A Beautiful Lie (The Camaraes)

by Stephanie Sterling

  “So when are you letting us leave?” Tavish snarled. Lachlan took his time before answering.

  “Not enjoying your stay with us, MacEantach?” he asked evenly. Tavish snorted insolently. “I was surprised that you were among the party that accepted Laird MacRae’s invitation,” he continued lightly.

  Tavish opened his mouth, as if to snarl something, however he stopped himself at the last possible moment, and smiled sneeringly instead. “How is the good Laird MacRae?” he hissed. “Or would that be you now?”

  “Laird Graem MacRae is still with us.” I hope. Lachlan prayed.

  “You know what they’ll say of course?” Tavish grinned dangerously. Lachlan took a seat by the fireplace, as if the answer was of no consequence to him. “That you’re involved?” Tavish snapped, when Lachlan refused to be baited. “That it’s your brother-in-law who did it, that you stand to gain the most from the Laird’s death. That’s what people are going to be saying.”

  “Do you think so? Don’t you think people might start asking themselves if you were involved before worrying about me?” Lachlan asked innocently.

  “You’ve already got your man locked up downstairs in the dungeons,” Tavish said confidently.

  “We have a man locked up downstairs in the dungeons, whether or not he’s the right man remains to be seen,” Lachlan argued lightly.

  “Is that so?” Tavish breathed, walking closer to where Lachlan was sitting. “And what would make you think that you had the wrong man?”

  “What would you say, Mr MacEantach,” Lachlan said briskly, suddenly jumping to his feet in an unexpected display of energy. “If I told you that I had a witness who says that you were down in the kitchens during the earlier hours of this morning?”

  “I’d say you were a liar,” Tavish gave an oily smile.

  “Would you? That’s interesting. I think my witness would disagree,” Lachlan remarked mildly.

  “There is no witness,” Tavish argued, so convincingly that Lachlan might have believed him if he didn’t already know the truth. “I didn’t leave me room all night.”

  “No? Not even for a glass of water? A midnight snack?” Lachlan pressed calmly. “So you wouldn’t have been in the little pantry on the left of the main kitchen at about 3 o’clock this morning?”

  “No!” Tavish snarled, and Lachlan watched a revealing flicker of something spark in the other man’s eyes.

  “You’re quite sure?” he asked again with a smile.

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove-”

  “That you tried to murder the Laird, and countless other members of this clan to start a war,” Lachlan said simply, calmly, as if he had remarked on nothing more remarkable than the weather.

  Tavish’s greasy grin grew in this display of confidence. “And who would believe you?” he smirked. “I’ve just told you what everyone will think. If it’s just your word they’ll think you’re trying to cover your own back. They’ll kill you without blinking for plotting against their beloved Graem.”

  A muscle was ticking in Lachlan’s jaw, but he reigned in his temper. “And you’d love that wouldn’t you, MacEantach?”

  “It’s no less than what you deserve,” Tavish hissed, glaring hatefully at the other man.

  “Well I know that’s what you think, but what I’m trying to work out is if you actually have the nerve to do anything about it,” Lachlan growled in reply. “You’re very good at throwing your weight around when the victim of your assault is too weak to fight back,” he snarled bitterly, thinking about all the times that Tavish had tried to harm Muria. His fists clenched into two tight balls. “You know, something as cowardly as indiscriminating poisoning half of the castle does sound just like something you’d do.”

  “And you’re a man of honour are you?” Tavish barked. “You stole my fiancé!”

  “Good God man! You tried to rape her!”

  “She was mine!”

  “Muira was never yours,” Lachlan spat, his temper fraying. It took every ounce of self-control that he possessed to stop him from reaching forwards and snapping the other man’s neck.

  “What about when you’re dead, MacRae?” Tavish whispered. There was a truly manic glint in his eyes now, Lachlan couldn’t help but noticed it, and prayed that the other man was about to slip up and reveal something crucial.

  “Dead?” he echoed slowly.

