It occurred to her that she knew of no existing essays on the subject. Perhaps she would write one herself when she better understood how to control this particular power. The prospect of research and a.n.a.lysis gave her a warm scholarly glow.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the front hall, which was crowded with people and trestle tables loaded with food. Mercifully the musicians were in the courtyard playing for the dancers. Even so, their music was loud enough to sour milk.

As soon as Gwynne and Duncan appeared, a crowd formed around them. "My wife will not remember all your names tonight," Duncan called out, "so be sure to introduce yourselves again when next you meet."

"'Tis simple to remember us, Lady Dunrath," a male voice called out. "We're all named Macrae!"

That caused a roar of laughter, but it was true enough; nine out of ten people who were introduced to Gwynne were indeed Macraes. She concentrated on given names, then tried to tie the name to the " flavor" of that person's energy. Sensing an individual's unique inner nature was another new talent.

Maggie Macrae, the housekeeper, moved forward with a wide-eyed youth beside her. "Mistress, allow me to present my son, Diarmid."

Brown-haired and blue-eyed, Diarmid bobbed his head, then gazed at her with budding adoration. Gwynne realized that her control over the enchantress energy was slipping, so she clamped down on it again. William Montague had taught her how susceptible the young could be. "Good evening, Diarmid. I'm pleased to meet you."

"'Tis good that Duncan Macrae has brought a wife to the glen," he blurted out.

"'Tis glad I am to be here." She made sure her smile had only social friendliness.

Duncan said, "Gwynne, meet Donald Macrae, the most valuable man in the glen. Auld Donald is the steward of Dunrath."

The grizzle-haired steward studied Gwynne shrewdly before giving a small nod of approval. There was a hint of power in his aura that he'd probably inherited from a Macrae ancestor. He would be a good ally and a formidable foe.

As she and Auld Donald chatted, there was a break in the music. "Will you dance with me, mo cridhe?" Duncan asked. "'Tis the best way to learn to love the pipes."

She rolled her eyes in mock disbelief, but accepted his invitation willingly. After meeting half of Glen Rath, she wanted to relax with her husband.

They descended into the courtyard, where the cool evening air was rich with scents of wood smoke, roasting mutton, and tangy ale. She and Duncan joined the dancers who were lining up opposite each other in parallel lines. She smiled when she thought of their meeting at New Spring Gardens. "Remember our first dance?"

"How could I forget, milady?" he said with the husky French accent he'd used that night. "That was a dance between strangers. Now we know each other's mysteries."

She smiled a little sadly as she thought of how she had come to marry him. "Does one ever know all of another person's mysteries?"

The pipes began to wail and conversation became impossible. The dance was similar enough to ones Gwynne knew that she was able to follow the steps easily. Duncan, blast him, had been right. Dancing to the wild, siren call of the bagpipes was exhilarating. This was music that could lead a man-or a woman -to h.e.l.l and back.

The set ended, leaving her flushed and panting. "We must dance again later, my lord husband," she purred with a provocative narrowing of her eyes.

"Given our long ride, perhaps we should retire early," he said with equal provocation.

"Soon, then." She took his arm, letting her fingers stroke sensuously down his powerful forearm to his wrist. Was this fierce mutual pa.s.sion because they were newly wed, or did enchantress magic intensify their desire? She suppressed a smile, thinking of how pleasurable the research for her intended essay would be.

The musicians took a break, so Gwynne and Duncan went inside to find some food. They were just finishing their supper when Jean skipped up, eyes shining and a tall young man's hand clasped in hers. " Look who has come! Duncan, you remember Robbie Mackenzie. Gwynne, this is the lad I spoke of."

"Lord Dunrath, 'tis good you're home." Robbie shook Duncan's hand, then bowed to Gwynne with the practiced grace of the wellborn. Living with the rebel army had left his clothing rather the worse for wear, but his accent was educated. "Welcome to Scotland, Lady Dunrath. Glen Rath is a bonnie place to live. Almost as bonnie as Glen Fannach, which is my family's home." He slid a sidelong glance at Jean.

Gwynne could sense no power in him, but he was a handsome youth with a friendly smile, and she felt no shadows in his nature. "I'm so pleased to meet you," she said warmly as she wondered how often she had repeated that phrase this evening. "Jean spoke of you earlier."

"Did she, now?" he said with obvious pleasure. He tucked a hand in Jean's elbow. "The la.s.s has been much on my mind."

Gwynne fervently hoped that Jean wouldn't follow Robbie to the prince's army. With her new power, she sensed that was a very real possibility.

