“There is far more substance to you than you want to think,” she said.
“That is where you are wrong,” he said. “I ha’ never earned an honest pound in my life.”
“You are a marquis.”
“Aye, but I never earned it. It wasna even mine by blood.”
“You did honor to the title, though.”
“I think not,” he said. “Pompous. Arrogant. Terrible taste in clothing.”
His voice was so wry, she started to giggle. Or perhaps it was the exhaustion that made her laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
And he started laughing with her. His fingers tightened in hers, and then the laughter stopped when his lips claimed hers. Momentary tenderness yielded to raw hunger. His body rolled over onto hers and she felt his weight, and his warmth.
He groaned. Mayhap she did, too. Or perhaps it was a whimper. All her aches, all her exhaustion faded in her need for him. She would always have that need. She knew that. He had become as much a part of her as her own soul, her heart.
She no longer felt the cold, the damp chill of a Highland wind. She felt only the pleasure of his body, heard only the sound of their heartbeats, which seemed to pump in unison. She felt explosive, and wondered whether it was because of the danger, or because of the intimacy forced on him during the long rides. He had no way of escaping, as he had so many times before.
He untied the laces of her breeches, and the warmth flared into intense heat. Her entire body tingled and ached in another way now. A hauntingly familiar way. Not in protest but in anticipation.
She felt his intensity as his mouth moved away from her lips, down toward her throat, lingering there, his breath teasing and seducing her. But she needed no seduction. Her body was already afire, already wanting him.
Her hands went to the laces of his breeches. Her fingers, in their eagerness, fumbled uselessly. He quickly untied the laces and was back over her. She felt the swell of him, the hungry touch of his arousal against her most intimate part. His breath quickened, and their bodies moved closer in unspoken tandem.
Bethia closed her eyes as his body seemed to melt into hers. Obsessed with a craving so strong it eclipsed every other feeling, she arched her body in welcome. He moved down on her, entering with a deliberate slowness that made her cry out in exquisite need. She felt her own body move against his in instinctive, circular movements, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her.
Waves of pleasure washed over her as he quickened his rhythm, moving faster and faster in a sensuous dance that became more and more frantic. Bethia felt she was riding some incredible wave, a great force that was rushing them headlong to some splendid destination. Then he plunged one last time, filling her with billows of bursting sensations, each one greater than the prior one. His warmth flooded her, and she experienced a contentment she’d never before imagined. This time, she knew he cared about her. And cared more than he’d admitted.
He rolled over, his fingers touching her face, then his lips raining kisses on it. Soft, gentle rain. Life-giving rain.
Dear God, how she loved him.
They lay together for several moments, then he pulled up her breeches and wrapped the blankets around them both, their bodies still experiencing the aftershocks, the shuddering reminders of something quite miraculous.
She did not know how long they lay there, wrapped in a cocoon of their own wonder, despite the wind and rain and danger that existed outside.
“I love you,” she whispered. They were words she could no longer hold inside. They radiated from her like rays from the sun on a fine summer day. They wanted to burst out in shouts of joy. Instead, it sounded to her like an uncertain whimper.
His arms tightened around her, his fingers caressed her cheek. He had said he loved her in every way but the way she needed most. She needed to hear it from his lips.
And after a moment, she knew she would not.
It had been the danger that prompted her words, Rory told himself. He had felt her fear, and it had made him admire her more. Anyone could be brave if they did not fear. It took a truly courageous person to feel it and continue on.
But he had never felt himself worthy of love, and he still did not. He reminded himself again that he did not even believe in love. He had never ever seen it, so how could he possibly accept it as a lasting, living thing? And he could not escape the belief that she would be far better off without him. She was grateful now, but one day the time would come that he did not live up to expectations. He’d never lived up to expectations. Never.
His father had thought him a wastrel and fool. It had been drummed into his head so long, it had become a part of him.
Even now he felt that he’d survived these past few months because of luck rather than skill. He was as much a gambler with his life as he was with his cards. And what kind of husband would that make him?
So he merely kissed her once more and held out a hand to her, bringing her to her feet. He dressed, then helped her do the same. He looked at the sky. How long had they lingered? It was still dark, but dawn could not be far away. Fear struck him like the thrust of a knife. Too long. He knew they had been here far too long. Damn him. He might well have endangered her because he could not control himself.
The rain had slowed but mountains were eclipsed in mist. He fetched the horses, helped her up into the saddle of one. “We are likely to run into a patrol,” he said. “Alister had time to skirt this pass before the English learned of your escape. We did not.”
“That’s why you wore the uniform?”
“Aye, and why I am going to tie your hands. ’Twill be loose enough that you can get free when you need to.”
Her hand caught his, and held it tight for a moment. His heart pounded against his chest. How he wanted to make her warm and safe forever. With as much gentleness as possible, he tied her hands with a strip of cloth he cut from his shirt.
Then he took the reins of her horse, mounted his own and started down toward the gorge. He had to go slowly, the horse picking its way in the fog and dark. He had no idea how much time passed, but it must have been hours. He was almost beginning to believe they would not be accosted when he heard the sharp challenge.
