“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 damnable nuisance it is. Most of the weapons in
our armory have hilts of wood or brass.”
“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.
“Damnation!” 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 embarrassed. “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
lust, 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 passion 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 . . .”