Gosford's Daughter (11 page)

For once, Sorcha squelched her natural desire to
speak boldly, honestly. Gavin Napier had kissed her and held her
and touched her—and she wished he hadn’t stopped. But she dared not
say so aloud; she was compelled to lie, at least to suppress the
truth, and to hide her feelings. Sorcha shifted her stance and
shrugged. “A regrettable lapse, I suppose,” she said and was amazed
at the leaden sound of her voice.

“
Aye.” Napier nodded once, started
to lift his hand in some sort of salute, and then abruptly turned
on his heel to head up the rocky path toward the inn.

A faint glow of light could be seen from behind the
rude inn’s window. Off to one side of the thatched structure,
Sorcha heard their horses stir in the dilapidated stable.
Fleetingly, she considered going to pat Thisbe’s neck to feel a
reassuring reminder of home.

Napier never looked back, but he left the door ajar
for her. By the time Sorcha entered the inn, she could see his
booted feet ascending the ladder to the loft where his straw pallet
lay between Rob’s and Arthur MacSymond’s.

Sorcha ignored the curious stare of the burly
innkeeper as she made her way up the short, winding staircase to
her attic room. Ailis was sitting by a candle, looking through the
tiny window. There was no glass or horn, only a piece of canvas to
keep out the autumn chill. Sorcha silently blessed Ailis’s poor
eyesight; otherwise she might have observed the indiscreet moment
by the loch.

“
How’s your ankle, Ailis?” Sorcha
inquired in a kindly voice.

“
Sore, but I’ll manage.” Ailis gave
Sorcha a tight-lipped smile. “Did your walk refresh
you?”

Sorcha turned away as she started to undress. “Oh,
aye,” she answered as casually as possible, and realized her mouth
felt bruised. “I think I saw a deer by the loch.”

“
Are they like the ones in the
Highlands?” asked Ailis, crawling under a patched blanket and
stifling a yawn.

“
They’re smaller,” replied Sorcha
evasively.

“
Oh,” Ailis said, and closed her
eyes. Sorcha held back a sigh of relief; she had no wish to carry
on a lengthy conversation. Blowing out the candle, Sorcha wrapped
herself in her own blanket, which felt scratchy against her skin.
The place seemed free of vermin, she decided, trying to find a
comfortable position on the straw pallet. They had yet to sleep in
a bed with a real mattress. At least the McVurrich household would
provide the amenities of life.

Outside, an owl hooted. Ailis was already snoring
softly. The little low-ceilinged room still reeked of peat, though
Sorcha knew the fire had been put out before she returned to the
inn.

“
God’s teeth,” she whispered,
turning over and wrestling with the rough blanket. She had hoped to
put Father Napier’s reckless embrace from her mind. Had he thought
she was taunting him about not liking women? Was he really a
lascivious priest after all? Or was Gavin Napier insane? The deep
sigh Sorcha uttered seemed to fill the cramped little room. She lay
on her back, staring up at the low, patched ceiling. Suddenly she
felt quite young, rather foolish, and very lonely. True, Rob was
with her on the journey, but soon they would be parted. Only a few
weeks ago, Sorcha had been dwelling comfortably within the bosom of
her family and the familiar surroundings of Gosford’s End. She had
an excellent prospect of marriage and the future seemed secure. Now
she had been jilted, wrenched from her sanctuary, and sent upon a
journey to a city that oppressed her. Worst of all, she had found
pleasure in the arms of an errant priest.

“
Hopeless,” she whispered into the
darkness. Sorcha knew it was as hopeless to love Gavin Napier as it
was to love Niall Fraser. In that moment, she made a vow—to marry a
rich, titled husband. She would love him, of course, since he would
be clever and handsome as well. Love must be commanded to come or
go. Hadn’t Johnny Grant turned fondness to disdain? Weren’t her
feelings for Niall already obscure? In a few days Sorcha would
forget Gavin Napier. And somewhere, perhaps just weeks away,
Sorcha’s true love was waiting.

F
or the home of one of
Scotland’s most important noblemen, Doune Castle was impressive
only in its forbidding appearance. After two hundred years, it was
still unfinished. The bulky towers were ragged; the two wings
jutting out above the River Teith appeared stunted. Sorcha found
the place a gloomy fortress on a barren hill, with only the arched
entrance worthy of an earl.

