A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan)

by Bale, Veronica

  Her touch, hesitant though it was, seemed to please him. His kisses came faster, and his hands took possession of her body, exploring the ripple of her ribs, the slope of her waist, and back up to the small, firm mound of her breast.

  Emboldened by his obvious need of her, she found his belt, and tugged at the worn leather.

  “Ye sure, lass?” he whispered.

  Moira knew what he was asking. Was she sure she could lie to the priest when they annulled the marriage?

  Was she certain she could blaspheme and say the union had never been consummated?

  Was she prepared to be made a liar in front of God’s servant? In front of God Himself? ...

  Yes. She was sure, and to hell with all of it! If Lachlan was prepared to lie, then so was she. In answer, she pulled the leather of his belt through the buckle, allowing the cloth of his feileadh mhor to fall from his hips.

  A prickle of alarm set in. Only the thin linen of her shift remained between her bare flesh and his. The evidence of his need was rigid between them. What if she did not satisfy him? What if he expected something of her that she was not prepared to give? She’d heard horrible tales of what men did to women in the whorehouses of Edinburgh and Berwick... granted, most of those tales had come from Niall, and Moira was sure the daft lout had never set foot in a whorehouse before. But still...

  Determined not to ruin the moment between them, she pushed the thought aside. She was no ripe, fresh lass of sixteen tender summers. Women her age had been long married and had borne several children by now. She was old enough to know what she wanted of the man in her arms—and far too old to be frightened by it.

  Allowing her curiosity free reign, she brushed her fingertips against the warm, tender spot between his thighs. He held still for her, and let her explore as she wished. He was patient, even chuckled when she tested his girth and gasped in surprise at what she found.

  “Are ye... that is, I mean, is yers... bigger than ...” she stumbled.

  He tipped his dark head to the side. “I am no’ small, love, if I do say so myself. But neither am I unnaturally large.”

  “Oh—I didna think they were so... so thick. So Niall, and Lord Kild—” Moira shuddered. “Never mind. I’d rather no’ ken.”

  A rumble of laughter shook his chest, but was swiftly silenced when she wrapped her fingers around his width. The discovery intrigued her. He was soft and pliant, yet hard as stone. Each touch, each change in pressure made him shiver against her. This intrigued her also—his response to her touch.

  “God’s bones, lass, I’ll no’ be able to hold on if ye keep going like that.” His eyes were clenched shut, and his hands gripped the pillow behind her head.

  “Oh, aye... em... Sorry?”

  He traced her lips with a fingertip. “Sorry, sweetling, is the last thing on earth ye should be right now. In fact, it would be me that’s sorry if I were to take my own pleasure before I’ve had the honour of giving ye any.”

  She frowned dubiously. “Honour?”

  “Aye, honour.”

  To illustrate his point, he slid the hem of her shift up along her legs. The soft linen tickled her skin, and when he’d lifted it up past her breasts, she folded her arms over her chest and crossed her knees.

  “Nay, dinna hide yerself,” he pleaded. “Let me look at ye.”

  “Lachlan, I am skin and bones. Ye dinna need to flatter me that I am any bit desirable to look at.”

  He started, astonished, and searched her face. “Flatter ye? Moira MacInnes, are ye really so daft that ye canna see the effect ye have on me? ‘Tis no flattery, love. ‘Tis sheer, uncontrollable want. I want ye, Moira. And I mean to make ye want me just as badly.”

  Whatever doubts she had were silenced the instant his mouth began to travel southward. First he brushed his moist lips along the line of her sternum, tracing the ridge of each collar bone. Then he moved farther south, outlining the soft, small globes of her breasts with his tongue. He teased her nipples, licking and nibbling at them with the edges of his teeth. Her breaths came heavy, and when he led her hands to his head, she willingly slid her fingers through his thick, black hair.

  When his hand descended past her ribs, over her belly, and to the tender flesh at the crest of her pelvis, she instinctively batted his hand away.

  “Nay, lass. I’ll no’ hurt ye.”

