Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  …

  Flashes of white light sparked behind his eyes. The world had gone dark, and he was flying. No. Floating. No. Falling. He seemed to be falling forever. Was this what dying was all about? If so, why did the back of his head hurt like the devil?

  Something smacked him square in the face. He gasped from the shock of it and choked violently. Shite. He couldn’t breathe. He was choking to death in the freezing blackness. Then he stopped his struggling. Let his arms and legs go limp. He shouldn’t fight back. Let death take him. A fair trade for Caya’s life. And she was alive. He’d seen her.

  Wait. Did Caya make it off the boat? Did the Sinclairs prevail? Shite. Was the battle yet won? He had to finish. He kicked and waved his arms about until he broke the surface of his death. He coughed and spit up sea water. Bloody hell. He’d been tossed in the drink.

  “Declan.”

  Caya’s voice.

  “Declan.”

  She sounded close. He spun around in the water, searching. And then he spotted her. Just there. Her back to him. Her yellow hair waving on the surface of the water. Her white shift spread out around her like she was sitting in the middle of one huge gowan.

  Exactly like his dream.

  “Declan!”

  “I’m here, Caya.”

  She turned her head, and the terror in her eyes changed to blessed relief. She swam toward him, cutting easily through the black water.

  “Are you all right, love?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes. Why are you looking at me funny?”

  “It’s my dream. This is my dream.”

  “Hey,” a male voice called out.

  They looked up at Alex leaning over the ship’s railing, lowering a basket contraption.

  “Grab hold of this and I’ll pull you up,” Alex called.

  Caya swam toward the basket, then paused to look back. “Declan?”

  “Swim, ye numpty,” Alex called.

  Bloody hell. He didn’t know how.

  “Kick your legs and paddle your arms like this.” Caya demonstrated.

  He swallowed a mouthful of water and coughed. His head slipped below the water, and he kicked hard. When he broke the surface again, Caya was bobbing in the water before him.

  “Come to me, Declan,” she said, her voice sultry like a siren. She drifted backward toward the ship and the dangling basket. “Keep your eyes on me, my love. Kick your legs and paddle your arms and come to me.”

  He kicked and kicked and kicked, never taking his eyes off his beloved, his Caya, the most beautiful gowan in the field.

  They both tumbled out of the basket contraption and onto the deck, clinging to each other and shivering in the morning chill. Alex and Laird John helped them to their feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Declan saw Ian and Magnus stacking dead bodies on the opposite end of the deck.

  “Anyone injured?” Declan asked.

  “Magnus was cut on the chin, but he’ll do,” his uncle said, removing his coat. “There were more of them than we anticipated, but they’re all dead.” Laird John wrapped his coat around Caya’s shoulders. “Take her inside the captain’s quarters. You’ll find blankets in there and maybe another shirt for you.”

  He was grateful his uncle had covered Caya with a coat. Her thin wet cotton gown clung to her round bottom, leaving little to the imagination. Although he appreciated the sight of her backside, he didn’t want anyone else looking at her.

  Before she would let him lead her away, Caya called out to Peter.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “There are clothes in the hold where they kept us. Will you bring me something dry to wear?”

  “Aye, miss.” Peter ran toward the hatch opening.

  “And, Peter,” she said, teeth chattering, “you were very brave today. You saved us.”

  The boy grinned and swept a deep bow. “Your servant, miss.”

  Declan ushered Caya through a door under the quarterdeck and into what he assumed was the captain’s cabin. The ceiling was too low for him to stand upright. A wide window spanning the aft end of the room allowed the morning light to warm the jumbled contents of the chamber, including a table with a map anchored at one end by a plate of half-eaten food and a flagon of ale at the other. Declan righted a chair lying in their way and sat Caya down on a berth with rumpled bedclothes.

  “It smells terrible in here,” she said.

  He imagined the room carried the stench of O’Malley, a man she wouldn’t like to remember. He threw open the window, letting the sea air inside, then turned to her.

  “Better?”

  She nodded and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  With the battle over, uncertainty settled in. “Why?” he asked. “I ken why you went to warn your brother, but why did you go away with O’Malley?”

