Fifteen

Bethia woke to a soft but persistent knocking. It took her a minute to grasp where she was. She felt different. Sore, yet complete in a way she’d never known before.

The sun streamed into her room, and she heard the plaintive cries of the little black terrier.

The knock came again and with it a shrill puppy bark. She looked around, trying to find evidence of her husband. She had gone to sleep in his arms last night.

He was not in the room. And he wouldn’t be knocking this morning.

She wondered what time it was. Long past her usual rising hour, she thought.

She looked down. Black Jack’s claws were all entangled in the wig, which he’d made into a nest. She smiled at the great curls all in disarray. “Where did he go?” she asked him. “And when?”

Her wistful question brought forth no answer. Reluctantly she left the bed, and the lingering scent of her husband. Then she looked down and saw a red stain on the bedclothes. Somehow she had to hide it. That stain supposedly had already been on the bedclothes.

She pushed the coverlet over it, then looked around the room. No signs of Rory Forbes remained other than Jack’s possession. The other wig was gone, as well as the waistcoat and shirt. And trews. ’Twas as if he had never been there at all. Except for the blood on the bed.

As before, Jack had no answers. He looked at her with an expression as bewildered as she felt.

Why did she feel so disappointed? Why did she miss him so?

She should be thinking about her brother, about getting him away from Cumberland and his minions.

Shame and self-disgust filled her. Yet there was a hint of glory there, too, pushing those other feelings aside.

Feeling a bit lost and uncertain, she left the bed, untangled the puppy, then wrapped a nightdress about her and went to the door.

Trilby stood there, laden with a tray of hot chocolate and pastries. “The marquis said to send this up to ye,” she said, her eyes bright with inquisitive interest.

“Where is he?”

“He received a message, then left abruptly.”

Disappointment was like a sword slitting her in two. Nor could she believe she had slept so long.

“How long ago?”

“No’ verra’ long.”

“And he did not say how long he would be?”

“Nay.”

Bethia ruffled the fur of the little terrier as her thoughts pillaged any remaining pleasure lingering from last night.

Why had she expected more? Why had she expected the magic to last?

He had never said he loved her or even cared for her. Indeed, even as she gave herself to him so wantonly, she knew he had a mistress. He’d never denied it. Never tried to hide it. Had he gone to her this morning? Had the woman in the woods sent for him? That hurt beyond bearing.

Trilby set the tray on the table, the table where a deck of cards remained. So there was something physical left of his presence. She turned one over. The jack of spades.

She bit back an exclamation. ’Twas as if some phantom was trying to remind her. Even if the marquis cared for her, which at the moment seemed unlikely since he’d not even bothered to say “good morn” to her, how could she have forgotten her brother? Even a moment?

“I will be back with water,” Trilby said, watching her with a strange expression.

“Aye,” she said softly. She sat down at the table and looked at the pastries. She had never felt less like eating. She tore off a tiny piece and gave it to Jack, who regarded it suspiciously before taking it daintily in his mouth.

She looked across the table, seeing the marquis in her mind’s eye as he’d curved his lips into an unexpectedly whimsical smile. Why had she insisted on seeing more in him than probably existed? Just because he saw humor in a small dog?

Just because his practiced hands had been gentle?

She bit her lower lip, wishing she had been stronger last night, that she had remained cold and aloof. He’d said Cumberland had wanted a child. Was that why he had come to her last night? Why he had seduced her?

Or had she seduced him?

He could have just taken her.

But the marquis was a man who enjoyed games, who enjoyed playing with people’s lives. He’d said as much last night.

Why, then, had she allowed him into her bed and into her heart?

She fed another small piece to the dog, then took a sip of the chocolate. Then with renewed determination, she rose and gathered the lower sheet on the bed, folding it as small as she could, and placed it in the bottom of the wardrobe. Trilby would not ask about it. Trilby asked about little.

In tucking it away, she touched the torn britches and shirt she had collected from the stableboy. Mayhap tonight she would make use of them. She would try to find the Black Knave. And if she could not find him, she would become the symbol herself.

After last night, she knew she could not delay.

