“As are we.” He folded his arms, and cocked his head, defying Alex to contradict him.
Alex grinned like a rogue. “You sly devil. Congratulations, man.”
He endured a back pummeling and his cousin’s enthusiastic felicitations.
“By the way, what the hell happened to the lassie’s lip? Ye didnae bite her, did ye?” Alex asked, one eyebrow cocked just as Laird John would do when riled.
“She was on her way to see me at the stillhouse and ran into her bloody fucking brother.”
“He did that to her?” Alex asked aghast.
“Aye. And when I find him, I may kill him.”
“Not if I find him first.”
“Come on,” Declan said. “I’ll saddle Gullfaxi and follow you back. I need to talk to Uncle John.”
When they reached Balforss, Declan helped the women from the carriage. To see Caya with her face aglow, havering and laughing with Lucy, the both of them bubbling with excitement, and to know that she was his, filled his heart to bursting. He should remember to thank the gods, old and new, for his wife, the most beautiful gowan in the field.
“Will you come wi’ me to talk to your da?” he asked Alex.
“For all the good it will do. He’s going to murder you for being alone with Caya.”
“I know it.” His legs shook. Odd. He could stand before Napoleon’s army without breaking a sweat, but provoking his uncle’s wrath had him about to fill his boots.
Laird John was at his desk when they entered the library. Without lifting his head from his writing, he asked, “You found Caya?”
“Yes, sir,” Alex and Declan spoke in unison. They stood at attention. Force of habit.
Laird John dipped his quill and continued to write. The room was so still Declan could hear the nib scratch the paper. “Where did you find her?”
“I met her by chance on the drover path.”
His uncle stopped writing and slowly lifted his head from his work.
Declan launched into the rest of his tale, rushing to get it out, as quick and painless as he hoped his uncle’s retribution would be. “She was injured and upset so I carried her to the stillhouse. When she felt better, we walked to Taldale. I was about to give her a ride home when Alex and Lucy arrived.”
“You were alone with Caya again? After I’ve told you repeatedly I forbid it?”
Alex scratched the side of his neck, a casual gesture. “Ah, I ken Margaret was about somewhere. Was she not, cousin?”
He gave Alex a look of sincere thanks. “Oh, aye. Margaret saw to her injury, to be sure.” Neither of them had lied. They simply hadn’t told the whole truth.
Laird John made a skeptical-sounding grunt.
“We’re engaged,” Declan said. “To be married,” he added just to clarify.
Laird John rose from his desk and walked toward him, one awful eyebrow cocked. He stopped four inches from his face, and Declan resisted the urge to back away.
“I didnae say you could court.” Laird John inhaled. “But, I suppose enough time has passed.” His uncle dropped heavy hands on his shoulders, a rough benediction. “Congratulations. I trust the lass is informing your auntie Flora as we speak.”
“Aye. Thank you, sir.”
Laird John headed toward the cabinet where he kept his whisky. While his back was turned, Declan summoned the courage to ask, “So, it’s all right if we handfast?”
John’s back stiffened, and he turned a face of unmasked anger toward him. “What did you do?” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“Nothing, Uncle. I wouldnae. It’s just, I dinnae want to wait. I want to marry her now. Tomorrow, maybe. Or Saturday. Soon.”
Laird John stared with narrowed eyes for what felt like an eternity until, seemingly satisfied Declan was telling the truth, he flopped into one of the wingback chairs and rubbed his forehead. His uncle had no idea how close he and Caya had just come to consummating their marriage.
“I sympathize with you, lad. I do. If Caya were a Scot, I would agree. But handfasting is not the way of her people. She needs a church wedding.”
His head felt too heavy for his neck to support and let it drop. “Aye. You’re right, sir.” A month. At least. The banns had to be read out loud in kirk three Sundays before he could wed her. Having tasted her passion, how could he wait that long?
He became conscious of his uncle, who was still speaking, the quality of his voice having altered from authoritative to exigent.
