Three

Rory couldn’t contain a certain uneasiness, even tension, as he awaited the MacDonell lass.

He would rather face a hangman, he thought, than a bride. Any bride. But especially a hostile one.

But mayhap she would be pliable, happy to have a title, even one granted by a Hanover.

A knock came at the door. What would the fop, Rory Forbes, do? Certainly not commit the courtesy of rising.

“Come in,” he said loud enough to penetrate the door and half rose from the chair he occupied.

He immediately knew his betrothed was no meek maiden. The lass entered alone, her back rigid, a frown of disapproval on her face.

“Lady Bethia,” he acknowledged.

He saw her gaze study him. Blue eyes. Dark like the Atlantic seas. And, at the moment, as angry as when a storm swept them.

He returned her weighing look. Obviously Trilby had taken great care with her hair which, along with her eyes, appeared to be her best feature. ’Twas the color of mahogany, dark and rich with just a sheen of red. A single braid, laced with flowers, fell nearly to her waist.

The face was too thin and angular to be considered pretty. Her chin was well defined and now it jutted out a mile in stubborn rebelliousness. His bride’s mouth was wide, though her lips were pressed tightly together in a thin line. Her nose, sprinkled with a smattering of freckles, was the one regular feature.

It was difficult to imagine what a smile would do to the totality of that face. But still, ’twas an interesting face, illuminated by strength and intelligence. If she was frightened at the prospect of an unknown bridegroom, she didn’t show it. He was immediately intrigued and that, he knew, was disastrous.

“I hope you find your new home satisfactory,” he said after a long, stilted silence.

“No,” she challenged him. “It is a pigsty.”

She was quite right about that, and he could barely hold back a smile at her audacity. Instead, he merely raised an eyebrow in his most supercilious manner.

“Nor are the manners any better,” she continued. “I observed how interested you were in my arrival.” Her gaze rested on him with open contempt, and he knew she found him as unappealing as he’d hoped. Well, wasn’t that what he wanted?

“Dare I hope that you were that eager to see me?”

Fury sparked in her eyes, making them really quite lovely. “Hardly,” she said. “However, I did expect a modicum of courtesy.”

He shrugged. “I had other business.”

“Other business?”

“Aye,” he said, waving a handkerchief under his nose as if he smelled something disagreeable. “I have many interests.”

He saw distaste deepen in her dark blue eyes.

“You do not want this marriage?” he said.

“No.” The reply was so quick and harsh, he nearly flinched. Why did he have such a reaction? Bloody hell, he didn’t want it, either.

He stood and walked around her, ogling her, making his possession obvious to her. “Then why did you consent?”

“Why did you?” she snapped back. “Could you not get a wife any other way?”

“My title and wealth insures a wife,” he said, “and one of my own choosing. However, you come with a princely dowry.”

He saw the enmity in her eyes. A shiver ran down his back. He’d thought he could finesse this marriage, give his bride dresses and comfort and forget about her, as he’d seen so many men do. But now he wondered whether anything would placate her.

“I answered your question,” he said. “It is your turn now. Why did you agree?”

“My little brother would die if I did not.”

He forced his eyes to remain blank. “A lot of people have died,” he said emotionlessly.

“Including my other brothers,” she said. “I will not lose Dougal.”

“And so you consent to this marriage?”

“Out of necessity, aye,” she said. “That should give you no pleasure.”

He hesitated. He saw not only the anger in her eyes, but the anguish. Despite her harsh words, he saw her fear. If nothing else, he could do something about that.

“I am not enamored by you either,” he said cruelly. “But I am interested in the lands you will bring to me. I have no desire to share a bed with you; I have other interests. So, madam, I will make a bargain with you. We will wed, because neither of us has a choice, but I will not interfere with you and you will not interfere with my life. Is that agreed?”

She stared at him. He saw her hands clasp one another, and he saw her face struggle for control. “You have a choice,” she said bitterly.

