Gosford's Daughter (3 page)

“
Oh, aye, I’d like that.” She smiled
up at him, the bright, wide smile that made her features so
vivid.

“
This afternoon, then.” Again, that
hint of a smile before he opened the black gelding’s stall. It was
Lord Fraser’s horse. Corsair, a descendant of Barvas, the horse
he’d loved best until the animal’s death some five years
earlier.

Sorcha watched as Niall began to check the hooves of
the gelding. He rarely talked while he worked, and she knew she
must go back to the house to join Rosmairi for their weekly art
lesson given by an expatriate Flemish painter. Reluctantly, she
made her way from the stable, somehow feeling more downcast than
when she’d entered. Niall had expressed no disappointment over the
possibility of her departure, nor did he seem interested in her
shattered marriage plans or Johnny Grant’s lack of ardor.
Depressed, Sorcha walked into the music room that served as a
makeshift studio.

Rosmairi was already at her easel, paint brush
poised. Jan de Bogardus, a thick-necked, fair-haired man of middle
years, pulled at his whiskers and pursed his lips. “You are tardy,
signorina
.”

Sorcha bridled at his Italian affectation. De
Bogardus had studied in Italy and France. It was their father
rather than their mother who had insisted upon the lessons. Lord
Fraser had a great fondness for Italian culture, developed over the
years during his visits to Genoa, Venice, and other Italian
seaports. Since no one of that nationality could be found to teach
painting in northern Scotland, a Fleming who had at least studied
in Italy was acceptable.

“
Here, here,” Master de Bogardus
commanded, waving a landscape sketch at Sorcha. “You are to work on
sky today, blues and grays and whites. Contrast, yet harmony,
eh?”

The corners of Sorcha’s wide mouth turned down as she
viewed the primitive first strokes she’d put on canvas the previous
week. Contrast and harmony, my backside, Sorcha thought; it looks
like stripes to me. With a heavy sigh, she reached for her smock,
then changed her mind. Turning abruptly on Master de Bogardus, she
lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m sorry, the muse is not upon me.
May I leave?”

Rosmairi’s palette rocked in her graceful hands Their
teacher stared at his temperamental pupil. “ ‘The muse’? Since
when were you making the acquaintance of such muse?”

“
Since today.” Sorcha glared at de
Bogardus and ignored her sister’s shocked gaze. But the Fleming’s
expression held as much rejection as annoyance. Sorcha shifted from
one foot to the other and tried to smile. “Truly, I’m not feeling
well. My head aches, and I couldn’t possibly
concentrate.”

The lie seemed to salvage Master de Bogardus’s
artistic integrity and Rosmairi’s sisterly embarrassment. “As you
wish,” said the Fleming. He turned to Rosmairi, beaming through his
fair whiskers. “I am paid the same for one as for two. Go rest your
head. And think of contrast. Harmony, too, eh?”

“
Oh, yes, I shall.” Sorcha had to
hold tight rein to keep from racing out of the music room. She
paused long enough to glance at Rosmairi’s canvas. “Dear Ros, your
azure is wrenchingly beautiful!”

Even Rosmairi’s credulity was compromised by such
blatant insincerity. But the gray eyes looked the other way as
Sorcha slipped past her toward the door.

Once outside, Sorcha could no longer control her
impatience to return to the stable. She flew past the Italian
fountain, the fading glory of the rose garden, and the deserted
dovecote. She cursed herself every foot of the way for having
played the simple maid with Niall. It was not like her, at least
not like the woman she wanted to become.

At the stable door, she paused to catch her breath,
then kicked it open so hard that it hurt her ankle. Gritting her
teeth against the unexpected pain, she marched inside.

Niall was sitting on a mound of hay, eating a
steaming beef pie made by his mother, Catriona, the doyenne of
culinary arts at Gosford’s End.

Back among the feed bins, two young boys tussled in
mock belligerence. Sorcha called out, ordering them from the
stable. Startled, they turned dirt-smudged faces in her direction,
then reluctantly shuffled outside.

Niall was regarding her quizzically, a piece of flaky
pie crust in his hand. “Your painting master didna come?”

“
Aye, he came.” Sorcha paused,
tossing her thick wavy mane in a gesture of self-affirmation. “But
I left. I’d no mind to dabble in contrast today.”

