Twenty-Seven
Edward didn’t bother to knock before throwing open the door. He heard her outraged gasp and from across the chamber saw the blazing fury in her eyes.
“Get out,” she ordered, pointing back to the hall from where he came.
“Lass.” He spread his hands in a gesture of supplication. “I did not intend for it to be this way.”
Without answering, she turned toward the window and folded her arms protectively against her chest. Edward swallowed and looked around the scented chamber. He needed whiskey, and there was none to be had. A servant cowered on her knees. He dismissed her, and she backed out of the room.
“Mairi,” he began and stopped. He had no words with which to defend himself. Nothing to save him but the truth. He could demand that she return to Scotland, of course. His peace of mind would be restored and his wife’s suspicions calmed. Tomorrow would dawn just as today had, without embarrassing complications. But was that really what he wanted?
Until an hour ago, Edward had believed that to be true. His tryst in the borders was his alone, a pleasant indiscretion to be brought out and savored late at night when the embers burned low and sleep wouldn’t come. If the truth were told, he had remained faithful in heart if not in deed to Mairi’s memory. He had taken other women to his bed, but when the candles were doused and the room blanketed in darkness, it was black hair that slid through his fingers and dark, feathery lashes that tickled his chest and framed light, cloud-colored eyes. It was Mairi’s mouth that opened to the demand of his questing tongue and it was her voice crying out her pleasure that brought his own release.
Edward watched her silently, a pale, still figure outlined against the wine-colored tapestry. His memory dimmed before the flesh-and-blood woman. She was here and so much more than any memory he could possibly evoke. He would not give her up again.
“You will hear me out,” he demanded, breaking the tension in the overheated room.
“Will I then have a choice?” she countered, turning to look at him.
“Aye.” He nodded. “I would not spoil what we had by taking you against your will.”
“Very well. Explain.” It was a mistake. Mairi knew it the moment she said it. She should never have agreed to hear him. He stood before her, just as he had in the beginning, in the courtyard of Traquair House, proud and vulnerable, the golden hawk-like ferocity of his gaze melting her anger. Firelight touched the planes of his cheeks and the silvery crown of his head. His eyes were bluer than she remembered and filled with troubled uncertainty. It was strange to think that the king of England had once told her that he loved her. Stranger still to realize that she had the power to refuse him. Mairi chewed the inside of her cheek and waited.
“My men and I were set upon by border reivers. I was wounded,” he began. “It would have been the height of foolishness to reveal my identity to anyone.” His voice was low and humble, the words haltingly forced from his lips. “Later, I was afraid.”
“Afraid? The mighty Hammer of the Scots afraid of a woman?”
He winced at the scorn in her words. How could he make her understand? Wetting his lips, he crossed the room to stand before her. “’Twas not fear for my person, Mairi. I was afraid you would deny me.”
“It was you who denied me,” she reminded him. “Aye, more than once.”
“I did it for you,” he burst out in frustration.
“I don’t believe you.”
“’Tis true.” His voice gentled. “God knows I am no monk. I will not lie, Mairi. You are not the only woman I’ve bedded outside of my marriage, but I swear, you are the only one I have loved.”
She didn’t speak, but she was listening. Her mouth had softened, and her arms were at her sides. She was so lovely. Edward ached to touch her.
“Why did you not tell me later?” she whispered.
The blood rushed to his cheeks, turning the sun-darkened skin even darker. “I am the king,” he said gruffly. “Sometimes a king forgets what it is to be a man.”
She stared at him for a long time, judging his words, weighing the truth in his soul. Then she smiled, the brilliant wide-toothed smile immortalized by the bards. “No one could ever doubt that you are a man, Your Grace.”
Stunned and speechless, he stared at her. Had he imagined her words? Could she possibly be so generous, so quick to forgive? “Mairi,” he asked in wonder, “can you trust me?”
She held out her hand, and he took it in both his own. “I made a scene tonight,” she said. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”
He grinned, lighthearted as a boy. “No matter. ’Tis a small price to pay to have you here with me.”
