Twenty-six

Lights were visible at Braemoor. Horses were tied outside the tower house, and Rory knew they had visitors. But not Cumberland, not yet. There were not that many horses.

He strode in as if he owned the place, which, to his continued amazement, he did.

Torches in sconces dimly lit the hall, and he saw sleeping forms in the great hall. He went directly to Neil’s room. He knocked loudly, and the door opened far faster than he thought possible.

His cousin stared at him. “I thought you would be long gone,” Neil said softly.

Rory saw knowledge in his cousin’s eyes, but he aped indifference. “Why?”

“Your wife is gone. Your brother-in-law is gone.”

“Are they?”

Neil smiled. He was dressed in breeches and a shirt. ’Twas obvious he had not been sleeping. “So I hear,” he said. “The boy was missing this morning, and Creighton sent a messenger to tell us to keep an eye on your wife. It seems he was too late. I sent word to Cumberland a few hours ago, just before the men you saw in the great hall arrived.”

“Why did you wait so long?”

Neil shrugged. “She might have been with you somewhere. I dinna wish to disturb the duke unduly.”

“That was surprisingly judicious.”

“I visited a certain cottage and found a few interesting items. I would suggest that either you, or I, destroy them. Or find a safer place for them.”

“I am beginning to see that you have possibilities, Neil.”

“I have missed too much too long,” Neil replied. “I regret that.”

Their gazes locked. “We both have regrets,” Rory said. “But now I want to try to ensure that no harm came to Braemoor.”

“Is that why you came back?”

Rory hesitated. But then he knew that Neil was already aware of his other identity. If it was over, then it was over. “Aye. I had to receive the bad news about a wayward wife and go after her. I plan to chase the Knave and regain my wife. Unfortunately, I will be killed by the villain. No one then will suspect you or anyone remaining here of being accomplices.”

Neil’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Remaining here?”

His cousin was far more intuitive that Rory thought. But Mary and Alister were gone now. “Mary and Alister are leaving also. You might have to find an excuse for that.”

“Aye,” Neil said. “I dispossessed the wench when you met an untimely death. Alister went with her. Do you need any funds?”

“You have more than possibilities, Cousin. Thank you, but nay. I am a passing fair gambler and have managed to accumulate enough funds to get started. You need what is here. You might lose the estates Bethia brought.”

“Where are you going?”

“I am not sure, yet. If you ever receive a deck of cards, though, you will know the sender.”

Neil nodded. “You had better go. Those men downstairs were exhausted when they came in, but they will be combing every bush tomorrow. I imagine Cumberland will be here in the next several days.”

“You will be all right?”

“Aye. I think I have learned a great deal during the past several weeks.” He held out his hand. “I wish I had known you better.”

“And I you, Neil. But I know you will take good care of Braemoor.”

“I will try.”

Rory grinned, then picked up a pitcher from the table and threw it against the wall. “The hell you say,” he roared loud enough to wake the dead, much less soldiers used to sleeping lightly.

With one last rueful grin toward Neil, he went out the door, taking the steps three at a time, cursing loudly. He made enough noise to wake several regiments and kicked a sleeping man wearing sergeant stripes. “Hey!”

“Sleeping when you should be after my wife,” he roared angrily, then disappeared out the door. He grabbed the best looking of the horses. His own, he knew, was exhausted. Before any of the soldiers could react, he was galloping down the road.

Bethia could scarcely breathe. Someone was chasing her and Dougal. They were running, and she knew they couldn’t go much further. Then she heard the sound of horses behind them. She grabbed Dougal’s hand and they went falling, slipping down a mountain into a black bog.

“Bethia.” She heard his voice. Fear still pounded at her, though. A stark, terrifying fear.

“Bethia. Wake up.”

“Rory,” she whispered.

“You were whimpering,” he said, taking her hand. “A bad dream?”

“We—Dougal and I—were being chased.”

“’Tis a natural enough nightmare,” he said softly, his fingers squeezing hers.

“I’ve had them before.”

“Now I am with you. And I will not let anything happen to either of you.”

There was no candlelight in the cave, but she saw his comforting bulk. She sat up. “Is it time to leave?”

