The night had grown quite still; both bird and dog
were silent. Sorcha had opened the window, with its square-shaped
panes, many of which were cracked. From what she recalled of
Johnny’s holdings, this was where the high country moor met the
great green glens of Strath Spey. The building itself was a hunting
lodge, situated close to Gordon property. This room was located on
the second floor, facing the river. Leaning over the sill, she
noted that heavy vines of ivy covered most of the stone facade, but
even if she dared try climbing down to the ground, a guard was
posted almost directly below her. Sorcha left the window open, for
the room was musty, and the heat of the day still lingered.
Resignedly, she marched to the bed and tested the
mattress. The straw was bunched up into clumps, and she began to
pound the surface to distribute the stuffing more evenly. A knock
at the door evoked an irritated grumble, but she moved briskly to
inquire who her visitor might be. At least whoever it was hadn’t
barged in. From the other side of the door, she heard Johnny Grant,
sounding officious. The key scraped in the lock, but he waited for
Sorcha to turn the knob.
Johnny had changed his clothes since their arrival at
the hunting lodge, and in his tan shirt and scuffed house slippers,
he looked too young, too nondescript to be a clan chieftain.
“You’ve supped?” he inquired, folding his hands at belt level.
“
Aye,” replied Sorcha in a cool
tone, “if poorly.”
Johnny inclined his head this way and that, as if
making up his mind whether to be offended. “I’m afraid my people
here at Ballindalloch were unprepared. We all had to make do with
the meager offerings of an ill-provisioned kitchen.”
Reluctantly, Sorcha chose to accept Johnny’s words as
an apology. “These forests must have sufficient game,” she added in
a conversational tone. “I trust your men will hunt tomorrow.”
“
Mayhap,” he hedged, “though we have
more serious matters on our minds.” He shuffled his feet, glanced
about the room, and gazed yearningly at the only chair, but
remained standing. “Very serious,” he amplified, “inasmuch as we
must discover why a clan such as the Frasers, who’ve not meddled
much in politics, would suddenly conspire with priests.” Johnny did
his best to look severe but managed only petulance.
Sorcha gave a little snort. “How should I know, not
having been in my family’s house for three months? Hasn’t it
occurred to you that since my brother is studying for the
priesthood with one of our kinsmen, it would be quite natural for
our parents to offer hospitality to other priests? Why must you
think only of politics?”
“
Napier was at Gosford’s End several
years ago,” Johnny said doggedly. “I saw him there. He was in
league with the Gordons.”
“
He was, for a time. They had a
falling-out.” Sorcha didn’t choose to enlighten Johnny Grant about
Gavin Napier’s real identity.
“
He went to England with your
brother. You went, too.” Johnny’s voice was accusing.
“
That I did,” Sorcha admitted
readily. “Oh, my, I did indeed.” She frowned at the stale rushes, a
flood of memories washing over her.
Johnny sensed her shift of mood and moved about the
room uneasily, straightening a candle by the bed, twitching at the
faded hangings by the window, inspecting a loose brick in the
little fireplace. At last, he spoke again, forcing Sorcha to turn
and face him. “The Frasers must not become involved in Catholic
intrigues.” He wagged a finger at her. “They absolutely must not.
Your sire has maintained virtual neutrality all these years. And so
it must remain.”
Sorcha lifted one shoulder. “I can’t speak for my
father. No one ever could.”
Johnny tried to ignore Sorcha’s withering glance. “On
a map of the Highlands, you see the Sinclairs to the northwest, the
Frasers around Inverness, your mother’s Clan Chattan, with those
warring MacKintoshes and Camerons. Then, my own Grants, and farther
east, the Gordons with all their allies, almost to the sea. We
Protestants are wedged between those Catholic clans. Until now, we
have considered the Frasers, though Catholic, a buffer. If your
family changes its political stance ….”
Johnny droned on in a soporific voice that made
Sorcha aware of how tired she was. Stifling a yawn, she suddenly
opened her eyes at the sight behind Johnny’s back. There, at the
open window, was Gavin Napier, gesturing for her to keep silent.
Sorcha pressed her hand against her lips, let her eyelids droop to
hide her surprise, and nodded several times to indicate her
interest in Johnny’s diatribe.
