Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  “You don’t trust me.” The statement wasn’t as casual as Napier had intended; his voice was flat, his eyes wary.

  “I don’t know you.” Sorcha frowned at the muddy ground under foot. “You … confound me.”

  A crow cawed shrilly from the pine grove that hid the little inn from view. Napier’s gaze followed the sound, then came to rest on Sorcha. “Mayhap. But I haven’t meant to.”

  Sorcha blinked. His words seemed lame. She stopped abruptly, turning to confront him. “Well, you managed all the same!” She batted at the tip of her nose, chin thrust out pugnaciously. “Priests must act like priests! Oh, aye, I know some are as wicked and debauched as the Protestants say, but I sense that you have honor.” Seeing Napier’s unfathomable expression, Sorcha let out a deep raspy sigh. “What have I said? I sound like such a fool!”

  Napier moved a few paces away, staring into the lapping waters of the loch. “Why did you agree to go to Edinburgh?” The question came from over his shoulder.

  Sorcha gazed quizzically at his broad back. “My agreement wasn’t necessary. Though,” she went on, fretting at her temple, “I suppose I hope I shall find a husband there. My prospects could hardly be less dim than at home.”

  Napier didn’t reply at once, but seemed to be brooding. “By the Cross,” he murmured at last, and turned to face her, an imposing figure etched against the loch’s black-and-silver waters. “Marriage is dangerous. If any woman—or man—ever thought what marriage would bring, the wedding bells would peal no more.”

  Involuntarily, Sorcha shrank back into herself. Father Napier’s cynicism seemed excessive, even for a celibate. He had started walking down the path again when Sorcha, scurrying to catch up, uttered her response: “Life brings good and bad things, whether a person marries or not. At least husband and wife can face the hard times together.” With an air of defiance, she stared up at Napier, who kept striding purposefully toward the inn. “I know that. I’ve often heard my Lady Mother say so when misfortune struck while my sire was away at sea. ‘If only your father were here,’ ” Sorcha quoted, “ ‘I could bear all this so much better.’ ”

  Napier emitted a vague snort. “But she managed all the same. And having met your formidable Lady Mother, I suspect she did it with great competence. Still, her sentiment is well-intentioned.” He paused as something rustled in the tall grasses just ahead of them. A deer, Sorcha thought, coming to the loch for an evening drink. “If she speaks the truth, your parents may have been singularly blessed,” he went on, resuming his determined pace.

  “I don’t think you like women much,” she asserted. “Is that why you became a priest?”

  His answer was swift and wordless. In three long strides, he took her in his arms, capturing her mouth with his. Stunned, Sorcha’s reflex action was to batter his broad back with her hands, but the gesture of resistance was feeble at best. The kiss deepened, stifling her breath, pressing her body against his. She was bent backward, yet held tightly in his grasp as his tongue delved between her lips, her teeth. The brutelike intensity should have enraged her sensibilities. Instead, it enflamed them, urging Sorcha to open her mouth wide to him, to surrender to the hands that moved purposefully from her waist to her hips and back to the soft, yielding flesh just beneath her breasts.

  She had felt like this with Niall, and yet it was not the same—then, she had been in control, of him, of herself, of the situation. Now, in Gavin Napier’s steel grasp, Sorcha was not merely helpless but had no will to fend him off, no shame to demand that he desist.

  As she felt his fingers move to the swelling curve of her breast, he suddenly released her mouth, holding her away from him in the crook of his arm. The dark eyes seemed to sear her face. “Does that answer your question?” Napier’s voice was a low, ominous growl.

  Sorcha was shaking. She still felt that tantalizing hand just under her breast and tried to read what was going on behind the dark eyes and the fierce voice. Contempt, no doubt, for himself, for her. “Sweet Mother of God,” Sorcha whispered through lips that barely seemed to move, “did I entice you?”

  For one fleeting moment, the hunter’s eyes grew not only soft but almost merry. Then Napier slowly withdrew his arms from Sorcha, the fingers just brushing the tip of her breast, as if by accident. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed vigorously. “Christ,” he murmured, “what have I done?”

  For once, Sorcha squelched her natural desire to speak boldly, honestly. Gavin Napier had kissed her and held her and touched her—and she wished he hadn’t stopped. But she dared not say so aloud; she was compelled to lie, at least to suppress the truth, and to hide her feelings. Sorcha shifted her stance and shrugged. “A regrettable lapse, I suppose,” she said and was amazed at the leaden sound of her voice.