But the man who dwelled within was far from gloomy or
stunted. James Stewart, second Earl of Moray, was a tall, handsome
man with dark red hair and a brilliant smile. His wife, Elizabeth,
was scarcely older than Sorcha. The Countess of Moray appeared shy,
her gentian blue eyes downcast, her soft voice barely audible. She
was pretty, Sorcha decided, in a quiet sort of way, with the hint
of dimples and perfect small white teeth. Elizabeth Stewart was yet
another relative, being the elder daughter of Iain Fraser’s late
half brother and arch enemy, James, the first Earl of Moray.

“
Does that make us half cousins?”
Sorcha asked of Rob as they walked along the gallery toward the
dining room. The castle, Sorcha had noted with relief, was far more
inviting inside than outside, being decorated with bright
tapestries and handsome furnishings and plush Persian
carpets.

“
I suppose,” Rob replied. “But then
it seems as if half of Scotland is kin to us in some
way.”

“
Just think,” Sorcha said, lowering
her voice, “Elizabeth of Moray’s father tried to kill our own sire!
Do you think she knows?”

Rob shook his head. “I hope not. Her father seemed to
want to kill a lot of people. It’s only fitting that he should have
fallen to an assassin’s bullet.”

“
I remember when we heard he’d died.
I was but three years old, yet I recall how our Lady Mother gloated
for days.” Sorcha could still picture Dallas, standing in front of
the great fireplace at Gosford’s End, calling on God and the Virgin
and all the saints to witness how justice had finally been done.
Iain Fraser, however, had not joined in his wife’s jubilation.
Despite all the grief that Moray had brought him, the man was still
his brother.

The stark walls of the dining halls were partially
hidden by huge vases filled with evergreens and autumn leaves. The
chairs were covered in rich crimson damask, a runner of embossed
Spanish leather traversed the gleaming oak table, and a silver
chandelier shimmered with the light of five hundred candles.

Sorcha was suitably impressed. They were not the only
guests at Doune, however. Francis Hepburn Stewart, the wily Earl of
Bothwell, was observing the newcomers over his glass of port. His
one-time enemy, the doughty Sir William Stewart of Monkton, was
also present. William Stewart had lost two fingers in the quarrel
between his brother, the Earl of Arran, and the Earl of Mar three
years earlier. Both Stewarts, now at peace, sat flanked by two
mastiffs in front of the vast stone fireplace.

“
Jesu,” whispered Sorcha to Rob
after the introductions had been made, “I hope we’re not kin to all
these people. How can we tell?”

“
Ask our host. He’s a most congenial
man.” Rob grinned at Sorcha, then shook his head at the drab maroon
gown she was wearing. “Didn’t our Lady Mother insist you bring
along something more … festive?”

Sorcha grimaced at her brother. “Since when have you
taken to caring what I wear? And, yes, Mother packed my saffron
dress, but I’m not sure where it is. She said Aunt Tarrill would
see that I got a proper wardrobe in Edinburgh.” Sorcha tossed the
long, loose black hair and glared at the other guests who were
lounging about in various states of unregimented camaraderie. “I
didn’t expect to stay at an earl’s home en route to Edinburgh.”

In layman’s attire, Father Napier was almost as
casually dressed as Sorcha. Whiskey cup in hand, he had approached
her and Rob to join their conversation. “The Earl of Moray is well
known for his congenial hospitality. His wife was raised more
rigidly, but tries to adapt to relaxed ways.”

“
Relaxed?” mused Sorcha, watching
the demure Countess of Moray nod diffidently at the Earl of
Bothwell. “She seems a timorous creature to me.”

“
She has a certain sense of
dignity,” Father Napier noted with approval.

Sorcha’s green eyes snapped; she hadn’t spoken to
Napier since the previous night outside the inn. “Not to mention an
earldom stashed in her dowry.” Sorcha said bitingly. “Moray had to
choose between her and a younger sister, isn’t that so?” While
Sorcha was confident of her ability to maintain a conversation in
the great hall of a nobleman’s castle, she was also relieved to be
in such a large company. It was best that she and Gavin Napier
didn’t find themselves alone together for the duration of the
journey.

Napier shrugged, one big hand cradling his whiskey
cup. “I assume His Lordship was taken by her modesty and grace. But
ask him yourself,” he went on, gesturing toward their host who was
approaching, a warm smile on his handsome face.

