Armand grinned and gently bobbed the baby in his
arms. “He is quite perfect. Though,” he added rather wistfully, “I
should have thought he’d be fair, not so … dark.”
“
Imagine my surprise when Rob was
born with red hair,” Dallas remarked, leaning over d’Ailly’s
shoulder to touch the infant’s rosy cheek. “Ah, dear bairn, we’ll
build a fine home for you yet, and never mind Gordons, Grants, or
muddleheaded strumpets who stand in our way! Your grandmother
promises, and she so hates to be wrong!”
“
That being the case, he’ll no doubt
end up owning Ireland.” Iain Fraser was standing a little apart
from the others, but Sorcha noted that he looked every inch the
patriarch of his growing brood.
The squalls of the baby and the happy chatter of the
household members had a sudden, unexpected fatiguing effect on
Sorcha. She wandered to the window, where she was astonished to see
the first frail light of dawn filtering over the snow-covered
eastern moors. “It’s morning,” she said to no one in particular.
“It’s All Hallows Eve Day.”
Her words went unremarked. Sorcha gazed at Rosmairi
and d’Ailly, who were totally absorbed in their new creation. Some
day, God willing, she and Gavin would wrap themselves in the wonder
of a tiny child. Yet if the sight of her sister and husband and
their babe evoked a pang of envy, the day itself called to mind the
formidable image of Marie-Louise. While many would swear that they
saw witches ride the lowering storm clouds in the night to come,
Sorcha had no fear of such fantasies. What filled her with
foreboding was the evil reality of Marie-Louise. The black arts she
practiced were surely bogus, but the plots she contrived were all
too genuine.
Sorcha felt a draft blow through the casement, and
shivered. She turned to observe the others: a drowsy Rosmairi
surrendering her babe to Margery Syme, Armand d’Ailly gently
kissing his wife’s brow, Iain Fraser with his arm slung around
Dallas’s neck, Ailis helping Flora put the soiled bed linen into a
hamper—the scene was so ordinary, so comfortable, so rich in
familial affection. Sorcha squared her shoulders and went to take
one last peek at little Adam before he was placed in the elaborate
cradle fit for a prince. Marie-Louise might command all the powers
of darkness, but Sorcha was fortified by the realization that in
the end, love was always stronger than hate.
A dozen deer carcasses were stretched out on the
frosty ground by the stable. Gavin Napier pulled off his kidskin
gloves and passed a hand over his brow. “It’s not true sport when
the animals are forced by the weather to come so close in. I’ll
wager we could bring back twelve more tomorrow.”
Iain Fraser nodded absently, the hazel eyes resting
on a set of magnificent antlers. “Any other day, I’d claim those as
a trophy,” he remarked, “but not this time.”
“
Then I will,” declared Magnus,
signaling to one of the stable boys to sever the head. “Jeannie and
I have none so fine to decorate our walls at the Muir of
Ord.”
Fraser shrugged. “As you will.” He turned to Sorcha.
“Was that one yours?”
Sorcha twisted her mouth in concentration. “I don’t
recall—I think it was Gavin’s.” She averted her eyes as the stable
boy fetched a broadax. “At least the poor things won’t starve,” she
said, stamping her feet, which had grown quite numb despite the
fur-lined boots. The snow had finally melted over the course of a
week, but after intermittent rainfalls, the weather had turned
bitterly cold again. Gavin Napier and Magnus had ridden into
Gosford’s End at the end of the first week in November, bringing
optimistic news from Donibristle. King James had ordered George
Gordon’s imprisonment in Borthwick Castle. The earl’s incarceration
would stave off further trouble in the Highlands, at least for some
time. Gavin Napier and Father Adam had been of two minds about the
matter. Gordon’s ploy for power had rallied both Catholic and
Protestant lords around him. Bothwell, Caithness, and the Master of
Gray were numbered among his coconspirators. At best, Gordon’s
aggression could not be considered solely a Papist plot. On the
other hand, as the nominal leader of Scotland’s Catholic Church,
George Gordon was in disgrace. It was yet another frustrating, if
typical, obstacle in the way of religious unity.
The dull thud of the ax made Sorcha wince. A hand at
her elbow guided her away from the hunting party, toward the rear
entrance of the manor house. “I’ve made up my mind,” Gavin Napier
said, the long mouth set, though from somewhere in the depth of his
eyes a touch of warmth began to wash over Sorcha. “I leave for Rome
tomorrow.”
