The Black Knave (31 page)

Where had she been?

He did not believe her tale for a moment. She was too capable a rider to lose a horse like that. She was too intelligent to take a wrong road. She was too good with people not to remember a name.

His first inclination was to believe her because there didn’t seem to be another explanation. But she had not reached Creighton’s holding. Evidently she’d not intended to go there at all. Otherwise, she and her brother would be long gone. Soldiers would be combing every inch of Braemoor. No, she’d had another purpose in mind.

There was but one other plausible explanation. A man. Not a lover. But someone who could help her rescue her brother. But who, what and when?

How far could she have traveled in those days? Who could she have met? Every Jacobite in Scotland was either dead or in hiding. There were a few clans who had remained neutral, but they had been disarmed and banned from wearing plaids.

Mayhap he might learn something from Cumberland. But God help him, he must get some sleep first. A few hours. Then he might be better able to puzzle out his wife’s peculiar behavior, and ultimate aims.

Minutes later, he was sprawled across the bed, his wig flung on a table, his shoes scattered on the floor along with his purple coat with its gold buttons and trim.

Rory slept late into the night. When he woke, his head felt sluggish and his mouth dry. He felt he could have slept the rest of his life.

Rory groaned, then reluctantly put two feet on the floor. The log in the fireplace was down to embers, and his chamber was growing cold. He picked up a candle from beside his bed, lit it from the few glowing embers, then placed it in a holder. He then went to a window and looked out.

The courtyard was quiet. It would be crowded with horses on the morn.

He decided to ride out and see Alister tonight, before the Duke of Cumberland arrived. Despite his drugged feeling, he knew himself well enough to know there would be no more sleep tonight.

Rory opened the door, surprised to see that someone had placed a tray of food and tankard of ale outside. Now that had never happened before. He took it to a table and quickly consumed cold pheasant and a hunk of fresh bread along with some fruit. He had not realized how hungry he’d been.

Bethia? His wife? But she was ill. And she was not pleased with him.

Still, it was a wifely thing to do. At least he thought it was. His mother had never done that for her husband.

Hell, he was babbling to himself. She had reduced him to babbling.

He slammed down the now empty glass of ale.

He was the Black Knave, the scourge of the English.

So why did a slip of a lass so confuse him? Particularly a shrewish one?

An irresistible, shrewish one. And she was just two doors away.

His mind was babbling again.

Where in the hell had she been?

And why did he care so much?

He dressed in a pair of plain britches and white shirt, then selected a dark cloak. There would be few to see him tonight, and he was not up to his usual layers of clothing and tight neck cloths.

Rory left his room and hesitated for a moment outside Bethia’s door. But most certainly she would be asleep. She was ill and should not be disturbed. He saw her, though, in his mind’s eye. Her supple body, the dark hair spread over a pillow, the dark blue eyes that deepened with passion.

Stop that babbling!

He forced himself past the door and down the steps. Servants were cleaning the hall in anticipation of Cumberland’s visit. Rory wondered whether or not Bethia knew of it, but supposed she did. Trilby would have heard everything. He knew his wife would dread it. She despised the man more, he hoped, than she despised her husband.

Why in the hell did she invade his every thought?

He moved quickly past their curious glances, through the door and down to the stable. Despite the late hour, Jamie was cleaning out stalls for the ducal visit on the morning. There was no sign of the lad’s father.
He
was probably asleep.

Rory made a pledge to himself that he would speak to the father tomorrow.

“Do ye need a saddle, sir?”

“I will saddle my own horse,” he said.

The boy’s lower lip trembled. “I am very good at saddling.”

“I know that well, Jamie. It is not that I think you will not do it well. But it is late and you should be abed.”

“Fa—”

“Tell him I insisted.” He looked in one of his pockets and found a crown. He tossed the coin to the lad. “That is for you. Not your fa. You keep it someplace safe in case you ever need it.”

The lad’s eyes grew large as he clutched the coin. “Aye, sir. Thank ye.”

The Marquis of Braemoor probably never would have done that. But Rory was damned tired of being the selfish, arrogant boor. Which was a very dangerous feeling, indeed.

