The Black Knave (15 page)

If Rory had been worthy, it would be different. Neil would surrender his own needs to that of the clan’s. But it was beyond his tolerance for a wastrel to usurp the title and estate. It was, in truth, a brand burning deep inside. As was his loss of Janet Leslie.

He had never harbored bitterness. He’d been born a bastard, a highborn one he’d been told, but a bastard all the same, the seed of an unmarried lady and a married lord. He’d not known his blood ties to the laird until he was ten and heard whispers. He’d vowed then to find his rightful place, and he realized the only way he could do that was through distinguishing himself in arms. The old marquis had seen him train one day, and had brought him to Braemoor as companion and protector to Donald.

Shortly after Neil had been installed at Braemoor, Rory had been fostered to an English family. When he returned, he’d had a fierce fight with his father, then virtually disappeared into Edinburgh’s gaming rooms where he’d seemed determined to blacken the Forbes name. He’d been caught in a lady’s bed and subsequently killed the husband in a duel. He’d won and lost vast sums. He’d mocked the king and mocked the clan.

But he had come home when called to join the English forces arrayed against the Scottish prince. Neil hadn’t known why. He hadn’t asked. He only knew he dinna trust the man and never would. Braemoor deserved more than a part-time landlord, a man who would gamble away the lands without a second thought.

And Neil was the next closest in line to inherit. He had no wish to claim the crumbs left by an irresponsible dandy.

Cumberland’s gift of additional lands in exchange for marriage had only served to embitter Neil further. More bounty for one who did not take care of what was already his. The man’s treatment of his wife galled him, even though he had always held little regard for Jacobites. They were troublemakers through and through.

And yet the new marchioness had a certain dignity that he appreciated. No woman should be treated as she had been treated, and his heart had softened as she had gradually tried to improve the condition of Braemoor. Even he had not realized how badly it had deteriorated in the past few years. Braemoor had always seemed to treat its women badly; few had lasted long before dying in childbirth, or of a fever shortly after. And each time Braemoor suffered.

He wondered whether the same would happen with the MacDonell bride. Cumberland had made it clear he expected a bairn within the year. Would it be the death of this lass, too?

Neil watched as his cousin and his bride disappeared down the lane, and he started wondering how he could bring down the Marquis of Braemoor.

The afternoon was cold and blustery, but it was the kind of day Rory loved best. It made him feel alive. He even enjoyed the chill that crept through the peacock-blue coat he wore. He only wished he weren’t wearing one of his more obnoxious wigs. He had, however, indulged himself with a fine pair of boots.

He particularly enjoyed stealing glances at his riding partner. He did so, however, only when she was looking elsewhere, which she did far more than not. After her first disappointed look at his extravagant dress, she paid little attention to him. Instead, she focused on the road, on the woods beyond, on the small grouping of stone buildings that constituted the nearby village, and then on sheep huddled on a hillside. Her eyes went frequently to the woods that lined a river and climbed upward.

It all looked peaceful enough, even tranquil, except for the occasional men in red uniforms patrolling the road and searching each wagon that passed. Locking the door after the horses escaped. Ogilvy was long gone from these parts, but they might well be looking for a man with a new wound.

Which reminded him of his own arm. Alister would disapprove if he knew what Rory was doing. And his own pain told him this was not wise. But he had seen the wistful look on Bethia’s face. God in heaven, but he knew what it was like to be a pariah in one’s own home. She needed some freedom, or she would wither like a piece of fruit left too long alone and neglected.

He looked at her, something inside responding to the blush on her cheeks, the way her hair escaped the neat cap she wore. Her back was straighter, her face relaxed for the first time since she’d come to Braemoor. She had done nothing to conceal the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and that pleased him. Most other ladies would have powdered them over.

Rory found himself aching to reach out and touch them.

Even as he restrained himself from touching or even engaging her in conversation, he relished the simple companionship of riding next to someone who obviously also enjoyed the day… and riding. She radiated regal defiance in the way she sat her horse, in the sometimes disdainful look she gave him, her gaze flicking over his outrageous clothes.

