The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  His arms went around her as well. Her brave young warrior brother buried his head in her jacket. Twelve years old and he had lost everything dear to him. Her nose twitched at the odor of him, but she still held him tight.

  Then, obviously embarrassed at his emotion, he pulled away, and Bethia turned her gaze upward.

  The marquis stood easily, relaxed, though she knew he should be far more tired than she. He’d had a longer journey. And a more dangerous one.

  “My lord, you are safe.” ’Twas an obvious observation, and she felt foolish making it. Still, she was rewarded with a grin.

  “Aye, though odorous,” he grinned. “Your brother made his escape through the castle’s sewers after charming one of the servants. Even the rain hasn’t washed the stench. I had to ride a fair distance from him.” His eyes softened as he looked at her. One hand went out and caught a curl, pushing it back. “I will miss your tresses, lass, but you make a bonny lad.” Then he took her by the shoulders. “You should get rest. You will travel by night from now on. I imagine there is a hue and cry by now.”

  Her heart thumped so loud, she thought he must hear it. You. Not we.

  “You are not coming with us?”

  “Nay, I have to go back to Braemoor. I must be properly horrified at your disappearance and vow to find you and that villain, the Knave.”

  “You are tired.”

  “I am used to going days with only a few hours’ sleep.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “We have gone over that, lass.”

  She decided not to argue the point. Not now. “Will you get some rest, first?”

  “Aye, an hour or so.”

  “Thank you for fetching my brother.”

  “He did it mostly himself,” her husband said. “He most definitely is your brother.” Approval laced his words, and she felt warmth fill her. In fact, not even the rain could cool the sizzle between them. It pleased her that even though he knew Mary must also be here, he lingered with her.

  “Come, lass,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Let us get you and the lad out of the rain. As well as this young fellow,” he added, reaching down and picking up Black Jack with one hand. The dog was embarrassingly grateful, struggling valiantly to reach up and lick an already wet face.

  Her brother was staring at them with undisguised interest, but his eyes softened at the sight of the dog. He had always loved animals, and it had broken his heart when Cumberland had forced him to leave the dogs at their old home.

  The marquis obviously saw the same thing. He handed the pup over to Dougal. Black Jack immediately snuggled against his chest. Dougal smiled, and Bethia’s heart jumped. It was the first time she had seen him smile since they had received word about their brothers’ deaths.

  The marquis guided them toward the door. The marquis. Calling him that protected her. He was still the man who had married her, infuriated her, rescued her. She had only called him Rory rarely, and each time had been a mistake. It made him part of her life, an intimate part of her life, and he did not want that to be.

  She shivered and his arm tightened around her. It would have tightened around Mary as well, she knew. She kept telling herself that.

  They walked inside. “Where is Alister?” she asked.

  “He is still keeping watch. Your brother should get some sleep, then he can relieve him until you are ready to go to the coast.”

  You again.

  Not if she could help it.

  They went inside, and she saw him glance at Mary, who was still sleeping. He smiled. “At least someone has some judgment.” The words were little more than a whisper and they bit right into her.

  “Any food?” he asked before she could make a retort.

  “Aye,” she replied and went to a corner where a piece of oilskin covered Mary’s cache of food. She tore off several pieces of bread and handed one each to the marquis and her brother, as well as hunks of cheese. Both ate as if they were starved, and she noticed the easy comraderie between them.

  She feasted her eyes on Dougal. He seemed years older than the last time she had seen him months ago. He was twelve years old and he appeared a man. She wanted to go to him, place a hand on his hair and ruffle it. But she knew he would resent it now. She was lucky that she had received a hug. So she merely watched the man and lad, the latter feeding Black Jack’s mouth as often as his own.

  When they finished, the marquis said something to Dougal, who nodded. Her brother lay in one of the drier corners of the room and soon was snoring. The marquis gave her a wry smile. “I think we would both do well to follow their examples.”

  Now that he was safe—at least for the moment—she could do so.

  When Rory woke, he looked about the room. Mary was gone, probably to take food to Alister. Both Bethia and her brother were sleeping. Her hair reached just below her chin, and its length made her look more like a pixie than a marchioness. Mary had rubbed something on her face to make it look less delicate, and a smudge of dirt decorated her nose.

  He had never seen a face that touched his heart as this one did. She looked small and vulnerable and yet he knew her strength, her tenacity, her courage. He would rank those over long tresses of hair any day. The joy in her face when she saw young Dougal had been more than enough reward for him.

  Rory had come to truly respect the lad in the last few hours. He had apparently charmed one of the servants into getting him an extra key to his room, then had used the sewers to escape, meeting Rory exactly when he’d promised. He had been uncomplaining during the long, wet ride through the night. The brother and sister had much in common.

  His gaze returned to her. He had remembered the joy with which she’d greeted her brother, but he also recalled the grateful way she had looked up at him. He’d felt as if lightning had struck him. He knew he had … cared for her. He had not known until that moment that he loved her.

  He should have known. But he had always been mistrustful of that word. He had never thought it truly existed.

