Now to find if he had exaggerated the size of the Dunrath library. She entered and took stock of the contents. The room faced south so the light was excellent, always an advantage when reading old texts, and lush Persian carpets softened the floor. A long table, a desk, and half a dozen straight chairs were scattered about, while a pair of wing chairs and ottomans sat cozily by the fireplace.
But when she scanned the book titles, she was dismayed to find no arcane texts at all. Though it was a very fine gentleman's library, there was no Guardian lore.
There had to be more. Perhaps there was a second room housing the secret texts, as was the case at Harlowe?
Frowning, she scanned the library with her inner eye and immediately discovered a door in the corner. It was shaped and painted to fit into the molded wall panels. More important, it was bespelled so that a mundane eye would pass over it unseeing.
She moved a chair that partially blocked access and placed her hand on the flat knob. As soon as she touched it, she recognized that another spell was involved. Frowning, she felt her way through the spell as if walking a garden maze. Ah, it was a repulsion spell. Even if a mundane with a touch of wild magic happened to notice the faint outlines of the door, he would be uninterested in learning more.
Feeling vastly pleased with her ability to navigate the library's defenses, she opened the door and found a second, smaller room furnished in a similar fashion to the main library. But where was it in terms of the castle layout? It was strange to have space to hide a whole room.
Heavens, there was another spell! A very clever one that made people incurious about how the space was arranged. No one would notice that a room-size area was unaccounted for unless they took careful measurements of the whole floor. She hadn't noticed herself, until she had penetrated the arcane library's magical barriers.
This time when she crossed the room to the bookshelves, she recognized texts that could be found in any Guardian library. There was plenty of space for new bookcases, too. Duncan had said she was free to expand the collection. If she were a cat, she'd be licking her chops.
Many of the volumes were deliciously unfamiliar. Much Guardian lore was in journals and workbooks since the information could not be distributed publicly and printing was too expensive when only a handful of copies were needed. Wondering if the library contained any information on enchantresses, she decided to try a technique her father had used.
Concentrating hard on the desired subject, she moved her open hand along the nearest bookshelf, her palm a few inches from the spines of the books. Nothing. The next shelf. Again, nothing.
Unsure whether she was doing this wrong or if there simply wasn't any material on enchantresses, she tried the bottom shelf. Halfway along, she felt warmth emanating from a slim volume. She pulled it from the shelf and found that it was a treatise on powers most often found in females. A quick scan suggested that there was little on enchantresses, but she set the book on the table for closer study.
She returned to her search, and struck gold when one narrow, faded volume almost scorched her palm. The book was the journal of a French enchantress of the previous century. This was exactly what Gwynne had hoped for. It was written in a French regional dialect, but she could understand it reasonably well.
Book in hand, she headed toward one of the chairs by the fireplace�then stopped in her tracks when she saw the portrait hanging over the mantel. It was an oil painting of Isabel and Adam Macrae. Though Gwynne had once seen an engraving of the couple, that had been pale and lifeless in comparison.
She stepped forward to study the portrait more closely. Isabel de Cortes had been her heroine when she was a girl. She still was.
To a half-Guardian child with no power, Isabel had been a shining example of what a woman could be. Gifted with wild magic, she had no Guardians in her ancestry and she'd been raised by a mundane family that loved but didn't understand her. A student of John Dee, Queen Elizabeth's own sorcerer, she had become a great mage through her fierce determination and discipline. Gwynne had thought it was ironic that she was Isabel's opposite: raised with every Guardian advantage, but no innate ability.
In the painting, the couple were in their middle years and Adam's dark hair had silvered at the temples. Beside him an open window revealed a turbulent Scottish sky as a symbol of his weather mastery. Underneath his Elizabethan beard, his features were very like Duncan's. The Macraes bred true. His hand rested on the head of a tall dog that resembled dogs that lived in the castle now, so it wasn't only the humans that passed down their resemblance.
But it was Isabel who drew most of Gwynne's attention. She was no beauty. Her dark face was too narrow and exotically un-English, her features too angular. Yet the intelligence and humor in her gaze were vividly compelling. On her lap was a large tabby cat, and in her right hand she held the famous obsidian scrying glass.
