A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  “And how is that young lad of yers these days?” The elderly clanswoman with whom Moira had been chatting cut into her silent fretting.

  She studied the woman, her brows knitting together. “My young lad?”

  “Aye, that tall, gangly one. What be his name?”

  “That’d be Niall MacCormack.” Her companion tapped her wrinkled finger on the slatted table board, adding authority to the statement.

  “Ah yes, young Niall MacCormack. Will ye be announcing yer wedding soon? I’m sure it’d make his Lordship happy to ken ye’ll be looked after. He does love ye so, even if ye are a bas—er, well, that is to say ‘twould make him happy, is all.”

  Moira pressed her lips together and forced a smile. “I’m sure it would. But unfortunately Niall MacCormack is only a friend. He and I willna be announcing our wedding plans any time soon. I guarantee that!”

  “Oh, well that’s a shame. ‘Tis no bad thing to be the wife of a brewer. They do a decent trade, they do.”

  Eager to end this particular line of conversation, Moira racked her brain for something else to talk about. Thankfully she was relieved of her predicament by the reappearance of Lady Glinis—and the fact that Moira was relieved to see Lady Glinis emphasized how uncomfortable her predicament was.

  Glinis towered over Moira, who had to lift her chin to meet the lady’s steely gaze. “His Lordship wishes an audience wi’ ye.”

  A chill ran across Moira’s shoulders at the countess’s veiled hostility. She refused to let Glinis see it, though.

  “If ye’ll excuse me.” She smiled brightly to her companions. Rising from the bench, she followed Lady Glinis who glided from the hall with not a single backwards glance.

  The lady proceeded through the lower corridors of the castle, and on to the keep. Reaching the staircase, she lifted the hem of her pale blue silk gown. The grace with which she moved enchanted Moira, who in turn bunched the fabric of her own simple gown in her fists and lifted the hem just enough that she wouldn’t trip.

  Their manner was just one aspect of a world of difference which existed between the two women. Their hair, their clothes, even their shoes told of that difference in status. Lady Glinis wore exquisite slippers of satin which had hardly been worn at all. Next to such finery, Moira was slightly ashamed of her rivelins, which she’d made herself from her own stock of rawhide and laced together around her feet with leather thongs. The footwear of a peasant.

  Not for the first time Moira wondered what it might be like to give in, and let his Lordship provide her with financial stability, a comfortable life. It was a hope the earl had not abandoned despite Moira’s persistent rejection. She rejected the notion even now, for as a child she’d resolved never to be at the mercy of a man the way her mother had. She would not open herself up to the derision of others.

  Not that it did much good; the highborn Douglases looked down on her with derision anyway. But at least she had not invited it, not the way her mother had.

  Ending the uncomfortable silence in which the pair travelled, Lady Glinis halted at Lord Kildrummond’s bedchamber. Moira felt her heart pick up speed; she had not seen the earl since he’d taken to his bed with his illness. A pang of guilt pricked her conscience over that. Despite what her personal resolutions were, the man was her father, and he did love her.

  As if divining her thoughts, Glinis shot Moira a warning glare. Behave, her eyes seemed to say. Then she rapped curtly on the door. Without waiting for an answer she pushed it open and stepped through. Moira trailed in after her, her entrance meek.

  “Yer Lordship.” Lady Glinis curtsied, and immediately her countenance softened. A warm smile came to her face as she took in the men in the room.

  Moira cringed, for she had not expected such an audience. Besides the earl there were also Lord Albermarle and Eamon Douglas, Glendalough’s steward.

  A third man stood against the far wall. She recognized him immediately as one of the riders she’d seen earlier that day by the brae. He’d been with another man then. As determined as she was to ignore the gossip and snide stares, she hadn’t noticed that he’d been in the great hall for the meal.

  The man looked at her now with passive curiosity. A shot of hot pride bolted through her. She knew his type: full of himself and his good looks. Thought he could get any beautiful lass he desired. She disliked his kind thoroughly.

  Moira lifted her chin and stared coolly back. She was determined that this stranger would be of as little consequence to her as she so obviously was to him.

