"I . . . I'm not sure. I'll think about it." With visible effort, Simon focused on his guest. "At least when you're no longer brooding about my house with a broken heart, the London weather may improve from this gray and gloomy dampness."

A knock sounded at the front door a few feet away. Not waiting for his butler, Simon swung it open. A neatly dressed groom offered a sealed letter. "A message for Lord Ballister, sir."

Duncan moved forward to take the letter and give the messenger a coin. "Is a reply expected?"

"No, sir." The groom bowed and returned to his waiting mount.

After closing the door, Duncan broke the wax seal curiously. Few people even knew he was in London. His face stiffened as he read the polite words of the message.

Catching his expression, Simon asked, "What's wrong?"

"Lady Brecon requests the honor of my company at my earliest convenience." Duncan grimaced. "A pity I didn't leave five minutes earlier."

The other man's brows arched. "I would have thought you would be happy to hear from her."

"Considering her fury when she bolted from our last meeting, I suspect she wants to spell out in greater detail how utterly ungentlemanly I am." Duncan paused, distracted by the memory of their one kiss. . . . "I'll call on her on my way north."

"If you'd rather not, I can send a message saying that you've already left town."

"She has the right to castigate me. I shall confess my sins, apologize profusely, and leave." It would be worth harsh words to see her one last time.

What a thrice-d.a.m.ned fool he was.

By the time Duncan reached Richmond, he had his emotions well in hand. The finality of their last meeting made the situation easier, for he no longer had to worry about wooing Gwynne. This would be a chance to say good-bye and wish her well for the future, no matter how angry she was.

Since he needed a wife, a good ending might make it easier to look elsewhere when the worst pain of loss wore off. The Macleods of Skye had a quiverful of attractive daughters, all of them magically talented. Perhaps one would catch his fancy. Wedding a fellow Scot would be altogether better than a reluctant Englishwoman.

Lady Bethany's butler recognized him. "If you will wait in the small salon, my lord, I shall inform Lady Brecon that you are here."

Duncan stepped into the salon and was. .h.i.t by a blast of psychic energy that would have curled his whiskers if he were a cat. What had Lady Bethany been up to?

Since Gwynne would probably keep him waiting, he decided to use the time to sharpen his a.n.a.lytical skills. He paced around the room and tried to sort out the different energy signatures. Interesting-there were clear traces of several council members. They must have used this room for a session, and recently.

He tried to determine what subjects they had discussed. There was a heaviness in the atmosphere that suggested concern about impending war, but there had been other topics as well. He had a distinct sense that his name must have come up. . . .

"My lord Ballister."

He was so involved in his a.n.a.lysis that Gwynne's voice startled him. He spun about to see her poised in the doorway, as if ready to take flight. Her powdered hair was pulled back severely and she wore a simple green-striped cotton morning gown. The very chasteness of her appearance was almost unbearably provocative.

He took refuge in a deep bow. "Your messenger caught me just before my departure to Scotland. I am grateful for this opportunity to take my leave, and to offer you my deepest apologies. It was wrong of me to deceive you at New Spring Gardens. My only defense is-" He hesitated, realizing it was hard to defend the indefensible. "-it seemed like a good idea at the time."

His honesty won a slight smile from her. "That thought is surely at the root of most human folly. Pray take a seat."

He settled in a chair warily, thinking this would be easier to understand if she were more obviously angry. Instead, her mood was conflicted and . . . determined?

She stayed on her feet, moving about the room with a restlessness that belied the serenity of her face. "Our relationship has been as fraught as a summer storm, my lord."

He thought of the squall that had blown up on the day they met because he had failed to control his reaction to her. "You are a woman who inspires storms of pa.s.sion, not tepid breezes of mild affection."

"You are the only man who has thought so."

Her pacing temporarily halted while she gazed out the window. The silhouetted curves of her lush figure made him swallow hard. "If you haven't been besieged by suitors, it's only because they didn't know to seek you in your library."

She turned to face him, her expression somber. "Why are you so interested in me? Is it something about my appearance? That's a shallow reason for deciding that you must have me. Or do you just enjoy conquest and my resistance is a challenge?"

