by Mary Daheim
Uncle Donald, moving his substantial form with stiff dignity like a Calvinist icon, came to stand behind his second-born son. The long, graying beard dipped in approval. “A worthy promise,” he intoned, “as long as it doesn’t prove expensive as well.”
Tarrill assumed an expression of mock exasperation. “I swear, Donald McVurrich, if St. Peter asks you for the price of heaven, you’ll count his change!” She rolled her dark eyes, and neither Sorcha nor Rosmairi could help but laugh at their aunt.
The merry mood was broken with the announcement by one of the servants that all was in readiness for the journey. Sorcha waited quietly until Rosmairi turned in her direction, the gray eyes glistening with unshed tears. “So many partings,” Rosmairi sighed, embracing her sister. “Why couldn’t we all have stayed at home in the Highlands?”
Sorcha brushed Rosmairi’s cheek with a kiss. “Some day, perhaps,” she said, and then gasped. “God’s teeth, what is this?”
Rosmairi and the others turned to where Sorcha was staring. Marie-Louise, attired in a voluminous black cape trimmed in white fox and a tall black hat with a white bouquet of plumes and flowing veil, stood in elegant arrogance on the McVurrich threshold.
“May I?” Marie-Louise murmured, the beautiful azure eyes fixed on Uncle Donald. It was a shrewd choice, since Donald McVurrich’s mastery of European finances had not dulled his awe of a dazzling woman.
At his acquiescence, Marie-Louise floated into the parlor, scattering startled younger McVurriches and servants in her wake. Her gaze seemed to take in every member of the household, even little Adam, who had begun to fuss in the wet nurse’s arms. Sorcha refused to avoid those azure eyes and stared back boldly, arms folded resolutely across her breast.
Marie-Louise adjusted the flowing veil that hid her scar and reached inside the fur-trimmed cape to withdraw a folded piece of parchment. “This,” she said pleasantly, as she turned to a white-lipped Armand, “is the deed to the d’Ailly lands. I thought it best to show it to you in front of various witnesses. It will save you and your good uncle-by-marriage further exertion in trying to sell something that is not yours.” Slowly, she unfolded the paper, smoothed it out with one gloved hand as if caressing a pet, and held it out for Armand and Donald McVurrich to read.
McVurrich looked up to meet Marie-Louise’s cool gaze head-on. “This appears to be in good order,” he admitted with a frown. “You have three witnesses, including the mayor of Amiens, the pastor of St. Genevieve’s Church at d’Ailly, and a certain Monsieur André Ferraud of Chaulnes. You also,” he added with a touch of chagrin, “have the signature of Raoul de Greve.” Uncle Donald turned to Armand. “Would that be your brother or your father, sir?”
Armand’s crimson cheeks seemed to implode in his face. “My brother,” he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “My late brother.”
With a graceful gloved hand, Marie-Louise waved the parchment like a battle pennant, then refolded the deed carefully and tucked it inside her black cape. “Then there is nothing else to be said.” She offered the entire company a brilliant, self-satisfied smile before turning toward the door. “That being the case, I shall depart. Bonne chance.”
In a flash, Sorcha was on her adversary’s heels. Just as Marie-Louise stepped over the threshold, Sorcha dove, knocking the larger woman off balance. With frenzied hands, she clawed at Marie-Louise’s cape, seeking out the folded parchment. Armand and Uncle Donald were the first to follow, while the others pressed into the entry hall.
“Meddling strumpet!” screamed Marie-Louise, righting her hat and steadying herself on the stone steps. “You don’t care about d’Ailly and his silly land! All you want is my husband in your bed!” Whirling away from Sorcha, Marie-Louise all but fell into the waiting grasp of Gavin Napier. The Earl of Moray was at his side, looking as bewildered as Napier was thunderous.
Marie-Louise exercised sufficient good sense not to struggle with Napier. She tamed her fury and regarded him with contempt. “Your conjugal caress is as swinish as ever,” she jeered.
Napier’s grip on her arms tightened so hard that it seemed Marie-Louise’s bones might snap. But she never flinched. He tore his dark visage from her sneering face and looked to Sorcha. “What did you search for? What is she hiding?”
