Jack increased his smile and winked as if to say, This will be our little secret.
At last, the tavern owner’s good wife nodded and marched away, leaving the door open. He tore a few bites off the joint of meat she’d left for his supper while he waited for her footsteps to fade. His appetite sated for the moment, he grabbed the decanter of whisky and headed down the hall in the direction of the tavern room noise.
As he anticipated, no one took note of him. He found a corner and sat alone, enjoying his whisky. He was beginning to acquire a taste for the spirit and understood why the golden liquid was so precious to the Scots. About halfway through his bottle, he was feeling pleasantly drunk and in need of a piss. He squeezed through bodies that smelled more of fish than man. Someone shoved him aside and spat out a Gaelic curse, igniting his temper. Yet, he refrained from answering the cur for fear of calling attention to himself.
It had been so long since Sinclair had delivered him to this establishment, he’d forgotten that the building was situated on the side of a steep incline. He stepped through the door into the night, and the ground failed him. He missed the stairs and landed in a crumpled mess.
No damage done, but he’d lost hold of his bottle when he reached to break his fall. He groped in the dark on his hands and knees. Finding the bottle unbroken and still stoppered, he breathed a sigh of relief and got to his feet. He rose a little too quickly, as it turned out. The blood rushed from his head and he staggered. The blasted earth slipped away yet again, and he went tumbling backward, picking up speed as he rolled, cracking his head, crashing through bushes, knocking over barrels, banging his knee, and bowling over someone. Dogs barked, chickens squawked, and a woman cried out. When his body finally came to a stop sprawled on its back, the stars above continued to swirl clockwise, making beautiful patterns in the sky.
The head of a dog haloed in white fur slavered over him, blocking out his view. “Are ye deid?” the white dog asked.
Odd for a dog to talk. But this was Scotland. Absurd things happened here all the time, as he well knew.
“Are ye deid, man?” the dog asked again.
“I live,” he said.
The dog straightened, and by the shadowy moonlight, he could see she was in fact a woman, an old woman with white hair.
“Didnae ken should I fetch the preacher or the healer,” the old woman said and cackled. “You look a right mess, laddie.”
Jack attempted to sit up. Lifting his head took great effort. Someone had weighted it down with sand.
“Give it here,” she said, extending a helping hand.
He lifted his arm, grateful for the assistance. Instead, she took the whisky from his hand, still stoppered and miraculously undamaged. The old woman pried his fingers from the neck, twisted the cork out with a pop, and took a deep swallow.
Rolling first to his hands and knees, Jack managed to get his feet under him and stand, slowly this time. When he stumbled forward, the woman caught his arm.
“Steady, lad.”
A pulsating pain at the back of his head made itself known. He reached back to assess the damage. Wet. Sticky. Blood? He checked his hand. Not blood.
The old woman cackled again. “Looks like ye landed in the shite this time, laddie.”
“Blast this whole sodding country.” Jack snatched the decanter of whisky back and took several swallows. “Damn you and every whoreson in this fucking town.”
He turned and banged a shoulder on the side of a building, ricocheted off into a post, tripped, and landed in a horse trough. Someone yanked him out by the back of his jacket. He coughed and sputtered.
“Let me help. You need a baptizing, ye heathen.” The old woman shoved his head in the trough again and rubbed the cack out of his hair.
He came up, gasping for air. “Enough. Enough. Release me.”
She hissed in his ear. “You’re the sassenach bastard what’s wanted for robbery.”
Fear cut through his anger. “No, you have it wrong.” He tried to free himself to run. She was alarmingly powerful for an old woman. Before he had recovered from his near drowning, she’d dragged him through a dark doorway and shoved him into a chair. He sat shivering, dripping, still smelling like shit.
“Nae need to be afeart, laddie. You and me, we’re on the same side.” She set the whisky on the table in front of him, and he took a greedy gulp. “I’ll no’ give you away. You’re safe as a lamb with Mrs. McConnechy.”
He doubted he was safe. He judged Mrs. McConnechy to be either a murderer or a lunatic. Maybe both. “What do you want?”
