The Black Knave (47 page)

The sergeant hesitated, considering his own options. Then, apparently making up his mind, he said, “I will send two men with you.”

“How many men do you have, Sergeant?”

“Ten.”

Dammit, but he’d been right not to take them on. He shrugged. ” ‘Tis said the Black Knave is in this area. You will be needing all your men, but I have no time to argue with you.”

Some of the light from the lantern hit the sergeant’s face. It was just Rory’s ill luck that the sergeant looked more intelligent than most of the breed. He was going to obey his orders. No one was to go through the gorge.

The sergeant looked once more at Bethia, who had let what was left of her hair fall in her face. She looked sullen and defiant. ” ‘E don’t look like much.”

“He thought to disguise himself,” Rory said. “But I can sniff out a Jacobite anywhere.”

The sergeant kept shining his lantern at Bethia’s face. “Mebbe you both should get down.”

“No, Sergeant.
I
will be court-martialed if I am not back before noon.”

“You will not make it, Captain. ‘Tis a full day’s ride, maybe more.”

“
You
may not make it, Sergeant. I will. Can your men keep up with me?”

The sergeant bristled at the idea that his men could not keep pace with an officer. “They can.”

But he signaled his comrade to lower his weapon, and Rory knew he had won. Two men were one hell of a lot better than ten. And he
did
need fresh horses.

A half hour later, four riders emerged from the end of the gorge. Rory knew he had to act. Inverness was in the opposite direction of where he intended to go. When they got out of earshot of the sergeant and his patrol, he drew to a stop. “Our horses need a bit of a rest.”

The two English troopers nodded. Rory’s horses were lathered, their breathing heavy, and now Rory had an advantage. The sergeant had not been so easy to intimidate. These two troopers, faced with orders from one of Cumberland’s officers, would be.

He dismounted, took out a flask from a bag hanging from his saddle and took a long swallow. Then he held it out in invitation. “It is a raw night.”

The two troopers dismounted, and Rory winked at Bethia, who was still mounted. He tied the reins of her horse to a tree, then walked around to where the troopers would have her at their back.

One of the troopers reached for the flask and took a quick drink, his obvious disbelief at such largess from an officer fading in the glow of good brandy. The second man accepted the flask, greedily taking several swallows.

Reluctantly he returned the flask, and started to turn. Then they saw the lad holding a pistol on them.

One started for his musket in a sling across his back, but Rory moved faster. He slipped out his own pistol.

Then he bowed. “The Black Knave thanks you for your escort,” he said.

Their mouths fell open. Closed. Then open again. Like fish trying to grab air. He turned to Bethia. “Come here, lad,” he said.

Bethia slipped from the horse, keeping the pistol in hand. The two soldiers turned their gaze from him to the lad, then back to Rory, whom they obviously considered the most dangerous.

Rory waited until Bethia reached his side, then he put his pistol in its holster. “Shoot if either of them moves,” he ordered loud enough for them to hear. He then went to his horse, unsaddled it and cut the blanket into strips with a dirk he’d worn inside his breeches. He tied both men’s arms behind them.

“Come with me,” he said, starting up a wooded hill. The two English soldiers struggled up the hill, slipping and sliding. Bethia followed several feet behind, the pistol still in his hand. When they reached a level, secluded place, Rory backed them each to a separate tree, and told them to sit. He tied each to the tree, then tied their ankles together. Finally he gagged both of them. “I will send word to where you can be found,” he said.

Both men muffled protests, their eyes nearly frantic with fear.

Rory regarded them with contempt. “Unlike the English,” he said, “I do not take life for the pleasure of it.” He flipped a card next to them, then he took Bethia’s hand, and together they went back down the hill.

Rory took the saddle from Bethia’s mount, then the bits and bridles from the horses they’d been riding. He slapped the two weary horses, sending them off the path. Then he and Bethia mounted the soldiers’ horses and trotted east. Toward the coast.

*Chapter 27*

Alister paced the main room of the small stone farmhouse not far from the coast. Rory and Bethia should have arrived by now.

