Betting the Scot Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Lady Evelyn’s Highland Protector

  When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord

  The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth

  My Scot, My Surrender

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Trethewey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from Period Images and Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-516-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition April 2018

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Richard, my one true love.

  Prologue

  Fall 1816, County Caithness, Scotland

  Samhain. Declan Sinclair’s favorite time of year. The time when Caithness turned a patchwork of color, the time when the veil between the living and the dead grew thin, and the time when his dreams of the future were most vivid.

  Declan wove his way through the forested path, whistling to himself, a brace of red grouse slung over his shoulder, his other hand tucked into the waist of his breeks. Each year, the coming of Samhain marked a magical change in everything—the land, the air, the sea, all that was precious to him. But this year—this Samhain—was different. This Samhain marked a change in Declan’s future, a change in his whole life, a change for the better, to be sure.

  He reached his old cottage, the one in which his older sister Margaret and brother-in-law Hamish now lived, and sniffed the air. Good. He hadn’t missed supper. Declan had argued with Margaret last week and she hadn’t spoken two words to him since. At first, he’d welcomed not having to engage with his fractious sibling, but hers was a loud silence filled with groans, and huffs, and sighs. Though he couldn’t remember what the argument had been about, he thought he should apologize and have done with it. After all, he had big news to tell, and he wasn’t certain how she would react. He hoped a gift of the grouse might smooth the way for him.

  Declan knocked on the door and called out, “Margaret, it’s me.”

  Margaret swept open the door and a rich, oniony aroma hit him squarely. Rabbit stew. His favorite.

  “It’s yourself,” she said without enthusiasm. She wiped her hands on her apron before giving him a brisk kiss on the cheek.

  Lifting the grouse like a trophy, he announced, “These are for you.”

  “Aren’t you the clever one,” she said, taking the birds. “These will do nice for tomorrow’s supper.” Margaret ducked into the pantry to hang the birds.

  “I come to say sorry and to tell you something.”

  Margaret stepped back out, folded her arms, and stood stone-faced like a sentry awaiting his apology.

  “I’m sorry for…arguing.”

  Her head quirked as if to say, And?

  “For arguing about…” Christ, what had they argued about?

  She unfolded her arms and stared at him incredulously. “You dinnae even remember, do you?”

  “I do,” he said, not liking to be challenged. Then added, “Sort of.” His mind scrambled for purchase until it caught on something safe. “I was rude and insensitive and I took you for granted.”

  Her chin lifted, again indicating that he hadn’t finished to her satisfaction.

  “But I want you to know that I appreciate you and everything you do for me, Sister.”

  Margaret lowered her head and leaned forward.

  Jesus, what else do you want, woman?

  “Och, aye!” he remembered, “and I love you dearly.”

  At last, Margaret strode across the kitchen floor and embraced him. All was forgiven. Now he could tell her what he truly came to say.

  “Where’s Hamish?” he asked.

  “He went to Thurso to have the horse shod. He’ll be back in time for supper. Why?”

  Declan rubbed his belly and ventured a look into the pot over the fire. “Will it be soon? I’m famished.”

  Margaret shooed him away from the hearth. “If you found yourself a wife, you’d be home right now eating her food instead of pestering me.”

  “That’s what I come to tell you.” He had planned on a longer preamble, but he couldn’t contain the news for another second. “I’m getting married.”

  A look he couldn’t interpret came over her. She staggered sideways with her eyes wide, but she didn’t speak.

  “Did you hear what I said, Margaret?” He beamed at her and waited. Still, she made no sound.

  “Margaret?”

  Why isn’t she saying anything?

  At last she shut her eyes and clasped her hands together. “Thank the heavens.” She threw her arms open, and he stepped into her fierce embrace. “Good Lord, I thought the day would never come.”

  When he stepped back, she was, as he had expected, weeping a bit.

  “I thought you’d never find a wife.” Margaret dabbed away the tears with the hem of her apron and sniffed. “Well then.” She smiled up at him. “Who’s it to be?”

  “What?”

  She laughed. “Ye loon. Who’s the lucky lassie you’ll be marrying? Is it Tessa Maclaren? She’s a pretty one and clever, forbye.”

  He had to think hard. He couldn’t remember who Tessa Maclaren was. “Does Tessa have yellow hair?”

  “No.”

  “Then, nae. It’s no’ her. Mine’s got yellow hair.”

  “Yellow hair, ye say?” Margaret blinked twice. “Declan,” she said as though talking to a horse that might bolt. “What’s the lassie’s name?”

  He looked at the table, the hearth, the floor—anywhere but at her. “I dinnae ken.”

  Her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back. “Oh Lord give me strength.” She found a kitchen stool and sat down hard, then leveled a look of resignation at him. “You’ve been having those fool dreams again, I suppose.”

