His family gathered in his chamber, and waited for him to take his final breath. No one spoke. Moira sat in the single chair beside his bed and held his hand. Glinis sat on the other side, perched on the edge of the bed by his withered knee. Lachlan and Alex stood solemnly against the wall as a priest gave the final benediction. A handful more Douglas clansmen rounded out the watch.
Moira swallowed thickly. “I canna stand the sound of his breathing,” she whispered to Glinis. “D’ye think he’s in pain?”
Glinis gazed at Moira. There was not a trace of the animosity which had existed for years between them. Then her eyes fell to her husband, and she listened to his irregular, shallow breaths which rattled sharply in his wasted chest.
“I dinna think so,” she said evenly. Taking his other hand in both of hers, she leaned over him, and spoke quietly to the dying man. So quietly that only Moira was close enough to hear over the priest’s murmured prayers.
“John, love, can ye hear me? My love, ‘tis time to let go. Ye’ve done all ye can in this life. No one could have asked more of a man. Ye’ve secured the future of Kildrummond, and yer people will live and prosper under our Lachlan’s hand. Yer daughter will have a home, and will be protected for the rest of her life. And... and I will be fine as well. What we had wasna love, but I ken ye cared for me. Ye did everything for me that was in yer power to do. I ken that now, and I thank ye for it, John. But there’s no more ye can do for any of us. ‘Tis time ye went home now.”
Several minutes passed, long minutes in which there was nothing but the sound of Lord Kildrummond’s breathing and the whispers of the priest. Then, even the priest fell silent as the earl opened his eyes. He gazed across the chamber, seeing not the brick and mortar and faces of those present. Whatever it was that he saw was not of this world. A smile of wonder crossed his parched lips and his blue eyes shone with love.
“Lilian,” he whispered.
With the name of his love hanging in the air, John Douglas, Earl of Kildrummond, closed his eyes for the last time.
Glinis slumped, and released his hand. Her onyx eyes filled with tears, and she allowed them to wet her lashes and cheeks. Her obligation to her husband had been fulfilled; no one could say she hadn’t done her duty—not in his time of illness nor in their fruitless marriage. Neither could anyone fault her for the relief she felt. Her grief was true, but her burden was lifted.
Moira, though, began to sob. Her shoulders shook, and her chin lowered to her chest.
“Papa,” she cried quietly.
Unable to stop a few wayward tears of his own, Lachlan went to his young wife’s side. Gathering her into his arms, he pressed her head to his shoulder, and rocked her while she poured out her grief.
“I wasted so much time,” she moaned, the words muffled against his tunic. “I canna make it better. I canna tell him that I love him anymore. I’ll never have another chance.”
“He kent, love,” Lachlan soothed, stroking her hair.
“Aye, he did,” Glinis added. “And ye gave him a wonderful gift—ye gave him the love of a daughter in his final days. Ye sent him to his Blessed Father a happy man.”
The mourners in the room huddled together, offering each other condolences for the loss of a great man.
Beyond the chamber wall, the clear night sky twinkled one star brighter.
Sixteen
“I’M COMING WI’ ye,” Moira stated. She had been grinding rye flour when Lachlan announced his plans to depart for Kinross the next morning.
Still barefoot and rumpled from sleep, he joined her on the bench in front of the fire. It was still early, the twitter of the morning’s first birdsong a recent addition to the still, cool air inside the little hut.
Already the day was promising to be warm—though a thick mist rolled over the ground outside, the low-lying sun, which burned halo-like through a transparent layer of cloud, would likely evaporate it well before noon. The window coverings were drawn wide to admit as much of the fresh, spring breeze as possible before they had to be lowered again to keep out the heat and the bugs.
“Here, let me help wi’ that.” Lachlan’s large, capable hands took the crank from Moira’s small, equally capable ones. Rhythmically he began turning the two circular stones. The fine silt of rye flour began to fall from between them, pillowing in the awaiting pan below.
“Ye make that look so easy,” she commented, observing the flex and pull of his warrior’s arm. I shall miss this when our marriage has ended.
