The Black Knave (41 page)

She wanted to touch his cheek, to run her fingers through his thick hair. She wanted him to hold her close. But there was someone else. A woman he
did
trust.

A knock came at the door. She hurried over to open it, hoping that he would not wake. He obviously needed some sleep. But when she opened the door, she heard the chair move behind her and when a young lass entered, Rory was sitting up straight, his eyes alert. They followed the movement of the servant who placed a tray on the table. It was laden with food: scones and fresh butter and jams, cheeses, fruit and roasted chicken. There was also a pitcher and two tankards.

“Thank you, lass,” he told the girl, who looked at him curiously then hurriedly left.

Her husband looked toward her, his brows arching lazily. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

“It feels good after riding all night.”

He grinned. “You have a point.
I
was walking part of the night. That is the problem with posing as a shepherd. Usually I do better as a British officer. I am afraid I have a certain natural arrogance.”

“Aye,” she said. “You do.”

“You do not have to be so truthful.”

“You said I was not a good liar. I thought not to try.”

“Good choice,” he said, taking a chicken wing and consuming it in less time than she thought possible.

Her stomach rumbled. She had not realized how hungry she was herself. She still had a million questions, but the food came first. She took a scone and bit into it. Her tongue wiped the crumbs from her lips.

His eyes grew darker. Intense. Vivid. The gold in them looked like the flickering color of flames. He dropped his gaze, but his hand had stilled as it lay on the table, like a statue.

The air grew close. And warmer, though there was no blaze in the fireplace.

There was only a blaze between them.

“Ah, lass,” he said. “You are a mighty diversion.”

“I thought you liked diversions.”

“On limited occasions.”

Her fingers traced invisible circles in the table. She had not realized until now how much she’d enjoyed dueling with him. How could she ever have thought him a fool?

She would trust her instincts more in the future. And Black Jack’s. Of course, Black Jack was being spoiled shamelessly on the other side of the table, snatching up tidbits of chicken and sweets. His tail was switching so eagerly that she thought it might break off.

But then her gaze turned back to her husband. Her husband. The Black Knave. She was still trying to absorb the knowledge even though she realized she felt no real shock. The truth was far easier to accept than she would have thought possible. There had been so many hints.

He leaned over and his finger touched her lips. “You have a crumb,” he said, but his fingers did not leave, and she realized it was naught but an excuse. Her lips opened and she caught one of his fingers, nibbling on it.

He tasted fine.

His other hand went to her face, his fingers stroking her cheek, then pushing a wayward curl back in place. “You look enticing,” he said.

She was suddenly aware of how she really must look. Her face was probably dirty, her hair windblown and untidy, falling from the braid she had so carefully entwined in preparation for her meeting with the Black Knave. She had not had any sleep for a day and night, and her eyes were probably bloodshot. And yet she believed he saw her the way he had just described.

He
certainly looked enticing. A tendril of hair had fallen over his forehead. As he had done with her, she lifted her hand, giving her fingers the luxury of pushing it back. Emotions swelled in waves, each one different but growing in strength. Her chest tightened, and her breathing became more difficult. She wanted to touch him everywhere. She wanted him to touch
her
everywhere. She wanted to go to sleep in his arms.

Her gaze shifted to the bed. So did his.

He took a draught of ale, then stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and their fingers intertwined. “You must be weary, lass,” he said in a husky voice.

“And you.”

He leaned down and kissed her. It was a strange kiss, poignant and even … sad but filled with a tenderness that made her legs want to fold under her. She wanted him to ask her to stay. She wanted it with all her heart.

He did not.

Instead, he released her lips. “We had both best get some sleep, lass, and we canna do it together. I have to leave this afternoon for Rosemeare.”

“I want to go.”

” ‘Tis best if I go alone. Cumberland was quite insistent that you not see your brother until you are well with child. If he hears you have left Braemoor, he will send out all his hounds. ‘Tis best if you stay for a day. Alister will bring you and Mary to the coast where a ship will meet us.”

