Ten
Duncan Forbes knocked softly on the door to Katrine’s bedchamber. If she was already asleep, he would leave the message with her maid. Moments before, a Forbes clansman had arrived at Traquair, reporting that the Jacobite army under the command of George Murray had assembled at Drumossie Moor. The duke of Cumberland and his troops, which included Major Richard Wolfe, were still at Nairn celebrating the duke’s birthday. Forbes grimaced. He did not relish the idea of telling Katrine that her child might share a birth month with the second son of England’s king. He knocked again. Whatever his personal feelings, Katrine had a right to know that her father and husband would be on opposing sides of this battle.
A maid answered the door. When she saw who it was, her heavy-lidded eyes widened, and she curtseyed deeply. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she stammered. “My lady hasn’t returned yet, and I was busy with the clothespress.”
His eyes, skimming over her dilated pupils and sleep-slack features, dismissed her excuse. “Has your mistress not returned from dinner?” he asked.
“No, m’lord.”
Duncan knew she was not lying this time. He frowned and turned away. Where could Katrine have gone?
He walked past his own room to the end of the hall. The twisted stairway leading to the priests’ room was illuminated by the flickering flames of the candle sconces mounted on the opposite wall. He hesitated, chiding himself. What possible reason could Katrine have for climbing the secret stairs in her condition? And yet she hadn’t returned to her room and she wasn’t in the library. He’d checked there first.
Lifting the candle branch from the wall, Duncan sighed and moved into the shadowed alcove, its confining space almost too narrow for the breadth of his shoulders. His instincts regarding Katrine had never been accurate. From the time she was fifteen years old, he had loved her to distraction. She had been half his age and he’d convinced himself it would be better to wait, at least until after her first season, to approach her with his regard.
For three years he’d bided his time, calling upon a lifetime of discipline, waiting and watching while younger, more ardent men claimed her dances, squired her to parties, and rode with her on the moors. It was only right, he argued with himself, that Katrine should have her youth. She was a beautiful, vibrant young woman. She was also fiercely patriotic and exceptionally intelligent. Duncan had counted on that. No callow, unschooled youth would satisfy her for long. In time, her eyes would turn to a man of experience, a man with influence, a man who had sewn his oats and would appreciate a woman with a mind of her own. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that he would lose her to an Englishman. He still refused to concede defeat. A battle lay ahead. A battle from which a great many would not return. It was entirely possible that Katrine would find herself a widow. Duncan was too honorable a man to wish death on anyone, but if fate were to decide Richard Wolfe’s time was at hand, he would be there to help Katrine move on with her life.
The stairway was dangerously slick. She couldn’t possibly have managed it. He would have turned around, but a single nagging doubt kept him moving upward. Finally he reached the top. Lifting the candles above his head, he looked around and froze. A wooden panel stood ajar, revealing a narrow passageway.
The muscles stood out on his neck. Drawing a deep breath, he strode forward holding the candles before him and pushed the panel wide open. “Katrine,” he called loudly. “Katrine, are you down there?”
A sobbing moan reached his ears.
Uttering a vile expletive, Duncan forced himself to think clearly. She was obviously injured. He would need both arms. Anchoring the candle branch through a niche in the wall, he removed a single candle and forced himself to descend the narrow stairs carefully. When he finally reached her, he saw that his worst nightmare had come true. Katrine was in the throes of childbirth.
He looked at the narrow stairwell and cursed again. Carrying a woman swollen with child through that narrow corridor was impossible. There was no help for it. Katrine would have her child on this damp, vermin-infested floor, and he, Duncan Forbes, lord president of the Court of Session and a bachelor unaccustomed to children, would be her midwife.
She was barely conscious. “Duncan,” she whispered, “is that you?”
“Yes, dear,” he replied in a voice that was far calmer than he felt. “Don’t be frightened. I’m here now.”
She spoke through cracked lips. “The bairn will come soon.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely, reaching for her hands. “Do you know what to do, Katrine?”
She shook her head. “Do you?” she asked hopefully.
“Of course,” he lied, placing the candle on an empty step and standing to remove his coat. “The first thing we must do is make you more comfortable.” He bunched the coat into a pillow and placed it beneath her head. Reaching for the hem of her gown, he eased it up over her thighs, grateful for the shadowed darkness of the corridor. The desire of his life had been to lift Katrine Murray’s skirts, to peel back her stockings and run his hands over the length of her long, slim legs. His mouth twisted wryly. He was doing exactly that, but it was in far different circumstances than he had imagined.
