Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  To her shame, she knew the answer. She was attracted to the towering Scot, had fantasized about what it would be like to be held by him, kissed by him, loved by him. Oh dear Lord, to be loved by a man like him. It was wrong to have those thoughts. Sinful, even. She should set those thoughts aside right now. But it was difficult to do when the image of his handsome face and beautiful eyes stubbornly refused to leave her head.

  Released from his promise to Jack, Declan should be relieved not to have to marry a plain and dowerless Cornish woman. Yet she thought he had been a little pleased when his uncle suggested he might court her “after a reasonable passage of time.” The spot on the back of her hand where he had trailed his little finger still burned. Were she and Declan equal in their desire to marry?

  “I’ve won the honor of marrying you,” he had said when she questioned him this morning.

  Honor. That must be it. The tiny spark of happiness burning in her chest died. For Declan, marrying her was the honorable thing to do. No doubt he was one of those men to whom honor was everything. Not a bad quality, but sometimes the dogged adherence to the “code of honor” ran contrary to what was practical.

  She had, for just a little while, believed that Declan wanted to marry her. But, no. Declan, gentle and honorable man that he was, felt compelled to marry her. That was all. Once again, Caya stuffed her sinful notions into the box and turned the key. She would atone for her transgressions tomorrow.

  …

  Declan called down to Magnus, “Hold.” The task of hauling the bathing tub to the second-floor bedroom proved more daunting than he had anticipated. He regretted declining Alex’s offer of help. The first eight treads hadn’t been that difficult for him and Magnus, but the turn in the staircase had been an exhausting feat of mental and physical engineering that required shifting the tub on end. As a result, the second half of the ascent nearly broke the two Scots.

  “Only one more step to clear. Ready, man?” he called down.

  “Aye.” Magnus had worked up a sweat and was blowing like a hard-ridden horse.

  “You all right, cousin?”

  Magnus gave him a sharp nod. “On three. One. Two. Threeee-ah!” They set the tub on the top landing. Thu-thunk. Magnus arched his back, and his spine made a series of popping sounds. “The damn thing must be made of stone.”

  “Nae. Zinc. I didnae ken zinc was so heavy when I bought it.” Declan wiped the sweat off his forehead with the front of his shirt. “Have you got it in you to get this to Caya’s room?”

  “You calling it Caya’s room now? Has she agreed to marry you?”

  “She will.”

  “But Uncle John said you had to wait to court her.”

  “No need for courting. She’s mine.”

  Magnus tilted his head to the side. “Awfy confident for a man what kens nothing aboot women.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times, I ken plenty aboot women. I have two sisters.” He held up two fingers, palm out, then turned his hand around, and gave Magnus a rude hand gesture. Magnus loved to taunt him about his lack of experience with women. The subject vexed him, not because he was embarrassed, but because it was none of Magnus’s bloody business.

  “Do you think a bathing tub is going to make Caya want to marry you?”

  “Nae. But did you ken a hot bath always improves a woman’s disposition?” He cocked a challenging eyebrow at his cousin.

  Magnus’s face went blank.

  “Ha! See. I ken women fine,” he said, thoroughly vindicated. “Now, help me move this bloody thing.”

  The bathing tub in place, they paused for a pull of whisky from his flask.

  “Why’d you build a separate room for your wife? Will she no’ be sharing your bed?”

  Declan smiled at the idea of sharing his bed with Caya. “Oh, aye. We’ll share. This is her room for bathing and some such. Lucy told me women like to have their own room. And it’s not separate. See?” He showed his cousin the door connecting Caya’s room with the next bedchamber. “She can come and go through here.”

  Magnus examined the workmanship on the doorframe and nodded his approval, then walked into the master bedchamber. He unlatched one of the shutters.

  The view from the front was a source of pride for Declan. He had chosen the location carefully. His house faced east for the morning light. Emerald green pasture stretched as far as the horizon, and one could just make out a patch of blue-green sea over the treetops to the north.

  “Will you be glazing these windows?”

  “That will be the last thing. I’ve yet to finish the kitchen and build the washhouse.”

