Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  He had told her he liked her pretty name. At first, he’d thought she didn’t care for the compliment. When he’d explained his awkwardness, she’d said, “I think you’re doing fine,” which had made him feel quite good. In fact, everything about Caya, since the moment he’d first seen her, made him feel like he was more than he had been. Taller, stronger, smarter, braver—just…better.

  His dream was coming true. Granted, winning one’s wife in a card game was highly unconventional, but no one could deny he’d found his wife just as he had envisaged. Naturally, it would take time to adjust to each other. Things would be different for both of them. Caya would have to get used to the Highland way of life, and he would have to become accustomed to sharing his bed.

  Declan felt a stirring below his belt and set aside that last thought for another time.

  The banns. He should post the banns of marriage on the church door right away. Tomorrow was Sunday. He’d do it then. They would have to wait at least three Sundays for the banns to be called out in kirk. That meant they could marry in a month, enough time to start this season’s whisky and finish the house before the wedding.

  Caya would like the house. He’d built it with his bride in mind, consulted with his sisters Margaret and Lizzie, as well as Cousin Lucy and Auntie Flora. Declan had even asked Alex what a wife wanted most in a home. If all went according to plan, a month from now, his dream wife would become his real wife.

  Wife. He shifted on the hard, wooden seat of the dray. An issue of a more personal nature pecked at his liver. His father had died when he was too young to remember, leaving him the only male in a house full of women—his mother and two older sisters. He understood the female mind better than most men, but he’d never actually had a woman. Romantically speaking, that is.

  Oh, he’d kissed a few in his time. Gertie had let him fondle her breasts once or twice. He liked breasts. A lot. And the kitchen maid at the Latheron Inn had showed him more than one way to pleasure a woman. What would it be like to please Caya? To see her naked and open to him, to explore her body, pluck at her taut nipples, slip his fingers into her slick and complicated parts, to stroke and pet her until she—

  Jesus, man. It’s broad daylight.

  He stared ahead at Balforss and swallowed hard. Only one more hurdle, his uncle, Laird John. He was certain his uncle would agree to host Caya until their wedding. And he knew Lucy and Flora would make her welcome, but would Uncle John bless their union? Or might he object to the way in which Declan had found his wife? He didn’t need his uncle’s consent to marry, but he wanted it.

  He took an unsteady breath and gave the reins another snap. The draft horse kept a steady clop. No mind. Uncle John was a reasonable man. Once he explained the circumstances, made clear the reason it was necessary to remove Caya from the hands of her careless brother, his uncle would see his actions were justified.

  He glanced at the beauty seated beside him. Hopefully, Uncle John would understand, because he would not surrender Caya no matter what his uncle said. Not now. Not after having heard her voice and smelled her hair. Not after having felt the weight of her small self in his hands. No. He wouldn’t let her go. Not ever.

  Chapter Four

  Caya flinched when Declan snapped the reins. Her nerves were back, and she fought for control of her fear. The draft horse quickened its pace to a trot. Home was within sight, and the beast was probably eager for its reward—sweet grass, oats, and rest. She took a deep breath and prepared to meet her future.

  As their party neared, she assessed the estate with an experienced eye, the eye of a farmer’s daughter, noting a number of shaggy red cattle looking well-fed, a large field of winter wheat near to harvest, a collection of outbuildings in good repair, and, from the chimney smoke, people hard at work within them.

  They turned down a tree-lined lane, and the familiar blend of farm smells and sounds reached her. The clang of the smithy rang in the air. Horses sauntered toward the fence rail, whinnying welcomes, and nanny goats scolded their babies. The wagon rattled past a pen of squealing pink and black pigs, and a few frantic chickens scurried out of their path at the last second.

  She spotted the kailyard, a well-tended vegetable garden of an enviable size, showing a wealth of spring promise. Her father’s farm had looked like this once—busy and prosperous—before it had died a slow death from years of neglect.

