Free The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER Page B

Except this was now her home, the guests downstairs her guests. And she despised each and every one of them.
    Dougal was a prisoner, but one no less than she.
    She lay still, hoping she would not draw attention. The more he drank, the more chance he might change his mind. She had seen the results of drunken soldiers, drunken men, happening on innocents. And she was no innocent to him. She was his wife. She shivered with the realization.
    Think about something else. Think about racing across the highlands. Think about laughter, and teasing, and warmth. Think about the happy times . She swallowed hard, allowing tears to wander down her face for the first time, and she drew up the coverlet to cover them. She kept her sobs inside, though her body shook quietly with them.
    Think of the gloaming, the sky over the jagged mountains. Think of the sea running strong against the cliffs . But, God, it was so painful. The loss was too great, the price too dear. She bit her lip, drawing herself smaller into the large bed. Go. She screamed it internally. She wanted him—her husband—to go, so she could scream and cry and release all the agony that had been building within the past twelve months.
    Then she heard the sound of the door opening and closing, and she opened her eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust to the darkness.
    He was gone.
    She huddled in the bed and at long last let the tears flow.
    As Rory shuffled the cards, he heard the quiet intake of breath. He ignored it, continuing to deal himself cards. Then, without will, he turned slightly and saw the small tremors of the large coverlet.
    He knew little about her except that Cumberland was holding her brother hostage to the marriage and her two older brothers had died at Culloden. He wondered about the rest of the family, though he doubted any remained alive. Cumberland wanted no future uprising. He had killed, destroyed or transported every Highlander who survived Culloden, everyone he could find.
    Rory knew he could give her little reassurance. He was astonished at how much he wanted to go to her, to comfort her. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he wanted this marriage no more than she, and that he would find a way to extract her brother from Cumberland’s bloody hands. But he knew too little about her, about her ability to keep secrets or play a role. Or even whether she would trade knowledge about him for her brother.
    So he could do nothing but give her the gift of leaving her alone.
    He looked down at the cards on the table. He was winning; he nearly always won. He was extraordinarily lucky at cards, as much as he’d been unfortunate in family.
    He felt the emotion of the woman in the bed. He sensed it down to the essence of his bones, and he empathized with it. He had been less than six when he’d understood that he had no champion, no one to love him. His father most certainly had not, and neither had his mother. Her whole concern had been her lovers and tweaking his father’s nose. She’d turned to drink when, in essence, she’d been imprisoned by her husband. Once when he’d tried to comfort her, she shoved him, sending him crashing to the floor. “Little brat. If not for you…”
    She’d never finished the sentence, but he’d always known that she blamed her misfortunes on him.
    So he’d always been alone, and had learned to cope with it. Was it easier than having people you love taken away? Was love experienced and lost better than never knowing it at all? He did not know. He only knew that he had purposely kept people at a distance. He had learned to live that way and had found safety in it. He wasn’t sure whether he could ever learn to live with the responsibilities and the tragedies of love.
    He took off the bloody wig and ran his fingers through his hair, grateful for the sudden sense of freedom. He hesitated. Had he been here long enough? Several hours now. Certainly long enough to bed a wench. He tore his shirt open and untied, then