Twelve

Bethia had milked as much information as possible from young Jamie. According to him, the Black Knave was nine feet tall. He was part devil, part hero.

The boy obviously knew he was to despise the man, and yet the Black Knave’s adventures had inspired awe as well as fear in him. No, he did not know anyone who had actually seen the fellow. But Jamie knew he was behind every shadow at night, lurking in the woods to take honest boys like himself. And, he added, in a confidential whisper, the Knave had actually murdered people in their beds. His father had told him that while warning him not to wander out alone.

Bethia suspected that the older man had concocted that story to keep Jamie by his side, and working.

They had gone into the village. She studied each building. There was a kirk, a smithy, a butcher’s shop, alehouse and weaver. Nothing more.

She eyed the alehouse enviously. She did not care about the spirits, but she knew there would be talk there. She saw several horses tethered and decided they must be English soldiers, since few peasants could afford such luxuries. She’d often wished she were a man. There was no sadder lot than a woman who could do little while her husband, brother, son went to war. Women could inherit only in rare instances, and they were bartered like cattle.

That thought reminded her of her own marriage, and her spirits plunged.

She spent the afternoon purchasing wool for new clothes. She’d already located a servant who could sew the garments, the same one who had fitted her own dresses.

The blacksmith was outside the weaver’s shop. He gave her a broad smile and lifted her purchases up in front of the saddle. “I hear you are making converts.”

“Not Neil,” she said wryly. “Nor most of his tacks-men.”

“They are worried about their future. They lease the land from the marquis, then parcel it to tenants. They are afraid he might evict them and turn the hills over to sheep.”

“Do you think he would do so?”

“Nay,” the blacksmith said.

“Why?”

“Because he does care about Braemoor in his own way.”

She looked at him dubiously, but said nothing. She accepted his help in mounting. Jamie looked disappointed, but he was far too small to offer a boost. “Thank you,” she told Alister, wishing she could exact more information from him. But she’d already learned it was futile.

Instead, she urged her horse into a canter until they reached a split in the road. She stopped and turned to her young escort. “I need some herbs,” she said. “I understand Mary Ferguson lives nearby.” She’d heard the name whispered in hallways.

His small face went crimson, and she knew that even this stableboy knew that Mary was her husband’s mistress.

“I believe we should be gettin’ back, milady,” he said.

“Mary Ferguson,” she said.

He looked stricken, but she would not relent.

“The marquis will beat me,” he said, obviously very much believing it.

But the one thing she had come to believe was that her husband, the Marquis of Braemoor, might be capable of many things, but no’ the beating of a child doing her bidding. Had he not given her freedom? Though, she thought, probably not if he knew where she was heading. Yet she was driven to meet this woman and talk to her. Bethia had seen her only fleetingly when Alister, apparently at her husband’s directions, had demanded that Mary Ferguson attend him, rather than his wife. The woman’s face had been pleasant enough, but Bethia had noted she did little to enhance her appearance. That had seemed strange to her at the time, that her husband would be so attached to a woman with no appreciable beauty. She felt fair in so judging since she was no beauty herself.

She wanted to meet the woman.

Bethia gave Jamie an encouraging grin. “I willna tell anyone.”

“But she will. She be a witch.”

“Now who told you that?”

“My fa says so. He says she has bewitched the marquis.”

“There is no such thing as witches.”

“But my fa—”

“Your fa is mistaken,” she said sternly. “Now will you lead the way or must I try to find it on my own?”

She felt guilt at his miserable face. “Just tell me how to get there,” she said gently. “You can go home.”

He sat straighter in his saddle. “I willna leave ye. Ye are my responsibility.” His lips trembled for a moment, then he said bravely, “I will take ye.”

She should have felt triumph but, to be truthful, she felt a bit of a bully. She would make up for it with the new set of clothes. She had not told him yet that the bolt of cloth was partly for him.

He led the way off the road and through a stand of trees toward a stream, then followed it upstream a short distance before leaving it and ending up in front of a simple hut. It was plain, but roses climbed its side and the adjacent land was neatly planted.

The door opened and a young woman stepped out, her body stiffening as she identified the riders. But she did not avert her gaze, nor did her eyes indicate anything but curiosity as Bethia slipped from the horse.

The woman curtsied. “My lady?”

“I need some herbs for the kitchen,” Bethia said.

