The Black Knave (26 page)

“The English uniform?” He looked at Mary with a question in his voice.

“I cleaned it the best I could. It is dry.”

He nodded. “I’ll take the black and leave my horse here. If anyone comes by, I am in the woods hunting and will not be back until late.”

“Including the marchioness?”

“Aye.”

“Someone might see your horse here.”

“Most likely.”

“She will not object?”

“It is not for her to object.” His voice was harsh, harsher than he intended. He didn’t want this. Yet he did not want anyone to know that both he and the blacksmith were gone from the area at the same time. Far better that they think he had taken back up with his mistress.

Far better for whom
? The demon whispered in his head.

He didn’t waste more time. He took what he needed from Mary’s hidden compartment under the floor and folded them into a blanket. Too many people knew him around here. He would wait to change until it would be unlikely that anyone would recognize him.

“Do not worry,” he said. “I will send Alister back as soon as I find him.”

Rumors abounded in the tower house. So many, in fact, that Bethia wondered whether she had been meant to hear them.

Whisper, whisper, whisper.

“The marquis is at the whore’s cottage.”

“He’s been there two days.”

“The Drummond lad is on the run.”

“They say it is a trap for the Black Knave.”

The Black Knave and the marquis’s whore. Every time she approached a door, passed servants in the hall, went by the great hall at suppertime, she heard the voices pause, but their echoes ate a hole in her soul.

A trap.

The marquis and the woman.

A trap for the Black Knave.

She could not allow it to happen. He was her only hope to save Dougal. And herself.

She had to warn him.

Buckie. The whispers said the trap was being set at Buckie. ‘Twas many miles away. How could she possibly reach it in time? How could she find him?

When would her husband return?

His frequent absences almost always lasted at least two or three days and often a week or more.

Bethia remembered the warmth she’d felt in his arms, the passion, even the gentleness. Now he had gone to the home of his mistress. To laugh about how he seduced his wife? How he had charmed and duped her?

How could she have been so fooled by the man? He had jumped from her bed into that of a loose woman. Had she been that inadequate? That unappealing?

Her heart felt hollow, her throat thick.

She went into his room, closed the door firmly behind her, and positioned herself so she could search his wardrobe as well as watch the door. She would not be surprised this time. She looked for the deck of cards. Surely he would not miss one or two.

They were gone. All of them!

She had the one jack from the deck of cards he’d given her. No more.

He had given her permission to ride alone, but if she took a horse and did not return it before nightfall, she was sure an alarm would be raised. The Black Knave was said to be a horse thief as well as a Jacobite. She could steal a horse.

What would happen to Dougal if she were caught? The thought sent shivers of terror through her.

But she had to do something.

Could she trust Trilby?

Her mind kept jumping from subject to subject. Did she dare take a chance?

The Black Knave had repeatedly risked his life for her friends, for Scotland’s patriots. How could she do less for him?

She replaced the marquis’s clothes and left his stark room.

‘Twas midday.

Bethia went to her room, Black Jack anxiously tagging after her. He whined as if he knew what she was thinking and didn’t care for it at all.

She regarded her face carefully in the mirror. It was pale, but not pale enough. Mayhap it would be easier to put color into it. An unhealthy color. A very unhealthy color.

But what kind of illness would keep people away, unwilling to go into her room? The pox? That would terrify everyone but it would also bring attention to Braemoor. That would not do.

Fainting spells? Everyone would suspect a child. It had been three months since their wedding.

That was it
. She could go into seclusion. She remembered hearing tales of women who swooned when they were with child, who became deathly ill. Her mother, who had seven bairns, four of which survived childbirth, had always voiced contempt for such behavior. It was a woman’s lot to bear children with dignity.

Would Trilby cooperate? Would she risk the marquis’s wrath?

She would tell Trilby she was faint and ill with an uncertain stomach, that she was not well enough to see anyone. They would draw their own conclusions. Then she would slip out tonight, leaving a note for Trilby, telling her she had to make sure her brother was safe, that she had heard he was not. Would she please tell everyone the marchioness was still fragile? But then would Trilby be blamed?

She immediately dismissed that plan because of the last factor. She could not be responsible for Trilby being caught in such a lie.

Mayhap the direct route was best. The marquis had given her freedom to ride. He had left her bed and gone to his mistress. She would just take a horse and ride away, leaving a note to him or to anyone who asked that she was going to visit her brother. She had promised not to leave the marriage. She had not promised she would not try to visit her brother.

Many things could happen along the way. She could take the wrong road and become lost. For days.

She was certain there would be a price to pay, but if she would be able to warn the Black Knave it did not matter. Especially if she could earn his gratitude—and his help.

And if her husband was dismayed, she could counter accusation with accusation. Her husband had left her bed without so much as a word. Probably for the bed of his mistress. His anger could be no greater than her own.

Bethia planned her escape carefully. She had to leave during daylight hours or there would be questions. She knew that Jamie’s father stayed in the stable at night, and he would well question a midnight ride.

She dressed in her riding costume, then carefully wrapped Jamie’s old clothes along with a bonnet in a piece of cloth. She planned to say, if anyone asked, that she was taking the bolt for a shirt to be made for her husband. As an afterthought, she took out the necklace her husband had given her. She might need a bribe. It had held some meaning for a fraction of time, but now it held none.

She carefully sewed it inside one of the trouser legs, then sewed another piece of cloth over it. It would be uncomfortable and complicate her walking, but it might well be necessary. It gave her some bit of satisfaction that she might be using his gift to thwart his patron.

She then wrote a note saying that she had gone to see her brother. Hopefully, Neil would not care enough to send someone after her, especially without orders from the marquis.

