It came, but lacked enthusiasm. “Good.” His voice was
low, encouraging, yet oddly detached. Sorcha felt as if she were in
confession.
“
I saw Moray later. He … he
declared his love for me.” She felt her cheeks flush and drained
the brandy cup. “I was confused ….” Sorcha stopped and gulped.
She could hardly tell Napier the whole truth.
Napier waved a big hand at her. “Go on.”
Sorcha lowered her eyes, staring into the empty cup.
“The earl wanted to make love to me. I tried to prevent him, but
….” Her voice trailed away; Napier was rigid on the divan.
“
But
what
?” The question was
almost bellowed.
“
But Gray came. And then Caithness.
They attacked Moray and tied him up before carrying me back to
Edinburgh. In the coach, Caithness tried to force himself on my
person in a most revolting manner.”
Napier looked mystified, the sharp features faintly
twisted in an attempt at comprehension. “You were or were not
violated by any or all of these lords?”
“
I was not,” Sorcha retorted
indignantly. “But Caithness was repulsive all the same.”
Napier gave her a brooding, black look. “Yet you are
still a maid?”
“
I am.” Sorcha lifted her chin and
held out the brandy cup. “I want more. This has been the most
terrible night of my life.”
Napier took a deep breath, then picked up the brandy
decanter and poured a generous measure into Sorcha’s cup. Instead
of moving back to the divan, he remained standing over Sorcha, one
finger hooked around the decanter’s neck.
“
Do you love Moray?” The words were
deep, a virtual growl, his peat-brown eyes hard and
unblinking.
“
No.” Sorcha shook her head. “By the
Mass, I do not.” Napier banged the decanter down in exasperation.
“You’re a chicken-witted wench, Sorcha Fraser! You play games with
a married lord and tempt….” Now it was Napier who found words
difficult. “No wonder you arrive on my doorstep wearing naught but
your boots! What’s to become of you?”
Sorcha took another drink, set the cup on the
nightstand, and wound the cape more tightly around her. “I shall go
to sleep. I hope. I’m tired, I hurt, and I’d like to die of shame.
Whatever happens to me next will have to wait until morning.”
Throwing; a fierce look at Napier, she curled up under the rumpled
bedclothes and closed her eyes. She was asleep before Napier could
remind her she had commandeered his bed.
The nightmares woke her shortly after dawn: the
distorted faces of greedy-eyed men, drooling with lust, groping
Sorcha with coarse, hairy hands. She kept running from them, but
never quite eluded their grasp. At last, she was falling into
endless space, unable to scream, a mute, wingless bird doomed to
infinity.
She sat up, shaking from head to foot and not certain
where she was. The faint pale winter light made the room look as if
it were shrouded in fog until her eyes adjusted and she became
aware of her surroundings. Sorcha started in surprise as she saw
the recumbent form of Gavin Napier asleep on the divan. He lay on
his side, one arm carelessly raised above his head, the long legs
extended beyond the divan’s edge. His breathing was deep and
regular; the rugged features were softened in repose. Indeed, there
was a vulnerable, appealing quality about him, now that all the
defenses of the waking hours had been stripped away.
The shaking abated; Sorcha got up, keeping the cloak
around her, and went in search of a place to make her morning
ablutions. A few minutes later, she emerged from the little closet
to find Napier still sleeping. He had shifted onto his side and was
smiling. For one fleeting instant, Sorcha saw what he had looked
like ten years ago, when he had been more lad than man.
Sorcha was wandering about the room, inspecting the
sparse furnishings and gazing out the window when Napier woke up.
He stretched and yawned, momentarily looking as puzzled as she had
upon awakening.
“
Do you suppose this was my parents’
bedroom?” she asked as Napier vigorously ran his hands through his
wavy dark brown hair and stood up.
He shrugged and yawned again. “Possibly. It’s the
biggest of the bedchambers. Most of the others are closed off.”
Napier frowned at Sorcha. “We must find you some clothes. The
wind’s come up.”
Sorcha almost missed the glint of humor in his brown
eyes. “I must confess, I’m weary of bundling this great swatch of
cloth around my person. Breeks and a shirt will do.”
