The Black Knave (8 page)

When he offered his hand again, she took it and stood stiffly. She was rigid with fear and, he thought, humiliation. She had been the brunt of jokes all evening, and even the few women present had eyed her with hostility. There had been no sympathetic face in the hall this night.

He was used to disapproval, to scowls, to taunts, and he’d long since ceased to let them bother him. But he sensed she was from a far gentler background.

“Come,” he said, as he feigned drunkenness, nearly falling as they reached the door, then clumsily climbing the steps. Some very descriptive comments followed them all the way.

He stopped at her door, swinging it open.

She stood in the room, her blue eyes wide with apprehension.

“You will have to learn to believe me,” he said curtly, then went to the one table in the room. Trilby had done as ordered. A bottle of fine French brandy had been opened, and two silver goblets stood next to it.

Rory poured two glasses and offered one to her. ” ‘Tis far better than what was served downstairs,” he said. “It will serve to relax you.”

“Your departure will relax me.”

“I think I explained that to you earlier.” he said in a tone he would use with a child. A simple one.

He saw the fury blaze in her eyes again, then they narrowed. “You are not as drunk as you seem.”

“An apt observation, madam. I far prefer this brandy, and I was not going to share it with Cumberland. Are you sure you will not join me?”

“No.” Suspicion darkened her eyes.

“Then I will help you undress.”

She backed away.

“I think it might be considered strange if we stay in these clothes all night.”

“No one will…”

“Are you sure of that, madam? I am not.”

He saw the suspicion deepening. “If indeed I wanted your body, my dear wife. I would not hesitate to take it. There is no one to stop me. In fact, I believe a scream or two might enhance my image.”

“I… I want Trilby.”

“I told her she could join the other clansmen and guests tonight. Surely, you would not want to deprive her of that.”

“N … no.”

Without additional words, he went to the large dresser and looked inside, pulling out a fine linen nightdress she’d received yesterday with the new dresses. He laid it on the bed, then went over to her. “Turn around, my dear.”

Her mouth tightened, but she did so. She was learning. Reluctantly, but learning. He quickly undid the hooks and watched as the dress fell down over her shift. Her shoulders were smooth, creamy, and he suddenly ached to touch them, to run his fingers through her dark hair. She was … quite pretty, prettier than he’d first thought.

God’s blood. He certainly couldn’t afford such thoughts now. He turned back to the table, eying the two chairs, one on either side. He took the goblet he’d filled with brandy and took first one sip, then another. At least his father had had excellent taste in spirits, he thought bitterly. He tried not to hear her movements—the dull thud of slippers falling to the floor, the rustle of clothes.

He took another sip. He had not expected to be aroused by her. He had not anticipated the rush of hot blood when his finger had accidentally brushed her skin, when her strands of dark hair grazed the back of his hand.

Rory turned. She was in the bed, the feather coverlet covering her far better than the fine material of the gown. He took off his own waistcoat, placing it neatly on one of the chairs. He then untied the stock and loosened the top of his linen shirt.

Next came his slippers, which he despised. He far preferred the soft leather boots he wore when riding. He looked back at his bride. The flickering light from the lamps cast shadows on the dark hair, made her face less stark. She was watching every move, though, much like a rabbit must watch a snake.

He sat in the empty chair that faced the door. By turning his head slightly, he could see his new wife. Keeping his eyes carefully from her, he dug around in his clothes for a deck of cards. He took it out, shuffled them neatly and started a game of solitaire. After several moments, he said, without looking at her, “Are you sure you would not care for the brandy? ‘Tis very fine.”

“Aye,” she said suddenly, surprising him.

He raised an eyebrow, then picked up the second goblet and took it to the bed, watching as she sat up, still clutching the coverlet to her bosom. But something else was in her eyes now, something besides fear and dislike.

Curiosity?

God’s toothache. The last thing he wanted from her was curiosity.

“You meant it?” she said with incredulity. “You will keep your bargain?”

