A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  “Indeed,” she reflected. “Perhaps then this little arrangement of ours is more important than either of us thought.”

  “Aye. I must say, I’m glad I’ve had the chance to speak wi’ ye about it. Perhaps we might start afresh, find our way forward as friends, instead of enemies?”

  Moira grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps we can. I’ll allow that ye might no’ be the arrogant villain I imagined ye to be—I said might, ye understand.”

  “And ye’re every bit the ill-mannered wisp I imagined ye to be. But ‘tis no’ my place to try and change ye. And besides, I find ye rather refreshing.”

  “Well then, I shall consider it my mission to tire ye of the notion soon enough.”

  She was incredible! Lachlan threw his head back and roared heartily. “I daresay ye’d try, lass.”

  Eight

  BECAUSE OF LORD Kildrummond’s rapidly failing health, it was imperative that the wedding be arranged without delay. A priest was sent for from the abbey at Inverness to perform the ceremony, and during the sennight it took for him to travel to Moray, Lachlan and Alex used the opportunity to settle their affairs in Aberdeen for good.

  It pained Lord Erroll to learn that he was to lose not one, but two of his best knights. Being the honourable man he was, the chief of Clan Hay released them both from their obligation to Slains. He wished them a sincere farewell, and left Lachlan with the promise of Clan Hay’s political alliance if ever he had a need of it.

  Moira, on the other hand, spent the sennight until the priest’s arrival dreading the event of her marriage, farce though it was.

  Perhaps it was because the event was a farce that she found herself a bundle of nerves on the eve of her wedding. She spent her last hours of matrimonial freedom huddled before the fire in her own, modest dwelling. There she pondered her future, the ever-faithful Niall at her side. The pair sat in silence, their mutual affection requiring no words.

  No matter how hard she wished it, Moira could not halt the relentless march of nightfall.

  “Ye should get going before ye lose the light,” she told Niall reluctantly.

  Niall sat forward, and idly crinkled the piece of straw he held in his fingers. After a moment he tossed the piece into the fire.

  “Nah, I’m alright.”

  “Ye sure ye dinna mind looking after the place for me while... while I’m gone?”

  While she was gone. While she waited for her father to pass, more like. The poor lass, she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Niall knew his lifelong friend well: this sort of trickery was not in her nature, and it was eating away at her conscience.

  “One of us will be out here at least once a day,” he reassured her.

  “Of course I’ll be out as much as I can, too. I expect I shall be able to come out at least a few mornings each sennight.”

  “Aye, so ye’ve said.”

  Moira glanced sideways, chagrined. “I have said that before, havena I?”

  “Ye have. And if ye say it one more time, so help me I’ll tip ye into the brae.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

  “Ye dinna need to explain anything to me, lass. I’ve kent ye almost yer whole life, and I ken how to read ye. ‘Tis an enormous burden ye’ve agreed to bear here, even if it’s a lie.”

  She was silent for a long while, her blue eyes following the flicker of flames. When she spoke, her words were so meek Niall could hardly believe they’d come from her.

  “Am I making a mistake, Niall? Is this lie an unforgivable sin?”

  He studied her small, frightened face and quivering lips. A deep sigh filled the cavity of his chest. “I dinna ken, lass. That’s something ye’ll have to work out yerself. On the one hand, ye are lying to yer own father. Ye’ve an obligation by the law of the land to do as he bids, and it’s his right to determine whom ye marry.”

  “So ye’ve said,” she quipped morosely.

  “But,” Niall pressed, “all his Lordship has ever wanted for his only daughter is that ye be happy, and that ye’re looked after. Now, perhaps his notion that a marriage will make ye happy isna quite to yer liking—nor to Viscount Strathcairn’s liking, for that matter—but it’s always been ye he’s thought of.”

  “He thinks to keep Kildrummond from the king’s hand,” she argued.

  “And whose sake d’ye think he does that for above all else? Yers, Moira. He wants Kildrummond preserved, first and foremost, for ye. But as I was saying, even though ye’ll be ending yer marriage to Lachlan Ramsay when the old man passes, in the end, what he wanted for ye will come to pass: ye’ll remain in Kildrummond, and ye’ll be protected and looked after for the rest of yer life. His wish for ye will, one way or another, come true.”

