Gosford's Daughter (28 page)

The guarded, hunter’s look faded from the brown eyes.
For one moment, Gavin Napier seemed very young and guileless. He
moved swiftly to Sorcha, gathering her into his arms. She had no
will to fight him, though she knew she should. His hand was in her
hair, as his mouth came down hard and feverish on her own. One
kiss, thought Sorcha dazedly, one kiss will not send us straight to
hell. Mayhap it’s all we’ll ever have ….

She clutched at his back, feeling his tongue delve
inside her mouth, sensing the surge of longing that fired through
both their bodies. If this be sin, Sorcha told herself, then I’ll
welcome the flames of purgatory.

Napier drew back just enough to look into her
upturned face. To Sorcha’s astonishment, there was no arrogance, no
stern authority; Gavin Napier’s searching gaze revealed only an
uncertain man. But there was something more, Sorcha realized, the
shadow of bitterness, or a haunting memory. She had seen it there
before and knew it was a warning. Sorcha paid no heed.

“
Why did you stay?” Napier’s voice
was low, almost desperate.

Sorcha leaned her head back against his hand.
Maidenly virtue required that she not tell him the truth; the vows
he had taken demanded a lie. But Sorcha’s innate honesty compelled
her to candor. “I couldn’t leave you,” she said simply. “Having
come this far, I couldn’t go back.”

The full meaning of Sorcha’s words only struck her
after she had uttered them. But it didn’t matter; they were true,
in every sense. Napier saw the thick black lashes dip against her
cheeks, the white teeth bite her lower lip, the flurry of long,
dark hair sprawl over his arm and her shoulders. “God almighty,” he
muttered fiercely, “I wish it were otherwise!”

The green eyes flew open. “I know, I should never
have spoken! Or let you kiss me or come to Chartley or thought
about you twice!” With great effort, she strained away, though he
still had a hand at her waist. “It would seem that I am doomed to
choose the wrong men in my life. Am I accursed?”

His fingers dug into the flesh between her ribs.
“Nay!” He hurled out the word defiantly, pulling her close to him
once more. “I am the one who is accursed,” Napier asserted,
gripping her chin and bringing it within a scant inch of his face.
“Don’t blame yourself, Sorcha. Nor ever let me blame you.”

His words confused her, but it was scarcely a time
for concentrated thought. She closed her eyes, anxiously awaiting
his ardor.

A few yards away, near a moss-covered log, Thisbe
reared and nickered sharply. Sorcha and Napier both froze, stared
at the startled horse, and then listened intently to what sounded
like approaching hoofbeats.

Sorcha gestured at Thisbe. “Shall we flee?”

Napier shook his head. “Your mount is weary. She’d
have to carry us both, in any event.” He bent to kiss her temple.
“We’re too late. But then we knew we would be.”

As the horsemen came nearer, she pressed against
Napier. “I love you,” Sorcha whispered. “It may be a sin, but I
love you.”

Napier’s reply was to hold her so tight she wondered
hazily if her spine might snap. Then he released her abruptly, just
as a half-dozen members of Sir Amyas’s household came into view
among the beech trees.

Their leader was a deceptively cherubic man who
hissed slightly when he spoke. “You are both to return to Chartley,
or suffer Her Majesty’s grave displeasure. Where is the other one?”
He gestured at the air with his riding crop.

Sorcha started to reply, but Napier stepped in front
of her. “He had been ordered home. By King James of Scotland.”
Napier planted one booted foot in front of the other. “His sister
remains, at His Grace’s request.”

The cherubic man fingered his round chin
thoughtfully. The Scots were all a pack of devious, cunning liars.
Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Thomas Gorges had no wish to expend a
great deal of effort on any of them, but two of the three proved
easy prey. The household guards would not return empty-handed.

Napier was ordered to ride Thisbe back to Chartley,
while Sorcha had to endure sharing a mount with a buck-toothed boy
not much older than herself. Fortunately, he seemed far more
embarrassed by their close contact than she was. There was some
good-natured banter between the other men, but Sorcha paid little
attention. Her mind was filled with different matters, though she
managed to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for Rob’s apparent safe
deliverance. Now, she must concentrate on her own—but whether she
wished most to be delivered from English hands or the spell of love
cast however unwittingly by Gavin Napier, were questions she could
not answer. As they cantered out of the copse and across the moors
under the brilliant summer sun, Sorcha knew that both she and
Napier might face great dangers in the days to come. But at least,
she thought, with a bittersweet smile, they would face them
together.