  “Aye.” Napier nodded once, started to lift his hand in some sort of salute, and then abruptly turned on his heel to head up the rocky path toward the inn.

  A faint glow of light could be seen from behind the rude inn’s window. Off to one side of the thatched structure, Sorcha heard their horses stir in the dilapidated stable. Fleetingly, she considered going to pat Thisbe’s neck to feel a reassuring reminder of home.

  Napier never looked back, but he left the door ajar for her. By the time Sorcha entered the inn, she could see his booted feet ascending the ladder to the loft where his straw pallet lay between Rob’s and Arthur MacSymond’s.

  Sorcha ignored the curious stare of the burly innkeeper as she made her way up the short, winding staircase to her attic room. Ailis was sitting by a candle, looking through the tiny window. There was no glass or horn, only a piece of canvas to keep out the autumn chill. Sorcha silently blessed Ailis’s poor eyesight; otherwise she might have observed the indiscreet moment by the loch.

  “How’s your ankle, Ailis?” Sorcha inquired in a kindly voice.

  “Sore, but I’ll manage.” Ailis gave Sorcha a tight-lipped smile. “Did your walk refresh you?”

  Sorcha turned away as she started to undress. “Oh, aye,” she answered as casually as possible, and realized her mouth felt bruised. “I think I saw a deer by the loch.”

  “Are they like the ones in the Highlands?” asked Ailis, crawling under a patched blanket and stifling a yawn.

  “They’re smaller,” replied Sorcha evasively.

  “Oh,” Ailis said, and closed her eyes. Sorcha held back a sigh of relief; she had no wish to carry on a lengthy conversation. Blowing out the candle, Sorcha wrapped herself in her own blanket, which felt scratchy against her skin. The place seemed free of vermin, she decided, trying to find a comfortable position on the straw pallet. They had yet to sleep in a bed with a real mattress. At least the McVurrich household would provide the amenities of life.

  Outside, an owl hooted. Ailis was already snoring softly. The little low-ceilinged room still reeked of peat, though Sorcha knew the fire had been put out before she returned to the inn.

  “God’s teeth,” she whispered, turning over and wrestling with the rough blanket. She had hoped to put Father Napier’s reckless embrace from her mind. Had he thought she was taunting him about not liking women? Was he really a lascivious priest after all? Or was Gavin Napier insane? The deep sigh Sorcha uttered seemed to fill the cramped little room. She lay on her back, staring up at the low, patched ceiling. Suddenly she felt quite young, rather foolish, and very lonely. True, Rob was with her on the journey, but soon they would be parted. Only a few weeks ago, Sorcha had been dwelling comfortably within the bosom of her family and the familiar surroundings of Gosford’s End. She had an excellent prospect of marriage and the future seemed secure. Now she had been jilted, wrenched from her sanctuary, and sent upon a journey to a city that oppressed her. Worst of all, she had found pleasure in the arms of an errant priest.

  “Hopeless,” she whispered into the darkness. Sorcha knew it was as hopeless to love Gavin Napier as it was to love Niall Fraser. In that moment, she made a vow—to marry a rich, titled husband. She would love him, of course, since h
e would be clever and handsome as well. Love must be commanded to come or go. Hadn’t Johnny Grant turned fondness to disdain? Weren’t her feelings for Niall already obscure? In a few days Sorcha would forget Gavin Napier. And somewhere, perhaps just weeks away, Sorcha’s true love was waiting.

  Chapter 6

  For the home of one of Scotland’s most important noblemen, Doune Castle was impressive only in its forbidding appearance. After two hundred years, it was still unfinished. The bulky towers were ragged; the two wings jutting out above the River Teith appeared stunted. Sorcha found the place a gloomy fortress on a barren hill, with only the arched entrance worthy of an earl.

  But the man who dwelled within was far from gloomy or stunted. James Stewart, second Earl of Moray, was a tall, handsome man with dark red hair and a brilliant smile. His wife, Elizabeth, was scarcely older than Sorcha. The Countess of Moray appeared shy, her gentian blue eyes downcast, her soft voice barely audible. She was pretty, Sorcha decided, in a quiet sort of way, with the hint of dimples and perfect small white teeth. Elizabeth Stewart was yet another relative, being the elder daughter of Iain Fraser’s late half brother and arch enemy, James, the first Earl of Moray.