  “As I said before, once the rest of your clan have put the pieces of the puzzle together you won’t last long,” Tavish gloated. “You’ll be execute along with your dear brother-in-law, the clans will go to war, no one here will want a Cameron woman to stay, and so no one will miss Muria when I take her back to Castle Cameron.”

  “You did all this to get Muria?” Lachlan gaped, a cold trickle of dread slithering down his back. He hadn’t considered that-he’d thought it was just the usual terrible clan rivalry and hated spurring Tavish on. True, he had considered that Tavish had personal reasons for lashing out at him and Ewan… but he’d never thought he’d try and steal away Muira.

  “I’m going to make her pay for the humiliation she caused me!”

  “Do you honestly think I’d let you?” Lachlan roared.

  “Do you honestly think that you can stop me?” Tavish smirked wickedly. “I’m going to enjoy watching them hang you. You should have known the second I stepped inside this castle that things between us weren’t over, but no, you were so smug, so secure. It was ridiculously easy. Setting you up.”

  Lachlan drew a deep breath and glanced over at the portrait that hung above the fireplace, and then his eyes flickered back towards Tavish. “You sound very confident about all of that, MacEantach,” he drawled icily. “Remarkably so, for a man still being held in my castle.”

  “You can’t tell anyone the truth. They’d never believe you.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” hissed a new voice.

  Lachlan smiled grimly. He turned his head a fraction, just far enough to see that Ross and Donaid had emerged from the secret passage that ran around the periphery of the stateroom…

  Lachlan had instructed Ross to take Donaid, and for them to listen to whatever exchange took place between himself and Tavish. The Captain looked ready to kill Tavish on the spot. Donaid looked pale, betrayed, but there was grave, if hollow, look in his eyes that told Lachlan he believed every word that he had just heard. He had probably been having difficulty reconciling himself with the fact that his cousin had been accused of being the would-be assassin anyway.

  When Lachlan turned back to Tavish he saw that the man bore the look of a snared animal-wild, and trapped, and ready to lash out recklessly, which was exactly what Tavish did.

  “You bastard!” he swore, and then he lunged at Lachlan, drawing a small dagger that had been concealed on his person and striking at Lachlan’s face. The blade slashed across the tanist’s cheek before he had a second to react.

  Ross and Donaid rushed forward to help, but Lachlan was quick to recover from his lapse. He blocked Tavish’s second strike, grabbed his wrist and wrenching the weapon away from his face, gaining the upper hand for long enough to enable the guards to be called. Once Tavish was adequately restrained, Lachlan gave his orders.

  “See that Mr MacEantach is installed in one of the dungeons, Ross,” he sneered, wiping the blood from his cheek. “And release Cameron with our apologies. I’m going to report to the Laird.”

  “Aye, sir,” Captain nodded, indicating for the guards to follow him with the prisoner-who was staring blankly at the floor, no longer appearing engaged in what was happening to him. “Sir, do you think the Laird-” Ross began hesitantly.

  “We would have heard if he wasn’t,” Lachlan interrupted before the other man could put into words what they were both thinking. What if Graem was already dead? He murmured something apologetic and curt to Donaid, and then left, hurrying towards Graem’s chambers.

  Everything appeared much the same as it had when he left. The guards were still on duty outsi
de, and there was still an eerie hush about the place. No one was mourning yet… the Laird was still alive. Lachlan walked quickly passed the guards, and through Graem’s private chambers towards his bedroom, ignoring the curious stares he was receiving. He couldn’t ignore Muira’s cry when she saw him however.

  “Lachlan, your face!” she gasped, rushing away from Graem’s bedside, where she had evidently been tending the old man. Bridghe was staring at him worriedly too. The doctor, who was also there, harrumphed, and turned his attention back to his patient.

  Lachlan raised a distracted hand to his cheek. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, shrugging off his wife’s concerned.

  “It’s not nothing!” Muira insisted. “Here, tell me see.” She tried to drag him towards the light coming from the window, but Lachlan wouldn’t budge. He was staring at the still figure lying in the bed. “Who did this?” Muira hissed, but again her husband ignored her distress.

  “How is he?” he whispered instead.

