Gosford's Daughter by Mary Daheim

wide to him, to surrender to the hands
that moved purposefully from her waist to her hips and back to the
soft, yielding flesh just beneath her breasts.
    She had felt like this with Niall, and yet it was not
the same—then, she had been in control, of him, of herself, of the
situation. Now, in Gavin Napier’s steel grasp, Sorcha was not
merely helpless but had no will to fend him off, no shame to demand
that he desist.
    As she felt his fingers move to the swelling curve of
her breast, he suddenly released her mouth, holding her away from
him in the crook of his arm. The dark eyes seemed to sear her face.
“Does that answer your question?” Napier’s voice was a low, ominous
growl.
    Sorcha was shaking. She still felt that tantalizing
hand just under her breast and tried to read what was going on
behind the dark eyes and the fierce voice. Contempt, no doubt, for
himself, for her. “Sweet Mother of God,” Sorcha whispered through
lips that barely seemed to move, “did I entice you?”
    For one fleeting moment, the hunter’s eyes grew not
only soft but almost merry. Then Napier slowly withdrew his arms
from Sorcha, the fingers just brushing the tip of her breast, as if
by accident. He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed vigorously.
“Christ,” he murmured, “what have I done?”
    For once, Sorcha squelched her natural desire to
speak boldly, honestly. Gavin Napier had kissed her and held her
and touched her—and she wished he hadn’t stopped. But she dared not
say so aloud; she was compelled to lie, at least to suppress the
truth, and to hide her feelings. Sorcha shifted her stance and
shrugged. “A regrettable lapse, I suppose,” she said and was amazed
at the leaden sound of her voice.
    “ Aye.” Napier nodded once, started
to lift his hand in some sort of salute, and then abruptly turned
on his heel to head up the rocky path toward the inn.
    A faint glow of light could be seen from behind the
rude inn’s window. Off to one side of the thatched structure,
Sorcha heard their horses stir in the dilapidated stable.
Fleetingly, she considered going to pat Thisbe’s neck to feel a
reassuring reminder of home.
    Napier never looked back, but he left the door ajar
for her. By the time Sorcha entered the inn, she could see his
booted feet ascending the ladder to the loft where his straw pallet
lay between Rob’s and Arthur MacSymond’s.
    Sorcha ignored the curious stare of the burly
innkeeper as she made her way up the short, winding staircase to
her attic room. Ailis was sitting by a candle, looking through the
tiny window. There was no glass or horn, only a piece of canvas to
keep out the autumn chill. Sorcha silently blessed Ailis’s poor
eyesight; otherwise she might have observed the indiscreet moment
by the loch.
    “ How’s your ankle, Ailis?” Sorcha
inquired in a kindly voice.
    “ Sore, but I’ll manage.” Ailis gave
Sorcha a tight-lipped smile. “Did your walk refresh
you?”
    Sorcha turned away as she started to undress. “Oh,
aye,” she answered as casually as possible, and realized her mouth
felt bruised. “I think I saw a deer by the loch.”
    “ Are they like the ones in the
Highlands?” asked Ailis, crawling under a patched blanket and
stifling a yawn.
    “ They’re smaller,” replied Sorcha
evasively.
    “ Oh,” Ailis said, and closed her
eyes. Sorcha held back a sigh of relief; she had no wish to carry
on a lengthy conversation. Blowing out the candle, Sorcha wrapped
herself in her own blanket, which felt scratchy against her skin.
The place seemed free of vermin, she decided, trying to find a
comfortable position on the straw pallet. They had yet to sleep in
a bed with a real mattress. At least the McVurrich household would
provide the amenities of life.
    Outside, an owl hooted. Ailis was already snoring
softly. The little low-ceilinged room still reeked of peat, though
Sorcha knew the fire had been put out before she returned to the
inn.
    “ God’s teeth,” she