Legacy (2 page)

I always shudder with grateful relief that none of those things happened. One small moment in time had determined my destiny. Or had it? Was it really such a coincidence or had fate woven its tapestry, capturing Ian and me with silken fingers, forever entwining our lives in the mystery of the stone?

“Hello, there.” Firm hands gripped my shoulders. “At that pace you’ll miss the gates altogether.”

I blinked and then stared. Could this apparition possibly be real? He came from nowhere, a man legends are made of. He was dark from the sun, with dramatic bone structure, a high-bridged curving nose and piercing blue eyes. Thick, sun-streaked hair fell across his forehead. The look on his face was flattering. I’m not the kind of woman men follow with their eyes, or anything else for that matter. I’m attractive enough, I suppose, slim and tall with a talent for wearing whatever is currently in style. I’ve got thick hair and good bones and teeth, a blend, someone once said, between wholesome and elegant. But I’d been told more than once there’s a reserve about me, an old-world standoffishness, that puts men off. It had certainly put one off, even after fifteen years of marriage. I swallowed the lump in my throat that thinking of Stephen never failed to bring up.

“That is what you came to see, isn’t it, the Bear Gates?” He smiled and dropped his hands to his sides. Tiny lines around his eyes and mouth deepened.

I swallowed. “Yes, it is. I mean, they are.” I laughed, flustered by an unfamiliar awkwardness. He laughed with me, amused by my obvious embarrassment. He was older than I first thought, somewhere in his mid-thirties, a man with a sense of humor, a man comfortable with himself and with women.

“I can’t place your accent,” he said. “You’re not English?”

“American.”

He looked thoughtfully at me. “You don’t sound like an American.”

“I’m from Boston. We speak a different sort of English in eastern Massachusetts.”

“Perhaps that explains it.” His eyes moved over my hair and face. “You don’t look like an American and you certainly don’t act like one either.”

Startled, I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “That makes two of us.”

The flicker of interest in his blue eyes increased. “How so?”

“You’re not like any Scot I’ve ever met,” I explained slowly. “They’re usually much more reserved.”

He laughed. “Touché. Let me redeem myself. My name is Ian Douglas, and I live nearby. Do you know the story of the Bear Gates?”

“Not yet.”

He reached out and pulled me down on the grass so that we sat facing the gates. “Traquair is the oldest inhabited house in Scotland,” he began. “The Maxwell Stuarts were cousins of the royal Stuarts, and even though the families didn’t visit regularly, the familial bonds remained strong. During the Jacobite rebellion, Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed at Traquair. There are some who believe that he planned his strategy here with the earl.” His speech was very clear, the brogue nearly unrecognizable. “When he rode out of the gates for Drumossie Moor in 1746, and news of the defeat filtered back, the old earl closed the gates and vowed never to open them until a Stuart king sat on the throne of Scotland once again. They remain closed to this day. The family, out of respect for the earl’s wishes, installed another entrance, which you probably entered when you arrived.”

“How tragic.” Blinking back tears, I stared at the ferocious twin statues positioned on the pilings. “All this time to live on false hopes.”

“You are a romantic, aren’t you?” he teased. “I’m quite sure Ellen Maxwell doesn’t hope for anything of the sort. She’s English to the core.”

Of course he couldn’t know the woman was dead. “Do you know Lady Maxwell?” I asked.

“Everyone knows her, although she’s been bedridden for a number of years now.” He stood and extended his hand to pull me up.

“Have you seen everything you wanted to see?” he asked.

I nodded.

“If you’re agreeable, I’ll walk you to your car. Peebles is only about five kilometers from here. I’d like to buy you tea.”

“I don’t have a car. Lady Maxwell’s driver picked me up from the airport.”

The blue eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Christina Murray.”

“Ah, of course. I should have known.” His mouth twisted up at the corner.

“Excuse me?”

“I thought you were a tourist.” The warmth had left his voice. “And to think I was telling you the legend of the gates.”

