by Mary Daheim
“Catholics are wrong. Or so I’m told.” Jamie scratched his long chin thoughtfully. “Are you a Catholic, Coz?”
Sorcha shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, most of the Frasers are, Your Grace.”
Jamie shook his head sadly. “That’s a pity. I’ll have to ask you to renounce your religion. I’m head of the Kirk, you know.”
Clearly, the conversation was going in the wrong direction. Sorcha leaned on one elbow, surveying her sovereign with dubious green eyes. “Being raised in a Catholic home far to the north, I know nothing about your church, sir. If I were to renounce my own faith, I would have no idea of what I was renouncing it for.”
“Ah!” With surprising alacrity, Jamie jumped to his feet. “Then I shall instruct you!” He clapped his hands together as several sheets of paper fluttered at his feet. “It will be an excellent way to keep you in my company.”
The idea wasn’t totally unappealing to Sorcha; at least it would free her from the tedium of the McVurrich household. But if Jamie’s bored, fretful attitude was any indication, she might be exchanging one sanctimonious lodging for another. Unless, of course, there were suitable young men on hand. From what Sorcha had seen so far of the nobles who swarmed about the King, that seemed unlikely.
“Your suggestion is most gracious,” she said at last, deciding she had also better stand up. Somewhat to her surprise, Jamie didn’t offer his hand, but let her struggle rather clumsily to her feet. In her riding boots, she was almost as tall as he was. “If I’m well versed in the tenets of the Protestant faith, perhaps I can dissuade Rob from his madness.”
“Rob?” Jamie looked blank.
“My brother. Didn’t Moray mention him?” Sorcha’s patience was wearing thin. It was also growing close to the supper hour, and she was hungry.
“Oh! Of course, he wishes to attend my mother at Chartley. Why?” James seemed genuinely puzzled, rubbing a fur-trimmed wrist against his chin.
“Perhaps to make up for my father’s desertion of her when she eloped with Bothwell.” Sorcha tried to sound wistful. “Such a tragic mistake on her part, if I may speak bluntly. My sire had always felt close to her, even though he didn’t realize they were half brother and half sister for many years. It was almost a personal betrayal for him. It’s sad to think how we Scots can violate the affections of even our closest kin.”
Jamie’s high forehead creased with sorrow. “Aye, you put it well. My mother betrayed my father, too. And so, in a sense, me. Yet some would insist I’ve abandoned her, that I’m an unnatural son.” He stretched his hands out to Sorcha. “Can you blame me?”
Sorcha tilted her head and smiled gently. “You were but a bairn when she lost her throne. And now … well, you hardly know her, mother or not. Yet it must be a source of great sadness to her, alone and unwell in a foreign prison.”
Sorcha wondered if she had gone too far. But Jamie sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to echo in the audience chamber. Except for two tapers on the fireplace mantel, the room was shrouded in shadows. A spaniel with a game leg hobbled out from under the dais at the end of the chamber, apparently awakened from its nap. The dog sniffed at Jamie’s foot, then limped to Sorcha and barked once.
“Enough, Morton,” Jamie commanded. The spaniel sat down on some of the papers still lying on the floor. The King of Scotland paid no heed. “I am not as cold and calculating as my critics would like others to believe,” he said petulantly. “If you think your brother might bring some cheer to my mother, perhaps he should go.”
“Rob’s a cheerful sort,” Sorcha replied, reminding herself to speak cautiously, lest her apparent victory be snatched away by Jamie’s legendary shifts of mood. “And he is kin, of an age with yourself. Our mothers were with child at the same time,” she reminded him. “My Aunt Tarrill brought him to see your mother the very morning after he was born at Holyrood. You were still in the womb.”
Jamie’s eyes, which had grown wide, narrowed in concentration. “It’s providential, is it not?” he asked at last. “In a sense, it’s like sending part of myself to my mother. Yes, yes, Coz, your brother must go.” He nodded again, this time with great vehemence. “And if Elizabeth quibbles, I’ll brook no interference. I shan’t allow her to meddle in family matters.”
Since Queen Elizabeth had been meddling with the Stewarts ever since ascending the English throne, Jamie’s words struck Sorcha as almost comic. She dared not laugh, however, and tried instead to appear overwhelmed by his generosity. “Your Majesty’s gracious gesture honors my brother—and me. Rob will bless you a thousand times. As will his tutor, Master Napier.”