“Halt and be recognized.”
He halted his horse and waited. Out of the mist materialized two English soldiers, one of them holding a musket on him, the other a lantern. Rory could barely see their faces, and suspected they knew of his approach only because of the noise of the horses. Now just to get by them.
“Yes?” he said in his most haughty voice.
“Your papers, sir?” the soldier said, holding up a lantern to shine light on him, then on Bethia.
“I am attached to His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland,” Rory said. “I am taking this lad to him.”
The light shone again on Bethia who ducked her face and slumped in the saddle. The lantern moved down to her bound hands.
“He the boy we’ve been lookin’ fer?”
“Aye, I expect so. The duke is in Inverness and wants him without delay.”
“I still ’ave to see orders.”
“His Grace was in a hurry. He did not give me any.”
“Then we will accompany you.”
“And leave your posts?” Rory said with mock outrage. The lantern was back on him.
“I ’ave to ’ave yer papers,” the man said stubbornly.
“It is your stripes, Sergeant,” Rory said indifferently. “If you leave your post despite orders from a superior officer, then it will be your court-martial, not mine.” He wished he knew how many were with this soldier. He saw one. How many more? Two? Three? Ten?
The sergeant hesitated, considering his own options. Then, apparently making up his mind, he said, “I will send two men with you.”
“How many men do you have, Sergeant?”
“Ten.”
Dammit, but he’d been right not to take them on. He shrugged. “’Tis said the Black Knave is in this area. You will be needing all your men, but I
have no time to argue with you.”
Some of the light from the lantern hit the sergeant’s face. It was just Rory’s ill luck that the sergeant looked more intelligent than most of the breed. He was going to obey his orders. No one was to go through the gorge.
The sergeant looked once more at Bethia, who had let what was left of her hair fall in her face. She looked sullen and defiant. “’E don’t look like much.”
“He thought to disguise himself,” Rory said. “But I can sniff out a Jacobite anywhere.”
The sergeant kept shining his lantern at Bethia’s face. “Mebbe you both should get down.”
“No, Sergeant. I will be court-martialed if I am not back before noon.”
“You will not make it, Captain. ’Tis a full day’s ride, maybe more.”
“You may not make it, Sergeant. I will. Can your men keep up with me?”
The sergeant bristled at the idea that his men could not keep pace with an officer. “They can.”
But he signaled his comrade to lower his weapon, and Rory knew he had won. Two men were one hell of a lot better than ten. And he did need fresh horses.
A half hour later, four riders emerged from the end of the gorge. Rory knew he had to act. Inverness was in the opposite direction of where he intended to go. When they got out of earshot of the sergeant and his patrol, he drew to a stop. “Our horses need a bit of a rest.”
The two English troopers nodded. Rory’s horses were lathered, their breathing heavy, and now Rory had an advantage. The sergeant had not been so easy to intimidate. These two troopers, faced with orders from one of Cumberland’s officers, would be.
He dismounted, took out a flask from a bag hanging from his saddle and took a long swallow. Then he held it out in invitation. “It is a raw night.”
The two troopers dismounted, and Rory winked at Bethia, who was still mounted. He tied the reins of her horse to a tree, then walked around to where the troopers would have her at their back.
One of the troopers reached for the flask and took a quick drink, his obvious disbelief at such largess from an officer fading in the glow of good brandy. The second man accepted the flask, greedily taking several swallows.
Reluctantly he returned the flask, and started to turn. Then they saw the lad holding a pistol on them.
One started for his musket in a sling across his back, but Rory moved faster. He slipped out his own pistol.
Then he bowed. “The Black Knave thanks you for your escort,” he said.
Their mouths fell open. Closed. Then open again. Like fish trying to grab air. He turned to Bethia. “Come here, lad,” he said.
Bethia slipped from the horse, keeping the pistol in hand. The two soldiers turned their gaze from him to the lad, then back to Rory, whom they obviously considered the most dangerous.
Rory waited until Bethia reached his side, then he put his pistol in its holster. “Shoot if either of them moves,” he ordered loud enough for them to hear. He then went to his horse, unsaddled it and cut the blanket into strips with a dirk he’d worn inside his breeches. He tied both men’s arms behind them.
“Come with me,” he said, starting up a wooded hill. The two English soldiers struggled up the hill, slipping and sliding. Bethia followed several feet behind, the pistol still in his hand. When they reached a level, secluded place, Rory backed them each to a separate tree, and told them to sit. He tied each to the tree, then tied their ankles together. Finally he gagged both of them. “I will send word to where you can be found,” he said.
Both men muffled protests, their eyes nearly frantic with fear.
Rory regarded them with contempt. “Unlike the English,” he said, “I do not take life for the pleasure of it.” He flipped a card next to them, then he took Bethia’s hand, and together they went back down the hill.
Rory took the saddle from Bethia’s mount, then the bits and bridles from the horses they’d been riding. He slapped the two weary horses, sending them off the path. Then he and Bethia mounted the soldiers’ horses and trotted east. Toward the coast.
