Betting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Good Lord, she’d traded a life with Declan for her worthless brother’s safety. She’d made a hash of everything. Her anger at Jack for gambling with her life had set in motion a terrible string of incidents. If she hadn’t left Jack behind in Wick to fend for himself, he wouldn’t have killed that man, he wouldn’t have robbed the vicarage, he wouldn’t have attacked Peter. If she hadn’t asked Declan to shield her brother, Jack would be answering to the law for his crimes, as he should. He wouldn’t have had the opportunity to betray the location of Declan’s whisky. If only she hadn’t made mistake after mistake, Declan would still have his whisky and the Sinclairs wouldn’t be entangled in this mess, the mess she had created.

  If only she could do everything over, start again, she would go to Declan right now, declare her love, and give herself to him completely. She wouldn’t care about marriage or handfasting or houses or furniture. She would just be his, the woman in his dream, and she would spend the rest of her life loving him. And maybe, just maybe, one day, she would be worthy of his love in return.

  A sharp cry made her whirl around and look up to the cliff-lined path. Jack stumbled, lost his balance, and let go of his cask. The cask bounced once on the narrow path and crashed into the man in front of him, causing that man to lose hold of his cask as well. As a result, both casks rolled off the side of the cliff and hit the slate beach with a terrible crack and a tall splash of whisky. For what seemed like one awful minute, the man Jack’s cask had hit teetered on one leg with arms pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to grasp on to something, anything to keep his balance. The fall happened so fast. Two hundred feet took all but a second. A short, “Eeee,” and then abrupt silence.

  The silence lasted only a moment before her brother tried to scramble back up the path toward the cliff-top, but the last man in the line blocked his way.

  “No,” Caya shouted. “Stop.”

  Jack had no chance of passing the big man. He could only hope to shove the giant off the cliff as well. He tried. He barreled into the fellow as hard and as fast as the treacherous path would allow. But the man was unmovable. He batted Jack off the cliffside with nothing but a swipe of his arm.

  She screamed. Jack did not. She ran to him. He lay half in shadow, half in moonlight with his eyes open. Dear unmerciful God, he was not dead. Caya knelt beside him, the sharp slate digging into her knees through her skirts.

  “Jack. It’s me,” she said, smoothing his cheek. “I’m here with you, dear brother.”

  His eyes searched hers, frightened and pleading. His lips moved but she couldn’t make out what he was trying to say.

  “I forgive you, dear one. Close your eyes now.” She fumbled for his hand, grasped it, and recited the Lord’s Prayer. Jack slipped away before she finished.

  From behind her, O’Malley said, “You see? He got what he was owed. Though I dearly regret losing the whisky.”

  …

  Gullfaxi carried a weary Declan into the churchyard well after dark. It had been a long day, but he still had one more thing he needed to do before finding his bed. The dim light of an oil lamp glowed in the rectory window. The vicar was in.

  Declan dismounted and patted Gullfaxi on the neck. “This will only take a minute, horse. Then we can go home and eat.”

  The vicar greeted him at the door, tight-lipped and frowning. After a moment’s hesitation, Oswald invited him inside, but he refused.

  “Nae. I’ve just come to say—”

  Oswald held up a hand. “Before you go on, you should know I’ve withdrawn my proposal of marriage to Caya.”

  Declan stepped back from the vicar and cut him a look. “Oh, aye?”

  “I had no choice. When the church elders found out about her brother…” He sighed. “I regret having to do it, but my life is ruled by the church.”

  For one fierce moment, he wanted to punch Oswald in the neck. The man had no bloody right to withdraw his offer of marriage to a blameless lass like Caya. The next instant, he wanted to blurt, “You never stood a chance, ye numpty. She was mine from the start and always will be.” But a charitable feeling toward James Oswald overcame him quite unexpectedly. How could he condemn the man for loving Caya?

  He nodded to Oswald, a gesture of understanding, and said, “I’m sorry, man, and I’m sorry for thumping you the other day, too. I was out of line.”

  “It’s forgotten.” Oswald stepped out over the threshold and sat down on the steps with a sigh. He produced a flask from his coat, took a long pull, and held it out.