Her eyes widened. “But I am not with you, Edward. I came with David to ask the king’s”—she corrected herself—“your permission to marry. David Murray has waited an ungodly length of time for my answer. I can put him off no longer, nor would I even if it were possible. I am two and twenty, nearly past the age for childbearing. I want children of my own.”
“I’ll give you children.” He had not intended to say it, but there it was, out in the open between them. He would not take it back.
She stared at him in amazement. “Is that how you think of me?”
“’Tis not such a bad life, to be mistress to the king. I will take care of you, Mairi. You’ll have gold and jewels beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Our children would be bastards, tainted by our deed, condemned by holy church.”
“A royal bastard is not the same. I shall bestow titles and lands—”
“Stop.” She pressed her hand against his chest. “You say that you love me. ’Tis a poor sort of love you offer, Your Grace.”
“Once you didn’t think so.” His voice was low and intimate, evoking the memory of a night filled with warmth and magic.
Mairi closed her eyes against the pain of it. She had put that time behind her, content that because of one man and one night she would go to her grave knowing that bit of life all women long for and too few experience. The man she wanted was unattainable. David loved her. He would ask no questions, and she would be a good wife to him. What cruel act of fate had brought Edward back into her life now when she was reconciled to her future? Why had she come to London? No good could come of this.
Her hand moved to her throat. “You said you wouldn’t force me,” she whispered.
“Nor will I.” He stepped forward and placed his hands against the wall, imprisoning her against the tapestried panels.
He was very close. Mairi could smell the clean smell of soaproot on his skin. His golden beauty overwhelmed her. In an effort to avoid his eyes, she focused on his mouth and too late realized her mistake. He lowered his head to within a fraction of her lips and stopped. Her breathing altered. Unconsciously, she tilted her head and wet her lips with her tongue.
With an inarticulate groan, Edward set his mouth against hers, hard. The kiss that he intended to be exploratory and tender was nothing of the sort. It was bruising and sensual, with all the power and yearning of his need. She answered with her own.
Their teeth scraped and tongues mated. Limbs entwined and bodies joined as frantic hands searched and stroked in their quest for the heated silk and steely muscle of bared flesh. Neither knew how their clothing came to be removed or how they found their way to the feather mattress beneath the bedcovers.
Edward lost the restraint for which he was renowned. Gone was the desire to caress and bring pleasure. Every inch of him was on fire. His body cried out for possession. Without releasing her mouth, he moved between her legs and thrust deeply. He felt her tense beneath him and heard her swift intake of breath.
Grateful for the lighted room, Edward lifted his head and looked down at her face. He’d hurt her. Her lip was caught between her teeth and she was holding back tears. Cursing himself for a clumsy fool, he stopped moving and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose.
Mairi stared at him with solemn eyes. After a two-year abstinence, she had been unprepared for the sudden invasion of turgid flesh inside her body. Edward had changed. Her memory of their coupling did not include pain nor this raging tide of emotion that consumed him. He had been a passionate, but skilled lover. Now he seemed driven, almost desperate, as if he hadn’t had a woman in a very long time.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured as his lips skimmed the smooth column of her throat. “You are so lovely, and I came so close to losing you.”
Willing herself to relax, Mairi stroked the winter-bright hair. She would tell him now and be done with it. Tomorrow she would break David Murray’s heart, an ugly thought, but the alternative was worse. Edward needed her, and if the passion awakening in her bruised body was a sign, she needed him as well. Cradling his head in her hands, she brushed her lips against his ear and felt him shudder deep inside her. “You will not lose me, my love,” she whispered. “I could not leave you even if you commanded me.”
Something inside Edward came alive, piercing his heart with its brilliance. Folding her in his arms, he held her tightly against his chest, moving gently, rhythmically, until her desire matched his own. Only then, when he saw the look of wonder in her eyes, did his control break. For the first time in two years, he stayed the entire night with a woman.
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
It was an hour before dawn when I peeked into the guest room where my parents slept. The two dark shapes huddled close together in the four-poster bed looked peaceful and familiar.
I closed the door, careful not to wake them. They would know I was home when they saw the car in the port. I’d break the news about Kate later, after I’d found what I was looking for.
