Might she turn him over to the council? Several councillors waiting at Dunrath would be able to overpower him. But that would be an explosive and dangerous situation with a strong chance of casualties. He couldn't imagine Gwynne condoning that, no matter how much she disapproved of her husband's politics.

Disapproval was not what she had expressed in the dream. . . .

Wearily he rolled over. It would be worth taking a risk just to go home and take a proper bath. And if Gwynne welcomed him with open arms, that would justify almost any danger.

Another, darker thought entered his mind. Though he hadn't been endangered at Falkirk, being in a battle zone could be lethal even for a mage. It was quite possible that he would not survive the upcoming hostilities. If so, a visit to Gwynne might be the last time he would see her.

Flopping onto his back again, he decided to make his decision when he was less distracted by the aftermath of phantom lovemaking. If that's what it had been . . .

THIRTY-TWO.

G wynne made the necessary preparations for her plan, then spent two more nights using enchantress power to summon her husband before she gave up. Despite her sense that they were connecting, either she had failed or he was resisting her invitation. Since time was running out, on the third night she simply burrowed into her pillows and ordered her dream mind to come up with another technique while she slept.

She was jerked awake by the sharp knowledge that she was not alone. Rather crossly she thought that a disadvantage of Guardian life was the way members of the Families sneaked around and scared a person out of her skin. With a snap of her fingers, she lit a candle. Using small magics in daily life was becoming routine. "Duncan?"

The candle flared, illuminating the figure of a ma.s.sive bearded Highlander by the door. She caught her breath in alarm before she identified her long-absent husband.

"My lady wife." He stepped forward into the light as she lit another candle. In the months since Christmas he had produced a dark, auburn-tinted beard that masked his expression. He must have collected his Highland kilt and plaid and bra.s.s-hilted weapons during his Christmas visit. He looked barbaric, intimidating-and so compellingly masculine that her breathing roughened.

He glanced at a lump in the bed. "Have you told your familiar to behave?"

Lionel oozed out from under the covers, eyeing Duncan with interest but no hostility. Gwynne said, " He's a mild little moggy, as long as he senses no threat." She stroked the soft fur, mentally saying, Go. The cat vanished soundlessly into the darkness.

She slid from the bed, very aware that her carefully chosen nightgown clung alluringly. Her nipples tightened from his heated gaze, becoming rudely visible under the thin fabric. The atmosphere was thick with s.e.xual tension and mutual wariness.

Keeping his distance, he asked, "Dare I hope that you have summoned me because you have come around to my way of thinking?"

She debated lying, but decided against it. She was a poor liar at best, and she could never fool a mage like Duncan. Which meant that everything she said to him at this critical meeting must be the truth, if not the whole truth.

"I still believe that Prince Charles Edward should go back where he came from, but I can no longer let that come between us." Her voice wavered. "I fear for you, Duncan, as I fear for Scotland and England. If . . . the worst happens, I don't want to live with the fact that our last meeting was in anger. I would rather it would be with pa.s.sion."

His dark brows arched. "After the way you condemned me, do you think I can be so easily seduced back to your bed?"

For an instant she was dismayed. Then she saw the glint of humor in his eyes. "Yes," she said with a tentative smile. "I do."

"You're right." A pulse throbbed in his throat, but still he didn't move toward her. "But don't think that you can enchant me into a different point of view."

She smiled with rueful honesty. "I know better."

"Pa.s.sion is enough for you to be willing to consort with the enemy?"

"You are my husband, not my enemy." If he wanted more reasons, she had them. "I want your child, Duncan. If disaster lies ahead, I want something of you to last the rest of my life." Consciously pouring energy into her enchantress allure, she stepped toward him, her arms raised in supplication.

His resistance collapsed. "Ah, Gwynne, sweet Gwynne," he breathed as he tilted her face up. "No man could resist you. I don't even want to try."

Kiss and betray. The thought lanced through her mind. She instantly suppressed it, fearing he would catch an off note in her response unless she was totally focused on the pa.s.sion of their reconciliation.

In the snow at Christmas they had come together without reservation. Tonight the hunger was even more desperate, but each movement was slower, more tentative. She felt as if they were relearning each other, not quite certain of the response. As she pressed against him, she felt a hard shape jabbing her. Smiling wryly, she said, "Pray remove the dirk and the sword. You're well enough armed without them."

He laughed and removed his weapons and belts and plaid, tossing them onto a chair. She stopped him before he could remove more garments. "I've thought that a kilt presented certain wicked possibilities."

As she kissed the sensitive skin visible at the throat of his shirt, she slid her hands up his thighs, under his kilt. The hard muscles turned rigid and he groaned at her caress. "A kilt makes a man far too vulnerable," he said raggedly.

"Should I stop?" She slipped her hand around to the front of his body and clasped the hot, steely length of him.

"Don't you dare, my Sa.s.senach witch!" He swept her onto the bed, raising the hem of her nightgown at the same time. He followed her down in a tangle of bare limbs and breathless laughter. As their lower bodies pressed flesh to flesh, he suckled her breast through the thin gown.

She whimpered, barely able to remember that she had a purpose beyond pa.s.sion. There was something she should be doing. . . .

But nothing mattered beyond the exquisite satisfaction of receiving him into her, the frantic dance of thrust and retreat, the scalding heat and slick fluids of fevered intimacy until she shattered into rapture. As she returned to the normal world, she began crying soundlessly.

Spent, Duncan rolled to his side and kissed the tears on her cheeks. "Why so sad, mo cridhe?" he said softly. "We have just been blessed by the enchantress."