  “Aye... perhaps. I still feel wretched for deceiving him so.”

  Niall shifted in his chair so that he was facing her fully. “I dinna blame ye for feeling that way. But it may be that some good can come of yer guilt.”

  Moira gazed back, her expression wary. “Go on.”

  “He’s wanted nothing more than to love ye, Moira. To love his daughter and to have his daughter love him in return. Could ye no’ see yer way to being the daughter he’s always wanted? Ye’ve no reason now to be so cold to him. As far as all of Kildrummond kens, ye’re marrying a nobleman and Glendalough will be yers—well, through yer husband, anyway. The independence ye’ve sought so hard to maintain is for naught now.”

  She straightened. “Ye take that back, Niall. It isna!”

  “Settle yerself, lass. We both ken that ye’ve avoided a relationship wi’ him all this time because ye dinna want people thinking of ye the way they thought of yer mother: that ye take advantage of his Lordship’s love in exchange for gifts and goods. But like it or no’, sweetling, that’s exactly what they think of ye now; now that ye’re to be wed to a nobleman and given Kildrummond. And ye’ll no’ change their minds, either, them that willna see ye as anything other than Lord Kildrummond’s bastard offspring—dinna look at me like that. I’m only saying what they think, and it isna anything ye dinna already ken yerself.”

  He gazed searchingly at her. “They’ll look down on ye no matter what. Ye canna change them, so ye might as well forget about them. Why no’ put yer father’s mind at ease, hmm? At least in this last stage of his life.”

  He was right. She hated to admit it, but Niall had a point. She’d capitulated; she’d allowed the earl to determine her future; she’d been dragged into Kildrummond’s noble sphere by that Viscount Strathcairn and his little plan. It was what she’d been fighting against all her life, to be cast into the same light as her mother. God’s bones, she shouldn’t have listened to Lachlan Ramsay, she should have kept on fighting.

  But she hadn’t. And it was too late to change her mind now. Groaning, she dropped her face into her hands.

  “I’ll think on it,” she grumbled into her palms.

  And think on it she did. All the next morning, though her wedding—her marriage, for heaven’s sake—was mere hours away, it was what Niall had said about the earl that occupied her mind. His words played over in her head, and with each revolution she found it harder and harder to deny their truth.

  She could no longer deny his Lordship—no, not “his Lordship,” her father—the paternal relationship he desperately craved. If she did, she would regret it until her dying day.

  And so, with the ceremony less than an hour away and the chapel filled with Lowland and Highland Douglases alike, Moira visited the Earl of Kildrummond’s chamber.

  Without having been summoned. For the first time in her life.

  Halting in front of the door, she took a breath. Then, raising her hand, she rapped a knuckle against the heavy oak. Long moments passed in silence; she was certain her breath was so loud it echoed down the corridor. She was about to knock again when the earl’s man pulled the door open. Seeing Moira standing on the other side, he gazed quizzically at her for a brief instant. Composing himself, he stepped back to let her pass.

 
Inside, the earl was seated in front of his dressing table. Though his body had withered in its illness, he still looked every bit as regal as he always had. His silver hair had been combed and lay feathered over his shoulders, emphasizing how narrow they’d grown. A robe of deep black velvet was latched over the stark cords of his neck, and cascaded down his back like a ribbon of midnight sky.

  His blue eyes, so much like hers though they were now sunken into his gaunt face, sparkled with enthusiasm. A smile that was almost childlike spread across his wan lips when he caught her reflection through the polished tin mirror.

  “Moira, lass. Ye look positively lovely. Every bit as beautiful as yer mother.”

  “Yer Lordsh—er... Father.” She curtseyed awkwardly. “Should ye be out of bed?”

  Lord Kildrummond coughed. The sound of wet phlegm rattling in his chest was so pronounced, both Moira and the earls’ man winced.

  “I wouldna miss it for the world, seeing ye married,” he answered when he’d recovered enough to speak.

  “Ye’ll be there to make bloody sure I marry, more like.”

