Chapter Nine
At noon the next day, Lucy and Caya gathered in the entry hall, ready to leave the house. “Do you think it’s wise to bring Jemma with us to Scrabster?” she asked. “Those women frighten me.”
Lucy handed Jemma to her. “Hold her while I tie her bonnet.” Lucy did battle with the ribbon while Jemma made “eh-eh-eh” sounds. “Those women may be an angry, superstitious lot, but they’d never jeopardize the safety of a child. Besides, I can’t think of a better way to show them we’re not afraid.”
She took Lucy’s confidence as reassurance and relaxed enough to ask the question she had been meaning to ask all morning. “Did you talk to Alex about what happened yesterday? With me and Declan, I mean.”
Lucy pressed her lips into a thin line of disgust and shrugged. “Alex told me not to meddle.” She yanked on her gloves with angry tugs. “Men.” She uttered the word like it was the explanation for all that was wrong with the world. And maybe she was right.
They stepped outside when the vicar’s carriage jangled up the drive right on time. He drove a smart-looking phaeton with a calash top that offered its passengers a modicum of protection from the elements. He climbed down and brushed the damp off his jacket. The day’s weather was what Laird John called “soft,” meaning the rain came down in a light mist rather than drops. The women were well-prepared with cloaks and bonnets.
Vicar James called to Jemma with a voice pitched higher, the way adults talk to dogs and children. Jemma flapped her arms and made excited squeals, anticipating Vicar James’s attention. Caya transferred the bundle of churning arms and legs into the vicar’s arms, admiring his gentle way. He did seem to have an easy hand with children.
Not for the first time, she considered Vicar James as a man rather than a priest, appraising his worth as a potential husband, judging his good qualities and balancing them against his shortcomings. He had only one shortcoming that she could ascertain. Vicar James didn’t make her heart flop about inside her chest the way Declan did.
True. The Reverend James Oswald had several advantages over Declan Sinclair. He had a more even temper, and he didn’t deal in spirits—something she disapproved of strenuously. But her skin didn’t burn the way it did when Declan stared at her with his dark brown eyes.
Vicar James interrupted her thoughts with, “Good morning, Miss Pendarvis.”
“I should apologize for yesterday, the fight—”
Vicar James waved a hand and smiled. “Forgotten.”
“Thank you.”
With Lucy and Jemma already snug aboard the phaeton, he held a hand out. “Ready?” he asked. He had that look on his face again, a look of affection. She wanted to return his interest if only because he was so kind to her, but to do so felt unnatural. He helped her into the phaeton. Even that simple gesture was lacking. When Declan helped her in and out of the wagon, he cradled her as if she were something breakable, his hands lingering a moment too long, almost reluctant to let her go. Vicar James handled her like baggage.
The vicar climbed in after her and eased himself into what space was left. The phaeton was made for two passengers to travel comfortably. It would be a cramped ride with the three adults wedged together as they were. The vicar arranged a blanket over their laps and gave the reins a snap. His body felt stiff and awkward pressed to her side. If Declan were here…
Merde.
It was Lucy’s French word. Caya didn’t know what it meant. It sounded like a curse word, so it served her well for the moment. She had to stop comparing Vicar James and Declan. There was no point. Declan offered to marry her only out of his misguided sense of honor. A sadness formed in her mind like a dark and bottomless pit. One more step and she would fall in and never find her way out.
The tiny fishing village of Scrabster, located halfway between Balforss and Thurso, was situated on a cliff-lined promontory jutting into the North Sea. Dwellings dotted one side of the narrow dirt road, and boats bobbed in the water on the other. The ramshackle houses seemed to cling to the sides of the cliff that towered over the small harbor. Sheltered from the west wind, the village reeked of rotting fish and dead seaweed. By all visible indications, the people living here were barely eking out an existence culled from the sea.
Caya saw a line of four women blocking the road ahead. She felt a jolt of recognition—the women from the river.
Vicar James stopped the phaeton, pulled the break, and secured the reins. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He climbed down and offered the women a courteous bow.
They remained unmoved, arms crossed, feet apart, standing shoulder to shoulder.
“We’ve come to pay Mrs. Campbell and little Bobby a visit,” he said. “Can you tell me, please, which is her house?”
The white-haired woman lifted her chin. “The unholy are not welcome in Scrabster. Turn your cart around and go.”
Ignoring the warning, Vicar James approached her with a genial smile. “You’re Mrs. McConnechy, are you not?”