  His voice was throaty and low. It lulled her into a state of bliss, both terrifying and wonderful. When his fingers began sliding expertly over the most, intimate spot of her womanhood, her brain grew hazy, and she forgot the reasons for her protest. The mild shame that had initially spread through her at his touch gave way to a spreading of another kind—a blossoming; a delicious ache which she’d never known in the presence of a man. Moira pressed her eyes together, her hands moving restlessly over Lachlan’s naked back, waist, buttocks.

  He nearly had her, and he knew it. Soft moans escaped her lips, and her quick breaths turned to gasps.

  “Open yer eyes,” he urged when she was nearly there.

  Rendered senseless, unable to think rationally, she responded. His deep, black eyes pierced hers and held her captive. The blossoming ache intensified, crested, exploded, and still he commanded her gaze, would not let her look away. She convulsed with pleasure, seeing nothing but the dark orbs of his irises. His hand still sought her pleasure, and her convulsions turned to shudders before he slowed.

  Only when they’d turned to weak, intermittent spasms, and the haze cleared from her brain, did she see the full effect she had on him. His gaze was heavy-lidded and burning with lust. It lit a fire in her belly, and suddenly the pleasure he’d given her was not enough. She needed more.

  “What say ye of flattery now?” he whispered.

  The flame of his desire blazed in his eyes. There was no mistaking his need for her—skinny, shapeless body or not. He wanted her.

  “I say that I think lust is blinding,” she quipped. Then she pulled his head to hers and kissed him with abandon. All her fears, all her doubts and her self-conscious reservations were forgotten as she parted her knees beneath him. An invitation.

  He accepted.

  Knowing that she’d never received a man before, Lachlan moved slowly. When he slid himself inside her, he did so with care, penetrating only a fraction at a time. She adjusted to him, accommodating his width until he reached the physical barrier of her virtue.

  There was a slight burst of pain when he broke through; her back stiffened, and he winced in sympathy. When her face relaxed, Lachlan relaxed too, and slowly began to rock his hips.

  She was bolder now. Her body moved with his, her arms clutching him to her and her legs wrapping around his narrow waist. Encouraged by her unspoken demand, he moved faster, driving her pleasure higher at the same time that he drove his own.

  It felt different this time, the sensation of fullness as she climaxed again. She cried out, wilder and less guarded than before.

  “Dinna hold back,” she breathed.

  “I couldna if I tried, love,” he responded.

  His declaration was followed not long after by a moan that tore from his chest. Even sated as she was, the sound of his release made her lust flare.

  And there was something else which she hadn’t expected, something deeper than just a physical joining of bodies. She felt something almost... protective at his helplessness, at his submission to her.

  It was overwhelming. She ground her teeth together, determined that she would not cry for the beauty of what she’d just experienced.

  The beauty which she would likely never experience again.

  When it was over, he held her. Moira rested her head against his chest, and Lachlan nuzzled his face into her hair. His heart raced beneath her cheek, and the deep whoosh of his breath in and out was like an ocean tide.

  In those quiet, drowsy minutes before sleep took hold, she pondered what they’d shared. They’d shared each other’s grief, had been each other’s solace.

  In the afterglow of
their lovemaking, she understood with a heavy heart that they’d been nothing more than each other’s passing pleasure. A man like Lachlan Ramsay did not fall in love with the women he made love to. Moira was well aware of his history on that score. And she was well aware that she was just another in a long line of women who had shared his bed and his passion.

  She did not know what she’d say to him in the morning, but she knew she must not let this change their friendship, nor their arrangement. She must not mistake his lust for love. If she did, if she declared her feelings for Lachlan, she would be made a fool when he put her back in that line.

  She would not, could not let that happen. Moira was determined that she would find a way to treat their shared passion for what it was—convenience.

  Nothing more.

  Seventeen

  LACHLAN HAD HOPED their intimate encounter would be the impetus that changed how she felt about him. But the next morning, Moira MacInnes said nothing. In fact, she gave not even the slightest acknowledgement that anything had happened at all. She simply rose, washed her face and hands, and dressed herself. She hardly even glanced in his direction.

