Five
After a long absence, the heart-stopping beauty of Scone Castle, ancient seat of the Murrays, never failed to alter Katrine’s breath. Through a forest of pine and black oak, on the banks of the silvery Tay, rolling green parklands stretched for nearly a mile around the castle. Geographically set in the center of the country, the granite turrets and proud battlements had witnessed much of Scotland’s history.
Here Kenneth MacAlpin, King of Scots, brought the sacred Stone of Destiny to Moot Hill. On that same hill Constantine proclaimed that the laws of the Celtic Church be established. Here, Macbeth bled to death on the rush-strewn floor. Robert the Bruce, after slaying the Red Cummin, rode to Scone to be crowned by the bishop of Saint Andrews. David II, the first King of Scots to be anointed with sacred oil and the last monarch to be crowned in Scotland, was crowned here and King Charles II accepted his kingdom and scepter on these very grounds.
Reining in her shaggy Highland mare, Katrine paused before the lichen-covered walls, gray in winter, brilliant red in autumn, and now green in celebration of spring. Breathing deeply several times, she waited for the coach to catch up with her. Even though Scone boasted many of the most modern amenities of the eighteenth century, the postern gate was not one of them. It would be the height of selfishness to ask the servants to raise the gates now and then once again when her mother’s travel coach arrived. Although it was less than three full days from her home at Blair-Atholl, Lady Janet Murray refused to make the journey on horseback. Katrine chafed impatiently at the delay. Her mother was not a stern parent, but there were times when she would not be budged. Resigning herself to at least an hour’s wait, Katrine was pleasantly surprised when she heard the sound of horses in the distance.
Reining in her mount, she waited for the familiar outline of the Murray coach with its driver and four horses to rise above the knoll. The two riders galloping toward her bore little resemblance to her mother’s entourage. Within moments they reached her side.
James Murray, his musket across his saddle, triumphantly held up two pheasants. “You’ve arrived in good time, my dear. We shall eat well tonight. Where is your mother?”
“Still on her way, Uncle James.” Katrine was very aware of the golden-haired gentleman by his side. “I didn’t want to disturb the gatekeeper.”
“Nonsense.” James Murray flourished his birds. “I pay him, do I not? Raising the gates now and then relieves the boredom. Follow me,” he cried, digging his knees into the belly of his mount
Richard Wolfe maneuvered his horse next to Katrine’s. “How do you do, Lady Murray?”
“Call me Katrine,” she said quickly. “My mother is the one who answers to Lady Murray.”
His sudden smile warmed her like a shaft of summer sunlight. “Very well, Katrine.”
The sound of her name on his lips disconcerted her. The way he lingered over the syllables made it sound almost indecently personal. She was very conscious of her disheveled appearance and unconventional riding apparel. Laughing off her mother’s suggestion that it was more suitable for a lady to ride sidesaddle, Katrine had pulled on her divided skirt and ridden astride. She was sure Richard Wolfe was too much of a gentleman to mention it, but she was equally sure he had noticed. She flushed and lifted her chin. What did it matter what he thought? He was, after all, only an Englishman and she was Katrine Murray of Blair. Besides, Uncle James’s reasons for inviting her to Scone did not include flirtation.
“You ride very well, Katrine.” Richard’s voice broke the silence. “Of course, ’tis easier to ride astride. I wonder how you would do in a lady’s saddle.”
She set her teeth. “Well enough.”
“You must show me some day.”
“With pleasure.”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
Katrine’s eyes widened. “Are you always so persistent, Major Wolfe?”
“Only when I have so little time.” He was every inch a Saxon with his golden hair pulled back neatly into a queue and those impossibly blue eyes. “Please say yes.” The husky quality of his voice seduced her.
Their horses were very close. Katrine leaned forward and placed her hand in his. “I would be very pleased to go riding with you, Richard,” she said.
Aware only of each other, neither of them heard the creaking wheels and rattling bridles that heralded the arrival of the Murray travel coach. And so it was that Janet Murray’s first sight of Scone Palace in over a year included the never-to-be-forgotten image of a very tall, very fair young man pressing her daughter’s hand to his lips.
***
“What do you know of this Englishman?” Janet asked her brother-in-law later that evening.
James looked over at the seating arrangement near the fire where the two young people were intent on their chess game. “He’s a good man,” he replied. “Now that his brother is dead, he will give up his commission. He stands to inherit the earldom of Manchester.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at Katrine.”
James’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “She could do much worse.”
“We must know everything about the lineage of Katrine’s husband, James. Too much of the English nobility carry royal blood. Nothing must be left to chance.”
