Simon Malmain smiled lazily. "You'll find no females so exquisite in those wild Scottish hills of yours."

"Scottish la.s.sies are just as lovely, and with far less artifice." Duncan glanced at the sky. "Lady Bethany chose her day well. Britain at its best."

"As you know, she has some Macrae blood. Enough to always choose a fine day for her entertainments despite our chancy English weather." Simon lovingly smoothed a wrinkle from his blue brocade sleeve. "If rain threatened, I'd not have worn this new coat. It was d.a.m.nably expensive."

Duncan grinned. His friend mimicked the manners of a fop so perfectly that even Duncan, who had known him since the nursery, sometimes had trouble remembering that Simon was the most dangerous mage in Britain. Except, perhaps, for Duncan himself. "Where is Lady Bethany? I should pay my respects to our hostess. It's been years since I've seen her."

Simon shaded his eyes to scan the crowd. "Over there, below the gazebo."

The men turned their steps toward their hostess. Duncan eyed the lavish refreshment tables with interest, but eating must wait upon manners. As they neared the gazebo, he heard a string quartet inside, playing music as lighthearted as the day. "It's hard to believe that the shadow of civil war lies over Britain," Duncan said softly.

"That's why you're here," Simon said with equal softness. "And it's why I and others have spent so much time in Scotland. The future isn't fixed. If we Guardians build enough bridges between our nations, perhaps war can be averted."

"Perhaps, but the Scots and the English have been fighting for centuries, and such b.l.o.o.d.y habits are not easily broken." Duncan gave his friend a slanting glance. "The first time you and I met, we did our best to beat each other unconscious."

"Yes, but that wasn't based on the fact that you were a barbarian Scot," Simon said promptly. "I hated you because you were brought to the nursery during my lessons, and immediately proved that your Greek was better than mine."

Duncan smiled wryly as he remembered that first encounter. "I suppose that's better than hating each other for our nationalities."

The group they were approaching included half a dozen men and women, with the rounded figure and silver hair of Lady Bethany Fox in the center. Though past her seventieth year, she had the posture and fine bones that had made her an acclaimed Beauty her entire life. She was a pa.s.sionate gardener, a doting grandmother, and the most powerful sorceress in Britain.

Lady Bethany laughed at something said by the woman at her side. Duncan shifted his gaze, and stopped dead in his tracks, entranced by Lady Beth's companion. Tall and elegant, she wore a creamy gown of modest cut, yet her demure garb couldn't disguise a lushly curving figure designed to drive men mad. As if that wasn't alluring enough, her straw bonnet accented a cla.s.sically featured face that sparkled with humor and intelligence. This was a dangerous woman.

"Dear G.o.d," he breathed as thunder cracked in the distance. "Helen of Troy."

"I beg your pardon?" Following Duncan's gaze, Simon said, "Ah, Lady Brecon. A lovely la.s.s, but launch a thousand ships? I think not. Five or six at the most."

"Ten thousand ships. More. She is like an ancient enchantress whose glance could drive men to madness." Duncan gave thanks that Lady Brecon was unaware of his devouring gaze. In the full flower of her womanhood, she was so compelling that he could not have looked away to save his life. "Lord Brecon's wife, you say? The earl has good taste."

"She's not wife to the present Brecon, but widow to the old one. You were on the Continent when they married, but it was something of a scandal since she was only seventeen and Brecon was over seventy. She seemed rather a plain girl at the time."

"Plain?" Duncan watched as the lady turned her attention to a languid young fop in gold brocade. The pure curve of her throat mesmerized him, and that luminous skin begged to be caressed. "Her?"

"She blossomed during the marriage-a wealthy husband often has that effect. But she and Brecon seemed most sincerely devoted."

Trust Simon to know all the gossip. Absurdly grateful to learn she was a widow, Duncan tried to remember when the fifth Lord Brecon had died. A little over a year ago, he thought. "She must have legions of suitors now that she's out of mourning."

"She has many admirers, me among them, but I've never seen her favor any in particular." Simon c.o.c.ked one brow. "I haven't seen you like this since we went to the gypsy horse fair and you spotted that gray hunter."

His friend was right. Duncan had been sixteen when he saw that horse, and his reaction was the same as today when he saw Lady Brecon: He had to have her.

He drew a slow breath, reminding himself that he wasn't sixteen anymore, the lady might be a shrew, or she might find him as alarming as most women did. One might purchase a desirable horse, but women were more difficult. "If she was Brecon's wife, she must be a Guardian?"

"Yes, one of the Owenses. She has no power to speak of, but she grew up in the library at Harlowe and is a notable scholar of Guardian lore. Since her husband died, she lives here in Richmond with Lady Bethany." Simon grinned. "Hard to believe they're sisters-in-law. The dowager countess looks like Lady Bethany's granddaughter."

