The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  Rory passed through Cumberland’s lines on two separate occasions, each time diverting the attention of the soldiers as Bethia skirted alongside.

  He had muttered to himself more than once. The one thing he had in his favor was the miserable weather and the tired king’s troopers. They knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. The fact that he offered them a drink from his personal flask made them protective … both of him and of themselves. Each one would be cashiered for such a weakness, and yet they stood shivering in a cold rain, bored beyond caring, stopping every farm wagon, every tinker, every traveler.

  As he engaged them in conversation, Bethia passed in back of them and disappeared behind a hill or a stand of trees.

  Part of him objected to her presence. The other was well pleased with her company. She would be gone before long, and he treasured the moments in her company. He loved her wit, admired her determination, reveled in the warm companionship they shared. Still, in the moments they were alone, they shared nothing of importance. He had noticed how quiet she’d been after he had kissed Mary. Part of that kiss had been natural, an affection he had always had for her. Another part, however, had been still another disguise. He couldn’t seem to rid himself of them. It was both a disguise and armor, weapons he’d used to protect himself since a boy. A habit too ingrained to change.

  He had used Mary as part of his armor. He did not know how to take it off.

  Still, he had seen the hurt in Bethia’s eyes, the set of her stubborn chin. But then they had never talked of love. They had made love, true enough. Passion … lust … need … loneliness. He had tried not to see more in it.

  She would be far better off without him.

  They reached the cave near Braemoor at dawn. He moved the brush protecting it and led the horses inside, taking them to the back. He helped Bethia dismount, then used a flint box to light a candle. He watched her eyes widen as she looked around. There were several boxes, some blankets and a neat pile of clothes, including a British uniform. He went to one of the boxes and took out a bottle of brandy.

  Her eyes widened.

  “This is just one of my caches,” he said. “I have two others, including the one at Mary’s.” He handed her the brandy. “Here, drink some. It will warm you. And change your clothes. Pick whatever you like. I wish I could build a fire, but that might not be wise.”

  She took the bottle and tried a sip. Then she gave it to him. “You, too,” she insisted.

  He took a long swallow, then set it down on one of the boxes. “Get some sleep,” he said. “You will be safe here.”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were huge, with dark exhausted circles around them. Her face was streaked by rain and mud. “How long should I wait?”

  “No later than noon, or you willna be making the coast in time. If I am not back, promise me that you will go.”

  He saw the stubborn lift of her chin. “Your brother will need you, lass. You canna forget that.”

  She looked so forlorn that he took her in his arms, held her tight against him. He felt her arms going around his neck, felt the shudders of her body. He felt her exhaustion. If only he had convinced her to stay at the hunting lodge.

  His hand smoothed her hair. So short. He would miss those long tresses. But she would always be bonny to him. Always.

  He leaned down and kissed her. He had not meant to do that, but an inner force was far stronger than his will. His lips played with hers for several seconds, and then he turned his cheek, and his now rough one simply lay against hers. Rory relished the soft feel of it. He loved her so bloody much, and never more than at this moment.

  And he could not keep from telling her so. Not when he knew he might not come back.

  His fingers caressed the back of her neck.

  Then she looked up, and he saw more than warmth there. More than affection. More than gratitude.

  He closed his eyes against the power of it. “Bethia,” he whispered as his lips caressed her face. He tasted moisture and knew from the saltiness that it was not rain. “Ah, love,” he said. To hell with his armor. To hell with a disguise of his heart.

  Braemoor was dangerous. He knew that well. He also knew this trip was probably part of a recklessness he could no longer afford. Aye, he wanted none at Braemoor to be affected by his actions, but was he unnecessarily endangering Bethia by acting a role that had overtaken him?

  He hesitated.

  “Go,” she said softly. The magic between them, the instinctive understanding that radiated between them, seemed to have grown with every day. Her fingers touched his face.

  “You are so bonny,” he said.

