The Black Knave (7 page)

Cumberland stepped up, no doubt silently congratulating himself. “You make a pretty bride, Marchioness,” he lied.

She fought the bile rising up inside her. “You are leaving us now?” she said coolly.

“I must report back to King George that all is as he wished it. My brother does have your best interests at heart, Bethia.”

Her fingers balled into a fist. The Hanover king. Her interests? She wanted to slap the smug look from his face. This was the man who had burned a barnful of women and children, the man who had ordered the death of wounded, unarmed men. He was the man who had killed her kinsmen and dragged her from all that was dear, and he had the gall…

“My wife must be quite weary,” the marquis—her husband—said. “I think she needs some rest before the banquet tonight.”

“Aye, and the bedding,” Cumberland replied.

“Indeed.” Her husband leered as he said the words and she caught the conspiratorial grin that passed between the two men.

Her heart dropped. So he
had
lied to her.

She dropped her eyes so neither the marquis nor Cumberland would see the hatred blazing there. She would find some way to escape this … travesty of a marriage.

In the past few days she’d overheard talk of a man called the Black Knave, who was helping Jacobites escape the crown’s vengeance. Cumberland had posted a huge reward for his head. If only she could reach him, ask him to rescue her brother. Once that was done, then she could flee. But how could she contact him?

“Come, my dear,” her new husband said, his hand again on her arm. She jerked away from his touch.

He leaned over and whispered, “I would not do that again, my marchioness.”

His voice held a threat she’d not heard before. She whirled around. “You promised—”

“Only if you fill your own role as obedient wife,” he said in a tone that made her skin crawl. His fingers tightened around her arm.

She wanted to believe him. Dear God, how she wanted to believe him, but that salacious look had not been her imagination.

Still, her only recourse was to pray he spoke the truth, that his interest lay elsewhere. At least for the moment.

And try to find the Black Knave.

She bit her lip, then gave him the barest of nods, and allowed him to guide her toward the table for the customary toast.

“To many happy and … fruitful years.”

Cumberland leered as he uttered the last words. He left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to exactly what he meant.

Rory looked down and saw his wife’s face pale. She looked as if a ravenous wolf was about to fall on her.

He wanted to reassure her, but he could not afford that luxury at the moment. Too many other lives were at stake. He could no’ risk suspicion. He was already surrounded by a clan and neighboring families that doubted both his loyalties and his courage. Every one of them knew the marriage was not to the lass’s liking. Any sudden change in her attitude could arouse suspicion. He’d tried his best to lessen her fears without giving anything away, but it had been important that Cumberland believe his role as a womanizer and scoundrel.

He could, however, give her a few moments of relief. He made excuses to other guests, saying the excitement had made his wife faint. They would return shortly for the wedding feast. His heart lurched as she glanced up at him with uncertain gratitude.

He kept his hand on her arm as they left the great hall.

It seemed as alien to him as it must seem to her. He’d always hated every square foot of Braemoor, and he would never feel like its master. He was a fraud. Even if he hadn’t chosen to oppose the Hanover king, he still would have been a fraud. He’d never belonged here.

Bastard.

His father had uttered that word once in a drunken rage. He’d done it only once.

Rory had been in the room with his mother, and he had instinctively tried to protect her when his father entered. His rage was obvious.

“Whore,” he’d said. “Daughter of Satan.”

He’d reached out and slapped her, and Rory, despite his fear, had thrown himself on the man he feared most of all. A blow knocked him across the room as his father glared at him. “Bastard.” He’d spit out the word.

His mother started laughing.

Rory closed his eyes for a moment at the bottom of the steps. He’d learned later what his father meant. And why his mother had laughed …

Rory became aware that the MacDonell lass—his wife—had stilled next to him. He swallowed all the doubts he felt and started up the stairs, aware of the smell of flowers that drifted about her, the softness of her skin. He was also aware of her fear. It was defiance, but it was also fear, and he hated himself for making her afraid.

