A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  She kept her eyes away from him as she dressed herself and set about her business. But the whole time she was keenly aware that he was watching her. She did not want to see the expression on his face—whatever it might be.

  She did not want him to see how much she was hurting.

  The rest of the morning passed in an uncomfortable silence. What little words they did exchanged were forced, overly polite. The animals were let out of their pens, the breakfast was cooked and the peat logs stacked. All the while, the pair worked as though they hardly knew each other. As though they were right back at the start of their liar’s marriage.

  Niall offered a reprieve from the tension when he paid them a visit. They were both outside in the yard—she scrubbing the laundry over a steaming barrel of water and lye soap, and he cutting new turf logs from a stack at the side of the hut—when the eldest MacCormack lad cantered in on his family’s lone mare.

  The grin on his face might have been the light of dawn itself.

  “Moira!” He jumped down from the saddle and ran the short distance to her, not even bothering to tie up the speckled grey animal. “Moira, ye’ll never believe what happened.”

  “What? What is it?” She shook the water from her hands. Curious, Lachlan came around the side of the hut to hear the news.

  “I called for Janet—ye remember she said I should call for her? And she were home as she said she’d be, and we took a walk as she said we should, and we talked—Moira, I talked wi’ her, actual words and all. We talked about so many things, we did, and... well, she kissed me. She kissed me!”

  Overcome, Niall swung Moira into a huge embrace and whirled her around.

  “Oh, Niall, that’s grand. I’m so pleased for ye.” And she was. Her heart soared for her friend, forgetting for a moment the dull ache she’d been trying to put behind her all morning.

  “Where’d she kiss ye, lad?” Lachlan put in, raising one dark eyebrow suggestively. His remark earned him a disgusted huff from his wife.

  “Behind my da’s brewing shed,” Niall answered, oblivious to the viscount’s lewd insinuation.

  Moira and Lachlan looked at one another, and laughed.

  From that point on the awkwardness between them lessened. They accompanied Niall back to the MacCormack home in the village, and stayed awhile to visit with his family. Niall chattered the entire way, describing everything from the way the sun glinted off Janet’s honey hair to the titter of her giggle when Niall had stupidly thanked her for kissing him. Poor Mary MacCormack had to shout over his babbling to offer her guests a drink.

  Warmed by the ale and the hospitality, they set out for a day at Glendalough. Most of the journey was passed in a more amiable silence than had been earlier, and Moira hoped Lachlan would say nothing more of the incident.

  She was not so lucky.

  “Moira,” he hedged as the castle came into view. “D’ye forgive me for what happened? I mean truly forgive me?”

  “I told ye, ‘tis forgotten.”

  “Ye say that, but is it really?”

  “D’ye no’ believe me?”

  He paused, raking a long glance over her that smouldered far more than it should have.

  “I wouldna say I dinna believe ye, exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  “I think ye’re determined to believe yer own words. Ye’re a woman of great pride, lass. I think ye’d no’ wish to admit ye were frightened.”

  She stared ahead, one eyebrow cocked and the other furrowed. “Well, dinna ye just ken everything, my Lord Strathcairn. Am I allowed to remark upon the fine weather we’re having, or would ye think I were deluding myself in that also?”

  Her terseness did not have the effect she intended. He laughed.

  “Have mercy upon me, sweetling. If I didna ken any better, I’d say ye’re harder on me than ye are on any other man in the Highlands.”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted reluctantly. “We are married, though, so ye should hardly be surprised.”

  “Ah, Moira. Ye’ve a sharp wit, that’s for sure. In all seriousness, I didna mean to offend ye. And I meant to tell ye that... that I respect ye greatly.”

  “I’m flattered,” she answered dryly.

  “Nay, hear me out. I have come to respect and like ye a great deal. I would never wish ye to be afraid of me. I’d never wish for ye to think that I might harm ye, or disrespect ye in any way. I want ye to ken that.”

  She had not expected him to say such things. He certainly hadn’t been obligated to, but his declaration made her feel a touch better. So he did not desire her—it was nothing she didn’t already know. But he respected her, and liked her. She could be satisfied with that.

