The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

She went to the narrow window and looked out over the hills and the forest beyond, the forest where her husband’s mistress lived. A mist was falling, turning the hills to a soft green. It seemed so peaceful, so far away from what she knew was happening across the Highlands. The thought saddened her, and she wiped a tear from her eyes.

  She could not bring back her family. She could only try to save Dougal.

  Then she was suddenly aware of another presence. She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery that she had not heard him. She did not turn. She did not want him to see her tears. She was a MacDonell, proud and strong.

  The carpet covered his footfalls. She knew he had neared only by the scent of soap. Bethia swallowed deeply, trying to gulp down those tears that wanted to rush from her eyes.

  “My lady?”

  She turned, hoping her eyes were not red. She knew she failed when she saw something flicker in his eyes. Sympathy?

  Bethia did not want it. He had fought alongside Cumberland at Culloden. He might even have killed one of her brothers. He was a Scots traitor, a renegade. And yet despite all those things she told herself, she could not tear her gaze away from his.

  His eyes were mesmerizing. They had depths, just as he had layers to him. Layers she did not understand. She just knew they existed. She did not know why he acted the fool so many times, but looking into those eyes, she knew he was no fool.

  “Are you ready, lass?” He took a lacy handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her face. “Some rain must have seeped inside.”

  The words were extraordinarily kind and gentle, and they served not to stop the tears but to spur them on. She’d had no comfort since she’d learned of her brothers’ deaths, the same day Cumberland’s forces took MacDonell’s land and dragged Dougal and her away. She’d had no arms around her, no words of sympathy, no kindness. And that had been her strength.

  Now a kind word made her blubber like some child.

  A kind word from an enemy.

  Forcing her gaze away from his, she turned away from him again. But it did no good. She was so very aware of his presence. Heat wrapped around them like an invisible cloak. Every nerve in her body was aware of him. The air hummed like the lingering sound of a harp.

  It could not be. She could not be attracted to her husband, to a man she’d hated. A member of a clan which had taken up arms against their own countrymen, who held the life of her brother as hostage to her own behavior.

  “Your brother will be safe.”

  It was as if he knew her every thought. It was … unsettling. Confounding.

  She lifted her hand and wiped away the dampness from her eyes.

  He was silent, so silent that if it had not been for the lingering smell of soap, she might have believed him gone, but then, perhaps not. There were no more words, no handkerchief dabbing at her eyes, and yet she felt strength.

  She slowly turned. So did he. But not before she saw his face, saw something flicker again in his eyes, saw a muscle clench in his cheek.

  “We had better go down to supper, madam. My cousin will already be there along with some of our tacksmen.” He hesitated, then handed her a box that she had not noticed earlier.

  She stared at it.

  “Take it,” he ordered in an arrogant voice.

  Bethia slowly opened the package. A glittering necklace of sapphire and diamonds lay on a velvet background. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry she had ever seen.

  “It matches your dress,” he said. “And your eyes.”

  She could do naught but stare at it. “I … canna …”

  “It belonged to the previous marchioness. It would be expected.”

  “Your mother?” she asked, wondering at the detached, dispassionate description.

  “She called herself that,” her husband said. Bitterness accented the words.

  Bethia still did not take them. She wanted nothing of the enemy’s. She wanted nothing that seemed to make this marriage real and unbreakable.

  He took it from her and moved to stand behind her back, placing the necklace around her neck. She felt his fingers against her skin, contrasting with the chill of the metal. For a moment, they hesitated, then she felt the clasp close and the necklace hung heavily about her neck. A noose. A lovely noose, but a noose just the same. A tremor went through her, and his hands moved to her shoulders.

  She liked the feel of them. Surprisingly, they were hard, callused, and they felt right.

  Then they left her, and she felt the weight of the necklace. It carried with it the legacy of the Forbeses, a family she believed traitors.

  But also she knew that with it, Rory Forbes was declaring her authority over Braemoor. She suspected he knew that she was having a difficult time at Braemoor both because of who she was, and also for his own derelictions. This necklace, and the supper tonight, were meant to assert her authority. She was no longer a prisoner but the mistress of Braemoor, a title of dubious honor.

  Still, it would mean more freedom for her. She gritted her teeth. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’ve heard the words spoken with more emotion.”

  “From prisoners?”

  “You are no longer a prisoner. Now are you ready?”

  She nodded. She was not, but she would not let him know it. She hated eating down in the great hall. Usually there were more than a few English soldiers who had stopped in for Forbes hospitality.

  He said nothing else, until Black Jack yelped as the puppy suddenly realized he was going to be left behind. He growled and ran over to the marquis, snapping at his ankle. Her heart stopped. She knew he’d tolerated the puppy, but it had never gone after him before.

  The marquis leaned over and the wig went tumbling over. The puppy grabbed at it, snared one of the great curls in sharp little puppy teeth and tried to drag the wig over to the bed. When that was unsuccessful, he tumbled in the midst of it, growling and attacking it, stumbling over it, falling as little legs caught in the curls.

  “Jack,” she said, horrified.

