The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  How could she, in all conscience, make vows with a Protestant? With an infidel? With the man who might well have killed one or more of her brothers? A cold chill permeated her.

  The stark structure ahead did not allay her fears. A tower house rather than a sprawling castle, it rose vertically up toward the sky. She saw three towers but few windows, and it had none of the elaborate corbelled turreting of some tower houses. It looked cold and unwelcoming.

  And how soon would she have to lie with the present lord in one of its chambers? She now knew a little more about him. She had listened to Cumberland’s officers when they thought her asleep. The marquis was a misfit. A drunkard and gambler and womanizer. They even suspected that he’d slipped from the battlefield, and mayhap even injured himself to keep himself safe from the enemy.

  That was the man they were commanding her to marry.

  If it were not for her brother …

  But she was a woman. Nothing but a woman. She wanted to fall to the earth and pound her hands against the ground. She wanted to scream. She wanted to protest the injustice of it all.

  But her brothers had lost their lives, and wasn’t that an even greater injustice?

  She tried to keep her face expressionless as they approached the tower house. There were no walls around it, only a number of buildings: a large one that was obviously a stable, and several smaller ones. The grounds were unkempt, and there were no gardens. There was a lifelessness to Braemoor that conflicted with all the activity and warmth at her own castle. Not her own.

  Not any longer.

  God help her, this was now her home. Unless she could persuade the marquis that she would make a truly horrible wife. The sudden thought appealed to her. She knew she did not look well this day. She’d been traveling two days, sleeping out at night in the cold mist with no maid to do her hair. It was braided now for convenience. Since she’d had no mirror, she imagined it was a rather messy braid.

  Her cheeks must be red from the sun and wind, and she knew her clothes were soiled and dirty. Mayhap the marquis would take one look at her and decline even the massive bribe offered him. And if she had a disposition to match …

  Several men in plaids were engaged in swordplay. They turned and looked at her rudely as she rode amidst ten of Cumberland’s army. Their scowls told her that the Forbes clan was probably not any happier about this alliance than she.

  One headed for the massive door of the tower and slipped inside, obviously alerting the residents inside to the new arrivals. There were no soldiers standing guard on parapets, no watch. But then why would there be? The Forbeses had betrayed their heritage, Scotland’s honor. They had nothing to fear from the king. Revulsion rose up in her throat for all those who had chosen the English king to save their own lives and their properties.

  She was to be traded to a man without honor, a clan without principle. The prize for the king: insuring the MacDonells would not rise again against him. Her elderly mare, chosen by the English captain, stumbled, and she realized how tightly she’d clenched her hands on the reins.

  Bethia leaned down and whispered apologies. The mare was as much a pawn as she. Then she straightened as a tall man in plaid appeared at the door and approached them as they came to a halt.

  He was a well-formed man and, she had to admit, a handsome one. His hair was dark brown, his eyes dark, and he wore a Forbes plaid of green and black and purple.

  The captain accompanying her rode up to him. “The Marquis of Braemoor?”

  A pained look crossed the man’s face. “Nay. He is not here. I am Neil Forbes.”

  The captain nodded toward Bethia. “I brought his bride. We sent word ahead.…”

  “My cousin had other business.”

  Bethia didn’t miss the contempt in his face, contempt for his own kinsman.

  The captain’s brows furrowed in anger. “But …”

  Neil Forbes looked distressed. “He was told about your expected arrival. He left last night. We have not heard from him since.”

  The captain’s frown deepened. “I was ordered to stay here until the vows were exchanged.”

  Neil Forbes’s gaze went back to Bethia. “You must be weary, milady.”

  She was. She had slept little these past three days, and they’d ridden steadily the past two days. But she would not show these Forbeses any sign of weakness. She said nothing.

  But he approached her and offered her his hand to dismount. Reluctantly she took it, knowing that if she did not, she might well fall. She could not afford to do that. Still, she snatched her hand away the second she reached the ground.

