Chapter Three
Declan kept his horse, Gullfaxi, to an easy walk down the narrow highway toward Balforss. He twisted in his saddle to check on the lass seated next to Magnus in the dray.
“Will you cease your footerin’,” Alex said, riding alongside Declan. “That’s the dozenth time you’ve turned to look at her in the last hour. The lass is safe with Magnus. She’ll no’ disappear.”
“I’m not fashed about that,” he snapped. A sleepless night had frayed his patience. “What’ll happen when we tell your mam and Lucy we won her playing cards?”
Alex groaned. “Oh. Aye. Lucy’ll be furious I was gambling. She’ll skin me alive.”
Declan wanted to throttle his cousin. “I couldnae care less about your skin, man. What about Miss Pendarvis?” He winced. “I ken she’s a proud woman. She’ll be humiliated.”
His cousin looked momentarily chagrined. Then, by way of apology, he offered, “Lucy and my ma will be kind to her. They’ll understand. I’m sure of it.”
“Aye, but I fear the lass will feel the sting of it even so.” He rubbed his eyes. The unreal events of last night were having a belated effect on his reason. “Alex. Be honest with me. Did I do the right thing? I was going to let Jack win back the ring. But when he wagered his sister, I got angry. I took her out of spite. Was that wrong?”
“When he wagered his sister, he showed himself for a bastard. She’s better off. Even she kens it. The lass left with you willingly.”
“It’s no’ turning out like I thought.”
“What do you mean?” Alex asked.
“I thought my wife would be happy to see me when we found each other. I thought maybe she dreamed of me, too, but she didnae seem to know me. And now I ken she’s afraid of me.”
“You’ve got to give her time. She’ll come ’round,” Alex assured him.
“Aye, but look at her. She’s miserable. I cannae stand to see her unhappy.”
Alex leaned back and examined him critically, one eyebrow cocked up, the other arrowed down. Then his jackass cousin laughed like a loon.
“What’s so funny?”
Alex chuckled, “You love her.”
He opened his mouth to object, but the words died on his tongue. Love? Not possible. Want, yes. Need, yes. Desire, most definitely. But love?
Alex pointed at him. “If Lucy were here, she’d tell you to close your mouth lest you swallow flies.”
He made a few skeptical sputters. “Pah. It’s impossible to love someone so soon. I met her only hours ago.”
Alex shook his head. “Nae. It takes less than that to fall for a woman. I should know.”
A few minutes passed without conversation. The creak of the wheels and rattle of the crate on the flat wagon bed drowned out birdsong and bleating sheep. Alex yawned so wide his jaw cracked, and then he scratched his armpit contemplatively. How did his cousin fail to share the urgency of his situation?
Declan considered his own appearance for a moment. Dust-covered trousers, rumpled coat, a stained and frayed shirt without a stock. He swiped a hand down the bristles on his cheek. He needed a wash and a shave, too. Ah, well. It could be worse. It could rain.
As if in answer to his thought, a dark cloud boomed an angry portent in the distance. He cast a resentful glance at the heavens.
“Tàirneanach,” he grumbled. Thunder. Damn.
“Do you think God wants aught to do with you and Miss Pendarvis?”
“Aye. He taunts me this day. Winning her was too easy. He means to make the task harder for me.”
Alex leaned toward him, his face shining with good humor. “Try not to take the thunder personally, man. The storm might just as easily be meant for some other poor sod.”
His stiff, cold cheeks creased with a smile for Alex. With any luck, the rain would hold until after they reached Balforss. He twisted in his saddle and glanced back at his intended. No change.
“Caya,” Declan said reverently.
“What?”
“Her brother called her Caya. You ever heard that name before?”
“Nae.” Alex shrugged.
“Must be a Cornishy name. Sounds pretty. Caya. I wonder what it means.”
Alex released a long sigh and then uttered a disgusted, “That’s it.” He held up a hand and stopped his horse. Magnus pulled the dray’s draft horse to a halt as well.
“Why are we stopping?” Declan cast a worried look Caya’s way.
“Trade places with Magnus,” Alex ordered.
“What? No.” He had asked Magnus to ride with Caya for a reason. Magnus was kind and didn’t have difficulty making polite conversation with women. Declan wouldn’t know what to say to her, and he certainly wouldn’t know what to do about her unhappiness.
“There’s another three hours before we reach Balforss. Best you speak with the lass before we see my ma and da.”
“But she’s upset.” Declan kept his voice to a low rasp.
“Of course, she is. She’s probably scairt to death.” Alex matched his volume but didn’t hide his disgust. “You havenae told her anything. Nae doubt she’s wondering what’s to happen and imagining the worst.”