Her legs were wet with what could only be blood. Bile rose in his throat. He forced himself to look at the juncture between her thighs, but the single candle was inadequate to see properly. He needed the branch. “Katrine,” he said, his voice low. “I need more light. There are candles at the top of the stairs. Can you manage if I leave you for a moment?”
He thought she nodded, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t wait to find out. Never in his life had he moved so quickly. Within seconds he was back, positioning the candle branch. Her stomach had tightened like the skin of a drum. She reached for him, and unreservedly, he gave her his hands. Lifting her head, she dug her nails into his skin and cried out, a frightening, primitive, unrecognizable sound that turned the blood in his veins to ice. Again she cried out, her head thrashing on his coat. Her eyes were wild, and there was blood on her lips. When it was over, she sank back against the steps, drained and white. Duncan reached for the candles to ascertain her progress when another spasm hit, racking her body and arching her back. Again she tore at his hands, crying out her pain, begging for release. He clenched his teeth, and the muscles tightened along his jaw. How could a human being bear such pain?
She clutched his arm. “He comes, Duncan. I can feel it.” Her voice cracked. “Help us.”
Unable to resist that piteous plea, Duncan squeezed her hand and nodded. Kneeling between her knees, he waited for endless seconds until Katrine’s tortured body expelled a wet, black-haired head. Gently he cradled it in his palm and with his other hand worked the infant’s shoulders free. Finally, in a rush of blood, the rest of the body slid into his arms.
“’Tis a boy,” he announced and wiped the mucus from the tiny puckered mouth.
A healthy wail broke the anxious silence. Katrine laughed, a rich, silvery peal that sounded remarkably healthy.
Duncan stared down at her in surprise. That sound couldn’t possibly have come from the torn body lying on the stairs. “Are you all right, Katrine?” he asked.
“Oh, Duncan. I’m so grateful. How did you know I was here?”
“Never mind. You need a woman to see to you.” He looked at the cord still attached to the baby. “I’ve got to get you out of here. Can you wait until I go for help?”
“I can bear anything now.” She held out her arms for her son. Balancing the baby in one hand, Duncan shrugged out of his shirt and wrapped the infant in the expensive linen. He handed him to Katrine and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’ll be back soon.”
***
“I don’t think this surprise march is a good idea, Murray,” O’Sullivan remarked. “The men are tired and hungry. Why not let them have the night to rest?”
George Murray did not bother to explain that because of their inferior numbers and the Irishman’s choice of battleground, a surprise attack was their only hope. “Cumberland will be celebrating his birthday,” he said instead. “The soldiers will be drunk as beggars.”
“I pray you may be right,” said O’Sullivan. “The prince arrives tonight from Traquair. He won’t be pleased if you muddle this one.”
The entire rebellion had been a hopeless muddle from the beginning, reflected George as he walked, still in his kilt, through the columns of exhausted clansman. They had marched for two days without sleep, and their food and provisions had inadvertently been left behind at Inverness. The grumbling he heard among the ranks was not his imagination. The men were losing heart. If only they could fight from the hills where the ground was thick and marshy. Because there was nothing else to do, George gave the order to march. It was eight o’clock and very dark, and he had only five thousand soldiers.
Cursing, the men complied.
They were to march around Nairn and strike the English under cover of darkness. After only an hour of marching, Murray found that nearly one-third of the men had left to forage for food. Precious time was wasted while officers rounded them up.
The ground was a giant bog, and more and more men, disgusted and nearly dead with fatigue, crawled under the bushes and fell asleep. The march was halted while O’Sullivan and Murray argued in the fog. Finally George cursed. “If we are to reach the English before dawn, there can be no more delay.”
Again the troops moved forward, but this time pale streaks of dawn lit the sky. They could hear the English troops stirring in their camp. There would be no surprise attack on Nairn. Dispirited, George Murray gave the order to retreat, and the starving, weary soldiers marched back to Drumossie Moor. There was still no food. No longer able to stand upright, they fell where they stood and slept. Less than an hour later, the drums rolled signaling the call to order. The battle had begun.
***
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Katrine demanded.
Duncan Forbes grinned and gestured toward the child in her arms. “We were otherwise occupied,” he reminded her.