  Because Moira said nothing of it, Lachlan said nothing of it. He was disappointed though. More than disappointed, if truth be told. What they shared last night had been special. Special in a way he’d never had with any other lass.

  It was clear she did not share the sentiment, that he hadn’t managed to close the distance between them after all. If anything, last night’s encounter had only added to it.

  I’d say I think lust is blinding, she’d said. The statement, which hadn’t made sense to him at the time, made perfect sense now. She’d been blinded by lust. And in the sharp light of day she saw once more that she did not care for him. Not enough to stay married to him.

  The fact of the matter, though, was that Lachlan wanted to stay married to Moira. He’d felt it for quite some time now, only he hadn’t realized it until last night. The respect he’d come to hold for her, the enjoyment of her presence, the laughter and silly moments in that little hut of hers—at some point, without even being aware of it... all those things had grown into love.

  Lachlan loved Moira.

  But Moira did not return Lachlan’s love. And he respected her too much to force her to remain married when she did not welcome it. Though it damn near cut his heart in two.

  They broke their fast in Glen Craggan’s great hall. It was nearly empty; only a handful of Kinross’s Douglases, mostly guardsmen, were present. Given that their clan had just been destroyed, they ate in gloomy silence.

  The only noble presence at the morning meal was Lady Eleanor. It was the first time Lachlan had gotten a chance to take a look at the girl; he’d hardly noticed her last night in the solar. She was a handsome lass, he decided. Perhaps near twenty years, with hair as golden as her mother’s, and a manner as regal as her father’s.

  The lady chewed her pottage with disinterest; her head remained bowed to her trencher. She looked as though she were deep in thought.

  Lachlan mentioned this to Moira on the journey back to Kildrummond.

  “I didna like the feeling I got from her,” she admitted. Her voice was low, and she leaned towards him so the other three men wouldn’t hear.

  “What feeling is that?”

  She tilted her head, squinting at the dull clouds above. “When she told me Lady Rosamund was likely to leave Scotland... I dinna ken, but I had the impression that she wasna planning on going wi’ them. Perhaps it’s a daft notion.”

  “Daft,” Lachlan echoed, though Moira’s inkling niggled at him, too. “Where would she go—a lady of her station? The Douglases have few friends in Scotland that would shelter them now, after what’s happened. And what reason would she have to stay?”

  “There. Ye see? Daft.”

  No more was said on the matter. No more was said at all. Moira spurred Beauty on, distancing herself and her mount from Lachlan and his.

  Now she didn’t even wish to hold a conversation with him? No lass had ever been so determined to keep him at arms’ length before. The slight stung.

  Why would anyone want to keep their distance from him? He was handsome. Desirable. And he held a title and land now on top of it all. What was it about him that Moira MacInnes found so objectionable?

  More concerning was, how on earth did such a wee thing succeed in making a strong, capable man like himself—a knight, at that—feel so... insecure?

  The layer of clouds grew heavy. By the time they reached Kildrummond it had started to rain. The party stopped at Moira’s hut to see her safely deposited, before continuing on to Glendalough.

  “I’ve business at the castle,” Lachlan lied when she inquired why he did not stay.

  Moira shrugged, indifferent, and disappeared into the hut.

  That slight stung even more.

  The rain pelted the travellers for the rest of the journey, soaking their clothes and putting a chill in their bones. Lachlan hardly noticed it.

  Back at the castle, Alex had taken shelter in the granary when the rain started. Having been alerted to the returning party, he trotted over the open ground to the bailey, and sheltered beneath the raised portcullis to meet them. Even at a distance he could see the dark expression on Lachlan’s face.

  “Ye’re back then?” he said, taking the reins of his friend’s bay as he dismounted.

  Lachlan nodded. He glanced up from beneath his drawn brows as he passed Alex on his way inside.

  “That bad, eh?”

  “Aye, that bad. Meet me in the solar, will ye? No, wait—meet me in the treasury. I hate the solar. I’ll be there shortly; I only want to sneak a bite from the kitchens and a good, strong shot of whiskey.”

  “Bring some for me when ye come.”

