Six
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
“Miss Murray. Miss Murray.” I could hear the insistent voice clearly. Fighting against it, I strained to recapture my dream. It was hazy but still faintly visible. “Miss Murray.” This time the voice carried a note of panic, and sharp fingers pinched my shoulder. I opened my eyes.
“What is it, Kate?”
“It’s after nine o’clock,” she said accusingly. “You’ve slept away the entire day and missed dinner. Are you all right?”
“Of course. I must have been more tired than I thought.” Kate still looked disapproving. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like something to eat.”
She smiled and lost some of her anxious expression.
“There is lamb and potatoes, and I’ve made fresh biscuits. Will you take it downstairs or shall I bring up a tray?”
“I’ll come down,” I replied, looking around the darkened room. The fire had died to a few glowing embers, highlighting the old-fashioned chair and footstool, the picture of the ninth earl of Maxwell over the mantel, and the floor-to-ceiling shelves of musty leather-bound books. The more modern conveniences, the electric wiring, the heating pipes, the pillow-strewn sofa, and current world map, had blended into the night shadows. The library must have looked exactly this way to a weary Prince Charles in 1745 when he briefly occupied the upstairs bedroom.
For some reason I wanted no part of the room or its memories in the meager half-light of the hearth fire. It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t deny it. I was afraid. Kate, with her pursed lips and no-nonsense attitude, was exactly what I needed. That and a hot meal washed down with a glass of authentic, Traquair-brewed ale.
“Have the Maxwells always occupied this house?” I asked as I followed the housekeeper down the stairs.
“As far back as I can remember.” She flipped on the kitchen light and removed a covered plate from the oven. My stomach juices came alive. Tilting her head in that birdlike pose I was beginning to associate with her, she said, “Of course, the family intermarried with other clans. There’s no telling how pure the bloodline really is. The person to ask is Mr. Ian Douglas. He knows more about the history of the borders than anyone I know.”
“I’ll do that,” I said between bites of lamb.
Kate poured out a glass of ale and was about to slice a wedge of cream cake when she hesitated and put it back in the refrigerator. Instead, she reached for an apple and began to peel with an efficient, circular motion. “I’ll have to get used to leaving out the sweets,” she said. “The doctor told me about your condition.” She looked at me curiously. “Have you always had it?”
“Ever since I was a child. It’s not a problem, really,” I assured her. “Don’t deny yourself or anyone else their desserts. I’ll manage.”
She sat down across from me with a cup of tea and changed the subject. “Mr. Douglas stopped by today. I went into the library and found you asleep. He thought it would be best if I didn’t wake you.”
“Thank you, Kate,” I answered, surprised at the extent of my annoyance. “In the future, I’d prefer that you wake me.”
“It’s like that, is it?” Amusement colored her voice.
I could feel the betraying blush stain my cheeks. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I lied. “The fact is, I have some questions I’d like to ask him. If he calls again, be sure to let me know.”
“Why don’t you call him? I’ll ring his number for you.”
Apparently the women’s movement had infiltrated Scotland after all.
Kate reached for the phone.
“Not now,” I said hastily. “It’s late. Tomorrow would be better.” I really did want to ask Ian about the past residents of Traquair House but not in front of Kate. I still wasn’t sure what I thought of this woman or, more importantly, what she thought of me.
We had reached the end of our conversation at the same time I finished my meal. As if on cue, the phone rang. “Traquair,” Kate said into the old-fashioned mouthpiece. “I’ll see if she’s available.” She raised her eyebrows and held out the phone. “It’s Mr. Douglas for you.”
“Thank you, Kate,” I said. “I’ll take it upstairs.”
Forcing myself to walk at a normal pace, I reached the upstairs hallway and picked up the phone. “I’ve got it,” I said, waiting for the click at the other end. When it came, I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d never lived with anyone other than family since my undergraduate days in the dormitory. The lack of privacy was affecting my nerves. “Hello, Ian.”
“How are you, Christina?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Did everything go as expected with the solicitor?”
His voice was low and unusually pleasant. It was one of the first things I’d noticed about him after his spectacular looks. “I knew what to expect if that’s what you mean,” I said. “It’s still overwhelming to think of Traquair as mine.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
Had I imagined it, or was there a trace of mockery in the friendly words? I decided to ignore it. “I understand you’re something of an expert on the history of this area.”
He laughed. “In light of appearing immodest, I must say that whoever told you that is exaggerating.”
“I’d like to know something about the previous owners of Traquair,” I persisted. “Can you help me or should I go to the university library in Edinburgh?”
“If you’re really interested, I’ll tell you all I know. After that we can drive up to the capital if you like and I’ll introduce you to Professor MacCleod. He’s the true expert on Scottish history. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve known him for over ten years. He was the lecturer on Gaelic antiquities when I attended the University of Edinburgh. Somehow we never got around to discussing my family tree.”
