Gosford's Daughter (7 page)

Briskly, Sorcha went to unlatch the door. She took no
precautions, since few strangers came to Gosford’s End. A moment
later, Sorcha wished she had used the rusted iron peephole. Johnny
Grant stood on the threshold, while three of the Fraser dogs yipped
at his feet.

“
I presume upon your hospitality,”
he said in his quick, choppy manner of speech. The autumn breeze
ruffled his pale hair, and his gray eyes were somber. Though only
seventeen, he had the air of a much older, more rigid man. “My
kinsmen will wait outside.”

Sorcha yanked the door all the way open. Down the
drive, near the well, she could barely make out the forms of two
men and three horses. Shooing the dogs back outdoors, she stepped
aside to let Johnny enter. He stopped abruptly when he recognized
George Gordon.

“
I’ll not speak in front of any
Gordon,” declared Johnny, bearded chin thrust out. “What I say must
be directed only to Frasers. Only Frasers,” he repeated
doggedly.

For George, any aspersion cast on his family name
drew instant ire. “By the saints, brash Johnny Grant, guard your
tongue lest I hack it out!” George’s hand had gone to his dirk.

“
I come in peace,” Johnny asserted
truculently. “But I’ll speak only to Mistress Sorcha and her kin.
Spare us an ounce of courtesy, sir!”

“
Spare us all,” Sorcha murmured to
George. “If there’s mischief to be made, I’ll be the
maker.”

George eyed Sorcha with vague surprise, then squared
his shoulders, glared at Johnny, and stamped into the banquet hall.
When Sorcha turned back to her unwelcome guest, she noted that he
was flushing under his beard. “Well? What brings you here to visit
a maid you’ve treated so shabbily?”

“
Sorcha ….” Johnny sighed and
crossed his arms over his chest. “It seemed the manly thing to tell
you face-to-face that despite my fondest wishes, I am unable to
marry you. Quite unable.”

“
It is me or my religion you find
unpalatable?” Sorcha demanded, feeling the stiff ruff agitate her
skin.

Johnny’s faint smile revealed his slightly crooked
teeth. “I have always found you most bonnie. Alas, I cannot take a
Papist to wife. For me, ’twould be a grave sin.” The smile faded.
“A very grave sin.”

Sorcha flicked the end of her nose with her finger in
that unconscious gesture of dismissal, then stared at Johnny
Grant’s youthful, compact form and pleasant bearded face. In days
gone by, he had been good company, a good sport, and sometimes a
good friend. But Niall’s hard-muscled body, and even the hunter’s
eyes of Father Napier, stirred something more exciting in Sorcha
than did Johnny Grant’s camaraderie.

“
I’d not invite you to sin on my
account,” Sorcha said rather stiltedly. Suddenly she laughed and
put out a hand. “Don’t fash yourself, Johnny. The match was made
for us before we cut our second teeth. I’ll not hold a
grudge.”

Tentatively, he took her hand. “I’m relieved. Most
relieved. I thought you might be angry.”

She wrung his hand, then withdrew her own. “I was.
Infuriated, actually. But since you’ve taken the trouble to
explain, that changes my feelings. Though why religion and politics
must muddle up people’s lives, I can’t understand. You, however,
believe otherwise, and I should respect that. At least I’m not
being thrown over for some simpering, dimpled ninny.”

“
Oh, no! Lilias isn’t like that!”
Johnny stopped, flushed even more deeply, and clapped a hand over
his mouth.

“
Lilias?” Sorcha’s eyes narrowed.
“Traitor! Reiver! Knave!” She flew at him, nails going for his
eyes.

Retreating, Johnny grappled with Sorcha, vainly
trying to utter words that would soothe her. “It’s nothing … I
merely meant … Lilias is but fourteen.”

Sorcha had him backed up against the wall. He averted
his face, gripping one of her wrists but feeling the blows she
rained against his temple. Johnny was again attempting verbal
appeasement when he felt Sorcha being pulled away from him and
heard her shriek in protest.

“
Enough!” commanded Father Napier,
one arm slung around Sorcha’s waist. He had lifted her off the
floor and her feet swung free above the flagstones. “You seem to be
having problems getting along with your guests this evening,
mistress.”

“
Let me go!” cried Sorcha, now
directing her blows at Napier’s arm. “This churl has shamed me most
dreadfully! Swill-sucking pig!” she spat at Johnny. “I’ll marry a
man twice as noble, thrice as rich, or see you rot in hell
first!”

