Nine

The afternoon was cold and blustery, but it was the kind of day Rory loved best. It made him feel alive. He even enjoyed the chill that crept through the peacock-blue coat he wore. He only wished he weren’t wearing one of his more obnoxious wigs. He had, however, indulged himself with a fine pair of boots.

He particularly enjoyed stealing glances at his riding partner. He did so, however, only when she was looking elsewhere, which she did far more than not. After her first disappointed look at his extravagant dress, she paid little attention to him. Instead, she focused on the road, on the woods beyond, on the small grouping of stone buildings that constituted the nearby village, and then on sheep huddled on a hillside. Her eyes went frequently to the woods that lined a river and climbed upward.

It all looked peaceful enough, even tranquil, except for the occasional men in red uniforms patrolling the road and searching each wagon that passed. Locking the door after the horses escaped. Ogilvy was long gone from these parts, but they might well be looking for a man with a new wound.

Which reminded him of his own arm. Alister would disapprove if he knew what Rory was doing. And his own pain told him this was not wise. But he had seen the wistful look on Bethia’s face. God in heaven, but he knew what it was like to be a pariah in one’s own home. She needed some freedom, or she would wither like a piece of fruit left too long alone and neglected.

He looked at her, something inside responding to the blush on her cheeks, the way her hair escaped the neat cap she wore. Her back was straighter, her face relaxed for the first time since she’d come to Braemoor. She had done nothing to conceal the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and that pleased him. Most other ladies would have powdered them over.

Rory found himself aching to reach out and touch them.

Even as he restrained himself from touching or even engaging her in conversation, he relished the simple companionship of riding next to someone who obviously also enjoyed the day … and riding. She radiated regal defiance in the way she sat her horse, in the sometimes disdainful look she gave him, her gaze flicking over his outrageous clothes.

She was an excellent rider. Not knowing her level of skill, he had selected a sedate but pretty mare. The mare he’d brought in earlier still had some mending to do. But from the second he helped her into the saddle, he knew she was a natural horsewoman. His respect had only increased as they quickened their pace. She looked as if she belonged on a horse, moving gracefully in the sidesaddle.

And her touch? She was not wearing gloves, and the heat of her skin seemed to burn into his. It still did, and that told him more than any instruction from his brain that this was a very foolish thing to do. He knew his hand had lingered a moment too long on her leg once he had helped her up into the saddle. Yet she had not pulled away. Instead, her hands had jerked on the reins and the mare had quickly moved away. It had not been accidental, he knew, nor lack of control. She had not wanted his hand on her.

His wife, and she obviously detested him. But was not that what he wanted?

Despite such humbling thoughts, he quietly appreciated her obvious pleasure in the ride. Her dark-blue eyes were alive with interest, and he sensed she was mentally cataloguing every foot of the way for future reference.

As he watched her, he decided to make her brother’s freedom a priority. He would have to be careful, though, and must be prepared for Cumberland’s wrath when his “wife” disappeared with the young hostage. And it must all be done by the Black Knave.

She looked over at him when they slowed their horses to a trot. “I would like to meet the woman who grows the herbs.”

The woman who grew the herbs was also the one who was thought to be his mistress. “Why?” he asked after a moment’s surprise.

“Do you not believe a wife has the right to know her husband’s paramour?”

Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. “I did not think you cared, my sweet.”

Her face flushed. “You flatter yourself. I would like to know about the herbs she used. I used to help with healing at … my home.”

He mulled that over in his mind. The last thing he wanted was for Bethia to meet Mary. Women had a way of gleaning information. She would probably know in a moment there was little between him and Mary other than friendship.

“My wife will not engage in such activities,” he said haughtily. “It is not fitting.”

She glared at him rebelliously. “It is fitting, I assume, to parade your mistress in front of your wife?”

“I am touched by your continuing interest in my … affairs.”

“I am not interested. I care not what you do. Just do not tell me my behavior is not fitting.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I merely wish to help you, to instruct you in proper behavior. I understand some of the northern clans … are not well civilized.”

Her eyes grew dark with fury. “And the Forbeses are? You lived in filth. And you, my lord, are … not admired. No such laird in the Highlands would last a fortnight.”

