A Kiss Of Fate Part 22

THIRTY.

D ark clouds scudded across the sky as Duncan found a high, un.o.btrusive vantage point that allowed him to see both Jacobite and Hanoverian forces. He kept the storm at bay, thinking it might be useful during the battle that was on the verge of beginning.

His eyes narrowed as the rebels took position on the Hill of Falkirk, a moor that overlooked the encampment of the Hanoverian army that had been sent to lift the siege of Stirling Castle. Though royal forces outnumbered the rebels by over two thousand men, they were not well positioned and their officers didn't take the rebel threat seriously. The idiot English commander, General Hawley, wasn't even with his troops-he was enjoying a drunken luncheon with the Countess of Kilmarnock. The longer he stayed away, the better chance the rebels had of smas.h.i.+ng the government forces.

Besides watching the troop movements, Duncan sometimes checked his scrying gla.s.s to see if there were interesting developments elsewhere. His mouth twisted when General Hawley galloped up in a frenzy to join his threatened troops. The man was rumpled and wigless-what had he been doing with the countess? Perhaps that pa.s.sionate Jacobite lady had decided to contribute her virtue to the task of rendering the general useless.

Since Hawley's artillery was bogged down in mud, the general began to organize regiments of dragoons to storm the hill before the rebels became entrenched at the top. It was a critical moment. If Duncan released the winds he had gathered, it would destroy any chance that the royal dragoons would achieve success.

It would probably also end the battle sooner with fewer casualties. Action on his part could be justified as benefiting both sides, but it would help the Jacobites more.

How far was he from crossing the line into renegade territory? Or was he there already? Each small interference on his part had made the next one easier. Gwynne had been right, d.a.m.n her cool Sa.s.senach logic. Though he could stand before the council and justify his actions, in his heart he had already crossed the line.

At a signal from the general, the dragoons began their charge up the hill. Duncan watched them, saw their superiority in equipment and numbers and training, and the last of his objectivity splintered. Quickly, before he could think more, he released the winds.

His gale blasted into the faces of the Hanoverian dragoons as they attempted to attack up the steep slope. They were in disarray by the time they reached the top. The rebels held their fire until the last possible moment-then released a shattering volley. Dozens of horses and riders fell, mortally wounded.

Duncan closed his eyes as he tried to slam the door on the pain of the wounded men and their mounts. The fact that he supported one side didn't spare him the other side's agony. Good men were dying, and his stomach twisted at the knowledge that he had made himself part of this battle.

He opened his eyes to a chaotic battlefield. Rain blasted down from the darkened sky, reducing the visibility as Hanoverian troops fled in panic. With muskets made useless by water, combat became a b.l.o.o.d.y matter of swords and dirks.

In twenty minutes it was over and the Jacobites had won a tremendous victory. Concealed by the pounding rain, Duncan quietly withdrew from the area. Because of the vile weather, the death toll would be relatively low. He had saved lives on both sides, and if the Jacobites followed up aggressively, they would soon be masters of all Scotland.

He hoped to heaven that happened. The sooner this war ended, the sooner he could return home to Gwynne.

Gwynne sighed over Jean's latest letter. It had taken almost a fortnight to reach her even though Dunrath was not terribly far from Inverness, the current headquarters of the rebel army.

Though Jean's overall mood was weary resignation, she told an amusing story about how five Jacobites had created a great enough ruckus to scare off a whole army of Hanoverians one stormy night. "The Rout of Moy," as it was being called, had allowed the prince and his followers to escape capture. The weather that night had a strong scent of Duncan about it.

Duncan. Still no word from him. All Gwynne could do was wait.

Wait and pray.

Expression grim, Duncan put away his scrying gla.s.s. The Jacobites had squandered their advantage in the days after Falkirk. Instead of pursuing the demoralized enemy or heading east to recapture Edinburgh, they had returned to their futile siege of Stirling Castle. d.a.m.ned fools!

Scowling, he rose to put more wood on the small fire burning in the mouth of the cave where he had found refuge. Since he could not afford to be traced, he'd been living rough most of the time since leaving Dunrath. The entrance to his cave was high on a hill and not visible from below, so he should be safe enough here.

He impaled a tired piece of black pudding on a stick and held it close to the flames, wanting something hot to eat. When it began to sizzle, he laid it on a crumbling oatcake and began to eat his meager dinner. Was Gwynne missing him?