"I can't bear to see you go back into danger," she whispered, throat tight, wondering if she was capable of doing what must be done. "Why can't we always be together like this?"

"Too many such nights and I'd be dead, though with a smile on my face." He stroked back her hair. "The world is a complicated place, and love is only one of the great commandments. Duty and honor must have their day, too. I am a loyal Scot as well as a Guardian, and I must do what is best for my country."

She sighed and closed her eyes, unable to bear looking into his beloved face. "I like the beard. It feels nice."

"And here I thought it made me look savage."

"That also." She burrowed against him. Soon she would do her duty. Until then, she would savor what would be the last happy moments of her marriage. . . .

Dawn would break soon. Moving carefully so as not to wake Gwynne, Duncan slid toward the edge of the bed. Perhaps his beard didn't make him a savage, but sleeping in his rumpled kilt and shirt was definitely uncivilized.

He bent to kiss Gwynne's forehead, wondering if they had managed to create a child together. He hoped so, and wondered if he would live to see it.

Her eyes opened. Seeing him sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached out to catch his arm. "You can't be going already!"

"I must, mo caran. It will be a long ride back." He cradled her warm breast, reluctant to stop touching her. "But this has been worth it. If . . . something happens, remember me with fondness even if you think I'm a d.a.m.n fool Scot."

"Don't leave yet!" Expression frantic, she reached up and drew him back to bed. With surprising strength, she rolled him onto his back and straddled him. "One last time, Duncan. Please."

The heat of her loins and mouth dissolved his resistance. Even if he was half-dead with exhaustion later, he wanted this final mating as much as she did.

Like the enchantress she was, Gwynne teased him with kiss and caress and warm breath till he could hardly bear it. He was on the verge of pulling her under him when she raised herself on her knees, then slowly sheathed herself on him. "Ahhh . . . ," she breathed as she began rolling her hips with a motion that stunned his senses.

Her supple body shimmering with movement, she bent into a kiss, capturing his mouth, then pinning his wrists down in a delicious illusion of captivity. To h.e.l.l with approaching dawn and the risk of being seen if he left. He gave himself wholly to the wildfire sensations that scorched through him. They were joined in spirit as closely as body, her anguish and her love palpable with every shattering thrust.

Pa.s.sion exploded into ravishing release. Gwynne cried out and clasped him with intimate power, over and over until the last flame of desire had burned into ash. He gasped for breath, half dead and not caring. How could he walk away from her? How could he live without the feel of her silken form against his?

Weeping again, Gwynne pushed herself up, their bodies still joined. "I'm sorry, my love," she whispered. "So, so sorry."

Scalding tears dropped on his cheek as she braced herself above him, her hands still pinning his wrists to the mattress.

He was about to say something soothing when she released his left wrist. She tugged at the mattress -and then, with a clanking of cold iron, his sweetly pa.s.sionate wife clamped a manacle round his wrist.

THIRTY-THREE.

D uncan's eyes widened with disbelief as he realized what she had done. Then he exploded with rage. "d.a.m.n you!"

Frightened, she snapped a manacle cuff onto his right wrist, then scrambled from the bed. On his left wrist was the cuff of a manacle with the opposite end secured to a bedpost, while his right wrist had a cuff without an attached chain. Would the iron bands on his bare skin be enough to weaken him?

He lunged toward her, but the anch.o.r.ed manacle brought him to a halt. "You vicious, betraying wh.o.r.e," he swore, his eyes glittering as he yanked at the chains.

She could see that he was struggling to use magic, but he couldn't. She exhaled with relief. Though she had seen him weakened after the knife wound inflicted by William Montague, she hadn't been sure whether an iron cuff on each wrist would be enough to block his power. Apparently it was.

"Now what, you Sa.s.senach b.i.t.c.h?" he snarled, his anger unable to conceal how weak he was. "Will c.u.mberland be coming by to collect me? Or the Guardian Council? Or Simon?"

"None of them. I may betray you myself, but I'll not turn you over to your enemies." Blinking back tears, she quickly changed from her nightgown to a plain morning gown. "I'm going to keep you locked up in the dungeons until after the battle."

"You are that sure you are right?" His eyes were the color of sleet.

"I am." She held his gaze steadily. "You are blind to the larger consequences of what you intended to do." She caught her breath as an image formed in her brain. "Dear heaven, if the Jacobites fared badly in the upcoming battle, you were prepared to conjure a tornado to turn the tide!"

"Aye," he ground out. "I've been practicing and become quite adept at managing whirlwinds. It would be an easy matter to halt the government forces till the prince and his men escape to fight another day."

She shook her head in despair. His earlier interventions might be justified as reducing casualties, but now he was planning to use his power to change the outcome of the whole rebellion. His previous actions might be forgiven, but never that. "Then thank G.o.d I have stopped you."

"I will kill you if you ever let me go," he snarled, but under his words she felt his anguish at her betrayal.

"I have done what I must, and so will you," she said quietly. "But for now, I will take you to the dungeon before the castle starts stirring. I don't want anyone to learn that you're here and set you free."

She flipped the covers back. He still wore his rumpled kilt and shirt, and his plaid would give warmth, but his feet were bare. She reached under the bed and pulled out warm woolen socks and buckled shoes. She had prepared most carefully for his return.

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 circ.u.mstances, 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 Sa.s.senach wife is going to imprison me so I can be turned over to the Duke of c.u.mberland 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 l.u.s.ts 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 b.l.o.o.d.y reckoning, and even babies like your own sweet grandchildren will not be safe."

"Don't listen to her!" Duncan snapped. "She's a Sa.s.senach 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sage.

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 surrept.i.tiously 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."