A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  “What was that regret?”

  She glanced sideways, then away again. “I regretted that I didna defy my father and run when I had the chance. And later I regretted that I didna run from John, when he betrayed his marriage vows and took up wi’ that—”

  The word whore died on her lips before she uttered it. It was a strange word now, felt strange to say it without the force of her hatred for Lilian MacInnes behind it. Oddly, that rage was gone now. There was an empty place where her heartache had been. The word held no significance anymore, no power.

  Seeing her thoughts flicker across her face, Alex slid closer. Only a sliver of space remained between them.

  “I’m glad ye didna run. I never would have met ye otherwise.”

  The lull of his voice made Glinis tingle from her forehead to her toes.

  “I dinna wish to be a young man’s prize,” she said, almost pleading.

  Alex slid closer still. His thigh grazed hers. “Aye, ye’ve said. ‘Tis a good thing I dinna want a prize.”

  “W-What do ye want?”

  He leaned into her, and slid his arm around her back. Bending his head to her neck, he brushed his lips along the length of her jaw.

  Glinis closed her eyes; a tremble started in her core. She felt like she was drowning, being pulled under by the sensuous spell he was weaving over her. She held still, seeing nothing but the darkness behind her lids, waiting for his lips to find hers ...

  A shove at her back wrenched her from her spell, and she was propelled into the frigid water. Her head went below the surface, and she pushed against the rock bottom to stand. Her lungs pulled in sharp, shallow breaths at the sudden shock, and before she could take stock of what had just happened, Alex’s strong arms wrapped around her, pressing his warm body to hers.

  She opened her eyes to find him gazing intently at her. Then her eyes slid to the edge of the pool where they’d been sitting ...

  His plaid lay in a heap on the wet grass.

  “Sir Alex, this i-isna app-ropriate,” she stuttered through chattering teeth.

  “Then let go of me,” he whispered, rough-tender.

  He did not wait for her to answer. Or perhaps it was she that did not wait—it was unclear who had made the move. But he was kissing her, devouring her with an urgency that took her breath away. And she was kissing him back with a fury to rival his. The water drew a deep shiver from her, but she didn’t stop. Never wanted to stop, even if she froze to death where she stood.

  They were not in the pool long. She was vaguely aware of being moved through the water as Alex pulled her to the edge and onto the grass. His lips parted from hers for only the briefest second to hoist her out of the water. Then he climbed out himself. His hard, lean body came down on her with a delicious weight.

  Glinis’s head disintegrated; every inch of her skin surged under his hands, which skimmed her body with insatiable need. Her need matched his; her own hands drifted over the ridges of his chiselled back, the slim line of his waist, the hardened swells of his buttocks.

  He moaned against her lips, a rumble that came from deep within his chest. “My God, woman, I’ve wanted ye since I first laid eyes on ye.”

  She believed him. And knew that his want of her was more than plain lust. Of course, Glinis had heard such declarations before, but had dismissed them out of hand. Those foolish, handsome young men had thought to flatter her with their inflamed sexual urges. Their flattery had meant nothing to her; their lust for her had meant little more.

  Alex did not flatter her now. His declaration was a statement of fact, his want for her far deeper than carnal desire.

  Or perhaps her own want of him made her willing to believe it. If that was so then she didn’t care. When he tugged at the neck of her shift, drawing it down over her shoulders and her breasts, she wriggled the rest of the way out of the sodden garment.

  Her naked skin, stippled like gooseflesh, melded with his and was warmed. The evidence of his desire, rigid between his thighs, pressed into her belly.

  He did not claim her, though. Not right away, for he was not one to seek only his own satisfaction. His mouth roved over her bare flesh, moving downward as he shifted his body atop hers. His tongue teased the peaks of her nipples, slid below the soft, plush mound of her breasts: first one, then the other, then to the base of her sternum before dipping lower to her navel.

  The cold was forgotten. Glinis’s entire body blazed with unseen flame. She released a tiny cry of surprise when his tongue flickered over her womanhood.