The creases reappeared on Niall’s swarthy brow. He
knew little of painting and cared even less. Chewing slowly on the
buttered crust, he watched Sorcha sit down next to him in the hay.
“Have you eaten?” He proffered the half-consumed pie.

“
No.” Sorcha started to refuse
Niall’s offering, but the tender chunk of beef that bobbed atop the
creamy golden gravy changed her mind. She devoured it quickly
before speaking again. “I gathered you were indifferent as to
whether I marry Johnny Grant or whether I leave Gosford’s End.
Could it be true that you go about kissing young lassies and not
caring if you ever kiss them again?”

Only a faint flicker in the blue eyes betrayed
Niall’s surprise at her boldness. He swallowed half a carrot,
picked up the remainder of crust, and swirled it in the gravy
dregs. “I care.” He set aside the small crockery baking dish and
inspected his huge hands. “Yet I know it does me no good.” His gaze
bore deeply into her challenging emerald eyes. “You are of the
Hall, I am of the stable. It can never be more than a kiss. If not
Johnny Grant, you’ll wed some other fine laird.”

Sorcha’s fingernail flicked at the tip of her nose,
an unconscious sign of dismissal to the arguments of others.
“Indeed. But I’m not talking of wedlock or even handfasting.” She
stopped, averting her eyes, wondering what, in fact, she
was
talking about. “That is, not every lad and lass who care for each
other end up married. And I have a right to know if you care for
me, or only found kissing … convenient.”

Niall drew back at her choice of words. Then he
laughed, the first time Sorcha had ever heard him do so, and it was
more grunt than guffaw. He sobered at once, however, seemingly
embarrassed at such an uncharacteristic display. “I care; I’ve
cared since you were but a bairn. So fearless you were, yet small
and like a waif. And now ….” He stopped and put a finger to
his lips, as if to stifle any foolish, possibly regrettable, words.
“Aye,” he said in a rambling sort of voice, “I care.”

“
Well.” Sorcha’s shoulders slumped
in relief. She crossed her arms over her breast and let her feet
dangle just above the stable floor. “I’m glad,” she asserted,
nodding her head and noticing that a seam had come unstitched in
her green linen skirt. “I was certain you didn’t mind if I left
forever.”

“
Then you’re not going?” Niall was
bending closer, and she could feel his warm breath on her
cheek.

“
Nay, not if I can help it. How
could I bear to be mewed up in a city, with Aunt Tarrill clucking
over me, or reciting psalms with Uncle Donald?”

“
That would be wrong. For you.” His
words seemed to come with difficulty. He touched her cheek and
kissed the bridge of her nose. Sorcha lifted her face and closed
her eyes, the long, heavy lashes dipping against her olive skin.
“You are like a gypsy, not a waif,” he murmured, burying his lips
against her neck. She put her arms around him, feeling the hard
muscles under the rough woolen shirt his mother had woven for him.
Then his mouth claimed hers, hesitantly at first, but fired into
urgency by her eager response. Sorcha felt herself being pressed
backward into the hay, Niall’s weight a crashing but welcome
burden. At last he stopped kissing her as they both gasped for
breath.

Sorcha knew she was smiling even as her lungs took in
the hay-scented air. She knew, too, that Niall might consider her
less than virtuous if she didn’t break off their exciting embrace.
It was one thing to discover that desire existed for both of them;
it would be quite another matter to let passion overcome
prudence.

Inexperienced as she was, Sorcha could not know that
Niall had already gone beyond that incalculable barrier. Just as
she was about to tell him they had better part until it was time to
hunt rabbits, Niall put both hands over her breasts, molding them
experimentally through the linen fabric of her bodice. He looked
awestruck and his words were hushed.

“
I have longed to touch you thus
since you grew to ripeness. You fill my hands; I pray God you will
not fill my heart, for ’twould break.”

Sorcha regarded Niall with a bewildered mixture of
excitement, pity, and fear. “Dear Niall, we must stop.”

The swarthy face turned apologetic. He shifted his
weight so that only one leg lay along her thigh. Tiny beads of
perspiration glistened at the edge of his crisp auburn hair. “We
will stop. I swear it. But first, let me see your duckies. Please,
Sorcha, lady-lass.”

It was the name he had called her ever since they
were children, an acknowledgment of her status but also of their
friendship. She started to shake her head, but saw the hopeless
plea in his eyes, and though he had taken his hands away, she could
swear she still felt his touch on her flesh. With trembling fingers
she undid the half dozen mother-of-pearl buttons; there had
originally been eight, but Sorcha had lost two of them long
ago.

