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 must be enough.
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 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 dare she!
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."