Ten

Rory gratefully took the heavy wig from his head and poured French brandy into a crystal goblet. The brandy was exceptional, a gift from the French sea captain who’d been smuggling his refugees to France. It had come through Elizabeth who, until now, had dealt with the man.

He stared at the rich color of the brandy. It was time to make a new bargain; he had at least two more cargoes for the man. Rory had decided to deal with him directly this time. He’d already involved Elizabeth far too deeply, and the risks to all of them had soared since his raid on the gaol. The Black Knave was wanted nearly as badly as Prince Charles.

Two more shipments would require a great deal of money. Until now, his gambling winnings had paid his costs. But they were running low. He may soon have to dip into Braemoor funds. Part of him found the idea ironic. Another part thought it thievery and he found himself loath to do so.

He had never wanted anything from Braemoor. If it had not been for the first tattered little group of refugees, he probably would have left Braemoor for good. The memories were too haunting.

He still didn’t know why he had heeded his father’s call to join his forces at Culloden. One last effort, he thought, to gain his father’s approval. A final opportunity to prove himself a Forbes. But then the reality of the battlefield, the bloodthirsty savagery of his father and brother had drained any vestige of family loyalty, any longing to belong.

He ran his fingers through his hair. Damp with sweat from the bloody wig, it curled around his fingers. He undid the waistcoat, the stock, then jerked open the front of his shirt. He poured more brandy into the glass before sitting and sprawling over the chair.

His arm ached. But something else ached even more. He was not sure how many more encounters he could survive with his marchioness before grabbing her and making her truly his. He winced as he thought of her reaction.

The only solution was another absence.

He still had to get Ogilvy on that ship.

He was mulling over the afternoon with Bethia when he heard a knock on the door. He rose and went to answer it. All his servants had instructions never to enter without permission.

Rory opened it and saw his wife. He bowed slightly, keeping his surprise to himself. “My lady. You surprise me.”

He watched her bite her lip. “I … I …”

He decided not to help her. He did not think the Marquis of Braemoor would care about her discomfort.

“They say … you are a gambler.”

“Aye, an exceptional one,” he replied with a lack of modesty.

“Would you teach me?”

“Women do not game.” He said it with absolute authority.

She narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

“Not … ladies,” he amended. Of course, they gamed. Elizabeth was really quite his own match.

“I have nothing to do here.”

He looked down at the pup who was tottering around, investigating a pair of boots.

“You have the pup. And now, as you wished, you have the household accounts.”

Something flashed in her eyes. It was not gratitude. Instead, it was almost sly.

She tried to cover it with a quick curtsey. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You may have made an enemy. Neil was not pleased.”

“Then why did you agree?”

“I enjoy watching him squirm.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It does not matter now.”

Her gaze seemed to pierce through him. “Will you teach me?”

He shrugged. He dug in a drawer and produced a pair of dice.

“I would rather use cards.”

He would happily wager his new waistcoat that she had something more nefarious in mind than a simple game of cards.

Nonetheless, he returned to the wardrobe and opened the drawer again, taking out a deck of cards. He held out a chair for her, then dropped into one of his own.

“Do you have money, my lady?”

“Will you take my pledge?”

“Can you be trusted?”

“Nay.”

“Ah, a quality I admire. Then this one time. Now, madam, this is casino …”

He dealt two cards at a time, four cards facedown for each of them, then four faceup. The jack of spades stared up at him. He looked up just in time to see quick interest in her eyes before she lowered them, thick, dark lashes shading indigo-blue eyes. Suddenly tension shimmered between them. Awareness.

Rory was only too aware that he was without wig or obnoxious coat. He tired to make his eyes vapid, but he did not think they quite reached that desirable effect. How could they when she sat on the other side of the table, her mouth pursed up in concentration and those bloody freckles frosting her nose? Why were they so damned fascinating?

He continued his explanation, wishing he had a handkerchief to flutter, or a wig to finger. He had never felt so bloody naked in his life. Her frequent quick glances did nothing to alleviate the feeling.

