The Black Knave (23 page)

“You have said that before. Do you live only to gain revenge on him?”

“Aye. ‘Tis as good a reason as any.”

As lightly as the words were said, they carried a bitterness and even an odd insincerity. Yet she knew she was going to get nothing else from him. She went to the door.

His hand caught her arm. “You are very bonny,” he said. “You do Braemoor proud.”

She did not care whether she did Braemoor proud or not. Yet it was the first compliment she had received from him, and she blushed. She also fell inordinately pleased. Far more pleased than she should. She reminded herself that, fool or not, he was still the enemy. He had fought with Cumberland against her brothers, against her betrothed, against her friends and her family’s friends.

His fingers seemed to burn through her, and though she wanted to brush away from the branding heat of his touch, she seemed unable to move. Her legs simply would not work.

He lowered his head, and she felt the soft sigh of his breath as his lips—no longer supercilious but tempting as they curved into a sensual smile—touched hers. The kiss was not violent as it had been before, but exploring. Even tender. Sensation washed through her and her body pressed against his, reacting to his hard body. Heat radiated between them. She felt it to the essence of her soul. It surged in the deepest, most private part of her. Her entire body felt like fluid fire.

His kiss deepened. No longer exploratory, his lips searched and demanded. And she felt herself respond, her lips mating with his as fervently as his with her.

Then suddenly he let go, and she heard him curse under his breath. Her stomach twisted into a knot. He did not want her, and God help her, she wanted him. An enemy, and
she
wanted
him
.

She backed away, tripping over little Black Jack.

He yelped, and she started to fail, her body twisting in an effort to protect herself. Her husband’s arms caught her, straightening her with easy strength. But the fall seemed to continue. She felt as if she were whirling down some hole to disaster. Her senses were swirling, and she felt both protected and threatened.

“Bethia.” It was the first time he had ever said her name, and it sounded strange on his lips. She’d always been “my lady” to him, or “madam” or some word designed to keep a distance. But now intimacy danced between them like flames.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice hoarser than usual. Or was that her imagination?

“Yes.” Her voice was lower than usual, even faltering.

His gaze held hers, and again she saw the depths he usually tried so successfully to hide. “I am your enemy,” he said reluctantly, as if feeling the need to remind her.

“Aye.”

“I love another.”

“Aye.”

He still did not leave, nor did he take his hand from her arm. “I ha’ not changed.”

“Nay.”

“Nor will I.”

He was reciting a list of reasons for both of them to leave, and yet neither made the slightest movement to do so. The room was even more heated. Smaller. Pushing them closer together.

“You are my wife.”

“Aye.”

He smiled then. “I did not know you were so agreeable.”

“Nor I.”

“Ah, lass, I am sorely tempted to take what should be mine.”

She said nothing. She already heard the rejection in the words. She bit her lower lip.
‘Tis just as well,
she tried to tell herself. He
was
indeed the enemy. To her. To Scotland.

“They will be waiting in the hall,” she said, trying to keep her voice under control. “They cannot eat until you arrive.”

“They are used to waiting for me.”

“And that is admirable?”

Another raised eyebrow. “You care about the feelings of the Forbeses?”

“The law says they are now my people.”

“Are you instructing me on my duty?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“Aye.”

“That infernal affability again. I think I preferred the asp’s tongue.”

The room was cooling. A wee bit.

Yet they were still linked by some strange magic.

She sought to break it. “How is your arm?”

“Well enough.”

“And your mistress?”

He smiled slowly. “Also well enough. She said you stopped by to see her.”

“I needed herbs.”

“Trilby could not fetch them? Or cook?”

“I wanted to see what she had,” she said defiantly. In truth, she did not know herself why she had visited that cottage.

“Did you satisfy your curiosity?”

“Aye.” She saw the amusement flicker again on his face and she had the strangest desire to kiss
him
, to touch his face and get a measure of it.