Apprehensively, Johnny straightened his dark brown
doublet. “I had wished to see your sire …. Ah!” He gasped in
relief as Iain Fraser came into the entrance hall.

“
Christ,” muttered Fraser, “what’s
amiss now?” He glanced angrily from the combative Sorcha and Father
Napier to the rumpled Johnny Grant. Napier set Sorcha on her feet
but kept his arm tight around her waist. She quieted down in her
father’s presence but still strained to escape from the priest’s
firm hold.

“
I came to apologize,” Johnny
explained swiftly. “I meant no dishonor to your daughter or your
family. No dishonor at all. Despite what Sorcha may think, I am not
betrothed to any other lass. Though in consideration of all these
years I’ve spent paying her court and thus depriving myself of
opportunities to find a more suitable bride, I must ask for your
daughter’s dowry of Stratherrick as recompense. Stratherrick,” he
repeated and licked his lips nervously.

“
Why not ask for my ears as well,
you greedy little swine?” screamed Sorcha, who was promptly muzzled
by Father Napier’s hand.

Iain Fraser had stiffened, though his face remained
impassive. With a lazy jab of his thumb, he indicated the banquet
hall. “The first course is about to be served. I don’t wish to
detain my guests any longer. You are dismissed and will never be
welcome again at Gosford’s End.” He turned his back, brushing past
Sorcha and Father Napier on his way to the banquet hall.

“
Never,” Johnny breathed, his gray
eyes fixed on the double doors that had just closed behind Iain
Fraser. Taking a deep breath, he managed to glower at Sorcha and
the priest. “Now it is my honor that has been impugned.” Johnny put
one hand over his heart, the other on the latch of the front door.
“My honor,” he repeated in an ominous voice, and was gone into the
brisk October night.

Slowly, Father Napier released Sorcha. Her temper had
burned itself out, rendering her limp. “I’m sorry, Father,” she
began, “I must explain why I behaved so badly ….”

Napier shook his dark head. “No. It was all quite
clear.” He started back to the banquet hall, but Sorcha called
after him.

“
It’s a matter of shame,” she
persisted, “and injustice.”

Napier looked at her over his shoulder, the hunter’s
eyes deep and shadowy. “I doubt that you know what shame really is.
Or injustice. And certainly not pain.”

Sorcha paused, watching him stalk away. For one brief
moment, she had seen not the look of the hunter in Gavin Napier’s
eyes, but of the hunted.

The cheerful voices and bursts of laughter inside the
banquet hall made Sorcha feel as if the past half hour had never
occurred. Iain Fraser was herding his guests to the long trestle
table as Dallas eyed her daughter questioningly.

“
My Lord Huntly,” she called over
the throng, “pray sit by our Rosmairi and your humble hostess.”
With a flash of amethysts at one wrist, she motioned to Sorcha.
“Your place is with Magnus and Father Napier.” Dallas seemed to
gaze at her eldest daughter a bit longer than was necessary, then
smiled graciously in Napier’s direction. “It is our wish that you
give the blessing, Father.”

Gavin Napier nodded once, then began intoning a
familiar prayer in Latin. As he raised his hands over the table,
Sorcha’s eyes strayed to the strong, long, brown fingers that
appeared too rough to belong to a cleric. Certainly they’d had the
strength to subdue her fury only a few minutes earlier. Many
priests and monks, however, were forced to earn their own living in
these perilous times. The meanest, most common labor was often the
only sure source of sustenance.

During the first courses of leek soup and boiled
curlew and mussels in broth, Magnus monopolized Father Napier. That
was as well with Sorcha, who needed time to recover from Johnny
Grant’s monstrous behavior. Yet as she watched Rosmairi engage in
diffident conversation with George Gordon, her concern reverted to
her sister. It was obvious that poor, naive, trusting Ros was
smitten with the complacent young laird.

Sorcha sighed softly. If George proved persistent in
his courtship, she would have to keep close watch over Rosmairi,
lest the moonstruck lass lose more than her wits. Moreover, Sorcha
was puzzled by George’s choice. Tradition and religion bound Fraser
and Gordon clans, yet despite his youth, George had already been
involved in several major court intrigues. Slow of wit in social
situations and seemingly phlegmatic, the Gordon chieftain was
amazingly shrewd when it came to politics. Why would he ally
himself with a house that was already part of his Highland power
base? Iain Fraser’s personal integrity and sizable wealth made him
a man of importance, yet he had deliberately absented himself from
the royal circle for almost twenty years.

