Legacy (20 page)

I smiled back and walked over to the examining table.

Twenty minutes later I was dressed and on my way back to Traquair. Somehow, my mind registered road signs and traffic lights. Otherwise I would never have made it home safely. The impossible had happened. I, Christina Murray, a thirty-seven-year-old divorcée, was going to be a mother for the first time. All those miserable years of thermometers and mechanical sex, the bitter arguments and cold silences, the harsh accusations and bruised egos, had resulted in nothing more than the dissolution of a fifteen-year marriage. And now, in less than a month, the few magical, frantic couplings of unprotected intercourse between Ian and myself had accomplished this miracle.

Ian! I’d forgotten all about him. There were no other cars in sight. I swerved to the left, made a U-turn, and accelerated considerably over the speed limit back to Peebles. He was gone, of course. I thought that he would be, but I had to be sure. He would understand my absentmindedness once he heard the news.

There was no question that Ian would insist on marriage. He was born into a culture and tradition that assumed gentlemanly behavior long after the age of chivalry had been reduced to a brief salute consigned to the pages of ancient history books. But I had already been through one bad marriage, and although I was sure there would never be anyone else like Ian Douglas for me, I also knew that my judgment where men were concerned wasn’t always the best. This time I had choices. I didn’t have to be married although I desperately wanted to be. But more than that, I wanted Ian to ask me to be his wife without pressure or ulterior motive. But if he didn’t, I’d waited half my life to have a baby. Nothing was going to spoil it for me.

On a more practical note, I needed Ian. It was more important than ever to solve the mystery of the stone. Any last, lingering doubts about coincidence and the possibility that my fertile imagination had taken control of my mind disappeared at the confirmation of my condition. Everything was finally in place for the fulfillment of the legacy. But now I wasn’t alone. I knew without a doubt that besides Ian and myself three women who had transcended the portals of time, shared their lives, their hopes, their innermost secrets, were also with me.

Before today, I had been anxious to see justice done, to reveal that Mairi of Shiels was not a traitor to her country. The threat of danger to me, Christina Murray, a twentieth-century woman, seemed too incredible to believe. Now it was different, more personal. Now everything was possible. This Murray of Traquair was determined to watch her child grow up.

“Miss Murray,” Kate called after me as I started up the stairs to my room, “Mr. Douglas called. When I told him you had just arrived, he said to tell you he was on his way over. Shall I serve tea in the sitting room?”

I looked at my watch. It was after five. “I suppose so,” I replied. The sooner I told him, the better it would be for all of us. “Kate,” I said, stopping her as she started to walk away, “are my parents still resting?”

“I believe so,” she answered. “I’ve seen no sign of either one since shortly after their arrival.”

I muttered a grateful “Thank goodness” under my breath. The last thing I needed was an audience. “Did Ian say when he would be arriving?”

“He called from Peebles, but I believe he meant to stop off at home to drop off his purchases. I’ll have tea ready at five-thirty. That should give him plenty of time.”

Twenty minutes. I had twenty minutes to collect my thoughts and plan how I was going to tell him about the baby without sounding desperate for a wedding ring. I knew not to underestimate Ian. He could be very persuasive when he wanted something and I was the last person to withstand his personal appeal especially when it was something I very much wanted myself.

In the bathroom, I pulled back my hair, secured it with a barrette, and splashed water on my face. The hollows under my eyes looked like giant bruises against my skin. I frowned and studied my reflection in the mirror. Fatigue had done its worst. Where was the glow pregnant women were supposed to radiate? I looked every bit of my thirty-seven years. Releasing the clip, I finger-combed my hair into its usual neat bob. How was I going to make it through the next hour?

Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had ten minutes. Ian was never late. I debated between changing my clothes or putting my feet up. As always, comfort prevailed over ego. With a sigh of relief, I climbed up on the high bed and pulled the pillows into a comfortable position behind my head.

Almost immediately I felt it, the aching temples, the dizziness, the pull of the past. Across the centuries, Jeanne Maxwell called to me. Her thoughts, her words, her laugh, were so like mine, she no longer appeared as an apparition. The dreamlike quality of my earlier visions had completely disappeared. I saw and heard and smelled and touched with the brilliant, diamond-edged clarity of a never-to-be-forgotten moment in time.

