Free The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER Page A

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 bread 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.