“Does it impress ye, lass?” He wiggled one eyebrow at her. “And ye dinna need to trouble yerself by coming along. I wasna planning on taking a carriage, ‘twill only slow down the journey.”
“Carriage,” she snorted. “I’ve never been fond of them. I’ll go on horseback, like ye.”
Mesmerized, as she was, by the rhythm of his arm, she missed the small, affectionate smile that touched his lips. “Of course ye shall. What were I thinking?”
Within the hour they departed south for Kinross, a small guard of three men trailing them. Happy chatter, normally the song of travellers, was distinctly absent amongst the party—no one was feeling particularly happy, nor chattery, given their reason for travelling.
At mid-day, when the sun was high in the sky which was dotted with white, powdery clouds, they stopped to eat the travellers’ fare that had been sent with them. Inside bundles of crude linen were hard cheeses, bread of mixed grain, and ginger cakes. Several skins of ale had been pressed into Lachlan’s arms by Mary MacCormack when they stopped to ask if Niall wouldn’t mind looking after Moira’s animals for a night or two.
On a bank by a fresh, fast-running stream, the group dismounted and sat in the grass to enjoy their meal. The new Lord Kildrummond seated himself among his men as casually as if they were of the same station.
It did not escape Moira’s attention that it was she, in particular, beside whom Lachlan chose to sit. This he also did casually; perhaps his choice had been an unconscious one. Because Lachlan didn’t seem aware of it, and because the men didn’t seem to think anything amiss in a husband sitting next to his wife, Moira pretended not to notice as well.
Privately, though, she was very aware of his proximity. She liked how it felt, this notion that a husband’s companionship was an unspoken understanding. Never, in all the time she’d spent at Glendalough over the years, had anyone sat beside her so willingly—other than the various Douglas crones of course, the aging relics of minor noblewomen past. Diminished by time, and by the succession of their lesser titles to their sons with the deaths of their husbands, they were outcasts of a sort, like Moira. But they at least were trueborn, and were therefore less wretched than she. They were the only ones to favour her with their pity, with their kind smiles and wary glances.
Yet another thing she’d miss when her marriage to Lachlan ended: the constancy of his companionship.
By evening they reached the northern border of Kinross, and by nightfall they were upon the gates of Glen Craggan.
The seat of the Albermarles for countless generations, Glen Craggan was three times the size of Glendalough. Kinross was richer in arable lands than Kildrummond, and though it did not have direct access to the sea, it was better established along the inland trade routes than its northern neighbour. Glen Craggan’s size and ornament was a testament to the commerce which Kinross enjoyed.
Whichever House was granted Kinross after it was taken from Lady Rosamund would enjoy that commerce now. Glen Craggan was the seat of the Albermarles no more.
Their arrival, it would seem, had been expected. As soon as they handed their horses over to the castle’s stable lads, they were escorted directly to the keep where, they were told, Lady Albermarle was waiting for them in the solar.
The strain of the past fortnight had done Rosamund no favours. Though her clothing was as fine as ever and her golden hair neatly arranged and bound in a pearl-sheened satin ribbon, she was indisputably haggard. Deep shadows marred the milk-white skin beneath her
eyes, and she looked as though she’d hardly eaten a thing in all the time her husband had been away.
She was standing by the window. When Lachlan and his party entered the chamber, she spun slowly on her heels, wringing her pale hands so intensely the veins at her knuckles stood out in sharp contrast.
Moira, tucked unobtrusively behind Lachlan and between his men, scanned the castle’s solar. Accompanying Lady Rosamund were her four remaining children. She recognized them, having met them on occasion when she was much younger. She could recall only one of their names, though—Eleanor, the eldest girl who was only two or three years younger than she. It was Lady Eleanor around whom the other children were gathered. Moira did not doubt by their arrangement that it was she who had shouldered the burden of caring for her siblings in this time of great tension.
Confronted by Lachlan’s grim countenance, Lady Rosamund began to tremble.
“D-Dead? Or ...” A well of tears turned her eyes to glass.
“Captured. And awaiting execution,” Lachlan answered gravely.
