Legacy (13 page)

“See that you do, Richard Wolfe,” she said gravely. “Come back to me in one piece.”

Tucking his hat under his arm, he smiled at her one last time before leaving the room.

That morning, Katrine breakfasted alone. Duncan had already left when she came down the stairs. His message, telling her he had been summoned by Cumberland, was a cryptic one. He must have realized that Richard had survived the battle and spent the night in her room. She sighed. Duncan had proven himself to be a dear friend, but Richard was her husband. Sooner or later, Duncan would have to come to terms with that fact.

Katrine was halfway through her second cup of tea when a loud pounding at the door interrupted her. She stood and walked into the entry. Duncan’s butler and a blood-smeared clansman she recognized as Gillie MacBean of Clan Chattan argued loudly.

Quickly, she intervened. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

“Don’t listen to him, m’lady,” entreated the butler. “Lord Forbes specifically instructed me to see that you remain inside today. Cumberland’s troops are killing everyone in sight, no questions asked.”

“I appreciate your concern, Holmes,” replied Katrine, “but I must hear what Gillie has to say.”

Gillie MacBean straightened his shoulders and stepped forward. “’Tis Ewan Douglas who sent me to fetch you, lass. His wound is poisoned, and he wishes to leave your mother a message.”

Katrine’s hand flew to her throat. Ewan was her uncle, her mother’s only surviving brother. “Can you wait until I get my cloak?” she asked.

The man’s worried countenance relaxed, and he nodded. “A moment more will make no difference.”

“’Tis not safe, m’lady,” the butler repeated. “I wish you will reconsider.” His words followed her as she ran up the stairs, found her cloak, and hurried down again.

“Tell Lord Forbes where I’ve gone,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “If my uncle is well enough, I shall bring him back with me.”

The servant bowed his head in defeat as the burly clansman lifted Katrine to his own saddle and climbed up behind her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To a barn near Balvraid,” the man replied. “Ewan made his way there last evening.”

Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “Are there no surgeons to see to the wounded?”

“Aye,” said Gillie bitterly, “to the government wounded. Those fighting for the prince can expect nothing more than the sharp end of a bayonet.”

“Even those who surrendered?” Katrine refused to believe the men her husband commanded were capable of such cruelty.

“This isn’t a tea party, lass. The charge against us is treason, and the penalty is death.”

Katrine could think of nothing to say that would soften the horror of such a fate. She remained silent until they pulled up beside what appeared to be a deserted barn.

Her uncle was still conscious, but his eyes were closed. He was alone, and the blood staining his shirt came from a wound in the center of his chest.

Katrine knelt beside him. “Uncle Ewan,” she whispered, “’tis Katrine. I’ve come to take you away from here.”

Slowly the dying man’s eyes opened. His breath was loud and rasping, and the bubbles forming at his mouth were filled with blood. With enormous effort he formed the words. “Tell Janet—”

Katrine bent her ear to his lips. “Tell her what?”

His words were the barest whisper. “Tell her to go to France. Take my son, his wife, and the child.” His breathing altered for a moment and then continued. “They mean to kill all of us. No one in the Highlands is safe.”

She drew back in horror. “We’ve had uprisings before,” she argued. “Why is this different?”

For a man at the end of his strength, his grip on her wrist was amazingly strong. “Do as I say, Katrine. Promise me.”

She stared down into the face that was as familiar to her as her own father’s. Slowly she nodded. “I promise.”

“Good girl,” he rasped and turned toward the wall.

Gillie MacBean leaned forward and placed his fingers against the wounded man’s throat. He shook his head.

Tears rolled down Katrine’s cheeks. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.

“He waited for you, lass. I’m sure it was a great comfort to him to have you here.”

She opened her mouth to speak when a noise outside the barn stopped her. Gillie held his finger against his lips, picked up his broadsword, and flattened himself against the barn wall. The door burst open, and a dozen horses filled the entrance. There were a dozen more behind them.

“What have we here?” A large heavy-set man with a long nose and double chin stared first at Katrine and then at the lifeless body of Ewan Douglas. He frowned. Katrine’s face, in the dark shadows of the barn, was unrecognizable. Gesturing toward one of his men, he ordered, “Bring her outside.”

She lifted her chin. “That won’t be necessary,” she said and walked between the sweating horses into the dim light of an April day.

“Who are you?” asked the duke of Cumberland.

