Legacy (14 page)

“I don’t understand,” I began.

“You will when I’m finished,” he promised. “My father ran for a seat in the House of Commons. He was a popular man, respected by everyone in Innerleithen and Peebles. His opponent, an Englishman from York who had recently moved into the area, accused my father of molesting his fourteen-year-old daughter. I was in America at the time and didn’t know the exact details until after it was all over. My father had too much pride to speak in his own defense. They found him the morning after the trial with a bullet hole in his head.”

“Oh, dear God.” My eyes swam with the tears I couldn’t hold back. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”

“I didn’t realize any of it was connected,” he continued, “until I met Professor MacCleod. We met on the road. His car battery broke down, and I stopped to help him. When he realized who I was, he introduced himself and explained that he was interested in Scottish antiquities. We had tea, and I drove him to Traquair. By the end of the day, he must have decided that I wouldn’t accuse him of insanity because he confided in me. It was then that I learned about the entire history of the Maxwells and the Murrays and my own ancestor, the woman who placed her curse upon the two clans.”

He held me away from him, his eyes searching my face, willing me to understand and accept. “She was my ancestor, Christina, and impossible as it appears, from the very moment she accused Mairi of Shiels, her descendents have lived under a black cloud.”

How could such a thing be possible? Every ounce of sanity in my brain protested. And yet, why not? I had seen it all, much more clearly than Ian. I was present when Grizelle Murray Douglas condemned Mairi to death. I had seen the pain in David Murray’s eyes and watched his pleasant features twist in hatred when he met his mother’s triumphant gaze.

“What can we do?” I whispered.

With a hoarse cry, Ian pulled me against him and buried his face in my hair. “Bless you, Christina,” he murmured in relief, “and thank you for believing me. It sounds so outrageous that half the time I don’t believe it myself.”

I smiled into his shoulder, but the pleasure of being in his arms was diminished by the urgency of our problem. “There must be something we can do,” I repeated.

“Perhaps there is, now that you’re here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have an unusual gift, my love. I’m not sure what it all means, but wherever it takes us, we’re in this together.”

Something bothered me, and I had to voice it. “Why me, Ian? Why do I have the sight?”

He folded my hands between his own, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle and patient. “I believe that whatever forces of goodness exist on earth gave us this chance, just as they gave Katrine Murray, two hundred years ago, and Jeanne Maxwell, two hundred years before that. The incredible part is that we have a chance neither of them had. They were alone. We found each other.”

The fire was completely out, and the air had grown cold. I shivered, and Ian pulled a woolen afghan over me. “It still doesn’t make sense,” I persisted. “Not everything fits. My mother is Irish, and the dreams didn’t come to Katrine until after she was pregnant. Was it that way for Jeanne Maxwell?”

He shook his head, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Jeanne’s circumstances were different. She didn’t have the first of the nightmares until after her son was born. I don’t have all the answers, Christina. We’ll just have to go along with the facts we have.”

“I can’t have children,” I reminded him.

With the tip of his finger he traced my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose, and the line of my mouth. My lips parted, and I tasted the salty flavor of his skin. He bent his head, and I felt his breath against my ear. “Wrong, Christina,” he whispered, pressing his mouth against the sensitive lobe. “You just haven’t had them yet.”

Later, we made our way up to my bedroom and together opened Professor MacCleod’s envelope. Ian positioned the feather pillows behind his head and settled me against him so that my back rested against his chest. Surrounded by the security of his arms, I read aloud the documents so painstakingly collected for me. The dry expository prose wasn’t nearly as enjoyable to read as Janet’s diary had been, but it didn’t matter. Before long, Ian fell asleep and I must have also because, like a dream, the shockingly visual story of Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair unfolded before me.

Edinburgh

June 30, 1509

“There he is, Jeannie. I told you he would come.” Moira Sutherland squeezed her companion’s arm in rapturous excitement. “Don’t look now.” She gasped, staring at the lean, black-haired figure maneuvering his way expertly through the crowded great hall. “Sweet Mary. He’s walking toward us.”

Jeanne Maxwell lifted her chin and removed her arm from her friend’s painful grip. “Don’t play the fool, Moira. ’Tis only John Maxwell. He’s my cousin and I’ve known him since I was born.”

