Betting the Scot Page 24

  “Go on. Nothing could cause me more grief than hearing my brother is a murderer.”

  “A man came to the church door last week seeking refuge. He said his name was John Chisholm, but his looks and his speech led me to believe he was your estranged brother. I took him in, fed him, and made a place for him to sleep in the rectory.” Vicar James smiled ruefully. “I suppose I imagined I might reform him and reunite you.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  He turned the brim of his hat in his hands. “Yes. Well, the next day, I found the strongbox pried open and church funds gone, as well as John Chisholm. There were only thirty pence within, but…” He took a deep breath. “He’d drunk all the sacramental wine.”

  She was wrong. She was not yet at the bottom of her misery. The shame of Jack robbing a church brought her even lower. “I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to replace—”

  “No need. It’s just that the incident, combined with the charge of murder…” Vicar James gave her a look of sheer torture. “I must withdraw my offer of marriage, you see. The church elders will insist.”

  She touched his arm, and he stopped twisting his hat. “I understand, and I accept your decision.”

  The vicar’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” He glanced at the door uneasily. “I should go.”

  They both stood and stared at each other for a moment. What did one do in this circumstance? Not knowing the protocol, she bobbed a polite curtsy. He bowed and put on his hat.

  He paused at the door as if he’d forgotten something. “Perhaps, it’s best to postpone plans for the choir until this business is behind us.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  She was relieved to see the vicar go. Relieved she didn’t have to tell James she had chosen Declan over him. At the same time, the vicar’s apology brought to light the sad realization that marrying Declan was out of the question. How could she expect him to wed the sister of an accused murderer? The shame of it would haunt them always. Whenever people would see them in church, they would think, “There goes poor Declan Sinclair, who had the misfortune of marrying into a family of murderers and thieves.” That was the way of things. A person’s actions colored public opinion of his whole family tree. But Caya might spare Balforss additional embarrassment if she took action right away.

  Flora and Lucy were engrossed in the day’s project—taking inventory of home goods and assessing the need for additional comestibles—a perfect time for Caya to slip out of the house and make her way to the stable. She smiled in spite of her dark mood when Peter greeted her with a courtly bow. She couldn’t help noting that the boy practiced his good manners only on the women of Balforss.

  She curtsied in return. “Good afternoon, Peter. Please saddle an agreeable horse for me. I should like to ride today.”

  The groom’s blond eyebrows crinkled together. “Alone, miss?”

  “Yes. I find a long ride in the countryside helps clear my mind.”

  “Oh no, miss. The laird wouldnae like you to go alone. There’s a pirate prowling about. It isnae safe.” Peter seemed unaware of the pirate’s true identity.

  “I don’t plan to go far. Just to Scrabster and back.” Not a lie, she told herself. If she could find Jack and give him their mother’s ring, he could buy passage to Canada or America. She could spare the Sinclairs the shame of Jack’s criminal behavior if she could smuggle him out of the country before he was captured.

  Peter fidgeted with the curry brush he was holding. He glanced toward the house, then to the line of stalls, looking as though he was considering her request.

  “Please, Peter. It’s very important.”

  The boy straightened like a soldier at attention. “As you wish, Miss Caya, but I shall accompany you.”

  “That’s kind of you but unnecessary.”

  Peter tilted his head forward and cocked his eyebrow, looking so like Laird John she almost laughed.

  Caya considered him for a moment. Peter would foil her plan if she left him behind. He would tell Flora where she’d gone. If he accompanied her, he might be of service. At the very least, he would make certain she found Scrabster without a problem.

  “Fine,” Caya said and waited while Peter saddled the shaggy pony he had been grooming. Afterward, he pulled a magnificent white gelding from the last stall.

  “This is Apollo,” he said, introducing her to the horse as he saddled him. “He’s used to a lady rider. He belongs to Miss Lucy, and I ken she willnae mind. You’ll make a pretty picture upon his back with your white frock.”

  “What’s your pony’s name?”

  “Heather.” He patted her neck. “She’s a sweet wee thing.”

