Your friend, Bethia
She sealed it, then gave it to Trilby to take to the marquis. She did not think she could bear seeing the marquis again. He was far too dangerous to her emotions, to her usual practicality. He confused her, and she knew she could not afford to be confused.
Rory delivered the letter to Anne Innes himself.
He knew taking Bethia to the loch had been a mistake. He’d just thought she would enjoy it, and she’d had precious few moments of enjoyment. He had not expected the warmth that flared between them—or maybe he had. He’d thought he could control his desire for her, his need, and he’d been shocked when he’d discovered he could not.
He knew then he could not stay at Braemoor, waiting for Alister to return. He had to get away from the tower house, from Bethia, before he destroyed all of them.
He would deliver the letter, then make a trip to Edinburgh. Two days’ hard riding to get there, two back. That should cool his … infatuation. Perhaps he could even find an agreeable woman, one who would make no demands on his heart or emotions. One that was free of loyalties, just as he was. One that would just enjoy an evening of lovemaking.
He’d liked Anne Innes, but he’d not tarried long. She had greeted him with wariness and it was clear she thought him something less than human. Still, conscious of the Highland custom of hospitality, she’d invited him to stay to sup with them. But he had already made enough mistakes; he needed no other person to see more than he wanted them to see.
The estate reeked of neglect, mainly, he supposed, because of lack of money, and the lady herself had a sadness about her. He quickly learned that her father was very ill, and had been for a long time. None of her relatives had fought with the young prince, which had saved them from the depredations suffered by other Jacobite families. Still, her cattle had been rounded up and sold for practically nothing to the Scottish Lowlanders who had supported the English crown.
Rory made a mental note to see that the cattle were replaced and that a sum of money would suddenly be repaid, a long neglected debt to her father. She’d given him no letter in return, but did ask him to tell Bethia that she missed her but understood everything.
“You will tell her that,” she emphasized. “That I understood.”
He assured her he would. Then he turned toward Edinburgh. He wanted to know whether Elizabeth had learned of any other Jacobites looking for safety, since this was likely to be the last voyage. He would also listen to what the English military said, whether there were any leads to the Black Knave. And, particularly, whether his usual coastal rendezvous was still safe.
Those were his excuses, at least, excuses to keep him away from Braemoor. Bloody hell, but he was drawn to Bethia like metal to a lodestone. She filled so many lonely places inside him.
He had to keep away from her.
Rory rode for two days straight, stopping only to rest his horse, and for several hours to rest himself. He reached Edinburgh late the second day.
English troops were everywhere. He wondered whether others felt the deep, visceral resentment that he did. He had not cared that much before Culloden. His father had been intrinsically linked to the country, and Rory had so much simmering resentment for him that Scotland drew precious little loyalty from him. But in the past few months, he had witnessed fortitude and courage. He had ridden the Highlands and passed through the glens and over the gorges. He had seen the tears in the eyes of those forced to leave, and that grief had transferred itself to him. He felt their courage, their fierce loyalty to each other, to their cause, and for the first time he had a sense of place, and knew he would miss it.
The Fox and Hare was noisy and full, but he readily found the innkeeper. “Ye ha’ been neglecting us, my lord,” the man fawned.
“Aye, some business at home.”
“How long do ye plan to stay this time?”
“Only a day or two. I have need of clothes. The Duke of Cumberland has told me of a new tailor.”
At the mention of the most powerful man in Scotland and the second most powerful in England, the man fairly danced with excitement. “I will ha’ yer rooms aired and a fire prepared.”
“A bath, too.”
The owner was well used to his client’s habits and knew he would be well-paid for tending to them. “Aye.”
Rory waited until long past midnight, until the tavern was clear of the last customer. He told the innkeeper he did not want to be disturbed. Then he changed to the clothes of a beggar, put cotton in his mouth to change the shape of his face, then pulled on a unkempt wig of long, dark hair.
He dribbled some rum over his lips and onto his clothes, then slipped out the door to a back stairs and down the street. Rory kept to the shadows, sliding to the ground and snoring loudly when a patrol passed. He finally approached Elizabeth’s house, making sure that no one else was on the street. He had not been able to warn her of his visit. He could only hope that she had no male guest this night.
He reached her rooms without problem, and rapped four times, waited, then rapped again.
No answer.
He started to rap again when he heard someone stir. Elizabeth had a maid that came each day, but did not live in the house. Discretion, she always claimed.
She opened the door and he slipped inside, taking one last look at the empty side street.
She started, then looked closer. “Dear God, but you should have been an actor,” she said.
“I might just do that in the Colonies,” he said. “I will ha’ to change my name, though.”
“You are leaving?”
“Aye, with the next shipment. My new wife will be aboard and, with the devil’s help, her brother. I doubt the marquis of Braemoor would survive their disappearance. Cumberland would never understand.”
“You are going to France?”
“Nay, I will take Bethia there, then find passage to the Colonies. Can you get word to the others that this will be the last shipment for the Knave? And to our people at Nairn that I need a dead body? About my height and weight. They are not to make one,” he added quickly. “Merely to locate one already dead for one reason or another.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I do not want blame to fall on the Forbeses. Rory Forbes must die trying to keep his wife in Scotland. Alister and Mary will be charged with helping her, but they, too, will be gone.”