M
ary, Queen of Scots, had
been taken to Fotheringhay Castle, a dank, gloomy place whose very
walls seemed to scoff at hope. For over two weeks after the fateful
outing in the park at Tixall, Mary had been confined there at Sir
Walter Aston’s country house. It was during that fortnight that
Gavin Napier secretly made his way out of Chartley and seemingly
evaporated into the late summer air of Staffordshire.

After Mary’s confrontation with Elizabeth’s men,
virtually all of the Scottish Queen’s attendants had been returned
to Chartley. Each had been interrogated relentlessly by Sir Amyas
Paulet and his cohorts. Nau and Curle were deeply implicated and
carted off to London. Sorcha’s obvious innocence of the plot spared
her more than the others, though Paulet persisted in his questions
about Rob.

“
Think you,” Sorcha inquired archly,
“that the man designated by King James himself to attend his mother
would connive at a matter so transparently opposed to his master’s
best interests?” While her scornful manner annoyed Paulet, the
rationality of her words eventually satisfied him. Sorcha was
dismissed just in time to help Jane Kennedy and Gillis Mowbray
deliver Barbara Curle’s baby.

From that point on, the Scots entourage was permitted
more freedom within Chartley. Sorcha’s first excursion outside of
her quarters was to seek out Gavin Napier, whom she had not seen
since the day of the stag hunt. But to her cruel disappointment,
she discovered that he had been gone from the manor house for
almost a week. Sorcha passed through the early days of autumn in
frustration and despair. The news that Mary Stuart had been removed
to grim Fotheringhay moved her not half so deeply as Napier’s
disappearance.

“
Where can he be?” she demanded of
Ailis for what seemed to the serving girl like the hundredth time.
Only that morning they had learned that Mary’s steward, Master
Melville, and a handful of others, were heading out for
Fotheringhay. “Surely he would not have gone there before
them?”

“
We’d have heard if he had,” replied
Ailis with a squinting stare. “Why do you fash yourself so? If ever
a man could take care of himself by himself, I’d set my money on
that one.”

Sorcha wasn’t reassured in the least. “As a priest,
he’s in mortal danger wherever he goes in England. To make matters
worse, he’s known as a supporter of Queen Mary.”

Ailis lifted her square shoulders. “He’s not known as
a priest in these parts. It seems wasteful to me to fret over a man
you hardly know.”

If there was a trace of curiosity in Ailis’s voice,
Sorcha decided to ignore it. Not that she couldn’t trust the
serving woman; Ailis was as discreet as she was loyal. But Sorcha
couldn’t admit the truth aloud—that she was madly, passionately, in
love with a priest. She didn’t worry about losing Ailis’s
friendship, but she did fear losing her respect.

“
I’m going outside.” Sorcha gathered
up a light cloak and waited for some comment from Ailis. “I said
I’m going outside,” Sorcha repeated. “I mean, outside the confines
of this damnable manor house.”

Ailis looked up from a hairnet she was mending. “Can
you?”

“
I’m going to.” Sorcha’s mouth was
set in a grim, determined line. Now that Sir Amyas had taken up
residence with his royal prisoner at Fotheringhay, restrictions at
Chartley had begun to slip away almost imperceptibly. “Don’t worry,
I’ll come back.” She glanced at Ailis, who was meticulously tying
two strands of gold thread together and not looking worried in the
least.

Despite her bravado, Sorcha was somewhat amazed to
discover that she was at liberty to walk abroad as long as she
never lost sight of the manor house and returned by noon. At first,
she assumed she would be followed, but after ten minutes in the
mild open air, she could detect no one in sight. It made sense,
Sorcha decided—the defection of an unimportant lady-in-waiting was
of no concern to the English. Indeed, Sir Amyas was still searching
for ways to cut back on Queen Mary’s retinue and expenses. The
previous day he had ordered that her coachmen be dismissed.