  Peter positioned a mounting block for Caya, adjusted the stirrups, and handed her the reins. He disappeared into a back room for a moment and returned armed with a knife of fourteen inches or more. Declan had referred to the long knives as dirks. She shuddered to think what a weapon like that would do to a man.

  “Do you really need that?” she asked, pointing to Peter’s blade.

  “I hope not,” he said, his voice cracking. Using his lowest register, he added, “But I’ll use it if I have to.”

  …

  Declan woke refreshed, having had a deep and dreamless night of sleep, the first in a long time. He bounded out of bed, washed, dressed, and ate the supper Margaret had left him the night before, humming to himself between bites. Then he ambled outside, smiling at the animals, talking nonsense as he fed them.

  “Did ye ken I’m getting married,” he said to the chickens. “Soon Miss Caya will be collecting your eggs.”

  After Gullfaxi had his fill of oats, Declan got him ready to ride into town. “Laird John ordered us to visit the magistrate this morning. Nae need to rush, man. We’ve plenty of time.” He yanked the girth tight and buckled it. “There’s one thing I’ve got to do before, though. It willnae be pleasant, but I ken I should set aside my pride just this once. For Caya, mind you. No one else.” He hooked a foot into the stirrup and slung a long leg over Gullfaxi’s back. “Then we’ll fetch a ring for my wife, aye?” He clicked his tongue and Gullfaxi headed off toward Thurso.

  Declan knocked on the rectory door, his insides twisting. The last thing he wanted to do was apologize to James Oswald. There was, of course, the possibility the vicar might refuse his apology, but he doubted it. Oswald might be a bastard for trying to steal his Caya, but he was a man of the cloth. He was obligated to forgive minor infractions like brawling.

  He knocked again. Louder this time. He waited a few more minutes for an answer and when none came, his guts relaxed. “Ah, well,” he said, climbing on board Gullfaxi again. “I’ll try this evening after we finish what we’ve set out to do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Caya’s more-than-conspicuous arrival in Scrabster caused a stir. Was it her fine white horse or the way she rode Apollo like a man? She arranged her skirts to hide as much of her legs as possible. Riding astride was immodest for a woman but far safer than riding sidesaddle. Modesty was not the issue, however. No white horse or white frock would disguise what the people of Scrabster considered her dark soul. The Presbyterian residents had branded her a witch, and perhaps they were right. Hadn’t she brought pain and discord to Declan and the people of Balforss?

  “Miss,” Peter called out and rode up next to her. “I dinnae like this place. We should go.”

  She pulled Apollo to a stop. “I have private business with Mrs. McConnechy.” Caya surveyed the faces in the crowd, their furtive glances, their secret murmurs. Peter was right. This was not a good place.

  A boy with a shaved head about Peter’s age showed some daring and inched his way closer for a better look at her.

  “You, boy,” she said. His eyes flew open wide. “Where is the home of Mrs. McConnechy?”

  The boy pointed and stammered. “B-b-blue door.”

  “Wait for me here, Peter. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “I cannae leave you to go alone.”

&n
bsp; “Believe me. I will be safer alone.” She clicked her tongue, and Apollo stepped forward, the horse showing the bold demeanor she didn’t possess.

  Mrs. McConnechy’s home was a weather-beaten shack at the far end of the harbor road, the chipped and faded paint on the door barely discernible as blue. People watched, but no one offered to help her dismount. The good-tempered Apollo seemed to sense her intention and held still while she leaped from his back. She wound his reins around a garden post and patted the beast on the neck, careful not to speak to him lest the watchers assume the horse to be her familiar.

  The door opened before she could knock. Mrs. McConnechy barked a sharp, “She’s here. Remember what I said,” over her shoulder, then shoved passed Caya in such a hurry she almost knocked her down.

  Jack spoke from the darkness within. “You came. I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me again.”

  She fumbled in her pocket, eager to deliver her mother’s ring and be away from this place.

  “Come inside, fool. Don’t let people see you with it.”

