The Black Knave (12 page)

She heard the marquis’s cousin asking questions. The others, she suspected, were English soldiers.

“The sergeant swears the leader was an old woman,” an unfamiliar voice said. “I know there are those who say the Black Knave is an old man, but a woman?”

“Are you sure it is the work of the Black Knave?” Neil Forbes’s soft accent was distinctive among the more clipped ones.

“Aye, he left a jack of spades in the cell where Ogilvy was held.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Neil Forbes commented. Bethia thought she heard just a hint of admiration in it.

“Half my men believe he is a witch, or a devil, able to change his form whenever he wishes.”

“That’s pure nonsense.”

“Some even claim it really
is
a woman.”

Bethia heard Neil’s laughter. “With that kind of audacity? I think not.”

“You sound as if you admire him.” The unfamiliar voice had taken on an edge.

“I admire courage, whatever the source. That does not mean I want this man running loose in our district. He might well turn from stealing Jacobites from Cumberland to taking something more dear.”

“I want some of your tenants. We plan to search every hut, every barn or covey within fifty miles. The sergeant believes one of the attackers might be wounded. He found blood outside the gaol.”

“The marquis is the only one who can authorize that. He is not here.”

“When will he return?” The question was brusque, impatient.

“I do not know.” Neil Forbes’s voice was contemptuous. “No one ever knows. He does not bother himself with keeping anyone informed. I believe he’s in Edinburgh, but he might well be in someone’s bed.”

“I thought he was just wed.”

“A Jacobite,” Neil said dismissively. “With a tart tongue and none of the attributes my cousin favors. ‘Twas her fortune my cousin sought.”

Resentment, anger and even shame ripped through Bethia.
None of the attributes
. “Plain” was what he meant. She told herself she didn’t care what these English-lovers thought, but still the words stung.

And apparently her bridegroom shared that opinion, since he had no interest in her bed, nor, quite obviously, her company.

She should be pleased, but pride—the strong pride of the MacDonells—caused her to wince and left her feeling more alone than ever. No one in the MacDonell hold would ever have had such poor manners as to disparage the lord and his lady.

But then, these Forbeses had no honor.

She wanted to hear more, but she had no appetite now for being discovered lurking in the hall and overhearing their remarks. Mayhap she could learn more from the men being served mead in the great hall.

She was mistress here, but she knew the king’s men were always welcomed at Braemoor, and their men fed and offered other refreshment. She flinched every time she saw a red coat. She knew them only too well.

Bethia entered the great hall. Weapons had been scattered along the walls, and already the sound of voices was growing louder with drink. Curses echoed in the hall. She caught bits and pieces.

” ‘E’s a bloody phantom.”

“Maltworm.”

“We will be up all night, ‘unting these bloody woods.”

“Drink deep,” said another.

“‘Ow will we know the bloody bastard?”

“Someone will pay for lettin’ that Jacobite go free.”

“Aye, I would no’ be in that sergeant’s shoes. Be lucky if he ain’t hung.”

Bethia drank in all the comments, wishing that one might give her a clue as to how to find the Black Knave. Then one of the men looked her way, and punched another, and he a third until all of them turned toward her, their faces going red as they apparently remembered their language. One bowed. “Milady?”

“I just came to see if you had everything you need. Food? Drink?”

“Aye, milady,” said the man who seemed to be the spokesman. “And we be thanking you for yer hospitality.”

She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, then turned and left, relieved to be rid of their presence. The uniforms sickened her, as did their arrogance. They had so much blood on their hands, and they cared little.

But at least she knew the Black Knave was in the vicinity. If only she could get word to him.

And her husband? Where was he?

She wanted his support in looking over the accounts. She wanted more authority in this house. Mayhap it would eventually mean a loosening of the scrutiny she received, a better chance to escape.
Allies
. She needed a few allies.

Bethia went out the door into the courtyard. More English soldiers lingered there, seeing to horses or just walking about. If only she could take a horse. If only.

Horse thieving was not well regarded.

