Legacy (22 page)

I looked around at a Traquair I’d only seen in my mind. There were hanging tapestries, high-backed chairs, and embroidered pillows, torches smoking in their sconces on blackened walls, rush-strewn floors and above the mantel, the door-length portrait of Jeanne Maxwell that I’d seen, only this time it wasn’t five centuries old. It looked newly painted, the colors brilliant and vivid, the woman breathtakingly alive against the radiant splendor of a Scottish spring.

“Jeanne.” The timbre of his voice was low and terrifyingly intimate. I shivered. Reality splintered around me like a blast of icy air. It was as if I’d come out of a warm movie theater into the cold rain of a New England November. This man was John Maxwell, earl of Traquair, and he believed, without a doubt, that I was his wife.

I watched in fascinated horror as he pushed away from the mantel and walked toward me. Each controlled, deliberate step brought him closer to the settle where I sat. My mouth tasted like steel wool, and my hands shook with fear. I looked up, sick with the knowledge that any moment I would be exposed as an impostor. He would know the moment he touched me. Jeanne and I might look alike, but that was all.

A man who had lived with a woman, shared her bed, and given her children would know much more than the shape of her features or the color of her hair and eyes. He would know the feel of her lips under his. He would know her laughter and the familiar weight of her body in sleep. He would know every mark and line, every mole and curve, that made her who she was and infinitely unique from every other woman who walked the face of the earth.

Without speaking, he looked down at me for a long time. Then, with no hint or warning, he scooped me up in his arms and strode out the door and down the hall. I held my breath, afraid to speak, fearing the telltale evidence of my accent would damn me immediately, wondering how I could possibly explain the truth.
I’m terribly sorry, Lord Maxwell, but I’m not your wife. I just look like her. Actually I’m Christina Murray, one of her descendents, which makes me yours, too. I was born in the year 1956.
Of course, that didn’t explain where Jeanne Maxwell was and why I was here, taking her place in the sixteenth century. Somehow I didn’t think this determined young man who managed my weight as easily as if I were a five-pound bag of coffee would believe me.

I recognized the hallway immediately. There were no runners on the wooden floors and it was much darker without modern lighting, but the lovely carved doors inlaid with brass and the wooden floors were unmistakable. John Maxwell was taking me to bed.

He kicked the door open with his boot and closed it behind us the same way. Carrying me to the enormous curtained bed, he dropped me into its middle. Before I had time to react, he lowered his body on top of mine and pressed his mouth against my throat. I tensed, every muscle stiffening against the onslaught of his searching lips.

“Don’t fight me, Jeannie,” he begged, his breathing harsh against my ear. “Holy God! I’m not a monk. Let it go, love. Let it go and come back to me.”

It was too much. Whether he believed me or not, I had to tell him. “I’m not—”

His lips stopped my words, and his hands moved skillfully, possessively over my breasts, evoking sensations that were both new and familiar. I felt free and unusually light and very unlike myself, half of me reveling in the sensuality of the moment, the other half detached and observant, seeking answers to this impossible new development.

Possibilities danced through my consciousness. Was I really here or was this an incredibly realistic dream that I would come out of with some new insight into the mystery of the stone? Why were John Maxwell’s caresses so achingly familiar, and how did he know exactly what to do and where to touch with those lean, brown hands that brought such exquisite and long-forgotten pleasure? Memories danced through my consciousness. Memories of events the woman Christina Murray could never have experienced and yet were undeniably part of that other woman, the wanton one with her head thrown back, her lips parted and breasts arched, the one responding so completely and instinctively to John Maxwell’s lovemaking.

At any moment, I could have gone over the edge. I know it now, just as surely as I didn’t know it then. Christina Murray would cease to exist. It was so close to happening, the assuming of another woman’s identity, the entering into her mind and body, the swallowing of myself into that dark and misty portal of time from which there was no escape. I would have done it, knowing I was doomed to a miserable death, knowing I had no hope of returning to my life as I knew it. For that moment, it was enough to be held and soothed and possessed by a man I’d never dreamed could exist for me. Lured by the spellbinding magic of his touch, call it immoral or depraved, I would have given all I knew of heaven and earth to stay wrapped in his arms for whatever time I had left.