  Chapter One

  Spring 1817, Wick Harbour, the Highlands of Scotland

  Declan Sinclair would have called to his wife, but he didn’t know her name. They hadn’t met. Not yet. Nevertheless, the pretty blonde seated on the far side of the tavern was his wife. Or would be. Soon. She was the wife in his dreams, and his dreams never lied.

  A steady stream of people seeking shelter from the spring storm poured into the Crown Tavern. Declan and his two cousins had stopped here for the night before heading home to Balforss. Boisterous shouts of welcome and calls for whisky echoed through the hall. The place smelled of peat smoke, wet wool, and roasted meat. He should eat his la
mb stew before it got cold, but all he wanted to do was marvel at the lass seated across the room.

  In his dream, his wife was surrounded by gowans, the flowers the English called daisies. Her long yellow hair hung loose down her back, and her arms spread wide to touch the tops of the white petals circling her body. Each time, the dream would end the moment before she turned to reveal her face. Now, wide awake on a rain-drenched night in this crowded tavern, he was positive the lass seated at the corner table was the same woman in his dreams, his wife.

  Declan jabbed his cousin Magnus in the arm. “That’s her.” He chucked his chin at the object of his affection.

  Magnus twisted his massive torso around in his chair. “Where?”

  “The lass sittin’ in the corner. The one with the yellow hair and the green frock.”

  “Oh, aye. What about her?”

  “She’s the one I dreamed. The one I’m to marry.” His heart stumbled when he said the word “marry.”

  “Go an’ boil your head,” Magnus said. “You never seen that woman before in your life.”

  “I have in my dream. It’s her. I know it.”

  Cousin Alex flopped into a chair next to Magnus, his fat head blocking Declan’s view.

  “Move, move. You’re in the way.” Declan flapped his hand sideways.

  Rather than move, Alex looked over his shoulder. “Why? What’s amiss?”

  “The numpty thinks he’s spotted his bride.” Magnus rolled his eyes and returned to his stew.

  “What? Yon bitty lass in the corner?” Alex asked.

  “I said move aside. I cannae see.” Declan kicked Alex under the table.

  Alex feigned an unnecessary show of injury before he scooted his chair sideways. “There. Better?”

  Much better. He could see her again. She wasn’t a dream. She was real. Declan consumed every detail of her face—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the freckles sprinkled on her nose. How fortunate that he should have such a bonnie wee wife.

  “Why do you think she’s the one?” Alex asked.

  “He dreamed her,” Magnus said without looking up from his bowl.

  Alex turned back to the lass. “Oh. I see.”

  They scoffed, but Alex and Magnus believed in Declan’s dreams, even if they pretended not to. He had saved their lives more than once during their time in the army. His dreams foretold future events with accuracy. Like at Salamanca. The 42nd Foot might have been outflanked by the French that day in July, but Declan had dreamed of the battle the night before, and they were ready for the enemy.

  No. His dreams never lied.

  Declan leaned forward with interest. His future wife’s brow had crinkled with concern. What was the trouble? A woman shouldn’t be left alone without a companion, without a guardian. He should go to her and offer his help, but what would he say?

  He’d made two attempts at romance in the past—the kitchen maid at the Latheron Inn, and the butcher’s daughter, Gertie MacDonald—but they hadn’t been for him. He had all but resigned himself to being a bachelor when one night three years ago, right around the time Alex had met and wed Lucy, he’d dreamed of his wife-to-be, and everything had changed.

  Declan had prepared for married life straight away by building his own whisky distillery. He’d also built a house for his future wife—not a cottage, a big house—one she would be proud of. In fact, he’d come to Wick to collect a lady’s bathing tub he’d purchased from a trader who dealt in goods imported from France by way of the Netherlands.

  The increased frequency of his dream had signaled their meeting was fast approaching, so it was no shock to find her sitting across the tavern from him this evening. What did have his heart beating in his throat was her bonnie face. He hadn’t expected one so pretty and so dainty. He could tuck her inside his coat and carry her home like a kitten.

  As he considered the best way of conveying his new bride back to Balforss, she turned her head his way and their gazes locked. His chest seized, and his heart forgot how to beat. But she didn’t turn away. Neither could he. To his delight, there was no reproach or indifference in her blue eyes. Quite the opposite. She continued to look upon him with equal interest as if she had expected to discover him here at the Crown. Had she dreamed of him as well? Did she recognize him just as he recognized her?

  She looked away for a moment. Should he call to her? Win her attention again? Then her eyes flickered back in his direction. His heart stuttered back to life, and he smiled. The ghost of a smile formed on her lips, her pretty pink lips.

  A man carrying two bowls of stew approached the lassie and shattered Declan’s trance. He tensed, an overwhelming sense of possessiveness taking hold of him. The man set the bowls down and took a seat at her table. Declan got his legs under him, ready to spring, but Alex laid a hand on his forearm.

  “Easy, man. Bide awhile. Looks like the lass is taken.”

