Sorcha flicked at the end of her nose in dismissal.
“Pah! I’m a Highlander—there are no ‘betters.’ Or,” she went on,
feeling a vague sense of remorse, “if there are, it must be
proved.”
Napier considered her statement. His dark brown hair
was soaked, and it curled slightly over his ears and forehead. Just
a few yards away, in the street, the heavy wheel of a hay cart fell
off and rolled down the Canongate toward the entrance to the close.
It careened into the archway just as Napier pulled Sorcha flat
against the wall.
“
Jesu,” Sorcha breathed, as the
wheel bounced off the stonework a scant foot away and crashed onto
the cobbles. “How fortunate there were no small children playing
nearby.”
The driver of the cart was huffing and cursing in his
pursuit of the wheel. He was followed by a lad younger than Sorcha,
whose coloring and build resembled the driver’s. The two of them
righted the wheel and began rolling it back toward the cart.
Sorcha moved as if to step from Napier’s protective
embrace, but he didn’t seem ready to yield her up. His reluctance
was considerably less astonishing than his words. “Did he suggest a
price?” The inquiry was hoarse, almost diffident.
“
What?” Sorcha craned to look up at
Napier’s face, her hood slipping off her head again. It occurred to
her that what was most bothersome about Napier wasn’t his
intransigent, solemn nature but his unpredictability. “Did who do
what?”
The dark eyes were focused on the unruly tangles of
her damp hair. “Moray. Did he suggest such a payment as you
mentioned?” Again, Napier’s words didn’t come easily.
“
Moray?” Sorcha was incredulous.
“Naturally not! His reputation is spotless! Really, Gavin, you have
the most—” She jerked up her head to stare at him, as startled as
she thought he would be by her use of his Christian name. “Forgive
me, Father … I meant no disrespect.” Sorcha was flushing, her
hot cheek suddenly pressed against his chest.
But Napier said nothing, nor did he seem shocked by
her lapse of etiquette. One big hand moved to pull away the mass of
hair from where it lay caught in the fallen hood. “Still,” he said,
ignoring her apology, “doubtless Moray has the usual masculine
weakness for virgins. No man is to be trusted, under certain
circumstances.”
Recalling Napier’s impassioned kisses all too
vividly, Sorcha was about to respond that she understood his words
well enough. But she could feel his heart beat against her ear, and
she smelled the virile warmth of his body next to hers. It was not
the moment for rancor.
Nor was this the man for romantic dreams, Sorcha
reminded herself sharply. Better to moon over the married Moray
than the forbidden Father Napier. She made a tentative effort to
pull away, and to her surprise, the priest released her at once. “I
still feel responsible for your safety—spiritual as well as
otherwise,” he declared in a tone Sorcha found unconvincing.
Apparently, her reaction showed; Napier scowled and kicked at a
piece of masonry dislodged by the runaway cart wheel. “You have
every right to despise me, you know.”
They had taken up a brisk pace, moving back through
the Canongate toward Panmure Close. “And you, me,” Sorcha replied
in a dismal voice. She didn’t bother to put her hood back. They
were only a few steps from the McVurrich residence, and Sorcha
suddenly felt as if she deserved to catch cold.
They concluded their brief journey in silence. At the
wrought iron gate that separated Uncle Donald’s fine house from the
Canongate, Sorcha stole a glance at Napier from under the wedge of
unruly hair that all but covered one eye. “I’ll hate it when
you—and Rob—go away.” She swallowed hard, but still couldn’t quite
look directly at Napier. “Yet it will be a good thing, I
think.”
The hunter’s gaze was compelling. “Will it?” He bit
off the words and made as if to reach out for her. From somewhere
on the second story of the house a shutter slammed, making both
Sorcha and Napier jump. “I must go,” she breathed. “Uncle Donald
mustn’t see you.” Whirling, she pulled open the iron gate and raced
along the flagstone path to the McVurrich front door and
Presbyterian sanctuary.
T
he muddy roads slowed their
pace as Sorcha, Rob, Ailis, and Moray rode to Linlithgow the third
week of January. The weather had turned unusually mild, melting all
but the most sheltered patches of snow along the route. They
arrived at the castle shortly before noon. The King was closeted
with his council, but Moray assured Sorcha and Rob that he would
grant an audience later in the day.
“
The Master will try to thwart me as
he always does, but Jamie will be gracious,” Moray said as they
shared their noon meal in the earl’s quarters. “I like to think he
finds my undemanding company pleasurable.”
Moray’s prediction proved accurate. King James sent
for his cousin just after four o’clock. Two hours later, however,
Moray had not returned.
“
I considered Moray a most
persuasive man,” Rob fretted, pacing the chamber as the shadows
crept across the rushes.
Sorcha looked up from a book of Italian sonnets she’d
been scanning. “I suspect he must prove entertaining as well. They
may be playing cards or draughts.”
“
While my fate hangs in the
balance,” Rob retorted with unusual impatience. He snatched his
cape off a peg and threw it over his shoulders. “I need some air.
Do you wish to join me?”
Sorcha gave him a caustic look. “Not when you’re so
cross. I’ll go see if Ailis is still napping.”
Rob nodded tersely, then left the chamber. Sorcha
returned the book to its place on the shelf, paused to gaze out the
window into the dusk, and wandered to a sideboard, where a silver
bowl filled with dried fruit sat next to a miniature of Elizabeth,
Countess of Moray. Examining the little portrait closely, Sorcha
noted that the artist had given his subject more animation in his
brush strokes than she possessed in real life. Absently picking up
a date and popping it into her mouth, she chewed thoughtfully, the
miniature still in her hand. She turned abruptly as Moray entered
the room, an anxious expression on his face.
