Betting the Scot Page 16

  She sat on the edge of his bed. “Did it hurt very much?”

  “Aye. Like the devil. But, I didnae mind it.” He shrugged, a mannerism she had noticed was common among Scottish men, especially when talking about their injuries. “Doctor said I’ll have a terrible scar.” The boy looked enormously pleased, as though the scar was a badge of honor commemorating his battle with the pirate.

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  He held the tattered volume up for her to read the cover. A General History of the Pyrates. “I’m looking for the pirate what attacked me,” he said, flipping the pages to the next crude engraving. The title beneath the sword-wielding rogue read Calico Jack Rackham.

  Caya didn’t have the heart to tell him the volume had probably been published fifty years earlier, and the pirates enumerated within would be long dead, not roaming the Scottish countryside.

  “What did the pirate look like?” she asked, humoring the boy.

  “Not like this one,” Peter said, pointing to the tricorne hat in the engraving. “My pirate wore a tall black hat what looked like a chimney pipe.”

  “A tall black hat?” she repeated.

  “Aye. I ken he was maybe a Cornwally pirate on account he talked like you, miss.”

  Blood pounded in Caya’s head.

  “Miss? Are you all right, miss?”

  She stared into space, imagining Jack attempting to rob a stranger. She had left her brother to fend for himself with no money, no skills, no connections, with no means to survive on his own. She’d hoped he would’ve found work, let go of some of his arrogance, and done something constructive to earn his way rather than cheat his way through life. She was a fool. She should have known. Jack had no sense at all. She might as well have left a child on the streets. And now he had broken the law and caused someone injury.

  “Miss?” Peter touched her shoulder. “Please, miss. Shall I call someone?”

  “No.” She gathered herself into a semblance of calm again. “No, I’m fine. Get some rest now. I need to speak with Laird John.”

  She slipped downstairs and peered into Laird John’s study. He was standing before the hearth, gazing into the dying fire. She hesitated at the door, wondering how the man would react when she told him of her suspicions. Would he be angry? Ask her to leave Balforss? Would he end all hope of her marrying Declan?

  Laird John sensed her presence and turned. “You’re up late. Were you worried, lass?”

  “I was wondering what will happen when you find the man?”

  “We’ll bring him to the magistrate and he’ll be tried for theft and assault.”

  Her stomach churned at the thought of Jack being arrested like a common criminal. She may be angry with her brother, she might never want to see him again, but she didn’t want him to suffer. “Will they hang him?”

  “Nae.” Laird John made a doubtful face. “They might only fine him. If not, there’s a chance he’ll be indentured and deported to Canada.”

  The time to tell Laird John was now. She should say, “I think Peter’s pirate might be my brother, Jack.” She should say the words now. Now before it was too late.

  “Caya? Is there something else?”

  She wanted to speak the words, but they would not come. “N-no.”

  “Dinnae fash, a nighean. You’re safe here at Balforss. Go to bed and sleep well.”

  She left the library with the weight of sin on her shoulders. Though she hadn’t spoken a falsehood, she had, by omission, lied to Laird John just as she had when she didn’t tell him about the Scrabster boy. Her father had always said omitting the truth was the same as lying. What was worse, she didn’t know if she had lied to save Jack or to save herself. Either way, she had to get Jack out of Scotland. And to do that, she needed help.

  …

  Declan met his cousins at the abandoned wagon. While Ian hitched up the draft horse, he and Alex rode up and down the road to Thurso, searching for signs of Peter’s attacker. They found nothing beyond the traces in the dirt marking the boy’s scuffle. When the sun gave up its last bit of light, they quit the search.

  The excitement generated by the hunt ebbed once they headed back to Balforss. Declan didn’t need to return to the house. Alex and Ian could report to Laird John without him, but he hoped he might see Caya. Perhaps she waited up for his return. If so, he might continue what they’d started in the bee field. Maybe coax her to a secluded spot near the back staircase where he could have a word alone with her and…and what?

