Once a Soldier

by Mary Jo Putney

  Gwynne automatically glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. The Families had survived through the centuries by not drawing unwelcome attention to their abilities. To be different was dangerous. One of the first things Guardian children learned was to preserve secrets; never must they mention power in front of outsiders. But Ballister had been well trained, and there was no one near. “Yes, there’s a power point here. That’s why Lady Bethany and her husband bought this property. The circle in the center of the parterre can be used for rituals.”

  “I can feel the earth energy tugging at me. Can you?”

  She knew what he was asking. “I have no real power. I can sense atmosphere and energy and emotion a little, but no more than any sensitive mundane.” Even the happy years of marriage and her acceptance into the Guardian community had not eliminated her wistful regret for what she lacked. “What of you, Lord Ballister? You’re called the Lord of Thunder, the Lord of Storms. Did your power manifest early?”

  “Not until I was on the brink of manhood, but I always loved weather—the more dramatic, the better. When I was barely old enough to walk, my mother found me on top of the castle tower in the middle of a thunderstorm, my arms flung out to the sky as I howled with laughter.” He smiled reminiscently. “I found that a mother’s anger was another kind of tempest.”

  Gwynne laughed. “Since you’re a Macrae, I assume your parents recognized early that you were a weather mage.”

  “Aye, it runs in the family, and where better for us to learn than in Scotland, when the weather changes every five minutes with or without a mage’s help?” He smiled wryly. “No one even noticed my successes and failures when I was learning.”

  “I wonder if the Scottish climate is why the best weather workers are always Macraes?”

  “Perhaps. There may be something in the air of Dunrath that enhances that kind of magic.”He grimaced. “It enhances our weaknesses, too. The stronger a weather mage, the more we are weakened by the touch of iron, and a damnable nuisance it is. Most of the weapons in our armory have hilts of wood or brass.”

  “I’ve read about the connection between weather-working and sensitivity to iron. Does iron produce a general weakness, or does it merely block your power?”

  “It varies.” Changing the subject, he said, “Falconer told me you’re an expert on Guardian lore.”

  “Since my father was the Harlowe librarian, I learned early to catalog and read the archives and write essays about obscure facts and correlations.” She smiled wryly. “I know everything about power except what it feels like to have it.”

  “Knowledge is as important as power,” he said seriously. “It is knowledge of history and of our own mistakes that gives us what wisdom we have. The work of Guardian scholars like you is the framework that helps us fulfill our vows.”

  “What a nice way to think of my work.” Curious about him, she asked, “Do you travel a great deal, Lord Ballister? I gather you have been away from Scotland for some time.”

  “Too long.” They had reached the riverbank, where a short pier poked into the Thames. “Three years ago the council requested that I act as envoy to Families in other nations. My journeys were essential and interesting, but I missed my home.”

  The Guardian Council was formed of the wisest, most powerful mages in Britain. Lady Bethany was currently its chief, the first among equals. Its suggestions were not refused lightly. “Did experiencing the weather of other lands compensate for being so long from Dunrath?”

  “The basic principles of wind and cloud and rain are the same everywhere, but the patterns and nuances are different. The winds sing with different voices.” His voice deepened. “I would like to show you the winds of Italy, my lady. Warm, sensual, soft as a lover’s sigh.”

  A gust of wind snapped around them, swirling Gwynne’s skirts. She had learned much about flirtation since her marriage, for many men offered gallantries to the young wife of an old earl. She knew when flirting was a lighthearted game, and when a man had more serious aims.

  Lord Ballister was deeply, alarmingly serious.

  She released his arm under the pretense of straightening her skirts. “I had hoped that my husband and I would travel, but his health did not permit it.”

  “Imagine yourself in Paris or Rome or Athens, Lady Brecon, and perhaps that will help your vision come true.” He gazed at her like a starving man who eyed a feast. Her breathing quickened. Who would have thought that being devoured might be an intriguing prospect?

  The wind gusted again and strands of his raven black hair broke free of their confinement. Gwynne felt an impulse to brush the tendrils back. It would be pleasing to feel the texture of that strong, tanned cheek. . . .

  Abruptly she recognized the electric pull between them as desire. She had loved her husband deeply and she was woman enough to appreciate a handsome man, but this hungry urgency was entirely different, and not at all comfortable.

  A blast of rain struck her face and half soaked her gown. Breaking away from Ballister’s gaze, she saw that a low storm cloud was sweeping over the river, the leading edge of rain as sharply defined as the wall of a building. “Where did this come from? Lady Bethany said the weather would be fine all afternoon.” She caught up her skirts and prepared to bolt for cover.

  “Damnation!” He looked at the sky, rain pouring over his face. “I’m sorry, my lady. I haven’t been paying sufficient attention to our surroundings.”

