The Black Knave (18 page)

She woke. Her body was wet, her hair tangled and damp. The bedclothes were twisted around her. Her breathing was swift and hard. She forced herself to relax. There was no bog. No stranger. Dougal was safe, although miles away.

Or was he? Was that what the nightmare had tried to tell her?

And the stranger. Had he been the pursuer? Or the savior?

She looked toward the window. Light was streaming into the room. It must be late, much later than she usually slept.

Bethia looked into the basket next to the bed. Black Jack was squirming around, whimpering. Probably for food.

She picked up the puppy, running her fingers over the soft fuzz of his skin. Just that gesture slowed the beat of her heart, the pounding in her head. The overwhelming sense of panic slowly faded from her.

She stood and went over to the table where Trilby had placed a bowl of fresh water the evening before. Using a piece of linen cloth, she washed her face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the nightmare.

Did dreams have meanings?

She usually did not dream at all, or at least none she remembered. So what had brought this one on?

And where was Trilby?

As if her very thought had summoned the girl, a light, tentative knock came at the door.

Bethia went over and opened it. Trilby held a tray, laden with fresh pastries, a tankard of chocolate, and a small pitcher of milk intended, Bethia knew, for the puppy.

“I looked in on you earlier,” Trilby said, “but you were so deep in sleep I thought to wait.”

“Wait?”

“The marquis has left Braemoor,” Trilby said apologetically with a sly grin. “He left this note for you.”

Her maid had expressed no surprise that the marquis seldom shared her bed, but obviously Bethia’s presence in his room had been noted, and Trilby’s eyes were openly curious.

He was gone. Again. Bethia did not understand the sudden sense of loss that she felt. Even disappointment. In her mind’s eye, she recalled how appealing he’d looked last night without the wig, without the frilled, brightly colored waistcoats.

But that was who he was. A popinjay and libertine who sought out the company of other women.

She slowly looked at the note. “
As I promised, Madam, I have given instructions to John, the head groom, that you be allowed to take out Miss Fancy. I have also talked to Neil about your authority over the household accounts
.”

He’d signed it with an extravagant brandish, “
Your husband
.” Not his name. Not Rory, or Rory, Lord Forbes. Or Braemoor. For a moment she thought that strange, as if he were denying the title or his own position.

It was her imagination. He was merely asserting his authority, flouting his power in her face, even while giving her only a breath of freedom. As long as Cumberland held her brother, she had no real freedom.

“A love note?” Trilby said hopefully.

Bethia shook her head. “Just… some instructions.”

Trilby’s face fell. In just a few weeks, Trilby had become dear to Bethia. She had an unflagging optimism that usually lit the room, and she was humbly grateful to make the extra money that came with being a lady’s maid.

“Here, help me feed Jack,” she said, trying to take her maid’s mind, and her own, away from the enigmatic man who was her husband.

Jack had progressed from the glove to lapping milk from a small saucer. Trilby filled the saucer with milk, and together they watched the little terrier greedily lap it up. It would not be long before he could have gruel or cereal.

“I did not believe you could save the wee creature,” Trilby said with admiration.

“He has a will to live.”

“Aye,” Trilby said. “Would you like me to leave while you eat?”

“Will you join me? There is far too much food.”

“It would not be proper, milady.”

“I do not care about proper. I care about good company.”

Trilby flushed with pride.

“Sit then,” Bethia said, watching as the maid self-consciously sat across from her and hesitantly picked up a sweet. Bethia had not realized how pretty the girl was. In the past several weeks, she had transformed herself, picking up some of Bethia’s own habits. She now washed her hair, and it had lightened the color to the shade of wheat. Bethia had had two dresses made for her, and she kept them clean. The girl’s posture was straight, her eyes lively now with pride.

“It is good,” she said, licking sugar from her lips.

Not very, Bethia thought. But better than when she’d first arrived. The servants were beginning to take care, even pride, in their duties.

Bethia only nibbled on hers, though she enjoyed the hot chocolate. Her mind kept reliving the dream, then the hours she’d spent with her husband. Did one thing have to do with the other? Had she been running from the marquis?

