“And what do you think?”
“I think he has henchmen, nothing more. But the troops are frightened. And even worse, the Scots are making a legend of him, a symbol. He is becoming as dear to them as their damnable prince. He has to be caught.”
“I will do what I can.”
“You can become a very wealthy man, Braemoor.”
“If he is within fifty miles of Braemoor, I will know of it,” Rory replied.
Cumberland nodded. “I will spend the night here and be gone in the morning. I have others to see.”
“We will be honored.”
“Your wife will be at supper?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“I will retire to a room now.”
“I will send brandy to you.”
“Ah, that French brandy. Are you smuggling, Braemoor?”
“Nay. I buy it from a smuggler.”
“Do not be too clever, Braemoor.”
“I try not to be clever at all.”
The duke did not answer.
“Would you like me to accompany you to your room? ’Tis the one you occupied at the wedding. I trust it is satisfactory?”
“Most satisfactory.” Cumberland was suddenly amiable. “And you need not trouble yourself. My orderly will take care of everything.”
The interview was over.
Rory turned and saw Neil in the doorway. He was watching, but merely bowed when the duke passed him.
“What did he want, Rory?” Neil asked after Cumberland had ascended the stairs.
“He wants us to stop every traveler on our roads and apprehend anyone we do not know.”
“Braemoor does not have the men. They have farms to till.”
Rory sighed. “I could not say no. Have you ever tried to argue with Cumberland?”
“I canna say I have had that pleasure,” Neil said dryly.
Rory fixed his gaze on Neil. “Then remember this. You canna cross the man. He will crush you and everyone here.”
“You and he seem friendly enough.” Neil’s tone was hostile, and that surprised Rory. He had thought Neil tolerant of Cumberland.
Rory shrugged. “I have something he wants. But he despises all Scots, and I suggest you remember that.”
He started to move, but Neil stepped in front of him. “Why do you care what happens to Braemoor? You seem intent on gambling it away.”
“I care naught for Braemoor, and I ha’ reasons for that,” Rory said. “But I wish no one here ill.”
“I donna understand you.”
“That is not required. Just do as Cumberland wishes.”
“And you? Are you leaving again soon?”
Rory grinned. “Do you miss me?”
Neil gave him a look of disgust.
“I plan to be here long enough to plant a seed. Cumberland’s orders.”
“Too bad you did not heed them at Culloden.”
“So you would have the title at my death?” For some reason, Rory could not resist the jab. Although he felt that Neil was very capable of managing Braemoor and its properties, he could not forget those years when his cousin was Donald’s ally. He thought he’d outgrown that pain. Apparently, he had not.
Neil sent him a thunderous look, then turned around and retreated back into the office.
Rory sighed as a door closed behind him. It will not be long before you get what you want most. I just have to be sure that you are alive to enjoy it, that you are not blamed for the acts of the Black Knave.
Bethia did not, as ordered, wear her best gown. But neither was it her worst. She was beginning to learn that honey might be a better weapon than vinegar. She wanted more freedom. She had to have it to do what had to be done. Obedience might win it for her. Still, she had not been able to force herself into the gown she knew her husband preferred.
Trilby finished dressing her hair, drawing up the sides to the back, fastening them with a jeweled clasp, then allowing the curls to fall down her back. “Would you like some powder?” Trilby asked.
For the freckles, Bethia knew. But they were part of her and she did not care if either Cumberland or her husband saw them. “No, Trilby.”
“The necklace, my lady?”
“I think not,” she said. She regarded that necklace as a symbol of imprisonment.
The door opened, then. No knock. The whiff of a strong perfume assaulted her before she even saw her husband. Then he stood beside her.
It was, she thought, almost as if he could read her mind. “I want you to wear the necklace tonight,” he said.
“I decided against it.”
He smiled slowly, then looked at Trilby. “You may go, lass.”
Trilby looked uncertainly from one to the other, then curtsied and hurried toward the door.
“You frighten her,” Bethia accused.
“I do not think I am frightening,” he said. “Now back to the necklace. You will wear it.” He took a small box from a pocket in his coat. The coat was truly outrageous—a bright coral with enough gold trim to feed a family for a year.
When she made no effort to take the box, he opened it. A pair of magnificent emerald earrings lay nestled in the box.
“I note no gratitude,” the marquis said.
“Possibly because I am blinded by your coat, my lord. ’Tis hard to see anything else.”
He preened. “The color is the height of fashion.”
“Do you think naught of anything but fashion and cards?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Money, my lady. And it lies in the man about to sit at our table. Now the necklace. Where is it?”
Bethia went to the wardrobe and took out a box. She opened it and lifted the glittering gems. She thanked her heavenly stars that she’d not had to barter the necklace away.
“I will put it on you.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Aye, I ken that you can. But I prefer to do it.”
It was the last thing she wanted. She did not want his hands on her. She knew how she reacted to his touch.
Even now, as he stood before her in what seemed all coral and gold, and draped in a dreadful wig, she felt the response of her body to him. It had warmed considerably.
