The Black Knave Page 6

  His mother started laughing.

  Rory closed his eyes for a moment at the bottom of the steps. He’d learned later what his father meant. And why his mother had laughed …

  Rory became aware that the MacDonell lass—his wife—had stilled next to him. He swallowed all the doubts he felt and started up the stairs, aware of the smell of flowers that drifted about her, the softness of her skin. He was also aware of her fear. It was defiance, but it was also fear, and he hated himself for making her afraid.

  Rory heard shouts from below. The great hall was filling rapidly, and obviously many of the guests had already sampled the kegs of wine, brandy and bowls of mead prepared for them. In an hour, they, would be exchanging bawdy predictions. He hated to subject the lady to that, but there was no help for it. The guests—and his own clansmen—would be having their fun. He could only try to reassure her privately. But not enough to suspend that hostile look in her eyes. He needed the cloak of her hatred.

  ’Twas a fine line he would be walking.

  They reached the top of the stone steps and walked down the hall to her chamber. She turned and he knew she did not want him to enter. In truth, she stood bristling like one of the dogs downstairs.

  He opened the door and waited while she walked inside. He saw her stiffen as he closed it.

  She stood silently. His wife. Proud and rebellious and angry. Very angry.

  “You swore you would not force yourself upon me,” she said softly.

  “A husband does not force himself,” he corrected her. “’Tis the wife’s duty to service him.” He allowed the words to penetrate for a moment, then he continued in a cool voice, “Simply because I choose not to assume that right does not negate it. If you have heard any gossip, you must know that I frequent a cottage not far from here. The lady has far more … endowments than you, and a jealous heart. I do not fancy having a knife plunged into my own.” He curled his lips in a half smile he hoped indicated fond remembrance. “As I said, I have no interest in your bedchamber, but Cumberland must not know that.”

  “Why? All he cares about is the nuptials.” She obviously could not resist the question. It came reluctantly from her tongue. “That I am chained to you, a—Protestant.”

  He looked at her curiously. He knew that not all Jacobites were Catholic, though many were, especially the fierce northern clans. “You are Catholic?”

  “Aye,” she said proudly.

  “You said nothing before the marriage.”

  She stood silent.

  “Do you consider it a valid marriage?”

  She said nothing again.

  “It will not work, my lady. We are wed in accordance to the law of Scotland, and the king’s law, whether or not either of us wants it.”

  Her face flushed.

  “Cumberland and the king want this marriage. They will want proof that it is valid. That means blood, my lady.”

  “Then why do you not give them what they want?” It was a direct challenge, a probing of his sincerity.

  He frowned, trying to find a way to quiet her fears while revealing little. He was saying much more than he wanted to say, giving away more than he should.

  He gave her the vacuous grin he’d perfected. “As I said, you do not suit my taste, madam. You are much too thin and your disposition too sour. So you may rest easy. Although I will join you this evening, I plan to spend my time playing cards.”

  “Cards?”

  “Aye, madam wife. I play very well, particularly with myself.” Rory knew he was good at playing the fool. “And I like Cumberland no more than you. It … pleases me to outfox him.”

  Her gaze bored into him, and he wondered whether she saw more than the fool he hoped she saw.

  “What do you want in return?”

  “I told you. I want my complete freedom. As well as the lands you bring with you.”

  “I pay for your freedom with my imprisonment.”

  “It is a silken imprisonment, and one many would not find difficult.”

  “I despise you. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “No, madam, it does not. I do not require your approval, only your obedience. I believe you swore to give it to me in the ceremony today.”

  “You are a traitor to Scotland!”

  “Ah, but that is what the king calls you. And I believe our side has won. History tells us the victor is always right. And so you will do as you are told. You will attend the banquet tonight. You will be an obedient, if reluctant, wife. You will accept the toasts. You will accompany me up here tonight without discussion of previous conversations. And I will stay here, at least for several hours. Do you understand this?”