His cousin was right. He’d been a coward not to talk to her.
Alex called out to Magnus, “We’ll stop here and water the horses.” They dismounted, and Alex pulled him aside. “Mind you, give her an opportunity to take care of her personal needs.”
He stepped back, shocked and embarrassed. “How do I ken if she needs to…erm?”
Alex huffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. “Do you have to piss?”
“Aye.”
“That’s your cue,” Alex said, jabbing a finger into the middle of Declan’s brow on each word. Then Alex led their horses to a stream a few yards away, leaving him standing alone in the road, rubbing his forehead.
Magnus jumped down off the dray and grabbed a water bucket from the back.
As he passed him, he asked in a low voice, “Has she said anything?”
“Not a word.” Magnus continued on toward the burn without stopping.
Declan approached the dray slowly, gathering his courage along the way. How the hell was he going to ask her if she needed to piss? When he reached her side, she brushed the hood of her cloak away. Between the sunlight in her hair and the blue of her eyes, he was transfixed for a moment, pinned to the earth and speechless.
At last, he said, “Are you well, Miss Pendarvis?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”
He felt himself flush from his boots to the roots of his hair when she spoke to him. He reached both hands up, an offer to help her down.
She slipped into his embrace easily, his big hands circling her waist. She weighed less than a full sack of barley. He would have to be careful not to injure her.
“Erm. If you come this way, I’ll show you a spot where you can have your privacy.”
“Thank you.” She made a pretty curtsy.
He bowed awkwardly and turned his head away, worried she might see how uncomfortable he was. Once Miss Pendarvis was tucked behind a patch of raspberry bushes, he walked back toward the road and waited.
When she returned, he asked, “Would you mind if I rode with you a while?”
She gave a slight shake of her head. Not an enthusiastic welcome but neither did she seem averse to his company.
After the horses drank their fill and everyone had a turn behind the raspberry bushes, Magnus and Alex mounted up, and Declan helped her aboard the dray. He snapped the reins, and the brawny draft horse clomped forward. Each time the wagon jolted and rocked, her wee body bumped against his, a sensation that both pleased and disconcerted him.
He chanced a keek at Caya. How had her bottom lip become stained red? Ah, yes. She’d eaten a few of the newly-ripened raspberries from the bush. That must be why she smelled so sweet. His mouth watered. He swallowed and looked down. The lassie clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She was scared. Knowing she was afraid caused him physical pain, a sharp pang just below his left ribs. He had to ease her worry, if not for her, for his own comfort.
“There’s naught to be afraid of, lass. You’ll stay at Balforss. It’s a fine house. The other ladies there will like you. I know they will.”
She said nothing, kept her gaze on the road, back straight, hands twisting in her lap.
He plowed on, desperate to assuage her fear. “I’m building another house. It’s almost finished. Almost ready. I even made a special room for you. A room of your own. To do what ladies do in private. I ken ladies like a bathing tub.” He turned and motioned behind them to where the wooden crate took up most of the room on the wagon bed. “That’s a bathing tub I bought for the house while I was in Wick.” His eyes darted sideways to see what effect his words had.
She stared straight ahead in concentration.
“It’s imported. From France. It’s called a lady’s boudoir bathing tub. Made out of zinc and painted a pretty green with flower designs—”
“Stop the wagon. Stop the wagon now,” she shouted.
“Did I—”
“Stop the wagon or I’ll jump.”
He pulled the dray to a creaking halt. Alex and Magnus turned back, their heads cocked at a questioning angle. He shrugged helplessly.
She reached for her traveling bag, tossed it on the ground, and attempted to leap from the dray.
“Wait. Let me help you.”
She hit the ground and crumpled to her knees. He scrambled out after her and tried to help her to her feet, but she shook him off. In a huff, she collected her bag and walked back in the direction of Wick. What had he said to trigger her anger?
“Did I say something wrong?”
No answer.
Declan followed at her heels. “Does the bathing tub not please you?”
Still, no answer.
“Is it the O’Malley man? The one you’re promised to? Do you want me to take you to him?”
“Is something amiss, Declan?” Alex called.
He waved his meddling cousin off, then hurried to catch up with his Cornishy fiancée. “I’m sorry. Whatever I’ve done or said, I’m sorry, but you cannae go off on your own. It’s no’ safe. At least let me take you—”
Miss Pendarvis whirled around, her eyes flashing. “You lied to me, Mr. Sinclair. I would rather scrub floors than lower myself to work in a house of…of…of that nature.”
