The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  Bethia tried to stop her next words, but she could not. “Why did you consent to our marriage?”

  He did not let her finish the sentence. “I agreed because the Marquis of Braemoor would most certainly have agreed. Rory Forbes is a greedy, selfish, self-indulgent man. Do you truly think Cumberland would believe he would decline such a prize? And it was clear he intended to marry you to someone. I could try to make it not quite so onerous.”

  “It would have been far less if you thought you could trust me,” she said, that reality still gnawing at her like a rat through a piece of cheese.

  He said nothing, but the mask was back on his face, and she realized she still knew so very little about him, or what compelled him to do what he did, or what he liked or did not like. She did not know him at all. She only knew he did not trust easily, but that he obviously did trust Mary.

  “Will I see you before you leave today?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  Her teeth played with her upper lip for a moment. There was still so much she wanted to say, so many questions to ask. But he was right. They were tired. She did not want to say something she would regret.

  “I will see you later, then.”

  He still held her hand. He brought it up to his mouth and his lips caressed it. “The Knave thanks you again for saving his life,” he said.

  “The Knave is welcome,” she said. She knew she should go, but she could not. She was as unable to move toward the door as statuary in a garden. The other direction, however, was entirely possible. She found herself standing on her toes, her mouth reaching for his.

  He opened his mouth, obviously to say something, but instead his lips met hers, moved passionately down on them. Swirling eddies of desire enveloped them.

  He loves someone else.

  Her mind kept telling her that, but it was chaff in the wind, disappearing in the blizzard of her other feelings. She wanted to touch and press and explore. She wanted to feel him close to her. She wanted to prolong every dizzying, warm exciting feeling before he disappeared again.

  When she felt the intensity of his own passion, she knew momentary triumph. He seemed so aloof, so completely alone and obviously pleased that little touched him. But now she put her arms around him and felt him tremble, and she knew he was not as indifferent to her as he tried so valiantly to be.

  She responded to his every movement, to the sudden passion in his kiss, to the swelling inside his breeches. The feel of him next to her renewed the gnawing need inside her, a need so recently awakened. As his tongue invaded hers, she savored each new jolt of sensation, of thrilling gratification. She felt the tension in his body, the barely restrained passion in his hands that now moved around her back. Warm, irresistible feelings flowed through her like a warm breeze on a fine Highland day.

  His kiss deepened, his lips hard and demanding against her now tremulous ones. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything, God help her. He is your husband. His loyalty should be to you, not Mary.

  He groaned. His arms wrapped tighter around her, fusing her body to his, and she felt his manhood pulsing in need. Her breasts strained against her dress, and her body was alive with sizzling fires dancing up and down her spine.

  “Ah, lass,” he said with a whisper of defeat. Then he picked her up and carried her to his bed. Impatient hands stripped her garments from her and ran reverently down the sides of her body. She found herself reaching for the laces to his breeches, undoing them as he stood in the white, flowing shirt. Her hands touched his throbbing shaft, now full and rigid, and she watched spasms tear through his body.

  He sat and leaned over, his tongue trailing fires over her body until her hands reached up for him. He moved into her then, his manhood probing gently at first, then filling her completely as her body reacted with shuddering movements, grasping him.

  Loving him.…

  Twenty-four

  She was gone when Rory woke several hours later. He reached out for her and found the pillow cold. He missed her more than he thought possible to miss someone, especially for such a short time. He told himself it was for the best that she’d thought better of laying abed with him.

  He wished he had been stronger. But he had ached in every place a man could hurt. He had longed to hold her, to go to sleep with her in his arms. It had taken every last ounce of his will to try and send her away. He had not had enough strength to actually do it.

  The sun was streaming in. He struggled to a sitting position. So much to do today. He had to talk to Neil, and that would be the most difficult of all. He needed all his wits.

  His wits, however, seemed to have left him the day Bethia came to Braemoor.

  Still, he held in his mind the images of last night, Bethia trying so hard to quiet the dog in the fog, the courage it must have taken her to travel the poor path at night. It pleased him to think of the risks she had taken days earlier to save him. Well, the Black Knave.

  Then later, the way she had looked at him, her blue eyes shining as if he were the finest man in Scotland.

  He realized, though, that she was looking at the Black Knave, not Rory Forbes. She must have realized that sometime this morning. She must have regretted her moments of gratitude.

  Even if she did admire the Black Knave, the fellow himself was a sham. No one noble or brave. He was naught but man who enjoyed games and would be sure to disappoint.

  Bloody hell, but he felt empty. Empty and, God help him, so damnably alone. Now, however was not the time for self-pity.

  He poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. It was cold, and that was a good thing. A few splashes wiped away the cobwebs lingering in his head. He shaved carefully, as the fastidious marquis would do, and chose one of his more subdued sets of clothes. A shirt with a ruffled front, dark blue breeches, a bright blue waistcoat and finally a cravat of gold silk. A man of expensive but very dubious taste. He had rather enjoyed being outrageous.

  He was a man of position. Of wealth. Of pomposity. And in a few days, they would all be gone.

  As one last touch, he tucked a frilly handkerchief in his pocket.

