He seemed to be fighting an internal battle, then he puckered his mouth. “All right,” he finally said. “But if ye are lying to me.…”
She was. But only partly. And all for a good cause. She said a silent prayer for forgiveness to the Holy Mother.
“I will get ye a cloak. Ye stay here until I can find some men to help. But I doona know if they will follow ye.”
“They will follow you,” she said.
His face cleared slightly. He obviously felt more comfortable putting his fate in his own hands rather than those of a young unknown stranger.
He told her where to find the cloak and black material for masks. Then he slipped out the door.
“Hell and damnation.” The oath came spilling from Rory Forbes’s lips.
He’d had a plan.
He always had a plan.
They just dinna always work. And this, apparently, was one of those times.
That was exactly what he got for trying to be clever.
They had been here two days. Cooped up in a wet, cold cave like chickens awaiting the fox.
He had doubled back on the trek up into the forested hills and had spied someone following. He and Kerry, who was half Irish and had a hatred for English greater than any full-blooded Scot, had managed to lose the men trailing them. They reached Drummond in a well-hidden cave just after dawn.
But when Rory had scouted several hours later, he’d discovered English soldiers everywhere. He had barely made it back. Now they were trapped with very little food and even less water.
Rory knew where he’d made his mistake. He’d apparently missed the spies who had watched the tavern. He had not expected that the Flying Lady was suspect.
He would never be that careless again. If he had the chance.
His main regret was that he might have irreparably damaged Kerry. The innkeeper’s life could be as tenuous as young Drummond’s. At that thought, he turned his attention back to the young lord. Drummond shivered in a corner with a fever that came, Rory suspected, from both lack of food and exposure. They had to get him to safety if he were to live.
They could not even build a fire for fear that the smell of smoke might reach the searchers. Both he and Kerry had given him their cloaks, but still he shivered and still his face burned with heat. In the past few hours, their charge had been growing progressively worse.
He turned to Kerry. “If we can get past them, we can always say that I came to you as guide, that I wanted to hunt the Black Knave, to earn the five thousand pounds. ’Tis enough of a princely sum.”
“It might be tae late for that.”
It might, indeed. It might send both of them to the gallows. And yet it was the beginning of a plausible story. That depended, however, on getting Drummond out of here and on a boat. If found with the man, all three would be swinging. He just might have the added pleasure of being drawn and quartered for committing treason.
Yet, he would never abandon Drummond. Nor, he sensed, would Kerry. The man thrived on hatred.
To save Kerry, he had to save Drummond. Right now he had absolutely no idea of how to do that. The English were as thick as the underbrush.
Rory knew he needed a miracle this time. He turned toward Kerry, who was barely visible in the dark cave. “I am sorry for involving you.”
“No one forced me,” Kerry said gruffly. “I will take a few of the bastards out wi’ us.” He patted the pistol next to him. A deadly looking knife hung from his belt, and Rory knew a second one was tied to his leg inside the trousers.
Drummond, who was no more than twenty, coughed, a succession of spasms that alarmed Rory. The sound could alert any nearby soldiers.
He took his flask and offered the lad the last of his water. Drummond took it gratefully, then sunk back on the damp floor. Rory exchanged worried looks with Kerry.
“I will go out and check again,” Rory said. “Mayhap they have given up.”
Kerry looked at him dubiously, but did not express his thoughts. Neither of them wanted Drummond to know how serious the situation really was.
Rory went to the front of the cave and listened for several moments before squirming under the barrier he and Kerry had built after discovering they’d been followed part of the way. He continued to crawl along the ground.
It was dawn. Gray colored the sky, but there was no sun yet. Wind blew through the trees, and the ground was damp. He had taken the cotton out of his cheeks when they’d first arrived, but now his clothes were nearly black with dried mud. The new moisture seeped through the dried mud and cloth and clung clammily to his skin.
He’d also pasted some mud on his face to keep the white of his face from showing and he wore a worn dark bonnet over his dark hair. He scooted like a crab some distance from the cave, then, in the shadow of trees, listened for the sound of boots against leaves, the rustle of bodies against branches, a flight of birds that had been disturbed.
Nothing.
He moved further down the hill to a spot where he’d heard, and seen the fires, of an English detail hours earlier. Nothing. He kept moving until he reached their campsite. The remnants of a fire remained, but the ashes were cold.
The ground looked as if they had slept here last night. When had they left? And why?
Another trap?
He would not underestimate the English again. He moved on until he found a place that overlooked a trail below. Clear. He listened carefully again. Every sense was aware. No smell of fire. No discordant sound. Birds were singing their usual greeting to dawn. Squirrels jumped playfully from tree to tree, chattering playfully.
He shivered in the cold dawn. Where in the bloody hell did they go? And why?
Rory stood, trying to blend his dark shape with that of a large oak tree. Still nothing. No red uniforms breaking the grayish green and brown of the forest. He descended through the woods, avoiding the path worn by numerous hunters. Most of the game was gone now, killed by the two armies that had gathered at Culloden Moor.
Hunters now looked for human prey.