“What nature?” he asked, baffled by her angry outburst.
“A house of…fallen women.” She lifted her chin, spun, and continued her march.
He hurried to her side again. “Why would you think a thing like that?”
She kept her angry pace, spitting out her words with each step. “All you’ve talked about is houses with private rooms and French ladies and bathing tubs. What else am I to think?”
Realization dawned, and Declan paused in the middle of the road, mortified. His legs had stopped working. Words backed up in his throat. She thought he ran a bawdy house. He could kick himself for not explaining things better. He had to set her straight, but all that came out were half-finished words. Her assumptions about his moral fabric had rankled him so completely he was speechless. Finally, he forced a complete word out of his mouth in a shout.
“Stop!”
She ignored him and walked on, back stiff, head held high. Jesus, she was proud.
“I said stop,” he shouted with authority.
Most grown men would have hesitated at the sound of his voice, but the wee bizzum kept moving.
Finally, he hollered, “I’ve never even seen the inside of a brothel. My sister would kill me!”
Alex and Magnus laughed. He would murder them later. At the moment, all he cared about was making things right with Caya.
She slowed her march until she came to a stop.
He took several steps toward her, so he needn’t shout. “I built the house for you. You and me. No one else,” he said in a voice he used to gentle horses.
She faced him. Her eyes narrowed, seeming to search his for the truth. “That’s ridiculous. You just met me. How could you build a house for me?”
“For my wife. We are to marry. I gave my word.” A long silence passed. Still she made no move. He ached to close the distance between them but didn’t dare make any sudden movement. “I was trying to tell you before…you’ll live at Balforss with the laird’s family until the wedding. You’ll be well cared for. Treated like the lady you are. If, after we reach the house, you change your mind, I’ll take you back to your brother. But for now”—he straightened—“you’re coming with me.”
She made a pssht sound. Then she turned her chin away and lowered her gaze. He’d seen his sister Margaret do that when she was miffed about something but didn’t want to admit she was wrong. He held his breath. She kicked a stone with the toe of her dainty boot. Some of the tension seemed to leave her body.
He wiped beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It shouldn’t be this complicated. Collecting his wife should be a simple matter of taking her home with him, wedding her, and bedding her. Why was it proving so difficult?
He moved toward her, one careful step at a time, like stalking a deer, so as not to frighten her into running again. He took the bag from her small, pale hand. She didn’t resist. Then he walked back toward the wagon, praying to God she would follow.
…
Caya turned his words over in her head. I built the house for you. You and me. No one else. He was so earnest, so in need of her understanding. But what did he mean?
“You just met me. How could you build a house for me?”
“For my wife,” he'd said. “We are to marry. I gave my word.”
His words scorched the back of her neck. My wife. We are to marry. For an instant, the kiss, the one she’d imagined last night, came back to her, the memory of it, soft and searing. The box containing her most wicked fantasies threatened to pop open and she quickly sat on the lid.
Who was this man?
Sinclair. His name was Sinclair. And he was not, thank God, a trader in flesh. He stood before her, still talking, saying things, things that seemed important to him, but the words held no meaning for her. His voice soothed her, and just like last night, his soft brown eyes looked directly into hers as if they’d met before.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
Although his tone was kind, she didn’t like the demand.
He moved closer to her. Slowly. Carefully. He was tall. Very, very tall. She noticed the great weight of her traveling bag only after he took it from her. She half expected him to capture her hand and pull her to the wagon. Instead, Mr. Sinclair returned to the wagon and waited for her.
Had she misunderstood his words because she was guilty of thinking wicked thoughts? Because, if she was honest with herself, choosing the dark and dangerous Scot had answered her most secret fantasy: to be desired by a powerful man, a man of strength and intelligence who could protect her from all the ills in the world. Caya set aside those thoughts to examine them when she could be alone.
“I’m coming,” she said, moving toward the wagon. “But not because you ordered me to.”
When she reached him, he asked, “Are you coming because you want to?”
“Because I choose to,” she snapped back. She also chose to ignore the pleased look on his face.
For the third time, he helped her aboard the wagon. For the third time, she breathed in his scent. Not an acrid sweat like her brother nor the unwashed stink of the sailors. Mr. Sinclair smelled like saddle leather and road dust—earthy. Was he a farmer, then? Like her father? She would like to marry a farmer.
He was nothing short of decorous, his touch light and polite. Even so, she felt the man’s strength. She had seen him come close to violence. He could have snapped her brother’s neck with one hand. Yet, Mr. Sinclair had also been kind, soft-spoken, even gentlemanly. As he was being right now.
