Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  “Whatever do you mean?” Lucy demanded, standing regal under the darkening afternoon sky.

  Taking no note of Lucy, the old woman pointed at Caya and shouted to anyone within earshot, “She’s a witch. I saw her charm a dead boy back to life with my own eyes.”

  Black talons of fear swooped down and clutched her shoulders. Her arms and her legs shook. She wanted to run, to break free, and flee this moment, return to the safety of Balforss, but her legs wouldn’t move. Curious folk gathered behind the wretched-looking Scrabster women. The crowd, like the weather, was growing ugly.

  “Stand back, all of you, and let us pass.” Lucy’s tone was firm, but the three women held fast. Lucy raised her voice. “Madame, I mean what I say.”

  The white-haired woman screeched, “I’m telling you, she’s a witch.”

  Caya felt her knees buckle. She’d heard of women accused of witchcraft being drowned or burned, a practice that had been abolished in England nearly a hundred years ago. Did they still do such things in Scotland?

  “Here now, what’s all this?” Vicar James pushed through the crowd of people. “Stop your nonsense and let these women by.” He thrust his way between Caya and her accusers.

  The vicar seemed to have materialized from the ether, but she didn’t care. She practically crumpled with relief. Lucy wrapped an arm around her waist, and they clung to each other.

  “She’s a witch,” the old woman repeated, with murmured assents from her fellows.

  Vicar James bellowed, “Take your wicked tongues and leave. Go home and pray to God he forgives you for your evil talk.”

  The women stood fast for a moment.

  The vicar pointed an awful finger. “Go. Now,” he commanded, looking and sounding like an avenging angel. At last, the three Scrabster women turned away and shuffled off, casting furtive glances behind them.

  “The rest of you, go about your business and forget all this unpleasantness.” The vicar waved a hand and waited until most everyone else had moved off. He turned and asked Caya, “Are you all right?”

  She found she could breathe again. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Will you see us to the wagon?” Lucy asked.

  “Of course.” Vicar James placed a firm hand on Caya’s back and guided them toward where Peter waited with The Crate. Supported between the two, she found she could relax somewhat. In fact, the vicar’s large presence was a comfort.

  “It was lucky you came along when you did,” Lucy said. Caya detected a ripple of fear in Lucy’s regal veneer, an armor she had thought was impenetrable.

  “What were those women talking about?” he asked.

  “Absolute nonsense, that’s what.” Lucy tightened her arm around Caya’s waist.

  It was wrong not to have told Laird John about the incident straight away. Caya could see that now. She would have to tell everyone about the boy at the river, and her silence on the matter would make her behavior seem worse. “It was my fault.”

  “Did something happen, Miss Pendarvis?”

  “A child fell into the river while his mother was doing laundry. When she pulled him out, she and her friends assumed he was dead. I begged the mother to let me try what I’d seen fishermen do when their mates were thought drowned. I breathed into the boy’s mouth. He woke and…well, the other women were angry.”

  The vicar stopped walking. “You breathed life into him?”

  “I swear he wasn’t dead. I did nothing wrong.” Oh God, would Vicar James condemn her as well?

  “No. No. I’m not angry. I’ve heard of this way of saving people. I thought it was fiction.” He started walking again. “Don’t trouble yourself. These women are simple folk, uneducated and prone to superstition.”

  “Merde.” Lucy covered her mouth, looking shocked that the word had escaped.

  The corner of Vicar James’s mouth twitched. “I’ll see you at services, then, on Sunday.” He was teasing, and Caya appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood after what had been a frightening encounter.

  Crystal blue eyes marked with infinite patience looked down on her. The expression on the vicar’s face was so different from any she had seen from him before. She stole a glance at Lucy, whose raised eyebrows and pursed lips communicated an unmistakable, I told you so. For goodness’ sake. Flora and Lucy were right. The vicar was fond of her.

  …

  Declan looked up from his work on the new bunker. “You what?” He stood in the center of his kitchen, unable to sort out the meaning of his sister’s words.

  “She has no right coming ’round with her fancy pies or pasties or whatever you call ’em.” Margaret jutted a pugnacious chin at him.

