Eleven
BLAIR CASTLE
1993
An insistent knocking brought me back to the present. Crossing the room, I unlocked the door to find an anxious Ian Douglas staring back at me.
“In another minute, I would have forced my way in,” he said. “Are you all right?”
Shaking my head, I stepped back and leaned against the door. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears choked my throat and paralyzed my tongue.
The worry on his face deepened. He stepped forward and reached for me. Closing my eyes, I leaned against him, giving way to the searing grief I could no longer hold back. Deep inside me, from a source I didn’t know existed and hadn’t yet begun to tap, the heaving sobs began. Gathering me against his chest, Ian let me cry for a long time, rubbing my back and the crown of my head, murmuring Gaelic words of comfort into my ear.
Much later, when my storm of emotion had passed and his sweater was damp with tears, I pulled out of his arms, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. He handed me his handkerchief, and I accepted it with a self-conscious “Thank you.”
Ian waited until I’d restored some semblance of calm to my tear-streaked face. Then he led me to the armchair, pressed me down into the cushions, and asked, “Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?”
I looked away from the concern reflected in his face and closed my eyes. For some reason I was exhausted. What I wanted more than anything in the world was to go home. Edinburgh and the luncheon with Professor MacCleod seemed like weeks ago. I chewed the inside of my lip. What would Ian say if I asked him to take me back after coming all this way? There was nothing else to do but tell him how I felt.
Opening my eyes, I spoke directly. “I want to go back to Traquair, Ian. There is nothing here at Blair-Atholl.”
He frowned. “How do you know?”
I hesitated. How much would he accept?
“Christina.” He knelt beside me, his blue eyes very intent. “I’m not as skeptical as you believe. Trust me.”
My eyes moved over his face. It was a strong face, confident and sincere. A muscle throbbed at the corner of his mouth.
“Mairi hid the stone at Traquair,” I blurted out. “Katrine found the passageway, but she went into labor before she could explore it.”
His voice was very controlled. “You’ve been dreaming again.”
“They aren’t dreams. They’re visions. Katrine Murray died at Cumberland’s hands. She had a child. A boy.” I could hear the hysterical quality to my voice. “She had diabetes, and she saw everything exactly as I’ve seen it.” Sitting up, I clutched his sleeve. “I’ve got to find the stone, Ian. Don’t you see? If Mairi’s name is cleared, the curse will end.”
Perspiration beaded his forehead. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
“What?”
“If, as you say, the pattern holds true and you believe everything you’re telling me, you are in considerable danger, Christina.”
A cold prickling sensation made its way up my spine. He had voiced what I’d refused to admit for some time now. “I know,” I whispered.
Errant raindrops dripped down the chimney and fell into the flames of the fire. A log hissed and sputtered and then broke in two. Ian spoke softly, but his eyes never left my face. “Mairi and Katrine died at the hands of their enemies.” He reached over to the desk and picked up Professor MacCleod’s envelope. “I think you’d better read this. It’s the biography of Jeanne Maxwell, compiled from letters found after her death.”
“She’s the one I know nothing about. Why is that, I wonder?” I looked inquiringly at Ian.
He shrugged. “Maybe something we know nothing about triggers a particular association or maybe the mind can only take in so much information at a time.”
“Or maybe Mairi is controlling us all, allowing only so much to happen at a time.” I shivered and ran my fingers over the envelope. “Have you read this?”
He nodded and brushed his hand against my cheek. “I have. And if you come to the same conclusion I did, we’re in this together.”
My mouth felt dry. “Why?” I whispered.
He smiled, and once again I felt a tiny flutter of pleasure in my stomach. “Let’s just say that I’ve a small stake in your future. You’ll know more when you’ve finished reading.” He stood up, pulling me with him. “Shall we take a break and go down to dinner?”
Apparently dinner at Blair was never informal, even when the host was absent. I counted seven courses in all, from the salmon in wine sauce and clear dill soup to the dessert, which was a custard-filled bread pudding.
