Betting the Scot Read online

  Declan moved so fast she had no time to prepare. Her feet left the floor, and she was in his arms, her body crushed to his hard chest, his lips covering hers, kissing her, kissing her until she nearly fainted from his passionate embrace. When at last he broke their kiss, she gasped. He nuzzled her face, and his breath roared in her ear.

  “I feared this day would never come.” His voice was light and trembly. In fact, his whole body shook. He slowly released her and let her slide down his body until her feet met the floor. When she was steady on her feet, he held her by the shoulders and asked, “How?”

  She cupped his handsome face in her hands. “Shave and finish dressing. I’ll tell you on our way to church.”

  …

  Declan listened to Caya’s story, enjoying the sound of her voice and the feel of her warm body bumping against his in the saddle. He had positioned her in front of him, her soft bum tucked snug between his legs. Occasionally—often—his thoughts strayed from her account to her round bottom.

  “Declan?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you still listening?”

  “Oh, aye. What did my uncle do after he gave you his blessing?”

  “He drove me to your house in the carriage.”

  “Our house,” he stressed. Taldale was their house, together.

  The closer they got to kirk, the more he became aware of the indecent condition of his body. He stopped Gullfaxi and dismounted.

  “But, the church is still half a mile away,” she said.

  He adjusted the front of his trousers as discreetly as possible. “I’m having trouble controlling my need for you when you’re so close, ken?”

  She blushed a pretty pink.

  They continued down the road, Declan holding the reins, Caya perched on Gullfaxi’s broad back.

  “Are we really married?” she asked him.

  He squinted up at her. “We’re handfast. That’s the same as marriage.”

  Her eyebrows, so blond they were barely visible, drew together and her head tilted slightly. “That’s odd.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t feel like I’m married.”

  He liked the playful tone in her voice.

  “That’s because I havenae made you my wife, yet.”

  “I thought I was your wife already. You said handfasting was the same as—”

  He reached up and pulled her down from the saddle. He needed to kiss her, and he didn’t care how aroused he got. He had to tilt his head sideways to reach her mouth, as her foolish bonnet was in the way. Why do women wear these?

  When he kissed her, she responded, opening to him like a flower. Oh God. He thought his heart might burst from her kisses. Would he expire altogether when they actually made love?

  “I mean, I’m going to bed you.”

  Her lips formed a pretty O and he kissed them quick.

  “After kirk, I’m going to steal you, take you home, and make you my wife. Did you forget about that part?”

  Her eyes lowered, and her color rose. “No.” She bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile.

  He growled in her ear. “Good. Because I havenae stopped thinking aboot what you’d look like naked since I first laid eyes on ye.”

  She drew her head back, eyes wide and gape-jawed. “Is that what you were thinking when you looked at me that night in the tavern?” She sounded scandalized, and it made Declan laugh.

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Shame on you.”

  “I caught a glimpse of that fine ass of yours yesterday when they pulled us out of the drink, your shift all wet and clinging to those plump round—”

  “Declan Sinclair, it’s Sunday, for heaven’s sake,” she scolded.

  “I think aboot you naked when I’m in kirk, too.”

  Caya burst out laughing and clapped both hands over her mouth.

  “I’ll probably go straight to hell for it, but I’ll go gladly. There’s no man on earth luckier than me today.”

  She took her hands from her mouth, and he saw her face change like quicksilver. Her chin dimpled, and her eyes welled with tears.

  Alarmed, he said, “Caya, I was teasing you.”

  She sniffed and shook her head. “I know. I just love you so much, is all.”

  …

  They waved to his uncle John, walking into kirk with a line of six women trailing him, looking like a covey of quail. When he cast a look over his shoulder at Declan, he lifted the dreaded eyebrow and then shook his head with resignation. This was perhaps the one and only time he had triumphed over Laird John’s will. The man looked tired. When did his uncle get so old? He had never noticed until now.

