handkerchief. Blowing long and hard into the worn linen, he wiped his nose and replaced it in his coat pocket. “This will seem absurd to you, Christina. It certainly did to me, but Ian insisted I tell you. In the entire line descended from Mairi Maxwell, only two women have died tragically and before their time. They were Katrine Murray of Blair-Atholl and Jeanne Maxwell of Traquair. Both, in addition to their descendancy from Mairi and their Murray blood, had another Maxwell ancestor on their mothers’ side of the family. Both were susceptible to terrifying nightmares that didn’t begin until after they became pregnant.”
Katrine Murray. The lovely girl who looked like me had died tragically. There was more. I knew it. There had to be. Why else would I feel a strange chill creep up my spine? Why would the hair stand up on the back of my neck and an eerie sense of inevitability temper my reactions, giving me this outward appearance of calm?
The professor reached out and covered my hand with his own. “Bear in mind that you’re an American and that this is the twentieth century.”
I laughed with a false bravado that fooled neither of the two men at the table. “Don’t worry about me. If there is anything else, I’d like to know.”
He drew a deep breath. “Katrine Murray and Jeanne Maxwell were afflicted with a disease that had all the symptoms of what we now call juvenile diabetes.”
“Dear God!” I didn’t realize I had whispered the words out loud until Ian leaned forward and gripped my wrist with his hand.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Christina,” he asserted fiercely. “It’s absurd to even consider it. Your circumstances and those of the Murray women are nothing alike.”
Just hearing the words and seeing his face settled my nerves. I turned toward the professor. “My mother is Irish,” I explained. “I haven’t any Maxwell ancestors, and it appears that I can’t have children.”
“But you do have nightmares?” he persisted.
I considered his question carefully before speaking. “They aren’t exactly nightmares, Professor MacCleod. You see, I’m not in any of them.”
“Who is?”
I inhaled deeply. Not for the world could I have turned away from his piercing, hypnotic gaze. “Katrine Murray and Mairi of Shiels,” I said at last.
“Ah.” He nodded as if satisfied. “I thought so.”
“You did not!” Ian was visibly upset. “You knew nothing about Christina’s association with the curse until I told you about her.”
“That isn’t true, Ian.” The old man’s voice was very soft. “I knew from the first moment I met Christina Murray ten years ago at the university that there was a strong possibility she would be part of this legacy.”
“How?” Ian demanded.
“Traquair is a marvelous old house,” MacCleod explained. “You really must explore it some time. Take the visitor’s tour. It’s really the best way to view the house. In the priests’ room at the top of stairwell called the hidden stairs is a portrait of Jeanne Maxwell. It was painted at the beginning of the sixteenth century just before her death.” His eyes were moving across my face, as if committing my features to memory. “You really must look at it, Ian. It’s a haunting experience.” Somehow I expected what was coming next. The professor’s words only confirmed what I already knew. “Jeanne Maxwell looks exactly like Christina.”
“There is something else,” I said.
The glow of discovery illuminated his face. “Tell me.”
“I know the nature of Grizelle Douglas’s curse.”
“You also know her first name,” he observed. “I didn’t and neither does anyone else alive today. Please go on.”
“It has to do with the stone.” I closed my eyes, trying to remember the words from my dream. “For your treachery the Maxwell women through David’s line will never rest,” I recited. “Their sleep will be haunted by ghosts of the dead who walk the earth until they die by foul and tragic means. Only when Scotland’s Stone of Destiny is found and returned to Scotland, will the curse be lifted.”
“Good God.” The professor sighed. “We have about as much chance of lifting the curse as we have of going back in time to change the course of history.”
“But Christina isn’t a Maxwell,” interrupted Ian. “Christ, MacCleod, she isn’t even a Scot on her mother’s side. Even if this preposterous theory is true, the Maxwell strain should be stronger. And what of the dreams? They came to Jeanne and Katrine while they were pregnant. Christina isn’t able to have children.”
Professor MacCleod looked at me and stroked his chin.