Gosford's Daughter (62 page)

Gripped with fear and uncertainty, Sorcha peered up
ahead, where she could barely make out George and his men,
scrambling along the base of the cliff. Away from the burning
house, there was no firelight to guide her, just the slender slip
of a moon, hanging on its side over the dark, lapping waters of the
Firth. A noise nearby made Sorcha gasp. She whirled and saw more
men running in her direction, brandishing a variety of weapons,
including a pitchfork and a meat cleaver. With a sob of relief, she
recognized Armand, his dagger in one hand, the club in the
other.

Breathing hard, Armand raced up to Sorcha. “Where is
Moray?” he demanded as the others drew up behind him.

“
I don’t know.” Sorcha turned to
look over her shoulder. Gordon and his men had also vanished. “I
think he must have hidden in one of the caves,” Sorcha said.
“Perhaps he’ll be safe. He must know this terrain far better than
George does.”

Armand leaned on the club and considered Sorcha’s
words. “That’s so,” he replied thoughtfully. “Yet we must try to
find him—and the others.” Gesturing with the little dagger, Armand
indicated that they should follow him to the caves. Somehow, in the
wake of Moray’s absence and Dunbar’s demise, the Frenchman had been
designated as their leader. “Which of you are familiar with the
beach?” One of the older men, no doubt a Stewart cousin, replied
that he’d been down in the caves that very day, playing
hide-and-seek with the earl’s older children. Slinging the club
over his shoulder, Armand turned to Sorcha. “You must go back with
Ros. It’s too dangerous here.”

“
It’s dangerous up by the house,
too,” Sorcha retorted. “I refuse to abandon my lord at such a
time.”

Noting her jutting chin and glittering eyes, Armand
shrugged. There was no time to argue, nor could he guarantee
anyone’s safety within a mile of Donibristle. He walked swiftly to
catch up with the other men, while Sorcha doggedly followed in his
footsteps. They had covered no more than a hundred yards when they
spotted the first of the caves, an angular opening in the rocks,
too small for anyone of George Gordon’s ample proportions. The
second cave seemed much larger, and when the group paused to
investigate, they could hear voices echoing inside. Sorcha and
Armand exchanged anxious stares, then led the way between two big
boulders that sat on opposite sides of the entrance like a pair of
primitive doorstops.

Within a few feet, they could see nothing but black,
oppressive darkness. Water dripped nearby, and the cave smelled
dank and stale. Someone with a stammer—or a severe chill—suggested
lighting a torch. Armand dismissed the suggestion; they didn’t dare
risk giving themselves away when they weren’t exactly sure of the
enemy’s whereabouts. Sheathing his dagger, Armand felt for Sorcha’s
hand, leading her over a bed of small rocks toward the sound of the
Gordon men’s voices. It was obvious from their questioning tone
that they had not yet found the Earl of Moray.

A split second later, a loud, excited cry erupted
close by. Rounding a bend, Sorcha blinked against the sudden glow
of light. One of the Gordons held a flare aloft, his other hand
pointing toward a tendril of flame that dodged and darted straight
ahead of them. Sorcha stifled a cry as she realized it must be the
Earl of Moray. The sparks that had smoldered in his headgear’s
silken plume must have finally caught flame, betraying his presence
to his pursuers.

Pausing to pull off the steel helmet, Moray cast it
onto the floor of the cave, stamping out the fire with his booted
feet. Exerting all of his athletic prowess, he veered toward an
opening on his right, easily outdistancing his opponents. Yet as he
ducked to squeeze through the slender, jagged aperture, a shower of
dirt and rocks came tumbling down over his unprotected head.
Momentarily stunned, Moray reeled, then fell against the sheer wall
of the cave.

Gordon’s men pounced, their chieftain bringing up the
rear. Sorcha screamed and Armand shouted, but none of the
green-clad men paid any heed. Even as a half dozen armed soldiers
assaulted him, Moray tried to drive them back with his fists.
Barking a command for Sorcha to stay where she was, Armand rushed
forward with the others, though their every step was impeded by
fresh falls of earth and rock. Four Gordon henchmen held Moray fast
as George struck to the heart with his lethal dirk, then withdrew
the blade and savagely stabbed the Bonnie Earl in the face. With
his life’s blood spilling out on the floor of the rock-strewn cave,
Moray turned bemused eyes on his enemy and spoke his last words,
“Oh, Georgie, I fear you’ve spoiled a better face than your
own!”