  “Thank ye,” she said simply.

  “Ye’re welcome. And thank ye, in return.”

  “For what?”

  She raised her eyes to his, and was rendered senseless by his intense gaze. How did he do that?

  “For being a friend. I think ye must be the only lass on earth that desires me for my company alone. I’m glad I’ve met ye.”

  “Well... em... likewise,” she muttered, her cheeks flushing scarlet.

  Soon after they reached the bailey, where awaiting ghillies rushed forward to take their horses. Eamon Douglas, Glendalough’s steward, was waiting for them too, and once they’d dismounted, he rushed forward with a list of items which needed the viscount’s immediate attention.

  Moira stepped aside and let the man of accounts whisk Lachlan away. Once she was alone, she headed to the same place she went every time she came to the castle: Lord Kildrummond’s chamber.

  As she walked through the empty halls, she went over their recent conversation in her head. What a curious thing for him to have said. I think ye must be the only lass on earth that desires me for my company alone. Had he meant to say he was tired of being handsome?

  Her first inclination was to scoff at such a ridiculous notion. What a thing to complain about, as if being handsome were a curse.

  But a small, private part of her saw logic in the idea. Was she herself not frustrated that handsome, silly men like Lachlan had no interest in her company? The earl’s illegitimate daughter with neither looks nor title to recommend her?

  Now that she thought about it, she was no better than them. Where she did not wish to be dismissed by virtue of her appearance, she’d done just that to Lachlan by virtue of his.

  The thought was slightly depressing.

  When she reached her father’s chamber, she was startled to find Lady Glinis seated at his bedside. Normally she was not there this time of day. They’d made a routine of avoiding each other these past few weeks, and she’d not expected to cross paths with the lady anytime soon.

  “Oh, er... I’m sorry, my Lady. I’ll come back, shall I?”

  Lady Glinis glanced in her direction. But instead of the derision with which she normally regarded Moira, her face held only mild curiosity.

  “Nay, dinna fret. I’m just about ready to leave anyway.”

  Moira’s mouth fell slack.

  Vacating her seat so Moira could have it, Lady Glinis made for the door. Moira entered the room, giving the lady a wide berth, just in case. When she had seated herself and took her father’s hand, Glinis did not leave as Moira thought she would. Instead, she hovered at the foot of the bed and continued to watch her husband.

  Her presence made Moira nervous. Did Glinis expect her to do something? Talk to the man? Moira seldom ever talked to Lord Kildrummond anymore, for he slept almost all the time now. And when he was awake it was no use talking, for her could not talk back. He had too little strength and there was too much phlegm rattling in his chest.

  She snuck a glance at Lady Glinis. The woman gazed wistfully upon the wretched form in the bed.

  “He breathes so queer,” she whispered. “’Tis almost painful to watch.”

  “Aye,” Moira agreed tentatively. “I keep telling him he must let go, but he hangs on.”

  “He were always stubborn,” she
said affectionately.

  “He never spoke ill of ye, ye ken. Quite the opposite, in fact, even to my mother. Even when she spoke ill of ye, and railed at the fact that ye had his hand by lawful right... even then, he’d no’ speak ill of ye. Whatever else he might have done, he respected ye greatly.”

  For a moment, she worried that she’d overstepped her bounds, that the mention of her mother would darken Glinis’s mood. But the lady simply smiled. A sad, lonely smile.

  “I ken.”

  Glinis paused. When she spoke again, Moira could scarce believe what she was hearing.

  “Ye must forgive me, Moira. I dinna think I can change overnight. Twenty years of anger is a difficult thing to bury, and I’ll no’ be able to overcome it in a day.”

  Moira eyed her warily. “Change, my Lady?”

  “Change,” Glinis nodded. “I dinna want to hate ye, lass. I’ve never wanted to hate ye. I dinna think hate is even the right word for it. I dinna want to... to blame ye—aye, that’s a better word. Blame.”

  “Why change now, my Lady, if I may be so bold?”

