The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  She lost what little hunger she had, and stood. “I will get my cloak.”

  “You look well this morning.”

  She curtsied. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I speak only truth,” he said solemnly.

  She felt flustered. She was determined not to trust him, not to lower her guard, and yet when he spoke with that serious edge to his voice, she felt herself melt a little. She allowed him to help her put on the cloak, then her gloves. Black Jack panted heavily next to her, obviously afraid she was leaving without him.

  She looked up at the marquis. “Can we take Jack with us? He does so love adventures.”

  “He takes after his mistress.”

  She decided not to reply to that. She just looked at him.

  “He will stay out from under the hooves?”

  “I will take him in the saddle with me.”

  “If that will please you.”

  Nothing but her brother’s safety would please her now. But she nodded.

  If he saw anything else in her eyes, he did not mention it. He only nodded. “The three of us, then.”

  The horses were already saddled, and Jamie was holding the reins. The marquis handed Jack to the boy. “Hold him until she is in the saddle.”

  He then helped her into the saddle, his hand remaining on hers a second longer than necessary, then handed Jack up to her. She noticed that his hands were gentle, that one hand ruffed the fur of Jack, as he lifted him up to her.

  Then he mounted and they rode down the lane.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a loch. I asked the cook to put together a meal. I thought you might enjoy getting away for a while.”

  Forever was more like it. But her husband was at his most likeable. Even though she did not trust him entirely, Bethia found herself caught up in a charm he used so effectively … when he so chose.

  They rode for an hour, passing through one patrol before reaching the loch. Nestled between high heather-filled hills, it was a dark blue and lay shimmering in the sun. She could not contain a gasp of pleasure. She loved the heather and the wild hills, the plentiful lochs and streams and rivers.

  She warned herself about her companion. He could turn charm on and off like a Highlands storm. He had listened to her, admitted that her concerns were most likely correct, but he had not offered to help in any way. The only thing he had done was keep her secrets.

  Could she really expect him to risk anything at all for her? Especially when he had married an unwilling stranger for a fortune?

  He helped her dismount under a birch tree, then spread out a blanket. She walked over to the loch. “It is beautiful.”

  “Aye, I used to come here as a lad.”

  She looked up at him. “I canna imagine you as a lad.”

  He shrugged. “I sometimes wonder if I was ever really one. I remember little except the yelling between the marquis and my mother. I was fostered to an English family and was grateful for the respite.”

  “When first did you come here?”

  “My mother brought me here when I was seven. After that, I came every time I could. ’Tis the peace of the place. I would sit for hours and watch the deer come to drink. I thought …”

  He stopped as if he were telling secrets that were to remain that way.

  “Does anyone else ever come here?”

  “An occasional shepherd with a flock.” He looked toward a steep wooded hill sheltering the lake. “There are caves up there. I used to hide in them, play the part of Robert Bruce.”

  “And then you fought against all he believed in?” She could not stop the sharp retort. He always lulled her into a fantasy of safety. She had to do something to remind herself that he was no loyal friend. Yet a small voice suggested that perhaps he was suggesting a hiding place. Why was he always so oblique?

  “That was more than twenty years ago, madam, before my family declared itself for the Hanover.”

  “Hanover?”

  The Jacobites had called the king that with no little derision. She was surprised to hear the word from his mouth. But then he often seemed to have no loyalties, not to the side on which he fought, nor the other. He seemed to consider himself equally bemused by both sides, an uninvolved onlooker.

  “Aye,” he said with that curious smile that tipped only one side of his lips. “The Hanover.”

  “Why did you fight?”

  “There are some that say I did not. That I ran at the first sound of cannon.”

  “Did you?”

  He went to the rugged edge of the loch. He picked up a stone and flipped it into the water, watching as it skipped once, then twice, before sinking. “You are wanting to know the mettle of your husband?”

  “Aye,” she admitted wryly. “You so oft confuse me. I donna know what I think much of the time.”

  “I did not run, lass. I walked from the battlefield when Cumberland ordered no quarter. I had no taste for slaughter.”

  It was one of the first times she had heard real emotion in his voice. She was stunned by the depth of it, and even more that he shared it with her.

  “Is that why you dinna tell Cumberland about my absence.”

  “Perhaps I just did not wish him to think how ineffectual I am as a husband.”

  She took several steps toward him and looked into his eyes. God’s breath, but they were mesmerizing. Green and gold and gray. Always changing, always intriguing. And always secretive.

  “Why do you allow everyone to think you are a coward?”

  “I care not what they think.”

  And he did not. She saw that clearly enough. But strangely, he apparently cared about what she thought.

  Her fingers started to tingle. She found herself moving toward him. A step, then two. He was also moving. A step. Then two.

  They faced each other. Only a breath of air separated them. And that air crackled with emotion. Desire. Her limbs froze in place, then melted as his breath mingled with hers. His lips touched hers with a sweetness that contradictorily jarred every one of her senses. She felt his arms go around her, and she was pulled willingly against him, her cheek resting against his heart. She felt its beat, felt the warmth of his body.