“Get on with you, lad,” he said. As the boy scooted out the door, Rory quickly saddled his favorite mount, a flashy but steady gray. He never took him on the Knave’s errands; he was altogether too memorable. He stepped into the stirrup, then swung himself up into the saddle and cantered down the lane.

The moon was high and bright. No fog or drizzle this night. ‘Twas well past midnight, and he saw no other riders. He should be tired of riding, but now he needed to be away from Braemoor, away from the memories past and present.

He thought about leaving here, leaving the estates to Neil, the true-blood heir to Braemoor. And now Rory knew he would be a good custodian of it. ‘Twas a small legacy Rory could leave; he’d wasted so much of his life in wanton disregard of others.

And Bethia?

He had given her the necklace for a purpose. Just as he would give her most of the Forbes jewelry. It should be enough for her and her brother to start a life elsewhere. He would seek an annulment or divorce so she could find someone of her own choosing. If, indeed, he survived to escape Scotland. If he did, he would have nothing except his gambler’s skill and that was no’ too steady an occupation. He wanted none of the jewelry or anything else that came from Braemoor.

He reached Alister’s rooms behind his smithy. His friend would no doubt be querulous about his late-night visit, but in the last few months he had become used to Rory’s nocturnal habits.

He knocked loudly enough to wake the dead, since Alister was a far better sleeper than he.

In a moment, a grumbling Alister opened the door. “Can you not ever do things the way ordinary men do?”

Rory grinned. ‘Twas good to be with a friend again. “I see you made it back from Buckie.”

“Did you have any doubts?”

“Nay, but I ran into a wee spot of trouble.”

Alister raised an eyebrow.

“You got the warning there, but I fear I did not heed it strongly enough. Apparently someone was watching the tavern. They followed us halfway to Drummond’s hiding place. Soldiers were all over the bloody place.”

Alister gestured him over to a table, and he poured both of them some ale. “Donna keep me waiting. Since you are here, I sense you outwitted them again.”

“Not I. Some lad posing as me.”

“Who?”

Rory spread his hands in denial. “I hoped you would know. I would like to thank him.”

“I know of no lad involved.”

Rory shrugged his shoulders. “There are a number of mysteries. I suppose you heard that my wife disappeared.”

“Aye. She was gone when I arrived. I was going to look for her when she showed up bedraggled and tired and wet. Did she tell you what happened?”

“A story I did not believe. It was a good tale, though. Almost as good as some of mine. She just is not as accomplished a liar.”

“Damning praise.” Alister yawned. “I suppose this visit has a purpose.”

“Aye. I think she is up to something. I am particularly afraid that she might be planning to abduct her brother herself.”

“All the more reason to tell her who you are.”

“Nay,” Rory said. “There are many reasons against it. The first being her lack of skill as a liar. And Cumberland is visiting on the morrow. He is far too shrewd not to detect changes in her.”

“Cumberland? Here?”

“Aye. We received a message today.”

“Could he know anything?”

“Nay, but they are becoming more determined to catch the Knave. We must be thinking about leaving Scotland. After we get Bethia’s brother, and the two of them to France.”

One of Alister’s eyebrows arched again. “Bethia? Might you be going wi’ them?”

“I have no love for France, either. They have been playing games with Scotland for centuries. I plan to go to America. I want you and Mary to go with me. I will have enough for passage for the three of us. A blacksmith is always wanted, and I will go where the cards go.”

Alister peered at him. There was little light other than that from the fireplace which, like his own had been, was none too bright. “You will still be married.”

“I will get an annulment or divorce.”

“She is Catholic.”

“We were not married by a priest.”

“You have thought it all out, have you?”

“Aye.”

“What about the lady?”

“She disappeared somewhere for four days. I suspect—”

“A lover?”

Not that. She
had
been virgin. Yet there could well be someone she trusted, someone she
loved
. He shrugged. “She never wanted this marriage.”

Alister looked at him closely. “You care about her.”

“Nay.”

