Chapter Two
Declan had a split-second choice to make. He could take the next trick, play out his winning hand, and walk away with his wife. Or he could throw the game and lose. Lose his money, his whisky business, and the woman he was supposed to marry. But which was the right thing to do? Obey his conscience or follow his dream?
He tossed the seven of spades on the table. Jack reached for the cards, but Declan swept them up. “My trick.”
“Wait.” The cocksure Cornishy man didn’t believe him, thought he’d drawn all the trump cards from Declan’s hand. Big mistake.
He spread the cards for Jack to examine, then watched a sick awareness cross the man’s face. Pendarvis had made a fatal miscalculation.
Declan won the next trick.
And the next.
And the next.
Magnus and Alex tossed their cards in with sounds of resignation.
“I’m out,” Magnus said.
“Me, too,” Alex sighed.
Declan laid down his last three cards and, in a flat voice, said, “I have all the rest.”
He sat motionless during what seemed like a long silent minute, wondering why he wasn’t happy. He’d won. He should be elated, and yet he got no satisfaction from the man’s defeat. Declan rose on shaky legs, utterly exhausted. The stench of the sodding fool’s reeking body reached him from across the table. He needed fresh air. He also needed to leave the tavern before he did physical harm to the man. What kind of sick bastard would gamble away his own sister? Then again, what kind of sick bastard would gamble for his wife?
Jack Pendarvis held his head in both his hands. He made no move, simply stared at the pile of cards lying on the table.
“I suggest you take yourself to bed,” Declan said, barely controlling his rage. “You’ll have some explaining to do when your sister wakes.”
When he made to leave, Jack shouted to his back, “You cheated me, you filthy Scot.”
Declan half turned. “Nae. You’re just a very poor player.”
Jack started to rise, but Declan shot him a deadly look, one that made most men think twice, and Jack dropped back into his chair.
Declan stepped into the night and breathed in the blend of smells unique to Wick Harbour: the North Sea, cured herring, baking bread, burning peat. The rain had stopped, and nighttime sounds were gradually fading in anticipation of the dawn. The streets were quiet. A faintly putrid whiff of the slaughterhouse reached him, and he swallowed hard.
What had he done? He’d won a woman—his wife—in a game of chance. Well, not so much chance as calculation. He and his cousins hadn’t fleeced someone so thoroughly since their days in the army, when they’d worked their game on any soldier doaty enough to try them.
They didn’t cheat. Not exactly. Ever since he was a child, Declan had had a habit of counting things—cows, sheep, fence posts. He found it kept his busy mind occupied. Later, he’d discovered that his counting, though annoying to some, came in very handy when playing cards. Just like on the battlefield, he and his cousins were an unbeatable team. Declan would keep track of the deck and discreetly signal to his cousins when to bet. Alex and Magnus had only to play the role of frustrated losers. Running their game had always been great fun.
Not so tonight. No joy in winning tonight. Tonight, he may have done something bad.
From behind him, he heard Alex’s footsteps. “What’s wrong?” His cousin clapped him on the back. “You should be celebrating. You’ve got your wife.”
“Aye, but not this way. I shouldnae take her this way.” Did he sound as miserable as he felt?
“How was it in your dream?”
“I dinnae ken. She was already my wife.”
Magnus lumbered out of the tavern to join them. “The reekin’ stoater’s gone off to bed. Ye ken he and the lass will try and run for it before morning?”
“Aye, and we’ll be waiting. They’ll not get far,” Alex said.
Declan rubbed his forehead. A pain centered behind his eyes sparked white flashes in his brain. “Jesus. She’s going to be heartbroken when she finds out what her ass of a brother’s done.” He looked to Alex. His cousin always knew what to do in bad situations. “She’ll hate me. I cannae marry her if she hates me. Shall I give her back?”