“They do not exist at all now, my lady, or have you not looked recently? Their ways led them into extinction.” He said the cold, cruel words even as they bit into his heart. They were among the hardest he’d ever said, but he needed the gauntlet between them. If he lowered his guard even a fraction of an inch, he suspected he would then be lost. He wanted her, damn it. He wanted her too much. Far too much. It was all, in fact, he could do not to snatch her from her saddle and hold her in his arms, to see whether she tasted as sweet as she smelled, whether she was as soft as she looked, whether the emotion that burned in her eyes could burn for him.

Bloody hell, but he sounded like a bleating poor poet.

He took her into town, to the butcher’s, when she asked him. He helped her down from her mount just as the butcher ran out, his apron flapping as he noticed the visitors.

“My lord, my lady, what an honor.” Then his mouth creased into a frown, and naked fear came into his eyes. “Is something wrong? The meat I sent?”

“It was very fine,” Bethia said softly, with only the second smile Rory had seen. The first had been for the puppy she’d held earlier in the day. The smile lit her face, and suddenly the butcher was stammering. Rory had heard from Alister that villagers had been fuming about the wedding with a Jacobite, but the butcher was obviously melting under her smile.

He had a very sudden and intense need to have it shine on him.

“It was adequate,” Rory corrected with pursed lips.

His bride did not look at him. “I wanted to thank you for such good service,” she said.

The butcher puffed up with importance, but then he eyed Rory with hostility. “But payment is always late. Mayhap my lady …”

Rory glared down at him with all the haughty indignation a man of his character, or lack of it, should be able to muster. “You dare question our payment?”

The man took a step backward. “I … I …”

Bethia gave Rory a quelling look, then turned back to the butcher. “You will be paid promptly.”

The butcher gave her a look of profound gratitude even as his gaze avoided Rory’s.

“We must go, wife,” Rory said, his tone hardening. She sent him a challenging look. She knew—or thought—he would have to honor her promise.

Ignoring the butcher, he took his wife’s arm and led her back to her mare, helping her easily back into the saddle, then he mounted, too.

“I have learned one thing today,” he said.

“Aye?”

“I must keep you away from butchers.”

Her chin went up. “He and his family have to live, too.”

“He is a bachelor, and he lives very well, thanks to overcharging us.”

She shot a quick, searching look toward him. “How do you know? Neil said he kept the household books.”

“I usually know more than people credit,” he said. “I suggest you remember that.” He allowed a shade of menace to shade the words. “And I would also suggest that you not try to enlist the support of my people to do me damage.”

She was unimpressed. “I had no such intention,” she said airily, the lie obvious in her face.

“Did you not, madam?”

“No. I wish merely to do my duty as the marchioness. I asked Neil if I can do the household accounts. He appears very busy with other matters.”

Rory said nothing. Neil had not mentioned it to him.

“I kept them at our home,” she continued determinedly.

“Why do you want to do anything for the Forbes?”

“I am not used to being idle.”

“Is that why you were scrubbing windows like a servant?”

“No one else would do it,” she said tartly. “I am not accustomed to laziness as you seem to be.”

“I did not marry a servant.”

“Nay, you married an enemy,” she retorted. “’Tis quite obvious you consider me one, since you did not want me to attend your wound. I did not realize I terrorized you so.”

“You are a Jacobite, are you not?” he said, and this time he could not keep a note of amusement from his voice.

She drew herself up proudly in the saddle. “Aye.”

“I heard they were treacherous.”

“You are assigning your own traits to those far nobler than yourself.”

He almost laughed out loud at the fast retort. He enjoyed her wit and only wished he could see how far it went. However, he’d already stepped too far out of character. Elizabeth had warned him about that, about how careful he had to be in maintaining a role. Only he didn’t have to worry about the disfavor of a theater audience; he had to worry about keeping his neck intact.

“I think it is time to return,” he said, turning his horse back toward Braemoor.

“The truth is uncomfortable?”

“’Tis your truth, not mine,” he said, “and I would be most careful about bantering it around.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Always threats, my lord. But I heard you ran from Culloden Moor.”

He shrugged. “I care not what you heard. You are in my household and you will do as I order.”

“You are a bully and coward.”

“I am lord, and you will do well to remember that. I do have certain rights.”

His meaning was clear, and he watched her mouth thin, the anger in her eyes grow more baleful. He watched as she struggled against her natural impulse to fight back.