  “Yer Lordship.” She curtseyed properly to the ailing earl. A touch of hurt came to Lord Kildrummond’s eyes at the formal greeting, which Lady Glinis noticed. She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

  “Moira, my sweetling. I’m glad ye’ve come.” The earl’s voice was raspy, and his breathing laboured, as if he’d worn himself out by those few words alone. Alarmed, Moira glanced uncertainly towards Lord Albermarle, with whom she enjoyed a friendly companionship.

  “Aye, ye didna think he were so far gone, did ye?”

  “Perhaps ye might come more often now,” Lady Glinis added crisply.

  “Hush now.” Lord Kildrummond held a hand up for his wife. To Moira he said, “Will ye have a seat?”

  The only available seat in the room was the bedside stool. Gingerly she moved towards it, noticing, as she arranged herself on it, that she was the only one sitting. Lady Glinis probably wasn’t too happy about that, she though miserably.

  Standing, as he was, outside the group, Lachlan surveyed the interaction between the others present. He maintained an impartial expression, though curiosity tickled beneath the surface. Who was this lass, this plainly dressed, plain-faced lass, who seemed to be afforded such courtesy?

  “I’d first like to thank ye for making the journey here this evening,” the earl addressed Lord Albermarle and Lachlan. “As ye ken, I’ve no’ long left in this world; I’ll be meeting my maker soon enough.”

  “No’ too soon, we hope,” Lady Glinis spoke earnestly.

  “Nevertheless, I’ve an immediate concern wi’ making sure my lands and family are taken care of. Now we all ken what trouble the king makes for Douglases, and wi’ these recent confiscations of Douglas lands, I’ve a concern that Kildrummond might come into his sights. We are no’ a wealthy people, but my lands are prosperous enough, and my people live in peace. I willna rest easy until I ken it’ll continue this way after I’m gone.”

  “Lord Albermarle will see to that, yer Lordship,” Lady Glinis assured him. “I’ve no doubt he’ll manage the lands well enough.”

  Lord Albermarle exchanged a glance with Lord Kildrummond.

  “As it happens, my dear, I’ve spoken wi’ Edward already, and he accepts my decision that I’ll no’ be naming him my successor.”

  This shocked everyone in the room. Except for Lord Albermarle, who lowered his eyes.

  “If no’ Lord Albermarle, then who—” Lady Glinis broke off, her eyes widening excitedly. “Ye dinna mean our Lachlan, d’ye? Is that why ye’ve summoned him?”

  “Aye, ‘tis. Viscount Strathcairn, the title and the lands are yers upon my death, if ye want them.”

  Lachlan stared at the earl, his jaw hanging slack. “Yer Lordship? Why would ye choose me? I’m no’—”

  “Ye’re family,” Lord Albermarle put in. “But no’ Douglas family. If the lands are no longer in Douglas hands, Fiery Face will have a difficult time confiscating them should this feud continue the way it is.”

  Lady Glinis clapped her hands together gleefully. A slow, baffled smile spread across Lachlan’s face.

  “There is one condition, though,” Lord Kildrummond continued.

  “Anything.”

  “As these things go, there must be a tie stronger than the law; there must be a tie made by God. I’m sure it’ll come as no surprise to ye that I wish ye to marry my daughter. Keep a little Douglas blood in the place, aye?”

  “Yer daughter, my Lord?” Lachlan glanced questioningly to h
is aunt, whose elation had turned to disbelief. “Who be yer daughter?”

  “I am,” Moira interjected shakily. Her head was reeling. She was so shocked she felt as though she would faint. And, simultaneously, so outraged she was sure she could pound through the masonry with her bare fists.

  Lachlan’s confusion cleared swiftly. The mistress—of course. This lass was illegitimate. Studying her now, he saw the resemblance between her and Lord Kildrummond, though she was much more feminine than the earl. They had the same rounded jaw, the same high forehead. The eyes, too, were of the same wide shape and the same shimmering blue.

  Chafing under the intruder’s scrutiny, Moira scowled. “I’ll do no such thing,” she vowed, and stood abruptly.

  “Now, Moira,” Lord Kildrummond urged.

  “Ye’ll mind yer tongue and do as yer father says,” Lady Glinis argued.

  “My dear—”

  “Nay, I’ll no’ hear it. Ye indulge that lass too much. Ne’er before have I seen a daughter behave so terribly towards her father. I would have been flogged in the village square if I dared speak to my own father in such a manner.”

