Gosford's Daughter (58 page)

Sorcha and Dallas both swung to their feet, firing
questions at Cummings, demanding to know if the priest had word of
the men they loved. But Cummings held up a hand, shaking his head
in apology. Father Adam had related no details. He was downstairs,
warming himself by the fire in lain Fraser’s study.

Adam Napier was more gaunt and strained than when
Sorcha had last seen him. He sat in her father’s big armchair, a
thick woolen blanket thrown over his useless legs. At the sight of
his hostess and her daughter, he bowed from the waist, a kindly
smile on his thin lips. “May God be with you,” he said in greeting,
waiting for the women to sit down. But when neither moved toward
the room’s other two chairs, he began to speak again.

“
Even a short journey takes me a
long time, I fear,” he began by way of apology. “I have spent the
better part of the day traveling from Beauly Priory.”

Patience not being a virtue either Dallas or her
daughter possessed in great measure, both Fraser females briskly
waved aside the priest’s explanations. “Bad news keeps ill,
Father,” Dallas urged. “Please speak your piece.”

Father Adam nodded in understanding, then withdrew a
thickly rolled document from his robes, which he proffered not to
Dallas, but to Sorcha. “Alas, the Holy Father has ruled against an
annulment. Despite his failing health, Pope Innocent was gracious
enough to hear Rob plead your case. You might not agree with his
conclusions, but I believe you will find them fair and
judicious.”

With trembling hands, Sorcha unrolled the long sheet
of parchment. It was written in Latin, a language she had learned
in childhood and knew quite well, but the blow she had just
received rendered her wits useless. The elegantly formed letters
blurred before her eyes, the papal seal at the bottom of the page
looked like nothing more than an amorphous blob. “Here,” she said
to her mother in a hoarse voice, “take it. I don’t even want to
touch the wretched thing!”

As Dallas grabbed the parchment before it glided to
the floor, Sorcha flung herself into a chair. She covered her face
with her hands, though the tears refused to fall. Dallas, her mouth
set in a tight, angry line, scanned the papal verdict. “Pope
Innocent indeed!” she snapped. “Pope ‘Imbecile’ would be more like
it! This sounds like it’s concerned with two completely different
people! It reads as if Gavin and Marie-Louise have merely had a
nasty little lovers’ tiff!” She waved the document at Father Adam,
whose mild dark eyes blinked at his hostess’s fervor. “Tell me,
Father—is it the Pope’s body or his mind that fails him?”

“
My dear Lady Fraser,” murmured
Father Adam placatingly, “I was not in Rome. I’m certain your good
son will write you with details. He sent this in haste, from Paris,
on his way back to Compiègne.”

Oblivious of the exchange between her mother and
Father Adam, Sorcha rose on shaky legs from the chair and slipped
quietly from the room. She heard her mother call after her, but
paid no heed. Stumbling up the stairs, she retreated to her
bedchamber and collapsed onto the bed. For several minutes, she
forced her mind to go blank in an attempt to erase all the
disturbing, conflicting emotions that beset her. At last, she sat
up, the green eyes drawn to the crucifix that hung over her bed.
“Sweet Savior,” she prayed, “let good triumph over evil. Surely it
cannot be Your will to allow the wickedness and snares of the Devil
to overcome what is right and true. Let me be the vessel to do Your
work on earth. Amen.”

Crossing herself, Sorcha frowned. What had she asked
God to do for her? How could she expect Him to hear her prayers if
she had sinned by surrendering herself to Gavin Napier? Worse yet,
she had all but coerced Gavin into sin as well. He had struggled
against temptation, while she had yielded to it. And now they were
paying the price of disobeying God.

Except that God was merciful and forgiving, Sorcha
reminded herself, edging off the bed and going to the window.
Surely her sin had grown out of love, not—as with Marie-Louise—out
of hate. Marie-Louise was a harbinger of death and destruction,
killing a king, Armand’s family, even the babe she and Gavin had
conceived. How could God let such a vicious creature prosper? Why
hadn’t He struck her down long ago, before she could blaze such a
trail of mayhem and murder?

The white landscape was dotted with prints made by
men and horses: Father Adam and his companions; the Fraser
servants; and even now, Rosmairi, Armand, and little Adam, romping
in the snow. Through the leaded glass, Sorcha could just make out
their voices, raised in happy banter. Wee Adam, who had learned to
walk in the past two months, was tumbling about, sprawling and
sliding until his heavy clothing was almost as white as the ground
itself.