“To that bastard? Never.” Alex’s tone lowered to a deadly growl. “He doesnae deserve to be her brother. It’s obvious he cares nothing for the lass. She needs someone to see to her safety. You’re the man for her.” Alex placed a hand on Declan’s shoulder and gripped hard. “If she doesnae see that right away, she will. Give her time.” He released him and chuckled. “Remember how long it took Lucy to see the good in me?”
“I wouldnae use your marriage as a comfort,” Magnus rumbled. “It’s been three years, and Lucy still wonders why the hell she married you.”
Leave it to Magnus to make Declan smile at the worst of times, but another concern killed his humor almost immediately. “What about the man she was supposed to marry? The herring merchant?”
“O’Malley? An Irishman? Pah.” Alex waved off Declan’s question. “Pendarvis said she’d never met the man and wasnae keen to marry him.”
“Nae, but what if he comes looking for the lass?” Magnus asked.
“The choice is hers,” Declan said. “If she wants the Irishman, I’ll not stand in the way. But if it’s me she chooses, I’ll no’ let anyone take her.”
“Dinnae fash, cousin,” Alex said. “You’re the best man for the lass. You know it. I know it.” Alex took a deep breath and looked up to a second-floor window, where lamplight flickered. “Soon enough, Miss Pendarvis will ken it, as well.”
Declan did his best to shake the cloud of doubt obscuring his future. He believed in his dreams. They’d never let him down. Yet—was he doing the right thing?
Declan sighed, preparing himself for what was to come. “Magnus, will you bring the dray around? They’ll be leaving the tavern soon.”
“I’ll cover the back door,” Alex said, and disappeared into the shadows.
Alone for the moment, Declan lifted his face to the pink and yellow predawn sky. “Lord, you ken me for a sinner, and I wouldnae ask you for my sake. But for the sake of the lass, dinnae let her heart break when she finds out what Jack’s done.”
…
Caya rubbed her eyes and blinked. Her brother, fully dressed in his overcoat and beaver hat, was packing his belongings at a furious rate. “Jack? What are you doing?”
“Get up. Get your things together. We’re leaving.”
She sensed an urgency in her brother’s clipped words. Very unlike him. She sat up in bed. “It’s not even light out. What’s your hurry?”
Jack stopped what he was doing. In the dim light of the oil lamp, she saw the features of his face pulled into a grimace. “Get dressed. Now.” He jerked his head toward the door. “And be quiet about it.”
“Is Mr. O’Malley here? Has something happened? You have to tell me why—”
He reached down and yanked her from the bed. Eyes wild and teeth bared, he shook her violently by the shoulders. “I said get dressed now.”
Breathless and rattled from Jack’s rough treatment, Caya found her gown and went behind the dressing screen. She tied the closures of her gown with shaking hands and stepped into her boots. Something bad had happened. She thought back on last night and her argument with Jack. They’d quarreled about his drinking. God, no. She reached for her reticule and emptied the contents onto the bed. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. No coin. He’d taken the last of their money. Nothing. They had nothing.
“Jack, what have you done?”
He stood at the open chamber door, holding her cloak in one hand and his bag in the other. Guilt swept across his face and then vanished. “You were right about those men.” His voice sounded brittle. “I overheard them talking. They planned to kidnap you. I used the money in your purse to purchase our safe escape. Now come. Quickly.” He held out her cloak.
How could she have been so stupid? Those men, those Scots, the man with the dark eyes—he had planned to kidnap her, and she’d returned his look. Dear Lord, she had encouraged his evil plan.
“Hurry,” Jack rasped.
Caya swirled her cloak around her shoulders and collected her bag, her mind in a muddle of panic and confusion.
Jack crept down the stairs and peeked into the tavern room. She hesitated at the top of the stairs. Doubt prickled the back of her neck. The past four years had taught her to believe only half of what her brother told her. Was he lying to her now?
He motioned impatiently. “The louts must still be abed.”
What should she do? He looked frightened. Concern for her brother warred with her common sense. Yes, Jack was a liar and a scoundrel, but he would never risk her life. They were the only family the other had. What else could she do but follow? She tiptoed down the stairs to her brother’s side.