Smiling disdainfully, she spread her bloodstained skirts in a mocking curtsey. “Don’t you recognize me, Your Grace? I am Katrine Wolfe.”

His eyes narrowed. “May I ask why you are here giving aid to a rebel?”

“Ewan Douglas is my uncle,” she said shortly. “I could not refuse him.”

He toyed with the black rosette on his hat. “George Murray is your father, is he not?”

“He is.”

“Have you Jacobite sympathies, Lady Wolfe?”

Across the distance that separated them, he could see the flashing silver of her eyes. “I do, Your Grace.”

“Are you aware that the penalty for treason is death?”

Something clicked in the back of her mind. This scene had been played out before. She closed her eyes, and the memory of another woman and another time flooded her consciousness. Words, clear and proud, resounded in her head. Katrine’s eyes opened, and her faintness cleared. Her voice was strong with purpose. “I am no traitor,” she said, “for I did not betray my king.”

Cumberland could not mistake her meaning. His face turned a dark purple. “In that case, m’lady,” he said, “you shall join your fellow Jacobites. ’Tis a pity we have no gallows, but I’ve heard death by sword is far more merciful.” He turned to the men mounted beside him. “Seize her,” he ordered.

In unison they moved forward. Gillie MacBean, brandishing his broadsword at the duke, stepped out from inside the barn. “Touch her and I’ll spear you through the heart.”

Cumberland’s face twisted in fury. “Kill him,” he shouted.

Two dragoons positioned themselves beside Katrine. The rest moved forward. She closed her eyes, praying for a miracle. The odds against Gillie were twenty to one. The minutes seemed like hours, but finally it was silent again. Katrine opened her eyes and gasped. Thirteen government soldiers lay dead and with them the trampled and dismembered body of Gillie MacBean. Tears pricked her eyes. If there had only been more men like Gillie, yesterday would have turned out quite differently for the duke of Cumberland. His attention had returned to Katrine.

“Save your tears for yourself, Lady Wolfe,” he said. “You shall join him shortly.” Dismounting, the duke pulled out his sword and advanced toward her.

“What in bloody hell are you doing?” A voice, ice cold and deadly with rage, froze Cumberland in his tracks.

Slowly he turned around and looked across the clearing into Major Richard Wolfe’s forbidding blue eyes. He was alone and on horseback. Somehow, during the fray, he had come unnoticed upon the duke and his men.

“Your wife is guilty of giving aid to the enemy,” Cumberland announced. “She is also an admitted Jacobite. The penalty is death.”

“She is my wife,” said Richard through gritted teeth. “As the countess of Ashton, she is an English peer. That entitles her to a trial.”

“Not in time of war.”

“This isn’t a war,” replied Richard scathingly. “’Tis a bloodbath. You’ll be remembered throughout history as a butcher.”

Both of Cumberland’s large chins quivered with anger. “Major Richard Wolfe, you will be placed under arrest for insubordination.”

Richard’s eyes challenged him. “I’ll not allow you to harm my wife.” He drew his sword. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

Cumberland stepped back. “Restrain him,” he ordered his men.

The dragoons looked doubtfully at each other. More than one face held a troubled expression. Major Wolfe was a superior officer and a favorite among the men.

Richard grinned. “Come, lads. I’ll take you together or one at a time.”

Two horsemen moved forward.

“No,” Katrine moaned, pulling out of the grasp of her captors. She could not bear to see Richard’s lean, beautiful body torn into pieces before her. Rushing forward, she grabbed Cumberland’s sleeve. “Stop please,” she begged.

Surprised at the unexpected contact, he turned quickly, his sword extended. The blade, cold as ice, sliced deeply into the soft flesh of Katrine’s breast.

A look of astonishment crossed her face. She stepped back and touched her hand to her side. Blood stained her gown and seeped through her fingers. With a gasp, she crumpled to the ground.

Shocked, Cumberland dropped his sword just as Richard’s hands found his throat. The choking pain had given way to a sweet lassitude before his men pried him loose. When at last he sat up, he saw Major Wolfe riding away, cradling his wife in his arms. No one attempted to stop them. Looking into the accusing eyes of his men, Cumberland knew that any order to apprehend the couple would be disobeyed.

Richard Wolfe had seen enough of war to know that Katrine’s wound was fatal. It was amazing that even now she lived. Blood poured from the gash like a fountain. His jacket and shirt were already drenched, and he could feel the familiar wetness beneath his clothing, warm against his skin. He refused to succumb to his pain. There would be a lifetime for anguish. Now, he must be strong for Katrine.

