One

Rory had never wanted to be laird.

Today he wanted it even less.

But he stood at his father’s grave on a cool, wet, dreary afternoon as members of the Forbes clan said farewells to their chieftain. Not even the bagpipes noted the burial of his father. After Culloden, their use had been frowned upon by Cumberland and King George, and there were rumors they would be outlawed completely.

He knew he should feel grief, but he didn’t, only a mild regret that there was none. His father had hated him, and demonstrated it every day of Rory’s life. If the estate and title had not been entailed, Rory had no doubt he would have been disinherited.

Nearly two months had passed since the battle at Culloden Moor. His brother, Donald, had died first, finally succumbing to a lingering fever after receiving a minor wound at Culloden. Ironically, it had been inflicted by his own sword when he had been chasing a Highlander and had tripped over a body. Rory’s father died two weeks later during a wild, angry ride at night across the hills. He’d apparently been hit by a low branch and found early the next morning with a broken neck.

Rory knew the eyes of his clan were on him. None was happy that he was to become the new Marquis of Braemoor. His father had made his contempt for his younger son obvious, particularly after Culloden. He had not spoken a word to him after Donald fell ill.

And now Braemoor was Rory’s. He dinna want it.

There were others who did, however, including his cousin Neil, who was glowering at him over the grave. Rory knew that Neil was wishing it was he in that grave, not the old chief.

Well, he would have to wait his turn. Rory had plans of his own at the moment. He rubbed his face, now cleanly shaven, as it had been since Culloden. He’d also cut his hair short and currently wore an English powdered wig, the hair tied neatly behind with a gaudy ribbon. In the past weeks he’d become even more the dandy, using his gambling winnings to purchase brightly colored trews and waistcoats. He was wearing a dark purple one this morning in honor of his father, whereas the other mourners—at least those who could afford it—wore black.

The new Marquis of Braemoor could do any bloody thing he wanted.

Up to a point.

He knew he would have been disowned after Culloden if he’d not reappeared on the battlefield in late afternoon with a wound and a tale of chasing some Highlanders. His father had not believed him, but neither could he call him a coward and liar without besmirching his own reputation, so he had allowed Rory to return home. Worried about his eldest son, the marquis had ignored the fact that his youngest son devoted most of his time to spending money and wenching with a tenant. Nothing had mattered but the heir.

Now Rory was the heir, and his father could do nothing about it.

The coffin was lowered into the grave, and a shovel thrust into his hands. He obediently shoveled dirt into the hole, hearing the thud of clumps on wood. Again, he felt a fleeting regret—not for the man, but for a small boy’s hunger for acceptance, an acceptance never granted.

He turned and looked toward the Braemoor, its cold stones looking forlorn in the steady rain. Then he looked at the dissatisfied faces of the clansmen around him. Only one face looked even remotely friendly, and that belonged to a man who wasn’t exactly of the clan. Alister Armstrong was the village smithy. He’d been orphaned as a boy, left to fend or starve as God willed. Rory had been but ten when he’d found him poaching, a hanging offense; but rather than turning him in, he’d convinced the blacksmith to take him on as an apprentice. Alister had been small as a lad, and the butt of jokes and pranks. Rory, another outsider, had taught him to read and write and had protected him; the friendship continued even after Rory was fostered to an English family.

Neil approached him. “Cumberland wants some of our men to help search the area for Jacobites.”

Rory was only too aware of the request. Even his father had grumbled about it. Rory remembered his father’s words now: They took my lad, he’d said. No more. I willna give them any more. “My father opposed sending any more men to him.”

“There’s been another request now that the man who calls himself the Black Knave is assisting Jacobites in their escape.”

“A myth. A tale. Nothing more,” Rory said. “If we send men after a phantom, then we give him credence.”

“Some of our men wish to go. They believe your brother should be avenged.”

Rory raised an eyebrow. “’Twas not an enemy sword that killed him.”

Neil’s face did not change. “It was in service of our king.”

