The Black Knave (22 page)

There were also grumblings now about men and women killed, transported or pushed into gaols in flat defiance of the Act of Union which guaranteed the integrity of Scottish law courts. Still, the devastation of the Highlands was tolerated, even applauded, by a number of Presbyterian Scots who hated Highlanders more for their stubborn adherence to the Roman Catholic faith than their loyalty to the Stewarts. The cauldron would continue to boil for years to come, especially with Cumberland’s new edicts banning the wearing of tartans and kilts, the playing of pipes and the owning of weapons. Even the speaking of Gaelic was prohibited.

As much as he wished for a more peaceful existence at times, he knew there were still Jacobite clans marked by Cumberland; any of their members still in Scotland remained at risk. And as much as he despised any suggestion that his small efforts were anything more than a game to him, he knew that if the Black Knave was called, he would answer. His guilt over Culloden was too overwhelming to do anything else.

Bloody hell, he muttered to himself just as a knock came at the door, and in came several servants with a tub and pails of hot water.

He asked for wood, and a fire, and soon small flames were eating along a large oak log. A lass, who brought several more pails of water, cast interested eyes at him and lingered when the others left.

“Would ye be likin’ me to tend ye?”

Strangely enough, the thought of the MacDonell lass tending him held a great deal of appeal, but this lass’s offer did not, though she was bonny enough. He’d always had a taste for pretty faces and fetching bodies. What in the bloody hell was happening to him? Why did he feel a need to be faithful to a woman who was his wife in name only, and then, he hoped, not for long?

He wriggled uncomfortably under the thought, dismissed the girl, and sank gratefully into the cramped tub.

He thought of Bethia just a few doors down the hallway. He thought how appealing she’d been, standing in his room. He thought about the way his heart had thumped faster when, for a second, he felt as if she were there to greet him, that she really had wanted to mend his shirts, to make this damp, cold tower house a home. A home he’d never had. Something he’d never even considered having.

And then he’d seen the guilt in her face and knew that she was not there in a wifely role. That was like a splash of cold seawater.

What in the hell had he expected? She was here as a prisoner. Their bargain had been a cold, empty one.

He gulped down the rest of the brandy.

Then he washed thoroughly. He knew the others in the house thought he was addlepated for requesting a bath so often. It was well known that too many baths caused illnesses, and it was an indication of his popularity—or lack of it—that no one reminded him of that sad fact.

He washed his hair, then finally rose and dressed. He had shaved himself at Mary’s cottage. Now he merely had to get dressed. The thought depressed him. He longed for simple garments, for a pair of britches and a comfortable shirt.

A damnable trade. He’d once told his father he wanted to go to the University of Edinburgh where he could read law or become a physician. But his father had merely roared with laughter at the idea. He would not spend a pence on a bastard. And in any event, Rory was too stupid to do anything but be a stable hand. His one value to Braemoor would be marriage, to bring about an advantageous alliance.

Rory didn’t know why he had come back to Braemoor when his father had called him to fight with Cumberland. Perhaps it had been a boy’s need for acceptance, one that had never quite died. And so he had done what he would never have normally done. He had killed good men.

He swore to himself, then picked out a particularly hideous waistcoat and trews and hurriedly dressed. If he could not keep away from his bride, then he would have to make himself as unappealing as possible.

But before he left, he fueled the fire with the decks of cards that lacked one jack.

Bethia dressed with Trilby’s assistance. She’d selected a dress of dark-blue velvet, one that had been newly made. She tried to tell herself it did not matter, but she knew the dress showed her eyes—her one good feature—to best advantage.

Mayhap the marquis had learned something during his travels. He might have learned something about the Black Knave. He might have heard something about the prince, who had disappeared. And, most important, he said he would help with her brother.

She held onto that. She held onto it with all strength.
Dougal. I will get you out of there. I swear
.