“Excuse me, Miss Murray.” The butler bowed slightly. “I called Traquair as you requested and explained that you and Mr. Douglas would not be returning this evening. Mrs. Ferguson wanted me to tell you that your father called from America. She said his message was urgent.”
I could feel myself pale. “Did she mention why?”
“No, miss.” He shook his head. “Would you like to use the phone in the library?”
“Yes, please.” I pushed back my chair and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, Ian, I’ll be right back.”
He stood. “Of course. I hope there’s nothing wrong.”
“So do I,” I muttered.
My hands shook as I dialed the operator for instructions on how to complete a trans-Atlantic call. Within seconds, the sound of my parents’ telephone rang in my ear. Two rings, three, four. Where were they? It was eleven o’clock in the morning in California. They always ate an early lunch on the patio after walking the dogs. The answering machine picked up the call, and my father’s familiar recorded voice explained that no one could come to the phone and to please leave a message. After hearing the beep, I explained where I was and that I would be returning to Traquair in the morning. Hanging up the phone, I walked back into the dining room.
Ian held out my chair, and I sat down. The fragrant smell of hot coffee coming from the shining silver coffee service was too tempting to ignore. I waited in silence as the housekeeper poured the dark brown liquid into a delicate china cup, placed it on a matching saucer, and handed it to me. She repeated the process for Ian. After asking if there would be anything else, she discreetly left the room.
“Is everything all right at home?” he asked.
I sipped my coffee. “I don’t know. No one was there.”
He frowned. “Do your parents normally call you when you visit Scotland?”
I shook my head. “Never. I’m not always sure when I’ll be in. I usually call them every Sunday night.”
“Why don’t we call Kate and ask if your father mentioned where they might be?”
“I don’t think that would help,” I replied. “My father is a lawyer, Ian. He doesn’t leave anything to chance. If it was important that I know where they were, he would have left a specific message.” I looked up to meet his worried expression. His concern had a reassuring affect on me. I smiled. “Thank you for caring, but I’m sure nothing is seriously wrong. He would have told Kate if it was a real emergency.”
He looked relieved. “If you’re sure—”
“Very sure,” I said firmly. “I’m curious, nothing more.”
We left the dining room, and Ian reached for my hand. “There’s a comfortable sitting room at the other end of the house,” he said. “It even has a television.”
I looked up into the sculpted perfection of his face. What I saw there stopped my breath. It was surprising that I recognized it at all. I had seen it only once before in the last several years and that was yesterday on the riverbank. It was the look of a man in need and hungry—for me.
When my heart resumed its beating, I answered him. “It sounds wonderful, but do we really need a television?”
He grinned and slid his arm around my waist. “Follow me.”
The sitting room was as modern as my mother’s California living room. The twin sofas were large with plush, comfortable pillows and stylish upholstery. Recessed lighting gave the room a cozy glow. A sleek wooden coffee table in front of the fireplace carried copies of popular magazines.
Ian dimmed the lights and lit the fire while I sat on the couch and thumbed through a copy of a women’s magazine not sold in America. Soon he joined me and, as naturally as if he’d done it every day of his life, pulled my head against his shoulder, and kissed me.
Who can explain why one particular man instinctively knows the secret of setting a woman’s body aflame when another can try time after laborious time and never quite get it right?
Ian’s hands moved across my skin like a concert pianist, while his lips and tongue played havoc with the dips and scooped-out hollows of my cheeks, my throat, the curves of my breasts, and the sensitive spot where my neck and shoulder met. I couldn’t stop the moan of sheer animal pleasure when he pressed me back against the pillows and covered my body with his. He was lean and hard and warm and beautiful, and I wanted him with a desperation completely unfamiliar to me. Shamelessly I encouraged him, urging him on with words and gestures I would never have imagined myself capable of before this night. My body took on a life of its own, moving and opening with wanton abandon under the sensual, drugging magic of his skilled hands and seeking lips.