Traquair House

July 30, 1513

“How does it flatten out so easily for you?” Jeanne asked as she pulled impatiently at the clumps of wool balling up on the spindle. “I’ve two good eyes, and all I get is a sticky mess.”

Grania Douglas smiled indulgently. “Ye ha’ no patience, lass, and with a hundred servants, ye ha’ no need.”

Jeanne frowned and rescued the ball of yarn from her daughter’s berry-stained hands. “I hate it when you say that. It makes me feel as if I were a stranger.” Her eyes held a curious, hunted look, like that of an animal caught in an awkwardly sprung trap. “I’m the same person I always was.”

Grania chuckled. “Aye, tha’ ye are, lass. But I canno’ remember that ye e’er enjoyed spinnin’.”

Jeanne looked down at her oily hands and laughed. “I never did,” she admitted. Throwing aside the pin, she lifted her daughter to her lap. “’Tis time you joined your brother, my love.” She glanced over at the crib, hidden behind a hanging blanket that divided the living quarters from the sleeping area.

“He sleeps like the dead,” she whispered to Grania. “There were times, just after he was born, when I would rest my head on his chest to be sure he still breathed.”

Grania nodded. “The bairn is a restless lad. He sleeps t’ renew the blood in his veins.” She nodded toward the black-haired child in Jeanne’s arms. “Do no’ make the mistake o’ believing wha’ is righ’ fer the lad is the same fer Isobel. Mark my words, yon lass is different.”

A chill ran down Jeanne’s spine, and she hugged the tiny girl to her breast. “You’ve said that before, Granny, but I cannot believe it. She is no different than I was. Mother told me so.”

Grania’s sightless eyes narrowed. “Ye were no’ in the common way yersel’. Yer mother ne’er wanted to see it.”

Jeanne changed the subject. “John doesn’t like it when I come here.”

“Does he forbid ye?” Grania’s skillful fingers continued their task as she spoke.

“He would never do that,” Jeanne was quick to assure her. “But the talk about your healing grows uglier by the day.”

Grania sighed. “Do no’ concern yersel’, lass. ’Twas always the way.”

“The king is very superstitious,” Jeanne continued. “Now that he plans to invade England, you must be more careful than ever. Stay home,” she pleaded. “There are healers to care for the villagers. In every corner, spies wait like vultures to pick over the carrion. Do not give them a reason to question you.”

“Yer a dear lass t’ be so concerned, but here in the hills, nothing changes. Do no’ worry so.”

Jeanne sighed. This argument between the two of them was an old one. As usual, Grania would do as she pleased. Isobel’s weight in her lap felt heavy. Peeking around the black hair framing the child’s face, Jeanne saw that her eyes were closed. Carefully, so as not wake her, she carried her to the crib and laid her beside her brother. She looked down on her children and smiled. They were so alike in appearance and yet so different in temperament, much like John and herself, she admitted.

Andrew was a child of light and laughter. His moods were predictable, his temper even. He ate and slept as he did everything, with great gusto and total appreciation. Isobel was completely different. Wraithlike and delicate, she moved with an instinctive grace that was unlike any child Jeanne had ever seen. Her quicksilver moods and frequent bouts of temper kept the entire household in a state of nervous anticipation. Difficult as it was to admit, there were times when Jeanne did not enjoy caring for her only daughter. Those nights when Isobel screamed relentlessly in her arms, she would pace the nursery floor, teeth clenched, nerves stretched taut like the strings of a lyre, believing she would never know the comfort of a full night’s sleep again.

Only John could calm the child. He would take her in his arms and kiss the tears on her small, contorted face and whisper soothing words into her ear. Jeanne would creep away for a few hours of much-needed rest, grateful for his tolerance, yet resentful at the same time. When she questioned him, begging to know the secret of his skill, his eyes would dance with amused laughter. He would stroke her cheek and say, “I am adept at handling Maxwell women, Jeannie. As I recall, you were very like Isobel when you were small.”

Her eyes softened as she looked at her sleeping daughter. Isobel Maxwell was a lovely child. She tucked the blanket around her daughter’s body and bent down to kiss her cheek.