Sorcha moved down a step, aware that Moray’s eyes were on her, rather than on Napier and Marie-Louise. “She has a deed—to Armand’s French property. She insists it’s legal, but I don’t believe the lying baggage for a minute!” Leaning on the rail, Sorcha was momentarily taller than her rival. She stared Marie-Louise down, then flicked at her nose in that defiant gesture of dismissal. “It’s a fraud! I don’t care what anyone says!”
Marie-Louise glared at Sorcha, then spat on the ground. “That for your pitiful allegations!” She gazed past Sorcha, Armand, and Uncle Donald, searching for Rosmairi. “Madame d’Ailly! Hear me! Tell this brutish lout to let me go in peace or”—she shot Napier a scathing look before turning to Rosmairi who was now clinging to her husband’s arm—“I shall call down a curse on that babe of yours! Do you understand?”
Napier didn’t loosen his grip, but his taut features went slack. Moray uttered an oath, and Tarrill crossed herself rapidly. But it was Sorcha, not Rosmairi, who replied: “We don’t believe in that puerile pap,” she declared. “You have no demon powers. You’re no more than an overblown, oversized bag of wind!”
But Rosmairi’s maternal instincts were malleable clay in Marie-Louise’s conniving hands. “You’re right, Sorcha, but ….” Rosmairi looked helplessly at her husband. “Sir,” she called to Napier, “let that wretched woman go. We’d rather lose all of France than our sweet child!”
Very slowly, Napier let go of one of Marie-Louise’s arms, but not the other. She eyed him with disdain as cold as hoarfrost. Deliberately, he picked up the loose end of her veil and wound it around her throat, over the puckered scar, across her neck, and back again. Then he began to pull, easily at first, and then tighter and tighter. Sorcha stood stock-still, a hand against her mouth. Marie-Louise’s white skin was beginning to turn pink, but she made no sound, offered no resistance. Napier began winding the veil around a second time, drawing it so taut that Sorcha was sure either the fabric would rip or Marie-Louise would collapse.
Without warning, Gavin Napier dropped his hands to his sides and walked away. He stood by Tarrill’s herb garden, his back turned to them all, his broad shoulders slumped. Sorcha started toward him, but paused, her legs unsteady. Marie-Louise sucked in several deep breaths, then unwound the veil with a steady motion that must have cost her mightily, and rearranged her fox-trimmed cape. Head held high, she took a single step toward the street, then gave Moray a sidelong glance. “Who do you side with, My Lord? Do you know? Your life depends on it.” She ignored his handsome, baffled stare and swept out of Panmure Close, leaving a wake of terrified silence behind her.
The September sun cast amber light across the chamber, gilding the paneled walls and the big oak bed. The filmy curtains that hung from the canopy stirred as the two figures under the single silken sheet moved in languorous contentment. On the carved mahogany mantelpiece, an Italian marble clock chimed six times. Sorcha rolled over onto her back and stretched, the sheet sliding unheeded to her waist. The green eyes grew soft as she contemplated the quiet form of Gavin Napier, now lying on his side, facing her but apparently asleep. The dark hair was rumpled, falling boyishly over his forehead; the long mouth was slightly parted, his breathing deep and even; one arm was bent at the elbow, the big hand slack against Sorcha's breast. He looked so serene, so peaceable, that even Sorcha could scarcely believe he’d all but engaged in a murderous act earlier that same day.
It had been an eventful day for them both, with the turmoil unleashed by Marie-Louise, but at last, after seeing Rosmairi and Armand off, Sorcha and Gavin Napier had gone on to Holyrood Palace. Initially, Napier had been distant and abrupt. He had said little about Marie-Louise, but Sorcha sensed that he was at once regretf
ul and relieved: Had he actually strangled his wife on the spot, it would have been only righteous revenge for the murders she had committed or instigated. On the other hand, his act of mercy had spared him the burden of having her death on his conscience.
It was not words but gestures that had ultimately released Napier from his own private cell. With gentle determination, Sorcha had kissed and caressed him into emerging from that dark, secret place. Once unshackled, his emotions were intense, fierce, almost savage. He claimed Sorcha in a violent, shuddering embrace that seemed to rock the palace’s stone walls. Had not the pleasure overwhelmed the pain, she would have cried out in protest rather than exultation. Later, after they had drank from the same goblet of red Bordeaux wine and talked about the frustrating delays he had experienced in Rome, Napier’s touch turned tender, almost languid, playing Sorcha’s body like the strings of a Highland clarsach. She responded in kind, with as much sensuousness as sensuality, exploring every inch of him, leaving the imprint of possession on every muscle, sinew, and bone. They came together in a voluptuous crescendo of rising passion, oblivious of everything except the union of their fervid flesh.
