Napier sighed deeply. “Oh, Sorcha you make it so very
difficult! But all the holiness and all the learning of other men
cannot alter my conscience!” He noted the desperation on her face
and put a hand over his eyes. “By the Mass, I would change in an
instant if I could, I swear it.” Hesitantly, he put his hand under
her chin. “I need time. This has been a most terrible shock.”
Sorcha couldn’t be sure if he was appeasing her or was serious. But
his words were the only hope she had. She blinked several times
before responding in solemn tones. “As you will. But we’ve wasted
years already.”
His face seemed to shed its protective mask, like a
warrior casting off his chin mail. “Saint Paul said it as well as
anyone,” Napier declared, his hand still under her chin. “ ‘By
the grace of God, I am what I am.’ For Paul, it meant certain
things; for me, it means others. Yet the result is the same—I
cannot change being the man I’ve become—solitary, inflexible,
overzealous, even haunted. As a younger man, I was none of those
things. I was open to life and to love, but experience taught me
differently. To survive in this world, I will take no more chances
where my heart and soul are concerned.” The dark eyes bore down on
Sorcha, willing her to understand. “If you love me, you will accept
me as I am.”
Sorcha’s brain toiled deftly through the maze of
words before she abruptly pulled away from him. “Don’t quote Saint
Paul’s epistles to me! They’re but an excuse, and furthermore, that
great apostle spoke as a man who had undergone enormous change for
the better. If he was flawed, as he admits, he was also satisfied
with the man he had become. I can’t think that you have reached
that same place in your life, Gavin Napier. You ask me to accept
you, when, in fact, you don’t accept yourself!”
“
That’s not true—nor is it fair.”
Napier made an effort at calm reason, but his skin had darkened and
his eyes gleamed with indignation. “I live comfortably enough in my
own skin. There is no way you can guess how it feels or fits on me.
Only I know that. Nor is there anything you can do to change it,
even though I might wish it otherwise.”
They had reached a point where Sorcha considered
further words a waste of breath. Still, she could not give up so
easily. “I should think so.” Her gaze was reproachful. “Indeed, you
just said you didn’t want it this way.”
Napier’s broad shoulders slumped, and he started to
turn away. Yet her seemingly helpless stance, the valiant effort
she had expended for them both, reminded him of that night so long
ago when Patrick Gray and the Earl of Caithness had dumped her on
his doorstep in Edinburgh. He had been overcome then by desire, but
through superhuman restraint, he had controlled his baser emotions.
Now, he wanted to make love to her even more than he had then;
having tasted the bounty of her passionate nature, having only the
previous day pledged to make her his wife, he was uncertain how
long he could withstand the power of her love.
Nor was Sorcha obliging him by offering rejection.
She remained standing before him, the big green eyes all but
begging him to take her. Napier crushed her lips with his, holding
her in a grasp so intense that Sorcha thought her spine might snap.
His tongue probed deep into her mouth, making her dizzy with
desire. She tried to pull her hands free from where they were
trapped against his chest, but the kiss went on and on until both
had to gasp for breath.
“
Never doubt my love for you,” he
muttered in a hoarse voice against her ear. “Never. Yet as you love
me, don’t try to kill my soul. Remember, Marie-Louise almost killed
my heart.”
Sorcha’s response was to lift her head to nip at his
ear and tantalize him with her own tongue. Her hands were now free,
clinging to his back, tugging at the cambric until she tore a hole
between his shoulder blades. “I will not give you up. If,” she
breathed into his neck, “I have to pursue you to the Indies, I
will. Nothing, not even Satan himself, can keep me from you!”
Napier put his hands on each side of her face,
marveling at the ferocity of her love. “I don’t deserve you. Nor do
you deserve the pain I can give you.”
“
Then give me pleasure now, my
love.” Sorcha’s eyes glittered with wanting. “The pain can wait
until later.”
Napier knew he had gone beyond the point of
self-control. Recklessly, he parted the thin material of her bodice
and pulled down the camisole to bare her breasts. Sorcha offered
them proudly to his eager fingers, feeling the tips turn to fire at
his touch. Expertly maneuvering Sorcha to the narrow cot, he
lowered her body down onto the single, worn covering. He all but
fell on top of her, and Sorcha couldn’t suppress her laughter. “By
heaven, it’s no wonder monks are celibate! There’s no room to be
otherwise!”