“Best keep your voice down so’s not to wake my man.” She jerked her head in the direction of another room. Then she sat across from him and leaned into the candlelight. Her half-toothless grin reinforced his opinion that she was doddering. “I ken you want to get away. The Sinclair would see you off with nothing but a boot in the arse. Better to go with a wee bit a silver in your pocket, aye?” Mrs. McConnechy picked up a knife, and Jack tensed. Would he have to fight this old woman? Did he even have the strength?
She sliced off a chunk of bread, slathered it with jam, and handed it to him. “The publican, Kinney, doesnae ken how to treat a gentleman such as yerself.”
She was damn-well right about that. He had been dealt with shabbily, and the Sinclairs were chiefly responsible for dishing out his egregious treatment.
“You’ll fare better here with me, sir.” Her eyes glittered with cunning.
At last, someone who appreciated his circumstance and had the decency to acknowledge his position in society. Jack relaxed back into his chair and let out a noble sigh. “They say clothes make a man, but rags cannot conceal the character of a true gentleman, I suppose.”
She smiled again, this time with what he recognized as the adulation underlings had for their superiors.
“You, um, mentioned something about silver,” he said and canted his head to the side.
“Och, aye.” She leaned forward and crooked a finger for him to do the same. “I have it in mind how we can ruin the Sinclairs whilst making a small fortune for ourselves—you, being of high birth, taking the larger cut, of course.”
“Go on,” he said.
“I ken it best to keep this a’tween us. Nae need to tell my man, aye?”
“Of course, madame. It will be our little secret.”
“You’re going to find the Sinclair whisky stash, and I’m going to show you where to look.”
Jack gave her his most charming smile. She had earned it.
Chapter Ten
At the breakfast table on Wednesday morning, Caya was finishing her toast when a horse-drawn carriage jangled into the yard. Alex and Ian exchanged a look and scrambled to the window.
“Magnus has returned from Inverness,” Alex said. He and Ian darted into the entry hall, with Ian calling over his shoulder, “Meet us outside.”
Laird John, his face alight, hustled Caya and the baffled Sinclair women out of the dining room toward the front door. He paused with his hand hovering over the latch. “Are you ready for a surprise?”
“I love surprises,” Lucy breathed, bouncing on her heels with her hands clasped under her chin.
Laird John swung open the door and swept his arm in a graceful arc. “Dear ladies, your carriage awaits.”
A gleaming black lacquered carriage—a real carriage—stood in the yard, complete with red wheels, glass windows, running lamps, and a pair of perfectly matched black horses with a gold trimmed harness.
“Is it ours?” Lucy asked. Laird John nodded, and she squealed with delight. One of the carriage horses snorted and swiveled a wary eye her way.
“Oh, John. It’s beautiful.” Flora kissed her husband on the mouth in front of everyone. Caya didn’t know which shocked her more—the carriage or the kiss.
When Magnus leaped from the driver’s seat, his family engulfed him with fond embraces and congratulatory backslaps. She hadn’t seen Magnus in almost two weeks. The explanation given for his absence was
that he and his stepfather, Fergus Munro, had gone to Inverness on business. Magnus, therefore, was oblivious to the recent unfortunate turn of events that had made her miserable.
So no one could upbraid him when he smiled down on her and said, “Are you and Declan married yet? I hope I didnae miss the wedding.”
She heard several gasps. Magnus shot a confused look over the top of her head. When she turned, she caught Lucy shaking her head and Alex drawing a finger across his throat, signaling Magnus to shut up.
The look on Magnus’s face darkened. “What has that eejit done now? Has he upset you, lass? Because if he has, I’ll break his bloody neck.”
“We’re not getting married,” she said.
Magnus shook his head. “A’course you are. Declan dreamed it so.”
“Dreamed?”
“Did he no’ tell you aboot his dream?” Magnus looked to John and Alex, who scratched their heads and averted their eyes.
“What dream?” she asked.
Lucy crossed her arms and stepped forward. “Yes. What dream are you talking about, Magnus?”