Rory heard shouts from below. The great hall was filling rapidly, and obviously many of the guests had already sampled the kegs of wine, brandy and bowls of mead prepared for them. In an hour, they would be exchanging bawdy predictions. He hated to subject the lady to that, but there was no help for it. The guests—and his own clansmen—would be having their fun. He could only try to reassure her privately. But not enough to suspend that hostile look in her eyes. He needed the cloak of her hatred.

‘Twas a fine line he would be walking.

They reached the top of the stone steps and walked down the hall to her chamber. She turned and he knew she did not want him to enter. In truth, she stood bristling like one of the dogs downstairs.

He opened the door and waited while she walked inside. He saw her stiffen as he closed it.

She stood silently.
His wife
. Proud and rebellious and angry. Very angry.

“You swore you would not force yourself upon me,” she said softly.

“A husband does not force himself,” he corrected her. “‘Tis the wife’s duty to service him.” He allowed the words to penetrate for a moment, then he continued in a cool voice, “Simply because I choose not to assume that right does not negate it. If you have heard any gossip, you must know that I frequent a cottage not far from here. The lady has far more… endowments than you, and a jealous heart. I do not fancy having a knife plunged into my own.” He curled his lips in a half smile he hoped indicated fond remembrance. “As I said, I have no interest in your bedchamber, but Cumberland must not know that.”

“Why? All he cares about is the nuptials.” She obviously could not resist the question. It came reluctantly from her tongue. “That I am chained to you, a—Protestant.”

He looked at her curiously. He knew that not all Jacobites were Catholic, though many were, especially the fierce northern clans. “You are Catholic?”

“Aye,” she said proudly.

“You said nothing before the marriage.”

She stood silent.

“Do you consider it a valid marriage?”

She said nothing again.

“It will not work, my lady. We are wed in accordance to the law of Scotland, and the king’s law, whether or not either of us wants it.”

Her face flushed.

“Cumberland and the king want this marriage. They will want proof that it is valid. That means blood, my lady.”

“Then why do you not give them what they want?” It was a direct challenge, a probing of his sincerity.

He frowned, trying to find a way to quiet her fears while revealing little. He was saying much more than he wanted to say, giving away more than he should.

He gave her the vacuous grin he’d perfected. “As I said, you do not suit my taste, madam. You are much too thin and your disposition too sour. So you may rest easy. Although I will join you this evening, I plan to spend my time playing cards.”

“Cards?”

“Aye, madam wife. I play very well, particularly with myself.” Rory knew he was good at playing the fool. “And I like Cumberland no more than you. It… pleases me to outfox him.”

Her gaze bored into him, and he wondered whether she saw more than the fool he hoped she saw.

“What do you want in return?”

“I told you. I want my complete freedom. As well as the lands you bring with you.”

“I pay for your freedom with my imprisonment.”

“It is a silken imprisonment, and one many would not find difficult.”

“I despise you. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“No, madam, it does not. I do not require your approval, only your obedience. I believe you swore to give it to me in the ceremony today.”

“You are a traitor to Scotland!”

“Ah, but that is what the king calls you. And I believe our side has won. History tells us the victor is always right. And so you will do as you are told. You will attend the banquet tonight. You will be an obedient, if reluctant, wife. You will accept the toasts. You will accompany me up here tonight without discussion of previous conversations. And I will stay here, at least for several hours. Do you understand this?”

He spoke to her as if she were a child, and he saw the fury bank in her blue eyes. Her fingers clenched into fists at her side, and he knew how much she wanted to strike him.

“Will you at least consider trying to bring my brother here?” The words sounded forced from her throat.

Rory knew how difficult they were, how she must hate asking him for a favor, particularly after he had denied it once. He had to hold back his own desire to grant it, to tell her not to worry, that he would rescue her brother. But he knew the castle where the lad was held. He also knew from Cumberland’s own mouth that he would not release the boy until the lass was safely with child. That was something he could not tell her. God only knew what she would do, or say, then.

“I cannot, madam.”

“Will not,” she corrected.