The woman smiled and Bethia realized she was quite pretty. It was the smile that did it. A tentative shy smile.

“And I wanted to thank you for caring for my … the marquis,” she added, her gaze searching for something in the woman’s face. Bethia still did not know what had driven her here, why she had become obsessed with this woman. She told herself it was only to learn more about her husband. Knowledge was a weapon. Did he just … use Mary Ferguson? Did he love her?

“Come in,” the young woman said. “’Tis very … simple, but I have tea. You can tell me what you need.”

Mary Ferguson spoke very well, far better than many of the other Forbes tenants. And she had a calm, quiet grace about her. Still, she did not seem at all the type of woman who would attract, and hold, a man of the marquis’s reputation. Bethia did not know what she had expected, but certainly no one like this woman.

Jamie stayed with the horses, his face twisted with concern.

“I willna be long,” Bethia said, then followed the woman inside.

Mary Ferguson looked as awkward as Bethia felt, and she wondered why she had come here. “Marchioness, would you like to sit down?”

“Thank you,” Bethia said as if she were being invited to sit in the parlor of her best friend rather than the small cottage of her husband’s mistress. She selected a chair at the table and sat.

She looked around. The sides of the cottage were lined with shelves, each filled with small bottles of powder, or leaves or petals. The smell of herbs mixed with that of peat from the fireplace, producing an oddly attractive aroma. Though it was quite dark inside, Bethia saw that it was clean and well-maintained.

She watched as the woman stooped and hung a kettle on an iron hook above the fire.

Then she came to stand next to Bethia. “What is it you would like?” she asked in a soft, almost musical voice.

“Fennel,” Bethia said, her gaze moving along the shelves. She recognized some of the herbs, but not all. “Scented geranium, savory and marjoram. And some rose petals,” she added.

Mary Ferguson nodded and efficiently took several small bottles from her cache and carefully placed them on the table.

“Please sit with me,” Bethia said, knowing that her title precluded the woman sitting in her own house without permission.

Mary nodded and looked at her steadily, but without the curiosity Bethia knew she herself must be displaying.

“You live here alone?”

“Aye, except for Catherine.”

“Catherine?” Bethia looked around, expecting some small face to appear out of the shadows.

“My cat,” Mary explained. “She does not care for strangers. She has found a hiding place.”

“I wish I could do that,” Bethia said wistfully.

“You miss your home?”

“Aye, and my family.”

Mary asked no questions, but her gray eyes seemed to encourage confidences. How very strange it was to sit in a room with your husband’s mistress. Of course, she cared nothing about him, less than nothing. She was grateful that this woman took care of his needs so she was not required to do so.

Why, then, did she feel a ripple of jealousy?

Had she expected to find him here?

And yet there was no sign of him. No horse. No clothes.

Mary Ferguson apparently saw her look around. “He is not here,” she said quietly.

Bethia flushed, then rose. “I am sorry. I should not have come here, but—”

“You are lonely.”

Something in Mary Ferguson’s voice stopped her. Understanding. Empathy. Again, Bethia wondered about the woman’s appeal to her husband, an appeal strong enough that he had eschewed his wife’s bed even under orders from Cumberland. It was a loyalty she’d rarely seen between man and woman, even when married. And totally unexpected in a man everyone considered a libertine, fool and dandy.

Bethia made a move toward the door. “I should go. I am sorry to intrude.”

“Do not be. I welcome the company. I get few visitors.”

Except for the marquis.

“How much are the herbs?”

The woman shrugged gracefully. “Two pence.”

“I will have it sent over.”

“There is no hurry.”

Bethia found herself liking the woman, liking the easy, comfortable way she had, despite the awkward circumstances. “I must go.”

“You have not had your tea.”

Bethia hesitated, then smiled. “Jamie will believe you have cooked me.”

Mary suddenly looked wistful. “Aye, the witch.”

There was a flash of movement behind her, then something furry rubbed against Bethia’s ankle.

“Catherine,” Mary said, shock evident in her voice. “She never does that.”

“Perhaps she smells Black Jack on me.”

Alarm suddenly flashed through the woman’s eyes, and they seemed to narrow. “Black Jack?”

“A puppy. The stableman was going to drown him.”

“Then he and Catherine have something in common,” Mary said, but her body was rigid. “Why did you name him Black Jack?”