Twenty-seven
Alister paced the main room of the small stone farmhouse not far from the coast. Rory and Bethia should have arrived by now.
The Frenchman would arrive in less than two hours. The rendezvous spot was a thirty-minute ride from here. Mary and ten Jacobites, all members of families marked for extinction by Cumberland, were already waiting near the beach. Alister had insisted that Mary go ahead. She would, he knew, reassure the others with her calm confidence.
Dougal remained with him. He had flatly refused to leave without his sister. They were a stubborn family, Bethia and her brother.
He went out the door and looked out, listening intently for the sound of hoofbeats.
The farmer and his wife were gone as well, visiting her sister who was having a child. Rory had suggested their absence, just in case anyone might see something suspicious. If caught, Rory would say he had come upon an empty house and used it.
So they had no fire and no light. Through the long evening and longer night, Alister had told the boy a little about Rory, and some of the families he had helped escape, including the first small group of two women and three children who had started it all.
Dougal came to the door and stood next to him, Black Jack tagging at his heels. The small black terrier, obviously confused by the absence of his mistress, followed the lad wherever he went.
Alister looked out at the clear sky. A part moon hung in the sky and stars dripped into the horizon. He swore softly. “We could use a bit of fog tonight, too. It is too clear.”
Dougal looked up the sky. “Still, I do not miss the rain.”
“Nor I, lad.” It had been a long, miserable ride the day before, but they’d had the whole of today to rest. Jacobites had been straggling into the farm for three days and had been told to wait up in the hills. This morning Alister brought them down.
Later in the day, a fisherman had brought a gift from the owner of the Flying Lady. He arrived with a wagon full of hay. Under the hay was a dead body. “The Knave ordered one,” he said.
Alister had looked under the hay gingerly. The man was naked. He had been tall and had dark hair. Little else was obvious, for his face had been bashed in.
“We were told not to make it happen,” the man said, “but this mon is a traitor. He be the one who informed on us. I caught him doing it again, asking questions about me and my brother. A spy for Cumberland.” He spit on the ground. “It was us or him.”
Alister knew Rory would not like it, that he would feel responsible for the man’s death. His friend had no taste for killing. Alister had no such qualms, so he merely nodded, then unloaded the body and watched as the wagon turned away down toward the road. He found a blanket, wrapped the body in it. It was already foul-smelling and stiff, and he knew he would have difficulty putting it on a horse, but it would have to be done. He knew exactly what Rory had planned.
But none of that would matter if Rory did not arrive.
God’s breath, but where was he?
“Do you think the English have taken them?” The lad’s voice quavered with uncertainty at finding his sister, then losing her again.
“Nay, Rory can outwit any of them. Something must have delayed him.” He looked at the boy, trying to prepare him for any possibility. “I donna know how long we can wait.”
“I will not go without Bethia.”
“And how do you think that will make her feel?” Alister countered, his voice harsher than he intended. “She has struggled to see you free and continue the MacDonell name.”
Dougal shook his head stubbornly. “She and the Black Knave risked their lives for me. How can I run away now?”
Alister took out a pocket watch and looked at it. “We have to go,” he said, ignoring the boy’s protest. “I will try to convince the French captain to wait for them.”
“I will stay here and wait,” the lad said stubbornly.
“Dougal,” Alister said with
as much patience as he could muster. “It is very late. Rory will take your sister directly to the rendezvous point. You do not want him to have to come back for you and miss the ship.”
’Twas the one argument that would sway Dougal, and it did. Indecision spread over his face.
“I will go with you,” the lad finally conceded. “But I willna sail without her.”
That, Alister thought, would be another battle.
Alister thought to leave a note and hunted for a quill and pen and paper in the event Rory did come here first. There was none. Damnation. Nothing was going as it should this night. He would also have to take the body with them. He could not leave it where an English patrol might find it and blame the residents of the farm. He took one last look at his watch, then went out to saddle the horses. The lad could ride with him; the body would have to ride on the other horse.
Where were Rory and Bethia?
Rory looked up at the sky. The part moon was riding high. He knew he was late. They’d had to detour twice because of heavy English patrols. He also took a precious few moments to stop a farm lad and tell him to inform the nearest magistrate about the location of the bound English soldiers. He gave the lad a half pence and made him swear he would deliver the message.
It had been the best he could do.
Then they had ridden as if all the demons in hell were after them. They were hours late. The urgency kept gnawing at him. He had been careless back where they’d rested. They had lingered far too long. Because of his own weakness, he had been unforgivably careless. Not because of what she had done, but because of the way she affected him. If only he had not given in to her warmth last night, to the comfort of her arms. His lack of self-control was abominable because of one very real possibility: he might have cost Bethia her life.
Guilt ate at him. Except for brief pauses to rest the horses, he kept them moving. Mayhap they could make the coast in time. But he knew he was driving her to the very limit of her strength. He could not even stop long enough to hold her, to reassure her. He was so angry at himself, he was not sure he could do that anyway.
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