  She turned toward shouts from robust laborers waving hellos, and the Sinclair men shouted back greetings in another tongue. Was it Gaelic? It sounded much like Kernewek, the Cornish language the simple folk of her village spoke. Three hounds raced to meet them and skidded to a stop. Their warning barks changed to excited whines of recognition.

  Caya remained in the wagon, feeling uneasy while she watched Declan and Alex have a huddled conversation with three people standing in front of the house, two ladies and an older man who was clearly a person of authority. The younger woman would be the wife of Alex. She was one of the most beautiful women Caya had ever seen. Dark, almost raven colored hair, clear complexion, and delicate features. She held a little girl no more than a year old. The child had been blessed with a riot of red ringlets that glowed in the afternoon sun. Alex took the child in his arms, and the family of three embraced. Theirs was the behavior of people in love. Something tightened inside her chest. A twinge of envy, perhaps? To be jealous of another person’s happiness was wrong. Yet, she longed for that kind of love, real love.

  The older woman, strikingly attractive in her own right, also greeted Alex with affection. Alex’s mother, more than likely. And the dark-haired gentleman equal in height to Declan was surely his uncle, Alex’s father, the Laird of Balforss. As Declan continued to speak, his uncle’s smiling face darkened. Caya shivered. The laird was not happy. That could not be good for her.

  Magnus rode up beside the wagon and paused. “Dinnae fash, lass,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “You will be well-received. It’ll just take the laird a moment to…adjust.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair…Magnus.”

  The big man smiled back at her.

  Declan broke from the group and walked toward her. His face, unreadable, gave no clue as to how things stood. Would she be turned away, in spite of Magnus’s certainty? She resolved not to make a fuss. Whatever her fate, she would accept it. Yet, even though she barely knew him, she was certain Declan would not let her come to harm. He had, after all, given his word, and she believed he was a man of honor.

  When Declan reached the wagon, he smiled up at her. Not his usual sunny smile. The smile looked more like one used to hide pain or worry. “Come,” he said reaching out to help her down. “They are eager to meet you.”

  Again, she floated to the ground in Declan’s arms. Once she was stable on her feet, he took her hand and patted it—a gesture far too familiar for the length and depth of their acquaintance. She liked the warm reassuring feel of her hand in his and wanted to cling to him—cling to anything to steady herself—but for propriety’s sake she withdrew her hand.

  On the slow walk toward these new people of Balforss, Declan informed her, “I’ve only told them we found you in danger and took you under our protection.”

  What? Was he leaving her to tell the whole story? He said he would explain. Caya was not prepared. She balked for a moment, but it was too late.

  Declan made introductions. “My auntie Flora and Alex’s wife, Lucy.”

  Flora and Lucy bobbed polite curtsies, their faces shining with interest.

  “This is my daughter, Jemima,” Alex said, pride oozing from his pores. “We call her Jemma.” He pulled the little girl’s finger from her mouth. Jemma looked at Caya dispassionately, stuck the finger back in her mouth, and then buried her face in her father’s neck.

  “And this.” She heard Declan swallow audibly. “This is my uncle, Laird John.”

  She kept her eyes focused on the laird’s boots and bobbed a curtsy, hoping that as she bent her knees, she wouldn’t collapse altogether. She f
orced herself to meet his eyes. The laird’s face softened.

  “My dear Miss Pendarvis,” he said. “Welcome to Balforss.”

  He was close enough she could smell the drip of pine sap pearled on the shoulder of his coat. The laird took her hand and clasped it between his rough, warm palms. At his touch, a surge of strength coursed up her arm. He reminded her of her father, Adam Pendarvis, a man who had generated power from within, then shared it freely with those he touched. Caya had an immediate liking for the patriarch of Balforss.

  Flora and Lucy swept her inside the house before she realized she hadn’t thanked the laird properly for his hospitality. She took in the soaring ceiling, wide center staircase, and dark paneled walls lined with family portraits. This was a grand house.

  “Lucy, show Caya my parlor above stairs,” Flora said. “I’ll see Jemma down for her nap. Haddie will bring refreshments along soon.”

