George stopped his braying, and for a moment, the four of them stood in silent confusion, watching the black giant approach.
“That’s the horse that pulled The Crate,” Caya said, almost to herself. Then more urgently, “Declan, Peter took the wagon to collect Lucy from the Farquhars.”
He ran for Gullfaxi, heart drumming in his chest. He was already swinging his leg over the saddle when he shouted, “Tell Alex and Ian.” One swift kick and he and Gullfaxi were flying down the lane. They skidded into the turn at the road to Thurso, and he kicked harder.
“Come on, laddie. Come on!”
There was only one route to Thurso from Balforss. Peter had to be on this road. He slapped a hand to his hip. Bloody hell. He didn’t have his dirk. He’d been in such a temper when he left his house he’d forgotten to arm himself. No time to take a detour home. He needed to find Peter and Lucy.
What could have happened? His mind hopped from one thing to another, a broken axel, a crash, a robbery gone wrong? Highway robbery was becoming more and more commonplace in the south of Caithness. Not so much here in the north. Until, perhaps, now.
Up ahead, he saw a single horse pulling a familiar looking gig.
“Whoa, laddie. That’ll do, now.”
As the gig neared, he recognized the driver, Dr. Farquhar. He had a woman passenger with him. The woman lifted a hand and waved.
Lucy.
Declan let go the breath he was holding. Thank the Lord. Lucy looked fine. But, when the gig was only a few yards away, he saw a slender body slumped over in Lucy’s lap, and the relief he felt only a moment ago vanished.
Aye, me. Not wee Peter. He would be saddened by the loss of the boy, everyone would. But, having saved the boy’s life and acted as his adopted father, Peter’s death would devastate Alex.
Rather than stop them, he turned Gullfaxi and fell in step with Dr. Farquhar’s gig.
Lucy shouted over the clopping of the horses, “When Peter was late, the doctor offered to drive me. We found him lying in the road next to the wagon.”
Lucy had a good deal of blood on her gown. Peter’s blood. It looked as though he’d received a blow to the head.
“Is he alive?” Declan asked.
“Yes. The doctor needs to stitch him up,” she called.
Ian and Alex came barreling down the road, spewing clots of mud in their wake. They, too, pulled up short when they spotted Dr. Farquhar’s gig.
“I’m all right, Alex,” Lucy called out. “But we need to get Peter home straightaway.”
Alex carried Peter upstairs. Lucy and Dr. Farquhar followed them, leaving Declan and the others standing in the entry hall, looking anxiously at their backs.
Laird John broke the charged silence. “Peter is in good hands. There’s nothing more to do for the time being but wait and pray for his swift recovery.”
“I’ll be upstairs in my parlor should anyone need me,” Flora said.
Laird John and Ian slipped into the library. No doubt for a tot of whisky. Declan could use one, too, but he remained in the entry, wanting to be near Caya.
“Is Peter hurt badly?” she asked him, her face covered in worry. She was a kindhearted lass. No doubt she had developed an attachment to the likable lad, he having acted as their cupid. He wanted to reassure her, smooth the trouble from her brow, tell her all would be well, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know for certain.
“I dinnae ken, a leannan.” A leannan. He’d called her sweetheart without thinking. Would she know the meaning of the Gaelic word? If she did, would she like him calling her sweetheart?
Caya turned to Margaret. “There was so much blood.”
His sister waved off her concern. “He’s got a dunt on the head is all,” Margaret said as though Peter had skinned his knee. “Head wounds bleed something awfy. He’ll be fine.”
The shadow lifted from Caya’s face. Again, Declan resented Margaret’s ability to do for her what he could not.
“I should go,” Margaret said. “Hamish will worry if I’m not back before dark.”
“You shouldnae go alone,” he said.
Margaret released a sharp bark of laughter. “Do you honestly think that ornery mule would let anyone near us?”
He smirked. His sister had a good point, and for the first time he saw the wisdom in her choice of mount. “Still, take the seaward trail while it’s still light and stay off the main road, aye.”
He kissed her cheek, and she slipped out the door.
