Once a Soldier (Rogues Redeemed) (28 page)

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The skies wept with autumn rain, perfect for burying the
dead. Gwyneth Owens was grateful that custom banned
females from the graveside, for she would have been unable to maintain
her composure as her father was laid beneath the damp sod.

As always, she sought refuge in Lord Brecon’s library. Her father,
Robert Owens, had been his lordship’s librarian for almost thirty years,
and Gwynne had grown up among these treasured volumes.

Lightly she skimmed her fingertips over tooled leather and
stamped gold titles in the travel memoir section. Her father had always
said that a well-furnished mind was proof against loneliness. She
hoped he was right, for she needed that comfort now.

As she moved along the south wall, she caught a glimpse of her reflection
in the mirror above the fireplace. She turned away, avoiding the
sight of her too tall figure and garish, unfashionable hair. Such a pity
that she had inherited neither her father’s power nor her mother’s
beauty.

Perhaps riding breakneck across Harlowe’s hills would relieve her
restless tension, but that wasn’t possible since soon she would be summoned
downstairs to act as chief mourner at the solemn gathering that would be held in her father’s honor. Needing to be active, she unlocked
the adjacent gallery, which contained the private library as well as her
father’s office.

A faint, almost indiscernible frisson of energy flickered over her
skin when she stepped inside. The long, high-ceilinged chamber contained
Britain’s finest collection of books and manuscripts about
magic. The volumes also represented the history and wisdom of the
ancient Guardian families of the British Isles.

The Guardians, her father’s clan. Human but gifted with magical
powers, they had lived clandestinely among mundanes since time immemorial.
Gwynne had been raised as a Guardian by virtue of her father’s
blood though she had no power of her own. She was grateful to
be part of the Families since women had a degree of equality unheard
of among mundanes. That custom had evolved early since in the
realms of magic, females could wield powers that matched or surpassed
those of men.

Guardians took their name from the oath all swore to use their
power to protect and serve their fellow man as best they could. Because
of that mission, Guardians revered history in the hopes that it would
prevent them from repeating earlier mistakes.

Occasionally it did.

As Keeper of the Lore, the Earl of Brecon was responsible for
these precious books and manuscripts. At the age of six, Gwynne had
started to assist her father in maintaining the books. She had started
with dusting, handling the volumes as carefully as if they were fine
porcelain. Later she had copied crumbling texts onto new parchment
and learned the secrets of preservation.

She scanned the shelves with regret, knowing she would miss the
books fiercely if she left the estate. Given the importance of the collection,
a new librarian would be engaged soon, so she must prepare for
the change by removing her father’s personal possessions.

At least she would not be turned penniless into the world—the
Guardians took care of their own. A position of some sort would be
found for Robert Owens’s unimpressive daughter. With luck, that position would be at Harlowe, the only home she had ever known. More
than that, she scarcely dared hope for.

With a soft feline sound, her plump tabby, Athena, jumped onto
the desk and curled into a ball. Comforted by the cat’s presence,
Gwynne settled at her father’s desk and began searching the drawers for
personal items. Keeping busy was essential if she was to prevent herself
from mourning the past or brooding about her future.

She blinked back tears when she discovered her mother’s locket in
the small central drawer. Inside the oval case were miniatures of her
parents painted at the time of their betrothal. They looked young and
very much in love. Her father must have kept the locket here so he
could study the picture of his wife and dream of happier times.

A reserved, scholarly man, Robert Owens had lived a quiet life at
Harlowe Place. His one act of rebellion had been to marry Anna
Wells against the wishes of both families. Her family had disowned
her. The Owenses had accepted the match, though reluctantly. Guardians
were encouraged to marry other Guardians, and Anna had been a
mundane. Though beautiful and sweet natured, she had no magic in
her soul.

But the marriage had been a happy one, and Anna’s death of a fever
two years before had devastated her small family. Now Robert was
gone as well, and Gwynne was alone. A pity she had no brother or sister
to mourn with her.

The last drawer was almost empty when the door opened. The tapping
of a cane told her that Emery, Lord Brecon was approaching. She
rose at the sight of his spare, splendidly garbed figure. Tall and distinguished,
he had hair so thick and naturally white there was no need for
powder. The earl was the center around which Harlowe revolved. His
courtesy and learning were legenday, and he had always been kind to a
little girl who loved books.

Seeing her, he said quietly, “It is done, my dear.”

“My parents are together now, and at peace.” As Gwynne spoke,
the truth of her words resonated inside her. Occasionally she had such
flashes of absolute knowledge, her only trace of Guardian power. It was not the same as calling the winds or scrying the future or healing
the sick.

“We are both expected in the blue drawing room, but I hope you
don’t mind if I rest here for a few minutes before we go down. A bitter
wind was blowing.”Wearily the earl settled into the leather wing chair
by the coal fire.

“I’m glad for the rain. A beautiful day would have been wrong for
a funeral.”

“There are no good days for funerals.” His gaze touched the willow
basket that she had filled with her father’s eclectic mix of notes and
objects. “You’ve been diligent, I see. The library will be the poorer
when you leave.”