“But he’s so very handsome, and you haven’t seen him for years,” Moira protested.

Jeanne sniffed. “He was always a braggart. I doubt if the English court has improved him.”

From behind them an amused voice interrupted. “Turn around, Cousin, and see for yourself.”

Moira gasped and turned quickly, stammering an awkward greeting. Jeanne took a moment to gather her composure. Slowly, she turned to face her boyhood champion, and her eyes widened in disbelief. So the rumors were true. John Maxwell was a man that would make a woman’s gaze linger. He was taller than she remembered with wider shoulders, and his features had lost their bluntness. Now they were sharply defined as if they’d been sculpted by a craftsman with a finely honed blade.

“Welcome home, John,” she said coolly. “We’ve nothing so grand as Whitehall here in Edinburgh, but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”

Moira’s face flamed. Jeannie Maxwell, the kindest and most loyal of friends, was behaving like a shrew to the most engaging young man who had ever graced the court of King James IV of Scotland.

John Maxwell grinned. To Moira’s amazement, he didn’t appear in the least offended. “’Tis good to be home, Jeannie,” he said. “I’ve missed your tongue-lashings.”

Jeanne’s eyes moved over him, noting the changes of the past five years. “You’ve cut your hair,” she remarked disapprovingly.

“’Tis the fashion in England.”

“This is Scotland. You would do well to remember that.”

Moira’s misery was complete. She nearly swooned with embarrassment. John was so kind, so courteous, and so amazingly like Jeanne in appearance. Beneath lowered lashes, Moira stared curiously at the two of them. The Maxwell strain was clearly stamped on their faces. The thin, Celtic features, olive skin, and pale gray eyes could not be denied. Neither could the hair framing their faces. It was shining and black as a raven’s wing, unusual for a Scot south of the Highlands. Behind her headpiece, Jeanne’s was long, hanging free to her waist in the manner of unmarried women. John’s was shorn close to his head, an unusual style not yet fashionable at the Scottish court.

Moira’s hands clenched with resolve. It wasn’t right. This handsome young man with the pleasant smile and laughing gray eyes didn’t deserve the stinging thrusts Jeannie leveled at him. Taking a deep breath, Moira threw herself into the middle of the fray. “Tell us about King Henry’s court, m’lord. Is it as frivolous as they say?”

Surprised, John looked down at her, noticing her presence for the first time.

Jeanne stared at her friend. What could have possessed the painfully shy Moira Sutherland to call such attention upon herself?

John recovered first. His smile gentled, and he reached for Moira’s hand. Lifting it to his mouth, he brushed his lips across the back. “I’m terribly sorry for my rudeness, lass. Perhaps Jeanne will introduce us when she remembers her manners.”

“My manners are not the ones in need of attention,” Jeanne snapped, glaring at Moira.

The girl’s lip trembled, and suddenly Jeanne was ashamed of herself. “Never mind, love. John always did bring out the worst in me.” Quickly, she introduced them. “Moira Sutherland, this is my cousin, Lord John Maxwell of Traquair.”

Moira glanced shyly up at his face. “How do you do, sir?”

“Very well, thank you,” John replied. “But I find myself in something of a quandary, Mistress Sutherland.”

“How so, sir?”

“How is it that a termagant like my cousin can be found in the company of such a sweet and gentle lass as yourself?”

Moira’s pansy brown eyes widened, and she blushed adorably. “Jeannie is no such thing, m’lord. I’ve never before seen her behave rudely.”

The light-filled eyes looking down at her flickered thoughtfully. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes,” replied Moira loyally. “She’s the best and kindest of friends. Why—-”

“That will do, Moira,” interrupted Jeanne. “Why don’t you continue your conversation with Lord Maxwell while I seek the punch bowl.”

“I’ve a better idea,” cut in John. “Why don’t I call on you tomorrow, Mistress Sutherland? I’ll tell you tales of the English court that will make your head turn. But now I must be private with Jeanne. ’Tis a family matter.” He smiled charmingly, and Moira blushed again, tripping over her skirts as she backed away.

“How could you?” Jeanne spoke through clenched teeth.

