Seven
SCONE CASTLE
June 1745
“Katrine,” begged her mother, “be reasonable. You hardly know the man. If you marry him, he’ll take you away to his home in England. You were born and raised in the Highlands. How can you even think of leaving everything you know for a man you met less than a month ago?”
“I’ve never known anyone like him,” Katrine said simply. “There’s a brightness in him, a fire that pulls me.” She looked directly at Janet Douglas. “Surely you know how it is, Mother? You married Father despite the disapproval of your families. I’m your daughter. Isn’t it possible that I know my own mind as well as you knew yours?”
Janet wrung her hands. “It isn’t the same at all. George and I are Scots. We share the same loves and loyalties, the same history and customs. The match would have been welcomed by both clans if it were not for—” She stopped and bit her lip.
“Go on,” Katrine said curiously.
Janet sighed and sat down in the comfortable, unfashionably wide chair that she refused to leave home without. They were in the refurbished sitting room attached to her bedchamber. Despite her preference for everything Scottish, she preferred this room to any other at Scone, and it was decidedly English in flavor. Over the fireplace, the doors and bookcases, and in the marble-topped console with its carved eagle support, the impact of the Palladian revival was evident. Heavy pedimentation and richly framed mirrors accented the room. Niches filled with painted ivory, porcelain, and jade from China were set into the peach-painted walls. An Oriental lacquered screen shut out the light from one of the long windows and a large portrait of Sir David Murray, the first Lord Scone, hung above the fireplace. The only fault Janet could find with these Inigo Jones reproductions were the chairs. They were spindly and narrow with embroidered cushions that looked like the heavy tapestries that had covered the walls of Blair-Atholl for centuries.
Janet was a fashionable woman in all things except her comfort. The wide, high-backed chair with its sturdy arms had been with her most of her life. Here, at her mother’s knee, she learned to set the neat, perfect stitches that had brought her fame in Edinburgh. It was to this chair that she brought the first glimmer of her love for George Murray, burying her flushed face against the worn upholstery, wondering if he felt the same heat that surged through her veins. Here she had nursed her children, coming to know the exquisite ache of a tiny mouth searching for sustenance. Curled up in the warm softness, she taught them their prayers, encouraged their dreams, listened to their confidences, and bandaged their hurts. In this comforting sanctuary from her childhood, awash in the happiness of her second pregnancy, she had experienced the onset of the terrifying nightmares.
She looked at her daughter. Katrine’s light-filled eyes studied her as if she were an exotic bird perched on the mantel. “Are you all right, Mother?” she asked.
Janet’s hand trembled as she smoothed the brocade of her skirts. “What will you do if your father forbids the match?” she asked.
Katrine’s lips tightened. “He wouldn’t. There is no impediment to the marriage. Father knows that. Richard is suitable in every way.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“If I have to, I shall wait until I’m of age,” said Katrine stubbornly. “Two years isn’t such a great deal of time.”
“We may soon be at war with England, my love. Would Richard agree to wait?”
Katrine’s smile was both tender and proud, and her answer was very sure. “He will wait for as long as it takes. There is no one else for either of us, Mama.”
Janet stared into the lovely, heartbreakingly earnest young face and relented. Perhaps it would be all right. Richard Wolfe could have no connection with an ancient Scottish prophecy. And even if he did, the course of fate could not be changed. “I’ll speak to your father,” she said at last. “However, it would help if your young man pleaded his own case.”
“Richard rode to Edinburgh to see Papa this morning.”
The light that burned inside Katrine flamed into a joy so intense, so vitally alive, that Janet couldn’t bear to look at her. Turning away, she blinked back the tears that welled up in her eyes.
***
Less than one month later Katrine Murray married Richard Wolfe on the twenty-fifth day of July in the small, intimate chapel at Scone. It was a private ceremony with only family members present. Richard’s family was not in attendance. They had not been expected. The political climate was too unsettled for a journey north. Janet held up well, smiling mistily through a veil of tears. Katrine’s brother, Alasdair, stood in white-lipped silence, his thin Celtic face betraying none of the anger twisting his mind. But his thoughts were full. His sister married to a Sassenach. It was beyond endurance.
