A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  “He didna outright deny it when he and Lord Albermarle discussed the matter earlier,” Lachlan confirmed. “I’d think that, were he a mind to keep out of the quarrel, he would have said so.”

  He regarded Alex with a sidelong glance; a sense of guilt prickled at the back of his neck. Alex had been his friend since childhood. It was Lachlan who had brought him to Lord Erroll—when he’d sought a place in the earl’s guard, Alex had followed. It was Lachlan’s fault; Lachlan was the reason Alex faced the possibility of conflict with the king. He took a long draught of his ale to silence his conscience.

  “I find that the more I think on it, the more eager I am to go. Lord Kildrummond is a hospitable man, and I am curious about the purpose of this summons.”

  Alex twisted his own goblet of ale in his hands, his head bent as he reflected on this turn of events. His golden hair was tied at the nape of his neck in a queue, but a lock at his forehead had fallen over his right eye.

  “I dinna recall meeting yer Kildrummond kinsmen,” Alex observed.

  “I dinna think ye have. My aunt, that is, my father’s youngest sister, were married off at a young age to the Earl of Kildrummond. ‘Twas my grandfather’s hope to revive his squandered wealth wi’ the union. As ye can see, that didna go so well for him.” He held his arms out, displaying himself to illustrate the point.

  “Ye poor soul,” Alex responded dryly. “Having to make yer way in the world like the rest of us. How do ye manage?”

  Grinning, Lachlan caught the eye of the serving wench that wended her way through the tables. Tipping his chin to her, he lifted his goblet and wiggled the stem back and forth between his fingertips.

  Though other customers also awaited a top-up to their goblets, the serving girl made straight for Lachlan. She was a buxom lass, with shimmering, copper-coloured hair, inviting grey eyes and a plump, pink mouth. It was a mouth which Lachlan knew intimately.

  God’s bones, it was a mouth which intimate parts of his body knew intimately.

  She bent over the table unnecessarily as she filled his goblet, presenting the pillowy mounds of her bosoms to him. Lachlan gazed at her unabashedly.

  Or perhaps it was Alex to whom she presented her bosoms. The two friends did not make sport of comparing their bedmates, but Lachlan did know that Alex had carnal knowledge of her, too. In fact, there were probably very few men in this tavern who hadn’t had a turn with the comely, copper-haired lass.

  “Ye dinna mind coming wi’ me, dy’e?” Lachlan asked when she’d gone. “If ye’d rather no’, I’ll bring MacAndrews in yer stead. ‘Tis no trouble.”

  “Nay, ‘tis fine. I wouldna mind some time away.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Lachlan downed his ale in one swallow and, stretching his arms above his head, peered across the room to the serving wench. “Well then, Alex, I’m off to bed.”

  Alex followed his gaze. “Ye go on, I’ll send her yer way when her work here’s done. I think she were after ye, anyway.”

  WARM IN HIS bed, the serving wench from the tavern asleep against his chest, Lachlan thought of the journey ahead. He had not seen his aunt in a very long time and would enjoy the reunion.

  Of her husband, Lord Kildrummond, he remembered little. He only recalled that he had a similar, regal appearance to Lord Albermarle. Both men, if he remembered correctly, were tall and broad, with commanding, handsome features and a firm but gentle countenance. Both men were greatly respected.

  Of the happenings at Kildrummond he remembered even less. His father had not taken him there often, neither as a boy nor in later years. The details were hazy, but Lachlan seemed to remember there had been a mistress. A very public mistress which caused Lady Glinis great shame. Indeed Lord Kildrummond had settled the woman into a hut close to Glendalough Castle so that he would have regular access to her.

  It was a wonder he didn’t just set her up in the castle proper, since he was so determined to flaunt her.

  The mistress, Lachlan knew, was the reason his aunt usually came to visit them, instead of the other way around. He did not blame her; he felt deeply sorry for her, in fact.

  Glancing at the sleeping lass by his side, her bare, creamy shoulders and naked breasts so appealing in the whispering light of the fire, he was afflicted by a stab of guilt. For with a bounty of beautiful maids wherever he went, Lachlan wasn’t at all certain he wouldn’t do the same if he were in Lord Kildrummond’s place.

