Gosford's Daughter (54 page)

Sorcha’s prediction concerning Rosmairi and Armand
turned out to be all too accurate. Within the quarter hour, a
messenger arrived, saying that the d’Ailly entourage was about to
depart for the Highlands. Sorcha and Ailis hurriedly got on their
cloaks and raced from the palace precincts to cover the short
distance to Panmure Close.

All was abustle inside the McVurrich house, as the
wet nurse, two Fraser retainers, and the McVurrich’s servants
busied themselves with the sudden preparations for
leave-taking.

“
The weather has been so fine,’’
Rosmairi said to Sorcha as the wet nurse stuffed a frolicsome baby
Adam into a cashmere bunting, “that I think we were lulled into
thinking that summer would last forever. But now that it’s grown
colder and more damp, we must head home. If we weren’t traveling
with the bairn, it might be different.” Her voice trailed off when
Tarrill entered the room, carrying a wicker basket bulging with
foodstuffs.

“
To enjoy along the way,” she said,
tucking a linen napkin more securely over the top of the basket.
“But do save the blackberry jam for your mother, Ros. It’s a great
favorite of hers. I made it myself, from Marthe’s old
recipe.”

“
Lovely.” Rosmairi smiled, while
Armand d’Ailly vigorously pumped Uncle Donald’s hand. For Sorcha,
there was reassurance in the gesture; at least under the McVurrich
roof, Catholic and Protestant could dwell in harmony.

Andrew McVurrich, with Doles at his side, was
regarding his Highland kinfolk with envy. “Is it true, sir, you’ll
be fighting Gordon troops soon?” he asked Armand.

The Frenchman’s brow furrowed. “Let us hope not, my
fine Andrew. We hear unfortunate rumors, that is true. But we also
trust that George Gordon will not commit a folly similar to the
Grant of Freuchie incident.” He put a firm hand on Andrew’s
shoulder, seemingly grown broader in the past year. “I take it that
if we should need reinforcements, you’d march north?”

Andrew’s long face grew very solemn. “Oh, aye, I
would! Gordon of Huntly flirts with treason. I have pledged myself
to defend King, Kirk and country.”

Uncle Donald, moving his substantial form with stiff
dignity like a Calvinist icon, came to stand behind his second-born
son. The long, graying beard dipped in approval. “A worthy
promise,” he intoned, “as long as it doesn’t prove expensive as
well.”

Tarrill assumed an expression of mock exasperation.
“I swear, Donald McVurrich, if St. Peter asks you for the price of
heaven, you’ll count his change!” She rolled her dark eyes, and
neither Sorcha nor Rosmairi could help but laugh at their aunt.

The merry mood was broken with the announcement by
one of the servants that all was in readiness for the journey.
Sorcha waited quietly until Rosmairi turned in her direction, the
gray eyes glistening with unshed tears. “So many partings,”
Rosmairi sighed, embracing her sister. “Why couldn’t we all have
stayed at home in the Highlands?”

Sorcha brushed Rosmairi’s cheek with a kiss. “Some
day, perhaps,” she said, and then gasped. “God’s teeth, what is
this?”

Rosmairi and the others turned to where Sorcha was
staring. Marie-Louise, attired in a voluminous black cape trimmed
in white fox and a tall black hat with a white bouquet of plumes
and flowing veil, stood in elegant arrogance on the McVurrich
threshold.

“
May I?” Marie-Louise murmured, the
beautiful azure eyes fixed on Uncle Donald. It was a shrewd choice,
since Donald McVurrich’s mastery of European finances had not
dulled his awe of a dazzling woman.

At his acquiescence, Marie-Louise floated into the
parlor, scattering startled younger McVurriches and servants in her
wake. Her gaze seemed to take in every member of the household,
even little Adam, who had begun to fuss in the wet nurse’s arms.
Sorcha refused to avoid those azure eyes and stared back boldly,
arms folded resolutely across her breast.

Marie-Louise adjusted the flowing veil that hid her
scar and reached inside the fur-trimmed cape to withdraw a folded
piece of parchment. “This,” she said pleasantly, as she turned to a
white-lipped Armand, “is the deed to the d’Ailly lands. I thought
it best to show it to you in front of various witnesses. It will
save you and your good uncle-by-marriage further exertion in trying
to sell something that is not yours.” Slowly, she unfolded the
paper, smoothed it out with one gloved hand as if caressing a pet,
and held it out for Armand and Donald McVurrich to read.

