The Black Knave (17 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Remember why you are here.

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

He cocked one of those dark, bushy eyebrows.

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

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

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

“And now you care about our honor?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I can find her something else.”

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

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

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

“Like gaming?”

“Aye.”

“And your paramour?”

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

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

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

“How could I? I am your wife.”

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

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

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

“About what?” She wriggled around the question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brother’s life is at stake.

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

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

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

“That is all I can give you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“My lord?”

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

“The cards. I would like to practice.”

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

“It will help pass time.”

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

“The evenings are often long.”

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

“Are you not going to take your winnings?”

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

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

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

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

“Madam?”

She turned.

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

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

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

No good.

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

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

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

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

His lady wife was lying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two of our horses need shoeing.”

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

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

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

“Fair enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how does Neil feel about this?”

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

“Mine?”

“A figure of speech.”

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

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

“Your arm?”

“Sore, nothing more.”

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

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

“You cannot keep this up forever.”

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

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

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

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

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

“When will you go to the coast?”

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

“But she is staying inside Braemoor.”

“I gave her permission to leave.”

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

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

“Then … ?”

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

“You have a soft heart.”

Rory groaned. “Nay. I merely want—”

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

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

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

“I will not let that happen.”

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

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

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

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

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