A hint of a smile touched Napier’s long mouth. “As
ever, your touch drives moral argument from my mind.” He bent to
sear her lips with his kisses, slowly, inexorably bringing her down
onto the red-and-green patch of plaid. His passion at last
unleashed, Napier fell upon her, crushing the breath from her body.
Sorcha paid no heed; he could snuff out her very life and she would
know only the ecstasy of surrender. Her hands caressed the hard
muscles of his shoulders, her cheek felt the delicious savagery of
his heavy beard, her teeth and tongue taunted his ear. Napier’s
hands worked at the fastenings of her riding jacket, with its
padded shoulders and black velvet trim. It had cost a goodly sum,
but Sorcha submitted the garment—and herself—to Napier’s reckless
plundering. The thin shift she had worn under the habit slipped
away from her breasts, baring them to Napier’s hungry mouth. Sorcha
felt for his buttocks, kneading the sleek masculine flesh through
his leather breeks. Under his demanding tongue, her nipples
preened, her body ached for consummation, her soul cried out to be
filled with him.
For a brief instant, he looked up into her face and
smiled that wry, half-guilty, half-ecstatic grin that rent Sorcha’s
heart from top to bottom. “Denying you is like denying life itself.
You are the earth—like wind and fire and sun and rain. I thought I
lived in spite of you. But no—I live because of you.”
“
Living is loving. There should be
naught else,” Sorcha declared with breathless fervor. She wriggled
under him as he pulled off the rest of her clothing and then his
own. Though the night air was kind, she trembled as she felt the
source of his manhood, her long, slim fingers stroking him into
groans of pleasure. Greedily, yet lovingly, her mouth captured his
and he clasped her by the hips, guiding her into a sitting
position.
The black hair streamed down her face, and she shoved
it out of her eyes with an uncertain hand, delighting in the
faintly dazed, glorious happiness of his face. She was straddling
his thighs as he lay on his back, his off-center grin no longer
touched by guilt. “You’re a wanton wench, Sorcha Fraser. Thank
God.” His laughter echoed out over the rambling waters of the Spey.
“I confess to being seduced. Take me, then. I’m yours!”
Momentarily puzzled, Sorcha ran a finger over her
lower lip. She stared uncomprehendingly down at Napier; he made an
encouraging, if impatient gesture with his hand and suddenly she
understood. Her own laughter chimed on the night air, and even as
it seemed to roll out over the moors, she moved forward a few
inches on her knees and then lowered herself over the pinnacle of
possession.
The shock of feeling him invade her being in this
unanticipated manner rendered her breathless. Sorcha closed her
eyes, and began to rock back and forth as Napier moved forcefully
within her, numbing her brain and stunning her senses. Just as she
was certain she could no longer endure the agony of desire, the
outpouring of his passion overwhelmed her. With a cry of delirious
fulfillment, Sorcha went rigid, her head thrown back, the long
masses of hair brushing Napier’s thighs, her breasts thrust upward,
her body outlined against the darkness like a mythical Valkyrie
riding her steed into the fiery twilight of the gods.
And in that moment of exultant triumph, Sorcha knew
that the power of her love had brought Gavin Napier out of the
shadows and into the light of life.
T
he first heavy snow fell
early that autumn, covering the Highlands from Strathnaver in the
far north to Glen Clovo in the southeast. The roads were
impassable, the last of the harvest had been hastily brought into
the barns, and farmers struggled through four-foot drifts to round
up their livestock. Even after the storm let up, the wind continued
to blow from the north, piling snow up against the very walls of
Gosford’s End.
From her bedroom window, Sorcha grudgingly admired
the pristine white landscape that stretched almost unblemished to
the roofs and spires of Inverness. But the heavy fall had also
delayed the return of Gavin Napier and Magnus Fraser, who had
ridden out the last of September to confer with the Earl of Moray
at Donibristle.
“
Keeping watch won’t make them come
any sooner,” Rosmairi said in a faintly waspish voice. “No more
than will wishing make my bairn get itself born.” She put a hand
over her bulging abdomen and tilted her head to one side. “I feel a
foot—or is it an elbow?”
Sorcha gave her sister a fond smile. “Frankly, it
looks like a group. Ros,” she queried, leaving the window and going
to warm herself by the crackling fire, “are you happy?”
