The Heart Queen (19 page)

But then the flask was taken away, replaced by a piece of wood. Obediently, he bit down on it when told. His world exploded with agony and a mist of red blinded him. Then he sank into darkness.

Braemoor was gone. Janet wondered whether he would ever return. He had not even said so much as a good-bye. Or mayhap he had said it early this morning outside the manor. He’d said too much with his actions. And yet not nearly enough.

A conundrum.

How could she distrust someone, and yet want him so much?

Lucy had reported that he had met with Reginald early in the morning. Her maid had heard Reggie’s loud voice but had not understood the words. She had not heard Braemoor’s voice which meant
he
had not shouted. But then he never did. Was it simply because he did not care enough?

He certainly had not cared enough to linger this morning.

She knew she should take what he had offered and make the most of it while she could. He had given her freedom, credit to make some changes at Lochaene. He had given her everything she had asked for. Just not everything she had longed for.

Janet scolded herself for being so greedy. She had so much more than she’d had a month ago. Most of all, she had her children.

But now the losses seemed added one upon the other. Her father. Her brother Alexander. Friends. So many of them gone. Some dead at Culloden. Others put to the horn. Hunted by the English and their own countrymen.

The absence of one traitorous Scotsman should mean nothing to her.

She had risen later than she’d thought. After she had left Braemoor late last eve, she’d nursed her son and thus Colin had not woken at daybreak, as was his custom. When he did wake her with hungry demands, she went to the window and looked out. It was long past daybreak.

Janet ate breakfast with the lasses, answering their questions as well she could. Where had the gentleman gone? When would he be back? Oddly enough, they seemed disappointed that he had left without telling them good-bye.

Then she went out to see Tim, and was pleased when she saw Kevin there also. He acknowledged her by doffing his hat. “Tim here said ye asked fer me,” he said.

“Indeed I did,” she replied. “And I am happy to see you back. No one can discharge you now except me. Remember that.”

“I saw MacKnight yesterday in the village,” Kevin said. “He was in his cups. Said he would get even. Blamed yer ladyship fer being discharged.”

“It doesna matter. Can you and Tim handle the stables?”

“Aye, my lady. Now tha‘ they ’ave their oats, the beasts are happy. Tim is deliverin‘ the seed. ’Tis a foine thing ye are doing.”

“It is no more than their due.”

The boy looked startled at the comment but said nothing more.

“Does Lucy know you are back?”

Kevin blinked rapidly, then grinned. “Aye. I saw her this morn.”

“I expect your intentions to be honorable,” she said.

“Oh, aye, my lady. Now tha‘ I have a position again I intend to ask fer her hand.”

“You will have my blessing,” she said. “The marquis, when did he leave?”

“Early this morn. ‘E left this fer ye.” Kevin handed her a letter sealed by the Braemoor crest.

She nodded.

“Would ye want me to be saddling a horse for ye, my lady?” he asked. “Or the phaeton?”

“Nay,” she said, clutching the letter in tense fingers. “Not now.”

She took the letter and hurried back to her room. She wanted to read it in private. What if he was denying all that he had offered?

Lucy was rocking Colin.

“The lasses?”

“Clara is with them,” Lucy said.

“They need a governess.” ‘Twas a thought—nay, a strong belief—she’d expressed to her husband. He had decried it. “Lasses need no education,” he’d told her.

But now ... now she had choices. She hoped. She opened the letter and read it slowly.

I will establish credit for you in the village. When the first crop comes in, you can repay the loan at no interest. I have made the situation plain to your brother-in-law. He understands that you have the final word at Lochaene. If you have need of me, you need only to send a messenger.

Braemoor

His title was scrawled at the bottom of the page. Not Neil. Nothing personal. Only a cool letter of agreement. She wanted to crush it in her fist, but instead she looked over the room to find a secure place for it. A loose stone on one side of the room would do. She worked it loose, then put the letter inside in case she needed it.

Lochaene was hers. She was free for the first time in her life.