George Murray walked down the long, portrait-lined gallery with his daughter on his arm. His footsteps on the oaken floor, where so many kings had walked, were sadly resigned. Of all that were present that day, only he knew what had transpired and what was to come. Only he knew that the marriage of his only daughter, the laughing, flame-lit, wood-sprite Katrine, was doomed because of a tall, brown-eyed young man who called himself a prince and had all the romantic appeal of a hero.
Only days before, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, in the company of a few loyal men with a pitifully small store of arms and ammunition, set foot on the isle of Eriskay. Sir Alexander MacDonald of Boisdale, a gruff and practical Scot, advised him to go home. The prince eyed the gathered clansmen, bowed deeply from the waist, and said, “I am come home, sir.” The men broke into a resounding cheer, and Scotland’s fate was sealed.
By now his frigate had most likely reached the mainland at Loch nan Uamh near Arisaig. Charles would seek support from the Highland chiefs, and George knew that despite his new son-in-law, the Murray standard would rise with the prince. He would be very gentle with his daughter today. Holy God, she should know something of the happiness he and her mother shared. Before the flowers on her bridal bouquet wilted, her world would be torn apart, her loyalties divided. Her husband’s troops would kill members of her clan. Perhaps the family she loved would make her a widow. It was enough to make a man drown himself in good Scotch whiskey.
No hint of the troubles to come intruded upon the young couple as they ascended the steps of the travel carriage for their journey to Blair Castle. George had insisted they go there after the wedding. He wanted Richard to see Katrine’s childhood home. The couple would have complete privacy except for the servants. He and Alasdair were on their way to Perth to meet with the prince, and Janet would remain at Scone.
Richard’s eyes widened at his first sight of Blair-Atholl. The startlingly white medieval towers against the green hills of Tayside were blinding in their brilliance. In full view of the surrounding countryside, the castle was unusual in that the courtyard and outer buildings were not protected by the usual wall and postern gate.
“Isn’t it rather vulnerable to attack?” asked Richard, his military-trained gaze perusing the disadvantages of holding off an enemy.
“This is the eighteenth century, Richard.” Katrine’s gray eyes danced at his naiveté. “Clans no longer make war upon each other by besieging castles. Any recent skirmishes have taken place in open fields.”
Richard thought of the latest dispatch sent to him only yesterday. There would definitely be a war in Scotland. He was profoundly grateful that his marriage to Katrine had taken place before it was officially declared.
Later, after the last of the dinner dishes was removed, he looked down the long banquet table at his wife. Her face and the lovely line of her neck were framed by the light of twin candles. Her eyes glowed like diamonds, and a single black curl rested against her breast. She smiled, and his mouth went dry.
“Shall we go upstairs?” he asked in a voice he didn’t recognize.
She nodded. “I’d like to go up first if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” He stood and walked to the other end of the table. Bending to kiss the nape of her neck, he caressed her bare shoulder. She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair. At the touch of her fingers, he pulled away, breathing raggedly. “You’d better leave now, darling,” he said, “or I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”
Touching his cheek lightly, Katrine left the room and climbed the stairs to the bedchamber that had been prepared for them. A servant helped her out of the voluminous petticoats and panniers and pulled a simple cotton nightdress over her head. There had been no time for a trousseau. Katrine was sitting on the bed, brushing out her silken curtain of hair, when Richard stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
He walked over to Katrine and lifted a shining lock of hair. “I’ve never seen it loose,” he said in wonder. “You must never powder it. Never.”
“I won’t if you prefer it.”
Without a word, he shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Katrine swallowed. His shoulders were massive, and the deeply muscled chest was covered with a mat of the fairest hair she’d ever seen. He looked down at her, saying nothing, the blue eyes smoldering with passion. She recognized it immediately. Desire, instant and primal, rose within her, and she held out her arms.
He went into them. Bending his head, he kissed her, pushing her back on the pillows. A wave of white-hot sensation seared through her at the touch of his mouth on her throat. When his hands slid up under her gown, over her legs to her waist and then her breasts, she cried out and opened her legs, reveling in the heaviness, the power and strength of the rock-hard muscles between them.