  Lucy slipped an arm through Caya’s. “You must be tired and hungry from the journey. Lucky the rain held, or you might have caught your death of cold.”

  Upon hearing Lucy speak, Caya turned a surprised look on her young hostess.

  “You’re—”

  “English. Yes. You and I are terribly outnumbered here, you know. I’m so glad to have a fellow countryman under our roof. Cornwall is not at all far from Maidstone Hall, my home in England.”

  “Maidstone Hall?”

  “Didn’t Alex tell you? The Duke of Chatham is my father.”

  “But…” She stopped herself from asking outright what is the daughter of a duke doing married to a Scot and living way up here in Caithness? That would have been rude.

  “Don’t worry.” Lucy laughed lightly. “We’ll have plenty of time to tell each other our stories.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs, she heard the laird bellow from below, “You three. In my study. Now.” Magnus, Alex, and Declan ducked past Laird John and slipped into a room off the entry hall, all of them looking like condemned men. She was a little sorry for them. Her presence at Balforss wasn’t entirely their doing.

  A small animal with big floppy ears bounded down the hall toward her, making barking sounds. Lucy scooped the squirming bundle of brown and white fur into her arms. “This is my darling Hercules, my dearest companion.”

  Sweet Hercules looked up at Caya with round, soulful eyes. “He’s so tiny.”

  “Would you like to hold him? He’s always a comfort to me when I’m lonely.” Lucy transferred the spaniel into Caya’s arms.

  She was immediately smitten. The dog’s surprising warmth, the almost insignificant weight of him, alive and shifting in her arms like a fussy baby, pleased her. At last, the beastly raptor released its talons. Instead of flying away, though, it remained perched in the corner of her fear.

  …

  Declan didn’t like the color in his uncle’s face. It had been a long time since he’d provoked the man who, for the last fifteen years, had been like a father to him. Not since he and his cousins were lads had he been the cause of the laird’s ire. Perhaps the last time was when he had dropped a handful of caterpillars into the pocket of cousin Maggie’s apron, causing her to spill the pail of goat’s milk and trample the clean laundry. He had tried to tell Uncle John the caterpillars had been a gift. He’d thought Maggie would like the green wigglers as much as he did. Declan still remembered the sting of his uncle’s belt on his bare ass. He did not, however, remember his uncle looking as angry as he did at this moment.

  The three cousins, Declan, Alex, and Magnus, stood at silent attention in the center of the library, arms at their sides, eyes staring straight ahead at the line of books on the shelves behind the laird’s desk. The man paced in front of them, hands clasped at his back, head down, jaw muscle flexing—a bad sign. At last, his uncle paused and asked in a frighteningly calm voice, “Would one of you three gomerils like to tell me how Caya Pendarvis came to be under your protection?”

  Declan’s mouth went dry. “Erm…we…I mean…I won her.” His voice broke like it had when he was fourteen. Alex and Magnus snickered.

  Uncle John’s eyes closed for a moment. His face remained unreadable save for the fact that he was clearly on the verge of unleashing his temper. “You what?”

  Working hard to gather enough spit to continue, Declan glanced at Magnus to his right. Magnus gave him a shrug as if to say this is your show. I’m just a spectator.

  “A man named Jack Pendarvis invited us to play a game of Napoleon—”

  “Invited you?” Uncle John asked.

  “Oh, aye. The game was his idea.” He realized his statement sounded childish, the adult version of “he started it.” Nevertheless, he plowed on, hoping to make a good case for himself. “And, well, he wasnae such a good player, ken.”

  “You mean he never suspected you three for swindlers?”

  Alex spoke up. “He was so cocksure of himself, Da. He needed taking down a peg or two.”

  “Shut up,” John snapped.

  Alex drew his head back like a turtle into his shell.

  “I was going to let him win his money back, Uncle,” Declan pleaded. “Truly I was. But then…” The disgust he had felt last night for Jack Pendarvis threatened to rush up the back of his throat. He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. “Well, he wagered his sister, and it made me mad.” He searched his uncle’s face for mercy, sympathy, some sign that he understood the impossible situation Pendarvis had put him in. He got nothing in return. “I ken it was wrong to win a lass in a game of chance, but it was even wronger to use her as a wager. Was it not?”

