Legacy (21 page)

She could bear it no longer. Isobel would not be buried in a crypt of flames. Without warning, she lifted her skirts and ran straight toward the burning door.

“Seize her,” someone shouted.

Just as she reached the threshold, strong arms pulled her back. Desperation gave her strength. She struggled, pulled away, and was seized again. Tears of pain and frustration coursed down her cheeks. “Please,” she sobbed, twisting in the steel-like grip. “Let me go.”

“Do as she says,” a voice cried out. “If she is who she claims to be, we are dead men.”

“Nay,” another protested. “We are the king’s messengers. The child’s death was an accident.”

The leader stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps there was a way out of this after all. Would Jamie Stewart not question why the countess of Traquair allowed her child to keep company with a known witch?

It was nearly dark. The borders at night was no place for a small company of men. “Bind her,” he ordered. “We shall take her to Edinburgh.”

“No.” Jeanne’s voice cracked. “I won’t go.”

The man’s massive hands clenched. He drew his dirk and approached the spot where she stood between her captors. Deliberately he ran his thumb down the deadly blade. A small red line appeared on the fleshy pad. “Lady,” he said, his voice low and ugly, “you shall come with us or prepare to end your life as you stand.”

She spat in his face. “I would rather die than travel one league in the company of murderers.” There was no trace of fear in Jeanne Maxwell’s eyes. She glared at him openly, not bothering to hide the hatred in her heart.

Sweet Jesu, the man thought, she was lovely! For a moment, he allowed himself the normal appreciation of a man for a beautiful woman. With her disheveled hair and plain gown, she looked very much like a lass of his own order. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have such a woman for his own. He discarded the idea immediately. The Maxwells were kin to the Stewarts. It was blasphemous to think such thoughts.

He turned away. “You will ride with me.”

Suddenly, a voice rang out in the darkness. “Unhand my wife.”

Jeanne closed her eyes and nearly sobbed with relief. Andrew had found John. Her son was safe.

A hand closed around her throat. “Safe passage for my men, or the lady dies.”

“I think not, lad.” Amusement colored John Maxwell’s words. “Every man with me is skilled in archery. At this very moment an arrow is aimed at your heart. I’ll take the chance that it finds its mark before you carry out your foul deed.”

Reluctantly, the hand loosened from around Jeanne’s neck. She took a deep, cleansing breath and walked past the frozen guards to her husband’s side. Her mouth opened to tell him about Isobel, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears crowded her throat and spilled down her cheeks.

John’s smile turned to concern. Leaning down, he lifted her into his arms. “What is it, love?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. If it were only that. If only she didn’t have to tell him. He would surely blame her for leaving the child with Grania. The ache in her heart was unbearable. Burying her head in her husband’s shoulder, she sobbed uncontrollably.

Frowning, John looked at the burned-out croft. His jaw hardened. “Where is Grania?” It was too dark to see the old woman’s dismembered body lying on the ground.

“Dead,” Jeanne whispered. Her fingernails dug into his hands. She couldn’t bear for him to ask the question that would surely come. Gathering her courage, she looked directly at him. “Isobel was asleep in the croft.”

At first, her message didn’t register, and then, all at once it did. Jeanne watched as his eyes reflected the stages of his loss. First, bleak understanding, then pain, and finally rage.

Without looking at his wife’s face, he deliberately lifted one arm and signaled to the men who followed him. Immediately, Jeanne felt a rush of wind against her face. She heard a cry and watched Grania’s murderer crumple to the ground with an arrow in his heart. John signaled again. Another man fell, this time without a sound. Again and again, John lifted his arm until every man who wore Stewart colors lay lifeless in the dirt.

Only then did John walk his horse to the croft and dismount, reaching up to untie the rolled-up plaid behind his saddle. The shooting flames were out, leaving only the charred remains of a mud wall and a smoking wooden frame.

Jeanne watched as her husband disappeared behind the wall. Moments later he reappeared, carrying a plaid-wrapped bundle. She slid to the ground and held out her arms. John walked into them, refusing to relinquish what was left of his daughter.

