Legacy (16 page)

“The situation is different.”

“How so?”

“Jeanne is a lady.”

“And you are a gentleman.”

John grinned. “I wouldn’t stake my honor on it, madam. Tell me whether I should seek out this strong-minded daughter of yours or wait until she returns.”

Again, Flora hesitated.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It would be unwise for Jeanne to learn you stayed the night at Traquair House, m’lord. Seek out Grania Douglas and bring my daughter home.”

***

John slipped the reins of his horse over the stunted branch of a black oak and walked to the door of Grania’s hut. Nestled in the bosom of twin hills, it was pitifully small, even smaller than he remembered. He paused at the door, remembering the enthusiasm of Grania’s welcome when he and Jeanne were children. The pathetic croft had been a haven of blessed warmth to the two of them, an orphaned boy and a wild, leggy girl, grass-stained and smeared with peat from the bogs.

The old woman had offered nothing more than companionship, oatcakes, and new milk thick with cream and frothy warm to satisfy their ravenous appetites. Somehow it had been enough just to sit across the scarred table and watch her button-black eyes as she regaled them with ancient tales of Scotland’s glories. John was seven years Jeanne’s senior, much too old to be anything more than pleasantly entertained by Grania Douglas’s stories. But Jeanne had listened and believed, her eyes gleaming like liquid silver, absorbing the woman’s words with rapt attention. John closed his eyes, recalling the glow of that childlike elfin face, pointed and high boned with the promise of beauty not yet realized.

He thought of Jeanne Maxwell as he had last seen her in Edinburgh and frowned. He had waited an ungodly length of time for her to grow up. Now that she had, he didn’t know if he preferred the ice princess of Jamie’s court or his childhood shadow with her bare feet and a mouth stained with Grania’s blackberry jam.

The windows of the croft were mere slits, thick with smoke and the smell of peat. Taking a deep breath, he pounded at the door. Immediately it swung open, revealing a dark, shrunken figure silhouetted against the fire-lit room.

“Granny,” he said gently, “’tis I. John Maxwell.”

The old woman reached out to touch his face. Slowly, her fingers traced his nose, his lips, the bones of his cheeks, his chin. “There be no denying ye are a Maxwell,” she said, stepping back to wave him into the room. “Jeannie, lass. We’ve a visitor.”

Across the room, wrapped in a woolen plaid, Jeanne rested on a mattress of freshly cut rushes. Her black hair was loose, flowing thick and long without a whisper of curl across her bare shoulder, pooling in a fall of ebony silk on the floor. She lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, and stared at him for a long time. Finally, she swept the hair from her forehead and sat up. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

The lie came easily to his lips. “To see Granny, of course.”

“You didn’t care to see her before this. Why now?”

“I was in England.”

“You never wrote.”

“Can she read?”

Grania laughed. “He’s got ye there, lass. Even before I lost my sight, I couldna’ read.”

With a shock, John realized the old woman was blind.

Jeanne flushed and turned to stare into the flames of the small hearth. What was the matter with her? Only John provoked her to such rudeness.

“Will you ha’ some
usquebaugh
, lad?” Grania asked. “’Tis a cold night.”

John nodded, reaching for the cup. “I thank you,” he said, draining the fiery liquid in one gulp. He gasped, and his eyes burned. Five years had passed since he’d sampled Scots whiskey, and Grania’s batch was strong.

Jeanne watched in amusement from beneath lowered eyelashes. John’s courteous reply to Grania’s offer of refreshment had softened her outrage. Now she was merely annoyed that he’d followed her. The time she spent with the hill woman was hers alone. Here, no one frowned disapprovingly when her hands fell idle. No one inspected her food, carefully removing every crumb of the sugary sweets she craved. No one bothered about her hair or her clothes or the fact that she was twenty and not yet wed. Here, she was only Jeanne Maxwell, the inquisitive lass from Traquair House. Her presence was enough. She turned back to look at the fire, not realizing that John had crossed the room and stretched out beside her.

“Grania sleeps,” he whispered, nodding toward the table where the old woman sat, her head pillowed in her arms.

“I’ll put her to bed,” Jeanne said and started to rise.

