A dark, sullen dawn was breaking, the sun only a dim glow on the horizon. The overall spell was complete, but the structure was fragile. He needed a massive infusion of energy to set the pattern so that the tempest could become a force in its own right.
A gust of rain knocked him to his knees. Gasping, he reached for his partner, but for the first time he was unable to tap her strength. Though she had reserves still, they were beyond his reach.
'Isabel…' He tried to call, but his voice was a thin whisper lost in the rising wind. He was on all fours, most of his strength and awareness devoted to stabilizing the tempest with none left for holding him upright.
Her arms came around his shoulders. Though her touch stirred a wisp of energy, it was nowhere near enough to seal the spell. He tried harder to connect with the silvery pool of her power. She was struggling equally, he sensed her frantic effort, but there might have been a glass wall between them. Impenetrable. Impossible…
'Macrae.' Her husky voice whispered in his ear. 'The alchemical marriage — the mating of opposites to form a greater whole. It is the only solution left.'
With shock, he realized that she meant a physical mating. His dazed mind tried to evaluate whether her proposal had a chance to work. There had been strong attraction from the beginning. In another time and place he would have courted her, or perhaps swept her onto his horse and carried her off to the Highlands, but he had buried such thoughts as inappropriate to the work they were doing together.
She might be right that passion could forge their spirits into a single invincible blade, but the cool voice of his conscience pointed out that he wanted desperately to believe that surrendering to lust was the key to victory. Was he a Guardian, a man of honor, or a randy male who would lie to gain what he desired?
Her lips touched his in a hesitant kiss. Her scent was of rain-washed roses.
His numb body began tingling to life. Sensing the change, Isabel's kiss became fierce, a demand laced with power.
Primal passion exploded through him, bringing every fiber of his body to blazing life. Be damned to his doubts — he wanted and needed Isabel more than reason, more than conscience, more than honor.
As he kissed her back, the shields he had borne from the cradle dissolved, allowing her access to the depths of his soul. Her fierce determination to conquer entered into his own soul, making them the invincible sword he had imagined. The gentle rain intensified into a downpour, fluid and fertile as it mated with the earth.
'Isabel, my enchantress…' He rolled above her, pressing her long body into the wet grass as he kissed her hungrily, blending his essence with hers.
Their lovemaking shattered the skies as the last barriers collapsed. Power was abundant, limitless, flowing through them and into the tempest, stabilizing the intricate structure of the spell. Lightning blazed until he was unsure if they were in Kent or soaring high over the North Sea in the heart of the storm.
As their spirits melded, he discovered that at the heart of her power was a lonely child who was an outsider among those she loved, convinced she was too strange, too unattractive, to ever find the closeness she craved. Even John Dee, greatest alchemist of the age, had found his student disconcerting.
Tenderly, Macrae showed her his vision of her unique, bewitching beauty. How she was a paragon among women, a mistress of mages. In return, she mirrored him back to himself. Was he really so darkly intimidating? Yet she was drawn to his strength, intrigued by his contradictions, so he gloried in his darkness.
He was distantly aware of Spanish ships foundering, sails shredding and masts snapping. Without the anchors they had shed near the Low Countries to escape the English fire ships, they were helpless before the tempest.
With a last paroxysm of power, the hurricane crystallized into a living entity, no longer dependent on its creator. They had succeeded. Against all the odds, they had
Drained of every shred of strength and passion, he fell once more into darkness.
Exhausted to ashy numbness, Isabel cradled her lover to her breast as the rain drummed into their panting bodies. She had not known the cosmos held such pleasure, or such pain, as she had discovered with Macrae.
Part of her would have been content to lie there and drown, but now that passion had burned out she was aware that the soggy ground and cold wind were wickedly uncomfortable. She managed to pull herself out from under his dead weight.
Dead? Alarmed, she laid her fingers to his throat. His pulse was strong. With effort she invoked subtler senses to look more deeply and decided that he was not profoundly injured as he had been by his earlier attempt on the Armada. Only… expended. He would sleep at least a day, perhaps longer.
She tugged his cloak over him, shielding his face from the rain, then stumbled her way up the long lane to the house. Luckily, the torrent disguised her dishevelment. Her household was used to odd activities from her; they would not suspect her of anything so plebian as coupling with a handsome stranger.
A stranger? Her mouth twisted. She knew Sir Adam Macrae to the depths of his stormy, impatient, generous soul.
As her numb fingers fumbled with the kitchen door, it swung open, and Mstress Heath pulled her into the warmth of the kitchen. 'Thank the Lord you be all right, m'lady!' the housekeeper exclaimed. ' Tis worried I've been.'
Terrified, more likely, but all Isabel's servants knew better than to disturb her when she was working. 'All is well, Mstress Heath, but send the men to the stone circle to bring Sir Adam to the house. He… he has not fully recovered from his illness and has been overcome by… his exertions.'
The sodden cloak was swept from her shoulders and a mug of warm beef broth pressed into her hands. 'Drink this, m'lady,' Mistress Heath said briskly. 'By the time you're finished, a hot bath will be waiting. Then it's to bed with you. I'll see to your Scottish savage.'
Grateful to be cared for as a child, Isabel drank her broth, then allowed herself to be led to her room. Macrae was being carried in as she left the kitchen, water pouring off him and the servants who had collected him. When she cast a glance back, Mistress Heath firmly tugged her onward.
The hot bath was spiked with lavender, the healing herb soothing her frayed spirit. Isabel closed her eyes and willed herself to tranquillity. What mattered was that they had succeeded. They had forged an alchemical marriage that generated the power they needed, and England would never again be threatened by Spain. Even without her scrying glass, she knew that with absolute certainty. She uttered a prayer for the souls of the Spanish sailors.
Wearily, she rested her head against the edge of the wooden tub. She had sworn she would pay any price, and her virginity was small enough as costs went. Much harder was losing half of her soul — it would have been easier to give up her life. But that loss was not something that could, or should, be undone.
She had found pleasure almost beyond bearing in their joining. Now she must face the anguish of knowing they must separate. Deep in Macrae's mind she had seen his distaste at the prospect of being fettered by marriage. But Guardians were subject to great pressure to wed, preferably to other Guardians so the blood and the power would remain strong. He had accepted marriage as his fate.
Before his intemperance had landed him in the Tower of London, he had been ready to offer for a gentle Guardian maiden called Anne, a blonde as sweet-natured as she was beautiful. Best of all in Macrae's eyes was that Anne was a Scot when most Guardian daughters were English. He could not have tolerated an English wife — his disgust at the prospect had been achingly clear.
Isabel clambered from the tub and began toweling herself dry. Her body was warm now, though her soul was chilled. She had a sudden yearning for her mother, who had never truly understood her strange daughter, but who loved her anyhow.
As she donned her night rail and crawled into her bed, Isabel forced herself to accept that Macrae was intended for another woman. Even if he was not, his taste did not run to black-haired harridans, especially English ones. So be it.
They had won a great victory today. It was enough.
It
The sun was shining when Macrae awoke. Outside the diamond-shaped windowpanes, two larks perched on a branch and warbled to each other. He listened in lazy peace, scarcely able to believe that they had triumphed, and survived. Of Isabel's survival he had no doubt; for the rest of his life, he would be aware of every breath she drew. He was climbing cautiously from the bed when the housekeeper entered. Eager to see Isabel, he said, 'Tell