He took the necklace from her hands. “Now be a good lass, and turn around.”
She wanted to punch him instead. Good lass, indeed. Her eyes raged at him as she quelled her desire to do violence. Freedom, she warned herself. You need freedom.
Gritting her teeth, she turned around, though she knew her shoulders were arched in defiance.
She felt the cold stones against her bare throat, his hands at the back of her neck. Where the necklace was cold, his hands were warm. She knew when the clasp closed, but his fingers did not leave her skin. They were like embers, torching her blood. She felt his breath against her hair, and though the perfume he wore was stupefying, his breath was fresh and clean against her cheek.
She swallowed hard. How could she be attracted to such a dandy? But still she did not move away from his hands that kneaded the back of her neck, that fell and caressed her shoulders. She could barely stand under the onslaught of so many sensuous reactions to his touch. Her knees felt weak. Sensations crawled up and down her back. Warmth puddled in the center of her. Damn him.
Then his fingers left her.
“Now the earrings,” he said smoothly, as if completely unaware of all the feelings he’d initiated. “Turn around.”
A puppet. She was a puppet in his hands. She turned around, knowing her eyes were blazing at him. He had one earring in his hand.
She stepped back. “I can put them on myself.”
“Of course, but I have a special expertise in such matters.” A gleam illuminated his eyes, and his mouth crooked up in a half smile.
For a moment she almost succumbed to a charm that was not totally eclipsed by his extravagant adornments.
“Aye, I see you do,” she said, a chill edging the words.
He apparently took that as assent, for his fing
ers went to the lobes of her ears and with a gentleness she’d experienced the night they’d consummated their marriage, he fixed first one earring, then the other, in place, his fingers lingering still.
The kernel of warmth inside her flamed to intense heat. She felt herself trembling. It took all the will within her to step away.
“You look very much the marchioness,” he said. “You do honor to the gems.”
It was prettily said, but she felt only humiliation at the way her emotions had bounced so out of control, at the way she responded to a man who was everything she despised.
She looked at him steadily. “’Tis a shame that you do honor to no one or no thing.”
“It is,” he said affably, “a character flaw. Now let us go, madam, and charm the Duke of Cumberland.”
Indeed, he had not lied. He had some very serious flaws in his character. He had always known it, of course. He’d been told often enough.
But he had never quite been so aware of them as when he had touched her. He hadn’t meant to. He had only meant to see that she wore the jewels and received his small gift, which would help her later escape. But any good intentions to keep his hands to himself faded when he saw her.
True, her gown was plain, but it suited her. It was a pale gray which made her eyes look even bluer, and her hair looked truly lovely tumbling down the silk. But even more appealing was the bare perfection of her neck. The gown was modest enough, but it still revealed enough to make his trews far more snug than they should be.
So he’d used obnoxiousness as a weapon the way he always had. He’d not been able to keep from touching her, but he could make sure she would withdraw from him.
He wanted her so damn badly. He ached for her. He ached to hold her, and make love to her. He ached to take the loneliness from her eyes, and turn defiance into passion. He yearned to have her touch him as he enjoyed touching her.
And Cumberland was waiting downstairs for them.
He took her arm, feeling her reluctance, knowing her hatred for the man who had destroyed everything she held dear. There was a gallantry to her that he envied.
They went down the steps together. He reached for her hand and took it. It felt small in his, and yet there was strength in it. There was strength in her.
The room was full. All of the lords from surrounding properties had been invited. By Neil, no doubt. Another glimpse of Neil’s ability.
All eyes turned toward them. The men and women all stood while they entered. All except Cumberland, who sat at the head of the table. But when they approached him, he stood. “Marriage becomes you, my lady,” he said to Bethia.
His wife curtsied nicely. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Rory, who knew his wife well by now, thought he might be the only one to detect the irony in her voice.
She sat and took a sip of wine.
Cumberland leaned over and stared at her. “I heard you were not feeling well. Nothing serious, I hope.”
“How kind of you to be concerned,” she said. “I would be much comforted by the presence of my brother.”
“I believe he is quite content with Creighton,” Cumberland said.
Rory took a deep swallow of his wine and listened to the duel between them. He was glad that, for once, he was not a participant and the recipient of Bethia’s often-sharp tongue. He only hoped his wife would be wise.
“Then you would not object if I paid him a visit?”
“I believe your husband might object,” Cumberland replied.
She turned to him. “Would you object?”
“I would have to think about it,” he said.
The disappointment in her eyes hurt far more than it should have.
“You have duties here,” Rory said. “And there is your health to be considered.”
Her face fell, her eyes dulled. He knew he had failed her yet again, yet he could not risk incurring Cumberland’s displeasure. Not now. Not tonight.
Cumberland nodded in approval. “A wife should be in her husband’s home. Your brother is safe and happy.” He looked down toward her midriff. “You might soon have children of your own to care for.”
Her face flared red. But then, she often showed her feelings. Rory had been amazed that she had been as cordial as she had toward his royal guest.
“We hope to make a happy announcement soon, Your Grace,” he said.
His wife kicked him under the table.