  “But you’re living here now?”

  “Aye. I let my sister Margaret and her husband Hamish move into Cleaver Cottage. She makes my meals and does my laundry in exchange. Hamish helps with the building when he’s not working at the distillery with me.”

  “Fair trade.” Magnus slapped a big paw on his back. “It’s a fine house, man. You’ve done well.”

  “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  Magnus flashed a broad smile. “Dinnae ask me. You’re the one what kens women.”

  Chapter Five

  Declan didn’t like church services and only attended when his mother had made him. His mother had passed nearly two years ago, now, and he reckoned her funeral was the last time he’d been to a Sunday service. This morning, though, he arrived at kirk in Thurso on his own accord, it being the perfect excuse to see Caya again. He had washed, plaited his hair in a neat queue, and wore a clean shirt and trousers. Perhaps, with a tidier semblance, he would make a better impression than he had yesterday.

  He spotted Margaret on the road and waved. When she met up with him, she pulled a face and batted a hand at the loose ties of his stock. “What’s the occasion, brother? Did someone die?”

  “Nae.”

  Margaret was seven years older than Declan and had taken on their mother’s role of bossing him around. Jesus, he hoped Margaret wouldn’t embarrass him when he introduced Caya to her.

  “Where’s Hamish?”

  “He’s visiting with his mam. She’s feeling poorly so I’m bringing her beef broth.” Margaret held up a covered kettle wrapped in a tea towel.

  “She all right?”

  “She’s healthy as a coo. Probably just wants attention. Want to come?”

  “I’m to kirk. Will you give her my best?”

  “Oh, aye. Enjoy kirk, you heathen.”

  He watched Margaret stroll away and felt somewhat relieved. His sister was the kindest and most generous person he knew. She could also be prickly and unpredictable. As much as he wanted Caya to meet Margaret and Hamish, introductions could wait until things between him and the lass were more settled.

  The Sinclair women of Balforss milled about with other families outside the kirk door. He approached them, hoping to sit next to Caya, determined to speak to her. The women, all bonneted for kirk, looked like a pen full of hens with their heads bobbing and turning to and fro. How could he find Caya without her beacon of yellow hair?

  Then, he saw her.

  She smiled while Lucy introduced her to several women from town. Caya had hidden her hair under a starched bonnet. She wore a blue frock, cornflower blue like the color of her eyes. He watched her for a moment. Then those blue eyes met his and his breath caught with an audible huck.

  A small figure stepped in his path—Mrs. Swenson, the Balforss cook. “Och, laddie. Did you never learn to tie your stock properly?” Before he could object, Mrs. Swenson reached up and untied his stock, making a general female fuss over him. He wouldn’t have minded had she not chosen that very moment in front of God, Caya, and all of Episcopal Thurso.

  “I didnae have a looking glass,” he said as Mrs. Swenson jerked and pulled at his neck. He darted a look over her shoulder at Caya approaching, her lips pursed and pulled to the side as if trying to keep herself from laughing. He must appear ridiculous.

  “There,” Mrs. Swenson said, patting his chest before
stepping back to admire her work. “You look a proper gentleman.”

  A proper gentleman about to choke to death. He thanked her, and she toddled off toward the church steps.

  Caya curtsied. Would she do that every time they met? “Good morning, Declan.”

  Again, the sound of her voice speaking his name made the tops of his ears burn. He dipped his head in return. “Morning, Caya. Are you well?”

  “Yes, thank you. Is your sister with you?”

  “Ah, no. Her husband’s mam is feeling a wee bit peely-wally—erm, ill—and she’s looking after her.”

  “I am sorry. I hope she recovers soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  People were beginning to wander into the church. Caya turned toward the flow, and he followed with the single-minded purpose of occupying the spot directly beside her.

  “Are you happy at Balforss?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Good. Good. I kenned you’d like the—” A large hand clapped his shoulder. What now?

  “Give us a hand, nephew,” Uncle John said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Granny Murray in her wheely chair. She would need someone to lift her up the steps. Declan could hardly say no.

