Legacy (6 page)

“No.” Her hand on his arm stopped him. “’Tis all for you.”

He looked at her small waist and remembered the slim, long legs outlined in the breeches she had worn on her journey to Scone. Richard deplored the current fashion that demanded women be thin to the point of emaciation. “Your waistline won’t be affected by a morsel this size, Katrine. Are you sure you won’t share this with me?”

She laughed. “You’re very flattering, but it isn’t that. Sweets don’t agree with me. It started when I was a child. The least bit of sugar makes me tired and anxious. If I have a great deal, I fall down in a faint.” She shrugged her shoulders as if tired of the subject. “I don’t think of it much. As long as I eat properly, I’m as healthy as a horse.”

He had slipped the
criachan
back into the napkin and lay back on the blanket, his arms under his head. “I don’t care a great deal for sweets myself,” he said gently.

Katrine removed her jacket and lay back on her elbows beside him. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sky, welcoming the kiss of the sun on her cheeks. The heat made her drowsy. She was content with the unexpected beauty of the day, the gentle lapping of the river, the drone of bees, the muffled nickering of the horses, and the golden-haired Englishman lying by her side. She was almost asleep when his voice startled her.

“What is James Murray keeping from me, Katrine?”

She wet her lips and turned to face him. It did not occur to her to tell him anything less than the truth. “He expects a French invasion. Charles Stuart will sail to Scotland with an army and challenge the elector.”

Richard breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?” Katrine asked indignantly. “If your King George were aware of such a plot, he would quake in his boots.”

Richard studied her flushed passionate face and silently cursed Prince Charles Edward Stuart for the power he held over the Highlanders. If their bonny prince attempted to bring his foolish dreams to fruition, this girl and her family would be ruined, as would half the clans in Scotland. For some inexplicable reason, the thought incited Richard to a murderous rage.

“Scotland is a far different place than it was thirty years ago, Katrine. There are British forts, three hundred miles of road and over forty bridges to enable government troops to penetrate the mountains. Companies of your own Highlanders have been recruited to keep order.”

“We will not be alone.”

“Oh, but you will,” he countered. “There are many who drink to ‘the King over the Water,’ but they will not risk their fortunes to help him. Charles will have no allies in England, and the French have already abandoned one such expedition. He will have to rely on the Highlands, and as you know, there are many who are not Jacobites.”

“You know a great deal about us, m’lord,” replied Katrine. “How is it that you are here, in Scotland, when your government surely needs you at home?”

He told her, knowing he should not admit it but realizing she probably knew already. James Murray was a shrewd politician. Most likely he had invited his lovely niece to Scone in the hopes of loosening the English major’s tongue. “Your uncle and my late brother became acquainted while they were both members of the House of Lords,” he explained. “We have a slight family connection. Somewhere back in time I had a Maxwell ancestor as do the Murrays. When rumors of a Jacobite landing circulated through Parliament, I was the obvious choice to gauge the temperament here in Scotland. Your uncle appeared pleased when I suggested the visit.”

“Is the situation what you thought it would be?”

“Yes.”

Katrine turned to stare out at the river, her profile outlined by the stones of the ancient castle wall. “What will you tell them?”

“That your prince has enough support in Scotland to take the country,” he said quietly. “I will propose that we allow him his kingdom. We can live as two countries, side by side, like the Scotland and England of old. But if he takes one step across the borders into England, he will be crushed.”

Her fist clenched on the handle of her whip. Her eyes were large and brilliant, and she spoke fervently. “If only he will listen.”

“Charles isn’t the only one who will need convincing,” said Richard. “England isn’t likely to accept a Scottish secession without a fight.”

He watched the thin, high-boned features tighten and marveled, once again, at the clear Celtic beauty of her face. Desire, primitive and demanding, consumed him. His eyes moved to her mouth, and his breathing altered.

“We should go,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

“It would never do,
Sassenach
.” Her voice was unsteady.

“I know.” Without warning, he reached out, his hands rough and insistent, and pulled her against him. For a timeless moment he stared down into her face, and then he set his mouth on hers.

Katrine did not once consider resistance nor did she think of her half-hearted promise made months before to Duncan Forbes, a strong-minded Scottish lord whom she had almost agreed to marry. Instead, her hands slid up to curl possessively around Richard’s neck, and her lips parted. She felt the weight of his chest and the muscles of his legs pressing down on top of her.

With shaking fingers he loosened the buttons of her high-necked habit. His mouth moved from her lips to her throat. She moaned, and her head fell back, giving him greater access to her smooth olive skin. He lifted his head. “Katrine.” His voice was hoarse. “Are you…Have you ever…?”

“No.”

