Legacy (7 page)

“Christina?” he breathed the timeless question.

I nodded. This time I was ready for the taste of his mouth, the hungry pressure of his lips, and the powerful surging flood of desire when he flicked his tongue against mine. We kissed for a long time, lips teasing, tongues tasting, breath mingling until, for both of us, it was too much and at the same time no longer enough.

There was no pulling away, no turning back. Again I was ready when his hands slid under my sweater and unhooked the clasp of my bra. The weight of my breasts fell into his hands. His thumbs rested on my skin, circling the sensitive peaks until they stood up, firm and erect through the sweater. Lowering his head, he took a stiffened nipple into his mouth and sucked gently, wetting the soft wool.

I ached for him. Throwing away years of inhibition, I reached out and stroked him through his jeans. “My God, Christina,” he groaned, pulling me tightly into the saddle of his hips. He was fully, powerfully erect. Carefully, working around the straining flesh, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of his fly. He stopped breathing as I maneuvered the rest free. The full length of him surged into my hand, and he pushed me back into the grass.

Those were the last details I remember along with the smell of cold air and clean wind, the taste of coffee and ale on a searching tongue, and the sweetness of hot, hard flesh pounding into mine, filling the aching emptiness with life and warmth and hope. We came together on the banks of Saint Mary’s Loch in a flash of blinding need, hungry for the feel of urgent hands and naked skin and the ancient, primal splendor of dark blood calling for the culmination of a ritual older than time.

When it was over, I felt no awkwardness, no remorse or guilt, only a grateful relief that the long dry wait was finally over. It was as if we had done this a thousand times before and it was right. We dressed and lay down together once again, curled up like spoons in the blanket. I slept briefly and woke to the sound of his heartbeat against my cheek. His fingers were threaded in my hair.

“Was your husband’s name David?” he asked casually.

I pulled away to look at his face, wincing as a few strands of hair came away in his hand. “No. Why do you ask?”

“You called me David just before you fell asleep.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

He gathered me close to his chest. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”

David. The name was naggingly familiar. It was common enough for me to have heard it many times over the course of a lifetime, but it seemed more familiar than that. Suddenly, I remembered.

“Ian.”

“Yes,” he murmured sleepily.

“Tell me everything you know about the previous owners of Traquair House.”

He chuckled. “We’d be here all night, Christina. Traquair is eight hundred years old.”

“Did the Murrays ever live there?” I persisted.

He was silent for a long time. At last, he spoke. “The Maxwells have always held the title to Traquair, but during the course of its history, a number of marriages with Murrays took place as well as with other border families.” His fingers caressing my head lulled me into a sense of complacency. “As you well know,” he continued, “Scotland was more or less an isolated country for centuries. The nobility was limited to about two hundred families. Over an eight-century period, it would be very unusual to find a family that hasn’t intermarried with every other clan in Scotland.”

“That doesn’t explain why Lord Maxwell left Traquair House to me.”

“I’m sure he had good reason. The Maxwells had no children, and you’re obviously related in some way.”

I knew he would be skeptical, but I decided to tell him anyway. Sitting up, I turned to face him. He lay on his side, resting easily on one arm, his right eyebrow quirked askance at my serious expression.

“I read Janet Douglas’s diary,” I began.

“The whole thing?”

“No. Only the beginning where she explains how her daughter met Major Richard Wolfe. Then I fell asleep.”

He grinned. “That boring, was it?”

“Not at all. I had the strangest dream, Ian. It was so real, as if I were watching a movie. There was a celebration at Holyrood House. Katrine was there and Richard Wolfe. I saw George and James Murray and Katrine’s older brother, Alasdair. I could hear their conversations and read their thoughts. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

Was that tension I saw in Ian’s expression? I couldn’t tell, but his eyes were narrowed and he was suddenly very intent on what I was saying.

He sat up and took my hands. The blue eyes were very close. “It could have been the portrait, Christina. It isn’t every day that one finds such an unusual likeness to an ancestor. You read the diary, and you know a great deal about Scotland’s history. The names you mentioned are men famous for their roles at Culloden Moor. I don’t think what you experienced has any special significance.”

“There’s something else,” I said. I hadn’t planned on telling him, but it was suddenly very important that I said it aloud. “The night you took me to dinner, I had another dream. It was terrifying. I wrote it all down just the way I saw it.”

Some of the desperation I felt must have shown in my face because he smiled reassuringly. “Relax, darling,” he said. “What exactly did you see?”

“A woman who looked like Katrine, only older. Her name was Mairi Maxwell.”

This time I didn’t imagine it. Ian’s face paled under his tan. “That’s impossible,” he said flatly.

