Irresistible Forces Page 11

  Though she had scarcely noticed at the time, she had a sharp flash of memory of how his lips had felt under hers when she had breathed for him. Embarrassed, she said, “If the body is saved, perhaps the spirit will also heal. We will do what we can.” The world needed Adam Macrae.

  And she needed to know that somewhere he would be living under the same sun as she.

  4

  He had been lost for so long among the cinders of his mind that at first he didn’t recognize returning awareness. All he knew was cool darkness, a soft night breeze redolent of country flowers, a gentle hand on his forehead.

  A woman’s hand? He forced his eyes open. He was in his bedroom at Leighton Manor, the canopy above him barely visible in the dim light. Isabel de Cortes was perched on a stool beside him, her eyes narrow with concern.

  “So…I did not die,” he said in a rasping voice.

  “Not for lack of trying.” Despite her acerbic words, she gave him a smile that softened the austere beauty of her narrow face.

  He closed his eyes again. “How long has it been since I conjured the winds?”

  “Eight days. Master Dee has returned to London to confer with the queen.”

  Seeing her expression brought back the last disastrous memories that preceded his collapse. He exhaled roughly. “I failed.”

  “Perhaps not.” Her gaze slid away. “Your efforts have given more time to improve the coastal defenses. Surely that will help if—when—the Spanish invade.”

  Absurd. Britain’s coastline was far too long for defenses to be adequate everywhere, and they both knew it. As his vision cleared, he realized that she looked different tonight. Defeated. Unbowed, but preparing for the worst. “Give me your scrying glass.”

  She looked doubtful. Guessing she thought him too weak, he repeated, “Give it to me! I must know.”

  She reluctantly produced the obsidian disk and laid it on his right palm. He was so weak he could barely raise the glass high enough to see the surface, and he couldn’t sense the glow of her energy as he had before. As the surface remained blank, he recognized that the center of his spirit was numb, devoid of power.

  Sweating, he closed his eyes and tried to shape the slight breeze that fitfully stirred the curtains. It pulsed, then faded. Had he done that, or was the movement only the normal volatility of the night airs?

  He tried again. This time he was almost sure that he had briefly strengthened the wind. His power was only strained, not dead. He refused to believe otherwise.

  Opening his eyes, he tried the scrying glass again. What might the Spanish bring? This time he saw a flickering image of Edinburgh Castle—burning. May God help Scotland, for the Spaniards would come with torch and steel.

  Grimly, he tried to conjure a vision of Dunrath, but the glass would show him no more. Trembling, he let his head fall back against the pillows.

  “I won’t tell you not to overexert yourself, for it would be a waste of breath,” Mistress de Cortes said dryly. “But you might consider the fact that you have been out of your head with fever for days. It is normal to be weak as a newborn kitten.”

  “I have no time for weakness. We must act before it is too late.” He struggled for more breath.

  “You think it still possible to change the course of events?”

  “Aye. Not easy, but…possible.” Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was garbed in a coarse nightgown, borrowed from a servant perhaps. He leaned forward to stand—and his knees buckled beneath him.

  She swiftly moved forward and caught him around the waist. For an instant they were pressed together as she struggled to prevent his sagging body from falling to the floor. Her breasts were soft and womanly against his chest. Desire blazed through him like storm lightning, and with it came a shadow of renewed energy.

  Before he could gather his wits, she managed to shift him back onto the edge of the bed. “You’re a damned fool, Macrae,” she said a little breathlessly. “Content yourself with talking for tonight.”

  She expertly lifted his legs onto the bed, which pushed him back against the pillows. His brief energy faded again, but not his memory of it. Angels above, she was enticing. An embrace with her would make a stone saint dance. “We must learn to work together on all levels, Isabel. You must be able to use my gifts as a weather mage, and I must be able to draw fully on your strength.” It was the first time he had used her Christian name when speaking to her.

  Acknowledging the intimacy, she said, “Does that mean I should call you Adam?”

