Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Her mind went blank. By the change in the vicar’s face, she must look as addled as she felt. What should she say? That her brother gambled her away to strangers and only by the grace of God did she end up with Flora and John Sinclair of Balforss?

  “Will you join us for supper this evening, Vicar?” Flora asked, rescuing her from having to answer the difficult question.

  “What?” Flora’s invitation seemed to wake the vicar from a trance. “Oh yes. Tonight.” He smiled again. “I accept with joy.”

  She and Flora said their goodbyes, then proceeded across the churchyard toward the wagon. The vicar’s question bothered her. No doubt others would ask the same thing, and Flora wouldn’t always be there to deflect the question. How should she answer? Laird John said she need not tell everyone the whole of her story. But what account would do as a substitute? And would that be the same as telling a lie?

  “Caya.”

  She recognized his voice. No one said her name the way Declan did. He turned the simple word in his mouth like it was something exotic. She spun toward the sound.

  His eyes shone bright with…what? Hope? But before he said another word, Laird John loomed behind him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “A word with you, nephew.”

  Declan cast a forlorn look at her over his shoulder as Laird John led him toward the horses. That was the second time Laird John had intercepted Declan today. Yesterday, he had insisted he wait before courting her. His reason for imposing the delay seemed to be on her behalf at the time. Perhaps his concern was more for Declan than for her. But why?

  The answer to her question came to her suddenly, a painful jolt of realization. Laird John would think it unwise for him to consider marriage to a plain and penniless woman with no title and no family. The laird would be obliged to dissuade his nephew from marrying out of a sense of duty. No doubt a man like Declan could find a far more suitable match among his peers. To ensure his future, the laird had offered to be Caya’s guardian. A small price to pay, she supposed. The motivation for Laird John’s kindness came to her on a wave of disappointment.

  Lucy, Flora, Aunt Agnes, Mrs. Swenson, Haddie, and Caya squeezed into the Balforss carriage, a large wooden box on wheels, really. Lucy held Jemma in her arms, the baby’s head resting on her shoulder. Light blue veins showed beneath the delicate translucent skin, and blond lashes fringed the edges of Jemma’s sealed lids. Blissfully asleep. Even the violent jouncing of the wagon didn’t wake her. The other women in the wagon, filled with the Holy Spirit, closed their eyes and enjoyed the contemplative ride.

  Until Alex rode up to the window and shouted, “Mind taking a detour? I’d like to see what progress Declan’s made on Taldale.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Alex,” Flora called back.

  Caya felt a sudden frisson of excitement. Taldale was Declan’s house. She was curious to see the home he had built for—I built the house for you—for the woman who would become his wife. Yet, she had to admit, the idea of walking around inside his house felt intimate, almost as if he had invited her to take a stroll inside his mind. I built the house for you. You and me. No one else.

  The wagon pulled to a stop, and she gaped out the window. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she breathed, her words lost among the other compliments spoken by the wagon passengers. The two-story house was modest in size, but beautifully made from cut stone the color of wheat and topped with a slate roof. Again, she felt a rush of excitement. What would it be like to be the mistress of this house?

  Declan ushered his guests through a heavy wooden front door into a central entry hall with wood-paneled walls and a winding staircase leading to the second floor. She removed her bonnet. The brim impeded her view of the world. She saw much better without it.

  Declan explained he had built the two-story home with double chimneys. “To the right is the study, to the left, the drawing room, and behind that, the dining room.” All the rooms had roughhewn wood floors and smooth plaster walls, just as she had always imagined her own house would have. All the rooms were empty of any furnishings, though she didn’t find that fact disappointing. The house’s mistress should have first choice how the rooms would be appointed.

  As Declan led his guests through the house, he commented on things he planned to finish. The men remarked on the good workmanship while the women suggested what items of furniture he would need to purchase. She breathed in the smell of fresh wood shavings, plaster, and varnish. This was a good house.

