Chapter Four
Caya flinched when Declan snapped the reins. Her nerves were back, and she fought for control of her fear. The draft horse quickened its pace to a trot. Home was within sight, and the beast was probably eager for its reward—sweet grass, oats, and rest. She took a deep breath and prepared to meet her future.
As their party neared, she assessed the estate with an experienced eye, the eye of a farmer’s daughter, noting a number of shaggy red cattle looking well-fed, a large field of winter wheat near to harvest, a collection of outbuildings in good repair, and, from the chimney smoke, people hard at work within them.
They turned down a tree-lined lane, and the familiar blend of farm smells and sounds reached her. The clang of the smithy rang in the air. Horses sauntered toward the fence rail, whinnying welcomes, and nanny goats scolded their babies. The wagon rattled past a pen of squealing pink and black pigs, and a few frantic chickens scurried out of their path at the last second.
She spotted the kailyard, a well-tended vegetable garden of an enviable size, showing a wealth of spring promise. Her father’s farm had looked like this once—busy and prosperous—before it had died a slow death from years of neglect.
She turned toward shouts from robust laborers waving hellos, and the Sinclair men shouted back greetings in another tongue. Was it Gaelic? It sounded much like Kernewek, the Cornish language the simple folk of her village spoke. Three hounds raced to meet them and skidded to a stop. Their warning barks changed to excited whines of recognition.
Caya remained in the wagon, feeling uneasy while she watched Declan and Alex have a huddled conversation with three people standing in front of the house, two ladies and an older man who was clearly a person of authority. The younger woman would be the wife of Alex. She was one of the most beautiful women Caya had ever seen. Dark, almost raven colored hair, clear complexion, and delicate features. She held a little girl no more than a year old. The child had been blessed with a riot of red ringlets that glowed in the afternoon sun. Alex took the child in his arms, and the family of three embraced. Theirs was the behavior of people in love. Something tightened inside her chest. A twinge of envy, perhaps? To be jealous of another person’s happiness was wrong. Yet, she longed for that kind of love, real love.
The older woman, strikingly attractive in her own right, also greeted Alex with affection. Alex’s mother, more than likely. And the dark-haired gentleman equal in height to Declan was surely his uncle, Alex’s father, the Laird of Balforss. As Declan continued to speak, his uncle’s smiling face darkened. Caya shivered. The laird was not happy. That could not be good for her.
Magnus rode up beside the wagon and paused. “Dinnae fash, lass,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “You will be well-received. It’ll just take the laird a moment to…adjust.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair…Magnus.”
The big man smiled back at her.
Declan broke from the group and walked toward her. His face, unreadable, gave no clue as to how things stood. Would she be turned away, in spite of Magnus’s certainty? She resolved not to make a fuss. Whatever her fate, she would accept it. Yet, even though she barely knew him, she was certain Declan would not let her come to harm. He had, after all, given his word, and she believed he was a man of honor.
When Declan reached the wagon, he smiled up at her. Not his usual sunny smile. The smile looked more like one used to hide pain or worry. “Come,” he said reaching out to help her down. “They are eager to meet you.”
Again, she floated to the ground in Declan’s arms. Once she was stable on her feet, he took her hand and patted it—a gesture far too familiar for the length and depth of their acquaintance. She liked the warm reassuring feel of her hand in his and wanted to cling to him—cling to anything to steady herself—but for propriety’s sake she withdrew her hand.
On the slow walk toward these new people of Balforss, Declan informed her, “I’ve only told them we found you in danger and took you under our protection.”
What? Was he leaving her to tell the whole story? He said he would explain. Caya was not prepared. She balked for a moment, but it was too late.
Declan made introductions. “My auntie Flora and Alex’s wife, Lucy.”
Flora and Lucy bobbed polite curtsies, their faces shining with interest.
“This is my daughter, Jemima,” Alex said, pride oozing from his pores. “We call her Jemma.” He pulled the little girl’s finger from her mouth. Jemma looked at Caya dispassionately, stuck the finger back in her mouth, and then buried her face in her father’s neck.
“And this.” She heard Declan swallow audibly. “This is my uncle, Laird John.”
She kept her eyes focused on the laird’s boots and bobbed a curtsy, hoping that as she bent her knees, she wouldn’t collapse altogether. She forced herself to meet his eyes. The laird’s face softened.
“My dear Miss Pendarvis,” he said. “Welcome to Balforss.”