  “I told him not to do it,” Magnus added.

  “Were you gambling, too?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

  Magnus dropped his eyes to the floor and mumbled, “Aye.”

  “Then hold your wheesht.” Uncle John squinted his eyes shut and massaged the middle of his forehead with the heel of his palm.

  Declan moved on with the hope that by describing the outcome of the evening he might defuse his uncle’s anger. “Miss Pendarvis—Caya—was devastated when she came to find out what her brother had done. And understandably so. I gave her the choice: come with us or stay with him. She chose me—I mean us.”

  Uncle John swiped his hand down his face and let his palm remain over his mouth as if holding in whatever words were straining to be released. He looked at Declan for a long moment, his bottom lids drawn down, and his eyes looking bloodshot and tired.

  Alex mumbled, “She’s better off without that bastard brother of hers.”

  Uncle John exploded. “Have you completely lost your minds? Are the three of you that daft?”

  Declan’s shoulders crept up around his ears.

  “Ye cannae win someone in a game of cards, ye numpties!”

  The air seemed to crackle with the laird’s rage.

  Declan raised his head. “I willnae give her back.”

  “Listen to yourself.” His uncle turned an even darker shade of red, looking dangerously close to having an apoplexy. “You didnae win her. She’s no’ yours to give or take. She’s her own person.” He paced to the fireplace and back, apparently trying to calm himself.

  His uncle’s tirade hit a note of truth. He had thought of Caya as his own even before the card game. That he’d won her had only served to cement that notion in his mind.

  “Did any of you stop to think that her brother might be at the magistrate’s office right now, reporting you kidnapped her?” John looked each one of them in the eye. “You’ve compromised the reputation of the lass, yourselves, and the whole of Balforss.”

  Tempting fate and bodily harm, Alex spoke when Declan thought he probably should keep quiet. “Caya will vouch for us, Da. She’s his wife.”

  “What?” Uncle John shook his head at his son like a dog shaking off water.

  “He recognized the lass from his dreams and kenned she was his wife.”

  Uncle John’s deadly gaze shifted to Declan, one unsettling eyebrow cocked higher tha
n the other. “Explain.”

  Declan’s stomach started to rebel. “I dreamed of the lass who was my wife—or will be,” he said. “When I saw Caya Pendarvis in the tavern last night, I knew she was the one in my dream.”

  The laird turned his back as if it were too painful to look at him.

  Magnus and Alex exchanged wary glances with him.

  Uncle John released a long sigh of disgust and pointed to his cousins. “You two, leave. See to the horses before your dinner.”

  Magnus and Alex hastened from the room, a little too relieved and eager to leave him to his fate. Traitors.

  “Sit down.” His uncle pointed to a chair, then walked around the massive desk and practically fell into his own.

  Declan moved the seat closer to the desk but far enough away to be out of striking distance.

  His uncle rested his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands, and gave him a tired look. “I take it you harbor a belief that Caya Pendarvis is destined to be your wife?”

  “I do, sir. I dreamed her.”

  “Listen to me carefully, nephew. Dreams and card games be damned. Caya is not yours.”

  He wanted to protest, to tell his uncle he was dead wrong. She was his.

  “If you pressure her in any way to the contrary, I will take you to task. Am I clear?”

  “But, I promised her—”

  “I dinnae care what you promised, you cannae win your wife in a game of cards. And for God’s sake, man, dinnae tell her about your daft dreams.”

  He bolted to his feet. “I gave my word. She’s mine, Uncle. I willnae give her up.” His voice faltered along with his courage. “I want Caya for my wife. She is my wife.”

  “That is not for you to decide,” his uncle said, with finality. “From here on, I consider the lass my ward. I will make decisions that will serve her best interest. She is my responsibility until I say differently. Am I clear?”