Legacy (5 page)

The future countess of Manchester would attend to her husband’s needs, her children, and her household. She would be attractive enough, of course. Richard could not see himself married to an unattractive woman, but beauty, in itself, was not a requirement. If she had the other necessary qualifications, it would be enough. She would have no interest in the affairs of government, foreign politics, or the plight of England’s working classes. She would be ignorant of the whereabouts of the library and leave his morning paper undisturbed. Until such a paragon could be found, he would remain a bachelor.

There was a commotion at the door. Richard couldn’t see for the crowd surrounding the entrance. He watched James Murray excuse himself, leave his brother, and walk across the room. The gathering at the door opened to allow the duke into their ranks and then closed behind him. Several moments passed before he reappeared with a vision on his arm.

Richard ignored the young man walking beside them. He had eyes only for the woman. Unbelievably, James was leading her directly to where he stood.

Unconsciously, Richard straightened to his full height as James introduced them. “Lord Richard Wolfe, my niece, Katrine Murray, and her brother, Alasdair.”

Dismissing the boy with a cool smile, Richard bent over the woman’s hand and drawled in his best drawing room manner, “I’m overwhelmed, Mansfield. I had no idea that you had such a beautiful niece. This time I’ve fallen in love.”

A frown marred the perfection of Lady Katrine Murray’s clear forehead. “How fortunate for you,” she murmured, lifting her hand to stifle a yawn. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

Murray laughed and walked away. The lazy expression disappeared from Richard’s face. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the beauty before him. It would be too much to hope that she was less intelligent than she seemed. “Why have I never seen you at Scone, my lady?” he asked politely.

“I usually visit in early spring,” she answered, “but this year my mother needed me. Do you know my father?”

Richard nodded. “George Murray is respected in England as well as Scotland.” His eyes lingered on her bare shoulders. “Perhaps your mother will spare you and those of us at Scone will have the pleasure of your company.”

The young man at her side stiffened. “Katrine will stay at home with her family until—” He stopped abruptly.

“Until?” Richard’s silky voice encouraged the boy to speak.

“Until June,” Katrine broke in hurriedly, laying her hand over her brother’s. “That is less than a month away. Can you wait that long, Major Wolfe, for the pleasure of my company?”

His lips twitched. “Somehow I’ll manage.”

She answered with a clear, musical laugh that would have broken a lesser man’s heart. “I’m sure you will.” Holding out her hand, she surprised him once again. “Will you dance, Major Wolfe?”

They came together in an intricate movement of the quadrille. “Katrine is an unusual name,” he observed. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“You are English,” she said with the faintest curl of a lip. “My mother named me for a loch because I was born with kelpie eyes.”

“What is a kelpie?” He cared nothing for the angry glare of her brother, watching from the side of the room.

“A water horse with the eyes of an elf.” They moved apart, bowed, and curtseyed to the members of their set and came together again.

“I know nothing of kelpies, Lady Katrine, but I know something of lochs. They reflect the blue of the sky or the green of the land. Your eyes are neither. They are the color of water on glass.”

“Are you taken with me,
Sassenach
?” she asked softly, drawing out the syllables of the hated name for an Englishman.

His eyes moved to her mouth. She smelled like flowers. “Very.” His whisper moved the hair at her temple. “But a Jacobite and a
Sassenach
would never do, would it, Lady Katrine?”

The violins stopped. She tilted her head to look into his eyes. “You know nothing of
kelpies
, but unless I am mistaken, you know enough Gaelic to understand what
Sassenach
means, do you not, Lord Wolfe?”

His eyes narrowed and moved over her face. With unusual perception, she had picked up on his mishap immediately. The minx was more than lovely with a wild Celtic kind of beauty not often found in the Lowland borders below the Grampians and never in England. Looking at her face sapped the breath from his lungs. He felt awkward, like an untried youth in the throes of his first crush. His heightened senses registered black hair and eyebrows, olive skin, and high cheekbones. But it was her eyes that held him. They were large and clear and brilliantly gray, as if a flame of pure silver burned eternally within her. So, this was George Murray’s daughter.

