It was time for another major lie. "I will be honest with you, Colonel Ormond. Though a loyal servant of the Crown, it grieved my husband greatly to see his homeland torn by rebellion. At my urging, he did indeed travel to England, though certainly not as a Jacobite scout. He had business there, and being away from Scotland was less painful for him. He also took with him several young men of the glen. Not rebels, you understand, but high-spirited youths who might have been tempted to join in that Jacobite nonsense if not diverted."

"Is that why there seemed to be few young men as we rode through the glen?"

The colonel was perceptive. Gwynne said, "Yes, we packed off as many of them as possible. Several lads from Glen Rath are serving with the government forces." Which was even true. "Better for them to be busy and interested somewhere else than to stay here and be preyed on by troublemakers."

"Ingenious," the colonel said thoughtfully. "Young men are like tinder, and it is well not to expose them to fiery ideas. Has Ballister returned to Dunrath?"

"No, but I hope he will be home soon." Gwynne smiled wistfully. "It was hard for us to separate when we were so newly wed, but people of rank must take responsibility for our dependents." Most of the Macraes of Glen Rath would have been outraged at being called dependents, but the colonel nodded approvingly. With luck, after he spoke with Jean he would be ready to continue his pursuit elsewhere.

Gwynne refreshed their teacups and was urging the colonel to eat more when the door opened and Jean entered the morning room. Gwynne mentally applauded. Hair powdered and wearing a pale silk gown with lacy trailing sleeves, Jean appeared delicate, ladylike, and about sixteen years old.

Eyes downcast, she swept the colonel a deep curtsey as Gwynne performed the introductions. Ormond stared incredulously, obviously unable to reconcile the description of a warrior maiden with this fragile, demure young lady.

"Jean, sit down beside me," Gwynne said soothingly as she poured another cup of tea. "I know this will be difficult, but Colonel Ormond must ask you some questions."

The officer cleared his throat, uncomfortable at asking hard questions of a girl barely out of the schoolroom. "Miss Macrae, you are accused of raising a troop of men from Dunrath and joining the Jacobites. It is even said that you fought on Drummossie Moor and escaped with a group of rebels. These are very grave charges."

Jean raised her head and stared at him with great, startled eyes. "Me, a mere woman, lead a band of soldiers? What a bizarre thought! I did go to the Jacobites, but that was to join my sweetheart, Robbie Mackenzie. I . . . I had hoped to persuade him to return home and marry me before it was too late."

"Lady Ballister said that you returned home almost a week ago. If so, you might not have heard that your young man died in the battle." Ormond delivered the news gently, but his gaze was shrewd as he watched Jean.

"Dear G.o.d in heaven, no!" Jean began to sob. "I dreamed he would be killed but I prayed I was wrong. Oh, Gwynne!" She cast herself into her sister-in-law's embrace, her body shaking with sobs as she channeled her genuine grief into her performance.

"Be strong, my dear," Gwynne said with compa.s.sion as real as the girl's misery.

Uncomfortable with making a young lady cry, Ormond said, "Captain Mackenzie fought bravely, Miss Macrae. I hope that is some comfort to you and his family."

Jean raised her head, tears blurring her small face. "It is no comfort at all! He gave his life for that . . . that vile Italian mountebank! My Robbie was worth a thousand Stuarts. If he had to die, I wish he had chosen a cause worthy of his courage."

Her furious words were more convincing than any number of calm disclaimers. Looking shaken, Ormond said gravely, "I . . . see, Miss Macrae. You have my sympathies on your loss. I am sorry if I have upset you with groundless accusations."

Jean pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to blot her eyes. "You must do your duty, Colonel," she said with a heartbreaking attempt to smile. "Scotland is in chaos now. We must all cooperate to restore peace." That, too, had the ring of truth.

Thinking that the colonel was well and truly convinced of their innocence, Gwynne said, "Have some tea, my dear. It will steady your nerves."

At that moment the door swung open to reveal another red-coated officer, accompanied by a roughly dressed local man. Jean made a barely audible hissing sound when she saw the new arrivals.

Gwynne was more concerned by the officer. Where Ormond was a reasonable, honorable man, this newcomer liked blood. He had wallowed in it recently, too-she could feel a miasma of death and pain around him. He had enjoyed slaughtering fugitives. Worse, he had a faint spark of power and would not be easy to deceive. A good thing he was the subordinate, not the commander, because his glance slid over Gwynne with unmistakable insolence. There was nothing gentlemanly about his admiration.

The colonel rose. "Have the men refreshed themselves, Major Huxley? Now that the rain has stopped, we must be on our way to find that band of Jacobites. Apparently they turned off before entering Glen Rath."

"Not according to this fellow," Huxley said tersely. "Say your piece to the colonel, Geddes."

The shabby man shuffled forward, his bonnet in his hands. "I hear ye be paying for information."

