Gosford's Daughter (20 page)

“
Both.” Sorcha gulped and then
screamed in horror. Beyond Moray, standing in the doorway, was the
Master of Gray. Now bare chested and barefooted, the earl leaped to
his feet. Gray was laughing almost hysterically, the handsome head
thrown back, fists on hips. But even as Moray reached for his
doublet with the courtier’s sword, Gray’s laughter ceased, and he
went for his dirk.

“
Stay, Moray, I’ll not play the
interloper to your ignoble seduction. Next time I’d urge you to
latch your door.” Gray gingerly tossed the dirk from one hand to
the other, a sardonic smile on his lips. He kicked the door shut,
and walked leisurely to within a few feet of the bed. “Mistress
Fraser, you are ubiquitous. You are also troublesome.”
Appraisingly, he let his eyes wander from the top of her head to
the tip of her boots. “Perhaps worth the trouble to some, but not
to me.” He heard Moray’s sharp intake of breath and whirled
menacingly, the dirk only inches from the Earl’s bare chest. “I’m
in no mood for mirth, contrary to what you may think. Our King has
grown fractious.” Gray glared at Sorcha. “Who fuels the fires of
his independence, I wonder?” He motioned with the dirk. “Come, I
shall return you to your owner.”

Moray ignored the dirk pointed at his chest and made
a slashing gesture with one hand. “She goes nowhere. End your
devilish intrusion and leave. At once.”

But Gray only chuckled, a sarcastic, insulting sound.
“I will take the urchin with me.” He saw the refusal settle on
Moray’s face and pressed the edge of the dirk against the earl’s
throat. “So you doubt I’d kill you? One James Stewart is sufficient
in this kingdom. I’d not hesitate a moment to rid Scotland of the
one who doesn’t wear the crown.”

It seemed to Sorcha that madness gleamed in the
Master’s eyes. Cowering on the bed, she grabbed the counterpane to
cover her nakedness. Sorcha was trembling, from fright and
humiliation. To her horror, Moray stepped aside. “Take Mistress
Fraser, if you must. But if you harm her, your life is
forfeit.”

Gray sneered at Moray. “I’m not afraid of your
threats. For all of your camaraderie with the King, he loves me
best.” The mesmerizing hazel eyes bored into Sorcha. “Come, urchin,
I’ll escort you … home.”

Moray lunged with his entire body, catching Gray
momentarily off guard; he fell against the armoire but held onto
his dirk. Yet Moray had gained that precious second to retrieve his
own weapon. He brandished the sword at Gray, forcing the other
man’s back up against the armoire.

“
Get out!” Moray cried, as Gray’s
handsome face contorted with wrath. “Now, or you die!”

Gray’s dirk crashed against Moray’s sword. Earl and
Master parried and thrust for what seemed to Sorcha like an
eternity. Moray had more reach with his weapon, but Gray’s
advantage was maneuverability. He ducked under Moray’s outflung
arm, going for his opponent’s bare chest. Moray dove to one side,
as Gray, off balance, staggered and almost fell. Spinning around,
Moray cracked Gray’s wrist with his sword and the dirk clattered to
the floor.

The Master’s glare was murderous. But before Moray
could pick up the dirk, the other man bellowed in a voice that made
Sorcha’s ears reverberate: “Caithness! Aid me!”

The Earl of Caithness hurtled into the room, scarcely
pausing to size up the situation. He held a hackbut in one hand, a
rapier in the other. Moray whirled on him, but Caithness slashed at
his upper arm and brandished the gun in Sorcha’s direction. “I’ve
killed men before. I’m not squeamish about killing women.” The
sullen face was enflamed, as if by some primeval blood lust.

Moray put a hand on his bloodied arm. “Caithness, you
traitor! I thought we were friends!”

“
Friends are for fools. Gray is my
patron.” Caithness prodded the earl with the hackbut. “Drop your
sword. Or the baggage dies.”

Reluctantly, Moray did, the sword falling at Gray’s
feet. He was about to speak when the Master, again holding his
dirk, ordered Caithness to bind and gag the earl.

“
Another prank on my part,” Gray
said with sardonic humor. “Nor can you explain it otherwise to the
King without dishonoring Mistress Fraser.”

“
He’s wounded!” Sorcha exclaimed,
astonished that she could still speak. “Leave him be!”