The Frenchman would arrive in less than two hours. The rendezvous spot was a thirty-minute ride from here. Mary and ten Jacobites, all members of families marked for extinction by Cumberland, were already waiting near the beach. Alister had insisted that Mary go ahead. She would, he knew, reassure the others with her calm confidence.

Dougal remained with him. He had flatly refused to leave without his sister. They were a stubborn family, Bethia and her brother.

He went out the door and looked out, listening intently for the sound of hoof beats.

The farmer and his wife were gone as well, visiting her sister who was having a child. Rory had suggested their absence, just in case anyone might see something suspicious. If caught, Rory would say he had come upon an empty house and used it.

So they had no fire and no light. Through the long evening and longer night, Alister had told the boy a little about Rory, and some of the families he had helped escape, including the first small group of two women and three children who had started it all.

Dougal came to the door and stood next to him, Black Jack tagging at his heels. The small black terrier, obviously confused by the absence of his mistress, followed the lad wherever he went.

Alister looked out at the clear sky. A part moon hung in the sky and stars dripped into the horizon. He swore softly. “We could use a bit of fog tonight, too. It is too clear.”

Dougal looked up the sky. “Still, I do not miss the rain.”

“Nor I, lad.” It had been a long, miserable ride the day before, but they’d had the whole of today to rest. Jacobites had been straggling into the farm for three days and had been told to wait up in the hills. This morning Alister brought them down.

Later in the day, a fisherman had brought a gift from the owner of the Flying Lady. He arrived with a wagon full of hay. Under the hay was a dead body. “The Knave ordered one,” he said.

Alister had looked under the hay gingerly. The man was naked. He had been tall and had dark hair. Little else was obvious, for his face had been bashed in.

“We were told not to make it happen,” the man said, “but this mon is a traitor. He be the one who informed on us. I caught him doing it again, asking questions about me and my brother. A spy for Cumberland.” He spit on the ground. “It was us or him.”

Alister knew Rory would not like it, that he would feel responsible for the man’s death. His friend had no taste for killing. Alister had no such qualms, so he merely nodded, then unloaded the body and watched as the wagon turned away down toward the road. He found a blanket, wrapped the body in it. It was already foul-smelling and stiff, and he knew he would have difficulty putting it on a horse, but it would have to be done. He knew exactly what Rory had planned.

But none of that would matter if Rory did not arrive.

God’s breath, but where was he?

“Do you think the English have taken them?” The lad’s voice quavered with uncertainty at finding his sister, then losing her again.

“Nay, Rory can outwit any of them. Something must have delayed him.” He looked at the boy, trying to prepare him for any possibility. “I donna know how long we can wait.”

“I will not go without Bethia.”

“And how do you think that will make her feel?” Alister countered, his voice harsher than he intended. “She has struggled to see you free and continue the MacDonell name.”

Dougal shook his head stubbornly. “She and the Black Knave risked their lives for me. How can I run away now?”

Alister took out a pocket watch and looked at it. “We have to go,” he said, ignoring the boy’s protest. “I will try to convince the French captain to wait for them.”

“I will stay here and wait,” the lad said stubbornly.

“Dougal,” Alister said with as much patience as he could muster. “It is very late. Rory will take your sister directly to the rendezvous point. You do not want him to have to come back for you and miss the ship.”

‘Twas the one argument that would sway Dougal, and it did. Indecision spread over his face.

“I will go with you,” the lad finally conceded. “But I willna sail without her.”

That, Alister thought, would be another battle.

Alister thought to leave a note and hunted for a quill and pen and paper in the event Rory did come here first. There was none. Damnation. Nothing was going as it should this night. He would also have to take the body with them. He could not leave it where an English patrol might find it and blame the residents of the farm. He took one last look at his watch, then went out to saddle the horses. The lad could ride with him; the body would have to ride on the other horse.

Where
were
Rory and Bethia?

