The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  Good riddance, she told herself as she finally moved away from the door and started toward the steps. She repeated the words, even as the tears finally fell.

  Chapter Ten

  The gunshot came out of nowhere. Then another.

  The blows knocked Neil off his horse. He tumbled for several feet, his head hitting a rock. He saw blood coloring his breeches and felt it running down his cheek. He realized it was only a matter of seconds before the pain hit him. He knew, from battle, that there was usually a moment’s numbness.

  It came quicker than he thought.

  He forced himself to slump and lie absolutely still. Would the assailant venture down to see whether he had succeeded? Or figure that this path was so isolated that no one would find him in time to save him? He prayed for the latter even as his mind worked feverishly. He had taken this path through the Highlands because the route was faster, even though often dangerous.

  Bandits roamed these Highlands, as did bands of fugitive Jacobites who hadn’t been able to escape the country even eighteen months after Culloden. They needed money for their escape to France.

  He had been a daydreaming fool. The morning mist had cleared and the mountains had been deceptively peaceful with their fields of heather and gorse and tumbling waterfalls. He’d been thinking of Janet and last night’s unwise kiss. How could he ever have permitted himself to commit such a selfish act? But she had been so appealing in the moonlight, her face turned up to his.…

  He’d regretted it instantly and yet he had not been able to stop himself. He had touched her face, and then.…

  And then … he should have walked away. But he had not, and now he would remember forever the way she had invaded the deep private part of him he’d tried to keep locked tight. He would always remember the way her lips felt, the way her body had melded to his. She had not wanted to kiss him, but there had been something so instinctive, so irresistible. He had even let himself think for a second that …

  But what was a marriage without intimacy, without physical love?

  He was visiting that particular hell when the sound of a musket ripped through the air and a ball into him.

  Lost in his thoughts, he had forgotten these Highlands could be as hostile and lawless as any place on earth.

  The pain struck him now with a fury. He heard voices and he struggled to hold his breath. A kick landed in his ribs and he forced himself not to react.

  “E’s not quite dead,” he heard a voice say. “Should I finish ’im?”

  “Search him first. The woman said he would have money. If he does not, we might hold him for ransom.”

  Neil forced his body to go limp and his eyes to remain closed as fingers probed his clothing. They found his much-depleted purse of coins, and he heard the disappointment in their voices. Then a grunt. “Tae bloody cards. We was promised more tha’ this.”

  Neil heard the sound of boots approach. Not a steady gait. Damn, but he wished he could open his eyes. There was a moment’s silence. “The queen and knave?” The voice was puzzled. And, to his surprise, obviously educated.

  The pain was boiling inside him now, and he felt the loss of blood. He tried to will his assailants to leave.

  A foot prodded him again, this time more gently. “If you still live, it will pay you to open your eyes.” The educated voice again. “Otherwise, I will plunge this sword through you.”

  Neil believed him. He opened his eyes.

  “Dem me, but he was playin’ dead,” said the other man.

  “Who are you?” The man who had prodded him asked. Neil tried to raise up to see his interrogator. The man was dressed in peasant’s clothes, a poor wool of nondescript color. His face, though, was striking. A scar ran down one side, giving it a perpetual smile. His hair was a dark russet color, tied in a queue at his neck. He was probably in his late thirties or so, but it was difficult to determine with the scar. His eyes were a dark blue.

  Neil tried to move, but the pain was agonizing. The musket ball, he thought, must still be inside him.

  The man over him seemed not to care. “Who are you?” he asked again. “And I might warn you that your life weighs on the answer.”

  “Neil Forbes,” he said, afraid it sounded more like a groan than actual words.

  “Are you Braemoor?”

  “Aye,” Neil said, seeing no advantage in denying it. Those cards, for some reason, had stayed this man’s hand.

  “Damn, if this isn’t the devil’s own work,” the man said. He stooped and turned Neil, loosened his cloak, then jacket with far more care than the other man had shown. Why?

  He took a knife from his belt and quickly cut open Neil’s trouser leg. He muttered something to himself, then looked back at him. “One ball’s still inside the leg.”

  “So what?” the second man said. “Why not finish him?”

  “I have my reasons, Burke,” the man with the scar said. “Come and help me get him off the path. I doubt whether there will be any more fools coming this way, but you never know.”

  If Neil hadn’t felt so damn bad, he might have resented the description of him. He had no idea why his title had apparently changed this man’s murderous impulses, but he was not going to quarrel with it now. He had too many things he wanted to do, and far too many debts to pay before he met his maker.

  “Can you stand?” the stranger asked.

  Neil tried, but he felt a rush of blood pour from his wound and pain turned into burning agony. He pushed up, though, and the russet-haired man put an arm under his and hoisted him to his feet. “God, but you are a heavy one,” he said. “Burke, help me.”

  The other man took the other side and they half carried, half dragged him down out of sight of the road. The fire in his leg spread throughout his body. His head felt as if someone was hammering it. The pain almost blocked out the questions in his mind. Almost, but not quite. One of the men said a woman had set these two on him. And why now was the bandit trying to save the man he’d just tried to kill?