He regarded his fingernails carefully. “You obviously do not know the Hanover. He wishes to gift me with lands and with your hand. One does not refuse a king.”

Her eyes flickered with suspicion. “Why should I believe you?”

He flicked his lace handkerchief again in a gesture of complete disinterest. “I care not whether you believe me or not. I can do whatever I wish with you. Surely, you are aware of that. You are considered a traitor to the crown. You have been given a reprieve because Cumberland believes this alliance might benefit King George. You have little choice in the matter.”

“Then … why?”

“Because I do not think we suit, madam, and I want something from you, also. I want the freedom to conduct my life as I have without questions or nagging or interference. Or copious tears. Therefore, I propose a truce beneficial to both of us.” He leered at her. “Unless, of course, you feel compelled to consummate the wedding?”

“Will they not—”

“Check the sheets? Most certainly. However, blood these days is rather readily available.”

She winced, and her face flooded with color. He suspected she’d never discussed such intimate things before.

“Madam?” he repeated the question.

“Can I ride? Leave the grounds?”

Amusement intermingled with admiration. She was in no position to bargain, and yet she was trying to do exactly that.

“Mayhap after a certain … adjustment,” he said.

Her blue eyes narrowed. He wondered for a split second whether he had said too much, given her power he couldn’t afford her to have. He had to smother it. “We will marry within the week. I have already invited other clans to the ceremony,” he said. “And you will learn to do as I say. I merely wish to … make it as tolerable as possible for both of us.”

“Tolerable,” she said in a cold, furious voice. “Tolerable? Married to a traitor, a man who would kill his own countrymen, who …” She stopped as her eyes raked him with contempt. “Or were you even there?”

“Oh, I was at Culloden, my lady, though it was not my wish. Battle is such a waste,” he said with a flick of his wrist.

“My brothers didn’t think so,” she said in a low voice.

“We may have met,” he said with indifference. He didn’t like the way she was affecting him, the sympathy welling inside him. It was too dangerous.

The anger in her eyes turned to something akin to hate. “They died there. They were far better men than you,” she said. “As was the man I was to marry.”

He waved the handkerchief again, as if to shoo away an insect. “Did you love him?”

“Aye.”

He felt the slightest twinge in his heart, then instantly berated himself. Why did he care whether she had loved before?

He shrugged, then fixed his gaze on her clothes again. “You will need better clothes, and a fine gown for the ceremony.”

She looked at him with something like triumph. “This is all I have, this, and a faded riding costume.”

“I will have dressmakers call upon you. They should have a dress ready in time for the ceremony. Lord Cumberland himself has said he will attend.”

“Am I supposed to be pleased at that? What other fine gifts do you have for me?” she asked sarcastically.

“You have a tart tongue, my lady.”

“You can always send me back,” she tempted.

“Are you willing to risk the consequences?”

She hesitated, then he saw a wily look in her eyes. “I want my brother. Will you bring him here?”

Sympathy welled up in him. She was trying to bargain, even when her position was untenable. He wished he could accede, but he couldn’t. He forced a harshness he didn’t feel. “I’m told he is a ward of Cumberland. There is nothing I can do.”

“You see nothing wrong with using an eleven-year-old boy as a weapon?”

“You do not understand Scotland, today, my lady. Everyone is using whatever—and whoever—they can to survive.”

“There is honor left.”

“Honor? Surely you must know that honor left this land long ago.”

“It certainly left the Forbeses.”

“I would not be saying those words at Braemoor,” he said. “My brother died of a wound inflicted at Culloden.”

Her chin went up. “I have heard of what you—and your fellow traitors—did after the battle. Did you, too, enjoy killing women and children? How can you even call yourself a Scot?”

“You had best watch your tongue. There is little tolerance for Jacobites here. Your beloved Prince Charles is no’ one to be holding up as honorable. He ran, leaving all of his followers to die. ’Twas his lack of leadership that led to your defeat. Think not to find sympathy here.”

“I did not expect to find anything here.”