  Sinner, shouted the voice in her head. Your husband is still alive, yet you give your heart another man.

  My husband gave his love to another woman, and this man gives his heart to me, she shouted back.

  Defying the voice and the last of her reservations, she yielded to the pressure of Alex’s hands upon her knees, and allowed them to part. When he put his mouth to her fully, she bucked upwards. Her eyes flew wide and her hands threaded through his hair, clasping him to her. An unbidden moan wrenched from her lungs.

  He was skilled. He knew where the most sensitive flesh lay, knew how to tease by pushing and withdrawing in a seemingly endless, pleasurably frustrating rhythm. Her legs moved restlessly against him, and her gasps came short and sharp, making her grow light-headed.

  When she could stand no more, when she thought she would die without fulfillment, she coaxed him back up.

  Alex obliged. His eyes met hers, heavy lidded and dark as a stormy sea. Her body was racked with a new kind of shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. Nonetheless, Alex reached for his rumpled plaid and blanketed them both with it.

  Beneath the cover of his feileadh mhor, he eased himself inside her, gentle but deep. A shudder rippled through his body, and his mouth was on hers again. His lips moved, urgent and demanding, mimicking the rhythm of his hips against hers. Soft grunts pillowed at the back of his throat; driven wild by the sound, Glinis dug her fingers into his back, demanding that he move faster. He obeyed, bringing her closer and closer to the edge of a climax.

  She was too close, too mad with need to notice that he held back his own pleasure for the sake of hers.

  Her climax crested in a blaze of light and heat. She buried her face into his neck, crying out against his skin. Her body convulsed against his manhood as he continued to thrust, determined to wrench every last ounce of pleasure from her.

  When it was over, she leaned her head back and looked into his eyes. The heat of his own need burned in him, his brows were pulled together with the intensity of his torture.

  She nodded. “Now,” she whispered to him.

  Yes, now. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensation which had built and strained within him. His breath came hot and fast over her skin, and his fingers threaded through hers, gripping her hands above her head as if for dear life. The moan which tore from his chest when he found his climax was nearly deafening; it echoed off the rocky hills surrounding them. The evidence of it came slick between her legs. She hugged her knees to his waist so that he might gain the most satisfaction possible: a carnal reciprocity.

  Spent, Alex collapsed against her, trembling as much from the exertion as from his release. When he’d caught his breath, he rolled onto his side, and gathered Glinis into him. Laying her head on his broad chest, she listened to the frantic beating of his heart. It matched the pounding of her own. The plaid which he’d tossed over them trapped the heat of their bodies, warming away any remaining shivers that were left from the cold water of the pool.

  “Ye’re no’ sorry, are ye?” he asked after a while, trailing his fingertips up and down her arm.

  Glinis smiled—a small, private smile. Shoving against his chest, she raised herself into a sitting position and reached for her sopping shift. She wrung it out as best she could and pulled it down over her head. The fabric was still cold; she flinched when it touched her heated skin.

  Pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, she looked at
him.

  “Sorry? Nay. I am no’ sorry. Nervous, perhaps, but no’ sorry.”

  He raised himself on his elbow, the plaid slipping to his waist. Glinis felt a ripple of excitement tease her shoulders at the magnificent male body displayed so casually and intimately before her.

  “Why nervous?”

  She regarded him warily. “Well, I dinna ken where we go from here, do I?”

  “And what d’ye mean by that?”

  “Dinna toy wi’ me. Ye ken what I mean.”

  “Aye. But humour me.”

  She rested her cheek on her knee. “Do we bury this as a forgotten incident? Carry on in secret? When Lord Kildrummond passes, I dinna think I’ll stay on at Glendalough whether or no’ Lachlan will have me there, so there is only so long this can last.”

  Alex stared at her, incredulous. “Stay on at Glendalough? Are ye mad, woman? I dinna want some silly affair wi’ ye, for God’s sake. I want ye for my wife.”

  Glinis snorted. “Is that so? Come now, Sir Alex, I’m too old for these games.”