There was pain when he entered her, pain and splintering light and rocking waves of pleasure. Afterward, he lay spent on the pillow beside her, and she played with the loose silvery hair spilling across her shoulder. Without his clothes and his neatly tied-back queue, he no longer looked like an English gentleman. He looked primitive and uncivilized, like a Viking plunderer from a different age. She smiled widely.
Richard felt the movement of her mouth against his shoulder and raised his head. “Christ, sweetheart,” he began.
“I know,” she replied.
His lips found the sensitive spot on her throat. “Shall we try again with a little less intensity?” he murmured.
Her eyes, in the pale oval of her face, were wide with surprise. “Good lord, why? Have you heard me complain?”
Startled, he sat up on his elbow to look down at her. Moonlight streamed in through the long window, illuminating the flushed skin, the high bones of her cheeks, and the clear gray eyes. There was nothing of guile or flirtation shining through the transparent depths, only trust and love and a pure, elemental gleam of anticipation. He did not deserve this woman. He, Richard Wolfe, known for his savoir faire in lovemaking, had come to his wife in blinding need. He had taken her like a rutting bull or an unskilled boy with his first barmaid, and still, she held out her arms to him. He flushed, his fair skin darkening with shame.
Katrine sat up, bracing herself on her arms. The bedclothes slipped down and he saw something else: the full, parted lips and long eyelashes, the smooth column of her pulsing throat, the warm olive tones of her skin, and the full rise of her taut, young breasts.
She smiled seductively and lowered her lashes. His eyes widened as he watched her slide her hands down her own body, lingering on the curve of her hip and the flat plane of her stomach. When she returned to her breasts and cupped them, his mouth was completely dry. She was driving him insane. Where would an innocent girl learn to do that?
With a groan, he pulled her beneath him, and his mouth locked on hers. Her response was immediate, and it gentled him. Exercising the self-control for which he was renowned, he set out, for the first time, to arouse the woman he loved.
Brushing the hair back from her forehead, he trailed light kisses from her ear to the base of her throat, sucking gently at the point where the blood leaped to life. Running his hand down the slope of her breast, he followed with his mouth, flicking the sensitive tip with his tongue until he felt her nipple harden. She gasped and arched up to meet him, holding his head down. He filled his mouth with her, moving from one mound to the other until she cried out, begging him to end it.
He was fully erect. Sliding his hand between her thighs, he parted them and moved over her.
Katrine had never imagined her body capable of such magic. She was beyond thought, beyond logic, reeling in a sea of pure sensation. Heat pooled in her womb, and the delicious tension rose and rose until she wanted nothing more than to pull the hardened flesh now probing at the entrance to her womanhood as deeply into the heart of her being as it would go. Who would have thought a man’s body, all hard lines and jutting angles, could hold such delights for a woman? She wanted him now. Boldly, she reached for him, her hand encircling the turgid flesh. He stiffened and froze, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. Instinctively, she moved her hips. Richard’s control snapped. With a shout of surrender, he drove into her over and over until the shattering pleasure of his release drained him completely. Raising his head, he looked down at her face. What he saw satisfied him and he joined her in sleep, their bodies tangled, for twelve dreamless hours.
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
Janet’s diary lay unopened beside me. It was no longer necessary for me to read. The images came from inside me, from my own mind. I managed the walk to my room in relative calm. Gathering my clothes, I made it to the bathroom and locked the door. But in the shower, as the soft spray of hot water hit my face, I lost control. If anyone had asked me to explain the wrenching sobs that wracked my body, I couldn’t have done it. Maybe it was the beauty of Katrine Murray Wolfe’s wedding night. Maybe it was the all-consuming desire of two doomed lovers or the piercing clarity of the selfless love they so obviously shared. Or maybe it was pain. Pain for the failure of my dreams and the realization that my own marriage, compared to the burning, heart-shattering passion of Katrine’s, had been nothing more than an empty shell.