He could fall into those golden eyes and never come out. . . . He forced his attention back to her words. "Acquit me of such shallowness. Yes, I am a man and enjoy feminine beauty, but I am also a Guardian. When we met I saw not only your beauty but your intelligence, your integrity, and your warmth. I knew as surely as I know the shape of the wind that if you honored me with your hand, I would be entranced and in love for as long as we both live."

She blushed and looked away. This time it was the pure line of her throat and profile that caused his heart to beat faster. He would think she was deliberately teasing him with her beautiful self to torment him, except that such behavior was not part of Gwynne's nature. But there were strange undercurrents swirling through the room, and their conversation certainly wasn't following the course he had expected.

Visibly steeling herself, she faced him again. "Are you still sure that you want me, and only me, as your wife?"

He didn't understand this, but his pulse began quickening. "I am sure."

"Then if you wish it . . . I will marry you."

Her words dizzied him. He must be dreaming. It was the only explanation.

But the world was too sharply real for a dream. He could feel the breeze rippling through Lady Bethany's trees and count the swift pulses beating in Gwynne's slender throat. "If you are serious . . . yes! A thousand times yes." He drew a shaky breath. "And I hope to G.o.d that you are not saying that to torment me."

She smiled a little. "If I'm the paragon you think, I would never behave so badly."

There was a moment of uncertain silence. Pulling himself together, he used his inner senses to read her. Unless she could control her emotions like a master mage, she was completely sincere-and as frightened as a kitten menaced by a wolf.

"Gwynne." He closed the distance between them and enfolded her in his arms, forcing himself to be tender rather than giving in to crazy exhilaration and frightening her even more. "My matchless, indomitable lady. Please don't fear me. I'll never hurt you. I would strike off my right arm first."

For a moment she was stiff as a statue. Then she gave a little sigh and softened against him, hiding her face against his shoulder. He wanted to talk, kiss, laugh, make love to her-preferably all at once. " You won't regret accepting me, Gwynne. I swear it on my honor as a Guardian."

"I hope you're right."

She raised her head, and he was shocked to see tears glinting in her eyes. Not tears of joy, either, unless he had become deaf to emotion. "What's wrong? Are you already regretting the thought of marriage?" The question that should have occurred to him immediately struck. "The last time you saw me, you wanted my guts for garters. Why did you change your mind?"

She blinked back her tears. "Lady Bethany said that I should marry you. After considering the matter, I agreed."

"You'll marry me against your will because she ordered you to?" Anger surged. "Sweet Jesus, Gwynne, what kind of marriage would that be? We are not children to tamely agree to arrangements made by our elders. I will not take an unwilling wife."

He started to pull away. She caught his wrist. "I did not accept you against my will," she said tautly. " Bethany said that . . . that I would balance you. That I should surrender to the part of me that catches fire whenever we meet."

He wanted to be persuaded. Dear Lord, how he wanted to be persuaded. But he wasn't quite witless. Trying to read into her soul, he said quietly, "Is that true, Gwynne? For we must have truth between us, or we are better off apart."

"The bald truth is that from the beginning I have found you equally attractive and intimidating. Cowardice was winning until Bethany decided to take a hand." Gwynne's smile was tremulous. "I'm still afraid-of leaving my home and friends, of going to a strange land. Most of all, I fear marrying a man who has such great power when I have none, even though you have given me no reason to fear you."

He caught her hands and raised them for a tender kiss. "You underestimate your own power, Gwynne. Eve's magic is even more ancient than that of the Guardians."

"I hope you're right." She smiled with wry surrender. "I do know beyond doubt that with you I can reach heights I have never before imagined. That is worth facing my fears."

This was the strangest proposal and acceptance he'd ever heard of, but honesty was a good beginning. Perhaps she had felt guilt about marrying again, and permission from her late husband's sister freed her to risk her heart once more.

Whatever the path that had brought her to accept him, she was committing herself to be his. Nothing else mattered.

EIGHT.

G wynne leaned into Ballister's embrace, shaking with reaction. She had done it-she's asked the man to marry her, and he had accepted. Earlier, she'd been petrified with nerves, wondering if he would call, and if he did, whether she would have the courage to speak. Now the die was cast, and the relief from uncertainty was enormous.

