The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  “I will expect you to be ready for the wedding in a week. I will send out messengers announcing the happy union.”

  It was a dismissal. Her face flushed red, then she turned and, her head held high, left him.

  A marriage to that self-absorbed popinjay? Her heart froze at the prospect.

  At least he wouldn’t claim her in bed. He said. Claimed. Promised. The last thought lingered in her mind. His pledge meant nothing.

  But then why would he make it? He held all the power. He’d accurately described her position.

  Her hand clutched at her skirt. If only she could have stood beside her brothers on the battlefield. That was true courage.

  Her mind went over the man she’d just left. She could tell little about him with that ridiculous wig. His eyes, though, had been hazel. Or had they? They had been chameleon, the color changing with the subtle variations of light. But they had been cold eyes. She knew that. Cold and emotionless. He had made it clear that his only interest in her was the wealth she could bring him.

  Almost blindly, she stumbled toward the steps. She was completely trapped. At least he said he wouldn’t force himself upon her. Or was that just a lie to make her more malleable? To keep her from fleeing before the ceremony? She had hoped against hope that she could find something worthy in her husband. But there had been nothing. Nothing at all. Not strength, or character, or humor, or understanding.

  “Angus,” she whispered desperately. “I need you.”

  Her wedding day was as cold and bleak and heartless as she’d known it was going to be.

  Despite the number of guests, she soon realized her husband was not held in high regard by either his own clan or the visitors.

  How was she ever going to get through the mockery of a ceremony?

  She had never been so lonely, and so alone.

  Trilby tried to cheer her up. She’d placed flowers in the room, and had chattered endlessly about “powerful folk” attending the wedding.

  “The lord is handsome,” the maid said hopefully, as she smoothed out the silk of Bethia’s dress.

  Handsome? He did not wear a beard as so many Scots did, but she had been unable to see much under the disdain and vacuousness he had displayed that day of their … interview. Mayhap his features were physically pleasing, but she’d been taught long ago that character created beauty, and this man obviously had little of the former.

  Coward. She had heard that word expressed several times. His clansmen didn’t even seem to care if anyone listened. He’d apparently disappeared during the battle at Culloden, only to appear much later with a slight wound.

  Gambler. He had lost fortunes, according to the whispers.

  Womanizer. He often visited some woman in the woods near the stream that ran through the property. Stayed for days doing God only knew what. Some even said the woman was a witch.

  Husband. That was the worst description of all.

  She also had learned in the week she’d been at Braemoor that his hereditary position of laird was in danger. The only thing that held the clan to him was his ownership of their lands, and they could do nothing about that. The grumbling was loud, however, and bitterness strong.

  She understood why, too, as she listened to Trilby. The late marquis had started to move crofters from Forbes’s lands, buying sheep and cattle to occupy what had been small farms. There had been hope that after the rebellion he would honor those clansmen who had fought with him and allow them to stay on the land.

  They had no such hope for the new marquis, who seemed interested only in his own pleasures. The fact that he’d seldom visited Braemoor before his father’s death reinforced their fears that he would be naught but an absentee landlord. Everyone expected the young marquis to drain his lands of the people who had farmed it for centuries.

  Rory Forbes had done nothing to allay their fears. Instead, he disappeared for days at a time.

  And now all his efforts had apparently gone into providing a great feast—at great expense—for their wedding.

  Three hundred guests or more had made themselves at home in the great hall and endless chambers at Braemoor. She’d heard their toasts and drunken laughter for the past two nights. She’d even had to avoid their overly active hands as she’d tried to move unnoticed the few times she had visited the spacious kitchens. She would soon be mistress, and she wanted to know the servants, the cook, the housekeeper. But all had turned their backs on her as if part of some vast conspiracy. “Jacobite.” She heard the word whispered as if a curse. They may not care for their lord, but they seemed to dislike Jacobites even more.

  She’d finally retreated. Temporarily. She would find a way to win their loyalty once she was married. She’d always had loyalty from those who had worked for her family. Kinsmen all, they were more family than servants. She remembered the mornings in the kitchens. The smell of pastries baking in the huge fireplace, the warm clucking of the cook, the blast of heat on a cold, wet day …

  Family, warmth, safety.

  She shivered, and Trilby’s hands stilled.

  “You look so bonny,” Trilby tried desperately to comfort her.

  But she was not bonny. She had never been pretty, though she’d been told she had pretty hair. She thought it too straight, too dark. Just as her lips were too wide and her chin too sharp. She didn’t even care about that now. In truth, mayhap it had been her plain looks that had prompted the marquis to offer an arrangement that would keep him from her bed.

  A knock came at the door. A man’s voice filtered through the door. “The vicar is ready.”

  Bethia swallowed through the rock in her throat. She’d had no attendants other than Trilby. Rory’s mother had died years earlier, and the marquis had not married again. Donald Forbes’s wife had died in childbirth, as had the babe. So Rory Forbes had no women in his immediate family. And apparently because she was Jacobite, none of the guests had offered to help her.

  But Trilby had provided all the help she needed. All she wanted. She did not think she could stand the ministrations of women who made no secret of their contempt. To them, she was a papist.