Richard swallowed. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t need this. What’s the matter with me?”

After a long absence, the heart-stopping beauty of Scone Castle, ancient seat of the Murrays, never failed to alter Katrine’s breath. Through a forest of pine and black oak, on the banks of the silvery Tay, rolling green parklands stretched for nearly a mile around the castle. Geographically set in the center of the country, the granite turrets and proud battlements had witnessed much of Scotland’s history.

Here Kenneth MacAlpin, King of Scots, brought the sacred Stone of Destiny to Moot Hill. On that same hill Constantine proclaimed that the laws of the Celtic Church be established. Here, Macbeth bled to death on the rush-strewn floor. Robert the Bruce, after slaying the Red Cummin, rode to Scone to be crowned by the bishop of Saint Andrews. David II, the first King of Scots to be anointed with sacred oil and the last monarch to be crowned in Scotland, was crowned here and King Charles II accepted his kingdom and scepter on these very grounds.

Reining in her shaggy Highland mare, Katrine paused before the lichen-covered walls, gray in winter, brilliant red in autumn, and now green in celebration of spring. Breathing deeply several times, she waited for the coach to catch up with her. Even though Scone boasted many of the most modern amenities of the eighteenth century, the postern gate was not one of them. It would be the height of selfishness to ask the servants to raise the gates now and then once again when her mother’s travel coach arrived. Although it was less than three full days from her home at Blair-Atholl, Lady Janet Murray refused to make the journey on horseback. Katrine chafed impatiently at the delay. Her mother was not a stern parent, but there were times when she would not be budged. Resigning herself to at least an hour’s wait, Katrine was pleasantly surprised when she heard the sound of horses in the distance.

Reining in her mount, she waited for the familiar outline of the Murray coach with its driver and four horses to rise above the knoll. The two riders galloping toward her bore little resemblance to her mother’s entourage. Within moments they reached her side.

James Murray, his musket across his saddle, triumphantly held up two pheasants. “You’ve arrived in good time, my dear. We shall eat well tonight. Where is your mother?”

“Still on her way, Uncle James.” Katrine was very aware of the golden-haired gentleman by his side. “I didn’t want to disturb the gatekeeper.”

“Nonsense.” James Murray flourished his birds. “I pay him, do I not? Raising the gates now and then relieves the boredom. Follow me,” he cried, digging his knees into the belly of his mount

Richard Wolfe maneuvered his horse next to Katrine’s. “How do you do, Lady Murray?”

“Call me Katrine,” she said quickly. “My mother is the one who answers to Lady Murray.”

His sudden smile warmed her like a shaft of summer sunlight. “Very well, Katrine.”

The sound of her name on his lips disconcerted her. The way he lingered over the syllables made it sound almost indecently personal. She was very conscious of her disheveled appearance and unconventional riding apparel. Laughing off her mother’s suggestion that it was more suitable for a lady to ride sidesaddle, Katrine had pulled on her divided skirt and ridden astride. She was sure Richard Wolfe was too much of a gentleman to mention it, but she was equally sure he had noticed. She flushed and lifted her chin. What did it matter what he thought? He was, after all, only an Englishman and she was Katrine Murray of Blair. Besides, Uncle James’s reasons for inviting her to Scone did not include flirtation.

“You ride very well, Katrine.” Richard’s voice broke the silence. “Of course, ’tis easier to ride astride. I wonder how you would do in a lady’s saddle.”

She set her teeth. “Well enough.”

“You must show me some day.”

“With pleasure.”

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

Katrine’s eyes widened. “Are you always so persistent, Major Wolfe?”

“Only when I have so little time.” He was every inch a Saxon with his golden hair pulled back neatly into a queue and those impossibly blue eyes. “Please say yes.” The husky quality of his voice seduced her.

Their horses were very close. Katrine leaned forward and placed her hand in his. “I would be very pleased to go riding with you, Richard,” she said.

Aware only of each other, neither of them heard the creaking wheels and rattling bridles that heralded the arrival of the Murray travel coach. And so it was that Janet Murray’s first sight of Scone Palace in over a year included the never-to-be-forgotten image of a very tall, very fair young man pressing her daughter’s hand to his lips.