Rory rode as if the devil trailed him. In fact, he’d already decided that particular fiend was indeed riding his shoulders.

He’d never had a great deal of respect for himself. He’d never commended himself for honor or valor or strength of will.

But he had miserably failed himself and, God help him, Bethia last night. He’d had no right to do what he’d done. By taking her to bed, he’d made promises he’d had no right to make. He’d placed her in danger. He’d made sure that he would, in one way or another, betray her. She’d had enough tragedy in her life. She needed no more.

He’d lain awake most of the night, his arms around her. He’d determined then he could do one thing for her. Retrieve her brother and get the both of them out of Scotland as soon as possible. It did not matter what happened to him.

But getting her brother would be dangerous, and he would not raise her hopes.

He’d left the bed at dawn, fearing that seeing her in the morning might further erode what small will he had. Then he’d received a message from Alister that he was needed immediately.

He almost did not go. He did not want her to wake believing he’d cared nothing about her. But neither could he build false hope, let her think that he was anyone with whom she could build a life. He could not compound the damage he’d just inflicted.

He arrived at Mary’s cottage, the place he and Alister usually met since his own home and blacksmith shop were far too visible. Their friendship had always been private. He doubted any suspected its strength. He was thought incapable of honest feeling. He’d worked hard at fostering that idea, even before his guise as the Knave. For a while, he’d even wanted it to be true.

There were no horses in front of Mary’s cottage, which meant Alister had not yet arrived or had hidden his horse somewhere in the woods. Rory quickly dismounted and tied his horse in front of the cottage, hoping deep inside that his wife never heard that he had visited Mary the morning after sleeping with her.

But perhaps that would be best. Bethia must think the worst of him.

He knocked. Mary opened the door to him, then closed it sharply behind him.

“James Drummond is near Buckie, trying to find a ship, and the English know about it. They are planning a trap, passing along word that a certain fisherman might be agreeable to smuggling out a Jacobite. A barmaid overheard the planning and word was passed.”

“Alister?”

“He went up there to try to find and warn him.”

“It could well be a trap for the Black Knave, too,” Rory said. “’Twould be just like the devious English: Set a trap and allow information to leak out, then prepare an altogether different one.”

“He thought of that. He will be careful.”

“He’ll be stopping by the Flying Lady, then,” Rory said. ’Twas a tavern near Buckie that they had visited together. The owner was sympathetic to the Jacobites and had previously passed on information to Rory via various routes. Rory had been there, had judged the man before trusting his words, but the tavern owner had not recognized the elderly English gentleman with the supercilious air.

“He said he would meet you there.”

“The traitorous fisherman. Do we know who he is?”

“Aye. The word is he would betray his own mither for a half pence.”

“And Drummond is most likely too young to know better.”

“Or too desperate.”

Rory knew a lot about desperation. He had seen enough of it these past few months. The Highlanders were braw and brave in battle, but they had no guile. They had little patience with stealth and duplicity.

She nodded, fear in her eyes.

He touched her cheek. “Alister will be fine. He is as slippery as an eel.”

She did not answer, but her eyes remained troubled.

“I will bring him home,” Rory said, trying to think what might be best. Should he go as himself, or in some other disguise? He needed to ride fast, which meant he should disguise himself as an English officer again. He disliked using the same disguise twice in a row, but he had few options.

“The English uniform?” He looked at Mary with a question in his voice.

“I cleaned it the best I could. It is dry.”

He nodded. “I’ll take the black and leave my horse here. If anyone comes by, I am in the woods hunting and will not be back until late.”

“Including the marchioness?”

“Aye.”

“Someone might see your horse here.”

“Most likely.”

“She will not object?”

“It is not for her to object.” His voice was harsh, harsher than he intended. He didn’t want this. Yet he did not want anyone to know that both he and the blacksmith were gone from the area at the same time. Far better that they think he had taken back up with his mistress.

Far better for whom? The demon whispered in his head.

He didn’t waste more time. He took what he needed from Mary’s hidden compartment under the floor and folded them into a blanket. Too many people knew him around here. He would wait to change until it would be unlikely that anyone would recognize him.

