The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  A week. The marquis had been gone more than a week. Nearly nine days, in fact. His absence was longer than any other time since their marriage two months earlier. Bethia frowned at the thought as she watched two newly employed maids polish silver that was black with tarnish. They had, with her assistance, pounded dust from tapestries and dusted off the huge paintings of generations of the Forbes family. Their dark, beady eyes seemed to follow her wherever she went.

  Strange that they all had dark eyes. The marquis had hazel eyes, changeable eyes. Rather remarkable eyes, in truth. Surprising eyes. He should have the dull, lifeless eyes of a wastrel, of a man who drank too much. But instead … they sometimes shimmered with intelligence and … secrets.

  Nonsense.

  A wife for two months now, and she’d spent two days with the man she called husband.

  All to the good, she told herself.

  She’d put the last week to good use. Jamie now had a new pair of britches and a new shirt, as well as a pair of shoes. His father had frowned at first, but she’d told him that new shirts were being made for all those who worked in the tower house and in the stables, and his scowl had faded. A new shirt was a prize of great value.

  She’d taken Jamie’s old clothes, saying they would be mended. She would give them to the kirk for the poor. And she would. Later. Much, much later.

  She washed them late one night after Trilby had gone to bed, and had spread them out in front of the fire to dry. Then she’d folded and tucked them away in a drawer. They represented a means of escape, though she had not yet exactly determined how or when.

  Jamie and his father slept in back of the stable, ready to take in the horses of any late or early guests. They would immediately miss one of their charges. She had to find another horse, buy one, and keep it somewhere else. But how? Her small winnings from her game with the marquis would not begin to buy a serviceable mount and tack. Still, she had no intentions of giving up.

  She debated something she’d thought about for several days. The tower house was becoming more and more respectable, but what about his room? What might she learn about him there?

  Invading his privacy, or anyone else’s, was abhorrent to her. Still, his room needed cleaning. She’d noticed that the other night. It had been neat, far neater than she would have expected, but the floors had been dusty and the windows as dirty as those in the great hall. No wonder he apparently did not notice. He was seldom there.

  She also wondered about the choice of his room. It was small, not nearly as large as the huge room down the hallway. That room had evidently belonged to the former marquis, and was unused at the moment. Cumberland had stayed there when they were wed, but her husband had never moved from what was apparently his old room. Neither did he have a personal servant to look after him.

  Another paradox. For a man who claimed to love luxury and elaborate clothing, his own room had few trappings of privilege. Was it just laziness?

  None of it made any sense to her.

  But perhaps in exchange for his giving her some freedom and the power to run the household, she would clean the room, mayhap even take a carpet from another room and use it to replace the worn, threadbare cloth that now covered the floor.

  In transforming the room, she might learn more about her elusive husband.

  With renewed interest, she went up the stone stairs, the dog close on her heels. Little Black Jack followed her everywhere now. He could manage the stairs now, though it took a little effort. She looked down as he made an indignant yelp when she went too fast for him. She slowed down, waited as he gained the stone steps, then went to the marquis’s chamber. She opened the door. A bottle of spirits and an empty glass sat on a table.

  She remembered that table. She remembered the crackling attraction that had flickered between them. She felt it now. A warmness invaded her lower regions as she thought of his touch.

  How could she?

  He was her husband.

  He was a traitor and a wastrel.

  She leaned against the wall of his room, aware that her breaths were coming faster. Her eyes went to his wardrobe in the corner. She hesitated for a moment, then, as if a compulsion had taken over her body, she opened it.

  A gaudy parade of colors met her eyes. Waistcoats of the very best materials, shirts of silk, brightly colored trews made of the finest wool. A stand held several wigs, each one elaborate. She found herself looking for something else, for something simple. Her mind’s eye kept seeing him that night they’d played cards. He’d been wearing a full white shirt open at the neck and a pair of deerskin britches that had fit him well. He did have fine legs, even in the dreadful trews.

  Her face flamed at the thought, at the warmth pooling in her belly.

  She touched one of the shirts, and felt something hard under it. She lifted it up and found a number of decks of cards. The gambler’s tools.

  “Marchioness?”

  She whirled around and saw the object of her musings standing in the doorway, a quizzical look on his face.

  He was dressed in a bright green waistcoat, purple and yellow trews and a wig that was slightly askew. His eyes narrowed as his gaze roamed up and down her, then rested on her face.

  “I did not know you had returned.”

  “Obviously,” he said lazily.

  “I thought to clean in here.”

  “Amidst my clothes?”

  “To see whether any needed cleaning or repair. Is that not a wife’s duty?”

  “I think I would prefer her other duties if she sincerely believes in fulfilling a wife’s function.” His voice was silky, his lips turned upward in a suggestive smile. She saw a sudden cruelty in that smile. A calculated cruelty.

  “You did not say I could not come into your room,” she said, closing the door to the wardrobe.

  “No,” he agreed pleasantly. “I did not.”

  He seemed to be viewing her as a spider might ogle its web-trapped prey.

