Sixteen
The following morning Jeanne hovered on the brink of consciousness, aware of an unusual weight warming one side of her body. She opened her eyes to find John propped up on his elbow. He had obviously been watching her sleep. She flushed, uncomfortable with such intimacy. Yesterday’s events came back to her in a rush of memory, the wedding, the banquet, the dim rose-scented room, and her fear of the night to come. She frowned. That was all. Nothing else came to mind. Cautiously she moved her legs, shifting to one side. Again nothing. Her body felt completely normal, better than normal. The fatigue that had plagued her for weeks before the wedding was gone.
She smiled lazily at her husband. “Did you sleep well?” she asked.
John’s eyes widened. Was she serious? No flesh-and-blood man could have slept a wink. He searched her face for signs of amusement. There were none. “Not entirely,” he answered.
“I’m sorry. We can change the mattress if you like.”
“Jeanne,” he said, exasperated. “My discomfort has nothing to do with the mattress.”
Her smile faltered. “I don’t understand.”
He stared at her in amazement. Was she really as naive as she seemed, or had the wine affected her more than he realized? Another thought occurred to him. If she truly didn’t remember the events of their wedding night, perhaps he could use it to his advantage.
“I’ll help you understand, mo chridhe,” he murmured huskily. Reaching under the bedclothes, he parted the ridiculous nightgown until he felt the smooth skin of her thigh. Slowly, sensuously, his hand slid up her leg to the curve of her waist. She shivered, and the breath caught in his throat. Bending his head, he found her mouth at the same moment he untied the ribbon at her waist.
Jeanne’s pulse leaped at the touch of his lips, the feel of his hand on her hip, then her stomach, and, finally, her waist. When it closed over her breast she refused to breathe, afraid of the overwhelming sensations consuming her. Could this really be John, her childhood champion, whose seeking lips and skilled hands were bringing her to a state of frenzied need? How could she have grown up in his presence without realizing the magic his touch would bring? Wrapping her arms around his waist, she arched her back to bring him closer.
His kiss deepened, and his hands moved over her, familiarizing himself with every hollow and curve of her body. His jaw clenched and the cords of his neck were slick with sweat as he struggled to maintain control. She was soft and warm and sweetly damp beneath him. Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps and her hands played along his spine and hips, too shy to explore further. He nuzzled her neck. It tasted of salt and roses. He adjusted his body, causing her hands to slide lower. Immediately, they froze, and he held his breath. Tentatively, they moved again in small circular motions, testing the skin and hair beneath her palms. John pulled away to look at her, elbows locked, resting on his hands. Her eyes were closed, and a flush covered her face and chest. She was ready for him.
Gathering her close, he kissed her deeply and slid one thigh between her legs. She accepted him willingly. He tightened his arms and waited no longer.
Jeanne gasped and opened her eyes. The sensations were no longer pleasant. The burning pain between her thighs was close to unbearable. She pushed at John’s chest. Instead of pulling away, he lifted her hips, and with one swollen thrust, filled her completely. Jeanne cried out and dug her nails into his back. Tears coursed down her cheeks and still the arms of steel held her prisoner. Strange vibrations pulsed in the most private part of her body, and she realized that John was shuddering. Twisting her neck, she struggled to see his face. It was buried against her throat. The pain inside her had lessened, but the pressure was still very great. Cautiously, she shifted her hips.
John groaned against her throat. The tiny movement was his undoing. He came at once, thrusting inside her over and over until he collapsed against her breast.
Jeanne stared in fascinated horror at the limp body on top of her. The pain between her thighs had diminished to an aching soreness, and the pressure had disappeared completely. The pushing, thrusting body of her husband was once again nothing more than a comforting weight warming the front of her. He looked completely spent and satisfied as if he had fought a great battle and won. Could he possibly have enjoyed himself?
John opened one eye and grinned at her. She was suddenly, illogically angry. “You hurt me,” she accused him.
“I know.” His eyes danced with flickering lights. “I’m sorry, love. It won’t happen again.”
“How do you know?” she asked suspiciously.
He lifted himself off of her. “It only hurts the first time when the maidenhood barrier is torn.”
She blushed, embarrassed at discussing such matters openly. Then she thought of something else. “Why wasn’t it torn last night?”
He looked amused. “Because you fell asleep on me. I spent my wedding night in a state of torment.”