She was quick. Astonishingly quick. He won the first game but she took the second. Her eyes were bright, her movements sure, her decisions fast.

Bethia took the third game, then the fourth. He was letting her win although she might have bested him at least once on her own. He was supposed to be a boastful lackwit, not a cardsharp. He allowed his frown to deepen, even though he was pleased to find a way to give her money.

Bethia did not understand it. She could barely take her gaze from him.

She had previously noticed that without his wig and dreadful clothes, he was not entirely unattractive. But her own fear and grief had kept her from seeing, or retaining, more.

Now her gaze was drawn to him. His dark, thick hair was cropped shorter than custom, probably since he wore a wig so often. But it was quite … pleasing the way one lock fell over his forehead. Without the wig covering part of the face, she could see the strong, angular lines of his cheeks.

The room seemed smaller in some way. Much smaller. She felt heat from across the table and she looked up to see fire in his eyes. Not only fire, but intelligence. The amber in them glowed, and the gray-green color seemed to come alive. She felt her body reacting to the moment of heat. She leaned forward, compelled by a fascination, an attraction, that sent waves of uncertainty, then something of a more physical nature, through her. Bethia felt mesmerized, swept into a force she did not understand.

She could not be attracted to this … fop, this gambler, this man many called coward. And yet she could not tear her gaze away from him.

Then his lips moved, curving into the supercilious smile she hated. The light—the fire—faded, yet this time she knew she had seen it. It had not been her imagination. There was far more behind that facade than he wanted anyone to know.

Why?

And what was it? Calculation? Greed? Or did he just delight in irritating everyone, using a jester’s tricks to protect his real motives? But what were they?

They were suspect, whatever they were. Still, she ached in places that had never ached before and the cool room felt overheated. She suspected that when she stood, her legs would not work properly.

Remember why you are here.

“I have something to ask of you,” she finally said with a voice that didn’t sound like hers.

He cocked one of those dark, bushy eyebrows.

“Some of your servants appear very poorly clothed. I … I … would like to purchase some material for new clothes.” She was stammering. She never stammered.

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze weighing her. She could not determine what his conclusion was. “You care about how the Forbeses are dressed?”

“The boy who works in the stable looks like a beggar. So do others. It does no honor to Braemoor any more than the filth I found here.”

“And now you care about our honor?”

“I care about the boy.” She heard the passion in her voice and was immediately shamed by it. It should be there for the lad; instead, it was there for her own benefit. The boy will benefit, too, she told herself. As would others.

“What other improvements would you make?” he asked silkily.

“The crofts looked in need of repair,” she said heedlessly. “You could use a better cook.”

“Aye, but then what would we do with the present one? She has a family.”

Astonishment struck her. ’Twas the last thing she suspected him to say. She was surprised he even knew the cook had a family, much less cared.

“I can find her something else.”

“’Tis done, then. Do what you will. I will tell Neil to give you whatever funds you need.”

“For the boy, too, and others who need clothing?”

His gaze met hers. “Aye, as long as you do not bother me with it. I have more important matters.”

“Like gaming?”

“Aye.”

“And your paramour?”

“That, too,” he said, challenging her.

“I may have to go into the village for material.”

“Do I have your word you will not try to run away?”

“How could I? I am your wife.”

“And I am your lord, and of course you will obey me in all things.”

It was not a question, but a statement. She chose not to reply.

“Do I have your word? The word of a MacDonell?” he persisted.

“About what?” She wriggled around the question.

“If I give you freedom of movement, the freedom to go into the village, will you behave as the Marchioness of Braemoor should? You will not try to leave … the marriage?”

“Where would I go? You still have my brother as hostage.”

“Cumberland has him. Not I. And you are skating around the question.”

A lie? An oath taken but never meant to be observed? Where did honor lie?

“I see the question gives you pause, my wife. Does that mean that you have plans I should know about?”

She felt red creeping into her cheeks. She had always been a poor liar, and this fool, this Scottish traitor, obviously saw right through her. His suspicions could destroy everything.

