Gosford's Daughter (31 page)

Sorcha gave Dr. Bourgoing a skeptical look. “You may
speak thus from not having eaten it, sir. I am grateful to be
alive, but not for suffering from a great deal more than acute
indigestion.”

Dr. Bourgoing had the grace to appear chagrined.
However, he reassumed his professional aplomb by way of apology and
made several suggestions as to Sorcha’s recuperation. “Indeed, by
tomorrow you should feel almost like yourself, my child. Sleep is
your greatest ally.”

Ailis saw the doctor to the door. Napier seated
himself in the chair Bourgoing had vacated, and took Sorcha’s hand.
“We’ll not speak of this to anyone,” he said quietly. “It would be
useless, even harmful, for Her Grace to find out.”

Weakly, Sorcha tried to squeeze Napier’s fingers. She
was trembling, no doubt in reaction to the shock of her close brush
with death. “It’s horrible … I might have died … What if
you hadn’t known what to do?” She stared at Napier with huge, wide
green eyes.

“
Don’t think about it.” He spoke
more gruffly than he’d intended and looked away to the corner of
the room, where Ailis was busying herself with the instructions Dr.
Bourgoing had given her. “It may be that you would have merely been
very ill for a few days.”

“
But you came,” Sorcha persisted.
Feeling Napier start to take his hand away, she clung to it as if
it were a piece of shipwreck on a storm-tossed sea. “You were
here
. You saved me.” This time her smile was real, if
tremulous.

Napier smiled back, though there was nothing wolflike
in his face, and Sorcha was reminded of the other Napier. She
wanted very much to ask the priest if he’d ever encountered the man
who looked so much like him. But sleep tugged at her eyelids, and
very soon Sorcha was dreaming of the Master of Ness, gliding
majestic and free through the tree-shaded glens of the
Highlands.

Sorcha and the Queen both rallied over the course of
the next few days. While no one had informed Mary Stuart about her
lady-in-waiting’s critical attack from poison, Sorcha caught her
mistress regarding her inquisitively on at least two occasions.
Perhaps Queen Mary had noticed the vigilance of her attendants over
her food, or had heard a rumor of Sorcha’s sudden, violent
illness.

Ironically, Sir Amyas Paulet still lay abed, arms and
legs swathed in bandages to cure either alleged gout or, as lane
Kennedy put it, “other ill humors.” And still no messenger rode
posthaste from London with a warrant for the Queen’s execution.

It hadn’t snowed for almost a week, but graying
patches lingered on the plains around Fotheringhay. On a clear but
cold late January evening, Sorcha grew restive as she watched the
Queen and Gillis Mowbray play piquet. Gillis, Sorcha noted with
some disdain, had no card sense, and was beaten easily by Mary
Stuart. The Queen invited Sorcha to play. Unable to sit still,
Sorcha suggested that Elizabeth Curle take her place. Asking to be
excused, Sorcha exited the royal chambers to wander aimlessly
through the drafty halls of Fotheringhay.

Despite Elizabeth Tudor’s vacillation, eventually the
time would come for Mary Stuart’s final scene. It was a subject
Sorcha had dwelled on at length in the days since her illness. Once
the Queen was dead, her household would be quickly dispersed.
Sorcha, Gillis, Ailis, and most of the others would return to
Scotland, though some of the French attendants might go back across
the Channel. In any event, Sorcha thought glumly as she passed a
scrawny tabby cat that seemed to be in search of the castle
kitchens, she was almost certain that Gavin Napier would go out of
her life forever. It was an overwhelming thought, pressing down
upon her with the weight of a powerful fist, unleashing her need
for him at the same time that it stifled her soul.

Not that it did any good to be near him, she reminded
herself for the hundredth time; yet at least she could derive some
pleasure from his presence, his voice, his searching hunter’s gaze.
How he had reacted to her declaration of love she could not guess.
They had not really been alone since that August morning when Queen
Mary had been led away and Rob had fled to Scotland. Either by
chance or by design, Gavin Napier did not seek her out. It was
right, of course; it was honorable. For all Sorcha knew, Napier had
been shocked and horrified by her ardent avowal.