Caya’s heart tripped and stumbled.
Magnus frowned at Lucy. “He dreamed Caya was his wife. That’s how he recognized her at the tavern.” Magnus looked down at Caya again. “So, you see, you two are meant to be married. Declan’s dreams never lie.”
Three hours later, Caya followed the path she had seen Peter take the day he’d delivered pasties to Declan. After making sure the Scrabster women weren’t lurking about doing their laundry downstream, she tucked up the hem of her skirt and waded across the river, balancing on the slippery rocks with boots and stockings in one hand and a basket of freshly baked Cornish pasties in the other. Now that she was certain Declan’s desire to marry her had nothing to do with honor, she was determined to make things right.
She paused on the far side of the river and used a handful of grass to clean and dry her feet before pulling on her stockings and lacing her boots. She arranged her skirts and bent to collect her basket of pasties, smelling hot-out-of-the-oven good.
When she straightened, she turned to stone.
“You’re looking well, sister.”
Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed. “Hello, Jack.”
He was filthy, disheveled, and much thinner than she remembered. “What are you doing here? I thought you were—”
“Hiding? Yes, your man stashed me in the back of some stinking hovel unfit for animals. I had to leave. Is that food?” His arm shot out like a striking viper and snatched the basket from her embrace.
She covered her yelp with both hands.
He tore open the towel, grabbed one of the hot treats, and stuffed it into his mouth, wolfing it down in gulps, devouring it almost whole. He took a bite out of another pasty and spoke, crumbs and juices tumbling from his lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I know you tried to steal a horse the other night,” she said. “Have you become a thief now?”
“It’s your fault. You left me in Wick with nothing. O’Malley found me and threatened me. I barely escaped with my life.” He stuffed another bite into his mouth.
“What you did was wrong. You could have killed that boy.”
“You care more about a dirty little groom than your own brother, your blood?”
“Leave here. Now. Laird Sinclair is looking for you. If he catches you, he’ll turn you over to the magistrate. Declan will find you safe passage—”
“I intend to leave, but not without what you owe me.”
Caya stepped back. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“O’Malley would have given me another twenty quid when I delivered you. Instead you took off with that imbecile Scot and left me with nothing.”
“I don’t have any money, Jack.”
He grabbed her arm and yanked her close. “Then get me Mother’s jade ring. You owe me that much, at least. You’ll find me at the home of Mrs. McConnechy in Scrabster. Bring it to me there.”
Mrs. McConnechy was the terrible woman who had called Caya a witch. The old woman must have known Jack was her brother. “I can’t go there. And you mustn’t trust that woman. She means you harm.”
He shook her. “Never mind about that. You have to get me that ring. There’s a passenger ship in the harbor that leaves the day after tomorrow.”
She dug her heels in. “No. Let me go.”
As soon as she freed herself, he struck her in the face with the back of his hand. The blow took her by surprise, and, failing to break her fall, she hit the ground hard.
He stood over her. “Look what you made me do.” He twisted his fist in her hair and pulled her to her feet.
Her ribs expanded, her lungs filled, and her rage released like a thousand arrows, a scream that shook the leaves on the trees. She fought back, kicking and scratching and clawing.
He protested but kept hold of her. “Stop it, damn you. Be still.” Something crunched beneath her fist and Jack cried out, “Shit. Fuck. You broke my fucking nose, you bitch.”
Freed from his grip, she ran, fear and fury blinding her, branches and bushes slapping at her face. Someone called her name, but she kept running, running. She fell once and got to her feet. She fell again with a sob, then picked herself up, swiping at the tears and wild strands of hair blurring her vision. Someone grabbed at her. She struck out. Fought hard. Fought to save her life. She screamed again, her lungs burning for air.
“Caya, stop. It’s me, love. It’s me.”
She stilled, panting like an animal. Her sight returned, and she saw Declan’s handsome face. Declan held her in his warm hands, his gleaming black brows drawn together with concern. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed against him.