McVurrich looked up to meet Marie-Louise’s cool gaze
head-on. “This appears to be in good order,” he admitted with a
frown. “You have three witnesses, including the mayor of Amiens,
the pastor of St. Genevieve’s Church at d’Ailly, and a certain
Monsieur André Ferraud of Chaulnes. You also,” he added with a
touch of chagrin, “have the signature of Raoul de Greve.” Uncle
Donald turned to Armand. “Would that be your brother or your
father, sir?”

Armand’s crimson cheeks seemed to implode in his
face. “My brother,” he said in a voice that was little more than a
whisper. “My late brother.”

With a graceful gloved hand, Marie-Louise waved the
parchment like a battle pennant, then refolded the deed carefully
and tucked it inside her black cape. “Then there is nothing else to
be said.” She offered the entire company a brilliant,
self-satisfied smile before turning toward the door. “That being
the case, I shall depart.
Bonne chance
.”

In a flash, Sorcha was on her adversary’s heels. Just
as Marie-Louise stepped over the threshold, Sorcha dove, knocking
the larger woman off balance. With frenzied hands, she clawed at
Marie-Louise’s cape, seeking out the folded parchment. Armand and
Uncle Donald were the first to follow, while the others pressed
into the entry hall.

“
Meddling strumpet!” screamed
Marie-Louise, righting her hat and steadying herself on the stone
steps. “You don’t care about d’Ailly and his silly land! All you
want is my husband in your bed!” Whirling away from Sorcha,
Marie-Louise all but fell into the waiting grasp of Gavin Napier.
The Earl of Moray was at his side, looking as bewildered as Napier
was thunderous.

Marie-Louise exercised sufficient good sense not to
struggle with Napier. She tamed her fury and regarded him with
contempt. “Your conjugal caress is as swinish as ever,” she
jeered.

Napier’s grip on her arms tightened so hard that it
seemed Marie-Louise’s bones might snap. But she never flinched. He
tore his dark visage from her sneering face and looked to Sorcha.
“What did you search for? What is she hiding?”

Sorcha moved down a step, aware that Moray’s eyes
were on her, rather than on Napier and Marie-Louise. “She has a
deed—to Armand’s French property. She insists it’s legal, but I
don’t believe the lying baggage for a minute!” Leaning on the rail,
Sorcha was momentarily taller than her rival. She stared
Marie-Louise down, then flicked at her nose in that defiant gesture
of dismissal. “It’s a fraud! I don’t care what anyone says!”

Marie-Louise glared at Sorcha, then spat on the
ground. “That for your pitiful allegations!” She gazed past Sorcha,
Armand, and Uncle Donald, searching for Rosmairi. “Madame d’Ailly!
Hear me! Tell this brutish lout to let me go in peace or”—she shot
Napier a scathing look before turning to Rosmairi who was now
clinging to her husband’s arm—“I shall call down a curse on that
babe of yours! Do you understand?”

Napier didn’t loosen his grip, but his taut features
went slack. Moray uttered an oath, and Tarrill crossed herself
rapidly. But it was Sorcha, not Rosmairi, who replied: “We don’t
believe in that puerile pap,” she declared. “You have no demon
powers. You’re no more than an overblown, oversized bag of
wind!”

But Rosmairi’s maternal instincts were malleable clay
in Marie-Louise’s conniving hands. “You’re right, Sorcha,
but ….” Rosmairi looked helplessly at her husband. “Sir,” she
called to Napier, “let that wretched woman go. We’d rather lose all
of France than our sweet child!”

Very slowly, Napier let go of one of Marie-Louise’s
arms, but not the other. She eyed him with disdain as cold as
hoarfrost. Deliberately, he picked up the loose end of her veil and
wound it around her throat, over the puckered scar, across her
neck, and back again. Then he began to pull, easily at first, and
then tighter and tighter. Sorcha stood stock-still, a hand against
her mouth. Marie-Louise’s white skin was beginning to turn pink,
but she made no sound, offered no resistance. Napier began winding
the veil around a second time, drawing it so taut that Sorcha was
sure either the fabric would rip or Marie-Louise would
collapse.

Without warning, Gavin Napier dropped his hands to
his sides and walked away. He stood by Tarrill’s herb garden, his
back turned to them all, his broad shoulders slumped. Sorcha
started toward him, but paused, her legs unsteady. Marie-Louise
sucked in several deep breaths, then unwound the veil with a steady
motion that must have cost her mightily, and rearranged her
fox-trimmed cape. Head held high, she took a single step toward the
street, then gave Moray a sidelong glance. “Who do you side with,
My Lord? Do you know? Your life depends on it.” She ignored his
handsome, baffled stare and swept out of Panmure Close, leaving a
wake of terrified silence behind her.

