Mistress de Cortes that I wish to speak to her.'
The housekeeper's brows arched. 'You'll have a wait, then. My lady left for London yesterday.'
He stared, unable to believe that she was gone. 'Why the devil did she do that?'
Mistress Heath shrugged.' Tis not my place to say.'
She would surely go to her father's house. 'Where does the de Cortes family live?'
Ignoring the question, Mistress Heath turned to leave. 'One of the men will bring you hot water and food.' The door closed hard behind her.
Isabel had left him. The damned Englishwoman had bloody left him! How
Swearing, he opened the wardrobe and yanked out his cleaned and folded garments. This could have been settled easily, but nothing about Isabel de Cortes was easy. She would pay for this insult.
Aye, she would pay.
6
As soon as her mother left the room, Isabel poured the latest tisane into the window box that hung from her sill. Though her flowers had been tattered by the great storm, already they were recovering. Perhaps the herbal brews were good for them.
In her mother's arms she had found the warmth and comfort she craved, but the maternal fussing was in a fair way to driving her mad, as were the incessant questions about what had happened. Perhaps someday Isabel would be able to speak of it. But probably not.
Master Dee had visited and given her a magnificent ruby ring from the queen's own hand in gratitude for what she and Macrae had achieved. But the visit was brief, for the royal conjuror was anxious to return to his family in Bohemia.
Isabel drifted to the window, wondering what more her life might hold. Her usual studies had no interest for her, and even her scrying glass was cloudy when she tried to see her future. She had been part of a great work that changed the course of nations, so perhaps it was greedy of her to want something beyond a long, desiccated spinsterhood. Though unlike the queen, she was no longer virgin…
She heard a distant pounding, as if soldiers were banging on the front door. Then an uproar broke out downstairs. Her blood froze under an onslaught of horrified ancestral memories of the Inquisition coming to take members of the de Cortes family away to torture and death. Surely not here in London, not again!
Heart racing, she darted from her room and to the stairs. She halted in shock when she looked down into the entry hall. Magnificently dressed and fierce as a wolf, Adam Macrae was holding two of her father's menservants at bay with a sword.
Her parents stormed into the hall. Seeing the sword, her father threw a protective arm in front of his wife as he barked, 'What is the meaning of this, you insolent devil?'
'You should be grateful, Master de Cortes,' Macrae replied in a voice of thunder. 'I've come to take your stubborn spinster daughter off your hands.'
Her mother gasped. 'You'll not touch her, you great brute! My husband is a friend of the Lord Mayor of London, and you'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered if you assault a virtuous maiden.'
'A virtuous maiden?' Macrae laughed out loud. 'That is not the Isabel I know.'
Her shock dissolved by fury, Isabel swept down the steps as if she were one of Macrae's own tempests. 'How dare you force your way in and terrorize my father's household! Take yourself back to Scotland and marry that sweet bland blonde of yours.'
His gaze snapped upward. 'Isabel!'
With a smile like the sun at high noon, he sheathed his sword and galloped up the steps three at a time. Meeting her on the landing, he swept her into an embrace that bruised her lips. Thunder and lightning, a storm in the blood. Her desire to shove him down the stairs dissolved, and she kissed him back. The damnable man!
He murmured into her ear, 'Did you think you could walk away from an alchemical marriage, my beautiful witch?'
'But… but Anne, the woman you are contracted to…'
'Likely wed to another by now.' His long, clever fingers began stroking the small of her back. 'Anne had no shortage of suitors, and she found me alarming, which is why the contracts had not yet been signed.'
A man cleared his throat heavily. Face beet-red, Isabel looked down the steps to find that she and Macrae were the object of fascinated gazes by half the members of the household. Her father said sternly, 'You know this rogue?'
'H-his name is Sir Adam Macrae, and he is a well-born Scot,' she stammered.
'A Scot?' Her father snorted. 'No wonder he behaves like a savage.'
'Accustom yourself.' Macrae raised his hand, revealing a sapphire ring in a setting that matched Isabel's. 'Your queen herself has ordered Isabel to marry me, in return for my services to England.'
'You called on Queen Elizabeth?' Isabel's eyes widened with shock.
'I wanted to make sure I held the high ground if you were so foolish as to try to refuse me.' He wrapped one arm around her waist and gazed down at Isabel's parents. 'I am wealthy enough to gladden any parent's heart, and brave enough to take on your hellcat. As it happens, she and I share certain… unusual talents and interests. Now, if you will excuse us, I wish to speak to my affianced bride in private.'
Her father's eyes narrowed, showing the formidable merchant who had prospered in good times and bad. 'I don't care how wealthy you are, or if God Himself has given you permission to wed my daughter. No man will have Isabel unless she agrees to the union, and if you attempt to force her, you'll face the swords of myself and my three sons.'
Isabel's mother placed a hand on her husband's arm, a faint, knowing smile playing over her lips. 'I doubt that anything is being done against Isabel's will. Give them the chance to settle matters in private, David.'
Isabel's father started to protest, then subsided. 'Very well, if Isabel is willing to speak with this rogue.'
'I am willing. Matters between us must be settled.' Although, she wasn't sure if she would accept Macrae or cut his heart out.
As he marched Isabel up the steps, she glanced back and saw that her parents were smiling. Smiling! As easily as that, this barbarian Scot had won them over.
He led her unerringly to her bedroom. 'How did you know where to find me?' she asked as he bolted the door behind them.
'It would have been hard enough to hide from a mage, but it's impossible to conceal yourself from your bonded mate. For mated we are, Isabel. Accept it.'
He spun her around so that her back was to him and began deftly unlacing her gown. With a swiftness truly magical he unbound her rigid leather corset, then cupped her breasts with his warm great hands.
As she gasped with distracted pleasure, his levity dropped away. 'I love you, Isabel,' he said softly. 'Accept the fact that we are joined for life, and quite possibly eternity as well. Will marriage be so very bad? We've been granted a rare gift of passion and closeness, my love.'
She pulled away and turned to face him. It wasn't possible to read his thoughts — the white heat that had joined them when they conjured the tempest was only a distant pulse, though it would always be there when summoned. But they were still in resonance with each other, and with dawning wonder she realized that she was no longer alone.
In his eyes, she saw the reflection of her own soul and the mad glory of his desire. Even, to her surprise, a fear that she would continue to resist him.
She had always had faith in her magical abilities, but for the first time, a pleasing sense of feminine power began to flow through her. Despite Macrae's bluster, he was well-aware that a mage of her power couldn't be brought unwilling to the altar. This great brash Scot was humbling himself. Humility was not one of his gifts, which was why he was doing it so badly.
Secure in her power as both sorceress and woman, she asked, 'So you have demanded me as a reward from
