The Black Knave (34 page)

She put the terrier down, and the pup fretted around the hem of her dress, obviously unhappy at being dislodged from the warmth of her body. Well, Rory would be, too.

Her body, in fact, looked inviting. Very inviting. Too inviting.

“Would you like to learn to play dice?”

“Dice?”

“I seem to be out of cards at the moment.”

“I did not think gamblers were ever without cards.”

He felt himself smiling. He always enjoyed their duels. He had from the beginning. He liked intelligent women, and he liked them as friends. Now that he thought of it, two of his three friends were women. There was a strength and loyalty in them that he had always admired.

“It happens,” he said.

She tipped her head inquisitively. “Do you usually win?”

“Yes.”

“Fools do not usually win.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You are acquainted with the intricacies of gaming?”

“I listen.”

“Aye, you do, Bethia.” He wanted to say much more. Which meant he needed to leave.

“You did not answer my question.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Not the important one. Fools do not win. And why you pretend to be one. To disarm your opponents?”

“I would have little success wi’ you, lass.”

She gave him a look of disgust. She picked up the terrier again and carried him over to a chair, sitting down and putting Jack in her lap. Then she turned her eyes on him again. They had never seemed so blue, so … intense. “Will you say anything to Cumberland about my family?”

“I like him little better than you do, lass.”

“But you let him use you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You wed
me
.”

“I received much in return.”

“Did you intend to wed only for material gain?”

“Does not everyone?”

“Nay,” she said softly. “My father gave me a choice.”

He said nothing. He could guess what happened to her choice. He was surprised at how much that soft glow in her eyes hurt. It wasna for him. It was for another man. A dead man. And that hurt far more than any injury to himself.

Dear Jesu. Was he falling in love?

“Do you love Mary?” Her voice was soft, compelling, insisting.

He had no answer that. Mary was his bulwark against questions, against his disappearances, against any question about his character. He had not minded avoiding Bethia’s questions; he did not want to lie.

“She is my friend,” he said honestly enough.

“That is not what I ask.”

“You ask too much, madam.”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use that word—madam—when you do not wish to answer a question. Or want to create a distance between us.”

“There is a distance. A chasm. You are a Jacobite. I am loyal to the king.” He stood. “Since you appear disinterested in dice, I believe I will return to my own room.”

She said nothing.

“Good night, madam.”

“I would like to go riding in the morning.”

“I will accompany you.”

“Still my jailer?”

“Did you believe a few words would make it otherwise?”

“Go then,” she said.

He went before he said, or did, more unwise things.

Bethia continued to play with Jack as the door closed behind her husband.

She was more puzzled than ever. Both at herself and at him.

Had she made a terrible mistake in telling him about her family?

But over the past several weeks, she was certain she’d seen a core of decency in her husband. Oh, he tried to hide it well enough. For some reason, he seemed to consider it a weakness. Too bad there was not more such weakness around.

He might be a gambler who had been naught but a wastrel most of his life, but she kept seeing hints of more, intriguing little bits and pieces that did not quite fit. She would have sworn he had not read her letters, and it had been naught but kindness, and wit, to suggest the two of them.

She had bitterly resented his possessive kiss at supper, but then she’d noted the approval on Cumberland’s face, and recalled what her husband had said about sending the letters before Cumberland had a chance to forbid it. The kiss had all been an act for Cumberland’s benefit.

And now she thought she knew why. He’d sensed the danger to her and her brother before she had. He hadn’t known why, but he
had
sensed it. She would stake her life on it.

In truth, she just had.

If she were to bear a child, which was now possible, neither her life nor her brother’s were worth a half pence. If she were right, Rory’s child would be taken from him, also, and if he protested, he too might well meet with an accident. Cumberland would not hesitate to murder two more Jacobites, nor a weak noble with a reputation for cowardice. She supposed now that that was exactly the reason he
was
chosen.

Fear crawled around inside her. Fear and something more: a sickness that anyone, much less blood relatives, could plan something so ugly, so unconscionable. That they would literally steal a child, just because its parents were Scots.

She’d needed an ally, and none was available but her husband. She could only pray he would keep his silence. She could only hope he would relent on his orders refusing her a horse.

She must go to free her brother now. And she had to do it before she was with child, for then she would be too clumsy and possibly too well guarded to do anything. She could not pose as the Black Knave if she were with child.

Black Jack whined and fretted, and she thought he was probably hungry. He had grown an enormous appetite. She leaned down and snuggled him. She would have to take him, too, when she left. The pup whined again.

Bethia wondered if everyone was abed. She put the dog down, then went to the door and opened it. She listened, but there was only silence. Sconces along the wall provided dim light.

She thought for a moment. She did not want anyone to see her in the night robe. It was far too revealing. She went to the wardrobe and found a simple dress that was laced in the front so she could dress herself. She pulled on a chemise, then the dress, and fitted her feet into a pair of slippers. She took a candle to the door and opened it. Finding only silence, she slipped down the steps, Black Jack gamboling eagerly beside her.

A number of Cumberland’s soldiers were sleeping in the great hall. She heard the snores, the restless sound of men, as she passed on her way to the kitchen area. It was dark now, but in a few hours it would be bustling with servants preparing a meal for their uninvited guests. She found a pitcher of milk and poured a healthy amount into a dish, then tore up pieces of bread.

Black Jack eagerly gobbled up the mixture as she stood by, waiting. Then she took him outside to tend his needs. He had been uncommonly quick at learning the difference between ground and carpet.

A sentry stood watch. Because of Cumberland?

She stayed outside only a short time, then called Jack. But just as they were about to enter the massive doors, she saw someone ride out from the stables. She knew instantly who it was.