But Bethia could not say. Mary Ferguson was her husband’s mistress, no matter how warm she appeared to be. The marquis must not learn that she was looking for the Black Knave. He must not know she had any interest in him.

“He is small and black,” she finally said.

Mary went to the kettle and poured a portion into a plain white cup, then into a second cup. She looked expectantly at Bethia, who took several sips, then stood.

“Please stay awhile.”

Bethia was lured by the pleasant warmth in the woman’s voice. She felt more at home in this humble room than she ever had at Braemoor. She was suddenly very envious of a woman who apparently was free to love whom she wished, who had a freedom that Bethia could never have.

“I cannot today,” she said, “but I thank you.” She hesitated. “I saw a path go upward. Does anyone live further up in the woods?”

The warmth in the woman’s eyes faded. “No,” she said. “I just walk up there.”

The room seemed to chill, and Bethia wrapped her cloak tighter around her. “I thank you for the tea.”

The woman merely nodded.

Bethia escaped, wondering why her comment about the woods above seemed to upset Mary Ferguson when the unexpected visit of her lover’s wife did not.

Rory tried to turn the walk into a game as rain started to fall. ’Twas cold and uncomfortable, but he hoped it would keep Cumberland’s soldiers around a fire. They had passed through ruined fields, by burned crofts, always keeping away from the roads. Timothy would run ahead, drop back occasionally, and leave markings to point the safe way. Two of the older children would run ahead trying to find them.

Timothy was indeed a good scout. They reached the coast not long after dark. They still had two miles to go, though, before reaching the point chosen by the French captain. Rory could only hope that Ogilvy was also able to avoid any English patrols.

The children took turns riding the horse as they moved toward the sea, finally arriving there after several hours. Rory carried a small girl, as did one of the women. They walked across the great dunes to the beach, then continued toward the rendezvous site.

He prayed that Ogilvy had also reached the site with the other refugees. They didn’t have much time now.

The rain had stopped and a piece of the moon occasionally emerged from behind clouds. It provided just enough light that he could see shadows and keep the children together.

He heard a whistle of a bird. Ogilvy. They had practiced several calls as they’d rode from the lodge to the cave. The young nobleman suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere. He was on foot.

“An English patrol,” he said, his voice buffered by the sound of the ocean. “Right behind me.”

Rory turned toward the women. “Take the children into the dunes,” he said. Ogilvy grabbed several of the children, and Rory took his horse up over the dunes. The children huddled down while Rory placed his hands over the horse’s mouth to quiet him. Minutes later, he heard the sound of hooves thudding along the sand, the sound of jangling spurs. They were coming from the direction in which Rory and his small band were headed.

Rory held his breath as the troop continued down the beach, thanking God once more for a dark night. He only hoped that the French captain was as skilled a navigator as Elizabeth claimed.

After the last sound of horses faded, he tried to get his small party moving again. Their terror was palpable. He ruffled the wet hair of one of the boys. “Brave boy,” he said approvingly, then turned to a girl who whimpered ever so quietly. “Soon you will have blankets and hot food,” he promised. “It will not take long now.”

Ogilvy was reassuring another child. He looked toward Rory. “The others are hidden in the dunes near the rendezvous spot,” he said. “I came down to meet you, then heard the patrol.”

Ogilvy, Rory thought, had been worth saving after all. “My thanks,” he said.

“No, mine,” Ogilvy said quietly.

Ogilvy led the way this time, Rory taking up the rear. An hour passed, then they reached a great cliff that jutted into the North Sea. They were to wait on the southern side.

Ogilvy disappeared, then reappeared, this time with the others he’d collected. No one said anything, although the men took the children in their arms, sharing the plaids with them for warmth. An hour went by, then another. No one said anything, although a woman sang a soft lullaby to the children.

Then they heard the sound of oars, a low whistle. Rory carried two of the youngest children, and the others ran down to the sea. A long boat danced on the incoming tide, and two large sailors jumped out and pulled it up almost to the beach. One held the rope while the other started helping the passengers inside.

“Too many,” one of the men said. “We were told fourteen.”

“Tell your captain I will settle with him later,” Rory said.

The sailor hesitated.

“Eight of the children make four adults.”

The sailor still hesitated.

“Do you wish to throw them into the sea? You might as well, for all the future they will have if you leave them on this beach.”

