No one had any reservations about getting as drunk as they wished that night. Including Niall. And when Niall was in his cups, he tended on the morose side. Moira saw it coming even before it had started. When he finally sauntered off on his own to sit at a peripheral table and brood, she tactfully gave him some time before joining him.
“How is yer ale doing?” she queried cheerfully. “In need of a top-up?”
Niall tore his eyes away from the lovely young Janet who was at that moment serving the knights flanking Dougall MacFadyen on the other side of the hall. He looked down to his cup and then back to the object of his lovelorn desire.
“Ye’ve dirtied yer sleeves,” he mentioned casually as he drained the dregs.
Moira lifted her forearms and examining the expensive, but plainly cut, pale silk that wrapped them. Indeed, he was correct. The juniper berry jelly that had been served as a garnish for the roast meat was smattered along the bottom to the elbow.
“Ah, bollocks!” she cursed. “I were hoping to sell it after this is all over.” When Niall’s pout cracked into a reluctant smile she leaned into him. “Come on, now. It canna be as bad as all that.”
“As all what?”
“Well, if the face ye’ve got on ye says anything, ye’re either hopelessly in love, or ye’ve eaten a mouthful of something foul and ye canna spit it out.”
She’d hit her mark. Niall pressed his eyes shut and his shoulders trembled with inebriated laughter.
“That’s better,” she proclaimed. “Here, yer ale’s gone now. Why dinna I call her over?”
Niall assessed his empty cup through a fierce squint. “Why no’?”
Glancing across the room to Janet, who had moved on to another table, he made to raise his hand. But something stopped him, and his eyes darted away. Curious, Moira searched for what he’d seen.
Finding it, she ground her teeth, furious.
At a section of tables close to where Dougall sat was Lachlan. Flanking him were Sir Alexander MacByrne and several more knights and warriors who had travelled to Glendalough for the occasion.
Firmly seated on the viscount’s newly-married lap was a shapely serving wench. Moira recognized her from the village, though she did not know the lass personally. She did, however, know that this particular wench, with her fresh, rosy complexion and plump lips, was not as innocent as she was pretending to be at the moment. Indeed, she played the innocent well, flirting coyly with the men—and worst of all, with Lachlan, fresh from the altar.
Coy my eye, the harlot, Moira thought caustically.
The audacity of the lass she might have been able to overlook, but Lachlan’s behaviour she could not. He shamelessly entertained the wench’s flirting, returning it in the most obvious of manners. He tickled her curves, pulled his arms tight around her as she feigned struggling from his grasp. He even pressed his face into the crook of her neck every time she tipped her head back to laugh gaily.
Foolish, conceited man! She’d judged him correctly the first time.
She was not about to let Niall know how irked she was, though. Forcing a look of indifference, she sniffed.
“What do I care? This isna a real marriage, after all. Let him do as he pleases, I dinna mind in the least.”
“Of course no’,” Niall agreed, no more fooled by her bravado than she was herself.
“What I do care about is yer ale.” Catching the lovely Janet’s eye, Moira waved her over.
“Ye daft mare, stop,” Niall hissed, tugging at her sleeve. Too late, for Janet was soon upon them.
“Are ye all out then?” she sang, her voice rising above the festive din.
“Aye,” Moira answered before Niall could. “My friend here is in dire need of a tip.”
“Is that so?” Janet turned her sparkling eyes on a red-faced Niall. When his open mouth failed to make a sound, she added, “Does he no’ speak, my Lady Moira?”
“Aye, he does. Most of the time.”
“Only I’m nae so sure he does. Why, he never utters a sound when I see him at market. I took him for a mute.” She grinned teasingly as she filled his cup. Satisfied that he’d been taken care of, she reached out and tapped him on the bridge of his nose with a long, pink forefinger. “That’s ye sorted. If ye finish that, ye give me a wink, aye?”
With a conspiratorial nod to Moira, she dipped a curtsey and wended her way back through the crowds in search of more empty goblets.
“Would I be correct in guessing ye’re never washing that nose of yers again?” Moira teased.
“Bloody right!” Niall vowed, a latent smile spreading from ear to ear.