"If the information is good," Ormond replied. "What do you know?"

Gwynne whispered to Jean, "Who is he?"

"A good-for-nothing tinker who wanders through this part of Scotland selling rubbish and stealing when he can get away with it," Jean said grimly. "I should have thought of Geddes when you asked if anyone here would betray our own. He is not one of us, but he comes by often enough. Too often, in this case."

If Geddes was a "foreigner," his accent said he was still a Scot. Whatever his origins, he radiated untrustworthiness and opportunism. To the colonel, he said, "Last night late I saw a band of rebels come into the glen on the north road."

"That's nonsense," Gwynne said calmly. "Ask this creature how much whiskey he put away last night."

Geddes's head swung around to her, his bloodshot eyes gleaming maliciously. "I know what I saw, and it was 'er over there leading 'em." He pointed a filthy finger at Jean. "She's one of Charlie's wh.o.r.es, I hear. I followed 'em, and the whole lot marched right up into this castle, and they ain't come out again."

"I see." Ormond's energy shifted from gentlemanly consideration to flinty soldier. "Some of my men are already searching the glen, and now we must search the castle as well, Lady Ballister." He studied Jean more closely, clearly wondering if she was what she appeared to be.

Biting back her fear and frustration, Gwynne said calmly, "Of course you must investigate any such accusations, Colonel. Even if they're nonsense." Her glance at Geddes was contemptuous. "But I wish my husband were here to teach that creature a lesson for the insult to my sister-in-law. How dare he suggest a . . . a liaison between Jean and the Pretender!"

"As you said earlier, rumor sometimes embellishes the boring truth," Ormond said, clearly wishing he were somewhere else.

"Geddes might be confused about some things," the major said, "but he gave an accurate description of a troop of rebels sneaking into the glen. More accurate than one would expect of a drunken sot."

Geddes looked mildly offended, but not enough to protest when there was money in view. Looking hara.s.sed, the colonel said, "I appreciate your cooperation, Lady Ballister. Not everyone would accept this . . . difficult situation with such grace."

"Dunrath has nothing to hide." Gwynne was almost embarra.s.sed at how well she was lying. The desire to protect her own was a powerful motivator. "I shall accompany you on your search, since I know the castle better than you. Though I still do not know it all! This is an ancient and confusing place."

Ormond's brows drew together. "This will be a dirty, tedious business, ma'am. No place for a lady, much less one in such a fine gown."

"Never let it be said I have shirked my duty," she said firmly.

"You are an example to all ladies," Huxley said with what sounded like an undertone of mockery.

As Gwynne had thought, he was not easily fooled, but she inclined her head graciously as if she took his praise at face value. To Jean, she said, "You go and lie down, dear, there is nothing to worry about."

"As you wish, Gwynne." Though Jean's gaze said she wanted to do more, she accepted that it was best for her to be as meek and compliant as possible. She curtsied to the officers. "Gentlemen, I bid you good day."

After Jean withdrew, Gwynne asked, "Do you have a preferred place to begin searching? A good housekeeper starts at the top and works her way down, since that is the direction that dust travels."

The colonel smiled, glad for her good humor. "Then we shall begin in the attics."

As Gwynne led the way, she examined the colonel's emotional energy. He wanted to believe that she and Jean and Dunrath were innocent. They would be safe enough, as long as the government troops found no trace of the rebels.

But heaven help them if Major Huxley found anything suspicious.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

A dozen cells lined the dank old corridor. Duncan had commandeered the one closest to the door that led to the rest of the cellars. Nearness made it easier to maintain the illusion that disguised the door so that possible searchers would see only rough stone. For now the illusion took only a modest amount of power. He would strengthen the spell if anyone approached.

The cells were quiet, most of the men still in exhausted sleep as they recovered from their long march through rough country. Jean had pushed them hard, and they had been tired and hungry even before the battle. He was proud that his sister had walked the whole way with her men, using her horse for the most gravely wounded. She had the soul of a warrior.

Yet despite the near-absolute quiet of the corridor, the atmosphere thrummed with tension. There wasn't a single man who didn't know that government troops were in the castle, and what would happen if the rebels were discovered.

As he waited, Duncan had used his restored power and scrying gla.s.s to scan the battle and its aftermath. The horror of what he found renewed his rage at his wife. d.a.m.n Gwynne for imprisoning him! He could have changed the outcome of the battle and spared the survivors from pointless slaughter. Despite his allegiance to the uprising, he was still Guardian enough that he would have protected the Hanoverians if they had been the ones fleeing in panic. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives would have been saved.

Gwynne would burn in h.e.l.l for what she had done.

But for now, they were grudging allies in their desire to protect the people of the glen. He monitored her interview with the colonel, and almost laughed aloud when Jean entered looking like a fragile, helpless English girl. Gwynne had been wise to suggest that Jean appear rather than hide in the dungeons. No one who saw his sister in her present garb would believe what a Highland spitfire she was.