The cold was painful. It was definitely affecting my hearing. “I came to Traquair because it’s the one place in Scotland I’ve never seen. Ellen Maxwell sent me an airline ticket.”

He stared at me as if he were trying to remember something important. I knew he hadn’t listened to a word of what I said.

“I know we’ve never met before, but there is something familiar about you,” he said slowly. “One doesn’t often see hair so black paired with those eyes. I just can’t place where I’ve seen your face.”

My bones ached, and I couldn’t feel my hands. It was time for a bold step, even if it was out of character. “If you don’t mind,” I said politely, “I’d really like to get out of the cold. It’s freezing out here, and tea sounds wonderful.”

He smiled, and I forgot to breathe. The pain of my divorce was very far away. “Have you tasted raspberry scones, Miss Murray?”

An hour later he watched as I worked my way through my third buttery scone piled high with cream and raspberry jam. The waitress paused by our table. “Anything else today?”

Ian shook his head and grinned. “Not for me, thanks.” He motioned toward my plate. “The lady might like something else. She has an unusually healthy appetite.”

I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Do you always eat as if there were no tomorrow?” he teased.

“I was hungry.”

“To say the least.” He laughed. “I would never have believed it if I hadn’t watched you fill that plate twice. You might have warned me before I offered to pay.”

At a loss for words, I wiped my mouth and crumbled the napkin on my plate. “Thank you for the tea,” I managed. “Everything was delicious.” I leaned forward, chin in my hand, and took a deep breath. If I didn’t ask, I’d never know. “Will you please explain to me why you were surprised when I told you my name?”

He studied me carefully. “You mean you really don’t know?” he asked at last.

“No.”

“It appears, Miss Murray, that the late Lord Maxwell left Traquair House to you.”

I felt cold all over again as if I had never eaten the sweet desserts nor drunk copious amounts of sustaining tea. “You must be mistaken,” I whispered. “I don’t even know the Maxwells.”

“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, considering your background?”

“What do you know about me?”

Ian frowned. “Ellen Maxwell hasn’t been an invalid forever. Once she was an active woman with friends throughout the entire valley. Everyone knew her quite well. When the terms of her husband’s will were revealed, she was curious enough about you to do some investigating of her own. After all, it’s a bit unusual for a man to leave everything to a child he’s never seen. People gossip.”

Suddenly I realized what he was implying. I was furious. My voice sounded thin and tight. “I’d like to go home now.”

“Back to Traquair or to Boston?”

Without a word, I walked out of the restaurant. Ian caught up with me near the car. “I’m sorry, Christina. I didn’t mean to offend you. Of course, none of this is your fault.”

I pulled away, opened the door, and slid into the passenger seat.

We were nearly at the gates of Traquair when I couldn’t stand it any longer. Of course, I believed the whole thing was a misunderstanding that could be chalked up to a case of mistaken identity, but it wasn’t in my nature to speculate when I could know for sure. “Where do you fit into this, Ian? Is it just my imagination, or does the idea of someone inheriting Traquair bother you more than it should?”

A thin, white line appeared around his mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing to me who inherits Traquair House.”

“Are you sure?”

He sighed and pulled up to the gate. It was after dark, and the gas lanterns guarding the entrance to Traquair flickered wildly inside their shades. “You are persistent, aren’t you?”

Embarrassed, I stared out of the window. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

Ian frowned and reached out to touch my shoulder. Something changed his mind. When I looked again, both hands were on the steering wheel, and he was staring at me with a curious expression on his face. “I wonder why I seem to be spending most of my time apologizing to you when I’d much rather be doing something else.”

“What’s that?” I whispered at the same time his mouth closed over mine. I’m ashamed to say that the details of that first kiss dissolved, lost forever, in a wave of pure sensation. My only clear recollections are the incredible warmth of his lips, the feel of soft wool under my hands, and the clean, waxy smell of soap that I was to associate with him from that moment on. But it was enough. Enough to know I had never, in all my thirty-seven years, experienced anything like it. After a long time, he lifted his head.

“Do you believe in déjà vu?” he asked.