  Neil regarded Rory suspiciously as Rory held out a sealed document to him. He took it as Rory sprawled into a chair opposite him.

  “I donna understand,” Neil said.

  “’Tis a will,” Rory said. “It is witnessed by two people and dated six months ago, when I became the marquis. It leaves everything to you in the unfortunate circumstance of my demise.”

  Neil’s brows furrowed together. There were no direct male descendants. He would have no more claim than a dozen others. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

  “Why you?”

  “Why any concern about something that is not likely to happen?”

  “These are unsettled times, Cousin.”

  “Then why me? We have never been friends.”

  “No,” Rory admitted. “But I have admired the way you have managed Braemoor.”

  Neil stared at him. “I thought you cared naught about Braemoor.”

  Rory shrugged. “I have not your talents, Cousin. I am smart enough to know that. And I think you will find I have not done undue damage to Braemoor.”

  Neil’s eyes narrowed. “What are you planning?”

  Rory leaned back with what he hoped was an innocent expression. “It amuses me to surprise people.”

  Neil dropped the papers down on his desk. “These are meaningless. You will outlive us all.”

  “I think not, Neil. If I were you I would keep those papers handy. It includes not only Braemoor but all the property I recently acquired through my marriage. It does not, however, include the jewelry. That belongs to my wife.”

  “You are not telling me something,” Neil said, rising from his chair.

  “As I said, these are precarious times. I do not want anyone at Braemoor to pay for mistakes I have made. You have an instinct and affection for Braemoor. A love I do not have nor ever will.”

  Neil put two hands down on his desk, leaned f
orward and studied Rory carefully, then sighed. “Why do you trust me? I was no’ your friend when you were a lad. I ha’ often regretted that.”

  “You were a lad, too, Neil. You were dependent on my father and brother, as I was. But now you have become a better man than either of them. Better than all three of us.”

  Neil’s gaze sharpened. “Wha’ is going on, Rory?”

  Rory unwound himself from a chair he had settled into and stood. He grinned. “I could have died several weeks ago when that dastardly Black Knave struck me. It reminded me of my mortality. I should hate to go to my grave with Braemoor’s future uncertain or, even worse, falling into the hands of Cumberland. There must be a lawful heir.”

  “Why?” Neil asked again. “You never seemed concerned with more than what coat you would wear.”

  “I have taken a liking to some of the people,” Rory said carelessly. “And I detest Cumberland. His greed knows no bounds. He might well come after Braemoor if there is no clear heir. That is reason enough.”

  Neil nodded. Nearly every Scot, even those who fought with Cumberland, detested the duke. That had become even more true as Cumberland continued his barbarity over months. His excesses and his demands on clans loyal to the English king had alienated all the country. “I fear he would dispossess every mon and woman here.”

  “Aye,” Rory said. “And hand the land to an Englishman who would clear it. I do not wish that to happen. My quarrel was with my father and brother.” He moved toward the door. “I ask only that you swear you will look after my wife … and Mary if misfortune wanders my way.” He made his last few words light. “And Jamie at the stable. His fa is a bully.”

  “Aye,” Neil said. “I will do that. But I expect you will outlive us all.”

  “Mayhap,” Rory said. “But I want you to have Braemoor in any event. You care for the people. My father did not. Nor did my brother.”

  He left then before he said any more. He had already said too much. But his instinct told him Neil would not betray him, and he’d relied on his instinct this far.

  Now for Dougal.

  Bethia paced the room. She had awakened in the marquis’s arms, had snuggled further inside them, seeking the wonderful warmth of his body. Then, afraid that she would waken him, she reluctantly slipped away. He needed sleep. He did not need her. He had not even wanted her. She had made the overtures. She had seduced him.

  He had made it clear earlier that she should go. He obviously felt loyal to Mary, and she had forced him into betrayal. ’Twas a fine reward for what he had offered.

  And so she had quietly padded over to her clothes, dressed silently and slipped through the door to her own room. She did not want to hear apologies, or make them. She did not want to see guilt in his eyes.

  Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks. She picked up Black Jack and hugged him until he’d whined, then she’d sat on her own bed. She would remember everything. The way he looked. The way he felt. The way he made her feel. She had never believed in this kind of love, the kind that shook her world, that broke her heart and made her soul cry. She had never believed she could love someone this hard, this painfully, that she could love so much she was willing to give him up to someone he cared about more. Someone he trusted.

  Damn it, but the tears would not stop falling.

  Black Jack licked her face anxiously, whining again.

  “My own little Knave,” she whispered.

  Bethia finally forced herself to get up, to change clothes. She chose a simple gown that laced up in front. She undid her messy braid and brushed her hair until it appeared to shine. Then she pinched her pale cheeks to put some color into them.

  She could not let him know how she felt. She would not give him that burden. The next few days would be dangerous enough without his worrying about some lovesick woman.

  Then she gazed at herself. Did he think Mary bonnier than she? She was certainly brave. Trustworthy.

  That knowledge burned in her.

  And made her restless. Had he wakened yet? Had he missed her?

  She left her hair loose, put on a pair of slippers, then opened the door to take Jack outside. Instead, she saw the marquis standing there.

