The Black Knave (32 page)

“Aye,” she said warily.

“I am surprised you had time, with all your adventures.”

“I have nothing but time, since you have determined to imprison me again.”

His eyes narrowed. “That was yesterday.”

“It seems like forever.”

“It is for your own good. I should not like to see you lose a horse again. You may not be so lucky next time.”

“You care so much?”

“Cumberland would not be pleased if you were to disappear. Which reminds me: he plans to honor us with a visit today.”

She felt color draining from her face.

“Is that why you came this morning? Not to fetch a letter, but to make sure I am well enough to meet your guests.”

“His visit, in part, is responsible. I want the letters on the way before he forbids it. I think it would also be well that they arrive when he is not with Creighton.”

Bethia did not expect that explanation. In fact, she could not remember when he had ever explained, much less apologized, for anything. “Why?”

“Cumberland might intercept it.”

“Why do you care?”

“I dislike disharmony.” He said it with such insincerity that she had to smile.

“There is already disharmony.”

His brows furrowed together. “I hadna noticed.”

Bethia could not tell whether he was serious or not. His eyes twinkled but his tone was… unctuous. He was either being very charming or very obnoxious, and it was disconcerting not to know which it was.

He rose gracefully. She had noticed that before. The grace with which he moved, whether he walked or rode. It was even in the way he lounged in a chair, or stretched. Even in the lazy, sensuous way he’d made love.

She wished she had not thought of that. She wished that she could regard him with the same cool indifference with which he seemed to view her.

Cumberland
. Some of her rage had waned, but none of her determination to do whatever she could to save others from him.

At least now she could look at him and know that she had done something, that she had acted to thwart him.

And to thwart her husband.

Unfortunately, she wanted to do something else with him, and that shamed her.

“Are you going to read them?”

“Madam?”

“My letters.”

His look of utter astonishment surprised her. It was as if he had never even considered such a thing. But then he’d surprised her from the very first night when he’d not taken his husbandly rights. She’d thought then that it was because she was undesirable, but now she no longer believed that to be true. She’d too often seen the interest in his eyes. Warmth. Desire. Need.

“No, madam. I ha’ no intention of reading your personal mail.”

“You serve Cumberland. I would have thought such a thing a rather minor sin compared to your much greater ones.”

His eyes grew cold. “Greater ones?”

“Treason to Scotland.” Some demon was spurring her on. It always did with him. Perhaps because he always threw her off balance.

“Do you not know that the victor is always right, wife? It is the losers that are branded traitors.”

He was opening the door, then turned back. “I expect you to wear your best gown. I wish the duke to see a felicitous couple.”

If she’d had something other than the puppy in hand, she would have thrown it at him. She could not understand why she always reacted to him as she did. Why she allowed herself to be drawn to him. Why she challenged him. Why she cared at all what he thought. Every time he seemed to be kind, he followed it with some ulterior motive. Cumberland wanted a child. They were to look happy. He wanted a “harmonious household.”

Yet she could not remove from her mind the image of him with that wry, attractive smile on his lips, and his unruly dark hair and enigmatic eyes that changed color so easily.

“What do you think?” she asked Black Jack.

He wagged his tail.

“That doesna help.”

She put him down and rose, going over to the window. It was just past dawn, and the servants were beginning to stir. She looked down and saw Alister. He was standing next to a bay horse.

Bethia moved to the side of the window. The marquis stepped into view, said a few words to him, then handed him her sealed letters. She did not believe he’d had time to read them, and that pleased her. Then she studied the two men below. They appeared comfortable with each other, the marquis and the blacksmith. She had thought that odd before, but watching their ease together only deepened her interest. Several seconds later, the blacksmith mounted his horse and trotted down to the lane.

The marquis looked after him, then turned to look up at her window. She quickly darted away. She did not want him to believe she had more interest in him than she did. It was just that he was such a mass of contradictions.