“No,” I lied. “Tell me why you don’t want me at Traquair House.”

His fingers were warm against my neck. “It isn’t like that at all. In fact, it has nothing to do with you. I’m an agricultural engineer, Christina. The improvements in farming over the last ten years have been phenomenal. If I appear a bit resentful, it’s only because my ancestors, unlike the earls of Traquair, didn’t take advantage of new methods and machinery. I hope you appreciate what you’ve been given.”

“Are you having financial difficulties, Ian?”

He stared down at me, an expression of exasperation and amusement on his face. “You do get right to the heart of the matter. Didn’t your mother tell you never to ask a person’s age, his politics, or the extent of his bank account?”

He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and I was behaving completely unlike myself. “I’m an American,” I told him. “My mother gave up on me long ago. Have you considered a loan?”

“I have,” he replied. “The bank wants my land as collateral. I’m not ready to take that risk yet.” He smiled his bone-weakening smile. “You have an unusual effect on me, Christina Murray. I don’t believe I’ve shared this much with a stranger in a very long time.”

I felt the color rise to my cheeks and was grateful for the darkness. “How old are you?” I asked abruptly.

He grinned. “Thirty-five and Church of Scotland. How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven and Catholic.” I didn’t bother to explain that my membership in the Roman Catholic Church had lapsed years ago.

“The Murrays have always been Catholic,” he murmured and leaned toward me again.

I pulled away. “You haven’t asked the most important question of all.”

“What might that be?”

“Aren’t you curious as to whether or not I’m married? Most women my age are, and I am wearing a ring.” I held out my hand displaying the delicate gold band engraved with the Murray crest. It was an unusual piece of jewelry. He couldn’t have missed it.

The silence between us lasted for a long time. I was uncomfortable and then embarrassed. We’d shared nothing more than raspberry scones and one incredible kiss. I stared at his chest, his mouth, at the sharp line of his cheek, the blade of his nose, the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat, everywhere but into his eyes.

Under his breath, I heard him curse softly in Gaelic. Startled, I looked up, meeting his gaze. He laughed, cupped my cheek, and uttered the short, unbelievable words. “You’re not married, Christina, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if you were.”

The tension inside the compact was thick and cloying. I needed air immediately. Fumbling with the handle, I opened the door and jumped out. By the time Ian walked around the car, I was composed again.

“Have Americans introduced a new fashion or is it my company you’re in such a hurry to leave?” His face was expressionless, his eyes veiled against me. My teasing companion of the gates was again a remote stranger.

“Neither,” I answered. “It’s just very late. I went for a short walk hours ago. They must be wondering where I am.”

“Ellen isn’t in any condition to wonder about anyone.”

I considered not telling him at all and then changed my mind. He would know soon enough anyway. “Ellen Maxwell died this afternoon. I’m sorry.”

“I see.” There was no mistaking the coldness of his voice. “May I offer you my congratulations, Miss Murray. You are a very wealthy woman.” With a brief smile he turned away.

“Ian?” I couldn’t stop myself.

He turned, an impatient look on his face.

“I suppose I’ll see you at the funeral.”

“Of course.” He stayed where he was, waiting for something I couldn’t begin to imagine.

I rang the doorbell. Unexpectedly, tears gathered in my throat. Horrified that I would lose control before someone opened the door, I turned away.
Let him think I’m rude,
I thought, pressing my fingers against my eyelids to staunch the flow. Better that than the alternative.

“Christina.” He was directly behind me, his voice warm and compassionate, the friend of the gates once again. “Pay no attention to me. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

I didn’t turn around, and he didn’t touch me. The car door slammed, and the engine roared. Kate opened the door and stared at me curiously. Then she looked at the taillights disappearing down the road and smiled. On the way to my room, I didn’t stop to consider, after everything I’d experienced that day, how odd it was that Traquair felt much more like home than any other I’d ever known.

I wrinkled my nose, deliberately sealing off my nasal passages. The church was musty, smelling of damp and mold and the subtle odor of decaying flesh entombed deep within ancient stone walls.