“Sorry, sir. What did you say?”
“The chief magistrate, Lord Assery, visited today. He delivered bad news. Jack Pendarvis is wanted for murdering a sailor in Wick.”
“Bloody hell,” he and Alex said at the same time.
“He wanted to ask Caya if she’s seen anything of her brother. I told him none of us has seen the man.”
Declan felt sick to his stomach.
“I’m sorry to dampen the good spirits of what should be a happy day, nephew. Would you want to tell Caya, or shall I?”
“Oh God, no,” he said, nearly buckling from the pain in his gut.
“I ken the news will upset the lass, but it’s best she hears it from you rather than from someone else,” Alex said.
“No. I mean aye, but…oh God.” He unburdened himself to Alex and his uncle. He told the whole shameful story about Caya suspecting Jack had attacked Peter and begging him to find and help her brother.
“I found him the next day dead drunk inside the stillhouse.” He appealed to his uncle. “I’m sorry but I had to do it, Uncle. Caya asked me to help her. How could I say no?”
“Where is he?”
“I dinnae ken. I had stashed him away in Scrabster, but he must have gotten away because Caya came across him on the path to the stillhouse this afternoon. The bastard assaulted her. I would have gone after him, but she was injured and so upset.”
“Pour me a dram,” John said. “Pour all of us a dram and sit.”
Alex filled three pewter cups and handed them around. After downing his, Declan sank into a chair and put his face in his hands.
“I understand what you did and why you did it. I dinnae blame you,” his uncle said. “But why did you no’ come to me?”
“You ken well enough why,” he said miserably. “You are Laird. It would be your duty to find Jack and deliver him to the magistrate.”
John finished his whisky and rose from his comfortable chair. The man had made a decision. “You are right, nephew. And now you know what I must do.”
Declan went above stairs to break the news to Caya while the others readied the horses. He dreaded this duty. It was like delivering news of a death. From behind Flora’s parlor door he heard female laughter, Caya’s blended with Lucy’s like a sweet chorus. He cherished the sound, would do anything not to take this happy moment away from her. But he could see no way around it.
He knocked. Flora’s voice beckoned him inside. Three smiling faces greeted him. One in particular took his breath away.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Nonsense. Come in and sit down, dear,” Flora said.
He crossed the room and knelt before Caya.
Her smile faded. “Is something wrong?”
There was no other way to say it but to just say it. “I’m sorry, love. Terrible news has reached Balforss. Your brother is wanted for murder.”
Flora and Lucy gasped, but he cared only for Caya’s response. At first, there was no change in her face or her breathing. He thought she might swoon or cry or shout a denial. Instead, her eyes became unfocused. Her lips formed the word “murder.”
Then she whispered, “When?”
“I dinnae ken. It happened in Wick.”
“Who?”
“A sailor. That’s all I know.” He took her hands in his. “Look at me, love. Please.”
She appeared stunned, the same look she had the morning he took her from the tavern.
“I need to go with the men now and find him before someone else does. It
’ll go easier for him if we take him to the magistrate. Do you understand?”
“This is my fault,” she said.
“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “This is not your fault. You are not to blame for anything your brother does. Believe me.”
She turned to Flora, eyes brimming with tears. “I brought this trouble to your doorstep. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
He rose and let Flora take his place.
“Hush now, a nighean. Come. You’ll rest a bit.” She helped Caya to her feet, then put an arm around her for support and walked her out of the parlor.
Lucy patted his arm. “We’ll take good care of her.”
Outside, Gullfaxi stomped and nickered with impatience. Declan had taken longer than the beast had liked. “Sorry,” he said and swung into the saddle. Alex, Ian, and his uncle ambled up the path on horseback and paused.
“What are we waiting for?”
Alex hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Him.”
A shaggy pony trotted up the path with Peter’s stick-thin body bouncing in the saddle, his blond hair flying in the wind, making him look more like a dandelion gone to seed than a boy.
