Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  “You’ve got to give her time. She’ll come ’round,” Alex assured him.

  “Aye, but look at her. She’s miserable. I cannae stand to see her unhappy.”

  Alex leaned back and examined him critically, one eyebrow cocked up, the other arrowed down. Then his jackass cousin laughed like a loon.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Alex chuckled, “You love her.”

  He opened his mouth to object, but the words died on his tongue. Love? Not possible. Want, yes. Need, yes. Desire, most definitely. But love?

  Alex pointed at him. “If Lucy were here, she’d tell you to close your mouth lest you swallow flies.”

  He made a few skeptical sputters. “Pah. It’s impossible to love someone so soon. I met her only hours ago.”

  Alex shook his head. “Nae. It takes less than that to fall for a woman. I should know.”

  A few minutes passed without conversation. The creak of the wheels and rattle of the crate on the flat wagon bed drowned out birdsong and bleating sheep. Alex yawned so wide his jaw cracked, and then he scratched his armpit contemplatively. How did his cousin fail to share the urgency of his situation?

  Declan considered his own appearance for a moment. Dust-covered trousers, rumpled coat, a stained and frayed shirt without a stock. He swiped a hand down the bristles on his cheek. He needed a wash and a shave, too. Ah, well. It could be worse. It could rain.

  As if in answer to his thought, a dark cloud boomed an angry portent in the distance. He cast a resentful glance at the heavens.

  “Tàirneanach,” he grumbled. Thunder. Damn.

  “Do you think God wants aught to do with you and Miss Pendarvis?”

  “Aye. He taunts me this day. Winning her was too easy. He means to make the task harder for me.”

  Alex leaned toward him, his face shining with good humor. “Try not to take the thunder personally, man. The storm might just as easily be meant for some other poor sod.”

  His stiff, cold cheeks creased with a smile for Alex. With any luck, the rain would hold until after they reached Balforss. He twisted in his saddle and glanced back at his intended. No change.

  “Caya,” Declan said reverently.

  “What?”

  “Her brother called her Caya. You ever heard that name before?”

  “Nae.” Alex shrugged.

  “Must be a Cornishy name. Sounds pretty. Caya. I wonder what it means.”

  Alex released a long sigh and then uttered a disgusted, “That’s it.” He held up a hand and stopped his horse. Magnus pulled the dray’s draft horse to a halt as well.

  “Why are we stopping?” Declan cast a worried look Caya’s way.

  “Trade places with Magnus,” Alex ordered.

  “What? No.” He had asked Magnus to ride with Caya for a reason. Magnus was kind and didn’t have difficulty making polite conversation with women. Declan wouldn’t know what to say to her, and he certainly wouldn’t know what to do about her unhappiness.

  “There’s another three hours before we reach Balforss. Best you speak with the lass before we see my ma and da.”

  “But she’s upset.” Declan kept his voice to a low rasp.

  “Of course, she is. She’s probably scairt to death.” Alex matched his volume but didn’t hide his disgust. “You havenae told her anything. Nae doubt she’s wondering what’s to happen and imagining the worst.”

  His cousin was right. He’d been a coward not to talk to her.

  Alex called out to Magnus, “We’ll stop here and water the horses.” They dismounted, and Alex pulled him aside. “Mind you, give her an opportunity to take care of her personal needs.”

  He stepped back, shocked and embarrassed. “How do I ken if she needs to…erm?”

  Alex huffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. “Do you have to piss?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s your cue,” Alex said, jabbing a finger into the middle of Declan’s brow on each word. Then Alex led their horses to a stream a few yards away, leaving him standing alone in the road, rubbing his forehead.

  Magnus jumped down off the dray and grabbed a water bucket from the back.

  As he passed him, he asked in a low voice, “Has she said anything?”

  “Not a word.” Magnus continued on toward the burn without stopping.

  Declan approached the dray slowly, gathering his courage along the way. How the hell was he going to ask her if she needed to piss? When he reached her side, she brushed the hood of her cloak away. Between the sunlight in her hair and the blue of her eyes, he was transfixed for a moment, pinned to the earth and speechless.