Yet he seemed the last person to run from. Ineffective. Careless. Indifferent to Braemoor and his people. She surmised that the reason he’d allowed her to dress the servants better was simply to keep her occupied, not out of any deep concern for his own people.

Where had he gone this time?

And why did she care?

The Sail and Wheel Tavern in Aberdeen was dark, moldy and dirty. The candles were smoky, the ale poor and the tables stained and scarred.

Rory paused at the door, adjusting his eyes to the dim interior. He had been here several previous times, each in a different disguise. Now he wore an English captain’s uniform, and a bushy dark mustache perched over his lips. The English had been looking for an old man, a young man in peasant’s clothes, and even a woman. As far as he knew, they were not yet looking for an English captain.

All heads turned. Their whiskey-fogged eyes stared at him dully as he walked in. Some of the patrons spat on the floor as he passed them. He went up to one of the barmaids, patted her bottom and leered, then asked whether a gentleman was awaiting a Mister Smythe.

The woman looked at his captain’s insignia, then tucked her arm into his.

“There be a man waitin’ in a room upstairs.”

“The private room?”

She widened her eyes. The room was usually meant for assignations, and few but regulars knew of it. Her gaze became more curious, more greedy. “Would you like a bit of a tumble after yer business?” She was eyeing him with a great deal more interest now. If he were meeting with a French sailor, it meant smuggling. It meant money.

“We will see,” he said.

“Do ye need me tae show the way?”

“I think not,” he said in his best English accent. Since he had frequented the tavern previously, Rory knew of the private room upstairs. The tavern was one of those places where few questions were asked and few faces remembered. It was perfect for a French smuggler or an English officer if they were trying to arrange an assignation, a bit of smuggling or some other nefarious activity.

He went up the stairs and found the room on his right. He knocked lightly and the door opened, revealing a tall man with a strong build, dressed carelessly in the nondescript garb of a ship’s mate.

His eyes widened at the uniform, and his hand went toward a table with a sword lying on it.

But Rory was quicker. He moved swiftly, pulling a pistol from inside his coat.

“I would not advise that, Captain Renard.”

The captain’s gaze studied him, then dropped his arm to his side. “You know who I am.”

“Ah, yes. Rene Renard. At least, that is the name you use.” Rory flipped a card in his direction.

Renard caught it easily, glanced at it, then back to Rory, before showing a wide smile. “Monsieur. I did not expect the Black Knave himself. Especially in that uniform.”

” ‘Tis only borrowed,” Rory said.

Renard started to laugh. “And how, monsieur, did you know I am Renard?”

“Our mutual acquaintance described you well,” Rory said, not wanting the man to know he had actually seen him earlier. Renard had been Elizabeth’s suggestion. She’d once been his mistress and had retained him as a friend as she had Rory. She had once pointed him out to Rory when both were in a tavern.

Renard was reliable, she’d said, and even more important, he had sympathy for the Jacobite refugees. His honor was involved, and he would fight before sacrificing his human cargo.

But he
was
rather insistent on receiving his fee.

This time Rory had wanted to meet him in person, to judge his mettle.

“Ah, the lovely lady. She is well?”

“Very.” Rory tucked the pistol back under his coat.

“She plays dangerous games.”

“So do you, Captain.” Rory felt immensely reassured that the man knew not to mention names. “My last shipment?”

“Safe,” the French captain said. “I expect they are in Paris now.” He hesitated, then added, “You are the
true
Black Knave?”

Rory shrugged.

“You speak like an English aristocrat.”

“I can play one as well as an old fisherman.”

“And a woman, I heard.”

At Rory’s frown, he shrugged. “I do hear gossip, monsieur. Rest assured, I wish to know nothing more. Now, do you have the money?”

“Aye. One thousand pounds. Five hundred for this trip, five hundred for another next month.”

“And the cargo on this trip?”

“Four men, three women, six children.”

The Frenchman pulled out a map and spread it on the table. He pointed out a spot on the coast between Portsoy and Cullen. “Tomorrow night. Two hours after midnight. I will have a boat already ashore. I will not wait more than an hour.”

