The Black Knave (3 page)

And he certainly did not like the idea of wedding a stranger.

But could he afford to raise questions? Or Cumberland’s wrath?

“I’ll pen a reply. ‘Tis possible I can show Cumberland this is not a good idea, that I could not accept a Jacobite in the household.”

“It is worth a try,” Alister said, but his expression did not hold much hope for the idea.

Neither did Rory.

Bethia MacDonell stood stunned before the intimidating presence of Cumberland.

“Marry?” She hated the tremble she heard in her voice. She hated it almost as much as she despised the man standing in front of her, trying to bend her to his will. “But I was betrothed—”

“To a dead man, milady,” Cumberland said curtly and without sympathy. “He was a traitor. As you are a traitor. And your brother.”

She did not shiver at this description of herself. But tremors ran down her back as she heard the threat for her brother. He had only eleven years, but he had the courage and mouth of a much older lad. He had already insulted Cumberland, calling him a scurvy dog before Bethia could get him out of the room. She had agreed with that assessment, but she knew their lives stood in the balance.

Bethia looked around the walls of the castle, which had become a prison. She’d been brought here to Rosemeare with her brother and held in a tower room to await Cumberland’s pleasure. Her two oldest brothers had died at Culloden. Only her younger brother remained to carry on the name of their branch of the MacDonells. But there was little left remaining. Their estates had been confiscated, their clan members either killed or hunted.

Her betrothed, Angus Macintosh, had been killed at Culloden. She thought of Angus: tall and fierce, even a little frightening, though he had always been kind to her. ‘Twas not a love match, but she had been fond of him and had not objected to the betrothal which her older brother had arranged. Angus had been all warrior, all courage. A man—and leader—to admire.

She bit back her tears. She had not yet allowed one to fall, not when she’d heard about the deaths of her brothers, nor when Cumberland’s men took them from their home and burned out all their clansmen. Not when she’d heard of Angus’s death. She would be as strong as any of the men in her family. She would not,
could not
, show weakness.

“You are fortunate, Bethia,” Cumberland said. “You have a friend at court who asked me to look after you. But the king’s orders are quite clear. He wants no more Jacobite uprisings. Those who survive can do so only by submitting to his will.” His dark eyes pierced her. “Do you understand?”

She swallowed the bile in her throat. She had to protect Dougal, no matter the cost to her.

“The king has chosen a husband for you,” Cumberland said. “The Marquis of Braemoor. His family fought well at Culloden. I understand he is a pliable man.”

Pliable
. Weak. A traitor not to the king, but to all the braw men who fought for Prince Charlie.

“Does he approve of a bride he has never seen?” she asked, hoping against hope that he would not. She was not a beauty, nor had she any dowry now.

“The king is making it well worth his while,” Cumberland said smugly. “He will receive confiscated estates. The Forbeses will guard them well from any additional uprisings.”

She wondered if her own family’s lands were among them. The bile grew even more bitter. She was not even to be sold. A man had to be bribed to take her, bribed most likely by her own property.

She searched her memory for any snatch of conversation about the Forbeses. She knew, of course, about Lord President Forbes. Because of his influence, several of the Highland clans refused to join the young prince. His name was an anathema to those Highland clans that
did
declare for the bonnie prince.

“I will tell the king you accept?”

She held her breath, her mind working feverishly. If she could take her brother and escape …

She knew there were people helping Jacobites escape. Prince Charlie was still free despite the huge reward offered for his capture. And there had been whispers lately of a man who helped fugitives. If she agreed, perhaps she and her brother could escape on the journey. She rode well; so did Dougal.

“I know nothing about the man,” she said desperately, already forming her plan. She could not give up too easily.

“You do not have to know anything, other than he’s loyal to the rightful crown and your king wishes it.”

She had no other protests. She’d already voiced them all.

Cumberland apparently took her silence for surrender. “We leave for Braemoor within the hour.”

“No.” The word escaped her before she could take it back. She tried to modify it. “I must get my brother ready.”

