He touched the rolled ham to her lips. She opened her mouth and took in the tidbit, the delicate salty slice as sensual on her tongue as a kiss. She felt delightfully wicked, though she was safe enough since the booth was open to anyone who cared to look in this direction. After swallowing, she said, �Surely teasing and anticipation are the best parts of eating, and of flirtation.�
She was reaching for the ham so she could offer him a slice when he caught her hand. His gaze holding hers, he very slowly peeled off the glove. His warm fingers sent more shivers through her. When her wrist was exposed, he bent forward to press a kiss on the pulse point. �Desire can be both tease and fulfillment, milady,� he whispered.
She gasped and pulled back, her heart pounding. She had not known that such arousal was possible. �You must content yourself with the former.�
He smiled down at her. �For me, your company is a deep satisfaction. I need no more for this night.�
�And there will be no tomorrow.� She tried to sound matter-of-fact. Already she was missing him and he wasn't even gone.
Gently he tugged the glove from her hand, finger by finger. �There is always a tomorrow, even if we do not know the shape of it.� The glove slipped away and he breathed a kiss into the sensitive center of her palm.
She felt an intoxicating blend of fierce desire and pliant yearning. Instinctively she cupped her hand around his chin, feeling warm, firm flesh spiced with the provocative prickle of hidden whiskers. He inhaled sharply at her touch. She let her palm trail down his bare throat, absurdly pleased that she could affect him as powerfully as he affected her.
To maintain her advantage, she peeled off her other glove and rolled a sliver of ham for her companion. He took it neatly, his teeth just grazing her fingertips. She gasped, realizing that she should have known she could never best him at erotic games. Though in this game, there were no losers.
He offered her a sip of wine, then turned the goblet and deliberately drank from the place her lips had touched, while his gaze held hers. His eyes behind the mask seemed light-colored, though the strands of hair dancing beside his face were dark.
She licked his fingertips when he gave her the next slice of ham. He laughed softly and stroked the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat swift with excitement. Then he skimmed his hand up inside the loose domino until he reached the edge of her sleeve. He caressed her bare skin, his fingers warm, knowing, indecently provocative. �Ah, milady, how can you imagine that you are ordinary?�
She laughed softly, drunk with sensuality and the power of his presence. He offered her a marzipan disk imprinted with the image of a ship. She took the sweet with her teeth, and the taste of almonds and sugar melted across her tongue. Feeling wanton, she nipped at his fingers. �I am ordinary, but the night is not.�
He placed another marzipan in his mouth and leaned forward in silent offering. Giddily she lifted her face and took the sweet. His lips were rich with the taste of wine and spice. She swallowed the dissolving marzipan, then nibbled delicately at his lips.
He made a rough sound in his throat and put his arms around her, his mouth opening on hers demandingly. Heart pounding, she closed her eyes, wholly in the pleasure of the moment. For an instant she felt rapture.
The moment shattered in a kaleidoscope of images. Fire, blood, death! Homes consumed by flames, screaming children stumbling over the bodies of the dead. Horror beyond imagining . . .
She gasped and shoved him away as devastation seared her mind. Passion and danger were inextricably interwoven with this man.
