Legacy (18 page)

She knew exactly what he meant. Gathering her train, she stepped down from the dais and tried to slip unobtrusively out the door. But the crowd would have none of it.

“Run,” cried Flora into her ear. “They will not be denied their sport.”

Jeanne ran down the hall to the stairs with her mother and Moira Sutherland close behind. The crowd followed. Jeanne reached the first landing without mishap. Down the hall she fled, flushed and breathless, pushing open the door to the room she would share with John. Moira threw herself down on the bed while Flora slammed and bolted the latch behind them. Howls of laughter and ribald jokes penetrated the thick wood. For several moments the women waited while their drunken pursuers serenaded them. Finally, they heard the sound they waited for: boots descending the stairs. Then all was silent.

“They’re gone,” Flora announced, moving away from the door. “Hurry. We’ve no time to lose.” She looked at the nightgown lying on the bed and then at Jeanne’s face. Quickly, she moved forward, reaching for her hands. “There, there, darling,” she said. “Everything will be all right.” She turned to the younger woman. “Fetch my daughter a draught of wine, Moira. Her hands are cold.”

Moira moved to do her bidding. “Whiskey would be better,” she said, handing Flora the goblet. “You aren’t frightened, are you, Jeannie? Sweet Mary, I’d give much to be in your shoes tonight.”

“Hush.” Flora silenced her. “You know nothing of it.” She pulled her daughter into her arms. “John loves you,” she whispered. “He will be gentle. By this time tomorrow, you will have found a pleasure greater than any you’ve imagined. ’Tis what we are made for, Jeannie, to love a man and bear his children. What else is there for a woman?”

The wine brought the color back to Jeanne’s cheeks. She stood and smiled tremulously at her mother. “Help me out of this, please,” she said, lifting her arms.

Flora drew Jeanne’s gown and undershift over her dark head and hung it in the clothespress. Then she held out her arms. “Hand me the nightdress, Moira.”

With an envious glance and a final stroke of the luxurious fabric, the girl complied. The garment had been fashioned in France and made of black silk with three tiny ties, one at the breast, another at the waist, and, the last, several inches above the knee. Flora slipped it over her daughter’s head. Moira took one look at Jeanne’s slender, elegant body so daringly revealed in the exquisite garment and gasped.

Jeanne glanced at herself in the mirror and blushed. “It is rather indecent, isn’t it?”

“Never mind,” said her mother wryly. “There will be little left of it in the morning.” She poured water into the basin and motioned for Jeanne to bathe her face and hands. Moira was busy slipping the warming pan between the sheets. Everything was ready, the scented candles, the bed made ready with turned-back covers and plump pillows, the wine on a small side table. Suddenly, her eyes swam with tears. It was exactly right. With one helpless, apologetic glance at her daughter, Flora left the room.

Moira smiled in sympathetic understanding. “Your mother is very fond of you. ’Tis difficult for a mother to lose her only child.”

“I go nowhere,” replied Jeanne shortly. “John and I will continue to live at Traquair. My mother will live with us.”

“Then why—?”

Jeanne shrugged. “Perhaps she is tired. The last weeks have been difficult for her.”

Moira nodded. “She’s worked hard on the wedding.”

Jeanne did not contradict her.

A heavy knock and muffled laughter sounded at the door. “Open the door, lass,” the king’s voice called out. “Your bridegroom awaits.”

“He comes,” Moira whispered.

Jeanne’s hand closed tightly over the back of a chair. “Let him in.”

Moira opened the door and several pairs of arms pushed John inside. His shirt was torn, and he breathed as if he had run a great distance. He stared at the scantily clad figure of his wife, and his eyes widened.

With reflexes born of years on the border, he reached out instantly to slam and bolt the door against the brawny arms pushing against it. Ignoring Moira, he crossed the room to tower over Jeanne. She was tall for a woman, but he was half a head taller still. Lifting a lock of black hair, he twisted it around his finger.

