Gosford's Daughter (15 page)

Outside the paneled library, sleet dashed against the
two tall, narrow leaded glass windows that flanked the fireplace.
Sorcha stood next to a bookcase, hands on her hips. “For the last
time, I cannot! I keep telling you, we talked for a while, that was
all. His Grace may have forgotten who I am.”

Napier leaned against the solid dark wood of Donald
McVurrich’s desk. At least Uncle Donald was out of the house; with
any luck he’d never hear of Father Napier’s visit. “The King is
unaccustomed to lassies, but I doubt he’d let you slip from his
mind.” If the words were meant as a compliment, Sorcha was
determined not to notice.

She shook her head vehemently, the black hair sailing
around her shoulders. “No, no! You must know someone at court with
genuine influence.”

The brown eyes continued to stalk her as she moved
restlessly around the room. “I’ve been gone almost fifteen years.
My family never spent much time at court. You must approach the
King.”

Sorcha let her hands fall limply to her sides. She
stood quite still, giving Napier a little shake of her head.
“Please. You persist, yet I cannot acquiesce. Please stop. It’s
pointless.”

Napier brushed his beard with one long forefinger.
“Your gentle brother’s life may depend on it,” he remarked without
inflection.

“
God’s teeth!” exploded Sorcha. “And
the future of Scotland as well, I suppose!”

He nodded, the wolfish face solemn. “Oh, aye, that,
too. Through at least four generations.”

Sorcha rubbed her left eye fiercely and blinked. “You
play by no rules,” she accused him. “You don’t behave like a
priest. I don’t understand you; I don’t know how to deal with you.
Father, and that’s the truth.” Sorcha sighed loudly and rubbed her
other eye.

Moving with his usual purposeful step, Napier crossed
the room to put a hand on Sorcha’s arm. “There is truth to what I
say about your brother. I didn’t intend to alarm you, but if it’s
the only way to make you see reason, then I’ll be blunt. Without
the King’s permission, Rob could be arrested and executed as a
Papist spy, either at the command of Queen Elizabeth or Jamie
himself.”

Sorcha felt the weight of his hand on her arm and
wanted to shake free. But more than that, she wanted to prove to
Gavin Napier that his touch didn’t tempt her. “It just seems
unlikely that His Grace would see me.”

Sorcha felt Napier’s hand tighten on her arm. She
stiffened but refused to flinch. “This is Rob’s future.” Napier was
very somber, his wolfish face looking down at Sorcha. “Would you
ruin his hopes?”

“
Oh ….” Sorcha thrust out her
chin at Father Napier. “I’ll think on it, at least.” It galled her
to capitulate.

The sleet rattled the windowpanes and splattered onto
the empty grate. Slowly, Napier let go of Sorcha’s arm and stepped
back a pace. “Thank you.” The words were low and deep.

The awkward silence that followed seemed to bring the
storm inside the paneled library walls. Sorcha felt the thrumming
of the rain echo in her ears as she locked gazes with Gavin Napier.
At last, he spoke again. “Do you hate me for what happened by Loch
Tay?”

Sorcha blinked, then passed a hand over her mouth, as
if she could still feel Napier’s kisses. “Hate?” The word sounded
thin, reedlike. She gave a little shake of her head. “Nay. I—well,
it’s occurred to me that ….” She bogged down, unable to say
aloud that the fault was hers as well, for goading him. Most of
all, she couldn’t possibly admit that she had savored those kisses,
forbidden or not. She saw Napier watching her intently, the
hunter’s gaze probing, yet touched with sadness. Sorcha winced
inwardly and considered her next words with care. “It’s human to do
foolish things. Don’t fash yourself over it.” She lifted her
shoulders, signaling indifference.

Napier’s brow furrowed. “You consider the episode
trivial?”

To her horror, Sorcha felt tears well up in her eyes.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and turned away.
“Don’t,” she whispered shakily. “Please—speak of other things.”

Napier took a single step toward her, but halted, a
tall, rigid figure staring beyond Sorcha with unseeing eyes.
“Damn,” Napier breathed, and slammed a fist into his open palm. He
turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the library.

For a full five minutes, Sorcha remained where she
was, the tears unshed, but cursing herself over and over for being
weak, for lacking pride, and, for once in her life, being utterly
incapable of speaking with candor.