  He dutifully followed his uncle to where Granny sat in the sun, her bonnet shading a face that looked like a dried apple. One gnarled hand fluttered to her cheek, and she grinned a gummy grin.

  “Am I not the lucky one to have two strapping lads like yourselves escorting me into kirk?”

  In the time it took him to roll her wheely chair to the front of the pews, the remainder of his family members were seated. Caya was wedged so tightly between Auntie Flora and Cousin Lucy he saw no way to muscle into a space by her side. Instead, he slipped into the pew behind. Bloody hell. A man should be able to sit next to his own wife in kirk, should he not? He edged past Uncle Fergus and Aunt Agnes, then kicked Magnus’s foot to get his attention.

  “Move.”

  Magnus grunted and slid sideways to make room. Once seated, Declan discovered he had a perfect view of the back of Caya’s bonnet. Clearly a strategical miscalculation. He debated the risk of provoking Magnus with another request to shift when Alex arrived at the end of the pew carrying wee Jemma. The four of them were obliged to scoot down to make room for Alex.

  He sighed back into his seat. Much better. Though the brim of her bonnet hid her eyes and the freckles on her nose, the lower part of Caya’s left cheek and chin, as well as her lips, were exposed for his reverent contemplation. As soon as he had embarked on this holy endeavor, the processional began, and the assembled rose as one.

  The Anglican congregation in this part of Caithness was so small they hardly warranted a church. For as long as he remembered, the old Reverend Makepeace Culpepper had serviced all of Caithness and parts of Sutherland, his visits parsed out to two or three times a year for remote places like Thurso. Last year, however, the once papist chapel in which they now sat had been rebuilt under the leadership of local landed gentry and reconsecrated by the Episcopal Church of Scotland. With the arrival of a vicar, the recently ordained Reverend James Oswald, Thurso finally had its own Episcopal clergyman.

  In the absence of an organ, the vicar employed a fiddler for the processional, a Mr. Archibald Donaldson, whose interpretation of church music on his instrument created what Declan thought an unholy racket. Add to that the square tones of wee Jemma’s caterwauling, and it was a wonder everyone didn’t bleed from the ears.

  At last, the vicar crossed the transept, and the music mercifully ended. The congregation exhaled a collective sigh of relief, which Mr. Donaldson, no doubt, construed as appreciation. The vicar began the service in a clear and pleasing voice, a Lowlander from his accent, Declan thought. Admittedly, this was only his first time in attendance. He preferred to spend his Sunday mornings working on his house rather than nodding off in kirk. Besides, it wasn’t as if God could hear him any better in kirk.

  Halfway through the gospel, Jemma’s attitude toward the Word of God turned decisively negative. No amount of jostling or knee dandling would redirect her determination to free herself from her father’s lap. Most everyone in the church had focused their interest on Alex and Lucy’s obstinate offspring, the child’s discourse having more compelling content than the vicar’s. Alex passed her to Uncle Fergus who, in turn, passed her to Aunt Agnes. Once engulfed in Agnes’s ample bosom, Jemma settled.

  The congregation rose, murmured the appropriate responses, then launched into song. “Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed.” At first, the singing produced a jumble of notes as people searched for a beginning chord. Then the vicar’s baritone rang out, and everyone fell in.

  One voice, a clear, silvery soprano, floated above all the others. Heads swiveled to and fro, searching for its origin, seeking the creator of the singularly beautiful refrain:

  At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the light,

  And the burden of my heart rolled away,

  It was there by faith I received my sight,

  And now I am happy all the day!

  What earthly being made such a heavenly sound? Who was this angel among them? This songbird?

  Declan knew.

  Eventually, everyone else found the source, as well. Even wee Jemma smiled and reached a hand out to touch the divine creature, Caya.

  …

  After taking communion, Caya returned to her seat, slid down the pew, and settled next to Flora. Lucy slid in after her, and kneeling together, caught between the two female pillars of Balforss, Caya began to pray.

