Chapter 5 #2
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 Mistress Heath pulled her into the warmth of the kitchen. “Thank the Lord you be all right, milady!” 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, Mistress 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, milady,” 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 tranquility.
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 blond 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 borne 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 had 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 do the de Corteses 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!