“That was before you inherited a Scottish antiquity. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you. We should call first and give him time to prepare.”
There was silence on both ends of the line. Then we both spoke at once.
“Christina—”
“Ian—”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You go first.”
Suddenly, I didn’t want to be the one to speak. “No, you.”
“All right,” he said agreeably. “The reason I called was to ask if you’d like to go fishing.”
I could feel my stomach heave. “I’m a terrible sailor,” I confessed. “I get seasick.”
His chuckle was pure magic. “You won’t this time. I meant fly-fishing. You know, on the riverbank, for trout and salmon.”
“I’ve never been.”
“I’ll show you. That is, if you’d like to learn.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Good. Sleep well. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at five a.m. Good-bye, Christina.”
I had never felt less like sleeping. My bed had been turned down and the fire banked. A bouquet of heather sat on the nightstand along with a mug of warm milk. It tasted of cinnamon. I drained the last drop, shrugged out of my clothes, and pulled on my nightgown. In less than five minutes I was asleep.
***
Five a.m. in the borders brings a soft blue dawn with the rays of a muted sun streaking the clouds pink and silver. I was wakened by a gentle hand shaking my shoulder and a cup of steaming coffee held under my nose. Kate was upholding her reputation for having the sight. There could be no other explanation for her knowing my plans. The phone had been silent all night after Ian’s call, and even if he’d told her why he was phoning, she had no way of knowing that I’d agreed. After biting into one of her buttery, raisin-filled scones, her omniscience no longer bothered me. As long as she continued to create these mouth-watering confections, she could practice all the black magic that she pleased.
Less than an hour later Ian strode ahead of me, impervious to the cold. I shivered in the early chill and huddled deeper into my thick, Icelandic sweater, watching the morning sun pick out the lights in his hair, silhouetting his head in a halo of silver. The fluid movement of his bunched athlete’s muscles under the navy sweater and worn jeans called to mind the piercing beauty of Shakespeare’s words: “all my fortunes at thy feet I’ll lay and follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.” I knew the story of the Pied Piper and the danger of becoming too fascinated by the unknown, but that morning I would have followed him anywhere.
He carried two fishing poles, two pairs of rubber boots, and a tackle box. I carried our lunch basket, the contents created by the redoubtable Kate, and a blanket. If I had stopped to consider it, I might have wondered why my housekeeper was so persistent in encouraging my relationship with our attractive neighbor. She was behaving like a desperate Victorian mother trying to marry off her spinster daughter.
I followed Ian out into a clearing of such sheer beauty that words escaped me. I had to sit down. Taking deep, restoring breaths, I looked out from my seat on the bank, over the crystalline falls, to the mouth of Saint Mary’s Loch. Never had I seen water so clear. The deep blue of the sky and the green of the trees was reflected like a mirror image from the glassy depths. At the bottom of the loch, stones, worn smooth from centuries of slow-moving currents, provided resting places for speckled trout and pink-skinned salmon. On the banks, purple heather and delicate blue gentians peeked out from sun-baked boulders. The air was scented with pine and sage and a strange, sharp odor that I’d never smelled before.
“Why aren’t they afraid of us?” I asked, making eye contact with a large, spotted trout.
Ian knelt down, resting easily beside me. “This is private property. The fish have no fear of people because they rarely see them.”
“I didn’t realize Traquair had its own river.”
He chewed on a piece of wild mustard. “This land isn’t part of Traquair.”
“But we’re less than five miles from the house. Whose land is it?”
He grinned. “Mine. I told you we were neighbors.”
“I had no idea our land was connected.” Stretching out my legs, I leaned back on my hands and nodded toward the fishing poles lying in the grass. “You did say you would teach me to fly-fish, didn’t you?”
I could feel the approval in his glance. “I said I would teach you to fish,” he said softly. “Fly-fishing is another matter.”
“Why is that?”
He released the catch on his tackle box and pulled out what looked like a brightly colored insect and a hook. Reaching for one of the poles, he tied the hook to the fishing line, knotted the pseudo fly, and secured it to the hook. “Bait,” he said, holding it out for my inspection.
I laughed. “You can’t be serious?”
“The best trout bait in the world.” He reached for my hand. “Come and see.”
We climbed down to a grassy knoll near the shore. I pulled on the boots he handed me while he cast out into the water. The line tightened as the current took it. Within seconds, the pole bent nearly in two, and the line went taut. With a quick flip of his wrist, Ian jerked the pole back hard. “I’ve hooked up,” he said. “Watch carefully.”