“Your brother will not be going. He will stay here, and Lord Creighton will convey your farewells.”

She could only stare at him. “I must see him,” she said after a moment’s pause.

“He has already been taken to another room. You will gather what you wish to take, and be ready to travel in thirty minutes.”

“Please….” It was the hardest word she’d ever spoken. She’d sworn never to beg to her captors, but dear God, Dougal. How could she leave him alone after all he’d lost? How could she, too, disappear? The lord of this manor, the Earl of Creighton, was an Englishman. She’d been treated with the barest of courtesy, relegated to the meanest bedchamber. That did not matter to her, not after all her major losses, but it said a great deal about what her brother could expect. Especially if he was held hostage to her marriage.

Marriage
. Her heart froze. Marriage to a traitor. To a weak man who would accept a wife in exchange for money.

But she did not matter. Her brother did.

She looked at Cumberland. “How will I know that my brother will be safe?”

“My word,” he said.

His word meant nothing to her. She was only too aware of his butchery since Culloden. He’d hunted down every surviving Jacobite, including women and children. Whole families had been burned alive. She bent her head so he wouldn’t see her hatred.

“You will be ready, then?”

“Aye,” she said in a barely audible voice.

Bethia despised herself for being so afraid. Yet tremors ran up and down her backbone as she—and her guards— approached Braemoor.

She had long ago understood that she was naught but an object to be sold at will. A woman in Scotland had little power unless her father or brother gave it to her, and she knew she’d been fortunate that her father had given her the choice to reject various suitors. He had loved her dearly; she’d always known that. He’d wanted her to make a love match. But when naught happened, he’d pressed her for a decision, putting forth one man, then another. As his impatience increased, she’d approved her brother’s choice of Angus, a man she could respect.

Now her father was dead, as were her two brothers and Angus, and to protect the last of the male line she would have to heed the English king’s command. God’s teeth, but that fact galled her. The man who rode beside her, a stern-faced captain who had been assigned by Cumberland to accompany her, galled her as well. But the man who was to be her husband galled her most of all.

How could she, in all conscience, make vows with a Protestant? With an infidel? With the man who might well have killed one or more of her brothers? A cold chill permeated her.

The stark structure ahead did not allay her fears. A tower house rather than a sprawling castle, it rose vertically up toward the sky. She saw three towers but few windows, and it had none of the elaborate corbelled turreting of some tower houses. It looked cold and unwelcoming.

And how soon would she have to lie with the present lord in one of its chambers? She now knew a little more about him. She had listened to Cumberland’s officers when they thought her asleep. The marquis was a misfit. A drunkard and gambler and womanizer. They even suspected that he’d slipped from the battlefield, and mayhap even injured himself to keep himself safe from the enemy.

That was the man they were commanding her to marry.

If it were not for her brother …

But she was a woman. Nothing but a woman. She wanted to fall to the earth and pound her hands against the ground. She wanted to scream. She wanted to protest the injustice of it all.

But her brothers had lost their lives, and wasn’t that an even greater injustice?

She tried to keep her face expressionless as they approached the tower house. There were no walls around it, only a number of buildings: a large one that was obviously a stable, and several smaller ones. The grounds were unkempt, and there were no gardens. There was a lifelessness to Braemoor that conflicted with all the activity and warmth at her own castle.
Not her own
.

Not any longer.

God help her, this was now her home. Unless she could persuade the marquis that she would make a truly horrible wife. The sudden thought appealed to her. She knew she did not look well this day. She’d been traveling two days, sleeping out at night in the cold mist with no maid to do her hair. It was braided now for convenience. Since she’d had no mirror, she imagined it was a rather messy braid.

Her cheeks must be red from the sun and wind, and she knew her clothes were soiled and dirty. Mayhap the marquis would take one look at her and decline even the massive bribe offered him. And if she had a disposition to match …

Several men in plaids were engaged in swordplay. They turned and looked at her rudely as she rode amidst ten of Cumberland’s army. Their scowls told her that the Forbes clan was probably not any happier about this alliance than she.

