The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  None of the disapproval faded from Neil’s face.

  Instead, he turned around and disappeared inside.

  Five days. Where had she gone? He should have realized that she would be restless. Especially after the way he had left her that morning.

  Ill.

  All his own weariness gone, he took the steps two at a time.

  He paused at the door to her room and knocked, then impatiently strode inside without waiting for a reply.

  She was in the huge bed, looking slight and small, merely a small bump under the feather comforter. Jack, the puppy, cuddled next to her.

  Bethia’s face was flushed. Her hair was down, flowing over the pillow like a waterfall. Rays of light filtering through the windows sent wine-colored ribbons through the strands. She looked vulnerable and young, and yet her eyes flashed fire.

  Anger and defensiveness battled in her eyes. One hand curled around the dog; the other crept out from under the cover, and he saw her fingers knot into a fist.

  “I heard you were ill,” he said, striding over to the bed. He put a hand to her forehead. It was warm, but not dangerously so. Still, she looked drawn. Exhausted.

  “I am surprised you care.”

  The retort stung. Mainly because he deserved it. And much more. He had not had time to see her before he’d left. At least, he had told himself that. In reality, the extent of his feelings for her had astonished him. And more than a little dismayed him.

  “I was called away …”

  “To your mistress.” She turned away from him. “Will you please leave?”

  “I think not,” he said. He knew he was not handling this well, but he had no experience at this sort of thing. He did not know how a husband acted, nor even someone who cared for someone else. He had never seen a happy relationship at Braemoor, nor at the English household where he fostered. He’d seen cruelty and brutality, lies and deceit, and he’d watched them poison everyone and everything around them, including his brother.

  He had never wanted to be cruel; yet to protect her, and himself, he knew he had been just that. He did not know how to remedy the matter without endangering the both of them.

  And so he responded with the indifference and even arrogance he’d perfected to protect a heart too often wounded. Even with Mary and Alister, he had difficulty expressing feelings. He could only hope they knew how he felt, that they knew how grateful he was to receive their friendship.

  He had expressed his feelings that night he’d spent with his wife. He had opened his heart for the first time, and had lost himself in the feelings of warmth and affection and tenderness. They had scared the bloody hell out of him.

  Just as they did now, as he watched her sink further into the bed. Anger could not hide the hurt in her eyes, the exhaustion in her face. Because of him?

  “I was not at Mary’s,” he finally said.

  She regarded him steadily, waiting.

  “I had business elsewhere,” he tried to explain. He wasn’t used to explaining, and he was not very adept at it. Even he thought his explanation weak.

  “’Tis just as well,” she finally said. “I had business of my own.”

  “I heard.”

  “I expect you did,” she said as she moved up from the bed, sitting rather regally but making sure she was covered well. Her back was all defiance now. If he expected an explanation beyond what he’d just received, he knew she intended none. That she expected approbation was quite obvious. It was also quite obvious she was ready to confront it.

  “You did not see your brother?” he asked uncomfortably.

  “Nay.”

  “I told you I would get a letter to him.”

  She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “A letter is not seeing with my two eyes that he is well.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But it is the best I can do. I will send Alister.” He hesitated, then added, “I would suggest two. One for inspection, one that could be more private.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You do not. You have to make that decision yourself. I am just offering a small suggestion.”

  “Could Alister get a letter to him privately?”

  “Aye. I believe so.”

  “Why do you offer it?”

  “’Tis time for a little trust between us, madam,” he said. “I have no interest in preventing you from seeing or communicating with your brother.”

  “Trust?”

  “A wee bit, mayhap. Which reminds me. Neil said you lost a horse.”

  It was a question, not a comment. Was that what his “trust” was about? Trying to disarm her?

  Her jaw set stubbornly. “I will repay you.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “I will beat you at cards.” There was humor in her voice. Just a little, but he felt encouraged.

  In those few moments, the room had warmed from the frigid chill that had permeated it when he’d first arrived. “I would not count on that,” he said with mock competitiveness.

  Her eyes seemed to waiver a bit, some of the anger fading from them. “What did Neil tell you?”

  “What you told him. He did not send a message to Cumberland.” He said the last with just a bit of the amazement he still felt. He had believed that Neil would do anything to gain Braemoor. He was slowly revising his opinion of Neil. Once free of Rory’s father and brother, Neil seemed to be presiding over Braemoor with justice and fairness, rejecting what other large estates were doing: turning out the families who had farmed the land for so long. If he had, Rory would have stepped in and stopped it. But he realized that Neil was running the estate far better than he ever could. Neil had a true understanding of both the clan and the land. Rory had none.

  Oh, he probably would like farming well enough. But he hated Braemoor, and he knew he would never feel differently. It represented rejection and hatred and failure to him. Braemoor would never be home.

  Her eyes had widened, too. She, too, had apparently expected his cousin to run to Cumberland.

  He went over to the bed and sat down. “Tell me what happened. How far did you get?”

  “You wish to report to the butcher directly?”

