The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  Rory heard the clip-clop of hooves as she moved away from him. His heart hammered as he berated himself. He obviously knew far less about women than he’d hoped. He did not know what he had expected, but he certainly hadn’t expected her rage. Bloody hell, but she had a powerful punch. His gut still hurt. He was grateful she had not attacked a more vulnerable part of his anatomy.

  He also stood stranded. His horse was a good half mile away. Shepherds did not have horses, but he had secreted one not far away in the unlikely, but possible, event that this had been a trap.

  He had to catch up with her. He did not want her wandering into a patrol. And how in the hell had she obtained a horse, anyway? He was not surprised, merely curious. There would be some very unhappy guards in the morning.

  Rory broke into an easy run. He hoped Bethia had enough sense to walk the horse on a night like this one.

  But then caution, it was clear, was clearly not one of her strengths. Nor timidity one of her flaws.

  Bethia seethed. The fact that she had other emotions only increased her fury. All these weeks of worrying about her brother, of trying to find the Black Knave.

  She was also angry with herself. Why had she not suspected? All the absences when the Black Knave struck, his dexterity with cards, his bewildering changes in character. And the jewels. Now she understood why he had said what he had. If anything were to happen to him, she had the means to escape.

  Curse him.

  He had tried to protect her, he’d claimed. She was not a good liar, he’d protested. Well, she had been a good enough liar to save his skin. And despite what he’d said, it came down to the fact that he had not trusted her to have any intelligence or loyalty or honor.

  Curse him.

  It was all she could do to keep from digging her heels into the mare and sending her galloping across the hill and into the glen. He had plans. He had plans that he intended to keep to himself. Perhaps she would become the Black Knave herself.

  Her hero, she thought derisively. She wished she had not saved his sorry hide.

  Her mare pranced nervously. Bethia tried to calm her rollicking emotions before she entirely spooked the animal.

  He had probably shared his plans with his Mary. Perhaps the woman had even been involved.

  That sat even less well with her. That the marquis had slept with her, made love to her, then did not trust her while he trusted his mistress.

  And Alister? She had always thought the marquis’s relationship with a blacksmith strange. The night the marquis had been wounded, supposedly by the Black Knave—she recalled every moment now. Alister had kept everyone but Mary away. The Black Knave had reportedly been shot about that time. He must have had a gunshot wound, not a sword slice.

  So Mary was a part of it all. Her husband must truly love her if he trusted her so completely. He was obviously a man who did not trust easily. Her rage gradually left, leaving a huge empty place inside her.

  The Marquis of Braemoor was so much more than she had ever thought, than she had ever suspected. He had repeatedly risked his life to save others. He had risked everything he owned. She had no right to be so angry just because he had not risked other lives to soothe her own feelings.

  But she was angry. Angry and hurt and jealous. ’Twas as if she had experienced a great loss rather than discovered a truth. Or were they inseparable?

  He could get her and Dougal out of Scotland. Away from any danger from their grandparents. Was that not what she wanted this night? Was that not what she had wanted so badly?

  An insistent voice, however, told her that was not all she’d wanted. She had never understood the attraction between the marquis and herself, nor how she could come to care for someone as careless and indifferent to human suffering as he’d appeared to be, someone whose main concern was a successful wager or a bright orange waistcoat. Now she knew the why of it. She must have sensed the honor and courage that he tried so hard to hide. It hurt badly that he had not trusted her. It hurt even more to think she would now lose him.

  She wondered what time it was. Whether the guards at the stable had awakened yet, or whether anyone had found them. Black Jack whined and squirmed in the little cloth carrier.

  Bethia blinked back tears. She had hoped …

  She had no idea what she had hoped. It had been wild and romantic and ridiculous to believe the Black Knave would have a plan this night. Now she realized all the flaws in that dream. If she had gone missing this day, then someone would immediately have ridden to Rosemeare to secure her brother.

  Mayhap the Black Knave had been right in not trusting her.

  She was within a short distance of Braemoor when she heard the sound of hooves. She knew instantly who it was, but she did not slow nor turn her head as the rider slowed and fell in beside her.

  Bethia ignored him.

  The fog had dissipated as she left the hills, and though the night was dark, she knew she would see more of him than she could bear.

  After what seemed an eternity, he spoke first. “I am sorry, lass. I truly thought to protect you by keeping silent.” He seemed to hesitate, then added, “And to be honest, ’tis not easy for me to trust.”

  It was one of the few honest things he had ever said to her. At least, she thought so. But he had so many masks, so many facets.

  Silence fell between them. One of the horses snorted, pulling on the reins to get back to the stable.

  “How did you get a horse?” her husband finally said.

  There was no reason for lies now. He would find out soon enough, in any event. “I asked them to teach me to play cards, and drugged them with laudanum. The ale was sour enough to disguise the taste.”

  “How did you intend to explain that away?”

  She was silent again.

  “You expected to leave with him tonight?” Indignation laced his words. “And your husband? You were going to leave without a word?”

  “What was I supposed to say?” she replied waspishly. “Excuse me, but I am running away with a traitor tonight?”