  “I am not,” she said. “I must look like a drowned rat.”

  He chuckled. “I donna think so, lass. A mouse, mayhap.”

  She pinched his ear.

  He needed to go. They did not have much time. They had seen far too many patrols, and he did not doubt that there was one at Braemoor. He needed to get in and out before Cumberland put in an appearance. And the duke would. He had too much at stake.

  His lips came down on hers. Hard. Fierce. Protective. Even desperate. He felt her mouth opening to him. He could not say the words. He knew, though, that he was telling her in another way.

  He could not see her eyes. He wondered if they were filled with the same hunger that he felt. It was a wild, uncontrolled thing that shook him to the core. Somehow, she had become a part of him, as vital to him as breathing. Their bodies melded together, clinging together, just as their lips did.

  He finally released her lips, but he could not yet let go of her. He clung to her for a moment, saying nothing. His voice would give him away. He would be stammering like some young lad.

  In the end it was her strength. “Go quickly,” she whispered, “and return quickly.”

  “Aye, lass,” he managed.

  And he was gone.

  Twenty-six

  Lights were visible at Braemoor. Horses were tied outside the tower house, and Rory knew they had visitors. But not Cumberland, not yet. There were not that many horses.

  He strode in as if he owned the place, which, to his continued amazement, he did.

  Torches in sconces dimly lit the hall, and he saw sleeping forms in the great hall. He went directly to Neil’s room. He knocked loudly, and the door opened far faster than he thought possible.

  His cousin stared at him. “I thought you would be long gone,” Neil said softly.

  Rory saw knowledge in his cousin’s eyes, but he aped indifference. “Why?”

  “Your wife is gone. Your brother-in-law is gone.”

  “Are they?”

  Neil smiled. He was dressed in breeches and a shirt. ’Twas obvious he had not been sleeping. “So I hear,” he said. “The boy was missing this morning, and Creighton sent a messenger to tell us to keep an eye on your wife. It seems he was too late. I sent word to Cumberland a few hours ago, just before the men you saw in the great hall arrived.”

  “Why did you wait so long?”

  Neil shrugged. “She might have been with you somewhere. I dinna wish to disturb the duke unduly.”

  “That was surprisingly judicious.”

  “I visited a certain cottage and found a few interesting items. I would suggest that either you, or I, destroy them. Or find a safer place for them.”

  “I am beginning to see that you have possibilities, Neil.”

  “I have missed too much too long,” Neil replied. “I regret that.”

  Their gazes locked. “We both have regrets,” Rory said. “But now I want to try to ensure that no harm came to Braemoor.”

  “Is that why you came back?”

  Rory hesitated. But then he knew that Neil was already aware of his other identity. If it was over, then it was over. “Aye. I had to receive the bad news about a wayward wife and go after her. I plan to chase the Knave and regain my wife. Unfortunately, I will be killed by the villain. No one then will suspect you or anyone remaining here of being accomplices.”


  Neil’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Remaining here?”

  His cousin was far more intuitive that Rory thought. But Mary and Alister were gone now. “Mary and Alister are leaving also. You might have to find an excuse for that.”

  “Aye,” Neil said. “I dispossessed the wench when you met an untimely death. Alister went with her. Do you need any funds?”

  “You have more than possibilities, Cousin. Thank you, but nay. I am a passing fair gambler and have managed to accumulate enough funds to get started. You need what is here. You might lose the estates Bethia brought.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I am not sure, yet. If you ever receive a deck of cards, though, you will know the sender.”

  Neil nodded. “You had better go. Those men downstairs were exhausted when they came in, but they will be combing every bush tomorrow. I imagine Cumberland will be here in the next several days.”

  “You will be all right?”

  “Aye. I think I have learned a great deal during the past several weeks.” He held out his hand. “I wish I had known you better.”

  “And I you, Neil. But I know you will take good care of Braemoor.”

  “I will try.”