  He smiled a little. “I like the way you growl ‘Macrae.’”

  “I’m gifted at growling. How are we to accomplish such closeness?”

  If she had been raised a Guardian, she would know such things. Groping for the right words, he said, “To share energy fully, there must be absolute trust and a willingness to reveal oneself with naked honesty, flaws as well as virtues. Earlier, time was short and neither of us wished to drop all our defenses, so we did not delve so deeply. If we had”—his mouth twisted—“perhaps I could have maintained the wind long enough to force the Spanish fleet onto the Zeeland shoals. I was so close…”

  The silence was long and painful before she said, “I have never done what you are describing. Is it even possible? We have little in common.”

  “We are both disciplined and know how to wield power.” He caught her gaze. “And we will both pay any price to stop the Spanish. That should be enough.”

  She bit her lip. “The prospect of completely lowering my shields is…troubling, but it seems we have no choice but to try.”

  “This will be hard for you, since you have had little contact with other mages,” he admitted. “Even among Guardians, complete openness is rare.” Most often it was seen between husband and wife, but sometimes between mages who worked together closely.

  “Master Dee spoke of the alchemical marriage, the mating of opposites to create strength and harmony,” she said. “Is that what you are speaking of?”

  “I am no alchemist, but, yes, that is the sort of closeness we must forge. Usually it takes a long time to develop, but we don’t have time, so we must do the best we can.”

  “Let me try this, and tell me if you experience anything.” She closed her eyes, and for the space of a hundred heartbeats there was silence. She gave a quick, frustrated shake of her head, then laid her hand on his.

  Immediately, he felt a feather-light stroke of her energy. It gently flowed through him, sliding behind his weakened defenses and soothing scorched places in his spirit. He had felt nothing comparable since his training with his grandfather when he was a boy.

  But his grandfather was stern and male, while Isabel was profoundly female. An object of desire whose touch sparked reactions that fizzed through his body. He moved involuntarily, for the effect was as alarming as it was exciting.

  Masking his reaction, he said, “You reached very deeply. It is a good beginning.”

  She sighed. “So little time.”

  Feeling stronger than when he first woke, he asked, “Are you a healer?”

  “Only in a small way.” She rested her palm on his forehead again. “Sleep, Macrae. Tomorrow we will begin our second campaign.”

  He slipped into deep slumber, dimly aware that she had begun to heal the source of his power.

  Since Macrae’s fever had broken and his wits were well on the way to mending, Isabel left him alone to sleep. He needed the rest, and so did she.

  Nonetheless, her night was troubled. Macrae was disturbing at the best of times, like a barely leashed lion. To allow him access to the darkest secrets of her soul—she shuddered at the thought.

  The prospect of knowing his darkest secrets was even worse. Raised by protective, baffled parents, her life had been a sheltered one despite her studies. With Dee’s guidance she had learned the disciplines of power, and her scrying ability had given her rare access to the workings of her society. But that knowledge was of the mind; Macrae was of the
earth, intensely physical and experienced in matters beyond her imagination. The depths of his mind would not be…safe.

  She should think of their joint endeavor as an opportunity to broaden her knowledge and understanding. Certainly the work was vital, for the Armada was a sword poised over Britain. Nonetheless, she felt like a mouse about to be seized by a hawk.

  Reminding herself that she was a mouse armed with powerful fangs, she rolled over and forced herself to relax, one muscle at a time. She must hope that a hawk and a fanged mouse could between them stop the Spanish.

  She was rising after a night of restless dreams when her housekeeper entered the bedroom in a rush. “Sir Adam is gone!”

  Isabel muttered an oath under her breath. “I think I know where he might be. Don’t worry—his fever broke last night, and he’s as sensible now as he’s capable of. Pack food in a basket while I dress.”

  Reassured, Mistress Heath left to do her mistress’s bidding. After donning a plain country gown of cream-colored linen and dressing her hair in a simple knot, Isabel collected the basket and walked down to the stone circle at a leisurely pace.