Katrine’s eyes softened as she looked down at the bundle nestled close to her heart. She touched her lips to the tiny head and inhaled deeply, loving the sweet baby scent of him. She thought of her aborted journey to find the stone and pushed it to the back of her mind. Scotland’s Stone could wait. She smiled at Forbes. “’Tis true, we were. But now, I must see my husband.”
“That isn’t possible,” replied Duncan flatly. “You’ve not yet recovered, and a battlefield is no place for a woman and child.”
“Your house is there, Duncan,” she coaxed him. “Surely, as guests of the lord president of the Court of Session, no harm will come to us.”
He tried to reason with her. “I cannot guarantee your safety on such a journey, but I will take a message to your husband personally.”
She shook her head. “No, Duncan. If you won’t help us, I’ll find someone else.”
“Katrine,” he begged her, “be reasonable.”
She refused to listen, and when their conversation was over, Forbes retreated to his own room, where he threw himself, fully clothed, on top of his bed and cursed the hold Katrine Murray had over his heart.
Years later, when he stopped to recall the relentless pace of the next two days, he would shudder and wonder, not for the first time, if he’d been afflicted with temporary madness. Or perhaps the tales of witchcraft in the Murray family were true. From the first moment he had seen her, Katrine had bewitched him. There could be no other explanation for such a deviation in his normally excellent judgment.
At first light, they traveled north, skirting Edinburgh, and crossed the Firth of Forth at Grangemount. They spent the night at an inn near Dollar. The following day they passed through Perth and changed horses at Blairgowrie. Duncan argued for stopping at Blair Castle, hoping that Janet Murray would convince her daughter to end her journey there, but Katrine would have none of it. She ordered the coachman to continue on to Drumossie.
And so it was, that in the early hours of April 16, the Forbes travel coach bearing its long-suffering master, a squalling infant, and his bone-weary mother, rolled into the courtyard of Culloden House. It was close to dawn.
Bidding her host good night, Katrine closed the door of her room and, for one blissful moment, closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the engraved wood. Thank God the bairn was taken care of. After feeding him, Katrine had handed him to Duncan’s housekeeper with a sigh of relief.
There was no time to lose. Pushing away from the bracing support of the door, she looked for her trunk. It was tucked away in an alcove beneath the window. She knelt before it and lifted the lid. Every muscle in her aching body protested as she pulled on a warm cloak, woolen stockings, and sturdy boots. She stared down at her belly, the puckered flesh extended from childbirth, and grimaced. The breeks would never fit. She must brave the cold in the loose dress she had worn on the journey from Traquair.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, in the light of a brilliant dawn, she rode her horse past the rallying Jacobite troops toward Nairn. Foot soldiers were drawn up in two lines, the cavalry in the rear. The prince’s meager artillery, only thirteen assorted guns, were on the left, center, and right of the front line. Even an inexperienced observer like Katrine could tell that the men had lost heart. Many were still asleep. She bit her lip and urged her mount forward, praying that Cumberland’s army had not yet begun their march.
On the knoll near Leanach Holding, Katrine heard the unmistakable sounds of horses’ bridles and boots marching in cadence. She reined in her horse and listened carefully. It could only be the government troops. She was too late. Richard would never leave his command, even if it meant facing her father across a broadsword. Patting her mare’s heaving flanks, she turned back toward Culloden. There was a vantage point near Leanach Cottage, where she could watch the battle undisturbed.
The two armies did not face one another until almost eleven o’clock. Katrine caught her breath when she recognized the man on the gray gelding. Charles Stuart in his tartan coat and cockaded bonnet looked as jaunty as ever. His front line consisted almost entirely of clansmen, standing from three to six deep. On the right of the front line, Katrine recognized her father commanding the Atholl Brigade, which included Camerons, Stewarts of Appin, and Frasers, all wearing their clan tartans. In the center, she saw the Chattans, MacLachlans and MacLeans. She frowned. What were the MacDonalds doing on the left? Since Bannockburn, their position had always been on the right. Katrine knew what such a mistake would mean to the proud Highland MacDonalds. More importantly, the position put them at a serious disadvantage. The two front lines were not equal in length. The right of the prince’s army was perhaps one hundred yards nearer Cumberland’s front line than the left. In a charge, the MacDonalds would be slaughtered.
Katrine bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, squinting at the lines of Cumberland’s men. Where was Richard? She searched the six regiments from right to left. On the flanks were the cavalry and then came the second line of infantry. It was then that she saw him, and her heart turned over. His hat was off and his fair hair glinted silver in the sunlight. The Campbell militia was positioned behind the prince’s right flank.
