Incandescent with joy, she headed into the snow, the drumming of Sheba's hooves calling, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan.
�
Wearily Duncan crested the hill and paused to gaze down into the glen. Home. With the familiar hills and fields blanketed in white, the glen was a fairyland. This storm should have been much worse, but he had gentled it to make his ride easier.
Even Zeus seemed to recognize that he was nearing home, because his head lifted and he whickered. But that wasn't a general equine noise, it was the sound Zeus made when he sensed another horse. Wondering who was traveling in this weather on the day before Christmas, Duncan narrowed his eyes and peered into the white air.
Gwynne. Blazing with certainty, he recklessly urged Zeus to go faster. A dark figure began to take shape down the road.
�Duncan!� As reckless as he, she burst into sight from the curtain of snow as he and Zeus reached a broadening of the path. With her hood down and covered in a frosting of icy crystals, she was a fiery-haired angel of storms.
They came headlong together. As they pulled their horses to a halt side by side, Duncan leaped from his mount and reached up to pull her down into his arms. He had just enough wit to cast a stay spell on the horses before he lost himself in her. �Oh, God, Gwynne, I've thought of you every moment of every day!�
�Liar,� she laughed. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and the shattering power of her enchantress allure made the rest of the world vanish. �You were busy guarding the peace, and surely thought of me no more than once every hour or two.�
He stopped her words with his lips and they crushed together, fervently trying to blend into one being. �I didn't know how much I needed you, mo cridhe,� he breathed. �If I had let myself miss you, I never could have gone away.�
�All that matters is that you are home now.� Her hungry mouth and hands maddened him. Beyond thought, he tossed his plaid onto a drift of snow and laid her down, following to warm her with his own body. Her lush curves cushioned him, her softness an invitation to sin.
When she rocked against him, he tugged the folds of her plaid over both of them, then unfastened his breeches, so aroused that his hardened flesh was unaffected by the frigid air. Raising her skirts, he found her hotly ready, whimpering at his intimate touch. He thrust into her, needing union more than he needed the air he breathed.
As she cried out, thunderbolts boomed through the snow, as violent and commanding as the passion they shared. It took only moments for them to explode into shuddering ecstasy. He gasped for breath, lungs stinging from the frigid air, yet profoundly at peace. He felt whole for the first time since they had parted.
Peace shattered when he saw that she was crying, hot tears running across her cold-reddened cheeks. �I'm so sorry, mo c?ran.� He kissed her forehead as he moved his weight away from her. �Did I hurt you? It was abominable of me to take you like a crazed beast.�
Her eyes opened to reveal not pain but fury. �You've been aiding the Jacobite cause. Damnation, Duncan Macrae, how dare you!�
He became very still, wondering if she really knew what he had concealed even from Simon. �What are you talking about?�
She rolled away from him to sit at the end of the plaid, drawing her knees up and tugging her cloak tightly around her. �Don't try to pretend that you've done nothing wrong. When you are inside me, you can't hide what you have done.�
Warily he asked, �What do you mean?�
�Your touch has caused me to see visions since our first kiss, mostly images of blood and chaos and death. That was the chief reason I wanted nothing to do with you.� She drew a shuddering breath. �By our wedding night I had learned to shield myself from the images even in the throes of passion. Because I had been missing you so much, today my shields were weak and the images were more vivid than ever. I saw you using your power to protect the rebel forces.�
He felt naked. Shocked and ashamed. Angry. Struggling with his emotions, he said tightly, �I have been using power to reduce casualties on both sides. There is nothing wrong with that.�
She closed her eyes and snowflakes caught in her lashes like stars. �It's a clever rationale, Duncan. But you are interfering in ways that will precipitate disaster.�
She was not muting her enchantress power, and she was so achingly desirable that he wanted to prostrate himself on the plaid and beg her forgiveness for anything he'd done wrong. It took a major effort of will to resist the effects of her devastating allure. �Yet you married me despite my evil touch. One wonders why, Gwyneth Owens.�
Her eyes opened, her gaze stark. �The Guardian Council asked me to become your balance-mate. They hoped I might prevent you from triggering a catastrophe.�
Her words were a dagger in his heart. His wife had lied about their marriage, and the elders of the Families, men and women he knew and respected, had thought him a danger to the world. �So you married me not because Lady Beth thought it a good idea, but by order of the council. How strange.� Numbly he got to his feet. �I thought I had taken a wife. Instead I have a spying martyr sacrificing herself in my bed.�
�I am your wife, not your enemy. I found you both fearsome and fascinating, and the council's urging made it possible to do what my heart truly desired. We are bound by chains of fate, Duncan. The council's request was merely one link.� She also stood, shaking the snow from her plaid before wrapping it around her trembling shoulders.