One of the younger girls began to cry.
“And my sons?” Lady Rosamund whispered.
“Lord Brandon has fled to England, my Lady. And young Lord Edward... has been killed.”
Killed... the word hung in the air, dreadful and thick. An awful silence lingered before the lady made a sound. When she did, it was a keening wail so horrible it was almost unearthly. It shredded the silence, a mother’s anguish wrenched directly from the heart. Lady Rosamund staggered, and sank to the wooden floor.
Lachlan rushed forward to embrace her, forgetting his tentative grasp on the finer points of noble deportment.
No one blamed him, not in the face of Lady Rosamund’s agony. He pressed her face to his breast, muffling her cries, and she clutched at his tunic. Her hands clawed at the fabric and at the mortal flesh beneath like some grotesque, feral animal. He suffered the lady’s blind fury with neither a word nor a flinch of pain.
Lachlan’s men hung their heads, deeply affected by the spectacle. Frightened by their mother’s display, the younger children began to weep, and sought solace in one another.
All except Eleanor. The girl stared blankly at the sight of her mother, crumpled and broken. She looked empty, as though she’d been expecting this outcome. With only a single, steady glance directly at Moira, she slipped from the room.
Moira waited a short time, and then followed her. She found Eleanor not far away, leaning over a stone balustrade that looked down upon Glen Craggan’s great hall. The grand space below was empty, save for two of the castle’s dogs that rooted through the rushes for scraps dropped at the most recent meal.
Moira approached, and took a spot beside the girl, leaning similarly with her elbows resting on the railing and her wrists dangling over the edge.
“Ye look as though ye’re not surprised by our tidings.” She spoke carefully, watching for the lass’s reaction.
Eleanor continued to gaze upon the dogs. Her golden hair, like her mother’s, was plaited, and hung over her shoulder. Her face, so much like Lord Albermarle’s, was neutral. She was taller than Moira, almost a head taller, and her shoulders were broad for a woman. She was her father’s daughter, Moira thought; she carried herself with the same graceful strength that Lord Albermarle always had ...
That Lord Albermarle still did—he was not dead yet, she reminded herself stiffly.
“I heard Mother and Father arguing, the night before Father left.” Eleanor’s voice was naturally husky; a low, soothing voice, not at all unattractive. “Mother begged him no’ to go, pleaded wi’ him to see sense. But Father wouldna. He said he couldna stand by while the king murdered nobles at will, and wi’out repercussion.”
“He were an honourable man.”
“To his detriment. And he were determined to bring Edward and Brandon wi’ him. Of course, Brandon is headstrong, always has been. But Edward were a gentle soul. He didna want to fight. He told me so the night before they left for Arkinholm.”
“Did he?”
“Aye. And ye ken what else he told me? He told me he kent he would die. He didna expect to survive the battle. If ye kent our Edward, ye’d trust these inklings of his. He were always right, had some kind of dark talent for knowing these things. And that’s how I kent, ye see. I kent it would end badly.”
Moira breathed deeply, speculating as the dogs fought over a piece of mutton bone. “I am sorry,” was all she could say in the end.
“What about the others?” Eleanor’s tawny eyes slid sideways to Moira.
“The Earl of Ormonde has been captured also, and awaits trial at Sterling wi’ Lord Albermarle. The Earl of Moray was killed, and Lord Balvenie escaped to England.”
“And the Earl of Douglas?”
“He... fled. To England, before the battle. When he realized his strongest allies had abandoned him.”
Eleanor’s upper lip curled viciously, and she spat over the balustrade. “Coward.”
“I dinna disagree.” Moira hesitated, sorry to tell her the rest. “Douglas lands are now forfeit to the Crown.” When the lass merely nodded, she added, “Of course ye and yer family will always be welcome at Glendalough. Lachlan wouldna have ye go wi’out.”
“I’m sure Mother means to leave Scotland.”
There was something about the way she said “Mother” that made Moira uneasy. Almost as if the girl had not included herself in that outcome. She nearly inquired if Eleanor had other plans for herself, but thought better of it. The inquiry might be taken as an insult.