“Aye,” he mocked, and his finger touched her cheek, just as if he had read her mind. She felt the breath in her lungs leave them as the fingers traced a trail across her face. Then he dropped his hand with obvious reluctance and took the several steps to the door, opened it, and swept out his arm for her to go first. He stopped at his room, donned a new wig, then returned to her side.

She started for the staircase, stopping only when he said, “I would prefer, madam, that you do not go back to Mary’s cottage.”

She turned. “Is that an order?”

“Aye.”

The magic disappeared, but the aching inside her did not as she allowed him to lead her down the steps to sup with the Forbeses.

He almost had taken her to his bed. They were married; there was no impediment except his own conscience, and it had been a long time since his conscience had guided his actions. He refused to believe that his current actions on behalf of the Jacobites had anything to do with conscience. Guilt, perhaps. Conscience, nay. One was a motive of convenience, the other one of nobility, and God knew, that was the last quality he wished to claim.

He had been perfectly honest with the lass when he’d said honor was naught but a word without meaning. He heard the word bandied about before Culloden, and then he’d watched the worst kind of murder, pillage and inhumanity following it. Nay, he had no use for so-called virtues.

But, he told himself, bedding the lass would mean nothing but trouble. A new and … affectionate relationship between the two of them would certainly cause comment, and he would lose his excuse to visit Mary. And the cottage was vital to his various roles.

Yet he’d revealed far more than he’d intended, and now he would have to give her a reason, one she might believe, for playing the fool.

He put his hand on her as they went into the great hall. The sound of laughter ceased as he entered, and he wondered whether the talk had been about him.

They all rose, however, as he led his wife to the head table where Neil already sat. He, too, stood until Bethia was seated.

Rory remained standing, noting all the curious faces. Many of them were hostile, some suspicious. But he nodded in what he hoped was an arrogant pose of graciousness, and sat.

“We are not often graced with your presence,” Neil observed dryly as he speared a pigeon from a tray being carried by a servant. “Should I inquire as to where you have been?”

“Edinburgh,” Rory said airily. “A few other places.”

“I would like several hours with you tomorrow. Decisions must be made about some land.”

“You do what you think best,” Rory said. “I have no head for such matters.”

He saw several scowls from men sitting closest to him. In truth, he did have faith in Neil as far as property management went. His cousin had obviously tried to protect the tacksmen who leased land from the lord, then rented it out to smaller farmers. Rory agreed with Neil’s attempt to help the tenants, most of whom were clansmen, rather than simply evicting them and turning the land into grazing for sheep as so many other landowners were doing.

But he did not particularly wish to communicate that concern, or interest. Not when Neil was taking care of it. He saw, though, his bride’s blue eyes darken with disapproval. She obviously wanted him to care more for the people who were, in many ways, his responsibility.

He would leave that to her and Neil. She was already winning a few hearts at Braemoor. That much was obvious. It was he they disliked, and that suited him also.

He took a long sip of strong ale that had been poured into his cup. Then he leaned over and kissed his bride. His lips had none of the finesse of his earlier, spontaneous kiss; this one was planned, deliberate, an open declaration of ownership. And where she had melted earlier in his arms, he saw surprise, disgust, outrage at his public assault.

“What do you think of my bride, Neil?” he said when he finished, pulling out a lace handkerchief and dabbing at his mouth.

Neil scowled, obviously uncomfortable at his lord’s behavior. “You are fortunate,” he said in a cool tone.

“Aye, I am. I am missing only a bairn, but that should soon be remedied.” His tone left no question as to exactly what he meant, and he saw Bethia’s face pale. The softness he’d seen in her eyes earlier was gone. Distaste, even horror, had replaced it. Well, wasn’t that what he wanted? For both their sakes.

He leered at his wife, which, unfortunately, was not at all difficult. Her eyes widened, and her back stiffened with outrage.

He ignored her and drank some more, eating heavily from the food on the table. It
was
better than it had been. Much better. She was obviously making the best of a very bad game.