A surge of contradictory emotions surfaced in
Sorcha’s breast. She was overjoyed that Gavin Napier was committed
to pursuing an annulment; she was also afraid that his quest might
end in failure. Now, after less than a week of being reunited, he
would be gone again, this time for several months, perhaps a year
or more.
“
Does Father Adam go with you?” The
question covered the disarray of her feelings. Somehow, standing
there under the lackluster November sun, Sorcha felt suddenly shy.
Indeed, she had grown increasingly awkward in Napier’s presence
ever since their return to Gosford’s End. It was as if the
constraints they had put on their lovemaking had also robbed them
of any other sort of intimacy.
Napier, seeming to sense her unease, took one gloved
hand in his bare, yet warm fingers, “Nay. I can travel faster
without him, and in truth it’s best for his own health that he
remain here. That is,” he added with a little smile, “if your
family will be gracious enough to have him.”
“
You know they will.” Sorcha’s mouth
curved upward though the green eyes failed to conceal her distress.
“Yet without Father Adam, who will gain you an entree to see the
Holy Father?”
Napier let out a grant of laughter and squeezed her
hand. “Which Holy Father? This past year, we have gone from Sixtus
to Urban to Gregory, at last count. The Holy See is in chaos.”
Sorcha covered his hand with both of hers, feeling
the strength of him flow through her suede gloves. “I’ve worried
about that,” she admitted, looking at him through her lashes. “A
stable Papacy would greatly aid our cause, don’t you think?”
Napier’s smile turned grim. “
All
of our
causes,” he emphasized, glancing beyond Sorcha to Iain Fraser,
Magnus, and Armand d’Ailly, who were supervising the butchery of
the stags. “The Church has been moribund ever since Sixtus died. He
took a strong line against Protestant propaganda. I sometimes think
it was his influence that forced Henri de Navarre to become
Catholic when he assumed the French crown.”
“
That seems so long ago, yet it’s
been only a little over a year since we were all in France.”
Sorcha’s memory traveled back to the languid, pristine days at Le
Petit Andely, to the great forest of Compiègne, to the turmoil of
Paris under siege. She thought of Rob, as she often did, and
brightened. “Gavin, why not take Rob to Rome?”
The heavy brows drew close together, then lifted.
“Why not? With Brother John Fraser’s blessing, Rob might aid our
cause.” Napier leaned down to brash Sorcha’s temple with his lips.
“We spoke before of their possible intercession. Even now, Adam is
writing up the background of the … matter.” His face clouded
at the allusion to his tragic marriage. “If nothing else, it will
do Rob good to see the glories of Rome.”
“
It would do me good to see Rob,”
Sorcha remarked, her gaze fixed on her elder brother, who was
holding up the dripping stag’s head with it four-foot span of
antlers. The faintly swaggering stance, the black hair, the strong,
yet blunted features, the sense of substance, made Magnus seem as
unlike Rob as two brothers could be. Yet their open, honest smiles
and the candor of their gaze marked them as not just kinsmen, but
as kindred spirits.
“
Magnus reminds me of you,” Napier
said unexpectedly as he followed Sorcha’s eyes. “He is dauntless,
irrepressible, genuine.” His arm slipped around Sorcha’s shoulder.
“Not nearly as bonnie, though.”
Sorcha’s eyes slid round to look up into Napier’s
wolfish face. “Am I truly bonnie?”
“
Sufficiently bonnie to send me to
Rome. Having pledged my heart, it seems I’d go halfway to hell for
you, Sorcha Fraser.” He nudged his chin against her russet hat and
grimaced.
Her voice was a muffled, desperate cry against his
leather jacket: “Come to me tonight, Gavin. Please!”
His reply was a quick, fierce hug. Briefly, she went
limp against him, then straightened, pulled away, and offered
Magnus an extravagant wave as he and Armand carried off the great
stag’s head with its spikelike crown and cold, dead eyes.
There is a stark, gaunt quality to the Highlands in
November that is at once forlorn and comforting. The bare trees,
the wan gray light, the permeating damp chill, the sharp wind from
the north descends upon even the hardiest inhabitants of glen and
moor. Yet the season also brings with it a sense of peace, of
silence, of fulfillment, with the harvest brought home and the
approach of the Yuletide season. From the old Caledonian forest in
Cameron country to the relentless waves of Moray Firth, nature
tucks itself underground, to wait with tireless patience through
the long, dark nights of the Highland winter.