John’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Don’t get up. I’ll see to her.” He stood and walked to the table. Carefully slipping one arm behind Grania’s knees, he cradled her against his chest and lifted her to the crib pushed against the opposite wall. Gently, he tucked a blanket around her frail body. Jeanne watched as he stared down at the old woman’s wrinkled face.

“Has she changed so much?” she asked softly.

John shook his head and turned to look at Jeanne. “Probably not. She was always old, although I don’t remember her being so small.”

From her place by the fire, Jeanne smiled, and his breathing altered. Like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her. Crossing the room, he stretched out once again by her side.

“Thank you for being so good to her,” Jeanne said. “She was pleased to see you.”

“I didn’t come for her,” John replied.

“I know.” Her voice was so low, he could barely make out the words.

Her face was very close to his own. He turned to look at her. She was beautiful. The clean, chiseled planes of her features, the sweep of black lashes, the sensual mouth. “You are so lovely,” he murmured and, without thinking, bent his head to her mouth. Incredibly, her lips parted, and her arms slid around his neck. A fierce joy blazed up within him. She was soft and welcoming, and it seemed as if he had waited his entire life for this.

Much later, with her head pillowed against his chest, he said, “I’d not expected that.”

“Liar.” Jeanne’s voice was soft and amused. “I knew what you wanted from the moment you entered the room.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he corrected her. “My intentions were to woo you slowly. We’ve been apart for a long time.”

Her fingers made small, circular motions against the wool of his tunic. “What are your intentions now, John?”

“The same as they’ve always been. I came home to wed you, lass.”

There was no mistaking the satisfaction in her voice. “Was there no one at the English court suitable enough to be the countess of Traquair?”

He smiled into her hair. She’d finally come out with it. He considered telling her the truth immediately and decided against it. She deserved a moment of worry for believing the worst of him.

“Aye,” he replied promptly. “There were many who were suitable.”

She pulled out of his arms and turned to face him, her gray eyes bright with anger. “Why didn’t you wed one of them?”

“No one would have me,” he lied.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Quickly, she recovered. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” she countered. “It isn’t your handsome face or your charm that I find so irresistible.”

“What is it then?”

She stood, pulling the plaid with her, and ground her fists into the curve of her waist. “Nothing,” she said. “There is nothing about you that appeals to me.”

Slowly, he sat up and squinted into the flames. “I love you, Jeanne Maxwell,” he said quietly. “I’ve always loved you. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you. I wondered why you didn’t write or if the spells you had as a child came more often now that you were grown. Most of all, I feared you had wed and that no one had bothered to tell me.”

With her heart in her throat, Jeanne watched the austere beauty of his profile highlighted by the flickering firelight.

“There has never been anyone else for me,” he continued, “not at the English court and not here, in Scotland. I know nothing of what you’ve heard, but this I can swear before everything that is holy. My heart is yours, lass. No other woman will ever claim it.” He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. “Now, Jeanne Maxwell, I ask you once again. Will you marry me?”

She closed her eyes and waited. Moments passed. Why in the name of heaven didn’t he touch her? She opened her eyes to find a bleakness she hadn’t expected in his eyes.

“Is it so difficult an answer?” he asked gently. “Yes or no. Tell me, Jeanne.”

“Yes,” she whispered at last. “I’ll marry you.”

He frowned. The words were everything he’d hoped to hear, but something was wrong. Stepping closer, he took her hand. “What is it, my heart? Tell me why you are still not sure.”

She had to say it or for the rest of her life remain silent and wonder. Taking a deep breath, she uttered the words she had carried in her heart for five long years. “Were you ever in love with my mother?”

He smiled, and her knees weakened. Reaching out, he pulled her against him, his thin, muscular hand firm on her back. “I shall always love your mother, Jeannie,” he murmured close to her ear, “but not nearly as much as I loved your father. He raised me as if I were his own son. I could never have betrayed him, not even if I hadn’t fallen desperately in love with his daughter.”

The tears welled up under her eyelids and slid down her cheeks. “I love you so much and I missed you terribly,” she confessed.

“Does that mean you find me appealing after all?” he teased.

She laughed shakily. “You know exactly how appealing you are, John Maxwell. Has no one ever told you that modesty is a virtue?”

“I had an unusual childhood,” he replied. “I trust my wife will teach me the art of becoming a country laird.”

