Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  Declan’s entire body shook. Had anyone else attempted to block his way to Caya, he would have taken them down, but this was his uncle, his laird, a man to whom he’d sworn his obedience. After a moment, he got his temper under control and let his fists uncurl.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Good. Now, sit down and listen.”

  …

  Caya hoped her boots weren’t tracking mud on Flora’s fine carpet. She was grimy from travel and far too underdressed to be dining with ladies. “Where is my bag?”

  “Haddie brought it to your room, dear.” Flora took her cloak and motioned to a pink and green striped upholstered chair. “Sit down and have something to eat.” After draping her cloak on the back of the settee, Flora poured Caya a steaming cup of tea and added two spoons of sugar. “The laird will want a word with you after he’s finished talking to the men. Then you can rest until supper.”

  Caya took the teacup from Flora, and it rattled in its dish, all but announcing her nervousness.

  “Och, lass. There’s nae need to fret. It’s just us women, after all.”

  She lifted the cup to her lips, more to hide her embarrassment than because she needed a sip of tea.

  Lucy held out a small plate with a slice of cake and said, “Try this one. It’s my favorite.”

  She dutifully took a bite of the spice cake—moist, sweet, and fragrant—and made a reflexive “mm” sound. Flora and Lucy laughed. Discomposed by her unmannerly slip, Caya swallowed quickly, swiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her little finger, and whispered, “Do pardon me.”

  “Dinnae fash, dear. That happens to everyone the first time they taste Mrs. Swenson’s molasses cake.”

  “It’s true,” Lucy said, as she shared one of her treats with Hercules. “Mother Flora fed me Mrs. Swenson’s molasses cake on my first day at Balforss, and I made the same sound exactly.” She popped the last bite of a gooseberry tart into her mouth and closed her eyes in ecstasy. Hercules’s tail thumped lightly on the carpet. “No more for you, you little beggar.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Caya said, “how is it that you are here?” Goodness. Was that a rude thing to ask? “I mean, I’m surprised. I mean, not surprised, but confused—”

  Lucy tossed her head back and laughed, a pleasing sound. She flapped a hand and said, “Trust me, when Papa promised me to Alex, I was outraged. By all rights, I should be married to an earl, or a baron at the very least. Am I right?” She laughed again and sighed. “Lucky for me, my father had other plans. You’ve seen how handsome Alex is…”

  Caya stammered for a second, not knowing if it was good manners to comment on Alex’s looks.

  “Well, as handsome as he is, he’s an even better husband. I am very happy here at Balforss. Scotland is my home now.” Lucy reached toward Flora, and they clasped hands briefly. These two had a strong bond between them. Envy nipped at her conscience again. When was the last time she’d shared a friendship with another woman?

  “I’m glad for you,” she said and dropped her eyes to her teacup.

  She was seated comfortably in front of a peat fire with Lucy and Flora, as her hostess insisted she call them. It would take some getting used to, all this use of Christian names, as if they were family. Yet, that’s the way Flora and Lucy were treating her. Like family.

  The parlor was as lovely as its mistress; a rich Persian carpet covered the wood floor, embroidered draperies flanked the glazed windows, and golden afternoon sunlight gave the room an otherworldly glow. In fact, she had stepped outside her life into another world. Her future had changed forever when Jack had gambled with her life and lost, breaking his promise and severing their familial bond.

  Declan Sinclair had offered her a choice. She could have waited for the arrival of Mr. O’Malley, the man Jack had “sold” her to. Instead, she had chosen Declan, a man who wanted her and, if she was honest with herself, a man she wanted. She’d chosen Declan, and all that came with him—his family, his country, his house—for better or for worse.

  Poor Declan. The laird had looked angry. She hoped he wouldn’t be too hard on him. She felt relaxed enough to chance another sip of tea. It was strong and sweet. A very good leaf. A light rapping sound caught her attention, and they all three turned toward the parlor door.

  “Come in,” Flora called.

