Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  The man’s voice made Peter’s insides turn liquid. Poor Miss Caya. One way or another, he had to save her. He couldn’t let that disgusting Irishman take her away.

  …

  O’Malley leaned close to Caya’s ear and said, “If you give me any problem, darling, I’ll have that towheaded lad that’s following you killed. Understand my meaning?”

  He meant Peter.

  She cast a furtive glance to her right and caught sight of Peter crouching behind a tangle of netting and ropes. Why had she agreed to let him come along? She’d placed them both in danger. So foolish. So utterly foolish.

  “Yes,” she said, finding it difficult to catch her breath. “I understand you. Just leave him be. I’ll do what you want.”

  “That’s a good girl,” O’Malley said. “Now, up ye go into the saddle, and keep your pretty little mouth shut.”

  Heart racing, legs and arms shaking, she let the Irishman boost her on top of Apollo. Then he climbed up behind her, and they began the slow, inexorable ride out of Scrabster.

  The man wedged behind her in the saddle made her skin crawl; his fetid breath, his lewd suggestions, the familiar way he rested his hand on her thigh. And she was certain he was enjoying the ride in an indecent way.

  O’Malley’s hand roamed up her leg and settled near her belly. She jabbed another elbow into his side as hard as she could.

  He only laughed. “Tut-tut, sweetings. Remember the boy. You wouldn’t want to see me slice him open, would you?”

  What had she done? She’d ruined everything. That’s what she’d done. She’d forsaken Declan, the man she loved, to help her worthless brother. A brother who’d demonstrated time and time again that he cared nothing for her well-being. How could she have been so stupid, so foolish? And now Peter’s life was in jeopardy, as well. Even if she found a way out of this mess, even if she and Peter were able to get away from O’Malley, she could never undo the damage. Laird John would never forgive her for bringing scandal and chaos to Balforss. Even if Declan still wanted to marry her, Laird John would never allow it now that she’d stolen away to help her fugitive brother, and been party to what would likely be Declan’s financial ruin. With one thoughtless, selfish act, she’d tarnished the Sinclair name. She deserved every ill-turn that came her way.

  …

  Peter followed at a safe distance on Heather. Even when the dray turned off the main road onto a drover’s path, he had no trouble keeping track of them with all the noise they made. They reached a thick grove of pines, and the sound of the rattling dray stopped.

  Peter led Heather out of sight and hobbled her. “Stay here, horse,” he whispered. “Dinnae make a sound or we’re both dead.”

  The days were longer now but it was near dusk. The sun, low on the horizon, cast long shadows on the ground. Peter crept through the thick stand of trees until he reached the clearing. They were near the shore of Loch Calder. About thirty yards away, the men gathered around what looked like a cairn. The hair on the back of Peter’s neck felt funny. No one went near a cairn if they knew what was good for them. Bad fairy people lived in such places, and to disturb them was to ask for trouble.

  Cornwally Jack and two of the pirate men, looking like shades themselves, descended into the ancient burial ground. A hush fell on the party. Caya remained atop Apollo, but O’Malley dismounted and held the reins. Peter waited for some frightful creature to rise out of the loch and devour everyone.

  Shouts came from the cairn, and Peter crouched lower. If the fairy people were attacking the pirates, he might be able to run across the field and grab Apollo’s reins from O’Malley in the commotion. That plan dissolved instantly when one of the pirates stepped out of the cairn carrying a cask. Whisky. Mr. Declan was a canny man. He’d hidden his precious goods where no reasonable Scot would ever look.

  The men brought up cask after cask and loaded them onto the dray while Caya, the captain, and the driver looked on. Peter was having trouble hearing their exchanges, so he slithered on his belly through the tall grass for a closer listen.

  When Jack walked past her, Miss Caya called, “Why did you do it, brother?”

  “It wasn’t my plan, I swear. The McConnechy woman convinced me to follow Sinclair and find out where he hid his whisky. We were only going to take a couple barrels and sell them. I needed money, Caya.” Jack rubbed his forehead. “The old lady must have met O’Malley and figured she could make more money by double-crossing me.”

  “Hey, you!” O’Malley shouted. “Quit yer gabbing or I’ll cut yer tongue out. Back to work. Jiggity-jig.”