She was an excellent rider. Not knowing her level of skill, he had selected a sedate but pretty mare. The mare he’d brought in earlier still had some mending to do. But from the second he helped her into the saddle, he knew she was a natural horsewoman. His respect had only increased as they quickened their pace. She looked as if she belonged on a horse, moving gracefully in the sidesaddle.

And her touch? She was not wearing gloves, and the heat of her skin seemed to burn into his. It still did, and that told him more than any instruction from his brain that this was a very foolish thing to do. He knew his hand had lingered a moment too long on her leg once he had helped her up into the saddle. Yet she had not pulled away. Instead, her hands had jerked on the reins and the mare had quickly moved away. It had not been accidental, he knew, nor lack of control. She had not wanted his hand on her.

His wife, and she obviously detested him
. But was not that what he wanted?

Despite such humbling thoughts, he quietly appreciated her obvious pleasure in the ride. Her dark-blue eyes were alive with interest, and he sensed she was mentally cataloguing every foot of the way for future reference.

As he watched her, he decided to make her brother’s freedom a priority. He would have to be careful, though, and must be prepared for Cumberland’s wrath when his “wife” disappeared with the young hostage. And it must all be done by the Black Knave.

She looked over at him when they slowed their horses to a trot. “I would like to meet the woman who grows the herbs.”

The woman who grew the herbs was also the one who was thought to be his mistress. “Why?” he asked after a moment’s surprise.

“Do you not believe a wife has the right to know her husband’s paramour?”

Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. “I did not think you cared, my sweet.”

Her face flushed. “You flatter yourself. I would like to know about the herbs she used. I used to help with healing at… my home.”

He mulled that over in his mind. The last thing he wanted was for Bethia to meet Mary. Women had a way of gleaning information. She would probably know in a moment there was little between him and Mary other than friendship.

“My wife will not engage in such activities,” he said haughtily. “It is not fitting.”

She glared at him rebelliously. “It
is
fitting. I assume, to parade your mistress in front of your wife?”

“I am touched by your continuing interest in my… affairs.”

“I am not interested. I care not what you do. Just do not tell me
my
behavior is not
fitting
.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I merely wish to help you, to instruct you in proper behavior. I understand some of the northern clans … are not well civilized.”

Her eyes grew dark with fury. “And the Forbeses are? You lived in filth. And you, my lord, are … not admired. No such laird in the Highlands would last a fortnight.”

“They do not exist at all now, my lady, or have you not looked recently? Their ways led them into extinction.” He said the cold, cruel words even as they bit into his heart. They were among the hardest he’d ever said, but he needed the gauntlet between them. If he lowered his guard even a fraction of an inch, he suspected he would then be lost. He wanted her, damn it. He wanted her too much. Far too much. It was all, in fact, he could do not to snatch her from her saddle and hold her in his arms, to see whether she tasted as sweet as she smelled, whether she was as soft as she looked, whether the emotion that burned in her eyes could burn for him.

Bloody hell, but he sounded like a bleating poor poet.

He took her into town, to the butcher’s, when she asked him. He helped her down from her mount just as the butcher ran out, his apron flapping as he noticed the visitors.

“My lord, my lady, what an honor.” Then his mouth creased into a frown, and naked fear came into his eyes. “Is something wrong? The meat I sent?”

“It was very fine,” Bethia said softly, with only the second smile Rory had seen. The first had been for the puppy she’d held earlier in the day. The smile lit her face, and suddenly the butcher was stammering. Rory had heard from Alister that villagers had been fuming about the wedding with a Jacobite, but the butcher was obviously melting under her smile.

He had a very sudden and intense need to have it shine on him.

“It was
adequate
,” Rory corrected with pursed lips.

His bride did not look at him. “I wanted to thank you for such good service,” she said.

The butcher puffed up with importance, but then he eyed Rory with hostility. “But payment is always late. Mayhap my lady …”

Rory glared down at him with all the haughty indignation a man of his character, or lack of it, should be able to muster. “You dare question our payment?”

