A Beautiful Lie (The Camaraes)

by Stephanie Sterling

Her husband was, in a few short minutes, soaked to the skin. The thin white fabric of his shirt was almost instantly saturated. It turned almost see-through revealing, and moulding itself to, the rippling muscles that were flexing beneath the material. Muira caught herself staring, felt the blush that spread over her skin, and gave herself a mental slap.

  She didn’t want to still want him… but she did. But that was something that she could overcome! Muira told herself quickly. She had to overcome it… She was walking a path of self-destruction if she didn’t. Still, that didn’t mean that she wanted to see him catch his death of cold though… Muira’s heart softened a fraction.

  “Lachlan?” she shouted over the pounding rain. He turned and looked up at her. Rain was streaming off his face… and yet Muira still couldn’t keep her eyes from dropping to his chest, where the shirt cotton was plastered like a second skin.

  “Aye, lass?” he called.

  “Do you think we should stop?” she asked, jumping slightly as thunder rumbled in the not-too-far distance.

  She watched her husband hesitate, able to read some of the expressions that past across his face after her short time of study. He looked torn between reluctance and agreement. He nodded eventually, murmuring something that Muira didn’t quite catch.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Lachlan led Faidhiach on for another five minutes before turning off the main road towards one of his uncles’ barns. He’d had it in his mind to find shelter before Muira had said anything, but he should have made sure that he found somewhere before the rain started.

  Just another failing to add to the list of things that made him such an awful husband, Lachlan supposed. He had wondered if it would be better to simply press on for home, now that were both soaking, but if Muira felt that she needed to stop he won’t try to push her.

  He fumbled awkwardly with the barn door in the rain, catching his hand on a splinter and cursing under his breath as he tore open his palm. Ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain, Lachlan pressed his shoulder against the door and pushed, forcing it open and then walking Faidhaich inside the warm, dry barn.

  “Here you are, lass,” he grunted, offering Muira his shoulder and good hand to help get down off the horse. She seemed uncertain for a moment, but eventually accepted his offer of help.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, moving away from him immediately.

  Lachlan felt his heart clench painfully as he watched her retreat, wanting to follow, but not daring. Distractedly, he balled his hand shut to try and stem the bleeding, and then tried to loosen Faidhaich’s girth one-handed as they prepared to wait out the storm.

  “What’s the matter with your other hand?”

  Muira’s timid question drifted over from where she had selected to sit-on a pile of hay just about as far away from her husband as she could manage.

  Lachlan looked over at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘nothing’, but something warned him against it. So instead, he shrugged his shoulders, and muttered: “just picked up a scratch.”

  He continued to watch Muira out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to be battling the desire to take a closer look with the opposing desire of leaving him to suffer alone. Eventually the former need appeared to win. Lachlan couldn’t quite help but feel a small swell of triumph.

  “Do you think I should take a look?” Muira blurted.

  “I’m sure it’s not too bad,” he replied slowly, but when his wife settled back in her straw seat on hearing this, Lachlan added: “although a second opinion wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Muira nevertheless got up from where she had been sitting. She walked over to where her husband was now standing, resting against a stall door, and hesitantly caught his large hand between her much smaller ones. She couldn’t contain a gasp when she saw the bloody, raggedly torn skin of his palm. Lachlan was simply revelling in the feel of her tender touch, numb to the pain in light of the comfort Muira was unwittingly bestowing.

  “That looks awful,” she gaped.

  “It’s just a scratch,” he reiterated calmly, staring down into Muira’s worried face. Having her this close without being able to reach for her was agony. But it was no less than he deserved, he acknowledged. He had to find a way to earn her forgiveness! Lachlan didn’t think that he could go back to living as he had done before he’d known his wife.

  His eyes swept her figure reverently, drinking in every lush, heavy curve that at become etched upon his memory, stealing an extra glance or two at the generous swell of her bosom. Lachlan was glad of the icy water that had soaked its way through to his skin. He never would have been able to stop his body reacting to the innocent provocation of his wife’s touch without it.

