He glanced at Duncan. �Interesting coincidence that the weather has turned so unsuitable for military operations.�
From the coolness of his eyes, Duncan knew that the previous night's magic had not gone undetected. Well, he had never intended to lie about his actions. He was no good at that, even if it was possible to lie to Simon, which it probably wasn't. �Not a coincidence. Events were moving toward a bloody battle with thousands of casualties. Wounded men would have died of exposure before they could be treated. I decided that it was worth intervening to preserve life.�
Simon still watched with narrowed eyes. �You probably saved many lives, but you also aided the Jacobite cause. Perhaps you helped it too much.�
�My actions weren't taken lightly. If the weather persuades the Jacobite army to withdraw, the rising might end quickly with the Stuarts restored to the Scottish throne and England willing to accept the situation.�
�That's a wildly optimistic reading of the possibilities.�
�Probably,� Duncan admitted. �But where is the line drawn? When does the legitimate saving of lives become unacceptable interference? When does private sympathy for a cause slide over into forbidden partisanship?�
Simon's eyes softened. �Damned if I know. But Duncan . . . be careful. The line is likely to be very clear after you've crossed it.� His unspoken message was, Don't make me fight you.
Duncan couldn't agree more. But he must follow his conscience. Simon would do the same�and may God spare them from becoming enemies.
�
TWENTY-SEVEN
W ith Duncan and Jean and many of the young men gone, Dunrath waited in an uneasy limbo. Gwynne was acting head of the castle and the clan, which she found strange since she was so new to Glen Rath. Luckily, her authority was accepted without question, for everyone in the glen waited with her.
She spent some of her time writing to Lady Bethany and other English friends. Given the distances and bad roads, replies were slow in coming, yet she didn't feel unpleasantly isolated. The people of this remote valley depended on one another, which created a deeper sense of community than she had known at Harlowe.
With no distractions, her studies prospered. No wonder the Families all maintained homes in the Celtic fringes of Britain. In the pure, wild energy of these Scottish hills, her power continued to grow. As she had told Simon, her abilities tended to be quiet and feminine. Not for her calling the winds or hunting villains, but it no longer seemed impossible that someday she might sit on the council.
Her enchantress allure was now under control. She had developed several levels of shielding, depending on how she wanted to affect those around her. In public, she revealed a modest amount of allure to make her seem pleasant and worthy of respect, but not provocative. If she wished to persuade a man, she released enough power to make the fellow willing to listen and consider her point of view, but not so much that he would become a nuisance. As to her full enchantress magic�no one but Duncan would ever see that, and only then when they could act on it.
The combination of practice and using Isabel's obsidian glass had sharpened her scrying abilities, particularly in farseeing, the ability to view distant places. She could almost always find what she sought and she usually understood what the images meant. If she saw soldiers, she had only to wonder who they were and what their goal was and answers formed in her mind.
Tracking Duncan and Lord Falconer was harder because of Simon's shielding. Though she had known he was a powerful mage, she had previously lacked the ability to fully appreciate how great his magic was. She guessed that he and Duncan were equals in power, though their special talents were quite different. She hoped that Simon was keeping Duncan's Jacobite leanings in check.
Foretelling the future was a separate skill from farseeing. Occasionally she had flashes of foreknowledge, as when she sensed the outline of William Montague's life in the West Indies, but she had little control over the process. Even among Guardians, accurate foretelling was very rare because the future was a complex, ever-changing tapestry of possibilities. She was glad that she had no great gift in that area�the future was often not a comfortable place.
Even less comfortable were her blood-drenched nightmares. When she awoke, panicky, she was grateful for Lionel's warm furry presence. She wished there was another Guardian with whom she could discuss her nightmare visions, preferably Lady Bethany. But this was one burden she must carry alone.
Besides cultivating her individual talents, she worked to master the general spells that could be invoked by anyone with power. The look-away spell used to disguise the entrance to the arcane library was such a spell, and Gwynne became quite adept at it. She was particularly proud of concealing a horse in a paddock so that the groom couldn't find it until she released the spell. Luckily, the groom was an incurious sort.