“Do not worry,” he said. “I will send Alister back as soon as I find him.”

Rumors abounded in the tower house. So many, in fact, that Bethia wondered whether she had been meant to hear them.

Whisper, whisper, whisper.

“The marquis is at the whore’s cottage.”

“He’s been there two days.”

“The Drummond lad is on the run.”

“They say it is a trap for the Black Knave.”

The Black Knave and the marquis’s whore. Every time she approached a door, passed servants in the hall, went by the great hall at suppertime, she heard the voices pause, but their echoes ate a hole in her soul.

A trap.

The marquis and the woman.

A trap for the Black Knave.

She could not allow it to happen. He was her only hope to save Dougal. And herself.

She had to warn him.

Buckie. The whispers said the trap was being set at Buckie. ’Twas many miles away. How could she possibly reach it in time? How could she find him?

When would her husband return?

His frequent absences almost always lasted at least two or three days and often a week or more.

Bethia remembered the warmth she’d felt in his arms, the passion, even the gentleness. Now he had gone to the home of his mistress. To laugh about how he seduced his wife? How he had charmed and duped her?

How could she have been so fooled by the man? He had jumped from her bed into that of a loose woman. Had she been that inadequate? That unappealing?

Her heart felt hollow, her throat thick.

She went into his room, closed the door firmly behind her, and positioned herself so she could search his wardrobe as well as watch the door. She would not be surprised this time. She looked for the deck of cards. Surely he would not miss one or two.

They were gone. All of them!

She had the one jack from the deck of cards he’d given her. No more.

He had given her permission to ride alone, but if she took a horse and did not return it before nightfall, she was sure an alarm would be raised. The Black Knave was said to be a horse thief as well as a Jacobite. She could steal a horse.

What would happen to Dougal if she were caught? The thought sent shivers of terror through her.

But she had to do something.

Could she trust Trilby?

Her mind kept jumping from subject to subject. Did she dare take a chance?

The Black Knave had repeatedly risked his life for her friends, for Scotland’s patriots. How could she do less for him?

She replaced the marquis’s clothes and left his stark room.

’Twas midday.

Bethia went to her room, Black Jack anxiously tagging after her. He whined as if he knew what she was thinking and didn’t care for it at all.

She regarded her face carefully in the mirror. It was pale, but not pale enough. Mayhap it would be easier to put color into it. An unhealthy color. A very unhealthy color.

But what kind of illness would keep people away, unwilling to go into her room? The pox? That would terrify everyone but it would also bring attention to Braemoor. That would not do.

Fainting spells? Everyone would suspect a child. It had been three months since their wedding.

That was it. She could go into seclusion. She remembered hearing tales of women who swooned when they were with child, who became deathly ill. Her mother, who had seven bairns, four of which survived childbirth, had always voiced contempt for such behavior. It was a woman’s lot to bear children with dignity.

Would Trilby cooperate? Would she risk the marquis’s wrath?

She would tell Trilby she was faint and ill with an uncertain stomach, that she was not well enough to see anyone. They would draw their own conclusions. Then she would slip out tonight, leaving a note for Trilby, telling her she had to make sure her brother was safe, that she had heard he was not. Would she please tell everyone the marchioness was still fragile? But then would Trilby be blamed?

She immediately dismissed that plan because of the last factor. She could not be responsible for Trilby being caught in such a lie.

Mayhap the direct route was best. The marquis had given her freedom to ride. He had left her bed and gone to his mistress. She would just take a horse and ride away, leaving a note to him or to anyone who asked that she was going to visit her brother. She had promised not to leave the marriage. She had not promised she would not try to visit her brother.

Many things could happen along the way. She could take the wrong road and become lost. For days.

She was certain there would be a price to pay, but if she would be able to warn the Black Knave it did not matter. Especially if she could earn his gratitude—and his help.

And if her husband was dismayed, she could counter accusation with accusation. Her husband had left her bed without so much as a word. Probably for the bed of his mistress. His anger could be no greater than her own.

Bethia planned her escape carefully. She had to leave during daylight hours or there would be questions. She knew that Jamie’s father stayed in the stable at night, and he would well question a midnight ride.

