A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  “Will his Lordship mind me offering a touch of his mead to his own daughter? Really, Moira!”

  “Think on it as payment for making ye marry,” Niall jested, nudging against her playfully. “In fact, ye should demand a whole barrel. Ye and I can drag it down to the brae. We’ll get ye so drunk ye won’t even ken ye’re being wed. Problem solved.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing,” Mary objected. “Feeding his Lordship’s daughter mead is one thing, but letting her freeze to death down by the brae because she’s too drunk to help herself is quite another.”

  “Give over, Mistress MacCormack, we wouldna freeze,” Moira joined in the jesting. “We’d have enough liquor in our blood to keep us warm.”

  Mary snorted. “I feel sorry for whoever has been promised yer hand, for he’s been given no lady, that’s for sure.”

  A brisk knock at the door interrupted the easy chatter. Prompted by a nod from her mother, Imogen went to the door. Dusting her hands on the front of her homespun gown, she opened it only a crack, just enough to peek her head through.

  “Odd child,” Mary MacCormack muttered, shaking her head at her youngest daughter.

  Low murmurs continued between the girl and whoever was on the other side. When Imogen was satisfied, she removed her head from the opening and peered back into the dim space.

  “Mama, there’s a man here to see our Moira.”

  “To see me?” Moira frowned.

  She stood with Niall as Mary MacCormack bustled over to the door to see for herself who was outside. Pulling it open she stared, shocked, at the towering figure of Lachlan Ramsay.

  “Can—can I help ye, sir?” she questioned.

  “Yes, Mistress. I am Viscount Strathcairn. As I explained to yer wee one here,” he gave Imogen a silly grin that set her giggling, “I’ve come to have a word wi’ Lady Moira MacInnes.”

  “Viscount? Oh, sir, please ye come in, and forgive my daughter her ill manners.” Flustered by the handsome knight, she waved her arm vigorously.

  “I thank ye, Mistress—”

  “MacCormack,” a red-faced Mary informed him with pleasure. “I am Mary MacCormack, and this here be my eldest son, Niall.”

  “How did ye ken I were here?” Moira demanded acidly as soon as the door had closed again.

  “Moira,” Mary reprimanded, horrified by her poor manners.

  Moira scowled. Then, overly-polite, she amended, “Ye’ll forgive my rudeness, my Lord. May I enquire as to how ye’d discovered where I were?”

  Lachlan tilted his head, an unintentional grin playing at his lips. “When I didna find ye at yer own home, I asked about the village where ye might be. I was told I should come to the brewer’s home to find ye.”

  “And how did ye ken where my dwelling is?”

  “His Lordship told me.”

  “Er... Mama, why dinna we leave Moira to speak wi’ her visitor?” Niall suggested when his mother continued to oggle the comely viscount with a daft grin.

  “Nay, there is no reason for ye to go,” Moira objected.

  Mary shook her head. “No, no, lass. Niall is right. We’ll just step outside for a touch, perhaps visit wi’ Mistress Douglas next door. Take yer time.”

  Her eyes still trained on Lachlan and a silly grin still plastered across her face, Mary MacCormack curtseyed and pulled her daughter towards the door. Then she gave a commanding nod to Niall before slipping out of sight. Niall tossed Moira a devilish wink and departed after his mother and sister.

  “Niall, no,” she hissed, but he closed the door. She stared blankly at door for long seconds before her eyes swung warily to the viscount knight across from her.

  “Will ye sit, sir?” she mocked, bouncing a half-hearted curtsey.

  Lachlan laughed, amused by her obvious effort to be contrary. He accepted her offer, and sat himself on the bench. She responded by rounding the fire and deliberately taking the stool on the other side.

  He studied the lass’s determined scowl. “I’ve a question.” When Moira said nothing, he added, “May I ask my question, my Lady?”

  “By all means, my Lord,” she returned, syrupy sweet. “I dinna have a say in my own fate, after all. Why should I have a say in which questions I may hear and which I may no’?”

  He ignored her provocation. “Very well, then. My question is this: have I done something to make ye hate me so thoroughly?”

  This startled Moira. She pressed her lips together, relenting. “I dinna hate ye,” she sighed. “’Tis only that I dinna like being told what to do and who I must marry. Ye just happen to be caught in the middle of it all.”