She smiled at him. “Neither of them are Forbeses.”
“Exactly. My cousin should be clear.”
“I did not believe you liked your cousin.”
Rory shrugged. “He is a good manager. I wish no man to pay for my actions.”
“I will miss you, Rory.”
He took the cloth from his cheeks and kissed her.
“That was far too much a brotherly kiss,” she protested.
He kissed her again, a kiss of memories and affection and good-bye. His lips lingered, but there was none of the exhilaration he felt with Bethia, only the sad parting of two good friends. “I will write you.”
“And who should I expect to sign the letter?”
He thought for a moment. “What about Lazarus?”
She grinned. “Just make sure you do rise from the dead, my lord.”
He started out the door. “If anyone knows of Jacobites, tell them to go toward Banff. Buckie might be watched now. Tell them to look for a farm five miles inland of the village; they will tell them where to wait.” He gave her specific directions. “Tell them to be there within two weeks.”
When he finished, he put the cloth back in his cheeks. “I must go before the inn starts stirring.”
“Godspeed, my lord.”
“Rory,” he said.
“Godspeed, Rory.”
“And you, love.” He took a bag from his pocket and placed it on a table.
“No, Rory.”
“In the name of all those you have helped,” he said. “You might have to leave yourself. This can help buy your way.” Then he quickly left before she cou
ld say anything more, before she saw the moisture in his eyes. He had too few friends. He knew he would not see this one again.
Upon his return, Rory went first to the smithy where he found Alister shoeing a horse.
“Your visit was successful?”
“Aye,” Alister said. “I have a letter but I have not given it to her. I wanted to wait for you. I also have drawn a map of the castle where young Dougal is being held. He is a bright young lad, as quick as his mistress.”
The boy was fine, he added.
Alister had arranged several moments with him alone and had questioned him. The lad knew of a way in and out of the castle; apparently he’d charmed one of the serving girls into revealing a possible escape route. But he’d had no horse, no money. He was also locked in his room at night, and had a minder most of the time. “I think he has just been biding his time, waiting for an opportunity.”
“What way?”
“A drain in the kitchen leads into sewers. The sewers dump into a moat.”
“It would be a nasty swim.”
“Aye, but the lad can do it, I think. He is well worried about his sister. He feels he needs to protect her.”
“Ha. The lad needs to protect me from her wicked tongue,” Rory said ruefully.
“I thought you had a truce.”
Rory shrugged. “’Tis not easy being anyone’s prisoner. I ha’ been keeping a tight rein on her. She is more afraid than she wants anyone to know, and she might well do something foolish before I can work things out.”
“’Tis said she had been ill.”
Alarm filled Rory. “Ill?”
Alister looked at him curiously. “For three days. A physician was called. He apparently told Neil it was only ‘female problems,’ and naught to worry about. Young Jamie at the stable told me about it when I returned from Fort William.”
“She is all right now?”
“Aye,” Alister said. “It appears so.”
Rory’s stomach clenched. What if it were serious? What if she were with child? But then, would the physician not have revealed that? His child? If so, could he let her go? It was already excruciating to think that she might disappear from his life. Since that first crackling energy sparked between them, he’d felt more alive than he’d felt in his life. The sky was bluer, the air fresher, the moon brighter.
Bloody hell, but he was thinking like a lovesick fool. He would get them all killed.
He abruptly changed the subject. “The Frenchman is due soon. I want both her and the boy on board.”
“And you?”
“All of us, I hope. In the meantime, I have to find a way that no blame will fall on Neil or the Forbeses.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
Rory grinned. “I’m working on the details.”
Alister’s gaze looked upward as if praying. “Which means you have no idea.”
“Exactly,” Rory said. “Now about the boy. How can we let him know when we want him to escape?”
“A gift from his sister. His birthday is soon. The gift can be marked in some way.”
Rory nodded. “Mayhap I will deliver that one. It is time I met my brother-in-law. I imagine he wrote a letter to his sister?”
“Aye. I suggested that he do as his sister did. Write two letters, one that Creighton would read. The other one is still sealed. It is inside my rooms. In the Bible.”
“Perhaps giving them to her with the seal unbroken will reinstate some confidence in me. I fear that Cumberland or one of his men said something that has made her wary.”
“How was Cumberland’s visit?”
“Annoying, as always. He offered me ten thousand crowns if Bethia were to give birth to our child.” He went on to relate Bethia’s idea as to why Cumberland’s interest in the MacDonells was so strong.
Alister whistled. “Damn me if you have not landed in the fire.”
“That, my friend, is why we are all leaving.”
Alister hesitated. “I received a message earlier today. It came from the Flying Lady. The lad that helped you is looking for aid. He wishes to meet you near Loch Maire.”
“Maire?” Apprehension ran down Rory’s spine. The loch was far too close to Braemoor. Was someone suspicious of him? Was it a trap? For a moment, Rory wondered whether he had made a mistake.