“He wanted to come along,” Alex said with resignation. “When I told him no, he said it was his pirate, and he was coming whether I liked it or no’.”
“You cannae argue with that,” Ian said.
“Are you armed?” Declan asked Peter.
“Aye, and I brought the rope.” The boy held up a coiled length of hemp.
“We’re no’ going to hang him,” Uncle John said.
Peter set his jaw. “When we catch him, I’m going to tie him up tight so he cannae get away again.”
Declan stood in the back hallway of Kinney’s tavern, staring into the room where he’d left Jack Pendarvis. “How can you lose an entire person?”
Mr. Kinney flung his arms up and down like he was about to take flight. “Feed and water him like a cow,” he shouted at his wife. “That’s all I asked ye to do.”
Mrs. Kinney wept into her apron.
“Ye’ve gone and cocked it up, woman.” Kinney shook his head in disgust. “I’m sorry, Sinclair.”
Jesus. Laird John and the others were waiting just outside Scrabster to take Jack to the magistrate in Thurso. What the hell had happened to the bampot? He elbowed Mr. Kinney aside and pried the weeping woman’s apron away from her face. “Here now, Mrs. Kinney. There’s no use crying. Did you take him somewhere else?”
She shook her head.
“Did someone come for him?”
She shook her head again.
“Did he escape?”
Mrs. Kinney said in a small voice, “He said he jess needed some air an’ could I leave the door open. He wasnae goin’ anywhere.”
Bloody hell. “He left on his own then?”
“Oh, aye.”
“Can you tell me where he’s gone?”
She sniffed and hiccupped, then chanced a look at her husband.
“Go on, woman. Tell him what you know,” he commanded.
Mrs. Kinney waddled down the hall and into the tavern. Declan followed her to the window, where she pointed to the lights aboard a ship anchored in the middle of the harbor.
“Old Mrs. McConnechy telt me her mister rowed him out yesterday.”
Declan stormed out the tavern door.
Kinney called after him, “What aboot that cask of whisky?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Declan related the news of Pendarvis’s escape to the Balforss men waiting by the highway. “I’m sorry, Uncle.” He expected Laird John to be angry, but the man made no response.
Eager for action as always, Alex suggested they take a skiff out to the ship, find Pendarvis, and drag him back to shore.
Laird John shook his head. “Nae. We’re done here.”
“But, Da, he’s a murderer.”
“I said we’re done.” He turned to Declan, well out of Peter’s earshot. “If I can spare Caya pain, I will.”
Declan bowed his head, grateful for his uncle’s kindness.
“It’s late,” Laird John added. “Go to the magistrate tomorrow morning and tell him what you know. If he wants Pendarvis bad enough, he and his men will take him from the ship.”
Declan breathed a sigh of relief. “Please dinnae tell Caya anything until after I speak to the magistrate tomorrow.”
Laird John gave a sharp nod, then called to the others, “Alex, Ian, Peter, let’s go home.”
Declan watched them ride back toward Balforss. If luck was with him, the ship would sail tomorrow morning, too late for the magistrate to capture Jack. Then he could tell Caya her brother was safe away. She would not have to watch him hang. They would be free of her brother forever, and everything would be good again. He looked up to the heavens. The sky was darkening.
Bloody hell.
…
Images of Jack dangling by his neck at the end of a hangman’s rope had made Caya’s insides swirl until she thought she might be sick. Flora and Lucy visited her room several times, offering her comfort, but their kindness only made things worse. How could they be so forgiving after all the grief she’d brought to Balforss?
She paced circles around her tiny bedchamber, waiting for the men to return. Declan promised her Jack would be safer if found by the men of Balforss. But what would happen after they left him with the magistrate? Would they hurt him? Hang him without a trial? She’d never seen a hanging, but she had heard that, for some, the end was not quick. At last, exhausted with heartache and worry, she collapsed on her bed and sobbed herself to sleep.