"My sweet Gwyneth. My lady of sunshine." He cupped her chin between his hands and raised her face for a kiss.

For an instant she felt the terror of blood and death that she had experienced before, but this time she was prepared. Earlier in the day Bethany had taught her a mental trick for dealing with painful thoughts, so she visualized tossing the horrific images into a lead casket, then slammed the lid of the casket shut to confine the horror.

To her surprise, after a moment of disorientation, the trick worked. She was no longer paralyzed by shock, and from what Bethany said, she should be able to train her mind to automatically channel away the images.

That left her free to experience the pa.s.sion of the man she was taking as her husband. His mouth was warm, compelling, and the hardness and power of his muscular body sent languor melting through her limbs. Odd to think that this newness and exploration would soon become known and familiar. But never ordinary.

As she slid her arms around his neck, she sensed the control behind his hungry embrace. She was grateful for that, because his unbridled pa.s.sion might have incinerated her. She wondered if her desire could ever match his. Surely not-the intensity of his nature was part of what both attracted and intimidated her. Even restrained pa.s.sion weakened her knees and dazed her mind. Never had she experienced such intense aliveness, or such blinding need.

She wasn't even aware that they had moved until he ended the kiss and she realized that they were sprawled on the sofa, her body lying across his with embarra.s.sing intimacy. His voice husky, he whispered, "How soon can we be married? I'd wed you today if I could."

Returned to her senses, she pulled away and tucked herself into a corner of the sofa, not touching him. "I . . . I will need more time. Perhaps in a month. Or two?"

He clasped her hand, his thumb caressing the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. "I don't want to rush you, and not only because I fear that you will change your mind." He smiled ruefully. "But I must return to Scotland as soon as possible. Falconer is one of the best scryers in Britain, and he says rebellion is imminent. I must be there to lead and guide my clansmen."

As she considered how long it would take to organize a wedding and pack her belongings, she brushed back her damp hair, thinking it was uncomfortably hot. Then she realized the heat wasn't only from that scalding kiss. The sun had come out and was pouring through the window to warm the sofa. " Did you make the clouds disappear?"

He looked out the window, startled. "I believe I did. I was so happy that I probably burned away every cloud in the Thames Valley. You have an alarming effect on me, Gwynne. If I'm not careful, after our marriage I'll turn Scotland into a desert."

She laughed, then turned serious. "I know so little about your homeland. Nothing about your family, your home, what my life will be like."

"Dunrath is quite possibly the most beautiful place on earth. Not that I'm biased, of course." He gave her a teasing smile. "The castle is ancient and impregnable. In more turbulent times, it was besieged often but never conquered. The glen lies between Highlands and Lowlands, not quite belonging to either. That suits us, I think. As Guardians, the Macraes of Dunrath try to maintain loyalty to a larger cause than just the clan. It's not always easy."

"I've heard that Scots are loyal to the death."

"And often loyal to a fault." He sighed. "Too many of my stubborn countrymen will let themselves be flayed alive rather than admit that they might be wrong, or that there might be a better way to resolve a problem. I try to provide an example of common sense."

"A man who lives in a drafty, ice-cold castle talks of common sense?"

He grinned. "It's not so bad as that. Some of the rooms have been fixed up to be quite comfortable."

She suspected that what seemed comfortable to a Scot would have her wrapped in blankets and shivering by a fire. No doubt she would get used to it. "I've read of Dunrath in Guardian memoirs. It's exciting to think that I shall be living in the home of Isabel de Cortes. She has long been my heroine, you know. I've read that when she and Adam Macrae quarreled, all of Scotland rocked."

"She and Adam were my three times great-grandparents." Ballister raised his hand to show a ma.s.sive sapphire ring. "Queen Elizabeth gave them both rings as recognition of their service against the Spanish Armada. This ring was Adam's and is always worn by the chieftain of the Macraes of Dunrath. Isabel's ring is set with a ruby. It will be yours after we are wed."

"I'll have Isabel's ring?" Gwynne exclaimed, surprised and delighted. Isabel de Cortes had been a London merchant's daughter of Spanish Marranos stock. Despite her mundane origins, she had been one of the great mages of her era. Not only had she studied with John Dee, Queen Elizabeth's legendary alchemist, she had brought fresh wild magic to the British Guardians.

