Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  “Alex made you propose?” She felt hot tears gather.

  “Well, no’ exactly.” His Adam’s apple bobbed again. “He explained the proper way—”

  “Proper?” Caya asked. Her voice quavered, and she fought to steady herself. “You mean, honorable? He asked you to do the honorable thing, then?”

  Declan seemed unsure. “It goes without question, does it not? It is my honor to marry you.”

  “So, you admit it? You’ll marry me to satisfy your honor?” Hurt turned to humiliation.

  Declan’s face flushed an angry red. “I am an honorable man, Caya. I value my honor. Would you no’ want to marry such a man?”

  The vicar was right. Declan didn’t want to marry her because he loved her. He just needed to prove he was a man of his word. “I release you,” she shouted before she thought her words through.

  “What?”

  “I refuse your offer of marriage.”

  The color drained from Declan’s face. “But, you kissed me back.”

  “You asked. I refused. You’ve satisfied your obligation, and now your honor is restored.” She stormed off, then remembered her shawl and returned for it, ruining her dramatic exit and making her even more infuriated. Caya dashed away angry tears and sniffed. “In any case, you are the last person in the world I would marry.”

  She gathered herself on the way back to the house. Declan could just take his blasted house and his kisses and his big brown eyes and…damn and double dammit to hell. She was shaking, and her face was probably blotchy. It would not do to arrive at supper looking discomposed. If anyone asked her what the matter was, she’d burst into tears. She quickly tied her kerchief around her hair. When she entered the back door, she removed her apron and took a deep breath before stepping into the dining room.

  Supper had already been laid out. Ian, Alex, Laird John, and Flora were all waiting. She and Declan had obviously held things up. She moved to take a seat next to Flora. Ian held out her chair for her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Her movements were jerky and mechanical, as was her speech. She stole a quick look at a puzzled-looking Alex. Most likely, he expected her to return beaming with happiness. Well, he and Declan could just go… She wouldn’t finish the nasty thought.

  The men took their seats. Everyone passed platters and served themselves with none of the usual friendly chatter. Only the clank and scrape of serving utensils and forks echoed in the dining room. Though her back was to him, she sensed Declan’s arrival when all heads lifted toward the door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  She sank a few inches in her chair. Against Laird John’s strict instructions, they had spent time alone. His identical apology most assuredly gave them away. Laird John shot him a hard look, confirming her assumption. Declan dipped his head, then sat directly across from her, blast him. His face looked the color of a frog’s belly. She experienced a perverse sense of triumph seeing the effect her refusal had on the Scot, then felt a stab of pity for him. He looked so miserable. Like a lost puppy.

  Last to arrive, Lucy swept into the room on a dramatic sigh. “At last. Jemma’s down for the night. No, no, no. Sit,” she commanded the men. “I thought she’d never settle. Thank goodness for Haddie. She’s always so good with Jemma.” Her words died off as she glanced around the room, no doubt sensing the tension and trying to suss out the origin. She settled in and heaped vegetables and meats onto her plate. Lightening her voice, she said, “I’ve never seen such unruly behavior from a child so young. She obviously gets it from you, Alex.”

  “Nae,” Alex said, matter-of-factly, and swallowed what was in his mouth. “She gets her red hair from me. Her temper is from you.”

  Lucy made an English, “Hmmph.”

  Alex made a Scottish snort.

  Declan said nothing and ate nothing.

  Ever the hostess and mother to all, Flora placed a thick slice of ham on Declan’s empty plate, tapped his fork, and said, “Eat.”

  Through surreptitious glances, Caya saw that he did eat, though she didn’t think he enjoyed the ham one bit.

  Toward the end of the meal, Laird John asked to have a word with Declan in the study, and the two excused themselves. Alex and Ian made a hasty exit as well, leaving Flora, Lucy, and Caya alone in the dining room.