  “Let us be at ease wi’ each other then,” he suggested, offering her his most charming smile. When that seemed to put her off even more, he opted for frankness. “I can assure ye that I had no idea of Lord Kildrummond’s plan. And, as a matter of fact, I dinna like the idea any more than ye seem to. I’ll have ye ken I’m no’ the marrying kind.”

  “Then I dinna see what there is to discuss.”

  “On the contrary, we’ve much to discuss, my Lady.”

  His mocking tone matched her own from earlier. Moira sensed she was being toyed with. She narrowed her eyes, assessing her adversary. “And that is?”

  “Kildrummond, of course. Ye see, if I dinna marry ye, I dinna get Kildrummond. And if ye dinna marry me, ye risk losing yer home if King Fiery Face decides to confiscate it as Douglas holdings. I’d say that puts us both in a quandary, wouldna ye?”

  Moira glowered at the dirt floor beneath Lachlan’s boots. She hated to admit it, but the man’s logic was undeniable. “That may be. But I dinna see what could be done about it, if neither of us is inclined to marry the other.”

  “Dinna play daft, lass. What’s to be done about it is that we marry.” When she snapped her head up with fresh anger, he pressed, “Consider for a moment, will ye? If we marry, it will be in name only. We’ll pretend to live as man and wife until such time as his Lordship passes. We’ll refrain from having... er, carnal knowledge of each other. When his Lordship passes, and I am made Lord Kildrummond in my own right, we’ll have the marriage annulled.”

  “That’s all well and good for ye, sir, but what about me? What do I get in all of this?”

  “I would have thought it were obvious. In return for yer cooperation, I promise ye that once the marriage is annulled, ye’ll be allowed to remain in Kildrummond for as long as ye wish—the rest of yer life, if it pleases ye.”

  “Give over,” Moira dismissed.

  “I am earnest,” Lachlan promised. “Ye can even stay in the castle, though I think ye prefer yer wee hovel, if I’m no’ mistaken. Ye’ll have all the benefits and comforts ye have now, and they’ll be guaranteed for the remainder of yer lifetime. We’ll part friends, and never have to spend time in one another’s company again.”

  “I dinna ken.” Moira chewed her lip. “How do I ken ye’ll do as ye say?”

  “Ye’ll have to trust me. Ye have no choice, lass.”

  “I do so have a choice,” she contested hotly. “I can run. I can leave Kildrummond.”

  “Moira,” Lachlan exhaled softly. She stiffened, wary at the softness in his voice. “I dinna ken ye very well, but I believe ye love yer home. Leaving Kildrummond would break yer heart.”

  The pain look in her round, cerulean eyes confirmed he’d hit a nerve. “Think on it,” he urged. “Come to me this evening and let me ken yer decision.”

  Then, leaving her to contemplate his proposition, he let himself out. She would be a fool not to jump at his offer, and this lass was no fool.

  At least, he hoped she wasn’t. He needed her cooperation as much as she needed his.

  Seven

  THE SUBTLE ONSET of a headache surged behind Lady Glinis’s brow. She’d awoken with it, but until now it had been mild, and she’d been able to overlook it. Pressing her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, she moved gracefully through Glendalough, travelling from the lower corridors of the kitchens up to the main level
of the castle.

  She still had so much to do—a day’s work was never enough to complete the mountain of tasks required of the mistress of a castle. But she would need to lie down if she were to get any of it done. Should this headache grow worse it would render her immobile for the rest of the evening.

  Moira! The lass was always, in one way or another, the cause of Glinis’s headaches. Why John couldn’t simply put his foot down where his bastard offspring was concerned, Lady Glinis would never know.

  The unkind sentiment stirred a twinge of guilt; she hated that even more. It would be so easy if she could simply hate the lass, could despise the whore Lilian’s child without a second thought.

  But for whatever reason she could not dismiss the fact—inconvenient though it might have been—that Moira was not at fault. The girl was not to blame for the wretched farce that was Glinis’s marriage.

  Lilian, on the other hand... She could happily loathe the woman to the centre of her core.