Gwynne recognized that Ballister should have found a woman like Isabel-a wife who was his equal. But since he wanted Gwynne, she must hope that Isabel's ring would lend a little strength. "If you had told me of the ring earlier, I might have accepted you at once," she said with a smile.

"I wish I'd known. That would have saved me much grief." His gray eyes were full of warmth. "I am so proud, so honored, that you will be my wife. Even if you did have to be talked into it by your sister-in-law."

"She thought that all I needed was an excuse to abandon my anxiety, and I think she was right, Ballister." That was the truth, if not the whole truth.

"Call me Duncan."

"Duncan," she said, trying to include a faint Scottish lilt in her p.r.o.nunciation. The hard edge of the name suited him.

"Well done! May I call you Gwynne now?"

"I think I might allow that." She felt breathless and silly and happier than she could ever remember. It would be so easy to fall in love with Duncan Macrae. She was already halfway there. . . .

A cool thread of reason interfered with her happiness. Her task was to balance Ballister-Duncan- and prevent him from triggering a disaster. That would be impossible unless she kept a small part of herself reserved from him. She must not become a dazzled bride. She hadn't realized how hard a task that would be.

Not wanting Duncan to sense her withdrawal, she asked, "Was Isabel de Cortes vital to Adam Macrae's success at destroying the Armada? I've seen no suggestion in the chronicles that she was a weather worker."

"She wasn't, but she was able to channel some of her tremendous power to Adam. Otherwise, he could never have conjured a tempest so immense." He touched her hair. "Now that I can call you Gwynne, when can I see you with your hair unpowdered? I've been longing to admire your natural beauty."

"It is not beautiful hair, but I suppose that you must see it sooner or later. You will understand then why I powder it." She frowned, thinking of all that must be done. "I'll speak to Bethany about how quickly a small wedding can be organized. Will you allow me a week?"

He hesitated. "I can feel Scotland tugging, but less time would not do the occasion justice. A week from today, then?"

She nodded, excited and a little dazed. In a week she would be wed again, and she didn't need scrying ability to know this marriage would be very different from her union with Emery. "Who has taken care of Dunrath during your travels?"

"My sister, Jean. She's much younger than I, only twenty-one, but already she's a better steward of the land than I will ever be. You'll like her, I'm sure."

"Is Jean a mage?"

"She has her share of power, but she hasn't spent the time needed to develop her gifts to the fullest." He released Gwynne's hand and began trailing his fingers up her arm, sparking tingles of excitement.

Gwynne hoped fervently that Jean would marry and leave Dunrath as soon as possible; the last thing the new lady of the house needed was a magically gifted sister-in-law who might resent relinquishing power to her brother's wife. "There will be so much to learn. I know how to run an English household, but not a Scottish one."

"Scots tend to be less formal. Clans are family groups, after all, so there's a natural equality not found in England." He grinned. "I'm told that when Mary Queen of Scots returned from France to take up her throne, she was shocked by clan chiefs who called her 'La.s.s.' You are warned."

"I'm not royal, and I neither want nor expect deference. I like the idea of a society of natural equality. " She had never become comfortable with the subservience she received after marriage made her a countess. In her heart, she was still the librarian's daughter. Perhaps Scotland really would suit her, as Duncan had once said.

She hoped so, given that she would be spending the rest of her life there.

"Before we announce the happy news to Lady Beth, shall we have another kiss?"

Not waiting for Gwynne to reply, Duncan closed the s.p.a.ce between them and drew her into his arms again. She had just enough time to ready her defense against the blast of painful images. Then she let herself tumble into the kiss. The world disappeared, leaving only the sensuality and the sweet rush of desire. With this much pa.s.sion, there would be no need to worry about freezing in a Scottish winter. . . .

"Excuse us." The words were apologetic, but the voice wasn't.

Gwynne blushed and pulled from Duncan's embrace. He gave her an intimate smile before turning in an unhurried fashion. Entering the room were Lady Bethany and Lord Falconer, their expressions grim. Surely not because they disapproved of a kiss?

Duncan stood, keeping one of her hands in his clasp. "It is fitting that you two are the first to know that Gwynne has honored me by agreeing to be my wife."