  Declan spotted Margaret and Hamish, as well as his oldest sister, Lizzie, and her husband, Connor. He had completely forgotten he’d asked them to come to kirk when he visited them on Friday. Shite! He slapped a hand to his coat pocket. Amazing. His mam’s wedding ring was still there. It was a miracle he hadn’t lost it in all the chaos of the last two days.

  He stood back when his family approached, allowing Margaret to introduce Caya to Lizzie and Connor. Caya greeted them all and then thanked Hamish, whom she’d met yesterday on the beach, for his role in her rescue.

  Margaret whispered in Declan’s ear, “I wish Mam was here. She would love Caya.” A mixture of pride and profound sadness threatened to undo him. Margaret was right. His mother would have loved to be here, embrace his new wife, welcome her to his little family.

  “Are you watching, Mam?” he whispered. “Do you see how lovely she is?”

  They slid into the pew next to Alex. His cousin heaved a deep sigh of relief when Caya took Jemma from his arms.

  “Where’s Magnus?” he asked.

  “Doctor had to shave him to stitch his face. Said he wasnae going out in public until his beard grew back.”

  Their shoulders bounced with silent laughter.

  “Ian and Peter still aboard The Tigress?”

  “I assume so. Lucy and I are taking the young girl, Morag, back to her family in Wick after services. Sorry we cannae stay for Jack’s funeral.”

  “No mind.”

  “I’ll hire a captain and crew while I’m in Wick and bring them back to The Tigress.”

  “We’re really doing this, then?”

  “Oh, aye. Da, Fergus, and Hamish want no part of it, but we’ve got their approval—the four of us and wee Peter. I ken we’re sea merchants now.” Alex glanced at the crucifix hanging above the altar and crossed himself. “God willing.”

  Vicar James expressed his sorrow for the loss of Caya’s brother. “The body of John Michael Pendarvis will be entered into the ground immediately following services, after which the congregation is invited to the home of Laird and Lady Sinclair of Balforss to mark his passing.”

  Caya’s head whipped around in Declan’s direction, the question in her eyes, Did you do this? He shrugged his denial. Then they both looked to Uncle John seated in the pew in front of them. The laird turned and blinked a slow acknowledgment. Caya reached out and put a loving hand of thanks on his uncle’s shoulder.

  The vicar continued with, “On a happier note, it is with joy I publish the banns of marriage between Declan Sinclair and Caya Pendarvis.” James Oswald smiled at them, warm and sincere without any trace of regret. “This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it.”

  After services, a stream of people alternately offered them condolences and congratulations. He hadn’t expected this outpouring of sentiment from his neighbors. Something the size of his fist had lodged in his throat, making it impossible to talk. Caya squeezed his hand and expressed thanks on his behalf, just like a wife. The reminder of what would happen when he took her home tonight spread through him like a swallow of good whisky.

  Caya left his side once to say a tearful goodbye to Morag Sinkler.

  “We’ll see each other again,” Morag called to her. “We�
�re sisters of the heart now.” The lass threw kisses and waved as the carriage rolled away.

  With any luck, Morag would forget the trauma of the last two weeks and live a happy life. He wasn’t as sure about the other three, as their ordeal had lasted longer aboard The Tigress. Caya, thank the Lord, had spent less than a day in captivity. She had been shaken, saddened, and angered by the ordeal, but he was confident he could erase her bad memories with his love.

  Jack’s burial was attended by few. Either people knew about Jack’s misdeeds and wanted to steer clear, or they were eager to get to Balforss for Mrs. Swenson’s victuals and Laird John’s ample supply of whisky. Either way, he was glad for the privacy. Again, Vicar James showed his kindness by offering prayers and words of comfort at Jack’s graveside. Caya cried only a little for Jack, and Declan was glad he could put his arm around her, comfort her, hold her. He would hold her forever if she would let him.

