“
I wouldn’t hide the Pope himself in
a place I was having redecorated,” she declared, maneuvering Johnny
Grant around a bucket of paste for the pastel wallpaper being hung
by a finicky young craftsman. “If you can find a priest in yonder
cradle,” Dallas warned them, “I’ll send him to the gallows
myself.”
At last, Grant and his followers reassembled in the
entry hall, an overwarm, weary lot. “There’s still some schnapps
and kippers, I believe.” Dallas informed them airily. “Feel free to
partake. But,” she admonished as the half dozen searchers
gratefully headed outside, “mind my pansies!”
Johnny Grant did not follow his men outside, however.
“There are stables and other outbuildings, My Lady. We are not yet
finished.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Not yet finished at
all.”
“
You never are,” Dallas retorted
irritably. It had cost her greatly this past two hours to exert
such good-natured amicability. “Go pry into every nook and cranny
of Fraser property, then. Look until your funny little eyes pop
out. But disturb one blade of grass, and there will be no sixth
Laird of Freuchie!”
Grant had the grace to look vaguely embarrassed, but
he also possessed a dogged tenacity that brooked even the most
menacing of threats. “We respect your rights as Highlanders,” he
allowed, no longer making an effort in the heat of the late
afternoon to restrain his paunch, “yet I must tell you, we have
heard from unimpeachable sources that one, and perhaps two, priests
visited you here within the last few days. Not to mention,” he
mumbled on, “the presence of that Frenchman.”
“
Oh, fie,” exclaimed Dallas in
exasperation, “that Frenchman is our son-in-law! Now beat your
retreat, Johnny Grant. I’ve expended all the patience I possess on
you today!” Dallas deliberately turned her back and stomped off
toward the kitchens. But before she turned the corner of the
hallway, she paused to make certain Johnny Grant had left the
house. Then, picking up her pale green skirts, she raced off, all
but hurtling into Cummings who was with Catriona, supervising
preparations for the family supper. Ordinarily, Cummings would not
have shared responsibilities with the Fraser head cook, but this
afternoon, his presence was mandatory. On the hottest day of the
year, it was one of those rare occasions when the ovens at
Gosford’s End had not been fired up. In their deep recesses reposed
Gavin and Father Adam Napier, uncomfortable but safe from Johnny
Grant’s prying eyes.
Dallas was particularly concerned for the crippled
priest; as for Gavin Napier, she wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t
prefer roasting him anyway. But Adam insisted he’d rather enjoyed
the dark solitude of the oven. “The sweet smell of bread lingers,”
he assured Dallas, as two kitchen boys assisted him into a chair.
“I meditated on the bread and wine, on the Body and Blood of
Christ. And,” he added with a twinkle, “on fresh buttered rolls and
biscuits.”
Ovens or no ovens, Dallas declared that a sumptuous
table must be set, to honor the deception of Johnny Grant. She was
also pleased to meet Father Adam, though her emotions were far more
mixed at seeing Gavin Napier again.
Iain Fraser pulled a fresh shirt on over his
shoulders and gave his wife a crooked grin. “Gavin Napier is in an
awkward situation in more ways than one. Had I not opened my doors
to him years ago, I might have run him through on the spot. But
while Sorcha was once quite keen on having her honor avenged in the
matter of Johnny Grant, I don’t think she’d thank me for doing
likewise with Napier.”
Dallas tucked her hair up inside a heart-shaped cap
edged with pearls. “Married to a so-called witch! Fie, I’ve known
many a man who’s claimed such was his plight, but Gavin Napier is
the first who actually is. And Sorcha is fool enough to fall in
love with him! Even if he could rid himself of that lunatic
Frenchwoman, he has nothing to offer. Sorcha might as well marry a
poacher.”
Fraser came up behind Dallas at her dressing table
and put a hand on her bare neck. “Oh, lassie, how you forget! You
came to our marriage bed with naught but bluster and bravado. Yet I
managed to overlook it, and we’ve done quite well, all things
considered.”
Dallas started to pull away, but caught her husband’s
half-serious, half-mocking reflection in the mirror and leaned back
against him. “That was different,” she grumbled, but her words
lacked bite. “If Napier hasn’t come with an honorable proposal, why
did he—they—come at all?”
“
The Napiers dream of Catholic unity
to ensure the Church’s viability. It’s a fragile hope, yet not
impossible if we could all put petty differences aside.” Fraser
stepped back, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve. “It would mean, of
course, that we would have to reconcile with George
Gordon.”
Dallas made a face in the mirror. “That seems too
great a sacrifice, no matter how noble the cause.”