As soon as the thought formed, he felt her grief and longing as sharply as if he were touching her. But there were no regrets in her mind. She was convinced that he was wrong, and if he returned home he ran the risk of her reporting him to the council.

Thinking of her made him tighten with yearning. Any lapse of his self-control and he'd be on Zeus's back and heading to Dunrath.

He took a sip of the tea he'd made earlier, gloomily thinking how hard it was to change the course of events, or cure stupidity. When younger, he'd read books on military history. The princ.i.p.al lesson drawn from his study was that war was a confused and clumsy affair, and victory often went to whoever made the fewest mistakes. No wonder Guardians were strong supporters of peace.

He was sipping the last of the tea when he froze, his hackles rising. He was being hunted. Scarcely breathing, he a.n.a.lyzed that faint, questing pulse of power.

Simon. The council's hound had returned to Scotland and was seeking him. He was close, too, within a mile. Duncan had a mental image of Simon riding relentlessly through the cold dusk, all his senses alert as he hunted his prey.

Duncan smothered the fire so not even a tendril of smoke was visible. Zeus was behind him in the cave, lazily munching some hay. The climb up to the cave was difficult for the horse even when Duncan led him, but a Sa.s.senach like Simon, who was used to English mounts, would think it impossible. Duncan rested his hands on the horse's neck and laid a calming spell strong enough to prevent Zeus from being interested in any other horses that might traverse the rough road below the cave.

Then Duncan lay down on his blankets and prepared himself to be overlooked. The cave was s.h.i.+elded with a don't-see spell. He strengthened that, taking care to eliminate any marks of magic that might attract Simon's attention, and triggered the mizzling rain that had been threatening all afternoon.

Lastly, he diminished his own energy to the lowest level possible in which he was still conscious. He lay like a banked fire that should not attract Simon's attention.

Yet the hunter was drawing closer. In the stillness of the hills, Duncan could hear slow hoofbeats and sense Simon's approach. Closer . . . closer . . .

The hoofbeats stopped directly below the cave. Duncan had a vivid sense that the other man was probing the energies of the area, frustratingly aware that his quarry had been here at some time, but unable to detect Duncan's present position.

He closed his eyes, not allowing himself to feel satisfaction, since a change in his energy might attract Simon's hypersensitive awareness. Barely breathing, he waited.

After an endless interval, the hoofbeats started again, moving north. He was safe.

At least for now.

THIRTY-ONE.

G wynne gazed absently into the darkness, one hand stroking Lionel and the rest of her yearning for her husband. It had been three months since she had seen Duncan, and in that time she'd heard not a word, received not even one of his terse letters, and seen no image of him in her scrying gla.s.s. If not for the way her body remembered his, she might start to think she had imagined him.

The one thing he couldn't block was her sense that he was alive and well. She would know if he were dead. Others from Glen Rath had not been so lucky. Two local lads had been killed in skirmishes in the area around Inverness, where small groups of Jacobites and Hanoverians ran afoul of each other regularly.

She was drifting into sleep when a sudden awareness of a presence, male, caused her to sit bolt upright in the bed. "Duncan?" she whispered, feeling the tingle of power.

"Alas, no." A snap of fingers lit a candle, which illuminated the elegant, weary face of Simon, Lord Falconer. "I'm sorry to intrude on you this way, but I prefer to come and go as invisibly as possible."

Simon looked ten years older than on his last visit to Dunrath. Even his s.h.i.+ning blond hair seemed dimmed. "You must be hungry," Gwynne said. "Come down to the kitchens with me."

"With pleasure." Another snap of his fingers and a globe of cool light glowed on his palm.

"I need to learn how to do that," Gwynne said admiringly. "It looks like a very convenient spell."

"It is, especially for people like me who sometimes hunt in dark places, which I've done entirely too much of lately." He sighed. "If you like, I'll show you the trick of it when I'm not so tired."

"Time you were fed." She swung from the bed and donned Duncan's blue velvet banyan, which she used because she took comfort in the imprinted essence of his personality. It was also good protection from the icy drafts in the older parts of the castle.

In the kitchen, a kettle of thick lamb-and-barley soup was steaming gently on the hob, so she dished up a bowl while Simon lit the lamps. She added bread and sliced cheese, along with a gla.s.s of the castle's best claret for both of them.

He elegantly wolfed the food down, if wolves were ever elegant. When he finished, he poured them more wine, looking less like a stone effigy than when he had arrived. "Your control at not asking questions is stunning, Gwynne. Now it's your turn. Ask away."