  He spoke to her as if she were a child, and he saw the fury bank in her blue eyes. Her fingers clenched into fists at her side, and he knew how much she wanted to strike him.

  “Will you at least consider trying to bring my brother here?” The words sounded forced from her throat.

  Rory knew how difficult they were, how she must hate asking him for a favor, particularly after he had denied it once. He had to hold back his own desire to grant it, to tell her not to worry, that he would rescue her brother. But he knew the castle where the lad was held. He also knew from Cumberland’s own mouth that he would not release the boy until the lass was safely with child. That was something he could not tell her. God only knew what she would do, or say, then.

  “I cannot, madam.”

  “Will not,” she corrected.

  He turned. “I will come and fetch you in another hour. You will have time to change your dress. I rather like the blue one. And no MacDonell plaids, my lady.” He turned and left the room.

  Her husband had evidently told Trilby to attend her, for Bethia had no more than sat on the bed when the girl appeared.

  “My lady,” the girl said softly. “’Twas a fine wedding,” she added, apparently at a loss of anything else to say.

  Bethia ignored the comment. “Have you heard of the man they call the Black Knave?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady. He and the price on his ’ead is all the soldiers talk about.”

  “What else have you heard? Is he thought to be around here?”

  Trilby shrugged. “They say he is everywhere.”

  “Has anyone actually seen him?”

  The maid shook her head. “Not as I heard. But they say …”

  “Say what, Trilby?”

  “That he rides a black horse. That he is very tall, and that he always wears a mask. But then I also heard …”

  Bethia was growing impatient. Apparently Trilby wasn’t quite sure what might get her into trouble. Should she be listening to so much gossip? Should she be showing some of the awe evident in her voice?

  “That he is elderly. Or a gypsy. Some say he is the devil and can change form.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “That is what the soldiers say. That is why they canna catch him.”

  “I do not think the devil goes around rescuing people from those who want to hang them. Or worse,” Bethia added.

  Trilby shuddered. “I wouldna want to meet him.”

  Bethia sighed. She would get no useful information from the maid. But she decided then and there to end her isolation in this chamber and talk to others in the household. Mayhap someone knew more about this … Black Knave. And how to reach him.

  “Come Trilby. Help me select a dress,” she said, going to the huge dresser where her new gowns, all quickly sewn on demand by the marquis, lay in their obscene splendor. “Any but the blue one.”

  Rory played the amorous husband at the banquet. He played it well enough to see the alarm in her eyes.

  He draped an arm around her, leered at her, even patted her backside as she sat down, all to the guffaws of the drunken guests. Only Cumberland seemed to remain sober, his cold gaze often resting on the new marchioness. Rory felt a chill go up his back. Cumberland’s interest was more than a little odd. Did he suspect Rory of disloyalty? Or was the interest centere
d on the MacDonell lass?

  He ate lightly of the endless courses necessary to entertain a duke: partridges stewed with celery in oyster sauce, pigeon pie, goose, salmon and numerous cheeses, eggs in their shell, and vegetable puddings. None of it, he noticed, was prepared very well. The fowl was raw, the vegetables too well done. His wife, he noted, ate even less, barely touching any of her food.

  He joined in toast after toast—to fathering numerous children, to the night ahead, to King George. Bethia’s face, he noticed, grew pale, her slender body more rigid. He wished he could reassure her even as he silently applauded her self-control. Though he thought he gave the appearance of drinking as much as the others, he really drank very little. He needed to keep his wits about him this evening. God’s blood, he needed to keep them about him as long as Cumberland overstayed his welcome.

  “Eat more, my lord,” one of the Forbeses yelled from far down the table. “Ye will be needin’ all your brawn t’night.”

  Rory heard the swift intake of his bride’s breath, but there was nothing he could do but appear to be leering while a number of ribald comments followed the drunken observation.