He had never enjoyed hunting animals and had avoided the large hunting parties held each fall. He had killed for meat as one did to survive, but he had never thought it should be cause for a festive event. Now that he knew exactly how the quarry felt, he would be many times more respectful of life.
He went more than a mile. Once he saw a group of English below him, but they were retreating in orderly fashion. For some reason the search was being abandoned. They would wait until tonight and try to make the coast. Kerry had said he knew a fisherman he could trust. The man lived on the far side of Buckie, far from the man said to be involved with the British. If young Drummond could be moved by boat to the other side of Nairn, then he could stay with the same farmer who had helped others until the Frenchman returned on the tenth of the next month.
Rory carefully made his way back to the cave. “The soldiers are gone.”
Kerry frowned his brows in worry. “Are ye sure?”
“Aye. Nothing within a mile of us. I saw some English soldiers moving back down the trail. They are retreating.”
“Should we go down now?”
Rory lowered his voice. “I think we should wait until dusk. We may have to carry Drummond part of the way. How far to your friend?”
“We ca’ make it before dawn if we leave in late afternoon.”
“I will look again about midday. We will take turns sleeping. You go first.”
Kerry started to protest. “Ye’ve had none at all.”
“I will have all afternoon. ’Tis all I need.”
Kerry started to look as if he’d protest, then looked at the shivering Drummond. “Do ye think we can start a fire?”
“Aye,” Rory said. “We will build it deep inside.”
Kerry grinned, a snaggletoothed grin if ever did Rory see one. “We’ll outwit them bastards yet.”
Seventeen
Bethia had never been so physically frightened in her life.
She had been fri
ghtened for her brothers when they joined Prince Charlie’s army, and particularly after she heard of the slaughter. She had been frightened for herself when she’d been married to a man she did not know. But she’d never experienced anything like this pounding in her heart.
For the first time she understood the male predilection for battle. She had never been so terrified; neither had she ever felt so alive.
She’d had to hide her uncertainty well. If she’d shown one second of fear, she would have lost every one of the small group the innkeeper’s brother had found. They had been dubious enough about her size, but her plan had changed their minds. ’Twas a fine plan, everyone agreed. A plan worthy of the Black Knave.
Each also wanted Geordie Grant to receive his due. He gave them all a bad name. To scare the life from him, and also to take his boat, seemed suitable repayment, enough to gag other potential traitors.
Miraculously, it had all gone as planned. There were six of them, all masked, including Bethia. The five local men easily captured the three English soldiers still watching Geordie’s small stone house while Bethia remained in the shadows. ’Twas important that she not be injured, since she was the only one to talk. He might recognize the voices of the others.
Heavy, dark clouds blotted any moon or starlight, and a light fog made visibility impossible. Her heart beat faster than it ever had before, and once—when she heard a grunt, then a heavy thump—her breath caught in her throat. Her entire body tensed, shivers of apprehension running through her. What right had she to endanger these men? She, who had no skill at any of this?
A great hulking form dressed in dark oil cloth materialized over her. “It is done, lad. None of ’em will be botherin’ us this night.”
They approached the house and Bethia, clad in the black cloak and a piece of cloth masking all but her eyes, drew herself as tall as she could and entered with the rest. With pistols trained on Geordie Grant, Bethia threw down the jack of spades and watched the man’s face pale with terror.
With more confidence than she thought she possessed, she castigated him in a husky voice for turning on his countrymen. Then she told him they were taking his boat, that Drummond was waiting outside.
She watched as he was tied loosely, while three other men ran down and pushed the boat into the sea, holding it there until Bethia had finished her part, making Grant believe he was indeed talking to the Black Knave. Leaving the card on the table, she ran down to the beach with the innkeeper’s brother. He helped her into the boat, and the small craft swept out into the sea as its sails were unfurled.
The sea scared her witless. The small fishing boat plunged and lifted with the heavy seas; she nearly tumbled off before she learned to keep a good hold. Spray drenched her bonnet and clothes. One particularly hard wind caught her bonnet and it went flying off. One of her braids fell from where she had pinned it, and first one fisherman, then another, stared at her.
“Jesu,” uttered one.
“A lass!”
“Bloody hell.”
She could only stand there, holding tightly to the side, as frowns and furrowed brows stared at her disbelievingly.
“Damn me, but we followed a lassie.”
“Remember the tale that the Knave was an old woman.”
They all looked at her as if she had grown a second head, even as the boat plunged once more, then seemed to rise on a wave, riding over it as water smashed down on her.
One man snatched the wheel from one who stood stunned at the wheel.
“Are ye he?”
“She didna ’ave the words,” the innkeeper’s brother reminded them. “The real Knave is in the forest with my brother.”
“Still, it were a plan worthy of ’im,” said another.
“But it could still fail if you do not pay attention,” she said sharply, her mind racing between old fear, new fear, and indignation at being talked about as if she were not there.
Their gazes left her and she huddled down on the floor, soaked through by freezing rain and exhausted by the adventure, and still uncertain whether the plan would work, whether it would draw the English from the hills.