"Come along, Robbie," Jean said. "After we sup, will you dance with me?"

He raised her hand and kissed her fingertips lingeringly in a clear announcement of his feelings. "It would be my delight, mo cridhe."

After the young couple left for the trestle tables, Gwynne asked under her breath, "What do you think?"

Duncan frowned. "I can't dislike the lad, but I'm still not enthusiastic about the match. Not that I can forbid it if Jean wants him. She's of age and a stubborn wench."

Gwynne studied the girl, who was laughing up at her sweetheart. "She likes him very well, but from what she said earlier, I'm not sure she loves him. Perhaps when the rebellion is over we can take her to London. She showed some interest in the possibility. At the least, she would have the chance to meet a wider range of men."

Her husband's frown lightened. "I like that idea. Let us hope for a swift conclusion to this rebellion."

He took her arm and returned to the task of introducing more Macraes. There certainly were a lot of them, but all were welcoming. Even the least educated had a natural courtesy that Gwynne found very appealing.

As the evening advanced, she began to think that retiring early was a good idea even if all she did was sleep. She was covering a yawn when the dance music outside cut off in the middle of a phrase, the pipes squealing weirdly at the abrupt halt. Curious, she followed Duncan to the castle door.

Half a dozen well-dressed men were riding into the courtyard. As they pulled to a halt and dismounted, a babble of voices rose and many of the ceilidh guests dropped down on one knee. Her questioning gaze went to the man in the center of the group of newcomers. She caught her breath with shocked realization. Tall and richly dressed, the young man had the compelling magnetism of a king-or a would-be king.

Recognizing him at the same moment, Duncan said in a steady voice, "Prince Charles. I bid you welcome to my home."

"Lord Ballister?" The prince strode forward, at ease with having every eye on him. An Italian lilt in his voice, he said, "I heard that you have just returned from travels on the Continent, sir. Since I was near, I decided it was time we met."

The Young Pretender had good information sources. Gwynne noted that unlike the Macraes, he used Duncan's English t.i.tle. His accent was a legacy of being raised in Rome. This was his first trip to his "homeland"-and he'd come to start a war.

That was why he was here, of course-to raise support. What was the protocol when greeting a rebel against one's king? Gwynne decided to err on the side of respect, so she curtsied when he joined her and Duncan at the entrance to the hall. He acknowledged her with a practiced smile. "You must be Lady Ballister. I had heard you were a rare beauty, but the description pales next to the reality."

He was handsome, with brown eyes that contrasted with his fair skin and powdered hair. She understood why females of all ages sighed over him, but curiously, she sensed that unlike most men, he had no interest in her. Behind that easy smile was an icy resolve that had no time for flirtation.

Duncan bowed, though not deeply. "Will you and your companions join us for food and drink?"

"That would be our pleasure." The prince beckoned to his followers and they entered the castle. An eager young girl from the hills approached and swept a deep curtsey, her smile adoring. "'Tis blessed I am to see you with my own eyes, Your Majesty!"

Charles nodded at the girl graciously. "After I have greeted these good people, Ballister, I would speak with you privately."

Duncan's lips tightened, but he said, "Of course. We can talk in my study."

Gwynne caught her breath, sensing deep, dangerous undercurrents swirling through the hall. Great forces were present, and the results would be significant.

Charles spent a few minutes circling the room and greeting admirers. The prince and his party were here to charm and they did it with some success, particularly among the younger Macraes. Gwynne was glad to see that many of the older, more responsible people held back, their expressions carefully blank. Except for Auld Donald, who made no attempt to hide his scowl.

Having completed his circuit, the prince asked, "Your study, sir?"

"Up these stairs." Gwynne released her enchantress energy, knowing that the allure would make it hard for a man to say no to her. Plucking a lantern from the nearest trestle table, she continued, "Let me light your way, my lords."

As she headed for the stairs, she realized that not only were the prince and Duncan following, but that every man in the hall was gazing after her hungrily. Unnerved, she swiftly damped her energy down again, wishing that she had a measuring stick for magic. Controlling s.e.xual allure was like trying to bake bread using black powder-too much would cause an explosion.

Once they reached the next floor, Duncan led the way to his study. Though the study was clean and comfortably furnished with a desk, chairs, and a bookcase crowded with ledgers, it had the neglected air of a place long unused. Gwynne made a show of lighting the candles, then poured two gla.s.ses of claret when she found a tray and decanter on a side table. Duncan didn't comment, but he raised an ironic eyebrow at his wife's unnatural demureness.

