Your brother’s life is at stake.
She would willingly stay if she could free her brother, get him out of Scotland and into France where other Jacobites would care for him. She would not be violating her oath then, and her own happiness would be a small price to pay. Happiness was, in fact, a rare commodity in Scotland today.
“Aye,” she said finally. “You have my word. For now.”
His eyes narrowed as if he were gauging her credibility. “Now?”
“That is all I can give you.”
He suddenly smiled, an ironic twist of his lips. “Fair enough. I trust you will give me warning when you consider the bargain over.”
“I swear,” she added. She was surprised at the smile; even more so at his concession.
“I’ll tell the stable hands that you are allowed to ride the mare you rode today,” he said. “I would suggest, however, that you ride with someone. Jacobites are not popular these days.”
Excitement surged through Bethia. It was even more than she’d ever imagined. She lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Do not abuse my good nature,” he said, yawning. He stood as if weary of the conversation, and scooped up the cards.
“My lord?”
“Something else?” he said with exasperation, his mouth pursed in annoyance.
“The cards. I would like to practice.”
“You have already bested me,” he said. “I do not believe you need practice.”
“It will help pass time.”
He looked down at Black Jack, who had been sleeping but who had clumsily stumbled to his feet when Rory had scraped back his chair. The pup was busy watering the leg of the table. “Between runts and stableboys, you seem to find much to occupy yourself.”
“The evenings are often long.”
He tossed the deck down, and she scooped them up, then stood.
“Are you not going to take your winnings?”
She looked down at the coins lying on the table. “I had no money of my own.”
“The first rule of a gambler, my lady, is always take your winnings regardless of how you came about them.”
She did not know what she saw in his eyes. Amusement? Speculation? He might well be laughing at her.
But money was power, and she had precious little of either. She scooped up the money, hoping there would not be an unexpected consequence accompanying it.
“Madam?”
She turned.
“Good night,” he said with a mocking bow.
Her stomach turned inside out. She suddenly had the terrible feeling she had made a bargain with the devil, and she had no comprehension of the price he would exact.
Rory watched her go and wondered what in the hell she was thinking.
No good.
He knew that. He knew it by the rush of blood in her cheeks. He knew it by the cordiality she’d tried so hard to maintain.
His new wife certainly hadn’t come to his bedroom to learn how to play a game of chance. He just wasn’t quite sure exactly what she wanted.
Was it only more control of Braemoor? More freedom? Better clothing for his kinsmen?
He doubted all of those. He had seen something deep in her eyes. He was well used to reading emotions. All good gamblers were, and he was a very good gambler. He could tell by the movement of a body whether someone was bluffing. Or lying.
His lady wife was lying.
God’s breath, but he wearied of lies, his own as well as those of others. He wondered how long he could keep up the masquerade—not that he had kept it very well this evening. He’d let his guard down several times, and he suspected that she realized there was more to Rory Forbes, the Marquis of Braemoor, than he’d ever intended her to know.
Still, he felt quite proud of himself that he had kept his hands to himself when she’d smiled with delight at winning at casino, when she’d pleaded for a young lad, when she’d demonstrated her mettle in warring with Neil.
He also remembered her hesitation before she gave him her oath. She was making a mental reservation.
He would have to keep a close eye on her. But that might be even more dangerous than letting her run loose to spread havoc.
She had looked so appealing, so enticing. The fact that she did not realize it made her appeal that much stronger. He sighed. He had wanted to run his fingers through her dark hair. Even worse, his gaze had kept going to the nape of her neck. He wondered how it tasted. He wondered how she would react.
Emotion ran rampant in her. He saw it in her eagerness today on horseback, in the pleasure with which she sniffed the air and cared little whether her hair tumbled down. He saw it in the way she’d rested her head on her hands as she considered her choices in casino and when he’d allowed her to win. He often lost several hands purposely before plucking his opponent. He was as skilled at losing as he was at winning.
He wondered now, though, who had been plucked tonight. He took another sip of brandy, stirred the coals in the fireplace and sat staring at the flames.
Alister greeted him cordially when Rory stopped by the village smithy the next day.
“Two of our horses need shoeing.”
“Aye, my lord,” he said, using the pump to fan the flames. He picked up a piece of metal with tongs and easily twisted it into the shape of a shoe.
Rory leaned against a wall and watched his quick, competent movements. Alister would be valuable anywhere. He had a quick mind as well as quick hands.
“How is the marchioness?” Alister asked, as if he knew exactly what was on Rory’s mind.
“Fair enough.”
“Are you speaking of her health or her physical features?”
“Both,” Rory admitted wryly. “Like most bridegrooms, I had no idea what I was getting into.”
“John told me about her visit to the shop. Fairly bursting with pride, he was.”
“She appears to have that effect on people. Braemoor is actually being swept.”
Alister opened his eyes in mock alarm. “Swept?”
“Aye. The food has already improved; she has washed the windows, and we can actually see from them again. And her latest crusade, after saving a runt puppy, is clothing my clansmen.”