Wiping clammy palms on my skirt, I concentrated on the curved arches and stained glass windows of the Maxwell family chapel. Even after all these years and countless visits in the name of research to mausoleums and family vaults, I could never quite acclimate myself to the stench of death. It seemed to me that I could feel the essence of those who died. They haunted me with their images, touching my skin with bloodless fingers, pulling at my hair and clothing with pale, insistent hands.

Like an old enemy, the panic inside my chest lifted its head. Balling my fists, I focused on the words of the liturgy. It was an Anglican service, enough like those of my childhood to sound familiar. Throughout history, the Maxwells had stubbornly refused to renounce their Catholicism. But Ellen had been a staunch Episcopalian. Since her husband’s death twenty years before, only the rites of the Church of England were practiced in the small Maxwell chapel.

It was jammed to full capacity with mourners lining the walls of the inner sanctuary as well as the stone steps outside. I experienced a flicker of guilt. There were so many without seats. Who was I, a stranger, to take up an entire pew when so many of Ellen’s friends and acquaintances stood outside? I looked around uncertainly. Why had no one entered the pew where I sat? I turned and looked directly behind me, surprising a whispering couple into instant silence. The woman blushed scarlet.

I turned back to face the altar and saw him from the corner of my eye. Ian sat three rows back. I hadn’t seen nor heard from him since Ellen’s death three days before. Attached to his side, her arm through his, sat a woman whose face could be on a magazine cover. Much as I would have liked another look, I didn’t have the nerve to turn around again. Embarrassed, I bent my head and closed my eyes, pretending to pray, thankful that I was in the front and no one could see the flaming color rise in my cheeks. It never occurred to me to ask if
he
was married. So much for fantasies.

The priest had finished the eulogy. Rows of mourners stood and slowly inched toward the open coffin to pay their last respects to the lady of Traquair. The only exit was through the entrance to the chapel or out the doors on either side of the coffin. My palms were clammy with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Clutching my purse, I slipped out of the pew and stood in the line of mourners, resolving to forego the distasteful and, in my mind, pagan practice of viewing the dead and escape through the door. The woman in front of me wept into her handkerchief, soaking it completely. Fidgeting with the clasp of my purse, I managed to open it. Locating a packet of tissue, I offered it to her. She clutched my arm and thanked me with a watery “Bless you, my dear.” With her arm holding me captive and her solid body wedged between Ellen’s coffin and the first row of seats, I was caught. There was no help for it but to stare down at the woman who had taken one look at my face and died.

I’d expected Ellen Maxwell to look peaceful. But she didn’t. She looked angry. I couldn’t know it at the time, but the mortician had arranged her features as he remembered them from life, haughty and incensed. Looking down at that cold, sour face, I could only believe she wore that expression for me. Lady Maxwell wanted to send the unmistakable message that, despite her husband’s last will and testament, she held me in contempt. An American woman from Boston was no fit heiress for the ancient seat of the Maxwells. Why, then, had she invited me? There was a hint of something else in the frozen mask of her face. Something even the skilled fingers of the mortician couldn’t eliminate. Something dark and terrifying that I wanted no part of.

“Please,” I whispered to the woman on my arm. “Let me by.” She stared blankly. “I’m not feeling well.” By now, I was desperate. “I need air.” Had Ellen’s eyes flickered or was it a trick of the candles? The room swayed. There was a whisper of cloth sliding against polished wood. A hand gripped my shoulder. Then the floor rushed up to meet my head, and everything went black.

***

Cool sheets, smooth from wear and washing, soothed the back of my neck. Strands of hair released from the French twist I had worn to the funeral lay splayed across the pillow under my cheek. Quiet, careful voices whispered just out of hearing. I felt weak. My eyelids were heavy, too heavy to lift.

“Are there any medical problems that you know of?” A stranger’s voice asked the question as firm, competent hands checked my pulse.

“None that Lady Maxwell ever mentioned.” I’d heard that voice somewhere before. “I’ll check the file.” The door opened and closed.