  He watched her for a few more moments. He did not want to leave, and yet he knew he must. One more step before he could head for the coast and meet them. He knew the roads would be swelling with soldiers now. Both his cousin and Creighton must know that the MacDonells had disappeared, and that the Knave had something to do with both. The hunt would be furious.

  And he knew he was risking a great deal to return to Braemoor. Cumberland might well have suspected him and ordered his arrest. And yet he had to do what he could to avoid suspicions falling upon Neil and others at Braemoor.

  He stood, took some more bread and thrust it in the huge pocket of his cloak. His majestic appearance of yesterday was sorely tarnished. His peacock clothes were wrinkled, weather stained, and his wig must look as if Black Jack had taken a romp in it. Hopefully, he would look like a man cuckolded, desperate to reclaim a valuable wife.

  At least the horses should be rested. He would take Alister’s gelding, which would have even more rest. He took a last look at Bethia. He wouldna see her again until they reached the coast. Dear God, how much he wanted to touch her.

  He resisted and went out the door. ’Twas late afternoon and the hills were clouded with a Scottish mist. Fine weather for nefarious business.

  Rory quickly saddled the gelding, which had been secured under a heavy oak for some protection from the rain. He was just about ready to step into the stirrups where he was aware of another presence.

  He whirled around. Bethia looked even more vulnerable than ever, but there was a determined glint in her eyes. “You canna go alone,” she said.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I wake easily.”

  He reached out and touched her hair. A tendril curled slightly around it before he pushed it back and readjusted the bonnet she wore. It had been so askew that she’d resembled someone who’d just left a pub after spending a half day there. “My bonny lass. I thank you for wanting to come wi’ me, but you would slow me, and I wan
t to know you are safe.”

  “Do you think that I can let you buy my safety with your risks?” she said. “And I would not slow you. I rode day and night when I went down to the coast.”

  “To rescue me,” he said wryly.

  “Aye. I would keep a distance from you, but if anything went wrong, I could go for Alister.”

  “And get him entrapped, too, lass?”

  “I will go with you,” she said stubbornly.

  He realized that she would do exactly that. The only way he could prevent it was by tying her up, and even then her brother might let her go. She knew where he was going, and he knew as surely as he knew anything that she would follow. He had learned that much about her. And if she followed, she might get lost in the rain and mist and fog.

  She would hold some advantages if caught. Advantages he did not have. She remained her grandparents’ only heir along with her brother. And with Dougal gone, her own worth increased.

  He weighed all that, knowing that, in the end, he had little choice. If there had been another man along, mayhap he could place a guard on her. But there was only her brother, an exhausted Alister who’d had no sleep for two days, and Mary.

  “Will you swear to do everything I tell you?” He asked the question against his better judgment.

  “Aye, my lord,” she said.

  He detected some insincerity. “Bethia,” he warned.

  “I will obey your every word,” she promised.

  He was not comforted. He considered every other option and found none of them palatable. Pride with her filled him, though. She rode as well as any man, and certainly had the courage and wit that any man would want at his side.

  No one, he thought, would recognize this dirty lad as the Marchioness of Braemoor. But they would be looking for a lad.

  Bethia, at the moment, did not much resemble a young lord, but he would have to keep them away from roads and patrols. If she were stopped, she should be able to talk her way through. A groom taking a new horse to its owner. He would tell her exactly what to say. And he would never be too far away. Already his mind was thinking ahead, plotting.

  “Your brother?” he said in one last effort to dissuade her. “Do you no’ need to stay with him?”

  “Nay, he has proved he needs no one. But I would like to whisper good-bye.”

  Rory nodded, following her to the door of the shelter. He watched as she went over to Dougal and stood there for a moment. Then she leaned down and kissed his dark hair so lightly he did not wake. He also noticed her hesitation. She did not want to leave him.

  But she would. For the Black Knave. He felt humbled and wished he could dissuade her from coming. It was obvious, though, she had made up her mind, and he’d discovered that she seldom changed it.

  After a moment, she came to the door. “I am ready,” she said. “I know he will be safe with Alister. And if I were to say good-bye, he would insist on coming, too.”

  “No doubt,” Rory muttered. He started toward the saddles that were sheltered under trees, but she shook her head.

  “I will be doing it,” she said. “If I am tae play a role, ’tis now I should begin.” A burr roughened her voice.

  She had been thinking exactly as he had. ’Twas uncanny.

  He had no time to think further, though, because she was saddling one of the horses. It was not easy. The saddle looked larger than she, and it took several attempts for her to throw it over the animal’s back. Once she had managed landing it in the right place, she waited a moment before buckling the straps. He had to admit she knew what she was about.

  Finished with the chore, she scrambled up into the saddle.

  He mounted, and led the way. He whistled once. Alister appeared out of nowhere, Mary beside him.

  “I am taking Bethia with me,” the marquis said. “She can wait in the caves above Braemoor while I express my outrage at her disappearance. I will vow to bring her back, even if it means my own life.”

  Alister raised an eyebrow as if to ask the wisdom of taking Bethia with him.

  “Do you want to try to keep her here?” Rory said.

  “Nay,” Alister grinned. “I think not. Should I head toward the coast?”

