Gosford's Daughter (10 page)

T
he first two days they
headed southward were uneventful, with kind, mild weather favoring
the little party as it wound its way along the Findhorn. Sorcha
knew this wild, remote country well; she had hunted here at least
twice each year with her family. It was also MacKintosh and Clan
Chattan ground, the ancestral home of her mother’s maternal
kinsmen.

There were ten people in the group: Rob and his
manservant, Torquil MacKemmie, a stout, flippant youth with an
eminently practical nature; Arthur MacSymond, related to Iain
Fraser by marriage and renowned throughout the Highlands for his
instincts as a guide; Father Napier, and two monks, Brother Ninian
and Brother Myles; Sorcha was accompanied by her maid, Ailis
Frizell, an intelligent, doleful girl with extremely poor
eyesight.

Dallas’s self-control had crumbled at the time of
departure, as she clung to both Sorcha and Rob outside the gates of
Gosford’s End. Rosmairi wept, too, and even Magnus’s eyes were
brimming. Only Iain Fraser retained a mask of nonchalance, though
his farewell embraces were overlong and overtight. As the group
trotted their mounts away from the Fraser home, Rob wiped a manful
tear while Sorcha used a sleeve to dry her damp cheeks.

I will be back, she vowed silently, not daring to
turn around for a final look at her beloved home. But the brave
words could not stave off the gloom she felt the first day of the
journey. However, the next morning Sorcha awoke in somewhat lighter
spirits. As there was no turning back, she might as well try to
consider the trip as an adventure. Rob and Torquil were already
laughing a great deal with Father Napier. Since Sorcha preferred
keeping her distance from the disturbing priest, she would try to
find some source of mutual amusement with Ailis Frizell. Judging
from the sour look on Ailis’s face, Sorcha decided she’d set an all
but impossible task for herself.

But by the third day, the sight of the Grampian
Mountains lifted even Ailis’s spirits. It was a clear, crisp autumn
morning, with the rugged peaks of Ben-y-Gloe, Beinn Dearg and Ben
Macdhui rising proudly above the moorlands. When the travelers
espied the Cairn Gorms, they could see the first heavy snows
nestling in the cleft between the peaks. Crows called out from
nearby trees as nimble horned sheep sought safety from the
intruders next to low stone walls.

“
Do you remember,” Rob called out to
Sorcha, reining in his mount so she could catch up with him, “how
we came through here one summer and feasted on
raspberries?”

Sorcha did. It had been on the last of the three
trips she had made to Edinburgh with her parents. Magnus and Rob
had chased some shaggy cows while Dallas and the girls filled their
riding skirts with berries. It had been a raucous, happy trip
despite Magnus’s wandering off in Perth, and Rosmairi’s suffering
from a stomach upset near Kinross.

Now, more than five years later, they would spend the
night in the shadow of Ben Lawers, at a rude inn on the edge of
Loch Tay. It was there that Father Napier and the monks exchanged
their clerical attire for secular garb.

“
We’re out of the Highlands,” Father
Napier said to the group at supper in the small common room of the
inn. “It’s not prudent to flaunt our faith.”

Sorcha felt a pang of sadness at the thought of
leaving her native country behind. Another two or three days would
bring them to Edinburgh. But even as Sorcha tried to picture the
route in her mind, Father Napier informed the party that they would
make a short side trip to Doune.

“
Doune?” queried Rob, with his
customary habit of accompanying a question with the wrinkling of
his rather foreshortened nose. “Is that not the dwelling of the
Earl of Moray?”

Napier nodded, summoning a lame-gaited serving wench
with brilliant flame-colored hair. He indicated the trenchers,
requesting more roasted lamb. “If you find it strange that I would
deliberately visit the home of a Protestant lord, rest easy, young
sir.” Napier sat back as the redheaded wench served him. “Moray is
a very different man than was his late and unlamented
father-in-law. He is fair-minded, cheerful, and quite the braw
gallant.”

Sorcha regarded Napier’s remark with interest. For
all the enmity which had existed between her father and the
previous Earl of Moray, Iain Fraser had never criticized the
title’s present bearer. In fact, Fraser had spoken well of young
Moray’s courage and integrity.