If the lady was bookish, it didn't show. From her powdered hair to her dainty slippers, she was an exquisite confection designed to ornament the highest social circles.

Thunder sounded again, this time closer. Duncan's eyes narrowed. Directness was out of place in aristocratic London, but it was the only way he knew. "Introduce me to the lady, Simon, so I can learn if she is as perfect as she appears."

Gwynne smiled at the appallingly bad sonnet Sir Anselm White had recited to her. Though his heart was in the right place, his verses were leagues away in the wrong direction. "You flatter me, Sir Anselm. My eyes are light brown, not 'sapphires bluer than the summer sky.' "

His languid gaze came briefly into focus as he studied the color of her eyes. "Golden coins that outshine the sun!"

She guessed that a metaphor had fallen on the poor man's head when he was an infant and he had never recovered. Since a small amount of Sir Anselm's poetry went a long way, she was glad to hear Bethany say, "Lord Falconer, how good to see you again."

Giving Sir Anselm a last smile before turning away, Gwynne greeted the newcomer warmly. "Simon, my favorite fop!" She extended her hand. "You've been neglecting me, you rogue."

One of the handsomest men in London, Falconer was always worthy of admiration. Today his fair hair was tied back with a blue riband the same shade as his brocade coat, both an exact match for his azure eyes. That embroidered silver waistcoat was more deserving of sonnets than any part of Gwynne's body. He could give Sir Anselm lessons in languid elegance-and underneath the elegance, he was a glittering blade sheathed in silk.

"A fop?" He sighed dramatically. "You wound me, my lady." He bowed over her hand with consummate grace, looking not at all wounded. "Allow me to present my friend Lord Ballister. You'll have heard of him, I think, but he's been travelling abroad for some time and says you've never had the opportunity to meet."

All Guardians had heard of Lord Ballister. Chieftain of the Macraes of Dunrath, among the Families he was known as Britain's finest weather mage. Some said he was even more powerful than his ancestor, Adam Macrae, who had conjured the great gale that destroyed the Spanish Armada.

Since he stood with the sun behind him, she could see little except the silhouette of a powerful, commanding figure. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Ballister."

"The pleasure is mine." Ballister bowed.

A cloud darkened the sun as he straightened, enabling Gwynne to see his face clearly. His storm gray gaze struck her like lightning. Destiny . . . The word echoed in her mind, along with a dizzying sense that the world had changed irrevocably.

She scolded herself for too much imagination. The world was exactly as it had been. The gra.s.s was green, Bethany was composed, and Falconer his usual exquisite self. As for Ballister, he looked normal enough. Though his height and broad shoulders drew attention, his face was too craggy to be called handsome, and his navy blue coat and buff waistcoat were plain by the standards of aristocratic London.

Only his intense gray eyes were remarkable. She remembered a natural history demonstration she had once witnessed. The lecturer had said that electricity was a wild, mysterious force that could not be controlled and which no one understood. Surely that was electricity in Ballister's eyes, and in the very air that danced between them. . . .

She had spent too much time listening to Sir Anselm-his metaphors were contagious. "You have been on the Continent, Lord Ballister?" she asked politely.

"I arrived back in London only yesterday. This morning Falconer dragged me from my bed, swearing that Lady Bethany wouldn't mind if I came uninvited."

"The lad would have been in trouble if he hadn't brought you," Bethany said severely. "I hope you'll be staying in London for a time, Ballister?"

"Yes, though I do long to return home to Scotland." After a moment's hesitation, he said gravely, "I was acquainted with the late Lord Brecon. In learning, wisdom, and gentlemanliness, he was an example to us all. Despite the time that has pa.s.sed, I hope you will both accept my condolences on your loss."

As Lady Bethany murmured thanks, Gwynne swallowed hard, unexpectedly moved by his sympathy. "Thank you for your kind words. I was very fortunate to have shared my lord's final years."

Ballister inclined his head in respectful agreement before saying, "Lady Bethany, may I steal your lovely companion to show me the gardens?"

"Please do," Bethany said, her expression thoughtful. "That will leave me free to flirt outrageously with Falconer. Gwynne, be sure to show Ballister the parterre."

Glad for the chance to talk more with the Scotsman, she took his arm. Though she was a tall woman, he made her feel small and fragile.

The parterre was lower on the hill, near the river. As they crossed the velvety lawn, he said, "I understand that you live here with Lady Bethany?"

"Yes, she invited me to join her after Brecon's death."

"It was too difficult to stay on at Harlowe?"

Surprised at his understanding, she glanced up, and was caught by his eyes again. The gray was changeable, warm now rather than intense. "Yes, though not because of the new earl and his wife. I have the use of the dower house whenever I wish to be at Harlowe, but Lady Bethany and I were both in need of companionship, so I was pleased to accept her offer." Despite the difference in their ages, they had been new widows together. It had deepened their existing bond.