A week passed, and the King did not return to
Edinburgh. Rob was the only person in whom Sorcha could confide,
but he had no advice. “I hear the court will move to Linlithgow at
the end of November,” he told his sister, trying to be helpful.

“
God’s teeth, Rob,” exclaimed
Sorcha, “does Father Napier expect me to go there?”

Rob looked up from the fishing rod he’d been
repairing. Along with three of his male cousins, he’d just returned
from the Nor’ Loch at the edge of the city. Their expedition had
been cut short when a heavy, wet snowfall blew in from over the
Firth of Forth. As Rob started to reply, Doles, the only McVurrich
daughter, slipped into the parlor. Her hair was as dark as
Sorcha’s, but pulled straight back and kept tidily in place with a
wide bandeau. She had recently turned ten years old, but was tall
for her age, having inherited both her parents’ height. She was not
a pretty child, with her long face and straight nose, but the
regularity of her features indicated she might someday become a
striking woman. Doles folded her hands and fixed her somber gaze on
Sorcha.

“
Are you going away, Cousin? I shall
miss you.”

Sorcha smiled blandly, and Rob sucked in his breath.
“I may visit the court, yes.” She glanced at Rob. “My brother
wishes to travel, to broaden his education.”

“
Ah.” Doles’s eyes sparked with
comprehension. “My father isn’t much for traveling, though I think
my mother might enjoy it. Where would you go, Cousin?” She gazed
with interest at Rob.

“
Oh,” Rob replied, lowering his
voice confidentially. “Any number of places. The Indies, perhaps,
or Araby. Where would you like to go, sweet Coz?”

Doles was thoughtful, the smooth brow puckering.
“Mull. I should like to go to the Hebrides and see Mull.”

“
What an excellent idea!” exclaimed
Sorcha, trying to remember precisely where the isles lay off the
Scottish coast. Her father had sailed there often, but for Sorcha,
their location remained somewhat vague.

“
There are fascinating rock
formations there, I’m told,” Doles went on, her dark eyes
sparkling. “They have wild goats and sea otters and red deer and
buzzards and peregrine and … oh, so many wondrous creatures!
Do you know,” she said, dropping her voice and looking over her
shoulder to make sure they could not be overheard, “I’ve never been
to Glasgow?”

“
Neither have we,” Sorcha admitted,
though it hardly seemed like a deprivation. “When I return to the
Highlands, you must visit. We have some fine beasts and birds
there, too.” Sorcha smiled wide, though she felt a pang; now that
the snows had started, it would be several months before she could
contemplate going home.

“
There are waterfalls on Mull,”
Doles informed them, now looking quite animated. “They are very
high and cascade down to the sea.”

Sorcha found her attention wavering as her young
cousin burbled on about the magic of Mull. Somehow, the recital
only intensified Sorcha’s yearning to be in the Highlands once
more. Though it had only been slightly more than a month since she
had left Gosford’s End, Sorcha seemed to have been away
forever.

“
I am unaccustomed to advising young
ladies on proper behavior in these situations,” said Donald
McVurrich, inclining his head toward the large group of people who
chattered and laughed in the Earl of Moray’s banquet hall not far
from Holyrood Palace. “Doles is too young to attend such functions,
but I would urge modesty and circumspect speech above
all.”

Since Sorcha was attired in black from head to foot
and had restrained her hair under a heavy net, she felt Uncle
Donald’s advice unnecessary. Except for her speech. She did have a
habit of letting her tongue go unchecked.

“
Doles is very well read,” Sorcha
noted, hoping to divert the conversation away from a possible
lecture on moral turpitude. “She has studied geography and
topography extensively for one so young.”

Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, Uncle Donald responded
with a show of pride. “She has read more at her age than I have
ever done. Except for matters pertaining to finances. A canny
lassie is our Doles.”

Aunt Tarrill emerged from the throng of guests, two
mugs of mulled wine in her hands. Her eyes were bright, and her
skin had a youthful glow, as if her unaccustomed attendance at an
elegant soiree had taken at least a dozen years from her age.
“Here, good husband, drink deeply to savor the forthcoming spirit
of Christmas.”

Uncle Donald raised one blond, bushy eyebrow. “Will
we once more argue about the frivolity of Christmas?”