  She almost laughed when she realized that the Lord of Storms hadn’t noticed the change in the weather. The guests farther up the hill had seen the advancing rain and were racing for shelter or crowding into the gazebo while servants attempted to cover the food. “Nor have I, and my gown will pay for my carelessness.”

  “Don’t leave.” He held up a commanding hand.

  On the verge of flight, she hesitated when his eyes closed. Despite his saturated hair and garments, his concentration radiated like heat from a fire.

  She caught her breath as the storm cloud split and rolled away to both sides, avoiding the garden. Within seconds the rain stopped. Amazed, she watched as the clouds dissipated. The sun reappeared and for an instant a rainbow arched over Ballister’s head. She caught her breath. This was the Lord of Storms indeed.

  The rainbow faded, even more ephemeral than the storm. On the hill guests laughed and stopped retreating, ready to enjoy the party again.

  Ballister wiped water from his face. “The weather here is not so chancy as in Scotland, but it’s unpredictable enough that a bit of rain never calls attention to itself.”

  His tone was too casual. Making an intuitive leap, she said, “You didn’t overlook that storm. You caused it, didn’t you?”

  He looked embarrassed. “If I’m careless, I can attract ill weather when my attention is otherwise engaged.”

  Amused, she brushed at her hair, where the wind and rain had pulled a lock loose from her restrained hairstyle. “What could be so interesting at a lawn party as to attract such a fierce little tempest?”

  His gaze darkened. The full force of those eyes was . . . dangerous. They could make a woman forget herself, and all good sense.

  “You, of course. There is power between us. You feel it also, I know you do.” He touched her wet hair where a few bright glints showed through the powder. His fingertips grazed her bare throat as he caressed the errant lock. “What is the natural color of your hair?” he murmured.

  Her breathing became difficult, as if the laces of her corset had been drawn too tight. The sensation was as unnerving as his powerful masculinity. As a widow and a Guardian, she had more independence than most women, and she had developed a taste for it. Ignoring his question, she said, “Power sounds like no more than another name for lust, Lord Ballister.”

  Deliberately she turned away, breaking the spell cast by his eyes. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, but I have no wish for an affair. Good afternoon, sir. It’s time for me to go indoors and change to dry clothing.”

&nbs
p; “Wait!” He caught her wrist, and lightning tingled across her skin.

  Part of her wanted to turn back, but the part that needed to escape was much stronger. She jerked free of his grip and raced away, skimming up the hill and hoping he would not pursue her.

  He didn’t. When she neared the house, she turned and saw that he still stood on the pier, his brooding gaze following her. She had a moment of absolute knowledge that he was not gone from her life.

  Expression set, she entered the house and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Now that she was away from Ballister, it was harder to remember why she found him so disquieting. His behavior had not been improper. It was his forceful self that had sent her haring off to safety.

  She entered her bedroom, and was stopped in her tracks by the image reflected in her tall mirror. Over the years of her marriage, she had become a lady worthy of her husband: modest, discreet, as well dressed as a countess should be. Emery had taken pride in her appearance as surely as he had enjoyed their companionship and mutual love of books.

  But the woman in the mirror was no longer that demure wife and widow. Her eyes were bright, her color high, and her wet gown clung wantonly.

  She touched a lock of damp hair that fell across her shoulder, disliking the heavy pomade used to make the powder stick. She had never enjoyed powdering her hair, but she started doing it after her marriage because her natural hair color was too brash, too vulgar, for a countess. Powdered hair made her look more refined and mature. More suitable to be her husband’s wife.

  Ballister’s very presence brought color into her life. He was a magnetic, intriguing man, and he looked at her as if she was the most beautiful woman ever born. His regard had been exciting, and yet . . .

  Athena jumped from the bed and trotted over to press herself suggestively against Gwynne’s ankle. She scooped up the elderly cat and cuddled her close, scratching the furry neck and belly. “Athena, I just met a man who made me feel like a mouse pursued by a cat. And not a sweet, friendly cat like you, either.” More of a tiger.

  She drifted into her sitting room, where a dozen or more books awaited her attention. There were more books in this one room than in some manor houses. On her desk lay the journal of an Elizabethan mage, a Latin treatise on spell craft written by a Flemish sorceress, a partially burned herbalist’s workbook that she was trying to reconstruct. All her projects required slow, painstaking care. It was hard to imagine her work in the same breath with Ballister.

  She could feel the passion burning in him, and like a moth, she was drawn to the flame. But his fire had the power to destroy the calm, ordered life she loved. A widow could have affairs if she was discreet, but an affair with Ballister would change her in ways she couldn’t even imagine. She must keep him at a distance. Soon he would return to Scotland, and he would take his storms with him.

  Yet as she rang for her maid, she thought she heard again the whispered word, “Destiny . . .”