  “That would have been suitable.”

  His tone was so stilted and correct, she had to laugh. She tried not to show it. She tried to contain her mirth inside her stomach but it kept bubbling up to the mouth and finally exploded in a fit of coughing.

  She finally turned and looked at him. He was no longer a ragged shepherd but her charming marquis in breeches, shirt and cloak. “How did you do that?” she asked.

  “I learned long ago to change my appearance quickly. ’Tis remarkable what a wig can do. Take it off, pull on a pair of breeches and a shirt.” He flung out an arm in the fashion of a courtly bow. “Here I am.”

  He was at his most charming now. But she knew that, too, was a veneer.

  “Why?”

  “Why what, my lady?”

  “How, then? How did you become the Black Knave?”

  “That is a long story.”

  Braemoor was ahead, its walls looming against the gray of dawn. She stopped her horse. “I have time.”

  He stopped then. “I told you I had no taste for killing.”

  “You dinna say you had a taste for rescuing Jacobites.”

  “It seemed to be an acquired taste, lass. I tired of the bloodletting at Culloden. I turned away from it and on the way back ran into some King’s soldiers molesting a group of women and children. I dinna like the way they wore their uniforms.”

  There was sufficient light now for her to see his face. He was using humor again to disguise his emotions. But there was no masking the gleam in his eyes. “And …?” she persisted.

  He shrugged. “We were able to get them to safety, then someone else needed help. It … well, it became complicated. And I dinna like Cumberland,” he said defensively. “It suited me to tweak his nose.”

  But now she knew it ran far deeper than that. She now remembered his small kindnesses, the gift of jewels, the gentleness with the dog. But she knew he would deny any noble motives until the day he died. The th
ought pleased her.

  “We?” she said. “Who is we?”

  “Now that I canna tell you, lass.”

  “Alister,” she said. “And your Mary.” The name burned her tongue, but she wanted to know.

  “And now you are guessing, lass, and I willna be helping you in your games.” He started to move ahead.

  “You said you had plans to get my brother and me out of Scotland.”

  “Aye, and the lot of us. The game is becoming too risky, especially once you are gone. The fault could be tracked back here.”

  “When?”

  “I leave tomorrow with your brother’s birthday gift. He has found a way out of Rosemeare if I could but meet him outside the gates. We sail from the coast in six days.”

  She could only stare at him. Six days. Her throat grew tight.

  “But you, madam, will have to be very careful.”

  “I am to go to Rosemeare with you?”

  “Nay. I go alone.”

  They were almost to the stables when a number of men came riding out of the stable, Neil at their head. He pulled up his horse and trotted over to them, a frown on his face. “We’ve just discovered that the marchioness was missing.” His gaze raked over Bethia, suspicion glowing in his eyes.

  “I took her out to the loch,” her husband said easily. “I thought she might enjoy the new moon. ‘The new moon wrapped in the old moon’s arms,’” he recited an old adage easily. “Unfortunately the fog came unexpectedly and we were delayed.”

  Neil frowned. “The guards say they were drugged.”

  “Is that what they claimed? When I went to find the marchioness at the stable as we agreed, they looked drunk. I was intending to take them to task this morning. Drinking on duty. Tsk, tsk. You need a tighter hand, Neil, but we will say no more about it this morning. The marchioness and I are weary, are we not, my love?”

  Bethia had to fight to keep the smile from her lips. What a marvelous liar he was. ’Twas never a quality she thought she would admire, but admire it she did.

  Neil’s sharp gaze moved from her to the marquis and back again. He did not quite believe, she knew, but neither was he in a position to ask questions. He nodded curtly. “If you would but let me know next time you plan a midnight expedition, I willna ha’ all of Braemoor looking for you.”

  “I will try to remember that, Cousin,” Rory said lightly, then slid down from his horse and went over to hers, holding out his hands for her to slip into. As she did, he held her a moment longer than necessary, a look of lusty anticipation on his face. She did not know, though, whether it was real or merely another of his acts. She wondered whether she would ever know the difference.

  He took Black Jack from his bag and set him down on his feet. The young dog barked and darted after a leaf flying along the ground. Bethia looked backward and saw that Neil was still frowning, a puzzled look in his eyes.

  Rory ignored him. “Have someone see about our horses. They’ve had a long ride tonight.” He did not wait for an answer but took her arm and ushered her toward the door. Having captured, and subdued, the leaf, Black Jack followed.

  Her husband said nothing else. He stopped in the kitchen and ordered food and ale to be brought to his room. The cook nearly fell off the stool where she’d been cutting vegetables. Trilby looked as if she had been crying when they met her on the stairs.

  “My lady,” she said tremulously. “We all feared you had been kidnapped.”

  Before she could say anything, Rory smoothly inserted, “A romantic ride wi’ my new bride, Trilby. I wished her to see the lake at night.”

  Since Trilby had probably never done anything quite as lackwitted, she could hardly challenge the allure of such an adventure. She merely bobbed up and down like cork on the ocean.