  He merely looked amused and turned to the captain. “A room has been prepared for Lady Bethia and one for you. Your men can stay in the hall.”

  The captain hesitated. “His Grace wants the vows said immediately. He will be here next week.”

  “I am sure my cousin will arrive before long,” Neil Forbes said.

  Bethia stood there, her fists clenched. The insult was great. The bridegroom was missing. He thought so little of his bride-to-be that he didn’t feel it was necessary to be present at her arrival. Well, she dinna want to see him any more than he wanted to see her. She hoped he never appeared. Mayhap he was hunting a boar. Mayhap if she were lucky enough, the boar would win.

  But all she could do was clench her teeth as the Forbes clansman led the way inside the structure.

  The interior was as unpromising as the exterior. Cobwebs and dust permeated the hall. Tapestries were faded and coated with dirt. Bethia had an overwhelming impression of gloom and neglect.

  She involuntarily shivered, hoping no one saw it. She stiffened her spine, forced her fingers to relax from the tight fists her fingers had unconsciously formed.

  Her home. She’d once thought her wedding day would be warm and wonderful, full of expectation and laughter and joy. Her family would be drinking to future bairns, her brothers offering toasts.

  “Milady?” The handsome Forbes was openly staring at her, his eyes curious and … something more. Jealousy? Certainly not for her, not as she stood, her dress stained, her hair falling away from the braid in damp ringlets.

  “I would like to retire to my room,” she said, forcing her body to maintain a dignified posture.

  The Forbes clansman nodded and said something to one of the men standing near him. In minutes, a girl appeared.

  “This is Trilby. She will show you your chamber and fetch whatever you need.”

  The young girl—probably no more than fourteen—curtsied. “If you will be comin’ wi’ me, milady,” she said.

  Privacy. How much she wanted it. She had not been alone in the past two days except for humiliating moments when she’d had to ask permission to perform personal tasks. Even then, she was followed at a discreet distance. She never wanted to see another English uniform or a Forbes plaid. Dear God, how she wanted to hide from them all. She wanted to hide her anger, and the humiliation of being abandoned by her prospective bridegroom. He apparently wanted to show her how little he wanted the marriage, and how little value he gave to her feelings.

  Well, she would not give him the pleasure of her anger.

  She followed the girl up the winding stone stairs and down a long corridor to a room toward the end of the hall. The girl opened the thick wood door and stood aside while Bethia walked in. The room was as cheerless as the ones downstairs. Only the large feather bed looked comfortable.

  Her small bundle of possessions arrived next. Two tunics, two overskirts made of sturdy wool, silk stockings, and several pairs of shoes were all that had been allowed her, in addition to the plain dark riding dress she currently wore, and that poor garment was travel-stained and dirty.

  “May I have a bath?” she asked, not at all certain her request would be granted.

  “Aye, milady. The marquis told us to do all in our power to make you comfortable.”

  She weighed that comment. Nothing had made her feel welcome. But, then, had she not dreaded meeting her brid
egroom? Why, then, was she vexed that he had not been present for her arrival?

  But she immediately knew the answer. The rude discourtesy boded ill.

  “Where is the marquis?”

  Her face turned red. “I canna say, milady.”

  Bethia knew immediately that the girl knew the lout’s whereabouts, but was reluctant to say. She asked no more questions. She needed a friend, mayhap even an ally. This Trilby probably came as close to one that she could expect.

  “Then a bath would be glorious,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips.

  The girl backed toward the door. “Aye, milady.”

  Then Bethia was alone. She went to the narrow window and looked down at the courtyard. This was to be her home, unless the damnable marquis decided he did not want a Jacobite bride. She would make it quite clear that she would not surrender her Catholic beliefs. She would let him know she did not wish this marriage.

  But quite obviously he’d already agreed to it, and she knew from experience that men did not care about love and friendship in a marriage as women did.

  If only she’d been born a man.