  “You were gone a long while. I really thought your room might need a thorough dusting.” She realized she was repeating herself, even babbling.

  The corner of his mouth crooked up. “A long while,” he repeated. “You missed me, then?”

  “No.” It took all her courage not to make a fast dash for the door. She did not like the odd speculation on his face.

  “You just had a sudden desire to clean my room?”

  “I wondered why you did not move into the marquis’s room.”

  “This is the marquis’s room,” he said.

  “I mean …” She bit her lip.

  “Ah, the old marquis’s room.”

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Then you have no’ heard the rumors.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “My father did not much care for me. He did not, in fact, believe I was his son. He hated me, and quite frankly I returned the favor. I ha’ no wish to live in his room.” His voice was suddenly hard, cold.

  Trilby had told her that he and his father had not cared for one another. She had not dreamed, however, that the enmity had run so deep. She remembered her own mother and father, the love they had showered upon her. She felt an instant sympathy for the marquis, for the man who was her husband.

  “Your mother?”

  He emitted a short laugh, more like a bark. “She made his life as much a hell as he made hers.”

  “And you?”

  He shrugged. “It does not matter. She died years ago. It was my father’s misfortune that he did not have time to disown me after my … brother died at Culloden. I am sure he is rolling about in his grave that I now own Brae-moor.” He smiled, but there was no humor in the ironic twist of his mouth. “And that a Jacobite is the marchioness.”

  She felt a sudden chill. She had thought he was as much a reluctant bridegroom as she was a bride. Now she wondered whether this was not his ultimate revenge against his father. That idea did not appeal to her.

  “You must have had a long journey if you ca
me from Edinburgh,” she said. “I will have water sent up, and some food.”

  “I believe I would prefer to eat in the great hall with my wife at my side.”

  She looked up into his face. “Why?”

  “I do not want any rumors that we do not … suit.”

  “I would think your absences would make that clear.”

  “Business, lass. I took a keg of fine French brandy to Cumberland, among other things. He asked how you were.”

  She stiffened. “Did he say anything about my brother?”

  “Nay.”

  She chewed on her lip for a moment. He seemed in good humor, for some reason. She did not know, though, if that bade well or poorly for her. But she would try to use it.

  “I would like to send my brother a letter, but I do not know if Lord Creighton will give it to him.”

  “Write it, and I will try to get it to him,” he said unexpectedly. She searched his face, but the mask was in place. He gave away nothing.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You are my wife,” he said lightly. “And I am impressed. Braemoor has improved considerably since you became its mistress. And now I would like to bathe. Will you order hot water? You may stay and scrub me if you wish.”

  Her face reddened again, and she was mortified that he saw her confusion. She never quite knew exactly what he intended by his words.

  “Or not,” he said mercifully. “I will come to your room when I am ready for supper.”

  She left quickly, unwilling to take a chance that he might change his mind and wish her to attend him during his bath.

  Yet even as she hurried to her room, to safety, she tried to understand why her nerves all tingled from the thought of him naked.

  Nor why she always felt so confused after each and every one of their encounters.

  And why she felt he wanted something unsaid from her. And, God help her, why she felt she needed something from him.

  She just did not know what it was.

  Thirteen

  Rory knew he would have to be more careful. He had almost brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. He had almost kissed her.

  Damn, but the lass sent his senses reeling.

  He poured himself a glass of brandy, welcoming the warmth as it slid down his throat. God’s fury, but he was weary. He still felt the chill of riding days through cold rain. He’d stopped at Mary’s, changed clothes from the uniform into a bright waistcoat and had stripped the mustache from his face. He’d changed from the mud-splattered boots to nearly useless shoes that were little more than slippers.

  Mary had told him about Bethia’s visit, about her request for herbs, which seemed little more than an excuse. Her real intent, Mary had surmised, had been to learn more about the marquis. “She is canny,” Mary said. “I think she can be trusted.”

  “What would you have done to save your mother?” Rory asked. “Wha’ would you do to save your bairn?”

  Her eyes met his, and she did not answer.

  “Her brother is her last living kin. She has no reason to have loyalty to me.”

  “I donna think she would betray the Black Knave,” Mary said.

  “She may not mean to,” Rory replied. “But I will not draw more people into this circle. It is dangerous not only to me but for you and Alister as well.”

  “She is lonely, my lord. And desperate. I could see it in her eyes. She might well do something … reckless on her own.”

  “I will try to give her hope, then, without being specific.” And that had ended the discussion. Still Rory did not like the idea that his new wife was looking into matters he preferred to be his alone.

  As she’d apparently been looking through his belongings.

  Rory looked around the room. It did need tending. But he used it so seldom, he’d cared little about its upkeep.

  He’d turned down Neil’s offer of a servant. He wanted no one snooping among his belongings, no one keeping abreast of his comings and goings.

  That thought made him check the wardrobe where the lass had been looking. He looked under the shirts. The decks of cards were still there. ’Twas unlikely that she had checked them and found most of them missing the jack of spades. He would rid himself of the remaining cards in the fireplace this night. He should have done it earlier.