A hint of suspicion flitted across James’s long face. “Tutor? What sort of tutor?”
“French, of course. A most insufferable pedant, but according to Rob, a gifted teacher.” Sorcha winced inwardly at the conjured-up image of Gavin Napier as a crotchety, gnarled scholar wallowing in French verbs and tenses.
King James lifted one narrow shoulder. “So be it. To Chartley they shall go.”
Sorcha was about to reiterate her thanks when the chamber door opened to reveal the Master of Gray. He paused on the threshold, stared openly at Sorcha with those hypnotic eyes, and bowed low.
“Your Grace,” he said to Jamie, barely concealing the anger he felt at Sorcha’s presence, “I marvel at the company you keep! The lords of your realm await you at supper.”
“A pox on the lords of the realm!” Jamie threw Gray an indignant glare, but not before he’d glanced at Sorcha as if for approbation. “Tell them I’m detained on family matters.”
Gray gazed from the King to Sorcha and back again. The spaniel, which had dozed off again on the state papers, looked up and growled. Ignoring Sorcha, Gray made a distasteful face at the animal, then smiled pleasantly at Jamie. “We await your pleasure, sire.” The graceful figure bowed again and withdrew.
As the door shut, Jamie giggled with glee. “He’s jealous! The Master is jealous of you, Coz! Oh, such a delightful circumstance!” He grasped Sorcha by the arm, his eyes suddenly pleading. “When will you come to court? Soon, please do!”
“I must see my brother off to England first,” she replied, aware that she was increasingly loath to join the court, no matter how tiresome life in Panmure Close had grown. “A month or so, perhaps?”
The lower lip dipped into a pout as Jamie’s hands dropped to his sides. “I’d hoped you would stay on at Linlithgow.” He brightened. “I shall find you a rich husband. An Erskine, perhaps, or a Farquharson?”
Sorcha paused, momentarily distracted. “Oh? A handsome one?” She saw Jamie turn vague and regretfully shook her head. “I appreciate your concern and know you will … ah, continue your search. But, for now, I dare not stay at court, sire. I must help Rob make adequate preparations for his journey. He hasn’t had the advantages of being self-sufficient as you have.”
“I’ve not had the advantages of brothers and sisters to see to my well-being. Nor parents, either.” Jamie leaned down to scoop up the spaniel. “I envy Rob.” He scratched the dog’s ears and held it close as if it were a small child. “You won’t tarry, will you, Coz? I shall seek out the most gallant mate for you, I promise!”
Sorcha felt her heart melt in her breast. Jamie looked so pathetic, attired in his royal robes, clutching the spaniel, both master and dog sad eyed and craving affection. Raised in a loving, boisterous family, Sorcha had a hard time imagining how isolated and lonely Jamie’s youth must have been.
“A month, no more,” she vowed. Impulsively, she leaned forward to brush Jamie’s cheek with a kiss. “I shall relay the news of your kindness to Rob at once. Take care, Your Grace.” She patted the spaniel. “And, you, Morton.” With a quick curtsey, Sorcha moved across the audience chamber. As she opened the door, she heard a little moan and wasn’t certain whether it came from the spaniel—or the King.
Chapter 11
Rob was so elated over King James’s benevolence that for the first time in his life, he drank himself into a stupor.
Half annoyed and half amused, Sorcha and Ailis put him to bed in the chamber hastily provided by Moray. A short time later, Ailis was about to retire and Sorcha was getting undressed when the earl knocked at their door. Signaling that Rob was already asleep, Sorcha stepped out into the hall. “Jamie approves,” she said in a low voice. “I thank you for your assistance. So would Rob, if he were sober enough to speak.”
Moray smiled indulgently. “I sensed Jamie would be more easily persuaded by you than by me. Every time I mentioned the subject, he diverted the conversation.”
“I can understand that,” Sorcha said dryly, recalling her own initial attempts. “Incidentally, if he should ever ask, Gavin Napier is an aged French tutor, withered as a prune.”
Moray made a wry face. “Hardly an apt description of the stalwart Napier.” He gave a little laugh, then sobered, and met Sorcha’s gaze head-on. “I must remain at court for a time. I offer my apologies for not being able to escort you and the others back to Edinburgh.”