He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Follow me.”
A dim gray light streamed through the slats in the window shutter. Other than the curled form of a girl sleeping by the smoldering hearth, the tavern room looked empty. Jack wove through the scattered tables and chairs. Finding it hard to see, she held on to his coattails for guidance. His pace quickened, and she scurried to keep up with him.
He opened the front door a crack and peered out.
“Do you see anyone?” she whispered.
“No. It looks safe. Stay close.” He threw open the door and pulled her into the chilly predawn, then halted. Her forward momentum sent her thumping into his rigid back.
“What is it?” She clutched at her brother’s arm for support.
The figure of a tall man stepped in front of them and crossed his arms. She could just make out his features. The dark-haired one from last night. Then the red-haired man stepped out from behind the building and joined his fellow Scot.
Too late. They were caught. These men would take her, kidnap her. And her brother—oh God. Would they kill Jack? She tried to scream but couldn’t catch her breath.
“Stay back or I’ll call for help,” Jack said. She recognized her brother’s attempt to sound in command. She also detected the fear and uncertainty in his tone. Had the Scots heard it, too?
“Did you tell her?” the dark one asked.
Jack said nothing at first, then whispered, “Get back inside, Caya.”
“Did you tell your sister what you did?” he asked again. The rangy Scot didn’t look dangerous so much as he looked angry.
An uneasiness crept into Caya’s consciousness. She searched her brother’s face. “What’s he talking about, Jack?”
He tried to push her back into the tavern. “Don’t listen to him. He means to trick you. Get back inside.”
The dark one shouted, “Tell her, you coward, or I will.”
The light had grown brighter in the few agonizing minutes they’d been standing in the yard. She detected a rare emotion on her brother’s face—shame.
“Jack?” she said, her voice a soft tremolo. “Tell me what you’ve done.”
His face crumpled.
Dread settled on her shoulders. “Have you gambled away the last of our coin?”
He nodded.
She opened her travel bag and searched. “Give them Mother’s ring and tell them to leave us alone.” She paused when her brother said nothing and asked in disbelief, “You lost Mother’s ring, too?”
Jack didn’t move. Fear, like a dark bird of prey, dug its talons into the flesh on her back. She glanced at the two Scots. By the looks on their faces, Jack had done something much worse than lose their valuables.
She dropped her bag. “What happened?” she demanded, taking a few challenging steps toward the dark Scot.
He unfolded his arms and let his shoulders fall. He had a plaintive look in his eyes as though he was about to tell her someone had died.
“Lass, I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle. If she weren’t so terrified, she might like the sound. “Your brother wagered your hand and lost.”
Wagered her? Had she heard him right? “No.” She shook her head and backed away. The man was playing a cruel joke. “No, he wouldn’t.”
The Scot’s brow buckled as if pity for her caused him pain.
She opened her mouth to scream, but only weak huffing sounds came out. She turned back to Jack, her brother, her blood, her only family. Oh God, she would be sick. A groan escaped her that sounded more animal than human. Caya staggered toward Jack and swung a fist, striking him in the head as hard as she could. Again and again and again. The pent-up rage at her brother’s selfish ways exploded in a pinwheel of violent blows.
He covered his head. “It was a joke. I never meant it. Stop. You’re hurting me.”
“A joke? A joke?” she screamed.
Strong arms wrapped around her from behind and lifted her away from Jack, as if she weighed nothing.
“Here now,” the man attached to the arms rumbled. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
She struggled. “Let me go.” She eased free of his arms, almost regretting the loss of their surprising warmth.
“Catch your breath,” he said.
The other man, the red-haired Scot, held out a silver flask. “Take a sip. It’ll help calm you.”
She snatched it away, took a greedy gulp, wheezed from the force of the spirits, and returned the flask. Whatever she’d swallowed had the intended effect. She was remarkably revived. Caya eyed the dark Scot. She could tell he didn’t think this was a joke. He seemed more troubled by her situation than her damned brother. Jack’s indifference was almost worse than the deed that had sealed her fate. As usual, her brother cared more about himself than what he’d done to her.