“Well, then, neither of us will be disappointed,” he said. “Do we have a bargain?”

She hesitated. “What exactly would you have me do?”

“You will play the dutiful wife.”

“And you the dutiful husband?”

“Nay. But you will not complain.”

“No?” she said. “I find plenty for which to complain. This … house may be fit for those who ape the English, but no’ for a self-respecting Scot.”

He held back a smile. He’d wondered if she would get back to the condition of the tower house. He had to admire her spirit. And her powers of observation. Braemoor was in dismal condition. With no woman in charge, his father, never too fastidious in his personal habits, had allowed slovenliness to permeate the tower house.

He shrugged carelessly. “Then it is your duty to bring Braemoor up to your high standards.”

She glared at him. “What do I care for Braemoor? Cumberland … and his allies are savages. No wonder you live this way.”

He sighed heavily. “I have no time for this. I can still tell Cumberland that I have no desire to marry a shrew. To hell with the estates. ’Tis not worth it.”

“My … brother?” Her voice suddenly broke.

“He is not my concern.” The sudden hopelessness in her eyes stabbed him. He wanted to gentle his tone, to tell her he would try to find a way to rescue her brother, but too many other lives were at risk. He could not deviate from a role he’d so carefully created.

“Is anything your concern?”

“Aye. My pleasure.”

The look she cast his way would have quailed a dragon.

“You have not agreed to my … proposal,” he said.

“But I have no choice, do I? Do you want an answer merely to enjoy my helplessness?”

“I do not believe you will ever be helpless,” he responded without thinking. ’Twas not within his role to admit that. He should care nothing about other people, nor make thoughtful observations of them.

She narrowed her eyes and he realized she’d caught the inconsistency. She was no simpleton. He would have to be even more careful than he thought.

“I enjoy my life,” he said with a yawn. “I want no lass complicating it with complaints.”

“I will have no complaints if you stay away from me.”

“Ah,” he said, ignoring the insult. “Then we do agree. You manage Braemoor, and I will pursue my own pleasures.”

He saw her tremble. He watched the spirit fade from the indigo blue. He had not wanted to humble her, but he’d had little choice. He didn’t want her to look his way too closely. If she had even a hint of his activities, then might she not trade the price on his head for her own freedom? Or that of her brother?

“I will expect you to be ready for the wedding in a week. I will send out messengers announcing the happy union.”

It was a dismissal. Her face flushed red, then she turned and, her head held high, left him.

A marriage to that self-absorbed popinjay? Her heart froze at the prospect.

At least he wouldn’t claim her in bed. He said. Claimed. Promised. The last thought lingered in her mind. His pledge meant nothing.

But then why would he make it? He held all the power. He’d accurately described her position.

Her hand clutched at her skirt. If only she could have stood beside her brothers on the battlefield. That was true courage.

Her mind went over the man she’d just left. She could tell little about him with that ridiculous wig. His eyes, though, had been hazel. Or had they? They had been chameleon, the color changing with the subtle variations of light. But they had been cold eyes. She knew that. Cold and emotionless. He had made it clear that his only interest in her was the wealth she could bring him.

Almost blindly, she stumbled toward the steps. She was completely trapped. At least he said he wouldn’t force himself upon her. Or was that just a lie to make her more malleable? To keep her from fleeing before the ceremony? She had hoped against hope that she could find something worthy in her husband. But there had been nothing. Nothing at all. Not strength, or character, or humor, or understanding.

“Angus,” she whispered desperately. “I need you.”

Her wedding day was as cold and bleak and heartless as she’d known it was going to be.

Despite the number of guests, she soon realized her husband was not held in high regard by either his own clan or the visitors.

How was she ever going to get through the mockery of a ceremony?

She had never been so lonely, and so alone.

Trilby tried to cheer her up. She’d placed flowers in the room, and had chattered endlessly about “powerful folk” attending the wedding.

“The lord is handsome,” the maid said hopefully, as she smoothed out the silk of Bethia’s dress.