As Gwynne and her companion entered the parterre, an elaborate pattern of carefully cropped shrubs, Ballister halted and studied the pattern with narrowed eyes. "This isn't only decorative, is it? The pattern is designed to magnify power."

Gwynne automatically glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. The Families had survived through the centuries by not drawing unwelcome attention to their abilities. To be different was dangerous. One of the first things Guardian children learned was to preserve secrets; never must they mention power in front of outsiders. But Ballister had been well trained, and there was no one near. "Yes, there's a power point here. That's why Lady Bethany and her husband bought this property. The circle in the center of the parterre can be used for rituals."

"I can feel the earth energy tugging at me. Can you?"

She knew what he was asking. "I have no real power. I can sense atmosphere and energy and emotion a little, but no more than any sensitive mundane." Even the happy years of marriage and her acceptance into the Guardian community had not eliminated her wistful regret for what she lacked. "What of you, Lord Ballister? You're called the Lord of Thunder, the Lord of Storms. Did your power manifest early?"

"Not until I was on the brink of manhood, but I always loved weather-the more dramatic, the better. When I was barely old enough to walk, my mother found me on top of the castle tower in the middle of a thunderstorm, my arms flung out to the sky as I howled with laughter." He smiled reminiscently. "I found that a mother's anger was another kind of tempest."

Gwynne laughed. "Since you're a Macrae, I a.s.sume your parents recognized early that you were a weather mage."

"Aye, it runs in the family, and where better for us to learn than in Scotland, when the weather changes every five minutes with or without a mage's help?" He smiled wryly. "No one even noticed my successes and failures when I was learning."

"I wonder if the Scottish climate is why the best weather workers are always Macraes?"

"Perhaps. There may be something in the air of Dunrath that enhances that kind of magic."He grimaced. "It enhances our weaknesses, too. The stronger a weather mage, the more we are weakened by the touch of iron, and a d.a.m.nable nuisance it is. Most of the weapons in our armory have hilts of wood or bra.s.s."

"I've read about the connection between weather-working and sensitivity to iron. Does iron produce a general weakness, or does it merely block your power?"

"It varies." Changing the subject, he said, "Falconer told me you're an expert on Guardian lore."

"Since my father was the Harlowe librarian, I learned early to catalog and read the archives and write essays about obscure facts and correlations." She smiled wryly. "I know everything about power except what it feels like to have it."

"Knowledge is as important as power," he said seriously. "It is knowledge of history and of our own mistakes that gives us what wisdom we have. The work of Guardian scholars like you is the framework that helps us fulfill our vows."

"What a nice way to think of my work." Curious about him, she asked, "Do you travel a great deal, Lord Ballister? I gather you have been away from Scotland for some time."

"Too long." They had reached the riverbank, where a short pier poked into the Thames. "Three years ago the council requested that I act as envoy to Families in other nations. My journeys were essential and interesting, but I missed my home."

The Guardian Council was formed of the wisest, most powerful mages in Britain. Lady Bethany was currently its chief, the first among equals. Its suggestions were not refused lightly. "Did experiencing the weather of other lands compensate for being so long from Dunrath?"

"The basic principles of wind and cloud and rain are the same everywhere, but the patterns and nuances are different. The winds sing with different voices." His voice deepened. "I would like to show you the winds of Italy, my lady. Warm, sensual, soft as a lover's sigh."

A gust of wind snapped around them, swirling Gwynne's skirts. She had learned much about flirtation since her marriage, for many men offered gallantries to the young wife of an old earl. She knew when flirting was a lighthearted game, and when a man had more serious aims.

Lord Ballister was deeply, alarmingly serious.

She released his arm under the pretense of straightening her skirts. "I had hoped that my husband and I would travel, but his health did not permit it."

"Imagine yourself in Paris or Rome or Athens, Lady Brecon, and perhaps that will help your vision come true." He gazed at her like a starving man who eyed a feast. Her breathing quickened. Who would have thought that being devoured might be an intriguing prospect?

The wind gusted again and strands of his raven black hair broke free of their confinement. Gwynne felt an impulse to brush the tendrils back. It would be pleasing to feel the texture of that strong, tanned cheek. . . .

Abruptly she recognized the electric pull between them as desire. She had loved her husband deeply and she was woman enough to appreciate a handsome man, but this hungry urgency was entirely different, and not at all comfortable.

A blast of rain struck her face and half soaked her gown. Breaking away from Ballister's gaze, she saw that a low storm cloud was sweeping over the river, the leading edge of rain as sharply defined as the wall of a building. "Where did this come from? Lady Bethany said the weather would be fine all afternoon." She caught up her skirts and prepared to bolt for cover.