Bethia planned to get lost along the way. She would take the road to Rosemeare where her brother was imprisoned, then cut down toward Buckie on the coast. It would be a most unusual thing for a woman to take such a trip without an escort, but after all, she was a Jacobite. If her husband could disappear for days, she did not know why she could not.

More important, she would be taking action, becoming a part of events that affected her, not just a pawn in someone else’s game. In numerous games. Cumberland’s. Her husband’s.

Neither cared about her or Dougal.

She’d never felt so alone. And yet she also felt a sense of purpose.

Bethia hurried down the stairs. Neil and some of his men were out looking for the young Ogilvy and now probably Drummond, and any other Jacobite they could locate. They would be back tonight, and all they would care about would be the casks of wine and hot food.

Jamie was in the stable, and he saddled her horse. He asked to go with her, but she said she now knew the way, and would be safe by herself. He looked at her doubtfully, but then his fa came in, and told him to mind “the lady.”

‘Twas obvious that no one but Jamie really cared about her safety.

She mounted with his help, then walked the mare down the lane and out of sight of the tower house. Bethia then urged the mare into a canter until they reached a crossroads. She took the road that led to the mountains and the coast, the one away from Lord Creighton and her brother.

She was free.

The rumor was indeed a trap for the Black Knave rather than Drummond. If Drummond, however, was also apprehended, so much the better.

Rory discovered that fact very quickly.

His uniform gained him entrance to a tavern frequented by English officers. They were thankfully well into their cups and accepted him without question, especially since he seemed as rollicking drunk as they.

They were not discreet. Several of them had just come off patrol. Every approach to the fisherman’s house was well watched. Any stranger, no matter how old, or which sex, was stopped. Drummond would probably hear of the fisherman shortly, and he would make his way to him.

The Black Knave would undoubtedly try to save him from his own foolishness.

The English were not exactly sure where Drummond was, except they believed he was hiding in the Grampians. He had been sighted near a village, and later a village lad had been heard asking whether anyone knew a fisherman willing to risk sailing him south to a port where he might find passage out of the country. He would be well-paid.

The word was out that a Geordie Grant would be interested. Geordie, it was said, would do anything for a coin or cask of ale. ‘Twas expected that Drummond would approach him either tonight or the next. The soldiers had apparently been part of the patrol watching the fisherman’s house for the past two days, and were weary of inaction. They also wearied of the incessant cold rain, and complained bitterly that the Scottish weather was as cold and treacherous as many of the country’s inhabitants.

Still, the thought of trapping the Black Knave was an enticing one. The reward was large.

Rory affected his best English accent. Since he’d fostered with an English family, he could talk about nearly anyone with some knowledge. He soon had his companions roaring with laughter with imitations of several highly placed officials in King George’s government. Then, thoroughly accepted, he sat back with a brandy, faked a drunkenness and listened as a plan fermented in his mind.

He’d next have to find Alister or make sure warnings had been delivered.

He suspected Alister might already have found Drummond. His friend had built several strong networks of spies, using information from those they had already helped. Spurred by his own dismal childhood, Alister had quite actively and enthusiastically turned into a protector of the weak and hunted. He had, in fact, a genius for names and organization.

Rory wished the other officers luck in finding the blackhearted villain who had made fools of them. He discreetly left the latter part of the sentence unspoken, and lurched uncertainly toward the door and his horse.

Fifteen minutes later he approached the Flying Lady. It was a tavern frequented by local fisherman, many of whom hated the English, and was therefore avoided by soldiers of the crown. Rory would be thoroughly obnoxious, obnoxious enough to bring attention to himself.

The Flying Lady was part of an inn and was far quieter than one frequented by the English. Scots huddled around the tables in bleak and sullen silence, their expressions bitter and hostile as he entered the public room. Their fishing had been curtailed in large measure by the English who worried about Jacobites escaping. Boats were repeatedly searched and often confiscated by the English who claimed their owners were Jacobite sympathizers.

A man approached him, a burly individual with a deep frown. “I am thinkin’ ye are in the wrong place,” he said.

“
I
think not,” Rory said and took a chair. “I will have your best brandy.”

Moments later he was drinking what must be the worst brandy in all of Scotland.

All eyes were on him. He ignored them, raised his feet to the table and leaned comfortably back in the chair and regarded the others with equanimity. An hour went by, then another.

His tavern mates muttered. He grinned at them.

One by one they left, leaving the owner glowering at him. “Closing time,” he said.

“I had hoped for a friendly game of cards.”

The tavern keeper looked at him as if he had grown a set of fangs and was breathing fire. He knew he could not force an English officer to leave.

“Sit down and play with me,” Rory said.

The man glowered.

Rory paid no attention to the scowl. Instead he took out a deck of cards and facilely shuffled them. Then he split the deck and turned one side up to a black jack.

The tavern keeper’s scowl deepened. He turned and started to walk away.

“Brodie said you could be trusted.” Brodie was the name Alister used on his travels.

The man stopped. “‘Ow is Mr. Brodie?”

“Sick in soul.”

The tavern keeper’s gaze bored into him, accepting the agreed upon words with a lingering doubt. He was still being cautious, and Rory approved of that.

“What do ye want?”

“Has Brodie been here?”

“He has.”

“When?”

“This morning.”’ The tavern keeper continued to regard him suspiciously. “He left a warning.”

“For Drummond?”

“Aye,” the man said cautiously.

“You know where he is, then?”

“Mayhap.” He looked at the card again. “Anyone could have tha’ card.”

Rory took his feet from the table. “True,” he said amiably, “but we needed something people could trust. It might well have outworn its purpose. I knew the words, though, too.”

The tavern keeper’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye ‘im? The Knave?”

“Nay. Just a messenger.”

The man did not look as if he believed Rory, but then he appeared a naturally suspicious man. Rory approved of that, too.

“I must get in touch with Drummond.”