when I’m finished,” he promised. “My father ran for a seat in the House of Commons. He was a popular man, respected by everyone in Innerleithen and Peebles. His opponent, an Englishman from York who had recently moved into the area, accused my father of molesting his fourteen-year-old daughter. I was in America at the time and didn’t know the exact details until after it was all over. My father had too much pride to speak in his own defense. They found him the morning after the trial with a bullet hole in his head.”
“Oh, dear God.” My eyes swam with the tears I couldn’t hold back. “I’m so sorry, Ian.”
“I didn’t realize any of it was connected,” he continued, “until I met Professor MacCleod. We met on the road. His car battery broke down, and I stopped to help him. When he realized who I was, he introduced himself and explained that he was interested in Scottish antiquities. We had tea, and I drove him to Traquair. By the end of the day, he must have decided that I wouldn’t accuse him of insanity because he confided in me. It was then that I learned about the entire history of the Maxwells and the Murrays and my own ancestor, the woman who placed her curse upon the two clans.”
He held me away from him, his eyes searching my face, willing me to understand and accept. “She was my ancestor, Christina, and impossible as it appears, from the very moment she accused Mairi of Shiels, her descendents have lived under a black cloud.”
How could such a thing be possible? Every ounce of sanity in my brain protested. And yet, why not? I had seen it all, much more clearly than Ian. I was present when Grizelle Murray Douglas condemned Mairi to death. I had seen the pain in David Murray’s eyes and watched his pleasant features twist in hatred when he met his mother’s triumphant gaze.
“What can we do?” I whispered.
With a hoarse cry, Ian pulled me against him and buried his face in my hair. “Bless you, Christina,” he murmured in relief, “and thank you for believing me. It sounds so outrageous that half the time I don’t believe it myself.”
I smiled into his shoulder, but the pleasure of being in his arms was diminished by the urgency of our problem. “There must be something we can do,” I repeated.
“Perhaps there is, now that you’re here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have an unusual gift, my love. I’m not sure what it all means, but wherever it takes us, we’re in this together.”
Something bothered me, and I had to voice it. “Why me, Ian? Why do I have the sight?”
He folded my hands between his own, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle and patient. “I believe that whatever forces of goodness exist on earth gave us this chance, just as they gave Katrine Murray, two hundred years ago, and Jeanne Maxwell, two hundred years before that. The incredible part is that we have a chance neither of them had. They were alone. We found each other.”
The fire was completely out, and the air had grown cold. I shivered, and Ian pulled a woolen afghan over me. “It still doesn’t make sense,” I persisted. “Not everything fits. My mother is Irish, and the dreams didn’t come to Katrine until after she was pregnant. Was it that way for Jeanne Maxwell?”
He shook his head, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Jeanne’s circumstances were different. She didn’t have the first of the nightmares until after her son was born. I don’t have all the answers, Christina. We’ll just have to go along with the facts we have.”
“I can’t have children,” I reminded him.
With the tip of his finger he traced my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose, and the line of my mouth. My lips parted, and I tasted the salty flavor of his skin. He bent his head, and I felt his breath against my ear. “Wrong, Christina,” he whispered, pressing his mouth against the sensitive lobe. “You just haven’t had them yet.”
Later, we made our way up to my bedroom and together opened Professor MacCleod’s envelope. Ian positioned the feather pillows behind his head and settled me against him so that my back rested against his chest. Surrounded by the security of his arms, I read aloud the documents so painstakingly collected for me. The dry expository prose wasn’t nearly as enjoyable to read as Janet’s diary had been, but it