For a heartbeat, Declan thought he had Caya alone again. Then Alex thundered down the steps. He’d strapped on his sword belt and armed himself with dirk and pistol. There was a ferocity in Alex’s eyes Declan knew well. Bloodlust.
“How fares the lad?” he asked.
Alex shook his head. Either he couldn’t talk or didn’t want to talk in front of Caya. He jerked his head toward the library door, a signal for Declan to join him.
“Wait here,” he said to Caya. He added, “Please?”
She curtsied.
Damn.
Inside the library, Ian and Laird John waited with identical expressions of concern. Anyone would make the two for father and son they looked so alike, whereas Alex was the male reflection of his mother.
“Did the boy say what happened?” Laird John asked.
“The only word he said was ‘pirate.’ He was attacked. I’m sure of it. Lucy said the wagon wasnae damaged.” Alex shook his head. “This was no accident. Some bampot bent on mischief must have tried to steal the draft horse.”
“Aye,” Laird John said, sounding weary. “Cottars, no doubt. Run off their land and so desperate they turn to thievery.”
Ian, Alex, and Declan waited silently for Laird John to give them orders.
“I have sympathy for those left homeless, but I cannae let an attack on one of my people go unanswered.” After a moment’s thought, Laird John said, “Right then. You three search for Peter’s pirate while there’s still light.”
“And if we find him?” Ian asked.
A disturbing grin formed on Alex’s mouth. “We’ll feed him to the fish.”
…
Caya followed the men outside to watch them leave. They acted nonchalant and said Scottish things like, “Back in a trice” and “Dinnae fash yourself,” which she had come to know as phrases of reassurance. But there was an intensity in their movements that made gooseflesh rise on her arms. Ian and Alex took off at a gallop with the draft horse in tow.
Declan walked toward her, holding the reins of Gullfaxi, a muscular dark gray gelding with a white mane and tail. She reached out, and the horse met her palm with his muzzle.
“Promise me you’ll stay close to the house until we sort this out, aye?” His voice was as soft and velvety as Gullfaxi’s nose.
“I promise.” She found it difficult to meet his eyes when she added, “You’ll be careful, too.”
A puff of laughter escaped him as if she had said something silly. “I’ll be fine.”
He stood close. Very, very close. The setting sun cast shadows on his face, sharpening the lines of brow and cheek. Had he grown more handsome since they met? Since he’d given her daisies? Since he’d held her in his arms and pressed his hot arousal to her stomach? What a wicked, wicked feeling. And worse, she had encouraged him. But oh Lord, she’d do it again, if given a chance.
He leaned closer and her heart beat faster. He was going to kiss her. Right here. Right now. Should she let him?
He touched her arm. “Oh, look,” he said, as if he had discovered something small and pleasing. “You’ve got bitty gowans running all down the sleeve of your gown.” Their eyes met, and he chuckled lightly. “You do like the daisies, then?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He spun, stepped into the stirrup, and swung a long, graceful leg over Gullfaxi’s back. Then he took off down the lane, standing in the stirrups, his coattails flapping in the wind.
He hadn’t kissed her. She placed her disappointment in her box of guilty
sins, along with the depraved sensations he provoked with his hot, hard, lanky body, and promised to account for them on Sunday.
She went up to Flora’s parlor to inform her of the men’s plan to retrieve the wagon. “They said not to worry, but I got a queer feeling. Will they be in danger, do you think?”
Flora took a deep breath and sighed. “Aye. Most likely.” She lifted an eyebrow. “If there’s danger, my Alex will find it. I shouldnae have named him Alexander. The name means defender of men.”
“What does the name Declan mean?”
Flora gave Caya a knowing smile. “Declan means full of goodness.”
She returned a look of perfect understanding. “Yes. He is.”
Flora set aside her knitting and crossed the carpet to a cabinet where she removed a bottle and poured two small glasses of a dark amber liquid. “Like John said, there’s naught to do but wait. This will help.” Flora handed her a glass of the stuff.
She smelled the contents and jerked her head back. “Whew.”
“Brandy. Drink. It will settle you.”
