Authors: Jeanette Baker
Later, instead of turning on the lamp on my nightstand, I lit the candles on either side of the bed and lay back against the pillows, pretending to be Katrine Murray waiting for her bridegroom. The flickering candlelight contributed to the feeling of mystery and age permeating the room. I could almost feel the centuries roll back and the faint crows-feet disappear around my eyes. I was suddenly, glowingly happy. I was a bride waiting for the husband I loved. Sipping Kate’s still warm tea, I waited for the images to come.
Ashton Manor, England
September 1745
Katrine looked out the long, diamond-paned windows at the manicured lawns and graceful fountains of Ashton Manor. The Wolfes’ country seat, with all its amenities, was as luxurious and dignified as a palace. The wide staircases, modern kitchen, well-lit bedrooms, and formal gardens bore no resemblance to her childhood home. Katrine bit her lip. She was dreadfully homesick. When Charles raised the standard at Glenfinnan and her father had agreed to become his field commander, she knew it was time to return to Scotland. Only the child prevented her. The child and the desperate, quicksilver brightness of the love she bore for Richard Wolfe. She had not yet told him that she carried his bairn. If he knew that, he would never allow her to leave. Only her mother knew and perhaps not yet. Mail was dreadfully slow, and the letter she had franked only two weeks before may have been delayed.
Richard walked into the room in his shirtsleeves. It was September and unseasonably hot. Without speaking, he rang the bell and waited for the butler to appear. “Send up a bottle of claret, Hastings,” he ordered.
“Very well, sir.” The servant bowed and left the room.
Katrine wet her lips. “It didn’t go well, did it?”
Some of the grimness left Richard’s mouth. She always knew, even without words. “No,” he answered, looking at her steadily. “Charles captured Edinburgh without a fight after routing Sir John Cope and his troops at Prestonpans. Your prince is now residing at Holyrood.”
“Holy God! What will the government do?”
Hastings returned with the claret and set it on the tea cart. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you,” said Richard, tossing down a quick glass and pouring another.
“We’ll ring if we need anything else, Hastings,” said Katrine. “You may leave us now.”
The butler bowed and left the room. She turned to her husband. “Tell me, Richard. Anything is better than not knowing.”
“Is it?” His mouth was twisted in a mocking grimace. “Parliament has issued orders for his arrest.”
“On what grounds?” demanded Katrine.
“Treason.” The ugly word echoed loudly in the still room.
“The punishment for treason is death,” she whispered.
Richard poured himself another drink. It would be a relief to forget this madness and get thoroughly, blindingly drunk.
Katrine asked the question through stiff lips. “What of my father?”
“You’re not stupid, Katrine,” he lashed out angrily. “What do you think?”
Her pale lips tightened with resolve. “I want to go home, Richard. I must go home.”
The face he turned to her was one of a stranger. “You are home, Katrine. Ashton is your home. Don’t ever forget it.”
“Are you forbidding me to see my parents?”
“Yes.”
She stood, straightening to her full height. “When you can speak to me reasonably, m’lord, I shall be in my room.”
“Dammit, Katrine.” His fist crashed against the papered wall. “Scotland is in the midst of civil war. It will be a bloodbath. The French have not come out for Charles, and half of Scotland opposes him. Only the clans remain faithful.”
“It doesn’t sound as if my country wants war,” she said coldly. “We merely want our rightful king. It is the English that persist in this folly.”
Richard did not miss the fact that she had allied herself against him. “The result is the same,” he insisted stubbornly. “It is too dangerous to consider a journey into Scotland.”
“That is only your opinion.”
“I am your husband, therefore, it is the only opinion that matters.”
She whitened, and her eyes blazed like twin diamonds in her angry face. Not trusting herself to speak, she left the room without a word.
Leaving the glass on the table, Richard picked up the bottle of claret, threw himself into the nearest chair, and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion.
