He couldn’t help himself. His hand went up to her cheek, softly touching it with a tenderness he didn’t know he had. He wanted to know her thoughts, her very soul. He brushed away a curl that had fallen over her right eye, and he cherished the silken feel of it. No more anger in her eyes. No more fear. Only wonder. A wonder more seductive than the accomplished wiles of a courtesan.
Rory savored that wonder. He felt it himself. For the first time in his life, he felt no bitterness, no anger. He felt he needed to be no one but himself. For he knew it was Rory Forbes that she wanted, not the marquis of Braemoor. She already had sensed more about him than anyone ever had, including Alister and Elizabeth. He had seen that knowledge in her eyes.
Then he had no more time to think, because his mouth was moving toward her, his lips reaching down for hers.
They touched, gently at first, then with fierce need. He disregarded the familiar call of caution. He heard only his heart, greedy for what she was offering. His body heated, his blood running hot and his heart beating rapidly.
“This is not wise, lass.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“We are wed.”
’Twas her agreement, plain and simple. How could he not take something offered so sweetly?
“Are you sure? I fought with your enemies.”
She stiffened slightly. “They said you walked from the field.”
“They say I am a coward.”
“I do not believe that.”
“Such faith,” he whispered. His arms wrapped around her, fusing her body to his, exploring every curve, feeling the heat radiate between them. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He leaned over her. Impatiently but gently, he stripped her garments from her—the dress, then the petticoat, her laced shoes, her stockings held in place by silk garters.
She was lovely in the light of the candle. It flickered across her face, casting a glow over her dark hair. And he realized he had never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted this one.
Bethia felt the oddest sense of freedom as he relieved her, piece by piece, of her clothes. She should feel wanton, she knew, but she felt no such thing. Instead, her body trembled with expectation.
He leaned down and kissed her. She felt the wistful yearning of his lips, the quiet searching, and her heart hammered, her breathing growing ragged. His hand covered her lower stomach, his fingers caressing. His lips moved down to one of her breasts, his tongue making circles, leaving hot wakes in its path.
Sorcery. It could not be anything but sorcery. Her body hummed. She was feeling sensations she had never even imagined.
She did not know how it happened, but his trews were gone, and he was naked except for his linen shirt. Bethia found herself shamelessly reaching for him, running her fingers against the fine symmetry of his chest, then his flat stomach. He was heavily muscled, something she’d not noticed under layers of flamboyant clothes. Again, she wondered why he so favored them when he would look so fine in simple britches and shirt, or a plaid.
Her hands caressed him, shyly at first, then more aggressively.
In retaliation, he kissed her throat and she was immediately engulfed in a maelstrom. Just as she thought she might explode with delicious heat, he licked the sensitive skin of her left breast, then its taut nipple. His tongue played with it, creating a string of fires that ran through her body like lightning.
He slipped off his shirt, and she stared at him in wonder. He was beautiful. The scar on his arm was new and raw and ugly, and there were several other thin scars, but his body was all hard angles and intriguing bulges. She felt the heat inside rise.
He kissed her again, his tongue moving inside her mouth, caressing and loving, awakening each sensitive nerve. Then, his lips still on hers, he arched himself over her, his body touching and teasing.
For a moment, she felt fear, but then she heard only her heart, and it was greedy for what he was offering, a sweetness that turned her blood to honey, a need that made her body tingle and come alive in the most wondrous ways.
His kiss deepened, became voracious. Bethia had never known a kiss could have such power, could melt her down to her bones. An elemental force raged between them now … as primitive and potent as the sea pounding against cliffs. Shamelessly she explored his taut body, her fingers lingering in forbidden places, then instinctively guiding him into her.
Still, he hesitated. His lips left hers and his gaze studied hers. “Are you quite sure, marchioness?”
She was not sure at all. She still knew little about this man who was her husband. But she needed him more than she had ever needed anything in her life. She was on fire, and she knew he was the only one who could extinguish the flames.
She nodded, unable to talk, to say the words.
He lowered himself and she felt a strange sensation as he started to enter her, then a sharp pain. She could not help but cry out, and he immediately stilled. She felt the taut control of his body, watched a muscle flick in his cheek.
Then, slowly, the unexpected pain receded, and hunger filled her. She put her arms around him.
“Bethia.”
In answer, her hands urged him down, and he entered her again, slowly, moving unhurriedly, allowing her to adjust to him, to the new feelings that dazzled her. With her first uncertain compulsive movement, he went deeper within her, moving unhurriedly but with obvious purpose. She felt the first jolt of pleasure, and her own body moved against his, seeking more than the hint of rapture. He moved faster, rhythmically, each time thrusting deeper and deeper.
Bethia felt a glorious conflagration, a soaring splendor that eclipsed all previous sensation, everything she had ever known or thought she’d known. A profound pleasure grew and grew and grew until she thought she could stand no more.
She could. Every feeling intensified, whirling her into something splendid and indescribable, a dizzying, dazzling world of exquisite sensations.
