A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  “Ye’re all set then?” Lachlan asked once they’d gone a distance.

  “Aye. My things are packed; I shall be off at dawn.”

  They spoke of Arkinholm; Alex was to witness the battle—with strict instructions from Lachlan that he was not to join in. In blatant defiance of what a knight was, what a knight stood for, Alex had been asked—no, ordered—to stand by and watch as men died around him.

  It chafed him something fierce to be prohibited from taking action, but as a known servant of Viscount Strathcairn, Sir Alexander MacByrne’s involvement might be misconstrued as the Kildrummond Douglases’ support of their clan’s cause.

  Though Alex hated the idea, he at least understood it.

  Immediately after the battle, he was to return to Glendalough with news of a Douglas victory. Or he was to return with news of... with word that...

  Lachlan had not been able to make himself say it when they spoke last. He didn’t need to; Alex knew: news of a Douglas defeat. News of who had lived and who had been killed.

  News of which survivors would be executed for treason.

  “Ye’ll send our love and best wishes to Lord Albermarle,” Moira added timidly.

  Alex’s throat tightened. He gave her as sincere a smile as he could muster. “Of course, my Lady. I’m sure it will do him good to ken he has such loyal family behind him.”

  “Oh, I wouldna say I were family, exactly.” She lowered her eyes self-consciously.

  “Lord Albermarle would, though.” Alex glanced knowingly at Lachlan. His friend looked back at him with unspoken thanks.

  He needn’t have thanked him, for Alex liked the young lass a great deal. Since the newly-wed couple had picked up and left Glendalough, Alex had become well acquainted with Lord Kildrummond’s daughter.

  He’d discovered that she was a breath of fresh air. In the comfort of her own home, Moira was gay and funny. She laughed easily, bantered endlessly with Lachlan, and was as lively as a spring brae.

  She also had a quick wit and a quick temper. But somehow, in a way that was uniquely Moira MacInnes, her temper only served to make her more endearing. Alex recognized its source: deep pride coupled with a lifetime of having that pride tested. He could not fault her for that. Besides, she was never angry for long. When she was wrong she was just as quick to admit it; when she was right, her temper was easily soothed by a simple apology or a token amends.

  Sir Alexander MacByrne occupied a unique place within this merry threesome. While he grew to know and like Moira MacInnes from an objective perspective, he began to suspect that his friend’s objectivity was slowly seeping away. Observing Lachlan’s interactions with his new wife, Alex was amazed by the transformation in his friend. Gone was the cool, aloof Viscount Strathcairn that emerged when the lasses were about. Around Moira, Alex saw a different Lachlan: the carefree, unguarded Lachlan he’d known since boyhood.

  There were only four people on this earth (if one did not count the omniscient eyes of God) who knew this marriage was false. Sir Alexander MacByrne was one of them. And so the transformation in his friend was even more confounding.

  Of course when he mentioned his observations to Lachlan one night after Moira had fallen asleep, they were immediately dismissed as ridiculous.

  “If I am different wi’ Moira—which I dinna think I am—‘tis because I’ve no interest in her as a bedmate, and she’s no interest in me that way. There isna any expectation between us.”

  “Aye, but if she’s only a friend, as ye say, then ye treat her like a very special friend. I’ve never seen the like in ye.”

  “Well ...” Lachlan thought on it for a heartbeat, “I suppose that’s because she is a special friend. I’ll no’ lie, I do like her. She interests me. We get on well. I’ve never kent it before: simply enjoying a lass’s company. But dinna mistake what ye see, ‘tis no more than that.”

  Alex had nodded gravely, though he was not fooled.

  The market was lively by the time they arrived. The day had started out under a leaden blanket of clouds, but now thick streams of sunshine pierced the molten barrier. As though heavenly fingers reached through to bless the gaiety below.

  Moira had not brought a tent beneath which to sell her goods. Instead, she found a place among a line of other vendors, unharnessed the cart from her horse, and thenceforth declared herself open for customers.

  Being the first time either Lachlan or Alex had come to market with her, neither was particularly impressed with her setup.

  “That’s all ye do, plunk yerself down like that and expect people to walk by and notice ye?” Lachlan crossed his arms dubiously.