  Jack Pendarvis ran back to the cairn.

  After an hour of labor, one of the pirates said, “That be all of them, Captain.”

  They draped a tarpaulin over the stacked casks and secured the dray’s load with rope. Peter counted thirty-three casks, give or take one or two. Only the three-year-old barrels would be good for drinking, but the spoils represented a fortune in whisky. Plus, O’Malley wouldn’t have to pay the exciseman a single tot since they were smuggling the spirits out of the country.

  “Higgins,” O’Malley called. “Get your arse back to The Tigress and tell Richardson we’ll meet the ship at the usual place.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the man said and took off at a trot.

  O’Malley called to his back, “And dontcha be stoppin’ for a nip or I’ll have you keelhauled.”

  Peter went perfectly still as the pirate ran past his hiding spot. He let out his breath once he was well beyond the tree line. Usual place. O’Malley said they’d meet at the usual place. Where would that be? Bloody hell. If the Irishman had been plain about it, Peter could race back to Balforss right now and tell the laird where to find the scalawags.

  “Well, our business is complete,” Jack said. “I’ll take Caya and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Not so fast, laddie.” The captain smiled in that too, too friendly way. “To be fair, son, I’m not letting your sister go. She’s mine.”

  “But I-I-I led you to the whisky, more than adequate compensation for the bridal payment.”

  “The whisky is payment for the life of my best gunner, Mr. Boyle. You still owe me a bride.”

  The Jack fellow made a nervous laugh. “Yes, of course. And then we’re square.”

  “I’ll be taking that wee bauble, as well. Give it here. Jiggity-jig.” O’Malley crooked an impatient finger, and Jack put something small into the Irishman’s hand.

  “And you won’t be going anywhere, Mr. Pendarvis. I need your company to assure your sweet sister’s cooperation, ye see.” Captain O’Malley chucked Miss Caya’s chin as though they were already well acquainted. If Mr. Declan saw that, he’d cut off the man’s offending arm.

  While Pendarvis and O’Malley argued over the terms of their arrangement, the driver slipped down from the dray and attempted to steal off toward the wood. Peter supposed the Scrabster man would rather lose his horse and dray than end up dead at the hands of these banditti.

  “Stop him,” O’Malley shouted. The remaining pirates tackled the driver and dragged him back to the dray. “Tie his hands and feet and leave him in the cairn. By the time he gets his bindings loose, we’ll be long gone.”

  “I’ll not tell a soul, sir,” the driver said. “Please. You have my word.”

  “Put a gag in his mouth, as well.” O’Malley mounted Apollo again and wiggled his backside into place behind Caya. “You haven’t said a word, sweeting. Cat got your tongue?”

  “I have no words strong enough to tell you how much you disgust me,” Miss Caya said.

  “You wound me, darlin’. Not even one kind word for your future husband?” O’Malley laughed and didn’t wait for her response. He turned Apollo around and headed back the way they came.

  Jack and the other pirates scrambled on board the dray. When the one driving snapped the reins, the draft horse leaned hard, but the dray wouldn’t move. The men had to get off and push. Once rolling, the horse huffed and snorted with effort. One of
the pirates nearly stepped on Peter as they passed. Thank God it had grown almost dark.

  When he was certain they’d gone, he walked toward the pile of stone rubble that was the cairn. He was more scared now than he had been all night. Would he become a victim of the fairy peoples’ wrath if he trespassed on their sacred place? Heart thumping in his chest, he peered down into the cairn’s dark maw.

  “Are you still alive?” he called. He heard the driver struggling.

  “Right then. I’m coming down.” He crossed himself, took a deep breath, and crossed himself once more for good measure.

  He stumbled down the rough stone that served as stairs. It was pitch black below. The cairn smelled of earth, charred wood, and the sour sweat of the pirates. He stooped and groped for the squealing and thrashing man.

  “It’s all right. I’m no’ a fairy person. Hold still.”

  Peter talked while he worked the knot loose on the man’s gag. “I can help you get your horse and wagon back, but first I need a favor from you.”

  The driver made a muffled sound of agreement. Once Peter had removed the gag, the man cried, “My feet, boy, untie my feet.”

  “Then be still. I cannae find the knot.”

