by Mary Daheim
Sorcha offered Napier a fulgent smile, her head tipped back against his arm. “Parents, Popes, plots, a pox on them all!” She watched those dark eyes turn black with desire, saw the long mouth curve upward in anticipation, admired the strong, white, even teeth that were revealed as the grin widened at the wonder of her own yearning.
Though the bed was turned down and a single rushlight flickered on the nightstand, Napier slowly went to his knees, his hands sliding down over the curves of her body, which the clinging moire of her night robe enhanced more than concealed. She moved enticingly at his touch, her hands wrapping themselves in his hair, the long, slim fingers transmitting messages of urgent longing. Adroitly, he parted the robe, chuckling appreciatively to find her naked. “You wanted to waste no time, I see,” he said, wrenching his eyes from the magic black triangle to look up into her resplendent face.
“We only have this night. For now,” she added hopefully. “Would you rather I’d layered myself in petticoats and chemises?” She had meant to sound lighthearted, but he found her inflection far more provocative than amusing.
“We’ve wasted too much time—too many months and years—already.” Napier’s expression had sobered, the hunter’s gaze mesmerizing Sorcha. “Every part of you is vibrant,” he said in low, rambling tones. “Your body doesn’t just live—it offers life.”
“It’s freely offered only to you,” Sorcha averred, feeling him draw her down onto the carpet by the hearth. The moire robe fell apart of its own accord, allowing the firelight to cast a fulvous glow across her ripe, proud breasts. Napier filled his hands with them, covering the flat of her belly with kisses. Dazed and aching with desire, she wrapped both her legs around his, hugging him with her thighs in urgent appeal for completion.
Moments later, after experiencing the delectable agony of his hands and lips seeking out every inch of her body, Sorcha gasped as he thrust himself into that moist, secret, throbbing chamber where infinite joy awaited them both. Their cries broke the silence, lighted the darkness, dispelled the loneliness of separate souls.
A half-moon was fretfully fending off the rain clouds that had rolled in from the North Sea after sunset. The wind had risen up off Beauly Firth, moaning with a weary sound among the chimneys of Gosford’s End. In the grate, particles of fir crumbled into glowing crimson embers. The shadows grew long across the room; the rushlight had long since guttered out.
Their bodies spent, their spirits healed, Sorcha and Napier lay in each other’s arms for a quiet, blissful time. The days and nights ahead would bring separation and anxiety and pain. But for now, Sorcha and Napier were together, inextricably united, bound by love, their union forged in passion, their future as uncertain as a November morning.
Sorcha could see Napier’s dark hair curling slightly along the nape of his neck, and the hard, sure muscles of his shoulder. Nothing else matters but now, she told herself fiercely. Nothing will ever matter but him. Not even, she promised, the thought of defeat.
Chapter 26
In just six short months, fashions at court had changed drastically. Queen Anne’s youthful love of elaborate finery had influenced her ladies’—and to some extent, even the gentlemen’s—apparel. There was more color, a greater variety of fabric, and a lavish use of jewels, lace, ribbons, and exaggerated ruffs for embellishment.
Sorcha, however, found the often cumbersome and always gaudy toilettes not only unsuitable, but uncomfortable as well; the great four-foot flare of farthingale across the hips made most women look like galleons sailing into port. A dressmaker recommended by the Countess of Moray had accommodated Sorcha’s more moderate tastes by refining the cartwheellike adornment into a trimmer, more graceful drape. While the décolleté necklines emphasized her full bosom, the heavy ornamental detail that usually descended from the shoulders to well below the waist was much too rigid. Instead of weighing herself down with rows of gold braid or bugle beads, she chose seed pearls and satin ribbon. Nor would she endure wiglets and falls, heated tongs and primping irons. With her own thick mane, she could pile her hair atop her head, and weave in several strands to create a simple, yet striking coiffure.
On this mild June night at Holyrood, Sorcha fanned herself with a clutch of ostrich feathers and watched the other courtiers join in a dance she hadn’t yet learned. Not that there hadn’t been time in her two months at court, but Queen Anne was so enamored of dancing that hardly a night passed by without the introduction of new steps. But the Queen was enamored in another, more sinister way: To Sorcha’s great chagrin, she had found Marie-Louise in attendance on Jamie’s consort.