  “Does that make us half cousins?” Sorcha asked of Rob as they walked along the gallery toward the dining room. The castle, Sorcha had noted with relief, was far more inviting inside than outside, being decorated with bright tapestries and handsome furnishings and plush Persian carpets.

  “I suppose,” Rob replied. “But then it seems as if half of Scotland is kin to us in some way.”

  “Just think,” Sorcha said, lowering her voice, “Elizabeth of Moray’s father tried to kill our own sire! Do you think she knows?”

  Rob shook his head. “I hope not. Her father seemed to want to kill a lot of people. It’s only fitting that he should have fallen to an assassin’s bullet.”

  “I remember when we heard he’d died. I was but three years old, yet I recall how our Lady Mother gloated for days.” Sorcha could still picture Dallas, standing in front of the great fireplace at Gosford’s End, calling on God and the Virgin and all the saints to witness how justice had finally been done. Iain Fraser, however, had not joined in his wife’s jubilation. Despite all the grief that Moray had brought him, the man was still his brother.

  The stark walls of the dining halls were partially hidden by huge vases filled with evergreens and autumn leaves. The chairs were covered in rich crimson damask, a runner of embossed Spanish leather traversed the gleaming oak table, and a silver chandelier shimmered with the light of five hundred candles.

  Sorcha was suitably impressed. They were not the only guests at Doune, however. Francis Hepburn Stewart, the wily Earl of Bothwell, was observing the newcomers over his glass of port. His one-time enemy, the doughty Sir William Stewart of Monkton, was also present. William Stewart had lost two fingers in the quarrel between his brother, the Earl of Arran, and the Earl of Mar three years earlier. Both Stewarts, now at peace, sat flanked by two mastiffs in front of the vast stone fireplace.

  “Jesu,” whispered Sorcha to Rob after the introductions had been made, “I hope we’re not kin to all these people. How can we tell?”

  “Ask our host. He’s a most congenial man.” Rob grinned at Sorcha, then shook his head at the drab maroon gown she was wearing. “Didn’t our Lady Mother insist you bring along something more … festive?”

  Sorcha grimaced at her brother. “Since when have you taken to caring what I wear? And, yes, Mother packed my saffron dress, but I’m not sure where it is. She said Aunt Tarrill would see that I got a proper wardrobe in Edinburgh.” Sorcha tossed the long, loose black hair and glared at the other guests who were lounging about in various states of unregimented camaraderie. “I didn’t expect to stay at an earl’s home en route to Edinburgh.”

  In layman’s attire, Father Napier was almost as casually dressed as Sorcha. Whiskey cup in hand, he had approached her and Rob to join their conversation. “The Earl of Moray is well known for his congenial hospitality. His wife was raised more rigidly, but tries to adapt to relaxed ways.”

  “Relaxed?” mused Sorcha, watching the demure Countess of Moray nod diffidently at the Earl of Bothwell. “She seems a timorous creature to me.”

  “She has a certain sense of dignity,” Father Napier noted with approval.

  Sorcha’s green eyes snapped; she hadn’t spoken to Napier since the previous night outside the inn. “Not to mention an earldom stashed in her dowry.” Sorcha said bitingly. “Moray had to choose between her and a younger sister, isn’t that so?” While Sorcha was confident of her ability to maintain a conversation in the great hall of a nobleman’s castle, she was also relieved to be in such a large company. It was best that she and Gavin Napier didn’t find themselves alone together for the duration of the journey.

  Napier shrugged, one big hand cradling his whiskey cup. “I assume His Lordship was taken by her modesty and grace. But ask him yourself,” he went on, gesturing toward their host who was approaching, a warm smile on his handsome face.

  “We should have music or tumblers for entertainment,” Moray declared, clapping Rob on the shoulder. “I had no notion our humble home would be welcoming so many visitors at once.”

  “Including turbulent Bothwell, I see.” Gavin Napier gestured toward the curly-haired earl, who had captured Elizabeth of Moray’s rapt attention. “He, too, is kin to the Frasers.”

  Moray nodded, his open gaze taking in Sorcha and Rob as well as Gavin Napier. “His father was yet another illegitimate son of King James, his mother, the sister of Queen Mary’s third husband. A stormy petrel, but possessed of a certain charm.”

