The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  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.

  Five

  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.”

  She bit her lips. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you were like any other virgin. Reluctant at first, then …” He spread out his hands expressively. “He appeared relieved and said the lands would be transferred to me. I do not want him to change his mind.”

  “So you can gamble away lands that have been in families for centuries? They must have belonged to—”

  “Jacobites? Most certainly. They knew the risk they were taking, and it is no concern of yours what I do with what is now mine.” His voice was flat, emotionless.

  She hated him, then. Any impressions she’d had of decency had been wishful thinking. He was using her to take lands that belonged to others. Just as her family’s lands had been taken.

  He didn’t say anything else, merely rolled up his shirtsleeves. His right hand held the dirk lightly as he approached the bed and threw off the feather cover. “Move over,” he commanded.

  She reluctantly obeyed and watched as he made a shallow cut above his wrist and allowed the blood to drip on the bedclothes, then smeared it. Bethia watched his eyes as he did so; there was no indication of pain, or emotion. He looked at the stain with satisfaction, then tore off a piece of his shirt and bound his wound.

  His hazel eyes cool, he pulled on the waistcoat he’d worn the night before.

  “And now I leave you, madam.” He hesitated. “Is there anything you would like?”

  “My freedom.”

  “That, at the moment, is quite impossible.” He paused. “Do you read?”

  “Aye.”

  “There is a library downstairs. Take what you wish.”

  An unexpected kindness. In truth, inexplicable. “What is my role here?” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “My wife,” he said. “You are mistress of Braemoor.”

  “The servants?”

  “They will take orders from you,” he said. “Except for one thing. You will not be allowed to leave Braemoor.”

&n
bsp; She stood, feeling terribly vulnerable in her nightdress. “How can they be expected to take orders from me when they know I am naught but a prisoner here?”

  “I expect you can find a way to convince them,” he said indifferently.

  And then he left her without any more words, but with a number of unanswered questions.

  The guests departed during the afternoon.

  Rory saw one of Cumberland’s men approach young Trilby, saw her face turn red before whispering a few words. A report, no doubt, on the condition of Bethia’s bed. She might well have protected her new mistress without Rory’s contribution, but he hadn’t been willing to take the chance.

  Then Cumberland and his officers headed north, chasing rumors that Prince Charlie had been sighted in the northern Highlands. However, he left a garrison in a nearby town to continue seeking out Jacobites.

  Alister found Rory shortly after Cumberland left. “Lord Ogilvy has been taken. He is naught but a twenty-one-year-old boy. Cumberland is said to favor hanging him.”

  “His grace is in favor of hanging everyone. There would not be a man left in Scotland had he his way.”

  “Jacobites, you mean?”

  “Nay, he has contempt for all of us. You can see it in his manner. Well, we will tweak his nose a bit.”

  Alister groaned.

  “How would you like to be an officer?”

  “No’ at all.”

  Rory grinned. “Nonetheless you will have the experience. We also need some men who look like soldiers.”

  “I can find a few. Some that donna like what’s happening. And some that admire the Black Knave.”

  Rory nodded. It was Alister who had found the loyal Scot here and there, Scots—like himself—who were so offended by the aftermath of Culloden that they were willing to hide a Jacobite for a day or two, or act as lookouts, or give a ride in a wagonload of hay. And then there were the secret Jacobites, men who hadn’t been able to leave their families to join the army. They were anxious to find some honor. “How long before they move Ogilvy to Edinburgh?”

  “The end of the week. They hope to have a few more to take.”

  “We will try to disabuse them of that hope. And Alister, we will need five men at least.”

  “I can tell them the Black Knave will lead them?”

  “Aye.”

  “I will be off, then. When should I tell them …?”

  “In three nights’ time.”

  Alister nodded, then hesitated. “The lady … your wife?”

  Rory stiffened. “What about her?”

  “Will she be a problem?”

  “I made a bargain with her.”

  Alister waited.

  “She will not interfere with my activities, and I will restrain my licentious inclinations toward her,” Rory said ruefully. “She believes I love—at least lust—after another and is bloody thankful for it.”

  “Mary?”

  “Aye.” He paused. “I am sorry, Alister. If you feel I should try to find another ruse, I shall.”

  Alister tried to smile. “It was Mary’s decision, and her wish.”

  “When this is over, I will make it possible for you two to go wherever you wish.”

  “She has never indicated that she … favors me.”

  “Then you have not seen her eyes, my friend. Her feelings are quite clear.”

  Alister’s brown eyes brightened, yet his voice remained matter-of-fact. “I’ll have the men you need.”

  Rory nodded. “I will ride to Edinburgh. We need more stage paint and wigs from Elizabeth, and a few English uniforms. I prefer to steal them further north. I want no suspicion here. I also expect my new wife will be enormously relieved at my absence.” He hesitated. “I think she must feel very alone. A friendly face might help.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “You can regale her with tales of my decadence.”

  “Are you sure you wish to do that?”