No matter, Sorcha thought dreamily, that the new Pope had not yet studied the request for an annulment. Neither Napier nor Rob could have remained in Rome forever. And the papal secretary had all but promised to send word when the decision was finally handed down. Four Popes in two years had created a chaotic situation in the Holy See; the plight of one obscure couple in Scotland must be put aside until more important matters were considered.
Sorcha jerked her body suddenly, aware that she, too, was almost asleep. In just a little over half an hour, she was due to help select the Queen’s finery for the evening’s entertainment. “Gavin,” Sorcha whispered, sitting up in bed, with the long hair brushing his upper arm, “wake up, my love! The sun is setting.”
Napier's eyes opened slowly, his hand reaching vaguely for Sorcha. “What? Is aught wrong?” With effort, he focused on her, his fingers touching her bare stomach.
“Nay.” She laughed, clasping his hand with both of hers. “I must dress to tend the Queen.”
Napier shifted his weight, leaning on his elbows. “Send word you’re ill. I’ve a mind never to leave this bed.” He grinned, an unwonted flash of mischief in the dark eyes.
“I can’t do that,” Sorcha declared with resolution. “I want to, but I can’t. Besides,” she added seriously, trying to ignore the fingers that crept up her thigh, “I thought you wanted to see Moray.”
“I do.” The fingers pranced upward, to sink between her legs. “I will—in good time.”
Setting her mouth, Sorcha started to swing her legs away but only managed to part them enough for Gavin Napier to capture the mound of her womanhood in his hand. Effortlessly, his other arm pinned her shoulders down against the pillows. His beard tickled her abdomen as Sorcha felt a single probing finger move within her, stretching, seeking, inciting. The other hand brushed back and forth across her breasts, then made lazy, maddening circles around the pink plateau of one nipple. With a groan of delight, Sorcha surrendered to his delicious, relentless torment. The Queen could wait; the world could wait. She was in the arms of the man she loved, and nothing else mattered.
Chapter 27
Hours later in the same chamber, with the fire turned to ashes and the only candle burned down almost to the nub, Gavin Napier bade Sorcha good-bye. After Sorcha had thrown on her clothes and raced off to the Queen, Napier had met with Moray at the Earl’s town house. Fresh news had arrived from the north, relating George Gordon’s further encroachment of MacKintosh property around Badenoch. The MacKintosh chieftain had formally asked for the help of Moray and the Earl of Atholl. Neither noble was anxious to engage in a Highland war, but realized that Gordon must be stopped before he gobbled up huge chunks of the northern kingdom. Moray, in turn, had asked Gavin Napier to join them; they would leave immediately.
Sorcha had been distressed not only at her lover’s precipitous leave-taking but because the situation in the Highlands had deteriorated. Ironically, Napier was being forced to side with the Protestants he nominally opposed, against the Catholics he had promised to protect.
“It would seem,” a grim-faced Napier had told Sorcha, readying his gear to head out into the dense fog, “that the Church’s only real hope of surviving in Scotland lies with the achievement of peace. Perhaps,” he added, donning light chain mail over his leather jerkin, “the ultimate hope is union with England.”
For Sorcha, such conjecture seemed irrelevant compared to the imminent danger Gavin Napier would face in the north. The mere sight of him wearing chain mail and carrying a steel helmet had made her shudder. “I know it’s not like me,” she’d admitted, clinging to him, yet hating the jagged feel of the chain mail against her cheek. “Ordinarily, I’m quite a sensible person. But this time you’re actually going into battle.”
“To parley, more likely,” Napier had replied.
Sorcha remained unconvinced. She’d argued that he must take her with him, but Napier was adamant. If ever there was a time when Sorcha was needed to watch the devious plotting of Marie-Louise and Bothwell, it was now. “She threatened Moray, you know,” Napier reminded her. “It makes no sense, since he and Bothwell have always been friendly. Yet Moray was alarmed—not that he’d admit it, but I know he was.”
