The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  He did not wait for her to invite him in, but strode in, filling the room with his presence. It always seemed too small for him.

  “I have been told you were ill, madam?”

  She did not stand, only looked up, hoping her face held none of the emotions he always raised in her.

  “I was,” she said icily.

  “You are recovered?”

  “Aye.”

  He hesitated, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “You are not with child?”

  “It appears not,” she said. “You will not receive your reward from Cumberland as soon as you probably hoped.”

  He sat down on her bed. Jack, the little traitor, dashed over to him, the tail waving like a willow in a thunderstorm. She wondered whether the terrier realized the marquis had saved his life. Whether Jack did or not, he obviously enjoyed the marquis’s hands as they ruffled the dog’s fur. Even from where she sat, she saw the gentleness in them, remembered those rare moments when she had felt a more intimate tenderness.

  Her face blazed with heat and she very carefully closed the book and placed it on the table. “No reply, my lord?”

  “You overheard something when Cumberland was here.” It was a comment, not a question.

  “Aye. A princely sum was mentioned.”

  “I told you that Cumberland wanted proof of consummation, that he would be pleased if we produced … a bairn.”

  “You did not tell me there was an extra ten thousand pounds involved. Did you know that when I told you about my family?”

  He met her stare directly. “Aye, he had mentioned it earlier.”

  “Why did you not say something?”

  “Why? It changed nothing,” he said. “And if you remember, I did not force myself on you that night. In fact, I left before I was more than a little tempted. I did not particularly wish to father a bairn that Cumberland could use.”

  Bethia’s breath caught in her throat. He was right. Had she just seized upon the overheard conversation because he had left so abruptly? Or had she been trying to find reasons to distrust him as a shield against her own growing feelings for him?

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I had business,” he said shortly and stood. He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a sealed sheet of paper. “Your brother sent this to you. Alister said that Creighton did not read it. And Mistress Anne sends you greetings and is sorry that you cannot come. She said she understood.”

  Her heart stopped. There was still the chance that Anne hadn’t understood the note, that she was just exchanging a pleasantry, but Bethia didn’t think so. She took her brother’s letter, holding it for a moment, all too aware that he was standing so close. Too close. Tension radiated between them. But then, it always did. Her gaze lifted and settled on him. He wore a wig. And a startling vivid green cravat with a royal purple waistcoat and lilac-colored vest. And yet all she saw were his eyes, the dark brows that perched so provocatively above them and the sensuous lips that twisted just enough to make it appear he laughed at the world.

  His hand tipped her chin. “I am sorry you did not feel well,” he said.

  “It was nothing.”

  “They said you were abed three days. That does not sound like you.”

  The observation both surprised and warmed her. It certainly disconcerted her. “It might have been something I ate.” The words sounded false even to her.

  “Did you complain to the butcher? The meat butcher,” he added.

  “I am not sure it was the meat.”

  “What did the physician say?”

  “He thought it a woman’s weakness.”

  He suddenly grinned. “But it wasn’t that, was it, lass?”

  It was not then, but it might well be now. She was feeling hot, dizzy, uncertain.

  His hand was still on her chin but one of his fingers was stroking her cheek. A question was in his eyes, but it was a question she could not answer. “I missed you, lass,” he finally said.

  “Then why do you always leave?” She had not meant to ask the question. She should not care where he went, or how long he might be gone. She herself would leave in a few days. The question, though, just tumbled from her lips.

  “You wished a message delivered to Mistress Anne Innes.”

  He leaned over. His lips touched hers, raising prickling sensations. Everywhere. Then his lips played with hers, his breathing quickening. Her hand had moved up, stroking her cheek in infinitely tender fingers. The air left the room.

  His kiss turned hungry, as if he had been starving and she was the first food he’d had in weeks. She felt his intensity, his need. It matched her own. Her body was no longer hers to control; instead, it moved instinctively into his. He held her there, his lips nibbling hers until they opened, and then his tongue invaded her mouth with a sweet seductiveness. Her body arched and she felt a now familiar tightness.

  Her body echoed with memories, pulsed with a need she’d so recently learned. She moved her arms up, and the letter fell from them.

  Her letter. How could she have delayed reading it?

  He must have sensed her sudden withdrawal. He straightened, though his fingers stayed on her cheek. He gave her a rueful grin, then took a step backward. Then he saw the letter. He leaned down and picked it up and handed it to her.

  “I dropped it,” she said as guilt washed over her.

  “Aye, I see. I will leave you with it, lass.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She prayed her voice did not tremble, but she feared it did. She did not want him to leave. She wanted to put her hand in his and keep him with her.

  But he broke the spell with his next words. “Alister said the boy told him that his birthday is soon. I thought you might like to send him a present.”

  “I would like to see him,” she said wistfully.

  “Alister said he looked well.”

  “I am afraid for him.”

  “Creighton will make sure he keeps well.”

  “Because he can control me through him,” she whispered.

  He sighed, seemed to hesitate, then took her hand in his large one. “He will be safe, lass. I promise you that.”