  It was the first time she’d used the Jacobite term for Cumberland. Rory knew it no longer belonged only to the Jacobites. A growing number of Scots, even those who fought with him and certainly all who were neutral, were becoming outraged by his excesses.

  “I expect not,” he said mildly.

  “Why not?” she challenged.

  “Because you are now my affair, not his.”

  Her lips thinned. “I am no one’s affair but my own.”

  He had to smile. He admired her spirit. Bloody hell, he admired everything about her. The way she glared at him through her intensely blue eyes, the way her hair tumbled down the side of her face. The sprinkling of freckles and her wide mouth that could, on very rare occasions, curve into a blinding smile.

  “What happened to you?” he asked again.

  “I got lost.”

  “There are only two roads.”

  She shrugged slightly. “I took the wrong one. I have traveled here only once before. For the wedding. When you were gone. As you are always gone.”

  “I expected you to be pleased by that.”

  “I am.”

  He reached over and took her hand, playing with her fingers, running his thumb over the palm of her hand. She tried to tug it back but he held on to it.

  “Then what?” His gaze did not leave her eyes as he asked the question.

  “I donna know what you mean.”

  “You were gone five days.”

  “A crofter’s family took me in after I lost the horse.”

  “How did you lose it?”

  “I stopped at a stream to water him. He heard an owl and jerked loose. It started raining, and I got sick, and a crofter family took me in.”

  “Why did you not send for anyone?”

  “Who? You were gone.” But her eyes
had grown secretive, even as her tone held a note of accusation.

  She was hiding something. That much was clear. Otherwise she would never have mentioned his absence, would never have gone so clearly on the offensive.

  “What was the name of the family? I would like to thank them.”

  “I do not remember.”

  The momentary warmth, which flowed between them just seconds earlier, faded. She was withholding something from him, something important.

  Something to do with her brother?

  That possibility alarmed him. If she tried to get her brother, she might well spoil the Knave’s plans. And get herself killed as well.

  He had meant to soothe her, to tell her everything was all right. That she could go anywhere she wanted. He had never wanted to make her a prisoner. But now he did not know what she would do next.

  He could tell her the identity of the Black Knave. Would she believe him? Or would she let something slip that would get them both killed?

  “Is that as much as you will say?”

  “Aye. I dinna think I was a prisoner any longer.”

  “It is your safety I’m concerned about.”

  “Truly? Is it not your new estates? Your influence? Your own freedom?”

  “Aye, all of that,” he said, his gut hurting as he saw her eyes turn to blue ice.

  “Are you going to lock me in the room?”

  “If it becomes necessary. In the meantime, I will tell the grooms not to allow you a mount.”

  “I enjoy riding,” she said rebelliously. “Are you going to take my one pleasure away?”

  “You are responsible for that, not I.”

  “Not I,” she mocked. “You are truly despicable.” She tried once more to disentangle her hand. Unsuccessfully. He held on to it.

  “You have said that before.”

  “I said you were loathsome. Now you are despicable.”

  “Is that a step up or down?” he questioned.

  Obviously stumped, Bethia glared at him. She was sitting straight up now, unmindful that the comforter had fallen from her upper body. A white linen nightdress outlined her breasts. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her, from allowing his lips to trail kisses down her throat.

  “Not a very wifely welcome.” He was resorting back to his old protective armor. Goading to provoke a response, goading to keep warmth at a distance. Goading to keep from taking her in his arms and telling her that her brother would soon be safe.

  “You have not been very husbandly.”

  “I could change.” But his tone was sly, challenging, not conciliatory.

  She withdrew ever so subtly. Though her hand remained in his by necessity, since he didn’t release it, she nevertheless moved away emotionally. Her hand turned cold as all the warmth seeped from the room.

  “You are within your rights to take me any time you wish.”

  “I have no interest in a cold woman.”

  “That is encouraging,” she said. “I thought that subtlety was beyond you.”

  It was exactly what he had wanted her to think. He just did not know it would hurt so much. “Then I shall leave you. Remember, though, what I said. You are not to ride unless I am with you.”

  “Then I should never ride again.”

  “So be it,” he said flatly. “I will have guards at the stable to make sure you do not.” His hand let hers go. “And I will see whether I can find that family to give them my thanks. I would think you would wish them rewarded.”

  “They do not like your branch of Forbeses.”

  “Nonetheless, I shall see what I can do.” He was surprised at the streak of jealousy that suddenly ran through him. Had she been with a man? Someone she knew before Culloden? Had she tried to enlist help to rescue her brother?

  She shrugged. “If you wish.”

  He turned to leave.

  “My letters.” Her voice stopped him.

  “I’ll send Alister Armstrong when he is free.”

  “Why Alister?” She’d wondered that before.

  “He often works in that area,” Rory said. “And Neil would complain if I sent one of our people. I like peace.” He went to the door. “Have them ready this afternoon. I’ll ask him to wait for a reply.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, madam.”

  Bethia settled back into the bed and sighed heavily. It had taken all she had to keep tears from moving from her eyes down her cheeks. She did not want him to see her cry.

