“
Your brother was gracious when I
offered my explanation,” Napier said as he broke off a chunk of
bread still warm from the oven. “Though he was preoccupied, of
course. He seemed more concerned with Brother Jacques.”
Sorcha peeled off an artichoke leaf and waved it at
Napier. “Rob may be, but I am not! I am preoccupied with you—with
us.” Seeing Napier involuntarily draw back, Sorcha tore the
artichoke leaf in two and threw it on the worn wooden table.
“You’re right—I should have forgotten you! I ought to hate you,
despise you! You’re a coward, Gavin Napier, a fiendish seducer and
a damnable liar!” Her voice had steadily risen to a shrill shout.
“To think I greeted you with open arms!”
Across the low-ceilinged common room, a half dozen
nondescript travelers looked up from their meals to stare. In the
doorway, three Franciscan friars paused, then discreetly turned
away, and edged quietly toward a table as far removed as possible
from Sorcha and Napier.
Gavin Napier’s long mouth was clamped tightly shut in
the dark beard. He gripped his wine cup with both big hands, lest
he reach across the table and shake Sorcha into silence. From the
arched doorway that led into the kitchen, Bertrand’s owlish eyes
gazed anxiously.
Napier caught Bertrand’s apprehension and stood up.
Slapping down a handful of coins, he nodded to the young man,
snatched Sorcha by the wrist and led her out the back door of the
inn.
“
By God, you have the manners of a
Highland poacher!” he fumed. “Couldn’t you at least keep your voice
down?”
Sorcha was struggling in vain to get free. A dozen
baby chicks scattered near her hem as she tried to fight back a
sudden surge of tears. “I don’t care! I meant what I said! I’ve
waited two years to speak those words!”
His profile was turned to her, the jaw set, the dark
eyes brooding. Napier remained silent for several moments, then
tugged at Sorcha’s arm. “There, beyond the wooden gate—it’s the
stable. Or,” he demanded, not without a glint of humor, “would you
rather talk in the henhouse?”
It was Sorcha’s turn not to answer. She let him lead
her across the tiny flagstoned courtyard, past the fragrant herb
garden, and through the gate, which creaked on rusty hinges.
The stable was small, though at least a half dozen
horses and three cows were quartered there. From the rafters, a
pair of pigeons cast indifferent glances from small, beady eyes.
Napier spotted a bench by a wall that was covered with bridles and
harnesses. Indicating that they sit down, he finally let go of
Sorcha’s wrist, but kept one hand over hers. His usually controlled
features were in chaos—anger, doubt, remorse, and pain vied for
supremacy. Sorcha forgot her own tears and waited apprehensively
for Napier’s next words.
“
You’re right,” he said in that low,
rumbling voice that bespoke the depth of his emotion. “I was unfair
and dishonest.” His gaze locked with hers, and despair seemed to
dominate his face. “It was devious enough of me to let you believe
I was a priest. But, in fact, I am as unsuitable for you as any man
who’s taken Holy Orders. I can’t expect you to understand my
heart—or that hard brown nut that has become my heart—but it is
impossible for me to love you the way a man should love a
woman.”
He paused to worry his long upper lip with his teeth,
and Sorcha couldn’t help but interrupt. “But you did! I know you
did! I could sense it!”
Gavin Napier gave a little shake of his head and a
rueful smile. “I admit, I even fooled myself. For one fleeting,
joyous hour, I thought I could love again.” His fingers tightened
on Sorcha’s as one of the horses whinnied softly. “Yet I know that
was an illusion.” The hunter’s eyes were black with sorrow. “I
loved once, you see, and that love destroyed me forever.”
Even in her anguish at his words, Sorcha’s practical
nature asserted itself. “That sounds like an excuse,” she said,
almost more to herself than to Napier. “Isn’t at least one broken
heart expected in a lifetime?”
He let out a long, painful sigh and passed his free
hand through his hair. “Jesu, if only broken, it would be mended. I
speak of destruction, Sorcha, of willful annihilation.”
Despite herself, Sorcha made an incredulous face.
“Whoever this woman was, she must have hated you. Why?”
Gavin Napier shrugged his broad shoulders, and
somehow the gesture made him seem much younger and more vulnerable.
“I never knew exactly, but you’re right. She answered my love with
hate. And feasted on my misery.”