“I’m flattered, lass,” he said silkily, “but were you really going to show yourself in such a garment to all the king’s men?”

“I’ll wager that I’m more decently clad than half the women in Henry’s court.”

“You would lose,” replied John promptly.

“Are you criticizing my gown, m’lord?” she asked icily.

He bent his head to her lips. They were so close they shared the same air. “Not at all,” he murmured. “I like it so long as I am the only man to see it. What I object to is your displaying your charms in such a public manner.”

Jeanne could not believe her ears. “You dare to criticize me?”

“I am your husband.”

She lifted her chin. “I see. Apparently your idea of marriage is different from my own.”

“Don’t be absurd.” This was not the way John had envisioned his wedding night. Why couldn’t she have waited for him in the customary manner, in bed? He was sorry he’d mentioned the cursed gown.

Moira cleared her throat and edged toward the door. “I’ll be leaving now,” she announced. There was no answer from either man or woman in the tension-thick room. Sliding the bolt, she escaped into the hall. It was empty. She breathed a sigh of relief and made her way back to the banquet hall.

Back in the laird’s bedchamber, the two faced one another like antagonists readying for battle. John relented first. Sighing, he turned away and walked to the small table near the bed and poured himself a goblet of wine. Swallowing a long draught, he replaced the goblet and turned back to his bride. Her face was wet with tears. In two strides he crossed the room and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured, kissing her nose, cheeks, and chin. “Don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you cry.”

She wept against his shirt. “I wore it for you. I wanted the wait to be worthwhile.”

Silently, he cursed himself. “I know, darling. I know.”

“You shouted at me.” Jeanne, worn out by weeks of strain and anticipation, was sobbing in earnest.

John lifted his head in bewilderment “I did?”

She nodded “Yes.”

Wisely, he remained silent.

“Do you think I wanted to wear this ridiculous gown?” she railed at him. “I was terrified to face you.” Lifting her head, she stared at him with reddened eyes. “Have you any idea what the first time is like for a woman? Can you even imagine it?”

Fascinated at the thought of Jeanne imagining anything of the sort, he shook his head.

“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I realize this isn’t an unfamiliar experience for you, but please remember it is for me.”

The injustice of her words stung him. “What in the name of heaven do you mean by that?”

“Do you deny that you’ve bedded other women?”

“That is hardly a subject for our wedding night,” he replied angrily.

“Why not?”

Mustering the last remnants of his self-control, John counted to ten. Lifting Jeanne’s chin in his hand, he forced her eyes to meet his. “I cannot change my past, Jeannie,” he said softly, “nor will I defend it. There is nothing of shame in what I’ve done. I am a man, not an unschooled boy. ’Tis an unimportant matter but one that I believe you will be grateful for in time. I will not lie and say there have been no women before you, but I can promise that from the day you agreed to be my wife there has been no one else, nor will there be.”

Her eyes, swimming in their sea of tears, fixed themselves hopefully on his face. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she clutched his shirt in a desperate grip. “Truly, John?” she asked.

He was helpless against the tiny catch in her voice. With a groan, he set his mouth against hers. It was a long, drugging kiss, and when he lifted his head, his breathing was heavy. Swinging her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and laid her gently on the sheets. Turning away, he shrugged out of his clothes and doused the candles. In the dark, he made his way to the bed and slid in beside his wife. Heart hammering, he reached out for her.

Innocently, she nestled against him, molding her body to his. Willing himself to proceed slowly, he waited for several moments, and then brushed back her hair and touched his lips to the curve of her throat. There was no response. He lifted his head and stared down at her face. In the darkness he could barely make out her features. She was sound asleep.

With a sigh of resignation, John gritted his teeth. His body throbbed with need. Gently, he extricated himself from the tangle of Jeanne’s arms and moved to the other side of the bed. He was quite sure the night would be the longest he’d ever known.