  She had always enjoyed being alone with God among a crowd of people. For as long as she remembered, the church had been the center of her world. It was there, in God’s house, where she found contentment, renewed hope, and the answers to life’s difficult questions.

  But today everything was off. This wasn’t her church. These weren’t her people. And the vicar—she didn’t even know his name. The comforting accompaniment to communion, Mrs. Dewey’s organ music, was missing, replaced by rustling skirts, shuffling feet, and the vicar’s repeated phrase, “The body of Christ.” She closed her eyes and clasped her hands, experiencing a moment of panic. Would God hear her if she wasn’t in her proper place at home in Penzance? Would he be deaf to her prayers here in Scotland?

  She thanked the Lord for watching over her, for shielding her from harm, for delivering her into the kind hands of Laird John and the people of Balforss, and she promised she would find a way to be of service to them.

  She prayed, too, for forgiveness for not having the strength and wisdom to save Jack. And, as always, she said a prayer for her mother and her father. She was about to finish when, on impulse, she thanked God for Declan Sinclair. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to single him out. And with that connection, with Declan as her touchstone, she knew she had found God in this place.

  An odd noise distracted her from prayer. What was making that curious wet sound behind her? Like smacking lips. Not the sort of sound one normally heard in church. She said a quick, “Amen,” and turned to see what or who was disturbing her prayer.

  Jemma, in a muslin gown trimmed with lavender ribbons, stood in Declan’s lap, his big hands wrapped around her middle, stabilizing her wiggling body. She had tight hold of his nose with one fist. The other outstretched toward Magnus, who entertained her with googly eyes and fish faces. Her head of bright red curls wobbled on her shoulders as she focused first on Declan, then Magnus, then Declan. Huffs of excitement turned to shrieks and giggles, the child’s joy echoing through the church.

  Jemma grunted as she pulled and twisted at Declan’s nose while he patiently endured her treatment. Caya had to smile. Magnus and Declan looked like two bears playing with a baby.

  Lucy made a noise of disapproval. “Jemma. Let go of Cousin Declan’s nose,” she whispered.

  Hearing her mother’s voice, Jemma twisted in Declan’s hands and reached for her mummy.

  “No mind.” Declan pretended to mold his nose back
into shape.

  “She’s a sweet wee thing,” Magnus added.

  Declan darted a glance at Caya. She got that same heated sensation of intimacy every time she met his dark eyes, leaving her breathless and guilty. She shouldn’t feel this way in church, for goodness’ sake. His gaze fixed on her, but there was nothing disquieting in it. Was he thinking, as she was thinking, that, if they married, they might have their own children one day?

  As she turned away from him, albeit reluctantly, she caught Lucy looking sideways at her, cheeks sucked in, trying not to giggle. She narrowed her eyes at Lucy, who immediately assumed a look of total innocence.

  Though she’d known her less than a day, she suspected that Lucy FitzHarris Sinclair was a calculating woman. Not in a devious or duplicitous way. Lucy was far too honorable to practice upon innocents. But there was definitely some kind of mischief bubbling behind Lucy’s beautiful blue eyes.

  “What’s so funny?” she whispered.

  Lucy shook her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “Later,” Lucy said. “I promise.”

  After the service concluded, Flora and Caya stepped out of the church into the gray daylight. She still hadn’t thought of what she could contribute to Balforss and the people who lived there. It had to be something of value, some assistance only she could provide.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when the vicar, a handsome-looking man of about thirty, greeted them. “Lady Sinclair. I’m happy to see you.”

  “A lovely service, Vicar James. You’ll be pleased to meet our dear friend, Miss Pendarvis. She’s come all the way from Cornwall to stay with us.”

  “How do you do?” She made a curtsy.

  “Welcome, Miss Pendarvis.” He stared down on her with an expression she would call…dazed. “Beautiful,” he said absently. The vicar’s eyes flew open. “I mean, your beautiful voice.” He seemed to recover his wit and laughed lightly. “I heard you sing. God has gifted you with the voice of an angel.”

  “Thank you.” She curtsied again. The vicar had a warm, genuine demeanor Caya found appealing.