Dear Mother of Mercy, she wished she had that freedom. She wished she could ride far from where the Butcher stayed this night. Her husband escaped so easily.

Her heart sank as she realized he was most likely escaping to the cabin in the woods.

She went inside and had just reached the steps where she heard voices and quenched the candle. The voices were soft, but she recognized one as Cumberland’s. She picked up Jack and slid into the shadows.

“He will do as I ask,” she heard him say. “I told him he will receive ten thousand crowns when she is with child. The marquis will do anything for money.” Cumberland’s voice was thick with contempt.

Jack wriggled in her arms, and she covered his mouth until the men passed her beyond her hearing. She felt a cold chill run down her back. Ten thousand crowns was a fortune, indeed. The marquis had said nothing to her about that. Nothing at all.

Neither had he made love to her again. Was she so repellant that he hoped that one time would accomplish his goal? And if it did not?

She took her hand from the dog’s muzzle and ran upstairs, going into her room and shutting the door tight behind her. She found herself shivering. Not from cold, but now from something else. Fear. Apprehension. And an emotion even more powerful: a loss of faith so strong that it drained her until she felt like a cloth doll.

Bethia sat on the bed, clutching the dog, feeling more desolate than at any time since she arrived here. She had not thought that possible. But now she knew it was.

She still wanted to trust the marquis, but now doubt racked her again. How to contact the Knave?

Anne
! She could get word somehow to Anne and ask her to send someone to the Flying Lady. She should have asked someone to get in touch with the Knave that night, but she had been so exhausted, so in a hurry.

She would call in the debt the Knave owed her. She was convinced of
his
honor. He would not refuse her.

She was sure of it.

All she had to do now was figure out how to get word to Anne. Her friend could send someone to the coast and pass word to the brothers at the Flying Lady that someone needed the Knave. She would not use her name, just ask that the Knave meet a fugitive at a specified place not far from the tower house. She would find some way to be there. She might have to drug the stableman, or…

Which meant another visit to Mary, pleading lack of sleep and the need for a potion that would help her. That prospect was painful. Humiliating.

But how to get a message to Anne? Since her husband was being so … agreeable, perhaps she could write in a code and ask him to send it to her friend.

Hope warred with a profound sense of apprehension, of disappointment, even of loss. She did not want to think of her husband. Yet she could not quite dismiss him from her thoughts. And his presence still seemed to dominate the room. Could she really have come to care for a charlatan? Could he really be so devious?

She could not chance it. Her brother’s life depended upon her being right, and as much as she wanted to believe her instincts, she could not put her faith in a man she dinna wholly trust.

Rory fought the urge to turn back, stride into his wife’s room and tell her exactly who he was.

But now it was more important than ever that he keep his second life a secret from her. He accepted everything she had said. Now everything made sense to him.

He’d yearned to take her in his arms, but now it was more impossible than ever. He just hoped like hell that he had not already planted his seed in her. For if anything went wrong, and he were to meet his death before getting the lass and her brother out of Scotland, they would both be doomed.

Damn Cumberland to hell, and let all the demons roast him for an eternity.

He urged his horse into a gallop over the hills dark with heather and toward the loch four miles from Braemoor. It was surrounded on one side by high hills, on another by soft, rolling ones. He had often gone there as a boy. It had been his hiding place, the one place where he could go and be at peace.

But now he wanted the cold wind biting at him. He needed it to chill the longing in him, the heat that Bethia always stirred in him. He had tried sleeping after retiring from her room, but he couldna. His anger was too deep, his need for her too demanding. He feared that if he ran into Cumberland, he would skewer him then and there. He needed this night to cool his rage. An angry man was a careless one. His mask was already slipping. He had become too involved, something he thought would never happen.

He’d debated with himself endlessly about telling her that he was the Black Knave, that he would help her. But he’d decided the time was not yet right. She had no reason to believe him. He certainly would have rejected the notion if he were her. And he still felt that he might be putting Alister and Mary in more danger. He knew now his wife would never consciously betray anyone, but Cumberland had ways of obtaining information, especially as long as he had her brother. And one wrong word, one wrong expression, one wrong gesture could kill them all. He simply could not risk it.

He would return to Braemoor, play the compliant fool for Cumberland, and do his bloody best to stay away from her. After tomorrow. He had promised to take her riding in the morning.

He had so little time before the French captain returned for a rendezvous. He would have to have the boy then, as well as Bethia. He would have to devise a plan to make sure the people of Braemoor did not pay for his own activities. And he would try to collect what remaining fugitive Jacobites he could. That would be his final revenge on Cumberland.

He wondered how Alister was faring. The journey would take him a total of four or five days, including at least one day at Creighton’s stronghold. He could do nothing until then. He suspected the next week would be the most difficult he’d ever encountered.

And then?

He would lose the one person that lit all the dark, empty places inside him. He would miss her wit and courage and intelligence. He would miss that tentative smile. Yet he had to give her back her freedom. He had nothing else to offer.

At least he could build memories. He vowed to memorize each and every moment as a treasure to keep and hold in his mind, to pull out and relive when he was alone.

Bethia tried to be remote, cool. She had already decided she’d said too much.

Yet her heart fluttered when Rory arrived while she was eating breakfast. He looked the dandy, again. He wore a fine blue coat but without the gold trim he usually favored. He was wearing leather breeches today, too, not the trews that so outlined the muscles in his legs. His feet were encased in new, highly polished boots. His wig was not as elaborate as last night; in fact, it was actually quite modest compared to the others. Still, she much preferred the man without them.

Do not be thinking of that.

She had to be wary every moment. “I saw the Duke of Cumberland leave at dawn.”

“Aye. He now has all our farmers and herders combing the countryside.”