  Rory grinned, then picked up a pitcher from the table and threw it against the wall. “The hell you say,” he roared loud enough to wake the dead, much less soldiers used to sleeping lightly.

  With one last rueful grin toward Neil, he went out the door, taking the steps three at a time, cursing loudly. He made enough noise to wake several regiments and kicked a sleeping man wearing sergeant stripes. “Hey!”

  “Sleeping when you should be after my wife,” he roared angrily, then disappeared out the door. He grabbed the best looking of the horses. His own, he knew, was exhausted. Before any of the soldiers could react, he was galloping down the road.

  Bethia could scarcely breathe. Someone was chasing her and Dougal. They were running, and she knew they couldn’t go much further. Then she heard the sound of horses behind them. She grabbed Dougal’s hand and they went falling, slipping down a mountain into a black bog.

  “Bethia.” She heard his voice. Fear still pounded at her, though. A stark, terrifying fear.

  “Bethia. Wake up.”

  “Rory,” she whispered.

  “You were whimpering,” he said, taking her hand. “A bad dream?”

  “We—Dougal and I—were being chased.”

  “’Tis a natural enough nightmare,” he said softly, his fingers squeezing hers.

  “I’ve had them before.”

  “Now I am with you. And I will not let anything happen to either of you.”

  There was no candlelight in the cave, but she saw his comforting bulk. She sat up. “Is it time to leave?”

  “Aye. I have just stolen a fresh horse and awakened a whole room of English soldiers. They will probably be angry as hornets, but I know every foot of Braemoor and the land around us.”

  She did not want to let go of his hand. The lingering fear from the nightmare was still too raw, too fresh. But she forced herself up. The moment she did, he lit the candle and she watched as he quickly changed from his fine clothes into an English uniform. He stuck pieces of cotton in his mouth, which completely changed his face and his voice. Then she watched as he very carefully rolled up the bright waistcoat and breeches he had been wearing and bundled them into saddlebags.

  “Ready?”

  Nay, she was not. She would be happy never to see a horse again, much less a saddle. “Aye,” she said as enthusiastically as she could.

  He grinned as if he realized the depth of her deceit. “In less than twenty-four hours we will be sleeping in a fine ship,” he said.

  “The horses cannot go that far.”

  “We will do a bit of trading along the way,” he said. “The English always take exactly what they want.”

  “And me?”

  “My prisoner, little one,” he said. “If we are caught.”

  He helped her into the saddle this time. Then he led both horses out of the cave. Once outside, he swung up into his saddle. He urged the horse into a trot, then a canter as the first gray of dawn filtered through the lingering fog.

  Bethia thought she would welcome even a nightmare. Her hands and face were scratched, her body ached in places she had not known existed. They rode four hours, rested for one, then rode four again. He led them through woods and across mountains, avoiding any roads, but both they and the horses paid for it. Branches had beaten against them most of the way.

  At midday, the horses were exhausted. She and Rory dismounted. He found what he hoped would be a safe place for Bethia to rest. He left her there, taking the horses with him. He returned two hours later with two fresh ones.

  “A matter of a small trade,” he explained. “Since my horses were better than theirs, ’twas easy enough.” They were immediately on their way again.

  Rory slowed at midafternoon. A cold drizzle persisted, and mist shrouded the hills and then mountains. The terrain had become steep as he and Bethia traveled deeper into the mountains. At times they dismounted and led the horses, at others she clung to the saddle as they climbed narrow paths.

  Only Rory’s presence kept her going. At times she started to fall asleep and felt herself leaning forward, then would shake herself. He cast frequent glances toward her, giving her smiles of approval.

  She almost fell off the horse when he stopped. He caught her as she slid off the horse and held her in his arms for several moments while she steadied. Her legs hurt so badly she dinna know if she could ever mount again. He seemed to understand. He thrust the reins of the horses in her hand, then picked her up as if she were no heavier than a piece of firewood.