The man made a barely visible shrug, waited for the last passengers to be seated, then hopped into the boat, hauling in the rope behind him. The oarsmen pulled at their oars, and the boat disappeared into the rain, leaving Rory alone.

Feeling as if a tremendous load had been lifted from his shoulders, he made his way back to where his tired horse waited. He would ride along the coast until he found a village, then rest both the horse and himself. He would start home tomorrow.

Home. For the first time, the word seemed to have meaning. He felt an eagerness he’d never known before. He did not want to think it was caused by the woman who so unwillingly lived there.

A week. The marquis had been gone more than a week. Nearly nine days, in fact. His absence was longer than any other time since their marriage two months earlier. Bethia frowned at the thought as she watched two newly employed maids polish silver that was black with tarnish. They had, with her assistance, pounded dust from tapestries and dusted off the huge paintings of generations of the Forbes family. Their dark, beady eyes seemed to follow her wherever she went.

Strange that they all had dark eyes. The marquis had hazel eyes, changeable eyes. Rather remarkable eyes, in truth. Surprising eyes. He should have the dull, lifeless eyes of a wastrel, of a man who drank too much. But instead … they sometimes shimmered with intelligence and … secrets.

Nonsense.

A wife for two months now, and she’d spent two days with the man she called husband.

All to the good, she told herself.

She’d put the last week to good use. Jamie now had a new pair of britches and a new shirt, as well as a pair of shoes. His father had frowned at first, but she’d told him that new shirts were being made for all those who worked in the tower house and in the stables, and his scowl had faded. A new shirt was a prize of great value.

She’d taken Jamie’s old clothes, saying they would be mended. She would give them to the kirk for the poor. And she would. Later. Much, much later.

She washed them late one night after Trilby had gone to bed, and had spread them out in front of the fire to dry. Then she’d folded and tucked them away in a drawer. They represented a means of escape, though she had not yet exactly determined how or when.

Jamie and his father slept in back of the stable, ready to take in the horses of any late or early guests. They would immediately miss one of their charges. She had to find another horse, buy one, and keep it somewhere else. But how? Her small winnings from her game with the marquis would not begin to buy a serviceable mount and tack. Still, she had no intentions of giving up.

She debated something she’d thought about for several days. The tower house was becoming more and more respectable, but what about his room? What might she learn about him there?

Invading his privacy, or anyone else’s, was abhorrent to her. Still, his room needed cleaning. She’d noticed that the other night. It had been neat, far neater than she would have expected, but the floors had been dusty and the windows as dirty as those in the great hall. No wonder he apparently did not notice. He was seldom there.

She also wondered about the choice of his room. It was small, not nearly as large as the huge room down the hallway. That room had evidently belonged to the former marquis, and was unused at the moment. Cumberland had stayed there when they were wed, but her husband had never moved from what was apparently his old room. Neither did he have a personal servant to look after him.

Another paradox. For a man who claimed to love luxury and elaborate clothing, his own room had few trappings of privilege. Was it just laziness?

None of it made any sense to her.

But perhaps in exchange for his giving her some freedom and the power to run the household, she would clean the room, mayhap even take a carpet from another room and use it to replace the worn, threadbare cloth that now covered the floor.

In transforming the room, she might learn more about her elusive husband.

With renewed interest, she went up the stone stairs, the dog close on her heels. Little Black Jack followed her everywhere now. He could manage the stairs now, though it took a little effort. She looked down as he made an indignant yelp when she went too fast for him. She slowed down, waited as he gained the stone steps, then went to the marquis’s chamber. She opened the door. A bottle of spirits and an empty glass sat on a table.

She remembered that table. She remembered the crackling attraction that had flickered between them. She felt it now. A warmness invaded her lower regions as she thought of his touch.

How could she?

He was her husband.

He was a traitor and a wastrel.

She leaned against the wall of his room, aware that her breaths were coming faster. Her eyes went to his wardrobe in the corner. She hesitated for a moment, then, as if a compulsion had taken over her body, she opened it.

A gaudy parade of colors met her eyes. Waistcoats of the very best materials, shirts of silk, brightly colored trews made of the finest wool. A stand held several wigs, each one elaborate. She found herself looking for something else, for something simple. Her mind’s eye kept seeing him that night they’d played cards. He’d been wearing a full white shirt open at the neck and a pair of deerskin britches that had fit him well. He did have fine legs, even in the dreadful trews.