The man took a step backward. “I… I…”

Bethia gave Rory a quelling look, then turned back to the butcher. “You will be paid promptly.”

The butcher gave her a look of profound gratitude even as his gaze avoided Rory’s.

“We must go, wife,” Rory said, his tone hardening. She sent him a challenging look. She knew—or thought— he would have to honor her promise.

Ignoring the butcher, he took his wife’s arm and led her back to her mare, helping her easily back into the saddle, then he mounted, too.

“I have learned one thing today,” he said.

“Aye?”

“I must keep you away from butchers.”

Her chin went up. “He and his family have to live, too.”

“He is a bachelor, and he lives very well, thanks to overcharging us.”

She shot a quick, searching look toward him. “How do you know? Neil said he kept the household books.”

“I usually know more than people credit,” he said. “I suggest you remember that.” He allowed a shade of menace to shade the words. “And I would also suggest that you not try to enlist the support of my people to do me damage.”

She was unimpressed. “I had no such intention,” she said airily, the lie obvious in her face.

“Did you not, madam?”

“No. I wish merely to do my duty as the marchioness. I asked Neil if I can do the household accounts. He appears very busy with other matters.”

Rory said nothing. Neil had not mentioned it to him.

“I kept them at our home.” she continued determinedly.

“Why do you want to do anything for the Forbes?”

“I am not used to being idle.”

“Is that why you were scrubbing windows like a servant?”

“No one else would do it,” she said tartly. “I am not accustomed to laziness as you seem to be.”

“I did not marry a servant.”

“Nay, you married an enemy,” she retorted. ” ‘Tis quite obvious you consider me one, since you did not want me to attend your wound. I did not realize I terrorized you so.”

“You are a Jacobite, are you not?” he said, and this time he could not keep a note of amusement from his voice.

She drew herself up proudly in the saddle. “Aye.”

“I heard they were treacherous.”

“You are assigning your own traits to those far nobler than yourself.”

He almost laughed out loud at the fast retort. He enjoyed her wit and only wished he could see how far it went. However, he’d already stepped too far out of character. Elizabeth had warned him about that, about how careful he had to be in maintaining a role. Only
he
didn’t have to worry about the disfavor of a theater audience; he had to worry about keeping his neck intact.

“I think it is time to return,” he said, turning his horse back toward Braemoor.

“The truth is uncomfortable?”

” ‘Tis your truth, not mine,” he said, “and I would be most careful about bantering it around.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Always threats, my lord. But I heard you ran from Culloden Moor.”

He shrugged. “I care not what you heard. You are in my household and you will do as I order.”

“You are a bully and coward.”

“I am lord, and you will do well to remember that. I do have certain rights.”

His meaning was clear, and he watched her mouth thin, the anger in her eyes grow more baleful. He watched as she struggled against her natural impulse to fight back.

He did not wish to prolong her agony. He tightened his legs around his mount and quickened into a trot, where no speech was possible. For a moment he was aware that he was alone.

Rory did not look back. He knew she would join him. She had no choice. Her brother’s life was at risk.

But he was very aware of the cost to her.

He would make it up to her one day.

If he lived that long.

If she had a pistol, she would have used it.

He obviously enjoyed baiting her. Every time she thought there might be a thread of decency in him, he seemed to delight in trampling the notion, making her feel like a fool for ever thinking he had even one good quality.

She wondered now at his motives for bringing her today. Was it merely to demonstrate his power? His control? To show her it was impossible to try to escape his world?

If so, he had served only to fuel her determination to somehow get her brother and leave Scotland. As long as the marriage was never consummated, as long as it had not been officiated by a Catholic priest, she could get it annulled. She could not remain married to the arrogant popinjay. Still, she wondered why he had not demanded his husbandly rights. Despite his earlier words that he found her unattractive, she’d seen a gleam in his eyes several times when he’d looked at her. She recognized lust when she saw it. How long before he would break his word?