I shook my head. “She was Mairi Maxwell of Shiels, and she lived at the end of the thirteenth century. Her husband was David Murray. I believe Traquair House was another Murray family holding. Ian”—I gripped his hands tightly— “she was in the courtyard when Robert the Bruce came to accuse her of sedition, and she looked exactly like me.” His expression hadn’t changed. I could feel the panic rising in my throat.

“How could you possibly know that?” he whispered.

“It was all in my dream,” I cried out in frustration. “There was more, much more. It had to do with the Coronation Stone, Scotland’s Stone of Destiny.”

He held his finger against my lips. “Stop, Christina. Let’s take it slowly. What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Donnally.”

“And her mother’s?”

“Wilder. What has my mother got to do with anything?” I asked impatiently.

He looked down at his watch. “It’s late. Let’s gather our things and get back.”

I looked at him, feeling the helplessness that relinquishing control brings. “Please don’t do this to me,” I whispered.

Dropping the blanket, he pulled me up into his arms. “I don’t have any answers yet, darling. But I will. I promise you that. As soon as I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Darling. Why did that sound so natural, and where had I heard it before? Certainly not from Stephen. “Why can’t you tell me what this is all about?” I pleaded.

He ran his hand through his hair. “Because it’s too absurd to even contemplate. You’ll have to trust me.”

“I want to,” I began.

He dropped his arms and stepped back. “Christina, this isn’t a game and this isn’t America. I don’t make a habit of seducing women on the riverbank.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “Not all Americans jump into bed on the second date, Ian.”

“Do you?”

This was suddenly too important to take offense. “No,” I said simply.

The brightness of his smile was like a living flame warming me inside. “Thank God for that,” he said. “Now, let’s go. It looks like rain.”

Instinctively, I knew we’d weathered a crisis. When he kissed me good-bye at the door of Traquair House, I didn’t mind leaving him. Our relationship had changed, and this time, I knew I would see him again. Dropping the basket in the kitchen, I greeted Kate and hurried upstairs to find Janet Douglas’s diary. My shower could wait.

Scone Castle

June 1745

“Katrine,” begged her mother, “be reasonable. You hardly know the man. If you marry him, he’ll take you away to his home in England. You were born and raised in the Highlands. How can you even think of leaving everything you know for a man you met less than a month ago?”

“I’ve never known anyone like him,” Katrine said simply. “There’s a brightness in him, a fire that pulls me.” She looked directly at Janet Douglas. “Surely you know how it is, Mother? You married Father despite the disapproval of your families. I’m your daughter. Isn’t it possible that I know my own mind as well as you knew yours?”

Janet wrung her hands. “It isn’t the same at all. George and I are Scots. We share the same loves and loyalties, the same history and customs. The match would have been welcomed by both clans if it were not for—” She stopped and bit her lip.

“Go on,” Katrine said curiously.

Janet sighed and sat down in the comfortable, unfashionably wide chair that she refused to leave home without. They were in the refurbished sitting room attached to her bedchamber. Despite her preference for everything Scottish, she preferred this room to any other at Scone, and it was decidedly English in flavor. Over the fireplace, the doors and bookcases, and in the marble-topped console with its carved eagle support, the impact of the Palladian revival was evident. Heavy pedimentation and richly framed mirrors accented the room. Niches filled with painted ivory, porcelain, and jade from China were set into the peach-painted walls. An Oriental lacquered screen shut out the light from one of the long windows and a large portrait of Sir David Murray, the first Lord Scone, hung above the fireplace. The only fault Janet could find with these Inigo Jones reproductions were the chairs. They were spindly and narrow with embroidered cushions that looked like the heavy tapestries that had covered the walls of Blair-Atholl for centuries.

Janet was a fashionable woman in all things except her comfort. The wide, high-backed chair with its sturdy arms had been with her most of her life. Here, at her mother’s knee, she learned to set the neat, perfect stitches that had brought her fame in Edinburgh. It was to this chair that she brought the first glimmer of her love for George Murray, burying her flushed face against the worn upholstery, wondering if he felt the same heat that surged through her veins. Here she had nursed her children, coming to know the exquisite ache of a tiny mouth searching for sustenance. Curled up in the warm softness, she taught them their prayers, encouraged their dreams, listened to their confidences, and bandaged their hurts. In this comforting sanctuary from her childhood, awash in the happiness of her second pregnancy, she had experienced the onset of the terrifying nightmares.

She looked at her daughter. Katrine’s light-filled eyes studied her as if she were an exotic bird perched on the mantel. “Are you all right, Mother?” she asked.

Janet’s hand trembled as she smoothed the brocade of her skirts. “What will you do if your father forbids the match?” she asked.