  At last, he said, “Are you well, Miss Pendarvis?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

  He felt himself flush from his boots to the roots of his hair when she spoke to him. He reached both hands up, an offer to help her down.

  She slipped into his embrace easily, his big hands circling her waist. She weighed less than a full sack of barley. He would have to be careful not to injure her.

  “Erm. If you come this way, I’ll show you a spot where you can have your privacy.”

  “Thank you.” She made a pretty curtsy.

  He bowed awkwardly and turned his head away, worried she might see how uncomfortable he was. Once Miss Pendarvis was tucked behind a patch of raspberry bushes, he walked back toward the road and waited.

  When she returned, he asked, “Would you mind if I rode with you a while?”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. Not an enthusiastic welcome but neither did she seem averse to his company.

  After the horses drank their fill and everyone had a turn behind the raspberry bushes, Magnus and Alex mounted up, and Declan helped her aboard the dray. He snapped the reins, and the brawny draft horse clomped forward. Each time the wagon jolted and rocked, her wee body bumped against his, a sensation that both pleased and disconcerted him.

  He chanced a keek at Caya. How had her bottom lip become stained red? Ah, yes. She’d eaten a few of the newly-ripened raspberries from the bush. That must be why she smelled so sweet. His mouth watered. He swallowed and looked down. The lassie clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She was scared. Knowing she was afraid caused him physical pain, a sharp pang just below his left ribs. He had to ease her worry, if not for her, for his own comfort.

  “There’s naught to be afraid of, lass. You’ll stay at Balforss. It’s a fine house. The other ladies there will like you. I know they will.”

  She said nothing, kept her gaze on the road, back straight, hands twisting in her lap.

  He plowed on, desperate to assuage her fear. “I’m building another house. It’s almost finished. Almost ready. I even made a special room for you. A room of your own. To do what ladies do in private. I ken ladies like a bathing tub.” He turned and motioned behind them to where the wooden crate took up most of the room on the wagon bed. “That’s a bathing tub I bought for the house while I was in Wick.” His eyes darted sideways to see what effect his words had.

  She stared straight ahead in concentration.

  “It’s imported. From France. It’s called a lady’s boudoir bathing tub. Made out of zinc and painted a pretty green with flower designs—”

  “Stop the wagon. Stop the wagon now,” she shouted.

  “Did I—”

  “Stop the wagon or I’ll jump.”

  He pulled the dray to a creaking halt. Alex and Magnus turned back, their heads cocked at a questioning angle. He shrugged helplessly.

  She reached for her traveling bag, tossed it on the ground, and attempted to leap from the dray.

  “Wait. Let me help you.”

  She hit the ground and crumpled to her knees. He scrambled out after her and tried to help her to her feet, but she shook him off. In a huff, she collected her bag and walked back in the direction of Wick. What had he said to trigger her anger?

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  No answer.

  Decl
an followed at her heels. “Does the bathing tub not please you?”

  Still, no answer.

  “Is it the O’Malley man? The one you’re promised to? Do you want me to take you to him?”

  “Is something amiss, Declan?” Alex called.

  He waved his meddling cousin off, then hurried to catch up with his Cornishy fiancée. “I’m sorry. Whatever I’ve done or said, I’m sorry, but you cannae go off on your own. It’s no’ safe. At least let me take you—”

  Miss Pendarvis whirled around, her eyes flashing. “You lied to me, Mr. Sinclair. I would rather scrub floors than lower myself to work in a house of…of…of that nature.”

  “What nature?” he asked, baffled by her angry outburst.

  “A house of…fallen women.” She lifted her chin, spun, and continued her march.

  He hurried to her side again. “Why would you think a thing like that?”

  She kept her angry pace, spitting out her words with each step. “All you’ve talked about is houses with private rooms and French ladies and bathing tubs. What else am I to think?”