He turned and warned her with a glance.
Since Cumberland was in such an expansive mood, however, he decided to risk a suggestion. “My wife and I would like the boy to come for a visit.”
“I am afraid that is impossible,” Cumberland said. “He is well-settled now. We would not wish to disturb him. Now if you knew for sure she was with child, we might make an exception. Mayhap my physician should stop by.”
Cumberland looked smug.
Another bribe. Money for him. Her brother for Bethia. Damn it, why?
Rory decided to change the subject. “We sent out men tonight, Your Grace. Not a man or woman will pass unnoticed on the road.”
Bethia tensed. Her hand stilled. “Why is that?” she said.
“I have increased the reward for that bandit fellow,” Cumberland said. “I expect he will be in our hands within a week.”
“Would you like to make a wager on that, Your Grace?” Bethia’s voice was silkily polite.
Cumberland looked at her disapprovingly, then turned to Rory. “Your wife needs some discipline.”
“’Twas my husband who taught me the value of a wager,” Bethia said impudently.
Rory could barely withhold a smile. She did indeed have courage. Good sense, no. Courage, yes. “Aye, Your Grace. I will see to it, and the other matter as well.”
Cumberland nodded, then turned his attention to food and drink. Bethia sat frozen with disapproval. Rory frowned, trying to warn her not to push Cumberland too far, but she studiously avoided him.
“I hope you enjoy the meal,” he said, trying to distract the duke. “It is my wife’s doing. She is also doing the accounts and overseeing the cleaning of Braemoor.”
Cumberland grunted. He was still obviously unhappy with Bethia’s challenge. His attention focused on the jewelry Bethia was wearing. “The Forbes jewels,” he commented. “They favor you, Marchioness.”
He then turned to Neil who sat on his left, asking details of the number of men he would use to patrol the roads and lanes. Bethia’s back was stiff with indignation, but she had the sense not to say anything more.
The first course of saddle of mutton, veal and sirloin of beef was followed by baked plum pudding and lamb fricassee, then a hot flan with chickens and spinach. A third course offered fried sole, roast fowl and sweetbreads along with green peas and artichokes. Almond custard and cherry pies concluded the meal. Decanters of fine wine were refilled constantly. Rory watched as the duke turned his attention to the food, emerging only once to comment, “Your table has improved.”
It was, Rory thought, enough to feed an entire village. But Cumberland was correct. The food was far better since Bethia had joined the household. “As I said, my wife is responsible,” he said. “She is competent in many ways. ’Tis a very felicitous union.” His expression left no doubt as to what one of those ways were. Bethia kicked him again. He was going to have very sore legs.
“I told you it would be a suitable marriage,” Cumberland said expansively. “Did I not?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Rory leaned over and kissed his wife, disregarding her obvious displeasure. He made it hard and demanding, drawing the cheers of the men at the table. For a moment she resisted. Then she seemed to relax, only to bite down hard on his tongue. He could taste blood and he saw momentary triumph in her eyes.
Rory withheld any reaction, though it hurt like the blazes. His hand tightened on her arm, and though he closed his mouth, his lips savaged hers. After a moment, he was surprised to find her body reacting, her lips responding to his. Re
luctantly. She tried to pull away, and this time he allowed it.
“I am lucky in many ways, Your Grace,” he said, using a smirk to cover the blood in his mouth. She never gave up. The thought pleased him even if the lingering pain did not.
He took a sip of wine, and swallowed the bitter mixture of wine and blood.
Bethia pulled her chair back. “I am feeling unwell, my lord.”
Rory looked at Cumberland, who nodded. Rory stood and pulled the chair back. “I will be with you soon, my love,” he said.
She said nothing, just swept from the room.
“She does not care for public displays of affection,” Rory said dismissively. “She reserves that for the bedchamber.”
Cumberland nodded. “Marriage becomes her. So will motherhood.”
There it was again: the man’s obsession with his wife’s childbearing abilities.
He decided to probe. “She said she has an English grandfather.”
Cumberland took another bite of pie. “You do not have to worry about her pedigree. It reaches into royalty.”
“Is any of her family still alive?”
Cumberland nodded curtly. “They disowned their daughter when she married a Scot.” He couldn’t quite keep the contemptuous outrage from his voice.
“She has English cousins, then?”
Cumberland turned cold eyes on him. “I would not take undue interest in the matter,” he said.
A clear warning. It set all his senses tingling. He did not like it. He knew that Cumberland thought him none too intelligent. That kiss was meant to reenforce Cumberland’s image of him as a womanizer, a bore, an ineffectual sycophant. Now he knew he was not to ask questions. He would have to get some answers from his wife. For the first time, he felt a chill of fear for her.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said in an anxious-to-please voice.
The duke’s frown faded. “Just do your duty,” he said.
“Your wish is my command.”
The duke nodded. Rory caught a puzzled expression on Neil’s face. Why? He had always been servile to Cumberland in his cousin’s presence.
Bloody hell, but he wearied of keeping so many balls in the air at one time.
The Black Knave Page 26
