The Black Knave (13 page)

He’d made little of the wound in front of Mary and Alister. He hadn’t wanted them to worry. And it was odd how necessity blocked out pain, but now the pain was flooding him in wave after wave.

He had to make sure his wife never saw the wound. He hoped sincerely that she’d had little experience with them, but he knew that many women tended to their clan’s wounded.

Had he really glimpsed a momentary disappointment in her eyes, even a flash of anger, when he’d said another woman had cared for him?

If so, he had not been harsh enough, arrogant enough, repulsive enough.

And yet something inside him yearned to see the flash of concern in her eyes again. Or had that brief sympathy been there at all?

He muttered a curse to himself. He had gone too long without a woman’s soft touch, a touch meant for him alone. Mary’s doctoring had been as gentle as possible, but there was naught but friendship between them. It was unfortunate that Rory was attracted to his own wife, especially since the attraction could mean the death of them both.

He would have to tamp down that yearning.

Damn, but he was weary. It had been more than a day since last he slept, and the letting of blood had not helped.

His hand pulled off the damnably heavy wig and let it drop to the floor. He opened the jacket of his waistcoat. Just for a few moments. Just a few …

Bethia tried to curb her anger as she confronted the cook and asked for the bandages and herbs she thought any wounded man would need. She suffered the woman’s rude stare and hostile grunt as she waited for items she would not need because her … husband had received care elsewhere. Humiliation was being heaped upon humiliation. Still, she knew that any authority she hoped she would have was centered on the marquis. If the household felt he did not trust her, then she would never gain any respect. Without respect, she had no hope of escape.

Curse him!

She took the tray loaded with unneeded items and carried it back up to his room, knocking lightly before entering. Hearing no reply, she went in.

He looked asleep in the chair. He also looked different.

The powdered wig was on the floor, and for the first time she noticed he had dark hair, almost black, that curled slightly in thick sweat-damp clumps. Without the wig, the look of a dandy disappeared, and she noticed for the first time the handsome angular features of his face, the scar on his chin that somehow made him more … appealing. His mouth particularly looked vulnerable, the curve of his lips softer, less mocking.

His breathing was heavy. She touched his forehead and it was warm, warmer than it should be in the cold room. She finished unbuttoning his jacket and noticed that under the sleeve of his linen shirt, the bandage was a bright red.

He was still bleeding! She wondered for a moment how it was that he had seemed so unaffected minutes earlier when he was obviously far more seriously wounded than she had believed.

“My lord,” she said, unsure of what else to call him.

He did not answer.

She shook him slightly and called him again, her voice louder.

His lashes fluttered. How had she not noticed how thick they were?

“My lord,” she said for the third time.

His eyes slowly opened and they looked glazed.

“Let me help you get into bed. Then I will look at your wound again. You are still bleeding.”

He shook off her hand. “I can … manage myself.”

She stepped back and watched as he struggled to his feet, then took the several steps to his bed, almost falling into it.

She approached, and he looked at her with hostile eyes. “I need no help from you, madam,” he said, as if she were a particularly irritating mouse. “You would best please me by leaving.”

She was not wanted here. She was not wanted anywhere. She took a step toward the door, strangely reluctant to open it. He had given her permission to leave, had even ordered it, so why did she linger?

She tried to tell herself it was what she would do for anyone, friend or foe. She stooped and picked up the wig, placing it on the table. ‘Twas truly hideous and smelly. He would be rather presentable without it, and far more comfortable. But, then, she often did not understand the why and how of men’s ways.

Bethia looked back at her husband. His eyes, still glazed with either weakness or pain, followed her. “You are not obedient,” he said.

“I have been told that,” she replied, twisting her hands together.

“I will have to do something about that,” he said, closing his eyes. “But not now. Send for … Alister.”

Alister. The blacksmith. The man who had tried to reassure her. It was something she could do, since the marquis did not want so much as her hands to touch him.