It was only natural, of course, that the blond, statuesque foreign-born Anne had felt instant empathy with the Frenchwoman who was so similar in coloring and stature. Bothwell had dared introduce Marie-Louise at court that spring while his wife remained at their Border home of Crichton. Even after he had been warded in Edinburgh Castle for his involvement with witches, Marie-Louise had been kept on as one of the ladies of the bedchamber. Since Sorcha’s appointment was as a lady-of-the-wardrobe, their paths seldom crossed. It was just as well, Sorcha realized, since upon those occasions when the two women did meet, Marie-Louise was invariably and insinuatingly snide.
She was also seemingly innocuous within the household, at least as far as Sorcha could discern. Perhaps, with Bothwell imprisoned, Marie-Louise was biding her time until sentence should be pronounced. At the moment, Marie-Louise was cutting a graceful figure on the ballroom floor, despite a damask farthingale that stretched out almost as far as her arms could reach. She was dancing with the King, who seemed to be eyeing her with a quizzical, yet amused expression. The tune ended on a rapid series of tinkling notes, and the partners bowed low to each other before parting company. Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, the King shambled from the dance floor, to join her by the long banquet table at the far end of the room.
“Oh, Coz,” Jamie said with a sigh, sorting through a pile of oysters before he found one small enough to his liking, “I’ve seen too little of you since your return to court. We have yet to find you a husband. I feel quite guilt-laden over my neglect.”
Sorcha smiled wryly at her sovereign. His beard had grown out and his features had sharpened, but he still cut an insignificant figure. He had, however, taken a firmer grip on the reins of Scotland in recent times, and the acquisition of a wife had increased his esteem among his subjects, if not his nobles. And while it was whispered that he continued to prefer the company of handsome men, he didn’t shrink from his marital duties. Sorcha found him changed, but not sufficiently to either lessen her affection or increase her respect.
“I can find a husband on my own,” Sorcha assured Jamie, though her voice held more conviction than did her heart. Gavin Napier had now been gone for almost eight months; his most recent letter, received in late May and written in mid-April, recounted further disarray in the Holy See. Neither he nor Rob had yet talked to anyone more influential than the secretaries of a handful of relatively unimportant cardinals. Napier’s letter reeked of frustration. Sorcha responded with encouragement, but to herself she admitted disappointment.
“Bonnie Rosmairi married a Frenchman, did she not?” Jamie glanced inquiringly at Sorcha, then gazed down at the empty oyster shell with distaste. “I think these are off-season. Perhaps I shall try the scallops instead.”
“Rosmairi and her husband are due in Edinburgh any day now,” Sorcha said, deciding to test the oysters for herself. “I’m sure they’re looking forward to seeing you.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marie-Louise dancing with the Earl of Moray. Sorcha wondered how Armand d’Ailly would react when he encountered the woman who had destroyed his family. More to the point, she wondered how Marie-Louise might behave toward a man whose property she claimed to have in her possession. She swallowed the raw oyster whole without tasting it, and shuddered.
“Ah!” exclaimed King James, “I told you—they’re tainted! Eat no more, Coz, or you’ll be sick.”
Sorc
ha didn’t bother to tell her royal cousin that the oysters had nothing to do with the creeping fear that had overtaken her. Nor could she have done so had she wanted to. The Master of Gray had sidled up to the King, managing to rake Sorcha with a malevolent eye before he put an all-too-familiar hand on his monarch’s arm. “I must speak alone with you, sire,” he murmured in his most intimate, mellifluous voice. “It’s a matter most urgent.”
“Oh, Patrick, dear Master, it is always urgent with you.” Jamie sighed with an exasperated air defused by affection. The King bowed to Sorcha. “Forgive me, Coz, the Master must beleaguer me with weighty matters of state.”
Sorcha ignored Gray’s smirk as he led the King away. A new dance tune was beginning, a galliard which Sorcha knew from her previous service at court. She was just reaching for an almond tart when the Earl of Moray bowed low before her. “Will you honor me with this dance, mistress? I feel as if we are strangers since you’ve come back to serve Her Grace.”