  “Get my flagon,” the stranger told the man called Burke, then turned to Neil. “I have to take that bullet out,” he said.

  Despite his best efforts to stay upright, Neil dropped to the ground. “Why? You just tried to kill me.”

  “I did not know you were Braemoor,” he said. “We were told an English toff with plenty of Scottish gold in his pockets would be riding this way.”

  “You shoot without making sure?”

  “Better than being shot. Or hung,” the bandit replied with a shrug. “And I find myself in need of scratch.”

  “My horse?”

  “Unhurt. The blood on him is yours. At least I might salvage a horse in this bloody mess.”

  Burke returned with a flagon and musket in his hand.

  “Get him something to bite on. I donna want to bring the entire English army down upon us.”

  “Who are you?” Neil asked.

  “A man trying to survive,” the well-spoken bandit said. “You had the queen and knave. You can think of me as the king.”

  “King of bandits?”

  The man just shrugged and offered the flagon. “Drink well, Braemoor. This is going to hurt like the furies.”

  Neil did so. He knew what was coming. He’d taken a sword thrust once, and some nasty slices while in training. Between waves of stabbing pain, he knew he was losing consciousness. He’d lost a lot of blood. Mayhap too much. The voice of his assailant-turned-benefactor was fading.

  But then the flask was taken away, replaced by a piece of wood. Obediently, he bit down on it when told. His world exploded with agony and a mist of red blinded him. Then he sank into darkness.

  Braemoor was gone. Janet wondered whether he would ever return. He had not even said so much as a good-bye. Or mayhap he had said it early this morning outside the manor. He’d said too much with his actions. And yet not nearly enough.

  A conundrum.

  How could she distrust someone, and yet want him so much?

  Lucy
had reported that he had met with Reginald early in the morning. Her maid had heard Reggie’s loud voice but had not understood the words. She had not heard Braemoor’s voice which meant he had not shouted. But then he never did. Was it simply because he did not care enough?

  He certainly had not cared enough to linger this morning.

  She knew she should take what he had offered and make the most of it while she could. He had given her freedom, credit to make some changes at Lochaene. He had given her everything she had asked for. Just not everything she had longed for.

  Janet scolded herself for being so greedy. She had so much more than she’d had a month ago. Most of all, she had her children.

  But now the losses seemed added one upon the other. Her father. Her brother Alexander. Friends. So many of them gone. Some dead at Culloden. Others put to the horn. Hunted by the English and their own countrymen.

  The absence of one traitorous Scotsman should mean nothing to her.

  She had risen later than she’d thought. After she had left Braemoor late last eve, she’d nursed her son and thus Colin had not woken at daybreak, as was his custom. When he did wake her with hungry demands, she went to the window and looked out. It was long past daybreak.

  Janet ate breakfast with the lasses, answering their questions as well she could. Where had the gentleman gone? When would he be back? Oddly enough, they seemed disappointed that he had left without telling them good-bye.

  Then she went out to see Tim, and was pleased when she saw Kevin there also. He acknowledged her by doffing his hat. “Tim here said ye asked fer me,” he said.

  “Indeed I did,” she replied. “And I am happy to see you back. No one can discharge you now except me. Remember that.”

  “I saw MacKnight yesterday in the village,” Kevin said. “He was in his cups. Said he would get even. Blamed yer ladyship fer being discharged.”

  “It doesna matter. Can you and Tim handle the stables?”

  “Aye, my lady. Now tha’ they ’ave their oats, the beasts are happy. Tim is deliverin’ the seed. ’Tis a foine thing ye are doing.”

  “It is no more than their due.”

  The boy looked startled at the comment but said nothing more.

  “Does Lucy know you are back?”

  Kevin blinked rapidly, then grinned. “Aye. I saw her this morn.”

  “I expect your intentions to be honorable,” she said.

  “Oh, aye, my lady. Now tha’ I have a position again I intend to ask fer her hand.”

  “You will have my blessing,” she said. “The marquis, when did he leave?”

  “Early this morn. ’E left this fer ye.” Kevin handed her a letter sealed by the Braemoor crest.

  She nodded.

  “Would ye want me to be saddling a horse for ye, my lady?” he asked. “Or the phaeton?”

  “Nay,” she said, clutching the letter in tense fingers. “Not now.”

  She took the letter and hurried back to her room. She wanted to read it in private. What if he was denying all that he had offered?

  Lucy was rocking Colin.

  “The lasses?”

  “Clara is with them,” Lucy said.

  “They need a governess.” ’Twas a thought—nay, a strong belief—she’d expressed to her husband. He had decried it. “Lasses need no education,” he’d told her.

  But now … now she had choices. She hoped. She opened the letter and read it slowly.

  I will establish credit for you in the village. When the first crop comes in, you can repay the loan at no interest. I have made the situation plain to your brother-in-law. He understands that you have the final word at Lochaene. If you have need of me, you need only to send a messenger.

  Braemoor

  His title was scrawled at the bottom of the page. Not Neil. Nothing personal. Only a cool letter of agreement. She wanted to crush it in her fist, but instead she looked over the room to find a secure place for it. A loose stone on one side of the room would do. She worked it loose, then put the letter inside in case she needed it.