  “Sleeping,” Bridghe whispered, which was followed by a grunt of disagreement from the bed.

  “Sir?” Lachlan said, stepping forwards and moving towards the Laird. “How are you feeling, sir?” he asked in concern.

  Graem coughed and smiled weakly. “Better that I look, one would hope.” He paused to catch his breath after speaking, and beckoned Lachlan forward nearer with a frail wave of his hand. “You did what I asked?” he enquired breathlessly, letting his eyes shut as he waited for the answer.

  “Aye, I did, sir,” Lachlan nodded. He looked to the doctor, to see whether or not it was all right to continue. The older man shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that he didn’t think it would make very much difference. “The man who we originally imprisoned, Ewan Cameron, had been released and found innocence of the charges laid against him, sir,” he explained.

  Lachlan heard Muira quiet little, thank God, behind him. He watched a look of gentle peace relax the Laird’s face also.

  “However,” Lachlan was forced to continue. “We have found the culprit.”

  Graem’s face lost its calmness. “Who was it?” he demanded, and tried to sit up. The doctor hurried forwards to stop him from over exerting himself, and shot a hypocritical glance of warning at Lachlan.

  “Tavish MacEantach, sir,” Lachlan revealed calmly. He heard his wife gasp for a second time.

  “So it was one of the Cameron men after all?” Graem sighed, sinking back against his pillows with an air of defeat about him.

  “Aye, sir,” Lachlan nodded unwillingly. He didn’t want the old man to blame himself for what had happened… not when Lachlan feared that it was his fault. “But MacEantach is unhinged, sir. I don’t think the fact he’s a Cameron had too much bearing on what he did.”

  The doctor snorted, but Graem looked just a little less grim. “I see,” he sighed. “Tell me, Lachlan, how are the others who’ve been struck down?”

  Lachlan opened his mouth, but he didn’t actually have an answer to give. He didn’t know how anyone else was. “I’ll go and find out for you, sir,” he said, bowing his head.

  “Wait, let me see to you face first,” Muira said, hurrying after him.

  “Muira, it’s nothing,” he sighed wearily, but he let her push him down into a chair in the Laird’s formal chambers, before she darted away to find some fresh water and a clean rag.

  “Tavish did this, didn’t he?” she whispered, her hands trembling with anger as she gently washed away the dried blood and cleaned the wound, while her husband tried not to wince. Lachlan didn’t need to answer her question. “Bastard,” she hissed, which made her husband start in surprise, and then chuckle at her decidedly unladylike language. Muira blushed. “Well, he is!” she argued, sighing as she studied the cut. “It doesn’t look too deep,” she declared. “It shouldn’t even leave a scar once it’s healed.”

  “No?” If anything Lachlan actually sounded disappointed. “I’ve always thought I’d look rather dark and menacing with a scar.”

  Muira rolled her eyes. “You manage to look dark and menacing without one when you want,” she whispered silkily, and then she leant forward to pop a kiss on the end of his nose, which Lachlan turned to his advance, gripping her by the waist and pulling her down onto his lap.

  Lachlan kissed his wife soundly before releasing her. “I have to go,” he apologised with regret. Muira nodded her understanding, as Lachlan stood up, lifting her up onto her feet too.

  “Let me come with you? I can help,” she said quickly, following her husband as he made for the door.

  Lachlan opened his mouth to tell her no, that it would be safer for her to stay put, but something in her face told him that she wouldn’t listen. Perhaps she could help after all? Lachlan didn’t know how bad things were, but a spare pair of hands never seemed to go amiss in times of trouble.

  “All right,” he agreed. “But you’ll stay close to me. No wandering off.”

  “Aye, sir,” Muira gave a little smile.

  Lachlan caught hold of her hand and led her out of the Laird’s chambers. They walked through the corridors of the castle until they reached the great hall, which was being used as a hospital. There were at least a hundred people who had eaten the poisoned porridge that morning at breakfast, mainly the servants and labourers who had to be up and working earliest. They were all laid out on mats on the floor, writhing and groaning, while a few healthy members of the castle tried to do what they could to help.