The following morning Jeanne hovered on the brink of consciousness, aware of an unusual weight warming one side of her body. She opened her eyes to find John propped up on his elbow. He had obviously been watching her sleep. She flushed, uncomfortable with such intimacy. Yesterday’s events came back to her in a rush of memory, the wedding, the banquet, the dim rose-scented room, and her fear of the night to come. She frowned. That was all. Nothing else came to mind. Cautiously she moved her legs, shifting to one side. Again nothing. Her body felt completely normal, better than normal. The fatigue that had plagued her for weeks before the wedding was gone.

She smiled lazily at her husband. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.

John’s eyes widened. Was she serious? No flesh-and-blood man could have slept a wink. He searched her face for signs of amusement. There were none. “Not entirely,” he answered.

“I’m sorry. We can change the mattress if you like.”

“Jeanne,” he said, exasperated. “My discomfort has nothing to do with the mattress.”

Her smile faltered. “I don’t understand.”

He stared at her in amazement. Was she really as naive as she seemed, or had the wine affected her more than he realized? Another thought occurred to him. If she truly didn’t remember the events of their wedding night, perhaps he could use it to his advantage.

“I’ll help you understand,
mo chridhe
,” he murmured huskily. Reaching under the bedclothes, he parted the ridiculous nightgown until he felt the smooth skin of her thigh. Slowly, sensuously, his hand slid up her leg to the curve of her waist. She shivered, and the breath caught in his throat. Bending his head, he found her mouth at the same moment he untied the ribbon at her waist.

Jeanne’s pulse leaped at the touch of his lips, the feel of his hand on her hip, then her stomach, and, finally, her waist. When it closed over her breast she refused to breathe, afraid of the overwhelming sensations consuming her. Could this really be John, her childhood champion, whose seeking lips and skilled hands were bringing her to a state of frenzied need? How could she have grown up in his presence without realizing the magic his touch would bring? Wrapping her arms around his waist, she arched her back to bring him closer.

His kiss deepened, and his hands moved over her, familiarizing himself with every hollow and curve of her body. His jaw clenched and the cords of his neck were slick with sweat as he struggled to maintain control. She was soft and warm and sweetly damp beneath him. Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps and her hands played along his spine and hips, too shy to explore further. He nuzzled her neck. It tasted of salt and roses. He adjusted his body, causing her hands to slide lower. Immediately, they froze, and he held his breath. Tentatively, they moved again in small circular motions, testing the skin and hair beneath her palms. John pulled away to look at her, elbows locked, resting on his hands. Her eyes were closed, and a flush covered her face and chest. She was ready for him.

Gathering her close, he kissed her deeply and slid one thigh between her legs. She accepted him willingly. He tightened his arms and waited no longer.

Jeanne gasped and opened her eyes. The sensations were no longer pleasant. The burning pain between her thighs was close to unbearable. She pushed at John’s chest. Instead of pulling away, he lifted her hips, and with one swollen thrust, filled her completely. Jeanne cried out and dug her nails into his back. Tears coursed down her cheeks and still the arms of steel held her prisoner. Strange vibrations pulsed in the most private part of her body, and she realized that John was shuddering. Twisting her neck, she struggled to see his face. It was buried against her throat. The pain inside her had lessened, but the pressure was still very great. Cautiously, she shifted her hips.

John groaned against her throat. The tiny movement was his undoing. He came at once, thrusting inside her over and over until he collapsed against her breast.

Jeanne stared in fascinated horror at the limp body on top of her. The pain between her thighs had diminished to an aching soreness, and the pressure had disappeared completely. The pushing, thrusting body of her husband was once again nothing more than a comforting weight warming the front of her. He looked completely spent and satisfied as if he had fought a great battle and won. Could he possibly have enjoyed himself?

John opened one eye and grinned at her. She was suddenly, illogically angry. “You hurt me,” she accused him.

“I know.” His eyes danced with flickering lights. “I’m sorry, love. It won’t happen again.”

“How do you know?” she asked suspiciously.

He lifted himself off of her. “It only hurts the first time when the maidenhood barrier is torn.”

She blushed, embarrassed at discussing such matters openly. Then she thought of something else. “Why wasn’t it torn last night?”

