by Mary Daheim
“Understood poorly, it seems,” Sorcha seethed. “Betrothal or not, am I to be unavenged as well as humiliated?”
Reasserting her maternal authority, Dallas squared her slim shoulders, managing to salvage some dignity despite her squatting position on the cushions. “Here, now—you are not the only one who has been insulted. We have all suffered, as a family. But would you send your father and Magnus and Rob off to be butchered in the name of honor? Don’t be as brainless as Johnny!”
Sorcha shifted her body, one hand pulling at the long, black strands of hair. “If it’s religion that has changed his mind, I won’t feel injured. But,” she said with a wave of her finger, “if it’s some other chit who’s lured him away, I’ll see to it that he pays for his perfidy! Nor will I be content with a lesser laird!”
Fleetingly, Dallas considered reminding her daughter that vengeance belonged to the Lord, that a seventeen-year-old laddie wasn’t old enough to know his own name, let alone his mind, and that, in reality, there was probably very little Sorcha could do to make Johnny Grant lament his decision. But two things held Dallas back: one was the Highlander’s code of honor, which brooked no personal wrong; the other was Sorcha herself, wounded, determined, and incapable of permitting anyone to get away with what she considered an injustice. As if to prove the point, Dallas glanced at the floor, where Sorcha had dumped the slimy salmon. Even when her own mother seemed to have behaved unfairly, Sorcha would not, could not let the matter rest.
“The fact remains,” Dallas began in a calm voice, “that we must now begin anew to find you a husband. Praise the Holy Mother, Rosmairi is still too young. As for Rob, he fancies himself in priestly vestments. Though God himself would risk the wrath of the Presbyters if He flaunted his Catholicism. Mayhap Rob will outgrow the notion, but until he does, your sire and I will bide as far as marriage plans are concerned.” She paused to adjust the short, stiff ruff that fanned out from the bodice of her gown. “While that drooling nonentity of a king squats on Scotland’s throne, neither your father nor I are anxious to have you join the court. But we have thought about your going to Edinburgh to live with your Aunt Tarrill and Uncle Donald.”
Sorcha only half heard her mother’s words. She stared at her tattered serge hem and dwelled on vituperative speeches to spew at Johnny Grant. All these years, Sorcha had counted herself fortunate for not having to suffer the indignities of being bartered away in marriage like a sow going to market. Now, it seemed, she was just another piece of goods, to be shunted about from this eligible young lad to that well-off widower.
“Edinburgh?” she said at last, scowling at her mother. “I would rather not.”
Dallas shrugged, picked up her goblet, and took a deep drink. “You needn’t decide immediately. Though if you are to go, it would be wise to leave before the weather turns foul.”
Absently, Dallas tucked a strand of brown hair back under its silver net. Only the keenest pair of eyes could find any traces of gray, and her skin was remarkably unlined. Yet age had touched her about the eyes and jawline. It had also added character and strength. She made as if to get up, but stopped, resting on one knee. “There is no one else here you care about, I gather?”
The question was just a trace too sharp to be devoid of suspicion. But Sorcha met her mother’s gaze head-on. “No. Certainly not.” She suppressed a sigh of relief as she saw her mother give the briefest of nods.
It had not been a real lie. Sorcha knew her mother was asking if there was anyone else she wished to marry. And there wasn’t. Niall Fraser had been a groom until just six months ago, when his master had put him in charge of the stables. He was some distant kin, of course, but of lowly birth and scarcely a suitable mate for the daughter of Lord and Lady Fraser of Beauly.
Nor was Sorcha assured of any deep, reciprocal affection on his part. He appeared to enjoy her company when they went riding or hunting or fishing or walking over the moors. He would take her hand when they were away from prying eyes, and there had been that magical if confusing moment just a week ago by the burn when he’d tentatively kissed her. Rawboned, tall, auburn haired but swarthy of skin, Niall had reached his twentieth birthday that summer. Like all the Fraser servants he could read and write—Dallas insisted upon that—and he was an expert horseman, a fine hunter, and an uncannily lucky fisherman. Besides his ignoble birth, Niall’s only serious flaw was that he seldom laughed. It wasn’t that he was so somber, but he rarely found humor in the commonplace situations that often sent Sorcha into peals of laughter.
It was to Niall that Sorcha fled the following morning. A heavy mist crouched low over Gosford’s End, all but hiding the stables until she had nearly reached the door.
Niall was tending a fractious bay mare that seemed to be suffering from bloat. The feed, he explained, after dismissing two stable boys so that he and Sorcha might speak privately.
“It’s new, from this year’s harvest. She has trouble digesting it,” He frowned deep furrows creasing the swarthy forehead. “But why only this one? I must make her a special brew.”
“My parents want me to live in Edinburgh,” Sorcha announced, more concerned about her own problems than those of the bay mare. “I think I’d hate it.” Involuntarily, she glanced around the stable; such a disparaging opinion of Edinburgh would be heresy to Lady Fraser.
“I’ve never been there,” said Niall, patting the horse’s neck before turning to Sorcha. “ ’Tis said to be fine, bigger than Inverness.”
“I don’t care if it’s big as Spain,” Sorcha declared, hands on hips. “I’d rather stay here where I can ride and hunt and fish.” With you, she wanted to add, but lacked the nerve.
“You’ve been there. Are you so certain you’d hate it?” The blue eyes were probing, but then they usually were. Niall liked to ask questions, though at times he didn’t seem to care much about the answers.
“It’s full of people, many of them poor and ragged. It’s noisy, and there are too many Protestants who make you spend hours in church singing tedious hymns. Some of the houses are so high you can’t see the sun. I’d feel all closed up.”
“Then don’t go.” Niall gave her the scantest of smiles. “His Lordship won’t force you.”
Sorcha mentally noted that Niall was probably right. But Lady Fraser was another matter. If her mother had made up her mind that Sorcha would go to Edinburgh, then it was only a matter of time.
“I’m not going to marry Johnny Grant.” She gave Niall a sidelong glance. “He won’t marry a Catholic.”
Niall tested the hinges of the bay mare’s stall. “Ah. Many won’t. They hate popish ways.”
“I think Johnny hates me.” Sorcha pouted, but Niall wasn’t watching her. “In all those years he visited, he never kissed me.”
“Mayhap he lacked the nerve.” Niall closed the gate to the stall and turned to face Sorcha. “I hear we’re overrun with rabbits again. Would you be thinking of thinning them out with me?”
“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 ove
r 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.