  The skin on his back sizzled like bacon in a hot pan. “What did you say to her?” He was taut, ready to snap, and he held his fists at his sides for fear of reaching out and shaking his sister.

  Margaret’s head wobbled on her neck with uncertainty. She looked to her husband. Hamish offered her nothing but an accusing look. With barely an ounce of shame, she said, “I might have called her a wee bizzum.”

  Declan exploded. “You what!”

  Margaret flinched. He’d never frightened his older sister before. But then he’d never been this angry with her, either. She twisted her hands in her apron. “She left you these.” Margaret reached for the bundle of rolls. “I wouldnae eat them. They’re probably charmed.”

  “What the bloody hell do you mean by that?” Declan bellowed.

  “Everyone’s calling her a witch.”

  “Who’s calling Caya a witch?”

  Margaret folded her arms across her chest, returning to her inherent state of belligerence. “Everyone in town. It’s common knowledge. At least a dozen women witnessed her conjure wee Bobby Campbell from the dead.”

  Declan frowned at Margaret. His sister was making no sense at all.

  “Explain yourself, woman,” Hamish said with an implied or else.

  “The Scrabster wives were doing laundry by the river, and Mrs. Campbell let out a skelloch. When she pulled her wee Bobby frae the water it was plain to everyone the boy was drowned.” Margaret’s lips curled back. “Then, out of nowhere, yon woman appeared and snatched the babe from the grieving mother’s arms. She blew a charm into the bairnie’s mouth.” Margaret’s eyes opened wide. “And he come alive again. She’s a witch.”

  Declan leaned down and roared in Margaret’s face. “Dinnae say that about my wife.”

  Hamish set down his rasp and calmly inserted himself between the two. “Best leave off before things come to blows.”

  Declan staggered toward the dining room door, panting from the effort of restraining himself. “You’re the witch, Margaret,” he shouted. “You and those gossiping bitches from town. Never repeat that evil lie again.” He left the kitchen and stormed up the stairs to his bedchamber.

  By the time he had washed and changed into his good clothes, his rage had reduced to a seething boil. He was struggling with tying his stock when he heard a light knock on his door. “Come.”

  Margaret entered his bedchamber cautiously. “Your dinner is ready.”

  “I’m no’ wanting dinner.” He continued to fumble with his stock, refusing to look at his sister.

  “I’m sorry,” Margaret said. She sounded as sorry as a prideful woman could be.

  He ceased his battle with the stock and turned. “It’s not me you should apologize to, is it?”

  Declan and Gullfaxi kept a good distance ahead of Margaret. She was riding an old mule named George. Gullfaxi didn’t like George. No one did. George was an ornery beast who, if given the chance, would bite you as soon as look at you. The only person George ever let sit on his back was Margaret. He supposed the crabbit animal saw a kindred spirit in his sister.

  His older sister hadn’t always been disagreeable. When she was young, she had been everyone’s favorite, with her bonnie curls and her sweet disposition. Her one heart’s desire—aside from Hamish—had been to be a mother. She would have been a good one, too
. But she had slipped two bairns in the ten years she’d been married to Hamish, and those ten years of disappointment had made Margaret a bitter woman.

  She called to him. It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d left his house. “What did you mean when you said, ‘Dinnae say that about my wife?’ Are you married to her?”

  “No,” he said. “But I will be.”

  “Ye’ve asked her?”

  “Nae.”

  “Then how do you ken she’ll marry you?”

  “I dreamed she was my wife.”

  Margaret snorted. She didn’t believe him. Most people didn’t. Laird John certainly didn’t. Don’t tell Caya about your dream. She’ll think you’re daft, his uncle had said. His uncle was most likely right.

  When they rode into the dooryard of Balforss, he saw the back of a red coat and tensed. British soldiers could only mean trouble. He relaxed when he recognized the man wearing the uniform of the Highland Regiment, Alex’s younger brother, Ian.

  Declan dismounted and strode across the yard, overjoyed to see Ian again. “Good to see you, man.”