“
Will you tell him who—and what—you
are?” asked Sorcha, refusing more lamb but pulling another chunk of
barley bread from the loaf that sat on a thick board in the middle
of the table.

“
Nay, though he’d bear me no grudge
for it. One thing to keep in mind,” he admonished his listeners,
“is that while Mary Stuart lives, no one with any foresight will
openly persecute a Catholic priest unless they have ample
grounds.”

“
But we
are
persecuted,”
Sorcha countered, her mouth full of barley bread. “Even now, you go
about in disguise.”

Napier smiled dryly, his peat-brown eyes on Sorcha’s
face. “Most Protestants aren’t like Moray. After all, it’s still
possible that Queen Mary could be reinstated as cosovereign with
her son. Or that James could be swayed by influential Catholics to
embrace the Church of Rome.”

Rob put his chin in his hands as a sanguine glow
touched his face. “Think of it, a Scotland brought back to the true
faith! How I should want to be part of that holy crusade!”

“
Och,” exclaimed Torquil, with his
customary irreverence, “will we see ye hovering over King Jamie
with a rosary?” Rob flushed but managed a feeble laugh. “I’ve no
such grand ambitions, Torquil, my brash laddie. But don’t think a
day goes by that I don’t fail to pray for His Grace’s
conversion.”

Feeling vaguely guilty because there were days when
she didn’t remember to pray at all, Sorcha brushed the crumbs from
her suede jacket and excused herself. “Ailis,” she murmured,
leaning over the other girl’s shoulder, “will you walk with me for
a while? It’s too early to retire, and our room smells of peat and
dust.”

With a marked lack of enthusiasm, Ailis agreed. Like
her mistress, she had not been anxious to leave Gosford’s End.
Dallas, however, had persisted, telling Sorcha she would be better
served by the stolid Ailis than some feather-witted wench who’d get
herself seduced upon setting foot in the High Street. As for Ailis,
Dallas asserted it was part of the serving girl’s education, a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Outside the little inn, Sorcha and Ailis walked along
the edge of Loch Tay as the pale autumn light faded beyond the
Grampians to the west. “The land has changed a great deal since we
left home,” Sorcha said, wondering what the rest of her family was
eating for supper that evening at Gosford’s End. “See how civilized
it becomes as we move south.”

“
I won’t object,” Ailis replied,
squinting into the dark loch. A sharp breeze tugged at their riding
skirts and made little tuftlike waves on the water. “The road today
was so steep, and rough as well.”

“
It was tricky footing for the
horses,” Sorcha conceded, “but Arthur MacSymond is an excellent
guide.”

Even as Sorcha spoke, Ailis stumbled over a rock and
uttered a shrill little cry. She had turned an ankle, and while
Sorcha didn’t think it was a serious injury, it seemed wise for
Ailis to go back to the inn. “I’ll go with you,” Sorcha declared,
but Ailis insisted she could manage by herself. Not really ready to
return just yet, Sorcha agreed.

From somewhere close by, she heard a throstle pip
noisily in the chilly night air. The breeze had died as suddenly as
it had come up, and the loch was quiet. Unacquainted with the
terrain, she was careful not to lose sight of the little inn’s sole
lighted window. After about a half hour, she turned back, making
her leisurely way toward the beckoning amber glow and the smell of
the peat fire.

She had gone about halfway when she saw a tall figure
walking with long, sure strides in her direction. Though he now
wore conventional garb, she knew immediately that it was Father
Napier. Annoyance crept over Sorcha. Did he think she was lost? If
so, why hadn’t he sent Rob to fetch her? Sorcha slowed her step
deliberately, perversely wanting to make him walk as far as
possible.

“
This isn’t the garden at Gosford’s
End, you know,” he called out when he got within thirty feet of
her. “Wild beasts still prowl at night in these parts. Are you
armed?”

Sorcha ignored the irony in Gavin Napier’s voice.
“There are more such animals where I come from.” She couldn’t
control the goading glare she gave him as he stopped just a few
feet away from her. “I’ve grown to distrust not beasts with four
legs but those with two.”

Napier seemed to ponder her remark as he stroked his
short, thick beard. He wore a leather jacket over a light-colored
shirt, his boots rose well up on his thighs, and the wide belt
around his waist held a silver-handled dirk. The layman’s attire
seemed to suit him much better than his priestly garments.

