Gosford's Daughter (47 page)

Sorcha listened to the leaden words with a sick,
hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach. From somewhere, a small
voice of memory pricked at her brain. She’d condemned Johnny Grant
for his lack of fidelity and chided Moray for his duplicity. How
ironic that the only man she really loved should possess the
qualities the others had lacked—and that she should curse him for
it. With a shaky hand, Sorcha brushed her eyes and swallowed
hard.

“
You’ll take care in the Highlands?”
She sounded very tentative, almost wispy.

“
Aye.” Napier nodded once. He had
remained very still, and now the dark brows drew close together as
he pulled his bearded chin. “Keep me in your prayers.”

“
Of course.” Sorcha moved a pace
backward, as if signaling to him that he was free to go. Still,
Napier hesitated. Sorcha caught her breath and waited. But, with an
abrupt swing of his body, he turned to the door and moved rapidly
from the supper room.

S
orcha did not go to Falkland
Palace after all. She sent a messenger to Ailis, telling her of the
change in plans and to make up her own mind about staying on with
the court or returning to Edinburgh. Sorcha went back to Panmure
Close, and that night, over snifters of French brandy, she poured
out her heart to Aunt Tarrill.

“
I wondered,” Tarrill remarked as
the church bells tolled midnight. “It seemed you’d left certain
gaps in your recital earlier today.”

While Tarrill was understanding, she had no real
advice to offer her niece, nor had Sorcha sought it. But separated
from her mother and Rosmairi, temporarily deprived of Ailis’s
company, she’d desperately needed a sympathetic female’s ear. And
Tarrill Cameron McVurrich was a woman who not only listened but
kept a confidence. For perhaps the first time in her life, Sorcha
understood the abiding bond between her aunt and her mother.

During the next few weeks, Uncle Donald recovered
from his frightening collapse and resumed his banking duties. Ailis
had shown up on the McVurrich doorstep two days after Sorcha sent
her message. She was not keen on staying at Falkland without Sorcha
and reported that the arrival of the Earl of Bothwell had created
an atmosphere of unease.

By coincidence, it was Bothwell who occupied Sorcha’s
thoughts late one sultry afternoon as she raced the rain clouds
back to Panmure Close. She had been to the dressmaker’s in the
Lawnmarket trying on a new russet-and-gold riding habit. As she
hurried away from Castle Hill toward the old Weigh House, she noted
a handsome coach turning into Currier’s Close. Sorcha’s curiosity
was piqued. She paused, feeling the first drops of summer rain on
her face. Bothwell’s house was in Currier’s Close, and unless she
was mistaken, that was where the coach was heading. Sorcha stepped
back against an old brick wall and watched the coachman bring the
horses to a halt. A moment later, the footman scrambled down from
the back of the coach and raced round to open the door for a tall,
black-clad figure wearing an enormous white hat that concealed her
face. But the height and carriage of the woman were unmistakable.
Marie-Louise was indeed in Edinburgh and staying at Bothwell’s town
house while the Earl waited upon the King. There was no reason why
the wretched woman shouldn’t show herself in Edinburgh. As far as
the Scots were concerned, she was just another French émigrée at
best and, at worst, Bothwell’s mistress. Neither was a crime.

The rain was coming down much harder, and out over
the Firth of Forth, lightning slashed the lowering gray skies.
Sorcha picked up her pace, though her mind was going far faster
than her feet. It had been more than a month since she’d seen Gavin
Napier. Very likely he and Father Adam had left some time ago for
the Highlands. She had no idea of their precise destination, though
it occurred to her that they might pay a call on her parents.

Almost slipping on the wet cobblestones by Saint
Giles, she skirted the Market Cross and the Butter Tron. She must
write at once to Gosford’s End and relay her information about
Marie-Louise. Even if Gavin and Adam Napier didn’t stop there,
Armand d’Ailly would pounce on the news, though it seemed unlikely
that he would leave Rosmairi before she had delivered their
babe.

Turning into Panmure Close, Sorcha noted that her
hair had come undone and drooped in damp tendrils around her face.
She had not, in truth, been as careful about her toilette during
her stay at the McVurrich house. Not, she thought ruefully, that it
made much difference—Gavin Napier hadn’t even noticed the dramatic
change in her appearance. Suddenly, she was angry with him,
infuriated at his indulgence in self-pity. Why, she wondered
fiercely, as she yanked at the wrought iron gate, had he bothered
to consider becoming a priest, when he’d already made a martyr of
himself? Was he any less misguided than Brother Jacques?