  The marquis had turned to watch the puppy’s contortions. Then she saw his shoulders start to shake. She feared it was in anger, then she heard the chuckles. The chortles turned into great bursts of laughter.

  Bethia stood there. Stunned. She moved to where she could see his face. She was astounded. She had never heard him laugh before. Or even seen a smile. Oh, there had been a supercilious twist of his lips, but not actually a smile. And it had never, ever touched his eyes. But now they seemed to dance with merriment.

  His wig. His very, very expensive wig. She giggled as the pup became more and more enmeshed in the hair, the powder turning him partially white.

  “I’m … sorry,” she managed between giggles.

  He leaned down and disentangled the puppy from the wig, then picked up the hairpiece. It was totally destroyed. He glanced at it ruefully.

  “I like you better without it,” she said, her reserve with him broken.

  “Ah, but my cousin and his friends expect my … excesses. I would not like to disappoint them.”

  She’d been reluctant minutes earlier to take her gaze from him. Now it was impossible. His dark hair was mussed, and his hazel eyes were bright with amusement. Without the wig, his face seemed sharper.

  That image of strength, again.

  How had she ever thought him a weakling?

  For some reason, though, he wished others to believe him a fool, a dolt, a dandy. Now she remembered how strange she’d thought his friendship with a blacksmith. Stranger still to be faithful to a village girl.

  She thought of the girl’s serenity, her quiet competency, and now she understood more of the apparent commitment between them. Envy nibbled at her, though. Took a big bite, in truth. She did not understand anything now except the pull she felt toward Rory Forbes, the Marquis of Braemoor.

  “I feel naked,” he said. “I must return to my room and find another headpiece.”

  “Why?”

  He lifted an eyebrow.


  “Why do you pretend to be something you are not?”

  “And you know what I am?”

  “I know you are no fool.”

  “I would not take a wager on that, my lady.”

  “You did not answer me. I have seen enough of you to know …”

  He waited, his mouth curved in that supercilious smile that she disliked. But now she knew there was something under it. “Know what, my love?”

  “That you have honor.”

  “You flatter me, madam. I care naught for honor. ’Tis just a word that men toss around to impress their ladies, and I want none of it. I am a gambler who would take the devil’s hand to win a wager.”

  His voice was cool, though she saw the lingering flicker of desire in his eyes.

  “Your clothes do not … suit you.”

  “That is your opinion, lass. They suit me very well.”

  “Why?”

  “You know something of my family now. My legal father never wished to spend a ha’pence on me. I rather enjoy tweaking his memory.”

  “You have said that before. Do you live only to gain revenge on him?”

  “Aye. ’Tis as good a reason as any.”

  As lightly as the words were said, they carried a bitterness and even an odd insincerity. Yet she knew she was going to get nothing else from him. She went to the door.

  His hand caught her arm. “You are very bonny,” he said. “You do Braemoor proud.”

  She did not care whether she did Braemoor proud or not. Yet it was the first compliment she had received from him, and she blushed. She also felt inordinately pleased. Far more pleased than she should. She reminded herself that, fool or not, he was still the enemy. He had fought with Cumberland against her brothers, against her betrothed, against her friends and her family’s friends.

  His fingers seemed to burn through her, and though she wanted to brush away from the branding heat of his touch, she seemed unable to move. Her legs simply would not work.

  He lowered his head, and she felt the soft sigh of his breath as his lips—no longer supercilious but tempting as they curved into a sensual smile—touched hers. The kiss was not violent as it had been before, but exploring. Even tender. Sensation washed through her and her body pressed against his, reacting to his hard body. Heat radiated between them. She felt it to the essence of her soul. It surged in the deepest, most private part of her. Her entire body felt like fluid fire.

  His kiss deepened. No longer exploratory, his lips searched and demanded. And she felt herself respond, her lips mating with his as fervently as his with her.

  Then suddenly he let go, and she heard him curse under his breath. Her stomach twisted into a knot. He did not want her, and God help her, she wanted him. An enemy, and she wanted him.

  She backed away, tripping over little Black Jack.

  He yelped, and she started to fall, her body twisting in an effort to protect herself. Her husband’s arms caught her, straightening her with easy strength. But the fall seemed to continue. She felt as if she were whirling down some hole to disaster. Her senses were swirling, and she felt both protected and threatened.

  “Bethia.” It was the first time he had ever said her name, and it sounded strange on his lips. She’d always been “my lady” to him, or “madam” or some word designed to keep a distance. But now intimacy danced between them like flames.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice hoarser than usual. Or was that her imagination?

  “Yes.” Her voice was lower than usual, even faltering.

  His gaze held hers, and again she saw the depths he usually tried so successfully to hide. “I am your enemy,” he said reluctantly, as if feeling the need to remind her.

  “Aye.”

  “I love another.”

  “Aye.”

  He still did not leave, nor did he take his hand from her arm. “I ha’ not changed.”

  “Nay.”

  “Nor will I.”

  He was reciting a list of reasons for both of them to leave, and yet neither made the slightest movement to do so. The room was even more heated. Smaller. Pushing them closer together.