A bittersweet smile touched Sorcha’s lips as she
watched the merry scene. Was it possible that she and Gavin would
never be together to see their own child frisk about under the
loving gaze of both his parents? She turned away from the window,
trying to tell herself there must be another solution to her
problems. Perhaps that was where the answer lay, not with God, but
with herself. She recalled once having flippantly told Gavin Napier
that justice shouldn’t be left to the Lord, since He had enough to
do already. If that were true, if Sorcha actually believed her own
words, then it was a waste of time waiting for divine
intervention.

At least, she told herself, going back to lie down on
the bed, Father Adam hadn’t brought the news she’d dreaded
most—that Gavin was dead. As for the papal decree, she should have
paid more attention to its wording. Vaguely, she recalled that her
mother had indicated it didn’t seem to make sense. Maybe it could
be appealed; if Pope Innocent were indeed a dying man, they might
seek another ruling after a new Pope was elected. Yet time was
running out. The baby would be born in June. Sorcha drummed her
fingers on the counterpane and wondered if Rob would be able to
return to Rome in the spring.

Moments later, the sound of voices and the jingle of
harness could be heard outside. Sorcha hurried back to the window,
where she saw Rosmairi and Armand, the baby high on his shoulder,
greeting a troop of men. The tallest of the company was Gavin
Napier; her father and the Earl of Moray flanked his weary black
gelding, with Magnus and Johnny Grant at the rear of the little
van.

Ever mindful of the precious burden she carried,
Sorcha again made cautious haste down the central stairway. Dallas
was already in the entrance hall, with Cummings trailing in her
wake, like a longboat being towed by a galleon. Iain Fraser was the
first through the door, bracing his feet for his wife’s welcoming
onslaught. Before Sorcha could set foot on the bottom stair, the
hall was filled with at least fifty men, a dozen Fraser servants,
and several barking dogs. From his unrivaled vantage point, little
Adam burbled with excitement, while the snow dropped from the men’s
boots and clothing to melt in small puddles on the flagstone
floor.

Still clinging to the balustrade, Sorcha took a deep
breath. As relieved as she was to see her father and her brother
safely home, she saw only one person in that cluster of humanity.
Gavin Napier, still clad in chain mail and helmet, with the snow
clinging to his beard and the heavy gloves frozen almost stiff, was
making his way through the crush of people.

“
My love!” Napier breathed with a
big grin as he lifted Sorcha into his arms almost as effortlessly
as Armand had picked up little Adam. He held her so that their
faces almost touched. “You look wan,” he said, the grin fading.
“Surely you knew we’d prevail?”

“
Oh, aye, I had great confidence in
all of you.” She forced a smile and lowered her lashes. Through the
soft wool of her winter gown, she could feel the caked snow on his
gloves, and it made her shiver. He brushed her cheek with his cold
lips, then set her on her feet.

“
I’m not suitable for a loving
reunion,” he said with a rueful little laugh. “Nor is this the
place.” He turned swiftly to look at the others, but most of the
gathering had focused on Iain Fraser and Moray, who seemed to be
taking turns telling how George Gordon had suddenly decided to
withdraw his troops from Darnaway.

“
It seems,” said Fraser dryly, “that
he preferred the company of Patrick Gray to ours. I can’t imagine
why—Magnus and I are much more amusing.”

He offered his listeners that familiar crooked grin
and squeezed his wife’s shoulders. “To be candid,” he continued, as
Dallas reached out to bring Magnus into the family group, “Darnaway
is too difficult to assault in winter weather. Mayhap we should
have kept Gray as a hostage against attack when spring comes.”

“
We gave our word otherwise,” Moray
remarked, while Johnny Grant scowled at his side. “Two
Frasers … and the Laird of Freuchie,” he added hastily noting
Grant’s unhappy expression at being relegated to the background,
“are thirty times the value of one Master of Gray.”

Moray’s words evoked a hearty cheer from the little
crowd. Young Adam squealed deliriously, bouncing in his father’s
firm grasp. The gathering was breaking up into smaller groups, with
some of the men already being led away by Cummings to the great
hall, where food and drink would be served as soon as Catriona
could marshal the kitchen forces. Magnus was inquiring after the
welfare of his wife, Jeannie, who was eight months gone with their
second child and had been unable to travel to Gosford’s End to wait
out the vigil with her husband’s kin.