Duncan pulled his plaid from the crushed snow to protect himself from the bitter cold. Damn, his dismay was causing the temperature to plunge. He forced his mind into the discipline needed to stabilize conditions before they both froze to death, then asked, �What dreadful actions am I accused of?�
�You were using weather magic to keep the armies apart and allow the Jacobites a clear march south,� she said wearily. �Perhaps that could be justified as legitimate, but what seared through my mind was your guilt and misgivings. Though you claim you acted for the good of all, in your heart is the knowledge that you are trying to change the outcome of this rebellion. Your doubts betray you.�
His eyes narrowed challengingly. �Yes, I have doubts that I am making the right decisions, but only a fool takes such matters lightly. What is undeniable is that my actions have reduced the amount of bloodshed so far. Simon and I both worked to keep the armies from fighting a pitched battle, and he's as loyal a Sassenach as you.�
�Intent matters. No matter what you say or how you rationalize your actions, you are defying Guardian principles to support your own desires.�
His temper exploded. �Your precious books and principles belong in libraries. I must work in the world as it is! There is a civil war in progress. I didn't start it, but since it's here I'm doing my best to control the damage. My actions have all been aimed at encouraging the prince to withdraw from England. Once that happens, he can reclaim the throne of Scotland which belongs to the Stuarts by right of blood. Scotland and England can be neighbors and equals once more.�
Her gaze was unflinching. �It's a pretty dream, but it will not happen. The prince wants to rule all of Britain. He will never settle for Scotland alone.�
She was voicing his own private fear�that the prince's ambitions would interfere with a goal that was both better and achievable. Not wanting to admit that, he growled, �What makes you so sure? Did you see that in Isabel's glass?�
She hesitated as if wondering how to explain the inexplicable. �Long before we met, I had one magical talent. On very rare occasions, I have felt an absolute sense that something is true. As I said, this feeling is rare, but so far it has never been wrong. In my bones and soul, I know that a Stuart victory would be a disaster for all of Britain, and that your prince will destroy Scotland as you know it.�
Even though he disagreed, her certainty was daunting. �What form will this disaster take? I think that a Jacobite victory in Scotland will give us back our freedom for a relatively low price in terms of human suffering. How can that be wrong?�
> She shook her head with frustration. �I wish I could say why, but I have the knowledge without the reasons.�
His mouth twisted bitterly. �You will have to come up with more persuasive arguments than that, Gwyneth Owens. You've spent your life surrounded by English council members who had no use for the Jacobites, and that is warping every thought you have on the subject.�
�I am not meekly echoing the opinions of the council, Duncan.� Shivering, she wrapped her plaid tighter around her. �I had hoped that telling you about my visions would persuade you to reconsider the course you have chosen, but I have failed. I had also hoped that our disagreements would not affect our marriage, but I have failed there also. Failed you, failed myself, and failed our marriage.�
His heart seemed to stop. How had they gone from searing passion to estrangement so quickly? �You . . . you will leave and tell the council to censure me?� He reached out a hand in supplication, wanting to hold her.