  Yes. That was the question. What would happen next? If they were married, he and Caya would retire for the evening. They would find their bed and do what married people do before they sleep. But what happened when one wasn’t married? Jesus, he hated this waiting, this time in between finding his wife and marrying her. Why did his uncle insist they wait? Laird John must see by now, Caya was his. To dither about made no sense at all. Worse, his uncle had Caya believing courtship was necessary. Nonsense. Courtship was for people who didn’t know each other, people who didn’t already know for certain they were a perfect match. Damn, if only Caya would see that they were meant to be together.

  He was still brooding about his stalled marriage when they entered the laird’s study. He accepted a whisky from Ian and drank while Alex made his brief report. When he inquired after the ladies, Laird John indicated they’d all retired for the evening. Declan hid his disappointment, finished his whisky, and said his goodbyes. On the way out of the house, his stomach growled. Fine then. He’d go home to Taldale Farm and eat the remaining revel buns Caya had made him, the next best thing to seeing her.

  Gullfaxi waited where he had left him near the garden, but there was something odd about the horse’s demeanor. He seemed bothered by something in the shadows. Declan tensed.

  “Who’s there? Show yerself.”

  Caya stepped out from behind Gullfaxi, her eyes as round as two silver shillings. The warmth of the whisky in his belly rushed up his chest, over his shoulders, down his back, and settled in his loins. Alone. He had her completely alone, and she had come willingly.

  “Caya.”

  “Please, I need to talk to you.” She sounded frightened, and the hot rush of blood he’d felt a moment ago turned chill.

  He glanced around. Certain no one was watching, he led her a short way down the path toward the mill. “What troubles you, lass?” As they walked, he pressed a hand to her back to reassure her. More than that, he needed to make physical contact with her.

  Once hidden by the trees, she stopped. “I need your help.”

  “Anything. You have but to ask and—”

  “Wait until you hear what I have to say before you say yes.” They were cloaked in darkness, and he couldn’t see her features, but he could tell by the quality of her voice she was upset. One didn’t grow up with three women in the house without learning to recognize the sound of one who had been weeping.

  He fumbled in the dark until he found her hand and held it between his two. “Tell me, and I will do whatever needs to be done to take away your tears.”

  “I—I think Peter’s pirate,” Caya sobbed, “is my brother Jack.”

  Through her gasping and hiccupping, he gathered that Peter’s pirate spoke like Caya, and wore a hat that sounded a lot like Jack’s foolish topper. He didn’t want to believe it at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

  “I don’t want to see him arrested and jailed,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Will you help me find him and get him out of Scotland?”

  Hell. What she was asking of him was wrong. If the fugitive was Jack, he’d become a criminal. He’d assaulted and tried to rob a member of his clan. As his uncle had said, these actions could not go unanswered. How could he go against his laird’s wishes and help a criminal escape justice?

  “I know Jack didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He was just frightened. Please help him. He’s lost.”

  She was his wife. How could he refuse her? “Dinnae fash, a lean
nan. I’ll find him. Somehow. And I’ll find a way to get him out of the country.”

  Caya pressed her cheek, wet with tears, to his hand. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, carry her home with him. But she was too upset to receive him. Instead, he guided her to the house and through the back entrance. He pointed her in the direction of the servants’ staircase, and said, “It’s all right. Go on to bed and I’ll see what can be done.”

  On the way back to Taldale, he ruminated over his promise. He should have gone directly to his laird and told him the truth. Instead, he’d chosen to risk his laird’s wrath in favor of his wife’s affection. Had another man done what he’d done, Declan would have broken his sword arm. He turned his face up to heaven and shouted, “Lord, why do you make it so damn hard to get a wife?”

  In answer, God took one last swipe at him. The skies opened up and began to piss down on his head.

  He felt an uneasiness as he approached Taldale. No surprise to find the house dark. Still, he sensed something almost sinister about the place. He slid off Gullfaxi and led him to the as-yet-unfinished stable. Neither he nor the horse needed light to find his way. His eyes were good in the dark, a quality that had made him the best reconnaissance man in his regiment.