Rory hated what he was doing, but a doting husband just didn’t fit his needs at the moment, nor did the appearance of a chaste one. He did not doubt for a moment that Cumberland had a spy somewhere about, and Rory had been warned about the need for a babe. He still wondered why the girl meant so much to someone, but the Marquis of Braemoor would never inquire into such matters.

The meal seemed endless to him. The role of fool had once appealed to him. It no longer did. And the reason was sitting next to him, stiff and withdrawn. She had barely touched her food while he had sat at the head of the table, smirking like some half-wit. For the first time, he did not enjoy his role. He did not like his game. For the first time, he wanted to be … respected.

Hell and damnation
. She had him in knots. He took another long drought, then pushed his chair out. ‘“Tis time for my bride and me to retire.”

He nodded to the men and two ladies sitting at the table. They all stood as he did. He felt their eyes on him as he took Bethia’s arm and led her from the room toward the stairs. She said nothing as they climbed them, but then at the door of the room, she paused, her eyes as angry as any he had ever seen.

With no warning, she swung her hand up. It connected with his cheek in a loud crack. His face stung. Hell, it hurt. He stepped back and regarded her cautiously. One hand went up and fingered his cheek. Even his jaw ached.

“
You
should have been at Culloden,” he said.

‘Twas the wrong thing to say, and he regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. He was accustomed to making sharp retorts, particularly when attacked.

Her face clouded, and he saw the hurt he had just imposed.

“I am sorry, madam. I should not have said that.”

She stood even stiffer. ‘Twas as if a steel rod had been inserted in her back. “You purposely humiliated me,” she said.

He had no answer for that, no explanation.

He saw her swallow as if a stone was caught in her throat. “I was wrong earlier, when I thought…”

“I do not ken your meaning.”

“I thought you were actually human.” She turned around and opened the door, starting to slam it behind her.

But he caught it. “Oh, no, madam. That will not do. That will not do at all.”

She despised him. She had lowered her guard, and he’d swooped in with his sword and plunged it into a vulnerable place.

She had never been so angry.

She was, in fact, trembling with that anger. And she hated that even more. She did not want him to see it. She could not stop him from entering her chamber, but she certainly could make it unpleasant for him.

“You plan to break your promise?”

“It was a bargain, not a promise.”

“You play with words as you play with cards,” she said bitterly. “Lives mean no more to you than the next wager.”

“You are right, my marchioness. However, I must warn you that Cumberland wants a bairn, and your brother’s life could depend on whether or not he believes that one might be in the making.”

She stared at him in horror. “What do you mean?”

“Surely you must have suspected he had something more than a simple marriage in mind. Why do you think he wanted proof of consummation? His goal has always been a bairn, a child. He is waiting very impatiently,” he said, his gaze raking her. “He stressed that to me days ago when I delivered a small gift of brandy to him. I told him I was well pleased with my bride.”

“Why did you not tell me that earlier?”

He shrugged. “I did not wish to spoil my homecoming.”

“You are truly loathsome,” she said, her voice breaking slightly.

“That is probably among the mildest adjectives applied to me,” he replied mildly.

“What do you want? Tell me and end the torment.”

“Is marriage to me torment?”

“Your incessant games are.”

He bowed. “Then I apologize.”

He entered and closed the door behind him. Black Jack stirred from his basket where he had dragged the wig and made a nest of it. He ran over and started nipping at her slippers, asking to be picked up.

The marquis looked at the wig ruefully.

“You can have it now,” she said helpfully.

“Ah, he has taken possession, and that gives him the legal right to it.”

She was fascinated at those fleeting instants of whimsy he allowed himself. But then, they were always so very fleeting.

“You care about legality?”

“When I have nothing at stake.” He took a step toward her.

She leaned down and picked up Black Jack, using the squirming black puppy as a shield.

“It will not work, Bethia.” He took a step toward her.

“I do not ken your meaning.”

“Distraction. I do not believe I wish to be distracted.”