A Kiss of Fate

by Mary Jo Putney

He kicked at her when she tried to pull the sock on his left foot. �Don't fight me on this,� she said. �It's cold in the dungeons, and your feet might freeze if they're bare.�

  Gritting his teeth, he allowed her to put the socks and shoes on. He managed another kick when she was done. His foot hit her upper arm, but without enough force to do more than raise a mild bruise.

  Watching him warily, she unfastened the left manacle from the bedpost. He tried to go after her again, but she eluded him easily. His speed and strength were so badly compromised that it was like dealing with a young child. She hated doing this to him, but at least he was manageable. Reminding herself that she was acting for the greater good, she said, �Get out of bed.�

  Eyes blazing, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. When he stood, she tossed the plaid over her shoulders, not wanting to get near enough to wrap it around him. The chain around his left wrist was long enough to make a decent leash. Trying not to think of the ignominy of leading him like a farm beast, she said, �We must walk quietly down the back stairs. Are you strong enough to do that without falling?�

  He drew himself up as well as he could. �If I fall or jump, perhaps we'll both die at the bottom of the stairs.�

  �If that happens, I'll release the chain and you'll fall alone. Don't try it, Duncan,� she said coolly. �If you die, you lose the opportunity to kill me. And if you don't, you may injure yourself so badly you'll be a cripple the rest of your life.�

  In his eyes, she saw that his flaring rage was settling down into cold, hard anger. Under the circumstances, that was an improvement. �Come along now.�

  Reluctantly he followed her when she opened the door, then led the way to the back stairs, the links of the chain clinking ominously. She tried to surround them with a look-away spell, but it was hard to focus her power. Her guilt and fears occupied too much of her mind.

  Duncan had to clutch the railing, but they descended to the ground floor without incident. She watched him closely, guessing that great effort was required to keep him steady on his feet.

  They were crossing to the stairwell that led to the dungeon level when Maggie Macrae walked into the back hall, clean folded linens heaped in her arms. She halted when she saw them, her eyes widening with shock. �Mistress?�

  Before Gwynne could reply, Duncan marshaled his strength and snapped, �My mad Sassenach wife is going to imprison me so I can be turned over to the Duke of Cumberland for execution. Release me, Maggie Macrae!�

  When the housekeeper's horrified gaze swung to her mistress, Gwynne said calmly, �He's lying, Maggie. I aim to lock him up in a cell downstairs, but it's to save his life, not to take it. You guessed that I have the second sight, and I do. He intends to join the Jacobite army for the great battle the prince lusts after. I . . . I fear that he will be killed.�

  The housekeeper's face paled. �You think the rebels will be defeated?�

  �I'm sure of it.� A frightening burst of prophecy swept through Gwynne and words began tumbling from her mouth. �Men will die either way, Maggie. That is dreadful enough, but there will be worse to come. Jean is well known to have led men to the Jacobite camp and traveled with the army. If Duncan falls while fighting for the prince, Dunrath will be treated as a rebel stronghold. The Hanoverians will claim a bloody reckoning, and even babies like your own sweet grandchildren will not be safe.�

  �Don't listen to her!� Duncan snapped. �She's a Sassenach spy for the Hanoverians. Her goal is to cripple the Jacobite forces. My presence can make the difference, Maggie Macrae. For Scotland's sake, call for help and free me!�

  Gwynne's heart sank. Maggie had served Duncan's parents, had watched him grow up. She would never side with an Englishwoman against the head of her clan.

  Mouth tight, Maggie said, �I wish I'd had the courage to lock up my Diarmid, Mistress. Do you need my help?�

  Duncan stared at her incredulously. �You will betray me, too? A clan member I've known my whole life?�

  Maggie's mouth tightened even more, but she held his gaze. �I am a Macrae, but I am also a woman and a mother. I see no purpose to princes leading boys like Diarmid to their doom for the sake of royal power and pride.� She glanced at Gwynne. �Sometimes a touch of the sight shows up in my dreams. Last night I dreamed that Dunrath was razed to the ground, the crofters' homes burned, dead bodies lay whitened in the rain. If imprisoning Duncan Macrae might prevent that, I'll help you and let God be my judge.�

  Weak with relief, Gwynne uttered a silent prayer of thanks. �I've fitted up one of the cells to hold Duncan. Come with me so you'll know the location. If anything should happen to me, someone else needs to know where he is.� She repressed a shiver at the thought of him starving to death in a prison where no one would hear his cries.

