Alister finished his task. Rory gave him his hand, and Alister took it in both of his. “You will be staying awhile?”
“Aye,” Alister replied, his gaze going to Mary.
Rory grinned at him, then Mary. He knew she cared deeply for Alister, and the feeling was reciprocated. But Rory needed to continue the pretense of an affair, at least for a while. And then …
Well, then, nothing would make him happier than a union between Mary and Alister. She had suffered enough and, God knew, she had risked everything for him.
“I go and face the wench then,” he said.
“She is not uncomely,” Alister said. “Mayhap …”
“A wife, any wife, my friend, is most certainly a curse.” Before either of his friends could debate the issue, he strode out the door and to the back. He quickly saddled his horse, and swung up onto its back.
A wife. He’d never intended on taking one. His mother’s marriage had been made in hell, and he’d grown up amidst his mother’s and father’s hatred for each other. In Edinburgh he had seen few happy marriages; in truth he did not know of one. Faithful wives had been the exception, and nearly every man had a mistress. It had left him with a sour taste for the institution.
And to start with a reluctant bride blackmailed into marriage.
Bloody hell!
“The marquis is back,” Trilby told her shyly. “He wishes you to meet him in his study. I came to help you dress.”
A day had gone by. Pleading exhaustion, she had remained in her room despite invitations from Neil Forbes to join the clan for supper the night before. Now her hands felt icy and her heart thumped as erratically as the steps of a man being led to the gallows. She could no longer pretend that something might disrupt this godless marriage. She missed Dougal enormously, as she missed her older brothers. She could do nothing to help the latter, but at least she could save Dougal. With that thought, she allowed Trilby to brush her freshly washed hair and lace it with flowers.
She stared into the mirror. Her face was pale and thin. Food had been sparse since she’d been taken from her home, but even if it had not, she’d lost her appetite. She ate only enough to keep alive. How could she eat when she’d seen her clansmen killed as they’d tried to protect her? When her only surviving brother was imprisoned?
“You have lovely hair, milady,” Trilby said.
Bethia tried to smile. The girl had tried to be kind, had tempted her last night with sweets, but hopelessness reached so far down into her soul, she felt her whole being dragged into a huge dark abyss. Then she looked at herself again. Where was the spirit that her brothers teased her about? Where was the courage they bragged about when she raced bareback across the moors?
No bloody Englishman or Scots traitor was going to defeat her. They would not see her bowed.
She stiffened her back as the girl finished her hair. “Thank you, Trilby.”
“Do you wish me to help you dress?”
Bethia was wearing a linen tunic. She needed only to drape the overskirt and buckle the belt that held it in place. “No,” she said. “You can tell … the marquis I will meet with him as soon as I have finished.”
Trilby curtsied.
“You need not do that with me,” Bethia said. “I’m naught but a prisoner in this place.”
“But milady, ye are the new marchioness.”
Such an exalted title. Bethia choked down a bitter laugh. Marchioness, indeed!
Instead, she asked the question that had been haunting her. “Can you tell me something about the marquis?”
The girl’s face stilled. “What would ye be wanting to know?” she asked after a moment’s pause.
“Is he … an older man?”
“Nay, he has but thirty years.”
Bethia was not sure whether this was good or ill news. Part of her had hoped for an elderly man who was beyond the physical lust of marriage.
“Can you tell me something of … his character?” He betrayed his own countrymen. What kind of character could he have? Still …
The girl’s face locked in indecision.
“I will tell no one what you say,” she promised.
“In truth, milady, I do not know. He was fostered on the border and he rarely returned here until the … uprising. I heard …”
“You heard what?” Bethia prompted.
The young girl’s eyes pleaded with her not to ask more questions.
“Trilby … I will know soon enough. Please.”
“I do not know, milady. Truly I do not,” Trilby said. “He has been gone frequently, even since he became the marquis. They say he is a gaming man and …” Her voice died away. “’Tis all I can say, milady. I should not have said that.”
Bethia’s throat grew dry. There was more. Much more, or the girl wouldn’t look so miserable. What kind of man had Cumberland condemned her to?
Well, she would know soon enough. She turned away. “I will be down shortly. Tell me where to go.”
“I will wait outside for ye,” Trilby insisted, seeming to understand that she wanted several moments to herself.
Bethia swallowed. In truth, she did not want to go wandering about this huge pile of stones. “Thank you,” she said. “I will not be long.”
The girl disappeared out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
Bethia pulled on the overskirt, then defiantly positioned her tartan arisaid over her shoulder, fastening it with a plain broach. She gathered it with her lightly jeweled belt, the one possession of value left her. She had pride enough to wear the tartan, even though she knew it shouted her rebellion. She did not care. Let him know he was getting no meek maiden.
She pinched her cheeks, bringing some color into them. She did not want to look fearful or pale. Then she went to the door.
Think about Dougal.
With him, and only him in mind, she opened the door, tilted her head up proudly, and silently followed Trilby down the steps to meet her betrothed.
Three
Rory couldn’t contain a certain uneasiness, even tension, as he awaited the MacDonell lass.
