A Beautiful Lie
By Stephanie Sterling
Clan MacRae and Clan Cameron had been locked in a bitter feud since before Lachlan MacRae could remember, since before his father could remember, since before his father’s father could remember, and so it went on, back down the branches of the family tree. So far back in fact that no one alive was quite sure what had started it all in the first place. This didn’t do anything to lessen the hatred or stem the killings.
MacRae children were brought up to despise the Camerons, to loathe them as if they were the very lowest of the low. Fed on the sour milk of hatred from the time they were babies in arms, it quickly became ingrained. It festered in their blood, taking so deep a hold on them, becoming such an integral part of them that it was impossible to purge. Lachlan supposed the reverse was also true, which was one of the many reasons why he thought Graem’s idea was ludicrous.
Lachlan sighed deeply, and stared down the road ahead, keeping his bay gelding moving at a nice even pace. There was no need to hurry. He might be under strict instructions from Graem, his laird, to convey his mistimed, misplaced, ‘olive branch’, but that didn’t mean, under any circumstances, that he was going to rush towards Castle Cameron.
Or at least, that’s what he’d told himself… however, when Lachlan rounded the next bend in the road a rather surprising sight met his eyes.
A woman was sat at the roadside miserably prodding her ankle while a grey mare beside her ripped up clumps of grass to eat. When she heard the clatter of the approaching horse and rider she looked up with a fearful start.
She was uncommonly pretty. She would probably be beautiful in fact, if she didn’t look such a sorry state, Lachlan admitted to himself. As it was, it appeared that her long auburn curls had suffered a drenching in the last shower or two, and hung in a tangled mess about her shoulders, falling to more than halfway down her back. Her clothes were in similar state of disarray. Wet and muddied, Lachlan could hardly decipher their original colour.
He rode until he reached the woman and then stopped. “You look like you’re in something of a fix, lass,” he said kindly, and then dismounted. When he looked at the woman again she had a small dagger clasp in a trembling hand, pointing directly at him although she was still sat on the bank.
“Don’t come any closer! If you touch me I’ll-I’ll”
She stopped speaking, looking highly affronted by the fact that Lachlan had burst into a fit of laughter.
“You’ll what, lass?” he chuckled, taking a step towards her. “Ah, I mean you no harm,” he assured her, in the same tone with which he might try and soothe a skittish horse.
“Ha! A likely story! You’re wearing the MacRae tartan!” she said accusingly, waving the dagger in the direction of Lachlan’s kilt.
Lachlan glanced down absently. “Aye,” he agreed. “That’s true enough.” He rubbed a hand over his short beard. “And I assume from that reaction you’re a Cameron?”
“I am,” she said, hefting her chin with an arrogance that Lachlan would have struck away had she been a man. “Muira Cameron.”
“Muira Cameron?” Lachlan repeated softly. “Well, Miss Muira, I repeat my original observation, you seem to be in something of a fix.”
“I’m-fine,” Muira replied, wholly unconvincingly. “I don’t need help from MacRae at any rate!” she added more forcibly.
Lachlan frowned harshly. It would be easy enough to leave the troublesome wench. Only… he didn’t like to think who might come across her out here alone, and she certainly didn’t seem to be going anywhere on her own. Her mare looked lame to Lachlan, and Muira herself seemed to have suffered some injury to her ankle.
“I’ll just leave you here to wait for you escort then, shall I?” he asked carefully. “You did have an escort, didn’t you, lass?” he pressed. Now that he was closer he could see, in spite of their current sorry state, that her clothes were those of a lady, and he couldn’t understand what she would be doing out on the highroad on her own.
“Yes,” said Muira, after a lengthy pause. “I-lost him. My horse bolted and I-”
“Don’t-” Lachlan interrupted harshly, “-lie to me. If you don’t want to tell me the truth that’s your business, but I cannot abide liars,” he growled, advancing on Muira until he was close enough to pluck the dagger out of her unresisting hand.
Her eyes were wide and terrified, and locked on his face. Lachlan was just trying to decide their colour when Muira gasped: “What are you going to do to me?”