Napier slipped an arm around Sorcha as they
discreetly climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, where he washed up
and changed clothes. Now, away from the noisy rejoicing of the
Fraser household, Gavin Napier pulled Sorcha into his arms and
kissed her hungrily on the lips. She responded with affection, yet
Napier sensed she was holding back—her body was stiff, her fingers
lax around his neck. The assertive passion Napier had come to
expect and delight in was missing, supplanted by a detachment that
mystified him.

At last, he released her mouth and held her at arm’s
length. “Is my memory playing tricks on me?” he asked with a wry
little smile. “I seem to recall leaving behind a much more
hot-blooded lass.”

The unintended irony of his words made Sorcha’s mouth
twist upward with humor that had nothing to do with mirth. Gavin
Napier had ridden north from Edinburgh with no idea that his seed
had borne fruit in Sorcha, or that Pope Innocent would rule against
him in Rome. Now, in the wake of his triumphant return to Gosford’s
End, Sorcha, so normally glib, couldn’t find the words to tell him
the shattering news.

With his hands still resting lightly on her
shoulders, she met his gaze. “Your brother’s here,” she said in a
flat voice. “He arrived from Beauly Priory no more than an hour
ago.”

Napier’s big hands slid down from Sorcha’s shoulders
to hang awkwardly at his sides. “Is he ill? Has he worsened?” The
peat-brown eyes clouded over with anxiety.

Sorcha shook her head. “Nay, he’s the same.” She
swallowed hard, lilting her chin as if to give herself the inner
courage she had suddenly found so uncharacteristically lacking. “He
received word from Rob that Pope Innocent has refused to grant the
annulment.”

Napier’s big body seemed to shrivel under the weight
of her words. He was silent for some time; the only sound in the
room was the ticking of the little clock on the mantelpiece. When
he finally spoke, his voice was sharp and jerky. “It’s impossible.
We … Adam, Rob and I … we prepared such a reasonable,
logical case.” Napier lapsed into silence again, his hands now
clenched into fists. Then, like an unexpected crash of thunder
during a winter snow storm, he whirled about, battering the oak
paneled walls until the very room seemed to quake under his
assault. “Sweet Christ!” he cried, “does the Church itself—the
Church I’ve risked all to defend—oppose my life, my love, my very
salvation?” Seemingly spent, he leaned against the wall, breathing
hard.

Hesitantly, Sorcha edged toward him. Her throat felt
constricted, her hands like lead. How could she tell him about the
child when he was already so distressed? Later, perhaps, after he’d
had time to absorb this dreadful blow.

She had come within a foot of where he stood, now
rubbing his beard with agitated fingers and striving to collect his
thoughts. Instinctively, Sorcha put a hand over her abdomen. Under
the artful draping of her gown, the curve of her belly could not be
detected yet, and Sorcha was thankful.

“
Why can’t we plead the case again?”
she asked, still not daring to touch him. “It’s said that Innocent
is very ill.”

Napier regarded her with concentrated effort. His
self-control was all but regained, though the hunter’s gaze held
that haunted look Sorcha had not seen in some time. “It’s
possible.” He moved away from the wall, reaching out to hike a lock
of Sorcha’s dark hair in his fingers and tuck it under her
pearl-edged bandeau. “It would be the greatest folly to give up
now.” From the depths of his inner strength, he resurrected a smile
that held more confidence than he could justify. “We’ve waited this
long to become man and wife. What does it matter if we must bide a
few more months?”

“
None.” The single syllable dropped
between them like a rock in an empty bucket. Sorcha licked her dry
lips and tried to form them into a cheerful expression. “Shouldn’t
we go down to the banquet hall? They must be serving by now, and I
know you’re ravenous.”

“
I am at that.” The white teeth
showed in the dark beard; the brown eyes glinted with yearning.
Napier hooked his thumbs in the strips of brown braid that marched
down Sorcha’s bodice, molding the outline of her breasts. “Food can
wait, though,” he asserted, pulling her close and kissing her
forehead. “ ’Tis you I’ve hungered for all these months.” He
searched her face, noting the unwonted pallor and fatigue that
showed up around her eyes. “You’ve been worrying too much, my love.
Surely you knew we’d manage to outwit George Gordon.”