The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER Page A

tone.
    She wanted to believe him. Alister Armstrong had warm brown eyes and an easy manner.
    “It will be all right, milady. The marquis is no’ a monster.”
    She wasn’t sure she would agree with that assessment, but his attempt at kindness took away some of the chill from her heart.
    She managed a small smile and nodded.
    Almost blindly, she walked with him down the steps, past the great hall, then out the door to the chapel that was on the side of the tower house. She stopped the moment she saw Cumberland, who’d turned his gaze on her.
    He approached her with a smile on his lips. ‘Twas the coldest smile she’d ever seen, and his eyes were like the devil’s own: dark and merciless. He offered his arm, but she ignored it, instead turning slightly away.
    “Take it, madam,” he said.
    “Nay.”
    “Have you not learned yet that it is not you who will suffer if you do not do my bidding?” he asked in a low tone.
    The threat went straight to her heart. Trembling, she slowly took his arm, and allowed him to escort her inside. She noticed the colorful profusion of plaids worn by the men and women sitting in the pews, saw their faces turn and look toward her. Curiosity as well as hostility radiated from those faces. She turned and looked straight ahead—directly at the bridegroom.
    She had seen little of him these past few days. He had not asked her to join him at the evening meals in the great hall until last night. He had visited once, saying he’d thought she might prefer to take her meals in her room rather than join the rapidly expanding ranks of those attending the wedding. She had been grateful, even as she wondered whether he was that displeased with her appearance.
    But now as she saw him standing at the altar waiting for her, she felt her heart pounding. She had no choice; yet she wanted to turn and run out the door. She wanted to grab the first horse and ride and ride until she was back home. But there is no home left . She tried to believe it was someone else inside this dress, but tonight she would be herself: Lady Forbes, the Marchioness of Braemoor. The man awaiting her would be her husband in fact, with all the rights associated with that state, regardless of his promises.
    Her gaze met his. His hazel eyes were void of emotion. Unlike many of the guests who wore tartans or uniforms, he was dressed in a pale blue waistcoat and breeches trimmed with silver buttons. A frilled shirt and blue stock looked quite out of place, and the elegance of his costume made her feel righteously drab in a plain yellow gown she’d selected from those provided by the dressmaker. She sought his gaze, expected anger, but saw instead a glint of humor. It disappeared so quickly beneath a simpering smile that she doubted she had seen it at all.
    He was wearing a wig, again, one even longer than the one he’d worn earlier. Marring his face was a small black patch, an affectation much fancied by the English. He looked the prancing English dandy.
    And large. She’d not stood close to him before and had been unaware of how tall he was, how formidable, at least in size.
    She took her place next to him, and Cumberland stepped away. She was standing next to the stranger who was to be her husband.
    In a protective fog, she listened to the words that would change her life. She heard her toneless whispers in reply to the questions. She made her own answers in her mind.
    No, she did not take this man.
    No, she would not love him until death parted them.
    No, she would not obey.
    But she mouthed the opposite words and tried to keep the moisture in her eyes from spilling down her cheek. She would never let them see her cry. But when the vicar declared them man and wife, she felt her heart dying.
    Bethia knew what came next, something neither of them could avoid, not with Cumberland sitting in the chapel. He had moved from her side to the front row where he sat surrounded by red-coated officers. She had the impression of a spider waiting