To her surprise, Sorcha felt a pang of disappointment. “We’ll manage,” she said in reassurance. “It’s a short journey, and the weather is holding.”
“Aye.” Moray paused, looking strangely uncertain. Briefly, the blue eyes flickered away, then returned to dwell on Sorcha’s upturned face. “If I were a sane man, I’d say I made a fool of myself today. Sane or not, am I forgiven?”
Sorcha tried to avert her gaze but could not. The distress on Moray’s finely molded features held her like a physical force. “We’ll pretend it was a game. And I shall forfeit my right to cry foul.” She spoke lightly, but felt an inner heaviness.
“A game?” Moray’s mouth twisted slightly. “Ah, I would that it were so!” He retreated a pace, one hand fretting at a sapphire ring set in silver. “To think I am hailed as a master at games! Yet you are the prize I’ll not win.”
Distress ebbed through Sorcha like a rising tide. “Sir, don’t fash yourself! You confuse me. But I find you most … kind.”
From the end of the hall, two pages raced exuberantly after each other. Sorcha and Moray stepped aside as the youths slowed their pace, but cast saucy glances in the direction of their betters. When they had disappeared in the opposite direction, Moray took Sorcha’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
“There should be no confusion,” he said clearly. “I love you.” Seeing the disbelief on Sorcha’s face, he squeezed her hand and shook his head. “Nay, don’t protest. I’ve stated my feelings. I have no right to do so, but it would be less than honest of me if I did not.” He smiled softly, though his eyes were in shadow. “Damn me, revile me, curse me. But never doubt me, Sorcha Fraser.”
Sorcha felt as if she were suspended in space. James Stewart of Moray, the Bonnie Earl, the most personable, admired man in Scotland had declared his love for her, an unworldly, unkempt Highland lass more at home in the wild northern glens than the elegant banquet halls of Edinburgh. As the epitome of Scottish manhood, Moray was the ideal mate for Sorcha. Yet he belonged to another.
But she had already seen the loneliness of her King and kinsman that evening; now another Stewart stood before her, yearning and disturbed. Whatever common strain ran in their blood, it seemed to call out to her own. Even as he pulled her into his arms, she was unable to lash out her rejection.
“Jesu God,” he whispered, holding her so that her head was tipped back against his arm, “could you ever love me?”
Sorcha felt numb. “I don’t know what love is.” The black hair had tumbled from its net, reaching halfway to the floor. Her breath came rapidly through parted lips; the green eyes were wide and questioning. If Moray could rouse her senses, then perhaps she could break the spell Gavin Napier had cast upon her.
She sensed his hesitation before he lifted her high in his arms. Sorcha felt herself being carried down the corridor, and watched over Moray’s shoulder as he somehow managed to unlatch the door to his chamber. Only a rushlight burned low next to the bed. It was there that Moray set Sorcha down, kneeling beside her on the floor.
“If it were possible, I would go to Jamie now and ask his permission for us to marry within the hour. Alas,” he said sadly, “I cannot. I can offer you only myself, my life, my heart, my very soul.” He bent down, his cheek brushing hers. “Will you accept my poor gift?”
Sorcha felt the faint new growth of beard against her face and his breath on her ear. “I can’t,” she all but wailed, struggling to rise from the bed.
“Is there someone else?” Moray gently but firmly pinioned her with one arm.
Sorcha wagged her head from side to side, strands of hair flying about the counterpane. “No.”
Moray’s brow furrowed. “Napier?”
Sorcha all but bolted in his grasp. “Napier!” She felt her already flushed cheeks turn to fire. “No! There’s no one!”
Moray smiled uncertainly. His free hand slipped over one breast, cupping it gently. “You’re irresistible. That’s your charm, an infectious, earthy sort of magnetism.”
Sorcha felt his hand tighten almost imperceptibly around the firm globe of her breast. “Please let me go now,” she implored, aware that her mouth had gone dry. “You must give me time.”
He pulled away just enough to scrutinize her face. “I can give you time. But the world may not.” He leaned down again, to kiss her ear, her temple, the hollow under her eye. The hand at her breast moved to the fastenings of her riding costume, parting the fabric to reveal the creamy silk chemise that strained over her bosom.
