The Black Knave (14 page)

Her gaze went to the bulge underneath his coat. “Your arm, my lord?”

“Wifely concern? How pleasant. It is well enough. A small fever of no moment.”

“Then why did you feel the need of…” Her voice trailed off.

“Mistress Ferguson? She has herbs that soothe me.
She
soothes me. She understands my sensibilities.”

“Better her than me,” Bethia murmured in a low voice.

“What was that, wife?”

She met his gaze. “I am pleased someone looks after you,” she said steadily, wondering whether he had the wit to understand her meaning.

“Other than you?”

“Aye,” she said, feeling like a pawn on this man’s chessboard. “Though I would prefer you did not flaunt it so openly. It… brings contempt for me.”

“I am sorry for that. It was not my intent.”

“Do you have an intent?” she asked ruefully. “You appear interested only in women and gaming.”

“Aye, that paints the portrait well enough. I enjoy my vices, and until my father’s unfortunate demise, I had little chance to indulge them.”

“That is not what I heard.”

“Ah, I was famous even in the far reaches of the Highlands?”

“Infamous is the word.”

“That is even better,” he said, a smug smile on his lips. “I have never liked being ordinary.”

“Then rest assured, you are not,” she said wryly.

His gaze went to the squirming puppy in her lap. “Where did you get
that
?”

“The stableman was going to drown him.”

“He does not look like much.”

Her hands went around the puppy protectively. No one was going to take this puppy from her. Too much else had been taken. “I am taking care of it.”

“‘Tis too small to feed itself.”

“I am feeding it with cow’s milk.”

She thought she saw a smile play around his lips for a moment, but then they finned in a thin line. “As long as it does not get in the way.”

She was not going to thank him. He had forced her into making this her home. She was not going to beg for something as small as taking a wee pet.

He continued to watch her under dark brows that appeared odd with the powdered wig. It did, in fact, make her feel as if he were a hawk and she a mouse.

He was a man who disappeared for days after receiving a minor wound. He was a fool, a caricature of a man who sneered at everything noble. He was a wastrel who gambled and whored while brave men fought for their existence.

She turned back to her window.

“It appears you have won a victory, madam.” His voice held neither approval or disapproval.

She didn’t feel she had won a victory. “I do not discern your meaning.”

“The hall. It is beginning to look respectable.”

“I did not wish to live in a pigsty, although it seems to suit others.”

“I was never here long enough to notice.”

“So I am told.”

Silence fell between them, and she looked up, just as Black Jack tumbled from her lap and squatted on the floor. “Jack,” she scolded.

“Jack?” her husband said idly. “‘Tis an odd name for a runt.”

“Black Jack,” she said, wishing to prick the egotism of this man. It was a direct challenge, since everyone knew Black Jack was the same as the Black Knave.

“Ah, you admire the man?”

“I admire courage.”

“He is a fool. He will be caught and hanged.”

She bit her lip. It was a likely scenario, with every English soldier looking for him.

“And I would be very cautious about what I said around here if I were you,” he added ominously. “Your title may not protect you.”

“Do you think I care?” she challenged directly.

“For yourself, nay. But I remember talk of a brother…”

Her breath caught, and her heart plunged against her rib cage. Had she gone too far? “You are threatening him?”

“Nay. I care not about making war on children,” he said, flicking a handkerchief as if at an imaginary piece of dirt. “In truth, I do not feel about them one way or another, certainly not enough to expend any energy on the subject. I am merely making an observation that you might well consider.”

He looked at her critically then, and she felt the impact of his eyes. They were hazel, and she’d noticed they changed color according to light and the clothes he wore. Now they were a soft amber with flecks of green. Far deeper than she thought, clearer than she’d remembered. Intelligence seemed to leap from them, but then he turned slightly and when he looked back, his eyes had lost the brightness she thought she’d seen there. Imagination, she told herself. ‘Twas just her imagination.

“I thought I had paid money for better garments,” he said, his voice aloof, even indifferent. “I don’t care to have my wife look like a kitchen wretch.”