Her eyes held a wicked glint. “Shall I begin now?” He looked at the pile of rushes on the floor and then at the sleeping woman on the bed. Shaking his head regretfully, he said, “Not now, lass. But after we’re married, I promise to be a most dutiful pupil.”

Pulling him down on the rushes beside her, Jeanne wrapped the plaid around the two of them and buried her face against his chest. Who would have thought the night would end like this? She smiled. Grania always brought her luck.

Blair Castle

1993

I awoke completely rested with a smile on my lips. The morning air was unusually warm, and I was very aware of Ian’s lean, bare body next to mine. Propping myself up on one elbow, I studied his face, relaxed in sleep. With his hair falling over his forehead, his sun-dark chest against the bleached-white sheets, the stubble of a beard covering his cheeks and chin, he looked different, less civilized, more vital than the sophisticated gentleman I knew by day.

His eyes opened to my admiring gaze. Smiling, he held out his arms. I blushed and looked away, embarrassed by the circumstances. Never before, in my entire life, had I spent an entire night with a man who was not my husband. In the deceptive shadows of darkness, a woman of a certain age might flatter herself into believing that the crow’s-feet around her eyes and the sagging flesh on her neck and kneecaps wouldn’t be noticed. But in the merciless glare of daylight such deception is impossible. Every widening pore, every smudge of leftover mascara, every line and dark circle, every blemish, is sharply and painfully evident.

I drew a deep breath, deciding then and there that this time, with this man, I would make no excuses for my imperfections. Forcing myself to meet his eyes, I allowed Ian Douglas to look his fill. For a long time he didn’t speak. His fingers sifted through my hair, catching in the thick tangle at the back of my head. Then he traced my nose, my lips and chin, lingering on the hollows of my cheeks. Carefully, like an artist, his palm molded my face and throat, resting at last on the flesh covering my pounding heart.

“Do you have any idea how lovely you are?” he asked, his voice hoarse and breathless.

I laughed, shaky with relief. Burying my head against his chest, I erased from my mind the fact that we had known each other only a few days, that the differences in our backgrounds were as great as two people’s could possibly be, and, at this very moment, the forces of a seven-hundred-year-old curse were aligning themselves against us.

His lips were warm against my throat “Are you ready to go home?”

“Uh-hum,” I answered, intent on the feel of his lips as they explored the sensitive skin behind my ear, the column of my throat, and the slope of my shoulder. I shivered as they moved lower. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Ian tensed.

“Who is it?” I asked, looking at the clock. It was after nine.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Murray, but it’s the cook’s day off. Would you like breakfast before she leaves?”

I looked at Ian. He shrugged his shoulders and bent his head to my mouth. “Tea and toast will be fine,” I managed to call out before Ian’s lips closed over mine. For a moment, I was lost, caught in the incredible sensations of pleasure and passion that his presence managed to evoke.

“Ian,” I gasped, pulling away. “It doesn’t take any time at all to make tea and toast. The maid will be back in a few minutes.”

He relaxed against the pillow. “I hope she’ll bring more than that. I’m starving.”

I sat up, pulling the covers around me. “We should get dressed.”

Ian frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t want her to find us like this.”

“Good Lord.” He looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

I didn’t answer, but my incredulity must have been obvious. His eyes danced with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed in front of the servants.”

“Aren’t you?”

He laughed. “Not at all. There isn’t a person in this entire castle who doesn’t know where I spent the night. Why do you think no one knocked on my door to ask if I wanted breakfast?”

I could feel the deep blush staining my chest and shoulders. Opening my mouth to speak, I was silenced by another knock.

“Your breakfast is here,” announced a feminine voice.

“Do you want me to leave?” Ian mouthed the words. I nodded. He threw back the covers, gathered his clothing, kissed me briefly on the forehead, and exited through the adjoining door.

“Come in,” I called out as the knock resounded once again.

The maid, carrying a tray of silver-covered dishes; two plates, cups, and saucers; and two sets of silverware, entered the room. She placed the tray on a nearby table and looked around. “Will you be breakfasting alone this morning, Miss Murray?”

“Yes.”

“Where will Mr. Douglas be eating?”

“I beg your pardon?” I couldn’t help myself. I was unprepared for such a matter-of-fact attitude toward sex.