With tremendous effort, he put her away from him and sat up, breathing heavily. Quickly, she buttoned her jacket.

“Why did you stop?” she asked when she trusted herself to speak once again.

“I should never have touched you,” he reproached himself. “I never intended it.” With his hand under her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. “Why did you allow me?”

Her eyes were slate gray, the pupils large and dilated. “I wanted you,” she said simply. “I’ve wanted you since the night we met at Holyrood House.”

At that moment, Richard knew with a terrifying certainty that even if he lived a thousand lifetimes, he would never love anyone half as much as he loved Katrine Murray.

“Will you marry me, Katrine?”

Her eyes widened, “You can’t possibly want to marry a Jacobite.”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

She shook her head. “I can’t marry you, Richard. My father won’t permit it.”

“The devil take your father.” He took her hands in his. “It is
your
answer I want.”

The color darkened her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “Oh, yes.” She laughed shakily. “I want to marry you very much indeed.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I know a great deal.” Closing her eyes, she recited his accomplishments from memory. “You are a Whig and a second son with an exemplary military record. Your older brother recently died, forcing you to give up your commission, which you are loathe to do. Drinking and dicing and playing the ‘grand seigneur’ doesn’t suit you. You’ve the ear of your king as well as the prime minister, and when in England, you spend most of your time at your home in Manchester rather than your London townhouse. Your mother is renowned for her sharp tongue and remarkable ability to manage. Your father is dead, and your three younger sisters adore you.” Her eyes opened, spilling light and warmth and something else that threatened to destroy his carefully reconstructed self-control. “But not nearly as much as I do.”

Happiness surged through him, and he pulled her back into his arms. “I’ll take care of your father, darling. Leave everything to me.”

Traquair House

1993

“Miss Murray. Miss Murray.” I could hear the insistent voice clearly. Fighting against it, I strained to recapture my dream. It was hazy but still faintly visible. “Miss Murray.” This time the voice carried a note of panic, and sharp fingers pinched my shoulder. I opened my eyes.

“What is it, Kate?”

“It’s after nine o’clock,” she said accusingly. “You’ve slept away the entire day and missed dinner. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I must have been more tired than I thought.” Kate still looked disapproving. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like something to eat.”

She smiled and lost some of her anxious expression.

“There is lamb and potatoes, and I’ve made fresh biscuits. Will you take it downstairs or shall I bring up a tray?”

“I’ll come down,” I replied, looking around the darkened room. The fire had died to a few glowing embers, highlighting the old-fashioned chair and footstool, the picture of the ninth earl of Maxwell over the mantel, and the floor-to-ceiling shelves of musty leather-bound books. The more modern conveniences, the electric wiring, the heating pipes, the pillow-strewn sofa, and current world map, had blended into the night shadows. The library must have looked exactly this way to a weary Prince Charles in 1745 when he briefly occupied the upstairs bedroom.

For some reason I wanted no part of the room or its memories in the meager half-light of the hearth fire. It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t deny it. I was afraid. Kate, with her pursed lips and no-nonsense attitude, was exactly what I needed. That and a hot meal washed down with a glass of authentic, Traquair-brewed ale.

“Have the Maxwells always occupied this house?” I asked as I followed the housekeeper down the stairs.

“As far back as I can remember.” She flipped on the kitchen light and removed a covered plate from the oven. My stomach juices came alive. Tilting her head in that birdlike pose I was beginning to associate with her, she said, “Of course, the family intermarried with other clans. There’s no telling how pure the bloodline really is. The person to ask is Mr. Ian Douglas. He knows more about the history of the borders than anyone I know.”

“I’ll do that,” I said between bites of lamb.

Kate poured out a glass of ale and was about to slice a wedge of cream cake when she hesitated and put it back in the refrigerator. Instead, she reached for an apple and began to peel with an efficient, circular motion. “I’ll have to get used to leaving out the sweets,” she said. “The doctor told me about your condition.” She looked at me curiously. “Have you always had it?”

“Ever since I was a child. It’s not a problem, really,” I assured her. “Don’t deny yourself or anyone else their desserts. I’ll manage.”

She sat down across from me with a cup of tea and changed the subject. “Mr. Douglas stopped by today. I went into the library and found you asleep. He thought it would be best if I didn’t wake you.”

“Thank you, Kate,” I answered, surprised at the extent of my annoyance. “In the future, I’d prefer that you wake me.”

“It’s like that, is it?” Amusement colored her voice.

I could feel the betraying blush stain my cheeks. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I lied. “The fact is, I have some questions I’d like to ask him. If he calls again, be sure to let me know.”

“Why don’t you call him? I’ll ring his number for you.”