  Realization dawned, and Declan paused in the middle of the road, mortified. His legs had stopped working. Words backed up in his throat. She thought he ran a bawdy house. He could kick himself for not explaining things better. He had to set her straight, but all that came out were half-finished words. Her assumptions about his moral fabric had rankled him so completely he was speechless. Finally, he forced a complete word out of his mouth in a shout.

  “Stop!”

  She ignored him and walked on, back stiff, head held high. Jesus, she was proud.

  “I said stop,” he shouted with authority.

  Most grown men would have hesitated at the sound of his voice, but the wee bizzum kept moving.

  Finally, he hollered, “I’ve never even seen the inside of a brothel. My sister would kill me!”

  Alex and Magnus laughed. He would murder them later. At the moment, all he cared about was making things right with Caya.

  She slowed her march until she came to a stop.

  He took several steps toward her, so he needn’t shout. “I built the house for you. You and me. No one else,” he said in a voice he used to gentle horses.

  She faced him. Her eyes narrowed, seeming to search his for the truth. “That’s ridiculous. You just met me. How could you build a house for me?”

  “For my wife. We are to marry. I gave my word.” A long silence passed. Still she made no move. He ached to close the distance between them but didn’t dare make any sudden movement. “I was trying to tell you before…you’ll live at Balforss with the laird’s family until the wedding. You’ll be well cared for. Treated like the lady you are. If, after we reach the house, you change your mind, I’ll take you back to your brother. But for now”—he straightened—“you’re coming with me.”

  She made a pssht sound. Then she turned her chin away and lowered her gaze. He’d seen his sister Margaret do that when she was miffed about something but didn’t want to admit she was wrong. He held his breath. She kicked a stone with the toe of her dainty boot. Some of the tension seemed to leave her body.

  He wiped beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It shouldn’t be this complicated. Collecting his wife should be a simple matter of taking her home with him, wedding her, and bedding her. Why was it proving so difficult?

  He moved toward her, one careful step at a time, like stalking a deer, so as not to frighten her into running again. He took the bag from her small, pale hand. She didn’t resist. Then he walked back toward the wagon, praying to God she would follow.

  …

  Caya turned his words over in her head. I built the house for you. You and me. No one else. He was so earnest, so in need of her understanding. But what did he mean?

  “You just met me. How could you build a house for me?”

  “For my wife,” he'd said. “We are to marry. I gave my word.”

  His words scorched the back of her neck. My wife. We are to marry. For an instant, the kiss, the one she’d imagined last night, came back to her, the memory of it, soft and searing. The box containing her most wicked fantasies threatened to pop open and she quickly sat on the lid.

  Who was this man?

  Sinclair. His name was Sinclair. And he was not, thank God, a trader in flesh. He stood before her, still talking, saying things, things that seemed important to him, but the words held no meaning for her. His voice soothed her, and just like last night, his soft brown eyes looked directly into hers as if they’d met before.

  “You’re coming with me,” he said.

  Although his tone was kind, she didn’t like the demand.

  He moved closer to her. Slowly. Carefully. He was tall. Very, very tall. She noticed the great weight of her traveling bag only after he took it from her. She half expected him to capture her hand and pull her to the wagon. Instead, Mr. Sinclair returned to the wagon and waited for her.

  Had she misunderstood his words because she was guilty of thinking wicked thoughts? Because, if she was honest with herself, choosing the dark and dangerous Scot had answered her most secret fantasy: to be desired by a powerful man, a man of strength and intelligence who could protect her from all the ills in the world. Caya set aside those thoughts to examine them when she could be alone.

  “I’m coming,” she said, moving toward the wagon. “But not because you ordered me to.”

  When she reached him, he asked, “Are you coming because you want to?”

  “Because I choose to,” she snapped back. She also chose to ignore the pleased look on his face.

  For the third time, he helped her aboard the wagon. For the third time, she breathed in his scent. Not an acrid sweat like her brother nor the unwashed stink of the sailors. Mr. Sinclair smelled like saddle leather and road dust—earthy. Was he a farmer, then? Like her father? She would like to marry a farmer.

