whispered,
turning over and wrestling with the rough blanket. She had hoped to
put Father Napier’s reckless embrace from her mind. Had he thought
she was taunting him about not liking women? Was he really a
lascivious priest after all? Or was Gavin Napier insane? The deep
sigh Sorcha uttered seemed to fill the cramped little room. She lay
on her back, staring up at the low, patched ceiling. Suddenly she
felt quite young, rather foolish, and very lonely. True, Rob was
with her on the journey, but soon they would be parted. Only a few
weeks ago, Sorcha had been dwelling comfortably within the bosom of
her family and the familiar surroundings of Gosford’s End. She had
an excellent prospect of marriage and the future seemed secure. Now
she had been jilted, wrenched from her sanctuary, and sent upon a
journey to a city that oppressed her. Worst of all, she had found
pleasure in the arms of an errant priest.
“ Hopeless,” she whispered into the
darkness. Sorcha knew it was as hopeless to love Gavin Napier as it
was to love Niall Fraser. In that moment, she made a vow—to marry a
rich, titled husband. She would love him, of course, since he would
be clever and handsome as well. Love must be commanded to come or
go. Hadn’t Johnny Grant turned fondness to disdain? Weren’t her
feelings for Niall already obscure? In a few days Sorcha would
forget Gavin Napier. And somewhere, perhaps just weeks away,
Sorcha’s true love was waiting.
Chapter 6
F or the home of one of
Scotland’s most important noblemen, Doune Castle was impressive
only in its forbidding appearance. After two hundred years, it was
still unfinished. The bulky towers were ragged; the two wings
jutting out above the River Teith appeared stunted. Sorcha found
the place a gloomy fortress on a barren hill, with only the arched
entrance worthy of an earl.
But the man who dwelled within was far from gloomy or
stunted. James Stewart, second Earl of Moray, was a tall, handsome
man with dark red hair and a brilliant smile. His wife, Elizabeth,
was scarcely older than Sorcha. The Countess of Moray appeared shy,
her gentian blue eyes downcast, her soft voice barely audible. She
was pretty, Sorcha decided, in a quiet sort of way, with the hint
of dimples and perfect small white teeth. Elizabeth Stewart was yet
another relative, being the elder daughter of Iain Fraser’s late
half brother and arch enemy, James, the first Earl of Moray.
“ Does that make us half cousins?”
Sorcha asked of Rob as they walked along the gallery toward the
dining room. The castle, Sorcha had noted with relief, was far more
inviting inside than outside, being decorated with bright
tapestries and handsome furnishings and plush Persian
carpets.
“ I suppose,” Rob replied. “But then
it seems as if half of Scotland is kin to us in some
way.”
“ Just think,” Sorcha said, lowering
her voice, “Elizabeth of Moray’s father tried to kill our own sire!
Do you think she knows?”
Rob shook his head. “I hope not. Her father seemed to
want to kill a lot of people. It’s only fitting that he should have
fallen to an assassin’s bullet.”
“ I remember when we heard he’d died.
I was but three years old, yet I recall how our Lady Mother gloated
for days.” Sorcha could still picture Dallas, standing in front of
the great fireplace at Gosford’s End, calling on God and the Virgin
and all the saints to witness how justice had finally been done.
Iain Fraser, however, had not joined in his wife’s jubilation.
Despite all the grief that Moray had brought him, the man was still
his brother.
The stark walls of the dining halls were partially
hidden by huge vases filled with evergreens and autumn leaves. The
chairs were covered in rich crimson damask, a runner of embossed
Spanish leather traversed the gleaming oak table, and a silver
chandelier shimmered with the light of five hundred candles.
Sorcha was suitably impressed. They were not the only
guests at Doune, however.
turning over and wrestling with the rough blanket. She had hoped to
put Father Napier’s reckless embrace from her mind. Had he thought
she was taunting him about not liking women? Was he really a
lascivious priest after all? Or was Gavin Napier insane? The deep
sigh Sorcha uttered seemed to fill the cramped little room. She lay
on her back, staring up at the low, patched ceiling. Suddenly she
felt quite young, rather foolish, and very lonely. True, Rob was
with her on the journey, but soon they would be parted. Only a few
weeks ago, Sorcha had been dwelling comfortably within the bosom of
her family and the familiar surroundings of Gosford’s End. She had
an excellent prospect of marriage and the future seemed secure. Now
she had been jilted, wrenched from her sanctuary, and sent upon a
journey to a city that oppressed her. Worst of all, she had found
pleasure in the arms of an errant priest.
“ Hopeless,” she whispered into the
darkness. Sorcha knew it was as hopeless to love Gavin Napier as it
was to love Niall Fraser. In that moment, she made a vow—to marry a
rich, titled husband. She would love him, of course, since he would
be clever and handsome as well. Love must be commanded to come or
go. Hadn’t Johnny Grant turned fondness to disdain? Weren’t her
feelings for Niall already obscure? In a few days Sorcha would
forget Gavin Napier. And somewhere, perhaps just weeks away,
Sorcha’s true love was waiting.
Chapter 6
F or the home of one of
Scotland’s most important noblemen, Doune Castle was impressive
only in its forbidding appearance. After two hundred years, it was
still unfinished. The bulky towers were ragged; the two wings
jutting out above the River Teith appeared stunted. Sorcha found
the place a gloomy fortress on a barren hill, with only the arched
entrance worthy of an earl.
But the man who dwelled within was far from gloomy or
stunted. James Stewart, second Earl of Moray, was a tall, handsome
man with dark red hair and a brilliant smile. His wife, Elizabeth,
was scarcely older than Sorcha. The Countess of Moray appeared shy,
her gentian blue eyes downcast, her soft voice barely audible. She
was pretty, Sorcha decided, in a quiet sort of way, with the hint
of dimples and perfect small white teeth. Elizabeth Stewart was yet
another relative, being the elder daughter of Iain Fraser’s late
half brother and arch enemy, James, the first Earl of Moray.
“ Does that make us half cousins?”
Sorcha asked of Rob as they walked along the gallery toward the
dining room. The castle, Sorcha had noted with relief, was far more
inviting inside than outside, being decorated with bright
tapestries and handsome furnishings and plush Persian
carpets.
“ I suppose,” Rob replied. “But then
it seems as if half of Scotland is kin to us in some
way.”
“ Just think,” Sorcha said, lowering
her voice, “Elizabeth of Moray’s father tried to kill our own sire!
Do you think she knows?”
Rob shook his head. “I hope not. Her father seemed to
want to kill a lot of people. It’s only fitting that he should have
fallen to an assassin’s bullet.”
“ I remember when we heard he’d died.
I was but three years old, yet I recall how our Lady Mother gloated
for days.” Sorcha could still picture Dallas, standing in front of
the great fireplace at Gosford’s End, calling on God and the Virgin
and all the saints to witness how justice had finally been done.
Iain Fraser, however, had not joined in his wife’s jubilation.
Despite all the grief that Moray had brought him, the man was still
his brother.
The stark walls of the dining halls were partially
hidden by huge vases filled with evergreens and autumn leaves. The
chairs were covered in rich crimson damask, a runner of embossed
Spanish leather traversed the gleaming oak table, and a silver
chandelier shimmered with the light of five hundred candles.
Sorcha was suitably impressed. They were not the only
guests at Doune, however.
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