A Noble Deception (The Douglas Clan) (6 page)

“Aye. I’d be grateful if ye’d try.” Lord Kildrummond smiled sadly. “I only want her safe. I only want to ken that my Lilian’s lass is looked after once I’m gone.”

Lachlan noticed the hurt and betrayal that crossed Lady Glinis’ face. It was only there for a
second, and in another flicker it was gone, smoothed out after years of practice.

He had never felt more sorry for the lady in his life.

Six

NO SOONER HAD
the weak light of the winter morning spread across the snow-covered land than there was a furious thumping at the door of the MacCormack family’s hut.

“Can ye believe it?” Moira
demanded as soon as a bleary-eyed Niall opened the door. “He’s only gone and said I must marry.”

“Good morning to ye, too,”
he yawned.

Moira threw him
a frustrated look and began pacing the narrow doorstep. Niall knew well enough not to interrupt her when she was angry. Instead, he folded his spindly arms over his chest, leaned against the doorframe, and prepared to wait out her tirade.

“He’s decided—ye’ll never believe this—he’s decided that
no Douglas will inherit the earldom of Kildrummond. He’s leaving it instead to a Strathcairn. Lachlan Ramsay is his name, and he’s a landless viscount. But the man willna have Kildrummond unless he marries me. I mean, honestly Niall, who does that man think he is, giving my hand away like that to a perfect stranger?”

“Who
does that man think he is? He’s the Earl of Kildrummond,
and
yer father. If one of those conditions doesna give him the right to give yer hand to whomever he chooses, then the other certainly does.”

“Ah, but how do we ken for certain he’s my father?” Moira pointed accusingly, as if it were Niall that were guilty of a crime. “The only reason we think that is because my mother said so. But how do we ken she’s told the truth?”

He shot her a pointed look. “Careful, Moira. That be yer mother ye’re talking about. I’ll no’ have ye speaking ill of the dead,
especially
no’ of Mistress Lilian.”

Chastened, Moira lowered her glare to her feet,
scrutinizing them as she trod back and forth over the same, narrow strip. “Ye ken I didna mean that. No’ truly.”

“
I do. Now will ye come inside? Ye’ll wear a pit into the ground if ye keep up that pacing, and
I’ll
be the one my mam’ll expect to bail out the water every time it rains.”

“This is serious, Niall. I willna be
forced to marry. I’ll flee before that happens. Ye dinna think I will?” she challenged when he raised his brows.

“
On the contrary, I’m sure ye will. But then ye’ll expect me to come wi’ ye, and then
we’ll
have to be married, and I’d rather no’, if it’s all the same to ye.”

Moira
stared at him, her mouth agape. “I wouldna—” she stuttered before she saw his teasing grin. Defeated, her shoulders slumped. “Niall, what will I do?”

“Ye’ll come
in out of the cold, for a start. A man could freeze to death while he waits for ye to finish yer ranting.” He stepped back, and when Moira crossed the threshold he closed the door after her.

Compared to Moira’s lowly dwelling,
Niall’s family home was far more comfortable. Being the best and most sought after brewer in the village, Master MacCormack provided an admirable level of prosperity to his wife and children. Their main dwelling was sectioned into three distinct parts. The family area where they ate, cooked, slept and lived was situated at a distance from the stalls where they kept their modest collection of chattel. It was a luxury for which Moira inwardly yearned—the sounds and smells of animals sleeping could, on occasion, make for a long night.

The third section
of the MacCormack family’s dwelling was a secure room where the fermenting barrels of ale and mead were stored until they were either collected for the castle, or ready to be sold on market day. Master MacCormack spent his days in the alehouse, a separate outbuilding behind the main dwelling, but the finished goods were not kept there for fear of thievery.

As she stepped through to the family’s living space, the rich
, sour-sweet smell of yeast wrapped her in calm. It was a scent which she associated with the happy atmosphere of Niall’s home, for Niall’s home was indeed happy. Mary MacCormack, Niall’s large, robust mother was seated by a central fire pit. Her ruddy complexion and matching hair glowed in the firelight as she bent over, tending to a loaf of the family’s daily bread.