With one strong, swift movement, Napier leaped from
the casement to wrap an arm about Johnny’s neck and clap a hand
over his open mouth. Eyes popping like a beached salmon, Johnny
struggled in his captor’s grasp. Napier let go of him at the neck
just long enough to unsheathe his dirk, which he pressed against
Johnny’s cheek. “One word and I’ll shave more than that scraggly
beard, Johnny Grant! Now do as you’re told, or prepare to die a
dubious hero.”
For the first time, Sorcha took in Napier’s apparel.
He was dressed much as usual, but wore the red-and-green plaid of
the Grants and the clan’s dark green bonnet with its crest badge.
Apparently he’d overcome the inattentive guard under her window and
borrowed some of his gear. Sorcha couldn’t help but bestow a wide,
grateful smile on Napier, not just for coming to her aid, but for
coming at all.
Napier was asking Johnny if there was a guard outside
the door. A jerky nod affirmed that there was. “I’m going to let
you call to him,” Napier said evenly. “The dirk stays on your
flesh. Tell him to come in.” He looked at Sorcha. “Quickly, find
rope or rags or some such item with which to secure the guard. I’ll
have to hold onto Laird Johnny. Can you tie a strong knot?”
Sorcha tossed her hair back over her shoulders. “You
ask that of a sea captain’s daughter? I could tie up half the
Highlands.”
Grinning, Napier steered Johnny closer to the door.
“One wrong word,” he warned, pressing the cold steel even further
into Johnny’s cheek, “and you’ll meet your Maker!” The hand dropped
abruptly from Johnny’s mouth; Napier’s knee nudged him to speak. To
his credit, Johnny sounded almost natural. A moment later, a
rawboned young man, blue eyes turning almost black in
consternation, stared at his captive laird. Napier ordered him to
let Sorcha tie him up with a long piece of tattered, yellowing lace
she’d found in a drawer. Quickly, Sorcha tested the piece to make
sure that age and mildew hadn’t rotted the fine threads.
The young man gaped at Sorcha in disbelief. “On the
floor,” she commanded. “Are you daft enough to risk your laird’s
life?”
The young lad might be slow, but he wasn’t daft;
giving his chieftain an apologetic look, he lay down as Sorcha
ordered and submitted to her expertise with knots at his ankles and
wrists. Her supper napkin was used as a gag, his keys were removed
from the ring at his belt, and his dagger, sheath and all, was
secured at Sorcha’s waist.
“
Good work, lass,” Napier said in
approbation. He propelled Johnny Grant toward the hall, pausing to
make sure no one else was in the vicinity. From around his
shoulder, Sorcha peered into the gloom, aware of stale smells of a
neglected house and cooking odors that had drifted up from the
kitchen below.
Napier prodded Johnny with the dirk. “You’ll take us
out of this place by whichever route is safest. Waste no time,” he
admonished, “and head for the stables.”
Moving noiselessly, but without hesitation, Johnny
led them down the passage to a narrow, winding back stairway where
the footing was uneven and treacherous. Sorcha felt her way along
the rough stone wall and twice collided with Napier’s back as he
held on firmly to his captive. At the bottom of the stairs, they
could hear voices to their right. A half-opened door made a wedge
of light near their feet—the kitchen, judging from the food smells
which had grown much stronger. Sensing that Johnny was weighing the
risk of bolting to sound an alarm, Napier brought the side of his
hand crashing down onto his captive’s neck. Johnny crumpled, but
Napier caught him before he could hit the floor, then stood
stock-still, waiting for repercussions from the kitchen. From
within, a man laughed carelessly, and another voice responded in
casual tones. Sorcha and Napier took deep breaths in unison, then
turned into the passageway.
Luckily, the outside door was just around the corner.
“No guards were here earlier,” he whispered, “but we’ll take no
chances.”
Hauling the inert Johnny Grant to the door, Napier
dumped him unceremoniously against the wall, then peered outside
before boldly steeping into the moonlight. “It’s quiet,” he
whispered, taking Sorcha’s arm. “The stables are just beyond the
smokehouse.”
Napier had left Naxos tethered to a fencepost near
the well. Except for the Highland ponies and Thisbe, there were no
other signs of life. Speaking in gentle, reassuring tones, Sorcha
led Thisbe outside where Napier was already mounted, anxious to be
off. Johnny Grant wouldn’t stay unconscious forever; there was a
good chance he was already awake, raising the cry to rally his
men.