  Glinis frowned, thinking. “I’m... I’m weary,” she answered. “Weary to my bones. I dinna have it in me to hold onto that hurt anymore. For so many years I thought that life held nothing new for me. I thought there would be nothing else but marriage to a man that didna love me. A good man, true, but still, a man that was not in love wi’ me. I’ve only now been able to see that I’ve still so much life to live. I dinna want to spend the rest of it with a bitter heart.”

  The two women studied each other. There was no hatred in Glinis’s eyes. Moira had never dreamed the lady would ever look at her like she was now—like a person, an equal, rather than a blight. A small glimmer of hope burned deep in her chest.

  “I thank ye for saying so,” she said simply.

  Glinis gazed at her a touch longer. “Well, I’ll leave ye be, then.”

  She departed the room, and Moira watched her retreating back. For a long time after that she stared at the empty doorway.

  When she turned back to Lord Kildrummond, it seemed as though the old earl’s breathing had eased. And perhaps (she might have been imagining it, but just perhaps), he looked a little more peaceful. As though he’d been aware of what had just transpired at his bedside.

  Of course such a thing was impossible. Fanciful thinking ...

  Though it seemed that his hand, once limp and unresponsive, gripped Moira’s ever so slightly.

  Fifteen

  THE FALLOUT FROM the Battle of Arkinholm descended upon the Douglases with a fury as swift and terrifying as the destrier of Moira’s dream. And it fell on Sir Alexander MacByrne’s shoulders to warn Lachlan of what was to come.

  On a cool, rainy evening in early May he returned to Glendalough. The sentry atop the wall walk spotted his sodden silhouette against the twilight sky, and shouted to a ghillie to alert Viscount Strathcairn.

  Lachlan had been in the treasury all that afternoon, combing the records of the previous year’s modest prosperity. Perhaps it was not necessary to give the figures such singular attention, but he found it was the best excuse to avoid the tension that pervaded the castle of late. Everyone wanted to know how the battle had gone, and they all looked to Lachlan for an answer.

  An answer he did not have.

  He was just about ready to give up for the night—his eyes were now burning with strain—when the ghillie’s knock came.

  “Come,” he invited.

  The ghillie, a boy of perhaps fifteen summers and as gangly as Moira’s friend Niall, stood in the entrance. He was anxious; his rigid posture and the waver in his deepening voice attested to it. Lachlan’s senses heightened.

  “My Lord Strathcairn, Sir Alexander MacByrne has returned. He is being attended in the bailey.

  Lachlan rose from his chair, his hands braced on the edge of the oak desk on which a roll of parchment lay open. “And?”

  “And... and what, my Lord?”

  “How does he look, lad? What can ye tell me of his face? Is he excited? Worried? What?”

  The lad’s eyes darted around the room, and his hands twisted together in front of him. “I dinna ken, my Lord. ‘Tis no’ my place to say.”

  Lachlan pulled in a breath, willing himself to calm down. He was making the young fool nervous.

  “Fear not, lad,” he said evenly. “I am no’ one to hold the messenger responsible for the message he brings. I only wish to ken yer impression of him, so that I might prepare myself. Please—how did he look?”

  “He looked... grim, my Lord,” the ghillie admitted.

  Grim. So Kildrummond’s fears had come true; it was the worst. What, exactly, did the worst mean for Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle? What had his fate been... or, more horrible, what might his fate yet be?

  “I shall wait for him in the solar.”

  Relieved at the discharge, the boy bowed hastily and scampered off, leaving the door open behind him.

  In the close, still air of the treasury, Lachlan listened to the patter of rain against glass. The scent of parchment and dust was so heavy he could nearly taste its musk. How many years, how many lives of Douglas men and women were stored here? The details of their existences: their harvests, their commerce, their births and deaths... had their collective story officially come to its end?

  Abandoning the open parchment, Lachlan snuffed out the single candle and locked the door behind him.

  The solar was cold when he arrived. A modest fire burned low, having been lit just ahead of him. He didn’t much like this room, and came here seldom. It was large and hollow. Finely furnished, yes, and decorated with enough tapestries (Moira’s by the look of them, or her mother’s) that it should have been comfortable. But there was something about the room that put Lachlan on edge. The few times he’d been in the solar alone he had the unsettling notion that the ghosts of Kildrummond lords past—Douglases, all of them—were watching him. Disapproved of a Ramsay taking their beloved realm.

