Gosford's Daughter (14 page)

Jamie seemed to wither under Gray’s persuasion. “Very
well.” He motioned to Simeon and Sorcha. “I’m tired, in any event.”
He uttered a small, strangled laugh. “I loved Arran once. Why
couldn’t he have been more kind?”

Gray put a proprietary hand on the King’s shoulder.
“He doesn’t know kindness. He never understood you. He always put
his own interests first.” The Master turned to Simeon. “Take gentle
good care of our sovereign lord. I’ll see to Mistress Fraser.”

The King made as if to protest, but thought better of
it. Docilely, he let Simeon lead him away without another word.
Sorcha, still holding her cloak fast around her body, looked
directly at the Master but winced slightly at the compelling hazel
eyes. “If you think I intend to sleep with the horses, you’re sadly
mistaken, My Lord,” she announced boldly.

“
I had no such thought.” He didn’t
bother to offer his arm but strode to the castle door and pushed it
open. Sorcha dutifully preceded him up the staircase. “This way,”
said Gray, nudging her arm. “What did you talk about with His
Grace?” The voice was smooth, almost unctuous.

“
Mutton.” Sorcha clamped her teeth
together.

Gray emitted an exaggerated sigh. “I can’t trust you.
You spend an hour or more with the King, then try to help him
escape during a most delicate political crisis, and insist you only
talked of mutton.”

“
We began with beef,” Sorcha said
with impatience. “I want to leave this place.”

“
I told you we cannot.” Gray sounded
as if he were talking to a recalcitrant child. “You may leave
tomorrow, after the King and I decide how to deal with the banished
lords.”

Sorcha swooped around, hair and cloak flying behind
her. “You! Why should it be you any more than Arran or whoever else
wants to control that poor laddie? He’s the King; leave him
be!”

“
Christ’s Beard,” Gray exclaimed in
mock wonder, pausing by a torch which still flickered fitfully.
“The urchin wants to tell the Master of Gray how to conduct
himself! Do they not teach you manners in the Highlands! They
surely don’t teach you grooming.”

“
You, sir, may put your manners up
your arse,” Sorcha raged, fists on hips. “If my father were here,
he’d skewer you for speaking so to me!”

Gray leisurely moved to within a half foot of Sorcha.
Deliberately, he reached out to pull the cloak from her shoulders.
“Your dress is not only hideous, it’s dirty.” He put a finger on
the gravy stain that rested against the cleft of her bosom. Sorcha
pulled back, infuriated by his audacity.

“
Don’t touch me!” Sorcha’s eyes
darted from one end of the hall to the other. She lunged for the
torch but Gray’s long arm snatched at her wrist.

“
Stay, urchin. I’m not going to
deflower you, merely detain you.” He gave her arm a little jerk,
and Sorcha swore under her breath. Resignedly, she let him lead her
past a pair of narrow windows where the wind blew through the
cracks in the embrasures. They rounded a corner, all but crashing
into Gavin Napier.

Napier’s hand went to his dirk. Momentarily taken
aback, Gray recovered his aplomb at once. He struck an indolent
pose, half leaning against the wall, regarding Napier and Sorcha
with an insolent smile. “Don’t be a fool, man. If you kill me
within these walls, you’ll be just as dead within the hour.”

Napier’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his fingers
were still wrapped around the dirk’s hilt. “Here or elsewhere, it
matters not to me.” His other hand lashed out, catching Gray
sharply just below the left ear. The Master reeled and slumped
against the wall but saved himself from falling to the floor.

“
Whoreson!” breathed Gray, venomous
eyes not quite in focus.

Napier grabbed Sorcha by the wrist. “Come, before I
decide to kill this whelp of hell after all.”

Sorcha shuddered and instinctively moved closer to
the priest. Gray was pulling himself to his feet as Sorcha and
Napier hurried down the corridor. “He’s evil,” she whispered,
picking up her skirts in order to keep apace with Napier’s long
stride. “Bothwell, too. Poor Jamie!”

Napier’s grip on her wrist grew tighter. “Did he harm
you?”

“
Oh, no—he was pleasant enough. For
a villain.” She craned her neck to look up at Napier. “But you—he
won’t forget, priest or not.”

They had reached the east side of the castle, by the
entrance to the great Parliament Hall. “Rob’s outside,” said
Napier, ignoring her words. “He bribed the guards.”