  What if she never let him touch her again? Lachlan honestly didn’t know how he would live. His need for her felt just as essential as his need to eat-as his need to breathe. If only he’d had more time! If only there were stronger bonds that bound Muira to him…

  Lachlan winced in surprise when he realised that his wife was bandaging his hand with a clean handkerchief. She shot him a nervous little glance and then continued working.

  A child, Lachlan reflected grimly, if they’d had a child that would have created a link between them that Muira couldn’t sever.

  …but then she could already be with child.

  Lachlan released his breath in a sudden puff of air. Given the number of times that he’d had her, it was really more likely than not that Muira was already carrying his baby. Lachlan tried hard to temper the fierce flare of lust that the notion provoked. It was a few moments before he could convince his body not to respond to the imagine image of Muira ripe and marked by his possession, but he was less able to dampen the flicker of hope that the thought had also ignited.

  “Lachlan?” Muira brushed his arm lightly. “Are you all right?” she asked, catching his glazed expression. Muira bit her lip, as though she’d spoken the words without meaning to. She stared up at him, and then let her eyes flicker to the puddle he was leaving on the floor. “You’re going to catch your death if you stay in those wet clothes.”

  And would that be a good or bad development, as far as she was concerned? Lachlan wondered, but didn’t ask.

  He waved off her remark as though it didn’t matter, not trusting himself to remove the sodden garments in front of his wife. However, Lachlan did thank her for binding his hand, and asked her if she was feeling quite warm enough herself.

  “I’ll manage I’m sure,” Muira replied stiltedly.

  Her tone wounded him further, but Lachlan was at least relieved to note that Muira did look a good deal drier than him. Under the heavy winter cloak that she had been wearing (and had now taken off) her clothes were virtually bone dry. It was only her hair, which hung in damp tendrils around her face, which betrayed her.

  He didn’t know what he’d do if she developed another fever!

  Spurred on by that very real fear, Lachlan wandered around the barn, looking for a discarded mantle or cloak to offer his wife while they waited out the storm. He could feel her eyes watching him as he moved, and found the scrutiny strangely unnerving. Was Muira finding further faults, he wondered? Silently bemoaning what a pathetic specimen of a husband she had found for herself?

  Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Lachlan found a dusty, but serviceable, blanket for Muira to wrap herself in, and was able to escape from such thoughts, albeit briefly.

  “What about you?” she asked quietly, allowing him to drape the blanket around her shoulders, and then picking at a hole in the faded wool. “You really are soaked, Lachlan,” she pressed.

  “I’m fine,” he grunted, sitting down on an opposite bale of hay, and was then unable to repress a shiver.

  “You’re stubborn is what you are!” Muira snapped crossly. She stood up and marched towards him, tossing the blanket over one arm, while resting the other angrily on her hip. “Now take that shirt off this instant!” she commanded.

  Lachlan gaped up at his
wife, unable to quite believe what he had just heard. His mouth opened, and then shut again silently, as he searched in vain for something to say-the trouble being that he couldn’t think of anything to say… and the only other option seemed to be to obey Muira’s command. He reached uncertainly for the bottom of his shirt, moving slowly so as to give Muira time to stop him.

  Muira didn’t appear to have any intention of stopping him however. She watched him closely, but it was in the same kind of strict manner as one might watch an errant child. Feeling duly cowed, Lachlan pulled his wet shirt off over his head, and tossed it over the stall door he had been leaning against earlier. It had to be his imagination, but for just a second he thought that Muira wavered slightly once he was striped to the waist.

  ..ooOOoo..

  It wasn’t Lachlan’s imagination… Muira couldn’t help but goggle at the sight of her husband’s naked body-at the way the rain had made his skin slick and damp. She couldn’t believe that he could still do this to her after what had happened the night before! Not that he was doing anything, Muria had to admit to herself shamefaced. She had ordered him to remove the shirt, and now he was just sitting there watching her warily.

