The Black Knave (37 page)

Bloody hell, but he was thinking like a lovesick fool. He would get them all killed.

He abruptly changed the subject. “The Frenchman is due soon. I want both her and the boy on board.”

“And you?”

“All of us, I hope. In the meantime, I have to find a way that no blame will fall on Neil or the Forbeses.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

Rory grinned. “I’m working on the details.”

Alister’s gaze looked upward as if praying. “Which means you have no idea.”

“Exactly,” Rory said. “Now about the boy. How can we let him know when we want him to escape?”

“A gift from his sister. His birthday is soon. The gift can be marked in some way.”

Rory nodded. “Mayhap I will deliver that one. It is time I met my brother-in-law. I imagine he wrote a letter to his sister?”

“Aye. I suggested that he do as his sister did. Write two letters, one that Creighton would read. The other one is still sealed. It is inside my rooms. In the Bible.”

“Perhaps giving them to her with the seal unbroken will reinstate some confidence in me. I fear that Cumberland or one of his men said something that has made her wary.”

“How
was
Cumberland’s visit?”

“Annoying, as always. He offered me ten thousand crowns if Bethia were to give birth to our child.” He went on to relate Bethia’s idea as to why Cumberland’s interest in the MacDonells was so strong.

Alister whistled. “Damn me if you have not landed in the fire.”

“That, my friend, is why we are all leaving.”

Alister hesitated. “I received a message earlier today. It came from the Flying Lady. The lad that helped you is looking for aid. He wishes to meet you near Loch Maire.”

“Maire?” Apprehension ran down Rory’s spine. The loch was far too close to Braemoor. Was someone suspicious of him? Was it a trap? For a moment, Rory wondered whether he had made a mistake.

“When?” Rory finally asked.

“The first night of the new moon.”

“A week from now.” Much too close to the time he and Alister would go after young Dougal MacDonell.

And why Loch Maire? Why not Inverness or Nairn? “Does anyone know who he is?”

“Nay.”

Rory hesitated. It looked like a trap. It smelled like a trap. But how could he not help someone who helped him? “Can you get word to someone down there. See whether you can find anything at all about the lad. What he looked like? Whether he speaks Gaelic. If he does, he is a Highlander.”

“Do you think he is a spy?”

“Cumberland has any number of them.”

“But why would the lad save you, then?”

“They might have known we would suspect a trap. This would make the lad quite… trustworthy in our eyes. A spy in our camp? Cumberland might feel he could take the whole nest of us.”

“Should I go myself?”

Rory shook his head. “You have been gone too much already. Do you have someone you can trust?”

“Aye. The lad who brought the message is staying in one of the caves in the hills. I thought you might want to send a message back with him.”

Rory nodded. “Send him immediately. Tell him there’s five pounds in it if he returns before the new moon.”

“I will give him one of my horses,” Alister said.

Rory agreed. Alister had three horses, all of which he had bought cheaply. They’d looked like nags then, but Alister had an eye for horseflesh. Under good care, they were sturdy and fleet.

Alister hesitated. “Are you sure about this, Rory? I do not like it.”

“I know,” Rory said, arguing more with himself than Alister. His sense of urgency had been growing greater each day. He could not tamp the feeling that Bethia and her brother were in terrible danger and that it grew every day. But neither could he fail to heed the call of someone who had helped him. “I owe him,” he added simply.

“The message mentioned that.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Your instincts are good, Rory. Heed them.”

Rory’s instincts were all clamoring. They said run. They did not believe in coincidence.

“You have a week to decide,” Alister said helpfully. “Hopefully, the lad will be back by then.”

“And hopefully he needs nothing but passage himself. If he is who he says he is. Then I can get Dougal, and you can bring the marchioness. We will meet at the coast.”

“Why do
you
not take the marchioness and
I
can get the boy?” There was an unusual twinkle in Alister’s usually serious eyes.

“Because Creighton trusts me. He might not be so trusting of a stranger who comes twice within a month. And you must take Mary as well.”

“Are you sure it is no’ more than that?”