  Accepting, Declan sniffed, tipped the flask to his lips, and let a welcome swallow of good whisky slide down his throat. He took a seat next to Oswald and returned the flask. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “What’s going to happen? With Caya’s brother, I mean.”

  Declan took a deep breath. “It seems he’s escaped. Managed to board a ship in Scrabster Harbour. I doubt the magistrate will expend the effort of chasing him.” He tipped his head to the side until he heard the satisfying pop and crackle of his spine.

  “Long day?”

  Declan nodded. “I rode all the way to Keiss and back. I needed to see my oldest sister, Lizzie. She was keeping this safe for me.” He retreived his mother’s wedding ring from his coat pocket, polished it on his shirt front, and held it up to catch a bit of lamplight.

  “Will you be marrying Caya, then?”

  He smiled. “Oh, aye. I expect I will.” He returned the ring to his pocket.

  “I would be honored to bless your union.”

  Before he could accept his offer, the sound of racing hoofbeats disturbed the evening calm. They rose to meet the dark rider as the horse trotted to a stop before them.

  Magnus.

  “Someone’s kidnapped Caya and stolen the whisky.” Magnus and his horse panted in unison.

  What he heard clearly were Caya and kidnapped, words that felt like a blow to the head. He reached for Gullfaxi’s reins and untied them from the post.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  “The Irishman Jack Pendarvis had talked aboot,” Magnus said. “The herring merchant Caya was supposed to marry. He and his men took her.”

  Still he could make no sense of his cousin’s words. All he could comprehend was the urgency in Magnus’s voice. “They took her from Balforss?”

  “Nae. She went to Scrabster to find her brother. That’s where they got her. Pendarvis led them to your whisky stash. Peter followed them all the way to the landing cove north of Dunreay. Their ship is anchored off shore.”

  Magnus’s sobering words finally sank into Declan’s thick skull. He hauled himself into the saddle, grateful he’d brought his dirk and pistol.

  “I’m coming, too,” Oswald said.

  “We cannae wait,” Declan shouted.

  “I’ll catch you up!”

  Declan called on Gullfaxi to fly for him. Gullfaxi would run until his heart burst if he asked it. Without a care for the dark or the danger to the horses, he and Magnus raced up the road toward Dunreay full tilt.

  Prayers for Caya’s safety were useless. He’d leave the praying to the vicar. What Caya needed now was action. Tonight, he would make the North Sea red with the blood of those who had stolen his woman. Taking O’Malley’s life was the only thing that would slake his bloodlust.

  They weren’t too late, he assured himself. They would find Caya, and she would be unharmed, untouched. She was a brave, sensible woman.

  She had to be fine.

  The whisky was a lucky thing. Lucky because it would take time to get the barrels on board the ship. Had they not stolen the whisky, O’Malley would have already raised anchor and set sail.

  No. They would not be too late.

  A quarter-mile from Dunreay, a dark figure stepped into the road, waving his arms. He and Magnus slowed. It was Alex. The sight of his cousin, the fiercest warrior he had ever known, made his heart slow to a dull thud. His uncles were there, too, John and Fergus. Ian and his brother-in-law, Hamish, as well. And Peter, bless the l
ad. Had he not been so clever, they’d have lost Caya for certain.

  “Where’s Caya?” Declan asked, hopping off a lathered and blowing Gullfaxi.

  Alex made signs for all of them to quiet. “We’ve been spying on them from the cliff above the beach about two hundred yards north.”

  Ian leaned close to Declan’s ear. “We think they’ve taken her aboard,” he said, as if Caya had already died. He wanted to shout a denial, but held back.

  Just then, another horse rode up and skidded to a halt. Vicar James. The men spared him a curious glance before turning back to Laird John.

  “They’ve taken the last load of whisky and left four men ashore,” Laird John said. “My guess is the launch will return in another hour for the men. That leaves us little time to plan.”

  Fear began to consume Declan by chunks. It had crept up the back of his legs and was now making its way along his spine. Every muscle in his body strained to keep himself from charging down the cliffside and slashing every man he met into pieces. But he knew any rash action now would mean certain death for Caya.