  He sat up, and raised her chin from her knees with his forefinger. “I play no games, my love. I want ye to marry me.”

  “Dinna be daft.”

  “I’m never daft.”

  “I’m one and forty. I’ve ten years on ye at least.”

  “Ye’re beautiful, and I dinna give a rat’s arse hole how many years ye have on me.”

  “I have nothing to give ye but a dowager’s living.”

  “I only want ye, and I can make my own living.”

  Glinis laughed, and looked away. Her heart throbbed, and she felt as though she could squeal and flutter up into the sky. It was the young lass in her that had been denied the joys of first love. The jaded, disillusioned part of her that had been forged by years of disappointment, however, was more wary.

  “Let’s no’ get ahead of ourselves just yet.” She stood, and reached for her rumpled gown. “First ye must concentrate on the task ahead of ye, and that is to come back from Arkinholm safe and sound.”

  Alex conceded, though from the glint in his eye, she knew the debate was far from over.

  The ride back to Glendalough was a silent one, though the silence was not uneasy. Alex kept his sure, strong hand tight against Glinis’s belly. The gesture gave her a contentment she’d never imagined could be had from a lover. She gave in to it, and let her head rest against his shoulder for most of the journey. The rise and fall of his chest, his breath upon her hair, the beating of his heart deepened this sense of peace which was entirely new to her.

  She hardly knew what to make of these feelings. She’d always wanted to be loved by John, but he’d never given her any reason to hope as she did now. She’d shared her bed a few times, and though she’d enjoyed the activity, nothing had remained once those young men had left her chamber. No peace, no contentment, no deep-seeded need for anything else they might have to give.

  Not that they had anything else to give; they’d wanted no more of her than she’d wanted of them.

  She could hardly deny now that it was love she felt for Alexander MacByrne. And her heart told her that he did not lie, that he loved her too. Her head, however, warned her that if her heart were wrong, the pain would be excruciating.

  Alex, it seemed, could read her mind. Or else her face gave her thoughts away.

  “I mean it, my Lady,” he said when she dismounted a short distance away from the rear gate. “I want ye for my wife. And I’ll return to ye from Arkinholm wanting nothing different.”

  She breathed deeply, checking the excitement which threatened to burst from her chest. “Aye, so ye said. Ye be safe.”

  Dougall MacFadyen was still on the wall walk when she came into view of the castle.

  “Lord in heaven, my Lady, what has happened to ye?” he called down to her.

  “Dinna ask. And if ye can keep hold of yer tongue about it, I’d much appreciate it. I’ll even see a handsome reward make it to yer purse.”

  Dougall levelled her with a look of disappointment. “My Lady, ye should ken well ye dinna need to bribe me. I’ve no’ seen ye this day at all, and that’s my final word on the matter.”

  Fourteen

  MOIRA HAD BEEN dreaming. A terrible dream of a galloping horse; a destrier as black as midnight. Its hooves were forged of steel, and they pounded the dirt as if they were pounding the drums of hell. Above, the sky was red with fire. The unholy light gleamed off the destrier’s slick, black body, and was reflected in its flat, dead eyes.

  In the dream she had stood, petrified, as the destrier tore a path directly for her. She tried to run, but her legs would not move. Her limbs were held ransom by the white hot fear that surged through every part of her body. She tried to scream, but the ragged pull of her breaths was the only sound other than the terrible drumbeat of the destrier’s steel hooves.

  The beast rode forward, bringing carnage with it. And Moira could do nothing to halt its advance.

  She awoke suddenly. Her eyes met not the light of a fire-red sky, but the mellow light of a grey dawn. Birdsong twittered beyond the covered windows, carried into the hut on a current of damp, cool air.

  Beside her, Lachlan snored softly. His large body lay close beneath the quilts, providing warmth and comfort and safety. The frantic thrumming of her heart died as the fear ebbed from her body.

  Awake and able to reflect on her dream, the cause of it was easily explained. Sir Alex had been gone for a little over a sennight, and for days, all of Kildrummond had been wondering when the battle would be—or if it had already taken place. With Arkinholm being the main topic of conversation for miles, Moira was bound to have such nightmares, was she not?