“If I recall correctly, you were not swayed by such an argument, Janet,” he said dryly. “If you are referring to the infamous curse that no one has believed in for centuries, then a marriage between a Douglas and a Murray would have been the worst of all unions.”
“All the more reason for us to take Katrine in hand.” The knuckles showed white through her clasped hands. “You’re wrong, James. You may not believe in the power of the curse and I know George does not, but neither of you are women. It does not affect you.”
Her voice took on a low, eerie cadence, and James remembered another, older rumor of witchcraft in the Douglas line.
Janet nodded at her daughter. “You haven’t had the nightmares as I have. Neither has Katrine.”
“That’s all right then,” James said heartily, hoping to turn her from the subject. He had never been completely comfortable with his brother’s wife. “She’ll be spared, as are most women in the Murray line.”
Janet shook her head. “You don’t understand. The nightmares didn’t come until I carried her in my womb. They were shadowy at first and not completely clear. Later they changed. It was almost as if I were there.” Her face was pale, and she lifted shaking hands to her throat. “When Katrine was born, they stopped altogether.”
James reached over and grasped her hand. “Have you told George of your fears?”
She nodded. “He laughs at my foolishness.”
“Perhaps you are reading more into them than you should,” he said soothingly. “You are only a Murray through marriage. Others must have seen what you have and lived out their lives without harm.”
Her eyes were haunted. “You forget that I have Maxwell blood, the same as the Murrays. You have no daughters, m’lord. George and I have the only female child. Katrine is the last daughter of our line. Until my son marries and sires his own, Katrine is the one who will suffer.”
James lifted his hand. “Stop, Janet. I’ll not listen to another word. More than two hundred years have passed since our clan was under suspicion for witchcraft. Would you stir up ill feelings against us on the very eve when Scotland needs every loyal man?”
She sighed and gave up. “No. Of course not,” she said.
He stood and offered her his hand. “I thought not. Shall we join the children?”
***
“Check. Your king is in danger, Katrine,” Richard observed, moving his rook into a strategic position.
Katrine leaned forward, her chin resting on her palm, and assessed the position of her players. “I think not,” she replied, capturing the rook with an unexpected move of her knight.
Richard Wolfe was an experienced chess player. He stared at the young woman beside him in surprise. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
“At the French court.”
He frowned. “Who at the court of King Louis is so adept at chess?”
“Our prince,” she said deliberately, turning the full force of her captivating gray eyes on him. “Charles Edward Stuart.”
“I see.” Richard was more than a little surprised. He had grown up with the belief that the Pretender could be no threat, not only because of his lack of support in England, but because of his character. The Chevalier and his son, Prince Charles, were said to be foppish in manner as well as unparalleled womanizers with lascivious tastes. It appeared that Richard’s sources were in error. The man who taught Katrine Murray to play chess was a born tactician.
“Why do you stare at me?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon, but I find it strange that a young lady of your temperament would find suitable entertainment at the French court.”
“Why is that?”
He leaned back and stretched his legs. Katrine was distracted by the firelight playing over his face and hair. Blond men didn’t normally appeal to her. Fair hair and blue eyes seemed softer, less masculine, more suited to women and children. But there was nothing soft about this man. He was darkly tanned and his bright wheat-colored hair, massive shoulders, and deep blue eyes reminded her of the legends of Dalriada when the Vikings raided up and down the coast of Scotland. Indeed, he looked more Viking than Saxon. A chill began at the base of her spine. Both were sworn enemies of the Scots. Katrine, always completely honest with herself, admitted that she was terribly attracted to him and that attraction was heightened by the differences between them.
“The French are cloying and extremely concerned with appearances,” he said. “The men paint their faces and the women simper. You, Katrine Murray, are nothing like that. You say exactly what you think. And even if you didn’t, your eyes would give you away.”
She flushed and lifted her chin. “I find the French charming, and despite what you think of my temperament, I believe there were more than a few gentlemen at court who were sorry to see me leave.”
“I’m sure of it,” he replied dryly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Pretender’s reputation with women precedes him, even to England.”
Katrine leaned forward and spoke between clenched teeth. “He is not the Pretender. He is our prince. His father, King James, is the rightful ruler of England and Scotland.”
Richard set his teeth. “King George is our rightful king, chosen by Parliament.”
“Damn Parliament!” Katrine cursed in Gaelic. “It has no right to make such a choice. Kings are born, not made.”
Richard’s words were carefully controlled. “I disagree. A king is responsible to Parliament. He must rule properly. The Stuarts are greedy and self-serving. England does not want them back.”
“She may have no choice.” The words were out before she could call them back.
Richard’s eyes narrowed, and the silky words carried their own hint of danger. “Really? How interesting. You must tell me more.”
