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 Zee-land 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."