The white-haired woman startled at his recognition.
Clever of the vicar. Troublemakers prefer anonymity. By calling the woman by name, he had made her responsible for her actions.
“How do you know me?” Mrs. McConnechy demanded, obviously agitated to be singled out.
“Reverend Linklater says you make the best fishcakes in all of Caithness.” Vicar James oozed charm.
Bewildered, Mrs. McConnechy’s comrades turned to her for guidance. She brushed a wisp of white hair from her forehead. The vicar’s flattery had worked. “Ye speak with the silver tongue of the devil.”
James laughed. “I’ve never been accused of having a silver tongue before. Still, I’d be obliged if you’d let me purchase two of your fishcakes for my supper.”
Jemma had remained motionless during the exchange, seeming to sense the tension among the adults. But Lucy’s shoulders jiggled with stifled laughter.
The old woman lifted her chin again and considered the vicar’s request. “Ye’ve coin?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll take a while to make them.”
“My companions and I will wait at Mrs. Campbell’s house.”
Mrs. McConnechy’s ethical debate between commerce and creed played across her forehead. Commerce won. She pointed up the cliff to a cluster of wooden shacks. “Second from the right.”
Vicar James bowed to the women and returned to the phaeton with a sheepish look on his face.
Lucy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Silver-tongued devil?”
The corner of Vicar James’s mouth twitched.
They left the phaeton behind and took the footpath up the cliffside. The steep climb along the muddy slope left them all winded. The shack looked as though it had room for two people at most. How would they all fit inside? The vicar rapped his knuckles on the weathered door and an older gentleman answered. He stepped out of the shack, wearing a rumpled coat and black-brimmed hat, his face pinched and severe looking.
James greeted the man with reserve. “Reverend Linklater,” he said and dipped his head.
The old man responded with an icy, “Father Oswald.” Though not incorrect, she thought addressing Vicar James as “Father” was the Presbyterian minister’s way of pointing out a significant difference between their faiths. After all, Anglican clergymen had retained the papish moniker of priest.
The minister stepped outside the shack and motioned for the women to enter. She cast one last look at Vicar James, silently wishing him luck with the dour Reverend Linklater.
The two clergymen remained outside the tiny shack while she and Lucy visited with Mrs. Campbell. Having absolutely nothing in common, their chat was brief. Lucy gave Mrs. Campbell a loaf of honey cake. Mrs. Campbell murmured a shy thank you to Caya for saving her boy’s life. And Jemma poked a curious finger at little Bobby, who remained stoic throughout her prodding.
Reverend Linklater accompanied them back down the cliffside to the phaeton, where Mrs. McConnechy waited with a cast-iron pan of hot fishcakes. James gave the woman two bits, and Lucy produced a lace-edged handkerchief to wrap the delicacies.
Jemma fell asleep in Caya’s arms as soon as the phaeton got rolling.
“I have to admit, the cakes smell delicious,” Lucy said, clutching the bundle on her lap as they flew down the road to Balforss. “But I’d think twice about eating them.”
Vicar James gave her a sideways look. “I don’t plan to.” He looked up to heaven and crossed himself.
Caya asked the vicar, “What did you and Reverend Linklater talk about while we visited with Mrs. Campbell?”
“I asked him to explain to his congregation that your actions were the work of God and not the devil.”
“Do you think he will?”
Vicar James turned his head and gave her an apologetic smile. “No. He would never do that.”
“Then why did we make this trip?”
“Evil is a coward. It hides in the shadows. Goodness is courageous. It lives in light. We showed our goodness and bravery by visiting in daylight.”
The weight of Jemma’s slumbering little body in Caya’s arms prompted a memory from when she was a girl resting comfortably against her father’s shoulder, feeling loved and contented, oblivious to all the ills of the world. Nothing and no one could ever harm her while she lay safe in her father’s embrace. She wondered if she’d ever feel that safe again. Declan had once said to her, “We will marry, and you need nae be frightened ever again.” She’d chosen him that day, but when he’d tried to make good on his promise, she unchose him. Had she been a fool?
When they arrived home, Vicar James asked her to walk with him a while. She agreed, and without any attention to where they were going, they ended up at the paddock fence, where the colt, now a week old, was trotting wild circles around his mother.
“The last time we were here, you confessed to me,” he said. “I would like to confess something to you and hope you won’t judge me too harshly.”
“Of course.”