Bethia clung to him, savoring the intimacy, the warm aftershocks that continued to bring rushes of pleasure, of contentment.
He lay still, then rolled over, carrying her with him. He looked at her through eyes lazy with satisfaction. His hand took hers and his fingers played along her palm.
“You are … lovely,” he said.
Not just bonny. Lovely. And she felt lovely. She felt lovely and loved and cherished and wonderfully satisfied.
She snuggled into his arms and she felt safe for the first time in a very long time.
Fifteen
Bethia woke to a soft but persistent knocking. It took her a minute to grasp where she was. She felt different. Sore, yet complete in a way she’d never known before.
The sun streamed into her room, and she heard the plaintive cries of the little black terrier.
The knock came again and with it a shrill puppy bark. She looked around, trying to find evidence of her husband. She had gone to sleep in his arms last night.
He was not in the room. And he wouldn’t be knocking this morning.
She wondered what time it was. Long past her usual rising hour, she thought.
She looked down. Black Jack’s claws were all entangled in the wig, which he’d made into a nest. She smiled at the great curls all in disarray. “Where did he go?” she asked him. “And when?”
Her wistful question brought forth no answer. Reluctantly she left the bed, and the lingering scent of her husband. Then she looked down and saw a red stain on the bedclothes. Somehow she had to hide it. That stain supposedly had already been on the bedclothes.
She pushed the coverlet over it, then looked around the room. No signs of Rory Forbes remained other than Jack’s possession. The other wig was gone, as well as the waistcoat and shirt. And trews. ’Twas as if he had never been there at all. Except for the blood on the bed.
As before, Jack had no answers. He looked at her with an expression as bewildered as she felt.
Why did she feel so disappointed? Why did she miss him so?
She should be thinking about he
r brother, about getting him away from Cumberland and his minions.
Shame and self-disgust filled her. Yet there was a hint of glory there, too, pushing those other feelings aside.
Feeling a bit lost and uncertain, she left the bed, untangled the puppy, then wrapped a nightdress about her and went to the door.
Trilby stood there, laden with a tray of hot chocolate and pastries. “The marquis said to send this up to ye,” she said, her eyes bright with inquisitive interest.
“Where is he?”
“He received a message, then left abruptly.”
Disappointment was like a sword slitting her in two. Nor could she believe she had slept so long.
“How long ago?”
“No’ verra’ long.”
“And he did not say how long he would be?”
“Nay.”
Bethia ruffled the fur of the little terrier as her thoughts pillaged any remaining pleasure lingering from last night.
Why had she expected more? Why had she expected the magic to last?
He had never said he loved her or even cared for her. Indeed, even as she gave herself to him so wantonly, she knew he had a mistress. He’d never denied it. Never tried to hide it. Had he gone to her this morning? Had the woman in the woods sent for him? That hurt beyond bearing.
Trilby set the tray on the table, the table where a deck of cards remained. So there was something physical left of his presence. She turned one over. The jack of spades.
She bit back an exclamation. ’Twas as if some phantom was trying to remind her. Even if the marquis cared for her, which at the moment seemed unlikely since he’d not even bothered to say “good morn” to her, how could she have forgotten her brother? Even a moment?
“I will be back with water,” Trilby said, watching her with a strange expression.
“Aye,” she said softly. She sat down at the table and looked at the pastries. She had never felt less like eating. She tore off a tiny piece and gave it to Jack, who regarded it suspiciously before taking it daintily in his mouth.
She looked across the table, seeing the marquis in her mind’s eye as he’d curved his lips into an unexpectedly whimsical smile. Why had she insisted on seeing more in him than probably existed? Just because he saw humor in a small dog?
Just because his practiced hands had been gentle?
She bit her lower lip, wishing she had been stronger last night, that she had remained cold and aloof. He’d said Cumberland had wanted a child. Was that why he had come to her last night? Why he had seduced her?
Or had she seduced him?
He could have just taken her.
But the marquis was a man who enjoyed games, who enjoyed playing with people’s lives. He’d said as much last night.
Why, then, had she allowed him into her bed and into her heart?
She fed another small piece to the dog, then took a sip of the chocolate. Then with renewed determination, she rose and gathered the lower sheet on the bed, folding it as small as she could, and placed it in the bottom of the wardrobe. Trilby would not ask about it. Trilby asked about little.
In tucking it away, she touched the torn britches and shirt she had collected from the stableboy. Mayhap tonight she would make use of them. She would try to find the Black Knave. And if she could not find him, she would become the symbol herself.
After last night, she knew she could not delay.
Rory rode as if the devil trailed him. In fact, he’d already decided that particular fiend was indeed riding his shoulders.
He’d never had a great deal of respect for himself. He’d never commended himself for honor or valor or strength of will.
But he had miserably failed himself and, God help him, Bethia last night. He’d had no right to do what he’d done. By taking her to bed, he’d made promises he’d had no right to make. He’d placed her in danger. He’d made sure that he would, in one way or another, betray her. She’d had enough tragedy in her life. She needed no more.
