Gosford's Daughter (61 page)

Moray nodded, his hand still on hers. “Elizabeth
thought so, too,” he replied, referring to his first wife without
the least bit of self-consciousness. “The children also prefer it.”
He paused as a moon-faced youth with pale blond hair refilled their
wine glasses. “Tomorrow I shall formally introduce you to the wee
ones. They miss their mother very much, but I know they’ll come to
love you, Sorcha, as I do.” The smile broadened but receded when
Moray saw one of his household guards hurrying toward him. The man
leaned over the earl’s chair, while Sorcha discreetly turned in the
opposite direction. She caught only two words: “sheriff” and
“Huntly.” A flicker of fear crept along her spine, though Moray was
still smiling when he let go of her hand and stood up from his
chair.

“
There’s some sort of minor fracas
going on outside,” he said, carefully placing his napkin down on
the table. “I must speak with the sheriff.”

Sorcha watched him leave the room, each step
increasing with urgency. After he’d disappeared through the
timbered doorway, she allowed herself to be drawn into conversation
with the elderly gentleman on her left, a distant Stewart cousin.
Indeed, most of the other guests were somehow related, either to
Moray or the late Countess. Among them was the earl’s elderly,
ramrod-backed mother, Lady Margaret, a Campbell by birth. Upon
meeting Sorcha, she had presented a polite, yet appraising façade.
There were no more than ten others in all, but Moray had promised
that by the same time the next evening, the dining hall would be
jammed with celebrants from the town of Aberdour and its
environs.

With such a full day ahead of her, Sorcha wished
Moray would return soon so that she might excuse herself and retire
for the night. The journey from Gosford’s End had wearied her, and
she wished that her groom had allowed for a few days’ respite
before the wedding ceremony. On the other hand, Sorcha would be
relieved to have it over and done with. Postponement might give her
false hope that the marriage would never take place. Not only was
that highly unlikely, it wasn’t in her—or the unborn child’s—best
interests.

After almost a quarter of an hour, Moray returned.
The guard had been supplanted by a bluff-looking bald man of middle
age, and Moray introduced him to Sorcha as William Dunbar, the
sheriff.

Moray, aware that his other guests were regarding him
with curiosity, stood behind Sorcha’s chair and raised a hand.
“Honored friends and kinfolk,” he began, smiling pleasantly, though
his casual tone was forced, “it appears that there is some trouble
brewing outside. George Gordon, the Earl of Huntly, has accused me
of sheltering the Earl of Bothwell.” He stopped speaking for a
moment as some of the guests chuckled richly. “While I’ve been
known to offer my lord of Bothwell hospitality in the past, he has
not visited here recently. Indeed, I would think it more likely
that he would call on George instead of me.”

Again, Moray’s words evoked laughter among his
guests, except for Sorcha, whose anxiety had mounted to disturbing
proportions. She was certain that Moray wasn’t being completely
frank; she was also certain that if George Gordon was stirring up
fresh trouble, Marie-Louise lurked in his shadow. For the first
time since she’d conceived, Sorcha dipped deep into her reserve of
common sense and energy to emerge from the cocoon of pregnancy.

“
My Lord,” she said quietly but
firmly, a hand on Moray’s arm, “I think there is more cause for
alarm than you’ve admitted. Is George Gordon actually here at
Donibristle?”

Moray avoided her direct gaze and looked to the
sheriff instead. “He is rumored to be in the vicinity, yes.” Sorcha
sensed rather than saw something pass between the two men. “Under
those circumstances,” Moray went on, taking Sorcha’s hand to assist
her in rising from her chair, “it would probably be a wise
precaution to withdraw to a safer part of the house.” Gracing his
guests with a reassuring smile, Moray led Sorcha out of the dining
hall, the others straggling behind, voicing opinions ranging from
amusement to outrage. Lady Margaret was the most indignant of the
lot, declaring that her sire, the late Earl of Argyll, had always
said the Gordons were a muddled-brained, irresponsible passel of
fools. The indictment sounded so much like Dallas that Sorcha
decided that her mother and mother-in-law would get on very
well.