Her face flamed at the thought, at the warmth pooling in her belly.

She touched one of the shirts, and felt something hard under it. She lifted it up and found a number of decks of cards. The gambler’s tools.

“Marchioness?”

She whirled around and saw the object of her musings standing in the doorway, a quizzical look on his face.

He was dressed in a bright green waistcoat, purple and yellow trews and a wig that was slightly askew. His eyes narrowed as his gaze roamed up and down her, then rested on her face.

“I did not know you had returned.”

“Obviously,” he said lazily.

“I thought to clean in here.”

“Amidst my clothes?”

“To see whether any needed cleaning or repair. Is that not a wife’s duty?”

“I think I would prefer her other duties if she sincerely believes in fulfilling a wife’s function.” His voice was silky, his lips turned upward in a suggestive smile. She saw a sudden cruelty in that smile. A calculated cruelty.

“You did not say I could not come into your room,” she said, closing the door to the wardrobe.

“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “I did not.”

He seemed to be viewing her as a spider might ogle its web-trapped prey.

“You were gone a long while. I really thought your room might need a thorough dusting.” She realized she was repeating herself, even babbling.

The corner of his mouth crooked up. “A long while,” he repeated. “You missed me, then?”

“No.” It took all her courage not to make a fast dash for the door. She did not like the odd speculation on his face.

“You just had a sudden desire to clean my room?”

“I wondered why you did not move into the marquis’s room.”

“This is the marquis’s room,” he said.

“I mean …” She bit her lip.

“Ah, the old marquis’s room.”

“Aye,” she said.

“Then you have no’ heard the rumors.”

She looked at him curiously.

“My father did not much care for me. He did not, in fact, believe I was his son. He hated me, and quite frankly I returned the favor. I ha’ no wish to live in his room.” His voice was suddenly hard, cold.

Trilby had told her that he and his father had not cared for one another. She had not dreamed, however, that the enmity had run so deep. She remembered her own mother and father, the love they had showered upon her. She felt an instant sympathy for the marquis, for the man who was her husband.

“Your mother?”

He emitted a short laugh, more like a bark. “She made his life as much a hell as he made hers.”

“And you?”

He shrugged. “It does not matter. She died years ago. It was my father’s misfortune that he did not have time to disown me after my … brother died at Culloden. I am sure he is rolling about in his grave that I now own Brae-moor.” He smiled, but there was no humor in the ironic twist of his mouth. “And that a Jacobite is the marchioness.”

She felt a sudden chill. She had thought he was as much a reluctant bridegroom as she was a bride. Now she wondered whether this was not his ultimate revenge against his father. That idea did not appeal to her.

“You must have had a long journey if you came from Edinburgh,” she said. “I will have water sent up, and some food.”

“I believe I would prefer to eat in the great hall with my wife at my side.”

She looked up into his face. “Why?”

“I do not want any rumors that we do not … suit.”

“I would think your absences would make that clear.”

“Business, lass. I took a keg of fine French brandy to Cumberland, among other things. He asked how you were.”

She stiffened. “Did he say anything about my brother?”

“Nay.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment. He seemed in good humor, for some reason. She did not know, though, if that bade well or poorly for her. But she would try to use it.

“I would like to send my brother a letter, but I do not know if Lord Creighton will give it to him.”

“Write it, and I will try to get it to him,” he said unexpectedly. She searched his face, but the mask was in place. He gave away nothing.

“Why would you do that?”

“You are my wife,” he said lightly. “And I am impressed. Braemoor has improved considerably since you became its mistress. And now I would like to bathe. Will you order hot water? You may stay and scrub me if you wish.”

Her face reddened again, and she was mortified that he saw her confusion. She never quite knew exactly what he intended by his words.

“Or not,” he said mercifully. “I will come to your room when I am ready for supper.”

She left quickly, unwilling to take a chance that he might change his mind and wish her to attend him during his bath.

Yet even as she hurried to her room, to safety, she tried to understand why her nerves all tingled from the thought of him naked.

Nor why she always felt so confused after each and every one of their encounters.

And why she felt he wanted something unsaid from her. And, God help her, why she felt she needed something from him.

She just did not know what it was.