Deliberately, Sorcha turned away and headed back
toward the Water Gate without a further word. She sensed, even if
she could not see, Marie-Louise’s startled reaction. “Wait!” the
Frenchwoman cried, the honey melted from her voice. “Where is
Napier? Where did he go?”
Sorcha kept walking, urging her uncertain legs to
maintain a brisk step. Just ahead, by the entrance to the royal
tennis courts, Ailis and Doles wandered casually into the street,
seemingly absorbed in their own conversation while keeping several
yards ahead of Sorcha.
“
I know he is in Scotland!” The
voice was receding into the wind that had picked up off the Firth
of Forth. “You’ll regret not telling me! Where
is ….”
Grateful that Marie-Louise’s words were swallowed up
by the distance that separated them, Sorcha slowed her pace and
took a deep breath. She had been certain that the other woman
wouldn’t follow her back into the bustling Canongate; even if she
had, she could do no more than rant. As Ailis and Doles sauntered
up to the McVurrich house, Sorcha paused by White Horse Close,
oblivious of the pigs that rooted for food among the debris dumped
by local residents.
Sorcha had not yet penned her message about
Marie-Louise to send north. She had intended to write it as soon as
she returned from meeting her nemesis. But as she stepped around
two piglets who were trotting after a huge, lumbering sow, it
occurred to Sorcha that a letter wouldn’t do. Marie-Louise’s
threats weren’t meant just for the King of Scotland, but for Gavin
Napier as well.
Sorcha made up her mind to head for the Highlands
that very day.
W
hile Gosford’s End was
abuilding some twenty years earlier, Dallas had set her heart on
the inclusion of a solarium. She had mystified her husband and
frustrated the architect by her persistence in putting the room at
the north end of the manor house to capture the view of Inverness.
Even with its perpendicular windows, which filled one wall almost
from floor to ceiling, the sun penetrated only about three months
of the year. Iain Fraser had called it “Dallas’s Folly,” a name
that had clung over the years, much to his wife’s chagrin.
But that August there were several rare, hot,
brilliant days when Dallas could indulge herself by opening up the
much-maligned solarium. She had supervised the cleaning and
refurbishing of the room, ordering new upholstery for the divan, an
armchair to match, and Delft tiles for the fireplace, which had
never been quite finished to her satisfaction. Now, surveying the
fruits of her creativity and the labors of a dozen workmen, Dallas
went off in search of her husband, who had returned only the
previous day from a voyage to Norway. To Dallas’s consternation,
she found him closeted with visitors.
“
Who’s in there with him?” Dallas
demanded of Cummings as she jabbed her thumb in the direction of
her husband’s study.
Cummings’s expression remained as imperturbable as
ever. “I believe Lord Fraser is meeting with the priests from
France. Unless,” he added with an uncharacteristic lack of
confidence, “one of them is not a priest.”
Dallas bore down on Cummings, her ruby-studded choker
catching fire from the sunlight that streamed through a recessed
diamond-paned window at the end of the hall. “Priests? From France?
Jesu!” she exclaimed, whirling around toward the study door, but
thinking twice about barging in. “Not Gavin Napier and his
brother?”
Cummings coughed delicately. “I believe so, yes.”
Dallas tapped her cheek with her fingers. Had Napier
managed to shed his odious wife and make an honest woman out of
Sorcha after all? Dallas doubted it; such good fortune didn’t seem
destined for her elder daughter. Not that Dallas was convinced
Gavin Napier would make Sorcha a suitable husband. As far as Dallas
could see, he had no inheritance, no property, and no visible means
of support. She could hardly wish an indigent husband on Sorcha. At
least Armand d’Ailly owned land in France, and with any luck,
Donald McVurrich would see that he profited handsomely from it.
“
How long have they been in there?”
Dallas asked at last, again gesturing in the direction of the
study.
“
Nigh on an hour,” Cummings replied.
He was about to add that Lord Fraser had requested supper in the
study for all three of them, but was interrupted by a breathless
serving lad who caromed around the corner of the hallway and almost
collided with Lady Fraser.
“
Have a care, Wee Willie,” Dallas
cried, gathering her pale green lawn skirts around her, “you all
but toppled me!”