She dashed away tears and straightened. “You won the wager?” she asked the tall Scot.
“Aye.” His response sounded like an apology.
“I’m your—” She searched for the right word. “Prize?”
The man was speechless for a moment.
“I’m your property now? What, your cook, your housekeeper? Or will you have me work the field?”
“No,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ve won the honor of marrying you.” His Adam’s apple rolled up and down his corded neck. Caught off guard, his emotions played across his open face for her to read. Unmistakable longing.
She examined his words one at a time. The honor of marrying you. Caya’s world went still. Last night, lying in her bed, thoughts of the mysterious dark Scot had led to guilty fantasies. She had imagined him touching her, holding her, kissing her. She had even gone so far as to picture what it would be like to lie next to him, naked. Feel his breath in her ear. Feel the weight of his body cover hers. Her fantasies had grown so passionate they’d frightened her. She’d locked them safely away in her mind because she knew if she dared peer inside, her desire might escape, run wild, and ruin her. Did she wake this morning to discover her fantasies about this man were destined to play out? Was this punishment for her sinful thoughts?
Or was this man offering her a choice? A real choice between Jack’s dubious bargain with O’Malley or his folly with this man, this Highlander.
The sound of a horse and wagon rattling toward them caught her attention. The giant bearded Scot drove the rig to the front of the tavern and stopped. A large wooden crate secured by ropes lay in the open bed of the dray like an oversized coffin.
She addressed the dark Scot again. “Wh-what’s your name?”
“Declan Sinclair of Balforss.”
Without thinking, she made the reflexive response, “How do you do?” and bobbed him a shaky curtsy. “Do you have a house?”
“Oh, aye,” he said, his face lighting up with a genuine smile.
“And will I be mistress of the house?”
“Of course.”
Perhaps it was the spirits, but Caya nearly laughed at the absurdity of the moment. She was supposed to meet and marry a stranger today. What was the difference between this stranger and the next? She fought back mounting hysteria and swung around to her brother.
Jack’s look was one of utter incredulity. “You can’t leave me.”
For a moment, she saw the brother she’d once loved and cared for—the sweet, dirty-faced boy with angelic curls who would cling to her when he was afraid—and she was tugged in his direction. Then the Scot spoke in his low silky burr, the words rolling off his tongue. “You have my word, we will marry, and you need nae be frightened ever again.”
Mr. Sinclair’s gaze didn’t waver. There was no shift in his brown eyes to indicate a lie. The man reached out an open hand, large and powerful—not a demand—a gentle, beseeching gesture.
“You don’t have to marry this man, Caya. He can’t make you,” Jack protested.
Caught between them, she sensed a tension inside her body, a tightening of the thread that connected her to her brother, a pulling in both directions. Jack needing her. This stranger wanting her.
Mr. Sinclair tilted his head toward Jack. “You can stay here with a brother who cares so little for you he’d gamble with your life. Or you can come with me, and I will see you treated with all the respect due a lady and a wife. It’s your choice, lass.”
Choice. When had she ever been given a choice? One or two spoons of sugar in her tea? The blue or the green gown? Never a meaningful choice. Never a real choice about her future. Her father had made those, and then her brother. But now, standing here, in this instant, she had to make a decision that would change her life forever. A choice between brother or stranger. The wastrel who would gamble her life away or the big Scot who looked as though he might perish if she didn’t take his hand. The devil she knew or…the devil?
“Come awa’ wi’ me, lass.” The sweet longing in Mr. Sinclair’s voice was too much to resist.
“Goodbye, Jack. Good luck.”
“No!” Jack shouted. “I forbid it.”
Caya found the steely edge of her nerve. “Brother, you broke your promise. You gambled with my life and lost. Perhaps you have no honor left, but I do.”
“What about Mr. O’Malley?”
“O’Malley is your problem,” she said. “You and I are quits.”