  Nay. In some ways, she appealed to him. She had courage and good sense and wit. She had not the beauty of many of the women he had bedded, though she had a certain attractiveness, the kind that would last through decades. But she also represented danger to him.

  He must make himself as repugnant to her as possible. Already, he sensed, he had put more than a few doubts in her mind as to his bad character. Most men would have few scruples about taking a new wife to bed, regardless of the woman’s own desires. And she knew it.

  “Aye,” he said. “’Tis necessary.”

  “Ye know what the clan will say. That you were not pleased by her; that is why you are leaving so soon. It will make her position more difficult.”

  Rory sighed. He had already considered that. But he had little choice. He needed both information and theater props available only in Edinburgh. His frequent travels to Edinburgh—and debauchery, according to rumor—were part of his facade, one he did not want to destroy now. If he stayed here, he might well slip. He still remembered the fragrance of her, the feel of her skin against his fingers. Now that did frighten him.

  “It cannot be helped,” he said after several seconds. “Just … look after her as best you can. I will meet you three nights from now.”

  Alister nodded.

  Rory looked at him for a moment. “Take care, my friend.”

  Alister grinned. “Always. But you … I do worry about you.”

  Bethia felt like a beggar child who did not belong, who might be snatched up and thrown outside at any moment. The irony was that she wanted to be thrown outside.

  This would never be her home.

  Her … husband had been gone two days, leaving without any more words than those he’d thrown at her the morning after the wedding. I expect you can find a way. But she hadn’t. He’d also said the servants would obey her. But when she offered a suggestion, they looked as if they did not understand a word she said.

  Then she had sought out Neil Forbes. He apparently had kept the household accounts for the old marquis, and the new marquis had shown complete indifference to them, allowing Neil to continue. There was, however, apparently no love lost between them. She’d seen them both bristle in the other’s presence. Still, Trilby had told her that the new marquis apparently didn’t care enough about Braemoor to take away the accounts or try to find a new manager.

  That fact obviously galled his cousin, and so did her request to see the accounts. But she knew it was the place to start if she were to run the household. She had kept the accounts of her own home after her mother had died.

  “Where is your husband?” he’d asked quite curtly.

  She could only stare at him helplessly. She had no idea. She suspected that most of the household did, however. “He did not inform me,” she finally said, knowing both the relief she felt that he was gone and the humiliation that she did not even know where.

  Neil Forbes muttered something to himself, something she suspected was a quite angry curse. “I handle the household accounts,” he said in a slightly louder voice. “We require no changes.”

  “I do not mean to usurp you, sir,” she said as tactfully as she could. “I just thought if I knew the tradespeople that provide the goods to us, I would not make mistakes.”

  For a moment, his dark eyes seemed to soften as he studied her. Then, he said rudely, “We need no new … customs from Jacobites.”

  ’Twas the last straw. She was tired of insolence and disrespect that greeted her everywhere. Whether she wanted it or not, she was mistress of Braemoor, and she’d be no timid mouse about it. She straightened her back. “Courtesy is one custom we value that you might well benefit from,” she said sharply. “The marquis said the household was to take orders from me. I assume that includes you.”

  “You assume wrong, madam. I take no orders from you. I did not approve of this wedding, and I do not approve of my cousin.”

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “Because mayhap I can pick up the pieces after my cousin destroys everything.”

 
She lifted her head defiantly. “I brought wealth to your family.”

  “To Rory, mayhap. To the gaming tables.”

  She recognized the anger—no, fury—in his voice. He and her new husband did not merely dislike each other. This man was obviously his cousin’s enemy. Well, that was no concern of hers. Still, she wondered how aware her new husband was of the enmity toward him.

  Bethia had thought that she had been the reason for her cold reception at Braemoor. Now she realized it might be for her husband as well.

  ’Twas none of her business if he received so little respect and liking from his own people. And yet …

  She tried to make herself taller. “Nonetheless, it seems you must live with the fact that he is the marquis, not you, and I am his wife.”

  A flicker of admiration flashed through his eyes. “Temporarily,” he mumbled.

  “The only way you can change the situation is …” She stopped.

  “My cousin’s death? Not necessarily. The king’s displeasure is an alternative. I know that you did not want this marriage. Mayhap you and I can—”

  “You are right,” she said with biting anger. “The marriage was not my choice. But unlike so many others in this country today, I do have a sense of honor. I may not want this marriage, but I am in it, and I will not betray my husband to another.”

  “To another? ’Tis a strange choice of words, my lady. Do you mean to say you might do something yourself to betray him?”

  Betrayal, she observed silently, was in the eye of the beholder. In truth, she felt no loyalty to her husband. If she had the chance to escape Scotland with her brother, she would do so. But she would not conspire with his enemies to destroy him.

  She gave him what she hoped was a scathing look. “I have heard of families like this, but I chose not to believe the gossip. At least we Jacobites believe in loyalty. Another barbaric custom,” she said bitingly.

  “He is not a Forbes,” Neil replied bitterly.

  She must have looked startled.