He looked amused. “Because you fell asleep on me. I spent my wedding night in a state of torment.”

Humiliation flooded through her. She tried to turn away, but he would have none of it. Turning her chin with his hand, he said, “It doesn’t matter, lass. What happens between the two of us in the privacy of our bedchamber is no one’s business but our own. Do you really believe I would tell the world my lovemaking skills are so inadequate that my bride fell asleep on our wedding night?”

Jeanne hadn’t thought of the matter in that light before. He made it seem as if the failure was his own. Immediately, she felt better. Reaching down to straighten the sheet, her hand came in contact with something wet.

Frowning, she threw back the covers and sat up. “I’m bleeding,” she said with a gasp.

John could no longer control his amusement. Was there ever before a woman who had been raised in such ignorance? Throwing back his head, he laughed, a full-bodied, deep-chested sound that swayed the tapestries lining the walls.

Jeanne looked at him indignantly. “Will you please explain what is so amusing?”

When he had finally contained himself enough to speak, several moments had passed. “’Tis proof of your virginity.”

She was too surprised to feel embarrassed. “Do all women bleed?”

“I believe so,” he answered.

“Don’t you know?” she asked curiously.

This time it was he who reddened in embarrassment. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

“By all that is holy, you are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever known,” he cried.

“’Tis said you’ve known many.” Her voice was sweetly sarcastic.

“I’ve never, until this morning, bedded a virgin.”

“Oh.”

John eyed her uneasily. She looked almost disappointed. He sighed. “What is bothering you, Jeanne? Tell me now, and we’ll be done with it.”

“Why have you never bedded a virgin?”

He thought carefully before answering, afraid of offending her. There was no way around it but the truth. “A man thinks of pleasure when lying with a woman,” he answered. “There is no pleasure for a woman the first time.”

Her forehead wrinkled as she considered the matter. “Does it matter to a man that a woman feels no pleasure?” she asked at last.

He nodded. “Aye. The enjoyment is lessened if a woman leaves unsatisfied.”

Jeanne moistened her lips and closed her eyes, unable to look at his face when she told him. “I’m sorry, John. But I don’t believe I’ll ever enjoy what we did.”

The silence was heavy between them. Gathering her nerve, she opened her eyes. He did not look at all devastated. In fact, he looked positively cheerful.

He lowered his head so that his lips played along the curve of her throat. “Was it all bad?” he murmured between kisses.

“Not entirely.” Jeanne was feeling strange. When his hand stroked the side of her breast, she felt tiny flutterings in the pit of her stomach. “I like this very much,” she confessed.

He smiled into her neck before moving to the slope of her breast. She sighed and closed her eyes, welcoming the weight of him against her body. Stretching seductively she clasped her arms around his neck.

Once again, John was filled with need. But it wasn’t the raging tide of the previous night. This time he could wait. His eyes lingered on her parted lips. Bending his head, he kissed her, his tongue tracing the polished teeth, the line of her mouth, and the sweet flesh within. When her hands twisted themselves in his hair and her tongue followed his, he pulled away well satisfied. Better to wait and leave her with the memory of pleasure. Perhaps in a day or two, she would reconsider her opinion of lovemaking. He smiled wryly to himself. This business of marriage was more than he’d bargained for.

Traquair House

1993

My father called at nine in the morning. He and my mother had flown all night and sounded exhausted on the telephone.

Kate had spent the last few days preparing for their arrival. A huge bedroom, which I learned was traditionally the laird’s suite, had been cleaned from top to bottom, the mattresses turned, rugs pounded, and sheets hung outside to absorb the scent of pine and clean wind. Bouquets of heather were set on the mantel and both end tables, and thick, freshly laundered towels hung in the modern master bath.

I was grateful that the road was deserted. The car I’d rented the day before was a Sierra, a model I’d never seen in the States but close enough to an American car to feel and look familiar. The steering wheel, however, was on the right and the roundabouts with their spoke-like directionals came too quickly to make driving completely comfortable. Thankful that I didn’t have to worry about those until I reached the city, I looked around at the scenery and thought about Jeanne Maxwell.