“Richard.” Her voice was faint. “Save my family. See that they leave for France.”

“You know I will.” Not for one moment did he consider lying. Katrine, straightforward in the throes of death as she was in life, would be spared the effort of pretense. They both knew she was dying. Any comfort must be taken in these last few moments together. He stopped the horse. They were far from Cumberland and his men.

“Take care of Alasdair,” she whispered. “Later, when the troubles are settled, bring him to Scotland. My mother has no one left.”

Richard tried to contain his grief, but the pain was too great. Burying his head in her hair, he wept. Her hand slipped away and her head fell back, and still he wept. He knew from the frightening limp weight of her that she was gone. He knew night would soon descend and that a lone man on horseback was a target. He knew that his life would be worthless if either Cumberland’s troops or Jacobite marauders came upon him. But none of it mattered. He had lost Katrine Murray. Nothing would ever matter again.

Blair Castle

1993

An insistent knocking brought me back to the present. Crossing the room, I unlocked the door to find an anxious Ian Douglas staring back at me.

“In another minute, I would have forced my way in,” he said. “Are you all right?”

Shaking my head, I stepped back and leaned against the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears choked my throat and paralyzed my tongue.

The worry on his face deepened. He stepped forward and reached for me. Closing my eyes, I leaned against him, giving way to the searing grief I could no longer hold back. Deep inside me, from a source I didn’t know existed and hadn’t yet begun to tap, the heaving sobs began. Gathering me against his chest, Ian let me cry for a long time, rubbing my back and the crown of my head, murmuring Gaelic words of comfort into my ear.

Much later, when my storm of emotion had passed and his sweater was damp with tears, I pulled out of his arms, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. He handed me his handkerchief, and I accepted it with a self-conscious “Thank you.”

Ian waited until I’d restored some semblance of calm to my tear-streaked face. Then he led me to the armchair, pressed me down into the cushions, and asked, “Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?”

I looked away from the concern reflected in his face and closed my eyes. For some reason I was exhausted. What I wanted more than anything in the world was to go home. Edinburgh and the luncheon with Professor MacCleod seemed like weeks ago. I chewed the inside of my lip. What would Ian say if I asked him to take me back after coming all this way? There was nothing else to do but tell him how I felt.

Opening my eyes, I spoke directly. “I want to go back to Traquair, Ian. There is nothing here at Blair-Atholl.”

He frowned. “How do you know?”

I hesitated. How much would he accept?

“Christina.” He knelt beside me, his blue eyes very intent. “I’m not as skeptical as you believe. Trust me.”

My eyes moved over his face. It was a strong face, confident and sincere. A muscle throbbed at the corner of his mouth.

“Mairi hid the stone at Traquair,” I blurted out. “Katrine found the passageway, but she went into labor before she could explore it.”

His voice was very controlled. “You’ve been dreaming again.”

“They aren’t dreams. They’re visions. Katrine Murray died at Cumberland’s hands. She had a child. A boy.” I could hear the hysterical quality to my voice. “She had diabetes, and she saw everything exactly as I’ve seen it.” Sitting up, I clutched his sleeve. “I’ve got to find the stone, Ian. Don’t you see? If Mairi’s name is cleared, the curse will end.”

Perspiration beaded his forehead. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

“What?”

“If, as you say, the pattern holds true and you believe everything you’re telling me, you are in considerable danger, Christina.”

A cold prickling sensation made its way up my spine. He had voiced what I’d refused to admit for some time now. “I know,” I whispered.

Errant raindrops dripped down the chimney and fell into the flames of the fire. A log hissed and sputtered and then broke in two. Ian spoke softly, but his eyes never left my face. “Mairi and Katrine died at the hands of their enemies.” He reached over to the desk and picked up Professor MacCleod’s envelope. “I think you’d better read this. It’s the biography of Jeanne Maxwell, compiled from letters found after her death.”

“She’s the one I know nothing about. Why is that, I wonder?” I looked inquiringly at Ian.

He shrugged. “Maybe something we know nothing about triggers a particular association or maybe the mind can only take in so much information at a time.”

“Or maybe Mairi is controlling us all, allowing only so much to happen at a time.” I shivered and ran my fingers over the envelope. “Have you read this?”

He nodded and brushed his hand against my cheek. “I have. And if you come to the same conclusion I did, we’re in this together.”