“
Certainly,” replied Tarrill
cheerfully. “We’ll argue for hours. And then I shall decorate the
house, rehearse the children in their carols, and fill the wassail
bowl, as always.” She reached up to touch her husband’s bearded
cheek. “I swear, Donald McVurrich, it wouldn’t be Christmas if we
didn’t debate the season!”

Uncle Donald gave his wife a vaguely sheepish look,
then patted her arm rather clumsily. “I fear I’m becoming embroiled
in a conspiracy. Our host approaches, no doubt to urge me to join
in the dancing.”

“
No doubt,” Tarrill replied,
offering her hand to the Earl of Moray. “My Lord, you are the model
of a gracious nobleman! I have already plundered your sideboard
until my stays have sprung!”

Moray smiled in that engaging way Sorcha remembered
so well from Doune Castle. He saluted Uncle Donald, then bowed to
Sorcha, his hand still firmly clasping Aunt Tarrill’s. “I am
delighted to see you’re … free to enjoy our hospitality once
more, Mistress Fraser. I fear we did not have time to fete you
sufficiently when you visited Doune.”

Sorcha was grateful for Moray’s discretion. She
deemed it a measure of his consideration for others that he would
take care not to bring up what might be an awkward subject.

“
Our party was anxious to reach
Edinburgh,” Sorcha replied, hoping she sounded sincere. In the
background, several musicians were tuning their instruments, the
random notes making a counterpoint to the laughter of the guests.
The overcrowded hall smelled of perfume, perspiration, wine,
spices, and roasting meat.

The Countess of Moray had joined them, her slender
figure encased in a vermillion brocade gown with underskirts and
sleeves of flowing pink moire. Sorcha’s smile had grown taut;
inwardly, she cursed Walter Ramsey for dying and forcing his
survivors into mourning.

“
We scarcely had an opportunity to
speak at Doune,” the Countess said shyly, as her pale lashes seemed
to dip in deference. “Being cousins, we ought to be
friends.”

The overture took Sorcha by surprise. “Our sires
weren’t,” she blurted and felt her olive skin flush.

Moray, however, chuckled. “All the more reason for
our generation to sue for peace.” He took both Sorcha and his wife
by the hand. “Come, let’s move out to the gallery for a few
moments. It’s too warm in here.”

The Countess gave her husband a sweet smile but
demurred. “We mustn’t both leave our guests, My Lord. You walk with
our cousin and refresh yourselves. I’ll see if the musicians are
ready to play.”

Noting that Uncle Donald and Aunt Tarrill were too
engrossed in their conversation with the Earl and Countess of Mar
to notice her departure, Sorcha dutifully followed Moray from the
crowded room. Once in the gallery, Sorcha took a deep breath. “Did
you actually invite all those people, or did some of them wander in
from the Canongate?”

Moray chuckled again. “To be frank, we had assumed
that about half of our guests would still be at Linlithgow, waiting
for the new Privy Council to be formed.”

“
Apparently, they’d rather wait
here.” Sorcha patterned her step after Moray’s as they ambled down
the gallery. It was narrow but not long, embellished with some fine
portraits of very ugly people. Sorcha hoped none of them were her
ancestors. She was about to ask when Moray spoke.

“
I felt most distressed at my
inability to keep you from being taken by the Master of Gray as his
hostage. He had my small household garrison outnumbered, yet my
inadequacy doesn’t excuse me. I wish there were some way I could
make amends.”

The earl’s handsome, candid face looked so chagrined
that Sorcha was compelled to dismiss the incident out of hand. “It
was quite harmless. I met the King, in fact, which was rather
amusing.”

“
Well!” Moray seemed pleased. “Poor
Jamie, so put upon by his elders! I try to offer him cheer and good
fellowship, but others accuse me of ulterior motives.” Moray shook
his head sadly. “That’s not fair, really, since my only ambition is
to provide a comfortable existence for my family. Despite the
grandiose title, my wife’s dowry was meager.”

It hadn’t occurred to Sorcha that as the daughter of
an assassinated regent, Elizabeth Stewart would have found her
patrimony dissipated by the time she reached a marriageable age.
“But you don’t seem poor,” Sorcha remarked, as they reached the end
of the gallery and turned back the other way. “Why, this party
alone must cost a great deal.”