The Black Knave (21 page)

Then they heard the sound of oars, a low whistle. Rory carried two of the youngest children, and the others ran down to the sea. A long boat danced on the incoming tide, and two large sailors jumped out and pulled it up almost to the beach. One held the rope while the other started helping the passengers inside.

“Too many,” one of the men said. “We were told fourteen.”

“Tell your captain I will settle with him later,” Rory said.

The sailor hesitated.

“Eight of the children make four adults.”

The sailor still hesitated.

“Do you wish to throw them into the sea? You might as well, for all the future they will have if you leave them on this beach.”

The man made a barely visible shrug, waited for the last passengers to be seated, then hopped into the boat, hauling in the rope behind him. The oarsmen pulled at their oars, and the boat disappeared into the rain, leaving Rory alone.

Feeling as if a tremendous load had been lifted from his shoulders, he made his way back to where his tired horse waited. He would ride along the coast until he found a village, then rest both the horse and himself. He would start home tomorrow.

Home. For the first time, the word seemed to have meaning. He felt an eagerness he’d never known before. He did not want to think it was caused by the woman who so unwillingly lived there.

A week. The marquis had been gone more than a week. Nearly nine days, in fact. His absence was longer than any other time since their marriage two months earlier. Bethia frowned at the thought as she watched two newly employed maids polish silver that was black with tarnish. They had, with her assistance, pounded dust from tapestries and dusted off the huge paintings of generations of the Forbes family. Their dark, beady eyes seemed to follow her wherever she went.

Strange that they all had dark eyes. The marquis had hazel eyes, changeable eyes. Rather remarkable eyes, in truth. Surprising eyes. He should have the dull, lifeless eyes of a wastrel, of a man who drank too much. But instead… they sometimes shimmered with intelligence and … secrets.

Nonsense.

A wife for two months now, and she’d spent two days with the man she called husband.

All to the good, she told herself.

She’d put the last week to good use. Jamie now had a new pair of britches and a new shirt, as well as a pair of shoes. His father had frowned at first, but she’d told him that new shirts were being made for all those who worked in the tower house and in the stables, and his scowl had faded. A new shirt was a prize of great value.

She’d taken Jamie’s old clothes, saying they would be mended. She would give them to the kirk for the poor. And she would. Later. Much, much later.

She washed them late one night after Trilby had gone to bed, and had spread them out in front of the fire to dry. Then she’d folded and tucked them away in a drawer. They represented a means of escape, though she had not yet exactly determined how or when.

Jamie and his father slept in back of the stable, ready to take in the horses of any late or early guests. They would immediately miss one of their charges. She had to find another horse, buy one, and keep it somewhere else. But how? Her small winnings from her game with the marquis would not begin to buy a serviceable mount and tack. Still, she had no intentions of giving up.

She debated something she’d thought about for several days. The tower house was becoming more and more respectable, but what about his room? What might she learn about him there?

Invading his privacy, or anyone else’s, was abhorrent to her. Still, his room needed cleaning. She’d noticed that the other night. It had been neat, far neater than she would have expected, but the floors had been dusty and the windows as dirty as those in the great hall. No wonder he apparently did not notice. He was seldom there.

She also wondered about the choice of his room. It was small, not nearly as large as the huge room down the hallway. That room had evidently belonged to the former marquis, and was unused at the moment. Cumberland had stayed there when they were wed, but her husband had never moved from what was apparently his old room. Neither did he have a personal servant to look after him.

Another paradox. For a man who claimed to love luxury and elaborate clothing, his own room had few trappings of privilege. Was it just laziness?

None of it made any sense to her.

But perhaps in exchange for his giving her some freedom and the power to run the household, she would clean the room, mayhap even take a carpet from another room and use it to replace the worn, threadbare cloth that now covered the floor.

In transforming the room, she might learn more about her elusive husband.

With renewed interest, she went up the stone stairs, the dog close on her heels. Little Black Jack followed her everywhere now. He could manage the stairs now, though it took a little effort. She looked down as he made an indignant yelp when she went too fast for him. She slowed down, waited as he gained the stone steps, then went to the marquis’s chamber. She opened the door. A bottle of spirits and an empty glass sat on a table.

She remembered that table. She remembered the crackling attraction that had flickered between them. She felt it now. A warmness invaded her lower regions as she thought of his touch.

How could she?

He
was
her husband.

He was a traitor and a wastrel.

She leaned against the wall of his room, aware that her breaths were coming faster. Her eyes went to his wardrobe in the corner. She hesitated for a moment, then, as if a compulsion had taken over her body, she opened it.

A gaudy parade of colors met her eyes. Waistcoats of the very best materials, shirts of silk, brightly colored trews made of the finest wool. A stand held several wigs, each one elaborate. She found herself looking for something else, for something simple. Her mind’s eye kept seeing him that night they’d played cards. He’d been wearing a full white shirt open at the neck and a pair of deerskin britches that had fit him well. He
did
have fine legs, even in the dreadful trews.

Her face flamed at the thought, at the warmth pooling in her belly.

She touched one of the shirts, and felt something hard under it. She lifted it up and found a number of decks of cards. The gambler’s tools.

“Marchioness?”

She whirled around and saw the object of her musings standing in the doorway, a quizzical look on his face.

He was dressed in a bright green waistcoat, purple and yellow trews and a wig that was slightly askew. His eyes narrowed as his gaze roamed up and down her, then rested on her face.

“I did not know you had returned.”

“Obviously,” he said lazily.

“I thought to clean in here.”

“Amidst my clothes?”

“To see whether any needed cleaning or repair. Is that not a wife’s duty?”

“I think I would prefer her other duties if she sincerely believes in fulfilling a wife’s function.” His voice was silky, his lips turned upward in a suggestive smile. She saw a sudden cruelty in that smile. A calculated cruelty.