"d.a.m.nation!" He looked at the sky, rain pouring over his face. "I'm sorry, my lady. I haven't been paying sufficient attention to our surroundings."

She almost laughed when she realized that the Lord of Storms hadn't noticed the change in the weather. The guests farther up the hill had seen the advancing rain and were racing for shelter or crowding into the gazebo while servants attempted to cover the food. "Nor have I, and my gown will pay for my carelessness."

"Don't leave." He held up a commanding hand.

On the verge of flight, she hesitated when his eyes closed. Despite his saturated hair and garments, his concentration radiated like heat from a fire.

She caught her breath as the storm cloud split and rolled away to both sides, avoiding the garden. Within seconds the rain stopped. Amazed, she watched as the clouds dissipated. The sun reappeared and for an instant a rainbow arched over Ballister's head. She caught her breath. This was the Lord of Storms indeed.

The rainbow faded, even more ephemeral than the storm. On the hill guests laughed and stopped retreating, ready to enjoy the party again.

Ballister wiped water from his face. "The weather here is not so chancy as in Scotland, but it's unpredictable enough that a bit of rain never calls attention to itself."

His tone was too casual. Making an intuitive leap, she said, "You didn't overlook that storm. You caused it, didn't you?"

He looked embarra.s.sed. "If I'm careless, I can attract ill weather when my attention is otherwise engaged."

Amused, she brushed at her hair, where the wind and rain had pulled a lock loose from her restrained hairstyle. "What could be so interesting at a lawn party as to attract such a fierce little tempest?"

His gaze darkened. The full force of those eyes was . . . dangerous. They could make a woman forget herself, and all good sense.

"You, of course. There is power between us. You feel it also, I know you do." He touched her wet hair where a few bright glints showed through the powder. His fingertips grazed her bare throat as he caressed the errant lock. "What is the natural color of your hair?" he murmured.

Her breathing became difficult, as if the laces of her corset had been drawn too tight. The sensation was as unnerving as his powerful masculinity. As a widow and a Guardian, she had more independence than most women, and she had developed a taste for it. Ignoring his question, she said, "Power sounds like no more than another name for l.u.s.t, Lord Ballister."

Deliberately she turned away, breaking the spell cast by his eyes. "I've enjoyed talking with you, but I have no wish for an affair. Good afternoon, sir. It's time for me to go indoors and change to dry clothing."

"Wait!" He caught her wrist, and lightning tingled across her skin.

Part of her wanted to turn back, but the part that needed to escape was much stronger. She jerked free of his grip and raced away, skimming up the hill and hoping he would not pursue her.

He didn't. When she neared the house, she turned and saw that he still stood on the pier, his brooding gaze following her. She had a moment of absolute knowledge that he was not gone from her life.

Expression set, she entered the house and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Now that she was away from Ballister, it was harder to remember why she found him so disquieting. His behavior had not been improper. It was his forceful self that had sent her haring off to safety.

She entered her bedroom, and was stopped in her tracks by the image reflected in her tall mirror. Over the years of her marriage, she had become a lady worthy of her husband: modest, discreet, as well dressed as a countess should be. Emery had taken pride in her appearance as surely as he had enjoyed their companionship and mutual love of books.

But the woman in the mirror was no longer that demure wife and widow. Her eyes were bright, her color high, and her wet gown clung wantonly.

She touched a lock of damp hair that fell across her shoulder, disliking the heavy pomade used to make the powder stick. She had never enjoyed powdering her hair, but she started doing it after her marriage because her natural hair color was too brash, too vulgar, for a countess. Powdered hair made her look more refined and mature. More suitable to be her husband's wife.

Ballister's very presence brought color into her life. He was a magnetic, intriguing man, and he looked at her as if she was the most beautiful woman ever born. His regard had been exciting, and yet . . .

Athena jumped from the bed and trotted over to press herself suggestively against Gwynne's ankle. She scooped up the elderly cat and cuddled her close, scratching the furry neck and belly. "Athena, I just met a man who made me feel like a mouse pursued by a cat. And not a sweet, friendly cat like you, either." More of a tiger.

She drifted into her sitting room, where a dozen or more books awaited her attention. There were more books in this one room than in some manor houses. On her desk lay the journal of an Elizabethan mage, a Latin treatise on spell craft written by a Flemish sorceress, a partially burned herbalist's workbook that she was trying to reconstruct. All her projects required slow, painstaking care. It was hard to imagine her work in the same breath with Ballister.

She could feel the pa.s.sion burning in him, and like a moth, she was drawn to the flame. But his fire had the power to destroy the calm, ordered life she loved. A widow could have affairs if she was discreet, but an affair with Ballister would change her in ways she couldn't even imagine. She must keep him at a distance. Soon he would return to Scotland, and he would take his storms with him.

Yet as she rang for her maid, she thought she heard again the whispered word, "Destiny . . ."