  “How can you?” she whispered.

  “I will find a way.” He reached the door, then turned around, his gaze searching hers. “Just do not do anything foolish in the meantime.”

  Bethia’s back stiffened. Her eyes narrowed.

  He grinned. “You are very bonny when you get your ire up, lass.” He took the few steps to the door, then turned back toward her. “I am pleased you are feeling better.”

  Her face grew hot again. She felt as if he knew everything she thought, everything she planned. Could he possibly know she had a bottle of laudanum hidden away?

  But he said nothing more.

  And as the door closed behind him, she felt as if all the warmth in the room left with him.

  Twenty-two

  The marquis escorted her to supper the next night, but first he handed her a necklace of perfect pearls. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry she had ever seen.

  She could only stare at it speechlessly for a moment. Her family had never had anything quite so lovely. Then she looked up at him. “More family jewels?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who do you want me to wear them for this time?”

  “For me,” he said quietly. There was none of the usual flippancy in his voice.

  She turned toward the mirror while he fastened them around her neck. His hands lingered even as they had the night Cumberland had paid his unwanted visit, then kneaded the back of her neck, his fingers caressing her skin as if they were playing a beloved instrument.

  One of her hands went involuntarily to touch the pearls. They shimmered against her skin and they felt as smooth as silk to her touch. Her gaze lifted, meeting his in the mirror.

  “I wish you to understand one thing, Bethia,” he said in the same quiet tone that was void of the usual amusement. “That any gifts I have given you
are yours. I do not care whether they stay in the family. I do not care if you need to sell them. They are, and always will be, yours alone.” His voice was huskier than usual and if she did not know better, she would have said he was trying to say good-bye.

  She turned around then, because the mirror kept her from seeing his eyes. But they were no more clear than they had been through the mirror. His hands fell from her neck.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

  His eyes suddenly glinted with amusement. “You are welcome, madam. You will heed my words about them?”

  “Aye,” she said.

  He then gave her a black velvet pouch. “This will help them keep their luster,” he said.

  It would also make it easier for her to take them with her. A shiver ran down her back. Did he know what she intended? Was he giving her his blessing?

  She lowered her eyes. He turned, leaning over to scratch Black Jack. The dog was making a lackwit of himself, rolling on his back and sticking all four feet in the air, his tail snaking out to waggle eagerly. But, she had to admit, probably no more than she had just done, when the marquis had placed the pearls around her neck. Not because of the pearls, but because of his rare earnestness in presenting them.

  But that was to be the last tender moment of the evening. Without informing her, he had apparently invited a number of the clansmen of various stations to supper. Once at the table, he drank steadily, directing his attention toward everyone but her. ’Twas as if she had ceased to exist.

  She noticed that Neil watched even more carefully than usual, and she wondered whether they’d had a confrontation about his absences, his extravagances or even the pearls she wore. That made her wonder. Neil rarely left Braemoor except to visit Braemoor’s now many properties. He had no wife and she had never heard him talk of a woman.

  If she had intended to remain at Braemoor, she would try to engage him in conversation, perhaps even in matchmaking plans. He was so somber, so serious.

  He had tried to avoid her since she had been here, though he’d not shown any hostility after the first few weeks. He had even expressed some gratitude when she’d seen to the transformation of the tower house. But she had never seen him smile. Their meals, except during large gatherings such as tonight, were mostly taken individually, even in the morning when they chose food from a sideboard. Neil apparently ate very early and the marquis was usually absent. At noon and at night, Neil ate at odd times; her husband was usually gone and she ate in her room. It was an odd, estranged household.

  But now Neil sat next to her. He was even more quiet than usual when Rory was in residence, and he had not said more than a sentence since they had sat down to eat. Rory had so riveted her attention that she had not even noticed until now.

  She turned to him. “Does the food please you?”

  “Aye,” Neil said. “Your coming has enhanced the kitchen.”

  “Just the addition of a few herbs,” she said.

  “Nay, I think not,” he said. “The butcher sends us better cuts, the cook takes more pride because there is someone to thank her.”

  It came as close to a compliment as he had ever paid her. “Rory says you are an excellent manager.”

  “Of fields, my lady, not of kitchens.”

  “Have you thought of taking a wife?”

  His dark eyes clouded. “I have little to offer a wife,” he said.

  “Nonsense. You run Braemoor.”

  “But I do not own it, my lady, and that is what matters to fathers and guardians.”

  She had nothing to reply to that. She knew, better than most, that he was right. With no title, nor any property of his own, he was very limited in his selection of brides. But at least, he would not be forced into marrying a lass he did not want.

  As she had been forced into marrying someone she did not want.

  She turned back to the marquis. He was drinking from his glass again. His wig was slipping askew, and he had a stain on his coat. His voice was getting louder. He acted, and looked, like a bore. She turned back to Neil and caught an odd expression on his face. It was puzzlement rather than disgust. But then, just as quickly, it faded and he turned away to say something to another clansman.