Wee Willie took no umbrage. “There’s great excitement
at the front door, My Lady!” The boy’s red curls hopped up and
down. “Some of the servants will offer hospitality and some will
not. What shall be done?”
Dallas and Cummings exchanged bewildered glances.
“That depends on the visitor’s identity,” said Dallas, turning back
to the boy. “Who is this questionable character?”
The lad’s blue eyes were as lively as his curls.
“ ’Tis the Laird of Freuchie, madam—he that used to be called
Johnny Grant.”
“
Oh, a pox on Johnny Grant!” cried
Dallas, shaking her head vehemently at Cummings. “Iain and I swore
he’d never darken our door again! Come, let’s throw the gap-toothed
gargoyle out!”
Dallas was already around the corner of the hall
before Cummings, favoring his painful bunion, could hobble after
her.
Wee Willie trailed behind, determined not to miss out
on what ought to prove a first-rate entertainment.
In the four years since Lord and Lady Fraser had seen
Johnny Grant, his youthful affectations had grown into mature
pomposity. His body had altered, too, broadening in the shoulders
and even in the paunch. The beard he sported was thick but too long
for fashion, though the gap between his teeth seemed less
noticeable now that his face had filled out. His riding clothes
were somber but well cut. While he assumed an air of dignity, the
flickering of his eyes betrayed his inner apprehension. Indeed, as
Dallas bore down on him, he unwittingly took a step backward,
almost stepping on one of the Fraser collie pups that dozed in the
sun on the doorstep.
“
You are not welcome here, Johnny
Grant,” Dallas announced, fists on hips made formidably wide by a
deep green farthingale. Over Grant’s shoulder, she glimpsed at
least two dozen men wearing the Grant plaid and seated on
fleet-footed Highland ponies. Dallas wished she had not been so
precipitous in ordering Wee Willie and the other servants to
withdraw. “Fie,” she breathed, frowning at the ominous company.
“What manner of visit do you pay us?”
Grant pushed out his chest and pulled in his paunch.
“On behalf of His Majesty’s Privy Council, I am empowered to search
these premises for seditious priests.” He snapped his fingers
rather clumsily, and one of the men strutted forward, carrying an
impressive sealed piece of parchment. “This,” Grant intoned
self-importantly, “is the warrant of my office.” He took the paper
from his man, and with a flourish, handed it to Dallas.
Swiftly, she perused the seal to make sure it was
genuine, then brandished it at Grant. “How neatly it’s rolled! Pray
tuck it back where it belongs, Johnny Grant!” Dallas shoved the
parchment back into her astonished visitor’s hands, forcing him to
juggle it awkwardly against his puffed-up chest.
“
Madam!” gasped Grant, turning quite
pink, “do you realize what effrontery you commit? Effrontery!” he
repeated, in his familiar quest for emphasis.
“
It is you who commits effrontery by
coming here in the first place.” Dallas’s eyes blazed with
indignation. “My husband and I ordered you never to show your
insipid face on our doorstep again.” Dallas was wagging a finger
under Grant’s nose. “Now put yourself back on your horse before I
summon Lord Fraser.”
But Johnny Grant’s office gave him the right, as well
as the courage, to withstand Lady Fraser’s onslaught. “This is not
a matter of petty personal quarrels,” he declared, summoning up the
vestiges of his dignity. “This is the King’s business. You will
permit me—and my men—entry at once.”
Inwardly, Dallas cursed herself for not first
informing her husband about Johnny Grant’s arrival before going to
the door. Outwardly, she had to stall for time. Casting a swift
glance over her shoulder, she was relieved to note that Cummings
had slipped away.
“
Well.” Dallas remained in the
doorway, effectively blocking Grant’s passage. “Are you serious
about all your men tramping through our house?” She made a sweeping
gesture with one hand, indicating Grant’s troops, who were growing
restive under the hot sun.
“
Uh ….” Johnny Grant passed a
quick glance backward toward his men, then looked upward, as if
calculating how many would be needed to conduct a thorough search.
“Some half dozen, I’d say.” Grant nodded once, the overlong beard
dusting his expanded chest. “Yes, some half dozen.”
