by Mary Daheim
The Earl of Caithness hurtled into the room, scarcely pausing to size up the situation. He held a hackbut in one hand, a rapier in the other. Moray whirled on him, but Caithness slashed at his upper arm and brandished the gun in Sorcha’s direction. “I’ve killed men before. I’m not squeamish about killing women.” The sullen face was enflamed, as if by some primeval blood lust.
Moray put a hand on his bloodied arm. “Caithness, you traitor! I thought we were friends!”
“Friends are for fools. Gray is my patron.” Caithness prodded the earl with the hackbut. “Drop your sword. Or the baggage dies.”
Reluctantly, Moray did, the sword falling at Gray’s feet. He was about to speak when the Master, again holding his dirk, ordered Caithness to bind and gag the earl.
“Another prank on my part,” Gray said with sardonic humor. “Nor can you explain it otherwise to the King without dishonoring Mistress Fraser.”
“He’s wounded!” Sorcha exclaimed, astonished that she could still speak. “Leave him be!”
“It’s but a graze,” Moray said, eyeing Sorcha with remorse as Caithness roughly shoved him onto a chair. Secured with his own belt, Moray stoically refused to flinch when Caithness stuffed Sorcha’s undergarment into the earl’s mouth.
“Ah,” murmured Gray, “the Bonnie Earl is quite helpless to save his ladylove.” He smirked at Caithness, then turned to Sorcha. “Up, urchin. Once more, we ride by night.”
“My clothes,” Sorcha protested. “Hand them to me!” She still held the counterpane under her chin, pointing frantically at the riding habit by the bed.
Gray gazed at the garments with apparent interest, picked them up, started toward Sorcha, then strode to the narrow window, opened it, and threw the little bundle out into the night. Sorcha gasped, trembling even more violently. “Swine! If Moray doesn’t kill you, I will!”
Gray grasped her arm and yanked the counterpane away. “It’s mild out this evening. Come, it grows close to midnight.”
“I will not!” Sorcha held her hands across her bosom as she knelt on the bed. She flinched as Caithness devoured her with his eyes and Moray writhed impotently in the chair.
“You will,” drawled Gray, who appeared immune to Sorcha’s naked body, “or the Bonnie Earl will no longer be so bonnie. Caithness is clever with the rapier.”
Sorcha didn’t doubt Gray’s words. Both were fiends, spawns of the Devil, and there was no choice but to obey. Shakily, she got off the bed, letting the long black hair fall over her shoulders to hide her nakedness. But Gray picked up a cloak the earl had draped over a high-backed chair. He handed it to Sorcha with an elegant flip of the wrist.
“I wouldn’t wish you to die of a chill. You may prove useful yet.” He grasped her shoulder, steering her toward the door. She cast one last glance at Moray, whose blue eyes followed hers in desperate, miserable farewell.
The road to Edinburgh had dried out the past few days, so that a coach could travel the route without much difficulty. Sorcha sat next to Caithness, with Gray opposite them. She could already imagine the shock with which she’d be greeted in Panmure Close. Uncle Donald would send her packing to Inverness, she was certain of that, yet the thought did not cheer her. Moreover, she’d lost Aunt Tarrill’s black riding habit.
Moray would no doubt free himself before long, but he’d have no idea where Sorcha had been taken. As for Rob and Ailis, neither would miss her until morning. She cursed herself over and over for dallying with Moray. Nor had it served any purpose—despite the Bonnie Earl’s charm and good looks, she had not responded to his embrace.
They had gone about half the distance when Caithness leaned forward and whispered something to Gray. The Master looked dubious, but then shrugged. “You’ve earned some slight reward. Though we’re a bit cramped for space.”
Sorcha, who had sat in rigid silence while Gray taunted her during the first few miles, felt Caithness edge closer on the wooden coach seat. Wordlessly, he reached up to unfasten the brooch which held Moray’s cape in place.
Batting at his hand, Sorcha swore. “God’s teeth, leave me be!” But Caithness paid no heed either to her blows or her words. The brooch fell to the floor, rolling past Sorcha’s feet.
“What think you?” Gray inquired lazily. “Pretty duckies, though a bit dark-skinned for my taste.”
