tapestry, capturing Ian and me with silken fingers, forever entwining our lives in the mystery of the stone?
“Hello, there.” Firm hands gripped my shoulders. “At that pace you’ll miss the gates altogether.”
I blinked and then stared. Could this apparition possibly be real? He came from nowhere, a man legends are made of. He was dark from the sun, with dramatic bone structure, a high-bridged curving nose and piercing blue eyes. Thick, sun-streaked hair fell across his forehead. The look on his face was flattering. I’m not the kind of woman men follow with their eyes, or anything else for that matter. I’m attractive enough, I suppose, slim and tall with a talent for wearing whatever is currently in style. I’ve got thick hair and good bones and teeth, a blend, someone once said, between wholesome and elegant. But I’d been told more than once there’s a reserve about me, an old-world standoffishness, that puts men off. It had certainly put one off, even after fifteen years of marriage. I swallowed the lump in my throat that thinking of Stephen never failed to bring up.
“That is what you came to see, isn’t it, the Bear Gates?” He smiled and dropped his hands to his sides. Tiny lines around his eyes and mouth deepened.
I swallowed. “Yes, it is. I mean, they are.” I laughed, flustered by an unfamiliar awkwardness. He laughed with me, amused by my obvious embarrassment. He was older than I first thought, somewhere in his mid-thirties, a man with a sense of humor, a man comfortable with himself and with women.
“I can’t place your accent,” he said. “You’re not English?”
“American.”
He looked thoughtfully at me. “You don’t sound like an American.”
“I’m from Boston. We speak a different sort of English in eastern Massachusetts.”
“Perhaps that explains it.” His eyes moved over my hair and face. “You don’t look like an American and you certainly don’t act like one either.”
Startled, I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “That makes two of us.”
The flicker of interest in his blue eyes increased. “How so?”
“You’re not like any Scot I’ve ever met,” I explained slowly. “They’re usually much more reserved.”
He laughed. “Touché. Let me redeem myself. My name is Ian Douglas, and I live nearby. Do you know the story of the Bear Gates?”
“Not yet.”
He reached out and pulled me down on the grass so that we sat facing the gates. “Traquair is the oldest inhabited house in Scotland,” he began. “The Maxwell Stuarts were cousins of the royal Stuarts, and even though the families didn’t visit regularly, the familial bonds remained strong. During the Jacobite rebellion, Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed at Traquair. There are some who believe that he planned his strategy here with the earl.” His speech was very clear, the brogue nearly unrecognizable. “When he rode out of the gates for Drumossie Moor in 1746, and news of the defeat filtered back, the old earl closed the gates and vowed never to open them until a Stuart king sat on the throne of Scotland once again. They remain closed to this day. The family, out of respect for the earl’s wishes, installed another entrance, which you probably entered when you arrived.”
“How tragic.” Blinking back tears, I stared at the ferocious twin statues positioned on the pilings. “All this time to live on false hopes.”
“You are a romantic, aren’t you?” he teased. “I’m quite sure Ellen Maxwell doesn’t hope for anything of the sort. She’s English to the core.”
Of course he couldn’t know the woman was dead. “Do you know Lady Maxwell?” I asked.
“Everyone knows her, although she’s been bedridden for a number of years now.” He stood and extended his hand to pull me up.
“Have you seen everything you wanted to see?” he asked.
I nodded.
“If you’re agreeable, I’ll walk you to your car. Peebles is only about five kilometers from here. I’d like to buy you tea.”
“I don’t have a car. Lady Maxwell’s driver picked me up from the airport.”
The blue eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Christina Murray.”
“Ah, of course. I should have known.” His mouth twisted up at the corner.
“Excuse me?”
“I thought you were a tourist.” The warmth had left his voice. “And to think I was telling you the legend of the gates.”
The cold was painful. It was definitely affecting my hearing. “I came to Traquair because it’s the one place in Scotland I’ve never seen. Ellen Maxwell sent me an airline ticket.”
He stared at me as if he were trying to remember something important. I knew he