She also practiced personal protection spells, which were particularly useful for females. Though Gwynne refused to learn the spell that could cause an attacker to burst into flames, there were lesser spells that she could use if necessary.
Between household tasks, studying, and starting drafts on three different essays, she stayed busy. Though never too busy to count the long, lonely nights as she waited for Duncan to come home.
From Jean Macrae
Derby, England
4th December 1745
Dearest Gwynne,
Our army has entered the city of Derby! Because of our cleverness at drawing the enemy away with feints, we have avoided two English armies and the way lies open to London, not much more than a hundred miles away. Though I know that the prince is disappointed that more English Jacobites haven't joined us, morale among the troops is high as the sky. We all feel privileged to be part of such a grand cause. Because of the swiftness and ease of our progress, there have been very few casualties on either side.
I imagine you are �seeing� that I'm well. I think I can sense when you check on me�in fact, you might even be watching me now. My appearance is most draggled, but don't worry, I'm well and healthy even though traveling with an army is hard on one's (very limited) wardrobe.
Robbie sends his regards. It is interesting to see him away from the glen. He seems older. More responsible. He is a good officer, and the men look up to him.
Tell Maggie Macrae that Diarmid is well and he sends his love. He doesn't say that in words, of course, because at sixteen one doesn't wish to look childish, but I know that the feeling is in his heart.
I must hurry to finish this because the courier who is taking messages north is anxious to leave, and I haven't your ability to persuade men to do whatever I ask!
Good-bye for now, my dearest sister�
Jean Macrae of Dunrath
Gwynne caught her breath as her scrying glass showed Jean's small, strong hand writing the words on paper. Silently the quill moved, was dipped in ink, resumed. By sheer chance, she had checked on her sister-in-law as the girl was engaged in writing Gwynne a letter. Watching the words being formed was a novel experience.
The image shimmered away. Gwynne guessed that the page was being folded and sealed for the courier. It would take at least a week to reach Dunrath.
Next she looked for Duncan, but she could detect only a faint quicksilver sense of him. She knew that he and Simon were near Derby and healthy, which was much better than nothing. Occasionally she received brief notes from her husband along the lines of �All is well, I miss you, mo cridhe.� This was reassuring, but hardly satisfying.
Brow furrowed, she put away the scrying glass. Despite Jean's exhilaration at the army's progress, the situation for the Jacobites wasn't good. If they reached London, every porter and fishwife and chimney sweep in the city would join the government troops to defend their homes. The thought of a pitched battle for the city ma
de Gwynne shudder. Casualties on both sides would be enormous. Pray God that didn't happen.
Though perhaps it wasn't God who was making this a relatively bloodless uprising. Quiet Guardian work behind the scenes might be steering the possibilities away from bloody disaster. The thought almost reconciled her to her husband's absence.
At least it did during the day. The nights, when she woke burning with need and loneliness, were another matter.
�
�Interesting,� Simon murmured as he contemplated his scrying glass. �Your Jacobite army is going to return to Scotland.�
Duncan glanced up from his boiled mutton, concealing his satisfaction at the news. He had improved greatly at keeping his thoughts, and his magic, away from Simon's sharp perception. �So wiser heads have prevailed?�
His friend nodded. �The Pretender wants to march on London and trust that legions of Jacobites will rise in support, but virtually none of his advisers agree. The army will start an orderly withdrawal tomorrow. The Pretender is furious to be thwarted, of course, and swears that he will call no more councils.�
Duncan frowned. �I hope he didn't mean that. The prince hasn't the experience to command his army alone.�
�I wouldn't count on him to go back on words said in anger,� Simon said dryly. �Lethal stubbornness is one of the defining characteristics of the House of Stuart.�
Duncan ignored the jibe. There was some truth to it, but the best of the Stuarts also had vision, courage, and the ability to capture men's hearts. Charles Edward would save Scotland with those traits once he relinquished the mad dream of conquering England.