***

“What do you know of this Englishman?” Janet asked her brother-in-law later that evening.

James looked over at the seating arrangement near the fire where the two young people were intent on their chess game. “He’s a good man,” he replied. “Now that his brother is dead, he will give up his commission. He stands to inherit the earldom of Manchester.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at Katrine.”

James’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “She could do much worse.”

“We must know everything about the lineage of Katrine’s husband, James. Too much of the English nobility carry royal blood. Nothing must be left to chance.”

“If I recall correctly, you were not swayed by such an argument, Janet,” he said dryly. “If you are referring to the infamous curse that no one has believed in for centuries, then a marriage between a Douglas and a Murray would have been the worst of all unions.”

“All the more reason for us to take Katrine in hand.” The knuckles showed white through her clasped hands. “You’re wrong, James. You may not believe in the power of the curse and I know George does not, but neither of you are women. It does not affect you.”

Her voice took on a low, eerie cadence, and James remembered another, older rumor of witchcraft in the Douglas line.

Janet nodded at her daughter. “You haven’t had the nightmares as I have. Neither has Katrine.”

“That’s all right then,” James said heartily, hoping to turn her from the subject. He had never been completely comfortable with his brother’s wife. “She’ll be spared, as are most women in the Murray line.”

Janet shook her head. “You don’t understand. The nightmares didn’t come until I carried her in my womb. They were shadowy at first and not completely clear. Later they changed. It was almost as if I were there.” Her face was pale, and she lifted shaking hands to her throat. “When Katrine was born, they stopped altogether.”

James reached over and grasped her hand. “Have you told George of your fears?”

She nodded. “He laughs at my foolishness.”

“Perhaps you are reading more into them than you should,” he said soothingly. “You are only a Murray through marriage. Others must have seen what you have and lived out their lives without harm.”

Her eyes were haunted. “You forget that I have Maxwell blood, the same as the Murrays. You have no daughters, m’lord. George and I have the only female child.
Katrine is the last daughter of our line
. Until my son marries and sires his own, Katrine is the one who will suffer.”

James lifted his hand. “Stop, Janet. I’ll not listen to another word. More than two hundred years have passed since our clan was under suspicion for witchcraft. Would you stir up ill feelings against us on the very eve when Scotland needs every loyal man?”

She sighed and gave up. “No. Of course not,” she said.

He stood and offered her his hand. “I thought not. Shall we join the children?”

***

“Check. Your king is in danger, Katrine,” Richard observed, moving his rook into a strategic position.

Katrine leaned forward, her chin resting on her palm, and assessed the position of her players. “I think not,” she replied, capturing the rook with an unexpected move of her knight.

Richard Wolfe was an experienced chess player. He stared at the young woman beside him in surprise. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

“At the French court.”

He frowned. “Who at the court of King Louis is so adept at chess?”

“Our prince,” she said deliberately, turning the full force of her captivating gray eyes on him. “Charles Edward Stuart.”

“I see.” Richard was more than a little surprised. He had grown up with the belief that the Pretender could be no threat, not only because of his lack of support in England, but because of his character. The Chevalier and his son, Prince Charles, were said to be foppish in manner as well as unparalleled womanizers with lascivious tastes. It appeared that Richard’s sources were in error. The man who taught Katrine Murray to play chess was a born tactician.

“Why do you stare at me?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon, but I find it strange that a young lady of your temperament would find suitable entertainment at the French court.”

“Why is that?”

He leaned back and stretched his legs. Katrine was distracted by the firelight playing over his face and hair. Blond men didn’t normally appeal to her. Fair hair and blue eyes seemed softer, less masculine, more suited to women and children. But there was nothing soft about this man. He was darkly tanned and his bright wheat-colored hair, massive shoulders, and deep blue eyes reminded her of the legends of Dalriada when the Vikings raided up and down the coast of Scotland. Indeed, he looked more Viking than Saxon. A chill began at the base of her spine. Both were sworn enemies of the Scots. Katrine, always completely honest with herself, admitted that she was terribly attracted to him and that attraction was heightened by the differences between them.