Napier nodded, tucking in his own white cambric
shirt. “We’ll find something. Are you hungry?”
“
Famished. Last night I thought I
could never look at food again.”
“
Time is the greatest healer,”
Napier replied dryly. He pulled a bell cord by the bed. “How do you
feel?”
“
Better. But I had such nightmares!
And I still ache.” She mustered a smile. “Whatever shall I say to
Uncle Donald and Aunt Tarrill?”
Napier strolled to a dresser on which sat a small
mirror with wavy glass. He gazed at his image and scowled. “Tell
them only what they need to know.” He turned to look at Sorcha.
“Gray and Caithness tried to rape you. They failed. The greatest
loss was your clothing. That’s all.”
“
My aunt’s clothing, that is.”
Sorcha reflected upon his words. “I didn’t tell them about Gray
before. I suppose I’ll have to mention Doune.”
“
Probably. But they can’t blame
you.” Napier had come to stand in front of Sorcha, gazing down at
the black-shrouded figure with the thick strands of black hair, and
the toes of her riding boots peeking out from under the cloak. At
first glance, she looked like a wood-witch, with only her face
showing. But as Napier’s stare lengthened, he noted how forlorn,
yet valiant she was—a battered, wounded creature prepared to leave
her lair to face the dangers of the forest.
The servant who had first opened the door the night
before answered Napier’s summons. If he seemed surprised to find
her in Napier’s bedroom, he gave no sign. The man nodded several
times as Napier requested fresh buns, slices of ham, baked apples,
oatmeal with cream, and hot cider.
After the serving man departed, Napier began
rummaging through the wardrobe. He finally pulled out a costume
that included a light woolen tan shirt, brown breeks, and a rather
handsome green vest. “Our host is rather short, it seems. Try
these.” He handed the garments to Sorcha and turned his back.
It was, of course, precisely what she would have
expected from a priest and a gentleman. Yet somehow his gesture
touched her. Perhaps it was the comparison with the satanic Gray
and the brutal Caithness, or even the importunate ardor of Moray,
but Sorcha felt ridiculously sentimental. Swiftly, she removed the
cloak and put on the garments Napier had laid on the bed.
“
I’m dressed,” she announced,
pleased that the outfit was not as ill suited to her figure as she
had feared. “Where’s our breakfast?”
Napier turned around, looking strangely tense. “Be
patient. We are the only guests at this time.” Scowling, he went to
the window and pushed open the casement. “We need fresh air. These
rooms are musty.”
With growing curiosity, she watched him open the
other window, then fold Moray’s cloak and put it in the wardrobe.
He struck flint to light the fire and used a little broom to sweep
the ashes into the grate. He made up the bed and arranged the
pillows on the aged divan.
“
What do the servants do?” Sorcha
finally asked with a nervous little laugh.
“
Make breakfast, I hope.” Even as
Napier spoke, the serving man arrived with a huge tray of covered
dishes. Moments later, Sorcha was seated next to Napier on the
divan, scattering brown sugar on her oatmeal porridge. He seemed
less tense but was uncommonly silent while they ate from the
teakwood table the servant had set out for them.
“
Excellent ham,” Sorcha finally
exclaimed. “And the buns are so light! Is there more
butter?”
Napier handed her a glass-covered dish. He watched
with amusement as she chewed lustily on a slice of baked apple. “In
all, you are most remarkable. Another lass would have swooned and
stayed abed all day.”
Still chewing, Sorcha shrugged. “I’m upset, of
course.” She paused to pour cream on her porridge. “But there is
much to be done. Not only must I face my aunt and uncle, but no
doubt Rob and Ailis will come racing into town, certain that I’ve
been killed. And Moray is doubtless distressed, too.” She popped
half a bun into her mouth, then dabbed at some melted butter which
had escaped onto her chin. “Is there jam?”
“
Honey.” He proffered a tiny china
pot. “All right,” he said with a sigh of resignation, “I must ask
the question. Why were you not disturbed that I saw you
naked?”
Sorcha stopped in the act of spreading honey on her
buttered bun and blinked at Napier. “Why, I have no idea!” She
stared at Napier in amazement. “I never thought about it. So much
else had happened.”