One headed for the massive door of the tower and slipped inside, obviously alerting the residents inside to the new arrivals. There were no soldiers standing guard on parapets, no watch. But then why would there be? The Forbeses had betrayed their heritage, Scotland’s honor.
They
had nothing to fear from the king. Revulsion rose up in her throat for all those who had chosen the English king to save their own lives and their properties.

She was to be traded to a man without honor, a clan without principle. The prize for the king: insuring the MacDonells would not rise again against him. Her elderly mare, chosen by the English captain, stumbled, and she realized how tightly she’d clenched her hands on the reins.

Bethia leaned down and whispered apologies. The mare was as much a pawn as she. Then she straightened as a tall man in plaid appeared at the door and approached them as they came to a halt.

He was a well-formed man and, she had to admit, a handsome one. His hair was dark brown, his eyes dark, and he wore a Forbes plaid of green and black and purple.

The captain accompanying her rode up to him. “The Marquis of Braemoor?”

A pained look crossed the man’s face. “Nay. He is not here. I am Neil Forbes.”

The captain nodded toward Bethia. “I brought his bride. We sent word ahead….”

“My cousin had other business.”

Bethia didn’t miss the contempt in his face, contempt for his own kinsman.

The captain’s brows furrowed in anger. “But…”

Neil Forbes looked distressed. “He was told about your expected arrival. He left last night. We have not heard from him since.”

The captain’s frown deepened. “I was ordered to stay here until the vows were exchanged.”

Neil Forbes’s gaze went back to Bethia. “You must be weary, milady.”

She was. She had slept little these past three days, and they’d ridden steadily the past two days. But she would not show these Forbeses any sign of weakness. She said nothing.

But he approached her and offered her his hand to dismount. Reluctantly she took it, knowing that if she did not, she might well fall. She could not afford to do that. Still, she snatched her hand away the second she reached the ground.

He merely looked amused and turned to the captain. “A room has been prepared for Lady Bethia and one for you. Your men can stay in the hall.”

The captain hesitated. “His Grace wants the vows said immediately. He will be here next week.”

“I am sure my cousin will arrive before long,” Neil Forbes said.

Bethia stood there, her fists clenched. The insult was great. The bridegroom was missing. He thought so little of his bride-to-be that he didn’t feel it was necessary to be present at her arrival. Well, she dinna want to see him any more than he wanted to see her. She hoped he never appeared. Mayhap he was hunting a boar. Mayhap if she were lucky enough, the boar would win.

But all she could do was clench her teeth as the Forbes clansman led the way inside the structure.

The interior was as unpromising as the exterior. Cobwebs and dust permeated the hall. Tapestries were faded and coated with dirt. Bethia had an overwhelming impression of gloom and neglect.

She involuntarily shivered, hoping no one saw it. She stiffened her spine, forced her fingers to relax from the tight fists her fingers had unconsciously formed.

Her home. She’d once thought her wedding day would be warm and wonderful, full of expectation and laughter and joy. Her family would be drinking to future bairns, her brothers offering toasts.

“Milady?” The handsome Forbes was openly staring at her, his eyes curious and … something more. Jealousy? Certainly not for her, not as she stood, her dress stained, her hair falling away from the braid in damp ringlets.

“I would like to retire to my room,” she said, forcing her body to maintain a dignified posture.

The Forbes clansman nodded and said something to one of the men standing near him. In minutes, a girl appeared.

“This is Trilby. She will show you your chamber and fetch whatever you need.”

The young girl—probably no more than fourteen— curtsied. “If you will be comin’ wi’ me, milady,” she said.

Privacy
. How much she wanted it. She had not been alone in the past two days except for humiliating moments when she’d had to ask permission to perform personal tasks. Even then, she was followed at a discreet distance. She never wanted to see another English uniform or a Forbes plaid. Dear God, how she wanted to hide from them all. She wanted to hide her anger, and the humiliation of being abandoned by her prospective bridegroom. He apparently wanted to show her how little he wanted the marriage, and how little value he gave to her feelings.