Humiliation flooded through her. She tried to turn away, but he would have none of it. Turning her chin with his hand, he said, “It doesn’t matter, lass. What happens between the two of us in the privacy of our bedchamber is no one’s business but our own. Do you really believe I would tell the world my lovemaking skills are so inadequate that my bride fell asleep on our wedding night?”
Jeanne hadn’t thought of the matter in that light before. He made it seem as if the failure was his own. Immediately, she felt better. Reaching down to straighten the sheet, her hand came in contact with something wet.
Frowning, she threw back the covers and sat up. “I’m bleeding,” she said with a gasp.
John could no longer control his amusement. Was there ever before a woman who had been raised in such ignorance? Throwing back his head, he laughed, a full-bodied, deep-chested sound that swayed the tapestries lining the walls.
Jeanne looked at him indignantly. “Will you please explain what is so amusing?”
When he had finally contained himself enough to speak, several moments had passed. “’Tis proof of your virginity.”
She was too surprised to feel embarrassed. “Do all women bleed?”
“I believe so,” he answered.
“Don’t you know?” she asked curiously.
This time it was he who reddened in embarrassment. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“By all that is holy, you are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever known,” he cried.
“’Tis said you’ve known many.” Her voice was sweetly sarcastic.
“I’ve never, until this morning, bedded a virgin.”
“Oh.”
John eyed her uneasily. She looked almost disappointed. He sighed. “What is bothering you, Jeanne? Tell me now, and we’ll be done with it.”
“Why have you never bedded a virgin?”
He thought carefully before answering, afraid of offending her. There was no way around it but the truth. “A man thinks of pleasure when lying with a woman,” he answered. “There is no pleasure for a woman the first time.”
Her forehead wrinkled as she considered the matter. “Does it matter to a man that a woman feels no pleasure?” she asked at last.
He nodded. “Aye. The enjoyment is lessened if a woman leaves unsatisfied.”
Jeanne moistened her lips and closed her eyes, unable to look at his face when she told him. “I’m sorry, John. But I don’t believe I’ll ever enjoy what we did.”
The silence was heavy between them. Gathering her nerve, she opened her eyes. He did not look at all devastated. In fact, he looked positively cheerful.
He lowered his head so that his lips played along the curve of her throat. “Was it all bad?” he murmured between kisses.
“Not entirely.” Jeanne was feeling strange. When his hand stroked the side of her breast, she felt tiny flutterings in the pit of her stomach. “I like this very much,” she confessed.
He smiled into her neck before moving to the slope of her breast. She sighed and closed her eyes, welcoming the weight of him against her body. Stretching seductively she clasped her arms around his neck.
Once again, John was filled with need. But it wasn’t the raging tide of the previous night. This time he could wait. His eyes lingered on her parted lips. Bending his head, he kissed her, his tongue tracing the polished teeth, the line of her mouth, and the sweet flesh within. When her hands twisted themselves in his hair and her tongue followed his, he pulled away well satisfied. Better to wait and leave her with the memory of pleasure. Perhaps in a day or two, she would reconsider her opinion of lovemaking. He smiled wryly to himself. This business of marriage was more than he’d bargained for.
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
My father called at nine in the morning. He and my mother had flown all night and sounded exhausted on the telephone.
Kate had spent the last few days preparing for their arrival. A huge bedroom, which I learned was traditionally the laird’s suite, had been cleaned from top to bottom, the mattresses turned, rugs pounded, and sheets hung outside to absorb the scent of pine and clean wind. Bouquets of heather were set on the mantel and both end tables, and thick, freshly laundered towels hung in the modern master bath.
I was grateful that the road was deserted. The car I’d rented the day before was a Sierra, a model I’d never seen in the States but close enough to an American car to feel and look familiar. The steering wheel, however, was on the right and the roundabouts with their spoke-like directionals came too quickly to make driving completely comfortable. Thankful that I didn’t have to worry about those until I reached the city, I looked around at the scenery and thought about Jeanne Maxwell.
According to Professor MacCleod’s research, she had confided in her husband, telling him of the nightmares that came to her with such terrifying clarity. But, unlike Katrine, she had not experienced them during her pregnancy. Jeanne’s visions of Mairi’s death had not come until three years after her marriage, well after her son was born. Everything else fit perfectly. Her diabetes, the combination of Murray and Maxwell blood in her gene pool, the incredible similarity of features. Something was missing. What was it? What could have occurred in her life to give her that look of wariness I’d seen in her portrait? Had her marriage turned out to be unhappy?
