The Black Knave (48 page)

Every muscle in her body ached. Every bone screamed in agony. Several times she had thought she could never mount again after they had rested and watered the horses at a stream.

Rory had had to help her mount again the last several times. Her legs simply had not worked. And once in the saddle, she’d had to force herself to stay awake. Even then she had pinched herself or washed her face with cold water from a flask to keep from falling asleep. But when she saw his set face as the day hurried past, she swallowed any pleas to stop and rest.

More than her own weariness, however, she felt Rory’s desperation. The mask had slipped back over his face, into his eyes, and he was brusque, even curt. No more pretty words. No more comforting ones. ‘Twas as if she rode with a stranger.

When she thought she could not go another step, that she would fall from the horse and never move again, she heard his exclamation.

“We’re there.” But where there should have been excitement, she heard only defeat. It was then, and only then, that she knew he thought they had arrived too late.

“Rory?”

But he was trotting toward the sound of surf. Over the grassy dunes, she saw a great rock jutting out from the beach. She smelled the sea, heard the surf pounding against the beach and against the rocks. But the dunes kept her from seeing it yet.

She followed him at a trot, then he slowed as the horses started to stumble in the sand. At the top of the dune, he stopped and whistled, then waited.

A sharp whistle came in response.

Then she saw a light from the beach, reaching out to the sea. She realized it must be a signal that they had arrived! She peered through the dark, finally spying the faint outlines of a ship. Just ahead, Rory dismounted, then he helped her down. Quickly unsaddling horses, her husband then took off the bridles and bits. He untied a package from the saddle, put it over his shoulder. He reached out for her hand and started down the beach toward the sea.

She fell, her legs giving way under her. He stopped, leaned over and picked her up, then ran down to two figures standing on the beach, turning toward them.

Alister. Dougal.

Rory set her down, and she hugged Dougal, holding him close and tightly, uncaring of his manly pride. When Dougal finally struggled for freedom, she released him and turned around to look toward Rory. He was untying the package he’d brought with them.

He turned to her. “Take your brother down to the water,” he said as he took off his heavy ring that was also the Braemoor seal.

She disobeyed the curt order and watched as Alister unrolled a body from a blanket. The two men dressed it in the bright waistcoat and other clothes Rory had worn at Braemoor. Rory then put his ring on the man’s finger.

The two of them then rolled the body into the shallow water. The tide might take it, but not for hours.

“Who is it?”

“A spy,” Alister said flatly. “The boat is coming.”

“Bloody hell,” Rory exclaimed. “I hear riders.”

Then Bethia did, too.

The boat was nearing shore. None of them waited for it to come closer. Rory picked her up and ran into the ice-cold sea, dumping her unceremoniously into the boat. Alister and Dougal scrambled in after her. Rory catapulted himself into the boat as the oarsmen started back out to open sea.

A group of riders appeared on the beach. Musket shots rang out. The oarsmen increased the rhythm of their strokes as one musket ball hit the boat. But then they began to fall short.

Minutes later, someone helped her climb a rope ladder onto the ship. Responding to loud commands in French, seamen scurried to unfurl sails. The ship moved briskly away from shore.

*

Bethia found herself in a cabin with Mary. Rory had left her side the moment he had stepped on deck, joining the man who obviously captained the ship. A sailor showed her to what must have been the captain’s cabin.

Mary greeted her with a hug. “I was so afraid for all of you,” she said.

“Especially Alister,” Bethia guessed aloud.

Mary’s expression grew bleak. “And as much for my lord.”

Bethia remembered what Rory had said, that Mary had been an excuse for his absences, nothing more. Now she wondered.

Mary must have seen her expression. “Not in that way, my lady. Did the marquis ever tell you about me?”

“No,” Bethia said, leaning against the wall. She was so tired, and yet she knew she had to hear this. It was the first time anyone had been willing to discuss the relationship between Mary and her husband.