  Soon after the pair were seated in the treasury, in two small armchairs that were light enough to be moved, though were rather uncomfortable on the backside. Since the chamber had no hearth, they’d pulled the chairs close to the single window to watch the downpour. Lachlan held a heated stone wrapped in crude linen, which he tucked close to his stomach for maximum warming. His clothes were still drenched, and an occasional shiver rippled up his spine.

  “I can have dry clothes brought for ye,” Alex offered.

  “Nay, I’m alright.”

  “Will ye tell me how Lady Albermarle took yer ill tidings then?”

  He listened with rapt attention as Lachlan recounted the lady’s anguish. Alex, too, found Lady Eleanor’s behaviour curious, and expressed sympathy for the remaining Kinross Douglases.

  “Will ye take them on at Glendalough?”

  “Aye,” Lachlan affirmed. “I believe we can accommodate them. Strengthen the guard and add to the servants. I’ve enough empty land to rent to crofters and tradesmen. ‘Tis no’ that I’m worried about.”

  “’Tis Lady Albermarle.”

  Lachlan shook his damp head slowly. “I tell ye, when she cried, I felt as though it were my heart being ripped from my chest. Not a man in that solar wasna affected by her pain. Imagine that: being told yer eldest son is dead and yer husband is soon to follow.”

  “And ye’ll lose yer home and titles shortly.”

  “Indeed. Though in truth, I dinna think she cares about that. I think she would trade all her wealth and nobility in a heartbeat if it meant having her men back. Can ye imagine loving someone so much ye’d give up everything for them like that?”

  The remark nicked Alex’s conscience, reminding him of what he needed to tell Lachlan.

  “Em... actually... I can. I’ve been wanting to speak wi’ ye about something, and have been waiting on yer return.”

  “Oh, aye?” Lachlan raised an eyebrow. “What is the matter—and why d’ye look so worried all of a sudden?”

  Alex squirmed in his chair; he could feel a cold sweat breaking on his forehead. Well—no time like the present.

  “Lachlan, ye ken the love I bear for ye is like that of a brother. Ye’re my closest, most tr
usted, most honoured friend in the world, and I’ve an unconditional respect for ye. Ye ken that, aye?”

  “Aye, I ken that. What are ye on about, man? Spit it out.”

  Alex breathed once, and measured Lachlan with a long, wary glance. “I wish to marry.”

  “Marry?” Lachlan’s brows shot up in surprise. “I hadna thought ye were the marrying type.”

  “I wasna before now, ‘tis of a certain.”

  A slight smile reached Lachlan’s eyes. “This is the first piece of good news I’ve had all day.”

  “And I have yer blessing?”

  “Blessing? Ye dinna need my blessing, ye’re free to marry as ye see fit.”

  “As it happens, I do need yer blessing—in this.”

  Lachlan’s expression turned wary, and Alex found his extremities had gone distinctly cold. Pray God that his friend would understand.

  “Tell me,” Lachlan pressed when Alex faltered.

  “I wish to marry the Dowager Countess Kildrummond.”

  He didn’t immediately comprehend; John Douglas’s death so recent, Lachlan didn’t at first connect the title to any face in particular—

  And then suddenly, he did.

  A slow creep of understanding smoothed his furrowed brow, and he looked upon Alex with guarded reserve. Knowing him as well as he did, Alex knew that Lachlan was hanging on by a thread, keeping himself in check for the sake of their brotherhood. If he was to convince his friend of his genuine intentions, Alex would have to move quickly.

  “We both ken my reputation wi’ the lasses is just as bad as yers, but I assure ye, by all that I hold dear, this isna the same.”

  “Why?” Lachlan’s tone was brittle.

  “Because I love her.”

  “Ye love her.”

  “Aye. I love her. I’ve loved her the instant I laid eyes on her. Ye remember, that first day here at Glendalough, when I barged into yer chamber wi’ that damned piece of bread shoved into my mouth like a heathen?” He chuckled warmly at the memory. “I tell ye, I thought the earth had fallen from beneath my feet when she turned and raked me over wi’ those eyes of hers. Full of contempt, they were. I kent my life were forever changed in that instant. For better or worse, I’d never be the same.”