She rarely took spirits. She didn’t trust them. Look what they’d done to Jack.
A yelp came from down the hall. She and Flora turned toward the open door to the parlor and heard a pitiful cry of pain. Poor Peter. Dr. Farquhar must be stitching his wound.
She and Flora tossed back their brandy and swallowed. A warm sensation blossomed inside her belly like a flower unfolding. Not at all an unpleasant feeling.
“Sit yourself doon, a nighean.”
Flora’s voice was calming, as was the endearment a nighean. The way Flora used it, it meant, “my girl or dear girl.” Caya dropped into a cushioned chair by the fire and held her glass steady while Flora poured her another finger of brandy.
“Mrs. Swenson is sending up a cold supper,” Flora said.
Another howl echoed down the hall, more tortured than the first.
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Och, dinnae concern yourself with Peter’s cries. He’s awake. That means he’ll be fine. I’d worry more if he made no sound at all.”
The brandy must have emboldened Caya, for she asked, “Were you always so brave?”
If Flora was surprised or offended by the personal question, she made no sign.
“When you marry a Highlander, you learn to be brave.” She gave more thought to her answer and added, “A Hieland man is, and always will be, a warrior at heart. It doesnae matter if he wears a uniform or an apron, fighting is in his bones, ye see.” She took another sip of her brandy and leaned back in her chair. Addressing the fire this time, she said, “A Hieland man can be gentle as a lamb. Sweet as bees’ honey.” She smiled. “And charming. Very charming.” Flora’s eyes darkened. “But cross him, threaten his kin, or the ones he holds dear, and there will be blood.” She looked up as if remembering she wasn’t alone. “You cannae change that about a Hieland man. Dinnae even try. But know this, a nighean: he will love you with body and soul until the day he dies.”
Flora turned back to the fire, apparently seeing something in the glowing peat that pleased her. Caya didn’t move. She didn’t want to break the bubble of safety Flora had built around them. She sat for a long while, listening to the pop and hiss of the fire and thinking about what Flora had said.
Scotland was a strange place, full of contradictions. Life in the Highlands seemed unpredictable and often extreme. In these past seven days, she had experienced fear, anger, sadness, joy. She had lost and found a family. Lost and found her self-worth. She’d been swept up in the happy chaos of Balforss, all the while more fully engaged with the world around her than she had been in all her life.
And the one constant throughout this whirlwind week was Declan. Even if he wasn’t with her in the flesh, he was in her thoughts, pictured in her mind, his smile, his gleaming black brows, and the way he looked at her. The feelings he aroused in her melded into one. She could no longer separate the sexual attraction she had for him from mere fondness or admiration. Regardless of the reason—honor or desire—he was determined to marry her and she was determined to be his wife.
He will love you with body and soul until the day he dies.
Heavy footsteps popped their tranquil bubble. Dr. Farquhar appeared in the parlor doorway, looking tired and stooped. He ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair and sighed.
“Come in and have a dram,” Flora said.
The doctor nodded his thanks and went to the cabinet, seeming well acquainted with where Flora kept her spirits and thus, Caya assumed, had a long association with Balforss. He poured himself a good amount from a different decanter. Whisky, perhaps?
“Slainte,” he said and took a substantial swallow of the golden liquid.
Almost at once, the doctor’s body remolded itself before Caya’s eyes, gaining two inches of height and losing a score of years from his age. Whisky must have amazing restorative qualities as well as destructive ones. Perhaps, like medicine, the dosage is what made the difference.
“The lad will be fine,” the doctor said.
Caya and Flora exhaled their worries in unison.
“Oh, good,” Flora said. “Thank you, doctor. Will you stay for supper?”
“My thanks, but no. Tess will have my supper waiting. But, might I have a word with you, Miss Pendarvis?”
She startled at his request. “Me?”
Flora rose, but the doctor gestured for her to remain. He pulled a chair from the games table close to where Caya was seated by the fire. “I’ve heard talk. Gossip, no doubt, but I thought I’d speak directly to you.”