“
And the others?” Dallas asked, now
looking deceptively benign. “Perhaps they’d care for some
refreshment. At least a cool drink.” She worried her lower lip with
her teeth, apparently taking mental inventory of the Fraser kitchen
and cellar. “We have Dutch beer,” she said brightly, “and something
rather strange that Iain has just brought back from Norway in funny
little wooden casks. There’s wine, of course, but the day’s so hot,
I should think it might give your men spells or headaches ….”
Her voice trailed off as she underscored her indecision by twirling
a strand of hair that had come loose from under her pert green cap.
“Now, sack might please them …. Cummings could fetch that from
the cellar.” She turned slowly and caught her breath as Iain Fraser
moved toward the front door, a pleasant, indolent expression on his
face.
“
What have we here, lassie?” he
asked mildly. He stood next to Dallas, an arm around her shoulders.
“Ah, ’tis Johnny Grant and a company of fine Freuchie fighting
men.” He gazed past Grant to the increasingly restless retainers.
“They are armed, are they not? What’s happened, Johnny? Are you
fleeing From Highland reivers, or do you still have designs on my
daughter’s dowry?”
Grant’s pink color deepened to puce. “My Lord, this
is not a matter for … jocular behavior. My men and I are
empowered by the King to search your house. We come to root out
traitorous priests.” He cleared his throat and again waved the
sealed parchment. “Catholic priests,” he added, in case there was
any confusion.
“
But first Cummings must bring beer.
Or was it sack?” Dallas gave Grant a befuddled glance. Suddenly,
she all but jigged with excitement. “And that sumptuous pickled
herring in cream! Such a treat! Johnny,” she said with a motherly
smile, “aren’t those laddies well-nigh famished? We’ll have a
picnic, to prove we Frasers can let bygones be bygones.” With a
firm but friendly shove, she marched past Grant to the others.
“Good gentlemen of Freuchie, we’ve food and drink to put you at
your ease. Come, under the larches, by the rose garden. It’s cooler
there, and your ponies may slake their thirst in the little pool.
Just don’t let them trample my pansies. I nursed them through that
uncommonly late May frost.”
The Grant supporters, who were uniformly wiping
perspiration from their brows while their little mounts drooped
under them, waited anxiously for a signal from their leader. Johnny
Grant’s face was set, however, and he turned to Iain Fraser, who
was idly leaning against the doorway examining his fingernails. “My
Lord,” Grant said in a voice that he hoped conveyed mature
authority, “while those men that I do not need just now refresh
themselves, I must insist upon searching these premises at once. At
once,” he echoed, stamping his booted foot.
Fraser shrugged. “As you will, Johnny. But take care
when you reach the solarium. One smudge of dirt, and my lassie will
skewer you. She just had it prettified at a cost that made half the
tradesmen in Inverness wealthy, while helping to impoverish me.” He
shook his head with mock self-pity. “It’s as well you didn’t marry
Sorcha, Johnny; you could have ended up like me, a pathetic old man
eking out a living by trading good Scots wool for Norwegian pickled
herring.”
To Johnny Grant, the tall, lean Iain Fraser, even at
sixty, with his pantherlike grace and air of easy command, hardly
seemed old or pathetic. Though his hair had more gray than black,
and the lines in his face were etched deep by years at sea and a
life lived well, Fraser’s cool hazel eyes not only knew more, but
still saw more than most men half his age.
“
I shall search the, uh, solarium,
myself,” averred Grant, finally signaling for a half dozen of his
men to follow. The others trotted eagerly after Dallas, while she
shouted for Cummings to serve their guests.
It took two hours for Grant and his men to search the
Fraser home. In the kitchen, Catriona stood by the ovens, wielding
a basting brush and expressing displeasure at the invasion of her
domain. After a cursory perusal of Dallas’s bedroom, they were
dispatched by an irate Flora, who was mending her mistress’s best
ballgown. In the servants’ quarters, the ancient Marthe wheezed
after them, making sure that they replaced every item that they
touched. In Rob and Rosmairi’s rooms, now converted into a suite
for the d’Aillys, Armand gave them scant shrift. His wife was
taking a nap, and in her delicate condition, they might risk
sending her into premature labor, a crime for which they would pay
dearly with specific members of their bodies. As for the nursery,
which was in the process of being refurbished by some of the same
workmen who had been hired for the solarium, Dallas herself
intervened.