Francis Hepburn Stewart, the wily Earl of
Bothwell, was observing the newcomers over his glass of port. His
one-time enemy, the doughty Sir William Stewart of Monkton, was
also present. William Stewart had lost two fingers in the quarrel
between his brother, the Earl of Arran, and the Earl of Mar three
years earlier. Both Stewarts, now at peace, sat flanked by two
mastiffs in front of the vast stone fireplace.
“ Jesu,” whispered Sorcha to Rob
after the introductions had been made, “I hope we’re not kin to all
these people. How can we tell?”
“ Ask our host. He’s a most congenial
man.” Rob grinned at Sorcha, then shook his head at the drab maroon
gown she was wearing. “Didn’t our Lady Mother insist you bring
along something more … festive?”
Sorcha grimaced at her brother. “Since when have you
taken to caring what I wear? And, yes, Mother packed my saffron
dress, but I’m not sure where it is. She said Aunt Tarrill would
see that I got a proper wardrobe in Edinburgh.” Sorcha tossed the
long, loose black hair and glared at the other guests who were
lounging about in various states of unregimented camaraderie. “I
didn’t expect to stay at an earl’s home en route to Edinburgh.”
In layman’s attire, Father Napier was almost as
casually dressed as Sorcha. Whiskey cup in hand, he had approached
her and Rob to join their conversation. “The Earl of Moray is well
known for his congenial hospitality. His wife was raised more
rigidly, but tries to adapt to relaxed ways.”
“ Relaxed?” mused Sorcha, watching
the demure Countess of Moray nod diffidently at the Earl of
Bothwell. “She seems a timorous creature to me.”
“ She has a certain sense of
dignity,” Father Napier noted with approval.
Sorcha’s green eyes snapped; she hadn’t spoken to
Napier since the previous night outside the inn. “Not to mention an
earldom stashed in her dowry.” Sorcha said bitingly. “Moray had to
choose between her and a younger sister, isn’t that so?” While
Sorcha was confident of her ability to maintain a conversation in
the great hall of a nobleman’s castle, she was also relieved to be
in such a large company. It was best that she and Gavin Napier
didn’t find themselves alone together for the duration of the
journey.
Napier shrugged, one big hand cradling his whiskey
cup. “I assume His Lordship was taken by her modesty and grace. But
ask him yourself,” he went on, gesturing toward their host who was
approaching, a warm smile on his handsome face.
“ We should have music or tumblers
for entertainment,” Moray declared, clapping Rob on the shoulder.
“I had no notion our humble home would be welcoming so many
visitors at once.”
“ Including turbulent Bothwell, I
see.” Gavin Napier gestured toward the curly-haired earl, who had
captured Elizabeth of Moray’s rapt attention. “He, too, is kin to
the Frasers.”
Moray nodded, his open gaze taking in Sorcha and Rob
as well as Gavin Napier. “His father was yet another illegitimate
son of King James, his mother, the sister of Queen Mary’s third
husband. A stormy petrel, but possessed of a certain charm.”
Sorcha eyed Bothwell with curiosity. Somehow she’d
expected the offspring of jaunty Johnny Stewart and the coltish
Jean Hepburn to be an imposing figure. He was redheaded, barely of
average height, and with an unimpressive physique. Yet his nervous
energy exuded a peculiar magnetism.
“ Bothwell and King Jamie have an
erratic relationship,” Moray remarked lightly. He turned to Sorcha
and Rob, his hands spread in an expansive gesture. “So we are all
kin to you, yet we’ve never met ’til now.” The clear blue eyes
rested a trifle too long on Sorcha. “I regret our acquaintanceship
has taken so long.”
Sorcha was only vaguely discomfited by Moray’s gaze.
What disconcerted her more was that for the first time in her life,
she wished she were dressed in a more becoming style. Noting
Elizabeth of Moray’s pale
Bothwell, was observing the newcomers over his glass of port. His
one-time enemy, the doughty Sir William Stewart of Monkton, was
also present. William Stewart had lost two fingers in the quarrel
between his brother, the Earl of Arran, and the Earl of Mar three
years earlier. Both Stewarts, now at peace, sat flanked by two
mastiffs in front of the vast stone fireplace.
“ Jesu,” whispered Sorcha to Rob
after the introductions had been made, “I hope we’re not kin to all
these people. How can we tell?”
“ Ask our host. He’s a most congenial
man.” Rob grinned at Sorcha, then shook his head at the drab maroon
gown she was wearing. “Didn’t our Lady Mother insist you bring
along something more … festive?”
Sorcha grimaced at her brother. “Since when have you
taken to caring what I wear? And, yes, Mother packed my saffron
dress, but I’m not sure where it is. She said Aunt Tarrill would
see that I got a proper wardrobe in Edinburgh.” Sorcha tossed the
long, loose black hair and glared at the other guests who were
lounging about in various states of unregimented camaraderie. “I
didn’t expect to stay at an earl’s home en route to Edinburgh.”
In layman’s attire, Father Napier was almost as
casually dressed as Sorcha. Whiskey cup in hand, he had approached
her and Rob to join their conversation. “The Earl of Moray is well
known for his congenial hospitality. His wife was raised more
rigidly, but tries to adapt to relaxed ways.”
“ Relaxed?” mused Sorcha, watching
the demure Countess of Moray nod diffidently at the Earl of
Bothwell. “She seems a timorous creature to me.”
“ She has a certain sense of
dignity,” Father Napier noted with approval.
Sorcha’s green eyes snapped; she hadn’t spoken to
Napier since the previous night outside the inn. “Not to mention an
earldom stashed in her dowry.” Sorcha said bitingly. “Moray had to
choose between her and a younger sister, isn’t that so?” While
Sorcha was confident of her ability to maintain a conversation in
the great hall of a nobleman’s castle, she was also relieved to be
in such a large company. It was best that she and Gavin Napier
didn’t find themselves alone together for the duration of the
journey.
Napier shrugged, one big hand cradling his whiskey
cup. “I assume His Lordship was taken by her modesty and grace. But
ask him yourself,” he went on, gesturing toward their host who was
approaching, a warm smile on his handsome face.
“ We should have music or tumblers
for entertainment,” Moray declared, clapping Rob on the shoulder.
“I had no notion our humble home would be welcoming so many
visitors at once.”
“ Including turbulent Bothwell, I
see.” Gavin Napier gestured toward the curly-haired earl, who had
captured Elizabeth of Moray’s rapt attention. “He, too, is kin to
the Frasers.”
Moray nodded, his open gaze taking in Sorcha and Rob
as well as Gavin Napier. “His father was yet another illegitimate
son of King James, his mother, the sister of Queen Mary’s third
husband. A stormy petrel, but possessed of a certain charm.”
Sorcha eyed Bothwell with curiosity. Somehow she’d
expected the offspring of jaunty Johnny Stewart and the coltish
Jean Hepburn to be an imposing figure. He was redheaded, barely of
average height, and with an unimpressive physique. Yet his nervous
energy exuded a peculiar magnetism.
“ Bothwell and King Jamie have an
erratic relationship,” Moray remarked lightly. He turned to Sorcha
and Rob, his hands spread in an expansive gesture. “So we are all
kin to you, yet we’ve never met ’til now.” The clear blue eyes
rested a trifle too long on Sorcha. “I regret our acquaintanceship
has taken so long.”
Sorcha was only vaguely discomfited by Moray’s gaze.
What disconcerted her more was that for the first time in her life,
she wished she were dressed in a more becoming style. Noting
Elizabeth of Moray’s pale
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