  What started as a post-funeral reception devolved quickly into a celebration of Declan’s engagement to Caya. Balforss halls echoed with laughter. The women gathered around the dining table havering and serving up plates of food as fast as Mrs. Swenson and her kitchen staff could produce it. Their chatter took on a soothing musical quality that made Declan’s heart ache with joy. How odd, he thought, to feel so happy and contented it hurt.

  Men crowded the laird’s study, telling jokes, repeating war stories, shouting friendly challenges. Laird John shone with happiness, not even minding that the guests had drained seven bottles of whisky and the last of his brandy. By late afternoon, Niall Ramsay had won a considerable amount of money arm wrestling anyone fool enough to take him on. Ramsay wouldn’t have stood a chance against Magnus. Magnus had arms the size of tree trunks. Why the devil wasn’t his cousin here? Ah, yes. Something about hiding his shaved face. What a numpty.

  Declan and Caya spent most of the day in the middle of the two groups. They huddled together seated on the staircase in the grand entry hall of Balforss where they could see all the comings and goings of their family and guests. They shared a plate of food and sipped from the same glass of whisky for hours, as Caya didn’t like spirits, and he had no intention of putting on a poor showing on his wedding night due to over-imbibing.

  Around ten o’clock in the evening, Caya excused herself and went above stairs to say good night to the remaining three women they’d rescued from The Tigress. When she returned, she took her place beside him, slumped against his side, and yawned.

  “Time to go?” he asked.

  She lifted her sleepy face and nodded.

  “Nephew,” boomed a voice from the study. His uncle appeared at the door.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Have ye said the words?”

  “The words?” What the hell did Uncle John mean? Declan had been talking all day long. He’d run out of words.

  “You have to make your vows in front of witnesses to handfast properly.” Uncle John crooked an impatient finger at them. “Come here, you two.”

  He and Caya stood and crossed the entry floor to his uncle. The other guests, having heard Laird John, squeezed out of the study and dining room to crowd around them in the entry.

  “Everyone,” Laird John started, “Declan and Caya would like to handfast with you, their friends and family, as witness. Declan, Caya, make your vows to each other now so that your union will be recognized by all and blessed by God.”

  He hadn’t expected this to happen. He’d assumed handfastings were private things between lovers. But his laird had just given him what sounded like an order and everyone was watching.

  He took both of Caya’s hands in his and gazed into her wide blue eyes. “Caya, I will give you the church wedding you deserve, but until then, I take you as my wife and promise to love you in this life and the next.”

  Caya continued to smile at him until Uncle John leaned over and said, “Now you, lass.”

  “Oh yes,” she said and dashed away a tear. “Declan, my love, I cherish the day you found me and claimed me for your own. I take you as my husband and promise to love you in this life and the next.”

  Uncle John took the tartan sash from his shoulder and wrapped it around their wrists. “Now you are bound one to the other with a tie not easy to break. May you grow in wisdom and love, may your marriage be strong, and may your love last forever.”

  For a few seconds, no one spoke, no one breathed. Then Laird John said, “I ken it’s safe for you to kiss your wife now, nephew.” The room erupted with chatter. Amid the din of cheers, well-wishes, and toasts to the newly bound couple, Declan noticed a curious smile on Caya’s face.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I just realized something,” she said dreamily. “You are the last man in the world I will ever marry.”

  …

  Caya dozed in the saddle, cradled against Declan’s chest, for most of the ride back to Taldale. While he put away Gullfaxi for the night, she lit two candles, left one behind for her husband, and made her way above stairs to their bedchamber. Tonight was her wedding night, and, to her surprise, she wasn’t nervous at all.

  Maybe it was too much of Laird John’s good whisky, or maybe it was simple exhaustion, but she was looking forward to the feel of Declan’s rough hands on her skin. She smiled to herself while she washed and undressed. Which part of her would he touch first? At the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, she slipped beneath the coverlet and blew out her candle.

  “Caya?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you asleep?”

  She stopped herself from laughing. He might be nervous, and she wouldn’t want to make it worse. “No.”