  “And you,” Ian said, clasping forearms with him and giving him a couple hearty slaps on the back.

  “When did you return?”

  “A few hours ago. The wars with France and America are over. I’m furloughed indefinitely.” He spotted Margaret and went to help her down from the mule. “Hello, cousin.”

  George the mule curled his lips back and sank his teeth into Ian’s arm before anyone could call a warning.

  Ian jumped. “Jesus, that nasty bugger bit me.”

  Margaret slid off George’s back. “Sorry, Ian. Did he break the skin?”

  “Nae.” He rubbed his arm. “But if that ass tries me again, I’ll remove his ears with my dirk.”

  She kissed Ian on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re back safe from France.”

  “Never made it to France. Only got as far as Flanders.” He took Margaret’s hand in his. “I saw my sister, Maggie, in Edinburgh last month. She sends her love to you.”

  Margaret smiled. She and cousin Maggie, the two Margarets born in the same year, had always been the best of friends. Declan remembered how they had done everything together. Even their weddings had only been months apart. But Maggie had moved to Edinburgh with her husband soon after her marriage. Margaret rarely saw her best friend anymore, something Declan knew added to his sister’s sadness.

  “I miss her,” Margaret said.

  “She’s with child again.” Ian made a gesture in front of his stomach to indicate her size. “Her third.”

  Margaret whispered, “Three.”

  Declan opened his mouth to stop what he knew would come next, but he was too late. Ian had already spoken the words.

  “You must have bairns of your own now. How many?”

  She turned to stone for a moment. In words that could have easily been tears, she said, “No, Ian. We havenae been so fortunate.”

  Ian looked stricken. “I’m sorry, cousin.”

  She patted his chest. “Pay it no mind.”

  Ian turned to Declan, looking at a loss. “Em…I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner.”

  “We’re here to visit Miss Pendarvis. Have ye met Caya yet?” he asked.

  “Oh, aye. She’s an awfy quiet wee thing. Does she ever speak?”

  “Perhaps she’s shy of your uniform,” he said, feeling the need to make an excuse for her. “Is she in the house?”

  “Last I saw, she took the path to the duck pond.”

  “Thanks, man. We’ll talk later, aye? You and Alex and me, we’ll have a dram.”

  This was a rare day in the Highlands. The sun had come out and burned off the storm clouds that had threatened earlier. Caya wasn’t at the duck pond. He and Margaret continued down the path toward the field where Flora kept her hives. The afternoon sun flickered through the western line of trees. A light wind picked up, bringing with it the hum of bees. The biting midges would hatch soon, and the river would be good for fishing.

  He spotted her in the distance. The sun cast a glow around her yellow hair like a halo. She had her back to him, walking through the field of waist-high wildflowers. She held her arms out and let her fingers trail over the tops of the flowers as she walked—almost but not exactly like the image in his dream. Odd, that. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the image was different. Why didn’t she look like she did in his dream?

  Rather than call to her, Declan increased his pace to catch her up. He was a few yards away when she turned and inhaled sharply. He’d startled her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The grass stirred behind him and Margaret stepped forward. Caya’s lips tightened, and she looked down.

  “You’ve met my sister Margaret. She’s married to Hamish Clouston, who works for me at the distillery. I told you about them. Do you not ’member?”

  Caya said nothing.

  “Margaret, meet Miss Caya Pendarvis.”

  Caya hesitated for a moment and then bobbed a curtsy.

  Margaret attempted an awkward curtsy in return.

  “My sister wants to say something to you.” He elbowed Margaret in the side.

  Back rigid and voice clipped, Margaret said, “I came to apologize for my rude behavior this morning.”

  He felt a twinge of sympathy for Margaret. It had to be difficult for her to bury her pride and apologize.

  “I have no excuses,” his sister said. “But I wanted you to know, the sweet rolls you brought were delicious.” Margaret sounded as if she was ordering meat from the butcher. Short and to the point. She pulled a scrap of paper from her apron pocket and fumbled for her next words. “This is my receipt for raisin cake. I ken you’re a crack cook, so…” Margaret thrust the paper in Caya’s direction.