My mouth felt dry. “Why?” I whispered.

He smiled, and once again I felt a tiny flutter of pleasure in my stomach. “Let’s just say that I’ve a small stake in your future. You’ll know more when you’ve finished reading.” He stood up, pulling me with him. “Shall we take a break and go down to dinner?”

Apparently dinner at Blair was never informal, even when the host was absent. I counted seven courses in all, from the salmon in wine sauce and clear dill soup to the dessert, which was a custard-filled bread pudding.

“Excuse me, Miss Murray.” The butler bowed slightly. “I called Traquair as you requested and explained that you and Mr. Douglas would not be returning this evening. Mrs. Ferguson wanted me to tell you that your father called from America. She said his message was urgent.”

I could feel myself pale. “Did she mention why?”

“No, miss.” He shook his head. “Would you like to use the phone in the library?”

“Yes, please.” I pushed back my chair and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, Ian, I’ll be right back.”

He stood. “Of course. I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

“So do I,” I muttered.

My hands shook as I dialed the operator for instructions on how to complete a trans-Atlantic call. Within seconds, the sound of my parents’ telephone rang in my ear. Two rings, three, four. Where were they? It was eleven o’clock in the morning in California. They always ate an early lunch on the patio after walking the dogs. The answering machine picked up the call, and my father’s familiar recorded voice explained that no one could come to the phone and to please leave a message. After hearing the beep, I explained where I was and that I would be returning to Traquair in the morning. Hanging up the phone, I walked back into the dining room.

Ian held out my chair, and I sat down. The fragrant smell of hot coffee coming from the shining silver coffee service was too tempting to ignore. I waited in silence as the housekeeper poured the dark brown liquid into a delicate china cup, placed it on a matching saucer, and handed it to me. She repeated the process for Ian. After asking if there would be anything else, she discreetly left the room.

“Is everything all right at home?” he asked.

I sipped my coffee. “I don’t know. No one was there.”

He frowned. “Do your parents normally call you when you visit Scotland?”

I shook my head. “Never. I’m not always sure when I’ll be in. I usually call them every Sunday night.”

“Why don’t we call Kate and ask if your father mentioned where they might be?”

“I don’t think that would help,” I replied. “My father is a lawyer, Ian. He doesn’t leave anything to chance. If it was important that I know where they were, he would have left a specific message.” I looked up to meet his worried expression. His concern had a reassuring affect on me. I smiled. “Thank you for caring, but I’m sure nothing is seriously wrong. He would have told Kate if it was a real emergency.”

He looked relieved. “If you’re sure—”

“Very sure,” I said firmly. “I’m curious, nothing more.”

We left the dining room, and Ian reached for my hand. “There’s a comfortable sitting room at the other end of the house,” he said. “It even has a television.”

I looked up into the sculpted perfection of his face. What I saw there stopped my breath. It was surprising that I recognized it at all. I had seen it only once before in the last several years and that was yesterday on the riverbank. It was the look of a man in need and hungry—for me.

When my heart resumed its beating, I answered him. “It sounds wonderful, but do we really need a television?”

He grinned and slid his arm around my waist. “Follow me.”

The sitting room was as modern as my mother’s California living room. The twin sofas were large with plush, comfortable pillows and stylish upholstery. Recessed lighting gave the room a cozy glow. A sleek wooden coffee table in front of the fireplace carried copies of popular magazines.

Ian dimmed the lights and lit the fire while I sat on the couch and thumbed through a copy of a women’s magazine not sold in America. Soon he joined me and, as naturally as if he’d done it every day of his life, pulled my head against his shoulder, and kissed me.

Who can explain why one particular man instinctively knows the secret of setting a woman’s body aflame when another can try time after laborious time and never quite get it right?

Ian’s hands moved across my skin like a concert pianist, while his lips and tongue played havoc with the dips and scooped-out hollows of my cheeks, my throat, the curves of my breasts, and the sensitive spot where my neck and shoulder met. I couldn’t stop the moan of sheer animal pleasure when he pressed me back against the pillows and covered my body with his. He was lean and hard and warm and beautiful, and I wanted him with a desperation completely unfamiliar to me. Shamelessly I encouraged him, urging him on with words and gestures I would never have imagined myself capable of before this night. My body took on a life of its own, moving and opening with wanton abandon under the sensual, drugging magic of his skilled hands and seeking lips.