The first shots came from a Jacobite gun. The duke’s gunner opened fire with devastating results to the Highland ranks. The tartan-clad line, with wind and gunpowder blowing in their faces, stoically suffered the assault. Cumberland was too good a general to allow his men to engage in hand-to-hand combat before his artillery had done their job. With the Jacobite ranks standing six men deep, cannonballs wiped out entire regiments in seconds. Still the Highlanders stood, waiting for the signal to charge.
“Please,” Katrine prayed, “give the order, give it now.”
The fury of a Highland charge was legendary. There were few English troops that could withstand a hoard of screaming men bearing down upon them with broadswords drawn and claymores swinging. But the order never came. The prince was too far behind to see what was happening to his front line.
Something was definitely happening. Katrine clenched her fists. Richard’s troops were moving forward to a position in front of the wall. When the Highland charge came, her husband’s men would sweep the clansmen with bullets from end to end.
There was confusion in the Jacobite ranks. The MacIntoshes of Clan Chattan rushed forward, and the men of Atholl followed. Richard’s men poured forth their fire. The carnage was appalling. Katrine closed her eyes and willed the nausea rising in her throat to depart. When she opened them, it was to see her father, his wig and hat blown off, fighting his way from the rear of the duke’s army to the head of the second line. But it was already too late. Defeated, the clansmen were moving back. The moor was covered with the blood of the dead and wounded. Cumberland’s cavalry rode forward, pursuing the retreating Jacobites. Katrine could no longer see her father. The entire battle had lasted less than one hour. On the moor and on the road to Inverness packed with fugitives, Cumberland’s dragoons began their indiscriminate slaughter.
Katrine’s breasts ached and the bodice of her gown was wet with leaking milk when she maneuvered her mare down the gradual slope to the bloodstained moor. She could not return to Culloden House until she knew the worst. On the battlefield, surgeons cared for the government injured while Cumberland’s dragoons bayoneted and clubbed to death the wounded of the prince’s army.
She must find Richard. He would stop this senseless massacre. Praying that he was still alive, Katrine slipped from her horse and walked amidst the bodies strewn haphazardly across the field. Her eyes burned with the effort of holding back tears.
It was April, and all around her the heather bloomed in glorious profusion. Wrapped in a clan tartan, the Cameron standard-bearer, MacLachlan of Coruanan, lay stiff in the dirt. Robert Mor MacGillivray, his arms and legs severed from his lifeless body, lay nearby. With a sob, Katrine rested her aching body against the flank of her mare. These were her people, the men she had grown up with, danced with, teased and laughed and joked with since before her earliest memory. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks. Shoulders shaking, she slid to the ground and buried her face in her hands.
A sharp pain pricked her shoulder. She turned quickly, surprising a youth dressed in the despised garb of a government soldier. Fury drowned out her reason. Rising to her feet, she pushed aside the point of his sword. “How dare you,” she hissed. “Do you know who I am?”
“You are a Scot, madam,” the soldier replied. “The duke’s orders are to give no quarter to the enemy.”
“Does the English army stoop to making war on women?”
The man nodded. “We do now. Ever since George Murray’s orders to give the enemy no quarter.”
Katrine’s eyes flashed. “That’s a lie. Lord Murray is an honorable man. He would never issue such an order.”
“He did indeed,” the man argued.
Katrine straightened. “I am Katrine Wolfe. Perhaps you know my husband, Lord Ashton?”
The man whitened under his tan, and she saw that he was little more than a boy. “I know Lord Richard Wolfe, m’lady,” he said. “If you’ll allow me, I shall take you to him.”
Under different circumstances, the expression on her husband’s face when he looked up and saw her would have been worth everything she’d been through. He was in his tent, signing some last-minute dispatches before returning to the battlefield.
“My God,” he said hoarsely, rising to his feet. “Katrine, is it really you?”
She burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. The soldier, showing exceptional tact, retreated hastily.
“Oh, Richard,” she sobbed, “I can’t believe you’re alive.” The feel of his mouth on hers after so many long and lonely months was like a small taste of heaven.
Shocked at the raw emotion that threatened to wreak havoc with his military discipline, Richard tightened his arms around her and buried his face in the dark cloud of her hair. “Did you see it?” he asked gruffly.
She nodded against his shoulder. “Everything.”