  He was nothing short of decorous, his touch light and polite. Even so, she felt the man’s strength. She had seen him come close to violence. He could have snapped her brother’s neck with one hand. Yet, Mr. Sinclair had also been kind, soft-spoken, even gentlemanly. As he was being right now.

  He motioned to the other Sinclair men. “Ride on. We’ll catch you up.” Then he climbed onto the wagon beside her. He fixed his gaze on the reins in his hand. “I need to know…do you want me to take you to O’Malley? If you have your heart set on the man, I’ll understand. I dinnae want to marry someone who prefers another.”

  Her heart? Was he making fun of her? She’d never even met Mr. O’Malley. Her brother had made the arrangements, a small payment up front, the balance upon delivery, like a load of goods. She had been suspicious of her brother’s bargain all along. Jack’s business negotiations had all been failures. Why would the one with O’Malley be any different? And what kind of man would purchase a wife sight unseen?

  “I ken you’re sad,” Mr. Sinclair said. “I’d do anything to change the way things happened.”

  His kind words left her breathless. She managed to say, “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t wish to marry Mr. O’Malley.”

  He smiled at her. Again. A heartbreakingly sweet smile. One she couldn’t ignore. She smiled back at him as if she had no power to resist.

  “Och, I nearly forgot.” He reached inside a pocket of his coat and pulled out her mother’s jade ring. “This belongs to you.”

  She stopped herself from snatching the ring from his hand. “No. It’s yours. You won it.”

  “Aye. I did. And now it’s mine to give to you.” He placed the ring in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “There now,” he said, the tone of his voice and the two words conveying the understanding that everything was settled and she had nothing more to worry about, ever.

  He cleared his throat and arranged his face into its earlier sober condition. “Erm…My family will want to ken how you came to be with us. They’ll accept you no matter what I tell them. But I dinnae want to cause you any
more pain. So, I leave it to you. What would you have me say?”

  Again, Caya was momentarily stunned by Mr. Sinclair’s offer. The consideration he afforded her was beyond anything she’d ever witnessed between men and women.

  “There’s no point in making up a story,” she said. “I doubt any other explanation would suffice.”

  He smiled again, this time with an exhale of relief. “As you wish.”

  Without thinking, she barked out the question that had plagued her for miles. “Why did you do it?”

  Mr. Sinclair tilted his head. “Do what?”

  “Why did you accept my brother’s wager? Why did you gamble for me?” Her body shook with suspicion and anger. She needed to understand why any man would do such a thing.

  “I wanted you, of course.” He seemed confused by her question.

  “What did you wager in return?”

  His soft brown eyes never wavered from her gaze. As if his answer should have been plain from the start, he said, “Everything.”

  She didn’t know how she expected him to respond, but it certainly wasn’t that. So used to Jack’s lies, she’d almost forgotten what truth sounded like. Did Mr. Sinclair speak the truth? Did he really want her?

  He dipped his head. With a sharp whistle and a snap of the reins, the wagon rattled forward.

  …

  Jack woke, brutal hands dragging him half-conscious from his bed and out into the hallway.

  “Release me at once.” He yanked himself free. “How dare you—”

  “Get going.” The fearsome-looking man shoved at his back repeatedly. Jack tripped down the stairs, stumbled through the tavern room, and lurched out of the tavern into the daylight. His tormentor gave him one final push that sent him sprawling facedown in the dirt. He got to his knees and squinted through the sunshine at a man, a ruffian, with a musket cradled in his arm. Standing to his right, a slightly better dressed man stared down at him with a malicious grin.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes. “What is the meaning of this?”

  From behind him, Jack’s assailant grabbed him by the back of his stock, making it difficult for him to breathe.

  “You’ll be owing me a wife, Mr. Pendarvis,” the gentleman said with an Irish lilt. He gestured to the man holding his collar. “Mr. Boyle here says she’s not within. Where is she?”