Later, instead of turning on the lamp on my nightstand, I lit the candles on either side of the bed and lay back against the pillows, pretending to be Katrine Murray waiting for her bridegroom. The flickering candlelight contributed to the feeling of mystery and age permeating the room. I could almost feel the centuries roll back and the faint crows-feet disappear around my eyes. I was suddenly, glowingly happy. I was a bride waiting for the husband I loved. Sipping Kate’s still warm tea, I waited for the images to come.
ASHTON MANOR, ENGLAND
September 1745
Katrine looked out the long, diamond-paned windows at the manicured lawns and graceful fountains of Ashton Manor. The Wolfes’ country seat, with all its amenities, was as luxurious and dignified as a palace. The wide staircases, modern kitchen, well-lit bedrooms, and formal gardens bore no resemblance to her childhood home. Katrine bit her lip. She was dreadfully homesick. When Charles raised the standard at Glenfinnan and her father had agreed to become his field commander, she knew it was time to return to Scotland. Only the child prevented her. The child and the desperate, quicksilver brightness of the love she bore for Richard Wolfe. She had not yet told him that she carried his bairn. If he knew that, he would never allow her to leave. Only her mother knew and perhaps not yet. Mail was dreadfully slow, and the letter she had franked only two weeks before may have been delayed.
Richard walked into the room in his shirtsleeves. It was September and unseasonably hot. Without speaking, he rang the bell and waited for the butler to appear. “Send up a bottle of claret, Hastings,” he ordered.
“Very well, sir.” The servant bowed and left the room.
Katrine wet her lips. “It didn’t go well, did it?”
Some of the grimness left Richard’s mouth. She always knew, even without words. “No,” he answered, looking at her steadily. “Charles captured Edinburgh without a fight after routing Sir John Cope and his troops at Prestonpans. Your prince is now residing at Holyrood.”
“Holy God! What will the government do?”
Hastings returned with the claret and set it on the tea cart. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you,” said Richard, tossing down a quick glass and pouring another.
“We’ll ring if we need anything else, Hastings,” said Katrine. “You may leave us now.”
The butler bowed and left the room. She turned to her husband. “Tell me, Richard. Anything is better than not knowing.”
“Is it?” His mouth was twisted in a mocking grimace. “Parliament has issued orders for his arrest.”
“On what grounds?” demanded Katrine.
“Treason.” The ugly word echoed loudly in the still room.
“The punishment for treason is death,” she whispered.
Richard poured himself another drink. It would be a relief to forget this madness and get thoroughly, blindingly drunk.
Katrine asked the question through stiff lips. “What of my father?”
“You’re not stupid, Katrine,” he lashed out angrily. “What do you think?”
Her pale lips tightened with resolve. “I want to go home, Richard. I must go home.”
The face he turned to her was one of a stranger. “You are home, Katrine. Ashton is your home. Don’t ever forget it.”
“Are you forbidding me to see my parents?”
“Yes.”
She stood, straightening to her full height. “When you can speak to me reasonably, m’lord, I shall be in my room.”
“Dammit, Katrine.” His fist crashed against the papered wall. “Scotland is in the midst of civil war. It will be a bloodbath. The French have not come out for Charles, and half of Scotland opposes him. Only the clans remain faithful.”
“It doesn’t sound as if my country wants war,” she said coldly. “We merely want our rightful king. It is the English that persist in this folly.”
Richard did not miss the fact that she had allied herself against him. “The result is the same,” he insisted stubbornly. “It is too dangerous to consider a journey into Scotland.”
“That is only your opinion.”
“I am your husband, therefore, it is the only opinion that matters.”
She whitened, and her eyes blazed like twin diamonds in her angry face. Not trusting herself to speak, she left the room without a word.
Leaving the glass on the table, Richard picked up the bottle of claret, threw himself into the nearest chair, and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion.
***
Katrine sat on a low stool before her dressing table and stared into the glass. She closed her eyes, enjoying the gentle tug of the hairbrush as the maid ministered to the black curtain of silken hair that fell across her shoulders. The woman was very skilled and agreeably silent. For the first time, Katrine was grateful for her reticence. It would have been beyond endurance for anyone to expect conversation from her this night. Her marriage was over, and she felt nothing more than a curious numbness. She knew the strange lethargy wouldn’t last. Soon, there would be pain and then anger and finally grief. She would let the depth of her despair wash over her, bleeding her of all emotion. Then she would plan her escape.