Your brother’s life is at stake.

She would willingly stay if she could free her brother, get him out of Scotland and into France where other Jacobites would care for him. She would not be violating her oath then, and her own happiness would be a small price to pay. Happiness was, in fact, a rare commodity in Scotland today.

“Aye,” she said finally. “You have my word. For now.”

His eyes narrowed as if he were gauging her credibility. “Now?”

“That is all I can give you.”

He suddenly smiled, an ironic twist of his lips. “Fair enough. I trust you will give me warning when you consider the bargain over.”

“I swear,” she added. She was surprised at the smile; even more so at his concession.

“I’ll tell the stable hands that you are allowed to ride the mare you rode today,” he said. “I would suggest, however, that you ride with someone. Jacobites are not popular these days.”

Excitement surged through Bethia. It was even more than she’d ever imagined. She lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Do not abuse my good nature,” he said, yawning. He stood as if weary of the conversation, and scooped up the cards.

“My lord?”

“Something else?” he said with exasperation, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

“The cards. I would like to practice.”

“You have already bested me,” he said. “I do not believe you need practice.”

“It will help pass time.”

He looked down at Black Jack, who had been sleeping but who had clumsily stumbled to his feet when Rory had scraped back his chair. The pup was busy watering the leg of the table. “Between runts and stableboys, you seem to find much to occupy yourself.”

“The evenings are often long.”

He tossed the deck down, and she scooped them up, then stood.

“Are you not going to take your winnings?”

She looked down at the coins lying on the table. “I had no money of my own.”

“The first rule of a gambler, my lady, is always take your winnings regardless of how you came about them.”

She did not know what she saw in his eyes. Amusement? Speculation? He might well be laughing at her.

But money was power, and she had precious little of either. She scooped up the money, hoping there would not be an unexpected consequence accompanying it.

“Madam?”

She turned.

“Good night,” he said with a mocking bow.

Her stomach turned inside out. She suddenly had the terrible feeling she had made a bargain with the devil, and she had no comprehension of the price he would exact.

Rory watched her go and wondered what in the hell she was thinking.

No good.

He knew that. He knew it by the rush of blood in her cheeks. He knew it by the cordiality she’d tried so hard to maintain.

His new wife certainly hadn’t come to his bedroom to learn how to play a game of chance. He just wasn’t quite sure exactly what she wanted.

Was it only more control of Braemoor? More freedom? Better clothing for his kinsmen?

He doubted all of those. He had seen something deep in her eyes. He was well used to reading emotions. All good gamblers were, and he was a very good gambler. He could tell by the movement of a body whether someone was bluffing. Or lying.

His lady wife was lying.

God’s breath, but he wearied of lies, his own as well as those of others. He wondered how long he could keep up the masquerade—not that he had kept it very well this evening. He’d let his guard down several times, and he suspected that she realized there was more to Rory Forbes, the Marquis of Braemoor, than he’d ever intended her to know.

Still, he felt quite proud of himself that he had kept his hands to himself when she’d smiled with delight at winning at casino, when she’d pleaded for a young lad, when she’d demonstrated her mettle in warring with Neil.

He also remembered her hesitation before she gave him her oath. She was making a mental reservation.

He would have to keep a close eye on her. But that might be even more dangerous than letting her run loose to spread havoc.

She had looked so appealing, so enticing. The fact that she did not realize it made her appeal that much stronger. He sighed. He had wanted to run his fingers through her dark hair. Even worse, his gaze had kept going to the nape of her neck. He wondered how it tasted. He wondered how she would react.

Emotion ran rampant in her. He saw it in her eagerness today on horseback, in the pleasure with which she sniffed the air and cared little whether her hair tumbled down. He saw it in the way she’d rested her head on her hands as she considered her choices in casino and when he’d allowed her to win. He often lost several hands purposely before plucking his opponent. He was as skilled at losing as he was at winning.

He wondered now, though, who had been plucked tonight. He took another sip of brandy, stirred the coals in the fireplace and sat staring at the flames.

