Alex had exalted in his own cunning, and together with Niall (and the rest of the MacCormack family who insisted on being a part of it all), he hatched a plan.
“I believe I need some air,” Niall declared, rubbing his sticky hands on his plaid. “Ye’re coming for a ride wi’ me.”
“Nay, I dinna much feel like riding.”
He stood. Taking her by the hand, he pulled her to her feet. “’Tis no’ a request, lassie. I’m telling ye: ye’re coming wi’ me.”
“Dinna be high-handed wi’ me, Niall MacCormack,” she snapped. “I’m no’ fit for riding. I’m right dirty, and I have no desire to go.”
“Ye’re right dirty because ye’ve been working far too hard, and ye’ve no desire to go because ye’ve hidden yerself away in this little hut for far too long. I fear that if ye stay here any longer, ye’ll grow roots to the ground, and then ye’ll be stuck forever. Now take yer bony wee arse outside. Ye’re coming for a ride.”
Seeing that further argument would prove fruitless, Moira unwillingly let Niall pull her outside to his mount.
“Why are the pair of us going on one horse?” she question when he offered to help her up. An offer which she pointedly ignored.
“Because I said so, that’s why.”
More like because she wouldn’t be able to turn around and ride away when she saw where he was taking her, Niall thought smugly.
Swinging himself up behind her, Niall took the reins and set them off at a walking pace in the direction of the village.
Moira allowed herself to settle into the rhythm and sway of the beast as they went. Though she hated to admit it, Niall was right: it did feel good to be outside in such fine weather. The hills were an explosion of colour and scent; they shimmered green and violet with every rush of breeze that ruffled the blanket of heather.
This time of year was her favourite. But ever since Lachlan left, she hadn’t been able to enjoy any of it. Shame, that. Here she was, blind to the brilliance of the Highlands around her, insensate to the warmth of the air and the scents of the greenery, and for what? Because her heart had been crushed irreparably? It was her own fault, falling in love with a man when she had no right to. They’d had an understanding at the outset of their arrangement.
Lachlan likely never thought of her. Probably didn’t miss her one pinch.
Thus occupied by her thoughts, Moira didn’t noticed when Niall took a turn away from the village. Not until he stopped abruptly.
“Village is that way,” she pointed behind her.
“Aye,” he replied vaguely. Then he hopped down.
“What are ye doing?”
“Let’s walk a while, shall we?”
She looked down at him with suspicion. “Ye’re acting queer. Ye sure ye havena been into yer da’s ale this morning?”
“Oh, I never said that.”
Too glum to engage in their usual banter, Moira followed. Together they walked aimlessly over the scrub and crags of the wild landscape.
At least she thought their wandering was aimless. That was, until they rounded a small hillock which dipped to a flat stretch of purple ground.
She halted abruptly, and her heart lurched in her chest when she saw what was there. Or, rather, who was there.
Standing in the centre of the clearing... was Lachlan.
He was dressed in finery—the same finery, she recalled, that he’d worn the day of their wedding. His raven hair was pulled back from his temples and tied in a neat queue at the nape of his neck, and his jaw had been scraped clean. Once more the savage knight had been transformed into the regal viscount—now earl—by the mere difference of a scraped chin. It took her breath away just as it had those months ago when they’d stood side by side in Glendalough’s great hall. The only difference about his appearance now was that, in addition to his feileadh mhor, which was of the Ramsay plaid, he wore a band of the Douglas colours around his upper arm.
Lachlan was not the only one waiting for them in the clearing. Behind him were Sir Alex and Lady Glinis, side by side, her arm tucked proudly into the crook of her new husband’s elbow. And behind them were the MacCormacks—all of them. Several villagers that Moira knew and loved filled out the gathering, as well as a select handful of Glendalough’s guard, with its captain, Dougall MacFadyen, at the helm.
Positioned next to Lachlan, in simple robes of undyed wool, was one more figure: the priest from the village kirk.
The first thought which came to Moira was that she’d stumbled upon something she wasn’t meant to see. When she began to back away, Niall grabbed her arm.
“Niall, let me go,” she said shakily.
“Now Moira, ye dinna want to be rude to yer guests, do ye?”
Her head snapped to him. “My guests?”
It was then that Lachlan came forward, approaching her like one might a wounded starling.
“Moira,” he said, in a voice that was as rich and sultry as she remembered.
“W-What is this?”
“It’s for ye,” he told her. “Moira, I want to beg yer forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?”
“Aye, forgiveness. I were such a fool to let the annulment pass through. I thought it were what ye wanted, ye see. I thought ye didna want to stay married to me, so I went through wi’ it to make ye happy. I’ve been miserable every day since.
“Now I hear from yer Niall, and from Alex, that ye love me. Or at least they think ye love me. I hope to heaven it’s true. If it isna, if they’re wrong, just say the word. I’ll let ye leave here now, and I’ll never ask another thing of ye. But I canna do that before ye ken how I feel about ye.”
Her cerulean eyes widened, and she looked nervously towards the guests behind him. He took her hands in his and gave them a firm squeeze, commanding her gaze back to him.
“Moira, I love ye. I love ye like I’ve never loved anyone before. If ye’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my days bound to ye in matrimony, and loving ye each and every one of them. I ken we didna marry for the right reasons the first time, but if ye’ll have me, I will spend the rest of my life making sure that we stay married for the right reasons. Marry me, Moira MacInnes?”
Moira couldn’t breathe; the air was trapped in her chest. She looked to Niall. Then to the anxious faces in the clearing. Then to the priest, who smiled benevolently at her from the head of the gathering.
When her eyes returned to Lachlan, they fixed on his with... fury.