“Aye,” Rory said. “No more than that.” But there was. He knew it. He lost his objectivity when he was with Bethia. And that put them both into danger.

Alister regarded him skeptically, then shrugged.

Rory nodded. “I had best get back to Braemoor. I will go by Mary’s tomorrow.”

Alister nodded. “I will send the lad on his way tonight.”

Rory nodded. The heat from the forge felt good. The smithy felt good to him. It always had. A place of warmth, even safety for him. He could even fashion a horseshoe. He would miss it. And Alister would have to start all over again somewhere. He and Mary.

“Have you asked her yet?”

Alister did not look at him. Neither did he need to ask what Rory meant. “Nay.”

“Alister,” Rory said with disgust.

“I ha’ no right, no’ until we are safe, and I have something to give her.” Alister had years since picked up Rory’s proper speech, but whenever he was worried he lapsed into his childhood dialect.

Rory shook his head, but he was no one to give advice. He had done a bloody lot of damage in his thirty years. Bethia was only the latest of his victims.

He had not had the character and strength to stay away from her. He had indulged himself, just as he had indulged himself every day since he’d first escaped Braemoor. And now he’d made her a prisoner just as he had been one.

The one thing he could do now was give her freedom.

And he had a letter for her.

“Mary’s then, at noon tomorrow.”

“Aye,” Alister said and returned to his work.

Bethia tried to read a book she had pilfered from the library. Instead, her thoughts returned continually to the marquis. Although his absence aided her plan, she found herself looking for him, and not entirely apprehensively. He had been gone five days.

She’d also expected news of her brother by now. What was taking the blacksmith so long to carry a message?

Waiting
. She felt as if she’d spent her entire life waiting. A woman’s lot, her mother once told her when her father and brothers had ridden off on some secret raid or another. Bethia rebelled at that thought. She would be no tame wife, waiting for someone to rescue her. She would be part of any rescue. She just needed help. A
little
help. And the Black Knave
owed
her for her assistance.

She had already taken steps to escape. Once the marquis had left, she’d visited Mary, pleading sleeplessness. But the herb she’d received was not nearly strong enough, and the humiliating visit had been for naught. She then faked a stomach illness. A physician had been sent for, and at her request she’d been given a bottle of laudanum. She had secreted the small bottle in a pair of slippers.

She never could have managed it had the marquis been at Braemoor. He seemed to read her mind.

Jack barked.

Poor Jack, he’d had few adventures these last few days as she forced herself to remain in bed. Trilby would take him out occasionally, but the rest of the time he huddled next to her, unsure as to why his mistress was not playing with him.

Then she heard a knock at her door and she knew instantly who it was. No one else knocked with quite the same impatient authority. When had he returned? He must have just arrived or Trilby would have run to her.

He did not wait for her to invite him in, but strode in, filling the room with his presence. It always seemed too small for him.

“I have been told you were ill, madam?”

She did not stand, only looked up, hoping her face held none of the emotions he always raised in her.

“I was,” she said icily.

“You are recovered?”

“Aye.”

He hesitated, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “You are not with child?”

“It appears not,” she said. “You will not receive your reward from Cumberland as soon as you probably hoped.”

He sat down on her bed. Jack, the little traitor, dashed over to him, the tail waving like a willow in a thunderstorm. She wondered whether the terrier realized the marquis had saved his life. Whether Jack did or not, he obviously enjoyed the marquis’s hands as they ruffled the dog’s fur. Even from where she sat, she saw the gentleness in them, remembered those rare moments when she had felt a more intimate tenderness.

Her face blazed with heat and she very carefully closed the book and placed it on the table. “No reply, my lord?”

“You overheard something when Cumberland was here.” It was a comment, not a question.

“Aye. A princely sum was mentioned.”

“I told you that Cumberland wanted proof of consummation, that he would be pleased if we produced … a bairn.”

“You did not tell me there was an extra ten thousand pounds involved. Did you know that when I told you about my family?”

He met her stare directly. “Aye, he had mentioned it earlier.”

“Why did you not say something?”