And she knew who he was. She ripped off his mask and stared at the familiar craggy face, wondering how she could have been fool enough to be deceived. �Damn you, Ballister! How dare you!�
After an involuntary flinch at being exposed, he said calmly, �I needed more time with you, Gwynne. From the beginning, I have alarmed you. Some of that, I think, is because of my reputation. I hoped that if you had a chance to spend time with me as a stranger, not the Lord of Thunder, you would relax enough to feel what is between us instead of always running away.� He reached toward her with the warm, strong hands she had found so enticing. �Now that you and I have spent an hour together as a man and woman rather than as Lord Ballister and Lady Brecon, can you deny that attraction?�
No, nor could she deny the ghastly visions triggered by his kiss. Too upset to think, she scrambled sideways across the bench seat and stumbled to her feet. �Don't ever come near me again!� she said, voice shaking. �Ever!�
She hurled his mask to the ground, then bolted from the booth even though her knees were almost too weak to hold her. She was halfway to the Grand Walk when a familiar voice called, �Gwynne? What's wrong?�
She turned to the left and saw the green dominoed figure of Anne Tuckwell, her husband beside her. At the same time Norcott sprinted toward her from the right. �My lady, are you hurt?�
�No, only . . . only upset.� Gwynne went gratefully into Anne's maternal embrace. She yearned for Lady Bethany, who would help her understand what had happened. Struggling to compose herself, she said, �I must go home now, but there's no need for you to leave. If you walk me to the river, I'll hire a boat. . . .�
�Nonsense, Norcott and I will take you home. George, wait in our booth for Sally and William to return.� A protective arm around Gwynne's waist, Anne turned toward the river landing. �Can you talk about it?�
What, after all, had happened? Gwynne had flirted with a man, and now regretted it. �It was . . . not a great matter, except to me. I am not suited to adventures, I think.�
She glanced back and saw Ballister standing in the supper booth, a blacker shape against the shadows of the night. Even at this distance she could see the tension in his cloaked figure, and knew that he wanted to rush after her. Those clever, provocative hands would be clenched with the effort of controlling that impulse.
The pull between them was undeniable�despite the horror of her visions, she yearned to return to his arms. She wondered if he had bespelled her, for she had never felt such a compulsion before.
Deliberately she turned away and concentrated on the walk back to the river landing. Ballister was mysterious, compelling, the most fascinating man she had ever met�and tonight it had been made blindingly clear that he was even more fearsome than she had imagined.
�
Aching, Duncan watched Gwynne flee to her friends. He supposed he should be grateful that she didn't send the two men to beat him. Perhaps she thought that a mage might do her friends an injury.
As she left, she glanced back at him. Her burning gaze was implacable.
Then she was gone. He retrieved the mask from the ground. She had yanked it from his head with such force that one of the ties had broken. Numbly he removed the domino and folded it around the mask. Now that he had alienated her forever, there was no point in disguising himself.
He dropped a handful of coins on the table and headed for the river. His thoughts circled obsessively all the way back to Falconer House. He had hoped to charm Gwynne into accepting their mutual attraction, and at first it had worked. She had been as warm, playful, and responsive as he had known she could be.
Why had that kiss destroyed the very human magic that bound them? He would swear that she was as eager as he. It wasn't only that she recognized him and was furious over his deception. He had seen fear in her when she cursed his name and ran away. How could she think he would ever hurt her? Ordinary women might find him fearsome, but she was no ordinary woman.
Her kiss would haunt him forever.
He had hoped to be able to retire without being seen, but when he entered the foyer of Falconer House, he saw that the door to the sitting room was open and Simon was sprawled in a chair by the fire. His friend glanced up and made a lazy gesture. �Join me for some brandy and tell me how your night's hunting went.�
Duncan grimaced and entered the sitting room. After laying the bundled domino a
nd mask on a table, he accepted brandy and folded into the chair on the opposite side of the fire from his host. He took a sip of the brandy, then another, glad to have the spirits burn through his numbness. �My hunt was a disaster. It's time for me to return home.�
Simon's brows arched. �Without Gwynne? I thought you were determined to win her, whatever the cost.�
Duncan's laughter was bitter. �I've destroyed whatever hope there was.� Succinctly he described the events of the evening, and the catastrophic ending. �She'll not forgive me for deceiving her�that I'm sure of.�
�Perhaps she won't, but the two of you aren't done with each other. Though that kiss triggered an explosion, it's also a sign of the incredible amount of energy between the two of you. You're like opposite poles of a magnet, inexorably drawn together.� Simon closed his eyes and frowned. �When I imagine the two of you together, the energy is like a city burning. Fate will draw you together again. That I guarantee.�
Duncan rubbed his aching temples. After this disastrous night, he wasn't sure whether Simon's prediction was a source of hope�or of threat.
SIX
G wynne managed to regain a semblance of calm on the boat ride back to Richmond. Once they were safe in Lady Bethany's drawing room, she dismissed Anne and Norcott with assurances that she was fine, and many thanks for the exciting evening.