She’d been so distracted by Niall’s happiness that Moira had forgotten about Lachlan. But an accidental glance in his general direction reminded her anew of his shameful behaviour.
Next to the table at which the viscount and his companions were stationed, a trio of Lowland Douglas lasses watched Moira deliberately. When she glared back, they giggled and whispered amongst themselves. They didn’t even bother to hide their mouths.
She’s a bastard, Moira read from their lips.
Nine
IT WAS WELL into the wee hours of the morning when the celebration finally came to an end. The exhausted groom and his bride, followed by the most important members of Clan Douglas’s many branches, trudged up to their newly prepared bedchamber.
Moira glowered the entire way—at any noble Douglas who dared meet her eyes. Who in the blazes of hellfire did they think they were to be escorting her to her marriage bed? She was not chattel, whatever they might think!
When she made to protest, Lord Albermarle gave her a sharp jab in the ribs.
“It’s their right by rank, lass,” he warned, whispering into her ear that the others would not hear. “Ye’d best be getting used to it now that ye’re to live at the castle.”
When they reached the marriage chamber, a small, fat Douglas pushed his way to the front of the group. Leaning close, he scrutinized Moira with small eyes set deep into a ruddy face. He was a Lowland Douglas, a lesser baron of an unimportant seat. But he’d been sent as representative of the ninth Earl of Douglas, who himself was unable to attend. That, as well as the man’s state of intoxication, gave this Lowlander a sense of entitlement over the other, nobler Douglases there gathered.
“Now lass, ye ken the importance of yer duty this night, aye?” His booming voice echoed down the corridor, accompanied by a waft of alcoholic fumes. “I tell ye now, Lord John doesna like the idea of this union, what being that Viscount Strathcairn isna a Douglas and all. But as ye, lass, are a Douglas of sorts, he’ll no’ take a petition to the king about it so long as ye put out male bairns—”
His drunken rant was cut short when Lord Albermarle swatted the man over the head. “Shut yer gob, Arch. If ye’ve anything to take home to John, let it be a reminder that his relations wi’ the king are hanging by a thread as it is. Ye tell him he has more important things to worry about than the inheritance of Kildrummond by a non-Douglas and his illegitimate Douglas wife.”
A shout of laughter escaped Lachlan’s lips, which he lamely attempted to mask with a cough. The Douglas baron sputtered, his pebble eyes bulging from his head. Lord Albermarle glared down at him from his far greater height and stature. When Lachlan looked to Moira, however, to share his mirth, the laughter died on his lips.
The poor lass was fighting a surge of tears which pooled at the base of her lids. Humiliated, angry tears.
Moved by pity and, oddly, a sense of protectiveness, Lachlan took her by the elbow and spun her towards the chamber door. He couldn’t bear to watch her suffer the even greater humiliation of the lords seeing those tears spill down her cheeks.
“If ye’ll excuse me, my Lords, we’ll be off to bed,” he announced. Nodding respectfully to the noble Douglases, he opened the chamber door, ushered his bride through it, and closed it firmly behind them.
Even now, safely tucked away from prying eyes, Moira strained against her tears. She stared at the win
dow, her pale skin burning scarlet as she ordered the tears back from where they’d come. Her tattered pride, along with her desperate attempt to cling to it, affected Lachlan. A tender spot just below his ribs bloomed as he took in her struggle.
“Dinna pay them any mind,” he said, his voice huskier than he’d meant it to be.
“Easy for ye to say.” She scrubbed away an errant tear with the palm of her hand. “A cartload of buggers, all of them. I’d rather they—”
“Shhh, mind yer voice,” Lachlan interrupted quickly. “D’ye no’ hear them on the other side still?”
Moira listened. He was right. The quiet murmur of deep voices drifted to her from the other side of the door.
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Why dinna they shove off?”
Lachlan stared at her speculatively. Did the lass really not understand? Humiliating her further was the last thing he wanted to do, but she was not making this easy. He had no choice.
“They wait,” he informed her, a note of apology in his tone. “They’ll no’ shove off until they’re certain the marriage has been consumated.”