“What about you?” the first voice asked someone else. “Have you any information that might help me?”

“For Christ’s sake, John,” an exasperated voice answered. “I’m not involved in this. Why would I have any knowledge of Christina Murray’s medical history? She fainted in church. That’s all there is to it. Maybe she forgot to eat breakfast. Or maybe she doesn’t like looking at dead people.”

I couldn’t help smiling. There was no doubt as to whom that voice belonged to.

“Take it easy, Ian. I’m only an overworked physician trying to get some answers. If you don’t know the woman, that’s all you need to say. I believe I know what her problem is anyway.”

“I didn’t mean that I don’t know her,” a more subdued Ian corrected him. “We just never got around to discussing whether or not she had a medical condition.”

“I can imagine.” The doctor chuckled.

I decided that this man was worth seeing. With enormous effort I opened my eyes and focused on the scene at the foot of my bed.

“What do you mean by that?” Ian demanded. He was leaning against the mantel, his arms folded forbiddingly against his chest.

A slender man with prematurely gray hair pulled something out of his bag. It was a syringe. “Come now, Ian,” he said. “A woman who looks like that, the right age, with the right background. If it weren’t for the conference in Edinburgh, I would have met her plane myself.”

Ian braced himself on the desktop. “I hadn’t realized you were taking notes, John. Just exactly what is it about her background that appeals to you?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been listening to Ellen for all these years?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Ian replied. “Other than the fact that Christina is from Boston, university educated, and stands to inherit Traquair, I know next to nothing about her.” He eyed the needle suspiciously. “What is that you’re giving her?”

“Insulin. She’s very pale, and her skin is cold and clammy. The blue around her lips indicates diabetes.”

Thank God he had figured it out, and I didn’t have to say anything. I doubted that I could have anyway. Seconds later I felt the reassuring sting of the needle in my left thigh. Almost immediately I felt my body normalize. When I spoke, my voice was surprisingly strong. “Thank you, Doctor. Your diagnosis was correct. I’m a diabetic.”

Showing remarkable calm at my unexpectedly conscious condition, he asked, “Do you have medication with you, Miss Murray?”

“Yes, it’s in the closet, inside a cooler.”

“You gave us quite a scare, young lady. I presume you have a good explanation for not having anything with you that identifies your condition?”

I rearranged the pillows behind my head and sat up. “I had an insulin injection before breakfast. Something else must have triggered my reaction.” I smiled at him, and the worried look around his eyes eased. He was a good-looking man, about Ian’s age, with spaniel-like brown eyes and a friendly face. I decided to ask the question that had been hovering on my lips ever since I’d regained consciousness. “You never answered Ian’s question, Doctor. What exactly do you know about my background?”

I had no mercy despite the red tide sweeping across his face.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Murray.” The man was truly beside himself. “It was unpardonable of me to exchange idle gossip over a patient this way.”

“Apology accepted.” He really was sweet, but I had to know. “Will you tell me?”

Ian grinned. “You aren’t getting out of here scot-free, my friend. Tell the lady and then leave us alone.”

The doctor cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. “Only that your degree is in Celtic history. You read and write Gaelic as well as a Highlander. Your parents retired and moved to California. You married early and were recently divorced.” He hesitated.

“Anything else?”

“You have no children.”

“Is that all?”

He looked up, startled. “Yes. Of course.”

I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth. He looked so honest, and yet I knew, through painful personal experience, that the best liars were masters of the art. They had the ability to look a person straight in the eye and protest their innocence with the blood of their victims still warm on their hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said quickly. Ellen Maxwell had probably told everyone anyway. “I’ll fill you in on the rest, although I can’t imagine why anyone would be interested. I’m an only child, and I can’t have children.” I took a deep breath and bit my lip, bracing myself for the familiar recurring pain. If I hurried through it fast enough, this time I might avoid the embarrassing tears that welled up at the most inappropriate times. “My husband left me for someone younger and more fertile, at which time I took back my maiden name. I’m the last of a long line of Murrays.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Murray,” the doctor mumbled. From the red staining his cheeks, I could tell he hadn’t recovered from his own embarrassment.

