Seventeen

Bethia had never been so physically frightened in her life.

She had been frightened for her brothers when they joined Prince Charlie’s army, and particularly after she heard of the slaughter. She had been frightened for herself when she’d been married to a man she did not know. But she’d never experienced anything like this pounding in her heart.

For the first time she understood the male predilection for battle. She had never been so terrified; neither had she ever felt so alive.

She’d had to hide her uncertainty well. If she’d shown one second of fear, she would have lost every one of the small group the innkeeper’s brother had found. They had been dubious enough about her size, but her plan had changed their minds. ’Twas a fine plan, everyone agreed. A plan worthy of the Black Knave.

Each also wanted Geordie Grant to receive his due. He gave them all a bad name. To scare the life from him, and also to take his boat, seemed suitable repayment, enough to gag other potential traitors.

Miraculously, it had all gone as planned. There were six of them, all masked, including Bethia. The five local men easily captured the three English soldiers still watching Geordie’s small stone house while Bethia remained in the shadows. ’Twas important that she not be injured, since she was the only one to talk. He might recognize the voices of the others.

Heavy, dark clouds blotted any moon or starlight, and a light fog made visibility impossible. Her heart beat faster than it ever had before, and once—when she heard a grunt, then a heavy thump—her breath caught in her throat. Her entire body tensed, shivers of apprehension running through her. What right had she to endanger these men? She, who had no skill at any of this?

A great hulking form dressed in dark oil cloth materialized over her. “It is done, lad. None of ’em will be botherin’ us this night.”

They approached the house and Bethia, clad in the black cloak and a piece of cloth masking all but her eyes, drew herself as tall as she could and entered with the rest. With pistols trained on Geordie Grant, Bethia threw down the jack of spades and watched the man’s face pale with terror.

With more confidence than she thought she possessed, she castigated him in a husky voice for turning on his countrymen. Then she told him they were taking his boat, that Drummond was waiting outside.

She watched as he was tied loosely, while three other men ran down and pushed the boat into the sea, holding it there until Bethia had finished her part, making Grant believe he was indeed talking to the Black Knave. Leaving the card on the table, she ran down to the beach with the innkeeper’s brother. He helped her into the boat, and the small craft swept out into the sea as its sails were unfurled.

The sea scared her witless. The small fishing boat plunged and lifted with the heavy seas; she nearly tumbled off before she learned to keep a good hold. Spray drenched her bonnet and clothes. One particularly hard wind caught her bonnet and it went flying off. One of her braids fell from where she had pinned it, and first one fisherman, then another, stared at her.

“Jesu,” uttered one.

“A lass!”

“Bloody hell.”

She could only stand there, holding tightly to the side, as frowns and furrowed brows stared at her disbelievingly.

“Damn me, but we followed a lassie.”

“Remember the tale that the Knave was an old woman.”

They all looked at her as if she had grown a second head, even as the boat plunged once more, then seemed to rise on a wave, riding over it as water smashed down on her.

One man snatched the wheel from one who stood stunned at the wheel.

“Are ye he?”

“She didna ’ave the words,” the innkeeper’s brother reminded them. “The real Knave is in the forest with my brother.”

“Still, it were a plan worthy of ’im,” said another.

“But it could still fail if you do not pay attention,” she said sharply, her mind racing between old fear, new fear, and indignation at being talked about as if she were not there.

Their gazes left her and she huddled down on the floor, soaked through by freezing rain and exhausted by the adventure, and still uncertain whether the plan would work, whether it would draw the English from the hills.

The rest of the voyage was in silence. Bethia did not know how long it took. She only knew she was miserable and yet … she had done something. Right or wrong. She had stopped letting fate turn her one way, then another. Even if she failed, she had acted on behalf of her countrymen.