  Lachlan said nothing, though in truth he, too, was appalled by the lass’s brash outburst.

  “Ye’re in no position to defy him, Moira,” Lord Albermarle added gently. “Ye live on his lands, free of rent—often enough,” he amended when she shot him a challenging glare. “Ye’re dependent on him for yer coin, too. Even when ye dinna take a direct offer, most of yer goods are sold at market to Douglases and Kildrummond tenants.”

  Moira opened her mouth. Unable to think of any argument, she closed it again. Her face flushed scarlet; she could feel its heat colouring her neck and cheeks. “I’ll no’ live on his lands, then. I can find another place to live, far away. I’ll head north; or I’ll find somewhere in our old border village. I can live anywhere, I dinna have to live in Moray.”

  “And struggle even harder than ye are now?”

  “Moira, love, I think only of yer best interests,” Lord Kildrummond promised.

  Moira stared hard at the earl; then she turned her head to Lachlan. Immediately her blood boiled even higher. “What the bloody hell are ye looking at?” she spat. “Ye can forget about it, I’ll no’ be marrying the likes of ye!”

  Then, before anyone could speak further, she whirled and bolted from the room.

  “Moira!” Lady Glinis shouted after her. “Moira ye come back here this instant.”

  But the lass was gone. Exasperated, the lady dropped her hands to her sides. “Ye should have her dragged back here. That’s what any father would do wi’ a daughter so insolent.”

  Lord Kildrummond nodded, resigned. “Aye, I should. But I canna.”

  “Ye’ve ne’er been able to discipline that wee terror.”

  “My Lady, she is in a state,” Lord Albermarle said. “I agree wi’ ye, that kind of behaviour shouldna be tolerated, but give the lass a bit of sympathy. She’ll come round.”

  “But what about Lachlan? Will ye still offer him Kildrummond if Moira runs off and he doesna marry her?”

  “My Lord, if I may,” Lachlan interjected. “Give me the morrow to speak wi’ the lass. Perhaps I can bring her round to the idea.”

  “Aye. I’d be grateful if ye’d try.” Lord Kildrummond smiled sadly. “I only want her safe. I only want to ken that my Lilian’s lass is looked after once I’m gone.”

  Lachlan noticed the hurt and betrayal that crossed Lady Glinis’ face. It was only there for a second, and in another flicker it was gone, smoothed out after years of practice.

  He had never felt more sorry for the lady in his life.

  Six

  NO SOONER HAD the weak light of the winter morning spread across the snow-covered land than there was a furious thumping at the door of the MacCormack family’s hut.

  “Can ye believe it?” Moira demanded as soon as a bleary-eyed Niall opened the door. “He’s only gone and said I must marry.”

  “Good morning to ye, too,” he yawned.

  Moira threw him a frustrated look and began pacing the narrow doorstep. Niall knew well enough not to interrupt her when she was angry. Instead, he folded his spindly arms over his chest, leaned against the doorframe, and prepared to wait out her tirade.

  “He’s decided—ye’ll never believe this—he’s decided that no Douglas will inherit the earldom of Kildrummond. He’s leaving it instead to a Strathcairn. Lachlan Ramsay is his name, and he’s a landless viscount. But the man willna have Kildrummond unless he marries me. I mean, honestly Niall, who does that man think he is, giving my hand away like that to a perfect stranger?”

  “Who does that man think he is? He’s the Earl of Kildrummond, and yer father. If one of those conditions doesna give him the right to give yer hand to whomever he chooses, then the other certainly does.”

  “Ah, but how do we ken for certain he’s my father?” Moira pointed accusingly, as if it were Niall that were guilty of a crime. “The only reason we think that is because my mother said so. But how do we ken she’s told the truth?”

  He shot her a pointed look. “Careful, Moira. That be yer mother ye’re talking about. I’ll no’ have ye speaking ill of the dead, especially no’ of Mistress Lilian.”

  Chastened, Moira lowered her glare to her feet, scrutinizing them as she trod back and forth over the same, narrow strip. “Ye ken I didna mean that. No’ truly.”

  “I do. Now will ye come inside? Ye’ll wear a pit into the ground if ye keep up that pacing, and I’ll be the one my mam’ll expect to bail out the water every time it rains.”