“
You don’t trust me.” The statement
wasn’t as casual as Napier had intended; his voice was flat, his
eyes wary.

“
I don’t know you.” Sorcha frowned
at the muddy ground under foot. “You … confound
me.”

A crow cawed shrilly from the pine grove that hid the
little inn from view. Napier’s gaze followed the sound, then came
to rest on Sorcha. “Mayhap. But I haven’t meant to.”

Sorcha blinked. His words seemed lame. She stopped
abruptly, turning to confront him. “Well, you managed all the
same!” She batted at the tip of her nose, chin thrust out
pugnaciously. “Priests must act like priests! Oh, aye, I know some
are as wicked and debauched as the Protestants say, but I sense
that you have honor.” Seeing Napier’s unfathomable expression,
Sorcha let out a deep raspy sigh. “What have I said? I sound like
such a fool!”

Napier moved a few paces away, staring into the
lapping waters of the loch. “Why did you agree to go to Edinburgh?”
The question came from over his shoulder.

Sorcha gazed quizzically at his broad back. “My
agreement wasn’t necessary. Though,” she went on, fretting at her
temple, “I suppose I hope I shall find a husband there. My
prospects could hardly be less dim than at home.”

Napier didn’t reply at once, but seemed to be
brooding. “By the Cross,” he murmured at last, and turned to face
her, an imposing figure etched against the loch’s black-and-silver
waters. “Marriage is dangerous. If any woman—or man—ever thought
what marriage would bring, the wedding bells would peal no
more.”

Involuntarily, Sorcha shrank back into herself.
Father Napier’s cynicism seemed excessive, even for a celibate. He
had started walking down the path again when Sorcha, scurrying to
catch up, uttered her response: “Life brings good and bad things,
whether a person marries or not. At least husband and wife can face
the hard times together.” With an air of defiance, she stared up at
Napier, who kept striding purposefully toward the inn. “I know
that. I’ve often heard my Lady Mother say so when misfortune struck
while my sire was away at sea. ‘If only your father were
here,’ ” Sorcha quoted, “ ‘I could bear all this so much
better.’ ”

Napier emitted a vague snort. “But she managed all
the same. And having met your formidable Lady Mother, I suspect she
did it with great competence. Still, her sentiment is
well-intentioned.” He paused as something rustled in the tall
grasses just ahead of them. A deer, Sorcha thought, coming to the
loch for an evening drink. “If she speaks the truth, your parents
may have been singularly blessed,” he went on, resuming his
determined pace.

“
I don’t think you like women much,”
she asserted. “Is that why you became a priest?”

His answer was swift and wordless. In three long
strides, he took her in his arms, capturing her mouth with his.
Stunned, Sorcha’s reflex action was to batter his broad back with
her hands, but the gesture of resistance was feeble at best. The
kiss deepened, stifling her breath, pressing her body against his.
She was bent backward, yet held tightly in his grasp as his tongue
delved between her lips, her teeth. The brutelike intensity should
have enraged her sensibilities. Instead, it enflamed them, urging
Sorcha to open her mouth wide to him, to surrender to the hands
that moved purposefully from her waist to her hips and back to the
soft, yielding flesh just beneath her breasts.

She had felt like this with Niall, and yet it was not
the same—then, she had been in control, of him, of herself, of the
situation. Now, in Gavin Napier’s steel grasp, Sorcha was not
merely helpless but had no will to fend him off, no shame to demand
that he desist.

As she felt his fingers move to the swelling curve of
her breast, he suddenly released her mouth, holding her away from
him in the crook of his arm. The dark eyes seemed to sear her face.
“Does that answer your question?” Napier’s voice was a low, ominous
growl.

Sorcha was shaking. She still felt that tantalizing
hand just under her breast and tried to read what was going on
behind the dark eyes and the fierce voice. Contempt, no doubt, for
himself, for her. “Sweet Mother of God,” Sorcha whispered through
lips that barely seemed to move, “did I entice you?”

For one fleeting moment, the hunter’s eyes grew not
only soft but almost merry. Then Napier slowly withdrew his arms
from Sorcha, the fingers just brushing the tip of her breast, as if
by accident. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed vigorously.
“Christ,” he murmured, “what have I done?”