A Noble Deception - Chapter 11
THAT NIGHT’S MEAL was Lachlan and
Moira’s last at Glendalough, and it was nearly as great a feast as the one
after their wedding had been. Though Lachlan promised they would no longer take
meals at the castle, Moira could hardly object to this final one, for it was
the last evening that Lord Albermarle would join them.
In the morning he was to depart
for Kinross, and from there, he and his men would be travelling to Douglas
Castle in South Lanarkshire to join Lord Douglas’s forces.
James Douglas was preparing for
war against King James to avenge the murder of his brother and the theft of the lands that were his birthright. And now, enough of his allies
had answered his call that the strike was imminent.
“What says yer fair Rosamund of
all this, my Lord,” Lachlan inquired as they sat down to eat.
Lord Albermarle exhaled heavily. “She
understands the need for it. But she frets—as any good wife and mother would,
of course. My eldest two sons shall come wi’ me.”
“I suppose there is no changing
yer mind? ‘Tis treason, this stand.”
“Aye, ‘tis. And if I live through
it and we dinna win, I may lose my head. I ken that and have come to terms wi’
it. This isna a decision I’ve made lightly, lad. ‘Tis no’ only my own life I
play this game wi’, ‘tis the lives of other men, too.”
“Then why, my Lord? The king has
returned Lord Douglas’s lands to him. What is there to fight for?”
“Aye, old Fire Cheek didna get
away wi’ those ridiculous confiscations for long, did he?” The earl’s shoulders
shook with laughter. “Scotland’s nobles raised their objections loud and clear—and
that were the king’s supporters and
his enemies, mind. The fool had no choice but to back down.” The mirth died on
his lips. “In the end, I find that to do nothing
would be the greater risk. ‘Tis no’ all pride and revenge, lad. ‘Tis a
principle. What kind of Scotland are we helping to build if we allow our
monarch to murder good nobles and confiscate legally held lands at a whim? A
king’s justice is his divine right. His temper and his fits are no’.”
Lachlan was moved by Lord
Albermarle’s conviction. An acute mix of pride and sorrow tightened his throat.
“Ye’re a fine leader, Edward Douglas,” he said roughly.
“As ye will be one day, my boy.
If Glendalough isna mine to inherit as I had always thought it would be, I ken
now it couldna have gone to a more deserving man.”
“I’m nay so sure about that. I
dinna go wi’ ye to stand against the king, after all. D’ye think me a coward?”
“Nay, lad, and dinna think it for
one minute. Ye’re no’ to join, whatever may come. Ye’ve an obligation to our
John to keep Kildrummond out of the fray. ‘Tis the reason ye’ve been named his
heir: the name of Ramsay isna a part of this conflict. Ye’ll no’ go shoving yer
way into it unbidden, and risk losing John’s lands.”
The force with which the earl
spoke drove home for Lachlan the fact that Kildrummond should have been his by
right of lineage. Lord Albermarle had bowed out of his inheritance gracefully,
and allowed Lord Kildrummond to name Lachlan his heir. He could have contested
the decision. He’d had every right to. But he hadn’t.
The earl meant what he said:
Lachlan had an obligation to remain out of the conflict.
“When does Douglas plan to make
his move?” he inquired.
“In about a month. When the
ground has thawed and the spring rains have ceased. ‘Tis no good fighting on a
ground thick wi’ mud.”
“May then. Or thereabouts.”
“I pray that poor John leaves
this world before then. I wouldna wish him alive to learn we’ve lost our
campaign.”
The earl’s defeatist statement
alarmed Lachlan. “D’ye think ye will? Lose, I mean?”
Lord Albermarle shook his great
head, his thick mane of silver-streaked hair quivering. “Och, dinna pay me any
mind, lad. Douglas has a great force behind him. There is no reason to think he
willna be victorious. I’m only preparing myself for the worst, is all.”
For Moira, who’d been listening
to the conversation quietly while aimlessly prodding the contents of her
trencher, Lord Albermarle’s words fell heavy upon her heart.
A move against the Crown.
Treason. She’d known the earl for most of her life. She could not bear to think
of him being charged with such a grievous offense—to be sentenced and executed,
should they lose.
She was quiet for most of the
journey back to her home.
“Ye’re no’ cross wi’ me again,
are ye?” Lachlan quipped.
“What? ... Oh, nay. I were just
thinking.”
“Of?”
“Of Lord Albermarle. And how he’s
joining Lord Douglas.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded slowly.
There was a moment of tense
silence before she spoke again.
“Lachlan, ye’re a knight.”
“Last time I checked.”
“What ... what happens in a
battle? Will Lord Albermarle fight, too, or will it only be his men?”
“Typically the lords dinna fight,
no. If they do, they fight from atop their mounts and so are more protected
than the men on the ground. Mind, though, the battles I’ve fought havena been
anywhere near the size of this one—if it comes to that. Ye’d best prepare
yerself, though. This isna a petty battle between clans. William Douglas’s
murder is a deeply personal matter for all the Douglas lords. Albermarle may
very well fight. I suppose it depends upon his nature.”
“That’s what I were afraid of,”
Moira admitted. “It is most certainly in Lord Albermarle’s nature to take up a
sword and avenge the death of his chief. He isna likely to sit back and watch
other men carry out his justice for him.”
“Aye, I’ve got that impression of
him,” Lachlan agreed. “I suppose the only thing to do is pray Douglas is
victorious.”
By then they’d reached the door
of Moira’s hut. The windows were dark; no homey turf fire flickered in the
burlap covered window, no plume of smoke lifted up from the chimney into the brisk
night air. From outside, the place had a feel of abandonment to it.
