“You will hear it sooner or later. His mother was a whore, an adulteress. He appears to have all her same weaknesses.”
The insinuation was clear, and she felt a prickling down her back at the hatred behind it.
“I will not listen to such slander.”
“’Tis not slander. Every man and woman here will tell you the same. The old marquis had his doubts about Rory’s birth. He said so. I have more claim.…” He stopped suddenly and turned away.
But Bethia wanted to know more. “Then why did he not disinherit him?”
After a moment, Neil turned back to her. “Because he had too much pride, and he thought his oldest son would beget other sons. He never thought—”
“And you believe you should be heir?” she said contemptuously.
“The Forbeses will follow me. They will not follow that popinjay.”
“Are you looking toward another war?”
“Nay, but times are changing. We must have leadership,” he said, his voice lowering. “Rory does not see that. He cares only about his own pursuits. To survive, we must change our ways. We have to put more land into cattle and sheep, but still help our tenants use the remaining land more productively.”
“You would have to clear some land. That means removing your kinsmen from acres they’ve worked for hundreds of years.”
His gaze pierced her. “I would make provisions for them. And why would a MacDonell care about that?”
“You obviously would not understand,” she said. “I am sorry I asked you about the books. I will look at them when my husband returns.”
“I would not hold my breath, milady. His trips are often quite long, though not far. There is a cottage in the woods not far from here—”
“I will not listen to gossip.”
“I just think you should know what everyone knows.”
“It is very kind of you,” she replied. She turned without another word and left the room.
Now she had something else to ponder: Which of them was most disliked? She or her husband?
And what might Neil Forbes do to acquire what he obviously believed should be his?
Bethia inspected the tower house. It was not as large as her home, but it was substantial. It was old, with a gatehouse extended into a form of the tower. The first floor of the main tower included the great hall on one side; a keeping or garrison room on the other. Beneath the keeping room was an unused area that looked like a dungeon with its heavy doors leading to small cubicles. To the left of that was an armament room.
A grand stairway led up to a hallway with rooms on both the right and left. At the end of each corridor were more staircases that led up to tower rooms. Many of the rooms were sparsely furnished. The entire building looked old, ill-kept and dusty.
Her husband’s brother had been wed. She’d heard that. She also knew the wife and his bairn had died in childbirth. Had she tried to bring some warmth to Braemoor? Or had the cold, hostile atmosphere defeated her?
Well, it was not going to defeat Bethia. After Trilby had shown her the last room, Bethia decided to go to the stable. She might as well find out now whether her husband had indeed ordered her confined to the castle grounds.
The stable was far better kept than the human dwelling, and she wondered who was responsible for that. Neil Forbes? The marquis?
A stableman approached her as she went through the doors. He touched his fingers to his forelock. “Milady?”
“I would like to take a horse for a ride.” she said.
The man, old and worn-looking, gazed at her with pale-blue eyes. “I am sorry, milady. The marquis told me I was no’ to let you ’ave a ’orse.”
She drew herself up for the second time that day. “I am Braemoor’s mistress.”
“Tha’ may be, but the marquis …”
A second man in a dirty Forbes plaid moved to his side, as if to fortify him. He held a sack that was moving. A mewling sound came from within.
“What is that?” she asked.
The two men exchanged a glance. “A pup,” the newcomer said. “The runt. The bitch canna feed it.”
“Where are you taking it?”
“To the stream.”
“No.” Her horror must have been evident because the man paused.
“’Tis the kindest thing,” he said.
“Have you ever drowned?”
The man sputtered. “Why … no.”
“Then how do you know?” She reached for the sack, and he handed it to her with a stricken look on his face.
She opened it and took out a terrier puppy. It was black and tiny, but active, its eyes obviously just opening. She swallowed hard as she felt its helplessness.
“We have a milk cow?”
“Aye.”
“Then I want a cup of milk.”
