The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER Page B

to eat its prey.
    Her husband took her hand and turned her toward him. His face was inches away, the black patch marring a face that was oddly attractive. Strange, she’d not noticed that before, nor the sudden intensity in his eyes. Then the curls from the wig brushed her face, as did the cambric of his stock, and she wanted to withdraw. But his hand captured hers with surprising strength and pulled her to him. His eyes glinted, then his lips pressed down on hers. The kiss was hard, without tenderness or consideration, his lips bruising hers before letting go.
    His promise. Had it meant nothing?
    He released her, and the two of them turned to face the congregation. She wanted to wipe the feel of him from her lips. Instead, she looked straight away and placed one foot in front of the other. She stumbled, but his hand reached out and righted her.
    She looked around, but his face was as bland as before. His grip loosened but she felt his gloved hand around her elbow as they continued down the aisle and out the door. They led the crowd into the great hall where musicians started to play and tables were laden with food. Then he stopped just inside the door. “Time to greet our guests,” he whispered into her ear. Surprisingly, he smelled pleasantly of soap, not the strong fragrances most of their guests used to disguise unwashed bodies.
    But his hand snaked around her waist, and she froze. She barely managed a semblance of a smile as she was introduced to family after family, all of whom had either supported the Hanover or betrayed the prince when it became evident he might not succeed. She despised each of them to the bottom of her soul, even as she nodded or curtsied as the introductions went on and on and on. But if she played the role to the marquis’s satisfaction, mayhap he would keep his promise.
    Cumberland stepped up, no doubt silently congratulating himself. “You make a pretty bride, Marchioness,” he lied.
    She fought the bile rising up inside her. “You are leaving us now?” she said coolly.
    “I must report back to King George that all is as he wished it. My brother does have your best interests at heart, Bethia.”
    Her fingers balled into a fist. The Hanover king. Her interests? She wanted to slap the smug look from his face. This was the man who had burned a barnful of women and children, the man who had ordered the death of wounded, unarmed men. He was the man who had killed her kinsmen and dragged her from all that was dear, and he had the gall…
    “My wife must be quite weary,” the marquis—her husband—said. “I think she needs some rest before the banquet tonight.”
    “Aye, and the bedding,” Cumberland replied.
    “Indeed.” Her husband leered as he said the words and she caught the conspiratorial grin that passed between the two men.
    Her heart dropped. So he had lied to her.
    She dropped her eyes so neither the marquis nor Cumberland would see the hatred blazing there. She would find some way to escape this … travesty of a marriage.
    In the past few days she’d overheard talk of a man called the Black Knave, who was helping Jacobites escape the crown’s vengeance. Cumberland had posted a huge reward for his head. If only she could reach him, ask him to rescue her brother. Once that was done, then she could flee. But how could she contact him?
    “Come, my dear,” her new husband said, his hand again on her arm. She jerked away from his touch.
    He leaned over and whispered, “I would not do that again, my marchioness.”
    His voice held a threat she’d not heard before. She whirled around. “You promised—”
    “Only if you fill your own role as obedient wife,” he said in a tone that made her skin crawl. His fingers tightened around her arm.
    She wanted to believe him. Dear God, how she wanted to believe him, but that salacious look had not been her imagination.
    Still, her only recourse was to pray he spoke the truth, that his interest lay elsewhere. At least for the