“When?” Rory finally asked.
“The first night of the new moon.”
“A week from now.” Much too close to the time he and Alister would go after young Dougal MacDonell.
And why Loch Maire? Why not Inverness or Nairn? “Does anyone know who he is?”
“Nay.”
Rory hesitated. It looked like a trap. It smelled like a trap. But how could he not help someone who helped him? “Can you get word to someone down there. See whether you can find anything at all about the lad. What he looked like? Whether he speaks Gaelic. If he does, he is a Highlander.”
“Do you think he is a spy?”
“Cumberland has any number of them.”
“But why would the lad save you, then?”
“They might have known we would suspect a trap. This would make the lad quite … trustworthy in our eyes. A spy in our camp? Cumberland might feel he could take the whole nest of us.”
“Should I go myself?”
Rory shook his head. “You have been gone too much already. Do you have someone you can trust?”
“Aye. The lad who brought the message is staying in one of the caves in the hills. I thought you might want to send a message back with him.”
Rory nodded. “Send him immediately. Tell him there’s five pounds in it if he returns before the new moon.”
“I will give him one of my horses,” Alister said.
Rory agreed. Alister had three horses, all of which he had bought cheaply. They’d looked like nags then, but Alister had an eye for horseflesh. Under good care, they were sturdy and fleet.
Alister hesitated. “Are you sure about this, Rory? I do not like it.”
“I know,” Rory said, arguing more with himself than Alister. His sense of urgency had been growing greater each day. He could not tamp the feeling that Bethia and her brother were in terrible danger and that it grew every day. But neither could he fail to heed the call of someone who had helped him. “I owe him,” he added simply.
“The message mentioned that.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Your instincts are good, Rory. Heed them.”
Rory’s instincts were all clamoring. They said run. They did not believe in coincidence.
“You have a week to decide,” Alister said helpfully. “Hopefully, the lad will be back by then.”
“And hopefully he needs nothing but passage himself. If he is who he says he is. Then I can get Dougal, and you can bring the marchioness. We will meet at the coast.”
“Why do you not take the marchioness and I can get the boy?” There was an unusual twinkle in Alister’s usually serious eyes.
“Because Creighton trusts me. He might not be so trusting of a stranger who comes twice within a month. And you must take Mary as well.”
“Are you sure it is no’ more than that?”
“Aye,” Rory said. “No more than that.” But there was. He knew it. He lost his objectivity when he was with Bethia. And that put them both into danger.
Alister regarded him skeptically, then shrugged.
Rory nodded. “I had best get back to Braemoor. I will go by Mary’s tomorrow.”
Alister nodded. “I will send the lad on his way tonight.”
Rory nodded. The heat from the forge felt good. The smithy felt good to him. It always had. A place of warmth, even safety for him. He could even fashion a horseshoe. He would miss it. And Alister would have to start all over again somewhere. He and Mary.
“Have you asked her yet?”
Alister did not look at him. Neither did he need to ask what Rory meant. “Nay.”
“Alister,” Rory said with disgust.
“I
ha’ no right, no’ until we are safe, and I have something to give her.” Alister had years since picked up Rory’s proper speech, but whenever he was worried he lapsed into his childhood dialect.
Rory shook his head, but he was no one to give advice. He had done a bloody lot of damage in his thirty years. Bethia was only the latest of his victims. He had not had the character and strength to stay away from her. He had indulged himself, just as he had indulged himself every day since he’d first escaped Braemoor. And now he’d made her a prisoner just as he had been one.
The one thing he could do now was give her freedom.
And he had a letter for her.
“Mary’s then, at noon tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Alister said and returned to his work.
Bethia tried to read a book she had pilfered from the library. Instead, her thoughts returned continually to the marquis. Although his absence aided her plan, she found herself looking for him, and not entirely apprehensively. He had been gone five days.
She’d also expected news of her brother by now. What was taking the blacksmith so long to carry a message?
Waiting. She felt as if she’d spent her entire life waiting. A woman’s lot, her mother once told her when her father and brothers had ridden off on some secret raid or another. Bethia rebelled at that thought. She would be no tame wife, waiting for someone to rescue her. She would be part of any rescue. She just needed help. A little help. And the Black Knave owed her for her assistance.
She had already taken steps to escape. Once the marquis had left, she’d visited Mary, pleading sleeplessness. But the herb she’d received was not nearly strong enough, and the humiliating visit had been for naught. She then faked a stomach illness. A physician had been sent for, and at her request she’d been given a bottle of laudanum. She had secreted the small bottle in a pair of slippers. She never could have managed it had the marquis been at Braemoor. He seemed to read her mind.
Jack barked.
Poor Jack, he’d had few adventures these last few days as she forced herself to remain in bed. Trilby would take him out occasionally, but the rest of the time he huddled next to her, unsure as to why his mistress was not playing with him.
Then she heard a knock at her door and she knew instantly who it was. No one else knocked with quite the same impatient authority. When had he returned? He must have just arrived or Trilby would have run to her.
The Black Knave Page 29