Caithness didn’t reply. His hands engulfed Sorcha’s breasts, squeezing them as if they were ripening melons in a Grass-market stall. Sorcha pulled away, but could only move a few inches before finding her back pressed against the corner of the coach. Caithness lowered his head to suckle her breasts noisily, his hands moving to her hips, forcing her down onto the seat. One booted leg was lodged against the far door, the other dangled awkwardly over the edge of the seat.
Sorcha pounded Caithness’ head with her fists, then screamed in terror as Caithness shoved her onto the hard floor. Gray shifted his legs and chuckled. “She’s fierce, that urchin.” Raking her nails along Caithness’ cheek, she heard him mutter an oath, yet knew she did little damage. The sullen face loomed above her, his breath coming rapidly. He was fumbling with his clothes and Sorcha cried out again as she saw him hold his stiff, red member in one hand and open her thighs with the other.
“Stay,” Gray said casually. “You may yet need Iain Fraser’s alliance if all goes ill with Huntly. We’ll take no chances of making the wench bear fruit.”
“Jesus,” moaned Caithness. “You promised!”
The coach was slowing down. “I promised sport, not ravishment.” Gray sounded half amused, half piqued as he moved the curtain aside and looked out the window. “Ah, we are at the city gates. Cover the wench up, and if the watch stops us, kiss her into silence.”
The moment Caithness eased himself away from her, Sorcha clambered back onto the seat, cape in hand. Sure enough, the watch halted them, and Sorcha caught a glimpse of the Nether Bow Port before Caithness crushed her in his arms to close her mouth with a harsh, wet kiss. She heard Gray casually mention “His Majesty’s business,” and then the coach rumbled on over the cobblestones. Caithness released her and a few moments later, they came to a halt.
“Our destination is at hand.” Gray stood up, careful not to bump his head on the low roof of the coach. The door opened. He stepped into the High Street, holding out a hand to Sorcha. “You recognize this place?” he asked in a low, cheerful voice.
Sorcha put one booted foot on the cobbles. They had gone beyond Panmure Close and the McVurrich house, toward the Lawnmarket. Despite the darkness, she could make out a handsome carving of the Twelve Apostles and the Trinity on the exterior of the house before her. It had been her parents’ home years ago, located in Gosford’s Close, and sold before Lord and Lady Fraser moved from Edinburgh. Sorcha knew that Gavin Napier was staying there now, a guest of the present owner. She looked again at the ornate facade and desperately wanted to flee.
It took several minutes before anyone responded to Gray’s knock. At last, a serving man opened the door a crack, peering out inquisitively.
“We bring Master Napier a gift,” Gray announced, as casually as if it were Christmas.
“He’s asleep,” the servant answered, sounding none too alert himself.
“We have something worth waking him for.” Gray jabbed Caithness in the ribs. “Eh, Georgie? Succulent goods, in many ways.”
Sorcha flinched. The serving man had disappeared, presumably to fetch Gavin Napier. A withering sense of dread filtered through every inch of her body as she stood silently on the front stoop with her tormentors.
Napier swung the door open wide. His dark hair was tousled. He wore breeks and a shirt so hastily put on that it was not tucked in, and his wolflike face was thunderous.
In one deft motion, Gray tore away the cloak and shoved Sorcha across the threshold. She sprawled at Napier’s bare feet, as Gray’s words rang in her ears. “Fresh meat from Moray’s bed, sir! Your mistress has not slept this night!” And before Napier could step around Sorcha’s prone bo
dy, Gray and Caithness were down the steps, into the waiting coach, and rollicking off up the High Street.
“Jesus God!” Napier called out. He stood with one fist raised, as if rooted to the entrance hall floor. At last Sorcha whimpered and tried to sit up. Napier leaned down, his face cast in white hot fury. “What is all this?” he demanded. “Are they daft?”
“Please,” begged Sorcha, unable to get up. “Help me!”
“Christ.” Napier’s tone was a shade less sharp. He knelt beside her, propping Sorcha up against his leg. “What did they do to you?”
She leaned against him, surprised to discover she was no longer afraid. “Caithness tried to ravish me.” Sorcha started to cry.