Handsome? He did not wear a beard as so many Scots did, but she had been unable to see much under the disdain and vacuousness he had displayed that day of their … interview. Mayhap his features were physically pleasing, but she’d been taught long ago that character created beauty, and this man obviously had little of the former.

Coward. She had heard that word expressed several times. His clansmen didn’t even seem to care if anyone listened. He’d apparently disappeared during the battle at Culloden, only to appear much later with a slight wound.

Gambler. He had lost fortunes, according to the whispers.

Womanizer. He often visited some woman in the woods near the stream that ran through the property. Stayed for days doing God only knew what. Some even said the woman was a witch.

Husband. That was the worst description of all.

She also had learned in the week she’d been at Braemoor that his hereditary position of laird was in danger. The only thing that held the clan to him was his ownership of their lands, and they could do nothing about that. The grumbling was loud, however, and bitterness strong.

She understood why, too, as she listened to Trilby. The late marquis had started to move crofters from Forbes’s lands, buying sheep and cattle to occupy what had been small farms. There had been hope that after the rebellion he would honor those clansmen who had fought with him and allow them to stay on the land.

They had no such hope for the new marquis, who seemed interested only in his own pleasures. The fact that he’d seldom visited Braemoor before his father’s death reinforced their fears that he would be naught but an absentee landlord. Everyone expected the young marquis to drain his lands of the people who had farmed it for centuries.

Rory Forbes had done nothing to allay their fears. Instead, he disappeared for days at a time.

And now all his efforts had apparently gone into providing a great feast—at great expense—for their wedding.

Three hundred guests or more had made themselves at home in the great hall and endless chambers at Braemoor. She’d heard their toasts and drunken laughter for the past two nights. She’d even had to avoid their overly active hands as she’d tried to move unnoticed the few times she had visited the spacious kitchens. She would soon be mistress, and she wanted to know the servants, the cook, the housekeeper. But all had turned their backs on her as if part of some vast conspiracy. “Jacobite.” She heard the word whispered as if a curse. They may not care for their lord, but they seemed to dislike Jacobites even more.

She’d finally retreated. Temporarily. She would find a way to win their loyalty once she was married. She’d always had loyalty from those who had worked for her family. Kinsmen all, they were more family than servants. She remembered the mornings in the kitchens. The smell of pastries baking in the huge fireplace, the warm clucking of the cook, the blast of heat on a cold, wet day …

Family, warmth, safety.

She shivered, and Trilby’s hands stilled.

“You look so bonny,” Trilby tried desperately to comfort her.

But she was not bonny. She had never been pretty, though she’d been told she had pretty hair. She thought it too straight, too dark. Just as her lips were too wide and her chin too sharp. She didn’t even care about that now. In truth, mayhap it had been her plain looks that had prompted the marquis to offer an arrangement that would keep him from her bed.

A knock came at the door. A man’s voice filtered through the door. “The vicar is ready.”

Bethia swallowed through the rock in her throat. She’d had no attendants other than Trilby. Rory’s mother had died years earlier, and the marquis had not married again. Donald Forbes’s wife had died in childbirth, as had the babe. So Rory Forbes had no women in his immediate family. And apparently because she was Jacobite, none of the guests had offered to help her.

But Trilby had provided all the help she needed. All she wanted. She did not think she could stand the ministrations of women who made no secret of their contempt. To them, she was a papist.

Trilby squeezed her arm. Her one ally.

Bethia tried to smile for Trilby’s sake and went to the door, opening it.

She recognized the man who faced her. She had seen him about the courtyard.

“The marquis sent me to escort you,” he said.

So his lord—and soon to be hers—was afraid she might flee after all. God knew how much she’d wanted to. Instead, she said steadily, “I am ready.”

“You are not going to the gallows, my lady,” the man said.

“Am I not?” she asked.

“Nay, I think not. I am Alister Armstrong, the blacksmith,” he said offering his arm to her. The arm that should have belonged to her father.