Beside her,
Niall’s youngest sister Imogen smiled demurely at Moira. The nine-year-old was busy grinding oats into flour on the worn, circular grindstone. Moira returned the lass’s smile, cursing herself that she’d not done her own grinding yet. She’d been too preoccupied with the surprise her father had sprung that she’d rushed over to Niall’s to unburden herself.

“Moira, love,”
Mary MacCormack greeted. “Come sit a while.”

“
Thank ye, Mistress MacCormack. I am sorry to be upon ye so early wi’ my problems.” Moira crossed the space and took a spot beside Imogen. “Shove over,” she instructed the younger lass. Taking the handle of the stone from Imogen, she carried on with turning the half-ground grains into barley flour.

“Hush, now.
We’ve been up wi’ the sun—well, all of us but Niall here. I must say, though, I dinna see what ye’ve got to be all worked up over.”

“Ye think his Lordship’s right, then?”

Mary MacCormack shrugged her soft, round shoulders. “Whether ‘tis right or no, ‘tis his Lordship’s right to give yer hand to whichever man he chooses.”

Moira slumped
, and her hand paused in her work. “I dinna want to marry.”

“I ken, child. But ye canna
pretend to be surprised. Ye’re of a marriageable age—past a marriageable age, actually—and the daughter of an earl. That ye live the way ye do now isna common, ye must ken that. His Lordship affords ye quite a bit of independence that ye’ve no right to expect.”

Moira hated the truth in
what she said. She did not want to be any man’s property. She despised that the law of the land declared it so.

“Niall,
how about ye fetch the lass a cup of mead?” Mary suggested to her son, who stood back from the fire, still half-asleep.

“Aye, get her bladdered. That’ll change her mind.”

Moira snickered, and Mary slapped at his knees as he sauntered into the aleroom. When he returned, he handed Moira a half-filled wooden cup and took the remaining space on the bench so that they were all nestled snugly together.

Moira
let go of the grindstone handle to accept the beverage. Pressing her palms to the outside of the cup, she raised it to her lips. The mead had been spiced with cloves and thyme. She sipped at the sweet, luxurious flavour. There was a reason Master MacCormack was known as the best brewer in Moray, and his products sought exclusively by Glendalough Castle.

“Last of his Lordship’s honey, that,” Mary McCormack noted.

“Aye, Niall told me. Ye sure his Lordship willna mind?”

“Will his Lordship mind me offering a touch of his mead to
his own daughter? Really, Moira!”

“Think on it as payment for making ye marry,” Niall jested, nudging against her playfully. “In fact, ye should demand a whole barrel. Ye and I can drag it down to the brae
. We’ll get ye so drunk ye won’t even ken ye’re being wed. Problem solved.”

“Ye’ll do no such thing,” Mary objected. “Feeding his Lordship’s daughter mead is one thing, but letting her freeze to death down by the brae
because she’s too drunk to help herself is quite another.”

“
Give over, Mistress MacCormack, we wouldna freeze,” Moira joined in the jesting. “We’d have enough liquor in our blood to keep us warm.”

Mary snorted. “
I feel sorry for whoever has been promised yer hand, for he’s been given no lady, that’s for sure.”

A brisk knock at the door interrupted
the easy chatter. Prompted by a nod from her mother, Imogen went to the door. Dusting her hands on the front of her homespun gown, she opened it only a crack, just enough to peek her head through.

“Odd child,” Mary MacCormack muttered, shaking her head at
her youngest daughter.

Low murmurs continued between the girl and whoever was on the other side. When Imogen was satisfied, she removed her head from the opening and peered back into the dim space.

“Mama, there’s a man here to see our Moira.”

“To see me?”
Moira frowned.

She stood with Niall as Mary MacCormack
bustled over to the door to see for herself who was outside. Pulling it open she stared, shocked, at the towering figure of Lachlan Ramsay.

“Can—can I help ye, sir?” she questioned.

“Yes, Mistress. I am Viscount Strathcairn. As I explained to yer wee one here,” he gave Imogen a silly grin that set her giggling, “I’ve come to have a word wi’ Lady Moira MacInnes.”