Rory was not prepared to get into an argument with his cousin, the content of which might well be misinterpreted and spread first among the clan, then to the Duke of Cumberland. “We obeyed Cumberland and fought at his side. I myself was wounded. Our obligation is over. If you feel one, then you must do as you will. But you will not take a Forbes’s horse or weapon with you.”

He turned away and walked toward the tower house. He knew fifty sets of eyes were on him, watching and weighing what he did. Some would like his edict. Not many wanted to leave their wives and fields to fight fellow Scots again. But others would call it cowardice.

His position as clan leader was precarious, though as marquis no one could take his title and lands except the king. And he could take Rory’s head as well.

Activity in the tower house was humming. He had ordered a feast prepared for the mourners with copious amounts of ale and other spirits. He had need of muddled heads this evening, especially when the tower was so full.

He went into the tower house. The aroma of roasting meat permeated the lower floor and the huge banqueting hall. As the heir, he would give the toasts this night. He looked over the huge fireplace at the end of the room and the tapestries that hung on the side walls. The long table had already been set with goblets and pewter plates. He would sit at the head of the table for the first time.

And he would make a fool of himself.

He sensed, rather than heard, the presence of someone else. He turned.

“Alister,” he acknowledged.

“Milord,” Alister replied.

“I will be late tonight.”

Alister nodded in understanding. “I’ll let … our friends know.”

Rory nodded. “Tell them the Black Knave himself will take them to Buckie.”

“Is that wise?”

“I will be in disguise. They will never recognize the Marquis of Braemoor.”

Alister continued to hesitate.

“Besides, when have I ever been wise?”

Alister grinned. “Now you have me there, milord.”

“Our guests are a little skittish, and I canna blame them. Cumberland has offered a hefty reward for any of the McLeods. They willna trust a stranger.”

“I can always wear …”

“Ah, but you do not have the knack of becoming other people, as I do. So I must leave tonight. Make certain our guests are content.”

“I’ve added a wee bit of Mary’s magic to the ale. They will have troublesome heads in the morn.”

“Then you can tell them I have a worse one and wish them Godspeed.”

Boots stomping down on the stone floor interrupted their speech. Men started to crowd into the large hall, each of them heading for the pitchers of ale.

Rory made sure the pitcher of ale next to him was untainted, and watered. He drank gloriously during the meal, his toasts growing more and more elaborate as the night wore on. He finally collapsed on the table, and Alister and another man dragged him up to his room.

Two hours later, the great hall was filled with snores. Rory slipped down the stairs unobserved. He had other, more important, business this night.

“Horsemen coming!”

Rory rolled out of bed at the warning and looked outside. Noon. Or close to it.

He had been marquis for three months now, the Black Knave for four. The double life was exhausting him. He spent half his time riding at night about the country, the other half appearing to be wenching, gambling and drinking. He had turned the day-to-day management of Braemoor over to his cousin Neil, who regarded him with contempt. Rory didna give a farthing about that, only about the fact that Neil had talents he did not.

He pulled on some breeches and a fancy coat and left the chamber, taking the steps two at a time. Rory strode quickly through the hall, then to the entrance. Three riders in British uniforms had already dismounted and were filing inside. “We have a message for the marquis.”

Rory always felt more than a little unnerved at hearing his title. It still did not ring true. None of it seemed real. He’d been the outcast son. If not technically a bastard, then certainly he’d been treated as one these past thirty years.

“I am the Marquis of Braemoor,” he said.

“The Duke of Cumberland sends ye this message. He asked that I wait for a reply.”

Rory took the sealed piece of parchment. “You are welcome to wait inside. There is ale and food aplenty. I will have it sent into the hall.”

The sergeant looked grateful. “Our thanks, milord,” he said as they went into the great hall.

Neil was gone, and Rory went into the kitchen and ordered one of the kitchen servants to take food and drink to the troopers, then he went out to the stable. This was Alister’s day at Braemoor. He had a blacksmith shop in the nearby village, but he spent one day a week at Braemoor, shoeing horses and repairing tack.

He was standing outside the barn when Rory entered. “I saw them ride in,” he said.

“A personal message from Cumberland. Come with me and inspect the horses,” Rory replied. The two of them walked into the barn. Rory looked around.