So she was to be sent away. The shock of that made her dare to
make a request that was her only chance to achieve her secret dream. “I
have always loved working in the library. Indeed, my lord, I . . . I have
hoped that you might engage me to act as librarian in my father’s place.
Though I have not his formal education, he tutored me well. I have
worked with the books my whole life. My father said that no one was
better at preservation, and I write a fine clear hand when copying fragile
manuscripts. Or if not as the chief librarian, perhaps I might continue
here as an assistant?”

“You are only seventeen, child,” the earl said, startled. “Too young
to bury yourself among books. Life must be lived, as well as studied
between dusty pages. You will never marry if your beaux can’t find
you.”

She almost laughed aloud. His lordship could not have looked at
her closely if he thought her marriageable. She had neither fortune nor
beauty, and few of the local lads even noticed her existence. “I’ve met
no young men who interest me as much as a good book or a good
horse, my lord.”

His bushy brows drew together. “I had thought to have this discussion
with you later, but apparently now is the time. What are your
plans and desires for your future?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “Nothing is set yet, but don’t worry,
I shan’t stay and be a burden to you.”

“As if you could be. Harlowe is your home, Gwynne, and you are
always welcome here. Though if you prefer to leave . . . ?”

“A cousin of my father has written to offer me a home.” She hesitated,
then decided it behooved her to be honest, since she was determining
the course of her whole future. “I don’t mind working for my
keep, but I would rather assist your new librarian than be an unpaid
nursery maid to my cousin’s children.”

“You deserve more than to be a servant or to bury yourself in
books.” His pale blue eyes studied her with uncomfortable intensity.
“Yet you are not ready for marriage. It is too soon.”

Hearing the deeper meaning in his words, she said eagerly, “You
have seen my future?”

“Only in the most general terms. Your path is clouded, with many
possibilities. But my sister, Bethany, and I both sense that a great destiny
awaits you. Great, and difficult.”

A great destiny.
“How can that be true when I have no power?”

“Destiny is quite separate from power—mundanes without a particle
of magic have created most of the world’s history. Not that you
are without magic, Gwynne. Like a winter rose, you are merely slow in
developing.”

“I hope you are right, my lord.” She closed her eyes for a moment,
blinking back the tears that were near the surface today. As a child she
had dreamed of being a great mage, a wielder of magic. When she
reached womanhood, she awoke each day eager to see if power had
blossomed within her, but in vain. She had only the kind of intuition
that any mundane might claim.

“With or without magic, you are a rare and precious being. Never
forget that.”

As a man past seventy, he idealized youth, she guessed. But his
words were warming. “You have taught me that all human life is rare
and precious, Guardian and mundane alike. I shall not forget.”

He linked his hands over the golden head of his cane, frowning
with an uncertainty she’d never seen before. “There is a possibility that
will not leave my mind no matter how I try to dismiss it. At first glance
it seems absurd—and yet it feels right.”

“Yes?” she said encouragingly. The idea that the lord of Harlowe
had been thinking about Gwynne and her future was gratifying.

“I have considered asking you to become my wife.”

She gasped, stunned speechless.

“The thought shocks you.” He smiled wryly. “And well it should.
Over fifty years of age lie between us. Marriage would be scandalous.
Women would despise me for taking advantage of your innocence.
Many men would be envious, and with justice. If the idea disgusts
you . . .” He reached for his cane to stand, and she realized that he was
embarrassed, even shy.

“No!” She stopped him with a quick gesture. “The idea is startling,
but not . . . not disgusting.” She studied his familiar face with
fresh, amazed eyes. “You have been like the sun, stars, and skies over
Harlowe, and I no more than a sparrow. I have trouble believing that
you are not jesting.”

“This is no jest. You need to learn more of the world before destiny
sweeps you up.” He fidgeted with his cane again. “It would not be
a conventional marriage. I will not live many more years, so you would
soon become a young widow of fortune and independence.”

“Surely your children will object to you remarrying. They will consider
it an insult to their mother, and they’ll resent any legacy you
might bequeath me.” She thought of the earl’s three grown children.
They were pleasant enough to her as a minor member of the household,
but the idea of young Gwynne Owens as their stepmother was
indeed absurd.

“I am still the master of Harlowe House and may do what I
choose,” he said dryly. “But after I have spoken to them, they will not
object. Marrying you would serve Guardian interests, if you would be
willing to accept me.”

She tried to conceal her disappointment. “You are proposing because
it is your duty to the Families, Lord Brecon?”

“While preparing you for your destiny benefits our people, I could
do that without wedding you. I . . . I have always found pleasure in your
company, Gwynne,” he said haltingly. “The years since Charlotte died
have been lonely. Your wit and warmth and grace would be a blessing beyond what an old man deserves. I would be honored and grateful if
you would become my wife.”

He meant it, she realized. This wonderful man of power and wisdom
truly wanted her to marry him. For the first time in her life, she
felt the presence of power—not the power of magic, but the even more
ancient power of a woman to please a man.

Glowing with delight, she rose and offered him her hands. “You
do me honor beyond anything I’ve ever imagined, my lord. If you truly
wish it, I will gladly be your bride.”

With a smile that took her breath away, he clasped her hands.
“This is right for both of us, Gwynne, I know it.”

So did she, with a certainty beyond reason. Impulsively she raised
their joined hands and pressed a kiss on his gnarled knuckles. Already
she was saddened to know how short their time together would be. But
she would make sure that he didn’t regret this decision.

Destiny could take care of itself. For now, she would concern herself
with being a good wife.