“Aye. I have just stolen a fresh horse and awakened a whole room of English soldiers. They will probably be angry as hornets, but I know every foot of Braemoor and the land around us.”

She did not want to let go of his hand. The lingering fear from the nightmare was still too raw, too fresh. But she forced herself up. The moment she did, he lit the candle and she watched as he quickly changed from his fine clothes into an English uniform. He stuck pieces of cotton in his mouth, which completely changed his face and his voice. Then she watched as he very carefully rolled up the bright waistcoat and breeches he had been wearing and bundled them into saddlebags.

“Ready?”

Nay, she was not. She would be happy never to see a horse again, much less a saddle. “Aye,” she said as enthusiastically as she could.

He grinned as if he realized the depth of her deceit. “In less than twenty-four hours we will be sleeping in a fine ship,” he said.

“The horses cannot go that far.”

“We will do a bit of trading along the way,” he said. “The English always take exactly what they want.”

“And me?”

“My prisoner, little one,” he said. “If we are caught.”

He helped her into the saddle this time. Then he led both horses out of the cave. Once outside, he swung up into his saddle. He urged the horse into a trot, then a canter as the first gray of dawn filtered through the lingering fog.

Bethia thought she would welcome even a nightmare. Her hands and face were scratched, her body ached in places she had not known existed. They rode four hours, rested for one, then rode four again. He led them through woods and across mountains, avoiding any roads, but both they and the horses paid for it. Branches had beaten against them most of the way.

At midday, the horses were exhausted. She and Rory dismounted. He found what he hoped would be a safe place for Bethia to rest. He left her there, taking the horses with him. He returned two hours later with two fresh ones.

“A matter of a small trade,” he explained. “Since my horses were better than theirs, ’twas easy enough.” They were immediately on their way again.

Rory slowed at midafternoon. A cold drizzle persisted, and mist shrouded the hills and then mountains. The terrain had become steep as he and Bethia traveled deeper into the mountains. At times they dismounted and led the horses, at others she clung to the saddle as they climbed narrow paths.

Only Rory’s presence kept her going. At times she started to fall asleep and felt herself leaning forward, then would shake herself. He cast frequent glances toward her, giving her smiles of approval.

She almost fell off the horse when he stopped. He caught her as she slid off the horse and held her in his arms for several moments while she steadied. Her legs hurt so badly she dinna know if she could ever mount again. He seemed to understand. He thrust the reins of the horses in her hand, then picked her up as if she were no heavier than a piece of firewood.

He walked, obviously trying to find a place to rest. Finally he selected a piece of ground under an overhang of rock that would protect them from the rain. He gently lowered her, then unsaddled the horses, taking the blankets and spreading them out on the ground. He hobbled the horses so they could graze.

When he was through, he unbuckled his waist belt with its pistol, took the musket from its sling on his shoulder belt and sat down next to her. He offered some brandy from the bottle they had shared in the cave. The liquid burned all the way down, warming her. He then offered her some damp bread.

He watched as she ate, shaking his head. “I should no’ have brought you, lass.”

“I can keep up with you,” she said indignantly.

“I have no doubt of your courage. You have proved tha’ over and over again. But God’s truth, I am tired. We both need rest. There is a gorge ahead, the only way across this part of the mountains, and I am sure it will be patrolled. We will have to cross it in the dark of night.”

She closed her eyes, the brandy’s warmth dulling some of the aches. His arms went around her, and she was enveloped in them. He smelled of damp leather and horse, and it was finer than any perfume. She felt safe. So safe.

Bethia had reached the limit of her strength. He had been a fool to bring her, and yet he’d known she would have found one way or another to follow.

His arms tightened around her as he lay down under the overhang. It was dry here, but she was still damp. So was he. He was also hungry. His stomach growled angrily, but he still rationed their food. He had brought only one loaf of bread, and it had to sustain them for another day. He dared not go where he might be seen to fetch more. He’d already taken too many chances.

They still had thirty miles to go. And they would have to change horses at least one more time. That would be the riskiest part of the journey. Unfortunately they were not traveling close to the Innes property where they could trade horses; he’d judged that part of the Highlands would be saturated with English soldiers.