“I did not wish to ruin them.”

“Then you should not be acting the maid. We have servants to do that.”

“Your servants are used to doing precious little,” she retorted.

“I believe that might be changing,” he said with humor. “Alister told me what you said.”

Her back went rigid. “I will not apologize.”

“I am not asking that of you. As you probably noticed, I have little interest in Braemoor other than to collect my rents. I do not care if it is a pigsty, as you so eloquently describe it. But neither will I interfere, as long as you play the role of lady.”

“But you won’t play one as gentleman?”

“I have never been one, and I am too old to change,” he said. He looked at the puddle spreading next to her. “You might care for that puddle before it reaches your dress,” he said, and her gaze followed his to the tiny puppy.

The size of the puddle was truly amazing. Her face reddened.

He raised an eyebrow and clucked. “And I thought you did not care for pigstys.” He turned abruptly and walked away without another word.

Her gaze followed him as he disappeared out the door. He walked with arrogance, his tall, well-formed body moving with a grace she could scarcely equate with the bore she knew him to be. She tried to make herself relax but she felt as tight as the strings on a harp. He always affected her in odd ways, perhaps because she never knew what to expect. Every once in a while, his humor reached out and touched her, then it disappeared like a snowflake dropping into the flames of a fire. It was obscured by all the other colors and shades and moods.

She picked up the pup again, her gaze dropping to the puddle spreading next to her. How could such a wee animal…

Black Jack licked her hand, his gratitude obvious. At least her husband had not objected to having the pup in her room. There were others that wandered in and out of Braemoor, but they were all hunting, or ratting dogs.

Black Jack would be none of those. He would be hers to love.

He was going to have to stay away from her. He did not like whatever it was that pulled him toward her.

It had been the puppy today.

He’d already heard about the pup from the young stable boy who’d decided that perhaps the “lady” was not a barbarian after all. He’d also heard from a disgruntled cook who apparently was looking for any reason to complain, since dogs normally wandered in and out of the tower. “Shouldn’t be in the living areas,” she said, her chin wobbling with indignation.

“Why?” he’d asked.

“It messes.”

“How can you tell?” he asked, looking about the slovenly kitchen and hoping that might be Bethia’s next target.

“Isn’t right that… Jacobite telling us what to do,” the woman mumbled.

“What isn’t right is that no one has done so before,” he snapped. “You can leave if you wish, but if you stay you will remember she is mistress of Braemoor.”

The cook’s face reddened and her hands fingered her dirty dress. “Aye, my lord,” then muttered something under her breath as she scurried from the room. Rory heard his cousin’s name mentioned and suspected the woman was going straight to him.

She would receive precious little satisfaction there.

Then he had seen Bethia in the great hall, light streaming in from a newly cleaned window. A cap perched precariously on the dark hair and a smudge of dirt crossed her nose. She looked wistful and charming, particularly when she picked up the little black puppy. His heart had caught at the sight, and he had found himself approaching her.

He had not been able to help himself, nor had he been able to refrain from engaging her in conversation. He liked the soft burr in her voice, one more pronounced than the clans in the middle and southern part of Scotland. He liked the challenges she threw at him, and even more the spirit behind them.

But even if his role hadn’t needed to remain secret, he could never pay court to her.

He was nothing, would never be anything. The simple fact was he enjoyed playing a very dangerous game. He did it not out of valor or honor or good purpose. He did it because he enjoyed tweaking the noses of those with whom his father sided.

He hated the English because his father had become one.

And Bethia MacDonell? She was all honor, all courage. And all Scot.

He would leave Scotland one day. He would leave it either by a noose or to escape one. And he would have precious little to take with him except hatred, an ignoble burden that could no’ be shared.

He left the room which she had brightened. He was restless, so damned restless, and yet still weak. A day of rest, then he could return to the saddle, and to the coast to make arrangements for his next shipment.