“My God, Christina,” he said and surged inside me. He stiffened, and I could feel the cords stand out on his neck. “I’m sorry, darling,” he gasped, “but I can’t wait any longer.” At his first swollen thrust, my pleasure peaked. Sensation consumed me and for the first time in thirty-seven years, I came to know the meaning of the words
white hot
and
rocking waves of passion
.

Later, when the fire was nearly out and Ian’s chest moved in the steady rhythm of the nearly unconscious, I lifted my head from his shoulder and asked the question I had wanted to ask since yesterday on the riverbank. “Why do you know so much about my family history?”

His eyes flew open, and for the barest instant I could feel resistance in the sudden tightening of his arms. Then he relaxed and settled my head back into the hollow of his shoulder. I held my breath, hoping that this time he wouldn’t put me off. My patience was rewarded.

“You’ll think I’m mad,” he muttered.

I lifted my head to stare at him in astonishment. “After everything I’ve told you? Don’t be ridiculous.”

He still looked unconvinced.

“Ian,” I said softly, using his words, “please trust me.”

He sighed, and I could feel the tension flow out of his body. In the lyrical, hypnotic voice of a Highland bard, he began to speak. “My family is descended from the Black Douglases through the illegitimate line of Sir James Douglas.”

I knew something of the history of that ill-fated family as well as that of the Red Douglases who came later, but I didn’t interrupt. I had a feeling that Ian’s story might be a great deal different from the textbooks.

“From our earliest history to the time when Sir William Douglas was imprisoned inside the Tower of London after fighting with Wallace at Falkirk, we had the usual triumphs and tragedies that most clans experienced. But after that, when the Bruce came to power, things changed. The family fortunes deteriorated, the line died out, and Douglas men fell out of favor.”

When the Bruce came to power
. I felt a chill run down my spine. The Bruce had come to power during the lifetime of Mairi of Shiels.

“Sir James Douglas had two sons,” Ian continued, “one illegitimate. His brother Archibald had one as well. As you know, James died in Spain while attempting to bury the Bruce’s heart in the Holy Land. His son fell fighting the English at Halidan Hill. Archibald also died at Halidan. William, Archibald’s son, became the earl of Douglas. He died at Otterburn without an heir.”

I remained silent, asking no questions, hardly daring to breathe. Scotland’s history had always been a rocky one, her people’s disagreements settled at the point of a sword. It wasn’t completely clear as to where Ian was going with his litany of tragic deaths, but as I listened, my suspicions grew.

“Archibald the Grim, a bastard, came to power as the third earl of Douglas. His oldest son died in battle, and his grandsons were lured to Edinburgh and executed in the castle. The title went to Archibald’s second son, James, and then to his son, William. William renewed his allegiance to the earls of Crawford and Ross. King James II sent him a safe conduct and invited him to Stirling, where he had William stabbed and his body flung over the battlements, where it was found by his brother, the new earl.

“Three years later, King James charged the family with treason and brought an army against them. The entire Douglas estates were forfeited and the earldom extinguished. The earl fled to England with one of his brothers, leaving his wife behind. She was called the Fair Maid of Galloway. The king arranged for her divorce, married her to his own half brother, and gave them the Douglas lordship of Balveny. They became the earl and countess of Atholl. So you see, Christina, the Murrays prevailed after all.”

Ian had related his story as if everything had happened in his own lifetime, to people he knew and loved. But I knew that the final curtain had come down on the Black Douglases in the middle of the fifteenth century, over five hundred years ago. I still had no clue as to why this had anything to do with the twentieth-century Ian Douglas. I was about to interrupt his reverie and ask when he started to speak again.

“I know this background history must seem tedious to you, but I had to establish a reference. For years descendents of the Douglases fostered themselves to other clans, hiring themselves out to sympathetic families. In the middle of the sixteenth century, an enterprising Douglas married into the Murray clan and was gifted the home that now belongs to my family. By staying neutral during most of Scotland’s wars, a Douglas heir has always managed to survive there.”

I couldn’t miss the hostility in his voice or the bitter twist to his mouth.

“When other estates had difficulties, we had disasters. Somehow the Douglas lands have always been in the path of marauding armies and crop-destroying storms. Our fortunes have always been explained away as chance or unusually bad luck until the First World War when my grandfather was decorated for heroic service. He was a career officer and rose steadily in the ranks until it was time for his appointed promotion. They passed him over for a desk officer who had never so much as left the country. He retired immediately and drank himself into an early grave.”