by Mary Daheim
Johnny had changed his clothes since their arrival at the hunting lodge, and in his tan shirt and scuffed house slippers, he looked too young, too nondescript to be a clan chieftain. “You’ve supped?” he inquired, folding his hands at belt level.
“Aye,” replied Sorcha in a cool tone, “if poorly.”
Johnny inclined his head this way and that, as if making up his mind whether to be offended. “I’m afraid my people here at Ballindalloch were unprepared. We all had to make do with the meager offerings of an ill-provisioned kitchen.”
Reluctantly, Sorcha chose to accept Johnny’s words as an apology. “These forests must have sufficient game,” she added in a conversational tone. “I trust your men will hunt tomorrow.”
“Mayhap,” he hedged, “though we have more serious matters on our minds.” He shuffled his feet, glanced about the room, and gazed yearningly at the only chair, but remained standing. “Very serious,” he amplified, “inasmuch as we must discover why a clan such as the Frasers, who’ve not meddled much in politics, would suddenly conspire with priests.” Johnny did his best to look severe but managed only petulance.
Sorcha gave a little snort. “How should I know, not having been in my family’s house for three months? Hasn’t it occurred to you that since my brother is studying for the priesthood with one of our kinsmen, it would be quite natural for our parents to offer hospitality to other priests? Why must you think only of politics?”
“Napier was at Gosford’s End several years ago,” Johnny said doggedly. “I saw him there. He was in league with the Gordons.”
“He was, for a time. They had a falling-out.” Sorcha didn’t choose to enlighten Johnny Grant about Gavin Napier’s real identity.
“He went to England with your brother. You went, too.” Johnny’s voice was accusing.
“That I did,” Sorcha admitted readily. “Oh, my, I did indeed.” She frowned at the stale rushes, a flood of memories washing over her.
Johnny sensed her shift of mood and moved about the room uneasily, straightening a candle by the bed, twitching at the faded hangings by the window, inspecting a loose brick in the little fireplace. At last, he spoke again, forcing Sorcha to turn and face him. “The Frasers must not become involved in Catholic intrigues.” He wagged a finger at her. “They absolutely must not. Your sire has maintained virtual neutrality all these years. And so it must remain.”
Sorcha lifted one shoulder. “I can’t speak for my father. No one ever could.”
Johnny tried to ignore Sorcha’s withering glance. “On a map of the Highlands, you see the Sinclairs to the northwest, the Frasers around Inverness, your mother’s Clan Chattan, with those warring MacKintoshes and Camerons. Then, my own Grants, and farther east, the Gordons with all their allies, almost to the sea. We Protestants are wedged between those Catholic clans. Until now, we have considered the Frasers, though Catholic, a buffer. If your family changes its political stance ….”
Johnny droned on in a soporific voice that made Sorcha aware of how tired she was. Stifling a yawn, she suddenly opened her eyes at the sight behind Johnny’s back. There, at the open window, was Gavin Napier, gesturing for her to keep silent. Sorcha pressed her hand against her lips, let her eyelids droop to hide her surprise, and nodded several times to indicate her interest in Johnny’s diatribe.
With one strong, swift movement, Napier leaped from the casement to wrap an arm about Johnny’s neck and clap a hand over his open mouth. Eyes popping like a beached salmon, Johnny struggled in his captor’s grasp. Napier let go of him at the neck just long enough to unsheathe his dirk, which he pressed against Johnny’s cheek. “One word and I’ll shave more than that scraggly beard, Johnny Grant! Now do as you’re told, or prepare to die a dubious hero.”
For the first time, Sorcha took in Napier’s apparel. He was dressed much as usual, but wore the red-and-green plaid of the Grants and the clan’s dark green bonnet with its crest badge. Apparently he’d overcome the inattentive guard under her window and borrowed some of his gear. Sorcha couldn’t help but bestow a wide, grateful smile on Napier, not just for coming to her aid, but for coming at all.
Napier was asking Johnny if there was a guard outside the door. A jerky nod affirmed that there was. “I’m going to let you call to him,” Napier said evenly. “The dirk stays on your flesh. Tell him to come in.” He looked at Sorcha. “Quickly, find rope or rags or some such item with which to secure the guard. I’ll have to hold onto Laird Johnny. Can you tie a strong knot?”
