The Black Knave
“He had almost brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. He had almost kissed her.
Damn, but the lass sent his senses reeling.
He poured himself a glass of brandy, welcoming the warmth as it slid down his throat. God’s fury, but he was weary. He still felt the chill of riding days through cold rain. He’d stopped at Mary’s, changed clothes from the uniform into a bright waistcoat and had stripped the mustache from his face. He’d changed from the mud-splattered boots to nearly useless shoes that were little more than slippers.
Mary had told him about Bethia’s visit, about her request for herbs, which seemed little more than an excuse. Her real intent, Mary had surmised, had been to learn more about the marquis. “She is canny,” Mary said. “I think she can be trusted.”
“What would you have done to save your mother?” Rory asked. “Wha’ would you do to save your bairn?”
Her eyes met his, and she did not answer.
“Her brother is her last living kin. She has no reason to have loyalty to me.”
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