That the Earl of Moray would take anything Marie-Louise said seriously only added to Sorcha’s mounting fears. Yet Moray must know that Marie-Louise was not to be dismissed lightly. She had already dared to connive at the murder of a king.
“I wish now you’d stayed in Rome,” Sorcha had exclaimed. “You might have been bored, but you would have been safe.”
Napier had gazed down at her tousled dark head and sighed. “Except for loving you, I feel as if I’ve lived a useless life. What have I accomplished here in Scotland?”
Sorcha had known better than to try to dissuade him further. In some vague, instinctive way, she understood that he was a thwarted man who felt he’d failed his mission, his faith, even his own brother. The fact that he had successfully concluded Father Adam’s initial task with Mary, Queen of Scots was no consolation. Gavin Napier would count himself a failure until he had unified the Catholic clans and forged a policy of toleration.
At last, with the heavy fog swirling around the walls of Holyrood Palace and the owls hooting mournfully from the eaves of the Chapel Royal, Gavin Napier kissed Sorcha an ardent farewell and rode out toward the Water Gate to meet the Earl of Moray.
“La!” cried the Queen, bracing herself against the gaming table with the palms of her hands, “I have now the seven!” Her broad smile beamed at the other players. “Who can defeat me?” Her blue eyes danced from Jean Sinclair to the Earl of Morton to Marie-Louise, and finally to Sorcha, who was sitting between Lord John Hamilton and his wife, Margaret. Despite Queen Anne’s high good humor, the company was attired in black, mourning the Countess of Moray, who had died of a wasting sickness the previous month. As she was cousin to the King, the court had observed her untimely death with a subdued Yuletide season. Now, two days after Christmas, the Queen had rebelled at the ban and had insisted on an evening of gaming.
After more than two hours, Jamie had long since tired of the game. Sorcha, who had been forced from the table by a pair of luckless ivory dice, crossed the room to join her royal cousin, who was whipping off the covers from various dishes and sampling most of them.
“I hunted all day,” the King declared, stuffing smoked mussels and capon legs and jellied lamb into his mouth. “The winter weather gives me a hearty appetite.” Still chewing lustily, he waved a crisp cabbage leaf in her direction. “Alas, I forget my manners—you must be starving, too; you always are. Try the lamb first.”
To Jamie’s amazement, Sorcha shook her head. “Nay, sire, I’m not hungry.” Indeed, her digestion had been unruly for some time. “I’m overanxious these days—for many reasons.”
Even if Jamie had evince
d interest, there was no opportunity for Sorcha to relate her concerns. Secretary John Maitland stood in the doorway, his dour face a peculiar shade of sickly gray. He headed straight for the King and spoke without preamble. “Your Majesty, I have the most astounding news!” Maitland’s usually smooth voice was lowered to a gruff whisper. “The Earl of Bothwell has invaded the palace!”
Jamie’s brows drew together. “Maitland, dear Maitland, you have a tendency to bring me the most exasperating news about Bothwell. What do you really mean? That he has inserted spies among our royal presence?” Jamie giggled. “I don’t fear spies; I make friends of them!”
Maitland’s nostrils were flaring like those of a racehorse at the finish line. “I’m quite serious, sire. Bothwell is inside this very palace!” Maitland’s whisper grew more frenzied, attracting the attention of the players at the gaming table. “He came to my chambers to kidnap me! A pot-boy heard him and warned me.”
In a flutter of black brocade and lace, Queen Anne rose from her chair. “Good Maitland, you speak of Bothwell, ja, aye, for certain?”
The answer came from outside the door to the gaming room. “Damn!” breathed Jamie, making a fist and waving it ineffectually. “I hear Bothwell, I truly do!” He whirled around, looking both helpless and desperate. “Where is the Master when I need him? Where are my servants?” His outrage mounting, he charged at Maitland, his face as petulant as a child whose parent hasn't kept faith. “Where is my army? You said I didn’t need an army, Maitland! Well, I sorely need one now!”
John Hamilton quietly intervened. “What Your Majesty needs now is a barricade.” Signaling to the Earl of Morton, Hamilton moved briskly to a tall armoire at the end of the room. “We’ll put this in front of the door. It should hold them off until help arrives.”
“What help?” wailed King James, oblivious of the clutching hands of his frightened consort. “Listen! They are battering down the very walls!”