  From Maggie's expression, she'd had the same thought. She set her load of linens on a table. �It will be best if I take him his meals. Your movements are noticed more.�

  Gwynne nodded agreement, and the three of them descended the ancient steps to the warren of rooms and passages that comprised the lowest level of the castle. The rooms below the kitchen had a separate stairway and they were now used for household storage, but the oldest section had been a dungeon.

  Gwynne had picked the most remote cell and placed a don't-see spell on it. As they approached the end of the dank stone corridor, the housekeeper frowned in puzzlement. Gwynne hastily modified the spell so that that Maggie would be unaffected. Other mundanes who came this way would probably turn back, thinking they had found a dead-end passage.

  Gwynne swung the door open. The cell was small, with a pair of slit windows that would never allow a man Duncan's size to escape even if they weren't barred with iron. Not that going through a window would mean freedom. The cells had been carved from the sheer cliff that made the castle impregnable, and they looked out into nothingness.

  Gwynne had furnished the plain, narrow wooden bed with fresh blankets and pillows. She had also surreptitiously hauled a small table, a chair, and a badly worn little carpet down the steps herself. On the table were books and candles, while a hole in an outside corner provided crude sanitary facilities.

  Despite her best efforts, it was still a cold, bleak place. �I'm sorry this isn't better, but your ancestors didn't believe in wasting comforts on prisoners.�

  Duncan glowered at her. �You take me prisoner in my own home, then worry about my comfort? You're a pair of mad featherbrained females!�

  �Be grateful you're being held captive by females,� Gwynne said tartly. �There's no point in suffering unnecessarily. Though if you prefer, that can be arranged.�

  He stepped inside with contempt. �Adam Macrae was imprisoned in the Tower of London with brandy and servants, but a prison is still a prison.�

  And chains were still chains. From the family histories, Gwynne knew that Adam had been put in shackles to keep him from escaping the Tower. The touch of iron had been most effective.

  She followed her husband into the cell. One reason she had chosen this one was the rusted but solid iron ring that was set in the wall. A long chain attached to the ring suggested that this chamber had housed other iron-sensitive mages in the past. Snapping the open end of the left manacle to the chain, she said, �You should have enough length to move around the cell easily.�

  His brows arched. �What an unnatural wife you are to keep me in chains when I'm going to be locked in a cell that no one has ever escaped from.�

  His comment was for Maggie's benefit, since the older woman didn't know about Guardians and Duncan's susceptibility to iron. �Think of the chain as my respect for your cleverness, my lord husband.�

  She took a last look around the bleak cell and made a mental note to bring down a tinderbox, since he wouldn't be able to light his candles by magic. Though there was no fireplace, it was April now and there were plenty of blankets, so his captivity shouldn't be too uncomfortable. It was the best she could do. �Let me know
if you have any particular requests.�

  Taking the plaid from her shoulders, she warily wrapped it around him. Bleak and exhausted, he was beyond striking at her again, but his iron-dark eyes still burned with the fury of betrayal. �How long will you keep me here?�

  �Until the rebellion is over. Less than a fortnight, I think.� Throat tight, she added, �I'm sorry.�

  �If you were sorry, you would set me free,� he said grimly.

  �I'm not that sorry.� On the verge of tears, she left the cell. After Maggie joined her in the passage, Gwynne turned the heavy key in the lock. There was a second key that the housekeeper could use to bring food to the cell. There was only one manacle key, and Gwynne would carry that herself until the day Duncan could be released.

  As she and the housekeeper made their way through the maze of passages, she said, �Thank you for supporting me, Maggie. I feel ghastly doing this to Duncan, but I don't know what other choice I had.�

  �A pity more women don't have your courage and resolution.� Maggie glanced at her askance. �The lairds of Dunrath have always been an uncanny lot, and you're cut of the same cloth, Gwyneth Owens.�

  Gwynne tried to conceal her surprise. She should have realized that despite the Guardian spells meant to reduce curiosity among their mundane neighbors, great power would not go wholly unnoticed by people who lived with members of the Families.