  But she had not been. And all her “ifs” had dissolved on a battlefield at Culloden Moor. Along with all her dreams. She could only hope to be as braw as her brothers, and give whatever she must to save her remaining brother.

  “The lady is at Braemoor,” Alister said as he met Rory at Mary’s cottage in the heavily forested area north of Braemoor. “She arrived yesterday.”

  Rory swore. He had hoped to get back before the MacDonell lass’s arrival, but he’d had no choice. He’d hidden several Jacobites in an area about to be raided by Cumberland’s forces, and he’d had to spirit them to another place. Now he had to get them to a small fishing village and out to a French ship. He had arranged for one in two weeks.

  His small group of fugitives was well disguised as crofters returning home after being persecuted by the Jacobite army. A young earl had been turned into a sixty-year-old, and his wife a maid. It had not been easy to transform the autocratic couple into subservient peasants.

  He still remembered the lady’s plaintive plea. “But they are filthy rags.”

  ‘That,” he’d replied rather curtly, “is the idea.”

  The lady had said no more.

  He said a brief thanks to Elizabeth McComb, an actress in Edinburgh who had given him instructions in makeup. He was getting nearly as adept at it as she and, indeed, had aged himself considerably several times.

  But now he was exhausted. He’d had no sleep for the last two days, while ostensibly spending time at Mary’s place in the wood where everyone thought he was playing and wenching. Alister had been sent to fetch him. No one else had the courage, not after he’d informed his staff that no one, absolutely no one, was to bother him when he was “occupied.”

  Probably, he thought wryly, even his wife-to-be had heard the gossip.

  She was most certainly destined to be a problem. His absences had been explained easily enough in the past. But now …

  He wished he could find a way to extricate himself from this wedding. Perhaps his behavior would be so obnoxious that the lady would refuse. He knew why he so reluctantly agreed. His character was considered so weak that he would most certainly jump at an opportunity to add so much wealth to his holdings. He supposed that she was also made an offer she could not refuse.

  Damn Cumberland and his intrigues.

  Mary left the room while he changed. Rory quickly rid himself of the makeup and fake beard that had aged him, then washed his face, scrubbing the heavy paint from his face and the gray powder from his hair. Alister helped him take off the ragged, dirty plaid he wore over the worn saffron shirt. Finally, he quickly pulled on colorful trews and a contrasting bright yellow doublet. His worn brogans were replaced by pointed slippers.

  Rory shaved the dark stubble from his face and placed the heavy powdered wig on his head. He hated the bloody thing, hated the heavy doublet and trews. He’d far rather wear his kilt, but the Hanover disapproved of the plaids and kilts. There was even talk of outlawing them altogether, even among the loyalists. And he was, after all, a very loyal subject of the English king.

  When he felt himself well enough prepared, he presented himself to Alister, who gave him a crooked grin. “A fine dandy you are, milord.”

  “Do you think my wife-to-be will be pleased?”

  Alister remained silent.

  “I am afraid I have blackened Mary’s name even further,” Rory said apologetically.

  “’Twas her decision,” Alister said, but this time the smile was gone from his eyes. Rory knew Alister hated the pretense they had created, and yet neither had been able to discover another plausible reason for Rory’s long absences. And Mary Ferguson was already considered a loose woman. Rory’s brother had made quite sure of that.

  Rory’s fury rose whenever he thought of the day he’d found his brother raping Mary. He’d flung himself on Donald and warned him never again to touch the girl. But it had not been the first time, and Donald had spread the word that Mary had been quite willing. It was enough to ruin the girl, who had been orphaned not long before.

  Rory had threatened to run his brother through if he had the girl evicted, and Donald had believed him. Rory was far the better swordsman of the two, despite his reputation as a rake and wastrel. He’d been fostered with one of the best swordsmen in England, and he’d learned his lessons well. When he’d returned, his brother had been humiliated at his defeat when he’d challenged Rory. Since then, Rory had practiced little in public, preferring the role of a lazy libertine, in part to provoke his father. But Donald had been reminded every time he’d undressed and saw the scar running up his side.