Katrine had known from the beginning that this day was inevitable. Richard had known it as well, but he was a man, and with a man’s arrogant disregard for forces beyond his control, he had assumed that upon their marriage, Katrine’s loyalty would belong only to him. Her smile was tender as she thought of her husband. She loved him so much, and their time together hadn’t been nearly long enough. She would live on the magic and the memories for the rest of her life.
Later, when he came to her, she was reminded of their wedding night, when his hunger had been so great there was nothing left of control. He took her suddenly, quickly, without the skill to which she had grown accustomed. Katrine welcomed his passion. Desperate times demanded forceful measures. It was a primitive thing, this raging tidal wave of desire that had run through all men since the dawn of time. It was an act committed out of fear and for only one reason—to claim possession.
“I love you, Katrine,” he said much later when her head was pillowed against his shoulder. “I couldn’t bear it if you left me.”
Her lips were cool against his skin. “It is you who will leave me,” she whispered. “England will call you to lead her troops in battle, and I will be left alone.”
“It isn’t the same thing at all.”
She smiled sadly. “Of course not. Go to sleep, my love.”
***
Katrine’s first London ball was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Carriages were lined up for blocks, the wait over an hour as elegantly groomed guests stepped out on to the marble steps. Although it was after ten, the candles at the entrance to the duchess of Langley’s gracious townhouse gave off enough light to make the time seem closer to noon than midnight. Katrine smoothed her skirts and allowed her husband to help her out of their carriage. She looked around, surveying the enormous crowd with pleasure. Katrine loved parties.
“What a miserable crush,” he groaned, shaking his head at the noise. “Come, Katrine.” He tucked her hand beneath his arm. “We are obligated to stay until midnight at least.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Is it this ball you dislike in particular?” she asked. “Or do you despise entertainment altogether?”
“I hate crowds,” he confessed. “All this milling about and pretending to feel pleasure toward those one would rather ignore. Everyone I care to see I visit on a regular basis.”
He grinned suddenly, and the muscles in Katrine’s stomach tightened. Richard’s smile lit his entire face. It was one of the things she must learn to live without.
“I sound like a pompous ass, don’t I?” he admitted sheepishly.
She laughed. “Rather. But the wonderful thing about you is that you recognize it.”
He lifted her chin and looked down into her face. “That isn’t all I recognize,” he said softly. “You look beautiful, Katrine. There isn’t a chance in heaven that I’ll manage a single dance with you tonight.”
It was true. Katrine did look beautiful. Her blue satin gown was cut low so that the fichu tucked demurely into the décolletage only served to emphasize the creamy swell of her breasts. Her skirt was fashioned with yards of material pulled aside by twin panniers so wide she just managed to walk into the ballroom without turning sideways. No evidence of the secret she carried showed in her small waist and still-flat stomach. Her hair was left unpowdered, the glossy curls pulled high on her head and allowed to cascade down her back. Her black eyelashes and the bloom on her cheeks were her own, but the patch placed just below her left cheekbone called attention to her clear, light eyes, high cheekbones, and expressive mouth.
Resting her cheek against his velvet-clad shoulder, she succumbed to the sudden, fleeting spasm of pain that twisted through her. They had so little time left together. “You shall have as many dances as you wish,” she said fervently.
It was very clear to everyone who attended the duchess of Langley’s ball that evening that Lady Katrine Wolfe would have an extremely successful London season. The circle of her admirers completely hid her straight figure from the man who had recently entered the room.
“Who is the latest toast?” he asked his hostess, beckoning a servant who carried champagne.
“Lord Wolfe’s new bride,” replied the duchess. She looked up through her lashes at the tall, aristocratic man by her side. “Shall I introduce you, Duncan? She is quite lovely, although I confess if you flirt with her, I shall be furious.”