She had seen him only once since her recovery, in the
Queen’s chambers while he read aloud from a tattered book of French
sonnets. Sorcha had met his gaze just briefly, as he looked up at
the end of a particularly affecting verse, and she could have sworn
that the dark eyes bore right through her like twin torches.

A noise made her whirl around, but as she peered
about the dimly lighted corridor, Sorcha saw only the tabby cat,
which had apparently followed her. She bent to pet the animal but
it flew off in the direction of an ancient but elaborately carved
door. Unless she had lost her bearings, Sorcha had reached the
inside entrance to the chapel. It was no longer used, she’d heard,
but she tried the latch, on the slight chance that it might be
unlocked.

To her surprise, it was. The door creaked open to
reveal a high-ceilinged nave, a handful of rickety chairs, and a
sanctuary that had been stripped of decoration. Sorcha jumped as
the draft caught the door behind her and slammed it shut. From
behind the latticed chancel, Sorcha sensed rather than heard
movement. She was about to head for the door when Gavin Napier’s
voice called out.

“
Is that you, Sorcha?”

“
Oh! Aye.” She slumped in relief and
tried to adjust her eyes to the gloom. “Where are you?”

Napier stepped out onto the altar, then descended the
three steps to the center aisle. “What are you doing here?” His
voice sounded strangely suspicious.

Sorcha tried to move so that the faint moonlight that
filtered through the clerestory windows might offer further
illumination. “I was … exploring.” She cleared her throat and
attempted to walk nonchalantly up the side aisle. “I’ve never seen
the chapel. It’s been stripped by the reformers, hasn’t it?”

“
Years ago, I should guess.”
Napier’s words echoed slightly in the empty nave.

Pausing in front of the altar, Sorcha shook her head.
“I was about to genuflect. But of course there’s no host or
tabernacle.”

“
Nay.” Napier stood with his boots
firmly planted on the worn rounded stones of the chapel floor. “Why
are you not with the Queen?”

Sorcha twisted her hands in a nervous gesture. Their
lowered voices sounded loud in the echoing chapel. “I grew
restless. Her Grace gave me permission to withdraw.” Forcing her
hands to her sides, Sorcha gave Napier a sidelong glance. “And
you?”

“
I?” There was defensiveness in the
word. “I come here to pray sometimes. ’Tis still a chapel, after
all.”

“
Oh, well, yes.” Sorcha peered
upward, as if envisioning the large crucifix that must have once
hung over the altar. Yet she could see nothing, except the vague
outline of Napier’s tall figure on her left. She could feel him,
sense him, as if they were already touching. Sorcha shuddered and
abruptly turned back toward the side aisle.

“
Wait!” Napier sounded an urgent
note in his command.

Sorcha hesitated, took another step, and then stopped
to lean against an aged confessional. “Why?” She turned questioning
green eyes upon him, demanding not a reason, but asking everything
of Gavin Napier.

His answer was to sweep her into his arms, covering
her face with hungry kisses—her eyes, her forehead, her mouth, her
cheeks. He held her with that same fierce intensity she remembered
from the morning in the copse, as if he expected demons to try to
drag her from him. His tongue delved into her ear, his lips
caressed her throat, he buried his face in the masses of her black
hair. Sorcha moaned in his arms, digging into his back with her
fingers.

Slowly, inexorably, he was lowering her onto the
hard, cold stones of the chapel floor. He cushioned her body with
his arm, as he lay down beside her. Her eyes now accustomed to the
gloom, Sorcha glimpsed the naked passion on the dark, ragged face
and let out a little gasp, though whether it was of awe or
pleasure, she neither knew nor cared.

Napier pulled at the fabric of her moire gown,
heedless of buttons or the small ruffed collar. Somehow, Sorcha
thought hazily, I should stop him. But I can’t. Nor do I want to.
This was not a braw laddie like Niall, nor a debonair lord like
Moray; this was Gavin Napier, the man Sorcha loved and wanted above
all else.

The flame of his desire slowed apace as he freed her
breasts to hold them in his hands. “Oh, my love,” he breathed as
the hunter’s gaze locked with her glittering green eyes, “you are
so fair!” Napier lowered his head to the valley between her
breasts, then brushed each nipple with his beard and grinned. “Are
we mad, sweet Sorcha?”

“
Yes!” She grasped his hair in one
hand and flicked her tongue over her lips. “I thought you didn’t
want me!”