So, Sorcha asked herself again, why Rosmairi? She
seemed like a useless pawn in the scheme of George’s aspirations.
Noting her mother cast a disdainful glance in the young earl’s
direction, Sorcha recalled Lady Fraser’s damning words about
George’s lack of character and abundance of ambition. In spite of
the cramped quarters and the heat from the huge fireplace, Sorcha
shivered.

Her musings were interrupted as the servants brought
on the venison stewed in ale. As she began to eat, her attention
was caught by Gavin Napier’s account of his background. As near as
she could make out, he had been raised at Inversnaid on the eastern
shore of Loch Lomond. Unlike many of the Napiers, his family had
not embraced the reformed religion. Their obstinate adherence to
the Catholic faith had cost them considerable property, and while
Gavin was still a lad, they had exiled themselves to France.
Apparently, it was there that Napier had entered the
priesthood.

A typical tale, Sorcha reflected, as she chewed on
her venison and sipped the French wine from her father’s ample
cellar. Her plate was almost empty when Magnus’s attention was
diverted by a freckle-faced Gordon to his right. Father Napier
turned back to Sorcha.

“
Forgive me,” he began. “Your
brother’s keen inquiries have made me neglect your
company.”

Somehow, his tone seemed too familiar to Sorcha, who
frowned into her wine cup and fervently wished Father Napier would
sound—and act—more like a priest. “Are you on your way home?” she
queried at last.

“
There is no home to go to. My
parents died in France several years ago. The kinsmen I have in
Scotland would disown me for becoming a priest.” Despite the
serious nature of his words, Napier was still smiling, his teeth a
white gash in the dark beard. “I’ve come to offer support to
Scotland’s Catholic families.”

“
Oh.” Sorcha riveted her gaze on her
empty plate. “Are you one of those priests who would convert King
Jamie?”

Napier shrugged. “I’m not as optimistic as some,
especially the Jesuits. Tell me, is a knave such as Johnny Grant
worth your obvious distress?”

Coming from Father Napier, a virtual stranger, the
question seemed most inappropriate. Sorcha stiffened, shoving back
strands of black hair that had escaped over one shoulder. “He
humiliated me. Some day he’ll be sorry for it.”

Napier dabbed a crust of bread in the remains of his
gravy. “Leave vengeance to the Lord, lass. You’ll find many a man
who will give up all for what Johnny threw away tonight.”

Magnus was trying to peer around the priest’s broad
shoulder. Sorcha refused to look at her brother, nor would she
return Napier’s dark gaze. “The Lord has aplenty to do without
fashing Himself over Johnny Grant. I’d prefer sparing Him the
bother of divine retribution.”

Father Napier turned somber, staring without focus at
a silver tureen near his plate. “Retribution of any kind is only
another word for pain. Spare not God but mankind with your petty
pouting, Mistress Fraser.”

“
You upbraid me,” she retorted,
leaning forward and hoping the thick strands of hair would shield
her flushed cheeks. “You are a strange, unfeeling sort of priest.
Out there, in the entrance hall, you were too rough with me. See
here,” she said, lowering her voice and pushing back the ruffed
edge of her sleeve, “you bruised my wrist.”

Napier hesitated, then touched the red mark with his
forefinger. “Not I, mistress. I had you by the waist.” The shadows
lifted from his face as he raised his hand to within a half inch of
her lips. “And here, to silence your rampaging tongue.”

Sorcha refused to meet his eyes. She could swear she
still felt his fingers burning against the flesh of her wrist. Yet
it was Johnny who had grabbed her there, not Gavin Napier. “Priests
ought not to be so harsh with young maidens,” she muttered,
wondering why, with all the ease and glibness she usually displayed
toward male companions, this strange clergyman should make her feel
awkward and dull witted.

“
Young maidens should neither attack
visitors, nor lecture priests on behavior.” Napier spoke not
without humor, yet Sorcha sensed a hint of reproach.

At last, Magnus intervened. “My sister has many
opinions, Father. Like our Lady Mother, she is inclined to give
them voice.” To lighten his remark, Magnus winked at Sorcha but
received only a stony stare in response.