The September sun cast amber light across the
chamber, gilding the paneled walls and the big oak bed. The filmy
curtains that hung from the canopy stirred as the two figures under
the single silken sheet moved in languorous contentment. On the
carved mahogany mantelpiece, an Italian marble clock chimed six
times. Sorcha rolled over onto her back and stretched, the sheet
sliding unheeded to her waist. The green eyes grew soft as she
contemplated the quiet form of Gavin Napier, now lying on his side,
facing her but apparently asleep. The dark hair was rumpled,
falling boyishly over his forehead; the long mouth was slightly
parted, his breathing deep and even; one arm was bent at the elbow,
the big hand slack against Sorcha's breast. He looked so serene, so
peaceable, that even Sorcha could scarcely believe he’d all but
engaged in a murderous act earlier that same day.

It had been an eventful day for them both, with the
turmoil unleashed by Marie-Louise, but at last, after seeing
Rosmairi and Armand off, Sorcha and Gavin Napier had gone on to
Holyrood Palace. Initially, Napier had been distant and abrupt. He
had said little about Marie-Louise, but Sorcha sensed that he was
at once regretful and relieved: Had he actually strangled his wife
on the spot, it would have been only righteous revenge for the
murders she had committed or instigated. On the other hand, his act
of mercy had spared him the burden of having her death on his
conscience.

It was not words but gestures that had ultimately
released Napier from his own private cell. With gentle
determination, Sorcha had kissed and caressed him into emerging
from that dark, secret place. Once unshackled, his emotions were
intense, fierce, almost savage. He claimed Sorcha in a violent,
shuddering embrace that seemed to rock the palace’s stone walls.
Had not the pleasure overwhelmed the pain, she would have cried out
in protest rather than exultation. Later, after they had drank from
the same goblet of red Bordeaux wine and talked about the
frustrating delays he had experienced in Rome, Napier’s touch
turned tender, almost languid, playing Sorcha’s body like the
strings of a Highland clarsach. She responded in kind, with as much
sensuousness as sensuality, exploring every inch of him, leaving
the imprint of possession on every muscle, sinew, and bone. They
came together in a voluptuous crescendo of rising passion,
oblivious of everything except the union of their fervid flesh.

No matter, Sorcha thought dreamily, that the new Pope
had not yet studied the request for an annulment. Neither Napier
nor Rob could have remained in Rome forever. And the papal
secretary had all but promised to send word when the decision was
finally handed down. Four Popes in two years had created a chaotic
situation in the Holy See; the plight of one obscure couple in
Scotland must be put aside until more important matters were
considered.

Sorcha jerked her body suddenly, aware that she, too,
was almost asleep. In just a little over half an hour, she was due
to help select the Queen’s finery for the evening’s entertainment.
“Gavin,” Sorcha whispered, sitting up in bed, with the long hair
brushing his upper arm, “wake up, my love! The sun is setting.”

Napier's eyes opened slowly, his hand reaching
vaguely for Sorcha. “What? Is aught wrong?” With effort, he focused
on her, his fingers touching her bare stomach.

“
Nay.” She laughed, clasping his
hand with both of hers. “I must dress to tend the
Queen.”

Napier shifted his weight, leaning on his elbows.
“Send word you’re ill. I’ve a mind never to leave this bed.” He
grinned, an unwonted flash of mischief in the dark eyes.

“
I can’t do that,” Sorcha declared
with resolution. “I want to, but I can’t. Besides,” she added
seriously, trying to ignore the fingers that crept up her thigh, “I
thought you wanted to see Moray.”

“
I do.” The fingers pranced upward,
to sink between her legs. “I will—in good time.”

Setting her mouth, Sorcha started to swing her legs
away but only managed to part them enough for Gavin Napier to
capture the mound of her womanhood in his hand. Effortlessly, his
other arm pinned her shoulders down against the pillows. His beard
tickled her abdomen as Sorcha felt a single probing finger move
within her, stretching, seeking, inciting. The other hand brushed
back and forth across her breasts, then made lazy, maddening
circles around the pink plateau of one nipple. With a groan of
delight, Sorcha surrendered to his delicious, relentless torment.
The Queen could wait; the world could wait. She was in the arms of
the man she loved, and nothing else mattered.