“
Oh, God!” The words were a groan of
denial. “Can you guess the struggle I’ve endured with myself?” His
dark eyes held shadows of secret, scarring conflict. “How many
times did I almost flee to France? No heretic ever stalked his prey
as you did me!”

The accusation should have stung, even inspired fear,
considering Napier’s priestly status. But Sorcha shut out
everything except her need for the man whose head rested on her
bared breasts. “I couldn’t stop myself,” she admitted. “If it be
wrong, then what’s right is meaningless.”

The shadows seemed to deepen in Napier’s eyes. “For
us, for now, there is neither right nor wrong.” He took a deep
breath, and Sorcha felt the weight of him more keenly and welcomed
its burden. “There is only us,” he averred, “and all else is a
sham.” Slowly at first, then with the animal intensity returning,
Napier mouthed her breast, sending sharp shocks of yearning
throughout Sorcha’s entire body. She strained toward him,
instinctively arching her womanhood against his chest, demanding
that he assuage her all-consuming hunger.

He had lifted his lips from her breast to sweep up
the skirts and petticoats, attempting to pile them under Sorcha for
comfort’s sake. But the hard stones could have been a swans-down
couch; the only agony Sorcha knew was the incessant throb which
cried out for Napier.

There was just a moment’s hesitation before he
slipped down her undergarment. She caught the shadowy, haunted look
in his eyes and stifled a little cry. Did he perhaps not really
want her after all? Was he thinking of the sin they were about to
commit? Was he unwilling to take her here in the chapel, even
though it had already been desecrated by the hands of heretics?

And even as his mouth touched the soft flesh of her
belly, Sorcha knew the truth. Her heart, her soul, her whole
spirit, soared with joy that was matched only by the ecstasy of
feeling Napier’s deft fingers probe into her very core. She writhed
with pleasure, pressing her thighs together, trapping him within
her, then letting go so that he might at last unite them in the
ultimate gift of love.

The pain was sweet, swift, and piercing. Sorcha’s
scream floated up into the nave to mingle with the lost music of
forgotten choirs. In that moment, the night seemed to open wide
with a brilliant glow, bathing the chapel in light. Sorcha felt
Napier flood her with his passion, and she went limp in his arms.
He stayed within her for several moments; with the burnished sheen
of an unnatural midnight turning their entwined bodies into molten
gold.

In other parts of Fotheringhay and all over England,
it was said that someone great was about to die. The brilliant,
blazing comet was an ancient sign, and even those who had long ago
given up popish ways crossed themselves and closed their eyes.

S
orcha and Napier had not
spoken until after they left the chapel and were back in the
Scottish household’s part of the castle. Even then, Napier
discouraged conversation. “I hear voices everywhere,” he cautioned.
“This heaven-sent radiance has awakened the lot of them.”

“
But Gavin ….” Sorcha
interjected, as two young scullery knaves ran past them, “there are
many things we must talk about. Urgent matters that can’t
wait.”

He put a finger over her mouth and shook his head.
“They’ll have to. I must go to the Queen. I suspect the comet will
be taken as a sign, even by her.” He saw Sorcha start to protest
further, but pressed the finger against her lips. “No, not now.
Tomorrow.”

Sorcha couldn’t keep from pouting, though she was
still so dizzy from the joy of surrender that she couldn’t be
angry. Half expecting Napier to kiss her good-night, she waited
with upturned face, but he merely patted her arm, grinned somewhat
sheepishly, and strode away down the hall.

It was just seconds later that Sorcha realized she
was practically ready to fall on her face with weariness and
repletion. Somewhat shakily, she continued in the other direction
to her rooms, hoping that Ailis wasn’t awake. If anyone could sleep
through a natural phenomenon, it would be the dour serving
girl.

But not only was Ailis sitting up by the window
watching the dazzling nocturnal display, so was Gillis Mowbray.
Neither, however, seemed much interested in Sorcha’s arrival. After
exchanging a few words with the other women, Sorcha, shielding her
torn dress with her hand, hurriedly got into bed.

The whole world could come apart and England might
catch fire from one end to the other, but this night Sorcha didn’t
care. She had tasted love, and for the moment, there was nothing
else in life but Gavin Napier.