  “If ye need any help, milord …”

  “Aye,” came another voice. “Ye can count on me.”

  Other suggestions followed, some of them contemptuous of his own ability to perform. Rory looked toward Neil, who was silent. His cousin’s dark eyes, however, watched him as closely as Cumberland’s.

  “I believe I can service my wife quite adequately,” Rory said in a bored tone, taking a long drought from his tankard. She started to whisper something, but the sound was lost in the shouts. Instead, he felt a painful kick against his leg. He merely grinned at her and called for more wine, slinging his tankard so much of its contents spilled on the floor.

  He allowed another few moments of false good wishes, then pushed back his chair. He staggered as he stood, then offered his wife his hand. She sat silently, not taking it. He leaned over, whispering in her ear. “Do as I say, madam.” Then he planted a kiss on that same ear to the approving roar of his clansmen.

  When he offered his hand again, she took it and stood stiffly. She was rigid with fear and, he thought, humiliation. She had been the brunt of jokes all evening, and even the few women present had eyed her with hostility. There had been no sympathetic face in the hall this night.

  He was used to disapproval, to scowls, to taunts, and he’d long since ceased to let them bother him. But he sensed she was from a far gentler background.

  “Come,” he said, as he feigned drunkenness, nearly falling as they reached the door, then clumsily climbing the steps. Some very descriptive comments followed them all the way.

  He stopped at her door, swinging it open.

  She stood in the room, her blue eyes wide with apprehension.

  “You will have to learn to believe me,” he said curtly, then went to the one table in the room. Trilby had done as ordered. A bottle of fine French brandy had been opened, and two silver goblets stood next to it.

  Rory poured two glasses and offered one to her. “’Tis far better than what was served downstairs,” he said. “It will serve to relax you.”

  “Your departure will relax me.”

  “I think I explained that to you earlier,” he said in a tone he would use with a child. A simple one.

  He saw the fury blaze in her eyes again, then they narrowed. “You are not as drunk as you seem.”

  “An apt observation, madam. I far prefer this brandy, and I was not going to share it with Cumberland. Are you sure you will not join me?”

  “No.” Suspicion darkened her eyes.

  “Then I will help you undress.”

  She backed away.

  “I think it might be considered strange if we stay in these clothes all night.”

  “No one will …”

  “Are you sure of that, madam? I am not.”

  He saw the suspicion deepening. “If indeed I wanted your body, my dear wife, I would not hesitate to take it. There is no one to stop me. In fact, I believe a scream or two might enhance my image.”

  “I … I want Trilby.”

  “I told her she could join the other clansmen and guests tonight. Surely, you would not want to deprive her of that.”

  “N … no.”

  Without additional words, he went to the large dresser and looked inside, pulling out a fine linen nightdress she’d received yesterday with the new dresses. He laid it on the bed, then went over to her. “Turn around, my dear.”

  Her mouth tightened, but she did so. She was learning. Reluctantly, but learning. He quickly undid the hooks and watched as the dress fell down over her shift. Her shoulders were smooth, creamy, and he suddenly ached to touch them, to run his fingers through her dark hair. She was … quite pretty, prettier than he’d first thought.

  God’s blood. He certainly couldn’t afford such thoughts now. He turned back to the table, eying the two chairs, one on either side. He took the goblet he’d filled with brandy and took first one sip, then another. At least his father had had excellent taste in spirits, he thought bitterly. He tried not to hear her movements—the dull thud of slippers falling to the floor, the rustle of clothes.

  He took another sip. He had not expected to be aroused by her. He had not anticipated the rush of hot blood when his finger had accidently brushed her skin, when her strands of dark hair grazed the back of his hand.

  Rory turned. She was in the bed, the feather coverlet covering her far better than the fine material of the gown. He took off his own waistcoat, placing it neatly on one of the chairs. He then untied the stock and loosened the top of his linen shirt.