  Curse them, John Douglas and Lilian MacInnes both! They’d done this to her, turned her into the bitter, hating woman she was now. Did they know, or care, how damned hard it was to put a smile on her face every day so that no one would know how much it hurt?

  Ahead of Glinis, the sound of voices at work echoed from the great hall. Before she took herself off to bed, she decided to peek in and make sure the servants didn’t need anything for the next hour or so. Stopping in the entrance she saw that the tapestries—not Moira’s thank the heavens; Glinis had insisted on that—were being taken down from the walls for their scheduled beating.

  But instead of a Douglas servant perched on the ladder to remove the cast iron rods from their mounts, it was Lachlan’s companion. Sir Alexander MacBride... or MacBurns... or Mac-Something-Or-Other. He stood on his toes as far up the ladder as he could go, one hand gripping the very top of the wooden support pole and the other reaching for the tip of the rod above him. Glinis grimaced; that particular tapestry had always been a nuisance to remove when it needed cleaning.

  My, but Sir Alexander was a handsome man, she reflected. Similar in stature to her nephew, Viscount Strathcairn, he was tall and strong, though more lean-limbed than Lachlan. Broad, sculpted shoulders sloped to a narrow waist around which his feileadh mhor was snugly belted. The plaid’s colours were unknown to her.

  Also in contrast to Lachlan, with the fair skin, midnight eyes and raven black hair that marked the Ramsay line, Alexander Mac-Whoever-He-Was had been endowed with a richer complexion. As though he’d spent time serving in warmer, sunnier climes. Golden hair, braided back from his temples and hanging loose over his shoulders, hinted at the possibility of Norse blood in his lineage.

  She did not watch for long; Glinis rarely indulged in the sight of silly, handsome young men—though for their part they seemed more than willing to fall at her feet (even now, when the days of her youth were far behind her). Intent on retiring, she drifted away from the door.

  But not before she was spotted by one of the servants, who called out to her as she departed.

  “My Lady, if ye dinna mind, can ye tell me—”

  Alerted to Glinis’s presence, Alex swivelled his head to catch a glimpse of her—an action which upset his balance on the ladder. As he slipped from the rung on which he perched, his fingers nudged the tip of the rod. With a clatter he fell to the stone floor below and the heavy rod fell on top of him.

  Grumbling under her breath, Glinis rushed to assist the prostrate knight. Her head throbbed under the sudden rush of movement. Oh, but she did not need this right now!

  Reaching Alex, she knelt at his side. He was shaken, but otherwise alright. A gash in his forearm, however, was visible, sliced open by the sharp end of the tapestry’s rod. Dark red blood seeped from the wound.

  “Ye clumsy fool,” she tisked. Then to the servants and clansmen gathered round she instructed, “Send to the kitchens for a pitcher of hot water and clean linen strips.”

  “Aye, my Lady,” answered the servant woman who had inadvertently caused the commotion. Dipping a curtsey, she scurried off.

  “Ye, come sit.” Hoisting Alex by the elbow, she led him to one of the benches which decorated the perimeter of the room.

  Obediently, Alex yielded to her authority as the servants dispersed to resume their tasks. When she sat, he lowered himself next to her. He was so close that his sculpted thigh (which she could clearly see, despite the cover of his plaid, was indeed admirably sculpted) grazed hers.

  Deliberately, she inched away from him. He certainly was brazen! Glinis knew better than to acknowledge the indiscretion; these young whelps were all the same. Nor did she look up to meet his eyes which, she knew instinctively, were alight with amusement. To do so would encourage him, and Glinis was far too wise to encourage the attentions of a shallow, young man.

  Once, perhaps, she’d entertained the desire and had allowed one or two of them into her bed. But it had only been for sport, and no harm had come of it. John had neither noticed nor cared—and had no right to complain even if he had noticed.

  Those days were over, now. And reminiscing about them was a useless exercise.

  “I do wish ye’d be careful while ye’re here, sir. I’d rather ye no’ burden our people wi’ the task of caring for yer injuries. We’ve limited resources as it is.” She examined the wound closely, her slender fingers prodding gently at its edges. “A clean slice, at least. ‘Twill leave a scar, but I doubt ‘twill give ye any lasting trouble.”