A brindle cat nosed its way from behind a wooden
bucket, looked up yearningly at the pigeons, and slunk away. Sorcha
paused before phrasing the next, obvious question. “Who was this
wretched woman?”
His eyes seemed to sweep up over Sorcha like a great,
towering wave of remembrance. “Her name was Marie-Louise. She was
my wife.”
“
Ah!” Sorcha actually fell back, her
shoulders striking a piece of harness. “Was? What happened to her?”
For one frightening second, Sorcha was afraid to hear the
answer.
“
She died.” Napier took a deep
breath, his hand still wrapped around Sorcha’s. “She was with one
of her lovers at the time.”
Despite Napier’s tragic statement, Sorcha couldn’t
help but feel a sense of relief. “She was faithless, I gather. I’m
sorry.” The words sounded insipid and Sorcha cursed herself
inwardly. “Was all this a long time ago?” she asked too rapidly, as
if to cover the lameness of her previous remark.
“
It was,” Napier replied, staring
straight ahead at a stall where a black-and-white-spotted cow
regarded him with big, somber eyes. “I was twenty-two when I met
Marie-Louise. Her mother was a Scottish exile, her father was
French. Marie-Louise was sixteen, lovely as the lily, full of grace
and charm. She already possessed wiles that would make a man go mad
with desire. I sought her hand, and though there were others, I was
the only Scot.” He stopped for a moment, then turned slowly to
Sorcha. “This must be unpleasant for you, to hear me speak thusly
of another lass.”
“
She’s dead.” Sorcha shrugged. “I
don’t fear the dead.” Seeing the vivid pain in Napier’s eyes,
Sorcha bit her lip. “Yet you do. Or her, at any rate.”
“
Aye,” he sighed. “I hadn’t thought
of it that way. But it’s so.” Releasing her hand at last, he rubbed
his temples. “It must sound daft to you, yet it’s very real to
me.”
“
So it seems,” Sorcha said as
matter-of-factly as possible. “But tell me the rest. If you wish
to.”
“
It’s strange—but I do.” His gaze
was almost diffident. “I’ve never told anyone else—except
Adam.”
Sorcha nodded in mute acceptance of his confidence.
Napier took up his tale, relating how Marie-Louise’s mother had
favored his suit. “Her father had been dead for many years, and
Marie-Louise had no dowry, though that would not have deterred most
of the young men who wanted to take her to wife. Still, my ancestry
stood me in good stead. We were married just after Eastertide that
year, the ceremony performed by my brother, Adam. Within a
fortnight she was unfaithful to me.” His voice rose slightly on the
last words, but before Sorcha could interject more than a gasp of
astonishment, he continued: “The worst of it was, she made no
excuses. She even told me I should take a mistress if it suited me.
She had no shame, no guilt—nothing except her insatiable need for
men. Some were old and ugly, some were poor and simple; it made no
difference. She mocked my humiliation, flaunted her sins. Everyone
knew—and sniggered and sniped behind my back. A few were even bold
enough to hurl their insults in my face.”
Sorcha could stand it no longer. She put her hands on
Napier’s arms and clutched him tightly. “The heartless whore! But
why, Gavin?”
He shook his head with such fervor that his entire
body quaked. “I swear, I don’t know. It went on for almost a year.
And then she told me she was with child. She insisted it was
my
child, though how she could be sure, I never could guess.
Still, I wanted to believe her. I hoped that a babe might change
her.” He stiffened in Sorcha’s grasp and took a deep, excruciating
breath. “Two weeks later, she lay in my arms and looked at me with
those lovely eyes and smiled with that beautiful mouth and
announced that she had destroyed our child. I tried to kill
her.”
Sorcha’s hand fell away from Napier’s arms and went
to cover her mouth. “Oh, sweet Virgin!” she murmured, laying her
head against his shoulder.
“
She fled. Marie-Louise was strong,
a superb horsewoman, a fine archer, as accomplished in sports as
any man. I was insane with rage and hurt. The dirk had missed its
mark. It gave her time to get away. Or perhaps I wanted her to
escape.” Again, Sorcha felt his body tremble against hers. “She
never came back, of course. And a year or so later, I heard she was
dead.”
Gavin Napier now sat very still, his head down, his
shoulders slumped, like a runner who has just completed an arduous
race. Sorcha felt his pain, absorbed his misery—and still could not
reconcile it with her own experience. “The fact remains, my love,
Marie-Louise is dead. Why should you let such a vile woman ruin the
rest of your life?”