  Peter drew his dirk and cut the man free. The two of them were quick to leave the cairn. Above ground, Peter and the driver sighed.

  “Thanks, lad. I thought I would surely die in that tomb.”

  “Do you ken the way to Balforss, sir?” he asked, untying the rope around the man’s hands.

  “Aye.”

  “Go as quick as you can. Tell Laird John pirates have stolen Caya and the whisky. Tell them to gather what men and arms they have, go to the northern highway, and wait for Peter. That’s me.”

  “I’ll do that straight away, you can be sure. What will you do?”

  “I’m going to follow them and find out which beach they’ll use to smuggle the whisky to the ship.”

  “Take care and God go with you.”

  “Wait. What’s your name, sir?” Peter asked.

  “Gavin McConnechy.”

  “Mrs. McConnechy’s husband?”

  “Aye. This is all her doing, foolish woman. Almost got me killed for a few quid.” McConnechy hobbled off into the darkness. He was an old man, older than Laird John even. The way Mr. McConnechy was wheezing, he might expire at any moment. Peter hoped he had enough life in him to make it to Balforss.

  He picked his way through the woods, dry pine needles crackling under his feet. He’d left Heather to graze on the west end of the clearing behind a rough patch of gorse. Though the evening air was cool, trickles of sweat inched down his temples. When he reached the spot where he thought he’d left Heather his blood turned icy cold. Heather was gone. She’d broken her hobble.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  He turned in circles, searching the ever-growing darkness.

  “Heather, where are you?” He cupped his hands around his mouth and called again and again. Each minute spent searching felt like an hour. He grew more and more desperate and more and more fearful for Miss Caya. Tears of frustration threatened to break loose. He closed his eyes. “Please, God. I cannae fail. I dinnae mind if I die, but please help me find Miss Caya.”

  He opened his eyes, and Heather stood before him. She made a disgruntled snuffle and shook her mane.

  Peter hopped up and struggled his way into the saddle. “Thank you, God.” He gave Heather a nudge. “Come on, girl. We’ve got to hurry.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A cold wind roared in from the sea, threatening to topple her from Apollo’s saddle. Tangled strands of hair whipped around her face, but Caya made no attempt to brush the mess aside. She no longer cared to see what lay before her, a long unhappy life without Declan. Jack had betrayed her yet again. Why be shocked? And why blame him? She knew exactly who and what he’d become. It had been wrong to help Jack; she knew it, and yet she’d done it anyway. She had only herself to blame.

  Things had come full circle. Back to the way they were meant to be. She was in the hands of Sean O’Malley, as was the original plan. How could she be angry? If she’d never met Declan Sinclair, if she’d never known the kindness of the Sinclairs of Balforss, she wouldn’t feel anger, sadness, or betrayal at this moment. Besides, even if O’Malley hadn’t captured her, she couldn’t marry Declan. Not with the stain of her brother’s sins on her name. This unexpected turn of events had actually spared her the pain of having to tell Declan she would leave Balforss.

  Her only real regret was the whisky. Because of Jack, Declan would be ruined. She had hoped that, years from now, Declan would think of her and smile. That he might always hold her in his heart with some measure of fondness. Now, he would have only bitter memories of her. For, if not for Caya, he would be whole and happy as he should be. As he deserved to be.

  Peter. Was he still following them? She didn’t dare turn to look. O’Malley seemed to have forgotten the boy. Drawing attention to him might mean his death. She didn’t dare provoke O’Malley until she was certain Peter had stopped following. A part of her wished he had gone for help. Perhaps Declan or Laird John would look for her. At least they might be able to save the whisky. But then, O’Malley and his men were a ruthless bunch. If there was a clash, one of the Sinclair men might be injured or killed. No amount of whisky was worth a life.

  She fretted about the driver, too. Had they killed the poor unsuspecting man? No. They wouldn’t have bothered to bind him if they’d planned to murder him. But he was an older man. Would he be able to free himself before he died from thirst or starvation?

  O’Malley reined in and called for the wagon to halt. They paused where the road west came close to the coastal cliff’s edge. The moon cast a corridor of light across the rough surface of the North Sea. O’Malley pointed to a ship silhouetted in the moonlight.