  He slipped off the heavy, soaked wig, then took off his waistcoat and loosened his shirt at the neck. Rory then checked the fireplace. He’d brought a candle from downstairs to light the fire, but there was no wood. He supposed then that he did need a servant. He was just too damnably tired to do more than sprawl across the chair and think again of his small group of refugees aboard the French ship.

  It was three months now since the battle at Culloden Moor. Some of the families that had fought with Cumberland were becoming more and more disturbed by his excesses. He was called “the butcher,” and obviously someone—more than one or two—was helping Prince Charles who, despite the reward of thirty thousand pounds, remained at large.

  There were also grumblings now about men and women killed, transported or pushed into gaols in flat defiance of the Act of Union which guaranteed the integrity of Scottish law courts. Still, the devastation of the Highlands was tolerated, even applauded, by a number of Presbyterian Scots who hated Highlanders more for their stubborn adherence to the Roman Catholic faith than their loyalty to the Stewarts. The cauldron would continue to boil for years to come, especially with Cumberland’s new edicts banning the wearing of tartans and kilts, the playing of pipes and the owning of weapons. Even the speaking of Gaelic was prohibited.

  As much as he wished for a more peaceful existence at times, he knew there were still Jacobite clans marked by Cumberland; any of their members still in Scotland remained at risk. And as much as he despised any suggestion that his small efforts were anything more than a game to him, he knew that if the Black Knave was called, he would answer. His guilt over Culloden was too overwhelming to do anything else.

  Bloody hell, he muttered to himself just as a knock came at the door, and in came several servants with a tub and pails of hot water.

  He asked for wood, and a fire, and soon small flames were eating along a large oak log. A lass, who brought several more pails of water, cast interested eyes at him and lingered when the others left.

  “Would ye be likin’ me to tend ye?”

  Strangely enough, the thought of the MacDonell lass tending him held a great deal of appeal, but this lass’s offer did not, though she was bonny enough. He’d always had a taste for pretty faces and fetching bodies. What in the bloody hell was happening to him? Why did he feel a need to be faithful to a woman who was his wife in name only, and then, he hoped, not for long?

  He wriggled uncomfortably under the thought, dismissed the girl, and sank gratefully into the cramped tub.

  He thought of Bethia just a few doors down the hallway. He thought how appealing she’d been, standing in his room. He thought about the way his heart had thumped faster when, for a second, he felt as if she were there to greet him, that she really had wanted to mend his shirts, to make this damp, cold tower house a home. A home he’d never had. Something he’d never even considered having.

  And then he’d seen the guilt in her face and knew that she was not there in a wifely role. That was like a splash of cold seawater.

  What in the hell had he expected? She was here as a prisoner. Their bargain had been a cold, empty one.

  He gulped down the rest of the brandy.

  Then he washed thoroughly. He knew the others in the house thought he was addlepated for requesting a bath so often. It was well known that too many baths caused illnesses, and it was an indication of his popularity—or lack of it—that no one reminded him of that sad fact.

  He washed his hair, then finally rose and dressed. He had shaved himself at Mary’s cottage. Now he merely had to get dressed. The thought depressed him. He longed for simple garments, for a pair of britches and a comfortable shirt.

  A dam
nable trade. He’d once told his father he wanted to go to the University of Edinburgh where he could read law or become a physician. But his father had merely roared with laughter at the idea. He would not spend a pence on a bastard. And in any event, Rory was too stupid to do anything but be a stable hand. His one value to Braemoor would be marriage, to bring about an advantageous alliance.

  Rory didn’t know why he had come back to Braemoor when his father had called him to fight with Cumberland. Perhaps it had been a boy’s need for acceptance, one that had never quite died. And so he had done what he would never have normally done. He had killed good men.

  He swore to himself, then picked out a particularly hideous waistcoat and trews and hurriedly dressed. If he could not keep away from his bride, then he would have to make himself as unappealing as possible.

  But before he left, he fueled the fire with the decks of cards that lacked one jack.

  Bethia dressed with Trilby’s assistance. She’d selected a dress of dark-blue velvet, one that had been newly made. She tried to tell herself it did not matter, but she knew the dress showed her eyes—her one good feature—to best advantage.

  Mayhap the marquis had learned something during his travels. He might have learned something about the Black Knave. He might have heard something about the prince, who had disappeared. And, most important, he said he would help with her brother.

  She held onto that. She held onto it with all strength. Dougal. I will get you out of there. I swear.

  Trilby dressed her hair, brushing it back and holding it there with silver clasps. Bethia wished she had one of those elegant faces that looked truly wonderful when one’s hair was drawn back. But her face had no elegance, particularly with the freckles that brushed her nose. Her mother had tried any number of concoctions to make them fade, but nothing had worked, and Bethia refused to hide them under layer upon layer of powder.

  Utterly dissatisfied with her appearance, and confused as to why she even cared, she dismissed Trilby. She sat and waited for the man the king called her husband. Did God also believe that, even if they had been married by a Protestant vicar rather than a Catholic priest?