As Moray slumped in the grasp of his assailants,
Sorcha’s screams pierced the dank air of the cave and echoed in her
ears even after Armand had rushed to her side and put a hand over
her mouth. “We can do nothing for him,” he said in a thick, shaken
voice. “Come, let us leave this grisly place before we are also
made victims.”

But the blood lust bred into generation after
generation of Highlander had been sated. It was the hour of
exultation for the Gordon clan, the making of a legend, which would
be handed down to kinsmen yet unborn. Stumbling through the
darkness, Sorcha thought she could hear laughter rumbling behind
her, penetrating the haze of shock and terror that seized every
inch of her body. She leaned on Armand, who swore at intervals, not
having stopped to strike a light to guide them. After what seemed
like an unendurably long time, they reached the entrance of the
cave. Fresh salt air swept over their faces as they paused to
revive themselves and adjust their eyes to the frail moonlight.

“
Sweet Jesu,” whispered Sorcha,
still clinging to Armand, “I hope Jamie hangs George Gordon high as
Haman!”

Armand was about to utter his total agreement, when a
tall, hooded figure emerged from the other side of the large
boulders that guarded the cave’s entrance. With an effort, Sorcha
disengaged herself from Armand and tried to focus on the shrouded
apparition. With the swift movement of one hand, the hood was
flipped back, revealing Marie-Louise, the moonlight tipping her
long blond hair with silver.

“
Has your bonnie bridegroom gone to
meet his Maker?” she asked insolently.

Armand started forward, a low growl in his throat.
But Marie-Louise held a long Italian dagger, and several Gordon
retainers had materialized from behind the rocks. One of them had
Rosmairi firmly in his grasp. Armand cursed volubly, then stepped
back next to Sorcha. “What evil game do you play now, whore of
Satan?” he hissed with such intensity that Sorcha jumped.

Marie-Louise didn’t flinch. She uttered a throaty
little laugh and waved the dagger at Sorcha. “A bride should be
with her groom, think you not? Was I not with mine the night he
died in the fire at d’Ailly?”

Armand went rigid at Sorcha’s side, then frowned in
puzzlement, before exploding once more at Marie-Louise. “Speak not
of d’Ailly to me, Mistress of Death! What do you mean, you were
with your groom? You’d left him long years before you came to
d’Ailly!”

Marie-Louise’s broad shoulders lifted in an
indifferent shrug. “Ah, yes,
that
groom—the father of your
child, eh?” She was regarding Sorcha with amusement, not unlike a
snake playing with the mouse it planned to consume for supper. Her
malignant gaze shifted back to Armand. “I speak of another
groom—your brother.” She smirked as Rosmairi called out for Armand
to hold his tongue, lest Marie-Louise and the Gordons murder them
all.

Armand, however, was not so easily intimidated. “You
couldn’t have married my brother! You already had a husband!”

The laughter that rolled out of Marie-Louise’s throat
held a genuine sound of amusement. “I’ve had many husbands,
mon
cher
Armand—one way or the other. Your poor, deluded brother
didn’t know that, of course.”

Enlightenment suddenly dawned upon Armand, but it was
Sorcha who spoke. “You tricked Armand’s brother into deeding the
property to you! Then you set fire to the house and killed them
all! Vile trollop, why did you commit such a terrible deed?”

Marie-Louise casually waved the dagger from side to
side. “I was impatient for my inheritance. And bored with my
so-called husband. I always grew bored with them.” She spoke
matter-of-factly, as if admitting to no worse a flaw than biting
her nails.

A commotion from inside the cave momentarily
distracted Marie-Louise as well as the others. George Gordon and
his men were filing out, dragging Moray’s bloody corpse behind
them. George walked within a foot of Sorcha but didn’t give her a
glance. Instead, he hailed Marie-Louise, a broad smile on his
ruddy, dirt-stained face. “This night we have triumphed over
villainous Moray! The King will thank us for ridding Scotland of
such a viper!” He paused, huffing noticeably, and scanned the
shingle for his followers. Several more were descending down the
sea cliff path, while the glow from the fire was beginning to fade.
Gordon leaned toward Marie-Louise, making certain his bulk didn’t
obtrude between the dagger and her quarry. “We ride on to Aberdeen
now. What do you claim as your reward?”