“Where shall I take Mr. Douglas’s breakfast?” she asked, not at all disconcerted by the tumbled bedclothes, my bare shoulders, or chapped, kiss-swollen lips.

“He’s in the bathroom,” I muttered, acknowledging defeat. Ian was right. The habits of the duke of Atholl and his guests didn’t concern the servants in the least.

“Will he be returning or shall I take a tray to his room?” she asked politely.

Enough was enough. Wrapping the sheet around me, I stood, grateful for my inches. I was in control once again. “I’ll see that Mr. Douglas gets his breakfast,” I said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to dress.”

“Of course, Miss Murray.” With a pleasant smile, she left the room. I didn’t relax until I heard the click of the bolt.

Pulling on a robe from the armoire, I walked to the bathroom and opened the door. Ian was shaving at the sink. He looked rested and healthy from the tracks in his shower-damp hair to the towel wrapped around his waist. “There’s breakfast for two in my room,” I announced.

He grinned, and I relaxed. “How did you know it wouldn’t matter?” I asked, leaning against the marbled sink.

He wiped the shaving cream from his face. “British society is still very status conscious, Christina. Those in service to the upper classes regard everything their employers do with a certain detached amusement that wouldn’t be tolerated within their own order.”

“Are you telling me that the duke of Atholl’s servants wouldn’t be comfortable associating with us?”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t that a rather outdated assessment? After all, I’m a history teacher and you’re a farmer.”

Ian laughed. “True. But in this case, it makes no difference how we earn our living. On this island and in much of Europe, family is everything.”

“Do you approve of that philosophy?” I asked curiously.

“It doesn’t matter whether I do or not. I live here and change doesn’t occur overnight.”

He was wrong. It did matter, but I wasn’t sure how much. He turned away from the mirror and folded his arms across his chest. His face was smooth and completely expressionless. “Will you pour me some tea?” he asked.

I nodded and walked back into my room, conscious of his presence close behind me. He slipped beneath the bedcovers, while I poured the dark, fragrant liquid into a cup, added milk, and handed it to him. Ian ate and drank the same way he did everything, quickly and efficiently with a minimum of wasted motion. I watched him swallow his tea and wield a knife, carefully spreading the delicious Golden Shred marmalade across his toast with blunt, capable fingers. A sweet, piercing ache rose up inside me. There was something deeply personal about the sharing of breakfast after lovemaking. It was a promise, a sense of completeness, of well-being and security, that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Later, after we’d dressed and were on our way back to the borders, I asked Ian about Jeanne Maxwell. “Did Jeanne die at Traquair House?”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Yes, but I wouldn’t call it dying exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was murdered, accused of witchcraft and hanged.”

I could feel the color leave my face. “Before or after she married John Maxwell?” I asked.

“After. I believe she had her share of happiness even though she came to such a tragic end. The marriage was a good one. After John died at Flodden, she was arrested and executed.” He glanced at me curiously. “Were you able to read through most of MacCleod’s information last night?”

Leaning back in my seat, I fingered Professor MacCleod’s envelope and looked out the window at the golden greens and bright russets of the countryside. “I don’t need to read anymore, Ian,” I said slowly. “She comes to me whenever I’m alone.”

His hands clenched, and the knuckles on the steering wheel whitened beneath his skin. “Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head. “I know what’s going to happen. So far the documents seem to be historically accurate. What terrifies me is the pain. I can feel her hurt and her joy. It’s only logical to assume that I should also be able to feel her pain.”

“Did you feel it when Katrine died at Culloden?”

“No,” I said. “I felt sorrow and compassion for another’s suffering. But this isn’t the same. The images of Jeanne Maxwell are much clearer. This time, I can feel textures and smell cooking from the kitchen. I feel her relief when she takes down her hair and the warmth of a fire after coming in from the cold. I can
feel
everything.” I leaned my head against the window, grateful for the coolness against my forehead. “Ian?” I whispered. “Am I losing my mind?”

He smiled reassuringly. “No one who asks such a question is ever in danger of that, darling. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, and it isn’t over yet.” His hand reached out to cover mine. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it through this.”

And then what?
I wondered. Would I be the next in line to fall victim to Grizelle Douglas’s curse, or would we solve it, Ian and I, and then go our separate ways? Suddenly, I wanted very much to be alone in the privacy of my own room at Traquair.