He’d lain awake most of the night, his arms around her. He’d determined then he could do one thing for her. Retrieve her brother and get the both of them out of Scotland as soon as possible. It did not matter what happened to him.
But getting her brother would be dangerous, and he would not raise her hopes.
He’d left the bed at dawn, fearing that seeing her in the morning might further erode what small will he had. Then he’d received a message from Alister that he was needed immediately.
He almost did not go. He did not want her to wake believing he’d cared nothing about her. But neither could he build false hope, let her think that he was anyone with whom she could build a life. He could not compound the damage he’d just inflicted.
He arrived at Mary’s cottage, the place he and Alister usually met since his own home and blacksmith shop were far too visible. Their friendship had always been private. He doubted any suspected its strength. He was thought incapable of honest feeling. He’d worked hard at fostering that idea, even before his guise as the Knave. For a while, he’d even wanted it to be true.
There were no horses in front of Mary’s cottage, which meant Alister had not yet arrived or had hidden his horse somewhere in the woods. Rory quickly dismounted and tied his horse in front of the cottage, hoping deep inside that his wife never heard that he had visited Mary the morning after sleeping with her.
But perhaps that would be best. Bethia must think the worst of him.
He knocked. Mary opened the door to him, then closed it sharply behind him.
“James Drummond is near Buckie, trying to find a ship, and the English know about it. They are planning a trap, passing along word that a certain fisherman might be agreeable to smuggling out a Jacobite. A barmaid overheard the planning and word was passed.”
“Alister?”
“He went up there to try to find and warn him.”
“It could well be a trap for the Black Knave, too,” Rory said. “’Twould be just like the devious English: Set a trap and allow information to leak out, then prepare an altogether different one.”
“He thought of that. He will be careful.”
“He’ll be stopping by the Flying Lady, then,” Rory said. ’Twas a tavern near Buckie that they had visited together. The owner was sympathetic to the Jacobites and had previously passed on information to Rory via various routes. Rory had been there, had judged the man before trusting his words, but the tavern owner had not recognized the elderly English gentleman with the supercilious air.
“He said he would meet you there.”
“The traitorous fisherman. Do we know who he is?”
“Aye. The word is he would betray his own mither for a half pence.”
“And Drummond is most likely too young to know better.”
“Or too desperate.”
Rory knew a lot about desperation. He had seen enough of it these past few months. The Highlanders were braw and brave in battle, but they had no guile. They had little patience with stealth and duplicity.
She nodded, fear in her eyes.
He touched her cheek. “Alister will be fine. He is as slippery as an eel.”
She did not answer, but her eyes remained troubled.
“I will bring him home,” Rory said, trying to think what might be best. Should he go as himself, or in some other disguise? He needed to ride fast, which meant he should disguise himself as an English officer again. He disliked using the same disguise twice in a row, but he had few options.
“The English uniform?” He looked at Mary with a question in his voice.
“I cleaned it the best I could. It is dry.”
He nodded. “I’ll take the black and leave my horse here. If anyone comes by, I am in the woods hunting and will not be back until late.”
“Including the marchioness?”
“Aye.”
“Someone might see your horse here.”
“Most likely.”
“She will not object?”
“It
is not for her to object.” His voice was harsh, harsher than he intended. He didn’t want this. Yet he did not want anyone to know that both he and the blacksmith were gone from the area at the same time. Far better that they think he had taken back up with his mistress.
Far better for whom? The demon whispered in his head.
He didn’t waste more time. He took what he needed from Mary’s hidden compartment under the floor and folded them into a blanket. Too many people knew him around here. He would wait to change until it would be unlikely that anyone would recognize him.
“Do not worry,” he said. “I will send Alister back as soon as I find him.”
Rumors abounded in the tower house. So many, in fact, that Bethia wondered whether she had been meant to hear them.
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
“The marquis is at the whore’s cottage.”
“He’s been there two days.”
“The Drummond lad is on the run.”
“They say it is a trap for the Black Knave.”
The Black Knave and the marquis’s whore. Every time she approached a door, passed servants in the hall, went by the great hall at suppertime, she heard the voices pause, but their echoes ate a hole in her soul.
A trap.
The marquis and the woman.
A trap for the Black Knave.
She could not allow it to happen. He was her only hope to save Dougal. And herself.
She had to warn him.
Buckie. The whispers said the trap was being set at Buckie. ’Twas many miles away. How could she possibly reach it in time? How could she find him?
When would her husband return?
His frequent absences almost always lasted at least two or three days and often a week or more.
Bethia remembered the warmth she’d felt in his arms, the passion, even the gentleness. Now he had gone to the home of his mistress. To laugh about how he seduced his wife? How he had charmed and duped her?
How could she have been so fooled by the man? He had jumped from her bed into that of a loose woman. Had she been that inadequate? That unappealing?
Her heart felt hollow, her throat thick.
She went into his room, closed the door firmly behind her, and positioned herself so she could search his wardrobe as well as watch the door. She would not be surprised this time. She looked for the deck of cards. Surely he would not miss one or two.
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