“Never that,” Sorcha said rather absently, dropping the tart back onto the silver tray. She let him take her arm to steer her out onto the floor, her pine-green gown fashionably short enough to reveal silver slippers with pearl-gray buckles. “I’ve not seen your wife tonight,” Sorcha remarked as they moved in unison to the lively music. “Is she here?”
If Sorcha’s inquiry had been intended as a reminder of the earl’s marital status, he gave no indication of embarrassment. “Nay, she has been unwell the past few days. I’ve no doubt,” he went on cheerfully, “that with the warmer weather, her health will improve.”
“Pray convey my heartiest wishes for her recovery,” Sorcha said. While she and Elizabeth of Moray were not close friends, the two women had developed a certain camaraderie.
“I will tell her,” Moray replied, his hand resting lightly on Sorcha’s waist as they made a difficult turn and leap. The blue eyes regarded her with a mixture of amusement and admiration. Sorcha was vexed by his attitude, though she would have been hard put to say why. Moray, however, maintained impeccable decorum even as they moved and touched and all but embraced in the course of the fast-paced dance. “You have heard, I presume, that George Gordon was recently released from Borthwick Castle?”
“Aye,” Sorcha answered, pausing as they made their final exacting twirl to end the dance. “His freedom disturbs me.”
Moray bowed as Sorcha curtsied. “It does that to me as well.” His smile remained in place, but his face clouded over as he led Sorcha back to the buffet table. “He has wished me ill for some time. I think he still resents the fact that years and years ago, Queen Mary wrested the Moray earldom from his grandfather and bestowed it upon my wife’s sire. The Gordons don’t give up their grudges easily.”
“Few Scots do,” Sorcha pointed out, popping a sliver of smoked salmon into her mouth. “We nurture old hurts and humiliations like exotic flowers in a cold climate.”
Several other hungry courtiers were milling about the buffet, chattering and laughing, a brilliant mélange of color and gloss, of musky perfumes and fresh rose water, of precious stones and gleaming metal. Sorcha edged away, with Moray in her shadow.
“The irony is,” she said, when they’d gained a refuge not far from the empty royal dais, “these nobles seem so congenial at court. Yet I know that underneath all that hearty good fellowship, they plot and connive.” At that moment, she glimpsed Marie-Louise on the Earl of Argyll’s arm, her blond head thrown back in exuberant mirth. “How many here, I wonder,” Sorcha murmured, “wish us ill?”
If Moray had an answer, he never had the chance to give it voice. King Jamie, the Master of Gray, and Secretary Maitland emerged from a side door, their faces a mixed study in anger, contempt, and outrage. Queen Anne, who had been allowing the Earl of Morton to feed her chocolate-covered strawberries, paused with her mouth open to stare at her lord, who was stamping past Sorcha onto the dais. James raised his hands for silence, though most of the assemblage had already gone quite mute.
“Good friends,” Jamie began, his high-pitched voice deeper and more resonant than usual, “we have received calamitous news!” He halted for a moment, sufficiently in control of his emotions to judge the dramatic effect of his words. “The Earl of Bothwell has decamped from Edinburgh Castle!”
A gasp rose from the crowd, followed by a burst of murmured babble. No one had ever escaped from the castle, with its stout stone walls set atop the sheer cliffs that dropped straight down to a bed of jagged rocks. Sorcha locked glances with Moray, whose look of surprise was tempered by a sudden spark of humor. Knave that Bothwell was, Sorcha recalled that the kinship he shared with Moray forged a seemingly unbreakable bond.
King Jamie’s voice rang out again, immediately stilling his courtiers’ tongues. “Bothwell will be apprehended, of course. We hold everyone here responsible for his recapture and will tolerate no assistance on his behalf.” Jamie glared at his nobles, then made a lax, almost whimsical gesture with one hand. “So be it. Let us continue our entertainment.”
At Argyll’s side, Marie-Louise had assumed a bland countenance. Sorcha watched her keenly, wondering if Bothwell would risk coming to her at Holyrood. But such audacity would be too much even for him. On the other hand, his daring escape had put an end to the myth of Edinburgh Castle’s invincibility. Even if Bothwell were captured within the hour, he had already enhanced his reputation for wizardlike powers.
