With hope and even excitement churning inside her, she flicked her reins and trailed after her temporary lord.
Rory threw the reins of his horses to one of the stable hands. He went to help his wife dismount, but she had already slipped from the saddle, obviously reluctant to accept his assistance.
He wanted to take the horses inside the barn, to cool them himself, but once again that would go against his role as the lazy, arrogant new lord. He used to see to his own mount, but then no one offered to do it for him. His new wealth gave him a reason for an arrogance he’d never displayed before. He had been careless and undisciplined, but he’d not been irresponsible. There was, he hoped, a difference.
He had to convince his cousin now that he was all three. He wanted to exert authority without Neil understanding that he was doing just that.
The current Marquis of Braemoor would care less about his wife.
Rory strode into the tower house. He’d retained Neil as estate manager, the position his cousin had held under Rory’s father. He knew exactly what Neil thought of him, and Rory felt little better about his cousin. He was six years older than Rory and had been Donald’s friend. They had both been contemptuous of the small, lonely boy and had alternated between bullying and ignoring him. It was ironic that now he was the marquis and Neil was dependent upon him.
At the same time, Rory was uncomfortably aware that Neil had more claim to Braemoor than he. He had Forbes blood where Rory had none, if the tales were true, and nearly every family member knew it. Neil had also served the Forbeses for years, whereas Rory had never served them at all. He did not blame the man for despising him.
If Rory had his way, he would leave Braemoor with all its bad memories to Neil. But there were too many people still depending on him. He had not finished with the good King George, or Cumberland.
Neil was in the office, as expected. He looked up as Rory came in, sniffing disdainfully at the air in the room.
“Rory?” Neil seldom acknowledged Rory’s title, and then only in the presence of others outside the clan.
“My wife would like to start keeping the household accounts.”
Surprise flickered in Neil’s dark brown eyes. “I did not realize you cared what your wife thought.” It was an obvious reference to Mary’s visit.
Rory struck an indolent pose and shrugged. “Cumberland wants her with child. A contented wife is more likely to achieve that result, or so I am told.”
“Contented?” Neil came out of his chair with a start. “You would hand over these accounts to make her content?”
“Why not? ’Tis nothing important.”
Neil’s face grew red. “Mayhap you would like her to take over all my duties.”
“Nay, I think not,” Rory said mildly. “And why do you care? You still have the properties to manage, and that is a far larger duty,” he said. “Anyone can keep the account books.”
Neil settled back into the chair, a perplexed look on his face. “I do not understand you.”
“That is not required,” Rory said casually. “You know I have little interest in business matters. But ’tis only right that the marchioness take over her proper duties. You must admit she has already improved the tower house considerably.”
“I never heard you complain.”
“I avoided Braemoor for years. Its disrepair was one of the reasons.”
“Too bad you do not continue to avoid it.”
Rory smiled. “Do not vex me overmuch, cousin. You look after the estates well, and I have not interfered with that. But do not push me or question my activities.”
Neil bristled with indignation. “Dear God, Rory. It is time for you to grow up.”
Rory eyed him coldly. “And deprive you of the authority you enjoy so much? I would not dream of it.”
Neil’s mouth curled. “I have no authority when you can whisk it away at your whim.”
“Aye, you are right,” Rory replied. “So tread carefully.”
Neil made a visible effort to control his temper in face of Rory’s challenge. “I still do not understand why you wish to turn over the household accounts to … the marchioness. Has the lass bewitched you?”
“Hardly. She is as plain as a post, and those freckles … she takes no care at all in covering them.” He shuddered with distaste. “Still, I want as much peace as possible, and it is little enough to let her busy her hands with the tower house.” His voice grew colder. “And it is not your place to criticize her or question my motives.”
Neil glowered at him. “How long can we anticipate your presence this time … my lord.” He made the title an insult.
Rory decided to ignore it. He had dug in his spurs deep, and he was ashamed of it. “My arm is still stiff from that encounter with the brigand. Still, I promised a certain captain in Edinburgh a chance to win his money back.”
“You seemed to have no trouble in helping the lady mount.”
“Ah, my dear cousin, ’tis all in the cause of being a gentleman. I do not expect you believed such a day would come.”
Neil muttered something.
“I’m sorry, dear boy, I did not hear that. Would you care to repeat it?”
Neil met his gaze directly, and the enmity between them ran deep and dangerous. Rory knew he should not bait Neil, and worse he did not even know why he did it. His role as fool? Or the bitter memories of Neil’s silence when Donald used to taunt him, “Bastard, bastard.” He wondered now whether Neil had been silent because he himself had been a bastard.
“I know you will help my wife in every way,” he said after a moment’s silence. Then he turned and walked out the door.
Do not be impatient. Bethia repeated those words to herself as she lifted a wriggling Black Jack into her hands for an adventure outside.