Apparently the women’s movement had infiltrated Scotland after all.

Kate reached for the phone.

“Not now,” I said hastily. “It’s late. Tomorrow would be better.” I really did want to ask Ian about the past residents of Traquair House but not in front of Kate. I still wasn’t sure what I thought of this woman or, more importantly, what she thought of me.

We had reached the end of our conversation at the same time I finished my meal. As if on cue, the phone rang. “Traquair,” Kate said into the old-fashioned mouthpiece. “I’ll see if she’s available.” She raised her eyebrows and held out the phone. “It’s Mr. Douglas for you.”

“Thank you, Kate,” I said. “I’ll take it upstairs.”

Forcing myself to walk at a normal pace, I reached the upstairs hallway and picked up the phone. “I’ve got it,” I said, waiting for the click at the other end. When it came, I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d never lived with anyone other than family since my undergraduate days in the dormitory. The lack of privacy was affecting my nerves. “Hello, Ian.”

“How are you, Christina?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Did everything go as expected with the solicitor?”

His voice was low and unusually pleasant. It was one of the first things I’d noticed about him after his spectacular looks. “I knew what to expect if that’s what you mean,” I said. “It’s still overwhelming to think of Traquair as mine.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Had I imagined it, or was there a trace of mockery in the friendly words? I decided to ignore it. “I understand you’re something of an expert on the history of this area.”

He laughed. “In light of appearing immodest, I must say that whoever told you that is exaggerating.”

“I’d like to know something about the previous owners of Traquair,” I persisted. “Can you help me or should I go to the university library in Edinburgh?”

“If you’re really interested, I’ll tell you all I know. After that we can drive up to the capital if you like and I’ll introduce you to Professor MacCleod. He’s the true expert on Scottish history. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

I couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve known him for over ten years. He was the lecturer on Gaelic antiquities when I attended the University of Edinburgh. Somehow we never got around to discussing my family tree.”

“That was before you inherited a Scottish antiquity. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you. We should call first and give him time to prepare.”

There was silence on both ends of the line. Then we both spoke at once.

“Christina—”

“Ian—”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You go first.”

Suddenly, I didn’t want to be the one to speak. “No, you.”

“All right,” he said agreeably. “The reason I called was to ask if you’d like to go fishing.”

I could feel my stomach heave. “I’m a terrible sailor,” I confessed. “I get seasick.”

His chuckle was pure magic. “You won’t this time. I meant fly-fishing. You know, on the riverbank, for trout and salmon.”

“I’ve never been.”

“I’ll show you. That is, if you’d like to learn.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Good. Sleep well. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at five a.m. Good-bye, Christina.”

I had never felt less like sleeping. My bed had been turned down and the fire banked. A bouquet of heather sat on the nightstand along with a mug of warm milk. It tasted of cinnamon. I drained the last drop, shrugged out of my clothes, and pulled on my nightgown. In less than five minutes I was asleep.

***

Five a.m. in the borders brings a soft blue dawn with the rays of a muted sun streaking the clouds pink and silver. I was wakened by a gentle hand shaking my shoulder and a cup of steaming coffee held under my nose. Kate was upholding her reputation for having
the sight
. There could be no other explanation for her knowing my plans. The phone had been silent all night after Ian’s call, and even if he’d told her why he was phoning, she had no way of knowing that I’d agreed. After biting into one of her buttery, raisin-filled scones, her omniscience no longer bothered me. As long as she continued to create these mouth-watering confections, she could practice all the black magic that she pleased.

Less than an hour later Ian strode ahead of me, impervious to the cold. I shivered in the early chill and huddled deeper into my thick, Icelandic sweater, watching the morning sun pick out the lights in his hair, silhouetting his head in a halo of silver. The fluid movement of his bunched athlete’s muscles under the navy sweater and worn jeans called to mind the piercing beauty of Shakespeare’s words: “
all my fortunes at thy feet I’ll lay and follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
” I knew the story of the Pied Piper and the danger of becoming too fascinated by the unknown, but that morning I would have followed him anywhere.

He carried two fishing poles, two pairs of rubber boots, and a tackle box. I carried our lunch basket, the contents created by the redoubtable Kate, and a blanket. If I had stopped to consider it, I might have wondered why my housekeeper was so persistent in encouraging my relationship with our attractive neighbor. She was behaving like a desperate Victorian mother trying to marry off her spinster daughter.