  Magnus invited everyone to follow him above stairs. “You’ll want to see Caya’s new bathing tub.”

  Her eyes flew open wide, and she darted a look toward Declan. He had turned crimson, whereas she felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

  Alex punched Magnus in the arm, and Magnus looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What did you do that for?”

  Laird John said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, aye,” and he escorted Flora and the other women to the second floor.

  Caya froze. She didn’t dare go above stairs. Lord only knew what she’d find.

  “I’m sorry.” Declan stood behind her very close.

  Her voice had taken flight. She nodded.

  “I was wondering …” he began hesitantly. “I was wondering if you’d lend me your opinion.”

  Taken aback by his request, she whirled around to face him. “You want my opinion about something?”

  “Aye.” He motioned for her to follow and walked toward the back of the house. “I’ve yet to finish the kitchen. I dinnae ken where to build the larder or where to put the sideboard. Would you come and have a keek?”

  She didn’t move.

  “Please?” he asked and smiled sweetly. One of his irresistible smiles. The kind that made her smile back whether she wanted to or not.

  …

  Declan walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, hoping Caya would follow. She was so skittish. Like a foal that would follow only if one’s back was turned, she trailed behind, leaving plenty of distance between them. He waited in the center of the kitchen until her footsteps echoed within.

  They were alone. Together. For the first time. Forever after, this room would hold that significance for him. For an insane moment, he wanted to bar the kitchen doors, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her. Kiss her until—

  “Declan?”

  He jerked to attention.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. Her delicate blond brows drew together. Oh God, those freckles. Like someone had sprinkled cinnamon on her bitty nose.

  “Ah, no. I’m fine. How are you?” Christ, he sounded like a dafty.

  She curtsied. Again. “I’m fine, thank you.” She tilted her head and waited. She must have read his blank expression, for she kindly prompted him. “You wanted to ask me something about the kitchen?”

  “Oh, aye.” His mouth had gone dry, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He propped them on his hips. Not liking them there, he crossed them in front of his chest. Still uncomfortable, he let them drop to his side. “The larder and the sideboard, what do you think?” he asked, glancing around the room.

  She circled the kitchen, pausing to inspect the brick oven and the cooking hearth. She opened the shutters on the window overlooking the spot where he planned to plant the kailyard.

  “Is there a root cellar?”

  “Aye. The hatch is outside the back door.” Footsteps clacked above them. Magnus was showing everyone Caya’s bathing tub. Declan’s ears flamed again.

  “I would build the larder against the north wall. It will be cooler,” Caya said. “And I would place the cupboard on the opposite wall, where the dishes will be closer to the dining room.”

  “Good. I’ll do that.” He liked that she expressed a definite opinion so freely with him.

  “Our first decision as husband and wife,” he said and smiled broadly.

  “But, we’re not married, yet.”

  “Och, dinnae fash. We’re as good as married,” he reassured her. “
The wedding is only a formality,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “I should build a bunker in the center, aye?”

  “Bunker?”

  “A workbench. But I dinnae ken how high to make it.”

  Caya held her hands out, palms down, as if testing the approximate height she would want for working. “About this high, I suppose.”

  He stepped closer to her. Close enough that he could gauge on his body the height of her palms. They came to the top of his hip. She had removed her bonnet, the silly wee thing. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Her hair smelled of rose water. Without thinking, he reached to touch her hair and startled her.

  “No,” she said, pulling back. “You mustn’t. Laird John says we must wait to court.”

  “There’s nae need to court. I already know you’re mine.” He advanced a step forward. If he couldn’t touch her, he needed to be close to her.

  “Laird John expects us to court.”

  “There’s no use wasting time courting. We’re meant to be married.” Only inches away from her now, well within her orbit. He could bend down and steal a kiss if he had the nerve.

  At the sound of footsteps, he jerked his head up.

  Laird John entered the kitchen, one awful eyebrow lifted. “Time to go.”