  As they reached the foot of the steps that led up to the ground floor, Maggie asked haltingly, �My Diarmid . . . can you see if he will survive the battle?�

  Gwynne winced, wishing the question hadn't been asked, but since it had been, she must try to answer. After visualizing the boy's youthful face, she mentally moved him forward through time, frowning as she tried to sort out the possibilities.

  Maggie made a despairing sound at Gwynne's expression. Quickly Gwynne said, �I don't see him being killed fighting. But remember that the sight is far from perfect.�

  �Then he'll come home safely?�

  Eyes unfocused, Gwynne struggled to clarify her impressions. �I don't know. After the battle, the victorious army will pursue the defeated soldiers with . . . great fierceness.� A swift image of a mounted man overtaking a fleeing boy and slicing off his head made her want to vomit. Was the boy Diarmid? She didn't think so�but he would be facing such dangers as he tried to make his way home.

  Maggie swallowed hard. �Are you sure you're doing the right thing?�

  Gwynne swayed a little as she thought of the enormous responsibility she was taking on. Dear God, what if she was wrong? You will know what to do. Though Lady Bethany had made it sound simple and logical, now that the crisis was here her choices were neither. �Yes, I am. Perhaps the Young Pretender has the strength and will to win the throne, but he'll have to do it without Duncan's aid.�

  Maggie sighed. �I don't think the prince can win, so I shall pray that the end comes quickly. The longer this rising lasts, the more lads like Diarmid will die.�

  Gwynne would be praying just as hard.

  �

  As soon as the key grated in the lock, Duncan stumbled to the narrow bed and collapsed. Never in his life had he been forced to endure the touch of so much iron for so long, and he felt as if he had been beaten to within an inch of his life.

  Yet what he felt wasn't really physical pain. It was more like a disruption of his nature that paralyzed the deepest part of him. He felt like a woodland creature that had been struck by lightning and left alive but helpless, prey to any passing beast.

  Lying down, he felt a small return of strength. Would he grow accustomed to the iron and regain some of his power? There was nothing in Macrae family archives to suggest that. The most he could hope for was some reduction in the psychic discomfort. Mentally he apologized to Adam Macrae for not properly understanding what his ancestor had suffered during his year and a half in the Tower of London.

  From where he lay, he studied the cell, looking for a weak spot, but saw nothing. His bloody Sassenach bride had used his love and trust to entrap him when he was least expecting it, and she had put him in a prison he could not escape.

  If fate had brought them together, it was a fate unspeakably cruel.

  �

  In a bothy south of Inverness, Simon, Lord Falconer awakened to dawn with a surprising degree of well-being despite a damp, chilling mist. He stretched, his muscles complaining about another night spent on the hard ground with only a blanket for warmth. Yet he felt more optimistic than he had in months. What had changed?

  Mentally he searched the landscape of events, and found the answer. Relief rushed through him with giddying intensity. In the chess game of war, Duncan Macrae had been taken from the board.

  Gwynne had succeeded.

  THIRTY-FOUR

 

  14th April 1746

  Inverness

 

  Dearest Gwynne,

  I wish that I had not started training my power, because I now have a horrid, uncanny feeling that the end is near, and it will not be a good one. My scrying shows that the Duke of Cumberland and his army are only a few miles east of Inverness, and they look well fed and well rested, not like our men.

  The prince's Scottish leaders like Lord George Murray have urged him to disband the army and send everyone home. Rebels who know the country can easily harass the Hanoverians, then fade back into the mountains. Later the army could be gathered again for a new campaign.

  But the prince listens only to his Irish and French advisers, who urge him to stand and fight. Can't they see what a disadvantage we'll be at against a larger, better-equipped army? Even I, a mere woman with no military training, can see the dangers in taking the field against a vastly superior opponent. The courage of our men has carried the day against great odds before, but I feel in my bones that our luck is running out.