And yet it was hard not to be, as ideas tumbled through her mind. She knew exactly what she had to do. Clothes, cards, a weapon, a horse. If she could sneak but of Brae-moor in a lad’s clothes and mix with people in a tavern, mayhap she could discover someone loyal to the Black Knave.
She would have to be back by morning. The timing would be everything. And if she could find someone with information, she would leave word that a lass in trouble needed him. In the meantime, she needed to find a place so lonely and secret that she could go there on a regular basis and await him.
If he did not show, mayhap she would learn of those who might be sympathetic to his cause. She could then pretend to be the Knave herself and ask for help in freeing her brother.
Dougal. The very thought of him alone in a cold, hostile place sent ripples of fear through her. He would not be obedient. He had his brothers’ own wild, bold courage.
Her fingers caught in a fist. She was a MacDonell. She would free him. She would free them both.
She went down the stone staircase, the pup in hand. Once outside, she went to the stable, flashing her smile at one of the stablelads. “I would like to meet the horses,” she said, still holding little Black Jack. She did not want him to run under one of the stable doors and startle a horse.
The lad was looking at the pup curiously. “You be the one who took the runt.”
“Aye.”
The boy’s face split in a wide grin. “I wanted to take ’im, but my fa said we had no use for a weakling. But he was my favorite.”
Bethia knew instantly she had an ally, a friend. “You can come and see him anytime you wish,” she told him.
The boy’s brows furrowed. “In the tower, my lady?”
“Aye.”
“I do not think my fa would approve.”
“Well, then, I will talk to him.” She eyed him critically. His clothes were rough, worn and far too small. His arms and legs stuck out like those of a scarecrow, like sticks.
She knew how she was going to get the clothes she needed.
All she needed was control of the household funds.
And then the cards. She knew how to get those, too.
“Now tell me,” she said
to the boy, “which are the fastest horses?”
Ten
Rory gratefully took the heavy wig from his head and poured French brandy into a crystal goblet. The brandy was exceptional, a gift from the French sea captain who’d been smuggling his refugees to France. It had come through Elizabeth who, until now, had dealt with the man.
He stared at the rich color of the brandy. It was time to make a new bargain; he had at least two more cargoes for the man. Rory had decided to deal with him directly this time. He’d already involved Elizabeth far too deeply, and the risks to all of them had soared since his raid on the gaol. The Black Knave was wanted nearly as badly as Prince Charles.
Two more shipments would require a great deal of money. Until now, his gambling winnings had paid his costs. But they were running low. He may soon have to dip into Braemoor funds. Part of him found the idea ironic. Another part thought it thievery and he found himself loath to do so.
He had never wanted anything from Braemoor. If it had not been for the first tattered little group of refugees, he probably would have left Braemoor for good. The memories were too haunting.
He still didn’t know why he had heeded his father’s call to join his forces at Culloden. One last effort, he thought, to gain his father’s approval. A final opportunity to prove himself a Forbes. But then the reality of the battlefield, the bloodthirsty savagery of his father and brother had drained any vestige of family loyalty, any longing to belong.
He ran his fingers through his hair. Damp with sweat from the bloody wig, it curled around his fingers. He undid the waistcoat, the stock, then jerked open the front of his shirt. He poured more brandy into the glass before sitting and sprawling over the chair.
His arm ached. But something else ached even more. He was not sure how many more encounters he could survive with his marchioness before grabbing her and making her truly his. He winced as he thought of her reaction.
The only solution was another absence.
He still had to get Ogilvy on that ship.
He was mulling over the afternoon with Bethia when he heard a knock on the door. He rose and went to answer it. All his servants had instructions never to enter without permission.
Rory opened it and saw his wife. He bowed slightly, keeping his surprise to himself. “My lady. You surprise me.”
He watched her bite her lip. “I … I …”
He decided not to help her. He did not think the Marquis of Braemoor would care about her discomfort.
“They say … you are a gambler.”
“Aye, an exceptional one,” he replied with a lack of modesty.
“Would you teach me?”
“Women do not game.” He said it with absolute authority.
She narrowed her eyes in disbelief.
“Not … ladies,” he amended. Of course, they gamed. Elizabeth was really quite his own match.
“I have nothing to do here.”
He looked down at the pup who was tottering around, investigating a pair of boots.
“You have the pup. And now, as you wished, you have the household accounts.”
Something flashed in her eyes. It was not gratitude. Instead, it was almost sly.
She tried to cover it with a quick curtsey. “Thank you, my lord.”
“You may have made an enemy. Neil was not pleased.”
“Then why did you agree?”
“I enjoy watching him squirm.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It does not matter now.”
Her gaze seemed to pierce through him. “Will you teach me?”
He shrugged. He dug in a drawer and produced a pair of dice.
“I would rather use cards.”
He would happily wager his new waistcoat that she had something more nefarious in mind than a simple game of cards.
Nonetheless, he returned to the wardrobe and opened the drawer again, taking out a deck of cards. He held out a chair for her, then dropped into one of his own.
“Do you have money, my lady?”
