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!
Chapter Six
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 fate 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 like one of Macrae’s own storms. “How dare you force your way in and terrorize my father’s household! Take yourself back to Scotland and marry that sweet bland blond of yours.”
His gaze snapped upward. “Isabel!”
With a smile like the sun at high noon, he sheathed his sword and galloped up the steps three at a time. Meeting her on the landing, he swept her into an embrace that bruised her lips. Thunder and lightning, a tempest in the blood. Her desire to shove him down the stairs dissolved and she kissed him back. The damnable man!
He murmured into her ear, “Did you think you could walk away from an alchemical marriage, my beautiful witch?”
