gown, a girl with black hair and gray eyes. That girl had ridden across these parklands. She had danced in the ballroom, played in the nursery, learned her lessons in the wonderful old library, and drawn the cocooning curtains around her at night in a bedchamber somewhere above the curving staircase. I was Katrine’s legacy. I was also a Murray. Opening the door, I smiled across the chasm at Ian. “Shall we go inside?”
The family wasn’t in residence, but it didn’t seem to matter. Ian and I were treated like honored guests. We were ushered into the drawing room for afternoon tea. In direct view of family portraits and armor, exquisite furniture, moldings, and a china collection my mother would have swum the Atlantic to possess, we were served cucumber sandwiches, scones, and tea.
My bedroom was something out of a Georgette Heyer novel. Elegant stucco scrollwork in the curving rococo style was evident in the mantel. Painted wallpaper decorated with flowers and brightly colored birds covered the walls. The furniture was Georgian with delicate Chippendale carvings in the bedposters and canopy. A commode in one corner of the room had ivory fittings and covered urns. The fender, grate, and fire irons were copied from Chinese designs, reminiscent of the Oriental craze dominating the middle of the seventeenth century. When I opened a door at the end of the room, I was relieved to see a modern bathroom, complete with a state-of-the-art showerhead, thick towels, and creamy rugs. There was another door at the opposite end of the bathroom. I opened it and found Ian in the next room, sprawled out on the bed, asleep. Closing the door carefully, I retreated to my own room.
It might be hours before he awoke, and I desperately wanted to get back to Janet’s diary. Pulling up a comfortable chair to one of the floor-length windows, I looked out over the hills of Perthshire. There was something gracious and comforting and familiar inside these medieval stone walls of Blair Castle. They welcomed me just as Traquair had welcomed me. I opened the diary and began to read, but I couldn’t focus on the words. My head ached and I felt dizzy. Suddenly the pain increased. I dropped the journal and let my head fall back against the chair. A terrifying wave of blackness engulfed me, and then, as before, the visions came.
Nine
ASHTON MANOR
February 1746
Katrine was very thin and unnaturally pale. For the first time in his life Lord Richard Wolfe was desperately afraid. Afraid he would lose her and the child she finally confessed to be carrying. Against his better judgment, he was almost convinced to allow her to return home to the loving ministrations of Janet Murray. The Highlands would bring the roses back to her cheeks. Now that she carried his child, he had no fear that she would leave him permanently. Katrine’s sense of duty was too ingrained. He frowned at the glass of ruby-colored liquid at his elbow. The port was strong, and for weeks he had been drinking heavily. Leaving the wine untouched, he walked out of his study to the stairs. There was a loud commotion at the door.
“What is it, Hastings?” Richard asked, his hand on the railing.
“This gentlemen seeks speech with Lady Wolfe.” The butler pointed to a bearded, disreputable-looking figure wrapped in plaid. “I told him she was unavailable, but he will not accept my answer.”
Richard walked toward the door. “Perhaps he will accept mine. My wife is resting, sir,” he said politely. “May I take her your message?”
“I canna’ do that,” the man said in a brogue so thick it was difficult to understand. “Wha’ I ha’ is for the lass, only. Do you ken?”
“Nevertheless, we will not wake her,” insisted Richard firmly. “You may wait in the hall if you like.”
“It’s all right, darling. I’m up now.” All heads turned to the voice at the top of the landing. Katrine, dressed in a loose-fitting gown of soft blue wool, appeared to float effortlessly down the stairs.
“Angus.” She held out her hand to the clansman. “’Tis lovely to see you. Have you eaten?”
Richard’s mouth twisted. Only Katrine, with the beautiful manners instilled into her from birth, would think to ask if this scowling, mud-stained peasant was hungry.
The man called Angus shook his head. “I’m to bring you to Scone, lass. Alasdair is dead and your ma beside hersel’.”
Katrine whitened and swayed. Richard sprang to her side, holding her up with his arm. “Damn you!” he