  Lochaene was hers. She was free for the first time in her life.

  Then why did she feel so empty?

  Pain radiated through Neil. He wanted to retreat back into sleep but that too was haunted. He saw the Culloden battlefield, heard the cries of the stricken, the moans of the dying, the sound of sword against armor and the even worse sound of it piercing flesh.

  His sword.

  Then a voice. A woman said he would have money. How many people had known he would be leaving this morning in time to alert someone? There were three women at Lochaene, but none but Janet knew when he planned to leave.

  The very thought caused more pain than his wound.

  “Braemoor.” He heard his name called. Again and again. He tried to ignore it, to slip into the oblivion that blotted out the wrong roads he had taken.

  The voice continued to nag at him. Challenging him. Why? Why did a bandit care whether or not he lived or died?

  For that matter, why did he care himself?

  But then another internal voice goaded him. You’ve made promises at Braemoor.

  His mouth was dry, so dry he could barely make a croaking sound. His eyelids were heavy, and it required an amazing effort to try to open them. His leg burned as if all the pitchforks in hell had been thrust inside him, and his head felt little better. He was hot all over despite the chill in the air.

  A wet cloth bathed his face. It was a gentler hand than he’d felt before.

  He tried to focus. On one side was a young lass of no more than thirteen years. On the other was the man who had cut the ball from his leg.

  “Ah, you are finally awake, Braemoor?”

  The eyes in the scarred face were cool, almost indifferent. Neil wondered why he was still among the living.

  He moved, barely stifling a groan. He sensed he could not show weakness to this man who had ambushed him and had obviously intended him to die. What had stopped him?

  Neil tried to move. The pain intensified, stabbing at him. “Why?” he managed to ask.

  “Why did you have those cards?”

  The cards. For some reason, those cards had saved his life. Those cards and his name. He had thrown away the other cards in a moment of fancy. Fate?

  “Someone must want you dead, my lord, since we were told a wealthy gentleman would be traveling through these parts,” the man said in a mocking voice.

  “And why … am I not?”

  “You answer my questions first. Why did you have those cards?”

  “I like them,” Neil said.

  “Not a good enough answer.”

  “Where am I?”

  “A cave far away from any British soldiers. Or turncoat Scottish ones. Do not expect any help.”

  “I never … have,” Neil said.

  “You fought with Cumberland?”

  “Aye,” Neil said, knowing that one word might be his death sentence. This man was unquestionably a fugitive Jacobite. And a bandit.

  “Wise answer, my lord. If you had said otherwise, you would be dead.”

  “I still do not understand why I am not.”

  “Do not hold too much hope, my lord. It is still likely to happen.”

  Neil could not think of anything to be said after that dire prediction.

  “I have heard the name of Braemoor whispered,” the bandit said. “And I know what the jack of spades means to some.”

  Neil tried to move again. God, but he was thirsty. “Water?”

  The man nodded to the girl who quickly got to her feet and disappeared from his view. Seconds later she appeared with a cup. The bandit took it from her, and put his arm under Neil’s head, lifting it slightly. But the cup came no nearer Neil’s lips.

  “You have not answered my questions yet,” his captor taunted him.

  Neil closed his eyes. The man obviously thought he had some connection with the Black Knave. That much was obvious. He was not going to take credit for Rory’s acts. He’d dish
onored himself enough.

  “Where were you coming from?” the bandit said.

  Neil puzzled over the question. “Lochaene,” he said. “Near Inverness. Did not your informant tell you that?” he said bitterly.

  “What informant?”

  “I heard you say … the woman had said I was carrying money.”

  The man swore under his breath. “I did not know the message came from Lochaene. One of my … compatriots told me he obtained information from a high-bred royalist.”

  “Compatriot? Or fellow thief?”

  “Oh, he is a thief, all right. He just does not have the courage to do the work himself. He gets others to do it for him. I pay a small fee for information.”

  “So you can ambush and kill Scotsmen?”

  “So I can ambush and kill traitors,” the man corrected him.

  “Murder is murder.” Neil knew he was goading the man, but he could not help it. The reference to a woman still bothered him. So did the man’s indifference to life.

  But then he’d been rather indifferent to life himself for a number of years. All he had wanted was the marquis’s approval. Now he felt he was looking himself in the face, and he did not like it. He just did not know why he was not dead.

  But the man merely shrugged. “Were you at Culloden?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you, too, are a murderer.”

  “Then why did you dig a musket ball out of me?”

  “You haven not yet answered my question. Why the cards?”

  “Many people have cards.”

  “Not just the black jack … the knave. You could be arrested on that fact alone.”

  “I also had the queen,” Neil said.

  “Do you really wish to die?”

  “Nay, but I am not the Black Knave. He is dead.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “He has not been seen in months.”

  “I have need of him,” the bandit said unexpectedly.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Neil said. “I know nothing about him.”

  Surprisingly, the man gave him a sip of water, and another. Neil swallowed greedily. “My thanks.”