  Would it always be like this, she wondered fearfully. Had Lachlan triggered a hunger in her that was never going to be fulfilled, unless it was by him? Her eyes wandered disobediently over his chest. Her fingers practically itched to rake through the spattering of dark hair that was scattered there. Her body was ready to forgive, or at least forget, the humiliation and pain, and beg him to send her into raptures again.

  Fortunately for Muira, her heart had a longer memory than her body. She wrapped the blanket around her husband’s broad shoulders gingerly, not wanting to run the risk of touching him, and then retreated to her corner of hay.

  “Muira,” Lachlan sighed, following her and sitting down next to her, to Muira’s alarm. “I won’t let you catch a chill,” he said firmly, throwing his arm, and half the blanket, around his wife and then drawing her defiantly against his side.

  Muria stared up at him open mouthed. How dare he… and then she caught sight of the uncertain gleam in Lachlan’s eyes. He was probably worried that she’d try and strike him again, Muira thought guiltily. She shouldn’t have done that-she had half expected him to strike her back. Muira didn’t think that, (apart from perhaps her father and brothers,) any other man would have let her get away with such an act of rebellion.

  And why had she done it… because he’d said that he loved her. If only she could have believed him… Muira sagged against her husband’s side without really realising what she was doing. If only he could have said those three little words before everything had started to spiral into such an awful mess!

  They sat in silence waiting for the rain to stop, for over an hour if Muira judged the time correctly. She noticed (to her horror) that she was slowly nestling closer against Lachlan’s side as the time drifted by. She was scared that pulling away would draw more attention to this fact than if she just stayed still however, so she remained where she was-clasped snugly against her husband’s body.

  It was Lachlan who moved first, and broke the fragile little bond that had been formed between them. Muira didn’t know why she felt so bereft; she should have been glad to escape the contact.

  “We’re going?” she asked quietly, when Lachlan didn’t say anything. He had simply wandered by to his horse and begun to tighten the girth of the animal’s saddle. Not being terribly mindful of his injured hand either, Muira noticed anxiously.

  “Aye, the rain’s letting up a bit. We’ll have to try and make it back to Eilean Donan between the worst of the showers,” he told her gently.

  Muira nodded and asked if there was anything that she could do to help. Lachlan shot her a curious glance, but he shook his head. Muira watched as he reached for his crumpled shirt and tugged it back on over his head, before then glancing back at her.

  “You’ll need a hand getting back up into the saddle, I expect?” Lachlan asked softly.

  Muira made to tell him that she could manage, that she could use a box, but her husband was already striding purposefully towards her… and perhaps a guilty part of Muira wanted to feel his hands on her body, and so perhaps that was why she didn’t say anything to object when Lachlan swept her easily up off the floor.

  He took up his position leading his gelding again, instead of jumping up behind Muira. She couldn’t decide what to make of that-whether Lachlan was doing it out of respect for her, or because he couldn’t stand to be that close to… a Cameron whore. The latter didn’t make sense given that he’d purposefully moved next to her in the barn though… Muira’s head hurt from trying to sort everything out in her mind.

  “Will Laird MacRae be very angry with you for being away from the castle for such a long time?” Muira asked sadly. She didn’t want to cause more problems! But she was certain Lachlan started… as if that hadn’t even occurred to him… as if he hadn’t thought about such practicalities?

  “If he is then I’m sure it’s nothing less than I deserve,” Lachlan breathed at length.

  “What do you mean?” Muira sniffed miserably. She seemed to feel worse as they drew nearer to the castle.

  “Muira, what I did to you was utterly despicable,” Lachlan said difficultly, bowing his head. “I’ll take any punishment that’s dealt out to me.”

  “But-but it wasn’t your fault that I ran away,” Muira blurted. Despite everything, she couldn’t stand the thought of the Laird punishing Lachlan!