He charged toward her, and when Sinclair stepped in his way, her heart jumped. How absurdly tragic that a stranger had to protect her from her own brother.
“Caya,” Jack wailed. “O’Malley will come today. If you’re not here, he’ll kill me.”
Humiliating. Why couldn’t he act like a man just this once? “I thought there was no way for you to hurt me more than you already had. I was wrong.” Grief struck her, sudden and sharp. “I’m done cleaning up your messes. This is the last debt I will ever pay for you.” Her voice broke, and yet she didn’t cry. She had no tears left for Jack.
Jack got to his knees. “Please, Caya.”
“Stand up, ye silly wee man,” Mr. Sinclair said. “Say farewell to your sister.”
He stood, wiped his face on his sleeve, then straightened his jacket. His upper lip curled into a nasty sneer. “You’ll regret this. All of you will live to regret this.”
Mr. Sinclair’s right hand shot out and grabbed Jack by the throat, toppling his ridiculous beaver hat to the ground. She flinched at the Scot’s brutal reaction. Was he going to break her brother’s neck?
The Sinclair man growled in Jack’s ear. “Say goodbye to your sister.” Then he released him as though he were casting away something offensive. The man was a complete stranger to her, yet he insisted on a civil parting, in spite of her brother’s behavior.
Jack approached her, rubbing his neck. “Goodbye, sister.” He hugged her, not an affectionate embrace, but an angry squeeze. He let his arms drop and said, “Sorry.” By the tone of his voice, he didn’t mean it.
Mr. Sinclair collected her bag and placed it in the wagon. As though cradling something precious, he lifted her into the seat next to the huge bearded man. “This is Magnus. He looks dangerous, but he’ll no’ bite.”
A set of gleaming white teeth flashed through Mr. Magnus’s burly beard. He draped a carpet over her lap. “To keep you warm, miss.” One snap of the reins and the wagon rolled forward.
It all happened so fast, so very fast. There was no time to doubt herself or be afraid, no time to ask where they were headed or what awaited her when they arrived. Her life had changed with the turn of a card. One day the daughter of a Cornish landowner. The next, affianced to an Irish merchant. The next, lost in a card game to a Scot. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not for the loss of Jack, but for the loss of who she was, who she would never be again. As they drove away, she glanced back at her brother, the last touchstone to her old life.
Dear Lord, have I made the right choice?
…
Jack spat on the ground. Ruined. That idiot Scot had ruined him. And his sister, the trollop, had run off with the criminal, leaving him with nothing. Nothing. He snatched his crumpled hat from the ground and knocked it back into shape.
“Filthy Scot.”
He should have known. He should have suspected something was up between those two the way they were ogling each other last night. Caya had a face as plain as a plate. No surprise she would follow the first man who showed interest.
“Ungrateful bitch.”
He had been robbed, cheated. What was he to do now? Alert the magistrate? To accuse those Scots of cheating at cards without a witness would gain him nothing but skeptical looks, perhaps even the humiliation of having his word doubted. And what would O’Malley do when he arrived and found his betrothed missing? He’d ask him to return his money—money Jack did not have.
He needed to think, and to do that, he needed a drink. Back inside the tavern, he removed the mop cap covering the sleeping barmaid’s face and swatted her with it until she woke.
“Get me a brandy.”
The girl staggered to her feet. “Wha—”
“Are you deaf? I said get me a brandy. Now.”
The stale, yeasty smell hanging in the air only sharpened his need for a drink. He watched as the barmaid went behind the bar and retrieved a half-empty bottle of brandy. He took the proffered spirits without a word, collected his traveling bag, and returned to his sleeping chamber above stairs.
The first swallow felt like a lover’s embrace, soothing his nerves, loosening his muscles, easing the pain in his head. The second swig brought him perfect clarity. He saw in the dark glass bottle the reflection of a selfish, deceitful, shame-filled man. It took the rest of the bottle to stamp out lucidity and allow him blessed sleep.