  It was just as well that he had no intention of every marrying.

  Three

  MOIRA WAS A patient lass. It was something she prided herself on. She could sit at a tapestry for hours on end, working by even the poorest of light, and concentrate on the most delicate embroidery with not a whimper of frustration.

  But even she had her limits, and her patience had just about worn thin. The icy March wind had stolen the last whisper of feeling from her fingertips; her nose trickled like the nearby brae; her heels refused to dig into the trampled, ice-slicked snow beneath her feet.

  Muttering an unladylike curse beneath her breath, she braced herself one more time, closed her eyes, and heaved with all her might.

  Her bloody, stubborn cow would not budge!

  Mocking her futile effort, the beast lolled its horned head and emitted an insufferable bleat.

  “Fine, freeze out here, ye stubborn wench” Moira tugged at the cow’s long, red fur in retaliation, then directed her scowl to Niall. Her dearest, closest friend in all the world leaned against his old grey-and-white speckled mare, which was tethered to the side of her hut, and took the spectacle with mirth.

  “Please, dinna feel obliged to help me at all,” she shouted.

  Niall shook his head, his sandy hair swaying loosely over his brow. “She doesna like me.”

  “Excuses.”

  “’Tis no’. Last time I tried to help ye, she horned me in the arse.”

  “Perhaps if ye had some padding on yer arse it wouldna have been a problem, ye twig!”

  “Ye’re one to talk,” Niall taunted with a laugh. “Ye’re as lanky as I am.”

  Moira conceded, throwing her willowy arms into the air. She pondered her dilemma before deciding there was only one course of action left—one which earned the animal a furious glower.

  “I didna want to do this,” she muttered.

  Stomping the short distance to her hut, she retrieved her pot of treacle from its shelf above the oven. Removing the fired clay lid, she wistfully admired the meagre dollop of sweet, dark syrup. It was all she had left, and she’d been hoping to make a treat for herself this evening. Market was not for another four days, and even if it were sooner, she didn’t have the coin to waste on frivolities this time.

  Now she’d have to use her precious treacle to coax the cow into its pen, for it was far too cold outside to leave the beast there. Though she deserved to freeze, the damnable thing.

  Moira snatched a fresh handful of rushes from the animals’ stall and, with a final gaze of longing, scooped out the last of the treacle. Marching back outside she shoved the sticky-sweet syrup under the cow’s muzzle.

  The animal tilted her shaggy, red head, lured by the scent of the treat. Lumbering forward she followed Moira, who guided her with backwards steps.

  “That’s it, come on ye big stupid beast,” she encouraged.

  The cow followed happily, intent on the treat in the lass’s outstretched hand. Once she’d been rewarded and secured in her stall Moira went back out for the sheep.

  “Ye can help me wi’ them at least,” she called to Niall, who was still leaning against his mount.

  “Aye, alright.”

  Working together they herded the sheep into the hut and closed the door against the winter chill. Moira removed her cloak and took Niall’s from him, then hung them on the makeshift peg which her mother had lodged into the mudded walls long ago.

  “I dinna believe ye gave her the treacle,” Niall lamented. “I was looking forward to this special treat ye said ye’d be baking.”r />
  “What makes ye think ye’d be getting any of it?” Moira snorted. “Ye’ve a mother of yer own to feed ye.”

  “Ye’re right, I forget sometimes yer on yer own now, wi yer mam gone and all. Ye couldna share a piece of bannock, could ye? I’m half starved.”

  Moira slanted him a long-suffering look, but his impish grin softened her. The devil; she could never be annoyed with him for long.

  “Oh, go on.” She fetched him the heel of the loaf she’d made the previous morning. Taking the stale offering eagerly, Niall bit firmly into it, ripping the hardened bread with his teeth like a wolf with fresh meat.

  “That’s grand, that,” he sighed, chewing loudly.

  Moira placed a portion of the loaf into her own mouth, then took a seat on her worn, wooden stool by the fire. Niall took the single armchair beside her, his customary spot, and stretched his hands and feet towards the warmth of the flames. It was a scene that had replayed itself regularly since they were children. The only difference was that, where once Lilian laboured over the tapestry, it was Moira who now held the needle and coloured thread in her chapped, raw fingers.

