dirk and approached the spot where she stood between her captors. Deliberately he ran his thumb down the deadly blade. A small red line appeared on the fleshy pad. “Lady,” he said, his voice low and ugly, “you shall come with us or prepare to end your life as you stand.”
She spat in his face. “I would rather die than travel one league in the company of murderers.” There was no trace of fear in Jeanne Maxwell’s eyes. She glared at him openly, not bothering to hide the hatred in her heart.
Sweet Jesu, the man thought, she was lovely! For a moment, he allowed himself the normal appreciation of a man for a beautiful woman. With her disheveled hair and plain gown, she looked very much like a lass of his own order. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have such a woman for his own. He discarded the idea immediately. The Maxwells were kin to the Stewarts. It was blasphemous to think such thoughts.
He turned away. “You will ride with me.”
Suddenly, a voice rang out in the darkness. “Unhand my wife.”
Jeanne closed her eyes and nearly sobbed with relief. Andrew had found John. Her son was safe.
A hand closed around her throat. “Safe passage for my men, or the lady dies.”
“I think not, lad.” Amusement colored John Maxwell’s words. “Every man with me is skilled in archery. At this very moment an arrow is aimed at your heart. I’ll take the chance that it finds its mark before you carry out your foul deed.”
Reluctantly, the hand loosened from around Jeanne’s neck. She took a deep, cleansing breath and walked past the frozen guards to her husband’s side. Her mouth opened to tell him about Isobel, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears crowded her throat and spilled down her cheeks.
John’s smile turned to concern. Leaning down, he lifted her into his arms. “What is it, love?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. If it were only that. If only she didn’t have to tell him. He would surely blame her for leaving the child with Grania. The ache in her heart was unbearable. Burying her head in her husband’s shoulder, she sobbed uncontrollably.
Frowning, John looked at the burned-out croft. His jaw hardened. “Where is Grania?” It was too dark to see the old woman’s dismembered body lying on the ground.
“Dead,” Jeanne whispered. Her fingernails dug into his hands. She couldn’t bear for him to ask the question that would surely come. Gathering her courage, she looked directly at him. “Isobel was asleep in the croft.”
At first, her message didn’t register, and then, all at once it did. Jeanne watched as his eyes reflected the stages of his loss. First, bleak understanding, then pain, and finally rage.
Without looking at his wife’s face, he deliberately lifted one arm and signaled to the men who followed him. Immediately, Jeanne felt a rush of wind against her face. She heard a cry and watched Grania’s murderer crumple to the ground with an arrow in his heart. John signaled again. Another man fell, this time without a sound. Again and again, John lifted his arm until every man who wore Stewart colors lay lifeless in the dirt.
Only then did John walk his horse to the croft and dismount, reaching up to untie the rolled-up plaid behind his saddle. The shooting flames were out, leaving only the charred remains of a mud wall and a smoking wooden frame.
Jeanne watched as her husband disappeared behind the wall. Moments later he reappeared, carrying a plaid-wrapped bundle. She slid to the ground and held out her arms. John walked into them, refusing to relinquish what was left of his daughter.
Pressing her face against the plaid, Jeanne breathed in deeply. Beneath the acrid smell of smoke and death, she detected the faintest scent of blackberries. Her eyes burned as the tears welled up again. Clinging to the familiar plaid, she gave herself up to a heartbreak too vast for words.
Nineteen
TRAQUAIR HOUSE
1993
“Miss Murray,” Kate called through the door. “Mr. Douglas is here to see you.”
I sat up, groggy and disoriented. My eyes burned, and I was conscious of a weariness more profound than anything I’d experienced before. I rubbed my cheek, and my fingers came away wet. The ache in my heart wasn’t imaginary. I felt a deep, soul-consuming loss for Isobel Maxwell. For me, the events leading to her death happened just moments ago, not five hundred years in the past.
Kate’s knock was more persistent.
“Tell