He would rather face a hangman, he thought, than a bride. Any bride. But especially a hostile one.
But mayhap she would be pliable, happy to have a title, even one granted by a Hanover.
A knock came at the door. What would the fop, Rory Forbes, do? Certainly not commit the courtesy of rising.
“Come in,” he said loud enough to penetrate the door and half rose from the chair he occupied.
He immediately knew his betrothed was no meek maiden. The lass entered alone, her back rigid, a frown of disapproval on her face.
“Lady Bethia,” he acknowledged.
He saw her gaze study him. Blue eyes. Dark like the Atlantic seas. And, at the moment, as angry as when a storm swept them.
He returned her weighing look. Obviously Trilby had taken great care with her hair which, along with her eyes, appeared to be her best feature. ’Twas the color of mahogany, dark and rich with just a sheen of red. A single braid, laced with flowers, fell nearly to her waist.
The face was too thin and angular to be considered pretty. Her chin was well defined and now it jutted out a mile in stubborn rebelliousness. His bride’s mouth was wide, though her lips were pressed tightly together in a thin line. Her nose, sprinkled with a smattering of freckles, was the one regular feature.
It was difficult to imagine what a smile would do to the totality of that face. But still, ’twas an interesting face, illuminated by strength and intelligence. If she was frightened at the prospect of an unknown bridegroom, she didn’t show it. He was immediately intrigued and that, he knew, was disastrous.
“I hope you find your new home satisfactory,” he said after a long, stilted silence.
“No,” she challenged him. “It is a pigsty.”
She was quite right about that, and he could barely hold back a smile at her audacity. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow in his most supercilious manner.
&nbs
p; “Nor are the manners any better,” she continued. “I observed how interested you were in my arrival.” Her gaze rested on him with open contempt, and he knew she found him as unappealing as he’d hoped. Well, wasn’t that what he wanted?
“Dare I hope that you were that eager to see me?”
Fury sparked in her eyes, making them really quite lovely. “Hardly,” she said. “However, I did expect a modicum of courtesy.”
He shrugged. “I had other business.”
“Other business?”
“Aye,” he said, waving a handkerchief under his nose as if he smelled something disagreeable. “I have many interests.”
He saw distaste deepen in her dark blue eyes.
“You do not want this marriage?” he said.
“No.” The reply was so quick and harsh, he nearly flinched. Why did he have such a reaction? Bloody hell, he didn’t want it, either.
He stood and walked around her, ogling her, making his possession obvious to her. “Then why did you consent?”
“Why did you?” she snapped back. “Could you not get a wife any other way?”
“My title and wealth insures a wife,” he said, “and one of my own choosing. However, you come with a princely dowry.”
He saw the enmity in her eyes. A shiver ran down his back. He’d thought he could finesse this marriage, give his bride dresses and comfort and forget about her, as he’d seen so many men do. But now he wondered whether anything would placate her.
“I answered your question,” he said. “It is your turn now. Why did you agree?”
“My little brother would die if I did not.”
He forced his eyes to remain blank. “A lot of people have died,” he said emotionlessly.
“Including my other brothers,” she said. “I will not lose Dougal.”
“And so you consent to this marriage?”
“Out of necessity, aye,” she said. “That should give you no pleasure.”
He hesitated. He saw not only the anger in her eyes, but the anguish. Despite her harsh words, he saw her fear. If nothing else, he could do something about that.
“I am not enamored by you either,” he said cruelly. “But I am interested in the lands you will bring to me. I have no desire to share a bed with you; I have other interests. So, madam, I will make a bargain with you. We will wed, because neither of us has a choice, but I will not interfere with you and you will not interfere with my life. Is that agreed?”
She stared at him. He saw her hands clasp one another, and he saw her face struggle for control. “You have a choice,” she said bitterly.
He regarded his fingernails carefully. “You obviously do not know the Hanover. He wishes to gift me with lands and with your hand. One does not refuse a king.”
Her eyes flickered with suspicion. “Why should I believe you?”
He flicked his lace handkerchief again in a gesture of complete disinterest. “I care not whether you believe me or not. I can do whatever I wish with you. Surely, you are aware of that. You are considered a traitor to the crown. You have been given a reprieve because Cumberland believes this alliance might benefit King George. You have little choice in the matter.”
“Then … why?”
“Because I do not think we suit, madam, and I want something from you, also. I want the freedom to conduct my life as I have without questions or nagging or interference. Or copious tears. Therefore, I propose a truce beneficial to both of us.” He leered at her. “Unless, of course, you feel compelled to consummate the wedding?”
“Will they not—”
“Check the sheets? Most certainly. However, blood these days is rather readily available.”
She winced, and her face flooded with color. He suspected she’d never discussed such intimate things before.
“Madam?” he repeated the question.
“Can I ride? Leave the grounds?”
Amusement intermingled with admiration. She was in no position to bargain, and yet she was trying to do exactly that.
“Mayhap after a certain … adjustment,” he said.