Sometime later, I wasn’t sure if it was moments or hours, he rolled off of me and pulled my head against his shoulder. “I love you, Jeannie,” he murmured. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

My heart plummeted and then righted itself. This man knew nothing of Christina Murray. It was Jeanne Maxwell he loved. I had no place here in this vision I’d created for myself. Jeanne’s life was over no matter what direction mine would take. As much as I longed to change the path of destiny, it was impossible. There was no going back for Jeanne or myself. The realization came suddenly on the wings of that strange rushing darkness and the spinning tunnel of wind.

Somewhere, in the wind and darkness, we passed each other, Jeanne and I. Somehow our thoughts connected, merged. We became of one mind, one consciousness. I, with a greater knowledge of the past and future, wondered what confusion she must have felt as we exchanged lives and she viewed my world as I viewed hers.

Traquair House

September 1513

Jeanne stirred in the large bed and flung her hand to the side where John usually slept, searching for the reassuring warmth of his bare skin. Finding nothing but smooth sheets, she sat up and looked around. He was seated in the only chair in the room, pulling on his boots. His sword and targe lay nearby. Wearily, she pulled a quilt around her and slid off the bed to stand beside her husband.

“Don’t get up,” he said. “’Tis still dark and much too cold.”

“You’ve decided to go,” she said accusingly. “Without even telling me, you were going to ride out like a thief in the night.”

His jaw tightened, but he answered patiently. “I would hardly call bringing five hundred men into Jamie’s army the work of a thief. I had no intention of deceiving you, Jeanne. Everyone at Traquair will hear us leave.”

“I don’t want you to go,” she insisted stubbornly. “You said yourself that it was a fool’s errand and there isn’t the slightest hope of victory. Must I lose my husband as well as my daughter?”

His eyes softened, and he stood up, fully dressed for travel, and clasped her shoulders. “We won’t speak of the worst,” he said. “God knows I’ve been in enough battles and come away with no more than a scratch. This one will be the same.” His words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“This battle is different. You said it yourself. Ten thousand men against an English army of twice as many. ’Tis a death wish. Don’t go, John,” she pleaded. “This time Jamie Stewart asks too much of us.”

“You know I cannot do that.” He brushed her lips with his. “Come. Walk with me downstairs. The men wait.”

She summoned her last argument. “John, I’m afraid. The dream I told you about came again and another one with it. This one was even stranger than before. ’Tis almost as if someone is trying to warn me.”

He sighed and sat down on the chair, pulling her to his knee. “Tell me what you saw.”

She settled against him, breathing in the reassuring warmth of his scent. “First, the same as before,” she began. “I saw my own face, and yet I knew the lady was not myself. She beckoned me down a tunnel here at Traquair. It looked like the cellar where the wine is stored. She refused to speak, but I knew her thoughts. At the end of the tunnel was a large antechamber and a flat gray stone set in a place of honor. The stone glowed with a light that came from nowhere. We knelt together, the lady and I. I knew her mind as well as I know my own.” She turned to him, flushed with excitement. “It was the Stone of Destiny, John. The stone that sits under the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey is not Scotland’s true stone. The lady in my dream was Mairi of Shiels, and she did not give the true stone to Edward the Hammer.”

John took her hands and rubbed them between his own. They were very cold. “Why is this so important to you? The deed is done. Mairi’s guilt or innocence makes no difference to us now.”

Her eyes, wide and gray as the North Sea, entreated him. “We must find the stone. If we do not, something terrible will happen. I know it.” She saw the doubt in his face, and frustration surged through her. “Trust me in this. Please, John.”

“What of your other vision? Was that one a warning as well?”

Jeanne frowned. “I know not. I was here at Traquair but in a room I’ve never seen before. There were people wearing strange clothing and speaking a language that was familiar and yet different from ours. I saw myself in the glass.” Her voice grew whispery soft. “It was a wonderful glass, like looking into the clearest stream. Again, my face was the same, and I carried a bairn. I could feel him close to my heart.” She rested her hand on her stomach. “My clothes were odd. I wore hose like a man that made my legs look long and thin, and my hair was clipped close to my head.”

John frowned. The hour grew late, and he hated to leave her like this. Ever since Isobel’s death, Jeanne had suffered from nightmares. Jamie’s invasion of England could not have come at a worse time for Scotland and for his family. At first, the news that Jeanne was carrying a child had seemed like a godsend, but now he wasn’t sure. She seemed so distant, so removed from life at Traquair. Even Andrew could no longer coax a smile from her. She woke at night, slipping out of the great laird’s bedroom to walk aimlessly through the freezing corridors, a silent, wraithlike figure in a white nightshift, ethereally pale, her figure slight as a child’s except for the small mound at her belly. In moments of despair, John feared that her trauma had been too great and that the woman he had loved for most of his life was lost forever. He looked at her now, her cheekbones striking and carven in her still face.