  “There she is. The Tigress. A pretty ship, but she’s got claws.”

  “That’s the boat you use to ship herring?” Caya asked.

  O’Malley made a nasty chuckle deep in his throat. “That I do, sweeting. I’ve got a cargo of little fish aboard my ship, to be sure.” He laughed out loud as if he’d just told a hilarious joke. Phlegm rattled in his chest, and he coughed convulsively. “Fish.” He coughed and wheezed. “Fish in my hold.” He laughed, coughed up the phlegm, and spat on the road.

  Caya’s stomach rolled over inside her belly.

  O’Malley called to the men. “Unload here, lads. One cask at a time. Jiggity-jig. It’s a long way down. Anyone drops a cask, and it breaks, he’ll pay dearly.” O’Malley slid off the horse and beckoned for Caya to dismount.

  When her feet touched the ground, she felt the effect of having been in the saddle for hours. Her legs wobbled, and she staggered to the side.

  “The horse needs water,” she said. “And I need to make water.”

  “You’ll need to hold yer water till we reach the beach, sweeting.” O’Malley grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the cliff’s edge. For a moment, she thought he might toss her off. With what little light the moon provided, she was just able to make out a steep but navigable path along the side of the cliff that led down to the beach. And, like O’Malley said, it was a long way down.

  The loose shale pathway was carved out of a wall of crumbling rock on one side. On the other, a sheer drop to the slate-strewn beach. She had never been fond of heights. They terrified Jack. She hadn’t descended but twenty feet when she heard Jack shouting from above, balking at having to carry a five-gallon cask down the incline. Caya felt a stab of pity for him and cursed herself for being weak.

  She made it down the jagged picket path by clinging to the wall despite the dark and her fear. The soft soles of her boots failed to protect her feet from the shards of shale that cracked apart like sheets of ice when stepped on.

  O’Malley, rather sure on his feet for a man of forty-odd years, stood on the beach and coaxed her down the last thirty feet or so.

  “Good girl,” he said, when sh
e arrived at the bottom. He pointed to a huge black hole in the side of the cliff. A cave. “Find yourself a private spot in here to do your business while I get the fire started.” O’Malley disappeared into the dark hole and re-emerged with an armload of firewood. This was their usual place. They’d been here often enough to see it supplied.

  The moon was high but shrouded in thin clouds. Still, it offered enough light for her to see four shadowy figures, each carrying a cask on one shoulder and creeping down the cliffside like ants.

  “Best to have your wee before my men arrive, sweeting.” O’Malley turned his back and went about starting a fire.

  She ducked inside the cave far enough into the darkness to not be seen, yet not too far. The absolute blackness was terrifying, and Lord only knew what kind of strange creatures lived inside a place like this. Caya finished as quickly as possible and hustled back out. Unscalable walls of rock and churning sea sheltered the beach cove on all sides. Nowhere to run, even if she had the strength or the will.

  O’Malley had the fire going. “There now. My crew will see the signal and send a launch from The Tigress. In a couple hours, we’ll be safe aboard my ship. My men will take care of the rest.”

  “What do you mean the rest?”

  “The Tigress has only the one launch. Lost the other in a storm. The boat can handle two men on oars and eight casks of whisky each trip. It’ll take four more trips to transfer all the whisky. We’ll set sail at dawn.”

  “What will happen to my brother?”

  O’Malley straightened as if she’d called his honor into question. “I’m a fair man. Jack Pendarvis will get what he is owed.”

  The way he said “what he is owed” made Caya back as far away from the man as possible. She wandered to the shore, close enough that the water licked at the toes of her boots. O’Malley wasn’t a herring merchant as Jack had told her. The Irishman and his crew were, at best, smugglers. More likely they were pirates. Had they duped Jack, or had he always known he was selling her to criminals?

  In England, when she had first agreed to marry Mr. O’Malley, she’d imagined life would be pleasant enough as the wife of a sea merchant. After all, the man would be out to sea most of the year. When O’Malley had resurfaced this afternoon, when she’d seen him in the flesh, watched his behavior, she’d understood what kind of hellish life awaited anyone married to the odious man. Right at this moment, though, Caya doubted all her imaginings. She even doubted if O’Malley’s intention was marriage.