She dressed in her riding costume, then carefully wrapped Jamie’s old clothes along with a bonnet in a piece of cloth. She planned to say, if anyone asked, that she was taking the bolt for a shirt to be made for her husband. As an afterthought, she took out the necklace her husband had given her. She might need a bribe. It had held some meaning for a fraction of time, but now it held none.

She carefully sewed it inside one of the trouser legs, then sewed another piece of cloth over it. It would be uncomfortable and complicate her walking, but it might well be necessary. It gave her some bit of satisfaction that she might be using his gift to thwart his patron.

She then wrote a note saying that she had gone to see her brother. Hopefully, Neil would not care enough to send someone after her, especially without orders from the marquis.

Bethia planned to get lost along the way. She would take the road to Rosemeare where her brother was imprisoned, then cut down toward Buckie on the coast. It would be a most unusual thing for a woman to take such a trip without an escort, but after all, she was a Jacobite. If her husband could disappear for days, she did not know why she could not.

More important, she would be taking action, becoming a part of events that affected her, not just a pawn in someone else’s game. In numerous games. Cumberland’s. Her husband’s.

Neither cared about her or Dougal.

She’d never felt so alone. And yet she also felt a sense of purpose.

Bethia hurried down the stairs. Neil and some of his men were out looking for the young Ogilvy and now probably Drummond, and any other Jacobite they could locate. They would be back tonight, and all they would care about would be the casks of wine and hot food.

Jamie was in the stable, and he saddled her horse. He asked to go with her, but she said she now knew the way, and would be safe by herself. He looked at her doubtfully, but then his fa came in, and told him to mind “the lady.”

’Twas obvious that no one but Jamie really cared about her safety.

She mounted with his help, then walked the mare down the lane and out of sight of the tower house. Bethia then urged the mare into a canter until they reached a crossroads. She took the road that led to the mountains and the coast, the one away from Lord Creighton and her brother.

She was free.

The rumor was indeed a trap for the Black Knave rather than Drummond. If Drummond, however, was also apprehended, so much the better.

Rory discovered that fact very quickly.

His uniform gained him entrance to a tavern frequented by English officers. They were thankfully well into their cups and accepted him without question, especially since he seemed as rollicking drunk as they.

They were not discreet. Several of them had just come off patrol. Every approach to the fisherman’s house was well watched. Any stranger, no matter how old, or which sex, was stopped. Drummond would probably hear of the fisherman shortly, and he would make his way to him.

The Black Knave would undoubtedly try to save him from his own foolishness.

The English were not exactly sure where Drummond was, except they believed he was hiding in the Grampians. He had been sighted near a village, and later a village lad had been heard asking whether anyone knew a fisherman willing to risk sailing him south to a port where he might find passage out of the country. He would be well-paid.

The word was out that a Geordie Grant would be interested. Geordie, it was said, would do anything for a coin or cask of ale. ’Twas expected that Drummond would approach him either tonight or the next. The soldiers had apparently been part of the patrol watching the fisherman’s house for the past two days, and were weary of inaction. They also wearied of the incessant cold rain, and complained bitterly that the Scottish weather was as cold and treacherous as many of the country’s inhabitants.

Still, the thought of trapping the Black Knave was an enticing one. The reward was large.

Rory affected his best English accent. Since he’d fostered with an English family, he could talk about nearly anyone with some knowledge. He soon had his companions roaring with laughter with imitations of several highly placed officials in King George’s government. Then, thoroughly accepted, he sat back with a brandy, faked a drunkenness and listened as a plan fermented in his mind.

He’d next have to find Alister or make sure warnings had been delivered.

He suspected Alister might already have found Drummond. His friend had built several strong networks of spies, using information from those they had already helped. Spurred by his own dismal childhood, Alister had quite actively and enthusiastically turned into a protector of the weak and hunted. He had, in fact, a genius for names and organization.

Rory wished the other officers luck in finding the blackhearted villain who had made fools of them. He discreetly left the latter part of the sentence unspoken, and lurched uncertainly toward the door and his horse.