  Her body was responding to him again, in so many betraying ways. She felt the hunger, the need to have him become a part of her. She heard the gentle lap of the water against shore, the sound of birds rustling from trees. She heard all the music of the earth, and it was made more glorious by the melody in her body.

  She also heard an unwelcome echo. The marquis will do anything for money.

  He must have felt her instinctively drawing away, for he released her, his eyes at once curious and wary.

  She did not want him to go away. Why did she always feel so safe with him, when she should feel the opposite? Feeling split in half by desire and fear of betrayal, she started to turn away.

  Then she heard splashes. Frantic, panicked splashes.

  She turned toward the loch. Jack was thrashing in the water. He must have tumbled from a rock into the lake, and in frantic efforts was moving away from the shore. She started to run toward the water.

  He caught her. “The water is very cold and very deep,” he said. “I will get him.”

  She watched as he pulled off his wig, then his coat, and finally his boots. ’Twas done in a matter of seconds, with more speed than she thought possible. Without hesitation, he plunged into the water, swimming with strong strokes to reach the pup, which had disappeared from view. Rory went down, too, came up, then went down again.

  Her heart seemed to stop beating. Jack was her charge. How could she have not paid the proper attention? Just as she had not gotten her brother out of Scotland in time.

  Then she saw a dark head surfacing. He held the dog. He swam back with one arm, the other holding tightly to the puppy.

  He reached the shore, and stood. His body was shivering, and the pup was still.

  He sat down and rubbed Black Jack, putting two thumbs at his ches
t and kneading it. Water dribbled from the pup’s mouth, then it wriggled, emitting the little mewing sounds he had as a few weeks’ old puppy. She took Jack from her husband’s hands and bundled the pup in her cloak. She put a hand on Braemoor’s drenched arm. It was freezing.

  “We need a fire,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I have no flint.” But he took off his shirt and put on the dry coat. His dark, wet hair clung to his face. She handed him the puppy and reached down, tearing off a piece of her petticoat. She used it to wipe the water from her husband’s face. She was thinking of him more and more like that. Husband.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  Looking startled, he did. She used the cloth to try to dry his hair. She could do nothing about his wet breeches. She looked down. He was drying the pup in his elegant coat.

  Her hands kneaded his hair, her fingers lingering to allow a clump to curl around them.

  “You will ruin your coat,” she said, distressed to find that her voice broke with emotion.

  “He is chilled.”

  “So are you.”

  “But I know I will be warm soon, and he does not.”

  She stared down at the dark head, grateful he could not see her face, nor what was in it. She did not want him to see the emotion, nor the fear, nor the utter gratefulness she felt.

  Nor the surge of something more than gratitude.

  “We had better ride back,” she said.

  “And miss our meal?” he said with mock horror.

  “Is there somewhere warmer?”

  “Nay. Naught but Braemoor, and I do not think I wish to go there. ’Twas the water that was cold, lass. ’Tis still summer. The sun is out, and I will dry out soon enough.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply. “Thank you for Jack.”

  “Mayhap that will teach him to be more cautious about water.” Despite his cavalier tone, though, she noted his hands tightened around the pup. His waistcoat had darkened with moisture. “And you, lass, are about to rub all my hair off.”

  Bethia suddenly realized she had been rubbing harder and harder. Embarrassed, she dropped the wet cloth from her hands. She stooped beside him and took the pup from him, cradling him in her own arms. He was still shivering and making piteous little sounds, looking up hopefully. “You are a little fraud,” she said, yet terribly grateful that he was still among them.

  She did not know how to swim. She knew she could never have saved him.

  As one hand held the pup, she put another up to Rory’s face. Her land lingered on his cheek. How could she have believed he would allow a child of his to be bartered away? But why had he not offered his help yesterday when they had talked? Why had he just listened to her?

  He put on his boots, then started stomping around on the sun-warmed grass. She thought he looked a little like a bull ready to mate.

  She giggled, and he looked over at her, a smile tugging at his lips. “Do I look so foolish, then?”

  “Nay, you look quite heroic to me.”

  “You have small standards, then.”

  “I have high ones,” she contradicted. “Jack believes so, too.”

  “Umm,” he said dubiously. He resumed his stomping as she watched. She would always remember him this way. A wicked little demon made her wonder whether Mary saw him regularly like this, his dark hair freed from a wig, breeches clinging to strong legs. Pain rippled through her.

  She looked away, toward the lake. Black Jack licked her cheek as if he suddenly realized she needed comfort more than he. But though she could no longer see her husband, every part of her was aware of his presence behind her. Every time she saw him now, she felt controlled by totally unfamiliar emotions, desires, feelings.

  Even if he was a Scotsman who had fought with Cumberland, a man who at Cumberland’s order married a woman not of his choice. Even as he kept a mistress nearby.

  The pain grew deeper inside. She wondered what it would be like to be truly loved by the marquis.

  Do not think of that. You canna hold on to something you have never had. Think of Dougal.