“My God, Christina,” he said and surged inside me. He stiffened, and I could feel the cords stand out on his neck. “I’m sorry, darling,” he gasped, “but I can’t wait any longer.” At his first swollen thrust, my pleasure peaked. Sensation consumed me and for the first time in thirty-seven years, I came to know the meaning of the words white hot and rocking waves of passion.
Later, when the fire was nearly out and Ian’s chest moved in the steady rhythm of the nearly unconscious, I lifted my head from his shoulder and asked the question I had wanted to ask since yesterday on the riverbank. “Why do you know so much about my family history?”
His eyes flew open, and for the barest instant I could feel resistance in the sudden tightening of his arms. Then he relaxed and settled my head back into the hollow of his shoulder. I held my breath, hoping that this time he wouldn’t put me off. My patience was rewarded.
“You’ll think I’m mad,” he muttered.
I lifted my head to stare at him in astonishment. “After everything I’ve told you? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He still looked unconvinced.
“Ian,” I said softly, using his words, “please trust me.”
He sighed, and I could feel the tension flow out of his body. In the lyrical, hypnotic voice of a Highland bard, he began to speak. “My family is descended from the Black Douglases through the illegitimate line of Sir James Douglas.”
I knew something of the history of that ill-fated family as well as that of the Red Douglases who came later, but I didn’t interrupt. I had a feeling that Ian’s story might be a great deal different from the textbooks.
“From our earliest history to the time when Sir William Douglas was imprisoned inside the Tower of London after fighting with Wallace at Falkirk, we had the usual triumphs and tragedies that most clans experienced. But after that, when the Bruce came to power, things changed. The family fortunes deteriorated, the line died out, and Douglas men fell out of favor.”
When the Bruce came to power. I felt a chill run down my spine. The Bruce had come to power during the lifetime of Mairi of Shiels.
“Sir James Douglas had two sons,” Ian continued, “one illegitimate. His brother Archibald had one as well. As you know, James died in Spain while attempting to bury the Bruce’s heart in the Holy Land. His son fell fighting the English at Halidan Hill. Archibald also died at Halidan. William, Archibald’s son, became the earl of Douglas. He died at Otterburn without an heir.”
I remained silent, asking no questions, hardly daring to breathe. Scotland’s history had always been a rocky one, her people’s disagreements settled at the point of a sword. It wasn’t completely clear as to where Ian was going with his litany of tragic deaths, but as I listened, my suspicions grew.
“Archibald the Grim, a bastard, came to power as the third earl of Douglas. His oldest son died in battle, and his grandsons were lured to Edinburgh and executed in the castle. The title went to Archibald’s second son, James, and then to his son, William. William renewed his allegiance to the earls of Crawford and Ross. King James II sent him a safe conduct and invited him to Stirling, where he had William stabbed and his body flung over the battlements, where it was found by his brother, the new earl.
“Three years later, King James charged the family with treason and brought an army against them. The entire Douglas estates were forfeited and the earldom extinguished. The earl fled to England with one of his brothers, leaving his wife behind. She was called the Fair Maid of Galloway. The king arranged for her divorce, married her to his own half brother, and gave them the Douglas lordship of Balveny. They became the earl and countess of Atholl. So you see, Christina, the Murrays prevailed after all.”
Ian had related his story as if everything had happened in his own lifetime, to people he knew and loved. But I knew that the final curtain had come down on the Black Douglases in the middle of the fifteenth century, over five hundred years ago. I still had no clue as to why this had anything to do with the twentieth-century Ian Douglas. I was about to interrupt his reverie and ask when he started to speak again.
“I know this background history must seem tedious to you, but I had to establish a reference. For years descendents of the Douglases fostered themselves to other clans, hiring themselves out to sympathetic families. In the middle of the sixteenth century, an enterprising Douglas married into the Murray clan and was gifted the home that now belongs to my family. By staying neutral during most of Scotland’s wars, a Douglas heir has always managed to survive there.”
I couldn’t miss the hostility in his voice or the bitter twist to his mouth.