  The particular piece which she was working on had been commissioned for the Countess of Leslie. Since the lady’s husband had only held the newly-created earldom of Leslie for ten years, the lady had made it a priority to accumulate possessions. As if an abundance of things would somehow substantiate the family’s inherent nobility. It was commonly known that the tapestries and needlework of Moira MacInnes were particularly exquisite, and Lady Leslie appreciated the lass’s creativity and fine hand. Moira was only too happy to oblige.

  But the coin from her last commission had nearly run out. If she did not sell some of her ready-made pieces at market, the days ahead would be lean indeed. Since she could not count on that, she’d been burning the wick at both ends for nearly a sennight just to finish Lady Leslie’s latest tapestry.

  “When does she want it finished?” Niall inquired, tossing another log of turf onto the modest fire.

  “In a month. But she’s offered a bonus if I finish early.” Holding the tapestry to the light of the fire, Moira inspected the stitches where she’d left off before taking up the pattern again.

  “Why dinna ye draw the curtain,” Niall suggested.

  “Aye, I shall. I just need a wee while to warm my fingers first.”

  There was a stretch of companionable silence, punctured only by the occasional shuffle of the animals against the rushes, before Moira spoke again. “Ye havena mentioned Janet’s name in a while. How d’ye fare these days wi’ her?”

  “I have given up on the lovely Janet,” Niall answered heavily.

  “I dinna believe for one second that ye’ve fallen out of love wi’ her.”

  “What purpose is there in being in love wi’ her when she’ll never fall in love wi’ me?”

  “Ye dinna ken that.”

  “But I do. She’s too busy chasing after Dougall MacFadyen. Next to him, I’ve no’ a chance in heaven of winning her heart. The only time she kens I’m alive is market day when she buys her da’s ale from us.”

  “Next to Dougall MacFadyen ye’re pig fodder,” she agreed, recalling the handsome captain of Glendalough’s guard.

  “Thanks for yer support,” he retorted.

  “Nevertheless, I dinna believe ye’ve no chance of winning her heart. First of all, Dougall MacFadyen wouldna look twice at her. Lovely as she is, Janet’s nowhere near the most beautiful lass in the village—never mind what ye may think. And Dougall sees many other villages besides Kildrummond almost daily, wi’ all their lasses too. If she’s after him, she’ll soon discover he’ll no’ be interested.

  “Second,” she continued, “yers isna the only ale stall at market, yet she comes to ye time and again. She kens full well ye’re alive, at least.”

  “No’ that it does me any good; she doesna look twice at me.”

  Moira exhaled and dropped her tapestry to her lap. “If she doesna look twice at ye, it’s yer own fault. Ye never say anything to her when she does come except ‘cask of bitter?’. For heaven’s sake, the lass probably doesna even ken yer name. As much as ye’d like to, ye canna blame that on Dougall MacFadyen.”

  Niall brooded over the accusation briefly. “Ye’re probably right,” he shrugged.

  “I am right,” Moira asserted. “Ye go and speak to her. Let her ken how ye feel, and see if she doesna pay ye more attention.”

  “Aye, I can do that. I can tell her how I feel.”

  “Next market day.”

  Niall hesitated. “Maybe the one after next.”

  “Coward.”

  Chafing his hands on his plaid draped, Niall stood. “I’d best be off, then, while I’ve still got the light. Ye coming into the village tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps, if I have time. Depends on how this tapestry comes along tonight.”

  “If ye do, there’s a fresh batch of mead waiting for ye. Mam’s been given the last of Glendalough’s honey to brew, but it isna due to be collected until Thursday.”

  “Ye’ll come by if I dinna make it out?”

  “Of course.”

  Setting aside her work, Moira walked her friend out to his mount. As Niall untethered the reins, they both glanced to the horizon, where a lone figure on horseback made a leisurely course straight for them.

  “Ah, speaking of Dougall MacFadyen,” Moira murmured.

  “Lady Moira, how be ye this aft?” the captain greeted her when he was close enough to be heard. A fur cloak covered his shoulders, and the upper portion of his plaid was wrapped around his head to keep his ears warm. Even bundled as he was, Dougall MacFadyen was unnaturally handsome.