In high summer, the Spey was placid between
Ballindalloch and Aberlour. They were riding north, rather than
west toward Fraser country. The moon was sliding down over the
gaunt, stark moors, and far away, a wolf howled as if bidding
goodnight to his silver companion in the sky.
Napier had explained to Sorcha that Grant’s men would
assume they’d ride for Gosford’s End. “They won’t figure us to stay
in Grant’s territory. In the morning, we’ll get our bearings and
head west.”
An hour or more from Ballindalloch, where the Spey
meandered through a glen dotted with birch and yew on one side of
the river, and a rocky outcropping on the other side sported a
carpet of heather in full bloom, Napier suggested they halt for
awhile. “Now that the moon’s down, we risk a fall with the horses.
They’ve both ridden hard today, especially Thisbe. I suggest we
sleep,” he said, testing the ground beneath his feet. “We’ve no
blankets, but it’s dry enough.”
Bemused, Sorcha stood quite still, noting Napier’s
sudden preoccupation with their surroundings. He had taken off the
Grant plaid and was spreading it on the grass, pulling and tugging
it this way and that. “This might offer you some comfort, at
least,” he said rather woodenly.
“
It could offer us both comfort if
we slept in each other’s arms,” Sorcha declared in a voice that was
tinged with annoyance. “Or perhaps you’d prefer sleeping on the
other side of the Spey.”
Napier stood up straight, and Sorcha could have sworn
that even in the dark, she could see his skin deepen in hue. “Don’t
taunt me,” he said sharply. “I can’t live with your wrath and my
misery.”
Sorcha wanted to tell him that if he’d set aside that
misery, she’d willingly dispense with wrath. Instead, she spoke in
a cool, almost detached voice. “Marie-Louise is living in
Bothwell’s house in Edinburgh. I met with her. I’ve reason to think
she not only intends to foil your plans for Catholic unity, but to
cause the King harm as well.”
Napier took an inadvertent step closer to Sorcha, the
brown eyes amazed. “Christ,” he breathed. “Is that why you came
north?”
“
Aye. I had to warn you. And someone
must warn King Jamie.” Sorcha smoothed the skirts of her burgundy
riding habit with fingers not entirely under control. “Marie-Louise
spews evil the way an evergreen oozes sap. She must be stopped.”
The glittering green eyes bore into Napier’s face as she moved
deliberately to stand in front of him. “Can you stop her, Gavin?
Can anyone?”
His features twisted painfully, then went slack. “I
don’t know. No one in France could. And that success has doubtless
made her overconfident.” He fingered his bearded chin between thumb
and forefinger. “It’s madness, of course. She is like a great
boulder, rolling downhill, scattering all that’s in her path. But
even a boulder eventually crashes at the bottom of the hill.”
Sorcha said nothing. Napier’s analogy was quite apt,
his frustration understandable. But now that Sorcha had delivered
her message, she was determined to break down that terrible
barricade Gavin Napier had erected between them. It was fruitless
to argue. Sorcha knew from previous experience that in a verbal
exchange, she was doomed to failure. Nor would some vague remnant
of pride allow her to hurl herself at Gavin Napier. Indeed, Sorcha
had nothing left to offer in their battle of wills—except herself.
She stood quietly before him, her green eyes turned to jade with
longing, the full, wide mouth slightly parted, the streaming black
hair framing her face like a veil of osprey feathers.
A muscle along Napier’s jaw tightened; the hunter’s
gaze turned as hard as the hills outlined against the night sky.
Then, a tremendous shudder overtook his big body, and he swallowed
up Sorcha in his arms, burying his face in her hair. “Sweet love!”
he cried on a strangled note, sounding not unlike the lonesome wolf
that had mounted the passing of the moon. He cradled her face in
his hands, and his eyes were suspiciously overbright. “Could it be
that you’ve been sent not to damn me but redeem me?”
Awed not only by the sudden change but by her power
over him as well, Sorcha found it difficult to speak. “God knows
I’d never want to bring you harm.” She placed her palms against his
chest, trying to dredge up the right words. “You must trust my love
for you. You must also trust your own instincts, no matter how
deeply you’ve buried them. You talk of being bound to Marie-Louise,
but her hold is one of hate. Can you honestly tell me such ties
nurture your soul and make it more pleasing before Almighty
God?”