“I was fifteen when my mother died. I was permitted to stay if I continued to provide the herbs for the kitchen and for medicines. One day Donald paid an unexpected visit and tried to bed me. When I said no, he became angry and attacked me.” Her slender shoulders trembled as she told the tale. “He came a second time. Rory had just returned after fostering with another family, and he had come to get some herbs for a poultice for a horse. He heard my screams and threw Donald off me. He almost killed him. ‘Twas clear tha’ Donald feared his brother, though I had heard that the younger son was considered worthless and a bastard. He told Donald tha’ if he ever touched me again he would kill him. Donald never came close to me again, but he did spread the word that I welcomed his advances.”

Mary bit her lip. “Rory told me he would give me money to go somewhere else and get started, but I loved my garden, the herbs. So he let everyone believe he was my ‘protector.’ ” She looked at Bethia. “But he never was. I knew he had a reputation with women, but never once did he touch me. He knew I cared about Alister.”

Mary hesitated, then continued in a low voice, “The marquis has always thought the worst of himself, mayhap because his father always told him he was worthless. But he saved me, just as he once saved Alister from Donald. Just as he saved you and your brother. He has always protected those who could not protect themselves, although he would deny it. He would call it a ‘game’ or a chance to ‘tweak’ his father’s tail, or Cumberland’s nose. In truth, he has a hatred for injustice. He would deny it to the day he dies, but ‘tis there. Strong as the roots of an oak.”

Bethia felt a wetness around her eyes. She was tired, so tired, and yet she saw him in her mind’s eye standing like that oak, surviving storm and fire and drought, the drought of going without love or affection. She’d had so much of both. She had always had a feeling of belonging. He’d had none.

“Fight for him, my lady,” Mary added in a soft voice, “for he will not fight for himself. He knows only how to fight for others.”

“Thank you,” she told Mary.

“You need never thank me, my lady. Not if you can make him happy.”

“I will try,” Bethia said. She would sleep, and think about what to say, then challenge him in the morning.

He seemed to like challenges.

Rory stood next to Renard, the French captain, who had taken the wheel. The wind was brisk, the sails full. They had seen no sign of a British ship, although Renard assured Rory that his swift sloop could outrun the much heavier frigates favored by the British.

They had been under sail now for eight hours, and Renard was beginning to relax. ‘Twas still a long, perilous voyage to France, but the worst was over.

Though young Dougal was sleeping and Alister was huddled somewhere with Mary, several of the Jacobite passengers were on deck. They had all given him and Renard their thanks.

He had not seen Bethia since they had come aboard. She was, according to Mary, still sleeping. And well she should. It was a miracle he had not ridden her to death. She had gone through hell because of him, because he’d not been able to contain his lust.

She would be far better off without him.

The thought was excruciating.

He turned his attention back to the captain. “I have not thanked you yet for waiting.”

Renard grinned. “I am an admirer of the Knave,” he said. “I would be most desolate to see him end his life at the end of the noose.”

Rory studied him for a moment. “Regardless,” he said, “I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. I hope you remember it.”

“Oh, I will, my lord.”

Rory narrowed his eyes.

“I finally tricked the fair Elizabeth into telling me who you were,” he said. “She feared you might need some extra help.”

“You and Elizabeth …”

“Plan to wed, my lord. We no longer have secrets between us. She wanted to wait until you got out.”

Rory grinned. “Please call me Rory. The marquis just died, Captain. He is no more.”

“Such tragedy,” the captain said. “Still, I think the marchioness may be looking for him.”

Rory followed the direction of the Frenchman’s eyes. His wife stood at the railing, looking toward him. Her short hair blew in the wind, curling recklessly against her face. She still wore the lad’s clothing, but the jacket flew open with the wind, and her plain shirt now outlined the curve of her breasts. Her eyes were on him, and her lips curved in a beguiling smile.

“Go to her,” the captain said. “She is far prettier than I.”

Rory agreed with that assessment. He thought he had never seen a bonnier woman. In any event, ‘twas time for a talk, to tell her what he’d planned for her in France. Friends who would help a friend of the Knave. He also had to warn her never to reveal his identity. He had taken too much care to kill the fellow.