Sorcha paused in midstep at the entrance to the
McVurrich house, overcome by an odd sense of being watched.
Fleetingly, she felt guilt assail her for being so hard on Gavin
Napier. It was as if she were back in the nursery at Gosford’s End,
allegedly learning her prayers from one of the Beauly monks who had
instinctively known that she was thinking of smoked salmon and
steamed mussels instead of the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria.

Sorcha fumbled inside her cloak for her calfskin
purse. She took out a little mirror, ostensibly rearranging her
coiffure. In the glass, she could see a man whose sudden interest
in the wares of a fruit seller was suspicious. Sorcha couldn’t be
positive, of course, but she would have wagered that he was the
footman she had seen in Currier’s Close.

It came as no surprise the following morning when
Sorcha received a note asking her to meet Marie-Louise at the
Clockmill House on the edge of town. Studying the note, as well as
the pigeon-toed lad who had delivered it, Sorcha crossed out
Marie-Louise’s suggested meeting place and substituted
Croft-an-Righ. Sorcha’s choice was just west of Clockmill House,
but unlike Marie-Louise’s choice, which stood surrounded by trees
off the main byway, Croft-an-Righ was closer to the busy Water Gate
entrance to the city, and thus, Sorcha decided, considerably safer.
She would further ensure her well-being by having Ailis and Doles
follow her at a discreet distance.

The summer rainstorm had worn itself out before dawn,
leaving the city fresh and clean, with patches of steam rising from
the cobbles where the morning sun struck. Sorcha set out at a brisk
pace, from time to time glancing over her shoulder to make certain
Ailis and Doles were still behind her. Both Clockmill House and
Croft-an-Righ were part of the affluent neighborhood north of
Holyrood Palace. Most of the courtiers who lived in the area were
with the King and Queen at Falkland. Sorcha had no idea who resided
in either of the houses, but vaguely recalled that one of the
numerous Stewarts was connected with Croft-an-Righ, and either an
Erskine or a Douglas owned Clockmill.

As she supposed, Croft-an-Righ seemed closed up. It
was an elaborate house with corbeled turrets on the south gables
and dormer windows that ran the length of the north front. It stood
three stories high, with an attic as well. A wall surrounded the
house, but Sorcha could make out a garden with handsome shade trees
and carefully clipped shrubs. She was admiring a dovecote toward
the back of the property when a tall, slender youth swaggered
toward her from the direction of the royal bathhouse. There was
something familiar about the lad, and Sorcha frowned in the effort
of recollection. But from ten yards away, a glimpse of golden hair
told Sorcha that this was no laddie, but the same disguise
Marie-Louise must have used to gain undetected passage from France
to Scotland.

“
Forgive me if I don’t doff my cap,”
Marie-Louise said by way of greeting. The honey-edged accent didn’t
seem as pronounced as it had in the forest at Compiègne. Indeed,
attired in dun-colored breeks and a plain-cut brown doublet,
Marie-Louise had assumed quite an ordinary air. The scar on her
neck was camouflaged with a foppish cream-colored scarf, and the
jaunty cap sported a jeweled brooch.

“
I can’t imagine what you have to
say to me,” Sorcha began, having no desire to engage in idle
conversation with the loathsome woman who had all but destroyed
Gavin Napier, “so let us dispense with pleasantries.”

Marie-Louise’s brilliant azure eyes widened, then
narrowed. “Ah, but why not? We are both women of good sense, are we
not?” She noted Sorcha’s sour expression and ran a pink tongue over
her full lips. “But then, you and I have much in common,
c’est
vrai
? We have both thrilled to the embrace of the same man.”
She flicked the tip of her tongue with her little finger in a
provocative gesture that made Sorcha’s green eyes spark.

“
Your prattle wastes time,” Sorcha
declared, aware that she sounded like a cantankerous old woman. “I
have better things to do than listen to your maudlin
memories.”

“
Oh, la, la,” exclaimed Marie-Louise
with a burst of tinkling laughter. “How stern you Scots all are!
Not that Gavin was always so—why, in my arms he was as frolicksome
as a child!” She erupted into laughter again, one hand stroking the
curve of her bosom which was ill-concealed by the brown doublet.
Suddenly, like a storm that gathers without warning, Marie-Louise’s
expression turned menacing. “I do not bring up these memories
merely to titillate you, Mistress Fraser. They are a reminder that
I am Gavin’s wife and always shall be. If somehow your Scots mind,
so typically legal, had led you to think of annulments and such,
disabuse yourself. Oh,” she continued, waving a long, languid hand
at Sorcha, “don’t deny it, I know how you Scots use the law to seek
your own ends. As for that fool, d’Ailly, does he truly think to
lay claim to his family property?” She smirked and patted her
doublet. “Here, safely tucked away, is the deed to d’Ailly’s
land—made over to me, in gratitude, by his late
brother.”