  He was right. People were looking. A woman alone with a fine horse, dressed in fine clothes, in possession of fine jewelry… Best not to tempt fate. She stepped inside, and the door closed behind her. She waited a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim. Jack sat in a chair by the fire, a drink in hand. It was midafternoon. If he’d fallen into old habits, he would be well into his cups by now.

  “I’ve brought Mother’s ring like you asked. It should buy you passage somewhere safe with money to spare.”

  “Come sit with me a while. I want to apologize for my rough treatment the last time we met.” He sounded different. Not his usual angry, arrogant self. He sounded uncertain. Frightened, even.

  “I need to go or I’ll be missed. I’ll just leave the ring here on the table. Take care of yourself, Jack.”

  “Wait. You can’t go yet,” he barked. “I mean.” His voice softened. “Will you at least let me kiss you goodbye, sister?” He stood and took two measured steps toward her, his arms held wide.

  She was tempted. This was goodbye forever. The golden afternoon light blazed through the one window and shone on his blond hair. His voice, light and sweet, was so like when he was a boy. If only he were that boy again. If only they could start over. If only… But then, she would never have met Declan Sinclair.

  The door swung open with a crack. She gasped and spun around to face the silhouettes of two figures squeezing through the low opening.

  “Who are you?”

  One wrapped a meaty fist around her upper arm, hurting her. She cried out, “Jack, tell them to let me go.”

  The man yanked her outside. She’d been in the dark house long enough that the afternoon sun hurt her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack called out, as the other man dragged him roughly through the doorway. “The old woman tricked me, and O’Malley said he would kill us both. I had to. I’m sorry.”

  …

  Peter didn’t like Scrabster or the fisher people who lived there. He definitely didn’t like the suspicious way they stared at his pony as if estimating her value. Every bone in his body urged him to grab Apollo’s reins and lead Miss Caya away from this village.

  Against his better judgement, he’d agreed to wait for her at the edge of town while she visited with Mrs. McConnechy. He’d watched her maneuver Apollo around carts, through crowds of people, and past stray dogs. Why would she want to come here, of all places? And why visit that nasty woman who had called her a witch?

  Private business, she had said.

  He didn’t know what private business was, but he recognized the queer feeling rising in his belly. Miss Caya was headed for trouble, and she needed his protection. He just knew it. Before he lost sight of her, he slid off Heather’s back and followed Caya at a reasonable distance, his pony trailing behind him. When she dismounted and entered a shack, he paused at the end of a dock twenty yards away and watched.

  Mrs. McConnechy left the shack right away, but Miss Caya went inside anyway, which was a curious thing. Miss Caya had said she had business with Mrs. McConnechy. Should he go inside the shack and see if she was safe?

  A bluebottle buzzed by his ear, distracting him for a moment. Out in the harbor, a graceful double-masted sloop had dropped anchor. He could identify any ship, as he had studied the pirate book Laird John had lent him. It was his dream to one day board a ship like that and sail around the world, looking for adventure like the pirates do, only he wouldn’t rob other ships. No. He’d explore places no one else had visited and make maps for the King and…

  Just then, laughter drew his attention. Mrs. McConnechy was returning to the shack with three men. One, dressed like a gentleman with a good coat, a clean stock, and tall black boots, had a ghastly looking smile that revealed a mouthful of rotting gray teeth. The other two wore filthy shirts, their hair clubbed in tight knots. Sailors. He could tell by their slops, those loose-fitting breeches like sailors wore. Like pirates wore. Bloody hell. They were headed straight for Miss Caya.

  Peter’s heart bumped and wobbled inside his chest so hard he had to rub the pain away. Should he sound the alarm? He doubted anyone in Scrabster would come to his aid. Ride back to Balforss and get help? Aye, and what good would that do if the pirates took Miss Caya to parts unknown? His grapple with indecision left him paralyzed.

  Two men went inside the shack, leaving the well-dressed gentleman and Mrs. McConnechy waiting outside. Peter tensed. They wouldn’t dare harm Miss Caya, would they? He had his dirk. He could run into the house and stick the two men before they had a chance to fight back. But then what? Lord, why had he let Miss Caya talk him into this? Laird John would gut and stuff him if he lost her.