Anxiously, Sorcha peered back down the dimly lighted
corridor. Despite all the tumult of the past hour or more, the
castle was deceptively quiet. Sorcha saw no one. Not even the
Master.

Napier had released her wrist, but Sorcha made no
move toward the stout oak door. “I said you are in danger. I’d
wager Gray is a vengeful sort.”

“
He doesn’t know who I am.” Napier
tested the iron bolt; it slid back easily. “Quickly, before Rob
grows apprehensive.”

Sorcha still didn’t move. She wanted to thank Gavin
Napier for rescuing her, yet she was afraid to encourage any
familiarity. With another man, she’d offer a kiss on the cheek, a
hug, at least her hand. But she dared not touch this volatile
priest for fear of leading him—and herself—into temptation.
Abruptly, Sorcha turned away. “I’m grateful to you, Father. You
were brave to come here.” To her surprise, the words were a
mumble.

Napier, however, acknowledged her appreciation with a
shrug as he shoved the heavy door open. “Your care was entrusted to
me by your parents. I’d have been derelict in my duty if I’d acted
otherwise.”

He spoke offhandedly, but as Sorcha passed over the
threshold into the brisk night air, she felt Napier’s hand press
against her back as if to provide direction. Yet even as she saw
Rob’s form outlined against the castle battlements, Sorcha’s flesh
tingled from Napier’s touch, and she cursed herself for nurturing
what seemed to be a shameless, impossible desire.

“
H
ow
fortunate!” cried Aunt Tarrill, leading Sorcha and Rob into the
McVurrich parlor. “It’s Donald’s birthday! We’re having a
party!”

Sorcha and Rob exchanged bemused glances. The idea of
dour Uncle Donald enjoying a celebration, even in his honor, seemed
incongruous. However, the five McVurrich children, Aunt Glennie,
and an elderly couple were indeed gathered around the fire, eating
saffron cakes and drinking brandy wine.

“
You must change,” Aunt Tarrill said
after the introductions had been made to the old people, who were
Donald’s parents from Dunbar. Tarrill inclined her head, looking
thoughtful. She was a tall, statuesque woman, her dark hair
streaked with gray, her aquiline profile softened by time. “You’ll
take the room over the Canongate, Rob. And, you, Sorcha, the one
above the garden.” She stopped speaking as Aunt Glennie sidled up
to her niece and nephew, blue eyes bright, faded blond curls
bobbing. “Well, Glennie,” said Tarrill, “what do you think of
Dallas’s bairns?”

“
A handsome pair, I must confess.”
Glennie smiled, blinking rapidly as she always did when agitated or
excited. “Yet very different, with Rob’s red-gold hair and Sorcha’s
dark locks. But then, the three of us were unalike. In many ways,”
she added wistfully.

Within minutes, Sorcha was upstairs with Ailis,
sorting through their luggage. Having noted that the household was
in mourning, no doubt for Glennie’s late husband, Sorcha hoped she
would not have to purchase an entire wardrobe of black. Such somber
garb could hamper attracting rich, handsome suitors. For now, a
crimson gown made over from one of her mother’s dresses would have
to do. Sorcha had been disinterested during the fitting sessions at
Gosford’s End, but now she appraised herself critically in the
bedroom’s three-quarter mirror. The color suited her, but the dated
style did little to set off her figure, except for the bodice,
which revealed the curve of her bosom and just a hint of the cleft
between her breasts. Another gown in the same shade, with the new
V-neckline and a wide ruff fanning out behind the head would be
more fetching. A narrow-waisted dress with a small farthingale
would add height, too. As for her hair, she supposed she’d have to
buy some caps, or at least veils and nets to keep it in place. It
was hopeless to attempt taming the long, unruly strands at the
moment. Sorcha stepped into the only new item she’d brought, a pair
of black calfskin shoes with dainty heels.

Rob had already changed and joined the others by the
time Sorcha returned downstairs. Henry, the eldest of the McVurrich
offspring, was playing the pipes while the others sang a hymn.
Sorcha slipped quietly into the group, between the youngest boy,
Thomas, and Aunt Glennie. The hymn seemed to last a very long time.
Sorcha noted that Glennie didn’t join in, though Tarrill did. Rob,
of course, was silent but wore a pleasant smile, as if to prove
that he was enjoying the music.