He motioned to the other Sinclair men. “Ride on. We’ll catch you up.” Then he climbed onto the wagon beside her. He fixed his gaze on the reins in his hand. “I need to know…do you want me to take you to O’Malley? If you have your heart set on the man, I’ll understand. I dinnae want to marry someone who prefers another.”
Her heart? Was he making fun of her? She’d never even met Mr. O’Malley. Her brother had made the arrangements, a small payment up front, the balance upon delivery, like a load of goods. She had been suspicious of her brother’s bargain all along. Jack’s business negotiations had all been failures. Why would the one with O’Malley be any different? And what kind of man would purchase a wife sight unseen?
“I ken you’re sad,” Mr. Sinclair said. “I’d do anything to change the way things happened.”
His kind words left her breathless. She managed to say, “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t wish to marry Mr. O’Malley.”
He smiled at her. Again. A heartbreakingly sweet smile. One she couldn’t ignore. She smiled back at him as if she had no power to resist.
“Och, I nearly forgot.” He reached inside a pocket of his coat and pulled out her mother’s jade ring. “This belongs to you.”
She stopped herself from snatching the ring from his hand. “No. It’s yours. You won it.”
“Aye. I did. And now it’s mine to give to you.” He placed the ring in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “There now,” he said, the tone of his voice and the two words conveying the understanding that everything was settled and she had nothing more to worry about, ever.
He cleared his throat and arranged his face into its earlier sober condition. “Erm…My family will want to ken how you came to be with us. They’ll accept you no matter what I tell them. But I dinnae want to cause you any more pain. So, I leave it to you. What would you have me say?”
Again, Caya was momentarily stunned by Mr. Sinclair’s offer. The consideration he afforded her was beyond anything she’d ever witnessed between men and women.
“There’s no point in making up a story,” she said. “I doubt any other explanation would suffice.”
He smiled again, this time with an exhale of relief. “As you wish.”
Without thinking, she barked out the question that had plagued her for miles. “Why did you do it?”
Mr. Sinclair tilted his head. “Do what?”
“Why did you accept my brother’s wager? Why did you gamble for me?” Her body shook with suspicion and anger. She needed to understand why any man would do such a thing.
“I wanted you, of course.” He seemed confused by her question.
“What did you wager in return?”
His soft brown eyes never wavered from her gaze. As if his answer should have been plain from the start, he said, “Everything.”
She didn’t know how she expected him to respond, but it certainly wasn’t that. So used to Jack’s lies, she’d almost forgotten what truth sounded like. Did Mr. Sinclair speak the truth? Did he really want her?
He dipped his head. With a sharp whistle and a snap of the reins, the wagon rattled forward.
…
Jack woke, brutal hands dragging him half-conscious from his bed and out into the hallway.
“Release me at once.” He yanked himself free. “How dare you—”
“Get going.” The fearsome-looking man shoved at his back repeatedly. Jack tripped down the stairs, stumbled through the tavern room, and lurched out of the tavern into the daylight. His tormentor gave him one final push that sent him sprawling facedown in the dirt. He got to his knees and squinted through the sunshine at a man, a ruffian, with a musket cradled in his arm. Standing to his right, a slightly better dressed man stared down at him with a malicious grin.
“Who are you?” Jack asked, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes. “What is the meaning of this?”
From behind him, Jack’s assailant grabbed him by the back of his stock, making it difficult for him to breathe.
“You’ll be owing me a wife, Mr. Pendarvis,” the gentleman said with an Irish lilt. He gestured to the man holding his collar. “Mr. Boyle here says she’s not within. Where is she?”
Shit. O’Malley. Though Jack had only a vague recollection of his exchange with O’Malley’s solicitor—it had been late at night, he’d had much to drink, and he’d lost quite a bit of money at cards—this man appeared nothing like the gentleman described. Sean O’Malley looked more like a highwayman than a herring merchant.
Mr. Boyle struck him on the side of his head. “Answer the man.”
Jack rubbed at the searing pain in his right ear. “She’s—” He coughed and made a motion indicating he was choking to death.
O’Malley signaled Mr. Boyle to release Jack’s collar. When he did, Jack fell forward on all fours. Mr. Boyle and the man with the musket laughed.
He moved his tongue around the inside of his cotton-lined mouth, seeking a drop of saliva with which to lie. “She’s run off with three Scotsmen.”
“Is that what you say?” O’Malley’s tone implied he didn’t believe him. “And who might these Scotsmen be?”
He got to his feet and brushed himself off. How dare the man not believe his lie? “They were Sinclairs.”
