Consciousness was swift and painful. So was immediate comprehension. She grabbed for her bonnet, making sure it had stayed in place, then glared up at her attacker.
It was not the groom she had seen months ago.
“Beggars go to the back of the tower house,” the man said.
Bethia tried to sit up, but her chest hurt. She glared at the man, trying to remember how to speak. “Ye ’ad no need to do tha’. I dinna hurt anything.”
“What do ye want?”
“Miss Innes. I wanted to see Miss Innes.”
The man looked at her suspiciously. “What’s the likes of ye want with the mistress?”
She was here, then. Bethia silently said a prayer of thanks.
“She said she would gi’ me a ’elping hand.”
“Then why did ye not go to the house?”
“I dinna want to wake anyone,” she said indignantly.
“Ye donna look like much.”
Bethia gave him an indignant stare.
He scowled at her. “Mistress Anne will not be up this early.”
She looked at him slyly. “I can be helpin’ wi’ the ’orses while I wait.”
Some of his truculence faded. He nodded curtly.
Bethia cleaned out a stall, then helped with another. By the time she was through, she was odorous, blistered and weary again. And her chest still hurt from the stableman’s blow. But she had managed to engage the man in conversation.
“They say the Black ’Nave’s been aboot,” she said as they cleaned out a stall together.
The man shrugged. “None of my business, ’cept I wouldna mind ’aving some of that reward.”
Bethia looked at him with horror. “You would turn ’im in?”
“’E’s nothing to me. Trouble, tha’s all ’e is.”
She held her tongue. She could not betray her interest.
“Has the mistress wed?”
“Nay. Her fa is ill. And ’tis said the man she was to marry died at Culloden.”
Her brother. So Anne had been loyal to him even after death.
“The laird is ill?”
“Aye. The butcher took ’is cattle and sheep, even ’is best horses.”
So Anne had known her bad times, too. At least, though, she had not been forced into a detestable marriage. She felt blood rush to her face at the thought of Rory Forbes, at how she had responded to him, to those moments of tenderness. They had all been part of some game, or, even worse, a ploy to get her with child. He could have just taken her at the beginning, of course. It was his right. Now she almost wished he had. It would have been preferable than to be taken so lightly, to be used so mindlessly.
Her gruff companion finished cleaning the last stall, then said, “I will go tell the mistress ye are here.” He hesitated. “I will tell ’er ye are a good worker.” He paused at the door. “My name is John. Yer name is …?”
Bethia had not thought of that. The whole idea had occurred so suddenly. Her brother’s name. Anne’s betrothed. Coinneach. Gaelic for Kenneth. “Kenny,” she said after a brief pause. “She said more than a year ago tha’ if I ever needed a position …”
John looked at her strangely. “A year ago.”
“Or more,” she added helpfully.
He went to the door, then looked back. “Donna ye be taking anything.”
Bethia shook her head as earnestly as she could. “Sirrah,” she said. “The lad who used to work here … would ye be knowing anything of ’im?”
John shrugged. “He joined the Prince. ’E was never seen again.”
The burden on Bethia’s heart grew weightier. How many more were gone? She sighed as the groom left the barn and went to the door, waiting.
Would Anne understand? Would she come out or ask to see the ragged lad? Bethia could have gone to the door when she first arrived, and probably would have, had it not been for the early hour. She was depending on Anne’s curiosity if not her immediate recognition.
Minutes went by. She didn’t know how many, and her anxiety grew. Then she saw Anne at the door, and the groom came trotting back to the barn. “She will see ye,” he said, his gaze regarding her with new respect.
Bethia swaggered out the door with what she hoped was a street lad’s arrogance.
When she reached the steps to the door of the tower house, Anne’s eyes grew increasingly large. She did not say anything, though, until Bethia came within several feet of her.
“Bethia?”
Bethia grinned. “Aye. But I dinna think anyone would know me under this dirt.”
Anne looked away from her. The groom was watching. She turned and opened the door and went inside, indicating Bethia should follow her. Once the door was closed, she turned on Bethia and embraced her. “Holy Mother, Bethia.” She squeezed Bethia’s hand. “I have worried about you so. And now you turn up looking like this. What is going on?”
“The Black Knave. He is walking into a trap. I had to find someone who might reach him.”
Anne’s nose wrinkled. “I thought you had married—”
“The butcher forced me into a marriage with the Marquis of Braemoor. Cumberland holds Dougal as hostage to my obedience.”
“Then it was nothing you wanted?”
“’Tis the last thing I wanted. He is a … profligate. A traitor. I despise him.”
“He allowed you to come here?”
“Nay. He is away, probably with his mistress. I left a note telling him I was going to see Dougal. Lord Creighton is holding him at Rosemeare.”
A chill suddenly racked her, and Anne regarded her damp clothes worriedly. “You must have warmer clothes.”
“I have to get to Buckie. A lad can visit the taverns and mayhap hear something of the Black Knave. You have not heard anything, have you?” she asked hopefully.
“Nay, but I wish him Godspeed.”