Why? Was he that repelled by her? She knew she was no beauty, but…

Or mayhap he believed she would do him harm. His death would free her.

She turned and left the room, intent—without knowing why—on helping the man she despised, the man who obviously felt the same about her.

The field was the color of blood. Rivulets of red ran like streams over the rough ground, covering the few struggling flowers, flowing to stain the clear, cold stream. Groans of dying men echoed across the moor. The world was red. The world was pain.

“Rory.” He heard his name from some great distance. He did not want to heed it. He wanted the darkness again. He wanted …

“Rory!”

He tried to conquer the pain. God’s breath, but he was hot. He felt that he was burning up.

“Can you hear me?” Alister’s voice was pleading now.

He could not disappoint his friend. His friend. He willed himself to open his eyes, to force words from a mouth that felt like wool.

“Aye,” he said, hearing the raspy quality of it.

“Thank God.” Alister’s voice was the breath of prayer.

Rory felt a wet cloth across his face. Felt good. So good.

“I thought we might lose you.”

“How long … ?”

“Two days. I have been with you. Your new wife has tried to come several times but I told her that you had ordered that you be tended only by me, that you did not trust a Jacobite wife. I did not want her to hear your ravings.”

He tried to understand. Why did she even try? He remembered several hours ago… days ago … she had hovered next to him. Now that she had been locked from her husband’s own sickbed, she would have a more difficult time than ever at Braemoor.

“You should have stayed with Mary at the cottage,” Alister said chidingly. “You had a fever even then, and that combined with loss of blood and no sleep …”

“Aye, but I needed to brag about my heroic deed.”

“Aye, how you were bested by the Black Knave. Turned and ran, most say.”

Rory tried to grin. He suspected it was more a grimace. “My poor blemished reputation.”

“I know how you value it,” Alister said wryly.

“Ogilvy?”

“Safe for the time being. He should be at the old Douglas hunting lodge by now.”

“If he hasn’t done something stupid again.”

“After seeing the results of his impulsiveness, I think he will follow orders,” Alister said, looking toward Rory’s arm.

“And my tale. It is believed?”

“Aye. Neil has been seething quietly. He believes you are pretending a worse wound than you have. Mary and I have been encouraging that tale. You are mainly overwrought from such a death-defying experience.”

“I should have died for the honor of the Forbeses?”

“Aye, and for Neil’s advancement, I think,” Alister said.

“And my wife. What does she believe?”

Alister looked at him keenly. “Do you care?”

“The situation was already difficult for her.”

“I do not think she had very high expectations.”

Rory muttered to himself, words he did not want Alister to hear. His wife’s opinion did mean something. It should not, but it did.

“Mary was here twice,” Alister said, ignoring the murmured curse. “She was with you all night the eve before last.”

Rory closed his eyes and groaned. “My mistress.”

“Aye, your cousin was not enthralled with having her here. I had to remind him that you are the master here, and that was your wish.”

“And… the marchioness?”

“After the first visit, she retired to her room, apparently seething. Then she ordered the tower house cleaned from top to bottom.”

“And…” Rory knew there was something more.

“No one obeyed at first, but then she got down on her hands and knees and started cleaning, and finally a servant joined her, then another. By her own will, she shamed them. Her husband may not allow her in his sickroom, but she made it clear
this
was
her
home.”

Rory swallowed hard. He’d never wanted her to suffer for a marriage foisted upon her. That she had somehow triumphed in some small way did not make him feel better.

“She has courage and will,” Alister said. “And she was asking about the Black Knave, seeking any information I might have. I believe she thinks he might assist her. Perhaps we should … tell her?”

Rory shook his head. He had made sure no one knew the identity of the Black Knave other than Alister, Mary and Elizabeth. He trusted them completely, and he trusted their silence. No one else. Not the messengers, or the occasional men Alister recruited through second parties, ever knew the man they followed was the Marquis of Braemoor. He was a faceless phantom and that was how it must remain.