“I warned you off Declan Sinclair unfairly. It was wrong to do. I was jealous, I suppose.”
“Jealous?”
“Miss Pendarvis, Caya, you must know by now that I hold you in high regard.” He removed his hat and held it to his chest. “This may sound sudden, but trust me when I say I have been thinking about it since the first day I met you. Though we’ve only been acquainted a short time, I believe we could make a happy life together. Do you think you could feel the same way?”
“W-what do you mean?” Was he really asking her to… Her world tilted sideways, and she grasped the fence post to steady herself.
“I would speak to Laird John first, naturally, but…” Vicar James reached for her hand and said, “What I’m asking you is, would you be my wife?”
She stammered for a moment, not able to find any words that made sense.
“I see I’ve shocked you. Take as much time as you like to consider my offer. But know it is my most fervent desire to wed you.” James’s open, trusting face shone down on her.
She found her voice at last and asked the first question that came to her. “Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
She slipped her hand out of his. “Why do you want to marry me?”
He looked blank for a moment, laughed nervously, and then stammered, “For the usual reasons, of course.”
“And those are…”
“Well.” He held the brim of his hat by the fingers of both hands and turned it in circles. “Like me, you strive to live by the Word of God. And like me, the church is central to your life. You value faith and prayer, as I do. We are well-matched, I think.”
“Yes, but are there other ways in which we are matched? Ways that are more personal, more intimate?” She held her breath. Would he speak of love? And if he did, would that be enough to spark love in her heart for him?
He searched again for what to say. “You would take good care of the vicarage, be a good mother to our children, visit the sick, organize church functions—” He stopped mid-thought and smiled. “You’re teasing me. You know what’s expected of a clergyman’s wife.”
Should she be surprised by his answer—a list of all the things she would do for him? Nothing about what he would do for her in return. Nothing about love or passion. Nothing about a burning desire for each other. Did she really expect declarations of the heart from a clergyman? Of course not. The vicar was a man of the cloth, a man of peace, a man of reason. Exactly the kind of man she should marry. Had she met Vicar James a month ago, she would have been grateful for his attentions.
“One more question: Will I have my own home?”
Relief flushed his face. “Yes, of course. Once I marry, the church will provide for us.”
She nodded, feeling slightly dizzy, weightless. “Thank you. I promise to give your offer careful consideration.”
“I’ll see you Saturday for choir practice—five days hence. Can I hope for an answer by then?”
“Yes.” Caya walked back to the house as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run.
…
On Tuesday afternoon, Declan, Alex, and Hamish paused on the bench outside the distillery to enjoy the cold beef and cheese Margaret had sent along in the morning. Alex removed the cloth covering the jug of ale, filled a tankard, and handed it to Declan, then poured one for Hamish and another for himself.
In a conversational tone, Alex said, “I gather things are not going well with Caya.”
Declan drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He directed his gaze off in the distance, focusing on nothing. “I was wrong.” He felt empty and defeated, but the sooner he admitted his mistake, the sooner he could make things right for Caya.
“What do you mean?” Alex asked.
“I was mistaken. Caya isn’t the woman in my dream.”
Alex snapped his head around. “What?”
Hamish coughed and excused himself to take a piss. Why did his friends always desert him when he needed them most?
“Forget the bloody dream, man,” Alex said. “I thought you had feelings for the lass. Have you changed your mind?”
He had spent most of yesterday mulling over his dream and coming to the conclusion that he was indeed wrong about Caya. He’d made a mistake, a terrible mistake he could not undo. As much as it hurt his heart to say it out loud, he had to try and make things right. “Aye. I’ve changed my mind. She’s no’ the woman I am to marry.”
Alex gasped repeatedly like an astonished trout. “Where does that leave Caya?”
“She doesnae want me. I’m stepping aside. I leave her to the vicar. That’s the best I can do to make up for my mistake.”
Angry splotches formed on Alex’s cheeks. “You’re a bloody fool, cousin.”
Declan shouted back, “She doesnae want me. She said so.”
“You think because a woman you love turns you down once that’s the end? Do you ken how many times Lucy pushed me away before I finally got it right? Ye cannae give up, man.”
“It’s no use. She’s not the woman in my dream.”
“You were certain before. What’s changed?”
“It shouldnae be this difficult.”
Alex smacked himself in the forehead. “It’s always difficult with women, ye numpty.”
Shaking his head slowly, Declan repeated, “It shouldnae be this difficult.”
“Oswald has asked Caya to marry him.”
Declan shot to his feet. “What?” How had things progressed so quickly with Caya and the vicar?
“I said—”
“I ken what ye said. What did Caya say?” His heart pounded a rapid thud-a-thud-a-thud-a-thud-a-thud.
“She hasnae given him an answer.”
He gulped in air, willing his heartbeat to slow. At least Caya had not yet chosen.
“What will you do if she says yes?” Alex asked.
“I dinnae ken.”
“Do you love her?”
He hesitated. “I dinnae ken.”
“Come on, man. Two days ago, you wanted to marry the lass. Is your heart so changeable?”
“I said, I don’t know if I love her.” He wanted to yank his own hair out by the roots. “Everything is mixed up, and nothing makes sense anymore. I cannae tell which is the right thing to do.”
“It’s time to stop dreaming and act like a man.” Alex tossed back the rest of his ale and strode toward the stillhouse, calling over his shoulder, “You’ve got till Saturday morning to sort yourself out. That’s when Caya will give the vicar her answer.”
…
At her request, Laird John supplied Caya with ink, quills, a sheaf of paper, and full use of his study. Using small, careful lettering and the vicar’s hymnal, she wrote out all the verses for two of her favorite hymns, then copied them four times.
Not a thing from Declan since Sunday. No flowers, no note, no word sent by cupid. Nothing. What did she expect? She had said those awful words to him. You are the last person in the world I would marry. On top of that, she had another decision she had to make. Sometime before Saturday, she had to decide whether to accept or decline the vicar’s proposal.
The peaceful atmosphere of the laird’s study made what could have been a chore a meditation. The light scritch of the quill on vellum comforted her until she would come across the word “love” and her hand would hesitate over the surface, quill trembling, nib dripping inky black tears.
Midafternoon, she paused to massage her cramped hand. The days had grown warm enough that no fires were necessary until after sunset, and the tall windows let in plenty of light. She stretched and inhaled the room’s particular perfume: musty books, chair leather, and a sweet smoky smell she’d come to recognize as whisky.
Whisky. Flora said Alex was at the distillery helping Declan and Hamish store this season’s whisky. Apparently, they transported the casks to a secret place known only to a few. Perhaps she hadn’t heard from Declan because he was busy with his whisky. More likely, he hadn’t come around because he was done with her. Free to pursue some other woman for a wife.
And what would it be like to see him with another woman on his arm, to know he would be kissing her like he had kissed Caya? To have to sit in church with them every Sunday, go to his wedding, congratulate his wife when she bore Declan’s children—the children Caya could have given him. Bring gifts to their house—the house that could have been hers. Would she be able to bear the pain of it all?
She closed her eyes and, as she had at least a hundred times since Sunday, she remembered how Declan’s soft lips had fit so perfectly with hers. How he’d held her, pressed against her, the low groan he’d made when she slipped her hands around his neck. He’d said, Husbands and wives are passionate with each other. Did you not know that? And then she’d said those awful words. You are the last person in the world I would marry. She opened her eyes and fell back in her chair.
Laird John entered his study to tell her dinner was ready. She showed him the copies, and he complimented her skill with a pen.
“You have a fine hand, lass. May I call on you to pen a letter for me on occasion?”
“That would make me very happy.”
Indeed, after his kindness, she would gladly perform clerical tasks for the laird. But she doubted if she would ever be truly happy again. At least, not like she’d been in that one perfect moment when Declan had kissed her.
Lucy and Flora were aware of her misery. How could they not be when she arrived at the breakfast table each morning with puffy eyes and a stuffed-up nose? They avoided the subjects of Declan, marriage, courting, Vicar James, Scrabster, the choir, or anything else that could lead to bad thoughts. Even Mrs. Swenson and the upstairs maid, Haddie, were careful about what they said around her.
Unfortunately, their pointed attempts to avoid sensitive subjects had the opposite effect. Conversation at mealtime was stilted and forced. Caya decided that if one more person cleared her throat, she would scream.
“I’m going to accept the vicar’s offer of marriage.” The words were out of her mouth before she thought to say them.
Lucy and Flora slowly lowered their teacups to their saucers.
“You’ve decided to marry Vicar James?” Flora asked.
She had wanted Declan to want to marry her. That wasn’t meant to be. But Vicar James wanted her, so he must be the correct choice. Right?
“Yes.” Her answer held no conviction. She repeated with more confidence. “Yes.”