“I’m so sorry, Katrine,” he murmured, inhaling the fragrant scent that belonged to her alone. “If I could have done it differently, I would have. Please believe that.”
She looked up at him, her cheeks streaked with tears. “Have you seen my father? Is he still alive?”
His face was ravaged. “I don’t know.”
She swallowed and pulled out of his arms. He looked at her, seeing for the first time the purple shadows under her eyes and the full, almost shapeless gown concealed beneath her cloak. His eyes widened in shock. Katrine was no longer pregnant.
“Do you have something to tell me, my love?” he asked gently.
She smiled. “I’d almost forgotten. We’ve a son, Richard, a healthy son. I’d like to name him after my brother.”
“Whatever you like,” he replied. “When was he born?”
“The day before yesterday.”
Richard stared at her. “Good God, Katrine! You should be in bed. Whatever possessed you?”
“I couldn’t bear not to know what was happening.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At Culloden House.”
“I’ll take you back immediately. I want to see my son. When this is over, we’ll go home.”
She said nothing.
He frowned and stepped forward, drawing her back into his arms. “You do want to come home with me, don’t you, Katrine? We’ll go back to England and forget all of this.”
Her smile held no gladness. She lifted her hand to touch his cheek. “Oh, Richard,” she whispered as he led her to her mare. “Don’t you see? We’ll never forget any of it for as long as we live.”
They were mounted and on their way when Katrine remembered the soldier’s words. She urged her mount forward until she rode directly beside her husband. “Richard,” she began, wetting her lips. Anxious as she was to learn the truth, she knew the answer might prove distasteful. “The soldier who brought me to you said my father had issued an order of no quarter to the enemy.”
Richard’s lips tightened, and he cursed softly. “No, Katrine,” he said at last. “It was a forgery. Cumberland inserted the no quarter phrase himself to encourage his troops in their slaughter. George Murray never gave such an order.”
“Thank God,” she said fervently.
“Don’t thank Him yet,” warned her husband as a very large, very heavy man in the frocked coat of an officer approached them. Richard looked around quickly. “Take your horse and wait behind that rock. I don’t want Cumberland interrogating you.”
Katrine did not question his orders. Pulling on the reins of her mare, she dropped back into the shelter of an enormous boulder and waited.
“The enemy has been routed, Major Wolfe,” said the duke. “It is said that the prince has fled the field.” He could not keep the scorn from his voice. “We leave for Inverness in the morning. I’ve a mind to take up residence in the house my dear cousin has recently vacated. Are you agreeable?”
“Of course,” replied Richard. “I must decline for myself, however. My wife has just given birth and is recovering at Culloden House. I wish to spend tonight with her and our son. I’ll join you tomorrow.”
“Very well and please accept my congratulations, Major. It isn’t every day that an heir is born.”
A moan interrupted them. Cumberland’s eyes dropped to the badly wounded man lying only a few feet from his horse’s hooves. His lip curled. He raised his sword and then appeared to change his mind.
From her place behind the rock, Katrine released her breath, offering a silent prayer of relief. She had recognized the man immediately. It was Charles Fraser of Inverallochy, commander of the Fraser contingent.
Again Cumberland spoke. “He’s yours, Wolfe. Kill the insolent rebel.”
Katrine’s eyes widened in horror. Would Richard refuse such an order? Could he and still live? The distance between her hiding place and the open field where the two men faced each other was not great. She saw Richard straighten and face his commander. In the deep tan of his face, his eyes glittered an angry ice blue.
Pride and relief surged through her veins. This was her husband and despite the fact that they had known very little of each other on their wedding day, her instincts had prevailed. She had seen something far greater and worth much more than his ancient title, his handsome face, and courteous manners. Richard Wolfe had courage and character. Katrine had chosen well. She knew what his answer would be even before he spoke.
“The man is wounded,” he replied scornfully. “Murder does not sit well with my conscience. I would rather resign my commission than carry out such an order.”
For a long time the two men stared at each other. Cumberland’s handsome, fleshy face was stained a dark red. “Never mind then,” he said stiffly. “I’ll find someone else to do it.” With that he rode away.
Katrine came out from behind the rock. Silently, she positioned her mare beside her husband’s mount and placed her hand over his. She nodded toward the wounded man. “We can’t leave him, Richard. He’ll be killed.”
“He’s dead already,” her husband answered bitterly. “Damn Cumberland’s soul.”