  Muffled shouts from behind the closed library door reverberated across the entry hall and into the dining room. Was Laird John angry they’d been alone? Or that Declan had proposed? Or that she had refused? She shouldn’t care. It had taken courage for her to refuse Declan. Another less scrupulous woman would have accepted his offer regardless of the fact that it had been made under duress. Now that he had satisfied his honor, he must be relieved to be free of his promise at last. A lump the size of a walnut formed in her throat. She tried to swallow, but it would not go down.

  Lucy stood and peeked out the dining room door to see if anyone was listening and then rounded on her. “What on earth has happened? I left you alone with Declan for five minutes and you return to the house looking like you’ve both swallowed poison.”

  “Did he do something to upset you, dear?” Flora asked. “Did he…rush things? Men often do.”

  “No, nothing like that.” She twisted her serviette into a knot and wished she could hide.

  “What, then?” Lucy crossed the room to stand behind Flora’s chair. “Tell us.” They waited.

  “He asked me to marry him.”

  Flora and Lucy cocked their heads to the side in unison, the question So? etched on their faces.

  “Declan and I are not meant to be together.” She struggled to keep her chin from wobbling. “He only asked me because he felt obligated.”

  “Why do you think that?” Flora asked.

  “He said as much.”

  “And what did you say?” Lucy asked.

  Her vision blurred. “I said he was the last person in the world I would marry.”

  “Merde. I’m going to have a word with Alex. Maybe he can tell me what the D-E-V-I-L is going on.”

  “It’s still a curse even if you spell it, lass,” Flora said and rose from the table. “Let’s go up to my parlor.”

  Caya and Lucy followed Flora toward the staircase. As they passed the library door, she overheard Declan shout, “Doesnae matter! She willnae have me.”

  The library door swung open, and Declan, his cheeks dark with anger, stormed out. He stopped for a moment in front of her, his face a mask of torture, then he turned and flung open the front door.

  Standing on the stoop, a fist poised to knock, was Vicar James. Caya’s hand flew to her mouth. From behind her, she heard a collective female gasp. Of all the ill-timed entrances, the vicar’s had to be the worst.

  In the next instant, Declan and the vicar were rolling and thrashing on the ground in a flurry of coattails.

  She ran toward the fray, having no idea how to stop them but knowing she must try before one of them, most likely the vicar, was hurt.

  Flora called to Laird John for help.

  “Stop,” Caya shouted. “Please, stop this instant.”

  Laird John pushed past her, grabbed Declan by an arm, and yanked him off the vicar. Declan struggled until he freed himself from John’s grip. He was breathing hard and covered in dirt.

  Vicar James scrambled to his feet, looking much less affected by the unexpected skirmish. He brushed the dirt from his trousers and coat and then retrieved his hat from where it had landed in a bush.

  Declan wiped blood from his nose. She couldn’t bear to see his face, his hurt, his anger. She was the center of this discord. When she stepped forward to apologize, Declan turned and strode away, back rigid and shoulders hunched.

  “I see I’ve come at a bad time,” the vicar said.

  “Declan received some unfortunate news today,” Laird John said. “But that’s not an excuse for his behavior. I’m sure he’ll offer you his apologies when he’s recovered.”

  “No harm done.” The vicar tested his jaw
.

  “Will you come in?” Flora asked.

  Caya closed her eyes and willed the vicar to refuse her offer. The last thing she wanted to do at this moment was conduct idle conversation with the man Declan had just attacked.

  Vicar James declined the invitation, and she exhaled her relief.

  “I shan’t stay. I thought Miss Pendarvis might like to borrow my hymnal.” The vicar brushed the dirt from the cover and handed her the book. “I forgot to give it to you this morning.”

  She bobbed a polite curtsy. “Thank you.”

  “Well, em.” Vicar James backed away a few steps. “I’ll collect you tomorrow at the noon hour for our trip to Scrabster. Til then.” He tipped his hat, mounted his horse, and trotted away.

  Caya dropped her eyes and said to Flora, “If you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my room.”

  And never come out again.

  …

  Declan rode Gullfaxi home hard. Angry tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He told himself it was the wind, sand in his eyes, anything but what it was, gnawing defeat. She didn’t want any part of him, his whisky, his honor, his protection. To Caya, he was a godless, violent, unprincipled man—the last person in the world she would marry.