The rest of the voyage was in silence. Bethia did not know how long it took. She only knew she was miserable and yet … she had done something. Right or wrong. She had stopped letting fate turn her one way, then another. Even if she failed, she had acted on behalf of her countrymen.
They landed north of another small cluster of dwellings. They pulled the boat up to the shore, then used axes to destroy it. The boat had been meant to betray one of their own, after all. A mile down the beach, a lad awaited them with her horse. She and the innkeeper would both ride it back to Buckie. He would then attempt to find his brother. She would return the horse to Anne, reclaim her own, then hurry home as quickly as she could with some tale of being lost or waylaid by a bandit.
It was just after dawn when they reached his inn. The streets were still, and he led them through back ways. They tied the horse a street away from the Flying Lady, then he sauntered back into the inn. Finding no one watching, he went to the back where she waited and signaled for her to come inside. She changed to the ragged clothes she’d worn before, then quickly took the food he offered.
“Ye are a brave lass,” he said.
“And you are a fine braw Scot.”
He grinned, the hole between his teeth quite prominent. “Ye want tae be telling me yer name?”
“’Tis best none are exchanged.”
“Sick in soul.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“It is the words to identify the Black Knave and his … couriers. ’Tis the way we all feel about Scotland and wha’ is happening. Ye might be needin’ it.”
“Will you do something for me?”
“Aye, lass.”
“Please donna tell anyone I am a woman. Ask the others to do the same.”
“Aye, they will no’ be objectin’. None will tell of this night’s work. ’Tis too dangerous.”
She thought about asking him to tell the Black Knave that someone needed him, that Bethia MacDonell, now the Marchioness of Braemoor, needed him. But if the name got into the wrong hands, her brother might suffer for it. She would have to take care of her own needs later. Bethia reached out and took his hand, tightening her much smaller one around it. “Thank you.”
“If my brother lives through this, ’tis we who be thanking ye. Away wi’ ye, now. We both ha’ journeys this day.”
Several minutes later, Bethia was riding Sadie out of town, her necklace still in the left leg of her breeches. Still running on the excitement of the night, she pushed back the weariness in her. She had to get back home. She had to get there before anyone alerted Cumberland, and he used her brother to punish her.
Rory rode into the courtyard of Braemoor.
He had stopped by Mary’s and changed again into the costume he had worn the morning he had left Braemoor. Eight days. He had been gone eight days, had almost lost his life. Had it not been for the interference of a lad who had pretended to be him, he might well never have come home again.
He wanted to thank the boy, but no one knew his name or where he had come from. No one knew anything about him.
Kerry’s brother had met them halfway down the trail, and had told them what had happened. Together, they had concocted a story that Kerry had been employed by a mercenary to take him high into the Grampians to try to find the Black Knave. They had found nothing, and the man had never even paid him. It was a good enough story, since it was known he had gone into the mountains when the Black Knave struck at Geordie Grant’s.
The English had looked like fools, which had not improved their temperament.
Now all he wanted was to get home to Bethia, to his wife. He had wanted her every second of every minute of every day, and particularly when he was in that damnable cave.
Drummond was safe now with the same family who had taken in other refugees. He should be safe until the French ship arrived. And hop
efully he would have Bethia’s brother then, too.
He had not realized until the last trip how he’d been courting disaster. And now he owed it to Bethia to get both her and her brother out of Scotland. Then he, too, would flee the country that ran red with blood.
He would have to plan well. He might even tell Cumberland that his wife was with child, settled now, and they would like her brother to come live with them. If Cumberland believed there was no more chance of her fleeing …
But first he needed sleep. A lot of it. He no longer trusted his judgement. One reason he’d not noted the spies at the Flying Lady was the fact that he’d been so bloody tired. He’d made mistakes he had never made before.
He tried to put a bit of jauntiness in his shoulders as he approached the stable and threw the reins to young Jamie. He slid down from the horse, hoping to escape his cousin’s too-keen eyes. A few hours sleep and he would be ready to face both Neil and Bethia.
But such was not to be. Someone had apparently alerted Neil, because he met Rory just inside the door. His cousin’s shoulders were stiff and his eyes cold. Colder, in fact, than Rory had ever seen them.
“The marchioness is ill,” he said sharply. “She disappeared for five days, then reappeared, saying she had gone to see her brother but that the horse bolted and she became lost and some other preposterous tales. She dinna bring your horse back.”
But he heard nothing but the first words. Ill. His heart nearly stopped, and breath caught in his throat. “What is wrong with her?”
“Trilby says she has a fever.”
Rory frowned. “How bad a fever?”
Neil shrugged. “Trilby said she does not think it serious.”
Rory made himself slowly relax. Still, anxiety ate at him, but he did not wish to show it. Not to Neil. “Does Cumberland know about her absence?”
Neil’s jaw jutted out. “I do no’ tell tales, Rory. It is your business, but I would advise you to stay here more and tame your wife. If Cumberland hears of this, there will be hell to pay.”
“He will hear that I gave her permission to go,” Rory said. “I should have made it clear that she was to take an escort, but I imagine she was eager to see her brother.”
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