A gurgle of laughter interrupted her. Jeanne looked at her son. Andrew was awake. She held her finger warningly against her lips. Andrew rolled over to look at his sister. Satisfied that she slept, he held out his arms to his mother. Sighing, Jeanne lifted him over her daughter. Andrew was much heavier than the slender, small-boned Isobel. Why had no one ever told her that rest was a forgotten luxury for mothers?

“’Tis a lovely day, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Would you like to pick some flowers?”

The child nodded and squirmed to escape from her arms. Hastily, Jeanne set him on the floor and took hold of his hand. “’Tis a warm afternoon, Granny,” she said, careful to pitch her voice low so as not to disturb her daughter. “I’ll take the horse and walk Andrew down to the burn. Isobel should sleep for now.”

Grania smiled and nodded as they walked out the door. The sun was warm on Jeanne’s head as she lifted her son to the saddle of her mare. Andrew clutched the leather of the pommel and looked around delightedly. It wasn’t often that he was allowed to ride without the restraining arms of an adult around him.

Andrew Maxwell was three years old, but already he knew the measure of his own importance. As heir to the earldom of Traquair, his very existence was the beacon upon which his household revolved. He had only to thrust out his lower lip or stamp an insistent, sturdy foot and whatever he wished for was instantly realized. Oddly enough, the knowledge of his power made him reluctant to use it. The servants, his nurse, his mother, even his father, were like dry leaves before the storm of his strong-willed, yet personable charm. The only one to ever thwart him was Isobel. As is often the case with those who have everything, knowing that he could not control his tiny, imperious sister made her all the more appealing to him.

Intuitively, Andrew knew that she was not as important to Traquair House as he was, and his sensitive heart ached for her. By the time the twins were two years old, it was not unusual to see the small boy offer his smaller sister the use of a toy or a choice bit of sweetmeat. He preferred her company over everyone else’s. The two of them could often be found digging in the garden or mounding hay in the barn. Andrew’s face lit with joy at the sight of a smile on his sister’s small, serious face.

Although he did not realize it, caring for Isobel was a tremendous strain for such a small boy. A ride in the country with his mother meant freedom, and he reveled in it.

Jeanne smiled at her son. He looked unusually content, his small body swallowed up by the too-large saddle. The sun touched his hair, picking out strands of fire in the night-dark cap hugging his forehead and cheeks. He grinned down at her, caught up in the warm wind brushing his face, the smell of pine and marshland, the cry of the lone curlew circling overhead, and the trickle of a burn over the next hillock.

Following the pony path, they reached the shaded banks in less than an hour. Jeanne lifted her son to the ground and wound the reins of her horse around the sturdy limb of a black oak tree. Testing the ground for dampness, she curled up in a sunny spot at the base of a weathered rock.

Andrew picked up a stone and threw it into the water, close to his feet. The splash drenched his trousers. He laughed, a cheerful infectious sound that warmed Jeanne’s heart. She laughed with him. “Be careful, love. We’ve no other clothing for you until we go back to the croft.”

Andrew ignored her. He lifted another stone and again threw it into the sparkling burn. Wiser this time, he stepped back, escaping the leaping stream of water. Again and again he threw the stones, fascinated with the response of the crystalline drops, until his supply was exhausted. Chewing his lip, he looked at the opposite bank and then at his mother. Jeanne shook her head.

Disappointed, Andrew busied himself with throwing sticks into the current and watching them float. Finally, he grew bored. Climbing up the bank, he curled up against his mother’s legs and fell asleep. Within moments, Jeanne’s eyelids drooped and she too drifted into a contented slumber.

The smell of charred wood woke her. Cocking her head to one side, she inhaled tentatively. The scent was too acrid for a peat fire. No, it was definitely the smell of burning wood, and it came from the direction of Grania’s croft. Shaking Andrew awake, she scooped him into her arms and walked swiftly to her horse. Settling the child in the saddle, she climbed up behind him and set out at a full gallop.

By the time she reached the rise, the cottage roof looked like an angry ball of flames against the darkening sky. Her blood froze at the sight below her. Men on horses, wearing the king’s livery and carrying torches, circled the dwelling. Where was Grania? Dear God, where was Isobel?