  Warmth infused his eyes as he took in her stubborn grimace. “Such spirit; such life. I’ve been called a fool for neglecting yer upbringing, for not checking yer manners when ye were young. But I ask ye: how could I? I could no more change ye than I could tell the hills no’ to bloom wi’ heather. Yer mother’s spirit shines in ye, lass.”

  His wistful tone at the mention of Lilian dredged the last of her buried guilt. She lowered her eyes to the floor. “Aye, well... I’m sure she’s grateful to ye for all ye’ve done for me.”

  “I would have done more, lass, if ye’d have let me. And what I do now, this marriage to Viscount Strathcairn, ‘tis only yer welfare I think of. Ye’ll see, ‘tis for the best.”

  Her exhumed guilt twisted sharply in her gut. She glanced warily at Lord Kildrummond’s man, who stood unobtrusively to the side.

  “We need no’ speak of it anymore. ‘Tis done. I only came to see how ye were before things get underway. Ye look as if ye need to rest.”

  “Ye’re right. The effort simply to prepare has tired me. I’ll rest now, but I’ll be counting the minutes until I can see ye again.”

  Moira shifted uncomfortably. “Er—aye. Until then.” She bounced on the balls of her feet once or twice, itching to flee the room and silence the angry sting of her conscience. But the proud light radiating from Lord Kildrummond’s face brought the echo of Niall’s words into sharp clarity.

  Why no’ put yer father’s mind at ease? At least in this last stage of his life... Be the daughter he’s always wanted.

  Cursing silently, she stepped to the earl’s side and placed a kiss on top of his thinning hair. He started, caught off guard by her sudden affection. His eyes shining with tears, he raised a withered hand and patted her arm.

  God’s blood, those tears would haunt her for the rest of her life!

  As it always does, time marched on, and the final hour passed; it was time for the ceremony to begin.

  Bound and constricted by the pearl-coloured silk of her wedding gown, and her hair yanked into an elaborate plait, Moira waited outside the great hall with Lord Albermarle at her side. It would be he that gave her hand to Lachlan Ramsay, since Lord Kildrummond was physically unable to claim that particular honour.

  The earl’s rest had restored him, though—enough, at least, that he could make the journey from the keep to the hall with the aid of two sturdy clansmen. They held his elbows, bearing his weight with patience as he scuffled his feet along the flagstone floor. Lady Glinis hovered at his back, ready, it seemed, to catch him if his knees should buckle suddenly. Though what she could do in that instance that the two burly clansman at the earl’s side could not was anyone’s guess.

  Not once did she glance in Moira’s direction. In fact, as she passed the lass, her chin raised a notch in blatant dismissal of her presence. Her dark eyes smouldered with quiet hatred. Nor did Lady Glinis offer a glance for Lord Albermarle, who took the slight in stride. He knew the reason for it. When he felt Moira stiffen at his side, he patted her elbow.

  “Dinna think on it, lass. ‘Twill soon be over.”

  There was little pause between the time Lord Kildrummond was taken into the hall and the ceremony began. Before she knew it, Moira was being pulled across the room on Lord Albermarle’s arm to where Lachlan stood waiting for her on the dais.

  Curse the brute, must he look so handsome? His chin had been scraped smooth, emphasizing the regal tilt of his jaw. Odd that such a simple change should alter his face so noticeably.

  Or perhaps it was not his face that was altered, but rather some indefinable quality behind it. When rough and whiskered, it was a touch savage. But now, the battle hardened knight had been transformed into the noble viscount by nothing more than a scraped chin.

  His eyes, however, still retained a wisp of that savagery, still looked out on the world from a warrior’s perspective. It was a chilling duality; a dangerous one.

  An inexplicably sensual one, too.

  Moira pressed her lips together, annoyed with herself for even having entertained the thought.

  Catching her grimace, Lachlan cocked an eyebrow in question, and raised his shoulders ever so slightly. For heaven’s sake, she was being ridiculous. He probably thought she was scowling at him. If she were not careful she might just start muttering to herself. Unclenching her teeth, Moira drew a calming breath and glanced around the hall to distract herself.