Then why did she feel so empty?

*

Pain radiated through Neil. He wanted to retreat back into sleep but that too was haunted. He saw the Culloden battlefield, heard the cries of the stricken, the moans of the dying, the sound of sword against armor and the even worse sound of it piercing flesh.

His sword.

Then a voice.
A woman said he would have money
. How many people had known he would be leaving this morning in time to alert someone? There were three women at Lochaene, but none but Janet knew when he planned to leave.

The very thought caused more pain than his wound.

“Braemoor.” He heard his name called. Again and again. He tried to ignore it, to slip into the oblivion that blotted out the wrong roads he had taken.

The voice continued to nag at him. Challenging him. Why? Why did a bandit care whether or not he lived or died?

For that matter, why did he care himself?

But then another internal voice goaded him.
You’ve made promises at Braemoor
.

His mouth was dry, so dry he could barely make a croaking sound. His eyelids were heavy, and it required an amazing effort to try to open them. His leg burned as if all the pitchforks in hell had been thrust inside him, and his head felt little better. He was hot all over despite the chill in the air.

A wet cloth bathed his face. It was a gentler hand than he’d felt before.

He tried to focus. On one side was a young lass of no more than thirteen years. On the other was the man who had cut the ball from his leg.

“Ah, you are finally awake, Braemoor?”

The eyes in the scarred face were cool, almost indifferent. Neil wondered why he was still among the living.

He moved, barely stifling a groan. He sensed he could not show weakness to this man who had ambushed him and had obviously intended him to die. What had stopped him?

Neil tried to move. The pain intensified, stabbing at him. “Why?” he managed to ask.

“Why did you have those cards?”

The cards. For some reason, those cards had saved his life. Those cards and his name. He had thrown away the other cards in a moment of fancy. Fate?

“Someone must want you dead, my lord, since we were told a wealthy gentleman would be traveling through these parts,” the man said in a mocking voice.

“And why ... am I not?”

“You answer my questions first. Why did you have those cards?”

“I like them,” Neil said.

“Not a good enough answer.”

“Where am I?”

“A cave far away from any British soldiers. Or turncoat Scottish ones. Do not expect any help.”

“I never ... have,” Neil said.

“You fought with Cumberland?”

“Aye,” Neil said, knowing that one word might be his death sentence. This man was unquestionably a fugitive Jacobite. And a bandit.

“Wise answer, my lord. If you had said otherwise, you would be dead.”

“I still do not understand why I am not.”

“Do not hold too much hope, my lord. It is still likely to happen.”

Neil could not think of anything to be said after that dire prediction.

“I have heard the name of Braemoor whispered,” the bandit said. “And I know what the jack of spades means to some.”

Neil tried to move again. God, but he was thirsty. “Water?”

The man nodded to the girl who quickly got to her feet and disappeared from his view. Seconds later she appeared with a cup. The bandit took it from her, and put his arm under Neil’s head, lifting it slightly. But the cup came no nearer Neil’s lips.

“You have not answered my questions yet,” his captor taunted him.

Neil closed his eyes. The man obviously thought he had some connection with the Black Knave. That much was obvious. He was not going to take credit for Rory’s acts. He’d dishonored himself enough.

“Where were you coming from?” the bandit said.

Neil puzzled over the question. “Lochaene,” he said. “Near Inverness. Did not your informant tell you that?” he said bitterly.

“What informant?”

“I heard you say . .. the woman had said I was carrying money.”

The man swore under his breath. “I did not know the message came from Lochaene. One of my ... compatriots told me he obtained information from a high-bred royalist.”

“Compatriot? Or fellow thief?”

“Oh, he is a thief, all right. He just does not have the courage to do the work himself. He gets others to do it for him. I pay a small fee for information.”

“So you can ambush and kill Scotsmen?”

“So I can ambush and kill traitors,” the man corrected him.

“Murder is murder.” Neil knew he was goading the man, but he could not help it. The reference to a woman still bothered him. So did the man’s indifference to life.