I followed Ian out into a clearing of such sheer beauty that words escaped me. I had to sit down. Taking deep, restoring breaths, I looked out from my seat on the bank, over the crystalline falls, to the mouth of Saint Mary’s Loch. Never had I seen water so clear. The deep blue of the sky and the green of the trees was reflected like a mirror image from the glassy depths. At the bottom of the loch, stones, worn smooth from centuries of slow-moving currents, provided resting places for speckled trout and pink-skinned salmon. On the banks, purple heather and delicate blue gentians peeked out from sun-baked boulders. The air was scented with pine and sage and a strange, sharp odor that I’d never smelled before.

“Why aren’t they afraid of us?” I asked, making eye contact with a large, spotted trout.

Ian knelt down, resting easily beside me. “This is private property. The fish have no fear of people because they rarely see them.”

“I didn’t realize Traquair had its own river.”

He chewed on a piece of wild mustard. “This land isn’t part of Traquair.”

“But we’re less than five miles from the house. Whose land is it?”

He grinned. “Mine. I told you we were neighbors.”

“I had no idea our land was connected.” Stretching out my legs, I leaned back on my hands and nodded toward the fishing poles lying in the grass. “You did say you would teach me to fly-fish, didn’t you?”

I could feel the approval in his glance. “I said I would teach you to fish,” he said softly. “Fly-fishing is another matter.”

“Why is that?”

He released the catch on his tackle box and pulled out what looked like a brightly colored insect and a hook. Reaching for one of the poles, he tied the hook to the fishing line, knotted the pseudo fly, and secured it to the hook. “Bait,” he said, holding it out for my inspection.

I laughed. “You can’t be serious?”

“The best trout bait in the world.” He reached for my hand. “Come and see.”

We climbed down to a grassy knoll near the shore. I pulled on the boots he handed me while he cast out into the water. The line tightened as the current took it. Within seconds, the pole bent nearly in two, and the line went taut. With a quick flip of his wrist, Ian jerked the pole back hard. “I’ve hooked up,” he said. “Watch carefully.”

With exquisite skill, he alternated between pulling back on the pole with one hand while he reeled in his catch with the other. Finally, I could see the head emerge from the water, followed by the entire body, a large brown and silver fish hanging slack on the hook. Again with the precision of a surgeon, he cut the line, hooked the trout to what looked like a rope, anchored it into the bank, and set the now limp body gently back into the icy loch.

Ian rinsed his hands, tied another lure to the line, and turned back to me. “Your turn,” he said, holding out the pole.

I hesitated. “I’ve never done this before.”

“There’s no hurry. I’ll show you.” He stood behind me, his arms around my shoulders, his hands covering mine. Together, we cast out. I saw a flash of silver, and immediately the line went taut. “Can you feel it?” he asked excitedly. “You’ve hooked up.”

Considering our proximity, I responded with remarkable calm. “What do I do now?”

“Pull hard to embed the hook and then let him take the line.”

I leaned back against his chest, forgetting, for the moment, our intimate position. “Why not just pull him in?” I asked, thrilled at the idea of catching my first fish.

“The swim tires him out. That way he won’t fight and break the line.” His voice sounded strained. Caught up in the drama of the chase, I ignored it.

Sure enough, within moments, the pull lessened, and I was able to reel in my catch.

“Very nice,” approved Ian as he inspected the medium-sized trout. “You’re on your own.” Handing me the clippers to finish the task, he turned and walked up the bank for his own pole and boots. Instead of returning to the banks of the loch, he walked to the falls, waded into the current, and took his position at the mouth of the small burn that fed into the larger body of water.

We fished all morning. To be completely truthful, Ian did most of the fishing while I watched in appreciative silence. Caught up in the precise art and studied grace of a master at his craft, I sat mesmerized by the magic of the quiet glen and the ceaseless flow of water over clean stones.

I drank in every movement of the tall blond man standing thigh-deep in the sun-drenched river. The play of muscle across his back, the dip of his shoulder, the swing of his cast, the impatient way he threw his hair back from his forehead, became as familiar to me as my own reflection staring up from the loch.

I don’t have words to explain why the embarrassing tears sprang to my eyes every time I saw his arm lift, his wrist loosen and snap back, and the inevitable flash of twisting line as it skimmed across the water, dancing like a dragonfly in the sunlight. Time passed without notice. I sat for hours, content just to stare at the sky, the water, the trees, and a man whose smile made my blood run hot after such a long and lonely winter.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that we ate Kate’s sandwiches. The ice-cold ale followed by a thermos of hot coffee had an unusual effect on my nerves. I was relaxed but wide awake. The blood drummed loudly in my ears, and my inhibitions were so completely extinguished that it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Ian to lie back on the blanket and pull my head against his shoulder. I rested my hand on his chest and fitted my body against the length of his. His hand sifted through my hair. It moved to my neck and then my cheek. His eyes met mine, and the need reflected there shook me.