“And how does Neil feel about this?”
“He resents it mightily, as he resents anything about me and mine.”
“Mine?”
“A figure of speech.”
Alister gave him a crooked grin. “So you say.” Then his expression sobered. “You will have to make a trip to the coast near Portsoy. A ship will be there in three days for Ogilvy and others. They will be wanting payment. Unless, of course, you want me to go.”
“I fear your absence would be noted far more than mine,” Rory said. “You are too good a smith.”
“Your arm?”
“Sore, nothing more.”
“You have never … quite collapsed like that before. You worried us both.”
“I will try not to go three days without sleep again.”
“You cannot keep this up forever.”
“I know,” Rory said. “Mayhap the hunt for Jacobites will lessen.”
Alister looked dubious. “You canna save them all.”
“No, but there is still Ogilvy and others waiting passage, and a young lad imprisoned by Cumberland.”
“Have you said anything to the lady about him?”
“Nay. ’Tis best that she know nothing.”
“When will you go to the coast?”
“On the morn. Try to watch the marchioness. I think she might be planning some mischief.”
“But she is staying inside Braemoor.”
“I gave her permission to leave.”
Alister bent over his forge. “Was that wise?”
“I could not keep her prisoner forever. I think as long as the boy is in Cumberland’s hands, she will not do anything to risk his safety.”
“Then …?”
“I think. I cannot be sure. But I saw the pleasure on her
face today when we were riding. I could not deprive her of it.”
“You have a soft heart.”
Rory groaned. “Nay. I merely want—”
“I know. To pull the tiger’s tail. Trouble is, you always hang on too long.”
“You are always in back of me,” Rory said with warm affection.
“All the way to the scaffold, I think.”
“I will not let that happen.”
Alister leaned over the forge rather than answering. They both knew that Rory might not have a choice in the matter.
Terror. Terror greater than she’d ever known before thundered through Bethia.
She and Dougal were running, fleeing from some unknown evil along a bank, ’Twas night, and clouds masked the moon and stars. She could see little, but she heard the sound of hoofbeats behind her and it spurred both of them to quicken their pace.
Then Dougal fell, rolling down the bank into something dark and forbidding. A bog. When she reached for him, she fell down, and they were both sucked into its quicksand. Terror seized her as they sank deeper and deeper. She cried for help, over and over again. But there was no one, not even the hoofbeats that had followed them. There were only the shadows of a moonless night and forbidding sight of bare branches bending in a strong wind.
She sank lower and lower as she struggled to keep her brother’s head above water. Then, when she believed they both would surely die, a man appeared. His face was masked and he was dressed totally in black. He tied a rope around a tree, then around himself, and he used it to approach them. He reached out to her, but she could not touch him. He was an inch away, only an inch, but she could not reach him.…
She woke. Her body was wet, her hair tangled and damp. The bedclothes were twisted around her. Her breathing was swift and hard. She forced herself to relax. There was no bog. No stranger. Dougal was safe, although miles away.
Or was he? Was that what the nightmare had tried to tell her?
And the stranger. Had he been the pursuer? Or the savior?
She looked toward the window. Light was streaming into the room. It must be late, much later than she usually slept.
Bethia looked into the basket next to the bed. Black Jack was squirming around, whimpering. Probably for food.
She picked up the puppy, running her fingers over the soft fuzz of his skin. Just that gesture slowed the beat of her heart, the pounding in her head. The overwhelming sense of panic slowly faded from her.
She stood and went over to the table where Trilby had placed a bowl of fresh water the evening before. Using a piece of linen cloth, she washed her face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the nightmare.
Did dreams have meanings?
She usually did not dream at all, or at least none she remembered. So what had brought this one on?
And where was Trilby?
As if her very thought had summoned the girl, a light, tentative knock came at the door.
Bethia went over and opened it. Trilby held a tray, laden with fresh pastries, a tankard of chocolate, and a small pitcher of milk intended, Bethia knew, for the puppy.
“I looked in on you earlier,” Trilby said, “but you were so deep in sleep I thought to wait.”
“Wait?”
“The marquis has left Braemoor,” Trilby said apologetically with a sly grin. “He left this note for you.”
Her maid had expressed no surprise that the marquis seldom shared her bed, but obviously Bethia’s presence in his room had been noted, and Trilby’s eyes were openly curious.
He was gone. Again. Bethia did not understand the sudden sense of loss that she felt. Even disappointment. In her mind’s eye, she recalled how appealing he’d looked last night without the wig, without the frilled, brightly colored waistcoats.
But that was who he was. A popinjay and libertine who sought out the company of other women.
She slowly looked at the note. “As I promised, Madam, I have given instructions to John, the head groom, that you be allowed to take out Miss Fancy. I have also talked to Neil about your authority over the household accounts.”
He’d signed it with an extravagant brandish, “Your husband.” Not his name. Not Rory, or Rory, Lord Forbes. Or Braemoor. For a moment she thought that strange, as if he were denying the title or his own position.