“Viscount?
Oh, sir, please ye come in, and forgive my daughter her ill manners.” Flustered by the handsome knight, she waved her arm vigorously.

“I thank ye, Mistress—”

“MacCormack,” a red-faced Mary informed him with pleasure. “I am Mary MacCormack, and this here be my eldest son, Niall.”

“How did ye ken I were here?” Moira demanded
acidly as soon as the door had closed again.

“Moira,” Mary reprimanded, horrified
by her poor manners.

Moira scowled. Then, overly-polite, she amended, “Ye’ll forgive my rudeness, my Lord. May I enquire as to how ye’d discovered where I were?”

Lachlan tilted his head, an unintentional grin playing at his lips. “When I didna find ye at yer own home, I asked about the village where ye might be. I was told I should come to the brewer’s home to find ye.”

“And how did ye ken where my dwelling
is?”

“
His Lordship told me.”

“Er
... Mama, why dinna we leave Moira to speak wi’ her visitor?” Niall suggested when his mother continued to oggle the comely viscount with a daft grin.

“Nay, there is no reason for ye to go,” Moira objected.

Mary shook her head. “No, no, lass. Niall is right. We’ll just step outside for a touch, perhaps visit wi’ Mistress Douglas next door. Take yer time.”

H
er eyes still trained on Lachlan and a silly grin still plastered across her face, Mary MacCormack curtseyed and pulled her daughter towards the door. Then she gave a commanding nod to Niall before slipping out of sight. Niall tossed Moira a devilish wink and departed after his mother and sister.

“Niall,
no,” she hissed, but he closed the door. She stared blankly at door for long seconds before her eyes swung warily to the viscount knight across from her.

“Will ye sit, sir?” she mocked,
bouncing a half-hearted curtsey.

Lachlan laughed,
amused by her obvious effort to be contrary. He accepted her offer, and sat himself on the bench. She responded by rounding the fire and deliberately taking the stool on the other side.

He
studied the lass’s determined scowl. “I’ve a question.” When Moira said nothing, he added, “May I ask my question, my Lady?”

“By all means, my
Lord,” she returned, syrupy sweet. “I dinna have a say in my own fate, after all. Why should I have a say in which questions I may hear and which I may no’?”

He
ignored her provocation. “Very well, then. My question is this: have I done something to make ye hate me so thoroughly?”

This startled Moira. She
pressed her lips together, relenting. “I dinna hate
ye
,” she sighed. “’Tis only that I dinna like being told what to do and who I must marry. Ye just happen to be caught in the middle of it all.”

“Let us be at ease wi’
each other then,” he suggested, offering her his most charming smile. When that seemed to put her off even more, he opted for frankness. “I can assure ye that I had no idea of Lord Kildrummond’s plan. And, as a matter of fact, I dinna like the idea any more than ye seem to. I’ll have ye ken I’m no’ the marrying kind.”

“
Then I dinna see what there is to discuss.”

“On the contrary, we’ve much to discuss, my Lady.”

His mocking tone matched her own from earlier. Moira sensed she was being toyed with. She narrowed her eyes, assessing her adversary. “And that is?”

“Kildrummond, of course. Ye see, if I dinna marry ye, I dinna get Kildrummond. And if
ye
dinna marry
me
, ye risk losing yer home if King Fiery Face decides to confiscate it as Douglas holdings. I’d say that puts us both in a quandary, wouldna ye?”

Moira glowered
at the dirt floor beneath Lachlan’s boots. She hated to admit it, but the man’s logic was undeniable. “That may be. But I dinna see what could be done about it, if neither of us is inclined to marry the other.”

“
Dinna play daft, lass. What’s to be done about it is that we marry.” When she snapped her head up with fresh anger, he pressed, “Consider for a moment, will ye? If we marry, it will be in name only. We’ll pretend to live as man and wife until such time as his Lordship passes. We’ll refrain from having... er, carnal knowledge of each other. When his Lordship passes, and I am made Lord Kildrummond in my own right, we’ll have the marriage annulled.”