A cold lump formed in Caya’s belly, dousing the fire lit by the brandy. Dr. Farquhar must have sensed her unease.
“Dinnae fash, lass. It’s only I hear you saved a wean who appeared to have drowned in the river. Is that so?”
“He wasn’t dead,” she insisted, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.
Dr. Farquhar leaned back and smiled as if her confirmation brought him pleasure. “Ah. So, it’s true. I ask, you see, because, not long ago, I read a paper written by Dr. Trossach from Glasgow regarding the practice of resuscitation. The doctor recommended the application of tobacco smoke by fumigator and bellows into the patient’s—em.” Dr. Farquhar darted a look at Flora and made a delicate cough. “Em…to the patient’s backside. But he also stated that, when those implements are not to hand, sharing one’s breath with the drowned person can sometimes achieve the desired effect.” Dr. Farquhar leaned forward. “Is that how it was, lass?”
She looked to Flora and received an encouraging signal. “I don’t know about the tobacco part, but back home, I have seen bodies revived by breathing in their mouths. I’d never tried before, but the mother was so—and there was a chance the boy…” Heart racing, she bolted to her feet, her fists clenched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Wheesht, a nighean,” Flora said. “Dr. Farquhar’s no’ angry, lass. He’s only curious. Sit.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I had my doubts about Dr. Trossach’s method, but now, well…” He stood with effort. “I see I’ve upset you, Miss Pendarvis. That was not my intention. I hope you will let me discuss this further with you at another time. As a doctor, I would want to know how you saved the boy.” The doctor swallowed what was left in his glass and set it down. He made a polite bow to both Caya and Flora. “Good night, Lady Balforss. I’ll see myself out.”
After the doctor left, Flora said, “Caya, why did you no’ tell me about this?”
“I was afraid. The women at the river were so angry. Like I had done something evil. And now they’re telling people I’m a witch.” Her chin wobbled. “I’m not a witch.”
Flora took her hand and squeezed. “Of course you’re not. No one here would ever think such a thing. Scrabster women, were they?” Caya nodded and sniffed. “Covenanters,” Flora said and made a pssht sound. “They see the devil in everything they dinnae understand. Pay it no mind,
dear.”
Mrs. Swenson entered with a tray of food. She took one look at Caya wiping away tears and gasped. “Peter? Has he?”
“Nae, nae, the laddie’s fine. Caya’s just a wee bit fashed over nothin’.”
Mrs. Swenson made a trill of relief ending in, “Thank the Lord.” She set the tray on the games table. “There’s cheese, cold ham, bread, the last of the gooseberry jam, and some good ale.”
Lucy swept into the room. She had changed her blood-soaked clothing but looked exhausted. “Peter’s asking for you, Caya. He wants to tell you about the pirate.” Lucy sniffed the air, and her face changed like quicksilver. “Supper.” She fell upon the food. “Thank goodness. I’m positively famished.”
As always, Lucy’s presence in the room lifted everyone’s spirits. All of Caya’s earlier fears and regrets seemed to evaporate. She even managed a smile when Lucy took a large bite of jam-coated bread and reverently closed her eyes.
“I’ll go say good night to Peter.”
“Take this broth with you.” Mrs. Swenson handed her a warm mug.
She slipped inside the open door to the room adjoining Lucy and Alex’s bedchamber. Peter, his head bandaged, was sitting up in bed, reading a book by the light of an oil lamp. He looked up from his reading and his face contorted. A pitiful moan escaped on his sigh.
“How bad?” she asked.
“Just a scratch,” Peter said, sounding valiant.
“I brought you some warm broth.”
“Thank you, miss.” He took the mug with both hands and gulped the contents down without a breath. He’d been washed thoroughly and dressed in a man’s nightshirt. Lucy’s doing, most likely. Even though Lucy insisted she had only fond feelings for the groom, it was apparent from her reaction to Peter’s injury that she and Alex loved the boy.
Finished with the broth, he set the mug on the bedside table, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and pointed at his head. “Dr. Farquhar gived me three stitches,” he said with a measure of pride.
Betting the Scot Page 15