Katrine’s lips tightened. “He wouldn’t. There is no impediment to the marriage. Father knows that. Richard is suitable in every way.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“If I have to, I shall wait until I’m of age,” said Katrine stubbornly. “Two years isn’t such a great deal of time.”

“We may soon be at war with England, my love. Would Richard agree to wait?”

Katrine’s smile was both tender and proud, and her answer was very sure. “He will wait for as long as it takes. There is no one else for either of us, Mama.”

Janet stared into the lovely, heartbreakingly earnest young face and relented. Perhaps it would be all right. Richard Wolfe could have no connection with an ancient Scottish prophecy. And even if he did, the course of fate could not be changed. “I’ll speak to your father,” she said at last. “However, it would help if your young man pleaded his own case.”

“Richard rode to Edinburgh to see Papa this morning.”

The light that burned inside Katrine flamed into a joy so intense, so vitally alive, that Janet couldn’t bear to look at her. Turning away, she blinked back the tears that welled up in her eyes.

***

Less than one month later Katrine Murray married Richard Wolfe on the twenty-fifth day of July in the small, intimate chapel at Scone. It was a private ceremony with only family members present. Richard’s family was not in attendance. They had not been expected. The political climate was too unsettled for a journey north. Janet held up well, smiling mistily through a veil of tears. Katrine’s brother, Alasdair, stood in white-lipped silence, his thin Celtic face betraying none of the anger twisting his mind. But his thoughts were full. His sister married to a
Sassenach
. It was beyond endurance.

George Murray walked down the long, portrait-lined gallery with his daughter on his arm. His footsteps on the oaken floor, where so many kings had walked, were sadly resigned. Of all that were present that day, only he knew what had transpired and what was to come. Only he knew that the marriage of his only daughter, the laughing, flame-lit, wood-sprite Katrine, was doomed because of a tall, brown-eyed young man who called himself a prince and had all the romantic appeal of a hero.

Only days before, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, in the company of a few loyal men with a pitifully small store of arms and ammunition, set foot on the isle of Eriskay. Sir Alexander MacDonald of Boisdale, a gruff and practical Scot, advised him to go home. The prince eyed the gathered clansmen, bowed deeply from the waist, and said, “I am come home, sir.” The men broke into a resounding cheer, and Scotland’s fate was sealed.

By now his frigate had most likely reached the mainland at Loch nan Uamh near Arisaig. Charles would seek support from the Highland chiefs, and George knew that despite his new son-in-law, the Murray standard would rise with the prince. He would be very gentle with his daughter today. Holy God, she should know something of the happiness he and her mother shared. Before the flowers on her bridal bouquet wilted, her world would be torn apart, her loyalties divided. Her husband’s troops would kill members of her clan. Perhaps the family she loved would make her a widow. It was enough to make a man drown himself in good Scotch whiskey.

No hint of the troubles to come intruded upon the young couple as they ascended the steps of the travel carriage for their journey to Blair Castle. George had insisted they go there after the wedding. He wanted Richard to see Katrine’s childhood home. The couple would have complete privacy except for the servants. He and Alasdair were on their way to Perth to meet with the prince, and Janet would remain at Scone.

Richard’s eyes widened at his first sight of Blair-Atholl. The startlingly white medieval towers against the green hills of Tayside were blinding in their brilliance. In full view of the surrounding countryside, the castle was unusual in that the courtyard and outer buildings were not protected by the usual wall and postern gate.

“Isn’t it rather vulnerable to attack?” asked Richard, his military-trained gaze perusing the disadvantages of holding off an enemy.

“This is the eighteenth century, Richard.” Katrine’s gray eyes danced at his naiveté. “Clans no longer make war upon each other by besieging castles. Any recent skirmishes have taken place in open fields.”

Richard thought of the latest dispatch sent to him only yesterday. There would definitely be a war in Scotland. He was profoundly grateful that his marriage to Katrine had taken place before it was officially declared.

Later, after the last of the dinner dishes was removed, he looked down the long banquet table at his wife. Her face and the lovely line of her neck were framed by the light of twin candles. Her eyes glowed like diamonds, and a single black curl rested against her breast. She smiled, and his mouth went dry.

“Shall we go upstairs?” he asked in a voice he didn’t recognize.

She nodded. “I’d like to go up first if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He stood and walked to the other end of the table. Bending to kiss the nape of her neck, he caressed her bare shoulder. She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair. At the touch of her fingers, he pulled away, breathing raggedly. “You’d better leave now, darling,” he said, “or I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”

Touching his cheek lightly, Katrine left the room and climbed the stairs to the bedchamber that had been prepared for them. A servant helped her out of the voluminous petticoats and panniers and pulled a simple cotton nightdress over her head. There had been no time for a trousseau. Katrine was sitting on the bed, brushing out her silken curtain of hair, when Richard stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

He walked over to Katrine and lifted a shining lock of hair. “I’ve never seen it loose,” he said in wonder. “You must never powder it. Never.”