  Next came his slippers, which he despised. He far preferred the soft leather boots he wore when riding. He looked back at his bride. The flickering light from the lamps cast shadows on the dark hair, made her face less stark. She was watching every move, though, much like a rabbit must watch a snake.

  He sat in the empty chair that faced the door. By turning his head slightly, he could see his new wife. Keeping his eyes carefully from her, he dug around in his clothes for a deck of cards. He took it out, shuffled them neatly and started a game of solitaire. After several moments, he said, without looking at her, “Are you sure you would not care for the brandy? ’Tis very fine.”

  “Aye,” she said suddenly, surprising him.

  He raised an eyebrow, then picked up the second goblet and took it to the bed, watching as she sat up, still clutching the coverlet to her bosom. But something else was in her eyes now, something besides fear and dislike.

  Curiosity?

  God’s toothache. The last thing he wanted from her was curiosity.

  “You meant it?” she said with incredulity. “You will keep your bargain?”

  “Aye,” he said. “After tonight, you will see little of me except for brief appearances to assure the clan I am doing my duty in producing an heir.”

  “And when none comes?”

  “’Tis God’s will,” he said lightly.

  She wanted to believe him. He could see it in her eyes. He could also see a certain calculation there.

  “You will not try to run away, my dear,” he said, his voice becoming silky again. “My reputation will not bear that.”

  “Your reputation?”

  “Such as it is,” he admitted. “You will probably discover that my mother tried to escape once, and ended up imprisoned in one of the rooms upstairs. There is, in fact, some question rumored about my true lineage, but since my dear father would not admit to being cuckolded, I ended up with everything.” His voice turned harsh. “I do not intend history to repeat itself or have old rumors revived. My cousin is waiting for just such an opportunity.”

  Comprehension spread over her face. “Is that why …?”

  “I agreed to this … marriage when I want another? Aye. My position is none too solid, and I do enjoy the fruits of my father’s inheritance. I do not care much for the idea of actually laboring for my b
read and drink.”

  She was silent. He prayed his tone had convinced her he was no more than a wastrel living off an inheritance.

  “You said you were at Culloden Moor?” The question was little more than a whisper.

  “Aye.”

  “Did you kill any MacDonells?”

  “In truth, I did as little fighting as possible. I care naught for it. I far prefer my pleasures.”

  He saw a flash of contempt in her eyes. Thank God for that.

  He turned back to his game. And silence.

  Bethia had never been so aware of a man, but then she had never been undressed in a bedchamber with one, either.

  She still expected him to leap on her at any second. ’Twas why she had tried to make conversation. She needed to know more about him. She had to know what to expect.

  But she had learned little. He was a contradiction. Most of the time, he acted the fop, the pleasure seeker, the drunkard. But if he was all that, would he be faithful to a woman he could not, for some reason, wed?

  Or was she really all that distasteful?

  And then, despite his threats, there had been that effort to quell her fears and uncertainty. Did a complete rogue do that?

  He still wore that ridiculous wig, yet without the bright frock and waistcoat, he did not look so much the dandy. His white shirt, without the stock, revealed a strong, lean body, not one that she would imagine belonged to a man who frittered his life in gambling hells and taverns. He also reflected a rare confidence that surprised her, she noticed as he shuffled cards with an expertise she’d never seen before. It wasn’t quite arrogance, though he often retreated into that particularly unpleasant state.

  She turned her head. She did not need to be thinking such thoughts. She needed to pretend a sleep she knew she could never achieve. Loneliness coursed through her, nearly drowning every other emotion. How was Dougal? He must feel every bit as alone as she. Except this was now her home, the guests downstairs her guests. And she despised each and every one of them.

  Dougal was a prisoner, but one no less than she.

  She lay still, hoping she would not draw attention. The more he drank, the more chance he might change his mind. She had seen the results of drunken soldiers, drunken men, happening on innocents. And she was no innocent to him. She was his wife. She shivered with the realization.