  Sorcha eyed Bothwell with curiosity. Somehow she’d expected the offspring of jaunty Johnny Stewart and the coltish Jean Hepburn to be an imposing figure. He was redheaded, barely of average height, and with an unimpressive physique. Yet his nervous energy exuded a peculiar magnetism.

  “Bothwell and King Jamie have an erratic relationship,” Moray remarked lightly. He turned to Sorcha and Rob, his hands spread in an expansive gesture. “So we are all kin to you, yet we’ve never met ’til now.” The clear blue eyes rested a trifle too long on Sorcha. “I regret our acquaintanceship has taken so long.”

  Sorcha was only vaguely discomfited by Moray’s gaze. What disconcerted her more was that for the first time in her life, she wished she were dressed in a more becoming style. Noting Elizabeth of Moray’s pale blue brocaded gown, Sorcha suddenly found her outmoded, shabby maroon dress inadequate.

  Father Napier filled the unexpected void in the conversation with ease. “The Fraser heirs have spent most of their lives in the Highlands. Visitors to that part of the world are rare, I’m told.”

  “A pity it is, too,” Sorcha put in, trying not to think of feminine finery, “as it’s beautiful, untamed country.”

  Moray’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “As are the natives?”

  Rob stiffened, prepared for a pert response from his sister. But Sorcha merely laughed. “Oh, aye, My Lord, some of us are downright primitive! Though,” she went on in a more wistful tone as Elizabeth of Moray moved toward them with the candlelight giving a silvery sheen to her gown, “we are adaptable to more civilized ways.”

  Father Napier made a wry face, which only Sorcha saw. Rob opened his mouth to speak, but the words never took life. From the entrance hall, shouts and scuffling could be heard. Moray excused himself abruptly, Elizabeth froze in place, and a hush fell over the guests.

  A figure stood in the arched doorway, sword in hand. Sorcha gaped at the man whose tall, athletic body cast a long shadow across the floor from the torches held aloft behind him. He wore chain mail but no helmet. His hair was the color of burnished copper, his face calling to mind a Grecian temple statue. For all the aggression in his stance, there was an elegance that made his sudden appearance as much of a pose as it was a threat.

  Yet Sorcha realized that the others were uneasy, even frightened. Elizabeth of Moray had tiptoed to
Rob’s side, where she chewed on her fingernails. Sir William Stewart’s face was contorted, his eyes narrow with menace. Bothwell looked interested, as if weighing sides to assess his own position. Moray stood just a few feet from the interloper, attempting to defuse the situation by his easy manner.

  “Patrick! Since when have you had to hack your way into my home? Put down your sword, man, and join us for supper.” Moray gestured with an open hand toward the table. “Tell your men to come in. We’ll roast more capons.”

  The other man lowered his sword lightly. “I seek not food, but a villain,” he declared, his compelling hazel eyes raking the company. “There,” he called out, pointing with his empty hand toward Stewart. “He knows who I seek! Where is your vile brother, the treacherous Earl of Arran?”

  Sir William stepped forward with a bristling air of anger. “Where you imprisoned him, at Kinneil!” His voice was gruff. “You weave wicked plots, Patrick, Master of Gray. And all to make yourself the King’s favorite in place of my gravely wronged brother!”

  Gray brandished his sword. “Liar! Arran escaped from Kinneil while I was in Perthshire. Either he is here—or has fled to King Jamie.”

  Sir William thrust out his barrel chest. “Paugh, if he were here, he’d face you like a man! I know nothing of this escape, but I thank God for it.”

  Moray had stepped casually between Stewart and the Master of Gray. “If I were hiding Arran, I wouldn’t conceal it, Patrick. On the other hand, I wouldn’t allow you to carry him away. Let’s end this farce and be at peace before my digestion becomes unruly.”

  Gray regarded Moray with those hypnotic hazel eyes. “I’m not a man given to violence, yet I know that while Arran is free, my life is in danger. If he’s not here, he must be headed for the court. So then shall I be.” Gray sheathed his sword, and the perfect features broke into a dazzling smile. “My reputation for manners has been sullied by this untoward incident. I apologize for my boorishness and thank you for your offer to sup. Yet being an untrusting sort, I must ensure my safe withdrawal.” He threw Stewart a venomous smile. “I’ll take the serving wench here,” Gray announced, putting a hand on Sorcha’s arm. “She’ll be returned after I’ve reached the King.”