  “I am fine, thank ye, Dougall. Can I hope one day ye’ll stop calling me ‘Lady Moira’? I dinna recall ever giving the impression I were a lady.”

  “Ye are yer father’s daughter. Yer a lady whether ye like it or no’.” He teased her affectionately, as an older brother might tease his sister. “Sir Niall, how be ye?”

  “I am well,” Niall answered, awestruck by the captain. Moira snickered for all the disparaging of Dougall the young brewer did behind his back.

  “Will ye come in and warm yerself?” She gestured to the hut.

  “Thank ye, lass, but I’ll no’ stay long. I’m here to deliver a message.”

  When he hesitated, Moira prodded, “And the message is?”

  Dougall sighed, his massive shoulders rising and falling beneath his cloak. “If I tell ye, ye must promise ye’ll no’ go off on me the way ye do. Alright... yer father requests that ye attend the evening meal on the morrow. And he bids that I beg ye to wear the fine silk gown he purchased for ye on yer birthday last, for ‘tis a grand occasion.”

  His message was received with round, innocent eyes. “What d’ye mean, go off the way I do?”

  “Ye canna be serious. The last time I were sent to invite ye to the meal, ye gave me a right piece of yer mind about how ye’d no’ be ordered about. Bloody hell, I’ve never been so frightened of such a wee lass in all my life!”

  “Honestly Dougall, as handsome as ye are, ye’ve no idea about a woman’s whims. The last time ye delivered my father’s message, ye said he requires me to attend. Since ye’ve said he requests it this time, then I shall of course oblige. But I beg ye tell him in return that I’ll wear my own gown, the one that I purchased wi’ my own coin.”

  “Aye, by working his land, and taking his coin when ye’ve none of yer own,” Dougall countered with a devious wink.

  Moira reddened. “I’m no’ so daft as to refuse a gift when it’s sorely needed. I’d imagine ye wouldna be either, were ye in my position.”

  “Och, I’m only teasing. If I were in yer position, I’d be lodging at Glendalough, not stubbornly clinging to this peasant life ye’re so fond of.” When she scowled, Dougall added, “Come, now, my Lady. We ken ye’re entitled to much more, and his Lordship would happily give it ye—if ye’d only let him. But we also ken how hard ye work to supp
ort yerself and we admire ye for yer determination.”

  “She kens that, Dougall,” Niall said eagerly. “Ye ken that, aye Moira?”

  “Aye, I ken,” she allowed begrudgingly.

  “Well then, that’s settled. I’ll report back that ye’ll be there. That should please him. What about the gown?”

  Moira shook her head. “No gown.”

  “Well, no one can say I didna try. Take care, lass.” Dougall turned his mount, but before he nudged the beast onward Moira stopped him.

  “D’ye ken why it is my father wishes me there?”

  Dougall glanced backwards over his shoulder. “I’d tell ye if I could, my Lady, but I dinna ken that myself.”

  Once he was a distance away, Niall put in his opinion. “He’s right, ye ken. If I were in yer place I’d take advantage of what was on offer more than ye do. Ye do ken what kind of food they have there every night, aye? Ye’re here fretting about the last of yer treacle while they eat it by the barrel up there.”

  “The difference between ye and me, Niall MacCormack, is that I dinna think wi’ my belly.”

  “Canna argue wi’ that one.” He grinned, untying his own mare and hopping up into the saddle. “But if ye do happen to find yer way to Glendalough tomorrow evening, see if ye canna snatch a few bits for me, hmm? Maybe some cakes or pastries.”

  “Oh, be off wi’ ye.” Moira slapped at his shin. But as always, where Niall was concerned, she could not stay put out at him for long.

  Four

  THE JOURNEY FROM Aberdeenshire to Moray had been long and painfully cold. Intent on reaching Glendalough before evening, Lord Albermarle had pushed the party onward. He allowed minimal stops, only what was necessary to feed and water the animals. It was of no concern to him that his companions were rendered miserable by his ambition.

  To make the going worse, the wind had not been kind; it gusted steadily over the open ground, raking the travellers unforgivingly and without respite. Though they were well wrapped, furs and woollens layered atop one another, the wind still found its way through gaps and seams to slice at fragile flesh, and bite into weary bones.