“
My brother. Didn’t Moray mention
him?” Sorcha’s patience was wearing thin. It was also growing close
to the supper hour, and she was hungry.
“
Oh! Of course, he wishes to attend
my mother at Chartley. Why?” James seemed genuinely puzzled,
rubbing a fur-trimmed wrist against his chin.
“
Perhaps to make up for my father’s
desertion of her when she eloped with Bothwell.” Sorcha tried to
sound wistful. “Such a tragic mistake on her part, if I may speak
bluntly. My sire had always felt close to her, even though he
didn’t realize they were half brother and half sister for many
years. It was almost a personal betrayal for him. It’s sad to think
how we Scots can violate the affections of even our closest
kin.”
Jamie’s high forehead creased with sorrow. “Aye, you
put it well. My mother betrayed my father, too. And so, in a sense,
me. Yet some would insist I’ve abandoned her, that I’m an unnatural
son.” He stretched his hands out to Sorcha. “Can you blame me?”
Sorcha tilted her head and smiled gently. “You were
but a bairn when she lost her throne. And now … well, you
hardly know her, mother or not. Yet it must be a source of great
sadness to her, alone and unwell in a foreign prison.”
Sorcha wondered if she had gone too far. But Jamie
sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to echo in the
audience chamber. Except for two tapers on the fireplace mantel,
the room was shrouded in shadows. A spaniel with a game leg hobbled
out from under the dais at the end of the chamber, apparently
awakened from its nap. The dog sniffed at Jamie’s foot, then limped
to Sorcha and barked once.
“
Enough, Morton,” Jamie commanded.
The spaniel sat down on some of the papers still lying on the
floor. The King of Scotland paid no heed. “I am not as cold and
calculating as my critics would like others to believe,” he said
petulantly. “If you think your brother might bring some cheer to my
mother, perhaps he should go.”
“
Rob’s a cheerful sort,” Sorcha
replied, reminding herself to speak cautiously, lest her apparent
victory be snatched away by Jamie’s legendary shifts of mood. “And
he
is
kin, of an age with yourself. Our mothers were with
child at the same time,” she reminded him. “My Aunt Tarrill brought
him to see your mother the very morning after he was born at
Holyrood. You were still in the womb.”
Jamie’s eyes, which had grown wide, narrowed in
concentration. “It’s providential, is it not?” he asked at last.
“In a sense, it’s like sending part of myself to my mother. Yes,
yes, Coz, your brother must go.” He nodded again, this time with
great vehemence. “And if Elizabeth quibbles, I’ll brook no
interference. I shan’t allow her to meddle in family matters.”
Since Queen Elizabeth had been meddling with the
Stewarts ever since ascending the English throne, Jamie’s words
struck Sorcha as almost comic. She dared not laugh, however, and
tried instead to appear overwhelmed by his generosity. “Your
Majesty’s gracious gesture honors my brother—and me. Rob will bless
you a thousand times. As will his tutor, Master Napier.”
A hint of suspicion flitted across James’s long face.
“Tutor? What sort of tutor?”
“
French, of course. A most
insufferable pedant, but according to Rob, a gifted teacher.”
Sorcha winced inwardly at the conjured-up image of Gavin Napier as
a crotchety, gnarled scholar wallowing in French verbs and
tenses.
King James lifted one narrow shoulder. “So be it. To
Chartley they shall go.”
Sorcha was about to reiterate her thanks when the
chamber door opened to reveal the Master of Gray. He paused on the
threshold, stared openly at Sorcha with those hypnotic eyes, and
bowed low.
“
Your Grace,” he said to Jamie,
barely concealing the anger he felt at Sorcha’s presence, “I marvel
at the company you keep! The lords of your realm await you at
supper.”
“
A pox on the lords of the realm!”
Jamie threw Gray an indignant glare, but not before he’d glanced at
Sorcha as if for approbation. “Tell them I’m detained on family
matters.”
Gray gazed from the King to Sorcha and back again.
The spaniel, which had dozed off again on the state papers, looked
up and growled. Ignoring Sorcha, Gray made a distasteful face at
the animal, then smiled pleasantly at Jamie. “We await your
pleasure, sire.” The graceful figure bowed again and withdrew.
As the door shut, Jamie giggled with glee. “He’s
jealous! The Master is jealous of you, Coz! Oh, such a delightful
circumstance!” He grasped Sorcha by the arm, his eyes suddenly
pleading. “When will you come to court? Soon, please do!”
