“If I have too little anger, you have too much, Mistress. Your loathing of the Spanish is like a burning brand. Surely Master Dee taught you that hatred is dangerous for those with power. You run the risk of destroying not only your enemies, but yourself. In this case you are hating those of your own blood.”
“These Spaniards are not my blood!” Her anger flared, not only at the Spanish but at Macrae, for reading her so easily. “It has been almost a hundred years since my people left Spain. We were tortured, murdered, robbed, and exiled forever from the land which we had served loyally. They called us Marranos, swine. I care nothing for what happens to me, as long as we prevent those Spanish beasts from invading England.”
He studied her face, his hazel eyes golden in the afternoon sun. “So you are a Jew. I have heard that a few Jewish families took refuge in England after they were expelled from Spain and Portugal. Did your family forswear the Catholicism they were forced to embrace and return to the faith of their fathers?”
“We are good Protestants now, but our memories are long.” And if some Jewish practices lingered still in the privacy of their homes—well, that was no one else’s business. They did what was necessary to survive, and to keep the Covenant in their hearts. “You accuse me of hating, yet you hate Elizabeth. Why? She is a just and fair-minded ruler. Her wisdom in balancing Catholics and Protestants has kept Englishmen from spilling each other’s blood. Why do you despise her?”
“She executed my queen. For that, I cannot forgive her.”
“Mary Stuart, a Scot raised at the French court, who spun plots from her prison and sought to have Elizabeth assassinated,” Isabel snapped. “Even a Scotsman as loyal as you cannot deny Mary’s treachery.”
His jaw tightened. Stubborn man. Knowing they would never agree about politics, she said, “Master Dee tells me you have given your word to conjure a tempest, so let us begin. There is no time to waste.” She started to turn back to the house.
He caught her wrist. They both froze as energy surged between them. She felt as if all her breath had been blasted from her body. So this was passion—uncomfortable, inappropriate, undeniable. He felt the same, she could see it in his eyes.
He released her wrist, his breath roughened. “The preparations are complex, and Dee must cast a chart for the best time to proceed. If we don’t harness every available wisp of power, there will be no chance of success.”
She retreated a step, not wanting to meet his gaze. “Very well, do what you must, but be quick about it, before it’s too late.”
“As you wish, Mistress Witch,” he said with heavy irony. “Perhaps I can conjure a swift squall to end the fighting for the moment, so the English will be able to regroup.”
“If you can do that, why haven’t you?” she asked with exasperation.
“Because I fear the cost to my soul. But you’re right. I cannot hold back any longer, no matter how much I dislike this task.” He turned and rested his hands on the largest stone, the one closest to the sea. As he concentrated his energies on the task, he became absolutely still except for the movement of his lips as he chanted soundlessly.
Keeping her distance from the vortex of power swirling around him, Isabel used her glass to monitor the battle. Skies darkened, vicious rain swept through the warring fleets, and the fighting broke up. The Spanish fell back and one of their damaged warships foundered and sank.
While Isabel whispered a soft prayer of thanks, Macrae expelled a long, rattling breath and released his spell. His face was gaunt, drained of its usual vitality.
Knowing how demanding weather work was, she silently asked the obsidian what would become of Macrae. The battle images dissolved into swirling fog.
What about her fate? She cleared her mind and tried to draw her own image from the glass.
Still nothing.
She felt chilled, even though the inability to scry could mean many things. Most likely she couldn’t see because she was too closely involved in what was about to happen to have the necessary clarity. But it was also possible that the demands of stopping the Armada would be so great that neither of them would survive.
Concealing her foreboding, Isabel said, “Well done. You succeeded in ending the battle before the English fleet could be badly damaged. I begin to believe you can produce the great storm we need.”
His eyes opened and he turned to lean against the stone, folding his arms across his chest. “I was fortunate. There was the beginning of a summer squall near the ships, so all I had to do was strengthen it. The spell required for that was to a great tempest as a barn cat is to a tiger.” His mouth twisted. “Surely you know that magic always has a price, and the one I pay will be high. Are you also willing to pay the cost of this conjuring?”
She thought of the clouded obsidian. “I am willing.”
Even if the price demanded all that she had.
Chapter Three
Calling the winds
The air tingled with power as Macrae and Mistress de Cortes took their places in the ancient stone circle. Man and woman, ever opposite but complimentary. Dee was not present, since he would be unable to help and he feared his presence would be a distraction. The old man had cast a chart for the best time, but his face had been somber when he studied the planetary positions. It hadn’t been necessary for him to say that the chart did not guarantee success.
But it was the best time available without waiting for days, so Macrae must make of it what he could. Despite his initial reluctance to undertake this task, the images of Dunrath and Edinburgh haunted him. Now he was as determined as the woman who faced him across the circle.
He inclined his head to his companion. “Mistress, let us begin.”
“As you will, Macrae.” Her demeanor was reserved, though nothing could diminish the snap of her black eyes or the allure of her lush female figure.
He began by casting a circle of protection, using the familiar ritual to focus his mind. As his concentration increased, his inner vision recognized the essences around him. Isabel de Cortes was the most vivid. Deep and intense, she was a beacon of power.