“
It’s but a graze,” Moray said,
eyeing Sorcha with remorse as Caithness roughly shoved him onto a
chair. Secured with his own belt, Moray stoically refused to flinch
when Caithness stuffed Sorcha’s undergarment into the earl’s
mouth.

“
Ah,” murmured Gray, “the Bonnie
Earl is quite helpless to save his ladylove.” He smirked at
Caithness, then turned to Sorcha. “Up, urchin. Once more, we ride
by night.”

“
My clothes,” Sorcha protested.
“Hand them to me!” She still held the counterpane under her chin,
pointing frantically at the riding habit by the bed.

Gray gazed at the garments with apparent interest,
picked them up, started toward Sorcha, then strode to the narrow
window, opened it, and threw the little bundle out into the night.
Sorcha gasped, trembling even more violently. “Swine! If Moray
doesn’t kill you, I will!”

Gray grasped her arm and yanked the counterpane away.
“It’s mild out this evening. Come, it grows close to midnight.”

“
I will not!” Sorcha held her hands
across her bosom as she knelt on the bed. She flinched as Caithness
devoured her with his eyes and Moray writhed impotently in the
chair.

“
You will,” drawled Gray, who
appeared immune to Sorcha’s naked body, “or the Bonnie Earl will no
longer be so bonnie. Caithness is clever with the
rapier.”

Sorcha didn’t doubt Gray’s words. Both were fiends,
spawns of the Devil, and there was no choice but to obey. Shakily,
she got off the bed, letting the long black hair fall over her
shoulders to hide her nakedness. But Gray picked up a cloak the
earl had draped over a high-backed chair. He handed it to Sorcha
with an elegant flip of the wrist.

“
I wouldn’t wish you to die of a
chill. You may prove useful yet.” He grasped her shoulder, steering
her toward the door. She cast one last glance at Moray, whose blue
eyes followed hers in desperate, miserable farewell.

The road to Edinburgh had dried out the past few
days, so that a coach could travel the route without much
difficulty. Sorcha sat next to Caithness, with Gray opposite them.
She could already imagine the shock with which she’d be greeted in
Panmure Close. Uncle Donald would send her packing to Inverness,
she was certain of that, yet the thought did not cheer her.
Moreover, she’d lost Aunt Tarrill’s black riding habit.

Moray would no doubt free himself before long, but
he’d have no idea where Sorcha had been taken. As for Rob and
Ailis, neither would miss her until morning. She cursed herself
over and over for dallying with Moray. Nor had it served any
purpose—despite the Bonnie Earl’s charm and good looks, she had not
responded to his embrace.

They had gone about half the distance when Caithness
leaned forward and whispered something to Gray. The Master looked
dubious, but then shrugged. “You’ve earned some slight reward.
Though we’re a bit cramped for space.”

Sorcha, who had sat in rigid silence while Gray
taunted her during the first few miles, felt Caithness edge closer
on the wooden coach seat. Wordlessly, he reached up to unfasten the
brooch which held Moray’s cape in place.

Batting at his hand, Sorcha swore. “God’s teeth,
leave me be!” But Caithness paid no heed either to her blows or her
words. The brooch fell to the floor, rolling past Sorcha’s
feet.

“
What think you?” Gray inquired
lazily. “Pretty duckies, though a bit dark-skinned for my
taste.”

Caithness didn’t reply. His hands engulfed Sorcha’s
breasts, squeezing them as if they were ripening melons in a
Grass-market stall. Sorcha pulled away, but could only move a few
inches before finding her back pressed against the corner of the
coach. Caithness lowered his head to suckle her breasts noisily,
his hands moving to her hips, forcing her down onto the seat. One
booted leg was lodged against the far door, the other dangled
awkwardly over the edge of the seat.

Sorcha pounded Caithness’ head with her fists, then
screamed in terror as Caithness shoved her onto the hard floor.
Gray shifted his legs and chuckled. “She’s fierce, that urchin.”
Raking her nails along Caithness’ cheek, she heard him mutter an
oath, yet knew she did little damage. The sullen face loomed above
her, his breath coming rapidly. He was fumbling with his clothes
and Sorcha cried out again as she saw him hold his stiff, red
member in one hand and open her thighs with the other.

“
Stay,” Gray said casually. “You may
yet need Iain Fraser’s alliance if all goes ill with Huntly. We’ll
take no chances of making the wench bear fruit.”

“
Jesus,” moaned Caithness. “You
promised!”