Rory looked up at the sky. The part moon was riding high. He knew he was late. They’d had to detour twice because of heavy English patrols. He also took a precious few moments to stop a farm lad and tell him to inform the nearest magistrate about the location of the bound English soldiers. He gave the lad a half pence and made him swear he would deliver the message.

It had been the best he could do.

Then they had ridden as if all the demons in hell were after them. They were hours late. The urgency kept gnawing at him. He had been careless back where they’d rested. They had lingered far too long. Because of his own weakness, he had been unforgivably careless. Not because of what she had done, but because of the way she affected him. If only he had not given in to her warmth last night, to the comfort of her arms. His lack of self-control was abominable because of one very real possibility: he might have cost Bethia her life.

Guilt ate at him. Except for brief pauses to rest the horses, he kept them moving. Mayhap they could make the coast in time. But he knew he was driving her to the very limit of her strength. He could not even stop long enough to hold her, to reassure her. He was so angry at himself, he was not sure he could do that anyway.

He could only hope that the Frenchman would wait, because if he did not, Bethia would be in terrible danger. He had also added another danger when he’d given the lad a message. It most likely would send English troops chasing after them.

And he knew Cumberland would not rest until he had the MacDonells back.

*

Alister saw several flashes of light from the sea, and returned the signal with a lantern he had brought from the farmhouse. He watched silently as a long boat approached the shore. The sleek French ship, its sails gray to blend into night, was barely visible as a few clouds began to build again in the sky. Thank God for the predictably bad Scottish weather.

Perhaps the Frenchman would agree to wait another hour or two.

He only prayed that Cumberland would not have time to alert the navy to increase its patrols along the coast.

The long boat reached the shore, and three of the six sailors manning oars jumped into the water to pull the boat closer. One of them approached two of the waiting men, one of whom pointed to Alister. Alister went down to meet him while the sailors loaded the waiting refugees. Dougal stuck stubbornly to Alister’s side.

“We have two more coming,” Alister said.

“Won.
Venez vite
,” the mate said.

“Tell the captain it is the Knave and a woman,” Alister said. “There will be more money for him if he waits.” Alister did not know if there would or would not be. He had no idea how much Rory had with him. But hell, what was a lie here and there? He’d learned well from the Marquis of Braemoor.

The Frenchman looked dubious. “
Venez vite
,” the Frenchman insisted again.

“Ask him,” Alister demanded.

“
Faut partir
, must go,” the mate insisted in French, then in English.

Dougal was already moving away from Alister. “We will both wait,” Alister said, “and hope the captain agrees to stay. If no’, we will take our chances.”

The sailor shrugged indifferently. “I tell him, monsieur. One light,
non
. Two,
oui.”

Mary stood in the long boat as if she planned to get out. Alister picked up the little black terrier and went over to her, giving her the dog. “Take care of him for the marchioness.”

“I will stay too,” she protested.

“Nay,” Alister said. “Please go. I canna be worrying about you, too. If he is not here in the next hour, we will come aboard.” Another lie. He and Rory had started this together. They would finish it together. But he had to know Mary was safe. He took a bag of sovereigns from his pocket. ‘Twas everything he had saved. “Keep it safe for both us.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you,” he said.

Emotions flickered across her face. Defiance. Uncertainty.

“For me,” he said softly. “If you never do anything else, do this.”

A tear snaked down her cheek. He had never seen her cry before, and his finger brushed it away.

“For our future,” he said. He touched her cheek with his palm. “I will rejoin you. I swear,” he said softly.

Then he stepped back and signaled the sailors to push the boat back in the surf. He watched as it slowly grew smaller.

He walked over to Dougal. He had been tempted to throw the boy in, but he knew the lad would probably jump overboard. They would wait together.

Several moments later as they watched intently, he saw two flashes of light. The Frenchman would wait, at least awhile.

Silently, the two of them leaned against a dune and prayed.

Bethia thought she never wanted to see a horse again when they approached the coast in the deepest of night nearly twenty-four hours after encountering the English patrol.