  He found his bed and lay there, blank and flat as the ceiling. Where had he gone wrong? For the hundredth time, he thought back on every detail, every moment, every word said. Over and over, he replayed those fifteen minutes of nervous anticipation, arousal, joy, and then bitter disappointment. Bloody hell. He had done all the things Alex had said to do. And he had done them in the right order.

  Exhausted and saddened beyond anything he’d experienced since the death of his mother, Declan started the process over again. He closed his eyes and laced his fingers together over his chest. This time, though, he went back further in his memory. He’d arrived at Balforss and handed Gullfaxi over to Peter. Peter had shown him his stitches, and Declan had congratulated him on his bravery. Flora’d tied his stock for him. Afterward, he’d gone to the duck pond to call Lucy and Caya inside for supper. On the way, he’d reviewed everything he and Alex had discussed on the off chance he found himself alone with Caya. And then…he’d seen her. Standing among the gowans. Just like in his dream, but…not like his dream.

  Declan opened his eyes. Just like in his dream, but not like his dream. Why didn’t she look like the wife in his dream? Her hair, the flowers, even the color of her frock—all the same, but not the same. Damn. Why? What was different? He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture his dream. Nothing looked different. Things only felt different.

  You are the last person in the world I would marry.

  The pressure of his hands folded across his chest was too much. He was having difficulty breathing. Self-doubt catapulted him out of bed. The edge of the basin table was within reach, and he grabbed hold. Had he misremembered? Misinterpreted? Had he…no, no, no. Oh Jesus God, no.

  He’d chosen the wrong woman. Caya wasn’t the woman in his dream. He’d taken her from her brother, snatched her from the man who would have been her husband, changed her life forever because of his selfishness, his bloody impatience.

  A cramp twisted his bowels into a knot, and he doubled over. He cried out to no one because no one could hear him, alone in this empty husk of a house. When the pain subsided, he straightened and brushed the hair from his eyes. His knuckles were scraped from having attacked and beaten the vicar in front of everyone. Caya must hate him.

  He hadn’t been able to stop himself. Already furious from his altercation with Uncle John, he’d seen the blasted God-botherer at the door, and the next thing… It hadn’t been much of a fight. He’d gotten no satisfaction from it, and maybe that was a good thing. Jesus. The vicar. He’d assaulted the bloody vicar.

  Declan sat down on the edge of the bed. Now that the horror of misinterpreting his dream had subsided, he could see things more clearly. The vicar wasn’t a bad man. In fact, he was surely a better man than himself. He supposed Caya would do well with a man like James Oswald. He would have to apologize. To everyone. And then he would have to explain things to Caya. While he consoled himself with the belief that marrying the vicar would make up for all she had lost because of his mistake, Caya’s devastating words repeated in his head.

  You are the last man in the world I would marry.

  Chapter Nine

  At noon the next day, Lucy and Caya gathered in the entry hall, ready to leave the house. “Do you think it’s wise to bring Jemma with us to Scrabster?” she asked. “Those women frighten me.”

  Lucy handed Jemma to her. “Hold her while I tie her bonnet.” Lucy did battle with the ribbon while Jemma made “eh-eh-eh” sounds. “Those women may be an angry, superstitious lot, but they’d never jeopardize the safety of a child. Besides, I can’t think of a better way to show them we’re not afraid.”

  She took Lucy’s confidence as reassurance and relaxed enough to ask the question she had been meaning to ask all morning. “Did you talk to Alex about what happened yesterday? With me and Declan, I mean.”

  Lucy pressed her lips into a thin line of disgust and shrugged. “Alex told me not to meddle.” She yanked on her gloves with angry tugs. “Men.” She uttered the word like it was the explanation for all that was wrong with the world. And maybe she was right.

  They stepped outside when the vicar’s carriage jangled up the drive right on time. He drove a smart-looking phaeton with a calash top that offered its passengers a modicum of protection from the elements. He climbed down and brushed the damp off his jacket. The day’s weather was what Laird John called “soft,” meaning the rain came down in a light mist rather than drops. The women were well-prepared with cloaks and bonnets.

