“She was murdered, accused of witchcraft and hanged.”
I could feel the color leave my face. “Before or after she married John Maxwell?” I asked.
“After. I believe she had her share of happiness even though she came to such a tragic end. The marriage was a good one. After John died at Flodden, she was arrested and executed.” He glanced at me curiously. “Were you able to read through most of MacCleod’s information last night?”
Leaning back in my seat, I fingered Professor MacCleod’s envelope and looked out the window at the golden greens and bright russets of the countryside. “I don’t need to read anymore, Ian,” I said slowly. “She comes to me whenever I’m alone.”
His hands clenched, and the knuckles on the steering wheel whitened beneath his skin. “Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.
I shook my head. “I know what’s going to happen. So far the documents seem to be historically accurate. What terrifies me is the pain. I can feel her hurt and her joy. It’s only logical to assume that I should also be able to feel her pain.”
“Did you feel it when Katrine died at Culloden?”
“No,” I said. “I felt sorrow and compassion for another’s suffering. But this isn’t the same. The images of Jeanne Maxwell are much clearer. This time, I can feel textures and smell cooking from the kitchen. I feel her relief when she takes down her hair and the warmth of a fire after coming in from the cold. I can feel everything.” I leaned my head against the window, grateful for the coolness against my forehead. “Ian?” I whispered. “Am I losing my mind?”
He smiled reassuringly. “No one who asks such a question is ever in danger of that, darling. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, and it isn’t over yet.” His hand reached out to cover mine. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it through this.”
And then what? I wondered. Would I be the next in line to fall victim to Grizelle Douglas’s curse, or would we solve it, Ian and I, and then go our separate ways? Suddenly, I wanted very much to be alone in the privacy of my own room at Traquair.
The first thing I did, after being kissed good-bye at the steps of Traquair House, was to search for Jeanne Maxwell’s portrait. Later, after Ian had returned, when I could think logically, I would find the stone.
Ignoring Kate’s curious stare, I brushed aside her questions and headed for the secret stairs. The halls were narrow here in the east wing, and every floorboard creaked under my feet. I wondered how the structure managed to survive the hordes of tourists that descended upon it every year.
The priests’ hidden chamber was long, with whitewashed walls and an uncarpeted floor of English oak, dark and stained with age. It was late afternoon and the room lay steeped in shadows. The air was still with a dank, musty smell reminiscent of mold and age and closed-up rooms that had outlasted their purpose. The furniture was sparse, and the only paintings on the walls were those of churches and village scenes. Where was Jeanne, and where was the entrance to the hidden stairs?
Baffled, I returned to the main hallway and walked down to the kitchen. Kate was basting a huge chicken with a clear liquid that could only be drawn butter. Thank goodness I wasn’t overly concerned with cholesterol. Diet drinks and aspartame had not yet made their way into Scotland. She looked up when I walked into the room. Was that a flicker of apprehension I saw in her eyes?
Her voice gave nothing away. “May I help you, Miss Murray?”
Why did I feel as if I were intruding in my own kitchen? “I was wondering if my father called again,” I said.
“Not yet.” She closed the oven door and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I would have told you if he had.”
For some reason, I didn’t want to broach the subject of Jeanne Maxwell’s portrait, but I was impossible at deception and I’d run out of conversation. “I’d like to see the hidden stairs,” I blurted out.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then apparently thought better of it. Instead, she gave me a long, searching look and removed a key from the large ring hanging on the wall. Removing her apron, she hung it on a hook. “Follow me,” she said. “You’ll never find it unless I take