  She was almost blinded by his clothes, then noted they meant he was probably leaving Braemoor. She backed away, allowing him to enter.

  His green eyes were cool, his face expressionless. It was marred by a small black patch, an affectation he’d also used at their wedding.

  Wedding.

  “You are leaving?” she said rather stupidly.

  “Aye, lass. I thought you had better write a note for your brother. He must trust me.”

  “You are going now?”

  “Aye. I will reach Rosemeare tomorrow and hopefully get him out tomorrow night. You will leave tomorrow night with Alister. You both must disappear at the same time. Otherwise, if Cumberland learns one is missing, he will send men to guard the other.”

  “I still want to go with you.”

  “You canna. But we will meet not far from Rosemeare. I will have to return here shortly. Long enough to find you gone, swear to find you and the Black Knave and kill the bloody fellow.”

  She stared at him. “Why?”

  “Rory Forbes must die, love. He must never be suspected of being the Knave, or all of Braemoor will pay for it. I think this coat and wig will be readily identifiable.” He took out a couple of cards from his pocket. “A few jacks of spades,” he said. “You must leave one on the table. We want Cumberland to believe the Knave assisted you. You might need the others for one reason or another.”

  She nodded, grateful he did not tell her to hide them somewhere. He was beginning to trust her a wee bit.

  “Now the letter,” he said.

  She sat down and took a quill pen, dipping it into ink and quickly wrote her brother, wishing him a happy birth date, then adding that he could trust the bearer of the letter. She blotted it, then sealed the note.

  The marquis took it and placed it carefully in a pocket inside his waistcoat. He then reached out and fingered a curl. “You have bonny hair,” he said. “What did you do with it when you played the hero?”

  “I braided it tight and pinned it on top of my head, then put a loose cap over it.”

  He hesitated. “Could you bear to cut it?”

  “Aye,” she said readily.

  “You will be Alister’s apprentice if stopped.”

  “And Mary?”

  “His wife.”

  “I could be his wife,” she offered.

  “Too many attended our wedding, love. You might be recognized in a dress, but not as likely as a lad.”

  She would miss her hair, which fell nearly to her waist, but he was, and had been, risking far more. She nodded.

  “Sew the jewels into your clothes,” he added.

  Her gaze met his. Her lips trembled. She owed him so much. She wanted him so much. And yet he stood there coolly, his eyes expressionless as if last night had not happened.

  “If anything unexpected happens, lass, Alister has the name of a farmer with whom you can take refuge. As I told you, a ship will pick you up. The French captain has been paid and is reliable.”

  She nodded. She did not trust herself to say anything.

  His hand reached her and cupped her chin. “You and Dougal will make it, and you can live quite happily in France. There is a strong Jacobite community.”

  “And you?”

  He shrugged. “I am a wanderer, Bethia. I have already been here too long. You can get an annulment and be free of a bad bargain.”

  He was not a bad bargain at all. He was a very fine bargain.

  But she could not say that. He cared about another. “Thank you,” she whispered. “And Godspeed.”

  His gaze searched her face for a moment, then he turned abruptly, bowing with great courtliness. “I will meet you soon, lass.”

  Then he backed out the door.

  She went over to the window. She watched until she saw
him mount a waiting horse. She followed his image until he disappeared down the lane and out of sight. She would not see him again at Braemoor. When she saw him once more, they would be racing toward the coast. And Mary would be with them.

  I am a wanderer.

  Would Mary wander with him?

  He had made it clear that he did not want his wife, that he had married her only to avoid detection and, God help her, because he feared for her. She did not want pity. Not ever. And yet he had saved her from what could have been a truly terrible marriage.

  Dear God, keep him safe.

  Rory hated to punish a horse. He had no choice, though, but to push the animal to his limit. He did not have much time.

  He did not try to be careful. He took the main roads. Creighton would report his visit anyway, particularly after the boy disappeared. Rory would have to be long gone from Rosemeare when that occurred. He could not avoid the coincidence, but he could try to control the impressions made. He planned to be particularly obnoxious. God knew he had enough practice.

  Rory took with him his last image of Bethia. Damn it, but she was a gallant lass. Not many women would agree without argument to ride through nights, to risk her life for a brother. Bloody hell, probably none would agree so readily to cut her hair.

  Damnation. He still remembered last night, how she felt under him, how he felt in her. He’d known peace for the first time in his life. He’d felt loved, and he had loved, and that was unique to his life. It was truly magnificent, something he had never thought would happen. He could live with that fact alone the rest of his life.

  He rode until deep into the night, passing by a total of three patrols. He stopped to chat with each, asking whether they’d had word of the Black Knave, whether all the Highlands were still filled with patrols. If so, they most certainly would capture the fiend and make the roads safer and far more comfortable to traverse. He discovered they were moving as blindly as ever.

  He stopped at an inn to sleep, though he took only four or five hours to do so before leaving at dawn. He reached Rosemeare before noon.

  Rory had met Creighton before. He had been an English general who had been given Jacobite property. He was arrogant, supercilious and twice as obnoxious as Rory had ever thought to be.