With exquisite skill, he alternated between pulling back on the pole with one hand while he reeled in his catch with the other. Finally, I could see the head emerge from the water, followed by the entire body, a large brown and silver fish hanging slack on the hook. Again with the precision of a surgeon, he cut the line, hooked the trout to what looked like a rope, anchored it into the bank, and set the now limp body gently back into the icy loch.
Ian rinsed his hands, tied another lure to the line, and turned back to me. “Your turn,” he said, holding out the pole.
I hesitated. “I’ve never done this before.”
“There’s no hurry. I’ll show you.” He stood behind me, his arms around my shoulders, his hands covering mine. Together, we cast out. I saw a flash of silver, and immediately the line went taut. “Can you feel it?” he asked excitedly. “You’ve hooked up.”
Considering our proximity, I responded with remarkable calm. “What do I do now?”
“Pull hard to embed the hook and then let him take the line.”
I leaned back against his chest, forgetting, for the moment, our intimate position. “Why not just pull him in?” I asked, thrilled at the idea of catching my first fish.
“The swim tires him out. That way he won’t fight and break the line.” His voice sounded strained. Caught up in the drama of the chase, I ignored it.
Sure enough, within moments, the pull lessened, and I was able to reel in my catch.
“Very nice,” approved Ian as he inspected the medium-sized trout. “You’re on your own.” Handing me the clippers to finish the task, he turned and walked up the bank for his own pole and boots. Instead of returning to the banks of the loch, he walked to the falls, waded into the current, and took his position at the mouth of the small burn that fed into the larger body of water.
We fished all morning. To be completely truthful, Ian did most of the fishing while I watched in appreciative silence. Caught up in the precise art and studied grace of a master at his craft, I sat mesmerized by the magic of the quiet glen and the ceaseless flow of water over clean stones.
I drank in every movement of the tall blond man standing thigh-deep in the sun-drenched river. The play of muscle across his back, the dip of his shoulder, the swing of his cast, the impatient way he threw his hair back from his forehead, became as familiar to me as my own reflection staring up from the loch.
I don’t have words to explain why the embarrassing tears sprang to my eyes every time I saw his arm lift, his wrist loosen and snap back, and the inevitable flash of twisting line as it skimmed across the water, dancing like a dragonfly in the sunlight. Time passed without notice. I sat for hours, content just to stare at the sky, the water, the trees, and a man whose smile made my blood run hot after such a long and lonely winter.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that we ate Kate’s sandwiches. The ice-cold ale followed by a thermos of hot coffee had an unusual effect on my nerves. I was relaxed but wide awake. The blood drummed loudly in my ears, and my inhibitions were so completely extinguished that it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Ian to lie back on the blanket and pull my head against his shoulder. I rested my hand on his chest and fitted my body against the length of his. His hand sifted through my hair. It moved to my neck and then my cheek. His eyes met mine, and the need reflected there shook me.
“Christina?” he breathed the timeless question.
I nodded. This time I was ready for the taste of his mouth, the hungry pressure of his lips, and the powerful surging flood of desire when he flicked his tongue against mine. We kissed for a long time, lips teasing, tongues tasting, breath mingling until, for both of us, it was too much and at the same time no longer enough.
There was no pulling away, no turning back. Again I was ready when his hands slid under my sweater and unhooked the clasp of my bra. The weight of my breasts fell into his hands. His thumbs rested on my skin, circling the sensitive peaks until they stood up, firm and erect through the sweater. Lowering his head, he took a stiffened nipple into his mouth and sucked gently, wetting the soft wool.
I ached for him. Throwing away years of inhibition, I reached out and stroked him through his jeans. “My God, Christina,” he groaned, pulling me tightly into the saddle of his hips. He was fully, powerfully erect. Carefully, working around the straining flesh, I unbuttoned the top two buttons of his fly. He stopped breathing as I maneuvered the rest free. The full length of him surged into my hand, and he pushed me back into the grass.
Those were the last details I remember along with the smell of cold air and clean wind, the taste of coffee and ale on a searching tongue, and the sweetness of hot, hard flesh pounding into mine, filling the aching emptiness with life and warmth and hope. We came together on the banks of Saint Mary’s Loch in a flash of blinding need, hungry for the feel of urgent hands and naked skin and the ancient, primal splendor of dark blood calling for the culmination of a ritual older than time.
When it was over, I felt no awkwardness, no remorse or guilt, only a grateful relief that the long dry wait was finally over. It was as if we had done this a thousand times before and it was right. We dressed and lay down together once again, curled up like spoons in the blanket. I slept briefly and woke to the sound of his heartbeat against my cheek. His fingers were threaded in my hair.
“Was your husband’s name David?” he asked casually.
I pulled away to look at his face, wincing as a few strands of hair came away in his hand. “No. Why do you ask?”