Napier grasped the wrist that held the bun. “Is it
because you think I’m not a man?” The words were low and harsh, the
deep, brown eyes piercing.
“
Oh, no!” Sorcha gasped. She looked
away, biting her lower lip. And in that moment she knew the truth:
it was not just desire that Gavin Napier aroused, but love. Priest
though he was, she had given her heart to the hunter, the man whose
grip grew painful on her arm, whose peat-brown eyes could be felt
if not met. It made no difference that he had seen her naked body
because she already belonged to him. But he must never know, lest
he break his sacred vows and send them both to hell. She forced her
lips to form meaningless words: “I was so upset. You were my savior
from those hateful beasts. Whatever you might do, it would not be
stained by evil.” The smile she gave Napier was tremulous. He let
go of her wrist and turned back to the breakfast table.
“
That’s so. I wouldn’t harm you.”
His movements seemed heavy as he lifted the cider tankard and
poured the murky, amber liquid into pewter tumblers. “Don’t tarry
if you wish to reach your relatives’ house before Rob
does.”
Sorcha nodded, but her usual ravenous appetite had
fled. Somewhere in her breast, where she had supposed her heart to
be, Sorcha felt a stone weighing her down. It had been sufficiently
cruel of fate to let her become infatuated with a lad who had
turned out to be her half brother; it had been demeaning to have
been jilted by a callow Highland laird; it was wretched luck to
have been enticed by the charms of a married man; but surely no
future could be more bleak than to fall hopelessly, desperately, in
love with a priest who had committed his body and soul to God.
For the first time in her life, Sorcha cursed the
Catholic Church and the devastating misfortune of having been born
into its faith.
I
n February, when the
hoarfrost silvered the city, King James commanded Sorcha’s presence
at Falkland. But Rob had not yet left for England, and both their
aunts were suffering from grippe. Sorcha dispatched a tactfully
worded letter to Jamie, expressing her regrets and looking forward
to joining the court in March.
By that time, King James was headed north on a
progress, stopping first at Wemyss. Sorcha delayed once more. His
Grace was to be accompanied by Moray, Gray, and Caithness. She had
no desire to spend time with any of them. The tedium of Panmure
Close was preferable to the overtures of Moray and the brutalities
of the Master and his minions.
Moray’s innate gallantry had prompted a letter of
abject apology, accompanied by an exquisite gold chain with a heart
encircled by amethysts. He reiterated his love and spent several
pages reviling himself for not being able to save Sorcha from
Patrick Gray’s cruel machinations. Sorcha, having no wish to
encourage him, did not respond.
Ignoring her feelings for Gavin Napier was more
difficult, though, but circumstances came to her aid. While Napier
had managed to smooth over her return to the McVurrich household,
she didn’t see him alone after that night. Except on two occasions
when Uncle Donald was away, Napier met Rob elsewhere to discuss the
preparations for their journey. Aunt Tarrill and Aunt Glennie were
finally told of Rob’s plans and were both present when the hour of
leave-taking was at hand. With great effort, Sorcha had maintained
her composure right up until Rob gave her one last hug. Over his
shoulder, she could see Napier, the hunter’s eyes shadowy and
solemn. Or was it sadness that touched him? she suddenly
wondered—and promptly burst into tears. As the two men rode up the
High Street, Sorcha let her aunts assume that she cried solely for
Rob.
To Sorcha’s distress, the days that followed failed
to dim her feelings or alleviate her loneliness. She spun out the
hours by reading with Doles or playing cards with her aunts. There
were long talks in the winter evenings with Ailis, of books and
geography and history. Ailis’s stolid presence was a comfort, and
on rare occasions, she would exhibit a dry sense of humor that made
Sorcha smile.
Yet no suitors approached Panmure Close. The
McVurrich sons’ friends came to call, but they were uniformly and
unyieldingly Presbyterian. The mere idea of courting a Catholic
lass would have scandalized them.
As the weather improved and the days grew longer,
there was more opportunity to go outdoors. Walks along the Nor’
Loch, horseback riding outside the city gates, and even an
expedition to the sands of Leith helped pass the time.