  Trilby squeezed her arm. Her one ally.

  Bethia tried to smile for Trilby’s sake and went to the door, opening it.

  She recognized the man who faced her. She had seen him about the courtyard.

  “The marquis sent me to escort you,” he said.

  So his lord—and soon to be hers—was afraid she might flee after all. God knew how much she’d wanted to. Instead, she said steadily, “I am ready.”

  “You are not going to the gallows, my lady,” the man said.

  “Am I not?” she asked.

  “Nay, I think not. I am Alister Armstrong, the blacksmith,” he said offering his arm to her. The arm that should have belonged to her father.

  For a moment, she wondered whether she should feel insulted. Instead, she felt a trifle reassured. The northern clans, including her own, paid little distinction to rank. Loyalty played a far stronger role as to who was the chief’s confidants. Mayhap her bridegroom-to-be wasn’t the fob she imagined if he had this man as friend.

  He quickly destroyed the illusion.

  “Lord Cumberland will escort you down the aisle,” he said. “I was sent to bring you to him.”

  Why had he not sent a lady? Afraid the bride might run?

  Her body stiffened. The last indignity. Instead of her father escorting her down the aisle, his murderer would do that deed. Instead of a host of friends sending her on her way, an enemy was sent to fetch her.

  She glared at her captor, studying him as a trapped fox might study the huntsman. “And why were you given such an honor?”

  “I was available,” he said with the tiniest pull of his lips. “But I did try to make myself that way.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted you to know you have a friend here.”

  “A friend?” ’Twas scarcely credible. She narrowed her eyes. He looked too small for a blacksmith. Most me
n in that profession were huge, their arms as wide as most men’s legs. But this Alister was lean and wiry with a merry little glint in his eyes.

  “Did my … the marquis send you here?”

  “He asked me to accompany you so you would not be alone.”

  “I am alone.”

  “Not quite so alone,” he said in a soft tone.

  She wanted to believe him. Alister Armstrong had warm brown eyes and an easy manner.

  “It will be all right, milady. The marquis is no’ a monster.”

  She wasn’t sure she would agree with that assessment, but his attempt at kindness took away some of the chill from her heart.

  She managed a small smile and nodded.

  Almost blindly, she walked with him down the steps, past the great hall, then out the door to the chapel that was on the side of the tower house. She stopped the moment she saw Cumberland, who’d turned his gaze on her.

  He approached her with a smile on his lips. ’Twas the coldest smile she’d ever seen, and his eyes were like the devil’s own: dark and merciless. He offered his arm, but she ignored it, instead turning slightly away.

  “Take it, madam,” he said.

  “Nay.”

  “Have you not learned yet that it is not you who will suffer if you do not do my bidding?” he asked in a low tone.

  The threat went straight to her heart. Trembling, she slowly took his arm, and allowed him to escort her inside. She noticed the colorful profusion of plaids worn by the men and women sitting in the pews, saw their faces turn and look toward her. Curiosity as well as hostility radiated from those faces. She turned and looked straight ahead—directly at the bridegroom.

  She had seen little of him these past few days. He had not asked her to join him at the evening meals in the great hall until last night. He had visited once, saying he’d thought she might prefer to take her meals in her room rather than join the rapidly expanding ranks of those attending the wedding. She had been grateful, even as she wondered whether he was that displeased with her appearance.

  But now as she saw him standing at the altar waiting for her, she felt her heart pounding. She had no choice; yet she wanted to turn and run out the door. She wanted to grab the first horse and ride and ride until she was back home. But there is no home left. She tried to believe it was someone else inside this dress, but tonight she would be herself: Lady Forbes, the Marchioness of Braemoor. The man awaiting her would be her husband in fact, with all the rights associated with that state, regardless of his promises.

  Her gaze met his. His hazel eyes were void of emotion. Unlike many of the guests who wore tartans or uniforms, he was dressed in a pale blue waistcoat and breeches trimmed with silver buttons. A frilled shirt and blue stock looked quite out of place, and the elegance of his costume made her feel righteously drab in a plain yellow gown she’d selected from those provided by the dressmaker. She sought his gaze, expected anger, but saw instead a glint of humor. It disappeared so quickly beneath a simpering smile that she doubted she had seen it at all.

  He was wearing a wig, again, one even longer than the one he’d worn earlier. Marring his face was a small black patch, an affectation much fancied by the English. He looked the prancing English dandy.

  And large. She’d not stood close to him before and had been unaware of how tall he was, how formidable, at least in size.

  She took her place next to him, and Cumberland stepped away. She was standing next to the stranger who was to be her husband.

  In a protective fog, she listened to the words that would change her life. She heard her toneless whispers in reply to the questions. She made her own answers in her mind.

  No, she did not take this man.

  No, she would not love him until death parted them.

  No, she would not obey.

  But she mouthed the opposite words and tried to keep the moisture in her eyes from spilling down her cheek. She would never let them see her cry. But when the vicar declared them man and wife, she felt her heart dying.

  Bethia knew what came next, something neither of them could avoid, not with Cumberland sitting in the chapel. He had moved from her side to the front row where he sat surrounded by red-coated officers. She had the impression of a spider waiting to eat its prey.