“Jeannie,” he murmured. “I must go. Do not make it more difficult than it already is.”

She looked at him, her eyes darkening briefly with the old rebelliousness he remembered so well. His breath caught in his chest, hoping against hope that his wife had returned to him. The look faded, replaced by the vacant stare he had seen so often in the past weeks.

“I’ll watch from the window,” she said. “You know how I feel. ’Tis too much to ask anything more.”

He nodded and held her chin so that she looked directly at him. “Take care of yourself,” he ordered gruffly, “and don’t forget to eat. You’re dreadfully thin. A man wants more in his bed than skin stretched over a bag of bones.”

She looked mutinous again, and again his heart rejoiced at her words. “You told me you preferred a slim lass,” she retorted, “and I’ll eat when I feel like it.”

“Tell me that you’ll sit down to a meal three times a day.”

She hesitated and then realized how foolish it was to resist. He had her interests at heart. Slowly, she nodded. “I promise.”

Having won the match, he decided to press his advantage. “No sweets, Jeannie. Give me your word that you won’t touch the sweetmeats.”

“I’m not a child, John,” she reminded him haughtily.

He smiled tenderly. “No, you are not. Kiss me good-bye, love. With luck, I’ll see you within a fortnight.”

It was the hardest thing she had ever done to watch him ride away. He was a wonderful horseman. From her room, she could see him stop at the Bear Gates and rein in his mount. Tears burned her eyes as he lifted his arm in farewell. He couldn’t possibly see her, but he would know that her eyes were upon him until the last possible moment when he and his company of men disappeared into the distance. His horse reared and danced back on two legs. She saw his brilliant smile flash before he turned south toward the Cheviot Hills and Jamie’s army. Jeanne’s throat tightened. She knew deep in her bones that it was the last time she would watch him ride out from the gates of Traquair House.

With cold-numbed fingers, she dressed quickly, struggling to pull the tunic over her bulging stomach. Cursing under her breath, she threw the garment aside and pulled on the high-waisted gown and woolen stockings. Summer had lingered on through early September, warming the rolling border hills and farmlands to a comfortable temperature. But where Jeanne planned to go, beneath the ground into the dank cellars of Traquair House, down treacherous steps and thick, dripping walls, it was cold as the depths of winter. She plaited her hair, tying it off with a velvet ribbon, and pulled on her boots. Her ermine-lined cloak, a present from John, hung in the press. Slipping it over her gown, she picked up a candle and tinder box and hurried down the hall to the landing.

No one was about. She descended the stairs and pushed open the door to the wine cellar. Ice-cold air stung her face and burned her lungs. Clutching her cloak tightly around her, she made her way down the stone steps. The hall twisted and grew narrow. Jeanne stopped to light her candle and look around. She frowned. This hallway was lighter in color and wider than the one in her dream. Perhaps she had mistaken the direction and there was another way to the room she had seen. Another few steps and she would turn around. The candle flickered as she continued down the stairs. The air was cloying and stale, but that was all. There was no evidence of the strange light or the ghostly presence Jeanne had seen in her dream.

Where was the passageway? Frustrated, she stopped and thought. If anyone knew every corner of every room, every secret panel and tunnel, every escape hatch in this house, she did. Twenty-five years ago Flora had given birth to her upstairs in the laird’s bedroom Jeanne now occupied with John. Traquair House had always been her home. There must be something she had overlooked. She clasped her hands together until her knuckles showed white beneath her skin. Time was running out. There was no explanation for how she could know such a thing, but she did. From the time she was a child, Jeanne knew she had been given the gift of
the sight
. Only Grania had understood, and she was dead, killed along with Isobel, by order of the king.

Wearily, Jeanne turned back and climbed the stairs. There were moments, they came more frequently now, when nothing mattered at all, when she considered allowing destiny to take its own course with no help from her. It would be so easy, she thought, to lay down the burden of the stone, of Scotland’s destiny, and the future of the Maxwells, to close her eyes and sleep forever. Her daughter, her beloved Isobel, was dead, and if her instincts proved true, her husband would not survive Jamie’s battle.