The rushlight flickered, catching the russet glints of Moray’s hair. Sorcha knew she had to end this madness. But Moray moved with such quiet deliberation, his mouth trailing down the curve of her throat to the valley between her breasts. Still on his knees, he straightened up to slide one arm under Sorcha’s body, raising her so that he could strip away both riding jacket and creamy silk. Sorcha waited for his touch to fire her senses, to drive out the image of Gavin Napier. But she felt nothing. “No,” she cried as the silk slipped below her waist and the jacket dropped from her arms. “No, no, this must not be!” The beseeching words seemed lost on Moray, who smiled at Sorcha with great pleasure and placed his fingers on the hollow of her belly. With that same sweet determination, he pulled the riding skirt down still further, carefully removing the undergarments at the same time, down over her hips, pausing in wonder at the bold, black triangle of curling hair, teasing her thighs with his fingers, then removing the garments over the black leather riding boots, and dropping them at the edge of the bed.
Sorcha struggled to sit up against the pillows, her brain reeling. She made up her mind: She had to dissuade Moray from folly. It was insane to think that sacrificing herself to any man, however eager or noble, would erase her feelings for Napier. Hot tears stung at her eyes, causing Moray to regard her with alarm. “Sweeting, are you so frightened? Or unwilling?”
“Both.” Sorcha gulped and then screamed in horror. Beyond Moray, standing in the doorway, was the Master of Gray. Now bare chested and barefooted, the earl leaped to his feet. Gray was laughing almost hysterically, the handsome head thrown back, fists on hips. But even as Moray reached for his doublet with the courtier’s sword, Gray’s laughter ceased, and he went for his dirk.
“Stay, Moray, I’ll not play the interloper to your ignoble seduction. Next time I’d urge you to latch your door.” Gray gingerly tossed the dirk from one hand to the other, a sardonic smile on his lips. He kicked the door shut, and walked leisurely to within a few feet of the bed. “Mistress Fraser, you are ubiquitous. You are also troublesome.” Appraisingly, he let his eyes wander from the top of her head to the tip of her boots. “Perhaps worth the trouble to some, but not to me.” He heard Moray’s sharp intake of breath and whirled menacingly, the dirk only inches from the Earl’s bare chest. “I’m in no mood for mirth, contrary to what you may think. Our King has grown fractious.” Gray glared at Sorcha. “Who fuels the fires of his independence, I wonder?” He motioned with the dirk. “Come, I shall return you to
your owner.”
Moray ignored the dirk pointed at his chest and made a slashing gesture with one hand. “She goes nowhere. End your devilish intrusion and leave. At once.”
But Gray only chuckled, a sarcastic, insulting sound. “I will take the urchin with me.” He saw the refusal settle on Moray’s face and pressed the edge of the dirk against the earl’s throat. “So you doubt I’d kill you? One James Stewart is sufficient in this kingdom. I’d not hesitate a moment to rid Scotland of the one who doesn’t wear the crown.”
It seemed to Sorcha that madness gleamed in the Master’s eyes. Cowering on the bed, she grabbed the counterpane to cover her nakedness. Sorcha was trembling, from fright and humiliation. To her horror, Moray stepped aside. “Take Mistress Fraser, if you must. But if you harm her, your life is forfeit.”
Gray sneered at Moray. “I’m not afraid of your threats. For all of your camaraderie with the King, he loves me best.” The mesmerizing hazel eyes bored into Sorcha. “Come, urchin, I’ll escort you … home.”
Moray lunged with his entire body, catching Gray momentarily off guard; he fell against the armoire but held onto his dirk. Yet Moray had gained that precious second to retrieve his own weapon. He brandished the sword at Gray, forcing the other man’s back up against the armoire.
“Get out!” Moray cried, as Gray’s handsome face contorted with wrath. “Now, or you die!”
Gray’s dirk crashed against Moray’s sword. Earl and Master parried and thrust for what seemed to Sorcha like an eternity. Moray had more reach with his weapon, but Gray’s advantage was maneuverability. He ducked under Moray’s outflung arm, going for his opponent’s bare chest. Moray dove to one side, as Gray, off balance, staggered and almost fell. Spinning around, Moray cracked Gray’s wrist with his sword and the dirk clattered to the floor.
The Master’s glare was murderous. But before Moray could pick up the dirk, the other man bellowed in a voice that made Sorcha’s ears reverberate: “Caithness! Aid me!”