“Why? It changed nothing,” he said. “And if you remember, I did not force myself on you that night. In fact, I left before I was more than a little tempted. I did not particularly wish to father a bairn that Cumberland could use.”

Bethia’s breath caught in her throat. He was right. Had she just seized upon the overheard conversation because he had left so abruptly? Or had she been trying to find reasons to distrust him as a shield against her own growing feelings for him?

“Why did you leave?”

“I had business,” he said shortly and stood. He reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a sealed sheet of paper. “Your brother sent this to you. Alister said that Creighton did not read it. And Mistress Anne sends you greetings and is sorry that you cannot come. She said she understood.”

Her heart stopped. There was still the chance that Anne hadn’t understood the note, that she was just exchanging a pleasantry, but Bethia didn’t think so. She took her brother’s letter, holding it for a moment, all too aware that he was standing so close. Too close. Tension radiated between them. But then, it always did. Her gaze lifted and settled on him. He wore a wig. And a startling vivid green cravat with a royal purple waistcoat and lilac-colored vest. And yet all she saw were his eyes, the dark brows that perched so provocatively above them and the sensuous lips that twisted just enough to make it appear he laughed at the world.

His hand tipped her chin. “I am sorry you did not feel well,” he said.

“It was nothing.”

“They said you were abed three days. That does not sound like you.”

The observation both surprised and warmed her. It certainly disconcerted her. “It might have been something I ate.” The words sounded false even to her.

“Did you complain to the butcher? The meat butcher,” he added.

“I am not sure it was the meat.”

“What did the physician say?”

“He thought it a woman’s weakness.”

He suddenly grinned. “But it wasn’t that, was it, lass?”

It was not then, but it might well be now. She was feeling hot, dizzy, uncertain.

His hand was still on her chin but one of his fingers was stroking her cheek. A question was in his eyes, but it was a question she could not answer. “I missed you, lass,” he finally said.

“Then why do you always leave?” She had not meant to ask the question. She should not care where he went, or how long he might be gone. She herself would leave in a few days. The question, though, just tumbled from her lips.

“You wished a message delivered to Mistress Anne Innes.”

He leaned over. His lips touched hers, raising prickling sensations. Everywhere. Then his lips played with hers, his breathing quickening. Her hand had moved up, stroking her cheek in infinitely tender fingers. The air left the room.

His kiss turned hungry, as if he had been starving and she was the first food he’d had in weeks. She felt his intensity, his need. It matched her own. Her body was no longer hers to control; instead, it moved instinctively into his. He held her there, his lips nibbling hers until they opened, and then his tongue invaded her mouth with a sweet seductiveness. Her body arched and she felt a now familiar tightness.

Her body echoed with memories, pulsed with a need she’d so recently learned. She moved her arms up, and the letter fell from them.

Her letter
. How could she have delayed reading it?

He must have sensed her sudden withdrawal. He straightened, though his fingers stayed on her cheek. He gave her a rueful grin, then took a step backward. Then he saw the letter. He leaned down and picked it up and handed it to her.

“I dropped it,” she said as guilt washed over her.

“Aye, I see. I will leave you with it, lass.”

“Thank you,” she said. She prayed her voice did not tremble, but she feared it did. She did not want him to leave. She wanted to put her hand in his and keep him with her.

But he broke the spell with his next words. “Alister said the boy told him that his birthday is soon. I thought you might like to send him a present.”

“I would like to see him,” she said wistfully.

“Alister said he looked well.”

“I am afraid for him.”

“Creighton will make sure he keeps well.”

“Because he can control me through him,” she whispered.

He sighed, seemed to hesitate, then took her hand in his large one. “He will be safe, lass. I promise you that.”

“How can you?” she whispered.

“I will find a way.” He reached the door, then turned around, his gaze searching hers. “Just do not do anything foolish in the meantime.”

Bethia’s back stiffened. Her eyes narrowed.

He grinned. “You are very bonny when you get your ire up, lass.” He took the few steps to the door, then turned back toward her. “I
am
pleased you are feeling better.”