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.