The smooth brow furrowed as Rosmairi gazed at Sorcha.
“Aye,” she replied with conviction, “I am indeed. Yet bearing babes
is a tiring task. And it takes so long!”
Pushing a half-burned log back farther into the
flames, Sorcha set the poker down and came to sit on a footstool
next to Rosmairi. “Yet it’s the fruit of your love. I wonder if I
shall ever bear Gavin’s child.”
Rosmairi noted the wistful look on Sorcha’s face and
smiled encouragement. “If he has the support of his brother and
John Fraser, surely the Pope will grant an annulment. Does Gavin
still plan to go to Rome in the spring?”
“
Oh, yes.” Sorcha nodded vigorously.
“But even after eight years of desertion and Marie-Louise’s refusal
to live as his wife, I still fear that the grounds may be
insufficient. Annulments are difficult at best, and despite Brother
John and Father Adam’s influence, they have neither wealth nor
political power.” Anxiously, she raked the long hair that had
fallen over her forehead. “I have visions of waiting so long that
I’ll be too old to care.”
“
Now, now,” Rosmairi said in kindly
reproach, “that’s not like you to lose heart. You’re conjuring up
obstacles where there may not be any.”
Sorcha was about to respond that sometimes she felt
their only real hope was having Rob elected to the Papacy—yet,
knowing Rob and his deep-seated sense of justice, even he might say
no. But arguing the matter did as little good as worrying about it.
Sorcha had to be comforted by the fact that Gavin Napier had
finally agreed to seek the annulment at all. Indeed, he was eager
to head for Rome and would have already left had not a new crisis
erupted in the Highlands.
When Sorcha and Gavin Napier had returned to
Gosford’s End, the family’s elation over their safety had been
considerably dampened by news of George Gordon’s incursion into
Grant territory and adjacent MacKintosh lands as well. For Lord and
Lady Fraser, Gordon’s brazen move was a dangerous insult to
Dallas’s clan.
Despite Father Adam’s reminder that the Church was
best served by Catholic families who put aside petty clan feuds for
the sake of religion, Dallas asserted that lawlessness was
lawlessness, no matter what the nominal faith of the perpetrator.
Iain Fraser eventually, if reluctantly, had to agree with his wife,
pointing out that a Highland chieftain, such as Gordon, who flouted
the King’s command, served neither his country nor his Catholic
faith.
King Jamie had obviously agreed, sending a force
north to quell the burgeoning war. To everyone’s relief, Gordon
retired from the field, though no one believed he had given up
completely. It was said that the great earl was too ambitious to
live forever in the King’s shadow. If George Gordon couldn’t rule
all of Scotland, he intended to reign over the Highlands.
Consequently, Iain Fraser had decided to seek an alliance, not with
his Catholic brethren who were in complete disarray, but with the
one man whose judgment he trusted: that other James Stewart, the
Bonnie Earl of Moray. Fraser had sent his eldest son and Gavin
Napier to Donibristle to discuss the combustible political
situation and to consider what might be done to prevent further
military confrontations. Resignedly, Sorcha had watched Napier and
Magnus ride out one crisp fall morning and knew that her hopes for
a wedding in the near future were dashed.
At least, with Napier gone from Gosford’s End, the
awkward situation of living under the same roof with her parents
and Father Adam was not a problem. During the month after their
return to the Fraser manor house, Sorcha and Napier had agreed not
to make love. At first, with the promise of an annulment and the
prospect of marriage shimmering on the horizon, their mutual
restraint had not been too difficult. But as the heat of summer
fell victim to the chill of fall, Sorcha’s yearning for her lover’s
embrace grew stronger. Nor was there much comfort from Napier,
whose hunter’s eyes burned with the intensity of his own desire. It
was almost as if they’d come full circle, from those days of
agonized uncertainty at Fotheringhay to the acknowledged,
still-unsanctified passion they were forced to deny at Gosford’s
End.
While Sorcha hated being separated, she had waved
Napier off to Donibristle with a sense of relief. But that had been
more than a month ago. Now, a week after the unseasonable snowfall,
there was still no sign of a thaw. The next day would be All
Hallows Eve, and Sorcha suddenly thought of Marie-Louise and
shuddered.
“
Are you that cold?” Rosmairi asked
with concern. “Here, take my shawl,” she offered, starting to pluck
the fleecy blue wool from her shoulders.