She hesitated, wondering where to start. "I gather that you have not seen Duncan for some time."

"Unfortunately not. It was my idea to separate because I wanted to pursue what felt like a rogue Guardian. I had no success there-I think the rogue felt my search and stopped stirring up trouble. That's fortunate, but once Duncan was on his own, his Jacobite leanings took over." Simon's mouth twisted bitterly. "I should have known better. We were meant to balance each other, but I thought that the crisis had pa.s.sed when the rebels began to withdraw to Scotland. I was wrong."

Which meant it was Simon's duty to hunt down one of his closest friends. How d.a.m.nable. "It's not your fault," Gwynne said. "Duncan was already quietly aiding the rebels even before you went your separate ways. I saw him last at Christmas. At that time he was justifying his interventions as preserving life, but I fear that he was well on his way to discarding his rationalizations and committing fully to the rebel cause."

"If I had stayed, I think I could have prevented him from pa.s.sing the point of no return." Simon tilted his goblet at the lamp, ruby lights sparkling through the wine. "I have been seeking him for weeks without success."

Gwynne pressed her hand to her lips. If the two came face-to-face, with Simon charged to stop Duncan-she shuddered at the thought. "So he can hide even from you?"

"I have found traces of his pa.s.sing, but haven't been able to locate his living presence." He sighed. " Unless in my heart I don't want to find him and that is undermining my power."

She leaned forward and covered his hand with hers. "Don't torment yourself over this, Simon. He has great power, and a great desire not to be found."

His lean hand tensed under her fingers. "You've become adept at controlling the enchantress power," he said with unnatural calm, "but your touch is not yet harmless."

"Sorry." Blus.h.i.+ng, she pulled her hand away. She would have to work on that.

"Do you know where he is?" Simon asked.

She shook her head. "He is able to s.h.i.+eld from me very effectively. He is well, and somewhere near Inverness, I think. Beyond that, I know as little as you." Gwynne thought a moment. "Jean is also in Inverness. She writes me, but if she has seen Duncan, she hasn't mentioned it."

"I spoke with Jean. She said she hadn't seen him, and I believe her."

Gwynne studied his drawn face. They had always been friendly, and she now suspected that part of that was because she was a Guardian without power. He could relax with her because she knew what he was but didn't have the ability to see him with the eyes of power. Those who were capable of seeing his full self tended to be wary unless they had equal magical ability, she now realized. He had too much tightly controlled power to be restful. "It must be hard to be so alone," she murmured.

His head came up. For a moment, she thought he would ignore her comment, or brush it aside as if he didn't understand. Instead, he said, "It is. The curse of being a Falconer. One adapts."

And he did not wish to discuss the matter further. She nodded acceptance. "The armies are drawing closer and closer. The crisis is near, isn't it?"

"Very. A fortnight at the most. Probably sooner." He leaned forward, his gray eyes fierce. "You must stop Duncan, Gwynne. You are the only one who can. If you don't, I fear for the consequences."

"I would if I could, but how?" She spread her hands helplessly. "If you can't find him, I certainly can't."

"Don't seek him. Bring him to you."

She stared. "How can I make that stubborn Scot do anything?"

"Send out a mental call. Plead with him using every iota of enchantress power," Simon said crisply. " I don't think he will be able to resist you. Use your knowledge of his strengths and weaknesses as ruthlessly as necessary, but stop him!"

She bit her lip. "Duncan is so intelligent, with worldly experience far beyond mine. Have you ever wondered if he's right and we're wrong? Might the prince be the best available choice?"

"I've had this conversation with Duncan, and I've done my best to find clarity on the topic." Simon sighed. "There are different levels of truth, and Duncan has found a . . . a short-term truth that speaks to his loyalties. He dreams of Scotland regaining her independence and prospering as a sovereign nation once more.

"But there are larger truths, and in this case Duncan is not seeing them. The dream of the Stuarts restored in Edinburgh has romantic appeal-even I wondered if that might be a good outcome. The more I meditated on the matter, the more I felt the wrongness. If the Stuarts regained the throne of Scotland, how soon until the border wars begin again? An independent Scotland is a potential traitor at England's back door, and England will not allow that to happen again. She has enough enemies. And if the Pretender won England as well . . ." He shook his head, his expression stark.

Different levels of truth-yes, that made sense. Bless Simon for his ability to put the situation into perspective. She was also grateful that a man with Simon's power and worldly experience agreed with her about the dangers of a Jacobite victory.