This time all three laughed uproariously. The audacity. If Jack were not at such a financial disadvantage, if he were at home among his equals, instead of here in this disreputable country, he’d have these men placed in irons with a snap of his fingers.
O’Malley wiped his eyes and recovered himself. “Ya don’t even know where ya are, do ya? This is Sinclair land, fool. Half the people living in this part of Scotland bear the name Sinclair.”
“They were Sinclair of…of…of—” Jack searched his foggy mind. What had the red one said? I’m Alex Sinclair of—damn. “One was named Alex Sinclair.”
“I’ll ask ya to shut your filthy hole and quit your lyin’. The lass inside told us ya lost the woman in a game of cards, and I’m not about to chase all over the countryside after those billy boys. I’ll settle for a return of my money.”
Jack cursed under his breath. He’d wring the barmaid’s skinny neck the next chance he got, the slattern. But first, he would deal with his most immediate threat, O’Malley. Best to stall for time. Get the man in a better mood, and maybe he could find his way out of this.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me inside, and we can discuss our business over breakfast.”
“It’s afternoon, Pendarvis.” O’Malley gave him a derogatory shake of the head.
Insufferable. The man had no right to treat a gentleman of his standing with contempt. He chastised himself for his own poor judgment. Absolute foolishness on his part for dealing with an Irishman. Everyone knew the Irish lied and cheated whenever possible.
“Luncheon then. They serve a delicious lamb stew.”
“If you don’t have the woman, and you don’t have the five quid I advanced ya, I’ll take you instead. I lost a member of my crew to typhoid last month. I need a new hand.” O’Malley signaled Boyle. “Take him. Jiggity-jig. Make it quick.”
Jesus. He’d rather go to debtors’ prison than spend a lifetime pressed into service aboard a ship. Before Boyle could grab him by the collar again, he shouted, “Wait. I have the money. I have it hidden in my room.”
O’Malley signaled his man to stop and said with complete civility, “Mr. Boyle, accompany Mr. Pendarvis above stairs and retrieve my five quid.”
Boyle followed Jack up the stairs so closely he felt the man’s hot breath on the back of his neck. In less than a minute, he would discover his deception. Jack’s mind raced through ways to escape his predicament. He had nothing with which to bribe the man, and there was little chance he could overtake or outrun him. He could risk jumping out the nearest window, but those long, muscled arms would catch him before he got the damn thing open.
“Just in here,” Jack said, opening his bedchamber door.
A light fragrance lingered. It was that of his sister. For an instant, he regretted having lost her. Shame at his behavior last night threatened to get the better of him. Just as quickly, rage fired his determination to escape this bloody mess, find his sister, and punish her for deserting him. It was her fault he was in this position.
Jack glanced around the room. “Ah. Yes. I’ve hidden the money behind a loose brick.”
Boyle grunted an acknowledgment.
Jack reached into the fireplace and fumbled around up inside the flue, pretending to search while Boyle watched him, dull-eyed. “It’s here. Somewhere. Ah. The damn thing is stuck.” He pointed to his bag lying on the floor behind Boyle. “Hand me that dumfuzzle.”
Boyle cocked his head. “Eh?”
“The dumfuzzle,” Jack said, encouraged by the man’s confusion. “The dumfuzzle,” he repeated, still pretending to fumble with the brick inside the chimney.
Boyle turned to look in the direction in which Jack pointed. “Where?”
“Right there. The silver thing—no, not there. Inside the bag.”
When Boyle stooped to search the bag, Jack snatched up the fireplace iron with two hands and brought it down on the man’s bald head. The hooked point of the poker sank into his polished skull with a wet squelch and stuck. Boyle dropped face-first into Jack’s traveling bag, blood soaking the garments inside.
From outside below the window, O’Malley called up, “Jiggity-jig, Mr. Pendarvis. Jiggity-jig.”
…
The black talons of fear that had dug deep into Caya’s flesh that morning relaxed their grip. Although not at ease, she stopped shaking, and the knot in her stomach loosened. The Scot who won her was not a savage. He seemed to be an honorable man. He also wanted her, a fact that warmed her shoulders and neck, a not altogether unpleasant sensation.
The men in her village used to tell tales about the barbarians to the north. Whenever anyone spoke of Highlanders they had referred to them as uneducated savages who worshipped pagan gods and despoiled women. But Mr. Sinclair—all the Sinclair men—had demonstrated the good manners expected of civilized men, even if their clothing fell short of what befitted gentlemen. Caya had, on occasion, seen rude paintings depicting Highlanders, bare-legged, kilted men chasing down deer with bow and arrow. She glanced at Mr. Sinclair’s long legs hidden inside gray trousers. Did he chase deer—with bare legs?