  Alex’s low rumble carried with it sincere regret. Declan didn’t like hearing his cousin’s words. He didn’t want to believe that, having finally found his bride, he’d lost her. Then, after watching the exchange between his wife and the stranger, Declan eased back into his chair.

  True. To see the man and woman together, their familiar way, one might assume they were a couple. But he knew better. His dreams never lied. Hadn’t his vision of his own whisky business come true? And hadn’t he been right when he dreamed Alex and Lucy would have a girl child?

  “That’s no’ her husband,” he announced.

  “How do you ken that?” Alex asked.

  “Because I’m her husband,” he said with newfound certainty.

  “Excuse me for pointing out the obvious, man,” Magnus said. “But dinnae ye have to meet the lass first?”

  …

  Every time the tavern door opened, another blast of cold wet air swept over Caya Pendarvis. She clutched her reticule closer. It held six shillings, all she and her brother Jack had left to their names. If Mr. O’Malley didn’t meet them tomorrow as planned, they might not have the means for another day’s room and board.

  She wished Jack would return to the table. The tavern was loud, and there were three men who kept looking at her. One dark-haired man in particular had been staring ever since she sat down. His intense gaze made something flutter inside her stomach. Didn’t he know it was ungentlemanly to stare at a lady? Though she knew it was unwise for her to return his look, she found it difficult not to stare back at him.

  Her heart beating at a frightening tempo, Caya tore her gaze away and searched for a glimpse of Jack’s blond hair. Wherever he was, she hoped the food he purchased from the tavern maid would be edible. She was hungry. They’d been nine long days aboard the ship from Cornwall to Wick Harbour. Like most passengers, she hadn’t been able to keep anything down because of rough seas. When she had mustered the courage to eat, the food had been unidentifiable.

  She spotted her brother and exhaled her disquietude. “There you are.”

  “Lamb stew.” Jack plunked two steaming bowls on the table. “Doesn’t smell too bad.” He pulled spoons from his coat pocket, handed one to Caya, and tucked in.

  She polished her spoon on her sleeve—Lord only knew what else lived in Jack’s pocket—and cast a furtive sideways glance across the room at the dark-haired man. “I’m not sure I like this tavern. Are you certain this is the one Mr. O’Malley recommended?”

  Jack shoveled a large chunk of meat into his mouth, then huffed and waved a hand to cool it. Twenty-two years old and he still forgot to test his food first. The silly incident would no doubt sour his mood.

  He blinked back tears of pain. “What the devil’s wrong with this place? I checked the rooms like you asked. They’re clean. The food’s good.”

  She ignored his petulance and leaned in. “Don’t turn around now, but there’s a man at the table over there who keeps looking at me. I said, don’t—”

  Jack looked anyway. She winced. What if the man mistook Jack’s glance as an invitation to c
ome over to their table and chat? She didn’t like talking to strangers. And everyone in Scotland was a stranger.

  Eyes dull and mouth twisted, Jack said, “What would you have me do? Demand they stop looking at you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to start a fight with one of them?” Jack jerked his chin at the three Scots. “They look like ruffians. I’d probably get my teeth kicked in. Would you like that?”

  “Of course not.” Caya felt her own temper rise. Jack was tired and hungry. Well, so was she. There was no reason for him to take his frustration out on her. “Forget I said anything,” she said, putting an end to the conversation. She knew what he was like. Arguing in the middle of this crowded tavern in front of those suspicious-looking men would be unwise.

  After a silence, she prodded Jack with an innocent enough question. “Tell me again what Mr. O’Malley is like.”

  Jack lifted his head as if it took great effort. “I only know what the solicitor who arranged the marriage contract told me,” he said wearily. “O’Malley’s a herring merchant. Out at sea most of the year.”

  “But did the solicitor say anything about his nature? Is he a kind man?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m to marry him, of course.” She reined in her frustration and added calmly, “I appreciate that you’ve found a suitable arrangement for me. I do. But what if, when we meet him tomorrow, he’s nothing like what the solicitor said? I can still decide against the union, can’t I?”

  “No.” Jack dug his spoon into the stew. “The contract is signed and money has exchanged hands.”

  “But you told me—”

  “I told you what you needed to know and no more. I received half your marriage payment upon signing and I’ll receive the other half tomorrow.”

  “I see.” Caya’s appetite ebbed. Somehow, everything had happened so fast, it was hard to believe it was real. She’d agreed to marry O’Malley at a time when Jack was desperate for money. When Jack’s creditors had threatened him with debtors’ prison, he’d used the last thing of value he had left: her. He’d met a solicitor who, for a small fee, arranged marriages. The solicitor knew a man named Sean O’Malley, a herring merchant, who would settle Jack’s debts in exchange for a wife. All Jack needed to do was deliver Caya to O’Malley in Wick Harbour, Scotland, by the first week in May, and their problems would be solved.