The best-fortified part of the house was a small
sitting room on the second floor built inside thick turret walls.
It was there that Moray herded his guests, stopping along the way
to collect his five children and their nurses. Once crammed into
the dark, unheated room, Sorcha and the others began to realize
that their plight was far more dire than Moray had indicated.

“
Are we under attack?” asked
Rosmairi in a whisper.

Sorcha didn’t dare respond, but Armand, wedged
between the two women, was craning his neck in the direction of one
of the turret’s two narrow window slits. “I hear voices outside,”
he said keeping his own words low so as not to frighten the others.
“It is, I think, someone calling to Moray.”

Moray had also heard someone shout from below. He
pressed his way through the others, ignoring the wails of his two
youngest children and the warning offered by his mother. Tall as
the earl was, he had to step up onto a chair to get a clear view.
Sheriff Dunbar had squeezed in behind him, burly shoulders tensed
as he waited for Moray to tell him what was happening. The nurses
shushed the children, the adults turned silent, and even Lady
Margaret kept still.

“
It is George Gordon and his
followers,” Moray finally announced, speaking over his shoulder
from his perch on the chair. “He is demanding that I surrender in
the name of the King.”

Lady Margaret snorted with contempt. “
Paugh
!
By what right does that puffed-up pig issue such an order? He ought
to be outlawed, along with that silly Bothwell.”

Moray descended from the chair, his face grave but
his manner respectful. “I’m afraid, my Lady Mother,” he said with a
note of bitterness in his voice, “that George has a letter of Fire
and Sword from King Jamie. It appears he intends to use it against
me rather than Bothwell.”

“
That’s nonsense!” snapped Lady
Margaret while several others echoed her opinion.

“
Perhaps,” Moray conceded, picking
up his steel helmet with its silken plume, “but George is carrying
out his threat by setting fire to some sheaves his men have piled
against the house.”

Sorcha heard Rosmairi gasp and Armand utter an
indecipherable French oath. For her own part, she was reminded all
too vividly of the recent night at Holyrood when Bothwell had tried
to burn the King out of the palace’s gaming room. There was much
irony in both earls attempting to flush out their prey by fire, but
there was also too much coincidence. Sorcha’s eyes darted to
Armand, who was tight-lipped with fury. Perhaps he, too, guessed
that this latest conflagration bore the mark of Marie-Louise’s
dastardly handiwork.

Indeed, the flames could now be heard crackling
below, and the cluster of faces inside the turret were illuminated
by the dancing light that filtered through the narrow window slits.
The young ones were crying again, and immediately Moray ordered the
sheriff to lead them and the women to safety. As Sorcha grabbed
Rosmairi, who was trying to cling to Armand, Moray leaned down to
brush his betrothed’s cheek with his lips. “I hadn’t expected such
a rude prenuptial celebration,” he whispered with a
self-deprecating little laugh. “Will you forgive the
interruption?”

Sorcha didn’t feel like laughing, but she managed a
sound that passed for mirth. “George always did have a terrible
sense of timing,” she said and started to lead Rosmairi away.
Abruptly, she stopped, her sister almost falling over her. Staring
up into Moray’s candid, kind blue eyes, Sorcha bestowed a genuine
smile upon him, born not of love or desire, but of respect and
affection. “You
are
a braw gallant, My Lord,” she declared
with fervor. “I intend to make you a well-contented husband.”
Impulsively, she kissed him on the lips, then smiled again as he
stared back with pleasurable surprise. A moment later, she and
Rosmairi were following Lady Margaret’s ramrod-straight back down
the winding staircase.

The sheriff took them through the kitchen, where the
smoke from outside mingled with the cooking odors that lingered
from earlier in the evening. “They’ve ringed the house with fire,”
Dunbar called out as he gestured for the servants to test the
kitchen door, “but since the wind has died down, we should have a
better chance of escaping back here where the house faces the
sea.”

Rosmairi appeared dubious, but there wasn’t much
choice. From somewhere at the front of the house, they could hear
the crackling of timbers. Feeling the babe kick in her womb, Sorcha
pressed forward with the others. Just ahead of them, Lady Margaret
and another elderly woman who appeared to be her maid were
exchanging irate commentaries about George Gordon’s reckless
audacity. Sheriff Dunbar was standing by the open door, urging his
charges to hurry. The children and their nurses went first, their
frightened cries carrying back into the kitchen. Sorcha could see
the flames licking at the doorway, the brilliant glow turning night
into day. At the threshold, she held Rosmairi by the arm as they
both put handkerchiefs over their faces.