“Aye,” he said. “After tonight, you will see little of me except for brief appearances to assure the clan I am doing my duty in producing an heir.”

“And when none comes?”

” ‘Tis God’s will,” he said lightly.

She wanted to believe him. He could see it in her eyes. He could also see a certain calculation there.

“You will not try to run away, my dear,” he said, his voice becoming silky again. “My reputation will not bear that.”

“Your reputation?”

“Such as it is,” he admitted. “You will probably discover that my mother tried to escape once, and ended up imprisoned in one of the rooms upstairs. There is, in fact, some question rumored about my true lineage, but since my dear father would not admit to being cuckolded, I ended up with everything.” His voice turned harsh. “I do not intend history to repeat itself or have old rumors revived. My cousin is waiting for just such an opportunity.”

Comprehension spread over her face. “Is that why… ?”

“I agreed to this … marriage when I want another? Aye. My position is none too solid, and I do enjoy the fruits of my father’s inheritance. I do not care much for the idea of actually laboring for my bread and drink.”

She was silent. He prayed his tone had convinced her he was no more than a wastrel living off an inheritance.

“You said you were at Culloden Moor?” The question was little more than a whisper.

“Aye.”

“Did you kill any MacDonells?”

“In truth, I did as little fighting as possible. I care naught for it. I far prefer my pleasures.”

He saw a flash of contempt in her eyes. Thank God for that.

He turned back to his game. And silence.

Bethia had never been so aware of a man, but then she had never been undressed in a bedchamber with one, either.

She still expected him to leap on her at any second. ‘Twas why she had tried to make conversation. She needed to know more about him. She
had
to know what to expect.

But she had learned little. He was a contradiction. Most of the time, he acted the fop, the pleasure seeker, the drunkard. But if he was all that, would he be faithful to a woman he could not, for some reason, wed?

Or was she really all that distasteful?

And then, despite his threats, there had been that effort to quell her fears and uncertainty. Did a complete rogue do that?

He still wore that ridiculous wig, yet without the bright frock and waistcoat, he did not look so much the dandy. His white shirt, without the stock, revealed a strong, lean body, not one that she would imagine belonged to a man who frittered his life in gambling hells and taverns. He also reflected a rare confidence that surprised her, she noticed as he shuffled cards with an expertise she’d never seen before. It wasn’t quite arrogance, though he often retreated into that particularly unpleasant state.

She turned her head. She did not need to be thinking such thoughts. She needed to pretend a sleep she knew she could never achieve. Loneliness coursed through her, nearly drowning every other emotion. How was Dougal? He must feel every bit as alone as she. Except this was now her home, the guests downstairs her guests. And she despised each and every one of them.

Dougal was a prisoner, but one no less than she.

She lay still, hoping she would not draw attention. The more he drank, the more chance he might change his mind. She had seen the results of drunken soldiers, drunken men, happening on innocents. And she was no innocent to him. She was his wife. She shivered with the realization.

Think about something else. Think about racing across the highlands. Think about laughter, and teasing, and warmth. Think about the happy times
. She swallowed hard, allowing tears to wander down her face for the first time, and she drew up the coverlet to cover them. She kept her sobs inside, though her body shook quietly with them.

Think of the gloaming, the sky over the jagged mountains. Think of the sea running strong against the cliffs
. But, God, it was so painful. The loss was too great, the price too dear. She bit her lip, drawing herself smaller into the large bed. Go. She screamed it internally. She wanted him—her husband—to go, so she could scream and cry and release all the agony that had been building within the past twelve months.

Then she heard the sound of the door opening and closing, and she opened her eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust to the darkness.

He was gone.

She huddled in the bed and at long last let the tears flow.

As Rory shuffled the cards, he heard the quiet intake of breath. He ignored it, continuing to deal himself cards. Then, without will, he turned slightly and saw the small tremors of the large coverlet.