“Do you want to marry James?” Lucy asked.
“It’s a very kind offer.” A mercy, really. An offer for which she would always be grateful. Grateful? Hadn’t Vicar James said she shouldn’t accept an offer of marriage out of gratitude?
“But, do you want to marry Vicar James?” Lucy asked again.
She ignored the little voice in the back of her head screaming, I want to marry Declan. “He’ll make an excellent husband. You said yourself that every unmarried woman in Thurso wants to be the vicar’s wife.”
Lucy leaned forward. “Caya, do you want to marry James?”
Her continued badgering annoyed her. “Don’t be silly. Why would I accept his offer if I didn’t want to marry him? Excuse me. I need to get back to my writing.” She left the parlor. The conversation was over. She’d made her choice.
…
Jack Pendarvis pounded on the locked door again. Where was that blasted woman? The tavern owner’s wife should have returned hours ago with his meal. He was out of whisky and his head hurt. Hungry, too, but that was secondary to his need for drink.
How many days had he been holed up in this room? He’d lost track of time. When Sinclair had left him here, he’d sworn he was not a prisoner, that the lock on the door was for his welfare only. He’d received assurances from the tavern owner, Mr. Kinney, that as soon as a passenger ship took anchor in Scrabster Harbour, Sinclair would purchase a packet and see him safely aboard. That had to be days ago. Mrs. Kinney had kept him well-supplied with whisky and food for the duration. But he was beginning to sober, and as he did so, he was growing bored. He scratched at his scalp, but there was no way to satisfy the itch. It was coming from the inside.
The narrow slat that served as a window offered no more light. With the darkness came garrulous sounds from the tap room. He’d gladly lower his standard of company to the likes of the tavern owner’s custom if the man would let him out of this cage to mingle for a few hours among other humans. For the first time in days, he considered his appearance. He hadn’t bathed, and his clothes smelled like his mattress. He’d blend right in with the other peasantry. No one would take him for a gentleman. Odd. He’d never before seen advantage in appearing anything but a gentleman.
“Mrs. Kinney.” He thumped the side of his fist on the door several times. “Mrs. Kinney!”
At last, the tavern owner’s wife called from down the hallway, “Hold your wheesht, man. I’m coming.” A grunt as she bent to set the tray on the floor outside his door. A jangle of keys from her chatelaine. The clunk of the lock. He stepped back, and the door swung open.
Jack gave the older woman a brilliant smile meant to charm. “Please. Allow me,” he said, and he collected the tray off the floor himself rather than waiting for her usual service. He set the tray on his mattress. “I haven’t adequately thanked you for your hospitality, madame.” Jack made a polite bow.
The woman let her mouth hang open, replacing her normally half-intelligent countenance with a witless one.
“You will forgive me, of course?”
She regained her senses and replied, “If you like, sir.” Mrs. Kinney turned to leave.
Before she shut the door, he said, “Would you mind terribly if we left it open? As you know, I have no intention of going anywhere. It’s just that these four walls have become rather confining.”
She hesitated for a long while, considering his request, the key in her hand, aimed at the lock.
Jack increased his smile and winked as if to say, This will be our little secret.
At last, the tavern owner’s good wife nodded and marched away, leaving the door open. He tore a few bites off the joint of meat she’d left for his supper while he waited for her footsteps to fade. His appetite sated for the moment, he grabbed the decanter of whisky and headed down the hall in the direction of the tavern room noise.
As he anticipated, no one took note of him. He found a corner and sat alone, enjoying his whisky. He was beginning to acquire a taste for the spirit and understood why the golden liquid was so precious to the Scots. About halfway through his bottle, he was feeling pleasantly drunk and in need of a piss. He squeezed through bodies that smelled more of fish than man. Someone shoved him aside and spat out a Gaelic curse, igniting his temper. Yet, he refrained from answering the cur for fear of calling attention to himself.
It had been so long since Sinclair had delivered him to this establishment, he’d forgotten that the building was situated on the side of a steep incline. He stepped through the door into the night, and the ground failed him. He missed the stairs and landed in a crumpled mess.
No damage done, but he’d lost hold of his bottle when he reached to break his fall. He groped in the dark on his hands and knees. Finding the bottle unbroken and still stoppered, he breathed a sigh of relief and got to his feet. He rose a little too quickly, as it turned out. The blood rushed from his head and he staggered. The blasted earth slipped away yet again, and he went tumbling backward, picking up speed as he rolled, cracking his head, crashing through bushes, knocking over barrels, banging his knee, and bowling over someone. Dogs barked, chickens squawked, and a woman cried out. When his body finally came to a stop sprawled on its back, the stars above continued to swirl clockwise, making beautiful patterns in the sky.