Marie-Louise gestured at Sorcha and Armand with the
dagger. “I’ve claimed it.” Without ever taking her eyes off her
intended victims, she threw a wide, triumphant smile at George
Gordon. “Leave me an escort, and I will join you shortly.”

Gordon saluted Marie-Louise, then joined his men, who
dragged Moray’s battered corpse behind them over the wet, rocky
sand. Sorcha watched with renewed horror and felt as if she were
going to be violently ill. She was only vaguely aware that Armand
was pulling her along with him as he edged an inch at a time closer
to where Rosmairi stood with her captors.

After Gordon and the others scrambled back up the sea
cliff path, Marie-Louise tossed her flowing blond hair and laughed,
a rich, ribald, jarring sound. “I’ve waited such a long time for
this,” she said in that pleasant, throaty voice. “Who will not
believe that Moray’s bride and her relatives were murdered by
George Gordon?” The blue eyes darted in the direction of the
remaining Gordon retainers. “Not you, my good fellows, since if you
disclaim the crime on your master’s behalf, I shall take credit for
the Bonnie Earl’s death. Or blame you for what becomes of these
three pathetic creatures.”

Already suitably cowed by the formidable Frenchwoman,
at least two of the men mumbled their acquiescence. Marie-Louise
turned smug, then commanded the soldiers to move d’Ailly out of her
way. “I’ll deal with you later,
cher Sieur
. I’ve yet to
decide whether it would be more amusing to let you live, a poor—and
possibly blind—wanderer, or to dispatch you with your simpering
wife and her obstinate sister.”

Strong arms were hauling Armand away from Sorcha.
Rosmairi let out an ear-splitting wail before a hand was clamped
over her mouth. Struggling against his captors, Armand kicked one
in the groin, sending the man sprawling onto the strand. “Enough!”
Marie-Louise cried out, springing at Sorcha. The dagger flashed in
the moonlight, but Sorcha leapt to her left. The soft sand had
grown mushy where Sorcha and Armand’s feet had dug in to edge
toward Rosmairi. While they might not have ever reached her side,
the damage had been done. Marie-Louise slipped in the muddy sand,
her cloak flying about her like the wings of a great malevolent
bat. Her hand still held the dagger tight, and it was those
clutching fingers that Sorcha went for, dropping beside the other
woman, wrenching at the dagger with a frenzied, clawing grasp.
Marie-Louise rolled over, refusing to surrender the weapon. Sorcha
sunk her teeth into her adversary’s wrist and at last Marie-Louise
let out a howl of pain. Tasting blood, Sorcha ground the clasped
hand against a rock as Marie-Louise’s other fist pounded her back.
The babe fluttered in Sorcha’s womb, and she froze, her fingers
still clutching at the dagger.

One of the men who was not engaged in restraining
Armand and Rosmairi rushed to aid Marie-Louise. Grabbing a handful
of Sorcha’s hair in one hand, and her right arm in the other, he
pulled mightily, at last forcing her to let go. Sorcha kicked her
feet and swung her arms wildly, but the man held her just off the
ground in a virtually helpless position. Cursing under her breath,
Marie-Louise, her blond tresses caked with muddy sand, struggled to
her feet. The beautiful azure eyes blazed hatred as she once more
raised the dagger and with an exultant cry of “Bitch!” sent the
steel slashing down toward Sorcha’s heaving breast.

The night seemed to come apart in a volley of thunder
as the dagger dropped onto the sand only inches from where Sorcha’s
feet swung ineffectually. Marie-Louise screamed and staggered, her
momentum carrying her several yards down the strand. Yet she didn’t
fall; with a superhuman effort, she kept on her feet and
straightened her body. Head flung back, she stared beyond the
others to the running group of men whose booted feet reverberated
in Sorcha’s ears like church bells on a festival mom.

The hackbut’s muzzle gleamed in Gavin Napier’s hand
as he drew closer. Shouting at Gordon’s men to release their
prisoners at once, Napier raced toward Sorcha, whose captor was
unceremoniously dumping her on the sand. Dazedly, she shook her
head, which throbbed in tandem with the pounding surf and the tramp
of the other men following Napier. As her eyes came into focus, she
saw the Italian dagger almost touching the bruised fingers of her
left hand; to her right, she could make out Napier’s calfskin
boots. Then she felt his sure hands lifting her carefully to her
feet, his arms wrapping around her trembling body. “The babe,” she
whimpered, “the babe! Did I harm our child?”