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