But she was tempted. So tempted. A short ride. Just long enough to get away from the sight of red uniforms. Just enough to breathe air unsullied by sweat and blood and arrogance. She sidled over to a large bay and ran her finger down the side of its neck. Cool.

The horse was still saddled, its reins tied to a post. Other soldiers were milling around, watering mounts, cooling them down. This one must belong to one of the officers who arrived earlier.

“I would not do that, milady.”

She whirled around, afraid her face was reddening with guilt as she did so.

Her husband was standing there, his hazel eyes regarding her with interest. Why had she not seen him ride in? Where had he come from?

“I did not know you had returned.”

“Obviously.”

“I just needed some … air.”

“Too many English soldiers?”

She knew her cheeks were darkening. Why did he always seem to know exactly what she was thinking?

“Aye,” she said defiantly. “Far too many.”

“I do not believe that stealing one of their horses would reduce the number of them around you,” he said. “It would only serve to increase it.”

Her gaze wandered over him. He was wearing a dandy’s clothes, but there was a bulge underneath the sleeve of his brightly colored waistcoat and he held his arm stiffly. The sleeve was sliced and ruby-stained. His blank expression changed subtly as he saw her eyes rest on it. “A slight mishap,” he explained.

Just then Neil and an English officer came out the door.

Bethia watched Neil’s face change, darken with a frown. “I did not know you were back.”

“I just arrived,” her husband said, arching an eyebrow at the English officer. “I am late because I ran into a band of brigands. Could have been your outlaw. What, dear boy, do you call him? Some ridiculous name.”

The officer’s nostrils flared like those of a stallion who caught the scent of a mare.

“Where?”

“Halfway to Edinburgh. Must be near there by now. Saw Ogilvy with him. Recognized the young rounder. Tried to challenge them, but I was overwhelmed. Just barely escaped with my life.”

“How many were there?”

“Six—no, seven, including Ogilvy.”

“You are sure he’s with them?”

“Aye, he was for certain.”

“And the others? Come on, man. What of the others?”

Her husband shrugged. “They were dressed like peasants, though their leader could wield a sword well enough. I had engaged him when some villain struck me from the back. Ruined one of my best shirts and waistcoat,” he complained plaintively.

The officer looked at him with contempt. “We had reports of a woman.”

“A woman?” her husband said. “Nay, I saw no woman. There was Ogilvy and then a young man with reddish hair. Seemed to be their leader.”

“Edinburgh, you say?” the officer said.

“Aye.”

The officer turned to a sergeant who had accompanied him from Braemoor. “Get the men ready to ride. I’ll turn the city upside down.” He nodded at the Marquis of Braemoor. “What else about the leader? Age? Color of eyes? Mount he was riding?”

The marquis shrugged. “Ordinary. Red hair. Brown eyes. All, including Ogilvy, wore peasant clothing. And their horses? Damned near falling down,” he added disdainfully.

“Why didn’t you go into Edinburgh to report it?”

“I was already halfway home. I wished to return to my dear wife for comfort and attention.”

The officer stared at him with disgust. “Do you not know there is a reward of five thousand pounds on the man?”

“I tried to stop him,” Rory said querulously. “Got a slice for my efforts.”

The officer looked at him contemptuously. “It was your duty to get to an officer of the king and run him down.”

“My good fellow, it was my duty to return to my home and protect it. ‘Tis not my fault you cannot catch this villain. There he was, bold as daylight, on the Edinburgh road.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“I am sure only that it was Ogilvy. I hear this … black rogue fellow is an old man, or, did I hear you right, a woman? You cannot find a woman or old man?” The marquis shook his head in obvious dismay.

The English officer pushed past him, muttering, “Knave. He calls himself the Black Knave.”

“By God, but that fellow has no manners,” her husband said as the officer directed his men to mount and moments later left the courtyard at a trot.

She had enjoyed the Englishman’s consternation, even his revulsion at her husband’s supercilious manner. But she worried about the man called the Black Knave. She looked at the man who had been her husband for a week. “The Black Knave … you said you struck him?”

His eyes suddenly pierced her. “You have interest in this matter?”

“Nothing. I just heard …”

“Well, madam,” he said impatiently. “
What
have you heard?”