Sorcha Fraser, having learned those lessons of time
and place and seasons, instinctively put aside her fears and
anxieties to offer Gavin Napier the unleashed passion that sprang
not just from the depths of her femininity but from the very earth
itself. Another woman might have wept and clung on their last night
together before a long, uncertain parting. But Sorcha had looked
out over the hills of Cawdor and Nairn to the east and the
mysterious, shrouded sea to the north to find hope. In a few
months, those hills would erupt into a bounty of color and life;
the sea would grow calm, and sunlight would dazzle the waters. All
things would change—except the love that she and Gavin Napier
shared.
It was well after midnight when Napier rapped softly
on Sorcha’s door. She had been sitting by the fire, watching the
orange-and-gold flames dance among the dry logs. On eager,
noiseless feet, she flew to greet her lover, clasping him in her
arms and savoring the virile intensity of his embrace.
“
I thought you’d never come,” she
breathed, her face pressed against his chest.
His grip tightened; he rocked slightly on his heels
as she swayed gently, yet securely, in his arms. “Adam and I had
much to discuss. And, as it turned out, so did your sire.”
Sorcha pulled away enough to stare up into Napier’s
wry face. “God’s teeth! You mean to tell me my father talked about
your intentions?”
Napier lifted his shoulders. “It’s his duty, after
all. I’ve marveled that he hasn’t put me on the rack before this.
Surely you’ve spoken of the matter with your Lady Mother?”
Sorcha had. And to Dallas’s credit, she had displayed
remarkable restraint. “You seem to know what you want,” she’d told
Sorcha. “I only hope that having got it, you’ll not be
disappointed.” At first, the words had stung Sorcha. Until she
recalled that there was a time she’d wanted to marry Johnny Grant,
that she’d wanted a titled, wealthy husband above all things. But
those were whims, not wants. And never need, which was the fuel
that fired her tenacity to become Gavin Napier’s wife.
Sorcha offered Napier a fulgent smile, her head
tipped back against his arm. “Parents, Popes, plots, a pox on them
all!” She watched those dark eyes turn black with desire, saw the
long mouth curve upward in anticipation, admired the strong, white,
even teeth that were revealed as the grin widened at the wonder of
her own yearning.
Though the bed was turned down and a single rushlight
flickered on the nightstand, Napier slowly went to his knees, his
hands sliding down over the curves of her body, which the clinging
moire of her night robe enhanced more than concealed. She moved
enticingly at his touch, her hands wrapping themselves in his hair,
the long, slim fingers transmitting messages of urgent longing.
Adroitly, he parted the robe, chuckling appreciatively to find her
naked. “You wanted to waste no time, I see,” he said, wrenching his
eyes from the magic black triangle to look up into her resplendent
face.
“
We only have this night. For now,”
she added hopefully. “Would you rather I’d layered myself in
petticoats and chemises?” She had meant to sound lighthearted, but
he found her inflection far more provocative than
amusing.
“
We’ve wasted too much time—too many
months and years—already.” Napier’s expression had sobered, the
hunter’s gaze mesmerizing Sorcha. “Every part of you is vibrant,”
he said in low, rambling tones. “Your body doesn’t just live—it
offers life.”
“
It’s freely offered only to you,”
Sorcha averred, feeling him draw her down onto the carpet by the
hearth. The moire robe fell apart of its own accord, allowing the
firelight to cast a fulvous glow across her ripe, proud breasts.
Napier filled his hands with them, covering the flat of her belly
with kisses. Dazed and aching with desire, she wrapped both her
legs around his, hugging him with her thighs in urgent appeal for
completion.
Moments later, after experiencing the delectable
agony of his hands and lips seeking out every inch of her body,
Sorcha gasped as he thrust himself into that moist, secret,
throbbing chamber where infinite joy awaited them both. Their cries
broke the silence, lighted the darkness, dispelled the loneliness
of separate souls.
A half-moon was fretfully fending off the rain clouds
that had rolled in from the North Sea after sunset. The wind had
risen up off Beauly Firth, moaning with a weary sound among the
chimneys of Gosford’s End. In the grate, particles of fir crumbled
into glowing crimson embers. The shadows grew long across the room;
the rushlight had long since guttered out.