  “Aye,” she answered simply. When Lachlan remained unconvinced, she giggled. “Careful, now, yer face will freeze that way, and then ye’ll be sorry.”

  Alex imagined it, and laughed heartily. Lachlan elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Aye,” Moira repeated. “I’m nay so fancy that I need to display my wares. People ken what I do and what I have to sell.”

  Alex had his doubts, too. But before he could voice them, a well-dressed man approached. In his middling years, with a thick helmet of gray hair, he looked dignified. Not a noble, perhaps, but someone of great importance.

  Moira recognized him, and smiled. Lachlan backed off, allowing the transaction to proceed, though Alex noted the protective way he hovered at her shoulder. He uncrossed his arms, allowing them to fall to his side in a relaxed manner. But from the tension in his forearms, Alex knew his friend was not relaxed at all, that Lachlan was preparing to draw his sword at the first sign of a threat to his lady.

  Alex turned his head to hide his grin.

  “Lady Strathcairn,” the man said in a deep rumble, bowing. “I’ve no’ yet had the pleasure of addressing ye by yer new title. It suits ye, if I may be so bold.”

  “Sir Colm.” Moira offered her hand. “I am glad to see ye. Ye’re looking well.”

  “As are ye, lass. And is this the Viscount Strathcairn?”

  “It is. Sir Colm MacKenzie, may I introduce Lachlan Ramsay.”

  “My Lord.” Sir Colm bowed again.

  “Sir Colm comes to us from the house of Leslie,” Moira explained when Lachlan’s expression remained politely blank.

  “I serve the Earl of Leslie normally.”

  “Normally?” Alex put in.

  “Today I come on Lady Leslie’s bidding, Sir—”

  “Sir Alexander MacByrne,” Lachlan offered on his behalf. “He is my lifelong friend, and has followed me to Glendalough from our previous employ wi’ the Earl of Erroll.”

  “Ah, Slains,” Sir Colm nodded.

  “Ye ken it?”

  “I’ve heard of it. And I ken Lord Erroll, though I’ve never been to Aberdeenshire myself. So then, from commissioned knight at Slains to the future Earl of Kildrummond. I’d say that must be a welcome change. Though under the circumstances, ‘tis no’ something to celebrate, is it? Oh, by the by, Lady Leslie sends Lord Kildrummond her best. Will ye tell him?”

  “Of course,” Moira promised.

  “Speaking of Lady Leslie, I come today to retrieve her Ladyship’s latest commission. I trust it’s ready?”

  “Indeed it is.” Stooping over her cart, Moira began pulling the lighter items from the top of the pile. She handed them, one by one, to Lachlan, until only his eyes could be seen above the pile in his arms.

  “Here it is!” She pulled the largest tapestry from the bottom and unrolled it for Sir Colm to see.

  Lachlan dropped his armload of items back onto the cart, grunting. He rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say “women.” Alex grinned—but not for the reason Lachlan thought.

  “Ah, that is grand, my Lady,” Sir Colm breathed. “Ye’ve a fine talent there. The countess will be well pleased.”

  Peering around Sir Colm’s thick shoulder, Alex marvelled Moira’s her latest work. He’d seen her tapestries displayed about Glendalough, of course. Nonetheless he was still amazed by her skill with a needle, and the vi
sion which directed it.

  The scene depicted the Leslie crest—a recently developed crest, as Alex understood, since the earldom of Leslie had been in existence less than ten years. It rose proudly above a sea of heathered hills, and the colours of the threads were so artfully chosen that these two separate entities looked as if they belonged to one another.

  What turned this particular tapestry from a merely exceptional one into... well, to be frank, a work of genius, was the brae that bisected the violet-and-green hills. Either he was going mad, or the intricate detail of the stitching appeared to ripple with the slightest movement of the fabric. And it was such a luminous blue that it appeared to spring off the tapestry.

  Sorcery! Or as good as. Sir Colm was just as taken with it as Alex was.

  “How did ye achieve that affect wi’ the brae?” He inquired in a hushed tone.

  “’Tis only trickery of the eye,” Moira explained. “See here how the edges of the water lighten? It is many different blues stitched so small ye canna see it from afar. And it shimmers and shifts like that because of the silver thread woven in. It catches the light and makes the brae look as though it flows.”