As the linen bodice parted, Niall slid the fabric
over her shoulders, then more hurriedly pulled at the thin
camisole. He gasped in wonder as his eyes feasted on the smooth,
firm, pink-tipped globes. “You are too bonnie,” he said so low she
almost couldn’t make out the words. Cautiously, he put the palm of
his hand on each breast in turn, pressing very slowly, as if he
were afraid the rigid nipples would pierce his skin.

Sorcha heard a moan and realized it had come from
somewhere deep inside her being. Surely that didn’t seem right; was
just the touch of a man on naked flesh sufficient to arouse such an
animal like response? But she must put an end to it; she couldn’t
love Niall, and she didn’t want him to love her. Or did she? Dimly,
she could make out the somber, rugged face, etched with yearning,
softened by his need for her. She cared, too; if she did not,
Niall’s feelings would not have mattered. He moved down to seek out
her nipples with his tongue, stroking them in rapid, darting,
upward movements, as if he could make them burst from bud to
blossom by sheer force of desire. She touched the auburn hair with
one hand, the other gripping the hardened muscles of his
shoulder.

Later, Sorcha could not believe she had never heard
that familiar voice call out the first three times. It was only the
sudden, frightening tenseness she felt in every fiber of Niall’s
body that made her realize they were not alone. Gallantly, he tried
to shield her half-naked body with his own. But in vain: Iain
Fraser stood in the doorway of the stable, riding crop in one hand,
Corsair’s bridle in the other.

“
You have exactly one minute to
prepare to meet your Maker if you don’t take your hands off my
daughter,” Iain Fraser said in low, chilling tones. “And if you
ever look her way again, you’ll roam the Highlands a blind
man.”

As if already in pain, Niall rose slowly and covered
his face with his big hands. Sorcha clutched her camisole and
bodice around her breasts, desperately trying to fasten the
buttons. Fraser still stood in the doorway, the lean features grim,
the hazel eyes never leaving Niall for an instant.

“
My Lord,” Niall began, now
spreading out his hands as if in supplication, “forgive me, but the
lady-lass is so fair ….”

Fraser made a slashing motion with the riding crop.
“Enough. You’ll never mention this incident. Never.” He swung the
crop once more, this time within an inch of Niall’s face.
“Understand?”

Niall nodded slowly, then turned away from both
Fraser and Sorcha. Her legs seemed to wobble as she walked the ten
paces to join her father. Tears hovered in her eyes, and she
noticed vaguely that she’d done up the buttons all wrong, so that
one side of her collar poked up unevenly against her chin.

Fraser didn’t speak until they were inside the
blue-gray stone walls of the manor house. Time had not slowed his
long stride nor diminished his panther-like grace, though his black
hair was streaked with gray and the hawklike features had
sharpened. Indeed, to Sorcha, her father had never looked as severe
as he did in this moment of her stark terror.

Wordlessly, she followed him up the winding staircase
with its hand-carved bunches of grapes and entwined ivy. They went
directly to the family dining room, which adjoined her parents’
sleeping quarters. Dallas was already at the table, but the others
had not yet arrived.

“
Sweet Jesu, Iain,” exclaimed
Dallas, looking from her stormy-eyed husband to the tears that now
rolled freely down her daughter’s face, “what’s amiss?”

Fraser started to speak, suddenly realized he was
still carrying Corsair’s bridle and the riding crop, and tossed
them onto a footstool. “I have discovered why Sorcha prefers
Inverness to Edinburgh,” he said with forced calm. “Master Niall
seems to have captured her fancy.”

“
Niall!” Dallas turned visibly pale
and seemed to shrink into the chair. But she took a deep breath,
pressed her hands against the table’s beveled edge, and stared at
Sorcha. “Has the knave seduced you?”

“
Oh, no!” Sorcha’s denial was a
virtual wail of indignation. “I’d only kissed him once until
today!”

Her parents both seemed to relax. Fraser went to a
side cupboard and poured himself a generous tumbler of whiskey. He
sat down at the head of the table and motioned for Sorcha to sit,
too. “Then you are not infatuated with the braw laddie?” His tone
had lightened into the indolent cadence Sorcha knew so well.