He lifted his head just enough to look at Sorcha’s
face, which still nestled against his shoulder. “Can you imagine
what marriage means to me? Can you think how I must feel about
women? Do you believe I could ever trust another one?” Sorcha gave
him a little shake. “God’s teeth, Gavin, what proof of my fidelity
do you need? I haven’t even thought of another man since I met you!
And I’ve spent a year in a convent doing nothing except wait for
the day you’d return to me! Your wanton Marie-Louise was a foul
mockery of womanhood. I’m no more like her than you’re like …
Brother Jacques!”
Napier turned on the bench, his arm tentatively going
around Sorcha’s waist. “I’d like to believe that,” he said slowly,
“but I’ve spent eight years thinking otherwise.”
“
Then think again,” Sorcha
persisted, the green eyes boring into his as if she could compel
him to change. “Be honest. Do I strike you as
faithless?”
The storm clouds seemed to lift from his face. “No.”
Napier leaned down to brush her temple with his lips. “Yet I would
live in fear that someday you would leave me.”
“
Pah,” retorted Sorcha, though the
word was muffled by Napier’s beard. “I could never belong to any
other man, not even in my thoughts.”
“
I want to believe you.” He was
speaking low, into the masses of black hair that tumbled over her
shoulder. “I want to make you mine, yet love exacts a terrible
price.”
Sorcha leaned closer, purposely letting her breasts
touch his chest. She was jarred by the contact, unprepared for the
surge of desire that enveloped her body. But, she reminded herself,
there was far more to this moment than sensual gratification. Gavin
Napier’s heart and soul were in her hands; she must convince this
haunted, tortured man that love could be kind, not cruel, and that
despair could be dispelled by hope.
Though Sorcha didn’t draw back, she willed her racing
pulse to slow down. Carefully studying Napier’s face, she asked
herself why him, why this perverse, baffling, agonized man who had
deceived her, abandoned her, avoided her? Who had no money, no
rank, no visible prospects?
There was no explanation, save for that dark wolflike
face, with the sharp, broken nose, the secretive peat-brown eyes,
and the long mouth, with its infrequent but devastating smile.
Perhaps it was the rigid self-control, which, when broken, could
sweep them both away like a spring flood. Or the inner strength of
conviction symbolized by the tall, broad-shouldered body of muscle
and sinew. Then again, Sorcha realized, it was the very elusiveness
of him, like a great, wily salmon—or the Master of Ness.
“
Love is what it is,” she said at
last, watching his brow furrow slightly. “It’s there. Or it isn’t.”
Lightly, she touched her breast, just above where it met his shirt.
“I can’t will it away.” Her hand brushed his chest. “Can
you?”
Slowly, vehemently, he shook his head. “No. Though I
thought I could, for I feared it.” Napier’s arms pulled Sorcha
close, his mouth seeking the curve of her throat. She went limp as
he lifted her off the bench and carried her to the soft mound of
hay in the corner of the stable. “Hold,” he whispered, going to the
door to bolt it from the inside. “Let’s hope that Monsieur
Bertrand’s patrons are enjoying a lengthy repast.”
Sorcha knew she should protest, for this was not the
place, yet it was the time, and past time. She was too exultant in
her triumph over Gavin Napier’s memories to exercise restraint.
Sorcha had waited too long, with so little hope, while loving and
wanting him so very much. This time there was no shadow of
forbidden passion, nor, Sorcha fervently hoped, the specter of a
faithless wife. There were only the two of them, lying breath to
breath in the fresh summer hay.
Napier cradled her head under his arm and gazed into
her expectant face. “You are changed,” he said, and while his voice
was serious, it had lightened considerably. “I left a lass at
Fotheringhay. I find a woman in Compiègne.”
Reaching up to tease the dark hair that curled just
slightly where his neck met the cambric shirt, Sorcha smiled. “I
hope it’s a change you like. I sensed Rob merely found me more
obdurate.”
“
No!” Napier grinned, and Sorcha
realized how long it had been since she’d seen those white teeth
flash in the dark beard. “It seems to me,” he went on, letting his
free hand caress her hip through the fabric of her rumpled kirtle,
“that while you might grow more bonnie, it would be well-nigh
impossible for you to become more stubborn.”