  “He was going to hurt Peter if I didn’t go with him. And…”

  “Did you change your mind? Do you not want to marry me anymore?”

  “How can you marry me knowing Jack was a thief and a murderer? With everyone knowing he was a criminal?”

  “His crimes are not yours, love. I dinnae care at all aboot him. I ken you’re sad he’s dead, but truth be told, it’s for the best.”

  Caya’s face crumpled. “You’re not angry?”

  “Never.”

  “You still want to marry me?”

  “Oh, aye.” He felt the ground under him growing solid.

  “Why? Because I’m the woman in your dream?”

  “Nae. I dinnae care about the daft dream. It’s you. You’re the reason. I want to marry you because…” This was it. This was the moment Alex had told him to expect. He would have to tell Caya things, true things, things he felt. Declan took a deep breath. Smiling, half embarrassed, but determined to reveal his soul, he began.

  “I want to protect you, provide for you, give you a fine house and a good life. I want to see you every day. Not just now and then. You are the first person I want to see when I open my eyes in the morning. You are the person I want sitting across the supper table from me. I want to hear you laugh and sing and shout my name. I wouldnae mind if you scolded me now and then, as long as I can be with you, hold you in my arms every night. I could bear anything as long as we can live together as husband and wife.”

  A beam of sunlight slanted across her face. Those eyes, those lips, those precious freckles, he’d almost lost them forever. He crossed to her in two steps, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her, knowing he was too rough. But he was desperate. “And this,” he said, breathing hard. “I need this—what’s between us—this passion. I need it.” She kissed him back with equal hunger. He never wanted the kiss to end. He never wanted to let her go.

  “Yeck.”

  He broke their kiss and whirled around. Peter stood in the cabin doorway with a gown wadded in his hands and a look of disgust on his face. Declan’s initial impulse was anger for the interruption, but the sound of Caya’s laughter made his irritation melt away.

  “Thank you, Peter,” she said. “Where are the other ladies?”

  “The vicar and Mr. Fergus rowed them to shore. They’ll be back with the boat in about a quarter of an hour, I ken.”

  “Leave the gown on the chair. I’ll meet you on deck in a minute or two,” Declan said.

  “Are you going to kiss some more?” Peter asked, his nose wrinkled.

  Declan lost what little patience he had left. “Get out!”

  Peter darted away, slamming the cabin door shut behind him.

  “You mustn’t be mean to Peter,” she said, sounding like she was teasing him.

  “No one,” he said, dead serious, “will ever keep me from you again.” He had just placed his lips on Caya’s when he heard Laird John shout his name from outside the cabin door. He pulled away and closed his eyes. “Except my uncle.” He sighed. “Change your wet clothes and rest. The boat will be here soon.”

  Before he slipped out the door, Caya said, “I love you.”

  He caught his breath, and for a
moment his world went perfectly silent, perfectly still. “I love you, too,” he said and answered her smile with one of his own.

  Still reeling from the thrill of her words, it took him a while to orient himself. Outside in the open, the specifics of their situation came into focus—eight dead bodies, a blood-soaked deck, his precious whisky on board, and no one knew how to sail the damned ship.

  Magnus leaned against the railing, holding a cloth to his face. Ian, Alex, and Laird John stood facing Declan, arms folded, still wearing their ridiculous pirate clothes, faces and shirt fronts soaked in blood. He glanced down and remembered he looked just as absurd in loose-fitting slops still wet from his swim in the sea.

  “How fares the lass?” his uncle asked.

  “She’s uninjured.”

  His uncle tipped his head, and he understood his meaning.

  “Nae. I dinnae think anyone…violated her.”

  “Sir,” Peter called from the other end of the ship. Laird John held up a finger for the boy to wait.

  “Good,” his uncle said, still looking grim. “That’s good.”

  “What’s next, Da?” Ian asked.

  Laird John inhaled deeply. “We get Caya and Magnus to shore. Hamish will see them home. Then, we unload the whisky.”

  “Laird John, sir,” Peter called out again. Still, the laird paid the boy no mind.