Mary.

“She is going, too?”

“Aye. ‘Tis too dangerous for her to stay.”

Bethia tried to stop her next words, but she could not. “Why did you consent to our marriage?”

He did not let her finish the sentence. “I agreed because the Marquis of Braemoor would most certainly have agreed. Rory Forbes is a greedy, selfish, self-indulgent man. Do you truly think Cumberland would believe he would decline such a prize? And it was clear he intended to marry you to someone. I could try to make it not quite so onerous.”

“It would have been far less if you thought you could trust me,” she said, that reality still gnawing at her like a rat through a piece of cheese.

He said nothing, but the mask was back on his face, and she realized she still knew so very little about him, or what compelled him to do what he did, or what he liked or did not like. She did not know him at all. She only knew he did not trust easily, but that he obviously did trust Mary.

“Will I see you before you leave today?”

“Aye, lass.”

Her teeth played with her upper lip for a moment. There was still so much she wanted to say, so many questions to ask. But he was right. They were tired. She did not want to say something she would regret.

“I will see you later, then.”

He still held her hand. He brought it up to his mouth and his lips caressed it. “The Knave thanks you again for saving his life,” he said.

“The Knave is welcome,” she said. She knew she should go, but she could not. She was as unable to move toward the door as statuary in a garden. The other direction, however, was entirely possible. She found herself standing on her toes, her mouth reaching for his.

He opened his mouth, obviously to say something, but instead his lips met hers, moved passionately down on them. Swirling eddies of desire enveloped them.

He loves someone else.

Her mind kept telling her that, but it was chaff in the wind, disappearing in the blizzard of her other feelings. She wanted to touch and press and explore. She wanted to feel him close to her. She wanted to prolong every dizzying, warm exciting feeling before he disappeared again.

When she felt the intensity of his own passion, she knew momentary triumph. He seemed so aloof, so completely alone and obviously pleased that little touched him. But now she put her arms around him and felt him tremble, and she knew he was not as indifferent to her as he tried so valiantly to be.

She responded to his every movement, to the sudden passion in his kiss, to the swelling inside his breeches. The feel of him next to her renewed the gnawing need inside her, a need so recently awakened. As his tongue invaded hers, she savored each new jolt of sensation, of thrilling gratification. She felt the tension in his body, the barely restrained passion in his hands that now moved around her back. Warm, irresistible feelings flowed through her like a warm breeze on a fine Highland day.

His kiss deepened, his lips hard and demanding against her now tremulous ones. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything, God help her.
He is your husband. His loyalty should be to you, not Mary
.

He groaned. His arms wrapped tighter around her, fusing her body to his, and she felt his manhood pulsing in need. Her breasts strained against her dress, and her body was alive with sizzling fires dancing up and down her spine.

“Ah, lass,” he said with a whisper of defeat. Then he picked her up and carried her to his bed. Impatient hands stripped her garments from her and ran reverently down the sides of her body. She found herself reaching for the laces to his breeches, undoing them as he stood in the white, flowing shirt. Her hands touched his throbbing shaft, now full and rigid, and she watched spasms tear through his body.

He sat and leaned over, his tongue trailing fires over her body until her hands reached up for him. He moved into her then, his manhood probing gently at first, then filling her completely as her body reacted with shuddering movements, grasping him.

Loving him….

She was gone when Rory woke several hours later. He reached out for her and found the pillow cold. He missed her more than he thought possible to miss someone, especially for such a short time. He told himself it was for the best that she’d thought better of laying abed with him.

He wished he had been stronger. But he had ached in every place a man could hurt. He had longed to hold her, to go to sleep with her in his arms. It had taken every last ounce of his’ will to
try
and send her away. He had not had enough strength to actually
do
it.

The sun was streaming in. He struggled to a sitting position. So much to do today. He had to talk to Neil, and that would be the most difficult of all. He needed all his wits.

His wits, however, seemed to have left him the day Bethia came to Braemoor.