  It was fancy, of course. Yet the rain tapping at the windows and the bleak, grey light that suffocated the room did nothing to dispel it. The feeling was especially acute this night, as Lachlan waited to hear the fate of Clan Douglas.

  He was grateful that Alex did not keep him waiting long. He appeared at the open door and stopped at the threshold. His hair and cloak were sopping from his journey, his face a canvas of defeat. Lachlan’s pulse quickened.

  “What chance is there that ye mean to play me a trick wi’ that face of yers?”

  Alex shook his head.

  “Ah.” Lachlan breathed. “I thought not.”

  He gestured to the two large chairs positioned in front of the hearth, and took one. Alex followed, and took the other. They regarded one another, both men weary. Not for the first time over the years, Lachlan reflected on his friend’s devotion. The strain of the Douglas feud was etched on Alex’s face as if it were his own family that suffered it. Lachlan’s future earldom meant as much to Alex as it did to him. One day he would find a way to tell his friend how much he meant to him.

  Now was not the time, however. With reluctance, he spoke.

  “Give me the news then, for I’ll hear it sooner or later.”

  Alex’s eyes trailed to the fire. He perched his elbow on the wide, polished armrest, and his forefinger stroked his upper lip absently.

  “Lost,” he confirmed. “Lord Douglas’s men faced a force equal in numbers, but they were outmatched.”

  “Whose force did they face?”

  “The Earl of Angus.”

  Lachlan blanched. “The Earl of Angus—as in George Douglas?”

  “One and the same.”

  Lachlan slumped in his chair. George Douglas of the Red Douglases. Kin to the Black Douglases. James had been opposed by his own kin.

  “So Red takes Black,” he murmured.

  “Aye. These noblemen ken nothing of blood loyalty... that goes for both sides, by the by.”

  Lachlan looked up. “Oh?�
�

  “It were over before it began,” Alex said gently. “Lord Douglas’s allies abandoned him. He fled to England before the battle. In the end, his brothers took on leadership and led the fight. James Douglas, the coward, saved his own neck, and left his own brothers—his blood—to suffer the fate that should have been his.”

  “Lord in heaven,” Lachlan whispered.

  “Ye certain ye wish to be a noble?” Alex jested without humour.

  He then proceeded to tell Lachlan everything he knew about the three Douglas lords. Archibald Douglas, Earl of Moray, killed. Hugh Douglas, Earl of Ormonde, captured. John Douglas, Lord Balvenie, escaped to England. The lands of the Black Douglases had been declared forfeit by the king. Heaven knew what would happen to the clan now.

  “And what of Lord Albermarle?” Lachlan asked when Alex had finished.

  The knight inhaled. “Captured, too. He is imprisoned at Stirling wi’ the Earl of Ormonde, and awaits trial.”

  “And his sons?”

  “His eldest, Edward, were killed near the end, and his second son, Brandon, escaped wi’ Lord Balvenie to England.”

  They lapsed into silence. A draught from the hall whispered through the room; the tapping of the rain and the crackle of the fire were the only other sounds. Lachlan felt sick as he contemplated what he’d heard.

  This may very well be the end of the Black Douglas clan.

  “Lady Rosamund will have to be told,” he said heavily.

  “Should I have a messenger sent?”

  “Nay, this I must do for myself. I am Lord Kildrummond’s heir. ‘Tis time I started acting the part. Lord Kildrummond would have told her himself if he were well enough to do so. I am sure of it.”

  “And how does Lord Kildrummond fare?”

  “He’s in his last days,” Lachlan affirmed. “It willna be much longer now, I think.”

  “Will ye tell him? About Lord Albermarle?”

  Lachlan knew the answer already, for he’d spent much time thinking on it. “Nay. There is no purpose to that. Besides, I doubt whether he can hear us anymore.”

  LORD KILDRUMMOND’S LAST hours came the next night. The sky had cleared, revealing a spray of stars and a brilliant moon. It was as if the heavens had parted the bounds of earth, ready to receive the earl’s soul.