�No!� She retreated from his hand until she backed up to Sheba. The horses were huddled nose to tail against the biting wind. �I am not leaving you yet. I will return to Dunrath and pray that you come to your senses before it's too late.�
Relief was so profound it weakened him. �Perhaps it is you who must come to your senses. Search my heart, Gwynne. You know that I truly desire to help as many people as possible, and that is the essence of being a Guardian.�
She swung into the saddle without his aid. �The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Duncan Macrae. What you need is the clarity to see beyond your personal desires for Scotland.� Her mouth twisted. �Lady Bethany told me that I would know what to do. I only wish that she was right.�
Telling himself that her attitude would soften, he mounted Zeus and followed her down the snowy path into the glen. His wife's enchantress sensuality worked both ways: just as he needed her, she needed him. A few days of shared passion would soften her Sassenach refusal to understand.
He didn't dare believe otherwise.
TWENTY-NINE
G wynne felt a curious calm now that the crisis with her husband had arrived. Though the ride back to the castle was silent, they entered the courtyard side by side. An unperceptive observer might have thought they were in charity with each other.
Duncan welcomed the Christmas Eve celebration, perhaps thinking that the merrymaking�and the free-flowing drink�would soften Gwynne's attitude. She almost wished that would happen, but she could not free herself from bleak despair. Duncan's rationalizations had pushed him perilously close to the point where he might be declared a renegade if the council became aware of his partisanship.
She slipped away from the celebration early, unable to maintain a gay facade any longer. Safe in her rooms, she built up her fire as an icy wind rattled the windows. Nights like this made her particularly grateful for the renovations to the living quarters. If the castle was in its original state, she'd be frozen to the marrow.
Lionel appeared with his usual impeccable timing. She scooped him up gratefully. �Hard times ahead,� she whispered into the soft striped fur.
Though she had never lied to Duncan, she had withheld the full truth from him. Today it had seemed right to reveal all in the hope that she could persuade him to turn from the path he was on. She might as well have saved her breath. All she had done was hurt and alienate him, and his pain echoed within her.
Despite her conviction that he was making a terrible mistake, she could understand his position. Guardians were raised to be protectors, and for Duncan the needs of his homeland and countrymen inspired fierce loyalty. No wonder he hoped that Prince Charles Edward would prove a boon to Scotland. But Scotland would not emerge as a free and independent nation again under a restored Stuart dynasty; Gwynne's inner voice was quite sure of that.
Might her inner voice be wrong? In theory, yes, but Gwynne was as sure of its truth as of anything in her life. To Lionel, she murmured, �What can I do to prevent Duncan from being the catalyst of great harm?�
Betray him. The answer was as chilling as the winter wind. Though she could not yet see what form her betrayal would take, it was no longer possible to believe she could avoid it.
Setting Lionel down, she removed her gown. She had deliberately chosen a front-lacing corset and a garment that required no maid. Tonight, she needed privacy.
She slipped her warmest nightgown on, thinking wistfully of Arthurian legends about enchantresses who could hold men in thrall for as long as they wished. But that was legend. If Gwynne tried to persuade her husband to abandon the Jacobite cause by using magic, the effect would be temporary at best�and after his passion had been slaked he would be justly enraged at her attempt to manipulate him.
Passion . . . Sensual memory of their incredible lovemaking up in the hills surged through her with molten power. She had not known that desire could be so earthshaking. Only in the aftermath of rapture had she sensed Duncan's traitorous behavior and decided it was time for the whole truth.
When and if Duncan left the celebration to join her, would she be able to resist him? Or would she fall on him with wild urgency as she had this afternoon? Afraid to find out, she locked both doors to her room.
She crawled under the covers and cuddled Lionel close. Though Duncan would recognize the message of the locked doors, he would not like it.
�
The warmth of the Christmas Eve celebration was a grand contrast to the cold, isolated weeks of shadowing the Jacobite army. By his fourth dram of good Scots whiskey, Duncan decided that this gathering should become a regular Dunrath tradition, a gentler prelude to the more riotous Hogmanay celebration.