  “Oh.” He exhaled. “Good.”

  He glided through the bedchamber door, holding the candlestick aloft. Damp ringlets clung to his forehead. He’d washed in the kitchen before he’d come to her, lovely man.

  Passing the candle in front of the bed for a closer look, he asked hesitantly, “Are you naked under there?”

  She pulled the sheet tighter to her chin. “Yes.” Am I being too bold?

  He swallowed. “Good.”

  He set down the candle, and in one rapid, yet surprisingly graceful motion, he dropped his trousers, flung off his shirt, then stood for a moment—naked, aroused, chest heaving—before lifting the bedclothes and sliding underneath.

  They met full-on like two magnets—lips to lips, chest to chest, and hips to hips. The shocking heat of his body made it difficult to sort one sensation from another. Chest hair prickling her nipples. Slippery tongue swiping at her lips. Rough hands cupping her bottom. The long, hard length of him pressing into her thigh, demanding attention. She wanted to touch him there. Is that what he wanted?

  She slid her right hand down his muscled flank. He seemed to know her intent for he rolled onto his back, opening himself to her. It jumped into her palm and Declan groaned with the contact. He wrapped his own hand around hers, closing her fingers tight around his stiff girth, and gently pumped. The flickering wick illuminated his face, brow wrinkled with intensity, mouth open and panting lightly between moans and what sounded suspiciously like Gaelic curses.

  He raised his head and tossed away the bedclothes, exposing their bodies to candlelight. An ecstatic gasp escaped, and she clamped her lips together. Only in her wildest erotic fantasies had she ever imagined giving Declan pleasure in this way.

  “Oh Jesus God, I love you, but you have to stop.” He pulled her hand away and collapsed back against the pillow.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He kept his eyes closed and laughed. “No, love. It felt so good I almost came undone.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, took a deep breath, rolled to his side and aimed his large brown eyes at hers.

  She grabbed a handful of coverlet to pull over her body. Without breaking his gaze, he stayed her hand and pushed the coverlet away. After a moment, he sat up for a better look, letting his eyes roam the l
ength of her nakedness. He leaned his weight on one hand, and with the other traced a long finger around her nipples.

  “I have the most beautiful wife in all of Christendom.”

  Like Declan, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her own pleasure. His cool wet lips captured her right nipple and sucked.

  “Oh.” She slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Declan released her nipple with a kiss and rumbled in her ear. “Dinnae quiet yerself, love. There’s only me and the chickens to hear you. The chickens willnae mind, and I want to hear the sounds ye make when I love you.” He tugged her hand away from her mouth.

  Through shallow breaths, she said, “Blow out the candle.”

  “Nae. You’re too beautiful. I want to look at you. Just like this. Wanting me like I want you.” He nudged her legs apart with his knee. A big, warm hand slid between her thighs, covering her most private parts, and her back arched up off the mattress. Then, she lost all reason.

  She had no words to describe what he did next. Only that it was exactly what she wanted, what she desperately needed. She groaned and laughed and said a few French words. She remembered shamelessly spreading her legs wider and begging for more. When she came apart in his hand, she called out his name. Many times. Loud and clear.

  Once she’d recovered, Declan settled over her, his legs between hers, and guided the center of his pleasure inside her with slow, careful pushes. It was, as Lucy had once mentioned, uncomfortable at first. His progress met with resistance, and he pushed until she yelped at the popping, tearing sensation.

  Declan stopped and whispered in her ear, “Now, you’re truly mine, mo chridhe.”

  His pace, his heartbeat, and his breathing picked up. Like her, he made sounds of pleasure. She distinctly heard the words tight and slippery among other Gaelic phrases. Her own pleasure soared, although not nearly like it had when he’d touched her. At the last, his whole body stiffened and jerked. He panted, “I love you, love you, love you,” repeating his declaration over and over until he had at last recovered.

  She wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead and held his face in her hands. “And now, you are truly mine, my heart.”