  “This is serious, Niall. I willna be forced to marry. I’ll flee before that happens. Ye dinna think I will?” she challenged when he raised his brows.

  “On the contrary, I’m sure ye will. But then ye’ll expect me to come wi’ ye, and then we’ll have to be married, and I’d rather no’, if it’s all the same to ye.”

  Moira stared at him, her mouth agape. “I wouldna—” she stuttered before she saw his teasing grin. Defeated, her shoulders slumped. “Niall, what will I do?”

  “Ye’ll come in out of the cold, for a start. A man could freeze to death while he waits for ye to finish yer ranting.” He stepped back, and when Moira crossed the threshold he closed the door after her.

  Compared to Moira’s lowly dwelling, Niall’s family home was far more comfortable. Being the best and most sought after brewer in the village, Master MacCormack provided an admirable level of prosperity to his wife and children. Their main dwelling was sectioned into three distinct parts. The family area where they ate, cooked, slept and lived was situated at a distance from the stalls where they kept their modest collection of chattel. It was a luxury for which Moira inwardly yearned—the sounds and smells of animals sleeping could, on occasion, make for a long night.

  The third section of the MacCormack family’s dwelling was a secure room where the fermenting barrels of ale and mead were stored until they were either collected for the castle, or ready to be sold on market day. Master MacCormack spent his days in the alehouse, a separate outbuilding behind the main dwelling, but the finished goods were not kept there for fear of thievery.

  As she stepped through to the family’s living space, the rich, sour-sweet smell of yeast wrapped her in calm. It was a scent which she associated with the happy atmosphere of Niall’s home, for Niall’s home was indeed happy. Mary MacCormack, Niall’s large, robust mother was seated by a central fire pit. Her ruddy complexion and matching hair glowed in the firelight as she bent over, tending to a loaf of the family’s daily bread.

  Beside her, Niall’s youngest sister Imogen smiled demurely at Moira. The nine-year-old was busy grinding oats into flour on the worn, circular grindstone. Moira returned the lass’s smile, cursing herself that she’d not done her own grinding yet. She’d been too preoccupied with the surprise her father had sprung that she’d rushed over to Niall’s to unburden herself.

  “Moira, love,” Mary MacCormack greeted. “Come sit a
while.”

  “Thank ye, Mistress MacCormack. I am sorry to be upon ye so early wi’ my problems.” Moira crossed the space and took a spot beside Imogen. “Shove over,” she instructed the younger lass. Taking the handle of the stone from Imogen, she carried on with turning the half-ground grains into barley flour.

  “Hush, now. We’ve been up wi’ the sun—well, all of us but Niall here. I must say, though, I dinna see what ye’ve got to be all worked up over.”

  “Ye think his Lordship’s right, then?”

  Mary MacCormack shrugged her soft, round shoulders. “Whether ‘tis right or no, ‘tis his Lordship’s right to give yer hand to whichever man he chooses.”

  Moira slumped, and her hand paused in her work. “I dinna want to marry.”

  “I ken, child. But ye canna pretend to be surprised. Ye’re of a marriageable age—past a marriageable age, actually—and the daughter of an earl. That ye live the way ye do now isna common, ye must ken that. His Lordship affords ye quite a bit of independence that ye’ve no right to expect.”

  Moira hated the truth in what she said. She did not want to be any man’s property. She despised that the law of the land declared it so.

  “Niall, how about ye fetch the lass a cup of mead?” Mary suggested to her son, who stood back from the fire, still half-asleep.

  “Aye, get her bladdered. That’ll change her mind.”

  Moira snickered, and Mary slapped at his knees as he sauntered into the aleroom. When he returned, he handed Moira a half-filled wooden cup and took the remaining space on the bench so that they were all nestled snugly together.

  Moira let go of the grindstone handle to accept the beverage. Pressing her palms to the outside of the cup, she raised it to her lips. The mead had been spiced with cloves and thyme. She sipped at the sweet, luxurious flavour. There was a reason Master MacCormack was known as the best brewer in Moray, and his products sought exclusively by Glendalough Castle.

  “Last of his Lordship’s honey, that,” Mary McCormack noted.

  “Aye, Niall told me. Ye sure his Lordship willna mind?”