  She had been so unexpectedly pleased to see him, even after all that had happened, even thinking he had gone from her bed to that of his mistress.

  Though his eyes had been tired, he had looked so vibrant standing in the doorway. Even with a wig, he had a presence, a charisma that drew her to him. Her heart had somersaulted when she’d seen the worry, the concern in his expression. And when he’d said he had not been to Mary’s, she’d felt an odd sense of pleasure.

  She had enjoyed that one very brief moment of humor. But then he’d become as obnoxious and unfeeling as he’d been when she’d first met him. He’d questioned her, then made her position quite clear. She was a prisoner again.

  How had she ever thought that something quite fine might lie under that colorful exterior?

  And the letter. How could she dare write anything but inanities to her brother? The villain would probably read it. And why was he sending it now? So he could also send a message to Cumberland?

  A tear found its way into her left eye and she felt it trail down her cheek.

  She had been right. She was alone. Totally and absolutely alone. Any idea that the marquis was anything but what he seemed had been foolish. More than foolish. Harebrained.

  She would not make that mistake and lower her guard again.

  Eighteen

  Cumberland was paying a visit.

  The messenger arrived nearly immediately after Rory left Bethia’s chamber.

  Rory wondered what in the hell he wanted now. Nothing good, he was sure. Most likely to see whether there was a slight swell to Bethia’s body.

  But it would certainly hinder Rory’s plans. He wondered how long the bastard would stay.

  He planned to send Alister with Bethia’s letters tomorrow. His friend could try to find some weak points in Creighton’s security. He could judge the health and welfare of the lad, mayhap even talk with him.

  Rory’s most immediate need, though, was sleep. Sleep and more sleep.

  Jesu, but he was tired. He should never have gone to her room when he was that tired. He said things, and felt things, that he usually had under better control. But he had been so concerned at hearing of her illness.

  Where had she been?

  He did not believe her tale for a moment. She was too capable a rider to lose a horse like that. She was too intelligent to take a wrong road. She was too good with people not to remember a name.

  His first inclination was to believe her because there didn’t seem to be another explanation. But she had not reached Creighton’s holding. Evidently she’d not intended to go there at all. Otherwise, she and her brother would be long gone. Soldiers would be combing every inch of Braemoor. No, she’d had another purpose in mind.

  There was but one other plausible explanation. A man. Not a lover. But someone who could help her rescue her brother. But who, what and when?

  How far could she have traveled in those days? Who could she have met? Every Jacobite in Scotland was either dead or in hiding. There were a few clans who had remained neutral, but they had been disarmed and banned from wearing plaids.

  Mayhap he might learn something from Cumberland. But God help him, he must get some sleep first. A few hours. Then he might be better able to puzzle out his wife’s peculiar behavior, and ultimate aims.

  Minutes later, he was sprawled across the bed, his wig flung on a table, his shoes scattered on the floor along with his purple coat with its gold buttons and trim.

  Rory slept late into the night. When he wok
e, his head felt sluggish and his mouth dry. He felt he could have slept the rest of his life.

  Rory groaned, then reluctantly put two feet on the floor. The log in the fireplace was down to embers, and his chamber was growing cold. He picked up a candle from beside his bed, lit it from the few glowing embers, then placed it in a holder. He then went to a window and looked out.

  The courtyard was quiet. It would be crowded with horses on the morn.

  He decided to ride out and see Alister tonight, before the Duke of Cumberland arrived. Despite his drugged feeling, he knew himself well enough to know there would be no more sleep tonight.

  Rory opened the door, surprised to see that someone had placed a tray of food and tankard of ale outside. Now that had never happened before. He took it to a table and quickly consumed cold pheasant and a hunk of fresh bread along with some fruit. He had not realized how hungry he’d been.

  Bethia? His wife? But she was ill. And she was not pleased with him.

  Still, it was a wifely thing to do. At least he thought it was. His mother had never done that for her husband.

  Hell, he was babbling to himself. She had reduced him to babbling.

  He slammed down the now empty glass of ale.

  He was the Black Knave, the scourge of the English.

  So why did a slip of a lass so confuse him? Particularly a shrewish one?

  An irresistible, shrewish one. And she was just two doors away.

  His mind was babbling again.

  Where in the hell had she been?

  And why did he care so much?

  He dressed in a pair of plain britches and white shirt, then selected a dark cloak. There would be few to see him tonight, and he was not up to his usual layers of clothing and tight neck cloths.

  Rory left his room and hesitated for a moment outside Bethia’s door. But most certainly she would be asleep. She was ill and should not be disturbed. He saw her, though, in his mind’s eye. Her supple body, the dark hair spread over a pillow, the dark blue eyes that deepened with passion.

  Stop that babbling!

  He forced himself past the door and down the steps. Servants were cleaning the hall in anticipation of Cumberland’s visit. Rory wondered whether or not Bethia knew of it, but supposed she did. Trilby would have heard everything. He knew his wife would dread it. She despised the man more, he hoped, than she despised her husband.