He knew little about her except that Cumberland was holding her brother hostage to the marriage and her two older brothers had died at Culloden. He wondered about the rest of the family, though he doubted any remained alive. Cumberland wanted no future uprising. He had killed, destroyed or transported every Highlander who survived Culloden, everyone he could find.

Rory knew he could give her little reassurance. He was astonished at how much he wanted to go to her, to comfort her. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he wanted this marriage no more than she, and that he would find a way to extract her brother from Cumberland’s bloody hands. But he knew too little about her, about her ability to keep secrets or play a role. Or even whether she would trade knowledge about him for her brother.

So he could do nothing but give her the gift of leaving her alone.

He looked down at the cards on the table. He was winning; he nearly always won. He was extraordinarily lucky at cards, as much as he’d been unfortunate in family.

He felt the emotion of the woman in the bed. He sensed it down to the essence of his bones, and he empathized with it. He had been less than six when he’d understood that he had no champion, no one to love him. His father most certainly had not, and neither had his mother. Her whole concern had been her lovers and tweaking his father’s nose. She’d turned to drink when, in essence, she’d been imprisoned by her husband. Once when he’d tried to comfort her, she shoved him, sending him crashing to the floor. “Little brat. If not for you…”

She’d never finished the sentence, but he’d always known that she blamed her misfortunes on him.

So he’d always been alone, and had learned to cope with it. Was it easier than having people you love taken away? Was love experienced and lost better than never knowing it at all? He did not know. He only knew that he had purposely kept people at a distance. He had learned to live that way and had found safety in it. He wasn’t sure whether he could ever learn to live with the responsibilities and the tragedies of love.

He took off the bloody wig and ran his fingers through his hair, grateful for the sudden sense of freedom. He hesitated. Had he been here long enough? Several hours now. Certainly long enough to bed a wench. He tore his shirt open and untied, then sloppily retied, the thongs to his trews, missing one or two holes. He swore to himself, then opened the door and pasted a satisfied smirk on his face before launching himself drunkenly down the stairs in search of more spirits.

Now that was something everyone here would understand.

Bethia sensed the light streaming through the windows before she opened her eyes. She groaned and stretched. Her head ached, and a sense of foreboding filled her. She had been plagued by nightmares all night. She tried to remember them now, but she could not. She only knew she had been frightened. Not merely frightened. Terrified.

She was tired of being terrified. It seemed she had been that way every day for the past six months, ever since she knew her brothers planned to join Prince Charles. She had felt disaster in her bones, even as she listened to their boasts and eager anticipation.

She looked around, her mind suddenly filled with the events of the last few days. Was that the source of her nightmare? The fact that she had changed? Her name had changed. Her public—if not her private—status had changed from maiden to wife. And she knew nothing of her husband.

Then her gaze found
him
. He was lounging against a wall as if he had no care in the world. He was still wearing what he had worn last night, only the garments looked far more mussed. He wore the hideous wig, and his face looked sharply edged under it, his eyes watchful but void of any other emotion. Even that wariness disappeared as if it never existed when his gaze met hers and his lips folded into a simper.

“I did not think you would ever wake,” he said indifferently.

She saw his hand drop an object on the table. A book? That surprised her. He did not seem a man interested in books.

She tried to decide what to do. Her impulse was to move farther back into the bed, but she would not give him that satisfaction. Neither he nor Cumberland nor any of their minions.

“Will you send Trilby to me?”

“Of course, but first we must take care of a small matter.”

His coldness sent chills down her back again. True, he had been good as his word. He had not touched her last night, but…

Then she saw the dirk in his hands.

The left side of his lips curved upward. “Do not worry, madam. If I did not take you on your wedding night, I most certainly have no such desire this morning. But if I know Cumberland, he might be asking your maid if she found blood on your bed.”

“Why … would he do that?”

“He may not. But he
has
just shown a very unusual interest in our marriage. I went down last night for another bottle of brandy. He asked me whether you had been … cooperative.”