Alister greeted him cordially when Rory stopped by the village smithy the next day.

“Two of our horses need shoeing.”

“Aye, my lord,” he said, using the pump to fan the flames. He picked up a piece of metal with tongs and easily twisted it into the shape of a shoe.

Rory leaned against a wall and watched his quick, competent movements. Alister would be valuable anywhere. He had a quick mind as well as quick hands.

“How is the marchioness?” Alister asked, as if he knew exactly what was on Rory’s mind.

“Fair enough.”

“Are you speaking of her health or her physical features?”

“Both,” Rory admitted wryly. “Like most bridegrooms, I had no idea what I was getting into.”

“John told me about her visit to the shop. Fairly bursting with pride, he was.”

“She appears to have that effect on people. Braemoor is actually being swept.”

Alister opened his eyes in mock alarm. “Swept?”

“Aye. The food has already improved; she has washed the windows, and we can actually see from them again. And her latest crusade, after saving a runt puppy, is clothing my clansmen.”

“And how does Neil feel about this?”

“He resents it mightily, as he resents anything about me and mine.”

“Mine?”

“A figure of speech.”

Alister gave him a crooked grin. “So you say.” Then his expression sobered. “You will have to make a trip to the coast near Portsoy. A ship will be there in three days for Ogilvy and others. They will be wanting payment. Unless, of course, you want me to go.”

“I fear your absence would be noted far more than mine,” Rory said. “You are too good a smith.”

“Your arm?”

“Sore, nothing more.”

“You have never … quite collapsed like that before. You worried us both.”

“I will try not to go three days without sleep again.”

“You cannot keep this up forever.”

“I know,” Rory said. “Mayhap the hunt for Jacobites will lessen.”

Alister looked dubious. “You canna save them all.”

“No, but there is still Ogilvy and others waiting passage, and a young lad imprisoned by Cumberland.”

“Have you said anything to the lady about him?”

“Nay. ’Tis best that she know nothing.”

“When will you go to the coast?”

“On the morn. Try to watch the marchioness. I think she might be planning some mischief.”

“But she is staying inside Braemoor.”

“I gave her permission to leave.”

Alister bent over his forge. “Was that wise?”

“I could not keep her prisoner forever. I think as long as the boy is in Cumberland’s hands, she will not do anything to risk his safety.”

“Then …?”

“I think. I cannot be sure. But I saw the pleasure on her face today when we were riding. I could not deprive her of it.”

“You have a soft heart.”

Rory groaned. “Nay. I merely want—”

“I know. To pull the tiger’s tail. Trouble is, you always hang on too long.”

“You are always in back of me,” Rory said with warm affection.

“All the way to the scaffold, I think.”

“I will not let that happen.”

Alister leaned over the forge rather than answering. They both knew that Rory might not have a choice in the matter.

Terror. Terror greater than she’d ever known before thundered through Bethia.

She and Dougal were running, fleeing from some unknown evil along a bank, ’Twas night, and clouds masked the moon and stars. She could see little, but she heard the sound of hoofbeats behind her and it spurred both of them to quicken their pace.

Then Dougal fell, rolling down the bank into something dark and forbidding. A bog. When she reached for him, she fell down, and they were both sucked into its quicksand. Terror seized her as they sank deeper and deeper. She cried for help, over and over again. But there was no one, not even the hoofbeats that had followed them. There were only the shadows of a moonless night and forbidding sight of bare branches bending in a strong wind.

She sank lower and lower as she struggled to keep her brother’s head above water. Then, when she believed they both would surely die, a man appeared. His face was masked and he was dressed totally in black. He tied a rope around a tree, then around himself, and he used it to approach them. He reached out to her, but she could not touch him. He was an inch away, only an inch, but she could not reach him.…

She woke. Her body was wet, her hair tangled and damp. The bedclothes were twisted around her. Her breathing was swift and hard. She forced herself to relax. There was no bog. No stranger. Dougal was safe, although miles away.

Or was he? Was that what the nightmare had tried to tell her?

And the stranger. Had he been the pursuer? Or the savior?