The priests’ chamber was my destination. I didn’t really expect to find anything momentous, but I couldn’t sleep and I had a feeling, call it a premonition, about that room. Every one of my ancestors who came close to finding the stone had started there. I had nothing to lose.
By now I knew that I could do nothing to expedite the process of events unfolding inside my mind. Janet Murray’s diary and the Bible where I’d found the entry of Jeanne’s twins were nothing more than mediums by which I entered the lives of people who had lived before me. It was there, in my visions of the past, that I’d learned everything I knew. It was there that I would find the stone. Mairi would show me, just as she had the others. She would come when she wanted, but there was no harm in being ready. My chances were good. I’d figured out more than either Jeanne or Katrine. Unlike those poor doomed women, I knew who my enemy was.
From the darkened hallway, I turned the knob and pushed open the door. The first uncertain fingers of dawn filtered through the window, lighting the room and its contents to varying shades of gray. The mysterious silvery essence reassured me. Steeped in foggy shadows, the moldings, the paintings, and the ornate, ancient furnishings whispered in the language of another lifetime, persuading me to stay awhile, to rest my mind, to gather myself before beginning the final lap of my journey. I followed my instincts and sat down on a sheet-covered chair to wait for further inspiration. It seemed right somehow that this hazy, half-toned world should match my mood.
I must have drifted into that place between waking and sleeping when I heard a noise. It was the sound of footsteps in the hall. They were tentative, coming on slippered feet to an unfamiliar place. The doorknob turned, and I tensed. When I saw whose head peeked around the doorframe, I relaxed.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. My meticulous parent hadn’t bothered to pull a robe over her plaid flannels, and her blond hair was disheveled.
“Christina. You scared the life out of me. What on earth are you doing up at this hour?”
I looked at her in amazement. “You’re up early yourself.”
She stepped all the way into the room. “Something woke me. I don’t really know whether it was a noise or not. I can’t remember now.” She dismissed the thought as if the reason for her waking and finding her way to the most remote part of the house was of no importance. “Kate usually has coffee brewing in the kitchen, but I was just there and nothing’s started.” She looked around the room and rubbed her arms. “It’s cold. What are you doing here?”
Something in the misty light and soft worried expression in her eyes made me tell her. If I couldn’t trust my own mother, the woman whose blood and bones I shared, the woman whose Maxwell genes had given me life, there was nothing left. “Sit down, Mom,” I began. “It’s a long story.”
She sat, and I told her. Beginning with the letter from Ellen Maxwell and the terrible horror in her face when she first saw me to my meeting with Ian and the step-by-step unraveling of the curse. I told her of the diary and my dreams and the Bible and Professor MacCleod. I told her of Ellen and Ian’s father and of her link and my own to Kate Ferguson, housekeeper of Traquair. There was a long silence when I’d finished.
“It’s over then, you and Ian?” she asked after a long time.
I nodded.
Mother stood up, crossed the space between us, and knelt before me, taking my hands in her own. She wet her lips. “Your father and I were concerned when you left us the note the other day. We did some investigating on our own, beginning with Ellen Maxwell’s lawyer. He told us about Kate. I won’t say that I’m over the shock of learning who my father was and that I have a half sister, but at least I’m reconciled to it. It really has nothing to do with my life. It does have something to do with yours, Chris. That is, if you intend to stay here in Scotland and raise your child. Surely you can see what motivated Kate. As for Ian, I don’t believe he’s done anything so terrible. For the sake of the baby, I’d give him another chance.”
I stared at her in amazement. How could she have lived with me for eighteen years without really knowing me?
“The rest of this is impossible,” she continued. “I can’t believe that you’ve allowed it to go this far without seeking out some sort of professional help. Why haven’t you spoken with your father? You’ve confided in him since you were a little girl. He could have helped you.”
“I don’t need professional help,” I said through set teeth.
“You certainly need something.” Her voice was sharp with worry. “Your imagination has always been an active one, but these delusions are harmful. I’m seriously worried about you.” She stood up. “I want you to come with me now. We’ll wake your father and have a rational discussion.”
I sat, stone-faced, on my chair and didn’t move.