They landed north of another small cluster of dwellings. They pulled the boat up to the shore, then used axes to destroy it. The boat had been meant to betray one of their own, after all. A mile down the beach, a lad awaited them with her horse. She and the innkeeper would both ride it back to Buckie. He would then attempt to find his brother. She would return the horse to Anne, reclaim her own, then hurry home as quickly as she could with some tale of being lost or waylaid by a bandit.

It was just after dawn when they reached his inn. The streets were still, and he led them through back ways. They tied the horse a street away from the Flying Lady, then he sauntered back into the inn. Finding no one watching, he went to the back where she waited and signaled for her to come inside. She changed to the ragged clothes she’d worn before, then quickly took the food he offered.

“Ye are a brave lass,” he said.

“And you are a fine braw Scot.”

He grinned, the hole between his teeth quite prominent. “Ye want tae be telling me yer name?”

“’Tis best none are exchanged.”

“Sick in soul.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“It is the words to identify the Black Knave and his … couriers. ’Tis the way we all feel about Scotland and wha’ is happening. Ye might be needin’ it.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Aye, lass.”

“Please donna tell anyone I am a woman. Ask the others to do the same.”

“Aye, they will no’ be objectin’. None will tell of this night’s work. ’Tis too dangerous.”

She thought about asking him to tell the Black Knave that someone needed him, that Bethia MacDonell, now the Marchioness of Braemoor, needed him. But if the name got into the wrong hands, her brother might suffer for it. She would have to take care of her own needs later. Bethia reached out and took his hand, tightening her much smaller one around it. “Thank you.”

“If my brother lives through this, ’tis we who be thanking ye. Away wi’ ye, now. We both ha’ journeys this day.”

Several minutes later, Bethia was riding Sadie out of town, her necklace still in the left leg of her breeches. Still running on the excitement of the night, she pushed back the weariness in her. She had to get back home. She had to get there before anyone alerted Cumberland, and he used her brother to punish her.

Rory rode into the courtyard of Braemoor.

He had stopped by Mary’s and changed again into the costume he had worn the morning he had left Braemoor. Eight days. He had been gone eight days, had almost lost his life. Had it not been for the interference of a lad who had pretended to be him, he might well never have come home again.

He wanted to thank the boy, but no one knew his name or where he had come from. No one knew anything about him.

Kerry’s brother had met them halfway down the trail, and had told them what had happened. Together, they had concocted a story that Kerry had been employed by a mercenary to take him high into the Grampians to try to find the Black Knave. They had found nothing, and the man had never even paid him. It was a good enough story, since it was known he had gone into the mountains when the Black Knave struck at Geordie Grant’s.

The English had looked like fools, which had not improved their temperament.

Now all he wanted was to get home to Bethia, to his wife. He had wanted her every second of every minute of every day, and particularly when he was in that damnable cave.

Drummond was safe now with the same family who had taken in other refugees. He should be safe until the French ship arrived. And hopefully he would have Bethia’s brother then, too.

He had not realized until the last trip how he’d been courting disaster. And now he owed it to Bethia to get both her and her brother out of Scotland. Then he, too, would flee the country that ran red with blood.

He would have to plan well. He might even tell Cumberland that his wife was with child, settled now, and they would like her brother to come live with them. If Cumberland believed there was no more chance of her fleeing …

But first he needed sleep. A lot of it. He no longer trusted his judgement. One reason he’d not noted the spies at the Flying Lady was the fact that he’d been so bloody tired. He’d made mistakes he had never made before.

He tried to put a bit of jauntiness in his shoulders as he approached the stable and threw the reins to young Jamie. He slid down from the horse, hoping to escape his cousin’s too-keen eyes. A few hours sleep and he would be ready to face both Neil and Bethia.

But such was not to be. Someone had apparently alerted Neil, because he met Rory just inside the door. His cousin’s shoulders were stiff and his eyes cold. Colder, in fact, than Rory had ever seen them.

“The marchioness is ill,” he said sharply. “She disappeared for five days, then reappeared, saying she had gone to see her brother but that the horse bolted and she became lost and some other preposterous tales. She dinna bring your horse back.”