For a moment, she wondered whether she should feel insulted. Instead, she felt a trifle reassured. The northern clans, including her own, paid little distinction to rank. Loyalty played a far stronger role as to who was the chief’s confidants. Mayhap her bridegroom-to-be wasn’t the fob she imagined if he had this man as friend.

He quickly destroyed the illusion.

“Lord Cumberland will escort you down the aisle,” he said. “I was sent to bring you to him.”

Why had he not sent a lady? Afraid the bride might run?

Her body stiffened. The last indignity. Instead of her father escorting her down the aisle, his murderer would do that deed. Instead of a host of friends sending her on her way, an enemy was sent to fetch her.

She glared at her captor, studying him as a trapped fox might study the huntsman. “And why were you given such an honor?”

“I was available,” he said with the tiniest pull of his lips. “But I did try to make myself that way.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you to know you have a friend here.”

“A friend?” ’Twas scarcely credible. She narrowed her eyes. He looked too small for a blacksmith. Most men in that profession were huge, their arms as wide as most men’s legs. But this Alister was lean and wiry with a merry little glint in his eyes.

“Did my … the marquis send you here?”

“He asked me to accompany you so you would not be alone.”

“I am alone.”

“Not quite so alone,” he said in a soft tone.

She wanted to believe him. Alister Armstrong had warm brown eyes and an easy manner.

“It will be all right, milady. The marquis is no’ a monster.”

She wasn’t sure she would agree with that assessment, but his attempt at kindness took away some of the chill from her heart.

She managed a small smile and nodded.

Almost blindly, she walked with him down the steps, past the great hall, then out the door to the chapel that was on the side of the tower house. She stopped the moment she saw Cumberland, who’d turned his gaze on her.

He approached her with a smile on his lips. ’Twas the coldest smile she’d ever seen, and his eyes were like the devil’s own: dark and merciless. He offered his arm, but she ignored it, instead turning slightly away.

“Take it, madam,” he said.

“Nay.”

“Have you not learned yet that it is not you who will suffer if you do not do my bidding?” he asked in a low tone.

The threat went straight to her heart. Trembling, she slowly took his arm, and allowed him to escort her inside. She noticed the colorful profusion of plaids worn by the men and women sitting in the pews, saw their faces turn and look toward her. Curiosity as well as hostility radiated from those faces. She turned and looked straight ahead—directly at the bridegroom.

She had seen little of him these past few days. He had not asked her to join him at the evening meals in the great hall until last night. He had visited once, saying he’d thought she might prefer to take her meals in her room rather than join the rapidly expanding ranks of those attending the wedding. She had been grateful, even as she wondered whether he was that displeased with her appearance.

But now as she saw him standing at the altar waiting for her, she felt her heart pounding. She had no choice; yet she wanted to turn and run out the door. She wanted to grab the first horse and ride and ride until she was back home. But there is no home left. She tried to believe it was someone else inside this dress, but tonight she would be herself: Lady Forbes, the Marchioness of Braemoor. The man awaiting her would be her husband in fact, with all the rights associated with that state, regardless of his promises.

Her gaze met his. His hazel eyes were void of emotion. Unlike many of the guests who wore tartans or uniforms, he was dressed in a pale blue waistcoat and breeches trimmed with silver buttons. A frilled shirt and blue stock looked quite out of place, and the elegance of his costume made her feel righteously drab in a plain yellow gown she’d selected from those provided by the dressmaker. She sought his gaze, expected anger, but saw instead a glint of humor. It disappeared so quickly beneath a simpering smile that she doubted she had seen it at all.

He was wearing a wig, again, one even longer than the one he’d worn earlier. Marring his face was a small black patch, an affectation much fancied by the English. He looked the prancing English dandy.

And large. She’d not stood close to him before and had been unaware of how tall he was, how formidable, at least in size.

She took her place next to him, and Cumberland stepped away. She was standing next to the stranger who was to be her husband.