Still, he held in his mind the images of last night, Bethia trying so hard to quiet the dog in the fog, the courage it must have taken her to travel the poor path at night. It pleased him to think of the risks she had taken days earlier to save him. Well, the Black Knave.

Then later, the way she had looked at him, her blue eyes shining as if he were the finest man in Scotland.

He realized, though, that she was looking at the Black Knave, not Rory Forbes. She must have realized that sometime this morning. She must have regretted her moments of gratitude.

Even if she did admire the Black Knave, the fellow himself was a sham. No one noble or brave. He was naught but man who enjoyed games and would be sure to disappoint.

Bloody hell, but he felt empty. Empty and, God help him, so damnably alone. Now, however was not the time for self-pity.

He poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. It was cold, and that was a good thing. A few splashes wiped away the cobwebs lingering in his head. He shaved carefully, as the fastidious marquis would do, and chose one of his more subdued sets of clothes. A shirt with a ruffled front, dark blue breeches, a bright blue waistcoat and finally a cravat of gold silk. A man of expensive but very dubious taste. He had rather enjoyed being outrageous.

He was a man of position. Of wealth. Of pomposity. And in a few days, they would all be gone.

As one last touch, he tucked a frilly handkerchief in his pocket.

Neil regarded Rory suspiciously as Rory held out a sealed document to him. He took it as Rory sprawled into a chair opposite him.

“I donna understand,” Neil said.

” ‘Tis a will,” Rory said. “It is witnessed by two people and dated six months ago, when I became the marquis. It leaves everything to you in the unfortunate circumstance of my demise.”

Neil’s brows furrowed together. There were no direct male descendants. He would have no more claim than a dozen others. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

“Why
you
?”

“Why any concern about something that is not likely to happen?”

“These are unsettled times, Cousin.”

“Then why me? We have never been friends.”

“No,” Rory admitted. “But I have admired the way you have managed Braemoor.”

Neil stared at him. “I thought you cared naught about Braemoor.”

Rory shrugged. “I have not your talents, Cousin. I am smart enough to know that. And I think you will find I have not done undue damage to Braemoor.”

Neil’s eyes narrowed. “What are you planning?”

Rory leaned back with what he hoped was an innocent expression. “It amuses me to surprise people.”

Neil dropped the papers down on his desk. “These are meaningless. You will outlive us all.”

“I think not, Neil. If I were you I would keep those papers handy. It includes not only Braemoor but all the property I recently acquired through my marriage. It does not, however, include the jewelry. That belongs to my wife.”

“You are not telling me something,” Neil said, rising from his chair.

“As I said, these are precarious times. I do not want anyone at Braemoor to pay for mistakes I have made. You have an instinct and affection for Braemoor. A love I do not have nor ever will.”

Neil put two hands down on his desk, leaned forward and studied Rory carefully, then sighed. “Why do you trust me? I was no’ your friend when you were a lad. I ha’ often regretted that.”

“You were a lad, too, Neil. You were dependent on my father and brother, as I was. But now you have become a better man than either of them. Better than all three of us.”

Neil’s gaze sharpened. “Wha’ is going on, Rory?”

Rory unwound himself from a chair he had settled into and stood. He grinned. “I could have died several weeks ago when that dastardly Black Knave struck me. It reminded me of my mortality. I should hate to go to my grave with Braemoor’s future uncertain or, even worse, falling into the hands of Cumberland. There
must
be a lawful heir.”

“Why?” Neil asked again. “You never seemed concerned with more than what coat you would wear.”

“I have taken a liking to some of the people,” Rory said carelessly. “And I detest Cumberland. His greed knows no bounds. He might well come after Braemoor if there is no clear heir. That is reason enough.”

Neil nodded. Nearly every Scot, even those who fought with Cumberland, detested the duke. That had become even more true as Cumberland continued his barbarity over months. His excesses and his demands on clans loyal to the English king had alienated all the country. “I fear he would dispossess every mon and woman here.”