The Black Knave (49 page)

He loved looking up at her, watching her slide into his arms, and feeling the sweetness of her body.

He relished her smile as they watched Gavin giggle as the terrier leaped up and took a swipe at his face. “Ugh,” Gavin said, even as he looked pleased.

Bethia had wanted to come here today. They had traveled to this corner of Virginia four years ago. Still unwilling to take anything from Braemoor, he had reluctantly sold two pieces of jewelry. As Bethia pointed out, it was
hers
. Therefore,
theirs
. He compromised by sending the pearls back to Neil. Rory felt it Neil’s birthright, and mayhap he would marry one day.

He and Bethia, and Mary and Alister, had married in France. Rory had taken the name of Logan, a common enough name in England, yet one that also belonged to a nearly extinct but proud Scottish clan.

The Logans and Armstrongs pooled what else they had—Rory’s winnings, Alister’s savings—and added it to the sum they received by selling the necklace and earrings. It was enough for passage and the purchase of six horses, which Rory intended to breed. A few games in a Williamsburg tavern had produced more winnings as well as information about the country. None of them had fancied staying in a well-settled area with a heavy British presence.

A Scotsman, though, told them of a valley in the Virginia Piedmont that was just now being settled. Most of the settlers there were opposed to slavery as they were. Land was inexpensive and grazing fine. A blacksmith was being sought and would almost immediately have a thriving business.

Covey’s Crossroads was new, small and raw. A man named Alvin Covey had built a small inn, and merchants had followed to cater to those going further west, always looking for a place yet to be civilized. There were several small farms, and beyond the village a large valley. Covey held title to the land but his two sons had died of fever, and he no longer had interest in farming it. He did have interest in a blacksmith.

Alister liked Covey and the area. The five of them— Rory, Bethia, Dougal, Mary and Alister—rode to the valley, approaching it from a hill. Bethia had exclaimed with pleasure. Framed by mountains that reminded them all of Scotland, the valley was rich and lush and green and fed by a clear, running stream.

Rory had had something else in mind. A trading post, mayhap, or a stable, and yet when he saw the hope in Bethia’s eyes, he looked at it again. The grass looked fine for horses. Perhaps he could breed horses. A small farm would not be so bad, not with Bethia.

And it hadn’t been bad at all. In truth, he had loved every moment. Everyone in town and within fifteen miles came to help frame and build a cabin, then raise a barn. He and Alister and Dougal cleared sufficient land to grow enough crops to sustain them through the winter. And then it simply grew. He found several fine horses at reasonable prices, traded some to those moving further west, keeping the best to breed.

He was afraid, though. Deep down afraid that he wasn’t worthy of all this, that he did not deserve Bethia and that one day she would discover the fraud he really was. The valley still wasn’t home to him, the ever after place that Bethia considered it.

When he found out Bethia was going to have a child, he added a room to the house, and he’d never known a greater joy than when he’d taken Gavin from his mother’s arms and held him awkwardly. He’d only hoped that he would not disappoint this boy of his, this miracle. Mayhap that was why God had blessed them with only one child.

Bethia spread out a blanket and the feast she’d prepared. That was also a tradition that she’d started. Each year after completing the spring planting, they came to the hill and looked down on the farm, each time marking the newest field. Now they had two hired men, both indentured servants to whom they had given freedom. Both had chosen to stay.

He took her hand. She was even more beautiful now. Her skin glowed, her body had developed a few more curves with motherhood, and her dark blue eyes fairly sparkled with life and love and pride.

She had prepared a roast chicken and fresh bread with jellies and cheese. It was a fine, warm day with a breeze that caressed rather than a wind that buffeted. After they finished, she watched as Gavin tumbled with the dog, then went sound asleep with Jack sprawled in his arms.

Rory wrapped his arm around her, wondering how he’d ever scoffed at the notion of love. He was amazed at it daily, and humbled.

Bethia leaned into his arms and laced her fingers with his. “We might be thinking about adding to the house,” she said lazily.

Since she had been the one to demur every time he’d mentioned the possibility, he looked at her with surprise and then he saw the slow, secret smile on her face.

Emotion swelled in him. His fingers tightened around hers.

“Bethia?” His hand hesitated at her stomach, then touched it with wonderment.

“Aye, my love,” she said.

A lump grew in his throat as his fingers wrapped around hers. So God
had
seen fit to bless them again.

Then he looked back at the valley. The stream, sprayed by the rays of the sun, looked like a diamond necklace flung across a bolt of emerald velvet. Further north, newly turned earth formed neat rectangles that would turn to gold in late summer.

The valley—the glen—nurtured them and had become a part of his heart. All of it had. Bethia’s unwavering faith. Gavin’s childish trust. Dougal who had become a son to him. Friends who had risked everything for him.

Their love and warmth had made him whole. But always there had been a seed of doubt. He dinna deserve it.

But now … contentment filled him.

A bairn. Another new life. God’s gift.

His family and the land
. These were
his
jewels. They were real and solid and partly of his own making. No illusion. No dream to be abruptly shattered as he had feared for so long.

His heart contracted. He leaned over and kissed Bethia, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness so strong, so piercing that he thought he might break with it.

“Do you feel this is home yet?” she whispered.

So she knew. He should have known. She read his soul. And his heart.

“Aye,” he said, reaching out and placing a hand on his son’s sandy hair.

And for the first time, he knew it was true.