“When other estates had difficulties, we had disasters. Somehow the Douglas lands have always been in the path of marauding armies and crop-destroying storms. Our fortunes have always been explained away as chance or unusually bad luck until the First World War when my grandfather was decorated for heroic service. He was a career officer and rose steadily in the ranks until it was time for his appointed promotion. They passed him over for a desk officer who had never so much as left the country. He retired immediately and drank himself into an early grave.”
“I don’t understand,” I began.
“You will when I’m finished,” he promised. “My father ran for a seat in the House of Commons. He was a popular man, respected by everyone in Innerleithen and Peebles. His opponent, an Englishman from York who had recently moved into the area, accused my father of molesting his fourteen-year-old daughter. I was in America at the time and didn’t know the exact details until after it was all over. My father had too much pride to speak in his own defense. They found him the morning after the trial with a bullet hole in his head.”
“Oh, dear God.” My eyes swam with the tears I couldn’t hold back. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”
“I didn’t realize any of it was connected,” he continued, “until I met Professor MacCleod. We met on the road. His car battery broke down, and I stopped to help him. When he realized who I was, he introduced himself and explained that he was interested in Scottish antiquities. We had tea, and I drove him to Traquair. By the end of the day, he must have decided that I wouldn’t accuse him of insanity because he confided in me. It was then that I learned about the entire history of the Maxwells and the Murrays and my own ancestor, the woman who placed her curse upon the two clans.”
He held me away from him, his eyes searching my face, willing me to understand and accept. “She was my ancestor, Christina, and impossible as it appears, from the very moment she accused Mairi of Shiels, her descendents have lived under a black cloud.”
How could such a thing be possible? Every ounce of sanity in my brain protested. And yet, why not? I had seen it all, much more clearly than Ian. I was present when Grizelle Murray Douglas condemned Mairi to death. I had seen the pain in David Murray’s eyes and watched his pleasant features twist in hatred when he met his mother’s triumphant gaze.
“What can we do?” I whispered.
With a hoarse cry, Ian pulled me against him and buried his face in my hair. “Bless you, Christina,” he murmured in relief, “and thank you for believing me. It sounds so outrageous that half the time I don’t believe it myself.”
I smiled into his shoulder, but the pleasure of being in his arms was diminished by the urgency of our problem. “There must be something we can do,” I repeated.
“Perhaps there is, now that you’re here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have an unusual gift, my love. I’m not sure what it all means, but wherever it takes us, we’re in this together.”
Something bothered me, and I had to voice it. “Why me, Ian? Why do I have the sight?”
He folded my hands between his own, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle and patient. “I believe that whatever forces of goodness exist on earth gave us this chance, just as they gave Katrine Murray, two hundred years ago, and Jeanne Maxwell, two hundred years before that. The incredible part is that we have a chance neither of them had. They were alone. We found each other.”
The fire was completely out, and the air had grown cold. I shivered, and Ian pulled a woolen afghan over me. “It still doesn’t make sense,” I persisted. “Not everything fits. My mother is Irish, and the dreams didn’t come to Katrine until after she was pregnant. Was it that way for Jeanne Maxwell?”
He shook his head, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Jeanne’s circumstances were different. She didn’t have the first of the nightmares until after her son was born. I don’t have all the answers, Christina. We’ll just have to go along with the facts we have.”
“I can’t have children,” I reminded him.
With the tip of his finger he traced my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose, and the line of my mouth. My lips parted, and I tasted the salty flavor of his skin. He bent his head, and I felt his breath against my ear. “Wrong, Christina,” he whispered, pressing his mouth against the sensitive lobe. “You just haven’t had them yet.”
Later, we made our way up to my bedroom and together opened Professor MacCleod’s envelope. Ian positioned the feather pillows behind his head and settled me against him so that my back rested against his chest. Surrounded by the security of his arms, I read aloud the documents so painstakingly collected for me. The dry expository prose wasn’t nearly as enjoyable to read as Janet’s diary had been, but it didn’t matter. Before long, Ian fell asleep and I must have also because, like a dream, the shockingly visual story of Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair unfolded before me.