“
I must see my brother off to
England first,” she replied, aware that she was increasingly loath
to join the court, no matter how tiresome life in Panmure Close had
grown. “A month or so, perhaps?”
The lower lip dipped into a pout as Jamie’s hands
dropped to his sides. “I’d hoped you would stay on at Linlithgow.”
He brightened. “I shall find you a rich husband. An Erskine,
perhaps, or a Farquharson?”
Sorcha paused, momentarily distracted. “Oh? A
handsome one?” She saw Jamie turn vague and regretfully shook her
head. “I appreciate your concern and know you will … ah,
continue your search. But, for now, I dare not stay at court, sire.
I must help Rob make adequate preparations for his journey. He
hasn’t had the advantages of being self-sufficient as you
have.”
“
I’ve not had the advantages of
brothers and sisters to see to my well-being. Nor parents, either.”
Jamie leaned down to scoop up the spaniel. “I envy Rob.” He
scratched the dog’s ears and held it close as if it were a small
child. “You won’t tarry, will you, Coz? I shall seek out the most
gallant mate for you, I promise!”
Sorcha felt her heart melt in her breast. Jamie
looked so pathetic, attired in his royal robes, clutching the
spaniel, both master and dog sad eyed and craving affection. Raised
in a loving, boisterous family, Sorcha had a hard time imagining
how isolated and lonely Jamie’s youth must have been.
“
A month, no more,” she vowed.
Impulsively, she leaned forward to brush Jamie’s cheek with a kiss.
“I shall relay the news of your kindness to Rob at once. Take care,
Your Grace.” She patted the spaniel. “And, you, Morton.” With a
quick curtsey, Sorcha moved across the audience chamber. As she
opened the door, she heard a little moan and wasn’t certain whether
it came from the spaniel—or the King.
R
ob was so elated over King
James’s benevolence that for the first time in his life, he drank
himself into a stupor. Half annoyed and half amused, Sorcha and
Ailis put him to bed in the chamber hastily provided by Moray. A
short time later, Ailis was about to retire and Sorcha was getting
undressed when the earl knocked at their door. Signaling that Rob
was already asleep, Sorcha stepped out into the hall. “Jamie
approves,” she said in a low voice. “I thank you for your
assistance. So would Rob, if he were sober enough to speak.”
Moray smiled indulgently. “I sensed Jamie would be
more easily persuaded by you than by me. Every time I mentioned the
subject, he diverted the conversation.”
“
I can understand that,” Sorcha said
dryly, recalling her own initial attempts. “Incidentally, if he
should ever ask, Gavin Napier is an aged French tutor, withered as
a prune.”
Moray made a wry face. “Hardly an apt description of
the stalwart Napier.” He gave a little laugh, then sobered, and met
Sorcha’s gaze head-on. “I must remain at court for a time. I offer
my apologies for not being able to escort you and the others back
to Edinburgh.”
To her surprise, Sorcha felt a pang of
disappointment. “We’ll manage,” she said in reassurance. “It’s a
short journey, and the weather is holding.”
“
Aye.” Moray paused, looking
strangely uncertain. Briefly, the blue eyes flickered away, then
returned to dwell on Sorcha’s upturned face. “If I were a sane man,
I’d say I made a fool of myself today. Sane or not, am I
forgiven?”
Sorcha tried to avert her gaze but could not. The
distress on Moray’s finely molded features held her like a physical
force. “We’ll pretend it was a game. And I shall forfeit my right
to cry foul.” She spoke lightly, but felt an inner heaviness.
“
A game?” Moray’s mouth twisted
slightly. “Ah, I would that it were so!” He retreated a pace, one
hand fretting at a sapphire ring set in silver. “To think I am
hailed as a master at games! Yet you are the prize I’ll not
win.”
Distress ebbed through Sorcha like a rising tide.
“Sir, don’t fash yourself! You confuse me. But I find you
most … kind.”
From the end of the hall, two pages raced exuberantly
after each other. Sorcha and Moray stepped aside as the youths
slowed their pace, but cast saucy glances in the direction of their
betters. When they had disappeared in the opposite direction, Moray
took Sorcha’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
“
There should be no confusion,” he
said clearly. “I love you.” Seeing the disbelief on Sorcha’s face,
he squeezed her hand and shook his head. “Nay, don’t protest. I’ve
stated my feelings. I have no right to do so, but it would be less
than honest of me if I did not.” He smiled softly, though his eyes
were in shadow. “Damn me, revile me, curse me. But never doubt me,
Sorcha Fraser.”