The stableman was obviously pleased she was not going to quarrel with the edict prohibiting her from riding. “Aye, milady. I will ’ave it sent to ye.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, her mind now completely occupied with saving the puppy. A glove with a small hole in one of its fingers would do. She had fed a calf that way once, when its mother had died, and had even nurtured a young hawk.
But the puppy was so very small. Yet it had snuggled into her hands as if finally finding the safety it sought.
Her heart turned over, or seemed to. A defenseless creature. In all the blood and strife in Scotland, here was one small life she might be able to save. Cuddling the puppy protectively, she hurried back to her room.
Trilby was dabbing her wedding gown with warm cow’s milk to remove a wine stain spilled there by a drunken guest. As far as Bethia was concerned, she cared naught whether it was removed or not. She hated the garment. It was a reminder of events she’d rather forget.
“Ah, milady,” Trilby said as she looked up. “And what do ye have there?”
“A puppy,” Bethia said. “One of the stablemen said the mother could not feed it, and he was going to drown it. I thought to try to save it.”
Trilby carefully laid the gown on the bed and went over to her, her right hand soothing the puppy’s dark head. “’Tis a wee thing.”
“Aye, but I saved a young hawk once, not much older than this.”
“What do you need, milady?” Trilby asked, obviously as eager as she to try to save the pup.
“A glove and a pin. We will make a tiny hole where the little finger is. The stableman is sending some milk.”
“I have some here. I was using it to clean your dress,” Trilby said helpfully. “I will ready a glove.” Then she stopped. “Ye only have but the one pair.”
Bethia shrugged. “A glove against a life. ’Tis not a difficult decision.”
Trilby looked at her, obviously stunned for a moment, then said warily, “It would be fer many ladies.”
Bethia decided not to reply to that observation. Instead, she sat, still holding the puppy while Trilby found a glove, punctured it, then poured some of the warm milk she’d been using into it. The puppy wriggled, making little distress noises. It was obviously very hungry. But would it know how to use the glove?
Trilby sat next to her and held the glove as Bethia tried to guide the little finger into the pup’s mouth. For a moment it refused to take it. Then the smell or the feel or the taste caused the pup to open its mouth, and Bethia gently squeezed milk into its mouth. In seconds the pup was eagerly sucking at the leather.
Bethia and Trilby smiled at each other.
“We will have to feed it every two or three hours,” Bethia said.
“I’ll feed it at night,” Trilby offered.
“Nay, we will take turns,” Bethia insisted.
Trilby watched the tiny mouth moving. “Will ye name it?”
Bethia had not thought of that, not yet. Mayhap if she gave the pup a name, it would give him the will to live. Not that it seemed to have a problem. Its tiny mouth was moving compulsively, eagerly.
She thought for a moment. The pup was the color of midn
ight. She had been thinking incessantly of the man named the Black Knave, the jack of spades.
“Jack,” she said slowly. “Black Jack.”
“Jack,” Trilby said as one of her free fingers ran over the silky head. “I think Jack fits him well.”
“Aye,” Bethia said. “He’s a gallant, smart little lad.”
Trilby looked down, then looked up worriedly as if she were overstepping her bounds. “He is still very small, though. Do not get too attached, milady.”
But the warning was too late. She was already attached. Jack was the only living being here at Braemoor that depended on her, the only soul she could love. And animals did have souls. She was convinced of it.
Her brother was in her heart, and she would try every day of her life to make him safe, but now she had something she could help immediately and directly.
“He will live,” she said. “I will not allow him to do anything else.”
Six
Edinburgh was bristling with British troops.
Rory had donned one of his most extravagant waistcoats, a bright blue garment embellished with gold lace and gold buttons, and a pair of plaid trews that fit his legs as if they were painted on them. Over the waistcoat, he wore a plaid of chequered tartan. On his feet, he wore a pair of shoes with gold buckles.
He hated the bloody shoes, just as he despised the heavy wig that decorated his head under a bright blue bonnet, also trimmed with gold. He’d much prefer the supple comfort of well-worn boots, but he looked much as he wanted: a foolish Scot aping a foolish English dandy
No soldier stopped him, no one asked for papers or the nature of his business. Some turned away with disgust in their eyes, some with contempt. Few took a second look.
He rode to the Fox and Hare, a tavern where he often stayed. Located near the Edinburgh Royal Theater, its patronage included a wide assortment, ranging from actors to British officers, who enjoyed the proximity of the latter, particularly the actresses. For the past five months, Rory had maintained a permanent room over the tavern. Several British officers also kept rooms there.
He greeted the officers in the taproom, recognizing most, spotting one or two he’d not seen before.
“Ah, Captain Lehgrens,” he said, swooping down on one of the officers as he waved his arm in an extravagant manner. “A game of hazard this evening?”
“My good fellow,” Lehgrens replied, “you’ve been gone far too long. It’s not good gamesmanship to win, then leave.” He eyed Rory’s clothing. “You’ve become quite a dandy.”
“Since my father’s … departure from this world, I can now indulge my tastes.”
“I seem to recall you’ve always indulged them, but not quite as flamboyantly in dress.”
“But now I have a bride to impress,” Rory said with a grin. “The king’s own choice.”
“So we’ve heard. The notorious Rory Forbes a husband.”
Rory wagged a lace handkerchief. “Braemoor, my dear captain. You keep forgetting I am now the Marquis of Braemoor.”
Lehgrens gave him a mocking bow. “My lord.”
“Ah, that’s more like it,” Rory said. “A little subservience.”
Lehgrens stretched out. “You have it, as long as you lose. Now about this wife. Is that why we have not been graced recently with your presence?”
“Nay. No lass will ever tie me down.”
Lehgrens frowned. “We were hoping your … marriage would open Elizabeth’s door to us.”
“Elizabeth can play with whomever she chooses.”
“For some reason, she chooses you.”
“Or she doesn’t choose you,” Rory said, leaning back with a smile pasted on his lips. If only they knew. As with Mary, Elizabeth was one of his couriers and, as important, supplier of the items he needed for disguise. She had also taught him to use them.
Elizabeth was fifteen years his senior. She had, in fact, initiated him in the ways of love when, as a seedling, he’d appeared backstage after one of her performances. He looked extraordinarily needy, she had teased him. She had become his friend in days when he’d had none, and because he’d been totally indifferent to politics, she’d confided in him about her Jacobite roots. When he’d become the Black Knave, he visited her in Edinburgh, trusting her with his deadly secret because he so badly needed her help. He needed to go places that Rory Forbes could not go; he needed the expertise to make himself into an old man, or a vicar, or even a woman.
Everyone believed he shared her bed, though that aspect of their relationship had ended years ago. He’d chosen to allow the myth to continue. It protected Elizabeth, and it suited him to have his father believe he was dissolute. So wags had him bedding Mary at Braemoor, and Elizabeth here. He was considered a cocksman of great repute.
A wife and two lovers.
If only the Brits knew the truth of it.…
He’d indulged in no lovemaking since before Culloden. ’Twas too dangerous for both him and the lady. He intended to take no one to the gallows with him if he were caught. His wife should be safe, since she was forced into the marriage by the king himself. Mary and Elizabeth knew the risks they were taking, but Mary’s heart obviously belonged to Alister, and Elizabeth … well, he and Elizabeth had forged a friendship that no longer had a place for sex. He also suspected that her heart was already claimed.
“A tankard of rum?”
Rory looked at Lehgrens. “Rum? Have you sunk that low, my dear fellow?” He turned to the barmaid. “Claret, my love. The best.”
“Your fortunes have indeed changed, my lord,” Lehgrens said. “’Twas not so long that you bought your lodging with my money.”
“Before you were run out of Edinburgh by Charlie,” Rory retorted. The young prince had taken Edinburgh in September the previous year.
“I heard you stayed none too long yourself, Rory.”
He shrugged. “My family’s loyalties were well known.”
“And where were you during the fighting?”
“Beside my father, of course. Earning the king’s gratitude.”
“I thought you were a lover, not a fighter.”
Rory took out a snuffbox, took a sniff or two. “I can swing a sword. I fostered with the earl of Fallon.”
The captain looked at his clothing dubiously. “I never would have guessed it.”
Rory waved his handkerchief in Lehgren’s face. “I avoid reminders as much as possible. You were quite right to observe I care little about the … discomforts of the battlefield.”
“And now you have a wife, a battlefield of another kind, I trust. I’ve heard MacDonells were quite fierce.”
Rory inwardly winced at the word “were.” Outwardly, he shrugged. “She is tame enough.”
“I heard she was plain.”
Plain? Mayhap in some eyes. For a moment, he thought of the thin, determined face, recalled the desire that he felt when he’d touched her. She aroused something in him. He wished she didn’t.
“The fortune she brings makes her quite presentable,” he said. “Now about that game. I have a few errands first.”
“The fair Elizabeth?”
“A gentleman never discusses a lady.”
“Give her my best,” Lehgrens said. “Tell her that if she ever gets bored with you, I would be more than happy to take your place.”
“I will do that, my friend,” he said, rising. “Ten o’clock tonight?”
“If you promise not to run off as I am winning.”
“You have lost none of your optimism, Captain.”
“I need some recreation. The Stuart bastard continues to allude us. Cumberland is not a happy man.”
“I hear you’ve caught a number of Jacobites.”
Lehgrens’s face clouded. “Some. Not enough. That damned fellow called the Black Knave is smuggling them out of Scotland. Damned if I know how. The duke has put a five thousand pound price on his head.”
Rory shrugged. “It’s thirty thousand pounds for Charlie, is it not? No one has come
forth yet.”
“The Black Knave is no Charlie. They might protect their prince, but not an outlaw.”
Rory brushed at his face with a lace handkerchief. “Mayhap you are right. Do you have any idea who he is?”
“Some Jacobite. They say he’s a graybeard, but he’s as agile as a fox.”
Rory stood. “I am quite confident the king’s forces are capable of finding the blackguard. Still, it’s discomfiting knowing the brigand is running around free. He might well turn on honest citizens.”
“He has protection. But we’ll root out the traitor if we have to arrest every Scot in this damned country.”
Rory raised an eyebrow.
“Excluding present company, of course.”
“Thank you,” Rory said, throwing several coins on the table. “I will see you in a few hours.”
Elizabeth would be at the theater at this hour of the day. Rory, a frequent visitor, was allowed in a side door, then to her dressing room.
She was alone, applying cosmetics for her evening performance. She was an artist in the medium, able to transform a man into a woman, or a woman into a man, a young man into a graybeard.
She obviously saw him in her mirror and turned, a broad smile on her lovely face. The daughter of a dispossessed lord after the “Fifteen,” the Jacobite rising in 1715, she was left penniless with naught but a pretty face and a talent for acting. She’d made her way to Edinburgh and, adopting an English surname, became a fashionable courtesan, then actress. She’d also been mistress to a number of English and Scottish lords. Now she had the funds to do exactly what she wanted, and that was mainly to tweak the noses of men who’d used her and destroyed her father.
“Rory. It is good to see you, even in that hideous coat.”
Rory struck a pose. “’Tis the height of fashion.”
She raised a haughty eyebrow.
“And as comfortable as striding barefoot across hell,” he added drily.
“You should try some of the garments we women must wear.”
“I might be doing that,” he said. “How do you think I would look as an elderly woman?”
She looked at him critically. “A very tall elderly woman.”
“I canna shrink,” he said, “but I can bend a little.”
The Black Knave Page 8