“Now who’s not a good liar?”

“I would not expect her to honor something forced upon her. And I have nothing to offer her. When I leave, I will leave with nothing more than passage money.”

Alister sighed. “Then what do you wish of me?”

“I want you to take a letter to her brother tomorrow. Look around. See if you can find a weak spot for the Knave.”

“My absences are being talked about.”

“An errand commanded by me. All think me an unfeeling lackwit anyway.”

“Your problem, my lord, is you feel far too much.”

“That is nonsense. You know I enjoy the game. Matching wits with Cumberland is supremely satisfying. He is an arrogant ass.” He grinned as he took a last swallow of the brandy. “Almost as arrogant as the Marquis of Braemoor.”

“You will miss the bright colors.”

“Aye, like I miss a burr in my trews.”

Alister grinned. “You thrive on discomfort, my lord. But Scotland will miss the Knave.”

“I think he has done everything he can. It is becoming too dangerous for you and Mary. I would never forgive myself if you paid for my actions.”

“You would be swinging with us,” Alister said dryly.

“No’ so much time to regret. And we both made our own decisions.”

But Rory knew he had influenced the decision. “Can you go tomorrow?”

“Aye. If you promise to take no more trips for a week. You need some rest. You do not look like a fat, contented marquis.”

“Are marquises ever contented?”

“Half-witted ones,” Alister said. “At least I suppose so, never having been one.”

“Half-witted or a marquis?”

Alister laughed. “I will leave the former to you, my lord. And now I need my sleep if I am to make a journey in the morning.”

“I will have her letters ready. I want you gone before Cumberland arrives.”

Alister nodded.

Rory went to the door. “Keep an ear out for a young lad masquerading as me. ‘Tis a wee bit insulting, to tell the truth.”

” ‘Tis well known you are a master of disguises. I expect it is better to be a lad than an old woman.”

“You can age yourself. You canna take it away.”

“I did not know you were so vain, my lord.”

Rory laughed. “Good night, my friend.”

Bethia woke to a wet tongue swabbing her face.

She yawned. The bed felt good, warm, safe.

She giggled as Black Jack licked her ears.

“Lucky dog.”

The deep male voice startled her and she sat up suddenly, spilling the puppy in her lap. Jack howled in protest.

He
was sitting in one of her chairs, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was without wig this morning, and he looked devilishly handsome. But she would not be so easy to fool this time. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my wife.”

“Your mistress is not available?”

“You do have a sharp tongue, lass.”

“Not until I met you.”

His lips twisted into a slight smile. “I doubt that. But I am here as a Good Samaritan. Alister will take your letters to your brother. He is down in the courtyard now.”

“Oh.” Why could he always disarm her so easily? She noticed his gaze lower, and she saw that her nightdress had gaped open. Warmth started at the point his gaze fell, then flowed inward. Her shoulders ached with a tension they’d never felt before, and her heart pounded against its cage. Lightning leaped between them, jagged and blinding, cloaking them with its intensity. A fierce urgency consumed her.

Why was her body betraying her?

Why were her thoughts doing the same?

He had stiffened also, as if the same urgency had seized him. His hazel eyes had a golden glow—a fire. Why did he not wear that infernal wig? Why did he look so sure and confident and masculine lounging in a plain shirt and leather breeches? Why couldn’t she breathe properly?

But there was also just an edge of uncertainty in his eyes.

It was that uncertainty that always wound its way into her heart.

Remember that night
. She repeated that warning to herself over and over again.
Remember the night when he loved you, then left without so much as a kiss. Remember how you felt
?

Why did that memory fade when he was so close to her?

“Do you have the letters, madam?”

“Aye,” she said. Even she knew her voice sounded hoarse. “They are in the book on the table. The one with his full name is meant to be examined, the other is merely marked ‘Dougal.’” Neither, in fact, contained anything damaging. She did not trust the marquis that much. But the plain one did have some words that might have a special meaning to her brother.

She watched as he picked up the book, studied the title, then put it down after taking the two letters and stuffing them in his coat. “You took up my offer on visiting the library.”