“
His Grace wishes to see you,” he
said, then noticed the little portrait. “Ah,” he said, his voice
softening, “you’re admiring my Countess?”
“
It’s a reasonable likeness,” Sorcha
replied noncommittally, setting the miniature down and hastily
swallowing the date. “Why does the King want to see me?”
Moray laughed, though without his usual ease. “I
believe he wishes to have feminine wiles worked on him, Cousin.
Thus far, he’s proved obstinate.”
Sorcha sighed. “I’m not very guileful. Candor and
camaraderie are my strong suits.” And little good they’ve done me,
she thought, turning to a small oval mirror to survey her image.
The black riding habit, borrowed from Aunt Tarrill, was too long
and too large, though the cut of the bodice set off her bosom and
the small ruff around the neck provided a satisfactory frame for
her face. She had bundled her hair into a heavy jet-studded net,
which had looked well enough under the high-crowned riding hat, but
without it, now seemed incomplete. Experimentally, she piled the
hair on top of her head, but realized she had no pins to hold it in
place.
Sorcha threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, damn all,
I shall go as I am. I was once taken for a serving wench, so why
should I fash myself now?”
But Sorcha stiffened as she looked in the little
mirror and saw Moray close behind her. “You look like a Gypsy
queen, with that black hair and those green eyes. Your skin is sun
kissed even in winter, and your smile would melt the deepest
snows.”
From any other man, Sorcha would have found such
fulsome words insincere. But from Moray, they had the ring of
authenticity. She stood as if rooted to the floor as Moray slipped
his arms around her waist and brought his lips against her ear. “My
Lord!” she gasped, feeling the pressure of his muscular body next
to hers, “this is most unseemly! I must go to the King!”
He lingered for just a moment, fingers gently
stroking the slender waist. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “You tempt
me like no other woman.”
Her breath too rapid, Sorcha turned swiftly as he
released her and stepped back several paces. She saw the abject
look on his face and felt a pang of remorse. Yet, she told herself
sternly, he had no right to make such advances. Nor did she dare
believe his words.
“
A lamentable lapse,” she said
crisply, trying to smile, yet knowing it was a puny effort at best.
“Where is His Grace?”
Moray gave concise directions, his manner tense, the
blue eyes no longer merry. Sorcha found the King’s chambers without
difficulty and was admitted at once.
King James of Scotland sat cross-legged on the floor
of his audience chamber, a fur-trimmed robe draped ungracefully
about his gangly body, a scowl on his face. He was alone, and
several sheets of paper lay scattered in front of him.
“
Coz,” he said by way of greeting,
looking up briefly. “Why do I have to read all these documents when
Gray will tell me what to do?”
Sorcha had made a deep curtsey but remained standing
uncertainly as James flicked a sheet of paper with his fingernail.
At last he gazed at her fully, shaking his head. “Silly, this
business of being a king. Oh, pray sit, Coz, if you can find a
place that isn’t covered with the governance of Scotland.”
“
I thought you might be composing,”
Sorcha remarked, settling down on the floor and arranging her
skirts as carefully as possible without disturbing the documents.
“I understand you write rather well.”
“
Extremely well. Brilliantly at
times, if you must know.” Jamie grinned unabashedly at Sorcha,
spitting slightly as he spoke. “Why haven’t you been to visit me
until now?” He lowered his long chin almost to his chest and
attempted looking formidable. “Or are you here only because you
want something?”
Sorcha flushed but didn’t falter. “In truth, you’re
right. If I weren’t seeking a favor for my brother, I would have
waited until I got an invitation. Since one wasn’t forthcoming, it
seemed prudent to use Rob’s request as an excuse to see you.”
Jamie brightened. “Is that so? God’s eyes, I should
have sent for you sooner. But the Master of Gray and Lord Hamilton
and the rest of the lords who had been in exile have all but
monopolized my time.” Jamie sighed, tugging at one fur-trimmed
sleeve. “In faith, I sometimes think my nobles forget that I have a
God-given right as their sovereign to chart my own course for
Scotland.”
“
How very thoughtless of them,”
Sorcha commented, picking up a sheet of paper and scanning the
page. “What is this? A letter?”
Jamie leaned over her shoulder, the fur on his robe
brushing Sorcha’s cheek. “Mmmm? Oh, yet another plea to Elizabeth,
asking her to name me as her successor. As if there were anyone
else! But the old hag keeps putting me off, just as she’s done with
the suitors who have tried to woo and win her. She’ll never marry,
but she
will
die. And when she does, I shall be King of
England as well as of Scotland. Mark my words.” Jamie rocked back
on his heels, smiling in anticipated triumph.
Sorcha tossed the letter aside and stretched her
legs. She still wore her riding boots, not having remembered to
pack a pair of shoes. Indeed, Sorcha had hoped they would not spend
the night at Linlithgow, but it was now dark, and obviously they
couldn’t return to Edinburgh until the next day.
“
How strange it will be when the two
countries are governed by one monarch,” Sorcha mused, wondering how
she could work Jamie’s complaints about his nobles and Elizabeth to
her advantage. “Though your mother maintained she was the rightful
heir to both thrones, since Catholics considered Elizabeth a
bastard.”
“
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.