The next morning, she dressed in a trance. Haddie entered her room to change the bed linens and offer her pity, something she wanted no part of. She struggled to maintain her patience with the maid.
“That’s a pretty gown, miss, but are you sure you want to be wearing the white muslin? It’s a sunny day, to be sure, but there’s a chill.” She was sweet, solicitous, and overly mindful, but Caya wasn’t fragile, she was just upset.
“It doesn’t matter.” Nothing mattered anymore. “Did the men return last night?”
Haddie’s pretty smile dimmed. “Aye, but they didnae find your brother.”
Her legs wobbled, and she grabbed hold of the bedpost to keep herself from crumpling to the floor. The maid dropped the linens and helped her to sit on the side of the bed.
“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. Thank you. I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.”
Haddie excused herself, leaving Caya alone to think. They hadn’t found Jack. What did that mean? More in need of news than nourishment, she went downstairs to the breakfast table and found Flora and Lucy already sipping tea.
Flora greeted her with, “Good morning, dear. The men came back late last night. John is in his study, and Alex and Ian are still abed.” She touched Caya’s arm. “Dinnae fash yourself. Declan will find him.”
Jack had said he’d be at Mrs. McConnechy’s house. She should tell Declan. Again, she worried about the rough treatment Jack would receive if captured by strangers. New visions of Jack being beaten and dragged by an angry mob flashed through her mind. She flinched when Lucy interrupted her nightmare.
“Have a bite of toasted bread with jam. You ate nothing for supper last night.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve no appetite this morning.” She excused herself from the breakfast table. “If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll go for a walk.”
“Stay close, a nighean. They still haven’t—” Flora stopped herself before she said, They still haven’t found the murderer. Or at least that’s what she thought Flora would have said.
She fled the house at a trot and kept up the pace until she was well away from the people working the farm. She needed to be alone with such terrible thoughts. Jack had betrayed her trust, lied, tried to steal a horse, harmed Peter, and murdered a man. Yesterday he had been violent with her. Stru
ck her in the face. Still, she couldn’t forget the once gentle, sweet young boy who had buried his face in her skirts when it thundered, called her name when he’d had a bad dream, or given her gifts of frogs and beetles. The Jack she knew couldn’t have killed deliberately. It had to have been an accident or self-defense. But who would believe him now after everything else he’d done?
She hadn’t made it all the way to the duck pond when a barking Hercules bounded down the path after her, ears flapping in the wind. When he reached her, he danced on hind legs, pawing at her skirt. The sight of his little wiggling body lifted her spirits.
“Caya,” Lucy called, waving her hand. “Vicar James would like a word with you.”
Oh no. Not the vicar. Not today. Not now. Caya glanced from side to side like a cornered animal ready to flee. Should she run and hide? Lie and say she was too ill to see him? Tell Lucy to turn him away?
Her shoulders sagged with the uncharitable thoughts. James was a good man. He’d shown her kindness. He deserved better from her.
“On my way.” She waved back. She willed herself into a better disposition. Sometimes it was necessary to pretend to be untroubled for the benefit of others.
Lucy directed her to Laird John’s study. Two faces etched with emotion greeted her—Vicar James’s with dread, Laird John’s with anger. No doubt, the vicar had arrived with bad news. Had he come to tell her Jack was dead? She braced herself, feeling empty, hollow, her senses dulled. Even the tips of her fingers were numb.
Laird John rose from his desk and shot the vicar a hard look. “Ten minutes and I’ll be waiting right across the hall.” He exited the room, leaving her alone with James in an altogether too quiet room.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He gestured to the wingback chairs in front of the hearth. “Please sit. I need to talk with you about something.”
The vicar had on his coat and held his hat in his hands. Either he hadn’t been invited to remove them or he’d refused. Either way, it was a bad sign. He sat with a sigh and leaned forward.
“Yesterday I learned that your brother is wanted for…” He halted and looked away.
“Murder,” she finished for him. Surprising how she was able to say the word more easily than Vicar James.
Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss) Page 23