  “Kill the men on shore, and attack the ship,” Alex said, as if the solution to the problem was obvious.

  “Aye, but it takes time and effort to board a ship like that,” Fergus said. “The crew will spot us and call the alarm. We’ll all be dead before one of us gets on deck.”

  “Not if you’re dressed like pirates.” Everyone turned to stare at Oswald. He stammered for a moment. “I mean, can’t we arrest the men on shore and disguise ourselves in their clothing? In the dark, the crew won’t discover the ruse until we’ve boarded her.”

  “We?” Alex asked. “You’re a priest.”

  “They’ve got Caya. I need to help get her back.”

  Declan looked the vicar over. If Oswald loved Caya even half as much as he, the man was dying inside. “The vicar is with us.”

  “Are you sure?” Alex asked.

  Oswald nodded. “I’m positive.”

  “Fine,” Laird John said. “The vicar poses a reasonable plan. But there’s no use trying to take the pirates alive. They know they’ll be hanged so they’ll fight to the death. Best we try and take them unawares.”

  Alex twirled his dirk in his hand. “There’s only four of them on shore. Six if you include the oarsmen who will arrive in the launch. We can take them easily enough.”

  Magnus added, “That means they’ll be expecting only six returning in the launch. Six of us against how many more on board?”

  “I ken how many.” All eyes shifted to Peter. “That’s a double-masted sloop. The crew numbers twelve to fourteen.”

  “How do you know, laddie?” John asked.

  “I ken everything about pirates and their ships. O’Malley called the ship The Tigress. I saw her in Scrabster Harbour this afternoon. She’s a howker or maybe a collier, about eighty-seven feet long. Say she has fourteen crew plus the captain. Two lie dead at the bottom of the cliff. We’ll take six on shore. That leaves seven men, at the most, aboard ship. And they won’t be expecting us.”

  “You’ve learned your numbers well, man,” Alex said, as proud of the boy as if he were his own son.

  “That still leaves the problem of how to sneak up on the men on the beach without being seen. There’s only one way down. The crew will spot us and send up the alarm,” Fergus said. Everyone grunted their agreement, but no one offered a solution.

  Declan appreciated Peter for his knowledge and enthusiasm, but he was straining at the bit to take action. He felt as though every second they stood on shore debating was another second shaved off Caya’s life. He paced while he tried to think of a way to get down to the beach and across the water to the ship. Something about this place was familiar to him. But how? Why did he know this place?

  And then it came to him, and his body went slack.

  “I ken another way.” Everyone turned to listen. “There’s an opening to the cave farther north. Do you mind it, Magnus?”

  “Aye. We used to play here when we were lads.”

  “It’ll be a treacherous climb down in the dark, mind you,” Declan said. “But it’s the only way.”

  …

  O’Malley wouldn’t allow her to bury Jack. No time, he had said. And no shovels. Caya’s worst suspicions about O’Malley were proving true. Perhaps the best she could hope for at this point was an early death. Such were her dismal thoughts as the oarsman rowed away from shore. Away from Scotland. And Balforss. And Declan.

  When they reached The Tigress, she was obliged to climb into a kind of swing, whereupon the crew hoisted her aboard like cargo. O’Malley climbed a rope netting that hung down the side of the ship. Once standing on the deck, she felt that queasy sensation she’d had on the voyage to Scotland. Sailing did not agree with her.

  She counted at least eight shadowy figures standing motionless on deck. They seemed to be staring at her, though she couldn’t see their eyes in the darkness. O’Malley shouted at them to load the whisky. He delivered a few more orders, to which Caya took no heed. Suddenly, she raced to the railing and retched. She vomited up bile and the strong spirits O’Malley had made her drink after witnessing Jack’s death.

  “Poor child,” O’Malley said. “Come with me, sweetings.”

  “I would like to lie down, please.”

  “Of course.” O’Malley opened a hatch and motioned for her to climb down a ladder into a dark space. He lowered a lantern to her and followed down the ladder.