She wilted. “Please, Chris,” she pleaded. “Just come with me to see Dad. That’s all I ask.”
The rebellion drained out me. What had I expected? This was my mother, Susan Donnally Murray, a woman who read nothing but the newspaper and fitness magazines. A more practical, rational person didn’t exist. Nothing would be gained by opposing her. “All right, Mother. If you think I should talk to Dad, I will. Why don’t you go wake him. I’d like to stay here for a while.”
“Promise me you won’t go anywhere.” She hovered anxiously by the door.
I smiled reassuringly. “I’m not crazy, Mom. I promise I won’t leave Traquair House without telling you.”
With an encouraging smile that did not completely erase the worry lines etched in her forehead, she disappeared behind the door. I waited for several minutes. When the sound of her footsteps had faded completely away, I stood and walked to the rosewood mantel. The panel was there, exactly where I’d expected it to be. As if I’d done it every day of my life, I pressed first in the center and then on the far left petal of the rose. On creaking hinges, the door swung open. I took the flashlight from my pocket, flicked it on, and pulled the panel shut behind me.
I was winded before I reached the top of the stairs. The attic room where I’d found the picture of Jeanne Maxwell was exactly as I’d left it. This time, as if someone were whispering instructions to me, I knew what to do.
Setting the flashlight face up on the floor, I pulled Jeanne’s cloth-covered portrait aside. In the semidarkness, the small doorway looked like nothing more than a crack in the wall. I leaned into the right side and pushed with my shoulder. The door opened. Leaving it ajar, I picked up the flashlight and stepped inside. The stairs, narrow and damp, twisted spiral fashion below me. Tentatively, I took one step down and then another and another until I lost track of time. Instinctively I knew that I was below ground level.
Even with the flashlight, the darkness was absolute. My eyes were useless. Senses, instinctive but long subdued by modern efficiency, rose to the occasion. I could smell the dank, mineral-wet essence of the earth. Water dripped from an ancient spring. I felt the cold, roughly hewn walls narrowing on either side of me. Something alive and fur-covered rubbed against my ankle, its whiskers furtively twitching, before scurrying past.
I lost track of time, but still I continued. It was so familiar, this never-ending descent into absolute darkness. Somehow I knew when the missing step was imminent. I stepped over it. I couldn’t see my own feet, but I knew when the ceiling lowered and the tunnel narrowed.
The twisting passageway had been straight for some time now. Was it my imagination or was there a glow in the distance? Heart hammering, I switched off the flashlight. Darkness engulfed me. I waited. There was nothing. Discouraged, I switched on the flashlight. Nothing. I switched it off and then on again. Still nothing. Panic rose in my throat. Whimpering, I leaned against the wall and slapped the metal wand several times against my palm. The darkness pressed in on me.
With trembling fingers I unscrewed the top and lifted out the batteries. Someone once told me that rolling dead batteries in your palm revived them. My perspiration-slick hands shook uncontrollably, but I managed to replace the first battery. Then the unthinkable happened. I lost my grip on the second one. It landed with a dull thud. Frozen with shock, I stood and listened for a long time as it rolled away from me down the gradual descent. There was no possibility of finding it in this suffocating darkness.
Defeated, I turned around to go back the way I came. Icy fingers closed around my shoulders. The breath left my lungs. Paralyzed with fear, I could no more have struggled out of that persistent grasp than I could have sprouted wings and flown up the stairs and out into the light.
Visions swam before my eyes. Mairi’s body crushed and bloodless, David Murray’s face twisted with pain and hate. “No!” I screamed. “Go away. I don’t want you now.” Sobbing, I tore at the terrible weight holding me motionless in the dark corridor. There was nothing to feel, nothing to fight.
Bursts of color flashed through my mind. My head exploded with intensity. I twisted and turned and fought, but there was nothing to hold on to, nothing but the terrible weight pressing down on me. Shock and the accompanying rush of adrenalin were too much for me. I felt the familiar lightness that all diabetics instantly recognize. I craved insulin, and there was none to be had. Sagging against the wall, I slipped into merciful unconsciousness.