  Bethia had never seen her husband like this before. Oh, he had played the fool before, but she had never seen him drink as he was doing now.

  Just then, he slammed down his tankard and wine sloshed over the table and onto her dress.

  “My ’polgies, my dear,” he said.

  All eyes were on her. She tried to smile. “I had better change the gown before the stain sets.”

  “Leavin’ my table, love?”

  “With your permission,” she said in a voice laced with disapproval. Her appreciation of the pearls was gone; it had been a thinly disguised ploy to show off his wife, and his ownership of her. She wondered if he had really meant what he had said about selling them. But he had said it.

  She saw a sudden gleam in his eyes that belied the drunkenness, but it disappeared so swiftly she wondered whether it was her imagination.

  “You ’ave it, lass. You might as well get in our bed, too. I will be there shortly.”

  Her face flamed red as the clansmen guffawed. She shot an angry look at him. He rapped her on her backside.

  Then she fled.

  Hours later, she lay awake in her bed. He had not come, and now she did not think he would. He probably lay in a drunken stupor someplace. The pearls were on the table next to her, their luster glowing in the candlelight.

  They are, and always will be, yours alone.

  How could he be so kind, then turn into a drunken boor? She had watched drink do terrible things to other men. He had, in fact, been more than a little boorish on their wedding night, but since then … since then, she’d thought that an aberration.

  She quenched the candle. He had just made it easier for her to do what she planned to do.

  The next day passed excruciatingly slowly for Bethia. She tried to avoid her husband and finally decided the library was the place to do it. She hoped fervently that a book would help pass the hours before her meeting with the Black Knave.

  But just inside, she saw her husband, lounging in a chair, his booted feet on a footstool. He wore only his breeches and a linen shirt with the neck open and full flowing sleeves. No wig. No cravat. When she had appeared at the door, he’d looked up with lazy eyes, then seemed to unwind from the chair.

  “Madam,” he said the word lightly, but his gaze was intense. Dark. Sparkling with curiosity. Without the wigs, he looked sensuous and confident and … irresistible. She tried to think about his drunken performance the prior night, but her resentment faded as her gaze met his.

  Her heart hammered against her chest. He looked well. Rested. No sign of dissipation. She wondered whether he had gone to Mary’s, whether he was still spending time there. It was, she scolded herself, none of her business. None at all. Good riddance.

  Jealousy made a tight ball in her stomach. He had never promised her anything, nor had he ever said anything indicating more than the hollow marriage between them. She told herself she felt these things because of pride. Only pride. Yet she felt a terrible betrayal that he preferred his mistress to her. His unexplained absences had made that clear over and over again. “I did not know you were here.”

  “I have some business with Neil. He should be here shortly.”

  “I see you recovered from last night.”

  “Aye. A night of debauchery is beneficial from time to time.” The amusement was back in his voice, a glint in his eyes.

  She wanted to run from the room, from him, from all the feelings he evoked in her. “I will go then.”

  “I have some business with you, too, Bethia.”

  She looked up at him. “I canna imagine what it would be.”

  “Your brother. I took the liberty of having a warm cloak made for him for his birth date,” the marquis said. “I suspect he, too, had few clothes when he was taken from his hom
e.”

  The knot of anger, of jealousy, unwrapped itself. The gift was a kind gesture, one that he sometimes threw at her just after she had relegated him once again to the regions of hell. It was uncommonly maddening. Disconcerting.

  “Thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes so he would not see the conflicting emotions that must be there.

  “I will take it myself on Monday,” he added.

  That was two days after she hoped to meet with the Black Knave. She wished he would leave. Today. This moment.

  She knew she should ask to go with him. She always did. What if, for once, he agreed? With luck, she would already be on her way to Rosemeare to fetch her brother. If not, if the Black Knave failed her, then she could talk to her brother, work out an alternative plan.

  “May I go with you?” she finally asked.

  He regarded her with those quizzical eyes. How had anyone ever thought him bland or inconsequential? He might be many things, but inconsequential was not one of them. Careless, perhaps? Self-indulgent? But she doubted even that, despite the evidence.

  “We will talk of it later,” he said and then he’d walked out toward Neil’s office, leaving her to ponder exactly what had just transpired.

  She still did not know two days later. She puzzled over that as she waited for nightfall—and her rendezvous with the Black Knave.

  Bethia had seen little of the marquis since that afternoon. He seemed as intent on avoiding her as she was in avoiding him. He didn’t even appear to care now whether the servants—or Neil—suspected he was not making trips to her bedchamber. She could only suppose that he was spending most of his time with Mary. He certainly made no effort to explain his absences to her. She only knew that tonight was her one possibility to escape Cumberland and all the troubling emotions that swirled around the Marquis of Braemoor.…

  And now if everything went well tonight, she might never see him again.

  She did not know where he was now. Sometimes she thought he was more a jack-in-the-box than a marquis. She never knew when he would pop up. She had already prayed several times that he would not do that tonight.