  Declan stepped into the room, his face flushed and bothered as if he bore some unhappy news. “The laird would have a word with you and Caya, Auntie.” His eyes darted a quick look at Caya. His distress made her heart falter. Would the Laird of Balforss turn her out? Had he forbidden the marriage? She searched Declan’s face for some kind of answer. He pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly.

  Flora extended a hand to her. “Come along, dear.”

  Declan led the way downstairs. When they reached the library, he said, “I’ll wait out here,” and made a feeble attempt at a smile.

  She balked at the doorway, not wanting to meet whatever destiny lay within.

  “Dinnae fash, a nighean,” Flora said. “The laird isnae an ogre.” She whispered, “He tries hard to sound like one, but he’s really as sweet as a lamb.”

  In the low rumble Caya had come to like, Declan said, “It’ll be all right, lass.” The jagged edges of her fear softened. Odd how this strange man could have such a calming effect on her.

  The laird sat behind the largest carved oak desk she had ever seen. In a brusque, business-like manner, he rose and motioned for her and Flora to sit. She had an attack of the collywobbles and pressed a hand to her stomach, wishing she hadn’t eaten the cake. Vomiting on the floor of the laird’s library would not make a good impression.

  “Declan has informed me of the circumstances that brought you to us,” he said, his words clipped and terse. “I apologize for the actions of my son and nephews—”

  She witnessed an odd exchange take place between Flora and the laird. Silent, but something definitely passed between the two. The laird’s shoulders relaxed and his voice took on a lighter tone.

  “Miss Pendarvis…Caya, it was wrong of Declan to remove you from your brother’s care. If you wish it, I will see you returned and your brother compensated for his trouble.”

  Returned? To Jack? No. “I—I—” She stammered in a voice too small for the room. “I can’t.”

  Flora put a hand on hers. “Is it that you’re afraid to go back or that you dinnae wish to go back?”

  “I do not wish to go back,” she said as forcefully as possible.

  “Your brother would be within his rights to complain to the magistrate,” the laird said. He looked expectantly at her.

  “I’m sorry.” She made herself speak louder. “I don’t mean to cause you trouble.”

  “John.” Flora aimed a pointed look at her husband and exchanged another silent communication Caya wished she could decipher.

  He nodded to Flora, then said in a rolling burr, “There’s nae need for worry, lass. You are here through no fault of your own. But, I want to make this clear: no one can…” He struggled for a moment, and his face went slightly red. “No one can win another person in a game of cards or any such contest.” He gave Flora a sidelong glance. “Regardless of the outcome of the aforementioned card game, you are under no obligation to marry anyone. Do you understand?”

  But if she wasn’t to marry Declan, then what would become of her? “Mr. Sinclair—Declan—he promised my brother—”

  “A promise that holds no meaning in light of the events which led you to our door.”

  Panic tightened her chest, and she fought for breath. She rose from her chair without thinking. Where was Declan? Why wasn’t he here to tell the laird that he’d promised? “But, he gave me his word.”

  The library door opened, and she turned to see Declan’s worried face.

  “Out!” the laird shouted.

  Declan stepped back outside and closed the door.

  Tears she hadn’t expected collected and threatened to spill down her
cheeks. She whispered her plea. “Declan gave me the choice. He said it was my choice. Mine.”

  The laird lifted his palms as if to signal her back to a state of calm. “Wheesht now, lass. I didnae mean to upset you. As of this moment, I consider you my ward, and like every person living under my roof, you are my responsibility.” He rose and came around to her side of the desk, reaching for her hands. “No one can lay claim to you, no one can own you, and no one can pressure you to marry because of some damn—” Flora’s sharp intake of breath gave him pause. “Because of some daft card game. Do you understand, lass?”

  She nodded, still dazed by this turn of events. A man had given her a choice. Another man had taken her choice away. She was a fool to assume it would be otherwise. She had spent all day adjusting to the idea of marrying the tall Scot, and now she was on unsteady ground again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Laird John released her hands, and she dashed away her tears with a sniff.