But he heard nothing but the first words. Ill. His heart nearly stopped, and breath caught in his throat. “What is wrong with her?”

“Trilby says she has a fever.”

Rory frowned. “How bad a fever?”

Neil shrugged. “Trilby said she does not think it serious.”

Rory made himself slowly relax. Still, anxiety ate at him, but he did not wish to show it. Not to Neil. “Does Cumberland know about her absence?”

Neil’s jaw jutted out. “I do no’ tell tales, Rory. It is your business, but I would advise you to stay here more and tame your wife. If Cumberland hears of this, there will be hell to pay.”

“He will hear that I gave her permission to go,” Rory said. “I should have made it clear that she was to take an escort, but I imagine she was eager to see her brother.”

None of the disapproval faded from Neil’s face.

Instead, he turned around and disappeared inside.

Five days. Where had she gone? He should have realized that she would be restless. Especially after the way he had left her that morning.

Ill.

All his own weariness gone, he took the steps two at a time.

He paused at the door to her room and knocked, then impatiently strode inside without waiting for a reply.

She was in the huge bed, looking slight and small, merely a small bump under the feather comforter. Jack, the puppy, cuddled next to her.

Bethia’s face was flushed. Her hair was down, flowing over the pillow like a waterfall. Rays of light filtering through the windows sent wine-colored ribbons through the strands. She looked vulnerable and young, and yet her eyes flashed fire.

Anger and defensiveness battled in her eyes. One hand curled around the dog; the other crept out from under the cover, and he saw her fingers knot into a fist.

“I heard you were ill,” he said, striding over to the bed. He put a hand to her forehead. It was warm, but not dangerously so. Still, she looked drawn. Exhausted.

“I am surprised you care.”

The retort stung. Mainly because he deserved it. And much more. He had not had time to see her before he’d left. At least, he had told himself that. In reality, the extent of his feelings for her had astonished him. And more than a little dismayed him.

“I was called away …”

“To your mistress.” She turned away from him. “Will you please leave?”

“I think not,” he said. He knew he was not handling this well, but he had no experience at this sort of thing. He did not know how a husband acted, nor even someone who cared for someone else. He had never seen a happy relationship at Braemoor, nor at the English household where he fostered. He’d seen cruelty and brutality, lies and deceit, and he’d watched them poison everyone and everything around them, including his brother.

He had never wanted to be cruel; yet to protect her, and himself, he knew he had been just that. He did not know how to remedy the matter without endangering the both of them.

And so he responded with the indifference and even arrogance he’d perfected to protect a heart too often wounded. Even with Mary and Alister, he had difficulty expressing feelings. He could only hope they knew how he felt, that they knew how grateful he was to receive their friendship.

He had expressed his feelings that night he’d spent with his wife. He had opened his heart for the first time, and had lost himself in the feelings of warmth and affection and tenderness. They had scared the bloody hell out of him.

Just as they did now, as he watched her sink further into the bed. Anger could not hide the hurt in her eyes, the exhaustion in her face. Because of him?

“I was not at Mary’s,” he finally said.

She regarded him steadily, waiting.

“I had business elsewhere,” he tried to explain. He wasn’t used to explaining, and he was not very adept at it. Even he thought his explanation weak.

“’Tis just as well,” she finally said. “I had business of my own.”

“I heard.”

“I expect you did,” she said as she moved up from the bed, sitting rather regally but making sure she was covered well. Her back was all defiance now. If he expected an explanation beyond what he’d just received, he knew she intended none. That she expected approbation was quite obvious. It was also quite obvious she was ready to confront it.

“You did not see your brother?” he asked uncomfortably.

“Nay.”

“I told you I would get a letter to him.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “A letter is not seeing with my two eyes that he is well.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it is the best I can do. I will send Alister.” He hesitated, then added, “I would suggest two. One for inspection, one that could be more private.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You do not. You have to make that decision yourself. I am just offering a small suggestion.”