A string of invective sprang to Sorcha’s tongue, but
for once, she held back. She could demand to see the deed, but no
doubt it existed. If it was binding was another matter. Whether
d’Ailly’s brother could have handed over his family holdings while
his parents still lived struck Sorcha as unlikely but not
impossible.

“
The law, which you so lightly
dismiss, should disprove your claim,” Sorcha said with forced calm.
“French law, at that.”

A faint breeze stirred the rowan trees behind the
walls, and a dozen starlings took flight toward the turrets of
Croft-an-Righ. Looking beyond Marie-Louise, Sorcha tried to spot
Ailis and Doles. She had last seen them lurking in the vicinity of
the tennis courts. While in the course of a normal day, the
thoroughfare would be quite busy, the absence of its tenants lent a
ghostly aura to the place, reminding Sorcha that she was in the
company of a woman who didn’t flinch at murder.

Still, Sorcha refused to bend to Marie-Louise’s will.
“You abandoned your husband years ago,” she remarked in a tone
meant to sound bored. “I find this conversation tiresome.”

When Marie-Louise spoke again, it was as if she
hadn’t heard Sorcha. “You have noted that those who defy me earn an
early grave,” she said evenly, each word more honeyed than the
last. “It matters not who they are or how highly placed.” The
beautiful azure eyes gleamed down on Sorcha. “The French learned
that. So will the Scots.”

Sorcha could barely believe the brazenness of her
adversary. To admit openly her complicity in the assassination of a
king and to boast about undoing other important personages clearly
demonstrated Marie-Louise’s confidence in her own powers. Sorcha
stared up into those arrogant eyes and marveled at their clarity
and steadiness. Somehow, she half expected them to roll about, like
dice on a gaming table. But if Marie-Louise was crazed—and Sorcha
was sure she must be—the evil that infected her was within and had
no doubt long ago eaten away her heart and soul. “Why?” asked
Sorcha, unable to control a little shake of her head, as if still
doubting Marie-Louise’s intentions. “Why such destruction?”

The lovely features hardened, though the voice
remained sweet and husky. “If you Scots deify the law, we French
worship fair value.” Marie-Louise’s fingers fluttered at the knot
of her cream-colored scarf. “Wicked men took away someone I loved.
Now I repay them. And all men are wicked.” Her beautifully defined
mouth curved upward in a smile that was almost confidential.
“
All
” she repeated, her voice low and breathy.

In spite of herself, Sorcha looked away for a brief
moment. Before she could respond, Marie-Louise had resumed
speaking, this time on a more natural note. “You’ve heard how your
king’s ship was almost sunk by storms off Norway?” she asked in the
same tone another woman might have remarked upon a loaf of bread
that had failed to rise. “Some silly women who mumble nonsense over
boiled cats are being held accountable.” Her jaunty cap swayed atop
the blond curls as she laughed derisively. “What folly! Yet they
have served to frighten King Jamie and that suits my purpose very
well.”

The morning sun was growing warmer, and despite the
faint breeze that rustled the nearby trees, Sorcha had begun to
perspire. Her breakfast shifted unhappily in her stomach, and her
legs felt vaguely unsteady. This tall, lovely creature who stood
before her, whose femininity was poorly disguised by the masculine
garb, whose mellifluous voice spoke Scots almost as well as French,
might have brought her gifts of intelligence and grace and beauty
to enhance a tawdry world. Marie-Louise could have been the
chatelaine of an elegant home, the doting mother of happy children,
the generous benefactress of the poor. And above all, a loving wife
and companion to Gavin Napier. Instead, for whatever twisted
reasons, she had chosen evil. It was a waste, a sham, a cheat—and
yet, from somewhere deep inside, Sorcha was perversely grateful to
Marie-Louise. Had she fulfilled the brighter side of her destiny,
Sorcha would never have met Napier, never known the wonder of love,
never have given her heart to the hunter. If she never saw Gavin
Napier again, she still owed Marie-Louise a great debt.