“
Precisely.” He waited for Dallas to
rise and gave her his arm. “But if we cling to old grudges and
ancient feuds, we risk destruction by the Protestant oppressors. As
the Napiers point out, our only hope is to stand
together.”
“
Protestant oppressors, indeed!”
Dallas gave her damask skirts a swish. “Though what’s to choose
between George Gordon and Johnny Grant? Has that wretched little
pest taken his mindless men from the vicinity yet? If I thought
they were still prowling about, it would spoil my
appetite.”
“
They may still be bothering our
tenants,” Fraser admitted as they headed out into the hallway. “If
nothing else, Johnny Grant is efficient.”
“
I’d still like to know who passed
on the information,” Dallas persisted. “Have we a traitor in our
midst?”
Fraser shook his head as they descended the carpeted
staircase past the grouping of family portraits commissioned some
ten years earlier. “Not necessarily. Anyone with Protestant
leanings could have seen them headed this way. I imagine such
informers are well rewarded.”
Dallas was about to deliver her opinion of such
grasping, weasel-like creatures when Armand d’Ailly rushed to meet
them at the bottom of the staircase. “A most deplorable
occurrence!” he cried, putting a hand on each of the Frasers’
shoulders. His usually impeccable appearance was marred by the
blond hair hanging down over one eye; his dove-gray doublet was
askew at the collar, and the links in the silver chain he wore
around his neck were badly tangled. “I have just come from seeking
blackberries for my sweet Ros—you know how she craves such
things—and there, beside the road that leads to the burn, I found
young Grant and his men riding away.”
“
Good riddance,” said Dallas, and
gave a sharp nod of approval.
“
Oh, but no, no!” D’Ailly’s grip
tightened on his in-laws. “With them was Mistress Sorcha! They have
stolen her!”
Lord and Lady Fraser stared wordlessly at each other,
then gaped at d’Ailly. “How did Sorcha come to be here?” Iain
Fraser demanded.
D’Ailly lifted his palms upward in a helpless
gesture. “I cannot guess. You will have to ask her serving girl and
the young man who were left behind.”
Iain Fraser’s jaw hardened. He grabbed d’Ailly by the
arm. “Where are those two?” he demanded, waving off Dallas’s
attempt to interrupt.
“
In the kitchen,” d’Ailly replied.
“We came in that way. It was closer.”
An unusually pale Rosmairi clung to the banister
several steps above them. “What’s happening? This entire day has
been incredibly chaotic.”
D’Ailly took the stairs two at a time to rash to his
wife’s side. She leaned against him, a hand on her bulging abdomen.
“Even the bairn is distraught,” she complained. “Besides, it’s too
hot.”
With soothing words, d’Ailly led her back up the
stairs. Fraser, with Dallas at his heels, was already headed toward
the kitchen. To their astonishment, Catriona was serving Ailis a
mug of ale and bread with cheese, while a young man not yet twenty
chewed hungrily on half of a cold chicken.
“ ’
Tis Alexander—or is it
Andrew?—McVurrich,” Dallas whispered.
Fraser wheeled on Ailis and whichever nephew the
ravenous lad happened to be. Tersely, he requested the details of
Sorcha’s alleged abduction by Johnny Grant. It was Ailis who
responded, relating the incident with her usual economy of words.
She and Sorcha, along with Andrew McVurrich, had ridden hard for
three days from Edinburgh to warn Gavin Napier of possible danger
from the Frenchwoman, Marie-Louise. As the weary trio finally drew
within less than a mile of Gosford’s End, a troop of men had
blocked the road. Recognizing Sorcha, Johnny Grant had commanded
his men to seize her.
“
He said,” Ailis recounted, choosing
her words with precision, “that inasmuch as he believed that Lord
and Lady Fraser were hiding seditious priests in some cunning
place, he would hold Mistress Sorcha hostage until the priests were
turned over to him as required by the King’s command.” Ailis
stopped speaking and pursed her lips. “That is all he said, as best
I can remember. Except,” she added on a note of disapproval, “for
an ill-mannered remark about ‘coming to your
senses.’ ”
“
Fie,” breathed Dallas angrily.
“Such monstrous arrogance.”
Fraser fingered the bridge of his hawklike nose and
looked thoughtful. “How long ago did this happen, Ailis?”
Ailis tipped her head to one side. “Let me think—no
more than half an hour.” She peered at Andrew McVurrich for
confirmation; the lad nodded over his tankard, then accepted a bowl
of raspberries and cream from Catriona.
Fraser slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the
dishes and causing Andrew to look up from his berries. “I can guess
where they’ve gone, but such a headstart hinders us
considerably.”