“
Now,” murmured Sorcha, as the two
women plunged straight ahead. Tongues of fire leapt out at them,
but except for some sparks that showered on their skirts, neither
was burned, though both were flushed with the heat, and coughing
from the smoke. They joined the others close to the edge of the sea
cliff, just as several men wearing the green Gordon plaid
approached with swords drawn. Sorcha turned to Rosmairi who was
sobbing softly, begging the Virgin to preserve Armand.

Her prayers were answered almost immediately as
Armand and several other men hurtled out of the house. Despite his
command for Rosmairi to keep back, she rushed toward him, hurling
herself into his arms. The dagger that he had worn with his supper
finery was more ornamental than lethal; he now held a club in one
hand. Steering Rosmairi back toward the other women and children,
Armand hurried to aid the sheriff, who was making a futile effort
to throw up a barricade between Gordon’s men and the cliff.

Sorcha, Rosmairi and the rest were now encircled by
Gordon followers, their backs to the sea. The wind had suddenly
picked up again, and Sorcha shivered in her yellow taffeta gown,
with its deep, lace-edged neckline. Yet while the enemy soldiers
stood within a few yards of the frightened, chilled little band,
the men made no move to come closer. To their left, a horseman
leading another dozen riders cantered toward the house, then halted
as the heat became too intense. It took Sorcha several moments to
recognize their leader as George Gordon.

“
Swine!” called Lady Margaret,
though Gordon couldn’t hear her over the crackling of the flames or
the sound of timbers breaking in the house. “Bloated son of a pig,”
she railed, “fight with men, not bairns and women!” She raised a
thin arm and swung her fist in Gordon’s direction.

But George Gordon paid no heed. He, too, was
shouting, calling for Moray to show himself. At last, the Bonnie
Earl appeared at a window toward the far end of the house. For
several seconds, he teetered on the sill, then broke the glass with
his sword and jumped through the lapping flames to land on his feet
several yards from Gordon’s horse. With a bold salute of his hand,
he raced for the sea cliff’s edge, untouched by the fire, except
for the silken plume of his helmet where sparks danced like
fireflies. Gordon spotted his adversary and cried out to his men.
Sheriff Dunbar, a handful of Moray followers at his heels, charged
straight for Gordon, who wheeled his horse about and swung his
sword with deadly intent. Dunbar dived for Huntly’s reins, just
managing to catch them in his burly grasp. George Gordon swung
again with the sword, striking the sheriff in the chest. He
staggered, dropped the reins, and crashed onto the ground, rolling
over twice before landing on his back and staring wide-eyed up at
the smoke-filled sky. Sorcha gasped and would have run to aid the
wounded man, but Rosmairi grabbed her by the arm.

“
It’s hopeless,” she whispered in a
choked voice. “He’s dead.”

Noting the awkward angle of Dunbar’s motionless body,
Sorcha knew that Rosmairi was right. Yet she shook free of her
sister’s grasp, and though Rosmairi cried out after her, she ran
not toward the inert sheriff, but down the path that Moray had
taken to the sea. Now afoot, Gordon and several other men plunged
over the cliff in tenacious pursuit. Gathering the taffeta skirts
in her hand, Sorcha picked her way over the rocks, heedless of
anyone who might be following her.

While Sorcha might know the forests and the glens by
heart from her youth in the Highlands, she was ill acquainted with
the vagaries of the seashore. However, during the course of the
supper conversation, she had heard one of Moray’s cousins remark
upon the caves that had been carved out of the cliffs just below
Aberdour. It seemed a likely hiding place for the Earl of Moray,
who seemed to have disappeared.

Stumbling over a large rock, Sorcha righted herself
and said a little prayer, asking the Virgin to guard her bairn.
Regardless of what happened to Moray, Sorcha would not risk the
life of the child she carried. Nor, she realized, making her way
around a shallow tide pool, did she have the remotest notion of how
she intended to aid her future husband against a swordwielding
company commanded by George Gordon.