He gathered her into his arms as if she were an injured bird. All her strength had dissolved. Every muscle had expired. She had been reduced to a trembling mess of bones and flesh. But he held her safe in his arms. Safe from Jack. Safe from all the ills of the world.
She closed her eyes and nestled her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, listening to his strong heartbeat, his soothing voice murmuring Gaelic words of comfort. It seemed like he carried her for miles and miles.
She roused when he shouted, “Hamish.”
From a distance, a voice answered, “Aye?”
“Go tell my sister I need her. Caya’s hurt.”
Declan reached a building and set her down on a bench. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, not yet able to talk.
“Dinnae move. I’ll get you something.”
A moment later, Declan knelt before her, pressing a cool tankard to her lips. She winced. Something was wrong with her mouth.
“Sorry. Try to drink this, love.”
Declan’s worried face came into focus. She took two swallows of the bitter ale, then signaled she’d had enough.
“I’m sorry.” When he shook his head in confusion, she tried again. “I was angry. I didn’t mean what I said.”
He held her face in his hands like a chalice and smiled into her eyes. “My fault. I made a mess of things.”
She started to smile back but winced again and touched her mouth. “I think I cut my lip.”
“It’s bleeding. Let me see.” Using the tip of his thumb, he delicately pulled her lower lip out and leaned his face close. “It’s no’ so bad.” He placed a light kiss near her mouth, then touched his forehead to hers. “Who did this to you, love? Tell me.” The tone of his voice had dropped to a low menacing rumble.
“I fell.” The lie made her lip hurt all the more. Why would she lie for her brother after everything? Was it to protect him? Or to protect herself? How many times could she bring chaos to Balforss before they would politely ask her to leave? She closed her eyes.
“Caya, tell me who did this?” he asked again.
“Jack.”
She heard Declan rise on an angry growl and she reached for him. “Wait! Don’t go. Please. Stay with me. I don’t care about Jack anymore. C
an’t we just leave him to his fate?”
He tilted his head, considering her request. After a moment, his shoulders lowered, and he dropped to his knees before her. “Your brother deserves a good thumping.”
She stroked his cheek. “I know.”
“He hurt you, and he should pay for—”
“I know.” Caya took hold of his hand and pressed her lips to his knuckles.
Declan’s wrath cooled, and he exhaled a ragged breath. Then she remembered the pasties.
“Merde.”
He made an amused snort. “You’ve been spending too much time with Lucy.”
“I lost the pasties I was bringing you.”
“What? You made me those delicious meat pies again?” He popped to his feet. “I’ll go and have a look for them.”
“No, don’t. Don’t leave me. I’ll make you more tomorrow,” she said and smiled as much as her cut lip would allow.
His eyes sparkled in the afternoon light. “If you didnae have a fat lip, I’d kiss you.”
Margaret came tearing into the yard, red-faced and gasping between every other word. “Is she all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Margaret bent and grabbed her side, her face contorted. “I’ve got a stitch.” When she finally caught her breath and straightened, she rounded on her brother. “You said she was hurt.” Margaret kicked her brother’s backside.
“Och!”
“That’s for making me run all the way here,” Margaret snipped. Then said to Caya in a gentler voice, “I’m glad to find you well, a nighean.”
…
Declan sent his bad-tempered older sister on her way. He wanted to be alone with Caya. Perfectly alone.
“Can you walk, a leannan? I’ll take you to our house, and you can rest a bit. Gullfaxi and I will give you a ride back to Balforss…when you’re recovered.” He wanted to say “when I’ve finished kissing and holding you” but didn’t think it wise. Plus, if she allowed him to kiss and hold her, he would never want to stop, and what would that lead to?
He shortened his normal stride so as not to tax her, but she kept even with him without difficulty. She stayed close, too, bumping his arm now and then. He liked that. She faltered once. He caught her and liked his arm around her narrow shoulders so much, he didn’t let go. Caya made no protest. In fact, she wrapped her arm around his waist for support. He liked that a lot.
Betting the Scot (The Highlanders of Balforss) Page 21