He saw the tears slide down her cheeks, and the anger left him. He smiled reassuringly. In silent communion, they rode side by side until they reached Culloden House. Together they walked through the door and up the graceful, winding staircase into the sunlit room that served as a nursery. Dismissing the servant, they leaned over the cradle where their son lay sleeping.
Richard couldn’t explain the thundering of his heart or the clammy coldness of his hands as he looked down into the face of the child Katrine had borne him. Alasdair Wolfe did not look like an English baby. Long black lashes rested against olive-tinted cheeks. His mouth was like Katrine’s, and the delicate bones of his cheeks and chin promised the slender sharpness of his Celtic ancestors. Just then, the baby’s eyes opened, revealing where the Murray lineage had given way to his own. Long lashes surrounded eyes as true and deeply blue as any Wolfe who had ever lived.
A lump rose in Richard’s throat. This was his child, his son. He was unprepared for the rush of love that swept through him, wiping away the cultivated inhibitions of a lifetime. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t force the words past his lips. For one horrifying moment he felt like weeping, and then Katrine’s hand slipped into his. He looked up to find the strength he needed in her gaze. It would be all right. They were in this together. When the score was settled, he would resign his commission and they would return home to raise their child.
For Richard, the night was too short. Lying next to Katrine for the first time in months, holding her close, breathing in the clean scent of her hair was like a restoring tonic. He didn’t want to waste one precious moment in sleep. But in the end, he succumbed to his exhausted body’s need. His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened into the rhythmic cadence of the unconscious.
Katrine awoke first. It was just before dawn. She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at her husband. His bare chest was tanned, his stomach lean and tight with muscle. He was thinner than she remembered. The golden hair spread across the pillow was bleached almost white from the sun. Something dark and elemental stirred inside of her, something she hadn’t thought about in the long months of her pregnancy and confinement. Regret washed over her. It was too soon after Alasdair’s birth. With a sigh, she pulled the covers over the two of them and nestled against the comforting warmth of his body.
She thought of the baby. Instantly, wet circles dampened her gown. Richard smiled in his sleep and pulled her into a possessive embrace. Burrowing her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes. Just this once, Alasdair could wait.
The next time she woke, Richard was completely dressed, except for his boots. Katrine watched him as he pulled on the right one first and then the left.
“Were you going to wake me?” she asked.
“I was hoping to return before you noticed I was gone,” he confessed.
Katrine frowned. “I don’t want you to feel as if you must leave anything unfinished because of me, Richard.”
He leaned across the bed and cupped her chin in his hand. “I want us to go home, Katrine. My heart isn’t in this anymore. I’m a husband and a father, not a soldier.”
Her eyes glistened. Of his own free will, Richard was making the commitment she had waited so long to hear. More than anything in the world, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and tell him nothing mattered but the life they would have together. But it wouldn’t be true. There was much more at stake than just the two of them. Richard did not yet understand the significance of what had happened at Drumossie Moor that day, and Katrine did not have the courage to tell him. Instead she said, “I could never leave without first seeing my father.”
Richard nodded. His eyes were very blue as they searched her face. It was as if he were trying to imprint into his memory every curve and line of the fine narrow bones, the clean planes of her cheek and chin, the tilt of her nose, the sweep of black lashes against olive skin, and the clear, fathomless gray of her eyes. His kiss was swift and hard. “I love you, Katrine,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever happens, remember that. God willing, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
“See that you do, Richard Wolfe,” she said gravely. “Come back to me in one piece.”
Tucking his hat under his arm, he smiled at her one last time before leaving the room.
That morning, Katrine breakfasted alone. Duncan had already left when she came down the stairs. His message, telling her he had been summoned by Cumberland, was a cryptic one. He must have realized that Richard had survived the battle and spent the night in her room. She sighed. Duncan had proven himself to be a dear friend, but Richard was her husband. Sooner or later, Duncan would have to come to terms with that fact.
Katrine was halfway through her second cup of tea when a loud pounding at the door interrupted her. She stood and walked into the entry. Duncan’s butler and a blood-smeared clansman she recognized as Gillie MacBean of Clan Chattan argued loudly.
Quickly, she intervened. “May I help you?” she asked politely.
“Don’t listen to him, m’lady,” entreated the butler. “Lord Forbes specifically instructed me to see that you remain inside today. Cumberland’s troops are killing everyone in sight, no questions asked.”