“No,” he said flatly. “I will not endanger her.” He paused, then to change the subject as much as to relieve his torment, he muttered, “You are a damned poor provider. I am dry as a bone.”

But the water Alister offered his parched throat nearly choked him as he thought of the lady down the passageway. Lumps filled his throat, lumps of guilt and regret. Still, he felt the stirrings of unwarranted pride in her, unwarranted because he’d certainly had nothing to do with her.

Still, in his mind’s eye. he could see her face down the sullen servants who had been without supervision for far too long. There had been no mistress in residence since his brother’s wife had died two years before, and Margaret had been none too immaculate herself. He doubted whether Braemoor had undergone a thorough cleaning in a decade. The floors were thick with dirt, the tapestries rotting from filth, the portraits dull with dust.

He moved slowly, then sat. For a moment, the room spun around, then it seemed to settle. His arm still hurt, but he knew Alister was right. He had gone without sleep too long, and that, and the loss of blood, had downed him. He would have to be more careful in the future.

Rory slowly rose to his feet. He swayed for a moment, caught the edge of the chair, then straightened. He took a few steps, then a few more, each time feeling strength flow into his body.

He turned to Alister. “Let us ruin Neil’s day and show him I still live.”

Bethia scrubbed a dirt-layered window, which had previously allowed little light to penetrate.

Two servants were scrubbing the great hall. It had been swept, probably for the first time in years, the prior day. She’d finally enlisted some assistance by remarking gently that mayhap she simply had not understood the customs of the Forbes clan. She’d failed to understand, she apologized, that Jacobites had higher standards and, thus, she most likely should adopt the slovenly ways of this household.

Since most of the Forbeses obviously considered Jacobites barbarians or worse, they were appalled at her comment and started to glance around at what they had not seen before. Neil gave tacit support to the effort, his gaze going to a floor slick with grease, the residue of thousands of bones being thrown to the dogs.

More important, the campaign gave her something to do and, for the first time, made her a part of the household. Her orders were now obeyed more often than not, although there were still ugly looks, and she heard their tittering when she approached. She suspected it concerned the visits of her husband’s paramour. Bethia told herself she did not care as long as those visits kept her husband away from
her
bed. And yet being locked out of her husband’s sickroom had been an insult, as had the resulting explanation: he did not trust a Jacobite Highlander to nurse him.

He
should
be suspicious. At the moment, she could cheerfully drown him in her pail of dirty water.

She scrubbed harder, then felt a small body bouncing off her leg. She dropped her cloth in the pail and leaned down to pick up Black Jack, who had just rolled over and was trying to regain his feet. The pup now tried to follow her wherever she went.

She plopped him in her lap. “Still unsteady on your feet, are you, laddie?”

He snuggled down in her lap. His mouth caught her small finger and sucked on it. ” ‘Tis greedy, you are,” she said. “You are no’ to be fed for another hour.”

She lifted him up and placed his small, warm, silky body against her cheek. His tiny, rough tongue reached out and licked her skin.

“A charming picture.”

She almost dropped the puppy, so startled was she at his voice.

Bethia slowly turned. The Marquis of Braemoor leaned against a wall, dressed, as usual, in gaily patterned trews and a scarlet waistcoat. Once more, he was wearing a wig, but this one was not as long, nor as elaborate as the others. Still, it subtly changed him. Days earlier, she’d seen another marquis: a vulnerable, wounded, attractive man charged with indefinable power. But now, as she looked at his arrogant pose, she realized that prior picture was merely a myth, something she wanted to see, not what she actually saw.

“You appear well, my lord,” she responded acidly, though it was not altogether true. He looked pale and drawn. “I had thought you must be close to death.”

He sniffed. “The other day was most upsetting. That… ruffian almost skewered me.”

“It seems he
did
skewer you.”

Her lord snorted. “Lucky blow. I dinna expect it. The man had no sense of honor.”

“What did he look like?” she asked, knowing well she never should have asked.

“A peasant. Nothing but a peasant. I canna believe he was that Knave fellow.”