Read Online The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER - Free Book Online
Authors: PATRICIA POTTER
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moment.
And try to find the Black Knave.
She bit her lip, then gave him the barest of nods, and allowed him to guide her toward the table for the customary toast.
Chapter 4
“To many happy and … fruitful years.”
Cumberland leered as he uttered the last words. He left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to exactly what he meant.
Rory looked down and saw his wife’s face pale. She looked as if a ravenous wolf was about to fall on her.
He wanted to reassure her, but he could not afford that luxury at the moment. Too many other lives were at stake. He could no’ risk suspicion. He was already surrounded by a clan and neighboring families that doubted both his loyalties and his courage. Every one of them knew the marriage was not to the lass’s liking. Any sudden change in her attitude could arouse suspicion. He’d tried his best to lessen her fears without giving anything away, but it had been important that Cumberland believe his role as a womanizer and scoundrel.
He could, however, give her a few moments of relief. He made excuses to other guests, saying the excitement had made his wife faint. They would return shortly for the wedding feast. His heart lurched as she glanced up at him with uncertain gratitude.
He kept his hand on her arm as they left the great hall.
It seemed as alien to him as it must seem to her. He’d always hated every square foot of Braemoor, and he would never feel like its master. He was a fraud. Even if he hadn’t chosen to oppose the Hanover king, he still would have been a fraud. He’d never belonged here.
Bastard.
His father had uttered that word once in a drunken rage. He’d done it only once.
Rory had been in the room with his mother, and he had instinctively tried to protect her when his father entered. His rage was obvious.
“Whore,” he’d said. “Daughter of Satan.”
He’d reached out and slapped her, and Rory, despite his fear, had thrown himself on the man he feared most of all. A blow knocked him across the room as his father glared at him. “Bastard.” He’d spit out the word.
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
And try to find the Black Knave.
She bit her lip, then gave him the barest of nods, and allowed him to guide her toward the table for the customary toast.
Chapter 4
“To many happy and … fruitful years.”
Cumberland leered as he uttered the last words. He left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to exactly what he meant.
Rory looked down and saw his wife’s face pale. She looked as if a ravenous wolf was about to fall on her.
He wanted to reassure her, but he could not afford that luxury at the moment. Too many other lives were at stake. He could no’ risk suspicion. He was already surrounded by a clan and neighboring families that doubted both his loyalties and his courage. Every one of them knew the marriage was not to the lass’s liking. Any sudden change in her attitude could arouse suspicion. He’d tried his best to lessen her fears without giving anything away, but it had been important that Cumberland believe his role as a womanizer and scoundrel.
He could, however, give her a few moments of relief. He made excuses to other guests, saying the excitement had made his wife faint. They would return shortly for the wedding feast. His heart lurched as she glanced up at him with uncertain gratitude.
He kept his hand on her arm as they left the great hall.
It seemed as alien to him as it must seem to her. He’d always hated every square foot of Braemoor, and he would never feel like its master. He was a fraud. Even if he hadn’t chosen to oppose the Hanover king, he still would have been a fraud. He’d never belonged here.
Bastard.
His father had uttered that word once in a drunken rage. He’d done it only once.
Rory had been in the room with his mother, and he had instinctively tried to protect her when his father entered. His rage was obvious.
“Whore,” he’d said. “Daughter of Satan.”
He’d reached out and slapped her, and Rory, despite his fear, had thrown himself on the man he feared most of all. A blow knocked him across the room as his father glared at him. “Bastard.” He’d spit out the word.
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
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