  Lachlan cast a confused glance in her direction. “Of course it was my fault,” he growled, his voice saturated with self-loathing, and that was the last thing he said until they had made it all the way back to the castle.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Lachlan managed to get Muria back into the castle and up to their chambers without too many people seeing them and sending them questioning glances. He was relieved not to have met his mother or sisters at any rate, although he suspected that word would have already reached their ears that he and his wife had been missing for most of the day. No doubt the grapevine of castle gossip would see to it that his family heard that they were back before too long as well.

  “Let me call for Liane to fix a bath for you,” Lachlan said to Muira once he had shut the bedroom door behind them. His wife twisted and looked back at him.

  “Why?”

  The simple little question made him wince. Would she make him say it? She couldn’t have bathed since he’d taken the night before (not unless the shower in the rain counted). Didn’t she want to wash away the-the taint he’d left on her body? The soreness that had to still linger?

  “I-thought you might like one,” he muttered cowardly, unable to hold her gaze as he said it. There were a few agonising moments of silence, and then Muira spoke softly.

  “I would, thank you.”

  Lachlan almost sagged in relief. He rang the bell for the maid, and then went about seeing to changing his own damp clothes.

  “Are you going to go and see Laird MacRae?” Muira asked quietly. Lachlan tugged his shirt off over his head once again, and then nodded. “Do you-do you think I should go with you?” Muira asked hesitantly.

  Lachlan tried not to appear as though the question had caught him by surprise. Why did she want to go? To hear what excuse he would give for their absence, or to tell Graem her own version of events? Lachlan wouldn’t stop her from doing either. He had meant what he’d said earlier, he was prepared to face the consequences of his actions.

  “Do you want to come with me, lass?” he asked calmly, answering her question with one of his own, straightening his shirt and then disappearing out of sigh for a moment as he found a clean kilt to wear in front of the Laird. When he reappeared Muira was looking pensive.

  “No, I-I think I will stay here,” she said at length. Lachlan nodded his head and then made to move towards the door, he hesitated before he’d walked two paces however.

  “You will stay here, won’
t you, Muria?” he frowned anxiously. “I won’t-I won’t keep you a prisoner here if you want to leave Eilean Donan with your brothers when they come.” He though it would be so much easier to say ‘leave Eilean Donan’ than ‘leave me’ but the words cut through Lachlan’s heart regardless. “But no more running away on your own again? Promise me?” he demanded firmly.

  The colour leeched from Muira’s face. Lachlan couldn’t quite understand why. “I won’t run away again,” she whispered. “I promise, Lachlan. I’ll stay until you send me away,” she nodded quietly.

  Lachlan frowned. “I didn’t-” but he was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. “Liane,” he grumbled, admitting the maid and giving her instructions to see that her mistress was provided with a nice hot bath.

  Muira sat on the edge of the bed as she waited for the water to be fetched. “You’d better go then,” she murmured, staring blankly at the floor.

  “Aye,” Lachlan almost groaned the word. “I suppose I better had.”

  He slunk out of the room without saying another word, only prayed that Muira would do as she had promised and stay put until he got back.

  Lachlan hadn’t a clue what he was going to say to Graem. He hoped that a sincere, vague, apology would be enough to pacify the old man, but he wasn’t counting on it. Laird MacRae might be an elder, sickly man, but his mind was as keen as ever.

  Lachlan was admitted to see the Laird almost immediately, and found Graem sitting in his usual seat by the fire, with a book and magnifying glass resting on his lap.

  “Ah Lachlan, you’ve returned to us I see?” Graem coughed, looking up at his tanist with eyes that were still bright and alive, although set in an aged, decaying face.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Lachlan begged, bowing his head reverently. Graem waved the apology aside with one gnarled hand.

  “I don’t know that you have anything to be forgiven for yet, unless you intend to elaborate on your apparent offensive?” the Laird said, offered Lachlan a seat on which to sit.

  “Well, for neglecting my duties today, sir,” Lachlan replied carefully.