“The French are cloying and extremely concerned with appearances,” he said. “The men paint their faces and the women simper. You, Katrine Murray, are nothing like that. You say exactly what you think. And even if you didn’t, your eyes would give you away.”

She flushed and lifted her chin. “I find the French charming, and despite what you think of my temperament, I believe there were more than a few gentlemen at court who were sorry to see me leave.”

“I’m sure of it,” he replied dryly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Pretender’s reputation with women precedes him, even to England.”

Katrine leaned forward and spoke between clenched teeth. “He is not the Pretender. He is our prince. His father, King James, is the rightful ruler of England and Scotland.”

Richard set his teeth. “King George is our rightful king, chosen by Parliament.”

“Damn Parliament!” Katrine cursed in Gaelic. “It has no right to make such a choice. Kings are born, not made.”

Richard’s words were carefully controlled. “I disagree. A king is responsible to Parliament. He must rule properly. The Stuarts are greedy and self-serving. England does not want them back.”

“She may have no choice.” The words were out before she could call them back.

Richard’s eyes narrowed, and the silky words carried their own hint of danger. “Really? How interesting. You must tell me more.”

“What are the two of you discussing so seriously?” James Murray’s voice interrupted them.

Katrine’s cheeks burned. She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. She had no more self-control than a child. It would serve her right if Uncle James sent her home.

Richard’s voice, laced with amusement, answered, “We were deciding where to ride tomorrow and if we should make it a picnic.”

Katrine lifted disbelieving eyes to his face. He smiled and stood. “’Tis late. I believe I’ll retire. Shall we meet at seven, Katrine?”

“Seven will be fine,” she answered. “I’ll inform the cook that we’ll take our luncheon with us. Good night, Major Wolfe.”

“Good night.” He bowed over Lady Murray’s hand, bid his host a pleasant evening, and left the room.

***

Spring in the glens of Scotland wasn’t really spring at all, reflected Major Richard Wolfe as he looked up at the leaden sky. He thought of his gracious home in central England. The rose garden would be in bloom and the promise of summer heat would encourage a round of picnics and parties that would rival the famous watering holes of Bath and Harrow.

He tightened his long, booted legs around the stout middle of the shaggy Highland pony and looked at Katrine. She had an excellent seat. Even in a sidesaddle on that absurd mount the Scots referred to as a horse, she looked beautiful and completely at home. Her riding habit, although of excellent cut and expensive material, showed signs of wear. Her boots were scuffed, the heels run down, but her back was straight and her hands were relaxed on the reins. The clean loveliness of her face, unmarked by paint and powder, threatened to take his breath away. If only she were English or at least a member of a loyalist clan like the Campbells. He grinned ruefully. If she were either of those things, she would not be Katrine Murray.

“You are very quiet this morning,” he said, urging his horse to catch up with hers. “Have I done something to offend you?”

She looked directly at him, her eyes moving over his face, considering his question. “On the contrary,” she said at last. “You rescued me. If my uncle realized the extent of our conversation, I would be posted back to Blair.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “In that case, I am pleased to be of service.”

His hair was the color of winter sunlight and his eyes were deeply blue above the darker color of his coat. He smiled engagingly. She could have withstood his undeniable charm. After two seasons in Paris, Katrine had seen enough of charming men to last a lifetime. But his smile disarmed her. It was appealing and deeply personal and filled with such warmth that she couldn’t look away. Instinctively she knew that she would never lie to this man. “Don’t you want to know what Uncle James is so afraid I’ll tell you?”

Richard was surprised. Whatever he had expected of Katrine Murray, it wasn’t this. “Not yet,” he said, his expression reflecting only polite interest. “First, I’d like to see something of the country.”

Several hours later, they stopped to eat amidst the ruins of an ancient castle set high on the banks of the River Tay. The sun made a late-morning appearance, and the clear water of the richest salmon river in Britain reflected the brilliant blue of the sky. They dined on oatcakes, cheese, and cold chicken. When Katrine handed him a linen napkin filled with
criachan
, a sweetened mixture of oats, nuts, honey, and whiskey, he started to divide it in two.