  The work was a masterpiece, yet she spoke so casually of it. As if it were nothing more than a loaf of manchet. It pained Alex to watch her roll it up, knowing he would never lay eyes on it again. How did she manage it? She would likely never lay eyes on it again either, and it was a masterpiece borne of her hand and her mind.

  But manage she did. She placed the tapestry in Sir Colm’s arms with no more ceremony than if it were a sack of grain. By the time he had it secured to his mount’s saddle, she’d forgotten the piece entirely.

  Sir Colm pulled a small leather purse from inside his shirt. “Of course I bring the countess’s final instalment.” Parting the drawstring, he tipped out a generous handful of coin.

  Alex watched him finger the payment in his beefy palm, counting the coins with him. He had too much; Alex was certain he would put some back. Instead, the man shook out another two pieces before handing the lot over to Moira.

  “With Lady Leslie’s sincere thanks.”

  “Please tell her the pleasure were all mine, and send her my well wishes.”

  “Aye, I will.” Sir Colm MacKenzie bowed to Moira, nodded amiably to Alex and Lachlan, and led his horse away, into the seething market crowd.

  “I didna ken ye stood to make so much from a commissioned piece,” Lachlan said when he’d gone, his eyes fixed on Moira’s hand as she deftly pocketed her earnings. “He said that were the final instalment? How many instalments must one make? Two?”

  “Three. Granted, the first two are mere pittances in comparison wi’ the final payment, but they’re nothing to sniff at.”

  “So I see.”

  “Well then,” Alex declared, “since ye’re wealthier than the two of us at the moment, how about ye treat us to a draught?”

  “Oh, dinna beat about the bush, sir, if there’s something ye want,” she laughed. Then she leaned towards the vendor woman beside her. “Will ye be a dear, Agnes, and mind my wares for me? I willna be long.”

  The woman, one of the many Douglas villagers that flooded the market with a sea of blue and green plaid, winked. With her assurances, the trio threaded their way through the crowd to its very centre, where Master MacCormack’s permanent stall was erected.

  Alex followed behind Lachlan, amused by the way his friend loomed over his lady. His head swept left and right. Alex could easily imagine the warning on it: any man that so much as looked at her wrong would be pummelled black and blue.

  When had Lachlan become so sentimental?

  MacCormack’s stall swelled with happy villagers, cups dangling loosely from ale-warmed fingers. Interspersed among them were a few notable knights and lesser nobles from the castle. All stood cheek by jowl, the rules of class forgotten with the mild morning air and the best spirits in the Highlands. Behind the wooden counter scurried Master MacCormack and Niall, sloshing cups of ale towards their customers and catching coins flipped their way in payment. They moved with such precision that they might have been performing a well-rehearsed dance.

  Spotting Moira and her companions, Dougall MacFadyen raised his arm and waved them over.

  “Lady Moira,” he called jovially.

  “Dougall, I’m surprised to see ye here, so idle. Have ye no training this morning?”

  “Ah, ye mock me. Ye forget, lass: if I do, then yer lord husband and his companion will be in as much trouble as I.”

  “Oh, alright. I willna tell, then.”

  “She is the measure of generosity, is she no’?” Lachlan declared with unintentional affection.

  “Ne’er was there a more generous lass. And now let me buy the three of ye a draught. What will ye have?”

  “Och, ‘tis no’ necessary,” Moira informed him. “I’ve just sold my Leslie commission. The drinks are on me, and whatever ye’ll have too, Dougall.”

  “No charge on this round,” Master MacCormack interrupted from behind the counter. When this roused a round of protest from his paying customers, he shouted, “She is like a daughter to me. She doesna need to pay... for the first round, anyway. So what’ll it be, gentlemen?”

  “Three ales and a mead?” Alex suggested.

  “Mead?” Niall snorted. “For Moira MacInnes? That there’s no lady, Sir Alex. Our Moira can drink wi’ the best of them, make no mistake.”

  “Four ales, then.”