The head of a dog haloed in white fur slavered over him, blocking out his view. “Are ye deid?” the white dog asked.
Odd for a dog to talk. But this was Scotland. Absurd things happened here all the time, as he well knew.
“Are ye deid, man?” the dog asked again.
“I live,” he said.
The dog straightened, and by the shadowy moonlight, he could see she was in fact a woman, an old woman with white hair.
“Didnae ken should I fetch the preacher or the healer,” the old woman said and cackled. “You look a right mess, laddie.”
Jack attempted to sit up. Lifting his head took great effort. Someone had weighted it down with sand.
“Give it here,” she said, extending a helping hand.
He lifted his arm, grateful for the assistance. Instead, she took the whisky from his hand, still stoppered and miraculously undamaged. The old woman pried his fingers from the neck, twisted the cork out with a pop, and took a deep swallow.
Rolling first to his hands and knees, Jack managed to get his feet under him and stand, slowly this time. When he stumbled forward, the woman caught his arm.
“Steady, lad.”
A pulsating pain at the back of his head made itself known. He reached back to assess the damage. Wet. Sticky. Blood? He checked his hand. Not blood.
The old woman cackled again. “Looks like ye landed in the shite this time, laddie.”
“Blast this whole sodding country.” Jack snatched the decanter of whisky back and took several swallows. “Damn you and every whoreson in this fucking town.”
He turned and banged a shoulder on the side of a building, ricocheted off into a post, tripped, and landed in a horse trough. Someone yanked him out by the back of his jacket. He coughed and sputtered.
“Let me help. You need a baptizing, ye heathen.” The old woman shoved his head in the trough again and rubbed the cack out of his hair.
He came up, gasping for air. “Enough. Enough. Release me.”
She hissed in his ear. “You’re the sassenach bastard what’s wanted for robbery.”
Fear cut through his anger. “No, you have it wrong.” He tried to free himself to run. She was alarmingly powerful for an old woman. Before he had recovered from his near drowning, she’d dragged him through a dark doorway and shoved him into a chair. He sat shivering, dripping, still smelling like shit.
“Nae need to be afeart, laddie. You and me, we’re on the same side.” She set the whisky on the table in front of him, and he took a greedy gulp. “I’ll no’ give you away. You’re safe as a lamb with Mrs. McConnechy.”
He doubted he was safe. He judged Mrs. McConnechy to be either a murderer or a lunatic. Maybe both. “What do you want?”
“Best keep your voice down so’s not to wake my man.” She jerked her head in the direction of another room. Then she sat across from him and leaned into the candlelight. Her half-toothless grin reinforced his opinion that she was doddering. “I ken you want to get away. The Sinclair would see you off with nothing but a boot in the arse. Better to go with a wee bit a silver in your pocket, aye?” Mrs. McConnechy picked up a knife, and Jack tensed. Would he have to fight this old woman? Did he even have the strength?
She sliced off a chunk of bread, slathered it with jam, and handed it to him. “The publican, Kinney, doesnae ken how to treat a gentleman such as yerself.”
She was damn-well right about that. He had been dealt with shabbily, and the Sinclairs were chiefly responsible for dishing out his egregious treatment.
“You’ll fare better here with me, sir.” Her eyes glittered with cunning.
At last, someone who appreciated his circumstance and had the decency to acknowledge his position in society. Jack relaxed back into his chair and let out a noble sigh. “They say clothes make a man, but rags cannot conceal the character of a true gentleman, I suppose.”
She smiled again, this time with what he recognized as the adulation underlings had for their superiors.
“You, um, mentioned something about silver,” he said and canted his head to the side.
“Och, aye.” She leaned forward and crooked a finger for him to do the same. “I have it in mind how we can ruin the Sinclairs whilst making a small fortune for ourselves—you, being of high birth, taking the larger cut, of course.”
“Go on,” he said.
“I ken it best to keep this a’tween us. Nae need to tell my man, aye?”
“Of course, madame. It will be our little secret.”
“You’re going to find the Sinclair whisky stash, and I’m going to show you where to look.”
Jack gave her his most charming smile. She had earned it.