“
Perhaps,” suggested a mild voice
from the corner by the butter churn, “you might wait for my brother
to report back.”
The others all turned to stare at the inconspicuous
figure of Father Adam Napier, seated in a straight-backed chair, a
light woolen blanket thrown over his crippled legs. He cradled a
tankard of Dutch beer in his hands and assumed an apologetic air.
“I’m at fault for what has happened, of course. Had you turned me
over to young Grant, it would have saved a great deal of trouble.
It’s still not too late, you know.”
Her maternal instinct rushing to the fore, Dallas
started to agree with him, but Iain Fraser strode to Father Adam’s
side and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “We’ll do no such
thing. Johnny Grant won’t harm Sorcha,” Fraser asserted, though he
wished his inner conviction were as strong as his words. “Now tell
us, Father, what did your brother plan to do?”
Adam Napier gave a little shake of his head. “I’m
never sure what Gavin plans in such circumstances. He …
improvises.” The priest uttered a self-deprecating chuckle. “He
took Naxos, his own horse. He might overtake those ponies.”
Fraser weighed the priest’s words carefully. In the
end, Magnus was summoned to confer with his father and his
brother-in-law. However, young Andrew McVurrich was given the
option of absenting himself from the family conclave. “You’re not a
Fraser,” he was told by his uncle, “nor have you been brought up in
the Catholic faith,”
But Andrew surprised them by declaring that he would
stand fast with his Fraser kin. “Sorcha is my cousin,” he declared,
setting his long jaw in affirmation. “While my sire may be a
McVurrich and a presbyter, my Lady Mother is a Cameron, and
Catholic to boot. She has always taught us that family keeps with
family, and let the rest of the world go hang.”
Iain Fraser clapped the youth on the back and
silently thanked Tarrill for her sense of kinship. Magnus arrived
just after sunset, and along with Dallas and Rosmairi, the family
joined Father Adam in the solarium, where they could view the last
streaks of pale purple light fade over the rooftops of Inverness
and disappear into the sea. Their discussion was lively as well as
urgent. Dallas never veered from her determination to seek Sorcha’s
swift and safe return, while Father Adam repeated his offer to
surrender himself to the Grants. Iain Fraser and Magnus
concentrated on rescuing Sorcha by force, while Armand d’Ailly
extolled the virtues of negotiation. When Andrew grew excited at
the prospect of possible armed confrontation, Rosmairi disagreed
vehemently, asserting that the one factor everyone was overlooking
was Sorcha herself.
“
I’m confident that Sorcha is
sufficiently resourceful to find a way out of this silly situation.
Hasn’t it dawned on anyone else that Johnny Grant may be more
embarrassed over being humiliated in front of Gavin Napier years
ago than he is motivated by religious zeal?”
Rosmairi’s comments were duly considered, but
Dallas’s determination remained fixed. “I care not for whys and
wherefores,” she asserted, as a cool breeze stirred the new Flemish
draperies. “I want my daughter back home. At once.”
No one in the room contradicted her; it was, despite
the divergence of opinions on how to achieve such a goal, exactly
what they all wanted most.
The candle wax collected in thick clumps on the twin
candelabra that stood at each end of the refurbished mantel.
Rosmairi dozed on Armand d’Ailly’s shoulder, and Father Adam’s face
took on a pinched, careworn look. Andrew McVurrich turned silent,
occasionally biting his fingernails. Only Lord and Lady Fraser and
their eldest son talked on, while the gilt hands of the Austrian
clock across the room edged close to midnight.
And still, Gavin Napier did not return.
The sweet, wild cry of the lav’rock called from the
pinewood, and somewhere farther off, a dog howled at the risen
moon. Sorcha yawned and grimaced at herself in the wavy mirror that
hung above a solid but ugly oak dressing table. The room in which
she was held prisoner was large enough and furnished adequately,
but despite her weariness, she wasn’t in the mood for sleep. Only
in the past hour, after supping on overdone beef and wrinkled peas,
had her temper come under control. That Johnny Grant, of all
people, should kidnap her in the name of religion was more
aggravating than it was frightening. She had not wasted her breath
on him during the arduous ride to the bank of the Spey, but once
they had reached Johnny’s modest outpost, Sorcha had berated him
and his followers with a stream of bitter reproach. Johnny’s
response had been to have her hauled off bodily by two of his men
and locked into the bedroom where she now paced in frustration. In
truth, she had not been mishandled, and while she had first
threatened to hurl the supper they’d brought in their faces, she’d
finally decided that food was a better ally than malice.