  Her husband took her hand and turned her toward him. His face was inches away, the black patch marring a face that was oddly attractive. Strange, she’d not noticed that before, nor the sudden intensity in his eyes. Then the curls from the wig brushed her face, as did the cambric of his stock, and she wanted to withdraw. But his hand captured hers with surprising strength and pulled her to him. His eyes glinted, then his lips pressed down on hers. The kiss was hard, without tenderness or consideration, his lips bruising hers before letting go.

  His promise. Had it meant nothing?

  He released her, and the two of them turned to face the congregation. She wanted to wipe the feel of him from her lips. Instead, she looked straight away and placed one foot in front of the other. She stumbled, but his hand reached out and righted her.

  She looked around, but his face was as bland as before. His grip loosened but she felt his gloved hand around her elbow as they continued down the aisle and out the door. They led the crowd into the great hall where musicians started to play and tables were laden with food. Then he stopped just inside the door. “Time to greet our guests,” he whispered into her ear. Surprisingly, he smelled pleasantly of soap, not the strong fragrances most of their guests used to disguise unwashed bodies.

  But his hand snaked around her waist, and she froze. She barely managed a semblance of a smile as she was introduced to family after family, all of whom had either supported the Hanover or betrayed the prince when it became evident he might not succeed. She despised each of them to the bottom of her soul, even as she nodded or curtsied as the introductions went on and on and on. But if she played the role to the marquis’s satisfaction, mayhap he would keep his promise.

  Cumberland stepped up, no doubt silently congratulating himself. “You make a pretty bride, Marchioness,” he lied.

  She fought the bile rising up inside her. “You are leaving us now?” she said coolly.

  “I must report back to King George that all is as he wished it. My brother does have your best interests at heart, Bethia.”

  Her fingers balled into a fist. The Hanover king. Her interests? She wanted to slap the smug look from his face. This was the man who had burned a barnful of women and children, the man who had ordered the death of wounded, unarmed men. He was the man who had killed her kinsmen and dragged her from all that was dear, and he had the gall …

  “My wife must be quite weary,” the marquis—her husband—said. “I think she needs some rest before the banquet tonight.”

  “Aye, and the bedding,” Cumberland replied.

  “Indeed.” Her husband leered as he said the words and she caught the conspiratorial grin that passed between the two men.

  Her heart dropped. So he had lied to her.

  She dropped her eyes so neither the marquis nor Cumberland would see the hatred blazing there. She would find some way to escape this … travesty of a marriage.

  In the past few days she’d overheard talk of a man called the Black Knave, who was helping Jacobites escape the crown’s vengeance. Cumberland had posted a huge reward for his head. If only she could reach him, ask him to rescue her brother. Once that was done, then she could flee. But how could she contact him?

  “Come, my dear,” her new husband said, his hand again on her arm. She jerked away from his touch.

  He leaned over and whispered, “I would not do that again, my marchioness.”

  His voice held a threat she’d not heard before. She whirled around. “You promised—”

  “Only if you fill your own role as obedient wife,” he said in a tone that made her skin crawl. His fingers tightened around her arm.

  She wanted to believe him. Dear God, how she wanted to believe him, but that salacious lo
ok had not been her imagination.

  Still, her only recourse was to pray he spoke the truth, that his interest lay elsewhere. At least for the moment.

  And try to find the Black Knave.

  She bit her lip, then gave him the barest of nods, and allowed him to guide her toward the table for the customary toast.

  Four

  “To many happy and … fruitful years.”

  Cumberland leered as he uttered the last words. He left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to exactly what he meant.

  Rory looked down and saw his wife’s face pale. She looked as if a ravenous wolf was about to fall on her.

  He wanted to reassure her, but he could not afford that luxury at the moment. Too many other lives were at stake. He could no’ risk suspicion. He was already surrounded by a clan and neighboring families that doubted both his loyalties and his courage. Every one of them knew the marriage was not to the lass’s liking. Any sudden change in her attitude could arouse suspicion. He’d tried his best to lessen her fears without giving anything away, but it had been important that Cumberland believe his role as a womanizer and scoundrel.

  He could, however, give her a few moments of relief. He made excuses to other guests, saying the excitement had made his wife faint. They would return shortly for the wedding feast. His heart lurched as she glanced up at him with uncertain gratitude.

  He kept his hand on her arm as they left the great hall. It seemed as alien to him as it must seem to her. He’d always hated every square foot of Braemoor, and he would never feel like its master. He was a fraud. Even if he hadn’t chosen to oppose the Hanover king, he still would have been a fraud. He’d never belonged here.

  Bastard.

  His father had uttered that word once in a drunken rage. He’d done it only once.

  Rory had been in the room with his mother, and he had instinctively tried to protect her when his father entered. His rage was obvious.

  “Whore,” he’d said. “Daughter of Satan.”

  He’d reached out and slapped her, and Rory, despite his fear, had thrown himself on the man he feared most of all. A blow knocked him across the room as his father glared at him. “Bastard.” He’d spit out the word.