  He removed harness and saddle and filled the feed trough with oats. Just as he finished rubbing the horse dry, the hair on the back of his neck bristled. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling as though he were being watched. Seeing nothing, he shrugged and went back to his work.

  By the time he’d finished putting Gullfaxi away, the rain had let up, and the moon peeked out between fast-moving clouds. On his way to the house, Declan noticed something had disturbed the fence around the henhouse. Damn. A fox must have gotten inside. Lord only knew how many chickens he’d lost. No doubt the eggs were gone as well. He’d go without breakfast tomorrow morning.

  Bloody hell.

  Soaked and shivering, he returned to the stable for a mallet and some twine to mend the fencing. He hoped the makeshift repairs would prevent further damage during the night. He’d finish the job properly tomorrow.

  Damn. The kitchen door was ajar. Hamish would have been the last to leave and it wasn’t like him to be so careless. He fumbled for the flint and struck it repeatedly, cursing his cold stiff fingers. At last, lamp aglow, he turned the flame higher to let the golden light warm the room.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Something—a fox or a polecat maybe—had gotten into the kitchen and raided his meager pantry. He spun around and searched the top of the new work table Hamish had finished for him. All the way home in the rain, he’d been looking forward to eating the last two revel buns. They were gone. Declan nearly wept.

  He held the oil lamp over the bunker. Both the rolls and the towel they were wrapped in were gone. In fact, the telltale mess common to animal pillage was absent altogether. He examined the pantry more carefully. Various items were missing, but no broken jars or wreckage of any kind. Not something, but someone had robbed his pantry.

  A jolt of panic sang through his body. Lamp in hand, Declan raced through his empty dining room and drawing room, then bounded up the stairs to his bedchamber, the only room where he kept anything of value. He stood in the doorway and let the light of the oil lamp cast shadows on the empty hooks where he stored his weapons—his sword, pistol, and dirk. Gone.

  The top of his clothing chest yawned open. He rummaged through the contents. At least the jakey bastard had had the good sense to leave his old uniform alone. Alas, any clean clothing of value had been taken. Even the good socks his oldest sister, Lizzie, had made for him this past Christmas were missing. He reached toward the bedside table, in need of whisky. The bottle was gone.

  Bloody fucking hell. Jack Pendarvis had robbed him blind.

  Chapter Eight

  He reached out and called her name. He couldn’t hear her answer over the clamor. The gowans were everywhere. They almost enveloped her. He called to her again, but something choked him into silence. He kicked harder. Harder. Reaching out. He almost had her.

  “Declan.”

  The sound of his name jerked him awake. He lay naked, his legs tangled in the bedclothes, hair and pillow damp with sweat.

  “Declan.” His sister Margaret pounded up the stairs.

  He sat upright and covered himself before Margaret burst into the room. Her wild-eyed expression relaxed into relief.

  “Do you ever knock, woman?”

  “Someone’s robbed the—” She stopped to catch her breath.

  “I ken it,” he said. “Is Hamish with you?”

  “Aye, outside seeing what damage is done to the chickens.”

  “Go home to your cottage, Margaret. Lock the doors and load the musket. Dinnae leave until Hamish returns.”

  Still half in a dream state, Declan went to the basin, poured water from the ewer, and splashed his face until he returned to his skin. His dream of Caya had left him shaken. Why couldn’t he reach her? What did it mean? His shirt and britches lay on the floor where he’d dropped them last night. They hadn’t dried completely, but he pulled them on, cold and uncomfortable. He was hungry.

  A short time later, Declan and Hamish followed the wake of rubbish the thief had left. An empty jar of jam, a grimy stock, the tea towel that had held Caya’s revel buns, a discarded crust of Margaret’s meat pie, a pair of tattered breeks, and one filthy stocking with a hole in the toe. The bampot had taken the path that led to his stillhouse. Shite.

  He and Hamish left their horses to graze on a patch of sweet grass, then crept through the stand of trees surrounding the malting shed and stillhouse. Most people who lived nearby knew approximately where the distillery was hidden. Those folks also knew to stay the hell away.