Bethia went limp in his arms, and he knew she was asleep. He felt safe enough here to risk some sleep himself. If all went according to plan, they should reach the coast tomorrow night in time for the French ship. His fingers touched one of her curls. Dear God, how he loved her.

’Twas his last thought as his eyes closed.

Bethia woke in his arms. For the fleetest of seconds, she felt terror. She could see nothing; it was as if she were in a bottle of ink. She could feel the cold wind, though, and feel the rain it blew under the overhang.

She was stiff. When she moved her legs, the agony made her gasp. Every bone in her body ached, screamed, moaned. When she tried to snuggle back in his arms she felt him stir, then wake suddenly, his voice sharp. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I just woke up.”

His arms tightened around her. “Ah, lass. This has been a hard day for you, and I fear it will be a harder night.”

But she was with him, and that was all that mattered. She wanted him next to her every day of her life. Her left hand found its way into his, her fingers intertwining with his. These past few days had been the most frightening, exhausting, and painful of her entire life, yet she would not have given up even one minute.

“Thank you,” she said.

He chuckled. “For dragging you through ha’ of Scotland in the rain?”

“For helping me, Dougal. For making me a part of it.” Her voice broke. She wanted to say more.

“Ah, lass. I would hand you the moon if I could. Instead, I give you rain and danger and endless journeys.”

“With the Black Knave.”

“The Black Knave no longer exists. I wonder if he ever did.”

“All the Highlanders believe he exists. He gave them hope.”

“The Knave is naught but an illusion. Like a rainbow consisting of a few rays of sun and a little mist. Nothing solid, lass. Nothing that lasts.”

And nothing that could be held on to.

“And Mary?” She could no longer keep the question to herself.

“A friend, lass. Nothing more. She was part of the play. She loves Alister and Alister loves her. I needed an excuse when I was away from Braemoor. I could not always claim Edinburgh since it was too far, and there were too many people who should have seen me. And so I found a mistress.”

For a moment, she wanted to strike him again, just as she had struck him when she’d discovered he was the Black Knave. Instead, her fingers tightened around his. He did not love Mary. She was relieved and elated and puzzled all at once. What else kept him from her? She knew he cared about her, perhaps even loved her.

“There is far more substance to you than you want to think,” she said.

“That is where you are wrong,” he said. “I ha’ never earned an honest pound in my life.”

“You are a marquis.”

“Aye, but I never earned it. It wasna even mine by blood.”

“You did honor to the title, though.”

“I think not,” he said. “Pompous. Arrogant. Terrible taste in clothing.”

His voice was so wry, she started to giggle. Or perhaps it was the exhaustion that made her laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And he started laughing with her. His fingers tightened in hers, and then the laughter stopped when his lips claimed hers. Momentary tenderness yielded to raw hunger. His body rolled over onto hers and she felt his weight, and his warmth.

He groaned. Mayhap she did, too. Or perhaps it was a whimper. All her aches, all her exhaustion faded in her need for him. She would always have that need. She knew that. He had become as much a part of her as her own soul, her heart.

She no longer felt the cold, the damp chill of a Highland wind. She felt only the pleasure of his body, heard only the sound of their heartbeats, which seemed to pump in unison. She felt explosive, and wondered whether it was because of the danger, or because of the intimacy forced on him during the long rides. He had no way of escaping, as he had so many times before.

He untied the laces of her breeches, and the warmth flared into intense heat. Her entire body tingled and ached in another way now. A hauntingly familiar way. Not in protest but in anticipation.

She felt his intensity as his mouth moved away from her lips, down toward her throat, lingering there, his breath teasing and seducing her. But she needed no seduction. Her body was already afire, already wanting him.

Her hands went to the laces of his breeches. Her fingers, in their eagerness, fumbled uselessly. He quickly untied the laces and was back over her. She felt the swell of him, the hungry touch of his arousal against her most intimate part. His breath quickened, and their bodies moved closer in unspoken tandem.