It was true that Lady Eleanor Douglas reminded Moira of herself, in the restrained defiance that shone from her eyes, in the proud set of her shoulders. But it did not follow that Lady Eleanor Douglas would act as Moira would under the circumstances. She hoped not—if she were in Eleanor’s place, Moira could not say what she’d do.
Though she could say what she wouldn’t do. And skulking away to England to lick her wounds, as Lady Rosamund intended, was at the top of that list.
THOUGH SHE TRIED, Moira couldn’t shake the ill feeling left behind after her conversation with Lord Albermarle’s eldest daughter. An innate instinct warned her that the girl had more on her mind than she was letting on.
When she retired to her and Lachlan’s guest chamber for the night, she fell into a state of brooding so deep that she almost didn’t hear Lachlan come in behind her.
“Ye’re here then?” Lachlan dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed.
She glanced up from her place on the floor by the hearth. “Ye look like a lad whose pony’s just died.”
“Next time I’ll let ye be the one to tell a woman her beloved husband’s about to be executed, and her first-born son is dead, shall I?”
“I’m sorry, I didna mean to mock ye.”
Lachlan rubbed his face with one hand. “Nay, of course ye didna, lass. I’m the one that’s sorry.”
“It sounds as though Lady Rosamund is settled now. Was it very hard to calm her?”
“It were her personal physician that calmed her. Fixed her a rather large draught of wild poppy milk, he did. I wouldna be surprised if she sleeps the day away tomorrow.”
She rose from the hearth and came to sit next to him. “’Tis probably best. The more she sleeps, the more time she has to forget.”
“I’m nay so sure forgetting is the best thing. It only delays the grieving process.”
“She’s a delicate woman. The more delay for her the better.”
Lachlan was silent; his jaw moved as though he were chewing over her wisdom. A tug of pity exerted itself on Moira’s heart as she watched him grapple with his thoughts. The weight of his duty as the Earl of Kildrummond was already an enormous burden.
She slipped her hand into his. He responded by closing his fingers around hers.
“’Tis the cruellest twist of life, is it no’?” He tilted his head towards her, his dark eyes searching hers.
“What is?”
“That the want of
the heart is so strong, it causes the body pain when it is denied.”
Moira grimaced. She’d been thinking something similar for a while now, and Lachlan’s comment had hit a little too close to the mark: the annulment of their marriage. It hadn’t even come to pass yet, but already the pain of losing him was raw. The knowledge was frightening.
In a queer way, her fright combined with a sense of compassion for his burden. Moved by it, Moira leaned in to kiss his cheek...
And missed. Her lips landed firmly on his, as bold as if she’d kissed him on purpose.
Had she done it on purpose?
What are you doing? her brain shouted. He doesna need yer awkward kisses to add to his turmoil. Stupid lass, let go of him. Let go of him and run.
She pulled away, intent on doing just that—fleeing from the room like the fool that she was.
But before she could do so, he kissed her back. Intently!
At first she was too surprised to react. She held still as he moulded his lips to hers with conviction. When his arm slid around her waist, pulling her body close, she was astonished to find her mouth moving with his. His tongue caressed her lips, urging them to part. And God help her wanton soul, she acquiesced.
More than acquiesced, in fact—she kissed him with equal need. With the same passion which had begun that one morning in their small, cozy hut. But this time, he was awake. And he kissed her like a man fully aware of what he was doing.
Like a man fully aware of whom he was kissing.
His urgency made the voice in her head feeble. Moira willingly ignored it, and when Lachlan urged her to lay back, she did not resist. She allowed his weight to carry her down to the bed, and his strong arm to swing her legs up onto the mattress.
Settling himself beside her, Lachlan’s lips began trailing down her jaw and to the soft, sensitive flesh beneath her ear. She shivered, and twined her fingers into the fabric of his tunic, which was damp from Lady Rosamund’s tears. His body was hard beneath her fingertips, the contours of his shoulder ridged where it met the crest of his chest.
A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan) Page 17