Lady Bethany wasn't fooled, of course. Eyes narrowed, she waited until they were alone before saying, �You look as if you've seen your own ghost, my dear.�
Gwynne sank into a chair, trembling, and was grateful when Athena jumped into her lap. The cat's purring warmth helped her keep her voice steady as she described her encounter with Ballister, including the visions of doom. She ended by asking, �Is he evil, Bethany?�
�Not at all, but good men can cause evil without intending it.� Expression troubled, the older woman rose. �Get ready for bed. I'll prepare a posset that will help you sleep.�
Knowing her friend's skills, Gwynne asked, �Is it more than a sleeping draft?�
Bethany nodded. �I'll use a potion that will calm you enough for me to ask questions without upsetting you again. I need to know more about those visions.�
Gwynne needed to know more, too. Athena in her arms, she returned to her room and rang for her maid, glad to exchange corset and petticoats for a cambric nightgown. She brushed out her hair and was braiding it for sleep when Lady Bethany appeared with a gently steaming goblet. Gwynne tied the end of her braid with a ribbon, then took a sip of the spicy drink, wondering what it contained besides warm milk and wine.
The heat of the posset curled through her, easing the tension that had knotted her ever since that shattering kiss. She drank more deeply, trying not to remember the food and drink she had shared with her deceiver. �I don't understand why I didn't recognize Ballister. Do you think he cast a confusion spell over me?�
The older woman's gaze became unfocused as she studied the question in ways Gwynne could only imagine. �If he had, I would be able to see traces of it around you. I think he might have used a mild attraction spell�just strong enough to overcome any reluctance you might feel about dancing with a stranger. Since you've felt attraction and wariness since you met him, he merely cloaked that part of his nature that alarmed you, then disguised his physical appearance with simple tricks of costume and accent.�
Whatever combination of spells and artifice he'd used, it had been very effective. Gwynne remembered the first rapturous instant of their kiss and felt a wave of heat that was followed immediately by icy rage. �Using his power to deceive me was wicked.�
�I doubt he needed even that small spell. You were ripe and ready, my girl. All you needed was an excuse not to recognize him.� Bethany's voice held a shade of tartness as she turned down the bedcovers. �Finish the posset and lie down. When you're comfortable, I'll see how much you remember.�
Gwynne obeyed, grateful to sink into her feather mattress. Bethany pulled the covers over her and extinguished the lamps until only a single one burned. Then she sat beside the bed and began asking soft questions about the evening.
Arm curled around Athena, Gwynne elaborated on how she met Ballister, the dancing, their conversation, the refreshments. Her peaceful state removed much of the anger and embarrassment. She felt detached, as if standing outside her body and watching the actions of a besotted stranger.
Deftly Bethany coaxed Gwynne along to the moment of the kiss. �When you saw your vision of disaster, did you witness Ballister committing violence?�
Even the posset could not eliminate the memory of horror, but at least Gwynne could now view the images calmly. �I . . . I see him with a sword. The hilt is brass or gold, I think. But he's only holding it in readiness, I don't see him striking anyone.�
�Very good,� Bethany murmured. �You saw fire. What was burning?�
�First a cottage. It was crude and solitary�rough stones and a thatch roof. I . . . I think it was in Scotland. Then there were villages burning, and finally a great city. There was a particular woman fleeing with her child in her arms.� Panic flared again, and she clenched the edge of the coverlet. �The woman stumbles and falls, and her child begins to scream. The flames are closing in and she can't escape. Embers fall on her gown. . . .�
Bethany's hand gripped hers, pulling her from the vision. �The images didn't necessarily show real fires. I think they were symbols of increasing catastrophe, going from small to large. What other images did you see?�
Gwynne inhaled deeply and forced herself to relax again. �There was�I think it must have been a battlefield. There are bodies everywhere. Some are wearing scarlet coats, others in . . . in Highland dress, I think. It's dusk and very quiet except for . . . for the buzzards and�oh, God, that dog has a severed arm in its mouth!� Her stomach heaved.
