Legacy (12 page)

Katrine bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, squinting at the lines of Cumberland’s men. Where was Richard? She searched the six regiments from right to left. On the flanks were the cavalry and then came the second line of infantry. It was then that she saw him, and her heart turned over. His hat was off and his fair hair glinted silver in the sunlight. The Campbell militia was positioned behind the prince’s right flank.

The first shots came from a Jacobite gun. The duke’s gunner opened fire with devastating results to the Highland ranks. The tartan-clad line, with wind and gunpowder blowing in their faces, stoically suffered the assault. Cumberland was too good a general to allow his men to engage in hand-to-hand combat before his artillery had done their job. With the Jacobite ranks standing six men deep, cannonballs wiped out entire regiments in seconds. Still the Highlanders stood, waiting for the signal to charge.

“Please,” Katrine prayed, “give the order, give it now.”

The fury of a Highland charge was legendary. There were few English troops that could withstand a hoard of screaming men bearing down upon them with broadswords drawn and claymores swinging. But the order never came. The prince was too far behind to see what was happening to his front line.

Something was definitely happening. Katrine clenched her fists. Richard’s troops were moving forward to a position in front of the wall. When the Highland charge came, her husband’s men would sweep the clansmen with bullets from end to end.

There was confusion in the Jacobite ranks. The MacIntoshes of Clan Chattan rushed forward, and the men of Atholl followed. Richard’s men poured forth their fire. The carnage was appalling. Katrine closed her eyes and willed the nausea rising in her throat to depart. When she opened them, it was to see her father, his wig and hat blown off, fighting his way from the rear of the duke’s army to the head of the second line. But it was already too late. Defeated, the clansmen were moving back. The moor was covered with the blood of the dead and wounded. Cumberland’s cavalry rode forward, pursuing the retreating Jacobites. Katrine could no longer see her father. The entire battle had lasted less than one hour. On the moor and on the road to Inverness packed with fugitives, Cumberland’s dragoons began their indiscriminate slaughter.

Katrine’s breasts ached and the bodice of her gown was wet with leaking milk when she maneuvered her mare down the gradual slope to the bloodstained moor. She could not return to Culloden House until she knew the worst. On the battlefield, surgeons cared for the government injured while Cumberland’s dragoons bayoneted and clubbed to death the wounded of the prince’s army.

She must find Richard. He would stop this senseless massacre. Praying that he was still alive, Katrine slipped from her horse and walked amidst the bodies strewn haphazardly across the field. Her eyes burned with the effort of holding back tears.

It was April, and all around her the heather bloomed in glorious profusion. Wrapped in a clan tartan, the Cameron standard-bearer, MacLachlan of Coruanan, lay stiff in the dirt. Robert Mor MacGillivray, his arms and legs severed from his lifeless body, lay nearby. With a sob, Katrine rested her aching body against the flank of her mare. These were her people, the men she had grown up with, danced with, teased and laughed and joked with since before her earliest memory. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks. Shoulders shaking, she slid to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

A sharp pain pricked her shoulder. She turned quickly, surprising a youth dressed in the despised garb of a government soldier. Fury drowned out her reason. Rising to her feet, she pushed aside the point of his sword. “How dare you,” she hissed. “Do you know who I am?”

“You are a Scot, madam,” the soldier replied. “The duke’s orders are to give no quarter to the enemy.”

“Does the English army stoop to making war on women?”

The man nodded. “We do now. Ever since George Murray’s orders to give the enemy no quarter.”

Katrine’s eyes flashed. “That’s a lie. Lord Murray is an honorable man. He would never issue such an order.”

“He did indeed,” the man argued.

Katrine straightened. “I am Katrine Wolfe. Perhaps you know my husband, Lord Ashton?”

The man whitened under his tan, and she saw that he was little more than a boy. “I know Lord Richard Wolfe, m’lady,” he said. “If you’ll allow me, I shall take you to him.”

Under different circumstances, the expression on her husband’s face when he looked up and saw her would have been worth everything she’d been through. He was in his tent, signing some last-minute dispatches before returning to the battlefield.

“My God,” he said hoarsely, rising to his feet. “Katrine, is it really you?”

She burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. The soldier, showing exceptional tact, retreated hastily.

“Oh, Richard,” she sobbed, “I can’t believe you’re alive.” The feel of his mouth on hers after so many long and lonely months was like a small taste of heaven.

Shocked at the raw emotion that threatened to wreak havoc with his military discipline, Richard tightened his arms around her and buried his face in the dark cloud of her hair. “Did you see it?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded against his shoulder. “Everything.”

“I’m so sorry, Katrine,” he murmured, inhaling the fragrant scent that belonged to her alone. “If I could have done it differently, I would have. Please believe that.”

She looked up at him, her cheeks streaked with tears. “Have you seen my father? Is he still alive?”

His face was ravaged. “I don’t know.”

She swallowed and pulled out of his arms. He looked at her, seeing for the first time the purple shadows under her eyes and the full, almost shapeless gown concealed beneath her cloak. His eyes widened in shock. Katrine was no longer pregnant.

“Do you have something to tell me, my love?” he asked gently.

She smiled. “I’d almost forgotten. We’ve a son, Richard, a healthy son. I’d like to name him after my brother.”

“Whatever you like,” he replied. “When was he born?”

“The day before yesterday.”

Richard stared at her. “Good God, Katrine! You should be in bed. Whatever possessed you?”

“I couldn’t bear not to know what was happening.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At Culloden House.”

“I’ll take you back immediately. I want to see my son. When this is over, we’ll go home.”

She said nothing.

He frowned and stepped forward, drawing her back into his arms. “You do want to come home with me, don’t you, Katrine? We’ll go back to England and forget all of this.”

Her smile held no gladness. She lifted her hand to touch his cheek. “Oh, Richard,” she whispered as he led her to her mare. “Don’t you see? We’ll never forget any of it for as long as we live.”

They were mounted and on their way when Katrine remembered the soldier’s words. She urged her mount forward until she rode directly beside her husband. “Richard,” she began, wetting her lips. Anxious as she was to learn the truth, she knew the answer might prove distasteful. “The soldier who brought me to you said my father had issued an order of no quarter to the enemy.”

Richard’s lips tightened, and he cursed softly. “No, Katrine,” he said at last. “It was a forgery. Cumberland inserted the no quarter phrase himself to encourage his troops in their slaughter. George Murray never gave such an order.”

“Thank God,” she said fervently.

“Don’t thank Him yet,” warned her husband as a very large, very heavy man in the frocked coat of an officer approached them. Richard looked around quickly. “Take your horse and wait behind that rock. I don’t want Cumberland interrogating you.”

Katrine did not question his orders. Pulling on the reins of her mare, she dropped back into the shelter of an enormous boulder and waited.

“The enemy has been routed, Major Wolfe,” said the duke. “It is said that the prince has fled the field.” He could not keep the scorn from his voice. “We leave for Inverness in the morning. I’ve a mind to take up residence in the house my dear cousin has recently vacated. Are you agreeable?”

“Of course,” replied Richard. “I must decline for myself, however. My wife has just given birth and is recovering at Culloden House. I wish to spend tonight with her and our son. I’ll join you tomorrow.”

“Very well and please accept my congratulations, Major. It isn’t every day that an heir is born.”

A moan interrupted them. Cumberland’s eyes dropped to the badly wounded man lying only a few feet from his horse’s hooves. His lip curled. He raised his sword and then appeared to change his mind.

From her place behind the rock, Katrine released her breath, offering a silent prayer of relief. She had recognized the man immediately. It was Charles Fraser of Inverallochy, commander of the Fraser contingent.

Again Cumberland spoke. “He’s yours, Wolfe. Kill the insolent rebel.”

Katrine’s eyes widened in horror. Would Richard refuse such an order? Could he and still live? The distance between her hiding place and the open field where the two men faced each other was not great. She saw Richard straighten and face his commander. In the deep tan of his face, his eyes glittered an angry ice blue.

Pride and relief surged through her veins. This was her husband and despite the fact that they had known very little of each other on their wedding day, her instincts had prevailed. She had seen something far greater and worth much more than his ancient title, his handsome face, and courteous manners. Richard Wolfe had courage and character. Katrine had chosen well. She knew what his answer would be even before he spoke.