Napier let out a foul, garbled oath. He stared at the mass of black hair and the curve of her back. “Wait.” Steadying her with one hand, he made certain she could kneel on her own, then hurried to retrieve the cape, which still lay on the stoop. Slamming the heavy front door, he spread the billowing garment over her before picking her up in his arms. Head drooping against him and eyes shut, Sorcha lay all but lifeless as Napier carried her up the stairs. Faint noises could be heard along the passageway, as the servants peered from their doorways to see what was happening.
The door to the bedroom was open. Napier set Sorcha on the bed, arranging the cape to cover her nakedness. Without a word, he poured two cups of brandy and handed one to Sorcha. She drank deeply, coughed, and drank again. Slowly, she felt the vitality return to her body, and with it, rational thought.
“I swear I’ll kill them,” she vowed, wiping the green eyes that snapped over the brandy cup.
“Caithness is a young fool, and Gray is a whelp from hell.” Napier spoke in a tight voice as he lowered himself onto an aged divan. “Will you tell me what happened?” He winced visibly. Sorcha wondered if he was afraid of what she would say.
“I was at Linlithgow, to see the King. About you and Rob.” Sorcha gulped some brandy before continuing. “Jamie was kind. He has given permission to you both.” She paused, expecting some response from Napier.
It came, but lacked enthusiasm. “Good.” His voice was low, encouraging, yet oddly detached. Sorcha felt as if she were in confession.
“I saw Moray later. He … he declared his love for me.” She felt her cheeks flush and drained the brandy cup. “I was confused ….” Sorcha stopped and gulped. She could hardly tell Napier the whole truth.
Napier waved a big hand at her. “Go on.”
Sorcha lowered her eyes, staring into the empty cup. “The earl wanted to make love to me. I tried to prevent him, but ….” Her voice trailed away; Napier was rigid on the divan.
“But what?” The question was almost bellowed.
“But Gray came. And then Caithness. They attacked Moray and tied him up before carrying me back to Edinburgh. In the coach, Caithness tried to force himself on my person in a most revolting manner.”
Napier looked mystified, the sharp features faintly twisted in an attempt at comprehension. “You were or were not violated by any or all of these lords?”
“I was not,” Sorcha retorted indignantly. “But Caithness was repulsive all the same.”
Napier gave her a brooding, black look. “Yet you are still a maid?”
“I am.” Sorcha lifted her chin and held out the brandy cup. “I want more. This has been the most terrible night of my life.”
Napier took a deep breath, then picked up the brandy decanter and poured a generous measure into Sorcha’s cup. Instead of moving back to the divan, he remained standing over Sorcha, one finger hooked around the decanter’s neck.
“Do you love Moray?” The words were deep, a virtual growl, his peat-brown eyes hard and unblinking.
“No.” Sorcha shook her head. “By the Mass, I do not.” Napier banged the decanter down in exasperation. “You’re a chicken-witted wench, Sorcha Fraser! You play games with a married lord and tempt….” Now it was Napier who found words difficult. “No wonder you arrive on my doorstep wearing naught but your boots! What’s to become of you?”
Sorcha took another drink, set the cup on the nightstand, and wound the cape more tightly around her. “I shall go to sleep. I hope. I’m tired, I hurt, and I’d like to die of shame. Whatever happens to me next will have to wait until morning.” Throwing; a fierce look at Napier, she curled up under the rumpled bedclothes and closed her eyes. She was asleep before Napier could remind her she had commandeered his bed.
The nightmares woke her shortly after dawn: the distorted faces of greedy-eyed men, drooling with lust, groping Sorcha with coarse, hairy hands. She kept running from them, but never quite eluded their grasp. At last, she was falling into endless space, unable to scream, a mute, wingless bird doomed to infinity.
She sat up, shaking from head to foot and not certain where she was. The faint pale winter light made the room look as if it were shrouded in fog until her eyes adjusted and she became aware of her surroundings. Sorcha started in surprise as she saw the recumbent form of Gavin Napier asleep on the divan. He lay on his side, one arm carelessly raised above his head, the long legs extended beyond the divan’s edge. His breathing was deep and regular; the rugged features were softened in repose. Indeed, there was a vulnerable, appealing quality about him, now that all the defenses of the waking hours had been stripped away.