John pulled her into a small retiring room off the main hallway and looked around. It was furnished with a table and chair. He waited to release her arm until he’d closed the door tightly behind them. “How could I what?” he asked.

“Moira Sutherland is little more than a child. You deliberately set out to win her regard with no thought for her feelings at all.” Jeanne was furious. “She’s half in love with you already. You, the greatest profligate in Scotland.”

He looked bewildered. “You wrong me, Jeanne. I was merely being polite.”

“Polite!” She pronounced the word scathingly.

He watched in fascinated silence as her breasts rose and fell beneath the square décolletage of her gown.

“Have you no shame, John? You kissed her hand. You wooed her with your smile and promised to see her again. Women far more experienced than Moira have succumbed to your charms.”

His eyes widened in mock horror as he clasped his hands across his heart. “Will her father be posting the banns then?”

It was then that Jeanne Maxwell, a woman known the length and breadth of Scotland for her beauty, her wit, and her cool self-control, lost what was left of the last tenuous threads of her temper. Taking the steps necessary to bring her within inches of his face, she lifted her hand and slapped him, hard.

His eyes narrowed to mere slits in the dark tan of his face. Jeanne was suddenly, desperately afraid. John Maxwell had spent five years at the English court, but he was still a Scots border lord. Such an insult demanded swift retaliation. Her hand flew to her throat, and she swallowed. What could have come over her? Only once, in her entire memory, had she behaved so outrageously. That was the day, five years before, when John had left for England. Her face was pale and her eyes wide as she waited to see what would happen next.

He lifted his hand to the mark already reddening his cheek. Slowly, the fury faded from his eyes. “I was told you had outgrown that temper of yours.”

Relieved, she asked, “Why would anything about me be of interest to you, John Maxwell?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I.”

She could no more stop the blush from rising to her cheeks than she could deny the dawning awareness in his eyes.

He laughed triumphantly. “You can’t hide from it, Jeannie. I knew in London when stories of the ‘ice maiden’ began to surface. I could scarce believe they were speaking of the Jeanne Maxwell I knew.”

She lifted her chin and stared defiantly into eyes the exact color and shape of her own. John Maxwell was only a second cousin, but he looked enough like her to be her twin. “What are you suggesting?” she asked calmly.

The wary look on her face stopped him. Jeanne still didn’t trust him. She wasn’t ready for a declaration. Perhaps she never would be. Pushing aside the cold fear that always accompanied such misgivings, he smiled gently. “I meant no harm, lass. Can’t a man miss his favorite cousin and ask of her now and then?”

“It isn’t at all like you,” she said doubtfully.

He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet the silver purpose of his gaze. “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“I know you well enough,” she muttered. “What did you wish to tell me?”

Frowning, he dropped his hand and stepped away from her. “I merely wished to pay my respects,” he replied. “How is your mother?”

Jeanne stiffened, and her face assumed a cold, implacable expression. “Very well, thank you.”

John nodded. “I’m glad. She’s had a difficult time of it.”

Two red spots of color stained Jeanne’s cheeks. “I might have known your first consideration would be for my mother.”

There was no mistaking the rage in her voice. Faith, what ailed the woman? He had merely asked about her family. “Flora was always good to me,” he began. “Is it wrong that I ask after her well-being?”

Jeanne’s eyes were the color of ice above a frozen gray tarn. “Not at all,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll be pleased to hear that she is now a widow.”

John’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Why in the name of heaven would I be pleased to hear such a thing? I admired your father. He was a great friend to me.”

Her face was a still, pale oval. “Were you worthy of that friendship?”

He stared at her, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “What is it, Jeanne?” he asked softly. “What is it about me that you find so distasteful?”

She lowered her eyes but not before he saw the tears she struggled to hide.

His mouth tightened, and a thin white line appeared around his lips. “I have no wish to upset you, but what lies between us must be said. I’ve come home to collect what I left behind, Jeannie. If it takes time to accustom yourself, so be it.” Nodding briefly, he walked to the door.

“John.” Her voice stopped him, but he did not turn around. “I’m promised to George Gordon. We await Jamie’s approval before posting the banns.”