  “You are excused from tending the marchioness this morning,” he said. “I will take care of that.”

  Trilby curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”

  Holding Bethia’s arm, he guided her up the steps and into his room. Then he released her and sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretching out. “It has been a long night, lass. Food and some sleep will do us both good.”

  She did not want sleep, though ’twas true she was tired. She did not want food, either. She wanted to know more of the Black Knave, more of his plans. She had question upon question upon question.

  But looking at his eyes, now half closed, she realized she was likely to get few answers. She did not think he was as tired as he appeared to be. He seemed indefatigable. And yet there were tiny lines around his eyes that she had not seen before. His face was drawn, more angular than usual.

  He closed his eyes as if aware she was trying to search inside his soul, and he was not yet ready for that. She just stood and watched him, her heart making jerking movements. Most of her anger had fled when he hesitantly told her that it was difficult for him to trust. Her emotions were still raw, her pride still wounded that he had not thought her worthy of trust. But she knew a sense of well-being, even of safety, that she’d not known before.

  She wanted to touch his cheek, to run her fingers through his thick hair. She wanted him to hold her close. But there was someone else. A woman he did trust.

  A knock came at the door. She hurried over to open it, hoping that he would not wake. He obviously needed some sleep. But when she opened the door, she heard the chair move behind her and when a young lass entered, Rory was sitting up straight, his eyes alert. They followed the movement of the servant who placed a tray on the table. It was laden with food: scones and fresh butter and jams, cheeses, fruit and roasted chicken. There was also a pitcher and two tankards.

  “Thank you, lass,” he told the girl, who looked at him curiously then hurriedly left.

  Her husband looked toward her, his brows arching lazily. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

  “It feels good after riding all night.”

  He grinned. “You have a point. I was walking part of the night. That is the problem with posing as a shepherd. Usually I do better as a British officer. I am afraid I have a certain natural arrogance.”

  “Aye,” she said. “You do.”

  “You do not have to be so truthful.”

  “You said I was not a good liar. I thought not to try.”

  “Good choice,” he said, taking a chicken wing and consuming it in less time than she thought possible.

  Her stomach rumbled. She had not realized how hungry she was herself. She still had a million questions, but the food came first. She took a scone and bit into it. Her tongue wiped the crumbs from her lips.

  His eyes grew darker. Intense. Vivid. The gold in them looked like the flickering color of flames. He dropped his gaze, but his hand had stilled as it lay on the table, like a statue.

  The air grew close. And warmer, though there was no blaze in the fireplace.

  There was only a blaze between them.

  “Ah, lass,” he said. “You are a mighty diversion.”

  “I thought you liked diversions.”

  “On limited occasions.”

  Her fingers traced invisible circles in the table. She had not realized until now how much she’d enjoyed dueling with him. How could she ever have thought him a fool?

  She would trust her instincts more in the future. And Black Jack’s. Of course, Black Jack was being spoiled shamelessly on the other side of the table, snatching up tidbits of chicken and sweets. His tail was switching so eagerly that she thought it might break off.

  But then her gaze turned back to her husband. Her husband. The Black Knave. She was still trying to absorb the knowledge even though she realized she felt no real shock. The truth was far easier to accept than she would have thought possible. There had been so many hints.

  He leaned over and his finger touched her lips. “You have a crumb,” he said, but his fingers did not leave, and she realized it was naught but an excuse. Her lips opened and she caught one of his fingers, nibbling on it.

  He tasted fine.

  Hi
s other hand went to her face, his fingers stroking her cheek, then pushing a wayward curl back in place. “You look enticing,” he said.

  She was suddenly aware of how she really must look. Her face was probably dirty, her hair windblown and untidy, falling from the braid she had so carefully entwined in preparation for her meeting with the Black Knave. She had not had any sleep for a day and night, and her eyes were probably bloodshot. And yet she believed he saw her the way he had just described.

  He certainly looked enticing. A tendril of hair had fallen over his forehead. As he had done with her, she lifted her hand, giving her fingers the luxury of pushing it back. Emotions swelled in waves, each one different but growing in strength. Her chest tightened, and her breathing became more difficult. She wanted to touch him everywhere. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. She wanted to go to sleep in his arms.

  Her gaze shifted to the bed. So did his.

  He took a draught of ale, then stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and their fingers intertwined. “You must be weary, lass,” he said in a husky voice.

  “And you.”

  He leaned down and kissed her. It was a strange kiss, poignant and even … sad but filled with a tenderness that made her legs want to fold under her. She wanted him to ask her to stay. She wanted it with all her heart.

  He did not.

  Instead, he released her lips. “We had both best get some sleep, lass, and we canna do it together. I have to leave this afternoon for Rosemeare.”

  “I want to go.”

  “’Tis best if I go alone. Cumberland was quite insistent that you not see your brother until you are well with child. If he hears you have left Braemoor, he will send out all his hounds. ’Tis best if you stay for a day. Alister will bring you and Mary to the coast where a ship will meet us.”

  Mary.

  “She is going, too?”

  “Aye. ’Tis too dangerous for her to stay.”