Duncan had been bitterly disappointed when the snowstorm he'd conjured near Carlisle hadn't persuaded the prince to withdraw to Scotland. Instead, the army had marched far south into England. Mercifully they hadn't been attacked, and now they were finally coming home. Surely by the time the spring campaign season arrived, Charles would see the wisdom of consolidating his strength in Scotland.
Thinking of royalty, Duncan pulled out his own scrying stone and looked for King George. Royal actions, related matters . . . It was not hard to locate the energy of a king, for they were thunderstorms among the clouds of normal men.
After a few minutes of seeking, he gave a snort of disgust. �Your noble sovereign has packed the royal yacht with his dearest treasures and stands ready to flee if the rebels come any closer to London. How admirable.�
�I never said that I admired the Hanoverians,� Simon said coolly. �It is merely a case of finding their flaws more tolerable than Stuart failings.�
Duncan smiled reluctantly. �You're a dreadful cynic, Simon.�
�Nonsense. It is impossible to be cynical about royal houses. The most dyspeptic of comments rate as simple truth.�
�Perhaps we should try a republic, like the ancient Athenians.�
�It would be an amusing experiment, though doomed to failure. Average men are even less capable of governing themselves than kings, who at least are raised to the trade.� Simon absently sliced his piece of tough mutton into tiny shreds.
Belatedly recognizing that something was amiss, Duncan asked, �What's wrong?�
Simon frowned at his dinner plate. �I think it is time for us to separate, with you shadowing the Jacobite withdrawal while I track the English armies.�
Separation would simplify Duncan's situation, but he was surprised by the suggestion. �We could cover more ground, but I thought the council's purpose was for us to balance each other.�
�I'm not sure that's necessary now, since the rebellion is starting to falter.� Simon hesitated. �I need to go hunting. I feel that someone�a Guardian, surely�is working quietly behind the scenes to create greater trouble.�
�I've felt nothing of that,� Duncan said, surprised.
�Your strengths lie elsewhere. Whoever I am sensing must have great power to conceal himself so well. Unless I am imagining this . . . the energies I detect are so subtle that I sometimes question if they are real.� A dangerous light showed in Simon's gray eyes. �But I am seldom wrong about such perceptions.�
Concealing his disquiet, Duncan asked, �Is this mysterious power aiding the Jacobites or the Hanoverians?�
�Neither, I think. My feeling is that he simply wants to cause trouble. I think of him as Chaos.�
Duncan relaxed. Whatever Simon was sensing, it wasn't Duncan's own mild interventions on behalf of the Jacobite cause. �Good hunting. Whoever the fellow is, he sounds like someone who needs to be stopped.� A new thought struck, along with a sharp yearning for Gwynne. �If the prince is heading north, I might be home for Christmas.�
Simon's smile was wistful. �Very likely. You're a lucky man, Duncan.�
He knew that�and hoped that his luck held.
�
After the image of Jean's latest letter dissolved in the scrying glass, Gwynne leaned back into her bed pillows and rubbed her aching forehead. She had designed a spell to alert her when Jean was writing a letter home so she could learn what was happening without waiting for days. Looking over Jean's shoulder wasn't easy, but it allowed her to know how the girl felt about what was happening.
Jean seemed to be feeling a touch of disillusionment with the prince, and well she might. Gwynne's scrying showed that every night Charles drank heavily, arising morose and surly the next day after the army was already marching. As she had suspected the one time they'd met, he lacked the steadfastness a leader needed in adversity.
The hour was late and the castle silent, so she set aside her scrying glass and finished her cup of cooling herbal tea. When she dowsed the candles, Lionel emerged from some hidden place and joined her under the covers. He had an unerring knack for showing up at the right time to soothe her to sleep with his rumbling purr.
Toward morning her sleep lightened, and in the hazy state between dream and waking she saw Duncan in her mind. She smiled in her slumber, her hands stroking down her body because in this in-between time she could almost feel that he shared her bed, his kisses igniting her blood. She could feel his hands on her breasts and taste the salt of his skin. Body pulsing, she held out her arms. . . .
The dream Duncan stepped away, anguish on his face. He stood alone on a barren mountain and when she tried to approach, lightning crackled from the sky to form a burning barrier between them.