He did not wish to prolong her agony. He tightened his legs around his mount and quickened into a trot, where no speech was possible. For a moment he was aware that he was alone.

Rory did not look back. He knew she would join him. She had no choice. Her brother’s life was at risk.

But he was very aware of the cost to her.

He would make it up to her one day.

If he lived that long.

If she had a pistol, she would have used it.

He obviously enjoyed baiting her. Every time she thought there might be a thread of decency in him, he seemed to delight in trampling the notion, making her feel like a fool for ever thinking he had even one good quality.

She wondered now at his motives for bringing her today. Was it merely to demonstrate his power? His control? To show her it was impossible to try to escape his world?

If so, he had served only to fuel her determination to somehow get her brother and leave Scotland. As long as the marriage was never consummated, as long as it had not been officiated by a Catholic priest, she could get it annulled. She could not remain married to the arrogant popinjay. Still, she wondered why he had not demanded his husbandly rights. Despite his earlier words that he found her unattractive, she’d seen a gleam in his eyes several times when he’d looked at her. She recognized lust when she saw it. How long before he would break his word?

She had to get her brother and escape before that happened. For if he took her, and there was a babe, she would never have her freedom. She would be bound by honor to stay. She had no such bond now.

An idea had been playing around in her head. Everything she’d heard about the Black Knave had been contradictory. He was short. He was tall. He was old. He was young. He was a man. He was a woman. The only consistency was that he left a card after each of his feats. She did not know whether it was to taunt the authorities or give comfort to those who sought him out.

If no one knew who he was, or what he was, mayhap she could become the Black Knave.

’Twas a wild idea, and she knew it. How would she ever get out of the castle? Obtain a horse? Receive the help she needed? It was common knowledge that the Knave did have people helping him. But how to find them? Even a huge reward had not produced anyone willing to give him up.

She watched as her husband nearly disappeared from view. She looked toward the woods that would hide an army, then back toward the Marquis of Braemoor. Patience, she told herself. Patience. Wait and learn. And she would start gathering the items she needed.

With hope and even excitement churning inside her, she flicked her reins and trailed after her temporary lord.

Rory threw the reins of his horses to one of the stable hands. He went to help his wife dismount, but she had already slipped from the saddle, obviously reluctant to accept his assistance.

He wanted to take the horses inside the barn, to cool them himself, but once again that would go against his role as the lazy, arrogant new lord. He used to see to his own mount, but then no one offered to do it for him. His new wealth gave him a reason for an arrogance he’d never displayed before. He had been careless and undisciplined, but he’d not been irresponsible. There was, he hoped, a difference.

He had to convince his cousin now that he was all three. He wanted to exert authority without Neil understanding that he was doing just that.

The current Marquis of Braemoor would care less about his wife.

Rory strode into the tower house. He’d retained Neil as estate manager, the position his cousin had held under Rory’s father. He knew exactly what Neil thought of him, and Rory felt little better about his cousin. He was six years older than Rory and had been Donald’s friend. They had both been contemptuous of the small, lonely boy and had alternated between bullying and ignoring him. It was ironic that now he was the marquis and Neil was dependent upon him.

At the same time, Rory was uncomfortably aware that Neil had more claim to Braemoor than he. He had Forbes blood where Rory had none, if the tales were true, and nearly every family member knew it. Neil had also served the Forbeses for years, whereas Rory had never served them at all. He did not blame the man for despising him.

If Rory had his way, he would leave Braemoor with all its bad memories to Neil. But there were too many people still depending on him. He had not finished with the good King George, or Cumberland.

Neil was in the office, as expected. He looked up as Rory came in, sniffing disdainfully at the air in the room.

“Rory?” Neil seldom acknowledged Rory’s title, and then only in the presence of others outside the clan.

“My wife would like to start keeping the household accounts.”

Surprise flickered in Neil’s dark brown eyes. “I did not realize you cared what your wife thought.” It was an obvious reference to Mary’s visit.

Rory struck an indolent pose and shrugged. “Cumberland wants her with child. A contented wife is more likely to achieve that result, or so I am told.”

“Contented?” Neil came out of his chair with a start. “You would hand over these accounts to make her content?”

“Why not? ’Tis nothing important.”

Neil’s face grew red. “Mayhap you would like her to take over all my duties.”