It was a fine morning to be outdoors, with a light
breeze and a full sun. The newly harvested earth was headily
fragrant, the oak trees up ahead were splendid in their full-leafed
grandeur, and the beeches beyond the low stone hedge had already
turned from gold to flame. There was just enough of a chill when
the wind picked up to make Sorcha wonder about the first frost.

She had deliberately avoided the village, as she
didn’t wish to speak to curious local gossip mongers. In
consequence, she had no idea where she was heading, though it was
south and east, as far as she could judge by the sun. No matter,
she couldn’t get lost as long as she kept to the rutted dirt track,
which was blessedly unpeopled this bright October morning.

Yet as she rounded a curve, only a few yards ahead,
Sorcha saw two figures sitting by an ancient, gnarled tree.
Farmers, perhaps, or travelers. As she drew closer, she noticed
another figure and several horses off to one side near a narrow
stream. As she drew abreast of them, one of the men rose to his
feet to join the man with the horses. Sorcha glanced without much
interest at the seated figure, who wore a heavy cloak and hood.
Idly, she wondered if he—or she—wasn’t overwarm on such a fine
day.

Sorcha stopped and stared. The bearded face and dark
eyes that looked out at her from under the hood belonged to Gavin
Napier. With a little cry, she rushed to him and sank to her
knees.

“
Thank God!” she gasped. “Where have
you been?”

He gazed at her with curiosity—but nothing more. “I
crave your pardon, mistress,” came the deep, smooth voice which
betrayed no accent at all, “are we acquainted?”

Sorcha saw the dark eyes twinkle with amusement. And
realized there was no trace of the hunter, no haunted, vulnerable,
searching gaze in this stranger’s face. Nor, up close, was the
resemblance to Gavin Napier quite so remarkable. This man was
thinner, his features more refined, probably not nearly as tall or
as broad when standing.

The other men were watching them but made no move to
intervene. Sorcha knew she was flushing deeply, but was too
flabbergasted by the coincidence to care. “I’m sorry, sir,” she
said in apology, “but I mistook you for someone else.”

“
A very fortunate someone, I’d
wager.” He gave her a wide, winning smile. “I hope you find him
soon.”

“
So do I.” Sorcha didn’t try to hide
her worry. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone in these parts who
looks a lot like you?”

The man’s grin widened even further; then it suddenly
died away at the corners. “No.” The reply seemed abrupt,
considering his previous good humor. But the eyes were still kind,
and he pushed back the hood to reveal hair as dark as Napier’s but
neither as thick nor as rich in texture. “Are you a Scot, by
chance, mistress?”

Sorcha hesitated, then nodded. “I’m … I’ve been
staying at Chartley.” She could see no harm in telling this
pleasant man the truth. “I just went for a walk. We haven’t been
able to get out much until recently.”

“
Ah.” He made a rueful face. “I hear
the fair Queen of Scots is at Fotheringhay now.”

“
That’s so.” Sorcha started to get
to her feet. “I’d best be on my way. Do you head north, sir, or
west?”

He uttered an odd little laugh. “We follow the wind,
my friends and I.” The man’s head nodded toward the others, who
were conversing easily as they tended the horses. “The one you
mistook me for—has he been at Chartley, too?”

Surprised at the question, Sorcha sank back onto the
ground. “Aye, but he left some weeks ago.” She was wary now,
wondering why this stranger should inquire about a man he couldn’t
know. Unless …. Sorcha leaned forward, the black hair falling
over her shoulders to almost touch the grass. “Who are you?”

The stranger didn’t blink. “I’m a Scot, like
yourself. My name is Adam Napier.”

There seemed to be a buzzing in Sorcha’s ears, yet it
was late in the season for bees. It also seemed strange that it
should have got so dark so quickly, since it had been quite early
when she’d left the manor house. Dazedly, Sorcha opened her eyes
and tried to concentrate on her surroundings. Three men, an old
tree, and sunshine. One of the men looked like Gavin Napier, but he
wasn’t. Except that he was a Napier. Sorcha rubbed her eyes and
shook her head.

“
You seemed to have had a dizzy
spell,” said the man who called himself Adam Napier. He was still
seated opposite her, but the other two now knelt by Sorcha. “Are
you all right?”

“
I don’t know,” Sorcha answered
truthfully. “I’m confused, I do know that. Are you Gavin Napier’s
brother?”