  As she expected, Macrae was there, sitting on a stone as he looked out to sea. His beard needed trimming—he looked more pirate than gentleman.

  Her relaxation vanished when she saw his despair. “What has happened?”

  “There is even less time than I thought.”

  She settled on the stone beside his. “Tell me.”

  “If events are not changed, the Spanish will sail into the Firth of Forth to provision and regroup, and end by razing Edinburgh.”

  Isabel frowned, wishing she had spent more time scrying Edinburgh. “Surely Scots and Spaniards are allies—both hate the English enough.”

  “The intent will not be war, but tempers will clash. The Spanish commander, Medina, will infuriate my countrymen, and soldiers will become drunk and riot. The city will be left a ruin of blood and bones and ashes.”

  She shuddered at the images he conjured in her mind. “When will this happen?”

  “In two days, the first Spanish ships will moor at Leith. No more than two days more before trouble breaks out.”

  Less than four days for them to change the course of a great Armada. “I did not know you had such skill in seeing the future.”

  “Usually I don’t, but Scotland is bound to my blood.” He drew a rough breath. “I’m glad I seldom see the future. It’s a terrible gift. My attempt to drive the Armada onto the Zeeland shoals might have increased the danger for my countrymen.”

  “Don’t think about that!” They could not afford for him to become weakened by guilt. “You already had fears for Edinburgh. Perhaps what you foresee now will be less terrible than what might have happened. We cannot be sure.”

  His mouth twisted. “How arrogant we mages are, to think we can make the world better by wielding our powers. Perhaps Britain would be better off without Guardians.”

  “It is human nature to seek and use power. At least you Guardians do your best to serve the greater good.” She drew her knees up and looped her arms around them as she had in childhood, her gaze unfocused as she watched the waves roll into chalk cliffs. “I envy you for being raised with others of your kind.”

  “It would be difficult to be as alone as you, Isabel. Yet it has made you strong.”

  She felt him in her mind, closer than was comfortable. She wanted to slam the doors and hurl him out. Instead, she forced herself to accept his demanding male presence, proud that she could say calmly, “Though the hours are few, there is time enough to eat, and you’ll be stronger for it.”

  She investigated the basket. Fresh bread and cheese and ale, all made on her estate. Pulling out her knife, she sliced the bread and cheese, then poured ale into the pewter tankards.

  His expression eased as he accepted the food. “You’re a practical woman. That is no bad thing.”

  “Someone has to be practical, and usually it will be a woman,” she said tartly.

  Macrae’s amusement reverberated within her mind, a surprisingly pleasant effect. As they ate, she cautiously experimented with this unwonted closeness. She could not read his thoughts, and for that she was grateful, but she could sense his emotions with increasing accuracy. As they spoke, his mind shadowed his words with extra richness.

  She also could enjoy his ravenous hunger. His startlingly sensual enjoyment of the simple food was so intense that it distracted her from her own meal. As he swallowed the last of his ale, he said, “Sunshine, a fresh breeze, and plain country food. When I was in the Tower, I never thought I would know such simple pleasures again. A pity that my freedom was granted for such a dire reason.”

  She stopped herself from saying that he might as well enjoy while he could, only to have him say, “You’re thinking I might as well take pleasure while I can, since my next attempt at weather working might send me to an early grave.”

  She flushed and glanced away. “Can you read my thoughts?”

  “Only your emotions, but they are clear enough.” He set his empty tankard in the basket. “Now it is time for work. Do you see that dark cloud in the middle distance?”

  She shaded her eyes against the bright sky. “Yes.”

  “We are going to make it rain.” He laid his large hand over hers. “The thought intrigues and alarms you. Well enough. You will enjoy this, I think.”