After a moment’s silence of his own, Lachlan replied. “Take you with me to Castle Cameron,” he said slowly. It was really the only thing that he could do with the women. He kept the dagger, but moved back slightly; scaring this poor Cameron girl senseless was not something that he meant to do.
“Castle Cameron?” Muira repeated. Her eyes widened just a fraction, and took on an uneasy expression that Lachlan found remarkably curious. Surely a Cameron would want to be taken home to their laird’s seat? “I don’t-” she began, but then seemed to think better of it. “You can’t take me to the castle, MacRae,” she said instead, a haughtiness creeping into her voice that grated on Lachlan’s nerves.
“I can’t?” he asked, smirking.
“You’re a MacRae,” Muira said, as if she thought he was also a simpleton for not realising what this meant. However, she licked her lips hesitantly. “But-but maybe you could help me reach the Black Bull?” she asked quietly.
“You’re a woman, and you obviously have no idea what’s going on between our clans do you?” he snorted, earning himself a fierce glare from the lady. “I will most certainly not take you to some local tavern and abandon you there. You must have friends, family at Castle Cameron?” he pressed.
“Yes, of course,” Muira admitted, although she sounded extremely reluctant to do so. She lowered her eyes and gave her head a weak nod. “I do, but-” she let her sentence trail off unfinished. “Thank you, MacRae,” she mumbled.
Lachlan stared at her, wrong footed by this sudden, humble display. “Well now, there’s no need to be getting all upset about it,” he said, clearly his throat gruffly.
Suddenly eager for an activity, he wandered over to Muira’s horse and picked up each of the mare’s hooves to examine. He cleaned out some grit and stone from under one of the iron horseshoes, but the animal was still far too lame to ride.
“They’ll be no riding her back to the castle,” Lachlan announced, more to break the silence than anything else. Muira glanced over at him. She was still sat on the damp grass, looking decidedly sorry for herself.
“I know,” she sighed. “I was walking her-back- when I tripped and sprained my ankle,” she grumbled, glaring accusingly at the offending joint. “I was just sitting here catching my breath-”
“When I came along?” Lachlan finished helpfully, flashing Muira a brilliant smile. He chuckled lightly at the colour that rose to her cheeks against her will, and then laughed further at the amusing way she looking obstinately in the other direction. “Well, no matter. You’ll just have to ride Fiadhaich,” he shrugged.
“Who?” Muira asked uncertainly, but her eyes had already alighted on the great bay brute of a horse that Lachlan had been riding.
“He’s as gentle as a kitten. Are you Faid?” Lachlan said cheerfully, patting Fiadhaich sounding on the rear. The horse gave a loud whinny and stomped at the ground.
“You know, my ankle’s not-”
“I should probably take a look at that ankle of yours actually,” Lachlan mused, tying the grey mare’s reigns to the back of his gelding’s saddle. “Just to check that you haven’t done any serious damage,” he said, turning back to Muira.
She
shook her head quickly, smoothing her skirts down over her foot. “I really don’t think-” she began modestly, but Lachlan had already knelt down on the grass and was gently, but intently, prying her fingers away from her leg.
Muira had already taken her boot off. A rather fine leather ladies riding boot, Lachlan noticed, supporting his opinion that this girl was wellborn. He wondered if rescuing the damsel would earn him any favours with the Cameron laird? He wondered if her cared. It was Graem who was in such a rush to form a tenuous peace between their two clans before he died.
His thoughts ceased their wonderings however when Muira gasped sharply. “Does that hurt, lass?” Lachlan frowned. He was barely touching her ankle. His fingertips had only just brushed her skin after absentmindedly rolling down her woollen stocking.
“No,” she chocked. “I mean yes-I mean-” she clamped her mouth shut, and then, blushing furiously, stared down at her lap.
Lachlan smiled to himself as he gently prodded and poked her ankle. She was an innocent little thing indeed if this had sent her into a fluster. She did look very fetching though, he had to admit - with her eyes bright, and her skin flushed, and her breath coming in shallow little gasps. He found his gaze lingering on her lips. Their plump, crimson swells looked far too luscious and inviting… he wondered how old she was, seventeen-eighteen? He didn’t imagine that she could be much older than that, but he couldn’t really judge the shape of her body, hidden as it was under the layers of her bedraggled clothes.