“Nay, I think not,” Rory said mildly. “And why do you care? You still have the properties to manage, and that is a far larger duty,” he said. “Anyone can keep the account books.”

Neil settled back into the chair, a perplexed look on his face. “I do not understand you.”

“That is not required,” Rory said casually. “You know I have little interest in business matters. But ’tis only right that the marchioness take over her proper duties. You must admit she has already improved the tower house considerably.”

“I never heard you complain.”

“I avoided Braemoor for years. Its disrepair was one of the reasons.”

“Too bad you do not continue to avoid it.”

Rory smiled. “Do not vex me overmuch, cousin. You look after the estates well, and I have not interfered with that. But do not push me or question my activities.”

Neil bristled with indignation. “Dear God, Rory. It is time for you to grow up.”

Rory eyed him coldly. “And deprive you of the authority you enjoy so much? I would not dream of it.”

Neil’s mouth curled. “I have no authority when you can whisk it away at your whim.”

“Aye, you are right,” Rory replied. “So tread carefully.”

Neil made a visible effort to control his temper in face of Rory’s challenge. “I still do not understand why you wish to turn over the household accounts to … the marchioness. Has the lass bewitched you?”

“Hardly. She is as plain as a post, and those freckles … she takes no care at all in covering them.” He shuddered with distaste. “Still, I want as much peace as possible, and it is little enough to let her busy her hands with the tower house.” His voice grew colder. “And it is not your place to criticize her or question my motives.”

Neil glowered at him. “How long can we anticipate your presence this time … my lord.” He made the title an insult.

Rory decided to ignore it. He had dug in his spurs deep, and he was ashamed of it. “My arm is still stiff from that encounter with the brigand. Still, I promised a certain captain in Edinburgh a chance to win his money back.”

“You seemed to have no trouble in helping the lady mount.”

“Ah, my dear cousin, ’tis all in the cause of being a gentleman. I do not expect you believed such a day would come.”

Neil muttered something.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, I did not hear that. Would you care to repeat it?”

Neil met his gaze directly, and the enmity between them ran deep and dangerous. Rory knew he should not bait Neil, and worse he did not even know why he did it. His role as fool? Or the bitter memories of Neil’s silence when Donald used to taunt him, “Bastard, bastard.” He wondered now whether Neil had been silent because he himself had been a bastard.

“I know you will help my wife in every way,” he said after a moment’s silence. Then he turned and walked out the door.

Do not be impatient. Bethia repeated those words to herself as she lifted a wriggling Black Jack into her hands for an adventure outside.

And yet it was hard not to be, as ideas tumbled through her mind. She knew exactly what she had to do. Clothes, cards, a weapon, a horse. If she could sneak but of Brae-moor in a lad’s clothes and mix with people in a tavern, mayhap she could discover someone loyal to the Black Knave.

She would have to be back by morning. The timing would be everything. And if she could find someone with information, she would leave word that a lass in trouble needed him. In the meantime, she needed to find a place so lonely and secret that she could go there on a regular basis and await him.

If he did not show, mayhap she would learn of those who might be sympathetic to his cause. She could then pretend to be the Knave herself and ask for help in freeing her brother.

Dougal. The very thought of him alone in a cold, hostile place sent ripples of fear through her. He would not be obedient. He had his brothers’ own wild, bold courage.

Her fingers caught in a fist. She was a MacDonell. She would free him. She would free them both.

She went down the stone staircase, the pup in hand. Once outside, she went to the stable, flashing her smile at one of the stablelads. “I would like to meet the horses,” she said, still holding little Black Jack. She did not want him to run under one of the stable doors and startle a horse.

The lad was looking at the pup curiously. “You be the one who took the runt.”

“Aye.”

The boy’s face split in a wide grin. “I wanted to take ’im, but my fa said we had no use for a weakling. But he was my favorite.”

Bethia knew instantly she had an ally, a friend. “You can come and see him anytime you wish,” she told him.

The boy’s brows furrowed. “In the tower, my lady?”

“Aye.”

“I do not think my fa would approve.”

“Well, then, I will talk to him.” She eyed him critically. His clothes were rough, worn and far too small. His arms and legs stuck out like those of a scarecrow, like sticks.

She knew how she was going to get the clothes she needed.

All she needed was control of the household funds.

And then the cards. She knew how to get those, too.

“Now tell me,” she said to the boy, “which are the fastest horses?”