According to Professor MacCleod’s research, she had confided in her husband, telling him of the nightmares that came to her with such terrifying clarity. But, unlike Katrine, she had not experienced them during her pregnancy. Jeanne’s visions of Mairi’s death had not come until three years after her marriage, well after her son was born. Everything else fit perfectly. Her diabetes, the combination of Murray and Maxwell blood in her gene pool, the incredible similarity of features. Something was missing. What was it? What could have occurred in her life to give her that look of wariness I’d seen in her portrait? Had her marriage turned out to be unhappy?

I thought back to her wedding night. It hadn’t lived up to her expectations, but it wasn’t an unusual experience for a woman who knew next to nothing about sex. From the beginning of time, women had suffered through much worse and gone on to have satisfying relationships. John Maxwell didn’t strike me as a man who couldn’t arouse his wife, or any other woman for that matter. No, I decided. The problem couldn’t have anything to do with their marriage.

The turnoff to the airport came sooner than I’d expected. Signs for arriving flights were posted on the side of the road. I took the next exit and maneuvered my car into the parking lot near the British Airways terminal.

I saw them before they recognized me. Relaxing on a bench in the airport lobby, my mother looked smaller and older than I remembered. It had been almost six months since I’d last seen her. A wave of guilt surged through me. Boston was only three thousand miles from California, five hours by plane, hardly an insurmountable distance. I should have visited more than I had.

Thank goodness for my father. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw him. He never changed. The cowlick that wouldn’t lie flat stuck straight up on top of his head, and he’d buttoned his sweater unevenly. Retirement certainly suited his personality. Dad never cared much for appearances. My smile died. Mother, always the perfectionist, didn’t seem to care either. She looked dazed, as if the airport activity was too much for her.

Slowly, I approached them and rested one hand on each of their shoulders. “Hi, you two,” I said, folding my mother into my arms. “How was the flight?”

“Just fine,” said Dad heartily, relief in his voice. “We didn’t expect you so soon. Traquair must be closer than it looks on the map.”

“There isn’t any traffic here,” I reminded him. Slipping my mother’s bag over my shoulder, I linked my arm through hers. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to show you the house.” My usually opinionated, sharp-tongued mother allowed me to lead her through the airport like a lost child.

I opened the door to the front passenger seat, but she refused to sit in front. “If you don’t mind, Christina, I’d rather take the backseat. I’ll just throw my jacket over my bag and get some sleep. I don’t think I can sit up another minute.”

“You shouldn’t have taken such a late flight,” I scolded my father on the drive south. “It’s not as if you couldn’t afford to fly first class.”

“We had some business we had to take care of in Boston first,” he replied. “It was the only flight we could get.”

“What’s going on, Dad? Why the urgency?”

“Your mother’s had quite a shock, Chris. I promised to let her tell you. She wants to see Traquair first.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Her head was on the makeshift pillow, and her eyes were closed. She obviously needed rest and more than just the hour it would take to reach Traquair. Patience was a virtue, I reminded myself. One more day would hardly make a difference.

Mother seemed to know where we were the moment we reached the gates of Traquair. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and stared at the lush grounds and high stone walls. “I can hardly believe it,” she whispered. “I never knew.”

I opened my mouth to ask what she was talking about when I glanced over at my father. He shook his head, and I remained silent.

Kate opened the door as we climbed the front stairs. “Welcome to Traquair, Mr. and Mrs. Murray. Would you like some refreshment before I show you to your room?”

“That would be lovely.” Mother’s smile changed her features completely. Her austere demeanor softened into an expression of such breathtaking warmth that no living being, human or otherwise, could resist her.

Kate looked at her and then looked again, more closely this time. Her eyes widened as if she couldn’t quite believe what she saw, and then she smiled. It was the most genuine expression I’d ever seen on her face.