  Niall poured the draughts from a large, oak cask at the back of the tent and handed them off. Receiving his cup, Alex took a long sip of the rich, dark ale within, savouring the unique flavour that he’d come to associate with Glendalough. He let it roll around his tongue, appreciating the subtle blend of heather and pine that had been infused into it. It made for a robust ale with a sweet finish.

  “My compliments, Master MacCormack,” he stated, raising his cup. “A fine batch, this. Have ye added something to it? I taste another flavour in there that I canna identify.”

  “Gooseberry,” the brewer answered. “And as much as I’d like to take yer compliments, they belong to Niall. This be his batch. He were the one thought of the gooseberries. I’d say it turned out well, eh lad?”

  “Aye, Da.”

  “Our Niall’s well on his way to becoming a master brewer himself. Has a talent for it, he does. Runs in the family.”

  “This is fine, Niall, truly,” Lachlan agreed, draining his cup.

  “Careful now, men, ye’re making the lad blush like a wee lassie” Moira teased.

  “Shut yer gob,” Niall muttered, but he flicked a wink in her direction. His eyes swept the crowd behind her, his face suddenly flushed red. He lowered his head and became intensely interested in his work.

  What on earth had come over him, Alex wondered. He glanced in the direction Niall had been looking.

  His question was immediately answered. Making her way through the crowd was a ripe, young maid Alex recognized from the castle. A lovely lass she was, with honey-coloured hair and a fresh, bright face. No two ways about it, young Niall MacCormack was sweet on this lass—what was her name again?

  “Good morning, Dougall,” she greeted, approaching the gathering at MacCormack’s stall.

  “And to ye, Janet. How be ye this fine morning?”

  “I am well, thank ye. This fine spring air does me good. And good morning my Lord,” she added, addressing Lachlan, “and Lady Moira, and Sir Alex.” Her bright eyes took on a hint of amusement when she turned them on Niall’s bent head. “Niall, good morning.”

  “Janet,” he mumbled, barely audible, and continued with his scurrying.

  The small party of friends stared at the awkward young brewer, waiting for him to say more. He did not.

  “Janet,” Moira said tentatively, “this here is Niall’s brew. We were all just saying how good it were.”

  “Is that so,” Janet played along. “D’ye think he might let me have a taste?”

  “Oh, I’m sur
e he would.” Moira reached into her pocket and pulled out a coin. Slapping it onto the scarred counter, she said, “Niall, love, a draught for the lovely Janet, aye?”

  Alex bit his cheeks, trying not to laugh as Niall poured the ale and handed it to Moira. He could feel Lachlan vibrating with silent laughter beside him.

  “So, er, Niall,” he ventured, “wi’ this weather so fine, d’ye no’ think this lovely young lass might like to walk sometime?”

  Niall stared at Alex blankly. His eyes shifted to Janet, then swiftly darted away.

  “Aye,” Moira chimed in, “I think that’d be a fine idea. What say ye, Janet?”

  Janet laughed lightly. “I am fond of walking, Lady Moira, ‘tis true. But so often I find myself wi’out a companion. Will ye walk wi’ me Sir Alex?”

  “Alas, I am bound for Arkinholm in the morning,” he answered with mock gravity. “What about Sir Dougall?”

  “Oh, not me,” Dougall said similarly. “Nothing would make me prouder, Janet, to walk wi’ ye, but I... I have—”

  “We both have too busy a training schedule to spare the time,” Lachlan helped.

  “That’s right,” Dougall agreed.

  “’Tis a shame, that,” Janet lamented, shaking her head theatrically.

  Five pairs of eyes fixed expectantly on Niall. Long seconds passed with not a word spoken before Moira threw a coin at him in frustration.

  “Ye daft lout, ask her to walk wi’ ye.”

  Startled out of his wits, Niall blurted, “WILLYEWALKWI’MEJANET?”

  He shouted so loud that the villagers in the immediate vicinity turned and stared. Poor Niall—his mouth hung open like a dead fish as he tried ineffectually to correct his error. The whole thing was so comical that Alex, who had taken an ill-timed sip of his draught, spit it out. Amber liquid sprayed from his mouth onto his companions.

  “Oy, ye lummox,” Moira accused, wiping her face.

  Then she began to laugh. And Lachlan began to laugh. And then Dougall and Janet and everyone around who had witnessed the transaction—began to laugh.