The Black Knave (27 page)

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.”

Every bone in Bethia’s body ached. Every muscle, every part of her body. The cold crept inside the thin clothing she wore, and the wind lashed at the worn bonnet. She prayed the too-large bonnet would keep her hair inside. She’d disciplined it into a tight braid and pinned it tightly to the back of her head.

She’d also bound her breasts with a piece torn from a sheet, and she
thought
she looked like a luckless lad. The problem was, of course, the horse. It was much too fine for one of a lad’s obvious station. Yet she needed it to get to Buckie in time to warn those intended for the English net.

So she rode through woods and fields and the Grampians. At night she risked the roads, listening carefully for the sound of hoof beats and drawing into the shadows at any sound.

Had she been a complete fool?

She was beginning to think so.

Trilby would be missing her by now. Would she sound the alarm, or would she simply believe she was with the marquis? They might be searching for her at this very moment. Perhaps the marquis had arrived home. She had tasted his cynicism, his irritation, but never yet his anger. What would he do?

She thought of Black Jack in his basket at Braemoor. Trilby would see to him, Bethia knew that. The maid was as captivated with the pup as she was.

And what could she really do? Relay word? She had thought about trying to become the Black Knave, but whoever would believe such a scrawny lad could be the valiant and fearless hero? Master of disguises or not, he could never fit into so small a form as hers.

Feeling more and more useless, she nonetheless kept riding through the night until she reached the Innes lands. The Innes clan had always been Jacobites. Their land lay not far from Buckie. She had visited there several times with her brothers. One brother, in fact, had courted Anne Innes.

Had any of them survived the bloodbath? Their branch of the clan was small, with no title, only a laird. Had they managed to hold on to any of their property? She remembered one of the grooms. He had openly flirted with her. That had only been eighteen months ago. It seemed a lifetime.

She thought of the house party she’d attended, the dancing and merriment. Most of the guests were dead now. Her betrothed, Angus, had been there, as had her two brothers. All had talked of nothing else but the imminent arrival of Prince Charles and how they would chase the British from Scotland once and for all. They had boasted and drunk and danced and had been so very young. She bit her lip to keep the tears from coming, to hold back the feeling of loss and emptiness.

All were gone now. All of them.

And gone for a cause that never really had a chance. She knew that now. She knew about the clans that had deserted the prince, about the mistakes, all the warnings he’d disregarded. And yet she, like so many Scots, wished him speedy and safe passage to France.

There would never be another uprising, though. Cumberland had done his job well.

Nearly numb with cold and echoes of a past that could never be reborn, she tied her horse to a bush, then approached the tower house where she’d once danced so gaily. The first gray glimmers of dawn were appearing over the hills. She would approach the stable first and try to learn whether Anne Innes was still in residence. Perhaps Anne could find her a less conspicuous horse.

The door to the barn was closed. She opened it and slipped inside. It was only a wee bit warmer than outside, and she shivered. She stilled until her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. The first morning light crept through, enabling her to see objects, then the animals.

One of the horses neighed, then several others joined the chorus. She did not know if they were voicing disapproval at being disturbed or hope that food was coming. She counted only five; the Inneses once had one of the largest and finest stables in the Highlands.

She looked to see whether anyone stayed within the barn as did John and Jamie at Braemoor. There was no one.

Bethia then studied the horses. Her own was very tired. If Anne was in residence, or any of her family, she felt certain she could borrow a mount. One of them, an older mare, appeared a possibility.

She considered approaching the back door as a beggar. But better yet, she thought, to wait here and see if the same groom she’d met months ago appeared. She could discover from him the fate of Anne and her family. By virtue of the fact that Anne’s father had been too old to join the rebellion and Anne had no brothers, they may have escaped the fate of so many other Jacobite families. And perhaps they had heard something of the Black Knave.

She went into an empty stall. Clean hay absorbed the chill from the dirt floor. She curled up in a ball. She would sleep for a few moments. Just a few…

*

Bethia woke to a sharp kick to her chest.

Consciousness was swift and painful. So was immediate comprehension. She grabbed for her bonnet, making sure it had stayed in place, then glared up at her attacker.

It was not the groom she had seen months ago.

“Beggars go to the back of the tower house,” the man said.

Bethia tried to sit up, but her chest hurt. She glared at the man, trying to remember how to speak. “Ye ‘ad no need to do tha’. I dinna hurt anything.”

“What do ye want?”

“Miss Innes. I wanted to see Miss Innes.”

The man looked at her suspiciously. “What’s the likes of ye want with the mistress?”

She
was here, then. Bethia silently said a prayer of thanks.

“She said she would gi’ me a ‘elping hand.”

“Then why did ye not go to the house?”

“I dinna want to wake anyone,” she said indignantly.

“Ye donna look like much.”

Bethia gave him an indignant stare.

He scowled at her. “Mistress Anne will not be up this early.”

She looked at him slyly. “I can be helpin’ wi’ the ‘orses while I wait.”

Some of his truculence faded. He nodded curtly.

Bethia cleaned out a stall, then helped with another. By the time she was through, she was odorous, blistered and weary again. And her chest still hurt from the stableman’s blow. But she had managed to engage the man in conversation.

“They say the Black ‘Nave’s been aboot,” she said as they cleaned out a stall together.

The man shrugged. “None of my business, ‘cept I wouldna mind ‘aving some of that reward.”

