melodramatic, but the colonel liked the idea of himself as protector as much as he admired Gwynne for her Christian charity. To Huxley, he said, "Apologize to this good lady, and then get out of her sight."

Though the major sensed he had been deceived, he didn't understand how. But he was no fool, and he knew he must take advantage of Gwynne's forbearance before she or the colonel changed their minds.

"I'm deeply sorry, Lady Ballister," he said stiffly. "I don't know what came over me. There isn't much light here, and . . . and for a moment I was sure that you wanted me. Wanted me bad, your husband being away and all."

Ormond spat on the floor. "You don't know virtue when you see it, Major." But the explanation was one he could understand, which meant he wouldn't wonder about the incident in the future. "Now come along."

Gwynne glanced over her shoulder as the three of them left. They were just in time, because the illusion was beginning to shimmer from Duncan's fatigue. Silently she sent the message We're safe. Rest now, my husband.

For an instant their minds touched, and she sensed from him despair so deep it shadowed the whole world. His emotions gave her a visceral understanding of how impossible it would be to mend the mortal wound to their marriage.

Aching, she touched his mind for the last time. I'm sorry, mo cridhe. So, so sorry.

Then she walked away, cradling her cat in her arms and glad she had an excuse for the tears in her eyes.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

A fter the royalist troops left, Gwynne wanted nothing more than to go to her room and sleep, but that was no longer possible after touching Duncan's mind. The sooner she left Dunrath, the better. Her husband was sleeping in his hidden cell, worn out by his iron imprisonment and all the power he had expended to protect the castle. She must be gone before he woke.

She went to her room, forcing her tired mind to decide what to take. It wouldn't be much since she would go on horseback. She rang for her maid. Annie appeared, beaming but a little wary, as if unsure how grand her mistress would be. "That was a miracle, the way those officers couldn't find our men. You baffled them well, Mistress."

Gwynne pulled off her wig and shook out her own hair. "I had much help. Will you unlace this blasted gown, then bring my saddlebags from the attic?"

Glad to have her familiar mistress back, the girl undid the laces, then sped off to the attics, so excited by the glen's narrow escape that she didn't bother to question why saddlebags were needed. Gwynne changed into her simplest riding habit, then went up to the library to retrieve the projects she had been working on. The half-dozen volumes of notes and essays were the only things at Dunrath that were truly hers.

Back in her room, she packed the books into the waiting saddlebags, adding another gown, a set of undergarments, and basic toiletries in the remaining s.p.a.ce. Then she stripped off the ruby ring of Isabel de Cortes and set it on her dressing table. That ring belonged to the mistress of the glen, which Gwynne was no more.

She meant to take nothing from Dunrath but the horse that would carry her away, but when she pulled the scrying gla.s.s from its hidden pocket, she found herself unable to set it on the table. Her fingers literally locked around the obsidian disk, refusing to release. Her initial confusion dissolved into a sense of peace. The gla.s.s also was hers, and it carried Isabel's blessing.

She was about to pick up her saddlebags when Jean entered, not bothering to knock. Though she still wore her stylish gown and powdered hair, there was nothing fragile or girlish about her. Her expression was as hard as the granite of the Scottish hills. Her gaze flicked to the saddlebags, then back to Gwynne's face. "Well done. You managed to save every rebel in the glen, and probably the glen itself. "

"It was all of us working together. You did a splendid turn as a helpless young girl, and Duncan's illusion was amazing."

"Ah, yes, Duncan. My brother who meant to save our troops at Drumrossie Moor, but was imprisoned by his beloved wife. Maggie Macrae told me all about it." Jean's hands clenched into fists. "If you hadn't interfered, Robbie might be alive now."

Gwynne sighed. "Perhaps he would. It's impossible to know."

"Why did you do it, Gwynne?" Jean cried, her voice breaking. "What right did you have to prevent Duncan from helping the rebel soldiers escape?"

"I had the right of a dedicated Guardian charged with stopping a renegade," Gwynne said softly. " Duncan started with small interventions to keep the armies apart. He progressed to open partisanship. Ask him, if you will, what he did to aid the Jacobite victory at Falkirk." She had found a vivid image of that in his mind just before she imprisoned him. "He said that he intended to intervene in the final battle only if necessary to preserve the rebel troops so they could retreat. That was an illegal intervention in itself. Worse was the likelihood that in the heat and rage of battle he might have used his whirlwind to destroy the Hanoverians. Would you have condoned him killing royal soldiers for doing their duty?"

Jean's gaze faltered, but she didn't retreat. "If he had done so, how would that be different from Adam Macrae using his power to devastate the Spanish Armada?"

"Sir Adam's tempest was a defensive action against an invading army. Duncan involved himself in a civil war, which is a very different matter." Gwynne hesitated, then decided Jean needed to hear the whole story. "It wasn't only that Duncan was breaking his Guardian oath. For many months I have been having nightmare visions that showed a Jacobite victory having catastrophic long-term results for all of Britain."

Jean frowned. "What kind of catastrophe?"

"I don't know the details. Only that there were rivers of blood that affected people from Cornwall to the most distant of the Hebrides."

"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 G.o.d 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sion 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.

"a.s.suming 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 la.s.s, 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 the 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? d.a.m.n Guardian stealth! And d.a.m.n 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 G.o.ds, 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 Sa.s.senach 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?"