“I need a horse, Anne. I took one from Braemoor’s stable, but it is far too fine for someone dressed as I am. I had hoped you could provide me with a less conspicuous animal.”
Anne hesitated. “There is an old mare … she is more a pet now.”
“I would take very good care of her.”
Anne looked at her wistfully. “I wish I could go, but Father—”
“John told me he was ill.”
“His heart broke when Cumberland took our sheep and cattle. We have no way to feed our people now. Some have already left to try to find jobs in Glasgow or Edinburgh. I think he has willed himself to die.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“You were always one of his favorites,” Anne said, “but you cannot see him like that and if you change clothes, someone might recognize you.”
Bethia leaned over and hugged her. “Then you might be blamed. I will try to come back.”
Tears glistened in Anne’s eyes. “I will never stop missing your brother.” She paused, then went to a desk and sat down, taking a quill and paper. She quickly wrote out something, scribbled a name on it and sealed it.
“It is a letter to my sister, inviting her to visit,” she said. “If anyone stops you, tell them you are employed by me and delivering the letter to Jane Grant. It will give you a reason to have a horse.”
“Thank you,” Bethia said gratefully. “And now I must go. It might already be too late.”
Anne nodded. In minutes she had found a worn jacket that Bethia could wear over her still damp clothing, then she walked with her to the stables.
Once there, she confronted John. “Saddle Sadie. The lad here is going to take a message to my sister.”
John looked surprised but obeyed quickly; faster, in fact, than Bethia would have believed. She remembered Anne’s comment that many of their people had had to leave. Why had he stayed? Loyalty to Anne. Or loyalty to someone else?
Bethia mounted easily, noting again how much easier it was to mount a man’s saddle rather than the sidesaddle to which she was accustomed. Anne walked out with her, then out of sight of the groom, seized her hand and held i
t tightly. “Godspeed,” she said.
“My horse is just beyond that hill. You might take a ride that way and find her.”
“Aye, I will do that. And hold her for you.”
“Thank you.”
“No need for that. Just be careful. I do not wish to lose another MacDonell to the butcher.”
Bethia reached Buckie in late afternoon. Afraid someone might see through her disguise, she avoided one tavern that seemed to host numerous English soldiers, and stopped at a small alehouse. She sidled in, found a seat in the shadows where she could overhear without attracting attention. She hesitantly spent coin for a glass of ale, which she barely sipped. And she listened.
The coins came from her wagers with the marquis. She had resumed thinking of him that way. ’Twas altogether too disturbing to think of him as her husband.
She dismissed thoughts of him and instead tried to listen to the several conversations going on. But after several wary glances at her, talk centered on fishing and the interference of the English. Beginning to feel that her mission was hopeless, she left the tavern.
Bethia made her way to where she had left the mare. She’d learned of another tavern, one connected to an inn. She could stable Sadie there and feed her. Then she would decide what to do next.
She led the tired horse down the street, ducking into shadows as she heard a detail of soldiers come down the road, stopping at the earlier tavern that served the English. Two went inside, apparently searching for one of its members.
“Damn me if I know where Robbie’s gone,” said one of the remaining men in the street.
“The colonel’s going to flay him. He wants every man in those hills.”
Bethia put her hand over the mare’s mouth, urging its silence as she tried to slink ever further into the shadows.
She strained to hear snatches of conversation.
“Damn me, but it appears that the colonel’s plan worked.”
“If Dan’ l and Jock can keep up wi’ ’em.”
She did not hear the answer, but she did hear another voice. “At least we know the innkeeper and another man went up into the forest. To meet Drummond, no doubt. The colonel’s blocking every path, using every mon in these parts.”
“Wha’ if it is not the Knave?”
“Do not be suggestin’ that to the colonel. He is convinced the Flying Lady is a nest of traitors. ’E’s had them watched for days now, then two men slipped out before dawn. No doubt it is the Knave.”
“Why dinna they not arrest them?”
“The colonel wants Drummond, too. Good for a promotion.”
“And the reward. He won’t be sharing it, either.”
“What about Geordie?” Another voice, but they were moving farther away now and she could barely hear.
“’E was a fool to believe he’d ever get his thirty pieces of silver.”
Their voices trailed away completely as they moved down the lane.
Geordie. He must be the fisherman set to betray the Black Knave. A name. She had a name. It should be worth something.
But how could she warn the Black Knave now? The paths were obviously watched by the English, and she had no idea where they were.
An idea started to form in her head. If they thought the Black Knave was somewhere else. If they thought he was about to get Drummond out of Scotland, then they would leave the hills.
But how would anyone mistake her for the Black Knave, the tall giant on a black horse, or for an old woman, which disguise he was rumored to adopt? Or even an old man?
She needed help, and the people at the Flying Lady had to be warned. They would all be hanged if it were proven any had helped the Black Knave.
The Flying Lady.
She led her horse out into the open and walked away from the soldiers. She saw a boy spit at where they had walked. She approached him.
“Can ye tell me where the Flying Lady is?”
“Aye. Down on the waterfront. Take the road to the sea. Ye can see it from there.” He looked at Bethia curiously. “Ye ha’ business there?”