He was close enough she could smell the drip of pine sap pearled on the shoulder of his coat. The laird took her hand and clasped it between his rough, warm palms. At his touch, a surge of strength coursed up her arm. He reminded her of her father, Adam Pendarvis, a man who had generated power from within, then shared it freely with those he touched. Caya had an immediate liking for the patriarch of Balforss.
Flora and Lucy swept her inside the house before she realized she hadn’t thanked the laird properly for his hospitality. She took in the soaring ceiling, wide center staircase, and dark paneled walls lined with family portraits. This was a grand house.
“Lucy, show Caya my parlor above stairs,” Flora said. “I’ll see Jemma down for her nap. Haddie will bring refreshments along soon.”
Lucy slipped an arm through Caya’s. “You must be tired and hungry from the journey. Lucky the rain held, or you might have caught your death of cold.”
Upon hearing Lucy speak, Caya turned a surprised look on her young hostess.
“You’re—”
“English. Yes. You and I are terribly outnumbered here, you know. I’m so glad to have a fellow countryman under our roof. Cornwall is not at all far from Maidstone Hall, my home in England.”
“Maidstone Hall?”
“Didn’t Alex tell you? The Duke of Chatham is my father.”
“But…” She stopped herself from asking outright what is the daughter of a duke doing married to a Scot and living way up here in Caithness? That would have been rude.
“Don’t worry.” Lucy laughed lightly. “We’ll have plenty of time to tell each other our stories.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, she heard the laird bellow from below, “You three. In my study. Now.” Magnus, Alex, and Declan ducked past Laird John and slipped into a room off the entry hall, all of them looking like condemned men. She was a little sorry for them. Her presence at Balforss wasn’t entirely their doing.
A small animal with big floppy ears bounded down the hall toward her, making barking sounds. Lucy scooped the squirming bundle of brown and white fur into her arms. “This is my darling Hercules, my dearest companion.”
Sweet Hercules looked up at Caya with round, soulful eyes. “He’s so tiny.”
“Would you like to hold him? He’s always a comfort to me when I’m lonely.” Lucy transferred the spaniel into Caya’s arms.
She was immediately smitten. The dog’s surprising warmth, the almost insignificant weight of him, alive and shifting in her arms like a fussy baby, pleased her. At last, the beastly raptor released its talons. Instead of flying away, though, it remained perched in the corner of her fear.
…
Declan didn’t like the color in his uncle’s face. It had been a long time since he’d provoked the man who, for the last fifteen years, had been like a father to him. Not since he and his cousins were lads had he been the cause of the laird’s ire. Perhaps the last time was when he had dropped a handful of caterpillars into the pocket of cousin Maggie’s apron, causing her to spill the pail of goat’s milk and trample the clean laundry. He had tried to tell Uncle John the caterpillars had been a gift. He’d thought Maggie would like the green wigglers as much as he did. Declan still remembered the sting of his uncle’s belt on his bare ass. He did not, however, remember his uncle looking as angry as he did at this moment.
The three cousins, Declan, Alex, and Magnus, stood at silent attention in the center of the library, arms at their sides, eyes staring straight ahead at the line of books on the shelves behind the laird’s desk. The man paced in front of them, hands clasped at his back, head down, jaw muscle flexing—a bad sign. At last, his uncle paused and asked in a frighteningly calm voice, “Would one of you three gomerils like to tell me how Caya Pendarvis came to be under your protection?”
Declan’s mouth went dry. “Erm…we…I mean…I won her.” His voice broke like it had when he was fourteen. Alex and Magnus snickered.
Uncle John’s eyes closed for a moment. His face remained unreadable save for the fact that he was clearly on the verge of unleashing his temper. “You what?”
Working hard to gather enough spit to continue, Declan glanced at Magnus to his right. Magnus gave him a shrug as if to say this is your show. I’m just a spectator.
“A man named Jack Pendarvis invited us to play a game of Napoleon—”
“Invited you?” Uncle John asked.
“Oh, aye. The game was his idea.” He realized his statement sounded childish, the adult version of “he started it.” Nevertheless, he plowed on, hoping to make a good case for himself. “And, well, he wasnae such a good player, ken.”
“You mean he never suspected you three for swindlers?”
Alex spoke up. “He was so cocksure of himself, Da. He needed taking down a peg or two.”
“Shut up,” John snapped.
Alex drew his head back like a turtle into his shell.