  Calls of distress spilled out of the shack, along with the two pirates dragging Miss Caya and another man. A man he recognized. The Cornwally pirate. The blackguard who had nearly dashed his skull in. The one wanted for murder. What was Miss Caya doing with a murdering pirate? He tied Heather to a bollard and crept closer. Close enough to hear them speak.

  Miss Caya sounded scared. Her voice warbled when she asked, “Jack, who are these men?”

  She knew the Cornwally pirate? Had it been part of her plan to meet him?

  “I’m just trying to set things right again,” the Cornwally fellow whined. “You left me no choice. Captain Sean O’Malley, meet my sister, Caya.”

  Jesus. The murdering Cornwally pirate was Miss Caya’s brother. Did Laird John know about this?

  The rotten-toothed captain-man bowed. “Ah, darlin’ Caya, at last we meet. I feared you might be lost forever, but your brother has delivered you to me after all.”

  Miss Caya lifted her chin. “My brother is mistaken. I am engaged to another. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Please allow me to leave.”

  She tried to free herself from the pirate holding her by the arm.

  The captain stepped closer to her, and Miss Caya turned her face away. “No, ye see, I can’t let ye go, darlin’, because you’re already paid for.”

  “Jack, give him Mother’s ring and tell him to let me go. Please, I want to leave.”

  Peter thought Miss Caya’s murdering pirate-brother might do as she asked. Instead, O’Malley shook his head. “Sorry, darlin’. Your brother and I had a deal. You’re coming with me.”

  Miss Caya broke free long enough to slap O’Malley in the face before the pirate got hold of her again. “You had best let us go before the men of Balforss arrive,” she said. “They are looking for my brother and they will kill you if you lay a hand on me.”

  The pirate holding her placed the point of his knife to her cheek. Peter gasped out loud, almost giving himself away.

  “Keep your mouth shut now, darlin’. I don’t want my man’s blade to slip and cut that pretty face of yours. Just relax and come with us. Your brother is leading us to a stash of whisky.”

  “Jack, no,” Caya gasped.

  “Don’t worry, Caya. We’ll show them the stash and then they�
��ll let us go. Just do as O’Malley says and we’ll be all right.”

  Miss Caya begged her brother. “Please, Jack. Don’t do this. The Sinclairs will kill you. They’ll kill all of you if you steal from them.”

  She was right. Mr. Declan stored his whisky somewhere on Balforss land. Its location was unknown to Peter, but he knew well of its value. Miss Caya’s murdering brother must have discovered the location and intended to lead these men to Mr. Declan’s stash. If the Sinclairs caught them stealing, they would kill the thieves.

  The back of Peter’s legs trembled all the way up to his backside. He was scared. Scared for Caya. Scared for himself. Scared for the whisky. But he had a sworn duty. He had to protect Miss Caya. He lingered nearby, not wanting to get too close lest the Cornwally pirate—he couldn’t stand to think of him as Miss Caya’s brother—recognize him from the night of the attack.

  The captain said something to Caya that Peter couldn’t hear, but her face turned sad, so he knew it couldn’t be a good thing. His stomach growled, angry with him for having missed his midday meal. He willed it to be silent.

  No time to think aboot food, ye numpty. Miss Caya is in danger.

  Heather was hungry, too. And thirsty. He’d just made up his mind to lead Heather past the public house to the village well when a driver and his dray came rattling down the road with three more pirate men seated in the back.

  “Here comes my man,” Mrs. McConnechy said. “He’ll drive you to the stash and help you bring the load to your ship.” The captain handed her a big gold coin. That evil woman was in on the plan to rob Mr. Declan as well. Peter would be sure to report that fact to Laird John.

  Jack and the captain’s men piled into the back of the dray. “Lead the way, Pendarvis,” the captain shouted, and the dray rolled forward. The captain helped Miss Caya mount Apollo. When he climbed into the saddle behind her, Miss Caya batted away his roving hands and elbowed him good in the stomach, making it plain she didn’t like the arrangement.

  “Relax, sweetings,” O’Malley said. “No reason to blush. We’re practically married.”