Bethia closed her eyes as his body seemed to melt into hers. Obsessed with a craving so strong it eclipsed every other feeling, she arched her body in welcome. He moved down on her, entering with a deliberate slowness that made her cry out in exquisite need. She felt her own body move against his in instinctive, circular movements, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her.

Waves of pleasure washed over her as he quickened his rhythm, moving faster and faster in a sensuous dance that became more and more frantic. Bethia felt she was riding some incredible wave, a great force that was rushing them headlong to some splendid destination. Then he plunged one last time, filling her with billows of bursting sensations, each one greater than the prior one. His warmth flooded her, and she experienced a contentment she’d never before imagined. This time, she knew he cared about her. And cared more than he’d admitted.

He rolled over, his fingers touching her face, then his lips raining kisses on it. Soft, gentle rain. Life-giving rain.

Dear God, how she loved him.

They lay together for several moments, then he pulled up her breeches and wrapped the blankets around them both, their bodies still experiencing the aftershocks, the shuddering reminders of something quite miraculous.

She did not know how long they lay there, wrapped in a cocoon of their own wonder, despite the wind and rain and danger that existed outside.

“I love you,” she whispered. They were words she could no longer hold inside. They radiated from her like rays from the sun on a fine summer day. They wanted to burst out in shouts of joy. Instead, it sounded to her like an uncertain whimper.

His arms tightened around her, his fingers caressed her cheek. He had said he loved her in every way but the way she needed most. She needed to hear it from his lips.

And after a moment, she knew she would not.

It had been the danger that prompted her words, Rory told himself. He had felt her fear, and it had made him admire her more. Anyone could be brave if they did not fear. It took a truly courageous person to feel it and continue on.

But he had never felt himself worthy of love, and he still did not. He reminded himself again that he did not even believe in love. He had never ever seen it, so how could he possibly accept it as a lasting, living thing? And he could not escape the belief that she would be far better off without him. She was grateful now, but one day the time would come that he did not live up to expectations. He’d never lived up to expectations. Never.

His father had thought him a wastrel and fool. It had been drummed into his head so long, it had become a part of him.

Even now he felt that he’d survived these past few months because of luck rather than skill. He was as much a gambler with his life as he was with his cards. And what kind of husband would that make him?

So he merely kissed her once more and held out a hand to her, bringing her to her feet. He dressed, then helped her do the same. He looked at the sky. How long had they lingered? It was still dark, but dawn could not be far away. Fear struck him like the thrust of a knife. Too long. He knew they had been here far too long. Damn him. He might well have endangered her because he could not control himself.

The rain had slowed but mountains were eclipsed in mist. He fetched the horses, helped her up into the saddle of one. “We are likely to run into a patrol,” he said. “Alister had time to skirt this pass before the English learned of your escape. We did not.”

“That’s why you wore the uniform?”

“Aye, and why I am going to tie your hands. ’Twill be loose enough that you can get free when you need to.”

Her hand caught his, and held it tight for a moment. His heart pounded against his chest. How he wanted to make her warm and safe forever. With as much gentleness as possible, he tied her hands with a strip of cloth he cut from his shirt.

Then he took the reins of her horse, mounted his own and started down toward the gorge. He had to go slowly, the horse picking its way in the fog and dark. He had no idea how much time passed, but it must have been hours. He was almost beginning to believe they would not be accosted when he heard the sharp challenge.

“Halt and be recognized.”

He halted his horse and waited. Out of the mist materialized two English soldiers, one of them holding a musket on him, the other a lantern. Rory could barely see their faces, and suspected they knew of his approach only because of the noise of the horses. Now just to get by them.

“Yes?” he said in his most haughty voice.

“Your papers, sir?” the soldier said, holding up a lantern to shine light on him, then on Bethia.

“I am attached to His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland,” Rory said. “I am taking this lad to him.”

The light shone again on Bethia who ducked her face and slumped in the saddle. The lantern moved down to her bound hands.

“He the boy we’ve been lookin’ fer?”

“Aye, I expect so. The duke is in Inverness and wants him without delay.”

“I still ’ave to see orders.”

“His Grace was in a hurry. He did not give me any.”

“Then we will accompany you.”

“And leave your posts?” Rory said with mock outrage. The lantern was back on him.