Napier grinned at her, suddenly restored to the
youthful humor that Sorcha found as appealing as it was rare. “Let
us hope the good brothers pray all night for King Henri’s soul. I
wouldn’t want to scandalize them after they’ve offered us their
hospitality.”
Sorcha made a gurgling sound that was meant to be
agreement. But Napier was inching up her skirts with one hand while
the other stroked the flat of her stomach. He tickled her navel
with his tongue as he deftly continued to disrobe her. At last they
were both naked, entwined together with her legs wrapped around
his. She felt the hard strength of his manhood pressing her thigh
and arched her body to savor the length of his lean, sinewy form.
Napier sought her buttocks, squeezing them with strong, possessive
fingers until he felt her quiver like a bird that has flown too far
too fast. His mouth captured hers once more, taking away her
breath, blotting out everything but the frantic need to be one.
Sorcha clasped him to her with an almost violent
urgency as he entered her body and seemed to plunge deep into her
soul. They moved together in a frenzied rhythm, the small cot
rocking precariously. The moon was already setting over the Seine,
but their joyful union was like a sunburst, evoking great gasps of
ecstasy that left them limp and replete. Sorcha was astonished to
discover there were tears on her cheeks.
With great reluctance, Napier withdrew from her, and
stood up by the cot, gazing down at Sorcha with a mixture of
amazement and awe. “I had told myself this wouldn’t happen.” His
grin was lopsided, faintly sheepish, as he ran a hand through his
dark, rumpled hair. “Was it only yesterday that we made love in
that stable?”
“
Jesu,” exclaimed Sorcha, “it seems
like years ago!” She sat up, leaning on one elbow, surfeited by
lovemaking, and suddenly sleepy. “My clothes,” she murmured,
peering at the floor. “I must go back to Rosmairi.”
“
Aye.” Napier handed her the
garments and started to put his own back on. He was dressed before
Sorcha was and, to her surprise, had put on his boots. He saw the
query in her eyes and sat down next to her on the cot, where she
was lacing her bodice. “I am leaving this place tonight,” he said,
and recognizing that an argument was forthcoming, he put a finger
to her lips and shook his head. “I could wait until Rob goes back
to Compiègne in the morning, but I need to ride alone, to think
alone. Do you understand?”
Sorcha wasn’t sure that she did, but was too tired to
argue. “Compiègne,” she repeated tonelessly. “Why?”
“
There are things I should find out
about Marie-Louise. That’s where I expect to garner some
answers.”
“
And then you’ll sail for Scotland?”
Her eyes were very wide, very steady.
Napier’s finger had trailed down her throat. “Aye. I
will come to Scotland. I promise.” The hunter’s gaze was as
unflinching as her own. He gave Sorcha a little smile. “I make no
other promise, though. I can’t.” The smile stayed in place,
obviously costing him great effort.
Sorcha nodded once, then rubbed her chin against his
hand. “I’ll wait.”
Lightly, he kissed her mouth and the tip of her nose.
“Until Scotland,” he said quietly, and got to his feet. Sorcha
watched from the cot as he put on his dirk and picked up his
gloves. She noticed the rent in his shirt and smiled ruefully to
herself. At least he’d have a souvenir of their mutual passion
until he arrived in Compiègne. Yet even as he saluted her from the
doorway of the cell, Sorcha felt a cold fear creep over her and
wondered if, once alone, Gavin Napier might follow his conscience
instead of his heart.
T
he figures on the music box
were twirling and bobbing to a repetitious tune that was giving
Sorcha a headache. But the Queen of Scotland clapped her hands and
laughed with delight. “Enchanting! They are James and I, is right,
ja
, aye, you wager?”
“
I believe so.” Sorcha smiled
without enthusiasm. During the first month of her attendance on
Queen Anne, Sorcha had found James’s bride kindly and good-natured,
but decidedly lacking in wit or depth. The King of Denmark’s
daughter was tall, slender, fair haired, and white skinned, a
typical Scandinavian lass. But at fifteen, she was too young to be
wise, and by nature, too simple to be clever. Still, it was
impossible not to like the new consort. Even Jamie, with his
predilection for handsome young men, seemed quite taken with her.
Sorcha had been amused by the change in him when he returned from
his winter wedding in Oslo and a honeymoon in Denmark that lasted
into spring. The stooped shoulders were straighter, the high voice
seemed deeper, even the scant beard was thicker. Jamie was suddenly
more than an unnatural boy—he’d become a husband, and perhaps a
man.