  Declan took two guilty steps back from Caya.

  “The others are waiting for you in the wagon, lass,” his uncle said.

  She curtsied. Damn. She was always curtsying. He wondered at what point she would stop. Then she dashed out of the room as if she’d caught fire.

  Once she’d gone, his uncle turned a dark look his way, and he felt like he was fourteen again. “Sorry, Uncle. I was just… I was just…”

  “I ken what you were just doing. Dinnae do it again.”

  His shoulders drooped, and his head lolled sideways. “I cannae help it,” he said. It was true. Caya had become something like an addiction to him. He couldn’t stay away from her.

  His uncle issued an angry warning. “Caya is under my protection. She is my ward, and I demand you respect her like any other member of our family. Do not compromise her by being alone with her, or I’ll give you a thrashing you’ll not soon forget.”

  His uncle was right, and though twenty years his senior, he could indeed give Declan a damn good thrashing. But, having experienced the singular pleasure of her sweet company, he would be alone with her again at the next opportunity, no matter the consequences.

  …

  Caya swept the sides of her hair up and anchored them with a set of tortoiseshell combs, leaving the back down. She hadn’t worn her hair this way since she was a girl, but after her visit to Declan’s house, after talking to him in the kitchen, she felt young again.

  He had declared he would defy his uncle’s wishes. His words, You’re mine, fluttered inside her chest like a trapped bird. But what did he mean when he said there was no need to court her? She must have misunderstood him. Of course he should court her. Shouldn’t he?

  She checked the small mirror above her washstand again. Her complexion was still clear, her features regular, and she had all her teeth. The face reflected in her glass wasn’t all that changed from when she was eighteen, an age when most women chose their intended. At five and twenty, she was teetering on the brink of spinsterhood. Would she seem ridiculous with her hair down?

  Someone knocked on her chamber door. “Come in.”

  Lucy entered, taffeta gown rustling, her pretty—and very young—face aglow. “Are you ready to go down for supper?”

  Caya plucked at her skirts. “Is this all right?”

  “Lovely.”

  “You don’t think I look foolish with my hair down?”

  “Nonsense. It shines like spun gold.” Lucy flounced down on the bed. “If I had hair like yours I’d show it off all the time.”

  “My gown isn’t special.”

  “My dear, you could wear a flour sack and Declan wouldn’t care.” Lucy’s words chuckled out of her. “He’s absolutely besotted. I’ve never seen a man so afflicted. Can’t you tell?”

  The idea that Declan’s pledge to marry her was borne of feeling rather than honor made Caya deliriously happy. She turned her head, not wanting Lucy to see how pleased she was with her assessment of Declan’s condition, which only seemed to make Lucy laugh harder.

  She remembered something Lucy had said earlier. “This morning at church you said you’d tell me what amused you. Was it something about Declan?”

  Lucy chewed her thumb as if deciding how much she should tell. “All right.” She patted the bed, inviting Caya to sit. “I overheard Alex and Magnus teasing Declan about…” She covered her giggle with a hand.

  “Tell me,” Caya said, nudging Lucy with an elbow.

  “They tease him about women.”

  She sat back. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s shy. Or at least he always has been until now. He seems rather bold with you.”

  Caya turned away, feigning interest in the bed curtains. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Lucy laughed again, that elegant laugh one expects from highborn ladies.

  “Has Declan arrived yet?” she asked, trying and failing to sound indifferent.

  “No, just the vicar.”

  “The vicar and his wife?”

  Lucy shook her head. “He’s not married. As a matter of fact, mothers have been peddling their unmarried daughters before him ever since he arrived in Thurso, but he’s expressed no interest. He asked after you, now I think of it.” Lucy gave her a curious look Caya could not interpret.

  “What?”

  Lucy’s face cleared, and she popped to her feet. “Nothing. Come on. Let’s make our grand entrance together.”