She harnessed her curiosity and sat down in front of the mirror and started to brush her hair. She would play her part today. She would disarm both Cumberland and her husband. And then she would become the Black Knave again and rescue her brother. Perhaps then they could find the real Knave and get out of Scotland.

And away from the marquis’s extraordinarily disturbing presence.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Grace?” asked Rory in an ingratiating voice. He was wearing his most elaborate clothes—a long, coral coat with numerous gold buttons and trim over gartered red-and-black trews of finest wool.

He also wore his finest wig, the powdered curls falling over his shoulders.

His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, did not seem impressed. He frowned. “How is the marchioness?”

“She is not feeling well at the moment.”

The duke’s face brightened. “Might she be with child?”

” ‘Tis possible,” Rory replied. Hopefully his wife would be long gone before such a boast could be disproven. Rory remained puzzled at the duke’s intense interest in that particular part of his life.

Cumberland nodded with approval. “I want her to have the best of care. My own physician will attend her at birth.”

“I am not sure that she is with child.”

“We shall pray for God’s blessing,” Cumberland said piously. “You will receive ten thousand pounds when it is confirmed she is with child.”

Rory could not conceal his surprise.

“I thought you would be pleased.”

“I am, but I need no additional reward to serve you or the crown.” He could be as obsequious as anyone.

“Still, I have been authorized to tell you this.”

“I am grateful, Your Grace.”

“As well you should be. Which is my second reason for coming.”

Rory remained silent, waiting. He did not like the sound of any of this.

“This Knave fellow. I want him. I have doubled the reward. I am also asking every loyal family to patrol the roads and bring in any man—or woman—not known to them. I will not tolerate this man’s impudence any longer. I will do what has to be done to bring him to the gallows.”

“Aye, Your Grace. I will have men blocking the roads around Braemoor. Do you have a better description?”

“He is as slippery as an eel. The last report was of a lad. Dammit, a
lad
. Some of my men believe him a demon who can transform himself at will.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think he has henchmen, nothing more. But the troops are frightened. And even worse, the Scots are making a legend of him, a symbol. He is becoming as dear to them as their damnable prince. He has to be caught.”

“I will do what I can.”

“You can become a very wealthy man, Braemoor.”

“If he is within fifty miles of Braemoor, I will know of it,” Rory replied.

Cumberland nodded. “I will spend the night here and be gone in the morning. I have others to see.”

“We will be honored.”

“Your wife will be at supper?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“I will retire to a room now.”

“I will send brandy to you.”

“Ah, that French brandy. Are you smuggling, Braemoor?”

“Nay. I buy it from a smuggler.”

“Do not be too clever, Braemoor.”

“I try not to be clever at all.”

The duke did not answer.

“Would you like me to accompany you to your room? ‘Tis the one you occupied at the wedding. I trust it is satisfactory?”

“Most satisfactory.” Cumberland was suddenly amiable. “And you need not trouble yourself. My orderly will take care of everything.”

The interview was over.

Rory turned and saw Neil in the doorway. He was watching, but merely bowed when the duke passed him.

“What did he want, Rory?” Neil asked after Cumberland had ascended the stairs.

“He wants us to stop every traveler on our roads and apprehend anyone we do not know.”

“Braemoor does not have the men. They have farms to till.”

Rory sighed. “I could not say no. Have you ever tried to argue with Cumberland?”

“I canna say I have had that pleasure,” Neil said dryly.

Rory fixed his gaze on Neil. “Then remember this. You canna cross the man. He will crush you and everyone here.”

“You and he seem friendly enough.” Neil’s tone was hostile, and that surprised Rory. He had thought Neil tolerant of Cumberland.

Rory shrugged. “I have something he wants. But he despises all Scots, and I suggest you remember that.”

He started to move, but Neil stepped in front of him. “Why do you care what happens to Braemoor? You seem intent on gambling it away.”

“I care naught for Braemoor, and I ha’ reasons for that,” Rory said. “But I wish no one here ill.”