When he spoke again, his voice had an odd, husky quality. “There is more to the king’s approval than a promise between a man and a maid.”

Her hands clenched. “Leave us alone, John Maxwell. Take your comfort with my mother. I’m sure she’ll be pleased enough to see you.”

At that he turned to face her, a puzzled expression on his face. “What’s gotten into you, lass? I told you of my way of thinking in my letters. Once a week, I wrote you. ’Tis a long time for a man to remain constant without a reply.”

Her eyes challenged him. “
Were
you constant, John? Do you even know the meaning of the word?”

He grinned, a mocking flash of white in his sun-browned face. “Aye, lass. I do.” With that he opened the door and left her standing alone in the retiring room.

Jeanne sank into the only available chair, surprised that her legs hadn’t given way beneath her. John Maxwell was most definitely a man to be reckoned with. Her fingers drummed nervously on the table. Why had he come back now, after all this time? And what was that foolishness about collecting something he’d left behind? A picture, ugly and persistent, formed in her mind. She tried to resist, but the image remained. It had occurred long ago, but the memory was as clear as if it had all happened yesterday.

Her father, Donald Maxwell, had been away when his infant son died of the pox at Traquair House. It was only natural for fifteen-year-old Jeanne to think of her childhood friend in times of trouble. She sent for John. He arrived shortly after the burial. Her mother was incoherent with grief. She couldn’t be blamed for throwing herself into the young man’s arms. John, however, should have known better. Jeanne turned the corner from the landing in time to see him pull her distraught mother into his arms and take her lips in a kiss that only a nun, cloistered from childhood and exceptionally naive, would have called comforting. Frozen into immobility, Jeanne watched as John led her mother, her arms still locked around his neck, into her bedchamber and closed the door.

Given the scene she had witnessed, John’s unexpected marriage proposal on the banks of Saint Mary’s Loch came as a horrifying surprise. What shocked and dismayed her was her own unexpected response to his kiss. The firm warmth of his lips as they moved against hers and the hard muscles under his linen shirt left her breathless and confused. Could a man who kissed a woman that way be in love with another? Would he tell her of the years he’d waited until she’d finally grown up, only to creep into her mother’s chamber at night?

Jeanne had almost convinced herself that he was sincere when word came that he’d left for London. At first, she’d welcomed his weekly letters, greedily taking them to her chambers to read alone, searching between the lines for proof of his regard. It wasn’t until he’d been gone almost two years that Jeanne learned the truth.

She was seventeen and newly arrived at the royal court at Stirling. It wasn’t long before the rumors reached her ears. John Maxwell was a favorite at the English court. Reports had it that his string of mistresses rivaled that of the English king Henry VIII.

And now he was back. It hadn’t taken long for Jeanne to realize that his proposal five years before had been a sham, made for the purpose of hiding his true reason for coming so often to Traquair. That reason had everything to do with her mother. Not only had John Maxwell inherited Traquair and the title upon her father’s death, he had also inherited his wife. It was all so despicably convenient. Jeanne tightened her lips. She would never again fall for the easy charm that came so readily at his command.

Smoothing her thick, knee-length hair, she stood and walked back into the main hall of Edinburgh Castle, biting her lips to restore their color. She must find George immediately. Perhaps he could persuade Jamie Stewart to agree to a wedding date. The sooner she was married and away from the temptation of John Maxwell’s soul-destroying smile, the better. Faith, the man could coax the kelpies from their watery resting places.

***

“’Tis said the people go hungry and Parliament grumbles while Henry spends the royal treasury on outrageous schemes. What say you, John? Is that a fair assessment of the English mind?” James Stewart, king of Scotland, fixed his heavy-lidded eyes on the tall young man beside him. He wanted an answer and he wanted it now.

John hesitated. His face assumed the pleasant, implacable mask of the courtier while his mind sifted through and discarded a dozen different replies. There were spies at Jamie’s court. Any answer he gave would be whispered into Henry’s ear in less than a fortnight. He decided on the truth, although a diplomatic version of it. “Never think that the English will not support their king, Your Grace. Henry is a favorite with the nobles and yeomen alike. He rides, reads, and rules with equal aplomb in all areas.”