  And did she really want a man who seemed to take nothing seriously, not death, not the proposed theft of a child, not loyalty?

  Nonetheless, she would miss him. She would even miss the outrageousness of his clothes, the competence only she seemed to notice, the small kindnesses he either tried to hide or smooth over with some barbed remark.

  She turned back toward him. He was still stomping back and forth. He looked irresistible in his dripping breeches and spoiled coat. Always before, even in his casual clothes, he’d looked elegant. Arrogant. Now he looked mussed and approachable and incredibly sensual.

  The marquis will do anything for money. Remember Cumberland’s words.

  He might have drowned saving Jack.

  Rory swerved and went toward the horses, untying a bag from his saddle. He took a cloth from it, spreading it on the bank, then triumphantly placed a bottle of wine, two roasted pheasants, cheese and fruit on the cloth.

  “I still think you should find dry clothes,” she said.

  “I do not,” he retorted with the arrogance she remembered so well from the first few days.

  She still wanted something from him, so she said nothing as he parceled out the food and poured wine into two silver goblets. She sipped it, and found it very good. She looked up at him. His hair was drying, the thick strands slightly curling. His coat was rumpled, but he paid no attention to it. Instead, he seemed immensely pleased with himself.

  Bethia could not stop staring. Of all the Rory Forbeses she had seen, this one was the most appealing. He did not care about his appearance. He had unhesitatingly risked his life for an animal. Now he appeared uniquely pleased with what had happened this afternoon, despite his physical discomfort.

  “You are not eating, madam.”

  “I am interested in you. You are enjoying this much too much.”

  “I have never been out on an excursion like this before.”

  Why not with Mary, if he’d wanted one? Why was he charming her so? And he was. She felt as if she were melting into a small puddle, just asking him to step into it.

  But at the moment she did not want to bring Mary into the conversation. She wanted to learn more about this man who was her husband. Even if she did intend to leave him, to leave Scotland with her brother, to run far out of Cumberland’s and her grandfather’s reach.

  Jack suddenly darted out of her arms and onto the cloth, snatching a piece of meat from the pheasant.

  “You see,” Rory said. “He will be all right. He’s a braw lad.”

  She nibbled on the pheasant, sharing it with the dog who had now seemed completely recuperated. Her hand ruffled his drying fur. She had come so close to losing him, and at the moment he was all she had. “Aye,” she said. “He is that.”

  “As his mistress is a brave lass.”

  She looked up sharply. She wished she did not always wonder what he wanted.

  “I would like to journey to the Innes land,” she said, deciding to try his approachability. “Anne Innes is a friend.”

  “How good a friend?”

  She tried not to show resentment at the question. Any husband would ask the question. “A fine one,” she said.

  A light quenched in his eyes. He shrugged. “I am aware of the family. She is Jacobite.”

  She sat, waiting, as his eyes seemed to study her thoughts.

  “I think not,” he said after a long silence.

  Her heart dropped. For a moment, she had hoped he would agree.

  “A letter then,” she said. “She was betrothed to my older brother.” She hated to plead for even that small privilege.

  He drank some more wine before answering. She held herself very still. He was making it clear he was still her master, regardless of those few moments of warmth. “Aye,” he said finally. “I will send someone with it this afternoon.”

  “Thank you.” She should feel a moment of triumph, but she did not. She had to l
eave Braemoor, but now she knew she would leave with an empty place inside her. She wondered whether she would always look for that crooked smile.

  She wished she could tell him everything, that she planned to ask Anne to find the Knave for her. Then she and her brother would disappear. But this was his home, and she was his wife, and everything he had recently acquired was dependent on her.

  He rose, gathered up the food. Then he offered her assistance in mounting, but all the warmth was gone. He was cool. The arrogant smile was back on his lips. He was a stranger again and, oddly enough, she felt as if she’d just lost a friend.

  Twenty-one

  With Jack clinging to her feet, Bethia spent the afternoon composing her letter. Every once in a while, she leaned down and rubbed his back and he growled with pleasure. ’Twas a small, fierce rumble.

  She could not put from her mind the different faces of Rory Forbes, Marquis of Braemoor. Wry. Thoughtful. Whimsical. Severe. Cold.

  She tried to shake the thoughts from her mind and concentrate on the letter. She could not depend on the hope that he would not read it. And she had no idea what the marquis would do if he did read that, in essence, she was asking an enemy of the state to help her escape her marriage and her brother escape the Duke of Cumberland.

  If his position and wealth were truly jeopardized, would he try to stop her?

  So she very carefully wrote her note:

  Anne,

  I wanted you to know how much I miss you, and the friends we last discussed. I will always remember the journey to the sea. I wish I could go there again. Or that you could visit me at Braemoor. I would like to take you to Loch Maire. My husband took me there today, and it is truly lovely. We ate on a finger of land that jutted out into the loch. It is an isolated spot, seldom used. I was hoping you could come, even as soon as the new moon. We could ride out and watch it shimmer under the moonlight. Tell our friend not to worry about the debt. It can be repaid when we meet again. And we can laugh together again about how last I looked.