She paused at the door of the nursery. Andrew would be awake by now. He never slept past the first light of morning. She paused before opening the door. Did she have the strength to see her son? She was exhausted. The bairn affected her strangely. While carrying Andrew and Isobel, she had never felt so tired.

Before she came to a decision, the door opened, and a beaming Andrew, clutching the hand of his nurse, appeared on the threshold. He had not expected his mother. His smile wavered.

Since the fire at the croft and the loss of his sister, his mother’s moods were no longer predictable. There were long periods when she sat in silence, seeing and hearing nothing around her. Andrew was four years old. The events of the past weeks seemed liked a lifetime ago. At first, he had missed Isobel terribly, but as time passed, he grew accustomed to her absence. There were tenant children to play with, and although they could not replace the constant companionship of his sister, they did not burden him either. He no longer worried whether Isobel was content or warm or fed or whether some thoughtless act would bring on one of her tantrums. Isobel’s death dissolved his restraint. Andrew was liberated. He became more childlike, more impulsive, more inclined to laugh. For that, his mother condemned him.

Riddled with guilt, Jeanne could not bear the sight of her son. Andrew had been her favorite, her even-tempered child, the apple of her eye. She would never forget the circumstances of Isobel’s death. Lured by a few precious hours alone with her son, she had left her daughter to die. Whenever she looked at Andrew’s sturdy body, heard his laugh, watched his cheeks glow with health, the lump of misery that never left her rose in her throat. The thought of another child, a son like Andrew or, God forbid, another Isobel, made her sick with despair.

“Hello, Mama.” Andrew’s voice lifted bravely. “I’m having breakfast.”

Over his head, Jeanne’s eyes met those of his nurse. “That’s fine, love,” she said. “I haven’t eaten yet. Why don’t I join you?”

The servant’s face softened. Without a word, she transferred Andrew’s hand from her own to his mother’s and stepped back into the room.

Tears misted Jeanne’s eyes as the small fingers grasped hers and she looked down into the trusting eyes of her son. “Shall we eat in the hall or the sitting room?” she asked.

Andrew cocked his head to one side. “In the garden,” he said at last. “I want a picnic in the garden.”

The heaviness inside Jeanne’s chest lightened. For the first time in weeks, she laughed, a clear pure sound that delighted her son and rattled the diamond-paned windows above their heads. “Very well, Andrew. We shall picnic in the garden.”

Sometime later, in the middle of salting her healthy portion of oats, it came to her like a streak of light illuminating the night sky. The passageway was not in the wine cellar; it began at the very top of the house in the priests’ sanctuary. She could hardly contain her excitement. She looked across the table at Andrew. He smiled engagingly, and her heart melted. Despite everything that had happened, perhaps happiness was possible after all.

“Hurry and finish, love,” she said. “Mama has something to do this morning, but later we’ll take out your pony.” She reached over to caress his cheek. “Would you like that?”

Andrew’s brow wrinkled as he considered the matter. The ride across the moors on Jeanne’s full-sized mare had ruined him forever for the small Highland pony he called his own. He wanted to ride a horse. Should he tell his mother and remind her of the nightmare that had taken Isobel from her? He chewed his oatcake and looked across the table into the wide, light-filled eyes fixed on his face. “Yes,” he said at last. “I would like that.”

After breakfast Jeanne left Andrew with the maid and proceeded up the stairs to the top of the house. Carefully she climbed the twisting stairs, turning sideways to squeeze through the narrow turns. The climb was steep. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath. Bracing herself against the wall, she stopped to rest and look around.

The sanctuary looked very much as it had when she was a child, dark and old and very quiet. Jeanne could not remember the last time services had been held here. An altar with a statue of the Blessed Virgin stood against the far wall. Stunted candles, their wicks dark, stood in congealed pools of wax near a brass urn, empty now but at one time most likely filled with holy water. Stained glass covered the small windows and pillows for kneeling were scattered across the wooden floor.

Jeanne drew a deep breath, pushed herself away from the wall, and walked directly to a rosewood panel near the mantel. She knew exactly what she was looking for. With all her strength, she pushed at the carved wood and then stood back. A door, carved to match the wall, opened onto a narrow, stone tunnel. Her hand shook as she smoothed a loose strand of hair away from her face. She was sure this was it.