  “Aye. The lad can relieve you shortly. Get some sleep. Leave for the coast at dark. Bethia and I will meet you at the farmhouse. I will tell her how to find it if anything goes awry.”

  Alister nodded.

  Rory leaned down and reached for Alister’s hand. “We had a good run, my friend. Thank you.” Then he looked at Mary. “And you, Mary. I will see you soon, lass.” He leaned down from his saddle and gave her a quick kiss.

  Then he spurred his horse through the underbrush.

  Biting down her painful jealousy, Bethia followed.

  Neil carefully looked around the small cottage sitting at the foot of a rugged hill.

  Nothing seemed out of place, yet the ashes in the fireplace were cold, and the interior had a look of abandonment. He muttered an oath to himself. Cold fingers walked up and down his spine.

  He’d known two days ago that his cousin was up to some mischief. He had felt it deep in his soul. It had been confirmed at noon today when Trilby had told him the marchioness was missing, and that a jack of spades had been found on the table in her room. Several hours later a messenger on a lathered horse appeared and announced the disappearance of the marchioness’s young brother. He’d been told to keep Lady Braemoor within the tower house walls until Cumberland arrived.

  Neil had said nothing about the fact that she had already disappeared. Nor had Trilby. No one else had been told.

  At that moment, everything started to fit together in his mind. Rory’s odd behavior, his will, his frequent disappearances. Neil berated himself as a fool for not seeing it earlier. Rory had been a feisty lad, always in trouble, always infuriating the old marquis when he took up one cause or another. But then Rory had been fostered and when he returned, his mother was dead and he’d had a terrible quarrel with his father. He had not returned until the call to arms.

  Mayhap because of the reputation Rory had earned in London and Edinburgh as a gambler and womanizer, Neil had accepted the dandified version of his cousin without question. In truth, he had wanted to think the worst of him because Neil had honestly thought he should inherit. Neil had loved Braemoor with every fiber of his being, and Rory had made clear his disdain for it.

  God had been unjust, and Neil had nurtured the envy and injustice that he’d felt. He would be such a far better caretaker than Rory. If only the dead marquis had made a will and disinherited Rory as he’d so often threatened to do.

  Well, he had not. And Rory had inherited, and Neil had resented and begrudged it until he had become a man he did not recognize, like or admire.

  And now he knew that Rory Forbes had been a far better man than he. He had fought for something he’d held dear.

  Neil had not seen any of it until Rory had married the MacDonell lass. Then Rory had seemed to change. Oh, he had tried not to, but Neil had seen the keen intelligence in his eyes when Rory had looked at Bethia when he thought no one was watching. He had noticed Rory’s kindnesses to young Jamie and other servants. He had finally come to feel that Rory had left the management of Braemoor to him not because he dinna care, but because he did. That last interview reflected that. So did the fact that despite all the new clothes and the proclaimed gambling, Braemoor never received any bills or duns or charges. Everyone thought the marquis was destroying Braemoor, when in reality he had never touched those accounts.

  Most astonishing of all was his cousin’s obvious intention to walk away without taking anything with him other than the jewels.

  The cottage was cold. Neil picked up a couple of pieces of firewood laying next to the fireplace and put them inside, then found a flint box nearby. After several moments of trying to spark a fire, he finally succeeded. He did not know why he was doing it, why he did not want to return to Braemoor. He was still trying to work things out in his mind.
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br />   Mary. She must have been part of it. Otherwise she would be here. Rory’s liaison with her had been rumored for years. Had it been merely a sham?

  Neil realized one reason he lingered here was to delay sending a messenger to Cumberland. The longer the delay, the better chance Bethia and Rory had. He could always say he went out looking for the two before rushing to assumptions. The two of them had disappeared together before. Just the other night, in fact.

  He backed up, his boots stomping on the floor as he waited for warmth to seep into the room. He heard a thud-like sound, and the beatened earth beneath him felt different. He stomped again, listening. Then he bent down, his hands running over the earth, his hands spreading away the dirt until they reached a board. He dug around it, until he could lift the board, then another.

  A cache. Lined with oilcloth. He reached down into it and pulled up an old woman’s wig, then two others. There were other items: dye, something that resembled a mustache, a large woman’s gown, other clothing. Damning if found. He debated about throwing them into the fire, then hesitated. They might be needed.

  You should tell Cumberland. You should tell them for the sake of Braemoor, for everyone who lived here. If Rory’s identity were discovered …

  He could not do it. He had fought for the English king because he had been loyal to the old marquis. But he was still a Scot. A Scot who had learned to detest Cumberland and his arrogance and his destruction of the clans that had once made Scotland great.

  Could Rory be coming back here? Is that why the wigs remained here?

  Neil carefully replaced the items, then the boards. He covered them with the loose dirt before stamping it down.

  He looked outside. Dusk. He would send a message to Cumberland in the morning. He had heard the messenger say the duke was in Inverness, organizing newly arrived members of the Black Watch. The noose was tightening around Scotland. And around the Black Knave.

  Mayhap he could give his cousin the time he needed. Mayhap that would in part compensate for the help he had not given him as a lad.