Fifteen minutes later he approached the Flying Lady. It was a tavern frequented by local fisherman, many of whom hated the English, and was therefore avoided by soldiers of the crown. Rory would be thoroughly obnoxious, obnoxious enough to bring attention to himself.

The Flying Lady was part of an inn and was far quieter than one frequented by the English. Scots huddled around the tables in bleak and sullen silence, their expressions bitter and hostile as he entered the public room. Their fishing had been curtailed in large measure by the English who worried about Jacobites escaping. Boats were repeatedly searched and often confiscated by the English who claimed their owners were Jacobite sympathizers.

A man approached him, a burly individual with a deep frown. “I am thinkin’ ye are in the wrong place,” he said.

“I think not,” Rory said and took a chair. “I will have your best brandy.”

Moments later he was drinking what must be the worst brandy in all of Scotland.

All eyes were on him. He ignored them, raised his feet to the table and leaned comfortably back in the chair and regarded the others with equanimity. An hour went by, then another.

His tavern mates muttered. He grinned at them.

One by one they left, leaving the owner glowering at him. “Closing time,” he said.

“I had hoped for a friendly game of cards.”

The tavern keeper looked at him as if he had grown a set of fangs and was breathing fire. He knew he could not force an English officer to leave.

“Sit down and play with me,” Rory said.

The man glowered.

Rory paid no attention to the scowl. Instead he took out a deck of cards and facilely shuffled them. Then he split the deck and turned one side up to a black jack.

The tavern keeper’s scowl deepened. He turned and started to walk away.

“Brodie said you could be trusted.” Brodie was the name Alister used on his travels.

The man stopped. “’Ow is Mr. Brodie?”

“Sick in soul.”

The tavern keeper’s gaze bored into him, accepting the agreed upon words with a lingering doubt. He was still being cautious, and Rory approved of that.

“What do ye want?”

“Has Brodie been here?”

“He has.”

“When?”

“This morning.” The tavern keeper continued to regard him suspiciously. “He left a warning.”

“For Drummond?”

“Aye,” the man said cautiously.

“You know where he is, then?”

“Mayhap.” He looked at the card again. “Anyone could have tha’ card.”

Rory took his feet from the table. “True,” he said amiably, “but we needed something people could trust. It might well have outworn its purpose. I knew the words, though, too.”

The tavern keeper’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye ’im? The Knave?”

“Nay. Just a messenger.”

The man did not look as if he believed Rory, but then he appeared a naturally suspicious man. Rory approved of that, too.

“I must get in touch with Drummond.”

Cool blue eyes appraised him. “Ye look and talk like an English officer.”

“It is helpful at times.”

“Aye,” the man said grudgingly. “But I can take a message.” He bristled. “Or am I not trusted?”

“I would not be here if you were not.” Rory dropped the English accent. “But Drummond is headstrong, and he may not believe you.”

The innkeeper hesitated, then slowly relented. “I will take ye to him. I was planning to take Brodie’s message to him later tonight. First I will have to get my brother to take over the inn.”

“Do you have some other clothes? This uniform is rather conspicuous. I do not fancy being shot as an Englishman.”

The innkeeper finally smiled. “Our Father may not let ye enter His gates.”

“I should hope not,” Rory agreed.

“He sees into their black hearts.”

“Aye,” Rory said.

He was suddenly accepted. He did not know why or how, but the man gestured him up a narrow set of steps and opened a door to usher him inside.

In another few moments, Rory was dressed in plain ragged breeches made of drugget. It was coarse and undyed and exactly what he needed. He selected a used and somewhat smelly shirt of similarly rough material, then some shoes with a thin sole nearly worn through. The innkeeper added a worn jacket.

The man watched with curiosity as Rory stripped the well-manicured mustache from above his lips. He was, Rory knew, reconsidering Rory’s denial that he was the Black Knave. But Rory had no intention to debate the point. Let him wonder.

He stuffed some cotton in his cheeks, then darkened his teeth with a substance Elizabeth had given him. The cotton also changed his voice.

The innkeeper stared with amazement. “I nev’r would ’ave believed it.” He struck out his hand. “I am Kerry.”

Rory gave him a crooked, toothy grin. “I know.”