“So they’ll stand there all night and listen?” When he nodded, she added, “And what happens when they hear nothing? Do I need to remind ye that we’ll no’ be consumating anything, ye and I?”
“’Tis no matter.” He gestured dismissively with his hand. Striding the length of the chamber, he took hold of the bed’s footboard and began to rock the frame against the wall. The solid oak structure made great, loud thumps against the masonry.
“Ye’re out of yer bloody mind,” Moira accused.
“On the contrary, I’m very much in control of it. Now how long d’ye think I should carry on? I dinna want them to think I’m no’ man enough to satisfy my bride, but neither do I want to go so long that they’ll be looking on the morrow to see if ye’re sore.”
She merely shook her head, thoroughly disgusted.
Satisfied with his performance, Lachlan gave the bed a final, virile heave, and then stepped back. He assessed the frame with pride, as though he had constructed it himself.
“There,” he concluded, “that should do nicely, I think.”
He grinned conspiratorially, but this only earned him a narrow-eyed stare. God’s bones, but the lass was contrary. Were they not friends after all? He stepped back to let her pass as she moved to the bed.
With her back turned to him, she began loosening the laces of her wedding gown. When it came time to shed the gown entirely, she turned her chin over her shoulder, fixing him with a pointed look.
“Avert yer eyes.”
Lachlan thought her modesty amusing. Unless she had a third breast anchored to her chest, the lass couldn’t possibly have anything he hadn’t seen before. Nonetheless he obliged her, and pivoted to face the opposite wall.
The rustle and whisper of silk tantalized his ears, evoking images in his mind that emerged of their own accord: the caress of the gown’s pearly sheen over the creamy flesh of a shoulder; the puddle of fabric around slender, bare ankles.
He was glad of his feileadh mhor, for the heavy wool disguised the evidence of his rather inconvenient arousal.
The sound of sheets being pulled back indicated she was finished, and he faced her again. He hoped that the sight of her—knobby bones, plain face—would remind his manhood that she was not an object of desire, that he had only to go searching among the servants for a plump, pretty lass more attractive than Moira MacInnes.
Nothing could have been further from his expectation. Moira MacInnes looked adorable, sitting in the bed with the covers pulled to her shoulders. She was so small; she nearly drowned in the many pillows and quilts. Her hair had been pulled free from its pins, and she’d shaken it out. It tumbled over her shoulders in glossy, alluring disarray. Lachlan saw that it wasn’t flat and colourless as he’d first thought, but rather a rich fawn hue. A flush still stained her cheeks, and her eyes still glistened from the tears which she’d been so determined not to shed. Those eyes, clear as a summer’s day, stared back at him, their round, frightened innocence undermining the warning glare she was attempting to convey.
Perhaps he had judged her too harshly. Perhaps she was not as plain as he’d first thought her. This lass would make some man a fine bride one day.
Smiling inwardly, he unbuckled the clasp at his shoulder. The upper part of his plaid dropped to his waist. He made short work of his own clothes, unfolding the yards of fabric from his person with practiced efficiency. Once he had stripped himself down to his shirt, he rounded the bed on the other side of Moira, eager to slip between the sheets and lose himself in the oblivion of sleep.
“What in the devil d’ye think ye’re doing?” she hissed when he pulled back the edge of the quilts.
“I’m going to bed. What d’ye think?”
“Ye’ll no’ be coming into this bed.” Deliberately, she shifted to the middle of the mattress, and clamped her hand down on the quilt.
“And just where d’ye expect me to sleep, ye wee wench?”
Cocking a slender eyebrow, Moira reached behind her, shovelled up one of the feather pillows, and tossed it onto the braided rug in front of the hearth.
Lachlan stared at the pillow. “Ye canna be serious.”
“I am,” she answered, and settled herself into the mattress for sleep.
There was no denying it, Moira MacInnes was definitely in a strop with him. But he was too tired and too drunk to put effort into fighting with her. Grumbling audibly, he stomped to the rear wall of the chamber where a fine tapestry—one of hers, as it happened—hung. Dislodging the rod from its anchors, he yanked the tapestry free, wrapped it roughly around himself, and shuffled back to his pillow and braided rug.
