pushed on the carved wood and held her breath. A door, cleverly carved to match the wall, opened onto a narrow stone tunnel. Sighing with relief, she leaned against the wall and pushed a tendril of hair from her forehead with a shaking hand. This was it, the passageway that led to the Stone of Destiny.
Breathing deeply, she straightened and looked around. Spying a footstool in the corner, she pulled it out, anchored the door open, and stepped inside the tunnel. She walked slowly, shifting her weight to accommodate the stitch in her side that grew more irritating by the minute. Ignoring the tightening bands of pain around her back and stomach, she continued down the passageway. Her excitement grew as she recognized the jagged irregular step from her dream. In the distance a pale glow beckoned her. The space narrowed and darkened. Katrine could no longer see the light. She hurried forward, gasped, and doubled over as a knifelike pain gripped her. Holy God! Could it be the child?
Katrine turned back, frantic with fear. The stone would have to wait. She stumbled as her foot searched the darkness for a hold on the step. How far had she come? Would there be time enough to return? Running her hands along the walls, she climbed, half walking, half crawling her way up, stopping only when the waves of pain rocked her with an intensity that sucked out her breath and drew the waning strength from her limbs. Her stomach felt very hard. Suddenly she gasped. A flooding warmth rushed down her legs, soaking her undergarments and ruining her satin slippers. Was it blood? Horrified at this unknown phenomenon, the fine edge of her control slipped away. Shaking with fear for her unborn child, Katrine cried out, “Help me. Oh, God! Someone please help me.”
Ten
Duncan Forbes knocked softly on the door to Katrine’s bedchamber. If she was already asleep, he would leave the message with her maid. Moments before, a Forbes clansman had arrived at Traquair, reporting that the Jacobite army under the command of George Murray had assembled at Drumossie Moor. The duke of Cumberland and his troops, which included Major Richard Wolfe, were still at Nairn celebrating the duke’s birthday. Forbes grimaced. He did not relish the idea of telling Katrine that her child might share a birth month with the second son of England’s king. He knocked again. Whatever his personal feelings, Katrine had a right to know that her father and husband would be on opposing sides of this battle.
A maid answered the door. When she saw who it was, her heavy-lidded eyes widened, and she curtseyed deeply. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she stammered. “My lady hasn’t returned yet, and I was busy with the clothespress.”
His eyes, skimming over her dilated pupils and sleep-slack features, dismissed her excuse. “Has your mistress not returned from dinner?” he asked.
“No, m’lord.”
Duncan knew she was not lying this time. He frowned and turned away. Where could Katrine have gone?
He walked past his own room to the end of the hall. The twisted stairway leading to the priests’ room was illuminated by the flickering flames of the candle sconces mounted on the opposite wall. He hesitated, chiding himself. What possible reason could Katrine have for climbing the secret stairs in her condition? And yet she hadn’t returned to her room and she wasn’t in the library. He’d checked there first.
Lifting the candle branch from the wall, Duncan sighed and moved into the shadowed alcove, its confining space almost too narrow for the breadth of his shoulders. His instincts regarding Katrine had never been accurate. From the time she was fifteen years old, he had loved her to distraction. She had been half his age and he’d convinced himself it would be better to wait, at least until after her first season, to approach her with his regard.
For three years he’d bided his time, calling upon a lifetime of discipline, waiting and watching while younger, more ardent men claimed her dances, squired her to parties, and rode with her on the moors. It was only right, he argued with himself, that Katrine should have her youth. She was a beautiful, vibrant young woman. She was also fiercely patriotic and exceptionally intelligent. Duncan had counted on that. No callow, unschooled youth would satisfy her for long. In time, her eyes would turn to a man of experience, a man with influence, a man who had sewn his oats and would appreciate a woman