Now it was time to go to his wife and repair the damage done by their earlier quarrel. She was too blindly faithful to the conservative Guardian Council, but she was also intelligent and adaptable. Once he had explained his position calmly and in greater detail, she would accept his point of view. With luck and passion as a persuader, she might even come to share his views once she discarded her prejudices.
His steps quickened as he climbed the steps. Their coupling earlier had been fiercely satisfying, but now he would make love to her slowly, giving rapt attention to every inch of her exquisite body. Lord above, how he'd missed her! He reached for the doorknob. . . .
Her bedroom was locked. He gazed down in shock, jiggling the fancy porcelain doorknob imported from France. But the door did not open. Still not believing, he stalked into the sitting room they shared and tried that door also.
Locked.
Rage blazed through him, triggering lightning flashes that crashed across the winter sky. Ignoring every tenet of restraint, he blasted the doorknob with thunderous energy. The internal mechanism shattered, releasing the lock.
Furiously he threw the door open and burst into the bedroom. �How dare you lock your door against your husband!�
The night candle showed Gwynne jerk herself upright in the bed. The braid of bright hair falling over her shoulder was a garish contrast to her pale face and taut expression. �Whiskey makes your accent more Scottish,� she said, her voice not quite steady. �We didn't have a simple argument, Duncan Macrae. You have bent your Guardian oath to the breaking point, and I cannot be your wife while that is true.�
He stared at her, incredulous. Gwynne wore a plain nightgown designed for warmth, not seduction, yet she was so desirable that it hurt to look at her. �I don't know how matters are managed in England, but in Scotland a husband and wife settle their disagreements in bed.�
A single kiss would begin to melt her stubborn resistance, he knew it. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and in the melding of their bodies they would be able to breach the abyss that was forming between them. Between rage and desperation, he strode to the bed and reached for her.
As she gasped and pulled back, a screaming fury leaped from under the covers and attacked him. The beast attached itself to his left arm with vicious claws
while its fangs sank through his coat to draw blood. Startled, he knocked the creature from his arm and instinctively retaliated.
�No!� Gwynne countered his power with a blast that shoved him away from the bed and neutralized his energy attack. He staggered backward and grabbed at a chair to steady himself, so weak it took most of his strength just to breathe.
As he tried to shake off the effects of her defense spell, his attacker crouched in preparation for another assault. It was Gwynne's damned cat, almost unrecognizable because its fur was fluffed to twice its normal size. Wildcats were the fiercest predators in Britain, and this crouching half breed looked ready to rip his throat out.
Before the cat could attack again, Gwynne swooped forward and caught the beast in a towel, swiftly wrapping the flailing limbs to prevent being hurt herself. �It's all right, Lionel,� she said soothingly. Duncan felt the tingle of magic that meant she was using a calming spell as well as words and touch.
The cat stopped struggling and its fur began to flatten. She cooed to it, �Don't worry, sweeting, my husband won't ravish me.� Raising her head, she glared at Duncan. �I won't allow him to.�
Dizzily he wondered if he would have taken his wife against her will. Surely not. Yet when he touched her, control vanished. . . . He drew an uneven breath. �I will never harm you, mo c?ran. But don't deny what is between us. Passion is a great gift, and through it we can find common ground.�
Face implacable, she cuddled her pet to her soft, provocative breasts. �Sex is not the answer this time, Duncan. The issues are too large and threaten too many people.�
Any remnants of desire he had vanished. �If the council hoped you'd drive me mad, they were right.� He sank into the wooden chair that had supported him. Strength was returning, but very slowly. �I should have remembered that enchantresses have a special talent for defense spells since they need protection more than most. I must give thanks that you didn't use a fire spell.�
She perched on the edge of the bed, holding the cat like a shield. �I'm sorry if I hurt you, but I was afraid you might kill Lionel by mistake.�
�If I do kill him, it won't be by mistake.� Seeing her expression, he said, �That was a joke. I won't harm a hair on that vicious moggy's head.� He rubbed his throbbing temple, wishing he'd drunk less whiskey. �The beast really is your familiar.�
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