  Thus soothing her frazzled thoughts, she allowed herself to drift back to sleep for another precious hour. She dreamed again, but this time it was not unpleasant.

  This time, she dreamed of a man.

  There were no clear images in this dream, nothing but sounds and tastes, colours and scents. And desire, a flame of desire that burned in her veins and made her loins ache. She felt a strong, firm body press against her, and then move over top, trapping her with a pleasant weight. Moist, soft lips slid along her jaw; sure hands knitted into the sleep-dampened strands of her hair, traced the line of her arm and stroked the curve of her small, pert breast.

  Then the lips melted into hers. She succumbed, knowing nothing except that she wanted to drown in this dream. She opened her mouth to this unknown man, kissed him back with a passion to match his.

  This was not the first time she’d dreamed of making love. Many times had the dawn taken the nameless, faceless lover of her nights, and left behind the ache that she was forced to satisfy for herself. It was the first time her dream was so real, though. It was the first time scent and touch had been a significant feature. This dream was too wonderful to wake from; she could stay asleep for the rest of her life if all her dreams were like this.

  But sleep was not a thing to be commanded. Moira could no more choose how long she stayed asleep than she could choose what she dreamed about. As it always did eventually, sleep ebbed away, bringing reality with it.

  And in reality, she discovered... she’d not been dreaming.

  The body that hovered over her was no nameless, faceless lover. It was Lachlan.

  It was Lachlan’s lips that were kissing her now, Lachlan’s hands that skimmed the bare flesh beneath her shift.

  It was Lachlan who took her breath away with the things he was doing to her.

  The sleep that lingered in her brain stole from her the command of her own body. It was clear Lachlan was at least half asleep himself, yet she could not make herself rouse him. Of how much or little he was aware, she could not say. It made no difference; she could not make him stop. Could not make herself stop. The throb of desire was too strong, the need for satisfaction too great.

  A part of her wondered: would it really be so terrible if they broke the terms of their agreement? Let it happen, said that devious little vo
ice in her head. You want it, he wants it. Don’t fight it.

  But another part of her argued differently. The proud, wary part that had suffered a lifetime from the stigma of being John Douglas’s bastard daughter. John Douglas’s plain bastard daughter.

  He does not really want you, it taunted. He only wants your body because he is not yet awake. He would regret it afterwards.

  Panic seized her. No, this could not happen. She was foolish to have even thought it might. When he woke, he would be sorry. He would reject her.

  Well—she’d be damned if she’d let that happen. If anyone was to be rejected here, it would be she that rejected him.

  “Lachlan, Lachlan wake up.” She shook his shoulders.

  “No lass, let me no’ wake,” he murmured against her lips.

  She pushed harder. “Lachlan—no!”

  Her urgency broke through his curtain of sleep, and he stared at her, confused. Then astonished.

  “God’s bones, I am sorry. I—I dinna ken what came over me.”

  Just as she’d thought: he regretted it. It was clear by the shocked look on his face.

  It was no more than Moira had been expecting, and yet... his regret stung more than she imagined it would.

  That sting soon turned to anger—anger at herself for being hurt in the first place. Of course Lachlan had reacted no differently than she expected he would, the arrogant sod! What right did she have to hurt feelings? She’d saved her pride; that was the important thing. Her heart had no business being bruised.

  “Moira?” He searched her face, anxious that she should say something. His body still straddled hers, his weight still pressed her into the mattress.

  “Dinna fash. Ye didna ken what ye were doing.” She smiled a tight, awkward smile.

  He made no move to release her. “Ye ken I’d never hurt ye, lass, right? Not so much as a hair on yer head, I swear it. I didna mean to frighten ye.”

  “Ye didna, and there is no need to say anything more about it. ‘Tis forgotten.”

  Eager to put the incident behind them, she squirmed out from under his body. This, however, put her between him and the wall. To avoid climbing over his body, she crawled over the foot of the bed.