His lips twitched, and he brushed away an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulder. “Don’t be absurd, Lavinia. Besides, I already know the chit. She is Atholl’s daughter.”
“Then you need no introduction,” drawled the duchess. “I’m so relieved.”
Duncan Forbes set down his champagne glass on a low table and bowed politely. “I believe I’ll take the chance that she remembers me.”
Lavinia Devereaux, duchess of Langley, watched him walk away with a puzzled frown between her brows. Duncan Forbes was an enigma. A passionate Whig, he had used his position in the House of Lords to plead for lenience toward the clans. His huge fortune and impeccable lineage made him a matrimonial prize. He was nearing forty, but so far he had shown no preference for any of London’s reigning beauties. There were rumors of an unrequited love affair in Scotland, but those who were in a position to know refuted it. The duchess preferred to discount such a tale. There wasn’t a woman in Britain who would refuse his title and lands, not to mention the extremely attractive person of Lord Duncan Forbes.
Without the slightest effort on his part, bodies seemed to fall away, allowing him a clear path directly to Katrine’s side. Her eyes widened, and she blushed as he bent over her hand.
“What are you doing here, m’lord?” she asked in Gaelic.
“I might ask the same of you,” he replied in the same language, noting with satisfaction her heightened color. At least the minx had the grace to be embarrassed for jilting him so abominably.
“My husband is in the card room.”
“Do you require protection, Katrine?” His hands were at her waist.
“This dance is taken, m’lord,” she said coldly.
He ignored her. “You haven’t answered my question.”
Aware that curious stares were upon them, she placed her hand upon his arm. “We cannot be private here.” She nodded toward the French doors. “Take me to the balcony.”
His thin, perfectly molded lips curved upward in a triumphant smile. There was nothing he would rather do than be private with Lady Katrine Murray. “I am yours to command, m’lady.”
Once they were safely out of doors, she dropped her arm and whirled on him furiously. “How dare you embarrass me so. Why are you here, Duncan?”
“You have a short memory, Katrine. I live in London most of the year.” His hand clenched the snuffbox he carried. “Did you also forget that you were promised to me?”
Her cheeks were flame red. “You are not being fair, m’lord. I told you I was not indifferent to you. That is all.”
“It was enough to give me hope.”
She spoke gently. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Duncan, but I am married now. What was between us must be over.”
He reached out, his fingers clamping down hard on her shoulders. “Why, Katrine? Richard Wolfe is a Whig and an Englishman. If you meant to change your loyalties, why him and not me?”
She lifted her chin in a haughty, defiant gesture. “I love him. But I have not changed my loyalties. If you care as deeply as you say, then be happy for me. The path I’ve chosen is not an easy one.”
He dropped his arm and turned away, but not before she saw the pain in his eyes. The knuckles showed white through his skin. “If you ever need anything—”
“I have everything I need,” she broke in, “except—”
Quickly he turned to face her. “Except?”
“How is the situation in Scotland?”
Disappointed, he nevertheless answered truthfully. “If Charles would only stay in Edinburgh, he might have a chance. His march on London was a fiasco. He has no hope of support from England, and word has it that your father has quarreled with him over the Irishman, O’Sullivan.” He laughed humorously. “Charles always was a fool. If he listened to George Murray, he might prevail. As it stands, he is doomed.”
“That would suit your purposes, wouldn’t it, Lord Forbes?” she said bitterly.
“I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m a government man,” he replied. “This isn’t the Middle Ages, Katrine. The divine right of kings is an outdated tradition. The Stuarts would do their country a better service to remain in France.”
“The Stuarts are kings of Scotland,” she asserted.
“You are such a child, my dear. Haven’t we executed enough of them to dissuade those remaining from making such a claim?”
“I’m leaving,” she announced, “’Tis enough to turn one’s stomach to hear such treason from a Scot.”
He stopped her with his hand on her elbow. “Remember, I’m here if you need me.”
Pulling away, she returned to the ballroom. Katrine found Richard and, pleading a headache, asked to go home. Alone in her own room for the first time since her marriage, she felt the child inside her quicken. And that night, in the frosty chill of an English winter, she experienced the first of the nightmares.