“I ’ave to ’ave yer papers,” the man said stubbornly.

“It is your stripes, Sergeant,” Rory said indifferently. “If you leave your post despite orders from a superior officer, then it will be your court-martial, not mine.” He wished he knew how many were with this soldier. He saw one. How many more? Two? Three? Ten?

The sergeant hesitated, considering his own options. Then, apparently making up his mind, he said, “I will send two men with you.”

“How many men do you have, Sergeant?”

“Ten.”

Dammit, but he’d been right not to take them on. He shrugged. “’Tis said the Black Knave is in this area. You will be needing all your men, but I have no time to argue with you.”

Some of the light from the lantern hit the sergeant’s face. It was just Rory’s ill luck that the sergeant looked more intelligent than most of the breed. He was going to obey his orders. No one was to go through the gorge.

The sergeant looked once more at Bethia, who had let what was left of her hair fall in her face. She looked sullen and defiant. “’E don’t look like much.”

“He thought to disguise himself,” Rory said. “But I can sniff out a Jacobite anywhere.”

The sergeant kept shining his lantern at Bethia’s face. “Mebbe you both should get down.”

“No, Sergeant. I will be court-martialed if I am not back before noon.”

“You will not make it, Captain. ’Tis a full day’s ride, maybe more.”

“You may not make it, Sergeant. I will. Can your men keep up with me?”

The sergeant bristled at the idea that his men could not keep pace with an officer. “They can.”

But he signaled his comrade to lower his weapon, and Rory knew he had won. Two men were one hell of a lot better than ten. And he did need fresh horses.

A half hour later, four riders emerged from the end of the gorge. Rory knew he had to act. Inverness was in the opposite direction of where he intended to go. When they got out of earshot of the sergeant and his patrol, he drew to a stop. “Our horses need a bit of a rest.”

The two English troopers nodded. Rory’s horses were lathered, their breathing heavy, and now Rory had an advantage. The sergeant had not been so easy to intimidate. These two troopers, faced with orders from one of Cumberland’s officers, would be.

He dismounted, took out a flask from a bag hanging from his saddle and took a long swallow. Then he held it out in invitation. “It is a raw night.”

The two troopers dismounted, and Rory winked at Bethia, who was still mounted. He tied the reins of her horse to a tree, then walked around to where the troopers would have her at their back.

One of the troopers reached for the flask and took a quick drink, his obvious disbelief at such largess from an officer fading in the glow of good brandy. The second man accepted the flask, greedily taking several swallows.

Reluctantly he returned the flask, and started to turn. Then they saw the lad holding a pistol on them.

One started for his musket in a sling across his back, but Rory moved faster. He slipped out his own pistol.

Then he bowed. “The Black Knave thanks you for your escort,” he said.

Their mouths fell open. Closed. Then open again. Like fish trying to grab air. He turned to Bethia. “Come here, lad,” he said.

Bethia slipped from the horse, keeping the pistol in hand. The two soldiers turned their gaze from him to the lad, then back to Rory, whom they obviously considered the most dangerous.

Rory waited until Bethia reached his side, then he put his pistol in its holster. “Shoot if either of them moves,” he ordered loud enough for them to hear. He then went to his horse, unsaddled it and cut the blanket into strips with a dirk he’d worn inside his breeches. He tied both men’s arms behind them.

“Come with me,” he said, starting up a wooded hill. The two English soldiers struggled up the hill, slipping and sliding. Bethia followed several feet behind, the pistol still in his hand. When they reached a level, secluded place, Rory backed them each to a separate tree, and told them to sit. He tied each to the tree, then tied their ankles together. Finally he gagged both of them. “I will send word to where you can be found,” he said.

Both men muffled protests, their eyes nearly frantic with fear.

Rory regarded them with contempt. “Unlike the English,” he said, “I do not take life for the pleasure of it.” He flipped a card next to them, then he took Bethia’s hand, and together they went back down the hill.

Rory took the saddle from Bethia’s mount, then the bits and bridles from the horses they’d been riding. He slapped the two weary horses, sending them off the path. Then he and Bethia mounted the soldiers’ horses and trotted east. Toward the coast.