“What are the two of you discussing so seriously?” James Murray’s voice interrupted them.
Katrine’s cheeks burned. She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. She had no more self-control than a child. It would serve her right if Uncle James sent her home.
Richard’s voice, laced with amusement, answered, “We were deciding where to ride tomorrow and if we should make it a picnic.”
Katrine lifted disbelieving eyes to his face. He smiled and stood. “’Tis late. I believe I’ll retire. Shall we meet at seven, Katrine?”
“Seven will be fine,” she answered. “I’ll inform the cook that we’ll take our luncheon with us. Good night, Major Wolfe.”
“Good night.” He bowed over Lady Murray’s hand, bid his host a pleasant evening, and left the room.
***
Spring in the glens of Scotland wasn’t really spring at all, reflected Major Richard Wolfe as he looked up at the leaden sky. He thought of his gracious home in central England. The rose garden would be in bloom and the promise of summer heat would encourage a round of picnics and parties that would rival the famous watering holes of Bath and Harrow.
He tightened his long, booted legs around the stout middle of the shaggy Highland pony and looked at Katrine. She had an excellent seat. Even in a sidesaddle on that absurd mount the Scots referred to as a horse, she looked beautiful and completely at home. Her riding habit, although of excellent cut and expensive material, showed signs of wear. Her boots were scuffed, the heels run down, but her back was straight and her hands were relaxed on the reins. The clean loveliness of her face, unmarked by paint and powder, threatened to take his breath away. If only she were English or at least a member of a loyalist clan like the Campbells. He grinned ruefully. If she were either of those things, she would not be Katrine Murray.
“You are very quiet this morning,” he said, urging his horse to catch up with hers. “Have I done something to offend you?”
She looked directly at him, her eyes moving over his face, considering his question. “On the contrary,” she said at last. “You rescued me. If my uncle realized the extent of our conversation, I would be posted back to Blair.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “In that case, I am pleased to be of service.”
His hair was the color of winter sunlight and his eyes were deeply blue above the darker color of his coat. He smiled engagingly. She could have withstood his undeniable charm. After two seasons in Paris, Katrine had seen enough of charming men to last a lifetime. But his smile disarmed her. It was appealing and deeply personal and filled with such warmth that she couldn’t look away. Instinctively she knew that she would never lie to this man. “Don’t you want to know what Uncle James is so afraid I’ll tell you?”
Richard was surprised. Whatever he had expected of Katrine Murray, it wasn’t this. “Not yet,” he said, his expression reflecting only polite interest. “First, I’d like to see something of the country.”
Several hours later, they stopped to eat amidst the ruins of an ancient castle set high on the banks of the River Tay. The sun made a late-morning appearance, and the clear water of the richest salmon river in Britain reflected the brilliant blue of the sky. They dined on oatcakes, cheese, and cold chicken. When Katrine handed him a linen napkin filled with criachan, a sweetened mixture of oats, nuts, honey, and whiskey, he started to divide it in two.
“No.” Her hand on his arm stopped him. “’Tis all for you.”
He looked at her small waist and remembered the slim, long legs outlined in the breeches she had worn on her journey to Scone. Richard deplored the current fashion that demanded women be thin to the point of emaciation. “Your waistline won’t be affected by a morsel this size, Katrine. Are you sure you won’t share this with me?”
She laughed. “You’re very flattering, but it isn’t that. Sweets don’t agree with me. It started when I was a child. The least bit of sugar makes me tired and anxious. If I have a great deal, I fall down in a faint.” She shrugged her shoulders as if tired of the subject. “I don’t think of it much. As long as I eat properly, I’m as healthy as a horse.”
He had slipped the criachan back into the napkin and lay back on the blanket, his arms under his head. “I don’t care a great deal for sweets myself,” he said gently.
Katrine removed her jacket and lay back on her elbows beside him. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sky, welcoming the kiss of the sun on her cheeks. The heat made her drowsy. She was content with the unexpected beauty of the day, the gentle lapping of the river, the drone of bees, the muffled nickering of the horses, and the golden-haired Englishman lying by her side. She was almost asleep when his voice startled her.
“What is James Murray keeping from me, Katrine?”
She wet her lips and turned to face him. It did not occur to her to tell him anything less than the truth. “He expects a French invasion. Charles Stuart will sail to Scotland with an army and challenge the elector.”
Richard breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?” Katrine asked indignantly. “If your King George were aware of such a plot, he would quake in his boots.”
Richard studied her flushed passionate face and silently cursed Prince Charles Edward Stuart for the power he held over the Highlanders. If their bonny prince attempted to bring his foolish dreams to fruition, this girl and her family would be ruined, as would half the clans in Scotland. For some inexplicable reason, the thought incited Richard to a murderous rage.