The interview seemed to be going well, and with the sunshine Duncan had provided, the colonel looked ready to set off again rather than spend the night. Good. Duncan was still fatigued from his iron bondage, and the combination of weather working, scrying, and maintaining an illusion were rapidly draining his power. The sooner the soldiers left, the better.

Once they were gone, Duncan would sleep like the weary rebels. The next morning was soon enough to decide what the devil to do with Gwynne.

Even when he was at his most furious, he had known in his heart that he could never bring himself to hurt her, but her betrayal had irrevocably destroyed the fragile trust that was the bedrock of any marriage. Even thinking of how she had lured him home only to imprison him caused his anger to rise.

She must leave Dunrath as soon as possible. A pity that the legal bonds of matrimony could not be severed as easily as the emotional bonds had been.

He was yawning when the scene in the scrying gla.s.s changed. One-no, two-men entered the morning room.

One was an army major, the other-Duncan swore when he recognized Geddes. The filthy tinker would only show up if there was money or trouble to be made, preferably both.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d must have seen Jean and her men the previous night, because the amiable scene in the scrying gla.s.s changed to tension. Jean went to her chamber, Geddes was taken to the great hall to be watched under guard, and Gwynne and the officers began searching the castle, starting with the attics. Good, they would be tired by the time they reached the dungeons.

Dozens of rebels couldn't be hidden in a wardrobe, so the search didn't go into every box and drawer, but the Hanoverians kept a sharp eye out for anything suspicious. A good thing Duncan had been able to slow them down with heavy rain. Without those extra hours, Dunrath wouldn't have had time to conceal all traces of the fugitives.

From their postures, Duncan could tell that the colonel liked and respected Gwynne. The major was another matter. He was a hound hot on the chase, and he would show no mercy to any prey he cornered.

When the search party finally approached the stairs, Duncan wearily mustered his remaining power. Conjuring storms was easy for him. Knowing all that stood between Dunrath and disaster was a frail illusion was quite another matter.

Though Gwynne knew the search was going quickly, every moment seemed an eternity. Playing a charming, frivolous English lady was hard work. Even when she lived in England, she hadn't been much good at this, and today the stakes were frighteningly high.

Once they reached the cellars, she led them through every dusty little chamber and pa.s.sage and storage room, including numerous dead ends. She hoped that the soldiers would become disoriented enough that they wouldn't realize they had missed a section of this level. When their winding search brought them back to the bottom of the stairs, Gwynne shook dust from her gown with a moue of distaste. "I trust you are satisfied, gentleman. You've now seen all of Dunrath, and nary a Jacobite to be found."

She was starting up the stairs when Major Huxley said, "I believe we haven't seen all of the cellars yet, Lady Ballister." Though his words were polite, the lamp he held showed a sardonic glint in his eyes. Unlike Ormond, he didn't accept her innocent Whig lady performance at face value.

"Perhaps you are right," Gwynne said indifferently. "A pity my husband isn't here to guide you. I don't pretend to know every twist and turn in this beastly place. Because of the rats, I come down here very seldom."

When she mentioned the rats, a movement in the shadows made her heart jump. She relaxed when she recognized Lionel. Was he hunting vermin, or watching over her like the familiar Duncan jokingly claimed he was? Whatever the reason, she was vaguely comforted by the cat's presence.

"This way, ma'am." The major set off to the far side of the cellars, picking his way through the maze of pa.s.sages with unnerving sureness. When they reached the junction that led to cells on both sides, he turned right, in the direction where Duncan had been imprisoned. Gwynne followed uneasily, the colonel behind her. Duncan's well-furnished cell would arouse questions, and that couldn't be good.

They walked along the row of cells, the major opening each door and glancing in to see the bleak, empty interiors. Gwynne's pulse accelerated as they approached the end of the pa.s.sageway. Huxley opened the final door and looked inside. "Interesting."

She moved forward to peer around him, concealing her sigh of relief. The cell still had the wooden cot and it was relatively clean, but the other furniture, books, and carpet had been removed. The major stepped inside and studied the interior closely. "This shows signs of recent occupation."

Gwynne shrugged. "Sometimes a cell is needed to lock up some drunken rascal."

Huxley frowned, his intuition probably telling him there was more to the story, but there were no rebels here now. Impatience in his voice, Colonel Ormond said, "We've searched the castle top to bottom and found nothing. It's time we returned to the road. If we leave soon, we can be out of the glen before nightfall."

"We still haven't seen everything on this level," Huxley said stubbornly. "I have been making a mental map and one area is missing. Back this way."

