lips stopped my words, and his hands moved skillfully, possessively over my breasts, evoking sensations that were both new and familiar. I felt free and unusually light and very unlike myself, half of me reveling in the sensuality of the moment, the other half detached and observant, seeking answers to this impossible new development.
Possibilities danced through my consciousness. Was I really here or was this an incredibly realistic dream that I would come out of with some new insight into the mystery of the stone? Why were John Maxwell’s caresses so achingly familiar, and how did he know exactly what to do and where to touch with those lean, brown hands that brought such exquisite and long-forgotten pleasure? Memories danced through my consciousness. Memories of events the woman Christina Murray could never have experienced and yet were undeniably part of that other woman, the wanton one with her head thrown back, her lips parted and breasts arched, the one responding so completely and instinctively to John Maxwell’s lovemaking.
At any moment, I could have gone over the edge. I know it now, just as surely as I didn’t know it then. Christina Murray would cease to exist. It was so close to happening, the assuming of another woman’s identity, the entering into her mind and body, the swallowing of myself into that dark and misty portal of time from which there was no escape. I would have done it, knowing I was doomed to a miserable death, knowing I had no hope of returning to my life as I knew it. For that moment, it was enough to be held and soothed and possessed by a man I’d never dreamed could exist for me. Lured by the spellbinding magic of his touch, call it immoral or depraved, I would have given all I knew of heaven and earth to stay wrapped in his arms for whatever time I had left.
Sometime later, I wasn’t sure if it was moments or hours, he rolled off of me and pulled my head against his shoulder. “I love you, Jeannie,” he murmured. “Don’t ever leave me again.”
My heart plummeted and then righted itself. This man knew nothing of Christina Murray. It was Jeanne Maxwell he loved. I had no place here in this vision I’d created for myself. Jeanne’s life was over no matter what direction mine would take. As much as I longed to change the path of destiny, it was impossible. There was no going back for Jeanne or myself. The realization came suddenly on the wings of that strange rushing darkness and the spinning tunnel of wind.
Somewhere, in the wind and darkness, we passed each other, Jeanne and I. Somehow our thoughts connected, merged. We became of one mind, one consciousness. I, with a greater knowledge of the past and future, wondered what confusion she must have felt as we exchanged lives and she viewed my world as I viewed hers.
Twenty
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
September 1513
Jeanne stirred in the large bed and flung her hand to the side where John usually slept, searching for the reassuring warmth of his bare skin. Finding nothing but smooth sheets, she sat up and looked around. He was seated in the only chair in the room, pulling on his boots. His sword and targe lay nearby. Wearily, she pulled a quilt around her and slid off the bed to stand beside her husband.
“Don’t get up,” he said. “’Tis still dark and much too cold.”
“You’ve decided to go,” she said accusingly. “Without even telling me, you were going to ride out like a thief in the night.”
His jaw tightened, but he answered patiently. “I would hardly call bringing five hundred men into Jamie’s army the work of a thief. I had no intention of deceiving you, Jeanne. Everyone at Traquair will hear us leave.”
“I don’t want you to go,” she insisted stubbornly. “You said yourself that it was a fool’s errand and there isn’t the slightest hope of victory. Must I lose my husband as well as my daughter?”
His eyes softened, and he stood up, fully dressed for travel, and clasped her shoulders. “We won’t speak of the worst,” he said. “God knows I’ve been in enough battles and come away with no more than a scratch. This one will be the same.” His words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“This battle is different. You said it yourself. Ten thousand men against an English army of twice as many. ’Tis a death wish. Don’t go, John,” she pleaded. “This