Sorcha tossed her hair back over her shoulders. “You ask that of a sea captain’s daughter? I could tie up half the Highlands.”
Grinning, Napier steered Johnny closer to the door. “One wrong word,” he warned, pressing the cold steel even further into Johnny’s cheek, “and you’ll meet your Maker!” The hand dropped abruptly from Johnny’s mouth; Napier’s knee nudged him to speak. To his credit, Johnny sounded almost natural. A moment later, a rawboned young man, blue eyes turning almost black in consternation, stared at his captive laird. Napier ordered him to let Sorcha tie him up with a long piece of tattered, yellowing lace she’d found in a drawer. Quickly, Sorcha tested the piece to make sure that age and mildew hadn’t rotted the fine threads.
The young man gaped at Sorcha in disbelief. “On the floor,” she commanded. “Are you daft enough to risk your laird’s life?”
The young lad might be slow, but he wasn’t daft; giving his chieftain an apologetic look, he lay down as Sorcha ordered and submitted to her expertise with knots at his ankles and wrists. Her supper napkin was used as a gag, his keys were removed from the ring at his belt, and his dagger, sheath and all, was secured at Sorcha’s waist.
“Good work, lass,” Napier said in approbation. He propelled Johnny Grant toward the hall, pausing to make sure no one else was in the vicinity. From around his shoulder, Sorcha peered into the gloom, aware of stale smells of a neglected house and cooking odors that had drifted up from the kitchen below.
Napier prodded Johnny with the dirk. “You’ll take us out of this place by whichever route is safest. Waste no time,” he admonished, “and head for the stables.”
Moving noiselessly, but without hesitation, Johnny led them down the passage to a narrow, winding back stairway where the footing was uneven and treacherous. Sorcha felt her way along the rough stone wall and twice collided with Napier’s back as he held on firmly to his captive. At the bottom of the stairs, they could hear voices to their right. A half-opened door made a wedge of light near their feet—the kitchen, judging from the food smells which had grown much stronger. Sensing that Johnny was weighing the risk of bolting to sound an alarm, Napier brought the side of his hand crashing down onto his captive’s neck. Johnny crumpled, but Napier caught him before he could hit the floor, then stood stock-still, waiting for repercussions from the kitchen. From within, a man laughed carelessly, and another voice responded in casual tones. Sorcha and Napier took deep breaths in unison, then turned into the passageway.
Luckily, the outside door was just around the corner. “No guards were here earlier,” he whispered, “but we’ll take no chances.”
Hauling the inert Johnny Grant to the door, Napier dumped him unceremoniously against the wall, then peered outside before boldly steeping into the moonlight. “It’s quiet,” he whispered, taking Sorcha’s arm. “The stables are just beyond the smokehouse.”
Napier had left Naxos tethered to a fencepost near the well. Except for the Highland ponies and Thisbe, there were no other signs of life. Speaking in gentle, reassuring tones, Sorcha led Thisbe outside where Napier was already mounted, anxious to be off. Johnny Grant wouldn’t stay unconscious forever; there was a good chance he was already awake, raising the cry to rally his men.
In high summer, the Spey was placid between Ballindalloch and Aberlour. They were riding north, rather than west toward Fraser country. The moon was sliding down over the gaunt, stark moors, and far away, a wolf howled as if bidding goodnight to his silver companion in t
he sky.
Napier had explained to Sorcha that Grant’s men would assume they’d ride for Gosford’s End. “They won’t figure us to stay in Grant’s territory. In the morning, we’ll get our bearings and head west.”
An hour or more from Ballindalloch, where the Spey meandered through a glen dotted with birch and yew on one side of the river, and a rocky outcropping on the other side sported a carpet of heather in full bloom, Napier suggested they halt for awhile. “Now that the moon’s down, we risk a fall with the horses. They’ve both ridden hard today, especially Thisbe. I suggest we sleep,” he said, testing the ground beneath his feet. “We’ve no blankets, but it’s dry enough.”
Bemused, Sorcha stood quite still, noting Napier’s sudden preoccupation with their surroundings. He had taken off the Grant plaid and was spreading it on the grass, pulling and tugging it this way and that. “This might offer you some comfort, at least,” he said rather woodenly.