  He walked, obviously trying to find a place to rest. Finally he selected a piece of ground under an overhang of rock that would protect them from the rain. He gently lowered her, then unsaddled the horses, taking the blankets and spreading them out on the ground. He hobbled the horses so they could graze.

  When he was through, he unbuckled his waist belt with its pistol, took the musket from its sling on his shoulder belt and sat down next to her. He offered some brandy from the bottle they had shared in the cave. The liquid burned all the way down, warming her. He then offered her some damp bread.

  He watched as she ate, shaking his head. “I should no’ have brought you, lass.”

  “I can keep up with you,” she said indignantly.

  “I have no doubt of your courage. You have proved tha’ over and over again. But God’s truth, I am tired. We both need rest. There is a gorge ahead, the only way across this part of the mountains, and I am sure it will be patrolled. We will have to cross it in the dark of night.”

  She closed her eyes, the brandy’s warmth dulling some of the aches. His arms went around her, and she was enveloped in them. He smelled of damp leather and horse, and it was finer than any perfume. She felt safe. So safe.

  Bethia had reached the limit of her strength. He had been a fool to bring her, and yet he’d known she would have found one way or another to follow.

  His arms tightened around her as he lay down under the overhang. It was dry here, but she was still damp. So was he. He was also hungry. His stomach growled angrily, but he still rationed their food. He had brought only one loaf of bread, and it had to sustain them for another day. He dared not go where he might be seen to fetch more. He’d already taken too many chances.

  They still had thirty miles to go. And they would have to change horses at least one more time. That would be the riskiest part of the journey. Unfortunately they were not traveling close to the Innes property where they could trade horses; he’d judged that part of the Highlands would be saturated with English soldiers.

  Bethia went limp in his arms, and he knew she was asleep. He felt safe enough here to risk some sleep himself. If all went according to plan, they should reach the coast tomorrow night in time for the French ship. His fingers touched one of her curls. Dear God, how he l
oved her.

  ’Twas his last thought as his eyes closed.

  Bethia woke in his arms. For the fleetest of seconds, she felt terror. She could see nothing; it was as if she were in a bottle of ink. She could feel the cold wind, though, and feel the rain it blew under the overhang.

  She was stiff. When she moved her legs, the agony made her gasp. Every bone in her body ached, screamed, moaned. When she tried to snuggle back in his arms she felt him stir, then wake suddenly, his voice sharp. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I just woke up.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Ah, lass. This has been a hard day for you, and I fear it will be a harder night.”

  But she was with him, and that was all that mattered. She wanted him next to her every day of her life. Her left hand found its way into his, her fingers intertwining with his. These past few days had been the most frightening, exhausting, and painful of her entire life, yet she would not have given up even one minute.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He chuckled. “For dragging you through ha’ of Scotland in the rain?”

  “For helping me, Dougal. For making me a part of it.” Her voice broke. She wanted to say more.

  “Ah, lass. I would hand you the moon if I could. Instead, I give you rain and danger and endless journeys.”

  “With the Black Knave.”

  “The Black Knave no longer exists. I wonder if he ever did.”

  “All the Highlanders believe he exists. He gave them hope.”

  “The Knave is naught but an illusion. Like a rainbow consisting of a few rays of sun and a little mist. Nothing solid, lass. Nothing that lasts.”

  And nothing that could be held on to.

  “And Mary?” She could no longer keep the question to herself.

  “A friend, lass. Nothing more. She was part of the play. She loves Alister and Alister loves her. I needed an excuse when I was away from Braemoor. I could not always claim Edinburgh since it was too far, and there were too many people who should have seen me. And so I found a mistress.”

  For a moment, she wanted to strike him again, just as she had struck him when she’d discovered he was the Black Knave. Instead, her fingers tightened around his. He did not love Mary. She was relieved and elated and puzzled all at once. What else kept him from her? She knew he cared about her, perhaps even loved her.