It was her imagination. He was merely asserting his authority, flouting his power in her face, even while giving her only a breath of freedom. As long as Cumberland held her brother, she had no real freedom.
“A love note?” Trilby said hopefully.
Bethia shook her head. “Just … some instructions.”
Trilby’s face fell. In just a few weeks, Trilby had become dear to Bethia. She had an unflagging optimism that usually lit the room, and she was humbly grateful to make the extra money that came with being a lady’s maid.
“Here, help me feed Jack,” she said, trying to take her maid’s mind, and her own, away from the enigmatic man who was her husband.
Jack had progressed from the glove to lapping milk from a small saucer. Trilby filled the saucer with milk, and together they watched the little terrier greedily lap it up. It would not be long before he could have gruel or cereal.
“I did not believe you could save the wee creature,” Trilby said with admiration.
“He has a will to live.”
“Aye,” Trilby said. “Would you like me to leave while you eat?”
“Will you join me? There is far too much food.”
“It would not be proper, milady.”
“I do not care about proper. I care about good company.”
Trilby flushed with pride.
“Sit then,” Bethia said, watching as the maid self-consciously sat across from her and hesitantly picked up a sweet. Bethia had not realized how pretty the girl was. In the past several weeks, she had transformed herself, picking up some of Bethia’s own habits. She now washed her hair, and it had lightened the color to the shade of wheat. Bethia had had two dresses made for her, and she kept them clean. The girl’s posture was straight, her eyes lively now with pride.
“It is good,” she said, licking sugar from her lips.
Not very, Bethia thought. But better than when she’d first arrived. The servants were beginning to take care, even pride, in their duties.
Bethia only nibbled on hers, though she enjoyed the hot chocolate. Her mind kept reliving the dream, then the hours she’d spent with her husband. Did one thing have to do with the other? Had she been running from the marquis?
Yet he seemed the last person to run from. Ineffective. Careless. Indifferent to Braemoor and his people. She surmised that the reason he’d allowed her to dress the servants better was simply to keep her occupied, not out of any deep concern for his own people.
Where had he gone this time?
And why did she care?
Eleven
The Sail and Wheel Tavern in Aberdeen was dark, moldy and dirty. The candles were smoky, the ale poor and the tables stained and scarred.
Rory paused at the door, adjusting his eyes to the dim interior. He had been here several previous times, each in a different disguise. Now he wore an English captain’s uniform, and a bushy dark mustache perched over his lips. The English had been looking for an old man, a young man in peasant’s clothes, and even a woman. As far as he knew, they were not yet looking for an English captain.
All heads turned. Their whiskey-fogged eyes stared at him dully as he walked in. Some of the patrons spat on the floor as he passed them. He went up to one of the barmaids, patted her bottom and leered, then asked whether a gentleman was awaiting a Mister Smythe.
The woman looked at his captain’s insignia, then tucked her arm into his.
“There be a man waitin’ in a room upstairs.”
“The private room?”
She widened her eyes. The room was usually meant for assignations, and few but regulars knew of it. Her gaze became more curious, more greedy. “Would you like a bit of a tumble after
yer business?” She was eyeing him with a great deal more interest now. If he were meeting with a French sailor, it meant smuggling. It meant money.
“We will see,” he said.
“Do ye need me tae show the way?”
“I think not,” he said in his best English accent. Since he had frequented the tavern previously, Rory knew of the private room upstairs. The tavern was one of those places where few questions were asked and few faces remembered. It was perfect for a French smuggler or an English officer if they were trying to arrange an assignation, a bit of smuggling or some other nefarious activity.
He went up the stairs and found the room on his right. He knocked lightly and the door opened, revealing a tall man with a strong build, dressed carelessly in the nondescript garb of a ship’s mate.
His eyes widened at the uniform, and his hand went toward a table with a sword lying on it.
But Rory was quicker. He moved swiftly, pulling a pistol from inside his coat.
“I would not advise that, Captain Renard.”
The captain’s gaze studied him, then dropped his arm to his side. “You know who I am.”
“Ah, yes. Rene Renard. At least, that is the name you use.” Rory flipped a card in his direction.
Renard caught it easily, glanced at it, then back to Rory, before showing a wide smile. “Monsieur. I did not expect the Black Knave himself. Especially in that uniform.”
“’Tis only borrowed,” Rory said.
Renard started to laugh. “And how, monsieur, did you know I am Renard?”
“Our mutual acquaintance described you well,” Rory said, not wanting the man to know he had actually seen him earlier. Renard had been Elizabeth’s suggestion. She’d once been his mistress and had retained him as a friend as she had Rory. She had once pointed him out to Rory when both were in a tavern.
Renard was reliable, she’d said, and even more important, he had sympathy for the Jacobite refugees. His honor was involved, and he would fight before sacrificing his human cargo.
But he was rather insistent on receiving his fee.
This time Rory had wanted to meet him in person, to judge his mettle.
The Black Knave Page 14