“It could offer us both comfort if we slept in each other’s arms,” Sorcha declared in a voice that was tinged with annoyance. “Or perhaps you’d prefer sleeping on the other side of the Spey.”
Napier stood up straight, and Sorcha could have sworn that even in the dark, she could see his skin deepen in hue. “Don’t taunt me,” he said sharply. “I can’t live with your wrath and my misery.”
Sorcha wanted to tell him that if he’d set aside that misery, she’d willingly dispense with wrath. Instead, she spoke in a cool, almost detached voice. “Marie-Louise is living in Bothwell’s house in Edinburgh. I met with her. I’ve reason to think she not only intends to foil your plans for Catholic unity, but to cause the King harm as well.”
Napier took an inadvertent step closer to Sorcha, the brown eyes amazed. “Christ,” he breathed. “Is that why you came north?”
“Aye. I had to warn you. And someone must warn King Jamie.” Sorcha smoothed the skirts of her burgundy riding habit with fingers not entirely under control. “Marie-Louise spews evil the way an evergreen oozes sap. She must be stopped.” The glittering green eyes bore into Napier’s face as she moved deliberately to stand in front of him. “Can you stop her, Gavin? Can anyone?”
His features twisted painfully, then went slack. “I don’t know. No one in France could. And that success has doubtless made her overconfident.” He fingered his bearded chin between thumb and forefinger. “It’s madness, of course. She is like a great boulder, rolling downhill, scattering all that’s in her path. But even a boulder eventually crashes at the bottom of the hill.”
Sorcha said nothing. Napier’s analogy was quite apt, his frustration understandable. But now that Sorcha had delivered her message, she was determined to break down that terrible barricade Gavin Napier had erected between them. It was fruitless to argue. Sorcha knew from previous experience that in a verbal exchange, she was doomed to failure. Nor would some vague remnant of pride allow her to hurl herself at Gavin Napier. Indeed, Sorcha had nothing left to offer in their battle of wills—except herself. She stood quietly before him, her green eyes turned to jade with longing, the full, wide mouth slightly parted, the streaming black hair framing her face like a veil of osprey feathers.
A muscle along Napier’s jaw tightened; the hunter’s gaze turned as hard as the hills outlined against the night sky. Then, a tremendous shudder overtook his big body, and he swallowed up Sorcha in his arms, burying his face in her hair. “Sweet love!” he cried on a strangled note, sounding not unlike the lonesome wolf that had mounted the passing of the moon. He cradled her face in his hands, and his eyes were suspiciously overbright. “Could it be that you’ve been sent not to damn me but redeem me?”
Awed not only by the sudden change but by her power over him as well, Sorcha found it difficult to speak. “God knows I’d never want to bring you harm.” She placed her palms against his chest, trying to dredge up the right words. “You must trust my love for you. You must also trust your own instincts, no matter how deeply you’ve buried them. You talk of being bound to Marie-Louise, but her hold is one of hate. Can you honestly tell me such ties nurture your soul and make it more pleasing before Almighty God?”
A hint of a smile touched Napier’s long mouth. “As ever, your touch drives moral argument from my mind.” He bent to sear her lips with his kisses, slowly, inexorably bringing her down onto the red-and-green patch of plaid. His passion at last unleashed, Napier fell upon her, crushing the breath from her body. Sorcha paid no heed; he could snuff out her very life and she would know only the ecstasy of surrender. Her hands caressed the hard muscles of his shoulders, her cheek felt the delicious savagery of his heavy beard, her teeth and tongue taunted his ear. Napier’s hands worked at the fastenings of her riding jacket, with its padded shoulders and black velvet trim. It had cost a goodly sum, but Sorcha submitted the garment—and herself—to Napier’s reckless plundering. The thin shift she had worn under the habit slipped away from her breasts, baring them to Napier’s hungry mouth. Sorcha felt for his buttocks, kneading the sleek masculine flesh through his leather breeks. Under his demanding tongue, her nipples preened, her body ached for consummation, her soul cried out to be filled with him.