  “Do you see him?” Hamish whispered.

  “Nae. But the lock on the door is broken.”

  “Could be someone’s inside.”

  “Could be. Go canny, man. He’s got my pistol.”

  The two Scots slipped silently through the grass. When they reached the structure, stertorous vibrations from within rattled the timber walls. Declan rolled his eyes at Hamish. This was the most incompetent thief in all of Christendom.

  Inside, shafts of morning sunlight angled through the line of windows on the east side of the stillhouse. One hit the belly of the copper still, making it glow like it was on fire. Another bathed the sleeping form of a man. He lay snoring on the dirt floor, sprawled on his back, an empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a pistol in the other. When Declan bent and retrieved his dirk and firearm from the man, he wrinkled his nose. Vomit crusted the man’s spotty beard and hair. From the stain on his britches—Declan’s britches—he’d pissed himself, as well.

  “Jesus,” Hamish muttered and went back outside.

  Declan kicked a booted foot. “Get up.”

  No movement.

  He kicked harder and shouted, “Get up, ye mingin’ clot-heid.”

  The dung heap stirred slightly, making incoherent sounds. Hamish returned with a full bucket of water and dumped it on the man’s head. He rose, sputtering for breath. Declan grabbed him by the back of his jacket and dragged him out into the daylight, whereupon he curled into a ball like an exposed grub.

  “Stop your grietin’ and pull yourself together, ye silly wee man,” Declan said. “I’m no’ going to kill you.”

  He uncovered his head. Eyes like two pee holes in the snow blinked up at Declan.

  “You,” the thief hissed.

  “You ken who he is?” Hamish asked.

  Declan had hoped he was wrong. No such luck. “Aye. Caya’s brother, Jack Pendarvis.”

  Hamish whistled the I’m glad I’m not you tune. Traitor.

  The Cornishy bastard reeked. “Here,” said Declan. He handed Hamish his pistol. “Take him down to the river and make him bathe. I cannae take the stink of him.”

  “Wait!” Jack shouted. “Where’s my sister? I want to speak with my sister.”

  Hamish shoved Jack in the direc
tion of the river. When Jack resisted, Hamish grabbed his wrist, twisted, and marched him to the water’s edge, the Cornishy devil squealing and cursing all the way.

  While they were gone, Declan paced. What the hell was he going to do with the bastard? If it had been anyone else, he would have taken the thief into Thurso and handed him to the magistrate. But no. As usual, things were far more difficult for him. His stomach growled, a loud angry gurgle. Bloody hell, he was hungry.

  He had no doubt Pendarvis was the man who had assaulted Peter and tried to steal the draft horse. Failing that, the bampot had robbed Taldale. Jack should be tried for robbery and acts of violence. Unfortunately, this same thief was also Caya’s kin. Jack had already hurt the lass deeply by his disregard for her welfare. The last thing Declan wanted to do was further upset his sensitive bride with her brother’s arrest. Plus, he’d promised her he would help get Jack out of the country.

  On the other hand, he had an obligation to protect Balforss and all the people within. The right thing to do was to bring Jack to Laird John and allow his uncle to deal with the matter. But what about Caya? Shouldn’t his sweet wife come first? Shouldn’t he see to her well-being before all else? True, they weren’t yet married. But they would be. His dreams told him so, and his dreams never lied.

  He had a sudden murderous thought. He could drown Jack in the river. Jack was a hazard to the public. How many other people had Pendarvis robbed along the way to Balforss? The world would be better off without the man. Hamish wouldn’t tell anyone, and Caya would be none the wiser.

  But God would know, and he would make Declan pay double. He sighed.

  Hamish returned from the river with Jack at gunpoint. Jack looked marginally improved. His hair lay slick against his small, misshapen head. Finding his tall beaver hat in the dirt, he brushed it off and set it atop his head, making him look all the more like a numpty.

  “I want to see my sister.”

  Declan refrained from laughing at the ridiculous-looking fellow and addressed his brother-in-law instead. “I’ve a dilemma of sorts.”