“Will you take my pledge?”
“Can you be trusted?”
“Nay.”
“Ah, a quality I admire. Then this one time. Now, madam, this is casino …”
He dealt two cards at a time, four cards facedown for each of them, then four faceup. The jack of spades stared up at him. He looked up just in time to see quick interest in her eyes before she lowered them, thick, dark lashes shading indigo-blue eyes. Suddenly tension shimmered between them. Awareness.
Rory was only too aware that he was without wig or obnoxious coat. He tired to make his eyes vapid, but he did not think they quite reached that desirable effect. How could they when she sat on the other side of the table, her mouth pursed up in concentration and those bloody freckles frosting her nose? Why were they so damned fascinating?
He continued his explanation, wishing he had a handkerchief to flutter, or a wig to finger. He had never felt so bloody naked in his life. Her frequent quick glances did nothing to alleviate the feeling.
She was quick. Astonishingly quick. He won the first game but she took the second. Her eyes were bright, her movements sure, her decisions fast.
Bethia took the third game, then the fourth. He was letting her win although she might have bested him at least once on her own. He was supposed to be a boastful lackwit, not a cardsharp. He allowed his frown to deepen, even though he was pleased to find a way to give her money.
Bethia did not understand it. She could barely take her gaze from him.
She had previously noticed that without his wig and dreadful clothes, he was not entirely unattractive. But her own fear and grief had kept her from seeing, or retaining, more.
Now her gaze was drawn to him. His dark, thick hair was cropped shorter than custom, probably since he wore a wig so often. But it was quite … pleasing the way one lock fell over his forehead. Without the wig covering part of the face, she could see the strong, angular lines of his cheeks.
The room seemed smaller in some way. Much smaller. She felt heat from across the table and she looked up to see fire in his eyes. Not only fire, but intelligence. The amber in them glowed, and the gray-green color seemed to come alive. She felt her body reacting to the moment of heat. She leaned forward, compelled by a fascination, an attraction, that sent waves of uncertainty, then something of a more physical nature, through her. Bethia felt mesmerized, swept into a force she did not understand.
She could not be attracted to this … fop, this gambler, this man many called coward. And yet she could not tear her gaze away from him.
Then his lips moved, curving into the supercilious smile she hated. The light—the fire—faded, yet this time she knew she had seen it. It had not been her imagination. There was far more behind that facade than he wanted anyone to know.
Why?
And what was it? Calculation? Greed? Or did he just delight in irritating everyone, using a jester’s tricks to protect his real motives? But what were they?
They were suspect, whatever they were. Still, she ached in places that had never ached before and the cool room felt overheated. She suspected that when she stood, her legs would not work properly.
Remember why you are here.
“I have something to ask of you,” she finally said with a voice that didn’t sound like hers.
He cocked one of those dark, bushy eyebrows.
“Some of your servants appear very poorly clothed. I … I … would like to purchase some material for new clothes.” She was stammering. She never stammered.
He looked at her for a moment, his gaze weighing her. She could not determine what his conclusion was. “You care about how the Forbeses are dressed?”
“The boy who works in the stable looks like a beggar. So do others. It does no honor to Braemoor any more than the filth I found here.”
“And now you care about our honor?”
“I care about the boy.” She heard the passion in her voice and was immediately shamed by it.
It should be there for the lad; instead, it was there for her own benefit. The boy will benefit, too, she told herself. As would others.
“What other improvements would you make?” he asked silkily.
“The crofts looked in need of repair,” she said heedlessly. “You could use a better cook.”
“Aye, but then what would we do with the present one? She has a family.”
Astonishment struck her. ’Twas the last thing she suspected him to say. She was surprised he even knew the cook had a family, much less cared.
“I can find her something else.”
“’Tis done, then. Do what you will. I will tell Neil to give you whatever funds you need.”
“For the boy, too, and others who need clothing?”
His gaze met hers. “Aye, as long as you do not bother me with it. I have more important matters.”
“Like gaming?”
“Aye.”
“And your paramour?”
“That, too,” he said, challenging her.
“I may have to go into the village for material.”
“Do I have your word you will not try to run away?”
“How could I? I am your wife.”
“And I am your lord, and of course you will obey me in all things.”
It was not a question, but a statement. She chose not to reply.
“Do I have your word? The word of a MacDonell?” he persisted.
“About what?” She wriggled around the question.
“If I give you freedom of movement, the freedom to go into the village, will you behave as the Marchioness of Braemoor should? You will not try to leave … the marriage?”
“Where would I go? You still have my brother as hostage.”
“Cumberland has him. Not I. And you are skating around the question.”
A lie? An oath taken but never meant to be observed? Where did honor lie?
“I see the question gives you pause, my wife. Does that mean that you have plans I should know about?”
She felt red creeping into her cheeks. She had always been a poor liar, and this fool, this Scottish traitor, obviously saw right through her. His suspicions could destroy everything.
The Black Knave Page 13