Her blue eyes narrowed. He wondered for a split second whether he had said too much, given her power he couldn’t afford her to have. He had to smother it. “We will marry within the week. I have already invited other clans to the ceremony,” he said. “And you will learn to do as I say. I merely wish to … make it as tolerable as possible for both of us.”
“Tolerable,” she said in a cold, furious voice. “Tolerable? Married to a traitor, a man who would kill his own countrymen, who …” She stopped as her eyes raked him with contempt. “Or were you even there?”
“Oh, I was at Culloden, my lady, though it was not my wish. Battle is such a waste,” he said with a flick of his wrist.
“My brothers didn’t think so,” she said in a low voice.
“We may have met,” he said with indifference. He didn’t like the way she was affecting him, the sympathy welling inside him. It was too dangerous.
The anger in her eyes turned to something akin to hate. “They died there. They were far better men than you,” she said. “As was the man I was to marry.”
He waved the handkerchief again, as if to shoo away an insect. “Did you love him?”
“Aye.”
He felt the slightest twinge in his heart, then instantly berated himself. Why did he care whether she had loved before?
He shrugged, then fixed his gaze on her clothes again. “You will need better clothes, and a fine gown for the ceremony.”
She looked at him with something like triumph. “This is all I have, this, and a faded riding costume.”
“I will have dressmakers call upon you. They should have a dress ready in time for the ceremony. Lord Cumberland himself has said he will attend.”
“Am I supposed to be pleased at that? What other fine gifts do you have for me?” she asked sarcastically.
“You have a tart tongue, my lady.”
“You can always send me back,” she tempted.
“Are you willing to risk the consequences?”
She hesitated, then he saw a wily look in her eyes. “I want my brother. Will you bring him here?”
Sympathy welled up in him. She was trying to bargain, even when her position was untenable. He wished he could accede, but he couldn’t. He forced a harshness he didn’t feel. “I’m told he is a ward of Cumberland. There is nothing I can do.”
“You see nothing wrong with using an eleven-year-old boy as a weapon?”
“You do not understand Scotland, today, my lady. Everyone is using whatever—and whoever—they can to survive.”
“There is honor left.”
“Honor? Surely you must know that honor left this land long ago.”
“It certainly left the Forbeses.”
“I would not be saying those words at Braemoor,” he said. “My brother died of a wound inflicted at Culloden.”
Her chin went up. “I have heard of what you—and your fellow traitors—did after the battle. Did you, too, enjoy killing women and children? How can you even call yourself a Scot?”
“You had best watch your tongue. There is little tolerance for Jacobites here. Your beloved Prince Charles is no’ one to be holding up as honorable. He ran, leaving all of his followers to die. ’Twas his lack of leadership that led to your defeat. Think not to find sympathy here.”
“I did not expect to find anything here.”
“Well, then, neither of us will be disappointed,” he said. “Do we have a bargain?”
She hesitated. “What exactly would you have me do?”
“You will play the dutiful wife.”
“And you the dutiful husband?”
“Nay. But you will not complain.”
“No?” she said. “I find plenty for which to complain. This … house may be fit for those who ape the English, but no’ for a self-respecting Scot.”
He held back a smile. He’d wondered if she would get back to the condition of the tower house
. He had to admire her spirit. And her powers of observation. Braemoor was in dismal condition. With no woman in charge, his father, never too fastidious in his personal habits, had allowed slovenliness to permeate the tower house.
He shrugged carelessly. “Then it is your duty to bring Braemoor up to your high standards.”
She glared at him. “What do I care for Braemoor? Cumberland … and his allies are savages. No wonder you live this way.”
He sighed heavily. “I have no time for this. I can still tell Cumberland that I have no desire to marry a shrew. To hell with the estates. ’Tis not worth it.”
“My … brother?” Her voice suddenly broke.
“He is not my concern.” The sudden hopelessness in her eyes stabbed him. He wanted to gentle his tone, to tell her he would try to find a way to rescue her brother, but too many other lives were at risk. He could not deviate from a role he’d so carefully created.
“Is anything your concern?”
“Aye. My pleasure.”
The look she cast his way would have quailed a dragon.
“You have not agreed to my … proposal,” he said.
“But I have no choice, do I? Do you want an answer merely to enjoy my helplessness?”
“I do not believe you will ever be helpless,” he responded without thinking. ’Twas not within his role to admit that. He should care nothing about other people, nor make thoughtful observations of them.
She narrowed her eyes and he realized she’d caught the inconsistency. She was no simpleton. He would have to be even more careful than he thought.
“I enjoy my life,” he said with a yawn. “I want no lass complicating it with complaints.”
“I will have no complaints if you stay away from me.”
“Ah,” he said, ignoring the insult. “Then we do agree. You manage Braemoor, and I will pursue my own pleasures.”
He saw her tremble. He watched the spirit fade from the indigo blue. He had not wanted to humble her, but he’d had little choice. He didn’t want her to look his way too closely. If she had even a hint of his activities, then might she not trade the price on his head for her own freedom? Or that of her brother?
The Black Knave Page 4