“Well, is it broken?” Muira’s soft voice snapped Lachlan to attention. He cleared his throat and shook his head.
“No, just badly twisted, lass,” he assured her. “It really needs bandaging to lend it some support though,” he said, patting her knee in what he hoped was a caring fashion as he got back up onto his feet. He rummaged through his saddlebags for a minute or two before finding something suitable.
“You seem to know a bit about these things,” Muira murmured, her voice much quieter, less confident, than it had been, now Lachlan was so much closer to her.
“Well, I’ve had some practise,” he muttered, seeing to her ankle quickly and efficiently. His face darkened in a frown as he remembered the battle wounds he’d had to dress, the injuries he’d seen, the bodies he’d buried… and Graem thought that those things could be forgotten, forgiven?
“MacRae?” Muira whispered uncertainly, reading his black expression and shivering slightly at what she saw.
Lachlan tried to shrug himself out of the grimness into which he fallen. He forced a grin. “All done then, lass,” he said brightly. “You’ll want to keep that boot off during the ride back though.” Muira gave her head an obedient nod. “Let’s get you up on Faid then,” he continued, moving to lift Muira up into his arms.
“Oh! I think I can manage!” she said quickly, her blush turning crimson.
Lachlan’s grin widened. “You think so, do you?” he chuckled, looking from the tiny woman to the great horse.
He got to his own feet in indication that he was at least willing to let her try at least, watching as she heft her chin in the air, once again brimming with confidence now that he wasn’t so close, now that his hands weren’t touching her skin…
He knew perfectly well that she would never be able to hoist herself up onto the animal. She wasn’t nearly tall enough. What Lachlan was less certain of was if she would be able to stand to put any weight on her foot. He waited, close enough to catch her if she stumbled, as Muira gingerly stood up.
She used her good leg to bear her weight, but the second she tried to walk she crumbled like a house of cards. A little cry of pain filled the air, but Lachlan’s arms were around Muira’s waist, holding her upright, long before she had a chance to hit the ground.
“Oh!”
Lachlan listened as Muira let out a little puff of breath as her body collided with his own. The way that she had stumbled propelled her against his chest, pressed her tight, enabling him to feel the exceedingly generous curve and swell of her breast. A spike of heat flared unexpectedly in his groin as she wriggled against him, innocently trying to find her balance, but setting fires pulsing through his veins.
“I knew you’d need help,” Lachlan grunted, more harshly than he’d intended, but his body’s enthusiastic reaction to Muira’s touch had taken him by surprise.
He hadn’t gone so long without a woman that he was in danger of falling victim to the innocent enticements of this wench, this innocent Cameron wench! Or that was what Lachlan firmly told himself as he lifted Muira up into the saddle. She seemed to be balanced rather precariously, insisting on riding sidesaddle, but when he asked if she was all right she (of course, Lachlan thought to himself with a roll of his eyes) said yes.
He picked up Muira’s boot, the dagger that he’d taken off of her, and stowed both away in Fiad’s saddlebags, and then he caught his horse by the reigns, and with just a gentle tug got both animals slowly walking down the road behind him.
“I don’t suppose you want you tell me what it was that you were doing out here on your own, lass?” Lachlan called over his shoulder after five minutes of total silence from his companion.
“I don’t suppose I-oh! do,” Muira answered back. Lachlan glanced back to see what the problem was, an amused smile tugging at his lips when he caught Muria struggling to keep her balance. Her long skirt was slipping on the smooth leather of the saddle, making it a constant struggle for her to keep her balance without the proper saddle.
“And I thought I was going to have to walk the whole way to the castle,” Lachlan said cheerfully. “This is a turn up for the books.”
“What are you-what do you-” Muira spluttered, gaping as Lachlan threw Fiad’s reigns back over his head. He let the horse keep his steady, walking pace, but moved around to his side, easily planting one foot into the stirrup before swinging himself up onto the animal’s back behind Muria.