  Declan’s jaw dropped. Margaret never shared her receipts.

  Caya had gone still. She looked at the proffered receipt for a long while before she reached for Margaret’s peace offering. After reading the receipt, her face lit up as bright as her sunlit hair. There was joy in her smile. Declan felt a tightening in his chest. If Caya’s unhappiness caused him pain, her happiness would likely kill him.

  She released a short burst of laughter. “Thank you, Margaret. Thank you so much.” His heart burst with feeling for them both—the prideful sister who would humble herself and the injured Caya who would offer forgiveness at once.

  Margaret’s shoulders relaxed. To his amazement, the two women turned their attention toward the silly receipt and chattered nonsense about sultanas and currants and nutmeg and whatnot. They walked past him as though he were invisible and headed back toward the pond, fastened at the shoulders.

  “Caya?” he called.

  She paused to look at him. “Yes, Declan.”

  “Thank you for the yellow rolls.”

  Her smile was sweet, but not as bright as the one she’d given Margaret in answer to the receipt. “They’re called revel buns, and you’re welcome.” And then she curtsied again.

  Bloody hell.

  He trailed behind, feeling out of sorts listening to Caya and Margaret havering about food. A part of him was pleased they got on well. Another part of him resented his sister drawing Caya’s attention away from him. He had hoped to have a word or two or three alone with her. Perhaps he could convince Margaret to toddle along home to Hamish.

  “Caya.”

  She turned to him, her face unreadable. Damn, what he wouldn’t give to know her thoughts right now. “May I have a word with you? Please?”

  Margaret slipped off toward the house, but Caya, thank the Lord, remained. He approached cautiously. How close, he wondered, would she let him get before she took a step backward?

  “Margaret tells me you saved a boy’s life. That was a brave thing you did, lass.”

  She twisted her hands and shifted her weight. “Yes, well, my help wasn’t appreciated by the Scrabster women. They think I’m a witch.”

  “Will you look at me, please?” A
fter a moment’s hesitation, her eyes flicked up and met his. “Pay those nasty women no mind. You’ve nae need to fear. I will never let anything bad happen to you. I’ll protect you with my life, and that’s a promise.”

  “Thank you.” She let her gaze slide away.

  His skin cooled as if the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. All he wanted at this moment was to scoop her into his arms, squeeze the fear from her body, and stroke away her uncertainty. She was like a magnet, and he trembled from the effort of holding himself back.

  “Is there something else that bothers you? You’ve but to ask and I’ll—”

  She stepped back, her jaw set, determined. “I wasn’t trying to buy your affection with food.”

  “What?”

  “I was simply thanking you for the—I wasn’t—I didn’t think I could make you—the buns were a gift, not a—”

  The leash on his impulse broke, and he lunged. Before she could react, she was in his embrace, her small self engulfed by his awkward limbs, his cheek pressed against hers, his heart banging in his chest. Instead of resisting or attempting to free herself, Caya did the most remarkable thing. She let her body ease against his, melting, softening, forming her curves to match his angles, a warm, sultry, dizzying sensation.

  She whispered in his ear, “Thank you for sending me daisies.”

  His cock sprang to life with no prelude, no warning. Was this how it would always be when he held her, instant arousal? He breathed her in, her silky cheek against his, her voice sounding sleepy, her words so intimate, familiar, wife-like. Jesus, he needed to take her home with him. Now. All this waiting was unnecessary.

  Margaret shouted his name, and Caya pushed away as if she’d touched a hot stove. Damn his sister. Still, the way his body was on fire, he could hardly blame Caya for reacting as she did.

  Margaret shouted again, and they turned their attention toward the house. Wild braying sounds echoed from the dooryard. It had to be George. Only the racket wasn’t the typical complaint of an irascible mule. The calls sounded more like an alarm.

  “What do you suppose has got him riled?” he asked.

  Caya ran toward the front of the house, with him following close behind. They found Margaret attempting to calm the mule, but George continued to honk and screech at something farther down the lane. A riderless horse trotted toward the house, a wild-eyed Belgian, mane and feathers dancing, its loose harness trailing in the dust.