“You called me David just before you fell asleep.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
He gathered me close to his chest. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
David. The name was naggingly familiar. It was common enough for me to have heard it many times over the course of a lifetime, but it seemed more familiar than that. Suddenly, I remembered.
“Ian.”
“Yes,” he murmured sleepily.
“Tell me everything you know about the previous owners of Traquair House.”
He chuckled. “We’d be here all night, Christina. Traquair is eight hundred years old.”
“Did the Murrays ever live there?” I persisted.
He was silent for a long time. At last, he spoke. “The Maxwells have always held the title to Traquair, but during the course of its history, a number of marriages with Murrays took place as well as with other border families.” His fingers caressing my head lulled me into a sense of complacency. “As you well know,” he continued, “Scotland was more or less an isolated country for centuries. The nobility was limited to about two hundred families. Over an eight-century period, it would be very unusual to find a family that hasn’t intermarried with every other clan in Scotland.”
“That doesn’t explain why Lord Maxwell left Traquair House to me.”
“I’m sure he had good reason. The Maxwells had no children, and you’re obviously related in some way.”
I knew he would be skeptical, but I decided to tell him anyway. Sitting up, I turned to face him. He lay on his side, resting easily on one arm, his right eyebrow quirked askance at my serious expression.
“I read Janet Douglas’s diary,” I began.
“The whole thing?”
“No. Only the beginning where she explains how her daughter met Major Richard Wolfe. Then I fell asleep.”
He grinned. “That boring, was it?”
“Not at all. I had the strangest dream, Ian. It was so real, as if I were watching a movie. There was a celebration at Holyrood House. Katrine was there and Richard Wolfe. I saw George and James Murray and Katrine’s older brother, Alasdair. I could hear their conversations and read their thoughts. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”
Was that tension I saw in Ian’s expression? I couldn’t tell, but his eyes were narrowed and he was suddenly very intent on what I was saying.
He sat up and took my hands. The blue eyes were very close. “It could have been the portrait, Christina. It isn’t every day that one finds such an unusual likeness to an ancestor. You read the diary, and you know a great deal about Scotland’s history. The names you mentioned are men famous for their roles at Culloden Moor. I don’t think what you experienced has any special significance.”
“There’s something else,” I said. I hadn’t planned on telling him, but it was suddenly very important that I said it aloud. “The night you took me to dinner, I had another dream. It was terrifying. I wrote it all down just the way I saw it.”
Some of the desperation I felt must have shown in my face because he smiled reassuringly. “Relax, darling,” he said. “What exactly did you see?”
“A woman who looked like Katrine, only older. Her name was Mairi Maxwell.”
This time I didn’t imagine it. Ian’s face paled under his tan. “That’s impossible,” he said flatly.
I shook my head. “She was Mairi Maxwell of Shiels, and she lived at the end of the thirteenth century. Her husband was David Murray. I believe Traquair House was another Murray family holding. Ian”—I gripped his hands tightly— “she was in the courtyard when Robert the Bruce came to accuse her of sedition, and she looked exactly like me.” His expression hadn’t changed. I could feel the panic rising in my throat.
“How could you possibly know that?” he whispered.
“It was all in my dream,” I cried out in frustration. “There was more, much more. It had to do with the Coronation Stone, Scotland’s Stone of Destiny.”
He held his finger against my lips. “Stop, Christina. Let’s take it slowly. What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Donnally.”
“And her mother’s?”
“Wilder. What has my mother got to do with anything?” I asked impatiently.
He looked down at his watch. “It’s late. Let’s gather our things and get back.”
I looked at him, feeling the helplessness that relinquishing control brings. “Please don’t do this to me,” I whispered.
Dropping the blanket, he pulled me up into his arms. “I don’t have any answers yet, darling. But I will. I promise you that. As soon as I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
Darling. Why did that sound so natural, and where had I heard it before? Certainly not from Stephen. “Why can’t you tell me what this is all about?” I pleaded.
He ran his hand through his hair. “Because it’s too absurd to even contemplate. You’ll have to trust me.”
“I want to,” I began.
He dropped his arms and stepped back. “Christina, this isn’t a game and this isn’t America. I don’t make a habit of seducing women on the riverbank.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A tremendous weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “Not all Americans jump into bed on the second date, Ian.”
“Do you?”
This was suddenly too important to take offense. “No,” I said simply.
The brightness of his smile was like a living flame warming me inside. “Thank God for that,” he said. “Now, let’s go. It looks like rain.”
Instinctively, I knew we’d weathered a crisis. When he kissed me good-bye at the door of Traquair House, I didn’t mind leaving him. Our relationship had changed, and this time, I knew I would see him again. Dropping the basket in the kitchen, I greeted Kate and hurried upstairs to find Janet Douglas’s diary. My shower could wait.