Yet he needed fresh air. Then he thought of the lady in the room just a few feet away. She had been a prisoner here for days. He wondered if she liked to ride.

A bloody poor idea.

A miserable idea.

A dangerous idea.

He retraced his steps back to the great hall, his soft leather shoes barely making a sound. Then she looked up, sensing his presence, and her face became wary.

“I wondered whether you would care to take a ride. You should know something of our property.” He forced a cool note into his voice.

The wariness was suddenly eclipsed by something bright and wonderful, a small smile that, nonetheless, was like the sun emerging from storm clouds.

“Aye,” she said simply.

“Then I suggest you put on something more suitable,” he said, telling himself to act the arrogant fool rather than the sympathetic husband. “You
do
have something suitable?” he said with what he hoped was a sneer. He feared it was something else.

“Aye, the dress I arrived in. It is worn, but—”

“It will do. No one expects much of you.”

Hurt dulled some of the brightness in her eyes. He felt like a bully pouncing on a child half his size. He turned before he said something kind.

She had been a prisoner inside the tower house for three weeks. She would have gone with the devil himself to escape it.

She asked Trilby, who had been cleaning her clothes, to help her change. The riding dress required another pair of hands.

Trilby’s eyes grew large. “Riding dress?”

“Aye. The marquis is taking me out.”

“He is?” She looked doubtful.

“Trilby, what was he like before he became marquis?”

Trilby shrugged. “He was not here much. He and the … his fa did not like each other. Jane told me he was a terrible lad. He even beat his brother nearly to a pulp before he was sent away the last time …”

She clasped her hand to her mouth as if she’d said too much.

“It is all right, Trilby. I will not tell anyone what you say.”

Her face scrunched up in thought. “Well… no one knew much about the new lord. They say he ran away from Culloden Moor. His father threatened to kill him when he finally showed up. Lord Donald was wasting away then, and the old lord said the young lord would never get a penny of his money or an acre of land, but then he broke his neck and died and the young lord came home.”

“He is not so young.”

“Nay, but next to his fa, he is.”

None of the information made her feel any better about her husband. He had said he fought at Culloden. Had he lied about that? A sudden chill ran down her spine, quenching the pleasure she’d felt at the prospect of riding, at being outside the walls of Braemoor. Her husband was a coward, a fop, a womanizer.

And he had just shown her a moment of kindness.

For a moment, she wondered whether she should accept that small act, but perhaps she could learn something about the land around her. She’d seen little the day she had first approached Braemoor. The rain had been drenching and she was overly tired; she had noticed very little in her misery.

Knowledge could be a weapon.

Knowledge about Braemoor. Knowledge about her husband.

Neil Forbes watched his cousin help the new marchioness mount a small mare. The lady herself held her head proudly, and with Rory’s help mounted easily.

Envy coursed through him. He had wanted to marry years ago, but he had a heritage that had made it impossible to win the woman he wanted. If only the old marquis had lived long enough to change his will, as he planned, then Neil would have been heir. He could have made changes. He would have been his own man at last.

Instead, the least of them had become heir, a man who had left the battlefield. To be honest, however, Neil had been surprised in the first few moments of the fighting, when Rory had acquitted himself well. He had downed several Jacobites, had fought like a tiger. But then he’d just dropped his sword and walked away, deserting his father in midst of battle. He’d had no stomach for continuing. Neil hadn’t liked it, either. And yet how many times could Scotland go through civil war? How many times could she tolerate periodic bloodletting?

To Neil, lack of resolve was as great a fault as cowardice.

Rory Forbes should have had no claim to the title, to Braemoor, to the hereditary leadership of the Forbes clan.

Neil had always been loyal. Loyalty was as much a part of him as his skill in fighting.

But Rory Forbes was a different matter altogether. Everyone conceded that Rory was not the marquis’s seed. It had been only the old man’s pride that he would not go to Parliament and say he’d been cuckolded. And so Rory had remained in the line of succession where he, Neil, had been left out, though he claimed far more Forbes blood than the current marquis.