They retraced their steps to the junction with the pa.s.sage that led back to the stairs. When they had come through originally, the officers hadn't notice the short spur of pa.s.sage ahead because Gwynne had laid a strong don't-see spell on it. Coming from this direction and with the major suspicious, the spell lost its effectiveness. "This is the way-we missed it earlier," Huxley said, eyes glittering. "There should be another corridor just around this corner. . . ."

"I don't think so," Gwynne remarked. "The castle is built on solid rock, you know, and the cellars are fitted in around the stone. The cellar area is smaller than the floors above, and more irregular in shape."

Ignoring her, Huxley rounded the corner and stopped, the flickering lamp illuminating a stub of corridor less than a dozen feet long. Gwynne caught her breath. Earlier, when Duncan had created the illusion spell, her mage vision had simultaneously showed her both the illusion and the underlying door.

Now all she saw was a grimy stone wall, as crude and ancient as the other walls down here. Only with serious effort could she vaguely sense the door under the illusion. It was easier to feel Duncan. He was standing just on the other side of the door and pouring energy into the illusion spell. She wondered how long he could keep the illusion this strong. Not very, she guessed.

Ormond said brusquely, "We have reached the end of our search, Major. It's time for us to get on with our mission."

The colonel turned and disappeared around the corner, heading to the stairs, but Huxley remained, frowning at the wall, the spark of power in his spirit unsatisfied. "There's something wrong here," he muttered. "Maybe a priest hole."

He stepped forward, and Gwynne realized with sinking fear that he was going to touch the "stone" wall, seeking a hidden lever that would open to a hidden room. When he felt wood, he would no longer see the illusion. She must stop him.

When in doubt, rely on one's most powerful gift, and for Gwynne, that was enchantress power. Softly she said, "Major Huxley?"

When he glanced back at her, she blasted him with every iota of s.e.xual allure she possessed. She was the personification of desire, Eve and Cleopatra, Aphrodite and Morgan le Fay. With a single glance, she could ignite a man's deepest, fiercest desires.

Huxley caught his breath and a pulse began hammering in his throat as l.u.s.t blazed through him. "Yes . . . ," he breathed. "I knew you weren't the prude you pretended to be. You were just waiting for a chance to be alone with me. You're in luck, my lady. There's just enough time to give you a quick taste of what you want."

Setting his lamp on the floor, he closed the distance between them with a single stride. His embrace slammed her against the wall and his tongue invaded her mouth, gagging her. She panicked at the swift violence of his response, frantic to strike him with a defensive spell, yet knowing if she did she would reveal her power.

He fumbled with his breeches, then yanked her skirts up and groped between her legs, seeking entrance with the skill of a man experienced in swift, illicit l.u.s.t. With horror, she realized he was so crazed that he had no awareness beyond the moment, no fear of consequences. He could ravish her before Ormond noticed they weren't following.

She felt a blaze of rage behind the disguised door and knew that Duncan had recognized what was happening. As his fury scalded through the pa.s.sage, the illusion wavered and she heard him jam the key into the lock to open the door from the other side. Dear G.o.d, if he came out to attack Huxley they were all doomed!

Praying that a defense spell could be used without alerting Huxley to her power, she mentally cried, "Don't!" to Duncan, then began to create a spell that might save her without arousing lethal suspicions.

A crackle of wild energy snapped around her and a feline scream echoed from the stone walls. Lionel leaped on the major's shoulder with snarling fangs and ripping claws. As he sank his teeth into the man's ear, his wildcat claws stabbed into unprotected flesh and dark blood spurted upward.

"Jesus Christ Almighty!" Huxley staggered back, breaking off the obscene kiss.

Gwynne screamed, the terror in her voice heart-stoppingly authentic. In the small sane part of her mind, she saw that the stone wall illusion had stabilized, so Duncan had mastered his instinctive fury.

An instant later the colonel appeared. Appalled, he hurled Huxley to the floor. "G.o.d d.a.m.n you, sir! How dare you a.s.sault a lady in her own home!" He whipped out his sword and placed the tip at the other man's throat.

Huxley stared up at his commanding officer, shocked and disoriented. He knew what he had done, knew he had been caught in the act, but he could no longer understand why he had behaved as he did. "I . . . I didn't mean . . . Aiieee!"

He shrieked as Lionel jumped on his arm, simultaneously biting and kicking with his powerful clawed hindquarters.

"Lionel!" Gwynne swooped the cat into her arms, mentally trying to sooth him before he shredded her. To the officers, she said, "My cat is . . . is very protective. When Major Huxley a.s.saulted me, Lionel jumped on his back."

"A small but fierce defender," the colonel said. "Are you hurt, Lady Ballister?"

She shook her head, her shakiness genuine. "No, Lionel's attack gave me the chance to cry for help. Thank G.o.d you were near, Colonel Ormond."

"I didn't attack the b.i.t.c.h!" Huxley said furiously. "She wanted me!"