A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan) (14 page)

This morning was different. This morning
Lachlan remembered exactly where he was and exactly why he was there. Instinctively he knew there was no danger; these were not surroundings that needed identifying.

The hut was warm. Curiously warm
. The fire had died in the night, and from the harsh whistle of wind at the door and the rustling of the thatch on the roof he knew it was cold. But within the crude walls of Moira MacInnes’s little hut it was a kind of cozy which no castle, no stable, no finely furnished guest quarters could hold a candle to.

He’d never known
contentment quite like this. Was it the close confines of two horses, several odd sheep and a cow that made the place so comfortable? Or was it the small, willowy lass in the bed next to him?

Whatever it was, he didn’t give a rat’s left ballock. He was content, and wished for nothing more than to simply enjoy the peace of this moment.

Gradually the fog which drenched his senses began to lift, and he realized that he and Moira were snuggled much closer than they had been when they went to bed last night. She still faced the wall, but had inched closer to him in her sleep. His body was tucked around hers, his knees drawn into the back of her legs, and his arm slung lazily over her waist.

Lachlan had awoken to many a lass in his bed over the years
(he was oddly ashamed to admit it now). But never before had he found himself cuddled up to them so casually in the morning. That was on the occasions when he remained in the bed all night which (he was oddly even
more
ashamed to admit it now) he didn’t always.

If he
had been more lucid, if he had been less comfortable and less at peace, it might occur to him to wonder: why Moira? What was it about this lass that contented him so?

A
s it happened, Lachlan was not entirely lucid. It did not occur to him to wonder about anything just then. Closing his eyes, he allowed the gentle rise and fall of Moira’s narrow ribs to lull him back to sleep.

Leave the wondering for another time.

Twelve

MARCH
DESCENDED FROM its wintery throne for another year, and the gentle hand of April moved in to rule over the Highlands. Spring rains tumbled from the sky, nourishing the soil and the tender flora that slept beneath it. Brave new shoots of grass poked their sleepy heads through the dead, brown mat of the previous summer’s bounty, eager for a taste of the sun. Soon the hills of Kildrummond throbbed and swelled with all the majesty of an emerald paradise.

Glendalough tried, for the sake of the season, to enjoy the
long-awaited thaw, and the fresh scents of earth and rain and new growth that enriched the mild air. But the coming battle loomed over the castle like a dark spectre, threatening the peace and tranquility of Kildrummond.

Arkinholm
, it was decided, would be the battleground on which the Black Douglases would challenge the king. On that hallowed ground, on the banks of the river Esk, they would avenge the murder of their eighth earl, would strike at the Crown for the confiscation of their lands. At Arkinholm they would reaffirm, once and for all, that their might as a clan lay not only in the political arena—it lay in the authority of the sword as well.

Either that, or
they would die in the attempt.

The
men of Kildrummond talked grandly of the coming battle. They spoke of Douglas courage and Douglas skill, and endlessly toasted all the men that would fight.

Alex joined in their merriment. He tipped his cup and saluted each and every name that was uttered with reverence.

What else could he do?

He would not tell these men that he didn’t feel good about the battle. Something wasn’t right, something he felt in his gut. As a knight, where instinct was every bit as important as skill and strength, Alex knew well to trust what he felt in his gut.

His gut was telling him that the Douglases would lose.

He could not bring himself to tell Lachlan, though
. He kept his inkling to himself as, together, they learned the ropes of Glendalough by day, and enjoyed the cozy atmosphere of Moira’s peasant dwelling by night.

He spoke not a word of it now, saddled next to
his friends Lord and Lady Strathcairn as the trio made their way to market. A cartload of Moira’s smaller tapestries and other bits for sale was pulled along by her mare (as ugly a mare as ever he’d seen that went by the absurd name of Beauty). The wooden wheels of the cart hobbled over the rocks and ruts of the travelled path, filling the silence of the morning with a pleasant, rhythmic clacking.

“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.

T
hough Alex hated the idea, he at least understood it.

Immediately a
fter 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 las
s 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 ma
n 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
.

“S
peaking 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 vision which directed it.

The s
cene 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 mere
ly 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.