The coach was slowing down. “I promised sport, not
ravishment.” Gray sounded half amused, half piqued as he moved the
curtain aside and looked out the window. “Ah, we are at the city
gates. Cover the wench up, and if the watch stops us, kiss her into
silence.”

The moment Caithness eased himself away from her,
Sorcha clambered back onto the seat, cape in hand. Sure enough, the
watch halted them, and Sorcha caught a glimpse of the Nether Bow
Port before Caithness crushed her in his arms to close her mouth
with a harsh, wet kiss. She heard Gray casually mention “His
Majesty’s business,” and then the coach rumbled on over the
cobblestones. Caithness released her and a few moments later, they
came to a halt.

“
Our destination is at hand.” Gray
stood up, careful not to bump his head on the low roof of the
coach. The door opened. He stepped into the High Street, holding
out a hand to Sorcha. “You recognize this place?” he asked in a
low, cheerful voice.

Sorcha put one booted foot on the cobbles. They had
gone beyond Panmure Close and the McVurrich house, toward the
Lawnmarket. Despite the darkness, she could make out a handsome
carving of the Twelve Apostles and the Trinity on the exterior of
the house before her. It had been her parents’ home years ago,
located in Gosford’s Close, and sold before Lord and Lady Fraser
moved from Edinburgh. Sorcha knew that Gavin Napier was staying
there now, a guest of the present owner. She looked again at the
ornate facade and desperately wanted to flee.

It took several minutes before anyone responded to
Gray’s knock. At last, a serving man opened the door a crack,
peering out inquisitively.

“
We bring Master Napier a gift,”
Gray announced, as casually as if it were Christmas.

“
He’s asleep,” the servant answered,
sounding none too alert himself.

“
We have something worth waking him
for.” Gray jabbed Caithness in the ribs. “Eh, Georgie? Succulent
goods, in many ways.”

Sorcha flinched. The serving man had disappeared,
presumably to fetch Gavin Napier. A withering sense of dread
filtered through every inch of her body as she stood silently on
the front stoop with her tormentors.

Napier swung the door open wide. His dark hair was
tousled. He wore breeks and a shirt so hastily put on that it was
not tucked in, and his wolflike face was thunderous.

In one deft motion, Gray tore away the cloak and
shoved Sorcha across the threshold. She sprawled at Napier’s bare
feet, as Gray’s words rang in her ears. “Fresh meat from Moray’s
bed, sir! Your mistress has not slept this night!” And before
Napier could step around Sorcha’s prone body, Gray and Caithness
were down the steps, into the waiting coach, and rollicking off up
the High Street.

“
Jesus God!” Napier called out. He
stood with one fist raised, as if rooted to the entrance hall
floor. At last Sorcha whimpered and tried to sit up. Napier leaned
down, his face cast in white hot fury. “What is all this?” he
demanded. “Are they daft?”

“
Please,” begged Sorcha, unable to
get up. “Help me!”

“
Christ.” Napier’s tone was a shade
less sharp. He knelt beside her, propping Sorcha up against his
leg. “What did they do to you?”

She leaned against him, surprised to discover she was
no longer afraid. “Caithness tried to ravish me.” Sorcha started to
cry.

Napier let out a foul, garbled oath. He stared at the
mass of black hair and the curve of her back. “Wait.” Steadying her
with one hand, he made certain she could kneel on her own, then
hurried to retrieve the cape, which still lay on the stoop.
Slamming the heavy front door, he spread the billowing garment over
her before picking her up in his arms. Head drooping against him
and eyes shut, Sorcha lay all but lifeless as Napier carried her up
the stairs. Faint noises could be heard along the passageway, as
the servants peered from their doorways to see what was
happening.

The door to the bedroom was open. Napier set Sorcha
on the bed, arranging the cape to cover her nakedness. Without a
word, he poured two cups of brandy and handed one to Sorcha. She
drank deeply, coughed, and drank again. Slowly, she felt the
vitality return to her body, and with it, rational thought.

“
I swear I’ll kill them,” she vowed,
wiping the green eyes that snapped over the brandy cup.

“
Caithness is a young fool, and Gray
is a whelp from hell.” Napier spoke in a tight voice as he lowered
himself onto an aged divan. “Will you tell me what happened?” He
winced visibly. Sorcha wondered if he was afraid of what she would
say.

“
I was at Linlithgow, to see the
King. About you and Rob.” Sorcha gulped some brandy before
continuing. “Jamie was kind. He has given permission to you both.”
She paused, expecting some response from Napier.