  “Declan,” he shouted toward the door.

  The library door opened immediately, and Declan poked his head in again, eyes wide with apprehension or expectation, Caya couldn’t tell which. Had she ever been so relieved to see someone?

  “Come,” the laird said, crooking a finger at him.

  Declan crossed the room and stood at her side, facing his uncle.

  “Today’s events have placed you, Caya, and everyone at Balforss in an awkward position. For the well-being of all involved, I have made her my ward. She will remain under my protection for as long as she resides under my roof. I insist you set aside thoughts of marriage or courtship or any such notion until you both can calm down and see things rationally. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Declan said. His voice sounded hollow, emotionless.

  She was heartsick, but she supposed she was being ridiculous. How could she be disappointed about not marrying Declan Sinclair when she’d known him less than a day?

  “After a reasonable passage of time,” the laird continued, “if you are inclined and if Caya is agreeable, I will reconsider.”

  A smile spread across Declan’s face. “Thank y—”

  “After a reasonable passage of time,” the laird said, cutting him off.

  Declan brushed her hand with his little finger. His touch ignited a flame inside her breast that warmed her whole body, filled her with hope.

  The laird cleared his throat, and Declan snatched his hand away.

  Obviously struggling to maintain his patience, the patriarch continued, “In the meantime, you will observe all the polite rules of society. You two are never to be alone. To do so would compromise the lass’s reputation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Declan smiled down at her, his sweetest smile. She bit her lip, suppressing her own. What had just happened? There seemed to be more unsaid than said between Laird John and Declan.

  “You can go now, nephew.”

  Declan backed toward the door, never taking his eyes off Caya. He said to her, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Goodbye, Declan.” Laird John crossed his arms and dipped his head.

  “At kirk,” Declan said. “My sister will be there. I’ll introduce you to her.”

  “Declan,” his uncle warned. Declan was probably pressing his luck by testing his uncle’s patience.

  “G’night then, Caya.” He turned without looking and crashed into the closed library door. “Och. Sorry.” He fumbled with the handle before slipping out of the room, making more mumbled apologies.

  The laird shook his head. “Dinnae ken what’s got into the loon. You’d think he’d lost all his good sense.”

  “Bonnets,” Flora exclaimed. “You know very well what’s got into him, John Sinclair. Shame on you for torturing the poor lad.”

  Flora ushered Caya out of the library and up to a guest room, where she left her to rest awhile before supper. The upstairs maid, Haddie, a cheerful young woman with a beautiful smile, her most appealing feature, brought hot water for Caya’s use.

  “Miss Lucy says you’re from England, too,” Haddie said, emptying the water into a basin.

  “Yes. Cornwall, actually.” Caya’s curiosity about Lucy got the better of her. “It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it? That the Duke of Chatham’s daughter lives here? At Balforss?”

  Haddie nodded and smiled. “Oh, aye.” The young maid added more chunks of peat to the fire. “Laird John and the duke are old friends from when they served in the army. It was them that arranged the marriage.”

  “And Miss Lucy agreed to leave England and come here?”

  “Well, she wasnae so happy about it at first, but Balforss has its own special magic, ken? The longer you’re here, the more you’ll come to love it. You’ll see.”

  “And Mr. Alex? Did it take Miss Lucy a long time to get used to him?”

  “Och. They didnae like each other at all. But after a while, Mr. Alex sort of grew on her.” She picked up the bucket, then straightened. “Will ye need anything else, miss?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  Haddie quit the room, and she was alone for the first time that day. The maid had said Balforss had its own magic. She didn’t believe in magic, but she understood what Haddie meant. She sensed something warm and strong and alive about the house. Protective. Its walls, like strong arms, seemed to envelop its occupants in love, sheltering them from the outside world. Exactly the kind of house she would have one day. Exactly the kind of house she hoped Declan would give her. After all, he had promised. Or had Laird John canceled that promise?