She shooed away the wicked notion of Mr. Sinclair wearing a kilt, more fodder for her box of guilty imaginings. Dark clouds on the western horizon forewarned an evening storm, but for now, the sky above was crisp and clear. She took a moment to breathe in the Scottish countryside, green and fragrant. She’d been terrified when she and Jack arrived in Scotland yesterday. Wick Harbour had been so crowded, and everyone a stranger. But out here in the country, the familiar-looking landscape calmed her—a vast expanse of rolling pastures, barley fields, and patches of forest not unlike Cornwall. Even the cliff-lined coasts of Wick reminded her of her home in Penzance. They seemed to be traveling away from the sea, though. How far away? The thought unsettled her. The sea had always been as much a part of her life as the sun and the moon.
“What’s that over there?” She pointed north toward what looked like a large body of water.
“Loch Watten. We’ll be passing through Watten soon. Are you hungry?”
“Famished, actually.” Aside from the few berries she’d eaten, she hadn’t breakfasted.
“There’s a woman there that sells meat pies almost as good as my sister’s.”
Mr. Sinclair was what most women would call handsome. His rough-hewn features, so angular and masculine, appealed to her. He had a lean, attractive profile with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. It looked as though his nose may have been broken once or twice. Like most Scotsmen she’d seen thus far, he wore his hair long, tied back with a strip of rawhide. A few gleaming black curls escaped and floated around his forehead in the breeze. She rather liked his tall, lank physique. He had warm hands, too. She had felt their heat when he lifted her into the wagon.
“I saw you weeping earlier. Is it your brother?” he asked. “Are you sorry to leave him?”
His mention of Jack made her stomach churn. No point trying to hide what he already knew to be true. Her brother was a wastrel.
“The tears were for me.” She owed Mr. Sinclair nothing. He’d implied as much. But she wanted to make clear to him she didn’t cry for Jack. “I couldn’t save him, you see. Jack had so much promise when he was younger. When the drink got hold of him, I tried to help. It was like watching someone drown. You swim into the deep waters to save them, but each time you reach out they grab at you and take you down until you’re exhausted. You must make the choice: drown with them, or save yourself.” She thought, but did not say, I chose to save myself.
“I’ll remember that, should I ever find myself in deep water.”
How odd. A man so large and capable as Mr. Sinclair not knowing how to swim. “Are you afraid of drowning?”
“It’s no’ the drowning I fear.” He made an impish grin. “I’m afraid of falling in.”
She appreciated his attempt to lighten her mood with his humor, but found it too difficult to laugh.
After a quiet moment, he said, “Dinnae berate yourself. I ken you did everything a loving sister could do.” Mr. Sinclair fidgeted. She barely heard what he said next. “If you’re weary, you can lean on me until your strength returns.” His offer was intimate. Far too intimate. He must have known because pink patches appeared on his cheeks. Again, he was speaking directly to her deepest desire, to have someone large and strong to rely on. Did he know? Could he tell by looking at her how much he affected her?
“What are you?” she asked. “I mean, what do you do?”
“I was a soldier once. Now I make uisge-beatha, the water of life.” Mr. Sinclair’s eyebrows popped up and down. “Whisky.” His voice had turned husky, and he seemed very pleased with himself.
“Whisky is a spirit?”
“Aye.”
“You make it for the purpose of drinking?”
“Aye. I built a distillery.”
A soldier. A man of violence who made spirits. She disapproved of both professions. The idea of a distillery concerned her, too. Strong drink had contributed to Jack’s demise. She disapproved of drinking spirits and gambling. Mr. Sinclair and his friends were guilty of both. Had she left one bad situation only to step into another?
A more horrifying thing occurred to her, and her breath hitched. “Are you a Catholic?” she blurted, her black opinion of the faith undisguised.
Mr. Sinclair glared at her with his dark eyebrows buckled together. “I am not.”
She’d offended him.
He turned his eyes back to the road. “I’m not a bloody papist,” he muttered, then shot a look back at her. “And before ye ask, I’m no’ a heathen, either.” Mr. Sinclair focused on the road ahead again.
“Lutheran?” she asked, trying to sound less accusatory.
“Anglican,” he corrected. “Episcopal Church of Scotland.”
“Oh,” Caya breathed out. “Good. That’s good.”
Mr. Sinclair gave her a sidelong glance. The corner of his mouth twitched. Was he laughing at her? “I suppose you and God are on good terms, then,” he said.