In a protective fog, she listened to the words that would change her life. She heard her toneless whispers in reply to the questions. She made her own answers in her mind.

No, she did not take this man.

No, she would not love him until death parted them.

No, she would not obey.

But she mouthed the opposite words and tried to keep the moisture in her eyes from spilling down her cheek. She would never let them see her cry. But when the vicar declared them man and wife, she felt her heart dying.

Bethia knew what came next, something neither of them could avoid, not with Cumberland sitting in the chapel. He had moved from her side to the front row where he sat surrounded by red-coated officers. She had the impression of a spider waiting to eat its prey.

Her husband took her hand and turned her toward him. His face was inches away, the black patch marring a face that was oddly attractive. Strange, she’d not noticed that before, nor the sudden intensity in his eyes. Then the curls from the wig brushed her face, as did the cambric of his stock, and she wanted to withdraw. But his hand captured hers with surprising strength and pulled her to him. His eyes glinted, then his lips pressed down on hers. The kiss was hard, without tenderness or consideration, his lips bruising hers before letting go.

His promise. Had it meant nothing?

He released her, and the two of them turned to face the congregation. She wanted to wipe the feel of him from her lips. Instead, she looked straight away and placed one foot in front of the other. She stumbled, but his hand reached out and righted her.

She looked around, but his face was as bland as before. His grip loosened but she felt his gloved hand around her elbow as they continued down the aisle and out the door. They led the crowd into the great hall where musicians started to play and tables were laden with food. Then he stopped just inside the door. “Time to greet our guests,” he whispered into her ear. Surprisingly, he smelled pleasantly of soap, not the strong fragrances most of their guests used to disguise unwashed bodies.

But his hand snaked around her waist, and she froze. She barely managed a semblance of a smile as she was introduced to family after family, all of whom had either supported the Hanover or betrayed the prince when it became evident he might not succeed. She despised each of them to the bottom of her soul, even as she nodded or curtsied as the introductions went on and on and on. But if she played the role to the marquis’s satisfaction, mayhap he would keep his promise.

Cumberland stepped up, no doubt silently congratulating himself. “You make a pretty bride, Marchioness,” he lied.

She fought the bile rising up inside her. “You are leaving us now?” she said coolly.

“I must report back to King George that all is as he wished it. My brother does have your best interests at heart, Bethia.”

Her fingers balled into a fist. The Hanover king. Her interests? She wanted to slap the smug look from his face. This was the man who had burned a barnful of women and children, the man who had ordered the death of wounded, unarmed men. He was the man who had killed her kinsmen and dragged her from all that was dear, and he had the gall …

“My wife must be quite weary,” the marquis—her husband—said. “I think she needs some rest before the banquet tonight.”

“Aye, and the bedding,” Cumberland replied.

“Indeed.” Her husband leered as he said the words and she caught the conspiratorial grin that passed between the two men.

Her heart dropped. So he had lied to her.

She dropped her eyes so neither the marquis nor Cumberland would see the hatred blazing there. She would find some way to escape this … travesty of a marriage.

In the past few days she’d overheard talk of a man called the Black Knave, who was helping Jacobites escape the crown’s vengeance. Cumberland had posted a huge reward for his head. If only she could reach him, ask him to rescue her brother. Once that was done, then she could flee. But how could she contact him?

“Come, my dear,” her new husband said, his hand again on her arm. She jerked away from his touch.

He leaned over and whispered, “I would not do that again, my marchioness.”

His voice held a threat she’d not heard before. She whirled around. “You promised—”

“Only if you fill your own role as obedient wife,” he said in a tone that made her skin crawl. His fingers tightened around her arm.

She wanted to believe him. Dear God, how she wanted to believe him, but that salacious look had not been her imagination.

Still, her only recourse was to pray he spoke the truth, that his interest lay elsewhere. At least for the moment.

And try to find the Black Knave.

She bit her lip, then gave him the barest of nods, and allowed him to guide her toward the table for the customary toast.