“The man is wounded,” he replied scornfully. “Murder does not sit well with my conscience. I would rather resign my commission than carry out such an order.”

For a long time the two men stared at each other. Cumberland’s handsome, fleshy face was stained a dark red. “Never mind then,” he said stiffly. “I’ll find someone else to do it.” With that he rode away.

Katrine came out from behind the rock. Silently, she positioned her mare beside her husband’s mount and placed her hand over his. She nodded toward the wounded man. “We can’t leave him, Richard. He’ll be killed.”

“He’s dead already,” her husband answered bitterly. “Damn Cumberland’s soul.”

He saw the tears slide down her cheeks, and the anger left him. He smiled reassuringly. In silent communion, they rode side by side until they reached Culloden House. Together they walked through the door and up the graceful, winding staircase into the sunlit room that served as a nursery. Dismissing the servant, they leaned over the cradle where their son lay sleeping.

Richard couldn’t explain the thundering of his heart or the clammy coldness of his hands as he looked down into the face of the child Katrine had borne him. Alasdair Wolfe did not look like an English baby. Long black lashes rested against olive-tinted cheeks. His mouth was like Katrine’s, and the delicate bones of his cheeks and chin promised the slender sharpness of his Celtic ancestors. Just then, the baby’s eyes opened, revealing where the Murray lineage had given way to his own. Long lashes surrounded eyes as true and deeply blue as any Wolfe who had ever lived.

A lump rose in Richard’s throat. This was his child, his son. He was unprepared for the rush of love that swept through him, wiping away the cultivated inhibitions of a lifetime. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t force the words past his lips. For one horrifying moment he felt like weeping, and then Katrine’s hand slipped into his. He looked up to find the strength he needed in her gaze. It would be all right. They were in this together. When the score was settled, he would resign his commission and they would return home to raise their child.

For Richard, the night was too short. Lying next to Katrine for the first time in months, holding her close, breathing in the clean scent of her hair was like a restoring tonic. He didn’t want to waste one precious moment in sleep. But in the end, he succumbed to his exhausted body’s need. His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened into the rhythmic cadence of the unconscious.

Katrine awoke first. It was just before dawn. She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at her husband. His bare chest was tanned, his stomach lean and tight with muscle. He was thinner than she remembered. The golden hair spread across the pillow was bleached almost white from the sun. Something dark and elemental stirred inside of her, something she hadn’t thought about in the long months of her pregnancy and confinement. Regret washed over her. It was too soon after Alasdair’s birth. With a sigh, she pulled the covers over the two of them and nestled against the comforting warmth of his body.

She thought of the baby. Instantly, wet circles dampened her gown. Richard smiled in his sleep and pulled her into a possessive embrace. Burrowing her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes. Just this once, Alasdair could wait.

The next time she woke, Richard was completely dressed, except for his boots. Katrine watched him as he pulled on the right one first and then the left.

“Were you going to wake me?” she asked.

“I was hoping to return before you noticed I was gone,” he confessed.

Katrine frowned. “I don’t want you to feel as if you must leave anything unfinished because of me, Richard.”

He leaned across the bed and cupped her chin in his hand. “I want us to go home, Katrine. My heart isn’t in this anymore. I’m a husband and a father, not a soldier.”

Her eyes glistened. Of his own free will, Richard was making the commitment she had waited so long to hear. More than anything in the world, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and tell him nothing mattered but the life they would have together. But it wouldn’t be true. There was much more at stake than just the two of them. Richard did not yet understand the significance of what had happened at Drumossie Moor that day, and Katrine did not have the courage to tell him. Instead she said, “I could never leave without first seeing my father.”

Richard nodded. His eyes were very blue as they searched her face. It was as if he were trying to imprint into his memory every curve and line of the fine narrow bones, the clean planes of her cheek and chin, the tilt of her nose, the sweep of black lashes against olive skin, and the clear, fathomless gray of her eyes. His kiss was swift and hard. “I love you, Katrine,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever happens, remember that. God willing, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”