“
We should have music or tumblers
for entertainment,” Moray declared, clapping Rob on the shoulder.
“I had no notion our humble home would be welcoming so many
visitors at once.”

“
Including turbulent Bothwell, I
see.” Gavin Napier gestured toward the curly-haired earl, who had
captured Elizabeth of Moray’s rapt attention. “He, too, is kin to
the Frasers.”

Moray nodded, his open gaze taking in Sorcha and Rob
as well as Gavin Napier. “His father was yet another illegitimate
son of King James, his mother, the sister of Queen Mary’s third
husband. A stormy petrel, but possessed of a certain charm.”

Sorcha eyed Bothwell with curiosity. Somehow she’d
expected the offspring of jaunty Johnny Stewart and the coltish
Jean Hepburn to be an imposing figure. He was redheaded, barely of
average height, and with an unimpressive physique. Yet his nervous
energy exuded a peculiar magnetism.

“
Bothwell and King Jamie have an
erratic relationship,” Moray remarked lightly. He turned to Sorcha
and Rob, his hands spread in an expansive gesture. “So we are all
kin to you, yet we’ve never met ’til now.” The clear blue eyes
rested a trifle too long on Sorcha. “I regret our acquaintanceship
has taken so long.”

Sorcha was only vaguely discomfited by Moray’s gaze.
What disconcerted her more was that for the first time in her life,
she wished she were dressed in a more becoming style. Noting
Elizabeth of Moray’s pale blue brocaded gown, Sorcha suddenly found
her outmoded, shabby maroon dress inadequate.

Father Napier filled the unexpected void in the
conversation with ease. “The Fraser heirs have spent most of their
lives in the Highlands. Visitors to that part of the world are
rare, I’m told.”

“
A pity it is, too,” Sorcha put in,
trying not to think of feminine finery, “as it’s beautiful, untamed
country.”

Moray’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “As are the
natives?”

Rob stiffened, prepared for a pert response from his
sister. But Sorcha merely laughed. “Oh, aye, My Lord, some of us
are downright primitive! Though,” she went on in a more wistful
tone as Elizabeth of Moray moved toward them with the candlelight
giving a silvery sheen to her gown, “we are adaptable to more
civilized ways.”

Father Napier made a wry face, which only Sorcha saw.
Rob opened his mouth to speak, but the words never took life. From
the entrance hall, shouts and scuffling could be heard. Moray
excused himself abruptly, Elizabeth froze in place, and a hush fell
over the guests.

A figure stood in the arched doorway, sword in hand.
Sorcha gaped at the man whose tall, athletic body cast a long
shadow across the floor from the torches held aloft behind him. He
wore chain mail but no helmet. His hair was the color of burnished
copper, his face calling to mind a Grecian temple statue. For all
the aggression in his stance, there was an elegance that made his
sudden appearance as much of a pose as it was a threat.

Yet Sorcha realized that the others were uneasy, even
frightened. Elizabeth of Moray had tiptoed to Rob’s side, where she
chewed on her fingernails. Sir William Stewart’s face was
contorted, his eyes narrow with menace. Bothwell looked interested,
as if weighing sides to assess his own position. Moray stood just a
few feet from the interloper, attempting to defuse the situation by
his easy manner.

“
Patrick! Since when have you had to
hack your way into my home? Put down your sword, man, and join us
for supper.” Moray gestured with an open hand toward the table.
“Tell your men to come in. We’ll roast more capons.”

The other man lowered his sword lightly. “I seek not
food, but a villain,” he declared, his compelling hazel eyes raking
the company. “There,” he called out, pointing with his empty hand
toward Stewart. “He knows who I seek! Where is your vile brother,
the treacherous Earl of Arran?”

Sir William stepped forward with a bristling air of
anger. “Where you imprisoned him, at Kinneil!” His voice was gruff.
“You weave wicked plots, Patrick, Master of Gray. And all to make
yourself the King’s favorite in place of my gravely wronged
brother!”

Gray brandished his sword. “Liar! Arran escaped from
Kinneil while I was in Perthshire. Either he is here—or has fled to
King Jamie.”

Sir William thrust out his barrel chest. “Paugh, if
he were here, he’d face you like a man! I know nothing of this
escape, but I thank God for it.”