For a brief instant, he looked up into her face and smiled that wry, half-guilty, half-ecstatic grin that rent Sorcha’s heart from top to bottom. “Denying you is like denying life itself. You are the earth—like wind and fire and sun and rain. I thought I lived in spite of you. But no—I live because of you.”
“Living is loving. There should be naught else,” Sorcha declared with breathless fervor. She wriggled under him as he pulled off the rest of her clothing and then his own. Though the night air was kind, she trembled as she felt the source of his manhood, her long, slim fingers stroking him into groans of pleasure. Greedily, yet lovingly, her mouth captured his and he clasped her by the hips, guiding her into a sitting position.
The black hair streamed down her face, and she shoved it out of her eyes with an uncertain hand, delighting in the faintly dazed, glorious happiness of his face. She was straddling his thighs as he lay on his back, his off-center grin no longer touched by guilt. “You’re a wanton wench, Sorcha Fraser. Thank God.” His laughter echoed out over the rambling waters of the Spey. “I confess to being seduced. Take me, then. I’m yours!”
Momentarily puzzled, Sorcha ran a finger over her lower lip. She stared uncomprehendingly down at Napier; he made an encouraging, if impatient gesture with his hand and suddenly she understood. Her own laughter chimed on the night air, and even as it seemed to roll out over the moors, she moved forward a few inches on her knees and then lowered herself over the pinnacle of possession.
The shock of feeling him invade her being in this unanticipated manner rendered her breathless. Sorcha closed her eyes, and began to rock back and forth as Napier moved forcefully within her, numbing her brain and stunning her senses. Just as she was certain she could no longer endure the agony of desire, the outpouring of his passion overwhelmed her. With a cry of delirious fulfillment, Sorcha went rigid, her head thrown back, the long masses of hair brushing Napier’s thighs, her breasts thrust upward, her body outlined against the darkness like a mythical Valkyrie riding her steed into the fiery twilight of the gods.
And in that moment of exultant triumph, Sorcha knew that the power of her love had brought Gavin Napier out of the shadows and into the light of life.
Chapter 25
The first heavy snow fell early that autumn, covering the Highlands from Strathnaver in the far north to Glen Clovo in the southeast. The roads were impassable, the last of the harvest had been hastily brought into the barns, and farmers struggled through four-foot drifts to round up their livestock. Even after the storm let up, the wind continued to blow from the north, piling snow up against the very walls of Gosford’s End.
From her bedroom window, Sorcha grudgingly admired the pristine white landscape that stretched almost unblemished to the roofs and spires of Inverness. But the heavy fall had also delayed the return of Gavin Napier and Magnu
s Fraser, who had ridden out the last of September to confer with the Earl of Moray at Donibristle.
“Keeping watch won’t make them come any sooner,” Rosmairi said in a faintly waspish voice. “No more than will wishing make my bairn get itself born.” She put a hand over her bulging abdomen and tilted her head to one side. “I feel a foot—or is it an elbow?”
Sorcha gave her sister a fond smile. “Frankly, it looks like a group. Ros,” she queried, leaving the window and going to warm herself by the crackling fire, “are you happy?”
The smooth brow furrowed as Rosmairi gazed at Sorcha. “Aye,” she replied with conviction, “I am indeed. Yet bearing babes is a tiring task. And it takes so long!”
Pushing a half-burned log back farther into the flames, Sorcha set the poker down and came to sit on a footstool next to Rosmairi. “Yet it’s the fruit of your love. I wonder if I shall ever bear Gavin’s child.”
Rosmairi noted the wistful look on Sorcha’s face and smiled encouragement. “If he has the support of his brother and John Fraser, surely the Pope will grant an annulment. Does Gavin still plan to go to Rome in the spring?”
“Oh, yes.” Sorcha nodded vigorously. “But even after eight years of desertion and Marie-Louise’s refusal to live as his wife, I still fear that the grounds may be insufficient. Annulments are difficult at best, and despite Brother John and Father Adam’s influence, they have neither wealth nor political power.” Anxiously, she raked the long hair that had fallen over her forehead. “I have visions of waiting so long that I’ll be too old to care.”
“Now, now,” Rosmairi said in kindly reproach, “that’s not like you to lose heart. You’re conjuring up obstacles where there may not be any.”