  Vicar James called to Jemma with a voice pitched higher, the way adults talk to dogs and children. Jemma flapped her arms and made excited squeals, anticipating Vicar James’s attention. Caya transferred the bundle of churning arms and legs into the vicar’s arms, admiring his gentle way. He did seem to have an easy hand with children.

  Not for the first time, she considered Vicar James as a man rather than a priest, appraising his worth as a potential husband, judging his good qualities and balancing them against his shortcomings. He had only one shortcoming that she could ascertain. Vicar James didn’t make her heart flop about inside her chest the way Declan did.

  True. The Reverend James Oswald had several advantages over Declan Sinclair. He had a more even temper, and he didn’t deal in spirits—something she disapproved of strenuously. But her skin didn’t burn the way it did when Declan stared at her with his dark brown eyes.

  Vicar James interrupted her thoughts with, “Good morning, Miss Pendarvis.”

  “I should apologize for yesterday, the fight—”

  Vicar James waved a hand and smiled. “Forgotten.”

  “Thank you.”

  With Lucy and Jemma already snug aboard the phaeton, he held a hand out. “Ready?” he asked. He had that look on his face again, a look of affection. She wanted to return his interest if only because he was so kind to her, but to do so felt unnatural. He helped her into the phaeton. Even that simple gesture was lacking. When Declan helped her in and out of the wagon, he cradled her as if she were something breakable, his hands lingering a moment too long, almost reluctant to let her go. Vicar James handled her like baggage.

  The vicar climbed in after her and eased himself into what space was left. The phaeton was made for two passengers to travel comfortably. It would be a cramped ride with the three adults wedged together as they were. The vicar arranged a blanket over their laps and gave the reins a snap. His body felt stiff and awkward pressed to her side. If Declan were here…

  Merde.

  It was Lucy’s French word. Caya didn’t know what it meant. It sounded like a curse word, so it served her well for the moment. She had to stop comparing Vicar James and Declan. There was no point. Declan offered to marry her only out of his misguided sense of honor. A sadness formed in her mind l
ike a dark and bottomless pit. One more step and she would fall in and never find her way out.

  The tiny fishing village of Scrabster, located halfway between Balforss and Thurso, was situated on a cliff-lined promontory jutting into the North Sea. Dwellings dotted one side of the narrow dirt road, and boats bobbed in the water on the other. The ramshackle houses seemed to cling to the sides of the cliff that towered over the small harbor. Sheltered from the west wind, the village reeked of rotting fish and dead seaweed. By all visible indications, the people living here were barely eking out an existence culled from the sea.

  Caya saw a line of four women blocking the road ahead. She felt a jolt of recognition—the women from the river.

  Vicar James stopped the phaeton, pulled the break, and secured the reins. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He climbed down and offered the women a courteous bow.

  They remained unmoved, arms crossed, feet apart, standing shoulder to shoulder.

  “We’ve come to pay Mrs. Campbell and little Bobby a visit,” he said. “Can you tell me, please, which is her house?”

  The white-haired woman lifted her chin. “The unholy are not welcome in Scrabster. Turn your cart around and go.”

  Ignoring the warning, Vicar James approached her with a genial smile. “You’re Mrs. McConnechy, are you not?”

  The white-haired woman startled at his recognition.

  Clever of the vicar. Troublemakers prefer anonymity. By calling the woman by name, he had made her responsible for her actions.

  “How do you know me?” Mrs. McConnechy demanded, obviously agitated to be singled out.

  “Reverend Linklater says you make the best fishcakes in all of Caithness.” Vicar James oozed charm.

  Bewildered, Mrs. McConnechy’s comrades turned to her for guidance. She brushed a wisp of white hair from her forehead. The vicar’s flattery had worked. “Ye speak with the silver tongue of the devil.”

  James laughed. “I’ve never been accused of having a silver tongue before. Still, I’d be obliged if you’d let me purchase two of your fishcakes for my supper.”