“I appreciate your concern, Holmes,” replied Katrine, “but I must hear what Gillie has to say.”
Gillie MacBean straightened his shoulders and stepped forward. “’Tis Ewan Douglas who sent me to fetch you, lass. His wound is poisoned, and he wishes to leave your mother a message.”
Katrine’s hand flew to her throat. Ewan was her uncle, her mother’s only surviving brother. “Can you wait until I get my cloak?” she asked.
The man’s worried countenance relaxed, and he nodded. “A moment more will make no difference.”
“’Tis not safe, m’lady,” the butler repeated. “I wish you will reconsider.” His words followed her as she ran up the stairs, found her cloak, and hurried down again.
“Tell Lord Forbes where I’ve gone,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “If my uncle is well enough, I shall bring him back with me.”
The servant bowed his head in defeat as the burly clansman lifted Katrine to his own saddle and climbed up behind her.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To a barn near Balvraid,” the man replied. “Ewan made his way there last evening.”
Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “Are there no surgeons to see to the wounded?”
“Aye,” said Gillie bitterly, “to the government wounded. Those fighting for the prince can expect nothing more than the sharp end of a bayonet.”
“Even those who surrendered?” Katrine refused to believe the men her husband commanded were capable of such cruelty.
“This isn’t a tea party, lass. The charge against us is treason, and the penalty is death.”
Katrine could think of nothing to say that would soften the horror of such a fate. She remained silent until they pulled up beside what appeared to be a deserted barn.
Her uncle was still conscious, but his eyes were closed. He was alone, and the blood staining his shirt came from a wound in the center of his chest.
Katrine knelt beside him. “Uncle Ewan,” she whispered, “’tis Katrine. I’ve come to take you away from here.”
Slowly the dying man’s eyes opened. His breath was loud and rasping, and the bubbles forming at his mouth were filled with blood. With enormous effort he formed the words. “Tell Janet—”
Katrine bent her ear to his lips. “Tell her what?”
His words were the barest whisper. “Tell her to go to France. Take my son, his wife, and the child.” His breathing altered for a moment and then continued. “They mean to kill all of us. No one in the Highlands is safe.”
She drew back in horror. “We’ve had uprisings before,” she argued. “Why is this different?”
For a man at the end of his strength, his grip on her wrist was amazingly strong. “Do as I say, Katrine. Promise me.”
She stared down into the face that was as familiar to her as her own father’s. Slowly she nodded. “I promise.”
“Good girl,” he rasped and turned toward the wall.
Gillie MacBean leaned forward and placed his fingers against the wounded man’s throat. He shook his head.
Tears rolled down Katrine’s cheeks. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.
“He waited for you, lass. I’m sure it was a great comfort to him to have you here.”
She opened her mouth to speak when a noise outside the barn stopped her. Gillie held his finger against his lips, picked up his broadsword, and flattened himself against the barn wall. The door burst open, and a dozen horses filled the entrance. There were a dozen more behind them.
“What have we here?” A large heavy-set man with a long nose and double chin stared first at Katrine and then at the lifeless body of Ewan Douglas. He frowned. Katrine’s face, in the dark shadows of the barn, was unrecognizable. Gesturing toward one of his men, he ordered, “Bring her outside.”
She lifted her chin. “That won’t be necessary,” she said and walked between the sweating horses into the dim light of an April day.
“Who are you?” asked the duke of Cumberland.
Smiling disdainfully, she spread her bloodstained skirts in a mocking curtsey. “Don’t you recognize me, Your Grace? I am Katrine Wolfe.”
His eyes narrowed. “May I ask why you are here giving aid to a rebel?”
“Ewan Douglas is my uncle,” she said shortly. “I could not refuse him.”
He toyed with the black rosette on his hat. “George Murray is your father, is he not?”
“He is.”
“Have you Jacobite sympathies, Lady Wolfe?”
Across the distance that separated them, he could see the flashing silver of her eyes. “I do, Your Grace.”
“Are you aware that the penalty for treason is death?”
Something clicked in the back of her mind. This scene had been played out before. She closed her eyes, and the memory of another woman and another time flooded her consciousness. Words, clear and proud, resounded in her head. Katrine’s eyes opened, and her faintness cleared. Her voice was strong with purpose. “I am no traitor,” she said, “for I did not betray my king.”