Pressing her face against the plaid, Jeanne breathed in deeply. Beneath the acrid smell of smoke and death, she detected the faintest scent of blackberries. Her eyes burned as the tears welled up again. Clinging to the familiar plaid, she gave herself up to a heartbreak too vast for words.

Traquair House

1993

“Miss Murray,” Kate called through the door. “Mr. Douglas is here to see you.”

I sat up, groggy and disoriented. My eyes burned, and I was conscious of a weariness more profound than anything I’d experienced before. I rubbed my cheek, and my fingers came away wet. The ache in my heart wasn’t imaginary. I felt a deep, soul-consuming loss for Isobel Maxwell. For me, the events leading to her death happened just moments ago, not five hundred years in the past.

Kate’s knock was more persistent.

“Tell Ian I’ll be down in a minute,” I said. There was silence and then the sound of her footsteps as she walked down the hall.

Fortified by a hairbrush and a splash of cold water, I followed her down the stairs. Ian stood when I entered the sitting room. He studied my face, and his eyes narrowed.

I saw no point in postponing the inevitable. “I’m sorry I missed our appointment, but I had some shocking news.”

“At the post office?” he asked dryly.

I blushed. “No. At the doctor’s office.” Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the couch and sat down, motioning for him to sit beside me. “We’re going to have a baby,” I announced bluntly.

Other than a sudden tightening of his jaw, his face didn’t change. “I see,” he replied.

It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected, and suddenly I was as desperately insecure as the day Stephen told me our marriage was over. Looking away from Ian’s handsome tight-jawed face, I realized, miserably, that I’d once again taken too much for granted. It would be better to get this entire conversation over with. I swallowed and mumbled. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On your plans,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I believe I’ve already declared myself more than once, but I haven’t heard you respond. I noticed that you said we are going to have a baby. Does that mean I’m included?”

I stared at him in surprise. Was it possible that he was as unsure of me as I was of him?

“Well?” he persisted.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Do you want to be included?”

“Are you serious?”

I nodded.

Ian sighed and stood up. Balling his fists, he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked over to the mantel. For a long time he stared into the fire. Finally he spoke. “What are you afraid of, Christina?”

“Nothing,” I began.

“Stop it!” He had never used that tone of voice before, and it startled me. “Tell me the truth, for God’s sake. You’ve told me everything else.”

“All right,” I said, carefully. “I will tell you.”

He turned around, his eyes fixed on my face.

“For fifteen years I was married to a man who was cold and selfish and dishonest. The greatest gift he gave me was when he walked out of my life. But for that, I’d still be with him, suffering in silence, believing I was the one with the flawed personality. Is it any wonder that I need it spelled out for me?”

“Do you really believe that has anything to do with me?” Ian spoke slowly, controlling his temper.

“No. But I’m not really a very good judge of character. Before I married Stephen, I thought I knew him as well as I knew myself.” I was crying now, and my nose began to drip. Ian reached into his pocket and without saying anything crossed the room to hand me his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, wiping my nose. “The worst of it is, I would still have been there if he hadn’t left me.”

“Christina.” He knelt at my feet and took my hands in his. “It isn’t that way with us. You must know that.”

“How do I know it? You’ve never really told me.”

He started to smile, then thought better of it. I sniffed and returned his handkerchief. He stuffed it into his pocket. “I won’t press you for an answer now, but I want you to marry me.” He hesitated briefly. “I’d planned to ask you anyway, even before I knew about the child. Do you believe that?”

I nodded, unable to meet his eyes, feeling more miserable than ever and not sure why.

“I know things are different in America, but this is Scotland and Peebles is a small town,” he continued. “If you intend to live here, I ask you to consider our child’s future. Will you do that?”

I stared at him. “Would that be enough for you, a marriage based on the fact that you accidentally fathered a child?”

He dropped my hands and stared at me, dawning realization on his face. “I’m not doing this very well, am I? Surely you know that I love you. And whether you admit it or not, you love me. I can’t think of a better reason to go through life together. Can you?”

“May I come in?”

Ian and I turned at the same time. My mother stood framed in the doorway, a wooden smile on her face. My cheeks burned. How long had she been there?