  “We’ve got hours of work ahead of us, men,” Laird John sighed.

  “Sir,” Peter shouted. At last, the boy got the laird’s full attention.

  “What is it, lad?”

  Peter stood before the eight dead bodies, frowning. “The captain’s not here.”

  No one said a word.

  The boy looked up, his eyes wide. He pointed a shaky finger at the bodies. “The captain’s not among the dead.”

  Declan lunged toward the captain’s cabin, threw open the door, and froze.

  …

  Caya had no warning before a greasy hand clapped over her mouth and cold steel pressed at her throat.

  “Don’t make a sound, darlin’, or I’ll slice your pretty little neck,” O’Malley’s saccharine voice rasped in her ear. “That’s the flat of my blade yer feelin’. Try to get away and I’ll turn the sharp edge on yer skin.”

  O’Malley pressed her head against his shoulder. His grip was brutal. She moaned.

  “We’ll wait here a while. Your billy boy will be back soon.” O’Malley’s breath smelled rotten and his body odor sour. “Let go my arms, pet.”

  Caya loosened the grip she had on his forearms and crossed her hands over her chest. O’Malley had watched her change into the dry gown. Bastard. She burned with anger from the inside. When Declan found out, he’d—oh Lord, no. Declan. He’d return to the cabin as soon as he ran out of patience waiting for her. What foolish thing would he do?

  The cabin door banged open, and O’Malley tensed.

  “Let her go!” Declan bellowed, teeth bared and eyes black with rage.

  The look on Declan’s face frightened her. She hoped it scared the devil out of O’Malley, too.

  Laird John and Ian’s faces peered over Declan’s shoulders from behind him.

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, gentlemen,” O’Malley said, sounding like he was welcoming them to breakfast.

  “You’ll never get off this ship alive,” Laird John said.

  “Then I’ll take the little lady with me. She’ll be fine company in hell.”

  Declan made a move and froze when O’Malley jerked his knife around, the sharp edge against her tender flesh. She felt the sting of it, followed by a warm trickle of blood.

  “Back away from the door. Jiggity-jig. I’m comin’ through. Try anything and I open the lady’s throat.”

  “Take me instead,” Declan said. “I’ll change places with her. I’d be of more use to you rowing the launch. Just let her go.”

  “Back away.”

  Caya heard the first note of panic in O’Malley’s voice.

  Declan, Ian, and Laird John backed out of the doorway, never taking their eyes off her.

  “Come on, darlin’. Right foot, then left foot, real slow.” Caya and O’Malley inched toward the door. At the threshold, O’Malley said, “I’m not a fool, Sinclair. There’s someone above ready to cave in my skull as soon as I come out. I heard the boards creaking. Tell ’em to come down.”

  Laird John signaled, and Magnus leaped down from the quarterdeck, holding a wooden mallet.

  “Back. Farther. Farther.” She and O’Malley stepped into the sunshine. The bright light made her squint. Declan was looking at her, his gaze unwavering. He seemed to be telling her something. Whatever it was, her fear receded. Perhaps that was his message. Don’t be afraid. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  O’Malley ordered the men to lay their swords and dirks on the deck where he could see them. The Sinclairs obeyed.

  “Tell the launch to pull up alongside,” O’Malley said. “Then hoist the basket to the deck. Caya and I are taking our leave.”

  “Vicar,” Laird John shouted. “The captain and Caya are coming down. You’re to row them ashore without trouble.”

  Caya heard Vicar James call back, “Right.”

  “Magnus, Ian, hoist the basket to the main deck,” Laird John ordered.

  The two men took hold of the rope and pulled hand over hand.

  O’Malley kept his eye on Declan and Laird John as he backed up to the railing with her gripped close to his body. “I mean it, gentlemen, one false move and I’ll slaughter this lamb.”

  Everyone but the ship went silent. The timbers groaned, the water slapped the sides, and the pulley squeaked as Ian and Magnus continued to hoist the basket.

  Peter stood next to Declan, almost glued to his side. Declan did a strange thing with his eyes. He flicked them downward to the deck. Repeatedly. Was that a signal?