“I donna understand you.”

“That is not required. Just do as Cumberland wishes.”

“And you? Are you leaving again soon?”

Rory grinned. “Do you miss me?”

Neil gave him a look of disgust.

“I plan to be here long enough to plant a seed. Cumberland’s orders.”

“Too bad you did not heed them at Culloden.”

“So you would have the title at my death?” For some reason, Rory could not resist the jab. Although he felt that Neil was very capable of managing Braemoor and its properties, he could not forget those years when his cousin was Donald’s ally. He thought he’d outgrown that pain. Apparently, he had not.

Neil sent him a thunderous look, then turned around and retreated back into the office.

Rory sighed as a door closed behind him.
It will not be long before you get what you want most. I just have to be sure that you are alive to enjoy it, that you are not blamed for the acts of the Black Knave
.

Bethia did not, as ordered, wear her best gown. But neither was it her worst. She was beginning to learn that honey might be a better weapon than vinegar. She wanted more freedom. She had to have it to do what had to be done. Obedience might win it for her. Still, she had not been able to force herself into the gown she knew her husband preferred.

Trilby finished dressing her hair, drawing up the sides to the back, fastening them with a jeweled clasp, then allowing the curls to fall down her back. “Would you like some powder?” Trilby asked.

For the freckles, Bethia knew. But they were part of her and she did not care if either Cumberland or her husband saw them. “No, Trilby.”

“The necklace, my lady?”

“I think not,” she said. She regarded that necklace as a symbol of imprisonment.

The door opened, then. No knock. The whiff of a strong perfume assaulted her before she even saw her husband. Then he stood beside her.

It was, she thought, almost as if he could read her mind. “I want you to wear the necklace tonight,” he said.

“I decided against it.”

He smiled slowly, then looked at Trilby. “You may go, lass.”

Trilby looked uncertainly from one to the other, then curtsied and hurried toward the door.

“You frighten her,” Bethia accused.

“I do not think I am frightening,” he said. “Now back to the necklace. You
will
wear it.” He took a small box from a pocket in his coat. The coat was truly outrageous— a bright coral with enough gold trim to feed a family for a year.

When she made no effort to take the box, he opened it. A pair of magnificent emerald earrings lay nestled in the box.

“I note no gratitude,” the marquis said.

“Possibly because I am blinded by your coat, my lord. ‘Tis hard to see anything else.”

He preened. “The color is the height of fashion.”

“Do you think naught of anything but fashion and cards?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Money, my lady. And it lies in the man about to sit at our table. Now the necklace. Where is it?”

Bethia went to the wardrobe and took out a box. She opened it and lifted the glittering gems. She thanked her heavenly stars that she’d not had to barter the necklace away.

“I will put it on you.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Aye, I ken that you can. But I prefer to do it.”

It was the last thing she wanted. She did not want his hands on her. She knew how she reacted to his touch.

Even now, as he stood before her in what seemed all coral and gold, and draped in a dreadful wig, she felt the response of her body to him. It had warmed considerably.

He took the necklace from her hands. “Now be a good lass, and turn around.”

She wanted to punch him instead. Good lass, indeed. Her eyes raged at him as she quelled her desire to do violence.
Freedom
, she warned herself.
You need freedom
.

Gritting her teeth, she turned around, though she knew her shoulders were arched in defiance.

She felt the cold stones against her bare throat, his hands at the back of her neck. Where the necklace was cold, his hands were warm. She knew when the clasp closed, but his fingers did not leave her skin. They were like embers, torching her blood. She felt his breath against her hair, and though the perfume he wore was stupefying, his breath was fresh and clean against her cheek.

She swallowed hard. How could she be attracted to such a dandy? But still she did not move away from his hands that kneaded the back of her neck, that fell and caressed her shoulders. She could barely stand under the onslaught of so many sensuous reactions to his touch. Her knees felt weak. Sensations crawled up and down her back. Warmth puddled in the center of her.
Damn him
.