“Ye stupid lout,” she shrieked, and smacked him in the arm with her open palm. Then she shoved angrily against his chest, and smacked him in the other arm. Her hands went wild as she slapped and shoved and hit, accompanied by a tirade of livid accusations which echoed through the hills in an unending stream.
“I canna believe ye’ve dragged me here. I’m dirty, I smell like my animals. What were ye thinking? Ye’re just as daft as Niall. Look at me, I’m nay fit for a wedding. I’m utterly mortified. How could ye do this to me?”
The audience watched, horrified, as she abused Lachlan mindlessly. For his part, all Lachlan could do was shield himself from the worst of her blows.
But the horror of the audience turned to astonishment as Moira’s angry tirade somehow transformed into a passionate embrace. It wasn’t entirely clear to anyone how it happened. One minute she was berating him shamelessly, and then next she was kissing him with a fury of a different kind.
Just as astonished, Lachlan pulled away, and searched her face. Her eyes shimmered with tears, and a smile which she could not control spread across her lips.
“Marry me,” he repeated. “Please say ye’ll marry me.”
She emitted a sound somewhere between a sob and a giggle. “I’ll no’ forgive ye for this, ye ken.”
“I’d be sorely disappointed if ye did. Marry me!”
Moira was dizzy as she gazed into his smoky eyes. Even though her vision was swimming, and the world had grown hazy around her, there was one thing which she could see with undeniable clarity: he l
oved her.
He loved her. He had all along.
Hesitantly, she nodded. “Yes.”
Overjoyed, Lachlan swept her into his arms and twirled her around. Behind them, a rousing cheer lifted into the summer sky as he brought her back down and kissed her again, tenderly this time. A kiss to seal a promise.
That day, a wedding took place. No honoured priest from the fancy abbey at Inverness was in attendance. Instead, officiating was the local priest from the local kirk—a simple and honest man for a simple and honest wedding. The vows were exchanged in the purity of nature, rather than the grand arches of a great hall. And though the highest-ranking of Scotland’s nobles were not there to witness, those who were looked on with true happiness and admiration for the bride and her groom.
The ghosts of Kildrummond lords long past smiled down as they watched over their beloved land.
And perhaps... just perhaps... one Kildrummond lord in particular smiled the widest. With his Lilian at his side, to share in the joy of his daughter’s happiness.
It was all he’d wanted for her, after all.
Don’t miss the second instalment of the Douglas Clan series:
A Noble Treason
Stirling, Scotland, 1456. The traitorous Earl of Douglas has fled to England, leaving his clansmen to die in his place on the battlefield of Arkinholm. Two Douglas lords have been captured, and await execution: the earl’s brother, Lord Ormonde, and his distant kinsman Edward Douglas, Earl of Albermarle.
Eleanor Douglas, eldest daughter of Lord Albermarle, is a noblewoman by birth, but a rebel at heart. When her family, stripped of their titles and thrown from their lands, flee to England, she does not follow.
Sir Dougall MacFadyen is captain of the guard in the Highland realm of Kildrummond. His master, Lachlan Ramsay, presides over a branch of the Douglas line that is close kin to Lord Albermarle. Suspecting that Eleanor has remained in Scotland to find a way to free her father, Lachlan sends Dougall across the land in search of her.
When he finds her, will Dougall be able to sway Eleanor from her course? Or will Eleanor’s conviction sway him? Her intentions may be noble, but if she fails in her mission, Eleanor could lose her head a traitor to the Crown—and Dougall along with her.
A Note from Veronica
My Dear Friends,
Your readership means the world to me. I want to thank you for coming with me on this journey of the Black Douglas clan.
Though this novel is a product of my imagination, it is based on actual historical events. William Douglas, the eighth Earl of Douglas, was murdered in 1452 by King James the Second of Scotland (also known as Fiery Face for the prominent birthmark on his cheek). At that time, the Douglas clan enjoyed a powerful alliance with the earls of Clan MacDonald and Clan Lindsay, and when the king demanded that William Douglas put an end to the triad, the earl refused. As a result, King James flew into a rage and stabbed William twenty-six times, then threw his body from a window at Stirling Castle.
Three years later William’s successor, his brother James Douglas, waged war on the king, which culminated in the Battle of Arkinholm on July 1st, 1455. When he realized that his allies abandoned him, James Douglas fled to England before the battle commenced, leaving his brothers to carry on the campaign. They failed. Archibald Douglas, Earl of Moray, was killed. John Douglas, Lord of Balvenie, escaped and fled, and Hugh Douglas, Earl of Ormonde, was captured, tried and executed. This marked the beginning of the end for the Black Douglases.
Within recorded history, there are always untold stories that never made it to the books. Though Lachlan and Moira’s story is a work of fiction, there is no telling what countless, ordinary stories were played out on the sidelines of these milestone events. I like to think that, by breathing life into these fictional characters, I am, in some small measure, breathing life back into those whose tales were not put to parchment.
Though I may be a die-hard history fan, I do so enjoy living in this modern era of social media. It means I get to interact with you directly and instantaneously, and hear firsthand what you think of my stories. I pay attention to everything you have to say, and endeavour to learn from your insight—you are the experts, after all, the ones who make or break a book’s success.
I would love to hear from you, whether it’s to tell me what you thought of A Noble Deception (or anything else I’ve written), or just to say hi. You can connect with me in the following ways:
My website
veronicabale.blogspot.ca
My Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/pages/Veronica-Bale/137790549696979
My Goodreads page
www.goodreads.com/author/show/6518747.Veronica_Bale
My Twitter handle:
www.twitter.com/VeronicaBale1
Until next time, my friends, hugs to you all. And as always, happy reading!
Cheers,
Veronica
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