The last notes died away in a minor key. Donald
McVurrich rose from his place next to the hearth, a psalter in his
hand. He was a tall, rawboned man in his forties; his blond hair
had darkened over the years, and his beard reached his breastbone.
Though he opened the book of psalms and gazed down at the page, the
words he spoke were his own. “Sorcha Fraser, this is a godly house.
Gentlewomen do not expose their bosoms, nor do they wear brazen
colors. Particularly while mourning a loved one.” Only upon
conclusion of his reprimand, did Donald look directly at Sorcha.
The eyes held no warmth, and Sorcha felt herself blushing.

“
I’m sure she hasn’t had time to go
through her wardrobe, good husband,” said Aunt Tarrill mildly.
“Indeed,” she went on, turning to Sorcha with a fond smile, “I
remember your mother wearing that dress when she was in Edinburgh
the last time. Or at least one very like it.”

“
I should expect Dallas would,”
Donald commented dryly. He ignored his wife’s vexed look. “Let us
recite the psalms.” It seemed to Sorcha that Uncle Donald intended
to recite all of them. An hour later, he was still droning on,
though by then, the rest of the family responded only fitfully.
Sorcha and Rob exchanged impatient glances. They were both hungry,
not having eaten since breakfast in Dunfermline. To Sorcha, it
seemed like much longer, though she had been relieved when Gavin
Napier and the others had parted from them near the Netherbow Port,
where Edinburgh’s High Street met the Canongate. Both Sorcha and
Rob remembered how to reach the McVurrich house in Panmure Close.
Father Napier had left Rob with assurances that in a few days’ time
they would meet to discuss their plans. Sorcha considered it might
be best if she didn’t see the priest again.

At last, Uncle Donald closed the psalter. Yet another
hymn followed, before the family relaxed, pressing Rob and Sorcha
with questions about their journey. As if by some secret, mutual
pact, neither Fraser related the incident with the Master of Gray
or Sorcha’s adventures at Stirling Castle. Nor were they specific
about why Rob had come to Edinburgh. Candor would invite
criticism—or worse—from Uncle Donald.

After a fine supper of salmon baked in a flaky crust
and pheasant served with a thick, rich gravy, Sorcha felt very
sleepy. When Uncle Donald began to read from the Old Testament, she
had to struggle to stay awake. Sorcha had not heard so much of the
Holy Bible in a year at Gosford’s End as she had in the four hours
since arriving at the McVurrich house.

“
I’ll perish,” she moaned to Rob
when they finally were permitted to escape upstairs. “You’ll be
able to leave ere long, but I must stay! How will I bear this
stultifying Presbyterian gloom?”

Rob was looking out Sorcha’s window into the darkened
garden below. “I suspect it’s because this is Uncle Donald’s
birthday. Apparently he celebrates with prayer and hymns.”

Sorcha hurled herself onto the bed, kicking off the
new shoes, which pinched most painfully. “If you go off to become a
priest, I’ll take the veil! Then Uncle Donald will be forced to
throw me out of the house, and I’ll be saved from dying of
boredom!”

Rob chuckled as he turned away from the window, while
Ailis moved discreetly about the room, putting the last of their
belongings away. “In truth, Sorcha, when I’m a priest. I’ll spend
many hours each day in prayer.”

“
That’s different—you’ll be a
priest, not a banker.” Sorcha fixed Rob with obstinate green eyes.
“I still hope you’re wrong about having a vocation.”

Rob inclined his head. “I may be. Time will
tell.”

Sorcha didn’t answer. Time would tell a lot of
things, she reminded herself, wondering how long it would be until
she would meet acceptable suitors. It had already occurred to her
that Uncle Donald would not allow Catholic gentlemen to call on her
and that perhaps even lively Protestants would be discouraged.
Sorcha’s vaunted hopes for a fine marriage seemed remote.

Sorcha felt as if she were some sort of prey, being
stalked by the most dogged of hunters. The argument with Gavin
Napier had raged for ten minutes. Napier was relentless, repeating
his request to Sorcha over and over. She, however, had countered
with at least a dozen good reasons why she should not approach the
King to seek permission for Rob and Napier to attend Mary Stuart.
But Napier had the perfect opportunity for Rob. Queen Mary’s strict
new Puritan gaoler, Sir Amyas Paulet, had dismissed the Queen’s
chaplains and was threatening further reduction of her suite.
However, Napier learned that she retained a man to read with her in
French. Some thought he was actually a priest. Whatever his true
calling, the household’s move to dank Tutbury had eroded the man’s
health. With so many years in France, Napier could easily fill the
position. As for Rob, he would go to England in the guise of
Napier’s manservant.