“Do you mock me, sir?”
He smiled broadly. “Nae, lass. I can see he has favored you.”
“And God does not favor you?”
“Let’s just say, we dinnae often agree.”
He was teasing her again, and she almost asked him to explain what he meant by not agreeing with the Lord, when someone called out. She spotted the other men up ahead. The two sat side by side on a stone fence, eating while their horses grazed on the opposite side of the road. Apparently, they had already visited the woman who sold meat pies.
“Are they your brothers?”
“Nae. Cousins.”
When Mr. Sinclair pulled the wagon to a stop, the huge one with the beard walked to her side and handed up a tied cloth package. “Mrs. Gunn’s meat pies.”
“Thank you.” Caya opened the warm bundle. Two standing short-crust pies, each about the size of her fist. She held the pies out to her wagon companion. He chose one and took a big bite.
“Mmm-mm.” Mr. Sinclair talked around the food in his mouth. “Good. Pork pie. Try it.”
She pinched off a piece of her crust and nibbled. Tasty, but not as light as the pastry she made. She forbore telling him so. Pride was a sin.
He withdrew a small black knife from his boot, wiped it on his sleeve, and handed it to her hilt-first. His eating knife, no doubt. Yet again, the man anticipated her needs.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“We’re not so formal in the Highlands. When we get to Balforss, the servants will call you ‘miss.’ Everyone else will want to call you Caya.”
“I understand.”
“Will you call me Declan?”
She hadn’t addressed a member of the opposite sex outside her family by his Christian name since she was a child. Where she came from, in public, even wives referred to their husbands by their surnames. Mr. Sinclair’s request shocked her, but if he was the man she would marry, she might as well get used to using his Christian name.
“If you like…Declan.” Saying his name seemed too familiar, particularly when Mr. Sinclair—Declan—looked so very pleased upon hearing her say it. He even stared at her lips.
He pointed to the other two. “The big one is Magnus. The ugly one is Alex.”
She suppressed a smile. The red-haired man was the exact opposite of ugly, and Mr. Sincl—Declan knew it. But, no. She couldn’t bring herself to call his cousins by their first names. That would be far too—
“Caya. It’s a pretty name.”
She flushed. He liked her name. He even spoke her name as if it was pretty. Flattery. Yes. Pure flattery. She would not be taken in by such frivolous things. Vanity was no less a sin than pride.
“Sorry.” Declan looked at her as if to gauge whether it was safe to tell her something. He glanced down when he spoke. “I’m no’ so good with talking to pretty women.” Caya stopped breathing and went very still. She sensed this moment was important. He had shared something of great value, something more precious than a mere compliment. He had revealed his uncertainty.
He lifted his eyes and met hers. It took courage to look at her after what he’d just admitted. Whatever Declan Sinclair was, he was not a coward. He waited for her to acknowledge his gift, to say something, anything.
“I think you’re doing fine,” she said.
He smiled at her again. That pleasing sweet, dimpled smile. He held her gaze a few seconds longer than was acceptable between strangers before they both looked away. He popped the last bite of his meat pie into his mouth and snapped the reins.
The wagon jounced and joggled down the road. She continued to eat Mrs. Gunn’s meat pie. Minced pork and onion baked in a short crust. Good, but a shingle would taste good she was so hungry. She was tempted again to mention that her Cornish pasties were better, but she would wait until she had an opportunity to demonstrate her skill. Then she’d allow Declan to judge the difference for himself.
Another hour passed. They spoke very little. Occasionally, Declan would ask if she would like to stop and rest. She declined each time. She tried to calm her mind, not think about the past, about Jack’s betrayal, about her father’s farm and all their belongings auctioned off to strangers, about the life she might have had if her childhood sweetheart hadn’t died. She didn’t want to ponder the future, either. Everything seemed so uncertain.
Instead, she concentrated on the horizon. Each mile they covered carried her farther from her old life and closer to her new beginning. The distance between Wick and Balforss seemed like a kind of limbo. A space where her life remained suspended, her future placed in abeyance, her body numb to pain or pleasure.
Late in the afternoon, they crested a hill, and Declan pulled the wagon to a stop. He pointed to a house nestled within a dense stand of trees at the bend in the river about a mile and a half away.
“Balforss,” he said.
The air around her changed. A salty breeze swept over her. The sea was close. She inhaled the briny scent and held it in, let it permeate her body, acclimating to her new world from the inside out. “It’s magnificent,” she said, and meant it.