The hour of betrayal had arrived. Oddly enough, she now knew how to accomplish that if she could bring Duncan close enough for her to work her wiles.

Living with herself after committing her crime was something she would worry about later.

Simon was reluctant to spend the night, but Gwynne insisted. She put him in a guest room, laid an ignore spell on the door so no maid would disturb him in the morning, then returned to her own chamber.

With the critical battle likely to occur within days, there was no time to waste if she was to bring Duncan to her side. She returned to her bed, closed her eyes, and tuned her senses to her magic. If forced to describe that power, she would say that it was like a fluid that filled her body, lighter than air but sparkling with subtle luminescence. When her power was focused, the light increased and there was a kind of inner tingling, as if she were more alive than usual.

When her magic was as strong as she could make it, she reached out to Duncan, trying to touch his mind with hers. This wasn't just any man, it was her husband. The man she loved, body, mind, and soul. Surely she could find him. . . .

Nothing. She continued to try, unaware of the pa.s.sing time, until she had to give up in fatigue. She hadn't achieved the faintest sense that they were connecting.

Temples throbbing, she wondered if there was another method than mind-touch. Body, mind, and soul. She caught her breath. Hadn't Simon said to use her enchantress power? Her magic was of the body, not the mind. Since she and Duncan were bonded by their mutual pa.s.sion, that was how she might reach him.

Once again she concentrated her power until she s.h.i.+mmered with magic. Then she visualized Duncan, but this time she concentrated on intimate details rather than worldly ones. The way his whiskers p.r.i.c.kled under her fingertips, the smile that showed in his eyes when he looked at her even if his expression was serious. The way he could bring her to arousal with a single pa.s.sionate glance. . . .

Her heartbeat quickened and she touched her tongue to her lips. Duncan, my love, please come home, I need you most desperately.

The provocative pressure of his mouth, the musky scent of s.e.x, the damp clinging of their bodies after pa.s.sion was spent. The explosion of ecstasy when he thrust into her. As the memories intensified, her hips began to pulse. My husband, I will try to be the wife you want me to be, if only you come home.

Her hands moved over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, caressing before they slid lower with urgent pressure. She kneaded her flesh in a feverish attempt to simulate what she wanted from Duncan. As she visualized their joining, tremors ran through her. She could almost feel that he was here, his mouth ravenous, his fierce desire focused on her. I need you as the earth needs the rain, as a body needs breath. Come home, beloved!

Ah, G.o.d, what could be more sublime than pa.s.sion shared with one's love? Waves of rapture convulsed her and for an instant she knew that they were joined, in soul if not in body. I love you, mo caran, I love you. . . .

Her shudders faded, leaving her drained, satisfied, and embarra.s.sed by her shamelessness. On some intangible level, she and her husband had made love, and she was sure that he had felt her presence as clearly as she had felt his. This time they had connected as they had not when she had tried the mind-touch.

If tonight's plea didn't work to bring him home to her-well, she would try again.

Body and soul.

Duncan jerked awake as if his flesh were burning. For an instant he had no awareness of where he was; the only certainty was that he'd just had the most extraordinarily pa.s.sionate dream of his life.

Or was it a dream?

Breathing hard, he propped himself up on one elbow and glanced around the rough cave, which was faintly illuminated by the banked coals of his fire. Gwynne was a Guardian with ways of learning things unavailable to mundanes. She had seemed so real that he wouldn't have been surprised to find her lying on the blankets beside him. Dear G.o.d, he wished she were here!

As sweaty and breathless as if they really had just made love, he lay back on the blankets and tried to a.n.a.lyze what had happened. He had had other pa.s.sionate dreams of his wife-almost nightly, in fact. This had been different. Intensely sensual, but also embodying what seemed like a message.

Mentally he went over the essence of his dream experience. It had been like mind-touch, but profoundly physical. A summoning of the body. My husband, I will try to be the wife you want me to be, if only you come home. Had Gwynne changed her mind about the rebellion? Or was her call a product of loneliness?

Surely it was the latter, for he felt the same. He wanted her with a fever that never cooled. He had left Dunrath abruptly because she wouldn't be a wife to him while he supported the rising. But the summoning, if that's what it was, was not the call of a woman who would refuse her husband her bed.

Dare he answer her call and return to Dunrath? He tried to think of all the objections. A major battle was drawing near, but it was still several days away. Time enough to go home, which wasn't much more than a day's ride.

Might she be trying to lure him back to be arrested by the Hanoverian authorities? No, she would not betray him like that.