  Suddenly, a roar came from behind her. “Put your finger up my arse! Put your finger up my arse!”

  She felt the blade leave her neck and O’Malley’s grip on her mouth loosen. She understood Declan’s signal. The deck. Drop to the deck. Everything seemed to happen at the same time. She slipped to her knees, Declan drew a dirk from the back of Peter’s belt and sailed through the air above her with the blade held high over his head. She curled into a ball and shut her eyes. A sickening sound similar to a cleaver smacking the flesh and bone of a pig, followed by a gurgling cry of agony. A heavy body landed on her back, forcing the air from her lungs.

  She drew in a breath and called out to Declan.

  In an instant, the weight rolled off her back, and Declan was at her side, pulling her into his lap, rocking her, murmuring Gaelic words, holding her tight. Too tight.

  “I can’t breathe,” she said.

  When he released her, he fumbled to look at her bleeding neck. “He hurt you. Bloody hell, he cut you. I wish I could kill him a hundred times.”

  She glanced back at O’Malley’s body, the handle of Peter’s dirk protruding from the juncture of his neck and shoulder, blood seeping out onto the wooden deck. His blank stare upset her, and she turned her face away.

  “Get him out of here,” Declan said.

  Alex hopped out of the basket and helped Ian pull O’Malley’s body away. It took her a moment to piece together that Ian and Magnus had hoisted the basket up with Alex inside. It was Alex who had distracted O’Malley by yelling… What had he said? Put your finger up my…

  “You three loons, pull yourselves together,” Laird John growled.

  Alex, Ian, and Magnus stood at the opposite end of the deck, doubled over laughing so hard no sound came out of them. They had turned red in the face and were holding their stomachs. Had they lost their minds?

  “What’s wrong with them?” Caya asked. She looked to Declan, who, like the others, was shaking with laughter. “I fail to see what’s so funny?”

  “Ignore them, Caya,” Laird John said, and he offered a hand to pull her to her feet.

  “Hey,” came a call from the
waters below.

  Caya stepped around the pool of O’Malley’s blood and went to the railing.

  Below, Vicar James stood in the rowboat, shading his eyes. “What’s going on up there?”

  …

  Declan retrieved Caya’s ring from O’Malley’s coat pocket at her request and slid it on her finger. When he was confident she’d stopped shaking, he took her hand in his and approached his uncle, determined to get the intractable patriarch to allow her to remain aboard ship with him until he went ashore.

  “She’s mine. I need her with me. I have to protect her.”

  “Until you’re wed, Caya is my responsibility.”

  “Then let us handfast now. Today.”

  Taking him aside, his uncle said, “Look at the lass, son. She’s been through hell. What she needs is the comfort and care of other women.”

  His uncle was right. He always was. In the end, he was allowed to hold her for another five minutes before Magnus rowed Caya and Laird John back to shore.

  “We’ll be together soon. I promise you,” he called down. He stood at the railing, watching until he was certain Caya reached the shore safely.

  She loves me and that’s all that matters.

  The vicar had come aboard The Tigress to take charge of the dead. He demonstrated the kind of strength and endurance Declan never thought possible in a man of the cloth. While he and his cousins brought the whisky barrels up from the cargo hold, James Oswald tied each body into a canvas hammock and weighted the makeshift shrouds with cannon shot. When Oswald had finished, they gathered on deck for a final prayer before dropping the bodies into the sea. The vicar treated each man with dignity. Declan doubted the pirates would have seen such care had they been hanged publicly.

  They let wee Peter sleep cradled in a coil of rope, while the four remaining men, Declan, James, Ian, and Alex, took turns ferrying the casks of whisky from the ship to the beach. Around midafternoon, Peter awoke ravenous. They stopped to eat the bread and cheese Ian had found in the cook’s larder.

  Alex emerged from the captain’s cabin with a bottle. “Wine,” he announced. “There’s two crates of it. Good, too.” He passed the bottle around. “They’d stocked the ship for a long voyage. The charts on the captain’s desk suggest they were headed for the Indies.”