  Family and guests had gathered in the entry hall for a glass of Mrs. Swenson’s milk punch. She suspected the beverage contained spirits and demurred when offered a glass. She searched the crowded hall for Declan among the mob of tall Sinclair men, but it seemed he hadn’t yet arrived.

  Vicar James approached. “Good evening, ladies.” After they made their polite gestures, the vicar asked Lucy, “Did the new foal arrive?”

  “Yes, just yesterday. A colt and he’s beautiful,” she said. “Would you like to see?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “I need a word with Alex, but Caya can show you to the stables.”

  Caya stared at a smirking Lucy, who batted innocent eyes, waved, and swished away, leaving her alone to entertain the vicar. Lucy was full of the devil. Whatever could she be up to?

  Remembering herself, she said, “I would be delighted. Just this way, Vicar.”

  She led Vicar James through the back of the house, passing the kitchen, alive with activity—banging pots, female laughter, and Mrs. Swenson calling out orders. The heady smell of roasted lamb wafted out of the open kitchen door, and she hoped the vicar wouldn’t hear her stomach growling.

  Outside, the yard was empty of the usual clamor of farm work, everyone having gone home for supper. She and the vicar rounded the candle shed and the hatchery and continued on toward the stable. He walked at her side, clearing his throat every so often. She was quite at ease with him, even though they’d only met this morning. He was a tall man, but his presence was comforting rather than imposing. Perhaps that was why he’d been called to serve the church.

  The vicar said, “I never found out how it is you’ve come to Scotland all the way from Cornwall.”

  She slowed to a stop. She had considered telling people that her parents had died and left her in the care of their longtime friend, Laird John. It wasn’t too far from the truth. She opened her mouth, but the lie died on her tongue. Vicar James was a man of the cloth, a man so close to all that was holy it would be like lying to God.

  “I’m glad to have this chance to speak to you alone,” she began.

  Vicar James faced her, his eyes blinking furiously. “Dear, dear, Miss Pendarvis. I don’t know what to say…”

  “I seek your spiritual advice on a personal matter.�
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  “Oh… Yes, of course. That’s—that’s my purpose. Please continue.”

  “I’ll tell you why I’m here, but I beg you not to judge me too harshly.”

  As they walked, a little slower now, she told him an abbreviated version of recent events, including Declan’s gallant gestures. The vicar remained silent throughout except for a grunt of disapproval when she spoke of her brother’s wager.

  They had reached the stable and were peering over the door to the loose box by the time she finished her story. Vicar James folded his arms and rested them on the top ledge of the chest-high stall door. A gleaming blue-black mare stood, ears forward, alert. Behind the mare, a big-eyed, spindly legged colt found its feet and staggered forward. The vicar smiled at the pair.

  “You are blameless in all this, Miss Pendarvis.” His words were kind and his voice soothing.

  “Was I wrong to leave my brother?”

  “Your brother betrayed your trust. I understand your reasons for leaving him.”

  “Still, I’m embarrassed. What should I say when people ask me how I came to be here? It’s a sin to lie, but if I tell my wretched story, it can only reflect poorly on the house of Balforss. These people are good to me. I wouldn’t harm them in any way.”

  “I think telling an untruth to protect the ones you love is not a sin.”

  A weight lifted from her chest. Both Laird John and Declan had said she was guiltless. Even Flora and Lucy had found no fault when she told them her story. She only half believed them. But now that she had the priest’s absolution, she was finally freed of Jack’s oppressive grip.

  “One thing concerns me, though,” Vicar James said.

  “What?”

  “I would caution you not to be too hasty about affairs of the heart. Especially when it comes to Declan Sinclair. You barely know the man.”

  “He’s been nothing but kind and considerate. I’m so thankful—”

  “That’s just it. What you are feeling is gratitude. Gratitude and obligation,” he said, his voice firm but warm. “Indebtedness is a poor way to establish a union. You must give yourself time to adjust. I support Laird John’s wish for you to wait and advise you not to become entangled with Declan at this time.”