“No one is here now,” Alister said. “Ned went to spy on the soldiers, pick up some gossip. Young Jamie’s exercising a horse.”

“Then let us see what the bloody bastard wants now.” Rory leaned against a stall and broke the wax seal, then quickly read the contents. He felt his stomach clench. He was ordered to marry a Jacobite lass; as a dowry, he would receive two substantial properties and all their rents.

Wordlessly, he handed the message to Alister. His friend’s eyebrows arched into question marks. “What are you going to do?”

“What would the Marquis of Braemoor do? The wastrel who is always in need of money? Who thinks of no one but himself?”

Alister sighed heavily. “Do you know anything of her?”

“Nay, but if she is Jacobite, she will want this marriage as little as I do. I canna imagine how she would agree to it.”

“She may have little choice.”

“Damn. It says by order of the king. But Cumberland’s behind this.”

“He obviously believes he does you a favor. He’s offering you a great deal of land and another title.”

“In return for marrying a wench who is probably long in the tooth and ready to stab me in the back the first chance she has,” Rory replied, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

“If you have been courting someone else …”

“Aye, but I ha’ not. I had precious little to offer any woman until now. Now I have a hangman’s noose, or worse.” Rory took back the letter and read it again. “The bloody bastard wants an immediate answer.”

“If you refuse, he will wonder why. ’Tis a more than generous dowry.”

“What about wedding a woman who will probably despise me?”

“I think tha’ is a matter of indifference to Cumberland. I am only surprised he has interest in a Jacobite lass, especially a MacDonell. He seems intent on wiping out any remnants of the rebels. There must be a personal interest we donna ken.”

“Which makes her even more dangerous,” Rory mused.

“You can always say you canna wed a Jacobite.”

“Aye,” Rory said. “I can do that. But if Cumberland presses me …”

“And with a dowry that large, and a request by the king through Cumberland, you canna say nay without rousing suspicions of being more than—”

“A wastrel and fool?”

“Aye, milord.”

“Let us see how much he really wants this marriage. I will send a reply that I canna wed a rebel. They were responsible, after all, for the death of my father and brother. Mayhap that will satisfy him.”

“Mayhap,” Alister said doubtfully.

“Mary could be affected by this, too,” Rory said. “My … dalliance with a tenant may not suit a new bride.”

“Aye,” Alister said carefully.

“Dammit,” Rory said. “Why now?”

“Because you are one of the few unattached loyalists, I imagine, and this lass is important to the king for some reason. We may never know why.”

Rory worried over that. Why would she be so important? Cumberland had certainly shown little mercy toward any Jacobite. A by-blow by some English favorite? He knew the lady’s name, and he’d not heard scandal attached to it. If she’d been a great beauty, he would most certainly have heard of that, also, so he immediately eliminated that possibility. So what was so important about the lady that Cumberland wanted her protected by marriage to a family loyal to the English king?

It did not make sense, and he did not like things that made no sense. Not now.

And he certainly did not like the idea of wedding a stranger.

But could he afford to raise questions? Or Cumberland’s wrath?

“I’ll pen a reply. ’Tis possible I can show Cumberland this is not a good idea, that I could not accept a Jacobite in the household.”

“It is worth a try,” Alister said, but his expression did not hold much hope for the idea.

Neither did Rory.

Bethia MacDonell stood stunned before the intimidating presence of Cumberland.

“Marry?” She hated the tremble she heard in her voice. She hated it almost as much as she despised the man standing in front of her, trying to bend her to his will. “But I was betrothed—”

“To a dead man, milady,” Cumberland said curtly and without sympathy. “He was a traitor. As you are a traitor. And your brother.”

She did not shiver at this description of herself. But tremors ran down her back as she heard the threat for her brother. He had only eleven years, but he had the courage and mouth of a much older lad. He had already insulted Cumberland, calling him a scurvy dog before Bethia could get him out of the room. She had agreed with that assessment, but she knew their lives stood in the balance.