Handing him her mare’s reins,
Moira darted inside and lit the fire. Returning, she helped him guide the
horses into the crude stable which took up half the hut. It was tricky, for the
dwelling had been built to accommodate only one horse and a handful of sheep.
But neither mount seemed to mind the warmth of the other, nor of the Highland
heifer they joined. The sheep bleated a half-hearted protest at having to share
their pen, but soon gave up their complaint. It was too late and too cold
outside to raise much of a fuss.
The animals secured for the
night, Moira scanned the hut to make sure it was still tidy. Niall had kept the
place well in her short absence. Her meagre collection of things were still
tidy, her handful of surfaces—floor, table, pantry—were still clean. He’d been
into the pantry, though: the space where she kept her bannock, between the salt
pot and the rye flour, was empty. This didn’t surprise her. That boy could deplete
Moray of its grain stocks within a sennight.
“Are ye in the habit of keeping
mead?”
Moira glanced quizzically in
Lachlan’s direction, and followed his gaze to the right of the hearth. There,
tucked into a corner, was a small, wooden cask with MacCormack’s mark branded
into the side of the wood grain.
“Oh, isna that sweet,” she
exclaimed. “Master MacCormack must have brought it to welcome ye.”
“Ah, yes. He does make a good
brew. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.”
“There’s a reason the castle
commissions most of his product nearly as fast as he can make it. We’ve one or
two other brewers in the village, but their ale and mead is nowhere near as
nice as his ... or, I should say theirs,
for the whole MacCormack family is involved in the trade. Even wee Imogen does
what she can.”
Dispensing with such formalities as
etiquette, Moira fetched two cups. She poured a generous draft into each one, and
handed a cup to Lachlan at the same time that she took a sip from her own.
The liquid was sweet and
fragrant; it warmed her belly and took the edge off the chill night air. She
must be careful not to drink too much, though. Lachlan was watching her from
over the rim of his cup as he drank; the way his eyes scrutinized her made her
belly a little too warm. She looked
away, feeling rather guilty.
Stop it, ye daft lass. Ye dinna want to go imagining things that aren’t
there, now.
“Well, I’m tired,” she announced
abruptly, and drained her cup. Setting it on the edge of the pantry, she
shuffled over to the single cot.
It looked narrower than she
remembered.
“I’ll sit up a while, if ye dinna
mind.” Settling himself onto the bench, Lachlan stretched his long legs out in
front of him. The firelight flickered on his bare shins, and danced over his
raven hair. The whole situation felt far more intimate than she imagined it
would. It was unsettling.
“Suit yourself,” she replied nonchalantly,
and set about stripping off her gown.
Since their first night together,
Moira had overcome her modesty. Being modest, she’d discovered, was an inconvenience.
Besides, the billowing linen of her shift covered her well enough. And thankfully
she was too thin, too shapeless, to encourage a man to conjure in his mind what
his eyes could not see.
Tossing her gown over the
bedpost, she crawled under the layers of quilts and moved as close to the
opposite side of the straw mattress as she could. She was so absurdly close to
the wall that she could feel the cold air beyond graze her nose and cheeks.
Exhausted, Moira laid her head on
her pillow and closed her eyes. But the sleep she’d been so eager to find all
evening seemed lost to her with Lachlan in such close and intimate confines. She
remained awake, cognizant of every sound he made. God’s bones, she could hear
the rippling of his throat each time he swallowed his mead.
The mead in her own belly began
working against her senses. She was not at all in her cups, but the warm comfort
that seeped through her body was a little too relaxing. A little too ... delicious.
She did not want to be relaxed
around Lachlan. They may be friends now, they may have gotten over their
initial wariness of each other, but he was still an arrogant arse like all the
other handsome men she knew.
Though perhaps ... not quite like
all the others. Unlike them, when Lachlan talked to her, he wasn’t looking over
her shoulder for a more interesting woman to entertain. When Lachlan talked to
her, it was as if he was truly listening, as if he was truly committed to the
conversation they were having at that moment.
It was a trait she noticed in him
no matter who he was talking to: commitment. Now that she had occasion to think
about it, such was not a common trait. One did not often come across a
person—man or woman, it didn’t matter—that made one feel important when they
spoke.
It was the mark of a good leader;
Lachlan would make a good leader
someday.
And therein lay the problem with
the mead. For Moira could easily let herself be mistaken that this rare trait
in Lachlan Ramsay, a trait which he showed to everyone, was a sign that he
enjoyed her company. She could easily lose herself in the illusion that he wanted her companionship.
No handsome man ever really
wanted her companionship. For the sake of her pride, Moira needed to remember
that in that respect, Lachlan Ramsay
was no different. He was not interested in her and he never would be.
And damnit, she was not
interested in him, either.
Yet still, when he climbed into
the bed beside her, she could feel his presence like an unseen force upon her
skin. Like the tickle of a feather or the patter of rainwater.
“Night then, lass,” he whispered
to her back.
She pretended to be asleep. With
that unseen feather grazing up and down her spine, she did not trust herself to
answer him.
THE MELLOW SCENT of clean hay,
mingled with the slightly sharper aroma of animal netherparts, greeted Lachlan
as he emerged from a deep and luxurious slumber. It was not entirely
unpleasant, and he’d certainly awoken to more offensive smells in the past—unless
a man knew what it was to sleep in a tent with thirty other men during the
height of summer, that man could not claim to know what a bad smell truly was.
He did not move, did not make so
much as a sound that he might chase away this unanticipated gift, this state of
complete bliss in which he found himself.
Most mornings, when he awoke in a
strange place, he did not immediately remember where he was. Given his profession,
and the frequency with which he found himself sleeping in unfamiliar places,
he’d become accustomed to identifying his surroundings straight away for any
sign of imminent danger.
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?
As 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment