The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  But at least she knew the Black Knave was in the vicinity. If only she could get word to him.

  And her husband? Where was he?

  She wanted his support in looking over the accounts. She wanted more authority in this house. Mayhap it would eventually mean a loosening of the scrutiny she received, a better chance to escape. Allies. She needed a few allies.

  Bethia went out the door into the courtyard. More English soldiers lingered there, seeing to horses or just walking about. If only she could take a horse. If only.

  Horse thieving was not well regarded.

  But she was tempted. So tempted. A short ride. Just long enough to get away from the sight of red uniforms. Just enough to breathe air unsullied by sweat and blood and arrogance. She sidled over to a large bay and ran her finger down the side of its neck. Cool.

  The horse was still saddled, its reins tied to a post. Other soldiers were milling around, watering mounts, cooling them down. This one must belong to one of the officers who arrived earlier.

  “I would not do that, milady.”

  She whirled around, afraid her face was reddening with guilt as she did so.

  Her husband was standing there, his hazel eyes regarding her with interest. Why had she not seen him ride in? Where had he come from?

  “I did not know you had returned.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I just needed some … air.”

  “Too many English soldiers?”

  She knew her cheeks were darkening. Why did he always seem to know exactly what she was thinking?

  “Aye,” she said defiantly. “Far too many.”

  “I do not believe that stealing one of their horses would reduce the number of them around you,” he said. “It would only serve to increase it.”

  Her gaze wandered over him. He was wearing a dandy’s clothes, but there was a bulge underneath the sleeve of his brightly colored waistcoat and he held his arm stiffly. The sleeve was sliced and ruby-stained. His blank expression changed subtly as he saw her eyes rest on it. “A slight mishap,” he explained.

  Just then Neil and an English officer came out the door.

  Bethia watched Neil’s face change, darken with a frown. “I did not know you were back.”

  “I just arrived,” her husband said, arching an eyebrow at the English officer. “I am late because I ran into a band of brigands. Could have been your outlaw. What, dear boy, do you call him? Some ridiculous name.”

  The officer’s nostrils flared like those of a stallion who caught the scent of a mare.

  “Where?”

  “Halfway to Edinburgh. Must be near there by now. Saw Ogilvy with him. Recognized the young rounder. Tried to challenge them, but I was overwhelmed. Just barely escaped with my life.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Six—no, seven, including Ogilvy.”

  “You are sure he’s with them?”

  “Aye, he was for certain.”

  “And the others? Come on, man. What of the others?”

  Her husband shrugged. “They were dressed like peasants, though their leader could wield a sword well enough. I had engaged him when some villain struck me from the back. Ruined one of my best shirts and waistcoat,” he complained plaintively.

  The officer looked at him with contempt. “We had reports of a woman.”

  “A woman?” her husband said. “Nay, I saw no woman. There was Ogilvy and then a young man with reddish hair. Seemed to be their leader.”

  “Edinburgh, you say?” the officer said.

  “Aye.”

  The officer turned to a sergeant who had accompanied him from Braemoor. “Get the men ready to ride. I’ll turn the city upside down.” He nodded at the Marquis of Braemoor. “What else about the leader? Age? Color of eyes? Mount he was riding?”

  The marquis shrugged. “Ordinary. Red hair. Brown eyes. All, including Ogilvy, wore peasant clothing. And their horses? Damned near falling down,” he added disdainfully.

  “Why didn’t you go into Edinburgh to report it?”

  “I was already halfway home. I wished to return to my dear wife for comfort and attention.”

  The officer stared at him with disgust. “Do you not know there is a reward of five thousand pounds on the man?”

  “I tried to stop him,” Rory said querulously. “Got a slice for my efforts.”

  The officer looked at him contemptuously. “It was your duty to get to an officer of the king and run him down.”

  “My good fellow, it was my duty to return to my home and protect it. ’Tis not my fault you cannot catch this villain. There he was, bold as daylight, on the Edinburgh road.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “I am sure only that it was Ogilvy. I hear this … black rogue fellow is an old man, or, did I hear you right, a woman? You cannot find a woman or old man?” The marquis shook his head in obvious dismay.

  The English officer pushed past him, muttering, “Knave. He calls himself the Black Knave.”

  “By God, but that fellow has no manners,” her husband said as the officer directed his men to mount and moments later left the courtyard at a trot.

  She had enjoyed the Englishman’s consternation, even his revulsion at her husband’s supercilious manner. But she worried about the man called the Black Knave. She looked at the man who had been her husband for a week. “The Black Knave … you said you struck him?”

  His eyes suddenly pierced her. “You have interest in this matter?”

  “Nothing. I just heard …”

  “Well, madam,” he said impatiently. “What have you heard?”

  “That the Black Knave may have been wounded earlier. Did …”

  Her husband’s eyes narrowed. “Do you believe a wounded man could equal me?” he asked.

  Her silence said volumes.

  He decided to let that go for the moment. “Your concern for an outlaw does you no credit, madam. It should lie with your husband.”

  Bethia’s gaze went back to his arm. “Is it … your wound … bad?”

  “It requires a stitch or two. Are you up to that, wife?”

  She lowered her eyes from his face, which towered over her. “Aye, I have mended wounds before.”

  “Then come with me.” He strode ahead of her, past Neil, who was regarding them with a frown, through the passage that led to the great hall, then up the stairs to the room that she knew he used as his sleeping quarters. She had not been inside, had not been invited, and she’d been reluctant to pry. She even, perhaps, hoped he wouldn’t return from wherever he’d been.

  The room was dark and plain and far more Spartan than she’d expected for a man who dressed and spoke like a popinjay. It did, however, have a huge clothes press, along with a bed that looked too short for him, a plain table and two chairs. A table held a bottle of brandy and several glasses. That, at least, fit.

  The fireplace had obviously been cleaned recently and new fresh wood had been placed in the hearth. He sat awkwardly in one of the chairs and sighed with obvious relief.

  She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “If you will tell me where to find the herbs and bandages, I will fetch them.”

  His gaze was cold as it raked her. “There is no need. It has already been attended to.”

  “But …”

  “I did not wish to humiliate you by revealing that I went elsewhere. However, Mistress Mary Ferguson saw to the wound quite nicely. She is a healer,” he added.

  She had already heard all the gossip, that the girl Mary was his mistress, and inexplicable anger coursed through her, even as she realized that he had made a small effort not to shame her publicly. Nonetheless, she did feel shamed. And inadequate.

  Bethia told herself she wanted as little to do with this man as possible. Why, then, did she feel this odd disappointment?

  She needed to feel needed. Even if the person was an enemy. And for the shortest possible time, she had.

  But she wasn’t wanted. No one wanted her. No one
needed her. Not even the wretch who called himself her husband. No one.

  Except, possibly, for Dougal. And she could not let him down.

  She bit her lip. “If we are to preserve the pretense,” she said as lightly as she could, “then I had best fetch the medicines and bandages. Perhaps some hot water?”

  His gaze faltered for a moment, then he nodded.

  She slipped out of the door.

  Rory watched the door close, then closed his eyes. It had taken every bit of willpower he had to make it back to Braemoor.

  He did not even know if he could make it to the bed. He’d lost so damn much blood before he’d reached Mary’s cottage. A musket ball had lodged in his arm and Mary had dug it out, then sewn up the wound after Alister had sliced a bit more to make it look more like a sword than a pistol wound.

  God’s breath, but his arm hurt.

  Bloody hell.

  Everything had gone as planned. Up to a point. Feigning drunkenness, two of Alister’s recruits had started a fight in front of the gaol the night before last; when one of the soldiers had come too close they had attacked him. Both men had been thrown into a cell. No one had questioned the bent and bowed old woman who appeared the next evening to see her only son. Rory had been able to slip both his supposed son and Ogilvy a pistol, and the latter a jack of spades. Unfortunately Ogilvy did not wait long enough to make his move, and Rory, moving slowly, had been in the line of fire of one of the more alert guards before he’d reached the waiting horses.

  The four of them—Ogilvy, the two men and himself—had managed to escape only because Alister had earlier stuck thorns to the undersides of the English saddles. If Rory had not hurt so damnably, he would have enjoyed the sight of the bucking horses and English soldiers flying into the air.

  They’d made it to a cave, where they left Ogilvy, then rode to Mary’s croft.

  It was decided then to manufacture another wound. Rory couldn’t try to hide the one he had. His arm would be stiff for days. Explanations were needed, and not for a bullet wound. He and Alister had both decided on a sword wound as a plausible cause and a tale that would send the English on a false trail.

  So Alister had carefully sliced the expensive—if atrocious—waistcoat as well as the linen shirt. They’d then bloodied both to make it look like a sword stroke.

  He’d made little of the wound in front of Mary and Alister. He hadn’t wanted them to worry. And it was odd how necessity blocked out pain, but now the pain was flooding him in wave after wave.

  He had to make sure his wife never saw the wound. He hoped sincerely that she’d had little experience with them, but he knew that many women tended to their clan’s wounded.

  Had he really glimpsed a momentary disappointment in her eyes, even a flash of anger, when he’d said another woman had cared for him?

  If so, he had not been harsh enough, arrogant enough, repulsive enough.

  And yet something inside him yearned to see the flash of concern in her eyes again. Or had that brief sympathy been there at all?

  He muttered a curse to himself. He had gone too long without a woman’s soft touch, a touch meant for him alone. Mary’s doctoring had been as gentle as possible, but there was naught but friendship between them. It was unfortunate that Rory was attracted to his own wife, especially since the attraction could mean the death of them both.

  He would have to tamp down that yearning.

  Damn, but he was weary. It had been more than a day since last he slept, and the letting of blood had not helped.

  His hand pulled off the damnably heavy wig and let it drop to the floor. He opened the jacket of his waistcoat. Just for a few moments. Just a few …

  Bethia tried to curb her anger as she confronted the cook and asked for the bandages and herbs she thought any wounded man would need. She suffered the woman’s rude stare and hostile grunt as she waited for items she would not need because her … husband had received care elsewhere. Humiliation was being heaped upon humiliation. Still, she knew that any authority she hoped she would have was centered on the marquis. If the household felt he did not trust her, then she would never gain any respect. Without respect, she had no hope of escape.

  Curse him!

  She took the tray loaded with unneeded items and carried it back up to his room, knocking lightly before entering. Hearing no reply, she went in.

  He looked asleep in the chair. He also looked different.

  The powdered wig was on the floor, and for the first time she noticed he had dark hair, almost black, that curled slightly in thick sweat-damp clumps. Without the wig, the look of a dandy disappeared, and she noticed for the first time the handsome angular features of his face, the scar on his chin that somehow made him more … appealing. His mouth particularly looked vulnerable, the curve of his lips softer, less mocking.

  His breathing was heavy. She touched his forehead and it was warm, warmer than it should be in the cold room. She finished unbuttoning his jacket and noticed that under the sleeve of his linen shirt, the bandage was a bright red.

  He was still bleeding! She wondered for a moment how it was that he had seemed so unaffected minutes earlier when he was obviously far more seriously wounded than she had believed.

  “My lord,” she said, unsure of what else to call him.

  He did not answer.

  She shook him slightly and called him again, her voice louder.

  His lashes fluttered. How had she not noticed how thick they were?

  “My lord,” she said for the third time.

  His eyes slowly opened and they looked glazed.

  “Let me help you get into bed. Then I will look at your wound again. You are still bleeding.”

  He shook off her hand. “I can … manage myself.”

  She stepped back and watched as he struggled to his feet, then took the several steps to his bed, almost falling into it.

  She approached, and he looked at her with hostile eyes. “I need no help from you, madam,” he said, as if she were a particularly irritating mouse. “You would best please me by leaving.”

  She was not wanted here. She was not wanted anywhere. She took a step toward the door, strangely reluctant to open it. He had given her permission to leave, had even ordered it, so why did she linger?

  She tried to tell herself it was what she would do for anyone, friend or foe. She stooped and picked up the wig, placing it on the table. ’Twas truly hideous and smelly. He would be rather presentable without it, and far more comfortable. But, then, she often did not understand the why and how of men’s ways.

  Bethia looked back at her husband. His eyes, still glazed with either weakness or pain, followed her. “You are not obedient,” he said.

  “I have been told that,” she replied, twisting her hands together.

  “I will have to do something about that,” he said, closing his eyes. “But not now. Send for … Alister.”

  Alister. The blacksmith. The man who had tried to reassure her. It was something she could do, since the marquis did not want so much as her hands to touch him.

  Why? Was he that repelled by her? She knew she was no beauty, but …

  Or mayhap he believed she would do him harm. His death would free her.

  She turned and left the room, intent—without knowing why—on helping the man she despised, the man who obviously felt the same about her.

  The field was the color of blood. Rivulets of red ran like streams over the rough ground, covering the few struggling flowers, flowing to stain the clear, cold stream. Groans of dying men echoed across the moor. The world was red. The world was pain.

  “Rory.” He heard his name from some great distance. He did not want to heed it. He wanted the darkness again. He wanted …

  “Rory!”

  He tried to conquer the pain. God’s breath, but he was hot. He felt that he was burning up.

  “Can you hear me?” Alister’s voice was pleading now.

  He could not disappoint his friend. His friend. He wi
lled himself to open his eyes, to force words from a mouth that felt like wool.

  “Aye,” he said, hearing the raspy quality of it.

  “Thank God.” Alister’s voice was the breath of prayer.

  Rory felt a wet cloth across his face. Felt good. So good.

  “I thought we might lose you.”

  “How long …?”

  “Two days. I have been with you. Your new wife has tried to come several times but I told her that you had ordered that you be tended only by me, that you did not trust a Jacobite wife. I did not want her to hear your ravings.”

  He tried to understand. Why did she even try? He remembered several hours ago … days ago … she had hovered next to him. Now that she had been locked from her husband’s own sickbed, she would have a more difficult time than ever at Braemoor.

  “You should have stayed with Mary at the cottage,” Alister said chidingly. “You had a fever even then, and that combined with loss of blood and no sleep …”

  “Aye, but I needed to brag about my heroic deed.”

  “Aye, how you were bested by the Black Knave. Turned and ran, most say.”

  Rory tried to grin. He suspected it was more a grimace. “My poor blemished reputation.”

  “I know how you value it,” Alister said wryly.

  “Ogilvy?”

  “Safe for the time being. He should be at the old Douglas hunting lodge by now.”

  “If he hasn’t done something stupid again.”

  “After seeing the results of his impulsiveness, I think he will follow orders,” Alister said, looking toward Rory’s arm.

  “And my tale. It is believed?”

  “Aye. Neil has been seething quietly. He believes you are pretending a worse wound than you have. Mary and I have been encouraging that tale. You are mainly overwrought from such a death-defying experience.”

  “I should have died for the honor of the Forbeses?”

  “Aye, and for Neil’s advancement, I think,” Alister said.

  “And my wife. What does she believe?”

  Alister looked at him keenly. “Do you care?”