“That the Black Knave may have been wounded earlier. Did…”

Her husband’s eyes narrowed. “Do you believe a wounded man could equal me?” he asked.

Her silence said volumes.

He decided to let that go for the moment. “Your concern for an outlaw does you no credit, madam. It should lie with your husband.”

Bethia’s gaze went back to his arm. “Is it… your wound … bad?”

“It requires a stitch or two. Are you up to that, wife?”

She lowered her eyes from his face, which towered over her. “Aye, I have mended wounds before.”

“Then come with me.” He strode ahead of her, past Neil, who was regarding them with a frown, through the passage that led to the great hall, then up the stairs to the room that she knew he used as his sleeping quarters. She had not been inside, had not been invited, and she’d been reluctant to pry. She even, perhaps, hoped he wouldn’t return from wherever he’d been.

The room was dark and plain and far more Spartan than she’d expected for a man who dressed and spoke like a popinjay. It did, however, have a huge clothes press, along with a bed that looked too short for him, a plain table and two chairs. A table held a bottle of brandy and several glasses. That, at least, fit.

The fireplace had obviously been cleaned recently and new fresh wood had been placed in the hearth. He sat awkwardly in one of the chairs and sighed with obvious relief.

She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “If you will tell me where to find the herbs and bandages, I will fetch them.”

His gaze was cold as it raked her. “There is no need. It has already been attended to.”

“But…”

“I did not wish to humiliate you by revealing that I went elsewhere. However, Mistress Mary Ferguson saw to the wound quite nicely. She is a healer,” he added.

She had already heard all the gossip, that the girl Mary was his mistress, and inexplicable anger coursed through her, even as she realized that he had made a small effort not to shame her publicly. Nonetheless, she did feel shamed. And inadequate.

Bethia told herself she wanted as little to do with this man as possible. Why, then, did she feel this odd disappointment?

She needed to feel needed
. Even if the person was an enemy. And for the shortest possible time, she had.

But she wasn’t wanted. No one wanted her. No one needed her. Not even the wretch who called himself her husband. No one.

Except, possibly, for Dougal. And she could not let him down.

She bit her lip. “If we are to preserve the pretense,” she said as lightly as she could, “then I had best fetch the medicines and bandages. Perhaps some hot water?”

His gaze faltered for a moment, then he nodded.

She slipped out of the door.

Rory watched the door close, then closed his eyes. It had taken every bit of willpower he had to make it back to Braemoor.

He did not even know if he could make it to the bed. He’d lost so damn much blood before he’d reached Mary’s cottage. A musket ball had lodged in his arm and Mary had dug it out, then sewn up the wound after Alister had sliced a bit more to make it look more like a sword than a pistol wound.

God’s breath, but his arm hurt.

Bloody hell.

Everything had gone as planned. Up to a point. Feigning drunkenness, two of Alister’s recruits had started a fight in front of the gaol the night before last; when one of the soldiers had come too close they had attacked
him
. Both men had been thrown into a cell. No one had questioned the bent and bowed old woman who appeared the next evening to see her only son. Rory had been able to slip both his supposed son and Ogilvy a pistol, and the latter a jack of spades. Unfortunately Ogilvy did not wait long enough to make his move, and Rory, moving slowly, had been in the line of fire of one of the more alert guards before he’d reached the waiting horses.

The four of them—Ogilvy, the two men and himself— had managed to escape only because Alister had earlier stuck thorns to the undersides of the English saddles. If Rory had not hurt so damnably, he would have enjoyed the sight of the bucking horses and English soldiers flying into the air.

They’d made it to a cave, where they left Ogilvy, then rode to Mary’s croft.

It was decided then to manufacture another wound. Rory couldn’t try to hide the one he had. His arm would be stiff for days. Explanations were needed, and not for a bullet wound. He and Alister had both decided on a sword wound as a plausible cause and a tale that would send the English on a false trail.

So Alister had carefully sliced the expensive—if atrocious—waistcoat as well as the linen shirt. They’d then bloodied both to make it look like a sword stroke.