“Am I interrupting anything?”

Ian took the initiative. Walking toward the door, he held out his hand. “You must be Christina’s mother. Welcome to Scotland, Mrs. Murray. I’m Ian Douglas, a neighbor.”

“Thank you.” She took his hand for the briefest of exchanges.

I had known her long enough to understand what she was up to. In the most subtle and ladylike way, she was expressing her disapproval. Only an idiot would misunderstand her message, and Ian was no idiot. The tiny seed of antagonism that was inevitably present when my mother decided to turn unreasonable sprouted into a desire to defend Ian. I found my voice. “Ian was proposing to me, Mother.”

“Really?” The blond eyebrows lifted. “Proposing what?”

“Marriage.”

“Oh.” She was definitely not happy.

“Why are you looking at me like that and why are you so surprised that someone wants to marry me?”

“I’m not at all surprised,” she said coolly, seating herself on the couch beside me. “You are a lovely, intelligent woman, Christina. What surprises me is that anyone would be foolish enough to consider such a commitment after only a brief period of acquaintance.” She poured herself a cup of tea. “Unless I’m mistaken, the two of you just met, didn’t you?”

“We did,” Ian interjected smoothly. “Was yours a long engagement, Mrs. Murray?”

I stared at Ian. How had he known?

Mother’s voice was strained when she answered. “I knew my husband only two months, Mr. Douglas. But I had not been recently divorced, and I was not at all vulnerable to the first man who showed an interest in me.”

“I don’t believe Christina is all that miserable over her divorce,” replied Ian. “I’m not exactly a fortune hunter, you know, and even if I were, her father acting as her lawyer could assure that I would have no access to her inheritance. I believe it’s called a prenuptial agreement.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that at all,” Mother said so hastily that I knew he’d pinpointed exactly what she’d been thinking. “The mistake would be just as devastating for you if Christina decided she’d made a mistake.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

I could see the white caps of her knuckles as her hands clenched the handle of the teacup. She was losing the argument, and there was nothing that made Susan Murray angrier than someone who disagreed with her and won.

“Why not wait?” she asked. “Surely, six months or a year isn’t too long to decide if marriage is in your best interests.”

I looked up and found Ian’s eyes on my face. We stared at each other for a long time. I knew exactly what he was asking. Finally, I sighed and nodded. He smiled, a brilliant, blinding smile of relief that altered my breathing and made everything else in the room dim in comparison. When he spoke, his words were exactly the ones I needed to hear. No one, not even my skeptical, suspicious parent, could doubt that he was sincere.

“I’ve loved your daughter from the very first moment I saw her, Mrs. Murray. If we waited six months or ten years to marry, it would make no difference to me. My feelings won’t change. But the fact is, Christina and I are going to have a child and I very much want my name on his birth certificate.”

Until now, I believed that I’d experienced every reaction possible from my mother’s considerable repertoire of disapproving emotions. I’d expected anger and disgust, even outrage. At best, I’d hoped for coldness and long telephone silences across the Atlantic when I broke the news. Nothing, in all the years of our relationship, prepared me for what happened next.

Her hands shook as she set her cup and saucer on the tea tray. She placed both palms against my cheeks and looked at me. Then she swallowed, looked away, and then looked back again, searching my face with a look of yearning hunger that I couldn’t begin to explain. I watched her color come and go and her eyes fill with tears. She tried to speak and couldn’t and then tried again. “Are you sure, Chris?” she asked haltingly, brokenly, as if afraid to hope.

“Yes.”

“How did it happen?”

For the first time in that entire tension-filled afternoon, I laughed. No one, with the exception of a woman who’d reconciled herself to never becoming a grandmother, would have posed such a leading question. From across the room, Ian grinned at me. I decided to lighten the mood.

“The usual way,” I said. “Ian and I—”

“Never mind,” she interrupted in a voice much closer to her normal tone. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know.” I covered her hands with mine. “Miracles do happen. Maybe it just wasn’t right before this.”

“And now it is?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Now it is.”

She stood, her emotions once again completely under control. “I don’t think your father should be the last to know. I’ll wake him, and we’ll celebrate. You do have champagne, don’t you, Christina?” she asked, stopping briefly on her way out the door.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Probably. Ask Kate.”