Sorcha felt as if she were suspended in space. James
Stewart of Moray, the Bonnie Earl, the most personable, admired man
in Scotland had declared his love for her, an unworldly, unkempt
Highland lass more at home in the wild northern glens than the
elegant banquet halls of Edinburgh. As the epitome of Scottish
manhood, Moray was the ideal mate for Sorcha. Yet he belonged to
another.
But she had already seen the loneliness of her King
and kinsman that evening; now another Stewart stood before her,
yearning and disturbed. Whatever common strain ran in their blood,
it seemed to call out to her own. Even as he pulled her into his
arms, she was unable to lash out her rejection.
“
Jesu God,” he whispered, holding
her so that her head was tipped back against his arm, “could you
ever love me?”
Sorcha felt numb. “I don’t know what love is.” The
black hair had tumbled from its net, reaching halfway to the floor.
Her breath came rapidly through parted lips; the green eyes were
wide and questioning. If Moray could rouse her senses, then perhaps
she could break the spell Gavin Napier had cast upon her.
She sensed his hesitation before he lifted her high
in his arms. Sorcha felt herself being carried down the corridor,
and watched over Moray’s shoulder as he somehow managed to unlatch
the door to his chamber. Only a rushlight burned low next to the
bed. It was there that Moray set Sorcha down, kneeling beside her
on the floor.
“
If it were possible, I would go to
Jamie now and ask his permission for us to marry within the hour.
Alas,” he said sadly, “I cannot. I can offer you only myself, my
life, my heart, my very soul.” He bent down, his cheek brushing
hers. “Will you accept my poor gift?”
Sorcha felt the faint new growth of beard against her
face and his breath on her ear. “I can’t,” she all but wailed,
struggling to rise from the bed.
“
Is there someone else?” Moray
gently but firmly pinioned her with one arm.
Sorcha wagged her head from side to side, strands of
hair flying about the counterpane. “No.”
Moray’s brow furrowed. “Napier?”
Sorcha all but bolted in his grasp. “Napier!” She
felt her already flushed cheeks turn to fire. “No! There’s no
one!”
Moray smiled uncertainly. His free hand slipped over
one breast, cupping it gently. “You’re irresistible. That’s your
charm, an infectious, earthy sort of magnetism.”
Sorcha felt his hand tighten almost imperceptibly
around the firm globe of her breast. “Please let me go now,” she
implored, aware that her mouth had gone dry. “You must give me
time.”
He pulled away just enough to scrutinize her face. “I
can give you time. But the world may not.” He leaned down again, to
kiss her ear, her temple, the hollow under her eye. The hand at her
breast moved to the fastenings of her riding costume, parting the
fabric to reveal the creamy silk chemise that strained over her
bosom.
The rushlight flickered, catching the russet glints
of Moray’s hair. Sorcha knew she had to end this madness. But Moray
moved with such quiet deliberation, his mouth trailing down the
curve of her throat to the valley between her breasts. Still on his
knees, he straightened up to slide one arm under Sorcha’s body,
raising her so that he could strip away both riding jacket and
creamy silk. Sorcha waited for his touch to fire her senses, to
drive out the image of Gavin Napier. But she felt nothing. “No,”
she cried as the silk slipped below her waist and the jacket
dropped from her arms. “No, no, this must not be!” The beseeching
words seemed lost on Moray, who smiled at Sorcha with great
pleasure and placed his fingers on the hollow of her belly. With
that same sweet determination, he pulled the riding skirt down
still further, carefully removing the undergarments at the same
time, down over her hips, pausing in wonder at the bold, black
triangle of curling hair, teasing her thighs with his fingers, then
removing the garments over the black leather riding boots, and
dropping them at the edge of the bed.
Sorcha struggled to sit up against the pillows, her
brain reeling. She made up her mind: She had to dissuade Moray from
folly. It was insane to think that sacrificing herself to any man,
however eager or noble, would erase her feelings for Napier. Hot
tears stung at her eyes, causing Moray to regard her with alarm.
“Sweeting, are you so frightened? Or unwilling?”