“My distillery is hidden on the other side of the river. And my old cottage lies farther on, closer to the sea. My sister Margaret and her husband Hamish live there now. It’s called Cleaver Cottage.” He pointed to a hill another two miles or more east of Balforss. “And way to the right, just over that brae is our house, Taldale Farm.”
The way he said “Taldale Farm” with such pride made her turn and look at him. His gaze, like a fist, shot through her chest, grabbed her heart, and squeezed hard. This man, this Highlander, this Scot, was now her life. She felt herself fall from limbo into the present—the all too immediate present. The man next to her, the home before her, the countryside all around her, became vibrant with color.
The talons of fear tightened again. This all seemed awfully quick, awfully easy, the way she’d fallen into this matrimonial arrangement. Had she cheated somehow? Broken rules? Would she be made to pay for abandoning her brother and running off with a stranger whose dark brown eyes had invaded her thoughts last night in a sinfully personal way?
Too late. Too late to change her mind. This was real. This was happening to her. This was her choice.
…
As the dray clattered down the last two miles of road toward Balforss, Declan inhaled the spring air and let his shoulder muscles relax. True, they’d experienced a false start, a big misunderstanding, but he’d cleared things up for Caya. They were to be married. He reminded himself that he’d had three years to get used to the idea. This was all new to the lass. It might take time, but eventually she’d come to see what Declan already knew to be true—they were meant to be together. His dreams told him so.
The meat pie helped improve his mood. He always felt better with a full belly. He stole a sideways glance at Caya. The meat pie must have altered her disposition, too. She seemed more at ease than before. Her brow had smoothed—no trace of the earlier creases. He took in her pretty profile, the delicate eyebrows arched over sky-blue eyes fringed with blonde, almost white lashes. And that dusting of freckles across the bridge of her wee nose. His heart squeezed whenever he looked at them. How very lucky to have such a bonnie bride.
He had told her he liked her pretty name. At first, he’d thought she didn’t care for the compliment. When he’d explained his awkwardness, she’d said, “I think you’re doing fine,” which had made him feel quite good. In fact, everything about Caya, since the moment he’d first seen her, made him feel like he was more than he had been. Taller, stronger, smarter, braver—just…better.
His dream was coming true. Granted, winning one’s wife in a card game was highly unconventional, but no one could deny he’d found his wife just as he had envisaged. Naturally, it would take time to adjust to each other. Things would be different for both of them. Caya would have to get used to the Highland way of life, and he would have to become accustomed to sharing his bed.
Declan felt a stirring below his belt and set aside that last thought for another time.
The banns. He should post the banns of marriage on the church door right away. Tomorrow was Sunday. He’d do it then. They would have to wait at least three Sundays for the banns to be called out in kirk. That meant they could marry in a month, enough time to start this season’s whisky and finish the house before the wedding.
Caya would like the house. He’d built it with his bride in mind, consulted with his sisters Margaret and Lizzie, as well as Cousin Lucy and Auntie Flora. Declan had even asked Alex what a wife wanted most in a home. If all went according to plan, a month from now, his dream wife would become his real wife.
Wife. He shifted on the hard, wooden seat of the dray. An issue of a more personal nature pecked at his liver. His father had died when he was too young to remember, leaving him the only male in a house full of women—his mother and two older sisters. He understood the female mind better than most men, but he’d never actually had a woman. Romantically speaking, that is.
Oh, he’d kissed a few in his time. Gertie had let him fondle her breasts once or twice. He liked breasts. A lot. And the kitchen maid at the Latheron Inn had showed him more than one way to pleasure a woman. What would it be like to please Caya? To see her naked and open to him, to explore her body, pluck at her taut nipples, slip his fingers into her slick and complicated parts, to stroke and pet her until she—
Jesus, man. It’s broad daylight.
He stared ahead at Balforss and swallowed hard. Only one more hurdle, his uncle, Laird John. He was certain his uncle would agree to host Caya until their wedding. And he knew Lucy and Flora would make her welcome, but would Uncle John bless their union? Or might he object to the way in which Declan had found his wife? He didn’t need his uncle’s consent to marry, but he wanted it.
He took an unsteady breath and gave the reins another snap. The draft horse kept a steady clop. No mind. Uncle John was a reasonable man. Once he explained the circumstances, made clear the reason it was necessary to remove Caya from the hands of her careless brother, his uncle would see his actions were justified.
He glanced at the beauty seated beside him. Hopefully, Uncle John would understand, because he would not surrender Caya no matter what his uncle said. Not now. Not after having heard her voice and smelled her hair. Not after having felt the weight of her small self in his hands. No. He wouldn’t let her go. Not ever.