“Nay. I was told I could rest and feed my horse.”
“I would go somewhere else. The English have spies watchin’ it.”
“I ha’ no’ money. The owner is said to be kind with feed.”
He shrugged. “’Tis your neck, not mine.”
Bethia led the mare down the road to the sea. It was past dusk, but the rain had stopped. A bright moon lit the sky, although an occasional heavy cloud blotted it. She peered first one way, then another. She saw a weather-beaten sign creaking in the wind. An outline of a ship perched above carved letters.
So it had been named after a ship. She looked around. If English soldiers remained to spy, she could not see any. But then the soldier had said every man had been sent to comb the roads and paths down from the forest. She could only hope.
Bethia reached for the deck of cards buried in her clothes. The jack was on the top. Then she approached the door. No sound came from within, no raucous noise as there had been at the other two establishments. She tried the door. It was open. She went inside.
One man was inside, sitting forlornly in a chair. He was of huge size. Half of his face was buried by a red, untamed beard.
“We are closed, lad,” he said.
“The door is open.”
“It is always open, but now ’tis not wise to be here.”
She started. “Then you know?”
He rose with startling speed and in three large steps, stood next to her, clasping her arm tightly. “What do ye mean?”
Bethia held out the jack of spades with her free hand and placed it on a table next to them.
His beard wriggled and his eyes narrowed. “Wha’ does a slip of a lad know about cards?”
She drew herself up to her full height, disregarding the pain from his hold.
“You know the … Knave has many disguises.”
The man’s head jerked back. “What’s your game, lad?”
The pressure on her arm was like a vise. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.
“Are you the innkeeper?”
“My brother is. He asked me to stay here for him.”
“He is in danger. The English knows he has left with another man, one they suspect is the Knave.”
“But he is not, because you are,” the man replied sarcastically. “I ask you again, what game do you play?”
“I play none,” she said, and she knew her accent had slipped from a stableboy to the more precise diction of royalty.
“What are the words?”
She closed her eyes. She knew no words. Bethia felt sick. How could she ever have thought she might fool anyone?”
“I am not the Knave,” she admitted.
“Obviously” the man muttered.
“I am a friend in desperate need of his services. I was looking for him when I overheard some British soldiers saying that they had been watching your inn, and that two men left early this morn. They were followed into the forest but then they disappeared. But the English have every path covered.” She paused. “And anyone who comes here is in danger.”
His deep sunken eyes took on a fierce glare. “I think ye are the danger. How much are the English paying you to snoop?” His hands did not release their hold. “I think I should just drown ye.”
“Then everyone will die,” she said defiantly, glaring at him. “Do you not see? The Black Knave has to appear elsewhere. At Geordie’s house.”
His brow furrowed.
Bethia rushed on at his hesitation. “It’s a double trap. The English let it be known that a man named Geordie—I do not know the last name—would sail Drummond south. But they really want the Black Knave. They believe that if the Knave learned about the trap, he would try to reach Drummond. They must have suspected your … inn.”
“The English are no’ that clever,” he replied suspiciously.
“They are sly.” She stamped her feet anxiously. “There is no time to wa
ste. Another Black Knave must visit Geordie, convince him that his life is no’ worth a pence if he does the crown’s bidding, then take his boat. He will go running to the English, and they will send their men to watch the beaches instead.”
“Ye are sure of tha’?”
“Nay,” she admitted. “But it was the only thing I could think of. They will believe then that your brother went on some other errand, that he had nothing to do with the Black Knave.”
The man released his hold on her arm, and scratched his beard with his other hand. “What do ye want from me?”
“Some men you trust. The English obviously think the two men are in the Grampians, not on the coast. Most of the patrols have been sent into the mountains. Geordie will be lightly guarded. We—you—can take him easily. And his boat.” She wanted him to start thinking it was his idea.
Tired, pale blue eyes stared out at her. “I ’ave only my brother left. If you betray him, I’ll kill ye.”
“This may be the only chance he has.”
“It might be tae late,” the innkeeper said despondently, obviously reluctant to put his faith in a slip of a boy.
“The Knave is cautious,” she said. “The Brits will not easily catch him.”
“Ye know him?”
“Aye,” she lied.
“I told my brother no’ to get involved, but he dinna listen.” He released her arm. “There are a few men I trust.”
Relief flooded her. She’d won. “Do you have any black clothing? Something I can use to mask my face? The others will need them, too, but none must speak but me. Their voices might be recognized.”
His eyes were dubious as he gazed up and down her body. But then he seemed to make a decision. “My brother ’as a black cloak. It might make you look more …” He stopped, obviously at a loss of a description.
“Substantial?” She asked helpfully.
“Aye,” he said. “’Ow old are ye, lad?”
“Old enough to have lost my entire family.”
He frowned. “I canna trust—”
“You have no choice. ’Tis your brother’s only hope.”
The man muttered that they were all doomed.
She waited, her throat tightening.
“Are ye sure there are not spies outside?”
“I did not see any, and I looked.”
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