  Donald had covered his anger over Mary’s rescue by telling everyone his brother could do no better then a slut. But Mary had not been bothered again and she’d been allowed to keep the thatched cottage in the woods, where her mother, and her mother before her, had kept herb gardens and mixed medicines and potions. Some believed her a witch and kept away from her.

  But Rory had always liked her and her mother. Mary was not particularly pretty in face, but she had lovely gray eyes and long dark hair and a huge heart. She had a way with beasts as well as plants, and Alister was head over heels in love with her.

  Rory had taken her to tend the first wretched group of Jacobites when one of the children fell ill. She’d quickly committed herself to their cause, to helping the innocent escape the slaughter being committed through the country. As news of the Black Knave spread, more and more whispers came to her ears of fugitives and she, in turn, turned to Alister and Rory.

  They had never expected their one act of compassion to turn into a huge network for escaping Jacobites. Nor that the Black Knave would become the second most wanted man in Scotland. Only Prince Charles himself carried a larger price on his head.

  Now Rory was caught in a net of his own making.

  And a wife would only complicate things. He certainly couldn’t trust her, even if she were a Jacobite. He’d never had much faith in a woman’s ability to keep secrets, with the rare exception of Mary and Elizabeth, both of whom had earned his trust. He could not endanger them now, or others he’d enlisted in his network that shepherded Jacobites to French ships. All their heads would be on the block.

  If only Cumberland could have waited a few more months.…

  But Rory had already used every excuse at his disposal: mourning, disloyalty to the crown by marrying a Jacobite, another woman he loved. All had been swept aside with the wave of a hand. The king wanted this marriage for some bloody reason, and he was going to get it, or know the reason why.

  The best he could hope for was some arrangement with the woman, a marriage in name only. He would make damn sure she wanted nothing else. And with his current fashion, he was sure she would not. He looked like a dissipated peacock.

  “Brandy?” he asked of Alister. Without a word, Alister handed him a flagon, and Rory took severa
l deep droughts, making sure to spill some of it down his waistcoat, and then he wiped his hand across his lips so all of him smelled as if he’d spent the day in a keg.

  Then, out of curiosity he really wished he didn’t have, he asked, “Is she pretty?”

  “She looked ill-used when I saw her. Bedraggled. Tired. Her hair was straggling in her face. She did not look happy.”

  “Would you be if forced to marry an enemy, one you knew from reputation to be a libertine?” Rory asked softly. “I do not like this charade, but I will try not to make her suffer overmuch for it. I asked Trilby to attend her. She is a sweet, biddable girl.”

  “Aye, but you still have the wedding night.”

  Rory swore again. He’d thought of that, of course. Rape did not appeal to him. ’Twas not unusual for a husband and wife to have separate bedchambers, but occasional visits would be necessary. And he would have to maintain his role as fool and blusterer. It was a fine line to walk. Too much a fool and Neil would try to usurp him.

  He leaned over and brushed Mary’s brow with his lips. She had become as a sister to him in the past few months. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Mary nodded, her eyes showing worry. Worry for him. She and Alister were the only two people who’d ever given a damn whether he lived or died.

  He touched her shoulder with what he hoped was assurance. “Mayhap we will have a slight lull in our business,” he said.

  He turned and watched Alister. The smithy was putting away Rory’s sword and his dirk, even the pistol he carried. He wrapped them carefully in a plaid, then swept away dirt from a section of floor at the side of the fireplace. He and Rory had dug a hole there, lined it with cloth to keep the clothes and weapon clean, then fitted a board on top. Dirt would then be swept over it, matching the rest of the beaten earth floor. Finally, a table would cover it.

  Rory’s bay was kept in a makeshift corral in back of the house, obvious to those few who ventured to Mary’s home for medicines. No effort was ever made to hide it, unlike the old swaybacked piebald secreted in a cave not far away, along with a sleek black stallion stolen from a careless British officer drinking in a wayside tavern.