The first thing I did, after being kissed good-bye at the steps of Traquair House, was to search for Jeanne Maxwell’s portrait. Later, after Ian had returned, when I could think logically, I would find the stone.

Ignoring Kate’s curious stare, I brushed aside her questions and headed for the secret stairs. The halls were narrow here in the east wing, and every floorboard creaked under my feet. I wondered how the structure managed to survive the hordes of tourists that descended upon it every year.

The priests’ hidden chamber was long, with whitewashed walls and an uncarpeted floor of English oak, dark and stained with age. It was late afternoon and the room lay steeped in shadows. The air was still with a dank, musty smell reminiscent of mold and age and closed-up rooms that had outlasted their purpose. The furniture was sparse, and the only paintings on the walls were those of churches and village scenes. Where was Jeanne, and where was the entrance to the hidden stairs?

Baffled, I returned to the main hallway and walked down to the kitchen. Kate was basting a huge chicken with a clear liquid that could only be drawn butter. Thank goodness I wasn’t overly concerned with cholesterol. Diet drinks and aspartame had not yet made their way into Scotland. She looked up when I walked into the room. Was that a flicker of apprehension I saw in her eyes?

Her voice gave nothing away. “May I help you, Miss Murray?”

Why did I feel as if I were intruding in my own kitchen? “I was wondering if my father called again,” I said.

“Not yet.” She closed the oven door and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I would have told you if he had.”

For some reason, I didn’t want to broach the subject of Jeanne Maxwell’s portrait, but I was impossible at deception and I’d run out of conversation. “I’d like to see the hidden stairs,” I blurted out.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she gave me a long, searching look and removed a key from the large ring hanging on the wall. Removing her apron, she hung it on a hook. “Follow me,” she said. “You’ll never find it unless I take you there.”

Silently I followed her through the beautifully appointed rooms, up three flights of stairs, down the narrow hallway I’d seen in my dream to the priests’ room. There, she pushed at a panel hidden inside a tiny alcove. The wall swung open, revealing a hidden door.

“We keep this open when tourists visit,” she informed me. “The stairs have never been reinforced. It’s too dangerous for a large group to go up, but they can look past the rope up the stone stairs. I don’t think a slightly built person like yourself would come to any harm.” She looked at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I imagine it’s quite a sight for some, especially those whose history didn’t begin until George Washington.”

For a moment, the venom in her words didn’t register. When it did, I was coldly, furiously angry. But it was too late. She had already handed me the key and walked away. Her voice floated back into the room. “If you have any trouble locking up, call me.”

I didn’t move until the sound of her footsteps had faded away. If I hadn’t been sure before, I was now. Kate Ferguson was no friend of mine. The awareness hurt me more than I thought possible. It was important enough that I considered going after her to be sure my impression was accurate, but on second thought, I decided against it. Confrontation had never been my style.

Instead, I peered up the narrow passageway at the curving steps. It didn’t look at all familiar. Cautiously, I climbed the first step and then the next and the one after that until I reached the top. Turning the corner into a tiny room crowded with antique furniture, I glanced at the walls looking for the portrait. There was nothing except a faded spot where a large floor-length frame must once have hung. It was an unusual place for such a large painting. Curious, I stared at the naked wall for a long time before I turned to walk back down the stairs. It was then that I saw it. A cloth-covered object the size of a door balanced against the opposite wall. Quickly, I crossed the room and pulled away the covering. I could feel a loud roaring in my ears and the sledgehammer slamming of my heart against my rib cage. Here, at last, was Jeanne Maxwell exactly as I’d seen her in my dreams. The artist commissioned to paint her had broken with tradition and eschewed the dark colors typical of the sixteenth century. Instead, he’d painted her as she was, a tall slender figure in a gown of deep rose set against a colorful backdrop of heather and gorse.

I knew now why Ellen Maxwell’s heart had failed after taking one look at my face. Of the three women who were my ancestors, Jeanne Maxwell was most like me. From the night-dark hair and wistful mouth to the hurt expression in her pale gray eyes, looking at this woman was like facing a mirror image. Here was no confident girl like Katrine Murray or lady of legend like Mairi of Shiels. This was a woman unsure of herself, a woman who had suffered agonies of uncertainty.