When he reached her, she held out her hand for his, lacing her fingers in his and looked up at him. “My lord,” she said softly.

“The marquis is dead,” he replied.

“I will miss his bright clothes.”

“I will not,” Rory said. “The fellow was ill-bred, loutish and ostentatious.”

“I must like ostentatious.”

She looked so incredibly appealing. The sun magnified the smattering of freckles across her nose, and her cheeks were pink with the sharp bite of wind. Her eyes sparkled and her hair danced around her face. God’s breath, but how he wanted her.

He remembered what happened the last time he succumbed to temptation.
Do not
, he told himself.

But she apparently had no such compunctions. She lifted on tiptoes and her lips brushed his. “I love you,” she said.

He started to shake his head, to deny any such great boon. “You are grateful,” he corrected. “But you have the jewels. You owe it to Dougal to make a new life in France. He will be safe there.”

“And you?”

He tried to smile carelessly. “I am off to America. I told you I am a wanderer.”

“Then I am going with you,” she said. “I have the jewels. I can follow you anywhere.”

He was befuddled. He knew she would do exactly that. But why?

Her fingers went up to his lips, effectively quieting them. “You cannot tell me who or who not to love,” she said.

He meant to open his mouth to protest. Instead he found himself nibbling on her fingers. She was right. He could not tell her who to love and who not to. He could only warn her. He just bloody well did not want to. Not at this moment.

She smiled. “No protest?”

“Aye,” he said. “I have no title. No trade. Not much money. I have a wanderlust.”

“Mary says you have the roots of an oak.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Mary says too much.”

“She loves you. So does Alister. So, I think, do a number of other people.”

He looked astonished, as if the idea had never occurred to him. His arm went around her, and tightened. “I can offer you nothing. In France, you could have your choice of gentlemen. I’ll never be that.”

“You, my lord, are the finest gentleman I’ve ever met,” she said, putting her free hand to his face. “And I would wither away in France,” she said. “I would wither away anywhere if I were not with you.” She hesitated, then said, “Or are you like all the other men in the world, thinking you know what is best for a woman?”

He chuckled. “I would never say that of you, lass.”

“Then I know that
you
are best for me.” She hesitated for a moment, then said uncertainly, “Unless you do not want me.”

“Ah, lass, how can you think of such a thing? It is only…”

“Only?”

“Ah, hell,” he surrendered. He bent down and his lips touched hers, and then he lost himself in them. He lost himself in the grandness of her love, in the glory of her touch, in the splendor of her giving.

His arms closed around her and for the first time in his life he felt he belonged somewhere. He felt loved and needed. He was wanted. All things to fight for.

His lips left hers and he nuzzled her ear, then whispered, “I love you.”

The ship heeled then, and a spray of water mixed with rays from the sun and formed a rainbow.

She moved to his side, still holding his hand. Together they watched it.

“It is for us,” she whispered.

An illusion. He had called it that days ago. But now he knew better. It was a promise.

His fingers tightened around hers. They belonged together. He knew it now. He did not know what the future held, but they were meant to be together. They belonged together.

“Aye,” he said. “Forever.”

The Piedmont, Virginia, 1751

Rory had never wanted to be a farmer.

And yet now as he sat his horse, he viewed the furrowed acres and green pastures below with no little pride and satisfaction. He had produced something fine, something of worth. He and Bethia and Alister and Mary. Something of his own.

He took his arms from around his three-year-old son, Gavin, and lifted him from the saddle and set him firmly on the ground where Black Jack, who had followed them, immediately started pulling at his trousers to play with him. The two were inseparable.

Rory dismounted, then took a basket from Bethia and she slipped from her own saddle into his arms. He held her for a second, long enough to convey his love for her.

It had become a tradition now. She could most certainly manage her own dismount, but they both relished those shining moments when their bodies met and they shared a moment of intimacy, a sudden fire that had remained with them.

Of course, they enjoyed a deeper, more intense intimacy in the privacy of their room, but after four years of marriage, Rory still couldn’t get enough of his wife.