Knowing she was already too late, Jeanne raced her mare down the hill, her arms locked like a vise around her son’s middle. Less than fifty paces from the inferno, she drew up her horse. A guard carried a struggling Grania from the flames. Before Jeanne’s horrified gaze, he held the old woman’s arms behind her while another leaned from his horse and with the tip of his sword, sliced her open from throat to belly. Bile rose in Jeanne’s throat and her stomach churned.

“Mama.” Andrew’s anxious voice pulled her from her state of frozen immobility.

“Hush, darling.” Jeanne looked around frantically. The rain-damp soil had muffled the sound of their approach. The guards hadn’t yet spotted them. Jeanne knew she couldn’t hope to outrun the men. Turning the mare around, she rode for the cluster of trees at the bottom of the rise. Her heart pounded, and a cold sweat drenched her skin. Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to remain calm. Logic told her that Isobel was dead and she must not risk her son’s life. But she pushed the thought away. No power under heaven could make her ride away without knowing the fate of her daughter.

When they reached the safety of the trees, she lifted his chin. “Andrew,” she said, her voice very calm. He looked back at her with round, solemn eyes. “You must allow Gwenhara to take you home. She knows the way.” Desperately, Jeanne fought back tears. “Do you understand, my love? Mama will not be with you, but you must go home. Tell Da-Da we need him at Grania’s croft. Can you do that, Andrew?”

He nodded.

“Very well then.” She slipped to the ground and coiled the reins loosely around a bridle strap. “Gwenhara is a gentle horse,” she reminded the child. “Speak to her quietly and she’ll not harm you.”

The mare’s ears twitched. She turned her head to look back at her mistress as if to assure herself that the curious lightness in the saddle was intentional. Jeanne gave her a gentle tap on the flank and watched as she carried her precious burden out of the clearing and up the hill.

Biting her lip, Jeanne gathered her skirts, forcing herself to walk out of the shelter of trees toward the croft. Every instinct urged her to run, to fly on the wings of falcons, to dive into the very heart of the flames and search the ruined croft for her child. Instead, she walked, head held high, chin lifted in haughty arrogance. The men before her were guards, unruly men who responded to only one thing: authority. She did not want them to think even for a moment that she was a peasant out for a walk on the moors.

Like a cold stone weighting down her chest, Jeanne knew that if Isobel were inside the cottage, there was no longer any hope for her. There was nothing left of the thatched roof. Jeanne prayed that somehow Grania had seen what was coming and hidden the child in the hills. Intent on their grisly business, the men did not notice Jeanne’s approach until she was almost upon them.

“What have we here?” A guard with blackened teeth leered at her.

“I am the countess of Traquair,” she announced. “This is my land. What are you doing here?”

Another man, obviously the leader, turned his horse and scowled down at her, noting her simple gown and lack of jewels. “’Tis a strange countess who travels alone on the moors without even so much as a horse to her name.”

“Nevertheless,” insisted Jeanne, “my husband is John Maxwell, earl of Traquair. The woman you killed is his tenant.”

“We but follow the king’s orders,” the man growled.

“Since when does Jamie Stewart make war on old women and children?”

“There are no children here,” he insisted, “only a witch whose time had come.”

Jeanne nodded toward the burning croft. She spoke clearly, emotionlessly. “The woman you killed was minding my bairn. If her body is found inside, you will hang.”

The guard looked down upon the slender, arrogant figure standing before him. It didn’t occur to him to doubt her. There was something about her carriage and the regal tilt of her head that spoke of noble blood and centuries of command. He frowned and considered his situation. She was obviously alone. If the remains of her child were discovered in the croft, his life wouldn’t be worth a single copper. Still, he wasn’t a butcher. The thought of bairns and murder in the same breath left a sour taste on his tongue.

He issued a terse command. “Search what is left of the dwelling. Do not spare yourself.”

Without a word, two men dismounted and ran to the back of the croft. Agonizing seconds passed. Jeanne’s hands were bloody from deep wedges carved with her own fingernails. Finally, she heard a shout. Her heart pounded against her ribs. The two men, one half dragging, half carrying the other, came around the building. The one who gave the order dismounted and walked over to them. Jeanne couldn’t hear their conversation. At last, he turned and walked toward her.

“There is no sign of a child in the croft,” he said.

Jeanne searched his face, noting the averted eyes and the dull red staining his cheeks. He lied. She was sure of it.