Trilby dressed her hair, brushing it back and holding it there with silver clasps. Bethia wished she had one of those elegant faces that looked truly wonderful when one’s hair was drawn back. But her face had no elegance, particularly with the freckles that brushed her nose. Her mother had tried any number of concoctions to make them fade, but nothing had worked, and Bethia refused to hide them under layer upon layer of powder.

Utterly dissatisfied with her appearance, and confused as to why she even cared, she dismissed Trilby. She sat and waited for the man the king called her husband. Did God also believe that, even if they had been married by a Protestant vicar rather than a Catholic priest?

She went to the narrow window and looked out over the hills and the forest beyond, the forest where her husband’s mistress lived. A mist was falling, turning the hills to a soft green. It seemed so peaceful, so far away from what she knew was happening across the Highlands. The thought saddened her, and she wiped a tear from her eyes.

She could not bring back her family. She could only try to save Dougal.

Then she was suddenly aware of another presence. She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery that she had not heard him. She did not turn. She did not want him to see her tears. She was a MacDonell, proud and strong.

The carpet covered his footfalls. She knew he had neared only by the scent of soap. Bethia swallowed deeply, trying to gulp down those tears that wanted to rush from her eyes.

“My lady?”

She turned, hoping her eyes were not red. She knew she failed when she saw something flicker in his eyes. Sympathy?

Bethia did not want it. He had fought alongside Cumberland at Culloden. He might even have killed one of her brothers. He was a Scots traitor, a renegade. And yet despite all those things she told herself, she could not tear her gaze away from his.

His eyes were mesmerizing. They had depths, just as he had layers to him. Layers she did not understand. She just knew they existed. She did not know why he acted the fool so many times, but looking into those eyes, she knew he was no fool.

“Are you ready, lass?” He took a lacy handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her face. “Some rain must have seeped inside.”

The words were extraordinarily kind and gentle, and they served not to stop the tears but to spur them on. She’d had no comfort since she’d learned of her brothers’ deaths, the same day Cumberland’s forces took MacDonell’s land and dragged Dougal and her away. She’d had no arms around her, no words of sympathy, no kindness. And that had been her strength.

Now a kind word made her blubber like some child.

A kind word from an enemy.

Forcing her gaze away from his, she turned away from him again. But it did no good. She was so very aware of his presence. Heat wrapped around them like an invisible cloak. Every nerve in her body was aware of him. The air hummed like the lingering sound of a harp.

It could not be. She could not be attracted to her husband, to a man she’d hated. A member of a clan which had taken up arms against their own countrymen, who held the life of her brother as hostage to her own behavior.

“Your brother will be safe.”

It was as if he knew her every thought. It was … unsettling. Confounding.

She lifted her hand and wiped away the dampness from her eyes.

He was silent, so silent that if it had not been for the lingering smell of soap, she might have believed him gone, but then, perhaps not. There were no more words, no handkerchief dabbing at her eyes, and yet she felt strength.

She slowly turned. So did he. But not before she saw his face, saw something flicker again in his eyes, saw a muscle clench in his cheek.

“We had better go down to supper, madam. My cousin will already be there along with some of our tacksmen.” He hesitated, then handed her a box that she had not noticed earlier.

She stared at it.

“Take it,” he ordered in an arrogant voice.

Bethia slowly opened the package. A glittering necklace of sapphire and diamonds lay on a velvet background. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry she had ever seen.

“It matches your dress,” he said. “And your eyes.”

She could do naught but stare at it. “I… canna …”

“It belonged to the previous marchioness. It would be expected.”

“Your mother?” she asked, wondering at the detached, dispassionate description.

“She called herself that,” her husband said. Bitterness accented the words.

Bethia still did not take them. She wanted nothing of the enemy’s. She wanted nothing that seemed to make this marriage real and unbreakable.

He took it from her and moved to stand behind her back, placing the necklace around her neck. She felt his fingers against her skin, contrasting with the chill of the metal. For a moment, they hesitated, then she felt the clasp close and the necklace hung heavily about her neck. A noose. A lovely noose, but a noose just the same. A tremor went through her, and his hands moved to her shoulders.