Dimly she recognized that the members of the council stood in a circle around her husband's position, their expressions grim as he held them at bay with the lightning. She tried to call his name but no sound emerged from her throat. He turned away and raised his arms. As the dark funnel of a tornado appeared above him, the world exploded into storm and blood.
She snapped into full wakefulness, heart pounding and sweat dampening her face. Dear God, Duncan, what have you done?
TWENTY-EIGHT
E arly afternoon, the day before Christmas. Though the New Year celebration called Hogmanay was more important in Scotland, Gwynne had suggested having a Christmas Eve feast for residents of the glen. As an Englishwoman, she wanted it, plus she thought a party would also raise people's spirits when so many men were away.
She glanced out the window, her hands resting on the spicy fruited cake she had been decorating with marzipan. Outside, snowflakes fell with ethereal stillness. The kitchen was a noisy contrast as every female in the Dunrath household and others from the glen prepared food. The cheerful equality of the process was another strong contrast to Harlowe. There, even when she was merely the librarian's daughter, Gwynne had never worked in the kitchen. She could have held herself apart here, but she enjoyed the feminine bustle and camaraderie of sharing the holiday work.
�They're all well, you know,� Maggie Macrae said quietly from across the scrubbed pine table.
Pulled from her reverie, Gwynne smiled at the housekeeper. �I know they are. But it would be fine indeed to have Duncan and Diarmid and the rest of the men of Glen Rath home tonight.� <
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�Men will be men, which is to say fools who prefer war to home and hearth,� Maggie said tartly. She cocked her head. �You have the second sight, don't you? Even though you're not a Highlander.�
Startled by the other woman's casual mention of the ability to see the future, Gwynne stammered, �A . . . a touch, perhaps. At least, sometimes I'm very sure of particular things. As now, when I'm sure that Duncan and Diarmid are well.� She had seen Diarmid that morning in her scrying glass.
�You'll tell me if you have a vision of Diarmid?�
While discussing Guardian power was forbidden, Gwynne guessed it was safe to speak as if she had the �sight.� �I had a brief dream of him last night. He looked thinner and tired, but he was well, and helping another rebel in need of aid. He'll come back to you a man, not a boy, Maggie Macrae.� She smiled inwardly. The longer she was in Scotland, the more she used sonorous full names, as those around her did.
Maggie's face eased. Before she could say more, her attention was claimed by her daughter, who had come to help with the preparations. As Maggie moved away, Gwynne returned to decorating the cake, an English recipe she had brought with her.
Keeping busy meant that she didn't think of Duncan more than a dozen times an hour. His absence was like an aching tooth, an emptiness that no one else could fill. They had now been separated longer since their wedding than they had been together. But at least she knew he was safe and well, which was more than most women who waited did.
She was putting the last marzipan star on the cake when intuition struck hard. Duncan? She raised her head and looked around, half expecting to see her husband stride into the kitchen with snowflakes falling from his cloak, but he wasn't there.
Yet he was . . . close. Surely she was not imagining that. Untying her apron, she said to Marie, the head cook, �Can you supervise the rest of the preparations? There is something I must do.�
�Of course, Mistress.� Marie pinched off a piece of the soft marzipan and popped it into her mouth. �Though of course that means testing the ingredients!�
Smiling abstractedly, Gwynne left the kitchen as quickly as she could. In the back hall, she donned her cloak and gloves, then threw a heavy wool plaid around her shoulders before she darted out to the stables. The gentle snowfall had turned the world to silent white purity. Three or four inches were on the ground and the fall showed no sign of stopping.
Neither of the grooms was in sight so she saddled Sheba herself, unable to bear wasting the time it would take to find help. Bursting with anticipation, she mounted and cantered the mare out into the snow. Luckily her loose morning gown was an adequate substitute for a habit.
Sheba was glad to stretch her legs, though the edge had been taken off her energy by the time they had to slow to climb the steep road that was the glen's only exit to the south. Curbing her impatience, Gwynne allowed Sheba to set her own pace. It wouldn't do to fall and break both their necks.
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