Once more Bethany's touch drew her back to her safe, clean bedroom. �The fact that you had visions when you and Ballister kissed suggests that he is involved in some way. Do you have any idea how?�
Stilling her mind so that it was like a silver pool, Gwynne waited to see if an answer would come. �He is not the instigator, but rather is like . . . like a spark to tinder. He changes the balance.� She turned her head toward Lady Bethany. �He has so much power that it overflowed into my mind. For the first time, I'm glad that I have no power of my own. Do you think I'm seeing true visions?�
Bethany frowned. �I think that you're seeing possible futures. Those horrors may not all come to pass.�
Gwynne thought of the fire consuming that frantic mother and child, and shuddered. �But some will?�
�You saw a battlefield. You've heard the rumors of another Jacobite rising. If that happens�and I fear it will�the rebellion could lead to another civil war. Certainly there would be fierce fighting.� The older woman sighed, her age evident. �But the outcome is uncertain. Some of the possible paths are . . . very dark. I feel that you're right�Ballister is critical to how the rebellion will unfold. But in what way?�
�Is Ballister a Jacobite? I thought all Guardians support the Hanoverians because of the peace and prosperity they have brought.�
�We do, for exactly those reasons. Ballister is no Jacobite, but he is a Scot. In the forge of war, who knows what might happen? He is a man of great power, which means he has the potential to cause great harm.�
�Then I am right to avoid him.�
�Perhaps. Or perhaps not. This is not a simple matter.� Bethany stood and kissed Gwynne's brow. �Sleep, my dear. We can discuss this more in the morning.�
Gwynne hesitated, then asked a wistful question. �Do you think that the visions mean that I am developing power?�
Bethany's gaze became vague as she considered the matter. �I wish I could say yes, but I simply don't know. Though it's possible that a latent talent is finally manifesting, the most likely explanation is that Ballister's power and the intensity of your connection caused images related to him to spill into you.�
Gwynne sighed. �I rather thought that it was too much to hope that I'm finally turning into a mage.� After Bethany left, Gwynne turned onto her side and curled around Athena, promising herself that she would not dream of the sensuality and excitement of the time she spent with the man in the black domino before she learned his identity.
But dream she did, and in the night she burned for her loss.
�
Wearily Bethany considered her own bed before she turned and made her way to her workroom. She had chosen the large, airy chamber because its southern exposure allowed sunshine to warm her aging bones. There would be no warmth there now.
She turned the knob and entered. The door was never locked. There was no need for locks because the door was spelled and would open only for Bethany, Gwynne, or the lady's maid who had been Bethany's friend and companion since they were both girls. It would have opened for her brother or husband if they still lived. Now only women came to this chamber of mysteries.
A draft caused the light of her lamp to flicker eerily over the books and equipment of her private magical laboratory. Scented bunches of drying herbs hung in one corner, and a large cabinet contained the glassware and tools she used for compounding potions. She liked to think that over the years, she had produced original work that would be of value to future Guardians.
A fire was laid, so she snapped her fingers to start the coals burning. Simple heat would not eliminate the deep chill that had come over her when she listened to Gwynne's visions, but it would help her tired body.
Settling at her desk, she removed an ebony box from the lower drawer. The dense wood had been chosen to protect the treasure within. She lifted the lid, revealing a velvet-lined interior and a quartz sphere about three inches in diameter.
There were nine such spheres, one for each member of the Guardian Council. To be on the council required maturity, wisdom, and the ability to use a sphere. Not everyone had the gift. Her brother, Emery, had possessed as much power as she, but he didn't have the knack for communicating clearly through the sphere, and communication was vital for keeping the Families in harmony.
Absently she contemplated the planes and occlusions inside the translucent stone as she warmed it between her palms to wake the energy. The talking spheres had been made by Lady Sybil Harlowe, an ancestress of Bethany and one of the greatest mages of the sixteenth century. Bethany could feel Lady Sybil's power even now, as well as traces of every council member who had used it since.
The last before Bethany had been her father. Family legend described how at the age of three, Bethany had found the ball and engaged in an earnest conversation with the bemused head of the council, who had been in Newcastle at the time.
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