Cumberland could not mistake her meaning. His face turned a dark purple. “In that case, m’lady,” he said, “you shall join your fellow Jacobites. ’Tis a pity we have no gallows, but I’ve heard death by sword is far more merciful.” He turned to the men mounted beside him. “Seize her,” he ordered.
In unison they moved forward. Gillie MacBean, brandishing his broadsword at the duke, stepped out from inside the barn. “Touch her and I’ll spear you through the heart.”
Cumberland’s face twisted in fury. “Kill him,” he shouted.
Two dragoons positioned themselves beside Katrine. The rest moved forward. She closed her eyes, praying for a miracle. The odds against Gillie were twenty to one. The minutes seemed like hours, but finally it was silent again. Katrine opened her eyes and gasped. Thirteen government soldiers lay dead and with them the trampled and dismembered body of Gillie MacBean. Tears pricked her eyes. If there had only been more men like Gillie, yesterday would have turned out quite differently for the duke of Cumberland. His attention had returned to Katrine.
“Save your tears for yourself, Lady Wolfe,” he said. “You shall join him shortly.” Dismounting, the duke pulled out his sword and advanced toward her.
“What in bloody hell are you doing?” A voice, ice cold and deadly with rage, froze Cumberland in his tracks.
Slowly he turned around and looked across the clearing into Major Richard Wolfe’s forbidding blue eyes. He was alone and on horseback. Somehow, during the fray, he had come unnoticed upon the duke and his men.
“Your wife is guilty of giving aid to the enemy,” Cumberland announced. “She is also an admitted Jacobite. The penalty is death.”
“She is my wife,” said Richard through gritted teeth. “As the countess of Ashton, she is an English peer. That entitles her to a trial.”
“Not in time of war.”
“This isn’t a war,” replied Richard scathingly. “’Tis a bloodbath. You’ll be remembered throughout history as a butcher.”
Both of Cumberland’s large chins quivered with anger. “Major Richard Wolfe, you will be placed under arrest for insubordination.”
Richard’s eyes challenged him. “I’ll not allow you to harm my wife.” He drew his sword. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
Cumberland stepped back. “Restrain him,” he ordered his men.
The dragoons looked doubtfully at each other. More than one face held a troubled expression. Major Wolfe was a superior officer and a favorite among the men.
Richard grinned. “Come, lads. I’ll take you together or one at a time.”
Two horsemen moved forward.
“No,” Katrine moaned, pulling out of the grasp of her captors. She could not bear to see Richard’s lean, beautiful body torn into pieces before her. Rushing forward, she grabbed Cumberland’s sleeve. “Stop please,” she begged.
Surprised at the unexpected contact, he turned quickly, his sword extended. The blade, cold as ice, sliced deeply into the soft flesh of Katrine’s breast.
A look of astonishment crossed her face. She stepped back and touched her hand to her side. Blood stained her gown and seeped through her fingers. With a gasp, she crumpled to the ground.
Shocked, Cumberland dropped his sword just as Richard’s hands found his throat. The choking pain had given way to a sweet lassitude before his men pried him loose. When at last he sat up, he saw Major Wolfe riding away, cradling his wife in his arms. No one attempted to stop them. Looking into the accusing eyes of his men, Cumberland knew that any order to apprehend the couple would be disobeyed.
Richard Wolfe had seen enough of war to know that Katrine’s wound was fatal. It was amazing that even now she lived. Blood poured from the gash like a fountain. His jacket and shirt were already drenched, and he could feel the familiar wetness beneath his clothing, warm against his skin. He refused to succumb to his pain. There would be a lifetime for anguish. Now, he must be strong for Katrine.
“Richard.” Her voice was faint. “Save my family. See that they leave for France.”
“You know I will.” Not for one moment did he consider lying. Katrine, straightforward in the throes of death as she was in life, would be spared the effort of pretense. They both knew she was dying. Any comfort must be taken in these last few moments together. He stopped the horse. They were far from Cumberland and his men.
“Take care of Alasdair,” she whispered. “Later, when the troubles are settled, bring him to Scotland. My mother has no one left.”
Richard tried to contain his grief, but the pain was too great. Burying his head in her hair, he wept. Her hand slipped away and her head fell back, and still he wept. He knew from the frightening limp weight of her that she was gone. He knew night would soon descend and that a lone man on horseback was a target. He knew that his life would be worthless if either Cumberland’s troops or Jacobite marauders came upon him. But none of it mattered. He had lost Katrine Murray. Nothing would ever matter again.