  She closed her eyes and tried to make sense of the day. The onslaught of dramatic life choices had come at her so fast and furiously, she hardly had time to weigh every decision properly. In one day, she’d accepted the marriage proposal of a complete stranger, left the company of her brother, traveled for eight hours, and been embraced by a new family, only to have her engagement broken by day’s end. What did it all mean?

  Laird John had seemed very angry about the card game, about the wager. He’d probably convinced Declan his decision to marry was unwise. Any reasonable person would be appalled to hear that their nephew had won a bride in a game of chance. Even more shocking, that the bride had willingly left her brother to marry the nephew. Perhaps Declan regretted his offer of marriage. Suddenly, her dream of a house and children were out of her reach again.

  After a good wash, she stretched out atop the bed, luxuriating in clean sheets and feather bedding. This was her new bed, her new family, her new life. She supposed she should count herself lucky.

  Luck.

  Caya sat up abruptly. She didn’t trust luck. Luck was a trickster meant to tempt weak people like Jack. Good things did not happen because of luck. Good things came to people who worked hard. People who performed acts of charity. People who were virtuous. If she was to deserve this new life and get her own house, she needed to work for the privilege.

  On the way to her bedchamber, Flora had said, “You will live here as a valued member of our family. Like everyone else, you’ll find your place. I’m certain you have much to contribute.”

  What could she contribute to this household? She crossed to the peat fire and stirred the embers with the poker, encouraging more warmth. She pulled a small hassock with pink roses done in needlepoint in front of the hearth, then sat and extended her bare feet toward the heat.

  Flora and Lucy made candles and honey for the household. The laird and Alex ran the farm. They had staff for the kitchen and for managing the house. What would she have to offer Balforss? Where would she fit in?

  Caya wiggled her toes, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Tomorrow was Sunday, a perfect time to start anew. Perhaps then, after she spoke to God, it would come to her—the thing she possessed that would be of value to Balforss.

  The entire Sinclair household would be attending church or, as Flora called it, kirk. That’s what Declan had meant. He had said he would see her at kirk tomorrow and introduce her to his sister. The idea pleased her, gav
e her something to look forward to, a concrete tomorrow after an ever-shifting today.

  Declan. She had been disappointed when Laird John had taken away her choice. As much as she had worried about marrying a stranger, she wanted very much to be settled, to begin making her house a home. Those plans had been put on hold by the laird until he saw fit to allow Declan to court her.

  Was courting different in the Highlands? She would have to ask Lucy. Truth be told, she didn’t know what it was like in Cornwall. She’d never been courted before. There had been Hugo, of course. Hugo Killigrew. She smiled at the memory of him. His father had owned a tin mine. He had hair bleached white by the sun and a chipped front tooth he sometimes worried with his tongue. He had loved teasing her, and Caya had loved him like only a fifteen-year-old girl could love a fifteen-year-old boy. They had been too young to court, but everyone had said she and Hugo would marry one day.

  Then Hugo had drowned.

  There were drownings every year in Penzance. It was a fishing town. Peoples’ lives and deaths were intricately woven with the sea. They had been children, playing among the dangerous sea coves used by the pirates in the last century, daring one another to venture deeper into the caves that pocked the cliffs at the water’s edge. Hugo had been a good swimmer. But that day, he had ventured too far and had been trapped.

  She could still hear his mother’s cries as they’d pulled him from the water. Still remembered his father desperately trying to revive his son. The sea had taken the boy. The beautiful, terrible sea.

  Declan didn’t know how to swim. Everyone should know how to swim. Just in case.

  Declan.

  She had placed her brother, Jack, completely out of her mind, yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Declan—tall, dark, and lanky Declan. Absurd, really. He was a complete stranger. Even more puzzling, she’d been upset when Laird John had dissolved their plans to marry. At the time, she hadn’t thought about the loss of the house Declan had promised her. Something else had disturbed her more.