  She held the lantern out, casting a short glow of light on various items: sacks of grain, barrels, cannonballs. It looked nothing like the cabin space aboard the ship to Scotland.

  From behind her, O’Malley said, “Keep going, sweetings. Just ahead there. I want you to see my shipment of herring.”

  The lantern threw light on what looked like an animal pen made of horizontal wooden boards spaced three to four inches apart. Something rustled inside the pen, living things shifting and moving about. O’Malley produced a key and unlocked the hasp. When he pulled the door open, she shined the lantern inside the pen.

  Four big-eyed, disheveled-looking women huddled together in a corner.

  “Behold, my cargo of little fishes,” O’Malley said and laughed.

  “What?”

  O’Malley lifted a boot to her behind and shoved her inside the pen. As he slammed the door and locked the hasp, he said, “There you are, sweetings. Get acquainted with your new sisters.”

  She grabbed at the door and rattled it. “Wait. Come back. Why are you doing this?”

  O’Malley offered no answer. She listened to his receding footsteps and the thump of feet on the deck above.

  “How do you do?” She turned to look for the source of the refined English voice.

  The four women bobbed polite curtsies her way. Speechless, and operating as if in a dream, she returned a curtsy.

  The tallest of the women squinted at her as if she had trouble seeing in the dim. “My name is Miss Virginia Whitebridge.”

  “I’ll take that for you,” another woman said, and she relieved Caya of the lantern. She hung it on a hook overhead and introduced herself. “I’m Lady Charlotte Goulding of Black Port Lodge.”

  “I’m Caya Pendarvis of, of…Balforss.” Her heart hurt when she said the name. But for her, Balforss would forever after be her home.

  The other two introduced themselves. Her head was still reeling from this unexpected turn. She could barely retain their surnames, much less their places of origin. One thing she noted, though. All were from good homes. Miss Whitebridge and Lady Charlotte were from England, Miss Tucker from Edinburgh.

  The fourth woman, the youngest, Morag Sinkler, had been taken from her home in Wick. Wick? Oh dear Lord. When O’Malley hadn’t found Caya in Wick, had he taken Morag in her stead?

  “Please have a seat, Miss Pendarvis.” Miss Whitebridge indicated an overturned crate. The others found similar spots on which to sit. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea,” she added. Lady Charlotte laug
hed lightly at the absurdity of Miss Whitebridge’s jest. English to the core.

  “Why are we here?” Caya asked. “And what’s going to happen to us?”

  The women exchanged furtive looks.

  “Please. I want to know.”

  At last Lady Charlotte said, “It’s not good news, I’m afraid. The captain plans to sell us in the West Indies to—” She pressed her lips together.

  “To who knows who,” Miss Whitebridge finished for her. “The good news is that, so far, none of us has been molested by captain or crew, they feed us—”

  “My uncle’s pigs eat better slop,” Miss Tucker interjected flatly.

  “But they do feed us.”

  The last brick of fear fell into place. With the layers of lies peeled back, she could at last see the reality of what lay ahead. O’Malley was not a gentleman, he wasn’t a herring merchant, he wasn’t even a mere smuggler. He would not be her husband, and she would not be his wife. Caya was his merchandise. She would be sold to a house of prostitution, where she would live a short, unhappy life.

  Miss Whitebridge tilted her head in sympathy. “We’ve all been through what you must be experiencing now. You’ll weep for a while. Be seasick for a while. But in a day or so, you’ll be yourself again.” Miss Whitebridge turned to the others. “We must all remember to remain true to ourselves.” It was odd. The other women seemed to defer to Miss Whitebridge, even though Lady Charlotte held the rank of nobility.

  Caya pretended to agree. They all pretended to agree. That seemed to be their way of dealing with this nightmare. But she knew the truth. She would never be herself again.

  …

  Searching for the cave opening in the dark, Declan and Magnus were reduced to crawling on hands and knees. Had the opening been sealed? Had he somehow misremembered? Was this even the cave he and Magnus had explored when they were nine and ten? His heart had been beating double time since Magnus had delivered the news of Caya’s abduction. Now he was growing short of breath. He fought back the urge to panic.