“Well I can’t have you falling off,” Lachlan pointed out practically. “I don’t think that would go down too well with Camerons,” he sighed, reaching around Muira’s body to grasp the reigns.
“I wasn’t in any danger of falling off, MacRae!” Muria gasped breathlessly, and in truth she was squirming so much with Lachlan’s body pressed against her own that she really did seem in greater danger of being dismounted with him there with her than she had without. “And I really don’t think that you should-that I should-” she fumbled to a halt. “I don’t even know you!” she wailed.
“No, that is true enough,” he conceded softly.
“All I do know about you is that you’re a MacRae,” she pointed out petulantly.
“In fairness, lass, all I know about you is that you’re a Cameron,” Lachlan replied evenly. He watched the back of Muira’s head as she gaze a small nod.
“And yet, you still helped me,” she whispered, twisting so that she could look up into his face. Even with her this close, Lachlan still couldn’t work out if her eyes were blue or green or grey. “Why did you do that?” she pressed, and deciphering the colour of her eyes flew straight out of Lachlan’s head, the sight of her mouth, slightly parted and too temptingly close to his own transfixed him.
Lachlan wrenched his gaze away before he had time to make a fool of himself, forcing himself to look at the road ahead and nowhere else. What the hell was wrong with him? He shook his head, as if he was forcibly trying to clear it. His life would not be worth living if he compromised a woman from the Cameron clan-because he wouldn’t have a life for very long afterwards. Lachlan was rather certain of that fact.
“MacRae?” Muira pressed.
“I’m not an animal,” he growled. The woman looked abashed. She stared down at her hands and fell silent. Lachlan sighed heavily. He wasn’t sure if his words had been meant to convince Muira or himself…
..ooOOoo..
Muira was getting use to the rocking of the man’s horse. It was a less smooth motion that she was used to on her little grey mare, but then the great bay geldin
g looked like some kind of fierce war charger… What she was not getting used to was the feel of MacRae’s arm about her waist, holding her steady, nor the feel of his chest pressed tight against her body. It was making her flushed and strangely uncomfortable, but in a way that was almost… pleasurable?
Muira didn’t understand it. Her fiancé had ensured that she had never encountered a man’s touch without feeling fear. And yet, she could tell from the way that Macrae moved, from the breadth of his chest and the height of his body that he was just as strong as Tavish-if not more so! But while Tavish MacEantach wielded his strength like an unpredictable weapon, the steely power of MacRae’s body was harnessed in a way that made Muira… shivery?
It excited her. She bit the inside of her lip guiltily. He was the enemy! And yet, she had rarely felt so safe. She should hate him, and for more than simply being of the MacRae clan. He was taking her back to Castle Cameron.
The castle had been her home for ten of her eighteen years, ever since her mother’s death, when her father, the laird’s brother, had moved back into his childhood residence with his daughter and two sons. Muira had quickly become an indispensable member of the household. The laird had no daughters, only sons, so Muira had become her aunt’s favourite little helper.
She had learnt a great deal from her aunt. Fine embroidery and needlework; to sing, to play the harp, but she’d also been instructed how to manage the running of a castle like Cameron. She had watched her aunt receive distinguished guests, manage the staff, and as she grew older Muira had been entrusted with certain important tasks around the castle, assuming the position of laird’s daughter more than laird’s niece.
While her father had been saddened by this loss, he could not deny its probable benefits. The most important, the most powerful men of the Cameron clan wanted to court Muira, undoubtedly hoping to gain influence with the laird, but also being in a position to provide Muira with the life with which she had become accustomed. A life that was not open to her as only the daughter of the second son of a laird.
Muira had accepted this fate happily enough. She was not like her best friend, Cait, she did not believe in forevers and happy ever afters. When Tavish MacEantach had declared an interest in her she had been over the moon. Tavish was handsome and wealthy, well-connected and very intelligence. She had already accepted his proposal by the time she learnt that he was also ruthless and vicious, cruel and ambitious…
A Beautiful Lie (The Camaraes) Page 1