  “I think I’ll live, my Lady,” came the smooth, rich voice from above her head. “Especially with the administrations of one so lovely as ye.”

  A warm glow flickered to life in her belly, which she immediately doused. Once it was under control, Glinis raised her face to his. Her instinct had been correct: his green eyes radiated amusement, and his lips were cocked with a hint of a smile. Intent on keeping her head, she gazed coolly back.

  “Ye’ll mind yer tongue. Ye’re speaking to the lady of the castle.”

  “Of course, my Lady,” Alex nodded solemnly. It was obvious he was not the least bit chastened.

  Inexplicably unnerved and far too aware of the young man at her side, she stared hard at the entrance to the great hall. “What is taking so long?” she wondered testily. Then, because she didn’t have anything else to do until the water and bandages arrived, she reluctantly engaged Alex in some light chatter.

  “I am sorry, Sir Alexander, I didna catch yer family name. What clan be ye from?”

  “I am of the MacByrne family.”

  “MacByrne.” So that was it. “I dinna ken the name. Come ye from a Highland clan?”

  “Nay, MacByrne is an Irish name, though I’ve no ties to that land or its kin. My own kin have existed in Scotland for as long as anyone can remember. Landless, titleless, and no significant lineage to speak of.”

  “So ye’re a lowly knight, hiring yer skills to whatever lord will have ye?”

  Alex chuckled, the sound husky and inviting. An unexpected shiver skittered down Glinis’s spine. She straightened her shoulders; she’d be damned if she let this foolish whelp know he’d had such an effect on her.

  “No’ just any lord, my Lady. William Hay, the great Lord Erroll.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve nothing against the man, but I’ve never heard him described as great. And dinna tell me ye offer him yer services because ye find him all that great.”

  “No? Why, pray?”

  “Because I ken full well ye followed our Lachlan there when he went to Lord Erroll. He told me as much.”

  Alex closed his eyes and pressed his unwounded hand to his heart. “Ye’ve seen through my lie, and have exposed me. Pray, dinna tell Lord Erroll, though.”

  Did she imagine it, or had his subtle emphasis on the word exposed been intentionally inappropriate?

  What a bold, infuriating young man!

  She had a mind to knock the wind from his sails, but she was diverted when, at long last, a kitchen lass appeared.
A porcelain pitcher of steaming water was anchored in her hand, and strips of clean linen were draped over the same arm. Her other hand gripped her skirts, raising them above her ankle that she would not trip in her haste.

  “Here ye are, my Lady,” she said in a light, efficient voice, and deposited her burden on the bench next to Glinis. “Will ye be needing anything else?”

  “Nay, this is fine. Thank ye.”

  Once the kitchen lass departed, the lady focused on her immediate task. Dabbing a square of linen in the pitcher, she began cleaning the blood from the wound. Alex sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth at the first touch of the hot cloth, but suffered the administrations patiently.

  Her touch was firm and confident—she’d become well versed in attending to such minor injuries over the years. But her subjects had never before been anything but that: subjects. Sir Alexander MacByrne, however, affected her concentration. She could not help but marvel at the feel of his satiny forearm beneath her fingertips; at the golden hue which, in the dimmed light of the hall, shimmered faintly.

  A strange urge niggled beneath her skin. A desire to trace the bluish lines of his veins on the inside of his wrist, and to follow the contours of the nicks and scars he’d accumulated from his trade. It was a yearning she’d experienced before, with other, insignificant men. And one which she expertly ignored now.

  Wrapping the wound tightly, she tied the bandages off in a knot. “There ye be,” she said, mildly patronizing. “Mind ye’re careful wi’ yerself from now on.”

  She stole a glance once more at Alex’s face—and nearly faltered. His striking green eyes were fixed on her intently, as though he could see into her soul and read his effect on her. Raising her chin, Lady Glinis stood and strode purposefully away. It would not do for him to believe that he’d be in her thoughts beyond this encounter.

  Though God knew he would.

  BUNDLED AGAINST THE icy wind, Moira pushed her mare onward through the deteriorating weather. That morning, she had set her mind on making it to Glendalough by mid-afternoon (Highland wind be damned). She wanted to leave well before the evening meal to avoid being guilted into staying.