Last night Gwynne had sensed Isabel's energy on the ruby ring, and today she saw Isabel's face. The combination brought her heroine alive as never before.
Curious what else she might have missed when she made her beeline for the books, she examined the room more carefully. A cluster of miniatures hung on the wall behind the wide desk. She could identify none of the people portrayed, though the men were clearly all Macraes.
Clothing style allowed her to guess which woman was probably Duncan and Jean's mother. She had a lovely, enigmatic smile. The late Lady of Dunrath, who had died about six years earlier, had been a Macleod from the Isle of Skye. In fact, she had been the sister of council member Sir Ian Macleod. They had the same misty gray eyes.
Next Gwynne investigated a glass curio case full of interesting objects from around the world. The dragon figurine was surely Chinese, and there was a mask from somewhere in Asia that she could only guess at. The Dutch East Indies, perhaps. There was also a silver box that looked like a turreted tower, perhaps from Spain or Italy. Other objects were less identifiable, but all possessed a faint glow of magical power.
She knelt to look at the lower shelves, and caught her breath when she saw what was surely Isabel's scrying glass. Duncan had said it was among the treasures of Dunrath even though the obsidian lens had gone blank after Isabel's death. It sat quietly on top of a small padded velvet drawstring bag, the smoky stone giving no hint of its significance.
Surely no one would mind if the new mistress touched it. Reverently Gwynne opened the glass door, hoping that she would feel Isabel's energy more strongly than in the ring, where it had been overlaid with other energies.
She lifted the scrying glass from the cabinet, the translucent stone cool against her palm�and was blasted by a wave of energy that knocked her onto her backside.
Her heart was pounding and she must have blacked out for a moment, but as she retrieved her scattered wits she found that she still held the scrying glass. Glad for the thickness of the carpet, she got to her feet and sat in one of the wing chairs. Isabel's vibrant energy had been deeply imprinted in the obsidian, along with a background chord of powerful masculinity.
Gwynne glanced at the portrait, knowing that the male energy was from Adam Macrae. Strange how the force and individuality of their personalities lived on so many years after their bodies had been laid to rest in the cool green Scottish soil. It was said that they had died within an hour of each other. Gwynne felt a tightness in her throat, and wasn't sure if it was grief for the fact that Isabel and Adam were no more, or regret that her marriage to Duncan was not rooted in such powerful love. Perhaps in time they would develop that�if the Jacobite rebellion didn't tear them apart.
Her eyes a little misty, she looked down at the scrying glass�and found that the long-dormant obsidian had come alive.
TWENTY-ONE
I t was late afternoon when Duncan returned to the castle, having called on as many of the glen homesteads as possible. The familiar hills and faces had soothed his tension of the evening before. He was home
, where he belonged.
He was unsurprised to learn that his bride had disappeared into the library hours earlier. Guessing that she might be hungry, he ordered a tray with hot tea and shortbread and took it upstairs. She had managed to find and enter the private library. Mentally he was already beginning to think of her as a fully trained mage. He must be careful of that. Remarkable though her progress was, she was still a neophyte in many ways.
�Gwynne?� Balancing the tray on one hand, he opened the door to the inner library. �You must be starving.�
She sat at the long table, books scattered about and a tablet full of notes under her right hand. At his entrance she looked up, blinking as if not quite sure where she was. �You were right, this is a fine library, and I look forward to making it finer yet.�
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 glass.�
She nodded. �I did. And . . . and it works for me.�
�Really!� He leaned forward. �How remarkable. Almost as if the glass has been waiting here for you.�
�I think it was,� Gwynne said soberly. She touched the velvet bag. �I assume no one will mind if I take possession of this.�
�Of course not. The fact that the glass 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 cockade.�
�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 damnably close to that now. Stop using your sexual 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 c?ran, 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 passion. 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 transmuted 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 wher
e 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 circumstances 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 glass 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 glass 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 passion, 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.
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