“
No, no,” protested Sorcha. “I just
thought of something unpleasant. Ros,” she said, her tone turning
brisk, “I should go back to court as soon as possible.”
Readjusting the fleecy shawl, Rosmairi regarded
Sorcha quizzically. “Why? To avoid Gavin?”
Surprised by her sister’s acuity, Sorcha stared, then
laughed. “That’s part of it—but we’re out of touch here; we have no
one at the King’s side who can give us an unbiased report of what’s
happening.”
“
I thought you were going to wait
until Armand and the bairn and I could go with you in the spring,
so that we could discuss disposition of the French properties with
Uncle Donald.” Rosmairi was verging on petulance. “After all, you
told us that dreadful woman claimed ownership of Armand’s land.
We’ve got to get the matter settled so that we can arrange to build
a home in Scotland.”
“
That’s my point,” Sorcha asserted.
“Who knows what Marie-Louise is doing in our absence? Her lover
Bothwell’s plots grow more daring by the day.” Always a thorn in
his royal cousin’s side, the Border earl’s reputed involvement with
witches had caused Secretary Maitland to urge imprisonment. At the
same time Bothwell’s harassment of King Jamie seemed to have
increased dramatically since Marie-Louise’s arrival in
Scotland.
“
My original intention was to watch
Marie-Louise like a hawk, should she show her evil face at court,”
Sorcha explained. “Yet when she finally came to Edinburgh, I fled
north, to warn Gavin. Now, perhaps I can serve him—and Jamie—better
by returning to my place with Queen Anne.” Concluding her
explication, Sorcha waited for Rosmairi to comment.
But Rosmairi had turned rigid, her normally pink
cheeks gone gray as the snow clouds that hung low over Beauly
Firth. “Sweet Mother of God,” she breathed, her eyes startlingly
bright, “my water broke!”
Marie-Louise’s witchcraft, Bothwell’s treachery, even
Gavin Napier and the Fraser-Grant mesalliance were all swept aside
by that most natural, yet most incredible of occasions—the birth of
a baby. As Rosmairi groaned in her labor, Sorcha held her hand and
whispered encouragement. The midwife, a hefty, capable cousin of
Catriona’s, stood in for Dr. Macimmey who was stranded by the
weather in Inverness. Margery Syme had helped birth dozens of
babies born to Fraser tenants and clansmen, but Dallas would have
preferred to have the taciturn, pedantic Macimmey in
attendance.
If Margery Syme was aware of Her Ladyship’s
preference, it made no difference. The broad-beamed midwife gave
orders like a commander in the heat of battle. Even Dallas was
pressed into service, assembling the linen with which to wrap the
newborn babe. As for Armand, Margery dispatched him early on, to be
cosseted by his father-in-law with large amounts of strong
spirits.
“
Breath in, now out, there’s a good
lassie,” she ordered, red, work-roughened hands helping Sorcha hold
Rosmairi on the bed. “Ochs, you’re fighting it, push the bairn; the
wee mite wants out!”
Dallas winced as Rosmairi erupted with another
soul-searing cry. “Does Margery Syme think my sweet daughter is a
cow birthing a calf?” she whispered in annoyance to Flora. But
Dallas acknowledged Margery’s skill and said no more.
A short time later, as Rosmairi’s agony seemed to
brook no respite, Margery Syme called for whiskey to dull the pain.
When Rosmairi waved away the brimming cup, Margery downed it
herself. Aghast, Dallas was about to remonstrate when the baby
finally emerged. Margery triumphantly held the infant aloft, a
husky boy, bellowing his greeting to the Fraser clan.
A short time later, Sorcha was overcome with a sense
of awe—and a tinge of envy—as she handed the baby to Armand.
“
Mon Dieu
,” murmured the much-relieved, slightly tipsy
father, “he looks like
un petit Chinois
!”
“
Nonsense,” snapped Dallas, “his
eyes aren’t open yet. And with that mop of black hair, he looks
just like Iain.”
His own eyes not quite in focus, Armand d’Ailly gazed
in bewilderment at his son. “He shall be Adam, in honor of the good
priest who has shared our roof in Scotland and France.”
Rosmairi smiled wanly, her face looking very small
and pale against the mound of pillows. “He is lusty, is he not?”
she asked as tiny Adam let out another thin, piercing wail.