  I wish I could do something. Anything. If only I had studied my lessons more when I was young! If only I had inherited the Macrae weather-working magic. Though I know that using power for partisan reasons would be a violation of my oath, I am desperate enough that if I could, I might conjure a great storm to allow our men to escape if that becomes necessary. I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that Duncan is made of sterner stuff and will not break his vows.

  Be strong, dearest Gwynne. My intuition tells me that you are Dunrath's best, perhaps only, hope. And if this is my last letter, know how blessed I feel that for at least a time, I have had a sister.

 

  Jean Macrae of Dunrath

 

  Gwynne's eyes clouded with tears till she could no longer see the letter in her scrying glass. By the time her vision cleared, the image was gone.

  Would her sister-in-law be so affectionate if she knew that Gwynne had imprisoned Duncan to stop him from aiding the Jacobite cause? Probably not. Of course, Jean also assumed that Duncan would never consider breaking his oath. Would she be shocked to know that he had not only aided the rebels in small ways but was preparing to change the very outcome of the rebellion? Or would she be glad to know he shared her partisan convictions?

  Thank heaven Jean wasn't a weather mage. Gwynne could not have borne to imprison two Macraes.

  �

  Two days after Gwynne watched Jean write her letter, the inevitable battle was fought at a boggy place called Drummossie Moor, a few miles southeast of Inverness. Gwynne monitored the movements of the armies, watched them take their positions.

  When she saw the smoke of the first ragged artillery volley, she was tempted to put the scrying glass away so she could not see the battle, but grimly she forced herself to watch. By imprisoning Duncan, she had insured that the rebellion would run its natural course. The least she could do was bear witness.

  The starved and exhausted Highlanders fought with a courage that was heartbreaking to watch. Gwynne watched dry-eyed, beyond tears. The fighting ended in less tha
n an hour, leaving the field strewn with the dead and dying. Death filled the air, hammered in her head, saturated her with grief.

  The brutal pursuit of the defeated troops was what she had envisioned, and worse. When she could bear no more, Gwynne rose from her library table and headed for the dungeon. In the days since she had locked Duncan up, she had been shamefully glad that Maggie Macrae was tending the prisoner, but this news must come from Gwynne.

  When she opened the cell door, Duncan looked up from the table where he was reading. �How gracious of you to visit your prisoner.� Before he could make another caustic remark, he saw her expression. He jumped to his feet. �What has happened?�

  It took her two tries to say, �The government troops have won a great victory. The Jacobites suffered massive casualties.� She drew an unsteady breath. �The rebellion has been crushed.�

  His face paled. �Is the prince dead? What of my sister? How many men of the glen have died?�

  �The prince escaped the field, but other than that, I know few details.� She fumbled for words to explain what she had seen. �Battle creates a fog of agony and frantic emotions and bloody images that makes it almost impossible to narrow my focus to individuals. I looked for Jean and Diarmid and others from the glen, but couldn't see them.� She wondered if that meant they were dead. Surely not everyone she knew and loved who had fought for the rebel cause could have been killed.

  �God damn you!� With one tormented sweept of his arm, he knocked the table over, sending books flying and smashing a Chinese porcelain teacup. �I could have saved them! Yet you in your self-righteous bigotry prevented me.� He turned to face her, anguish and rage equally visible in his face. �My sister may even now be raped and murdered beside the road.�

  �Jean should be safe in Inverness.� Gwynne prayed that was so.

  �You think my sister a coward? Unlike you, she would not hide in safety when there was work to be done. If she dies, it is on your head, Gwyneth Owens.� His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. �May you live in guilt and pain for the rest of your life.�

  Her lips twisted bitterly. �You may take pleasure in the knowledge that there is nothing you can do to me that is worse than the guilt I already bear.�

  His expression changed and they stared at each other, alone in their private hells. They had each done what they believed right�and it had brought them to this.

  Duncan was the one to break the silence. �When will you release me?�

  Tiredly she tried to see the shape of coming events. �You'll be freed in a few days, when the chaos from battle dies down. No more than a week.�

  �So you will have a few days' head start in your flight.� His eyes were like ancient ice. �When I am not bound by iron, there is nowhere you can go that is far enough away that I will not find you.