But then he’d been rather indifferent to life himself for a number of years. All he had wanted was the marquis’s approval. Now he felt he was looking himself in the face, and he did not like it. He just did not know why he was not dead.

But the man merely shrugged. “Were you at Culloden?”

“Aye.”

“Then you, too, are a murderer.”

“Then why did you dig a musket ball out of me?”

“You haven not yet answered my question. Why the cards‘?”

“Many people have cards.”

“Not just the black jack ... the knave. You could be arrested on that fact alone.”

“I also had the queen,” Neil said.

“Do you really wish to die?”

“Nay, but I am not the Black Knave. He is dead.”

“And how do you know this?”

“He has not been seen in months.”

“I have need of him,” the bandit said unexpectedly.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Neil said. “I know nothing about him.”

Surprisingly, the man gave him a sip of water, and another. Neil swallowed greedily. “My thanks.”

The man merely nodded, stood and walked away with an unsteady gait.

The young girl moved back to his side and washed his face.

“What... is his name?” he asked.

She shrugged. “We call him Will, but no one knows his true name.”

“We?”

“There are ten of us. Will takes care of us.”

“More water.” Dear God, but he was thirsty. And hot.

He closed his eyes.
Braemoor
. What if he never had the chance to do what he wanted with Braemoor? He had no heirs. If he were to die, the lands would fall to the crown, and probably be given or sold to an Englishman who would most certainly clear the land. Everything he had planned, had wanted to build, would fade away and it would be as if he never existed.

And Janet? What would happen to her?

The young lass returned with water. He sipped it, but he felt as if he were burning up inside. He could never have enough and too soon the cup was empty. He closed his eyes.

He would bargain with God. He needed a few more months. A year.

Or would he be making a bargain with devil?

Will did not know what had stayed his hand.

He had made killing his life’s work. He had come as close to death as one could at Culloden, where he’d suffered such grievous wounds that he was passed by Cumberland’s soldiers who were giving death blows to the Jacobite wounded. An old woman, looking for her son, had found a flutter of life in him, had enlisted some help and then hid him. He’d taken over a year to heal, and even now he bore a scar on his cheek and he would never be able to walk naturally again. His leg had never healed properly. Even worse were the memories of the battle, of a British lance going through his best friend, of the slaughter of others.

He hated the English with every drop of blood in his body. He hated their Scot allies even more.

The man Will once was, the lord he’d been, was believed dead. He knew that. His family was gone. His face was so scarred that he could never escape notice. His crippled leg was another constant reminder of months of pain and of the man he once had been. Bitterness and hatred had crowded out every other emotion.

So he had supported himself, and other refugees, by killing every traitorous Scot and bloody Englishman he could find and relieving them of whatever goods they carried to help the desperate young stragglers he’d found in the Highlands.

He’d hope to see them to safety, but he was too visible with his scars. But he, too, had heard of the Black Knave and had hoped to convince him, by force if necessary, to take his small and pitiable band to safety. He did not know who else to trust, and he did not have the financial resources to buy loyalty.

His prey was the lone wealthy traveler who disappeared into thin air. ‘Twas a cowardly way to live, but he had so
little regard for his victims he did not care. And, he told himself, he had no choice. He could not take prisoners, nor could he let his victims live and tell of his existence.

This man was the first he had spared. Only the card, the hope that this somberly dressed Scot might know something of the Black Knave, had saved him. Will prayed it was not a mistake.

He also wondered why the man had been at Lochaene. He knew the estate, knew about the Campbells who lived there. One of their people, in fact, had been among his informers who alerted him to possible victims. Rewards were small, but still coveted in a part of Scotland where people were dying of hunger. But he was cautious. One person told another who told another. In the latter case, Burke, who had been with him, had received the message from a man named Bain who in turn said he had been given information by a lady. The lady had understood the implications of the information, he’d said.

It must have come from Lochaene—but from which lady?