Bethia looked around the walls of the castle, which had become a prison. She’d been brought here to Rosemeare with her brother and held in a tower room to await Cumberland’s pleasure. Her two oldest brothers had died at Culloden. Only her younger brother remained to carry on the name of their branch of the MacDonells. But there was little left remaining. Their estates had been confiscated, their clan members either killed or hunted.

Her betrothed, Angus MacIntosh, had been killed at Culloden. She thought of Angus: tall and fierce, even a little frightening, though he had always been kind to her. ’Twas not a love match, but she had been fond of him and had not objected to the betrothal which her older brother had arranged. Angus had been all warrior, all courage. A man—and leader—to admire.

She bit back her tears. She had not yet allowed one to fall, not when she’d heard about the deaths of her brothers, nor when Cumberland’s men took them from their home and burned out all their clansmen. Not when she’d heard of Angus’s death. She would be as strong as any of the men in her family. She would not, could not, show weakness.

“You are fortunate, Bethia,” Cumberland said. “You have a friend at court who asked me to look after you. But the king’s orders are quite clear. He wants no more Jacobite uprisings. Those who survive can do so only by submitting to his will.” His dark eyes pierced her. “Do you understand?”

She swallowed the bile in her throat. She had to protect Dougal, no matter the cost to her.

“The king has chosen a husband for you,” Cumberland said. “The Marquis of Braemoor. His family fought well at Culloden. I understand he is a pliable man.”

Pliable. Weak. A traitor not to the king, but to all the braw men who fought for Prince Charlie.

“Does he approve of a bride he has never seen?” she asked, hoping against hope that he would not. She was not a beauty, nor had she any dowry now.

“The king is making it well worth his while,” Cumberland said smugly. “He will receive confiscated estates. The Forbeses will guard them well from any additional uprisings.”

She wondered if her own family’s lands were among them. The bile grew even more bitter. She was not even to be sold. A man had to be bribed to take her, bribed most likely by her own property.

She searched her memory for any snatch of conversation about the Forbeses. She knew, of course, about Lord President Forbes. Because of his influence, several of the Highland clans refused to join the young prince. His name was an anathema to those Highland clans that did declare for the bonnie prince.

“I will tell the king you accept?”

She held her breath, her mind working feverishly. If she could take her brother and escape …

She knew there were people helping Jacobites escape. Prince Charlie was still free despite the huge reward offered for his capture. And there had been whispers lately of a man who helped fugitives. If she agreed, perhaps she and her brother could escape on the journey. She rode well; so did Dougal.

“I know nothing about the man,” she said desperately, already forming her plan. She could not give up too easily.

“You do not have to know anything, other than he’s loyal to the rightful crown and your king wishes it.”

She had no other protests. She’d already voiced them all.

Cumberland apparently took her silence for surrender. “We leave for Braemoor within the hour.”

“No.” The word escaped her before she could take it back. She tried to modify it. “I must get my brother ready.”

“Your brother will not be going. He will stay here, and Lord Creighton will convey your farewells.”

She could only stare at him. “I must see him,” she said after a moment’s pause.

“He has already been taken to another room. You will gather what you wish to take, and be ready to travel in thirty minutes.”

“Please.…” It was the hardest word she’d ever spoken. She’d sworn never to beg to her captors, but dear God, Dougal. How could she leave him alone after all he’d lost? How could she, too, disappear? The lord of this manor, the Earl of Creighton, was an Englishman. She’d been treated with the barest of courtesy, relegated to the meanest bedchamber. That did not matter to her, not after all her major losses, but it said a great deal about what her brother could expect. Especially if he was held hostage to her marriage.

Marriage. Her heart froze. Marriage to a traitor. To a weak man who would accept a wife in exchange for money.

But she did not matter. Her brother did.

She looked at Cumberland. “How will I know that my brother will be safe?”

“My word,” he said.

His word meant nothing to her. She was only too aware of his butchery since Culloden. He’d hunted down every surviving Jacobite, including women and children. Whole families had been burned alive. She bent her head so he wouldn’t see her hatred.

“You will be ready, then?”

“Aye,” she said in a barely audible voice.