“Scotland is a far different place than it was thirty years ago, Katrine. There are British forts, three hundred miles of road and over forty bridges to enable government troops to penetrate the mountains. Companies of your own Highlanders have been recruited to keep order.”
“We will not be alone.”
“Oh, but you will,” he countered. “There are many who drink to ‘the King over the Water,’ but they will not risk their fortunes to help him. Charles will have no allies in England, and the French have already abandoned one such expedition. He will have to rely on the Highlands, and as you know, there are many who are not Jacobites.”
“You know a great deal about us, m’lord,” replied Katrine. “How is it that you are here, in Scotland, when your government surely needs you at home?”
He told her, knowing he should not admit it but realizing she probably knew already. James Murray was a shrewd politician. Most likely he had invited his lovely niece to Scone in the hopes of loosening the English major’s tongue. “Your uncle and my late brother became acquainted while they were both members of the House of Lords,” he explained. “We have a slight family connection. Somewhere back in time I had a Maxwell ancestor as do the Murrays. When rumors of a Jacobite landing circulated through Parliament, I was the obvious choice to gauge the temperament here in Scotland. Your uncle appeared pleased when I suggested the visit.”
“Is the situation what you thought it would be?”
“Yes.”
Katrine turned to stare out at the river, her profile outlined by the stones of the ancient castle wall. “What will you tell them?”
“That your prince has enough support in Scotland to take the country,” he said quietly. “I will propose that we allow him his kingdom. We can live as two countries, side by side, like the Scotland and England of old. But if he takes one step across the borders into England, he will be crushed.”
Her fist clenched on the handle of her whip. Her eyes were large and brilliant, and she spoke fervently. “If only he will listen.”
“Charles isn’t the only one who will need convincing,” said Richard. “England isn’t likely to accept a Scottish secession without a fight.”
He watched the thin, high-boned features tighten and marveled, once again, at the clear Celtic beauty of her face. Desire, primitive and demanding, consumed him. His eyes moved to her mouth, and his breathing altered.
“We should go,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“It would never do, Sassenach.” Her voice was unsteady.
“I know.” Without warning, he reached out, his hands rough and insistent, and pulled her against him. For a timeless moment he stared down into her face, and then he set his mouth on hers.
Katrine did not once consider resistance nor did she think of her half-hearted promise made months before to Duncan Forbes, a strong-minded Scottish lord whom she had almost agreed to marry. Instead, her hands slid up to curl possessively around Richard’s neck, and her lips parted. She felt the weight of his chest and the muscles of his legs pressing down on top of her.
With shaking fingers he loosened the buttons of her high-necked habit. His mouth moved from her lips to her throat. She moaned, and her head fell back, giving him greater access to her smooth olive skin. He lifted his head. “Katrine.” His voice was hoarse. “Are you…Have you ever…?”
“No.”
With tremendous effort, he put her away from him and sat up, breathing heavily. Quickly, she buttoned her jacket.
“Why did you stop?” she asked when she trusted herself to speak once again.
“I should never have touched you,” he reproached himself. “I never intended it.” With his hand under her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. “Why did you allow me?”
Her eyes were slate gray, the pupils large and dilated. “I wanted you,” she said simply. “I’ve wanted you since the night we met at Holyrood House.”
At that moment, Richard knew with a terrifying certainty that even if he lived a thousand lifetimes, he would never love anyone half as much as he loved Katrine Murray.
“Will you marry me, Katrine?”
Her eyes widened, “You can’t possibly want to marry a Jacobite.”
“I’ve never wanted anything more.”
She shook her head. “I can’t marry you, Richard. My father won’t permit it.”
“The devil take your father.” He took her hands in his. “It is your answer I want.”
The color darkened her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “Oh, yes.” She laughed shakily. “I want to marry you very much indeed.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “I know a great deal.” Closing her eyes, she recited his accomplishments from memory. “You are a Whig and a second son with an exemplary military record. Your older brother recently died, forcing you to give up your commission, which you are loathe to do. Drinking and dicing and playing the ‘grand seigneur’ doesn’t suit you. You’ve the ear of your king as well as the prime minister, and when in England, you spend most of your time at your home in Manchester rather than your London townhouse. Your mother is renowned for her sharp tongue and remarkable ability to manage. Your father is dead, and your three younger sisters adore you.” Her eyes opened, spilling light and warmth and something else that threatened to destroy his carefully reconstructed self-control. “But not nearly as much as I do.”
Happiness surged through him, and he pulled her back into his arms. “I’ll take care of your father, darling. Leave everything to me.”