  And she did. Though his mental powers had not fully recovered from his collapse, his instinctive understanding of wind and cloud was glorious. If he was a hawk, she was now his companion, swooping through the air, feeling the cool damp of the cloud, then disintegrating into a swift shower of raindrops.

  She laughed aloud when he drew her back to normal awareness, delighting in the new sensations. “Wonderful! I felt this much more clearly than when we worked together before.” Catching a sense of his sadness, she said more soberly, “But it’s a very small achievement compared to what will be needed.”

  Though his face was controlled, she sensed that he was trying to shield her from his doubts. “It is much more than I could have done on my own,” he said. “We are blending our energies well, so far.”

  Her pleasure in what they had accomplished faded in the knowledge of how much further they had to go—and that they had only another day to prepare.

  They spent the rest of the long day delving into ever deeper levels of intimacy and sharing. The power of Isabel’s mind and spirit amazed Macrae. Her commitment was also profound, but the deeper he probed, the more she resisted.

  The last exercise of the day took him for an instant to an area of her emotions he had not yet explored. Raw passion exploded like the devil’s own fire, triggering his own passions—and then she hurled him from her mind with numbing power.

  Gasping, he bent and buried his throbbing head in her hands. “You have a kick that would do a stallion proud, Isabel.”

  He could feel her distress when she laid her palm on his brow. “I’m sorry, I—I could not control my reaction.”

  He closed his eyes, welcoming her soothing touch. “I am trying to teach you in a day what a Guardian learns over years. You are progressing remarkably well.”

  “But not well enough.”

  He wasn’t sure if her soft words were thought or spoken aloud. “Perhaps tomorrow we will find a good summer storm to work with.” He tried to project confidence. “That will do most of the work for us.”

  She didn’t believe that any more than he did, but she didn’t argue the point. The two were joined in fatalism. They had no choice but to try another major spell in the morning, this time at a much greater distance than the Zeeland attempt and with no major storm available to build on.

  Isabel knew the dangers—after all, she had nursed him through near-lethal brain fever when his first attempt failed. She had accepted the fact that they might die trying. In fact, she accepted it better than he.

  When he fell into his bed, exhausted, he uttered a silent prayer. May God grant them succes
s for the sake of Scotland—and if a life must be forfeit in the process, let it be his.

  5

  Macrae jerked to wakefulness, heart pounding as he picked up a distant note of changing weather. Clouds, rain, and wind were sweeping in from the Atlantic.

  How long had he been asleep? Only a few hours, he guessed, since there was no sign of dawn. He lit a candle and scrambled into his clothing, then made his way through the silent house to Isabel’s room. As he opened the door, he said, “Isabel, rough weather is approaching quickly from the west. Not a major storm, but enough to give us a better chance if we start work immediately.”

  He swept back the bed curtains. His candle revealed Isabel blinking sleepily as she pushed herself to a sitting position. Her dark hair fell over her shoulder in a thick braid, and she looked younger and more vulnerable than her daytime self.

  He froze as he realized that she was dressed only in her night rail, and the lightweight fabric did little to disguise her softly curving body. Knees weakening, he stepped back, putting the heavy carved bedpost between them. Damn the successful effort to lower barriers between them, for now it was impossible to conceal his desire. Isabel would justly see him as a great randy brute.

  She flushed scarlet as she read his reaction. Emotions reverberated between them like images in opposing mirrors, and the hair prickled on his arms at the sheer erotic tension in the room.

  Recovering first, she yanked the blankets to her shoulders. “Very well, we shall begin. I will meet you in the stone circle.”

  Grateful for the excuse to retreat, he ignited one of her candles with his, then bolted. He was a fool for allowing attraction to muddy the waters when all their attention must be fixed on their mutual goal.

  He was bleakly aware that, even with the changing weather, the odds did not favor them. Though he was recovering well from his earlier collapse, he was still far below his normal strength. Despite Isabel’s enormous power, she hadn’t an inborn talent for weather working. If he was unable to weave the spells well enough, they would fail.