“Thank you.” I smiled generously. “I’m over it now. Really I am.”

“Why did you say that?” Ian asked abruptly. There was a strange expression on his face.

“What?”

“That you were the last of the Murrays?”

“Because it’s true. Why do you ask?”

“It’s odd, that’s all. People don’t use that expression any more. You’re the expert in Gaelic history. Do you know anything about the Murrays?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me everything you know.”

“Good God, Ian,” the doctor protested. “The woman just fell to the floor in insulin shock. Is this necessary?”

Ian ran impatient hands through his sun-streaked hair. “Not really. We can discuss this later if you’re tired.”

He was probably the best-looking man I’d ever seen, and I felt like a washed-out disaster. It was suddenly terribly important to find out if he was attached. “I’d be very happy to,” I said. “Can you come back later?”

He smiled, and once again I felt a definite shortness of breath. “Will you have dinner with me this evening?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll come for you at seven. Everything closes up early.”

“I’ll be ready.”

***

The phone jingled in the hallway. I tensed, waiting for the second ring. It didn’t come. There was a knock at the door, and the maid poked her head inside, not at all bothered that I was half dressed. Formality, I found, was not a major concern at Traquair House.

“Phone call from America for you, Miss Murray. It’s your mother, returning your call.”

Knotting my robe around my waist, I walked into the hallway and picked up the phone. “Mom? How are you?”

“Just fine, dear. Is everything all right?” Across ten thousand miles her crisp, no-nonsense voice greeted me over the telephone wire.

“Of course.” I didn’t ordinarily confide in my mother, but something made me tell her. “I’ve only been here two days, and I already have a date.”

There was silence on the line. “Don’t you think you’re rushing it?” she finally said. “It’s awfully soon after the divorce.”

When would that word
divorce
no longer bring a painful tightness into my throat? I struggled to answer my mother. “Please try and understand, Mom. I know it’s only been legal for three months, but I’ve been separated for over a year. Stephen’s already remarried.”

“Is that what you called about?” Ever-practical Susan Murray didn’t believe in wasting money.

“Actually, I called to speak to Dad.”

She laughed. “Of course you did. I’ll put him on.” It was no secret that I had always preferred my father’s conversation to almost anyone’s, including Mother’s. I was definitely a daddy’s girl. Fortunately, I’d been blessed with a mother secure enough not to resent it.

My childhood had been unique to say the least. Born nine months after my parents’ wedding day, I adjusted quickly to the fact that life with a couple barely out of their teens wasn’t going to parallel the lives of my childhood friends. There were no scheduled bath or bedtimes at the Murray house. My mother’s idea of healthful cuisine was a can of fruit cocktail poured over cottage cheese. Exercise and water cured all illnesses. I was eight years old before I saw the inside of a dentist’s office and that was only because I had fallen on the cement and knocked out a tooth.

It was a delightful childhood, free of all expectations and most restrictions. Nothing was censured. I had grown up on Shakespeare, D. H. Lawrence, and William Faulkner. Before the age of twelve I’d read
The Virgin and the Gypsy
,
Lady Chatterly’s Lover,
and
A Streetcar Named Desire
with full awareness of their contents. Sometimes I wondered if my unconventional roots and impossible expectations weren’t the cause of major problems in my marriage.

“Hi, hon. How are you?” My father’s familiar voice, soft on
r
’s, interrupted my thoughts. I loved that voice, and so did everyone who listened to it. Donald Murray was a slightly famous trial lawyer. Or at least he had been before he retired. In his last twenty years of practice, he hadn’t lost a case. I still maintain, as I always have, that his enormous success lay in the exceptional quality of his voice. It was low and clearly pitched, every syllable enunciated, a New Englander’s voice, informal, thick with vowels and bare of consonants. That voice never let me down.

“It appears that I’m due to inherit an eight-hundred-year-old house,” I told him.