“Could Alister get a letter to him privately?”

“Aye. I believe so.”

“Why do you offer it?”

“’Tis time for a little trust between us, madam,” he said. “I have no interest in preventing you from seeing or communicating with your brother.”

“Trust?”

“A wee bit, mayhap. Which reminds me. Neil said you lost a horse.”

It was a question, not a comment. Was that what his “trust” was about? Trying to disarm her?

Her jaw set stubbornly. “I will repay you.”

“And how will you do that?”

“I will beat you at cards.” There was humor in her voice. Just a little, but he felt encouraged.

In those few moments, the room had warmed from the frigid chill that had permeated it when he’d first arrived. “I would not count on that,” he said with mock competitiveness.

Her eyes seemed to waiver a bit, some of the anger fading from them. “What did Neil tell you?”

“What you told him. He did not send a message to Cumberland.” He said the last with just a bit of the amazement he still felt. He had believed that Neil would do anything to gain Braemoor. He was slowly revising his opinion of Neil. Once free of Rory’s father and brother, Neil seemed to be presiding over Braemoor with justice and fairness, rejecting what other large estates were doing: turning out the families who had farmed the land for so long. If he had, Rory would have stepped in and stopped it. But he realized that Neil was running the estate far better than he ever could. Neil had a true understanding of both the clan and the land. Rory had none.

Oh, he probably would like farming well enough. But he hated Braemoor, and he knew he would never feel differently. It represented rejection and hatred and failure to him. Braemoor would never be home.

Her eyes had widened, too. She, too, had apparently expected his cousin to run to Cumberland.

He went over to the bed and sat down. “Tell me what happened. How far did you get?”

“You wish to report to the butcher directly?”

It was the first time she’d used the Jacobite term for Cumberland. Rory knew it no longer belonged only to the Jacobites. A growing number of Scots, even those who fought with him and certainly all who were neutral, were becoming outraged by his excesses.

“I expect not,” he said mildly.

“Why not?” she challenged.

“Because you are now my affair, not his.”

Her lips thinned. “I am no one’s affair but my own.”

He had to smile. He admired her spirit. Bloody hell, he admired everything about her. The way she glared at him through her intensely blue eyes, the way her hair tumbled down the side of her face. The sprinkling of freckles and her wide mouth that could, on very rare occasions, curve into a blinding smile.

“What happened to you?” he asked again.

“I got lost.”

“There are only two roads.”

She shrugged slightly. “I took the wrong one. I have traveled here only once before. For the wedding. When you were gone. As you are always gone.”

“I expected you to be pleased by that.”

“I am.”

He reached over and took her hand, playing with her fingers, running his thumb over the palm of her hand. She tried to tug it back but he held on to it.

“Then what?” His gaze did not leave her eyes as he asked the question.

“I donna know what you mean.”

“You were gone five days.”

“A crofter’s family took me in after I lost the horse.”

“How did you lose it?”

“I stopped at a stream to water him. He heard an owl and jerked loose. It started raining, and I got sick, and a crofter family took me in.”

“Why did you not send for anyone?”

“Who? You were gone.” But her eyes had grown secretive, even as her tone held a note of accusation.

She was hiding something. That much was clear. Otherwise she would never have mentioned his absence, would never have gone so clearly on the offensive.

“What was the name of the family? I would like to thank them.”

“I do not remember.”

The momentary warmth, which flowed between them just seconds earlier, faded. She was withholding something from him, something important.

Something to do with her brother?

That possibility alarmed him. If she tried to get her brother, she might well spoil the Knave’s plans. And get herself killed as well.

He had meant to soothe her, to tell her everything was all right. That she could go anywhere she wanted. He had never wanted to make her a prisoner. But now he did not know what she would do next.