  “Oh my!” Muira gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I had no idea so many people have been effected!”

  “No,” Lachlan agreed with a worried frown. He ran a distracted hand through his already dishevelled hair, and then beckoned for one of the carers to come over and speak to him. A rather plump woman, in quite fine dress, bustled over to him. “How many aunt?” Lachlan asked hoarsely.

  “Ninety-eight cases in total, Lachlan.” The lady looked exhausted. She bowed her head for a moment. “A dozen have already been taken from us,” she said, her voice shaking. “The elderly mainly, but there were a couple of wee bairns that didn’t make it.”

  Lachlan turned away from the women and curse under his breath. “What can I do?” he asked, his eyes burning as he looked around at his kinsmen.

  “And me?” Muira said quietly, stepping out from behind her husband. “Let me help too.”

  Lachlan’s aunt gave her a surprised look, but she nodded her head. “Aye lass, we need all the help we can get.”

  ..ooOOoo..

  Muira worked doggedly for hours without a break. She couldn’t bear to see the suffering that surrounded her, and did everything in her power to alleviate it as best she could. A few of the young, strong men and women who had been taken ill showed signs of recovering, but the elderly, and the very young, and those who had already been ill beforehand, worsened as the day dragged by.

  “You should rest, lass,” Lachlan’s aunt said, as she passed by as evening was drawing near. Muira shook her head. The older lady hadn’t stopped, and neither had Lachlan, nor had many of the other people helping. She wasn’t going to be the first.

  “In a minute,” she murmured, pushing her head out of her eyes, and then turning her attention back to the woman she was tending.

  No one seemed to care that she was a Cameron anymore. There were a few snide comments, a few nasty looks, but on the whole those who needed it gratefully accepted her help. She could barely put one foot in front of the other by the time Lachlan came up to her and told he it was time to leave.

  “No, I need-”

  “You need to look after yourself too,” he murmured, letting his eyes drop to Muira’s stomach. “You need to look after the both of you,” he said gently. Muira sighed wearily, but she knew he was right, besides she wouldn’t be any help at all is she collapsed from exhaustion.

  “You’re coming too?” she asked.

  “I want to see the Laird first, but you go on up.”

  Muira shook her head. “No, no-let me come with you?�
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  “Muira-”

  “Or, maybe I could see Ewan while you visit the Laird?” she said instead.

  “Muira, I just want you to go to our room, ring for a meal, and get some rest,” Lachlan sighed wearily.

  Muira opened her mouth to argue again, but Lachlan had been through so much and he looked as exhausted as she felt, that she bit her tongue for once and nodded her nod like a good little wife.

  “I won’t be long,” Lachlan promised. “Unless-” but he couldn’t finish that sentence.

  Muira gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and walked with his as far as their paths were the same. She felt guilty once she got to their rooms and was able to slump in a seat by the unlit hearth, letting her tired muscles relax against the comfortable cushions. It was several minutes before she could muster the strength to ring for a maid, and it was several more minutes before anyone answered the call.

  Muira didn’t recognise the young woman who came to see was what needed, but Muira did notice that she was the most polite MacRae servant that had ever waited on her. Well, with perhaps the exception of Liane. Muira bit her lip and worried for her own maid. She hoped that the young girl hadn’t been struck down. She hadn’t seen her in the great hall.

  “Would you like me to light the fire for you before I go, Mrs MacRae?” asked the maid.

  “Oh-” Muira looked at the unlit hearth, a fire would be nice, but she was absolutely famished, and she was sure that Lachlan would be more in need of food than warmth when he returned. “No, no thank you,” she said with a small smile. The girl nodded and curtsied and then went on her way.

  Lachlan arrived not very much later, although Muira had dropped off to sleep and was dozing in her chair. She started awake at the sound of her husband ‘striding across the room. She could tell just by looking at his face that Graem was still alive… but she couldn’t tell how much longer that might last.

  “How is he?” she asked quietly.

  Lachlan sank down beside her before answering. “Fighting,” he murmured, “but he’s fading.”