Rory nodded. “Done.”

“And now the money.”

Rory took out a wrapped package from under his shirt.

He watched as the captain counted it, then nodded. “I want you to pick up another load the same time next month. Same place.”

“I enjoy doing business with you, monsieur. Would you care for some fine French brandy?”

“Aye,” Rory said. “The same you gave to our friend?”

Renard nodded. “She was to keep that for herself.”

“She knows how much I enjoy it,” Rory said. “If you have any aboard ship, I would like to purchase a keg.”

“Ah, a man of fine taste.”

“Nay, it’s for Cumberland.”

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “Cumberland?”

“He likes fine wine.”

The Frenchman roared with laughter. “I do not know your game, monsieur, but I think I like you.”

Rory shrugged, though he was pleased. The Frenchman was obviously a rogue and a rebel, much like him. And Rory instinctively trusted him, perhaps because of Elizabeth’s appraisal. Trust came to him rarely.

He took a quick gulp from the goblet, and he and Renard talked about the dangers of the voyage. Smuggling had become far more difficult since the English wanted to ensure that Prince Charles did not escape to France. Renard’s ship was sleek and fast, dependent on speed and stealth rather than arms. But every voyage carrying Jacobites was dangerous, though smuggling other goods was generally overlooked.

“Why do you do it?” Rory asked.

The Frenchman shrugged. “I do not like the English,” he said simply. “Some of my best customers have been hanged, or worse.” He grinned. “And it pays well.”

Rory finished the brandy. “I have a cargo to fetch. Tomorrow night.”

The Frenchman nodded. “I will not wait,” he warned. Then he picked up the card Rory had given him. “You might be needing this, monsieur.”

*

Bethia considered how to go about what she wanted to accomplish.

She was more than a little disgruntled that her bridegroom had disappeared again for an unknown period of time. He now intrigued her more than a little. Not, in any romantic way, she hurried to reassure herself, but as a puzzle she wanted to solve.

She also had to admit deep in her heart that she had enjoyed their exchange several nights ago. He might be a dandy and a traitor to Scotland, but he was no’ a lackwit. So why did he so often play that role?

But finding the answer to that question could wait. She had a goal—namely, one of getting her brother away from Cumberland. Then perhaps they could both flee Scotland. They would have friends in France, fellow refugees. Fellow Catholics. She could earn their way as a governess. That would be far preferable than being amidst the slayers of her family, this next of traitors.

Then she remembered her oath. But didn’t her brother’s life and well-being mean more, much more than her word to her family’s enemies? Her country’s enemies? He had no safety now with the MacDonell name.

She tried to silence her conscience. Smother it off with plans. First she needed clothes, then a way to sneak away from Braemoor.

And money. They would need passage money. At least she had a few coins now, her winnings from the other night. She also had the household accounts, but thievery had never appealed to her. Not even from the king’s Scottish lackies.

A few more games with her husband and she might have enough.

But for now …

She dressed in a comfortable but comely gown. She had seven now. Four new ones, and three cut from dresses formerly owned by the Forbes women. Bethia did not like the idea of wearing dead women’s clothing, and the marquis had told her she could order new ones. Still, it was a waste not to use the fine materials, especially since she did not plan to be here long.

The dress was blue, a color that had always flattered her. She meant to visit Alister, the one person who had been friendly and sympathetic. She’d received little information when she had asked him about the Black Knave. But perhaps he would be more helpful in finding new clothes for the stablelad. Then she could take the boy’s present clothes without anyone noticing it.

The Black Knave had been described as an old woman, a young man, even a devil capable of changing shape. Why not a lad?

She may even aid the real Black Knave by further confusing the authorities.

Trilby dressed her hair, pulling it back with a plain silver clasp, allowing it to tumble down her back in curls. Then the maid pinned a cap on her head and studied her handiwork with pride. “Ye look lovely, my lady.”

Bethia squinted at herself in the mirror, trying to see what Trilby had seen. It had always hurt to be plain, and time had not changed that. The others in her family had all been handsome or beautiful. Only she had those terrible freckles, a too-wide mouth, and too-thin face.