  She knew many faces in the crowd. And liked almost none of them. The only guests she could truly count as friends were the MacCormacks, invited at her special request and only because of her special request, for they were not important enough to be in attendance otherwise. Mary MacCormack looked at her with something akin to motherly pride. Next to Mary was Master MacCormack, tall and wiry like his eldest son, who stood on the other side of him. The remaining four members of the MacCormack clan stood in front of their parents and eldest brother: Niall’s two younger brothers, nineteen and seventeen respectfully, and beside nine-year-old Imogen was a second sister, thirteen years old.

  Knowing his friend’s outward composure was a lie, Niall crossed his eyes, jutted his bottom teeth forward and pulled the most atrocious grin.

  His timing couldn’t have been worse. Under the weight of her frazzled nerves, Moira’s ribs began to vibrate with a silent chuckle.

  Which turned into a barely contained giggle that shook her shoulders.

  Soon she was laughing out loud with such force that tears blurred her eyes and her stomach hurt. A twitter of astonishment flitted through the crowd, mingling with murmurs of disapproval; Lord Albermarle had to pull on her arm to quiet her.

  Yet still she had trouble keeping a solemn face. By the time she reached the altar and Lachlan had taken her arm she was trembling with another round of incomprehensible laughter.

  Which—God forgive them both—affected the bridegroom as well.

  “Ye bloody fool, look what ye’ve done!” Mary MacCormack reached across her husband and gave Niall a whack in the stomach.

  “Give over, they’re getting their vows out,” Niall protested, chuckling himself at the hilarity he’d caused.

  “Barely. Ye can hardly hear what the Viscount Strathcairn is saying, he’s shaking so hard.”

  The priest fixed the blasphemous pair with a stern look as he pronounced them man and wife. Chastened, Lachlan leaned over to kiss his bride with a herculean attempt at gravity—an attempt which was shattered the moment their lips touched, for his new wife accidentally let out the most unbecoming snort that echoed off the masonry.

  “I am sorry,” she apologized to Lachlan later at the feast. “I dinna ken what came over me.”

  Lachlan’s eyes swept over the crowd at the trestles below. Folding his arms on the table top, he turned his face to her. His lips were upturned in a conspiratorial grin. “I were no better. Besides, it weren’t yer fault. I saw what yer friend Niall did to set ye off.
”

  Moira grimaced. “That scoundrel. I must whip him good when next I see him.”

  “Would ye like me to whip him for ye?”

  “Dinna ye dare! Niall may be a scoundrel, but he’s my scoundrel. No one lays a finger on him but me.”

  The meal wore on, course after course, and the air was appropriately festive. As usual, Moira took less joy in it than the other guests did, but for once it was not because she was the outsider, the object of ridicule. Surprisingly, she was sorry Lord Kildrummond was not there. He’d had to retire as soon as the ceremony concluded. His place at the centre of the dais had been set, but remained untouched. It was a sad reminder that his absence would soon be permanent.

  Lady Glinis occupied her usual place next to Lord Kildrummond’s. She picked disinterestedly at her meal. Only once did her eyes meet Moira’s; she stared at the lass with such undisguised loathing that Moira was forced to look away.

  Once the tables had been cleared her mood lifted somewhat. She danced with Niall most of the time, with Lord Albermarle for one song, and with Lachlan for only those dances that were customary of the bride and groom. Each time she danced with him he was noticeably drunker.

  “Careful now, man. Ye’ll no’ be able to raise yer staff if ye keep drinking at that rate,” one of the Kildrummond Douglases snickered as the newlywed couple finished one of the dances.

  It was a fair observation, for Lachlan had nearly fallen over twice. Even still, her eyes bulged at the man’s audacity, and she opened her mouth to tear a strip off him.

  Lachlan circled his arm around her narrow shoulder and squeezed. “Dinna fret, my friend. I’ve no doubt of my capacity to drink and perform as I ought to.”

  The crowd of men surrounding them roared with laughter. They missed his emphasis on the words as I ought to.

  But Moira didn’t. They both knew that the only task he ought to perform that night was to sleep. And for that Lachlan could be as drunk as he wished.