The prince frowned when it became clear that she intended to stay. "Lady Ballister, your husband and I will be discussing tedious political matters. Surely you will not deprive my companions of the opportunity to dance with you."

She offered her most wide-eyed smile, along with a strong dose of allure so that he would accept her presence. "I would not deprive myself of the opportunity to hear you speak, sire."

His frown vanished, though she wasn't sure whether it was because of her magic or because he thought she would be an ally in the task of persuading her husband to join the rebellion. Accepting the claret, he chose the most comfortable chair and gestured for his hosts to sit.

Gwynne sat to one side, where she could be un.o.btrusive while seeing both men clearly. They were a study in contrasts. Youthful and well dressed, the prince had the bone-deep confidence of a man who had been told he was royal from the moment he was born. There was also more than a touch of magic in his nature. She suspected that he had the dangerous ability to inspire deep loyalty-whether he deserved it or not.

Duncan was dressed more casually in worn riding garments and his dark, unpowdered hair was escaping from the riband at his nape. But it was he who drew the eye first, for he radiated strength, power, and hard-won wisdom. Prince Charles Edward Stuart was a boy. Duncan Macrae was a man.

"Your castle is most impressive, Ballister," the prince observed. "I see why it has never been conquered."

"My ancestors chose the site well." Duncan sipped at his claret before setting his goblet on the desk. "Let me speak frankly. You seek support for your rebellion. You will not receive it from me. Scotland has shed enough blood for the Stuarts."

Charles's smile was unperturbed. "There are others of your clan who have decided differently."

"The Macraes of Kintail choose their own path. The Macraes of Dunrath are a distant connection. Though we bear Highland blood, we also have Lowland practicality. You cannot win this rebellion, Your Highness."

"You think not? In the first encounter between Jacobites and Hanoverians, a dozen of my men drove off two companies of royal troops."

Duncan made a dismissive gesture. "The government garrisons in Scotland are undermanned and most of the seasoned troops are in Flanders, so that's a pale victory."

"Perhaps, but I also have the support of the French. Once my army starts winning victories in the north, France will invade from the south. The Hanoverian king will run back to the Continent, squealing for sanctuary."

He's lying, Gwynne realized. But he lied well.

Equally perceptive, Duncan said, "I've heard that the French refused to put an army behind you so you came on your own, hoping your boldness would raise enough support to convince King Louis that you are worthy of his men and money."

Charles's eyes narrowed. "The French were delayed, but they will come. The Jacobite response here has been even stronger than I hoped for. Every day more men flock to my banner."

"Most of whom haven't a shred of military experience."

"The fierce charge of the Highlanders is legendary," the prince retorted. "A troop of clansmen, shouting and brandishing claymores, can terrify even seasoned troops."

"After which the Highlanders will be ripped to b.l.o.o.d.y shreds by government artillery," Duncan said icily. "These are my people, and I will not see them die in a hopeless cause."

"The Stuart cause is not hopeless," Charles said vehemently. "Within the next few days, I will capture Edinburgh. When we face the Hanoverians in open battle we will win, and tens of thousands of English Jacobites will rise up and join us. I will restore my father to his rightful throne, Ballister. You would be wise to ensure that you are on the right side."

It disturbed Gwynne to know that he might be right, since even the Guardian Council had been unable to determine the outcome of this rebellion. With sufficient luck and boldness, Charles might well carry the day. So far, he'd had plenty of both.

"All things are possible," Duncan said peaceably. "But my first responsibility is to the people of Glen Rath, and I'll not lead them on a fool's crusade."

The prince drank deeply of the claret. "You are a blunt man, Lord Ballister."

"If you didn't want plain speaking," Duncan said with a faint smile, "you should not have come to Scotland."

"Britain has always been my destiny." Charles leaned forward in his chair, his coolness replaced by blazing, charismatic pa.s.sion. "At the age of six, I could shoot a gun or a crossbow with the skill of a man. As a boy, I built model fortifications. At fourteen, I walked the Spanish trenches at the siege of Gaeta. The earlier Jacobite risings failed because of poor planning and insufficient will, but I have the will, and I will succeed."

Gwynne drew an unsteady breath, feeling the man's power even though she was English, female, and against this rebellion. Striving for detachment, she used her inner vision in an attempt to read his character.

The Young Pretender joined the magic of leadership with absolute belief in his destiny-and in truly royal fashion, he a.s.sumed that he was granting men a favor by allowing them to die for him. That fierce confidence in his goals gave him the ability to accomplish great and terrible things. But she could see that his character was also shot through with arrogance, inflexibility, and a weakness for drink. Though he would be a strong leader in success, she guessed that he would falter in adversity.