The shaking abated; Sorcha got up, keeping the cloak around her, and went in search of a place to make her morning ablutions. A few minutes later, she emerged from the little closet to find Napier still sleeping. He had shifted onto his side and was smiling. For one fleeting instant, Sorcha saw what he had looked like ten years ago, when he had been more lad than man.
Sorcha was wandering about the room, inspecting the sparse furnishings and gazing out the window when Napier woke up. He stretched and yawned, momentarily looking as puzzled as she had upon awakening.
“Do you suppose this was my parents’ bedroom?” she asked as Napier vigorously ran his hands through his wavy dark brown hair and stood up.
He shrugged and yawned again. “Possibly. It’s the biggest of the bedchambers. Most of the others are closed off.” Napier frowned at Sorcha. “We must find you some clothes. The wind’s come up.”
Sorcha almost missed the glint of humor in his brown eyes. “I must confess, I’m weary of bundling this great swatch of cloth around my person. Breeks and a shirt will do.”
Napier nodded, tucking in his own white cambric shirt. “We’ll find something. Are you hungry?”
“Famished. Last night I thought I could never look at food again.”
“Time is the greatest healer,” Napier replied dryly. He pulled a bell cord by the bed. “How do you feel?”
“Better. But I had such nightmares! And I still ache.” She mustered a smile. “Whatever shall I say to Uncle Donald and Aunt Tarrill?”
Napier strolled to a dresser on which sat a small mirror with wavy glass. He gazed at his image and scowled. “Tell them only what they need to know.” He turned to look at Sorcha. “Gray and Caithness tried to rape you. They failed. The greatest loss was your clothing. That’s all.”
“My aunt’s clothing, that is.” Sorcha reflected upon his words. “I didn’t tell them about Gray before. I suppose I’ll have to mention Doune.”
“Probably. But they can’t blame you.” Napier had come to stand in front of Sorcha, gazing down at the black-shrouded figure with the thick strands of black hair, and the toes of her riding boots peeking out from under the cloak. At first glance, she looked like a wood-witch, with only her face showing. But as Napier’s stare lengthened, he noted how forlorn, yet valiant she was—a battered, wounded creature prepared to leave her lair to face the dangers of the forest.
The servant who had first opened the door the night before answered Napier’s summons. If he seemed surprised to find her in Napier’s bedroom, he gave no sign. The man nodded several times as Napier requested fresh buns, slices of ham, baked apples, oatmeal with cream, and hot cider.
Aft
er the serving man departed, Napier began rummaging through the wardrobe. He finally pulled out a costume that included a light woolen tan shirt, brown breeks, and a rather handsome green vest. “Our host is rather short, it seems. Try these.” He handed the garments to Sorcha and turned his back.
It was, of course, precisely what she would have expected from a priest and a gentleman. Yet somehow his gesture touched her. Perhaps it was the comparison with the satanic Gray and the brutal Caithness, or even the importunate ardor of Moray, but Sorcha felt ridiculously sentimental. Swiftly, she removed the cloak and put on the garments Napier had laid on the bed.
“I’m dressed,” she announced, pleased that the outfit was not as ill suited to her figure as she had feared. “Where’s our breakfast?”
Napier turned around, looking strangely tense. “Be patient. We are the only guests at this time.” Scowling, he went to the window and pushed open the casement. “We need fresh air. These rooms are musty.”
With growing curiosity, she watched him open the other window, then fold Moray’s cloak and put it in the wardrobe. He struck flint to light the fire and used a little broom to sweep the ashes into the grate. He made up the bed and arranged the pillows on the aged divan.
“What do the servants do?” Sorcha finally asked with a nervous little laugh.
“Make breakfast, I hope.” Even as Napier spoke, the serving man arrived with a huge tray of covered dishes. Moments later, Sorcha was seated next to Napier on the divan, scattering brown sugar on her oatmeal porridge. He seemed less tense but was uncommonly silent while they ate from the teakwood table the servant had set out for them.
“Excellent ham,” Sorcha finally exclaimed. “And the buns are so light! Is there more butter?”
Napier handed her a glass-covered dish. He watched with amusement as she chewed lustily on a slice of baked apple. “In all, you are most remarkable. Another lass would have swooned and stayed abed all day.”