***
Katrine sat on a low stool before her dressing table and stared into the glass. She closed her eyes, enjoying the gentle tug of the hairbrush as the maid ministered to the black curtain of silken hair that fell across her shoulders. The woman was very skilled and agreeably silent. For the first time, Katrine was grateful for her reticence. It would have been beyond endurance for anyone to expect conversation from her this night. Her marriage was over, and she felt nothing more than a curious numbness. She knew the strange lethargy wouldn’t last. Soon, there would be pain and then anger and finally grief. She would let the depth of her despair wash over her, bleeding her of all emotion. Then she would plan her escape.
Katrine had known from the beginning that this day was inevitable. Richard had known it as well, but he was a man, and with a man’s arrogant disregard for forces beyond his control, he had assumed that upon their marriage, Katrine’s loyalty would belong only to him. Her smile was tender as she thought of her husband. She loved him so much, and their time together hadn’t been nearly long enough. She would live on the magic and the memories for the rest of her life.
Later, when he came to her, she was reminded of their wedding night, when his hunger had been so great there was nothing left of control. He took her suddenly, quickly, without the skill to which she had grown accustomed. Katrine welcomed his passion. Desperate times demanded forceful measures. It was a primitive thing, this raging tidal wave of desire that had run through all men since the dawn of time. It was an act committed out of fear and for only one reason—to claim possession.
“I love you, Katrine,” he said much later when her head was pillowed against his shoulder. “I couldn’t bear it if you left me.”
Her lips were cool against his skin. “It is you who will leave me,” she whispered. “England will call you to lead her troops in battle, and I will be left alone.”
“It isn’t the same thing at all.”
She smiled sadly. “Of course not. Go to sleep, my love.”
***
Katrine’s first London ball was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Carriages were lined up for blocks, the wait over an hour as elegantly groomed guests stepped out on to the marble steps. Although it was after ten, the candles at the entrance to the duchess of Langley’s gracious townhouse gave off enough light to make the time seem closer to noon than midnight. Katrine smoothed her skirts and allowed her husband to help her out of their carriage. She looked around, surveying the enormous crowd with pleasure. Katrine loved parties.
“What a miserable crush,” he groaned, shaking his head at the noise. “Come, Katrine.” He tucked her hand beneath his arm. “We are obligated to stay until midnight at least.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Is it this ball you dislike in particular?” she asked. “Or do you despise entertainment altogether?”
“I hate crowds,” he confessed. “All this milling about and pretending to feel pleasure toward those one would rather ignore. Everyone I care to see I visit on a regular basis.”
He grinned suddenly, and the muscles in Katrine’s stomach tightened. Richard’s smile lit his entire face. It was one of the things she must learn to live without.
“I sound like a pompous ass, don’t I?” he admitted sheepishly.
She laughed. “Rather. But the wonderful thing about you is that you recognize it.”
He lifted her chin and looked down into her face. “That isn’t all I recognize,” he said softly. “You look beautiful, Katrine. There isn’t a chance in heaven that I’ll manage a single dance with you tonight.”
It was true. Katrine did look beautiful. Her blue satin gown was cut low so that the fichu tucked demurely into the décolletage only served to emphasize the creamy swell of her breasts. Her skirt was fashioned with yards of material pulled aside by twin panniers so wide she just managed to walk into the ballroom without turning sideways. No evidence of the secret she carried showed in her small waist and still-flat stomach. Her hair was left unpowdered, the glossy curls pulled high on her head and allowed to cascade down her back. Her black eyelashes and the bloom on her cheeks were her own, but the patch placed just below her left cheekbone called attention to her clear, light eyes, high cheekbones, and expressive mouth.
Resting her cheek against his velvet-clad shoulder, she succumbed to the sudden, fleeting spasm of pain that twisted through her. They had so little time left together. “You shall have as many dances as you wish,” she said fervently.
It was very clear to everyone who attended the duchess of Langley’s ball that evening that Lady Katrine Wolfe would have an extremely successful London season. The circle of her admirers completely hid her straight figure from the man who had recently entered the room.
“Who is the latest toast?” he asked his hostess, beckoning a servant who carried champagne.
“Lord Wolfe’s new bride,” replied the duchess. She looked up through her lashes at the tall, aristocratic man by her side. “Shall I introduce you, Duncan? She is quite lovely, although I confess if you flirt with her, I shall be furious.”