Bethia looked at him with horror. “You would turn ‘im in?”

” ‘E’s nothing to me. Trouble, tha’s all ‘e is.”

She held her tongue. She could not betray her interest.

“Has the mistress wed?”

“Nay. Her fa is ill. And ‘tis said the man she was to marry died at Culloden.”

Her brother
. So Anne had been loyal to him even after death.

“The laird is ill?”

“Aye. The butcher took ‘is cattle and sheep, even ‘is best horses.”

So Anne had known her bad times, too. At least, though, she had not been forced into a detestable marriage. She felt blood rush to her face at the thought of Rory Forbes, at how she had responded to him, to those moments of tenderness. They had all been part of some game, or, even worse, a ploy to get her with child. He could have just taken her at the beginning, of course. It was his right. Now she almost wished he had. It would have been preferable than to be taken so lightly, to be used so mindlessly.

Her gruff companion finished cleaning the last stall, then said, “I will go tell the mistress ye are here.” He hesitated. “I will tell ‘er ye are a good worker.” He paused at the door. “My name is John. Yer name is … ?”

Bethia had not thought of that. The whole idea had occurred so suddenly. Her brother’s name. Anne’s betrothed.
Coinneach
. Gaelic for Kenneth. “Kenny,” she said after a brief pause. “She said more than a year ago tha’ if I ever needed a position …”

John looked at her strangely. “A year ago.”

“Or more,” she added helpfully.

He went to the door, then looked back. “Donna ye be taking anything.”

Bethia shook her head as earnestly as she could. “Sirrah,” she said. “The lad who used to work here … would ye be knowing anything of ‘im?”

John shrugged. “He joined the Prince. ‘E was never seen again.”

The burden on Bethia’s heart grew weightier. How many more were gone? She sighed as the groom left the barn and went to the door, waiting.

Would Anne understand? Would she come out or ask to see the ragged lad? Bethia could have gone to the door when she first arrived, and probably would have, had it not been for the early hour. She was depending on Anne’s curiosity if not her immediate recognition.

Minutes went by. She didn’t know how many, and her anxiety grew. Then she saw Anne at the door, and the groom came trotting back to the barn. “She will see ye,” he said, his gaze regarding her with new respect.

Bethia swaggered out the door with what she hoped was a street lad’s arrogance.

When she reached the steps to the door of the tower house, Anne’s eyes grew increasingly large. She did not say anything, though, until Bethia came within several feet of her.

“Bethia?”

Bethia grinned. “Aye. But I dinna think anyone would know me under this dirt.”

Anne looked away from her. The groom was watching. She turned and opened the door and went inside, indicating Bethia should follow her. Once the door was closed, she turned on Bethia and embraced her. “Holy Mother, Bethia.” She squeezed Bethia’s hand. “I have worried about you so. And now you turn up looking like this. What is going on?”

“The Black Knave. He is walking into a trap. I had to find someone who might reach him.”

Anne’s nose wrinkled. “I thought you had married—”

“The butcher forced me into a marriage with the Marquis of Braemoor. Cumberland holds Dougal as hostage to my obedience.”

“Then it was nothing you wanted?”

” ‘Tis the last thing I wanted. He is a … profligate. A traitor. I despise him.”

“He allowed you to come here?”

“Nay. He is away, probably with his mistress. I left a note telling him I was going to see Dougal. Lord Creighton is holding him at Rosemeare.”

A chill suddenly racked her, and Anne regarded her damp clothes worriedly. “You must have warmer clothes.”

“I have to get to Buckie. A lad can visit the taverns and mayhap hear something of the Black Knave. You have not heard anything, have you?” she asked hopefully.

“Nay, but I wish him Godspeed.”

“I need a horse, Anne. I took one from Braemoor’s stable, but it is far too fine for someone dressed as I am. I had hoped you could provide me with a less conspicuous animal.”

Anne hesitated. “There is an old mare … she is more a pet now.”

“I would take very good care of her.”

Anne looked at her wistfully. “I wish I could go, but Father—”

“John told me he was ill.”

“His heart broke when Cumberland took our sheep and cattle. We have no way to feed our people now. Some have already left to try to find jobs in Glasgow or Edinburgh. I think he has willed himself to die.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“You were always one of his favorites,” Anne said, “but you cannot see him like that and if you change clothes, someone might recognize you.”

Bethia leaned over and hugged her. “Then you might be blamed. I will try to come back.”

Tears glistened in Anne’s eyes. “I will never stop missing your brother.” She paused, then went to a desk and sat down, taking a quill and paper. She quickly wrote out something, scribbled a name on it and sealed it.

“It is a letter to my sister, inviting her to visit,” she said. “If anyone stops you, tell them you are employed by me and delivering the letter to Jane Grant. It will give you a reason to have a horse.”

“Thank you,” Bethia said gratefully. “And now I must go. It might already be too late.”

Anne nodded. In minutes she had found a worn jacket that Bethia could wear over her still damp clothing, then she walked with her to the stables.

Once there, she confronted John. “Saddle Sadie. The lad here is going to take a message to my sister.”

John looked surprised but obeyed quickly; faster, in fact, than Bethia would have believed. She remembered Anne’s comment that many of their people had had to leave. Why had
he
stayed? Loyalty to Anne. Or loyalty to someone else?