He turned. “I will come and fetch you in another hour. You will have time to change your dress. I rather like the blue one. And no MacDonell plaids, my lady.” He turned and left the room.

Her husband had evidently told Trilby to attend her, for Bethia had no more than sat on the bed when the girl appeared.

“My lady,” the girl said softly. “‘Twas a fine wedding,” she added, apparently at a loss of anything else to say.

Bethia ignored the comment. “Have you heard of the man they call the Black Knave?”

“Oh, yes, my lady. He and the price on his ‘ead is all the soldiers talk about.”

“What else have you heard? Is he thought to be around here?”

Trilby shrugged. “They say he is everywhere.”

“Has anyone actually seen him?”

The maid shook her head. “Not as I heard. But they say…”

“Say what, Trilby?”

“That he rides a black horse. That he is very tall, and that he always wears a mask. But then I also heard …”

Bethia was growing impatient. Apparently Trilby wasn’t quite sure what might get her into trouble. Should she be listening to so much gossip? Should she be showing some of the awe evident in her voice?

“That he is elderly. Or a gypsy. Some say he is the devil and can change form.”

“Is that what you think?”

“That is what the soldiers say. That is why they canna catch him.”

“I do not think the devil goes around rescuing people from those who want to hang them. Or worse,” Bethia added.

Trilby shuddered. “I wouldna want to meet him.”

Bethia sighed. She would get no useful information from the maid. But she decided then and there to end her isolation in this chamber and talk to others in the household. Mayhap someone knew more about this … Black Knave. And how to reach him.

“Come Trilby. Help me select a dress,” she said, going to the huge dresser where her new gowns, all quickly sewn on demand by the marquis, lay in their obscene splendor. “Any but the blue one.”

Rory played the amorous husband at the banquet. He played it well enough to see the alarm in her eyes.

He draped an arm around her, leered at her, even patted her backside as she sat down, all to the guffaws of the drunken guests. Only Cumberland seemed to remain sober, his cold gaze often resting on the new marchioness. Rory felt a chill go up his back. Cumberland’s interest was more than a little odd. Did he suspect Rory of disloyalty? Or was the interest centered on the MacDonell lass?

He ate lightly of the endless courses necessary to entertain a duke: partridges stewed with celery in oyster sauce, pigeon pie, goose, salmon and numerous cheeses, eggs in their shell, and vegetable puddings. None of it, he noticed, was prepared very well. The fowl was raw, the vegetables too well done. His wife, he noted, ate even less, barely touching any of her food.

He joined in toast after toast—to fathering numerous children, to the night ahead, to King George. Bethia’s face, he noticed, grew pale, her slender body more rigid. He wished he could reassure her even as he silently applauded her self-control. Though he thought he gave the appearance of drinking as much as the others, he really drank very little. He needed to keep his wits about him this evening. God’s blood, he needed to keep them about him as long as Cumberland overstayed his welcome.

“Eat more, my lord,” one of the Forbeses yelled from far down the table. “Ye will be needin’ all your brawn t’night.”

Rory heard the swift intake of his bride’s breath, but there was nothing he could do but appear to be leering while a number of ribald comments followed the drunken observation.

“If ye need any help, milord …”

“Aye,” came another voice. “Ye can count on me.”

Other suggestions followed, some of them contemptuous of his own ability to perform. Rory looked toward Neil, who was silent. His cousin’s dark eyes, however, watched him as closely as Cumberland’s.

“I believe I can service my wife quite adequately,” Rory said in a bored tone, taking a long drought from his tankard. She started to whisper something, but the sound was lost in the shouts. Instead, he felt a painful kick against his leg. He merely grinned at her and called for more wine, slinging his tankard so much of its contents spilled on the floor.

He allowed another few moments of false good wishes, then pushed back his chair. He staggered as he stood, then offered his wife his hand. She sat silently, not taking it. He leaned over, whispering in her ear. “Do as I say, madam.” Then he planted a kiss on that same ear to the approving roar of his clansmen.