Yet he had the personal magnetism to create a vision men would follow to the death. Even Duncan was vulnerable to it. Gwynne sensed his barriers going up, protecting his deepest thoughts. "You are resolute and you have the ability to bind men's hearts," he said calmly. "If you had been the Stuart heir when William or Anne died, I don't doubt that you could have restored your dynasty to the throne. But that time has pa.s.sed. Britain is a different place now than it was then."

Charles's brows arched. "Yes, Britain has changed. Can you honestly say that you are happy with the Acts of Union that turned Scotland into a mere province of England that exists only to be taxed and bullied? This has always been a free nation-until her own leaders sold her for English gold."

Duncan's expression tightened. "Parliament has not treated Scotland well, but even so, the union is better than endless conflict. The economic arguments are also valid. My country is poor. Union with England is beginning to change that. In time, the inequities will disappear and the two countries will be true partners."

"Perhaps, but at what cost?" Charles sat back in his chair, more controlled. "I can free Scotland from this odious union, but to make that happen I need the support of respected men like you. I'm told that over the years, the Macraes of Dunrath have had an uncanny knack for choosing the right side. Which means you belong with me."

Duncan rested his unfocused gaze on his goblet. Gwynne suspected that he was scrying the bloodred wine, trying to part the veil of the future to see what lay ahead for his homeland. "Will you be content with Scotland, Prince Charles?" he said softly. "Or is this but the first step in a campaign to take the throne of England as well?"

"What would be wrong with that?" the prince said with cool arrogance. "The House of Stuart was divinely chosen to rule. It was madness for the English Parliament to hand the crown to those coa.r.s.e, stupid Germans. Britons deserve better than that."

Duncan looked weary, as if the days of travel and resuming his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. "Most nations deserve better leaders than they are granted, but we must work with what we have. The Hanoverians are the devils we know and if they lack charm, at least they don't cause much trouble."

"That's poor praise for a king," Charles said sarcastically.

Duncan shrugged. "Rivers of blood have been shed in religious wars, so there is great value in having Protestant rulers for a mostly Protestant nation. If your father or grandfather had been willing to swear allegiance to the Church of England, the House of Stuart would rule today."

The prince leaped to his feet, his expression outraged. "What right has Parliament to dictate a sovereign's religion? The Stuarts are faithful followers of the True Church, and so we shall remain!"

"Which is why you shall not win this rebellion. The model in this matter was Henry of Navarre, who said, 'Paris is well worth a ma.s.s,' when he renounced his Protestant faith to become a Catholic king of France." Duncan also rose. "I am not saying what is right or wrong in these matters, Your Highness. Only what is. Raising your standard here will bring death and destruction on Scots and Englishmen alike."

The prince made a visible effort to master his temper. "You will think differently after I prove my mettle in battle. You're a stubborn man, Ballister, but I admire your honesty. Know that you will always be welcome at my side."

He pivoted on his heel and opened the door, waving off Duncan when his host started to follow him. "I will find my own way down, Ballister. My men and I will take full measure of your hospitality before we leave."

Duncan bowed. "As Charles Edward Stuart, a gentleman of Scottish blood, you are always welcome in my home."

Gwynne thought the prince snorted before he left. After the door closed, she sank back into her seat. "That was-interesting," she said faintly as she tried to evaluate what had happened, not only the words but also the antagonistic energies that had crackled through the chamber as the men spoke.

Duncan paced to the window and looked out over the darkened glen. The cool composure he had showed the prince was gone, replaced by gray fatigue. "The devil of it is that much of what Prince Charles said is true. Many will follow him, and it won't be only the Highland clans. Even I can feel the power of his call for freedom and independence."

Gwynne stared at her husband, aghast. She had been sure he would stand with the council against the bloodthirsty rebellion that was beginning, yet now he seemed dangerously ambivalent. A single visit with the prince was causing him to waver. How would he react when his sister and others demanded that he lead them out in the Jacobite cause? A man of his enormous power might change the outcome of this rebellion.

This is why she had been asked to marry him. He was her destiny, not because of what pleasure and companionship they might find together, but so that she could influence him in larger issues.

No one ever said that destiny was easy.

NINETEEN.

D uncan turned around when he heard Gwynne gasp. Staring at him with huge, shocked eyes, she said, "How can you agree with the Prince? He's a usurper come to sow disaster in pursuit of his own selfish ends. Though he's a compelling man, he has all the faults of his house."