His lips twitched, and he brushed away an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulder. “Don’t be absurd, Lavinia. Besides, I already know the chit. She is Atholl’s daughter.”
“Then you need no introduction,” drawled the duchess. “I’m so relieved.”
Duncan Forbes set down his champagne glass on a low table and bowed politely. “I believe I’ll take the chance that she remembers me.”
Lavinia Devereaux, duchess of Langley, watched him walk away with a puzzled frown between her brows. Duncan Forbes was an enigma. A passionate Whig, he had used his position in the House of Lords to plead for lenience toward the clans. His huge fortune and impeccable lineage made him a matrimonial prize. He was nearing forty, but so far he had shown no preference for any of London’s reigning beauties. There were rumors of an unrequited love affair in Scotland, but those who were in a position to know refuted it. The duchess preferred to discount such a tale. There wasn’t a woman in Britain who would refuse his title and lands, not to mention the extremely attractive person of Lord Duncan Forbes.
Without the slightest effort on his part, bodies seemed to fall away, allowing him a clear path directly to Katrine’s side. Her eyes widened, and she blushed as he bent over her hand.
“What are you doing here, m’lord?” she asked in Gaelic.
“I might ask the same of you,” he replied in the same language, noting with satisfaction her heightened color. At least the minx had the grace to be embarrassed for jilting him so abominably.
“My husband is in the card room.”
“Do you require protection, Katrine?” His hands were at her waist.
“This dance is taken, m’lord,” she said coldly.
He ignored her. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Aware that curious stares were upon them, she placed her hand upon his arm. “We cannot be private here.” She nodded toward the French doors. “Take me to the balcony.”
His thin, perfectly molded lips curved upward in a triumphant smile. There was nothing he would rather do than be private with Lady Katrine Murray. “I am yours to command, m’lady.”
Once they were safely out of doors, she dropped her arm and whirled on him furiously. “How dare you embarrass me so. Why are you here, Duncan?”
“You have a short memory, Katrine. I live in London most of the year.” His hand clenched the snuffbox he carried. “Did you also forget that you were promised to me?”
Her cheeks were flame red. “You are not being fair, m’lord. I told you I was not indifferent to you. That is all.”
“It was enough to give me hope.”
She spoke gently. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Duncan, but I am married now. What was between us must be over.”
He reached out, his fingers clamping down hard on her shoulders. “Why, Katrine? Richard Wolfe is a Whig and an Englishman. If you meant to change your loyalties, why him and not me?”
She lifted her chin in a haughty, defiant gesture. “I love him. But I have not changed my loyalties. If you care as deeply as you say, then be happy for me. The path I’ve chosen is not an easy one.”
He dropped his arm and turned away, but not before she saw the pain in his eyes. The knuckles showed white through his skin. “If you ever need anything—”
“I have everything I need,” she broke in, “except—”
Quickly he turned to face her. “Except?”
“How is the situation in Scotland?”
Disappointed, he nevertheless answered truthfully. “If Charles would only stay in Edinburgh, he might have a chance. His march on London was a fiasco. He has no hope of support from England, and word has it that your father has quarreled with him over the Irishman, O’Sullivan.” He laughed humorously. “Charles always was a fool. If he listened to George Murray, he might prevail. As it stands, he is doomed.”
“That would suit your purposes, wouldn’t it, Lord Forbes?” she said bitterly.
“I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m a government man,” he replied. “This isn’t the Middle Ages, Katrine. The divine right of kings is an outdated tradition. The Stuarts would do their country a better service to remain in France.”
“The Stuarts are kings of Scotland,” she asserted.
“You are such a child, my dear. Haven’t we executed enough of them to dissuade those remaining from making such a claim?”
“I’m leaving,” she announced, “’Tis enough to turn one’s stomach to hear such treason from a Scot.”
He stopped her with his hand on her elbow. “Remember, I’m here if you need me.”
Pulling away, she returned to the ballroom. Katrine found Richard and, pleading a headache, asked to go home. Alone in her own room for the first time since her marriage, she felt the child inside her quicken. And that night, in the frosty chill of an English winter, she experienced the first of the nightmares.