Glowering at her, he flopped onto the rug like a selkie out of water, punched the pillow for good measure, and settled in for what was promising to be a very uncomfortable night. Whatever remained of his arousal died completely.
Perhaps the shrew wasn’t as appealing as he had thought after all.
ALEX HAD ONLY been asleep for an hour at best before the pitchers of drink he’d consumed made their way to his bladder. There was a chamber pot beneath his bed, clean and ready for him to use, but he’d never much liked the vile things. The thought of his own urine stagnating near the place where he slept—and worse, the poor servant who had to empty it in the morning—was not something he cared to think about.
Extracting himself from the covers, he rose from the bed. Hastily donning his plaid about his rumpled shirt, he left the chamber in search of a garderobe.
The corridor’s cold draft snaked around him. He didn’t mind. His chamber had grown rather stuffy, and he welcomed the fresh air. Besides, a wander would do his mind good, for his dreams had been rather vivid.
So vivid, in fact, that he was mildly surprised to find his bed empty upon waking. The feel, the taste, the scent of the woman who had lain in his arms had not been real. She’d been a product of his subconscious yearning.
Of course she hadn’t been real—the Countess of Kildrummond, Lady Glinis, would never lie in his arms. She’d made it more than clear she was not interested in him. And she was married... perhaps Alex should have reminded himself of that point first (may God forgive him).
Yes, he prayed God would forgive him, though he very much questioned the likelihood of it. Married or no, Glinis had consumed every corner of his brain since the moment he’d clapped eyes on her. And for the first time in his adult life, he’d encountered a woman he could not have. A woman who would not have him—and not just because she was married. She truly did not desire him in any way.
A woman who did not desire him was an anomaly which Alex had never before encountered.
The irony of his situation amused him; he chuckled silently as he walked the darkened corridors of Glendalough. This must have been how that serving wench felt, for it was clear she was not often rejected, either. When she’d discovered that Lachlan had no intention of doing anything other than flirt w
ith her, the wanton girl had turned her sights on Alex.
He could have had her, too. His bed would be warm right now if he’d taken her. But he could not. It was Lady Glinis, now, to whom he would forever compare all other women. Her quiet, composed, authoritative beauty would evermore be the standard to which all other women must live up—and to which no other woman could ever live up.
Twice knocked back, the lass had crept off with the first man of their accompaniment to indicate his interest. Likely she was still in his bed at this hour.
By this time, Alex had already passed at least one garderobe, the narrow enclave announcing its purpose by the musty reek of its recessed stones. But he’d been content to walk a bit farther, to find another, more remote spot in which to relieve himself.
Finding somewhere more favourable, he emptied himself efficiently. With a shake for good measure, he dropped his kilt, stepped back from the foul smelling drop, and continued on, aiming for a roundabout way back to his chamber.
Slains was a grander castle than Glendalough. It was the grandest castle Alex had seen in his lifetime. Before he’d taken his commission with Lord Erroll, he’d been a child at Byres Castle, in the lands of East Lothian.
Unlike Lachlan, Alex’s father hadn’t been a knight. He’d been a barrel maker. A tradesman. A lowly villager.
Lord Byres, however, had been amused by Lachlan, who was the son of one of his commissioned knights, a certain Viscount Strathcairn. Lord Byres had also been amused by the fast friendship which young Lachlan had struck with the barrel maker’s son. A generous and good man, the Byres clan chief took it upon himself to grant Alex the same privilege of education that he granted Lachlan. As a consequence, Alex had been exposed to opportunities which his own father could never have given him.
And if he’d never had the opportunity to become a knight in his own right, Alex would not be wandering around Glendalough Castle right now, dreaming of Glinis Douglas, Countess of Kildrummond.
He’d become so consumed by his thoughts that the world around him had disappeared. When he wandered past a shallow, windowed alcove, the dark figure which blacked out the scant light of approaching dawn startled him more than it should have. With an audible gasp, he wrenched his sgian dubh from his boot, the base instinct to defend himself taking over.
A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan) Page 9