“You did not say I could not come into your room,” she said, closing the door to the wardrobe.

“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “I did not.”

He seemed to be viewing her as a spider might ogle its web-trapped prey.

“You were gone a long while. I really thought your room might need a thorough dusting.” She realized she was repeating herself, even babbling.

The corner of his mouth crooked up. “A long while,” he repeated. “You missed me, then?”

“No.” It took all her courage not to make a fast dash for the door. She did not like the odd speculation on his face.

“You just had a sudden desire to clean my room?”

“I wondered why you did not move into the marquis’s room.”

“This
is
the marquis’s room,” he said.

“I mean …” She bit her lip.

“Ah, the old marquis’s room.”

“Aye,” she said.

“Then you have no’ heard the rumors.”

She looked at him curiously.

“My father did not much care for me. He did not, in fact, believe I was his son. He hated me, and quite frankly I returned the favor. I ha’ no wish to live in his room.” His voice was suddenly hard, cold.

Trilby had told her that he and his father had not cared for one another. She had not dreamed, however, that the enmity had run so deep. She remembered her own mother and father, the love they had showered upon her. She felt an instant sympathy for the marquis, for the man who was her husband.

“Your mother?”

He emitted a short laugh, more like a bark. “She made his life as much a hell as he made hers.”

“And you?”

He shrugged. “It does not matter. She died years ago. It was my father’s misfortune that he did not have time to disown me after my … brother died at Culloden. I am sure he is rolling about in his grave that I now own Braemoor.” He smiled, but there was no humor in the ironic twist of his mouth. “And that a Jacobite is the marchioness.”

She felt a sudden chill. She had thought he was as much a reluctant bridegroom as she was a bride. Now she wondered whether this was not his ultimate revenge against his father. That idea did not appeal to her.

“You must have had a long journey if you came from Edinburgh,” she said. “I will have water sent up, and some food.”

“I believe I would prefer to eat in the great hall with my wife at my side.”

She looked up into his face. “Why?”

“I do not want any rumors that we do not… suit.”

“I would think your absences would make that clear.”

“Business, lass. I took a keg of fine French brandy to Cumberland, among other things. He asked how you were.”

She stiffened. “Did he say anything about my brother?”

“Nay.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment. He seemed in good humor, for some reason. She did not know, though, if that bade well or poorly for her. But she would try to use it.

“I would like to send my brother a letter, but I do not know if Lord Creighton will give it to him.”

“Write it, and I will try to get it to him,” he said unexpectedly. She searched his face, but the mask was in place. He gave away nothing.

“Why would you do that?”

“You are my wife,” he said lightly. “And I am impressed. Braemoor has improved considerably since you became its mistress. And now I would like to bathe. Will you order hot water? You may stay and scrub me if you wish.”

Her face reddened again, and she was mortified that he saw her confusion. She never quite knew exactly what he intended by his words.

“Or not,” he said mercifully. “I will come to your room when I am ready for supper.”

She left quickly, unwilling to take a chance that he might change his mind and wish her to attend him during his bath.

Yet even as she hurried to her room, to safety, she tried to understand why her nerves all tingled from the thought of him naked.

Nor why she always felt so confused after each and every one of their encounters.

And why she felt he wanted something unsaid from her. And, God help her, why she felt she needed something from him.

She just did not know what it was.

Rory knew he would have to be more careful. He had almost brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. He had almost kissed her.

Damn, but the lass sent his senses reeling.

He poured himself a glass of brandy, welcoming the warmth as it slid down his throat. God’s fury, but he was weary. He still felt the chill of riding days through cold rain. He’d stopped at Mary’s, changed clothes from the uniform into a bright waistcoat and had stripped the mustache from his face. He’d changed from the mud-splattered boots to nearly useless shoes that were little more than slippers.

Mary had told him about Bethia’s visit, about her request for herbs, which seemed little more than an excuse. Her real intent, Mary had surmised, had been to learn more about the marquis. “She is canny,” Mary said. “I think she can be trusted.”

“What would you have done to save your mother?” Rory asked. “Wha’ would you do to save your bairn?”

Her eyes met his, and she did not answer.

“Her brother is her last living kin. She has no reason to have loyalty to me.”

“I donna think she would betray the Black Knave,” Mary said.

“She may not mean to,” Rory replied. “But I will not draw more people into this circle. It is dangerous not only to me but for you and Alister as well.”

“She is lonely, my lord. And desperate. I could see it in her eyes. She might well do something … reckless on her own.”

“I will try to give her hope, then, without being specific.” And that had ended the discussion. Still Rory did not like the idea that his new wife was looking into matters he preferred to be his alone.

As she’d apparently been looking through his belongings.

Rory looked around the room. It did need tending. But he used it so seldom, he’d cared little about its upkeep.

He’d turned down Neil’s offer of a servant. He wanted no one snooping among his belongings, no one keeping abreast of his comings and goings.

That thought made him check the wardrobe where the lass had been looking. He looked under the shirts. The decks of cards were still there. ‘Twas unlikely that she had checked them and found most of them missing the jack of spades. He would rid himself of the remaining cards in the fireplace this night. He should have done it earlier.

He slipped off the heavy, soaked wig, then took off his waistcoat and loosened his shirt at the neck. Rory then checked the fireplace. He’d brought a candle from downstairs to light the fire, but there was no wood. He supposed then that he did need a servant. He was just too damnably tired to do more than sprawl across the chair and think again of his small group of refugees aboard the French ship.

It was three months now since the battle at Culloden Moor. Some of the families that had fought with Cumberland were becoming more and more disturbed by his excesses. He was called “the butcher,” and obviously someone—more than one or two—was helping Prince Charles who, despite the reward of thirty thousand pounds, remained at large.