She liked the feel of them. Surprisingly, they were hard, callused, and they felt right.

Then they left her, and she felt the weight of the necklace. It carried with it the legacy of the Forbeses, a family she believed traitors.

But also she knew that with it, Rory Forbes was declaring her authority over Braemoor. She suspected he knew that she was having a difficult time at Braemoor both because of who she was, and also for his own derelictions. This necklace, and the supper tonight, were meant to assert her authority. She was no longer a prisoner but the mistress of Braemoor, a title of dubious honor.

Still, it would mean more freedom for her. She gritted her teeth. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’ve heard the words spoken with more emotion.”

“From prisoners?”

“You are no longer a prisoner. Now are you ready?”

She nodded. She was not, but she would not let him know it. She hated eating down in the great hall. Usually there were more than a few English soldiers who had stopped in for Forbes hospitality.

He said nothing else, until Black Jack yelped as the puppy suddenly realized he was going to be left behind.

He growled and ran over to the marquis, snapping at his ankle. Her heart stopped. She knew he’d tolerated the puppy, but it had never gone after him before.

The marquis leaned over and the wig went tumbling over. The puppy grabbed at it, snared one of the great curls in sharp little puppy teeth and tried to drag the wig over to the bed. When that was unsuccessful, he tumbled in the midst of it, growling and attacking it, stumbling over it, falling as little legs caught in the curls.

“Jack,” she said, horrified.

The marquis had turned to watch the puppy’s contortions. Then she saw his shoulders start to shake. She feared it was in anger, then she heard the chuckles. The chortles turned into great bursts of laughter.

Bethia stood there. Stunned. She moved to where she could see his face. She was astounded. She had never heard him laugh before. Or even seen a smile. Oh, there had been a supercilious twist of his lips, but not actually a smile. And it had never, ever touched his eyes. But now they seemed to dance with merriment.

His wig. His very, very expensive wig. She giggled as the pup became more and more enmeshed in the hair, the powder turning him partially white.

“I’m … sorry,’” she managed between giggles.

He leaned down and disentangled the puppy from the wig, then picked up the hairpiece. It was totally destroyed. He glanced at it ruefully.

“I like you better without it,” she said, her reserve with him broken.

“Ah, but my cousin and his friends expect my … excesses. I would not like to disappoint them.”

She’d been reluctant minutes earlier to take her gaze from him. Now it was impossible. His dark hair was mussed, and his hazel eyes were bright with amusement. Without the wig, his face seemed sharper.

That image of strength, again.

How had she ever thought him a weakling?

For some reason, though, he wished others to believe him a fool, a dolt, a dandy. Now she remembered how strange she’d thought his friendship with a blacksmith. Stranger still to be faithful to a village girl.

She thought of the girl’s serenity, her quiet competency, and now she understood more of the apparent commitment between them. Envy nibbled at her, though. Took a big bite, in truth. She did not understand anything now except the pull she felt toward Rory Forbes, the Marquis of Braemoor.

“I feel naked,” he said. “I must return to my room and find another headpiece.”

“Why?”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“Why do you pretend to be something you are not?”

“And you know what I am?”

“I know you are no fool.”

“I would not take a wager on that, my lady.”

“You did not answer me. I have seen enough of you to know …”

He waited, his mouth curved in that supercilious smile that she disliked. But now she knew there was something under it. “Know what, my love?”

“That you have honor.”

“You flatter me, madam. I care naught for honor. ‘Tis just a word that men toss around to impress their ladies, and I want none of it. I am a gambler who would take the devil’s hand to win a wager.”

His voice was cool, though she saw the lingering flicker of desire in his eyes.

“Your clothes do not… suit you.”

“That is your opinion, lass. They suit me very well.”

“Why?”

“You know something of my family now. My legal father never wished to spend a ha’pence on me. I rather enjoy tweaking his memory.”