  “You are my wife.”

  “Aye.”

  He smiled then. “I did not know you were so agreeable.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Ah, lass, I am sorely tempted to take what should be mine.”

  She said nothing. She already heard the rejection in the words. She bit her lower lip. ’Tis just as well, she tried to tell herself. He was indeed the enemy. To her. To Scotland.

  “They will be waiting in the hall,” she said, trying to keep her voice under control. “They cannot eat until you arrive.”

  “They are used to waiting for me.”

  “And that is admirable?”

  Another raised eyebrow. “You care about the feelings of the Forbeses?”

  “The law says they are now my people.”

  “Are you instructing me on my duty?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

  “Aye.”

  “That infernal affability again. I think I preferred the asp’s tongue.”

  The room was cooling. A wee bit.

  Yet they were still linked by some strange magic.

  She sought to break it. “How is your arm?”

  “Well enough.”

  “And your mistress?”

  He smiled slowly. “Also well enough. She said you stopped by to see her.”

  “I needed herbs.”

  “Trilby could not fetch them? Or cook?”

  “I wanted to see what she had,” she said defiantly. In truth, she did not know herself why she had visited that cottage.

  “Did you satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Aye.” She saw the amusement flicker again on his face and she had the strangest desire to kiss him, to touch his face and get a measure of it.

  “Aye,” he mocked, and his finger touched her cheek, just as if he had read her mind. She felt the breath in her lungs leave them as the fingers traced a trail across her face. Then he dropped his hand with obvious reluctance and took the several steps to the door, opened it, and swept out his arm for her to go first. He stopped at his room, donned a new wig, then returned to her side.

  She started for the staircase, stopping only when he said, “I would prefer, madam, that you do not go back to Mary’s cottage.”

  She turned. “Is that an order?”

  “Aye.”

  The magic disappeared, but the aching inside her did not as she allowed him to lead her down the steps to sup with the Forbeses.

  He almost had taken her to his bed. They were married; there was no impediment except his own conscience, and it had been a long time since his conscience had guided his actions. He refused to believe that his current actions on behalf of the Jacobites had anything to do with conscience. Guilt, perhaps. Conscience, nay. One was a motive of convenience, the other one of nobility, and God knew, that was the last quality he wished to claim.

  He had been perfectly honest with the lass when he’d said honor was naught but a word without meaning. He heard the word bandied about before Culloden, and then he’d watched the worst kind of murder, pillage and inhumanity following it. Nay, he had no use for so-called virtues.

  But, he told himself, bedding the lass would mean nothing but trouble. A new and … affectionate relationship between the two of them would certainly cause comment, and he would lose his excuse to visit Mary. And the cottage was vital to his various roles.

  Yet he’d revealed far more than he’d intended, and now he would have to give her a reason, one she might believe, for playing the fool.

  He put his hand on her as they went into the great hall. The sound of laughter ceased as he entered, and he wondered whether the talk had been about him.

  They all rose, however, as he led his wife to the head table where Neil already sat. He, too, stood until Bethia was seated.

  Rory remained standing, noting all the curious faces. Many of them
were hostile, some suspicious. But he nodded in what he hoped was an arrogant pose of graciousness, and sat.

  “We are not often graced with your presence,” Neil observed dryly as he speared a pigeon from a tray being carried by a servant. “Should I inquire as to where you have been?”

  “Edinburgh,” Rory said airily. “A few other places.”

  “I would like several hours with you tomorrow. Decisions must be made about some land.”

  “You do what you think best,” Rory said. “I have no head for such matters.”

  He saw several scowls from men sitting closest to him. In truth, he did have faith in Neil as far as property management went. His cousin had obviously tried to protect the tacksmen who leased land from the lord, then rented it out to smaller farmers. Rory agreed with Neil’s attempt to help the tenants, most of whom were clansmen, rather than simply evicting them and turning the land into grazing for sheep as so many other landowners were doing.

  But he did not particularly wish to communicate that concern, or interest. Not when Neil was taking care of it. He saw, though, his bride’s blue eyes darken with disapproval. She obviously wanted him to care more for the people who were, in many ways, his responsibility.

  He would leave that to her and Neil. She was already winning a few hearts at Braemoor. That much was obvious. It was he they disliked, and that suited him also.

  He took a long sip of strong ale that had been poured into his cup. Then he leaned over and kissed his bride. His lips had none of the finesse of his earlier, spontaneous kiss; this one was planned, deliberate, an open declaration of ownership. And where she had melted earlier in his arms, he saw surprise, disgust, outrage at his public assault.

  “What do you think of my bride, Neil?” he said when he finished, pulling out a lace handkerchief and dabbing at his mouth.

  Neil scowled, obviously uncomfortable at his lord’s behavior. “You are fortunate,” he said in a cool tone.

  “Aye, I am. I am missing only a bairn, but that should soon be remedied.” His tone left no question as to exactly what he meant, and he saw Bethia’s face pale. The softness he’d seen in her eyes earlier was gone. Distaste, even horror, had replaced it. Well, wasn’t that what he wanted? For both their sakes.