She disappeared into the hall. “Oh, Kate, there you are.” I heard the surprise in Mother’s voice and assumed that Kate had been eavesdropping again. “My daughter and Mr. Douglas have announced their engagement,” she continued. “We need a bottle of champagne immediately.”

“Of course, Mrs. Murray,” I heard Kate reply. “I’ll bring one up right away. May I offer my congratulations?” The woman actually sounded delighted.

“I think Kate approves,” I said to Ian.

He sat down beside me and pulled me into his arms. “Everyone approves, especially me. What made you change your mind?”

“Mother,” I confessed. “Every time she states her opinion, I disagree. Things haven’t changed much since I was a little girl.”

He chuckled, and his lips brushed against my hair. “I have a feeling that she’s bested you this time.”

I pulled away to stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“Your mother is an intelligent woman, Christina. I can’t say for sure, but I believe she heard a great deal before she made her presence known. What I am sure of is that she understands the relationship between the two of you much better than you think. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who would encourage you to raise a child alone when there is a man anxious to marry you.”

He was right. I’d been the victim of reverse psychology, hoaxed by my own mother in the most transparent of ploys. I wasn’t as indignant as I pretended to be. After all, the outcome was something that I really wanted. Mother’s nudge had clarified my feelings. I was actually grateful to her, but I didn’t plan on telling her that. She’d tasted enough victory for one day.

I leaned into Ian’s embrace, content to let the events of the day rest, when I suddenly remembered that he didn’t know about Jeanne Maxwell’s twins. Tilting my head back, I looked up at his face. His forehead was smooth, and the white line that appeared so frequently around his mouth had disappeared altogether. Poor Ian. For the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one experiencing the strain of our predicament. Should I tell him now, or wait? I hesitated. One more day wouldn’t make a difference. I relaxed against his shoulder and felt his arm tighten around me.

“Is it me or is it unusually cold in here?” he asked.

I laughed. “It’s never warm enough for me unless it’s eighty degrees outside. Shall I turn up the thermostat?”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll add more peat to the fire.”

He was right. It was cold. Uncomfortably so. I felt it as soon as he stood up. Scooting over to his place on the couch, I curled up in the leftover warmth of his body and watched as he rebuilt the fire.

I frowned. Ian’s movements were very strange, like a frame frozen in slow motion. The block of peat he’d tossed into the flames seemed to float on the air and bounce several times before settling on the grate. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around. His eyes, distinctly blue across the length of the room, found mine and widened. Like an old movie reel on a projector operating at the wrong speed, his arm reached out, fingers extended in a desperate appeal.

I tried to stand, to reach out to him, but an enormous pressure held me back. His face contorted, and he cried out. The words he shouted were lost forever in a rush of darkness and roaring wind. Spinning, spinning, over and over, I lost all sense of up and down, dark and light. The walls turned around me, and I felt as dizzy as if I’d already imbibed more than my share of the promised celebratory champagne.

Finally, after a bout of nausea stronger than any I’d ever experienced, the room and my stomach settled themselves. I sighed with relief and turned to look for Ian. He wasn’t there. In his place by the fire, a much larger and brighter one than I remembered, stood a lean, black-haired young man with eyes the color of rain clouds.

I stared at his clothes, at the jewels winking in his scabbard, at the cut of his hair and the shape and cast of his features. A long, silent moment passed before the drumming began in my head. This couldn’t happen. It wasn’t possible. What was I, Christina Murray, a twentieth-century woman, doing in a room with a man who’d been dead nearly five hundred years?

He looked concerned, as if something about me troubled him, and when he spoke, his words froze the blood in my veins.

“Not all the tears in Christendom will bring her back, Jeannie. Andrew needs you, and there is the new bairn to consider.”

A surge of emotion swept through me at the sound of his voice. That lilting accented speech, the way he rolled his
r
’s, and the barest lift of his voice at the end of a syllable had disappeared from Scottish dialect centuries ago. That, more than anything else, convinced me that the impossible had happened.
One of us had transcended the barrier of time
.