I thought back to her wedding night. It hadn’t lived up to her expectations, but it wasn’t an unusual experience for a woman who knew next to nothing about sex. From the beginning of time, women had suffered through much worse and gone on to have satisfying relationships. John Maxwell didn’t strike me as a man who couldn’t arouse his wife, or any other woman for that matter. No, I decided. The problem couldn’t have anything to do with their marriage.
The turnoff to the airport came sooner than I’d expected. Signs for arriving flights were posted on the side of the road. I took the next exit and maneuvered my car into the parking lot near the British Airways terminal.
I saw them before they recognized me. Relaxing on a bench in the airport lobby, my mother looked smaller and older than I remembered. It had been almost six months since I’d last seen her. A wave of guilt surged through me. Boston was only three thousand miles from California, five hours by plane, hardly an insurmountable distance. I should have visited more than I had.
Thank goodness for my father. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw him. He never changed. The cowlick that wouldn’t lie flat stuck straight up on top of his head, and he’d buttoned his sweater unevenly. Retirement certainly suited his personality. Dad never cared much for appearances. My smile died. Mother, always the perfectionist, didn’t seem to care either. She looked dazed, as if the airport activity was too much for her.
Slowly, I approached them and rested one hand on each of their shoulders. “Hi, you two,” I said, folding my mother into my arms. “How was the flight?”
“Just fine,” said Dad heartily, relief in his voice. “We didn’t expect you so soon. Traquair must be closer than it looks on the map.”
“There isn’t any traffic here,” I reminded him. Slipping my mother’s bag over my shoulder, I linked my arm through hers. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to show you the house.” My usually opinionated, sharp-tongued mother allowed me to lead her through the airport like a lost child.
I opened the door to the front passenger seat, but she refused to sit in front. “If you don’t mind, Christina, I’d rather take the backseat. I’ll just throw my jacket over my bag and get some sleep. I don’t think I can sit up another minute.”
“You shouldn’t have taken such a late flight,” I scolded my father on the drive south. “It’s not as if you couldn’t afford to fly first class.”
“We had some business we had to take care of in Boston first,” he replied. “It was the only flight we could get.”
“What’s going on, Dad? Why the urgency?”
“Your mother’s had quite a shock, Chris. I promised to let her tell you. She wants to see Traquair first.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Her head was on the makeshift pillow, and her eyes were closed. She obviously needed rest and more than just the hour it would take to reach Traquair. Patience was a virtue, I reminded myself. One more day would hardly make a difference.
Mother seemed to know where we were the moment we reached the gates of Traquair. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and stared at the lush grounds and high stone walls. “I can hardly believe it,” she whispered. “I never knew.”
I opened my mouth to ask what she was talking about when I glanced over at my father. He shook his head, and I remained silent.
Kate opened the door as we climbed the front stairs. “Welcome to Traquair, Mr. and Mrs. Murray. Would you like some refreshment before I show you to your room?”
“That would be lovely.” Mother’s smile changed her features completely. Her austere demeanor softened into an expression of such breathtaking warmth that no living being, human or otherwise, could resist her.
Kate looked at her and then looked again, more closely this time. Her eyes widened as if she couldn’t quite believe what she saw, and then she smiled. It was the most genuine expression I’d ever seen on her face.
“I’ll bring a pot of tea into the sitting room and some freshly baked scones to go with it,” she said.
“Thank you. That sounds wonderful.” Mother laid her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll let you get started while Christina shows us where to go.”
For some reason Kate’s unusual servility bothered me. The woman was in my employ, and yet in the three weeks I’d known her, she had never treated me with anything close to the ingratiating submissiveness she had shown my mother.
“I thought you were tired,” I said as I led my parents through the hall into a room with comfortable furnishings and a well-laid fire.
“I am,” Mother replied, sinking into a chair with plump cushions. “But first, I have something to tell you. Otherwise, I won’t be able to sleep at all.”
“And neither will I,” Dad groaned, stretching out on the couch.
“Christina,” Mother began and hesitated, biting her lip.
I was more than a little worried by this time. “Is it that bad?”