“I won’t if you prefer it.”

Without a word, he shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Katrine swallowed. His shoulders were massive, and the deeply muscled chest was covered with a mat of the fairest hair she’d ever seen. He looked down at her, saying nothing, the blue eyes smoldering with passion. She recognized it immediately. Desire, instant and primal, rose within her, and she held out her arms.

He went into them. Bending his head, he kissed her, pushing her back on the pillows. A wave of white-hot sensation seared through her at the touch of his mouth on her throat. When his hands slid up under her gown, over her legs to her waist and then her breasts, she cried out and opened her legs, reveling in the heaviness, the power and strength of the rock-hard muscles between them.

There was pain when he entered her, pain and splintering light and rocking waves of pleasure. Afterward, he lay spent on the pillow beside her, and she played with the loose silvery hair spilling across her shoulder. Without his clothes and his neatly tied-back queue, he no longer looked like an English gentleman. He looked primitive and uncivilized, like a Viking plunderer from a different age. She smiled widely.

Richard felt the movement of her mouth against his shoulder and raised his head. “Christ, sweetheart,” he began.

“I know,” she replied.

His lips found the sensitive spot on her throat. “Shall we try again with a little less intensity?” he murmured.

Her eyes, in the pale oval of her face, were wide with surprise. “Good lord, why? Have you heard me complain?”

Startled, he sat up on his elbow to look down at her. Moonlight streamed in through the long window, illuminating the flushed skin, the high bones of her cheeks, and the clear gray eyes. There was nothing of guile or flirtation shining through the transparent depths, only trust and love and a pure, elemental gleam of anticipation. He did not deserve this woman. He, Richard Wolfe, known for his savoir faire in lovemaking, had come to his wife in blinding need. He had taken her like a rutting bull or an unskilled boy with his first barmaid, and still, she held out her arms to him. He flushed, his fair skin darkening with shame.

Katrine sat up, bracing herself on her arms. The bedclothes slipped down and he saw something else: the full, parted lips and long eyelashes, the smooth column of her pulsing throat, the warm olive tones of her skin, and the full rise of her taut, young breasts.

She smiled seductively and lowered her lashes. His eyes widened as he watched her slide her hands down her own body, lingering on the curve of her hip and the flat plane of her stomach. When she returned to her breasts and cupped them, his mouth was completely dry. She was driving him insane. Where would an innocent girl learn to do that?

With a groan, he pulled her beneath him, and his mouth locked on hers. Her response was immediate, and it gentled him. Exercising the self-control for which he was renowned, he set out, for the first time, to arouse the woman he loved.

Brushing the hair back from her forehead, he trailed light kisses from her ear to the base of her throat, sucking gently at the point where the blood leaped to life. Running his hand down the slope of her breast, he followed with his mouth, flicking the sensitive tip with his tongue until he felt her nipple harden. She gasped and arched up to meet him, holding his head down. He filled his mouth with her, moving from one mound to the other until she cried out, begging him to end it.

He was fully erect. Sliding his hand between her thighs, he parted them and moved over her.

Katrine had never imagined her body capable of such magic. She was beyond thought, beyond logic, reeling in a sea of pure sensation. Heat pooled in her womb, and the delicious tension rose and rose until she wanted nothing more than to pull the hardened flesh now probing at the entrance to her womanhood as deeply into the heart of her being as it would go. Who would have thought a man’s body, all hard lines and jutting angles, could hold such delights for a woman? She wanted him now. Boldly, she reached for him, her hand encircling the turgid flesh. He stiffened and froze, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. Instinctively, she moved her hips. Richard’s control snapped. With a shout of surrender, he drove into her over and over until the shattering pleasure of his release drained him completely. Raising his head, he looked down at her face. What he saw satisfied him and he joined her in sleep, their bodies tangled, for twelve dreamless hours.

Traquair House

1993

Janet’s diary lay unopened beside me. It was no longer necessary for me to read. The images came from inside me, from my own mind. I managed the walk to my room in relative calm. Gathering my clothes, I made it to the bathroom and locked the door. But in the shower, as the soft spray of hot water hit my face, I lost control. If anyone had asked me to explain the wrenching sobs that wracked my body, I couldn’t have done it. Maybe it was the beauty of Katrine Murray Wolfe’s wedding night. Maybe it was the all-consuming desire of two doomed lovers or the piercing clarity of the selfless love they so obviously shared. Or maybe it was pain. Pain for the failure of my dreams and the realization that my own marriage, compared to the burning, heart-shattering passion of Katrine’s, had been nothing more than an empty shell.