“You’re fond of Bothwell, aren’t you?” Sorcha asked as Moray nodded politely to dour Secretary Maitland.
“I am.” He offered Sorcha his boyish smile. “Bothwell is an impossible rogue, but boon company. I’d rather he didn’t persist in his efforts to plague poor Jamie, but it’s almost as if he’s driven by demons.” Moray fingered his chin thoughtfully as he watched Sorcha’s eyes return to Marie-Louise, who was now dancing with the Earl of Atholl. “His mistress is very beautiful, is she not? I hear he met her some years ago in France.”
The green eyes slid up to meet Moray’s. “So he did.” Fanning herself with the ostrich feathers, she suddenly felt quite impotent, and afraid—for herself, for Gavin Napier, for the King, and even for Moray.
Ailis had just returned from airing out Sorcha’s summer gowns prior to packing them away for the colder weather. The court had spent the past month at Falkland, hunting almost every day under clear, calm skies. As if on cue, the morning that the royal caravan headed out for Edinburgh the weather turned cool and damp, with fog rolling in from the Firth of Forth to shroud the travelers’ route in a wraithlike mist.
Now, on the day back in the capital, the sun had finally dispersed the thick hoar, though the late September day held a sharp chill. “I suppose,” Sorcha remarked to Ailis as she set the lid down on the bulging clothes chest, “Ros and Armand will be going home soon. I do hate to see them leave.” While her kinfolk had not stayed with the court, but in Panmure Close, there had been the opportunity for many visits during the past two months. Much to Sorcha’s surprise, there had been no interference from Marie-Louise concerning the d’Ailly property in France. Uncle Donald had dutifully sent off the requisite letters of inquiry and had learned that there were indeed conflicting claims to Armand’s inheritance. However, despite the loss of the house itself, the land was worth a substantial sum. Negotiations were now being conducted through the good offices of a Huguenot banker in La Rochelle who was a longtime business associate of Uncle Donald’s.
Sorcha’s prediction concerning Rosmairi and Armand turned out to be all too accurate. Within the quarter hour, a messenger arrived, saying that the d’Ailly entourage was about to depart for the Highlands. Sorcha and Ailis hurriedly got on their cloaks and raced from the palace precincts to cover the short distance to Panmure Close.
All was abustle inside the McVurrich house, as the wet nurse, two Fraser retainers, and the McVurrich’s servants busied themselves with the sudden preparations for leave-taking.
“The weather has been so fine,’’ Rosmairi said to Sorcha as the wet nurse stuffed a frol
icsome baby Adam into a cashmere bunting, “that I think we were lulled into thinking that summer would last forever. But now that it’s grown colder and more damp, we must head home. If we weren’t traveling with the bairn, it might be different.” Her voice trailed off when Tarrill entered the room, carrying a wicker basket bulging with foodstuffs.
“To enjoy along the way,” she said, tucking a linen napkin more securely over the top of the basket. “But do save the blackberry jam for your mother, Ros. It’s a great favorite of hers. I made it myself, from Marthe’s old recipe.”
“Lovely.” Rosmairi smiled, while Armand d’Ailly vigorously pumped Uncle Donald’s hand. For Sorcha, there was reassurance in the gesture; at least under the McVurrich roof, Catholic and Protestant could dwell in harmony.
Andrew McVurrich, with Doles at his side, was regarding his Highland kinfolk with envy. “Is it true, sir, you’ll be fighting Gordon troops soon?” he asked Armand.
The Frenchman’s brow furrowed. “Let us hope not, my fine Andrew. We hear unfortunate rumors, that is true. But we also trust that George Gordon will not commit a folly similar to the Grant of Freuchie incident.” He put a firm hand on Andrew’s shoulder, seemingly grown broader in the past year. “I take it that if we should need reinforcements, you’d march north?”
Andrew’s long face grew very solemn. “Oh, aye, I would! Gordon of Huntly flirts with treason. I have pledged myself to defend King, Kirk and country.”