“Not really,” she answered. “It’s just very unexpected.” She sighed. “All right, Chris, here goes. After your phone call telling us you had inherited an eight-hundred-year-old house, Dad did some checking around. We both thought it extremely odd that someone we didn’t know would leave you something so valuable.” Her voice had risen to a high-pitched excitement. “Your father logically assumed, since Traquair was in Scotland, that your inheritance came from someone on his side of the family. But nothing turned up. That was when he spoke with my parents.” She sat up, her back very straight, her hands clasped tightly together. “I’m adopted, Christina. Ellen Maxwell’s husband, the late laird of Traquair, was my father.”
My heart stopped. The conditions of the prophecy pounded in my brain. A daughter bearing both Maxwell and Murray bloodlines. The room turned, and I heard a roaring in my ears. I know I must have spoken, but I couldn’t hear the words.
Apparently my mother did, because she answered me. “I don’t know who she was. My parents believe she was some unfortunate girl who became pregnant by a married nobleman, made her way to America, and gave me up for adoption.”
My father spoke for the first time. “The real question, as far as I’m concerned, is why Lord Maxwell left Traquair to you, Christina.”
I could have told him, then and there, and maybe I should have. But something held me back. Something more than my fear that they wouldn’t believe me, although that was a foregone conclusion.
Kate came in with the tea tray. We made polite conversation while she served and poured. Again, the tea was unusually spiced and delicious. After setting the tray on the table, she picked up two more embroidered pillows and placed them behind my mother’s back.
“If there is anything else you need, Mrs. Murray, just ring the bell.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that,” Mother answered. After Kate left the room, she lowered her voice and asked, “Is it my imagination or is she being overly solicitous to me?”
“It isn’t your imagination,” I said dryly. “She seems like a completely different person.”
“Maybe you resemble someone, Susan,” my father said. “After all, servants tend to stay with families for generations.”
I could feel my mouth drop open. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Kate had told me herself that her mother had been the housekeeper at Traquair before her death. If Lord Maxwell’s indiscretion had been with a servant, Kate’s mother would probably know. Maybe she’d even kept in contact with the woman. My thoughts came quickly, tumbling over each other in their hurry to materialize. Maybe that was the reason Kate was so resentful. Class differences were stringently maintained here in Scotland. Kate obviously resented working for a woman from the same social order as herself. I breathed a sigh of relief. That I could handle. It was ancient curses and death threats that bowled me over.
Mother loved the bedroom. Dad opted for a shower before his nap, while she stretched out on top of the high four-poster bed. “There’s more to tell you, Chris,” she said, “but the most important part is over with. I’m just too tired to go into it any further today. If I sleep through dinner, don’t wake me.”
It was early still, only a little past noon, but I was exhausted. Ian had called earlier to say he would give everyone a day to adjust to the time change before inflicting himself upon us. I was grateful that he wasn’t coming over. I didn’t think I had the strength or the enthusiasm to tell him about my mother’s startling revelation. He must have suspected the truth long ago. I thought back to our first conversation at the tearoom in Peebles, where he’d hinted at the rumor that I was the earl’s illegitimate daughter. I didn’t think he would be terribly surprised to learn I was his granddaughter.
There could no longer be any doubt. Like puzzle pieces, everything fell into place. Everything was there, exactly as it had been with the Murray women who came before me. My features, my Maxwell strain, my diabetes, everything except the most important factor.
I picked up my bedroom phone and dialed the Peebles operator. “I’d like the number of the medical clinic please.”
“I’ll connect you,” she said.
In less than a minute, a pleasant voice answered the phone. I started to explain what I needed when she interrupted me. “There’s no need for an appointment. Just come in and take your turn unless you have an emergency. This isn’t an emergency is it, dear?”
“No,” I replied, “no emergency at all. It’s just that—”
Her voice changed. “Is this Traquair House calling?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised.
“I recognized your voice, Miss Murray. It isn’t everyday one hears an American accent. Of course, I’ll make you an appointment. When would you like to come in?”
The sooner the better. “This afternoon if possible.”
“Will four o’clock be suitable?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Apparently privilege still had its advantages, even in modern-day Scotland. Fluffing my pillow, I buried my nose in the fragrant linen. I wasn’t used to sleeping in the middle of the day, but I couldn’t shake this unusual lethargy. I yawned. Four o’clock was hours away. If I closed my eyes for just a minute, there would be plenty of time to make the drive into Peebles.