To some, the change was not necessarily for the good.
There were people at court, the Master of Gray among them, who
preferred a less assertive, a more malleable James. There were
others who preferred no James at all. It was rumored that someone,
possibly Bothwell, or a certain woman known as the Wise Wife of
Keith, had connived at sorcery to sink the King’s ship on his
homeward-bound voyage.
Sorcha had learned of these tales that previous
month, after James and Anne had returned to court. It was the first
inkling that Marie-Louise might actually be in Scotland, though far
from conclusive proof. Yet it had been sufficient to lure Sorcha
back to Edinburgh, where she had requested and received an
appointment as lady-in-waiting to the new queen.
As Anne wound up the music box once again, Sorcha
gritted her teeth and tried to think of other things. Her gaze
fixed on a tall mirror across the room, its frame embellished with
graceful nymphs. Noting her own image, Sorcha couldn’t suppress a
wry smile. Dallas had finally succeeded in transforming her older
daughter into a noblewoman of fashion and style.
Yet Sorcha still hadn’t grown accustomed to her new
image. The upswept crown of black waves, with thick curls resting
on her shoulders, the dark green satin trimmed in jet, with a
flounce of black lace petticoats, the molded bodice cut to show
just a tantalizing burst of bosom, and the stiff high-standing
black collar that framed her face struck Sorcha as most peculiar
apparel for daytime wear and, for her, downright ridiculous at any
hour.
But it was expected at court, and Sorcha was forced
to give in. Of course, she enjoyed the admiring glances men cast
her way and the fulsome words of flattery proffered by gallants at
court functions. They made no real impression, however, since the
only admiration Sorcha sought was from Gavin Napier.
“
I must learn the words to this
song,” Queen Anne exclaimed in her heavily accented Scots as the
music box finally wound down. “Tell me, Sorcha, how does it go? ‘My
laddie and I to Birth we will bide ….’ ”
“
That’s Perth,” cut in Sorcha, her
chin in her hand as she regarded the Queen with forbearance. “It’s
a town in Scotland.”
“
Ah! That’s good, a town!” Anne
clapped her hands again while Jean Gordon Sinclair returned the
music box to its honored place on the marble mantel. Jean was as
blond as Anne and almost as tall. As George Gordon’s only sister,
she had been given to the Earl of Caithness in marriage to cement
the Catholic bond between the two Highland families. She was a
sweet-natured, indolent girl; Sorcha wondered how she put up with a
lout like Caithness. She also wondered about Gordon and his Stewart
bride, but in the busy weeks since her arrival at court, she had
not yet had an opportunity to ask. She already knew that Gordon had
been driven out of Edinburgh by an enraged citizenry when it was
revealed that he had corresponded secretly with Spain prior to the
armada’s attempted invasion of England. While Jamie had shown
remarkable leniency toward Gordon for conspiring with Catholic
Spain, the capital’s Presbyterian majority had not been so
broad-minded. Consequently, Gordon was said to be pouting in his
Highland stronghold, no doubt waiting for the King to invite him
back to court.
It was not a notion without precedence; despite the
convoluted, even treasonable, intrigues of Patrick Gray, Jamie had
just announced his favorite’s reinstatement as Master of the
Wardrobe. Sorcha had seen Gray at court on several occasions, but
fortunately, always from a distance. As for Bothwell, he had not
been in attendance on the King since Sorcha returned to Edinburgh.
Nor had she ferreted out even a trace of Marie-Louise. For all
anyone knew, the dreadful woman had remained in France.
It seemed that Gavin Napier had stayed there, too.
While the Queen twittered with Jean Sinclair over her toilette,
Sorcha thought back to the last time she had seen Napier, in the
monk’s cell at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He had promised, he had
given his word, he would come to Scotland. But almost a year had
passed, and only one letter had reached her. It had arrived at
Gosford’s End just before Christmas, and was brief and to the
point. “Many obstacles have arisen to deter me from sailing to
Scotland,” Napier had written. “Not the least of these is the
illness of my brother, Adam. I pray that he will survive the winter
here at Amiens. I left your good brother and his kinsman in robust
health at Compiègne, thanks be to God. May the Virgin watch over
and keep you until I can be with you once again.” To Sorcha’s
dismay, he had signed the missive, “Faithfully, Gavin.” It seemed
to her that Napier’s pen had as much trouble expressing love as did
the rest of him.