She looked toward the window. Light was streaming into the room. It must be late, much later than she usually slept.

Bethia looked into the basket next to the bed. Black Jack was squirming around, whimpering. Probably for food.

She picked up the puppy, running her fingers over the soft fuzz of his skin. Just that gesture slowed the beat of her heart, the pounding in her head. The overwhelming sense of panic slowly faded from her.

She stood and went over to the table where Trilby had placed a bowl of fresh water the evening before. Using a piece of linen cloth, she washed her face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the nightmare.

Did dreams have meanings?

She usually did not dream at all, or at least none she remembered. So what had brought this one on?

And where was Trilby?

As if her very thought had summoned the girl, a light, tentative knock came at the door.

Bethia went over and opened it. Trilby held a tray, laden with fresh pastries, a tankard of chocolate, and a small pitcher of milk intended, Bethia knew, for the puppy.

“I looked in on you earlier,” Trilby said, “but you were so deep in sleep I thought to wait.”

“Wait?”

“The marquis has left Braemoor,” Trilby said apologetically with a sly grin. “He left this note for you.”

Her maid had expressed no surprise that the marquis seldom shared her bed, but obviously Bethia’s presence in his room had been noted, and Trilby’s eyes were openly curious.

He was gone. Again. Bethia did not understand the sudden sense of loss that she felt. Even disappointment. In her mind’s eye, she recalled how appealing he’d looked last night without the wig, without the frilled, brightly colored waistcoats.

But that was who he was. A popinjay and libertine who sought out the company of other women.

She slowly looked at the note. “As I promised, Madam, I have given instructions to John, the head groom, that you be allowed to take out Miss Fancy. I have also talked to Neil about your authority over the household accounts.”

He’d signed it with an extravagant brandish, “Your husband.” Not his name. Not Rory, or Rory, Lord Forbes. Or Braemoor. For a moment she thought that strange, as if he were denying the title or his own position.

It was her imagination. He was merely asserting his authority, flouting his power in her face, even while giving her only a breath of freedom. As long as Cumberland held her brother, she had no real freedom.

“A love note?” Trilby said hopefully.

Bethia shook her head. “Just … some instructions.”

Trilby’s face fell. In just a few weeks, Trilby had become dear to Bethia. She had an unflagging optimism that usually lit the room, and she was humbly grateful to make the extra money that came with being a lady’s maid.

“Here, help me feed Jack,” she said, trying to take her maid’s mind, and her own, away from the enigmatic man who was her husband.

Jack had progressed from the glove to lapping milk from a small saucer. Trilby filled the saucer with milk, and together they watched the little terrier greedily lap it up. It would not be long before he could have gruel or cereal.

“I did not believe you could save the wee creature,” Trilby said with admiration.

“He has a will to live.”

“Aye,” Trilby said. “Would you like me to leave while you eat?”

“Will you join me? There is far too much food.”

“It would not be proper, milady.”

“I do not care about proper. I care about good company.”

Trilby flushed with pride.

“Sit then,” Bethia said, watching as the maid self-consciously sat across from her and hesitantly picked up a sweet. Bethia had not realized how pretty the girl was. In the past several weeks, she had transformed herself, picking up some of Bethia’s own habits. She now washed her hair, and it had lightened the color to the shade of wheat. Bethia had had two dresses made for her, and she kept them clean. The girl’s posture was straight, her eyes lively now with pride.

“It is good,” she said, licking sugar from her lips.

Not very, Bethia thought. But better than when she’d first arrived. The servants were beginning to take care, even pride, in their duties.

Bethia only nibbled on hers, though she enjoyed the hot chocolate. Her mind kept reliving the dream, then the hours she’d spent with her husband. Did one thing have to do with the other? Had she been running from the marquis?

Yet he seemed the last person to run from. Ineffective. Careless. Indifferent to Braemoor and his people. She surmised that the reason he’d allowed her to dress the servants better was simply to keep her occupied, not out of any deep concern for his own people.

Where had he gone this time?

And why did she care?