He could tell her the identity of the Black Knave. Would she believe him? Or would she let something slip that would get them both killed?

“Is that as much as you will say?”

“Aye. I dinna think I was a prisoner any longer.”

“It is your safety I’m concerned about.”

“Truly? Is it not your new estates? Your influence? Your own freedom?”

“Aye, all of that,” he said, his gut hurting as he saw her eyes turn to blue ice.

“Are you going to lock me in the room?”

“If it becomes necessary. In the meantime, I will tell the grooms not to allow you a mount.”

“I enjoy riding,” she said rebelliously. “Are you going to take my one pleasure away?”

“You are responsible for that, not I.”

“Not I,” she mocked. “You are truly despicable.” She tried once more to disentangle her hand. Unsuccessfully. He held on to it.

“You have said that before.”

“I said you were loathsome. Now you are despicable.”

“Is that a step up or down?” he questioned.

Obviously stumped, Bethia glared at him. She was sitting straight up now, unmindful that the comforter had fallen from her upper body. A white linen nightdress outlined her breasts. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her, from allowing his lips to trail kisses down her throat.

“Not a very wifely welcome.” He was resorting back to his old protective armor. Goading to provoke a response, goading to keep warmth at a distance. Goading to keep from taking her in his arms and telling her that her brother would soon be safe.

“You have not been very husbandly.”

“I could change.” But his tone was sly, challenging, not conciliatory.

She withdrew ever so subtly. Though her hand remained in his by necessity, since he didn’t release it, she nevertheless moved away emotionally. Her hand turned cold as all the warmth seeped from the room.

“You are within your rights to take me any time you wish.”

“I have no interest in a cold woman.”

“That is encouraging,” she said. “I thought that subtlety was beyond you.”

It was exactly what he had wanted her to think. He just did not know it would hurt so much. “Then I shall leave you. Remember, though, what I said. You are not to ride unless I am with you.”

“Then I should never ride again.”

“So be it,” he said flatly. “I will have guards at the stable to make sure you do not.” His hand let hers go. “And I will see whether I can find that family to give them my thanks. I would think you would wish them rewarded.”

“They do not like your branch of Forbeses.”

“Nonetheless, I shall see what I can do.” He was surprised at the streak of jealousy that suddenly ran through him. Had she been with a man? Someone she knew before Culloden? Had she tried to enlist help to rescue her brother?

She shrugged. “If you wish.”

He turned to leave.

“My letters.” Her voice stopped him.

“I’ll send Alister Armstrong when he is free.”

“Why Alister?” She’d wondered that before.

“He often works in that area,” Rory said. “And Neil would complain if I sent one of our people. I like peace.” He went to the door. “Have them ready this afternoon. I’ll ask him to wait for a reply.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, madam.”

Bethia settled back into the bed and sighed heavily. It had taken all she had to keep tears from moving from her eyes down her cheeks. She did not want him to see her cry.

She had been so unexpectedly pleased to see him, even after all that had happened, even thinking he had gone from her bed to that of his mistress.

Though his eyes had been tired, he had looked so vibrant standing in the doorway. Even with a wig, he had a presence, a charisma that drew her to him. Her heart had somersaulted when she’d seen the worry, the concern in his expression. And when he’d said he had not been to Mary’s, she’d felt an odd sense of pleasure.

She had enjoyed that one very brief moment of humor. But then he’d become as obnoxious and unfeeling as he’d been when she’d first met him. He’d questioned her, then made her position quite clear. She was a prisoner again.

How had she ever thought that something quite fine might lie under that colorful exterior?

And the letter. How could she dare write anything but inanities to her brother? The villain would probably read it. And why was he sending it now? So he could also send a message to Cumberland?

A tear found its way into her left eye and she felt it trail down her cheek.

She had been right. She was alone. Totally and absolutely alone. Any idea that the marquis was anything but what he seemed had been foolish. More than foolish. Harebrained.

She would not make that mistake and lower her guard again.