very far away, and his last letter was over four weeks old. It was rumored that Prince Charles was expected at Traquair. Duncan, a Whig and Hanover supporter, had been sent to persuade Charles that his cause was hopeless, to lay down his arms and return to France.
***
Richard Wolfe cursed fluently and kicked the rock under his boot. It had been weeks since he’d heard from Katrine. Now, when he was at Nairn and less than a day’s journey from Blair, his position as aide to the duke of Cumberland made it impossible to go to her. The duke’s army of nine thousand foot and horse soldiers was camped on Drumossie Moor, a wide bare plain that might have been made specifically for the maneuvers of the disciplined infantry.
To the south, across the River Nairn, was the broken, hilly ground George Murray had chosen for the battle site. He had been rebuffed by the Irishman, O’Sullivan. Prince Charles, blinded by the man’s flattery, chose to accept his counsel rather than the hard-headed appraisal of Murray, who had proven himself to be a brilliant military tactician. Richard knew there was little doubt as to the outcome of the battle to come. The five thousand Jacobite troops, weak from lack of provisions, hadn’t a chance.
He drew his cloak around him and looked disapprovingly at the primitive beauty of Drumossie Moor. If he never saw this godforsaken country again, it would be too soon. He missed the manicured loveliness of the England countryside. He missed his valet and his library and the gracious decorum of life at Ashton Manor. He missed breakfast in the sunlit room near the conservatory and the excellent claret waiting for him in his wine cellar. He missed discussing horseflesh with his groom and finances with his secretary. He missed clean sheets and feather mattresses and warm bathwater. Most of all, he missed Katrine. He ached for the mere sight of her. Christ! How had he, Richard Wolfe, become embroiled in this absurdity? He closed his eyes and prayed for the first time since he was a boy. If God was merciful, when next he stood before his wife, it would be without her father’s blood on his hands.
“Richard?” The quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.
He turned, and his eyes widened. George Murray, immaculately dressed in wig and hat, stood before him.
“How did you manage to pass through our lines?” Richard asked.
Murray’s smile was grim. “There are enough Scots in the duke’s regiment to make one more nearly invisible.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Richard’s pain was genuine. Never, in his darkest moments, had he believed it would come to this.
George smiled again. “I didn’t come to blame you, lad. I came to ask a favor.”
“You know I won’t let anything happen to Katrine or your family,” Richard assured him.
“It isn’t Katrine I worry about. ’Tis the clans. Cumberland knows that if the prince’s cause is to find support anywhere in Britain, it will be the Highlands. Use your influence, Richard. Plead for mercy.”
“You speak as if the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”
Murray gestured toward the wide expanse of plain that was Drumossie Moor. “Have you ever seen a more inappropriate ground for Highlanders?” he asked the younger man.
Richard, who knew something of the Highland clans’ sole battle tactic, that terrifying uncontrolled charge followed by merciless work with a broadsword and dirk, had to agree. “I didn’t realize O’Sullivan’s influence carried such weight.”
“O’Sullivan has a way with words,” replied George dryly, turning away.
“Wait.” Richard’s voice stopped him. “How did you leave Katrine?”
“She is well,” replied George without turning around. “Take care, lad. Every bairn needs a father to keep him in line.”
Richard watched his father-in-law’s tall, raw-boned figure disappear into the mists.
***
Charles Edward Stuart looked every inch a prince as he lifted Katrine’s hand to his lips. “Your father never told me that you had married, Lady Katrine,” he said. “Who is the fortunate man?”
She lifted her chin and met the dark eyes of her prince defiantly, “He is English, Your Grace. Perhaps you’ve heard of Richard Wolfe?”
“Indeed I have,” replied Charles pleasantly. “A good man.” He looked pointedly at Katrine’s protruding stomach and grinned. “Apparently marriage agrees with you. In France you were not so encumbered.”
She blushed. “I apologize for receiving you in this condition. My visit to Traquair House was unexpected.”
His eyes twinkled down at her. “Apologies are unnecessary, lass. You are lovely as usual, and motherhood is a noble undertaking. May I escort you to dinner?”
At that moment Katrine realized