“I was going to let him win his money back, Uncle,” Declan pleaded. “Truly I was. But then…” The disgust he had felt last night for Jack Pendarvis threatened to rush up the back of his throat. He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. “Well, he wagered his sister, and it made me mad.” He searched his uncle’s face for mercy, sympathy, some sign that he understood the impossible situation Pendarvis had put him in. He got nothing in return. “I ken it was wrong to win a lass in a game of chance, but it was even wronger to use her as a wager. Was it not?”
“I told him not to do it,” Magnus added.
“Were you gambling, too?” John asked, already knowing the answer.
Magnus dropped his eyes to the floor and mumbled, “Aye.”
“Then hold your wheesht.” Uncle John squinted his eyes shut and massaged the middle of his forehead with the heel of his palm.
Declan moved on with the hope that by describing the outcome of the evening he might defuse his uncle’s anger. “Miss Pendarvis—Caya—was devastated when she came to find out what her brother had done. And understandably so. I gave her the choice: come with us or stay with him. She chose me—I mean us.”
Uncle John swiped his hand down his face and let his palm remain over his mouth as if holding in whatever words were straining to be released. He looked at Declan for a long moment, his bottom lids drawn down, and his eyes looking bloodshot and tired.
Alex mumbled, “She’s better off without that bastard brother of hers.”
Uncle John exploded. “Have you completely lost your minds? Are the three of you that daft?”
Declan’s shoulders crept up around his ears.
“Ye cannae win someone in a game of cards, ye numpties!”
The air seemed to crackle with the laird’s rage.
Declan raised his head. “I willnae give her back.”
“Listen to yourself.” His uncle turned an even darker shade of red, looking dangerously close to having an apoplexy. “You didnae win her. She’s no’ yours to give or take. She’s her own person.” He paced to the fireplace and back, apparently trying to calm himself.
His uncle’s tirade hit a note of truth. He had thought of Caya as his own even before the card game. That he’d won her had only served to cement that notion in his mind.
“Did any of you stop to think that her brother might be at the magistrate’s office right now, reporting you kidnapped her?” John looked each one of them in the eye. “You’ve compromised the reputation of the lass, yourselves, and the whole of Balforss.”
Tempting fate and bodily harm, Alex spoke when Declan thought he probably should keep quiet. “Caya will vouch for us, Da. She’s his wife.”
“What?” Uncle John shook his head at his son like a dog shaking off water.
“He recognized the lass from his dreams and kenned she was his wife.”
Uncle John’s deadly gaze shifted to Declan, one unsettling eyebrow cocked higher than the other. “Explain.”
Declan’s stomach started to rebel. “I dreamed of the lass who was my wife—or will be,” he said. “When I saw Caya Pendarvis in the tavern last night, I knew she was the one in my dream.”
The laird turned his back as if it were too painful to look at him.
Magnus and Alex exchanged wary glances with him.
Uncle John released a long sigh of disgust and pointed to his cousins. “You two, leave. See to the horses before your dinner.”
Magnus and Alex hastened from the room, a little too relieved and eager to leave him to his fate. Traitors.
“Sit down.” His uncle pointed to a chair, then walked around the massive desk and practically fell into his own.
Declan moved the seat closer to the desk but far enough away to be out of striking distance.
His uncle rested his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands, and gave him a tired look. “I take it you harbor a belief that Caya Pendarvis is destined to be your wife?”
“I do, sir. I dreamed her.”
“Listen to me carefully, nephew. Dreams and card games be damned. Caya is not yours.”
He wanted to protest, to tell his uncle he was dead wrong. She was his.
“If you pressure her in any way to the contrary, I will take you to task. Am I clear?”
“But, I promised her—”
“I dinnae care what you promised, you cannae win your wife in a game of cards. And for God’s sake, man, dinnae tell her about your daft dreams.”
He bolted to his feet. “I gave my word. She’s mine, Uncle. I willnae give her up.” His voice faltered along with his courage. “I want Caya for my wife. She is my wife.”
“That is not for you to decide,” his uncle said, with finality. “From here on, I consider the lass my ward. I will make decisions that will serve her best interest. She is my responsibility until I say differently. Am I clear?”
Declan’s entire body shook. Had anyone else attempted to block his way to Caya, he would have taken them down, but this was his uncle, his laird, a man to whom he’d sworn his obedience. After a moment, he got his temper under control and let his fists uncurl.
“Aye, sir.”
“Good. Now, sit down and listen.”
…
Caya hoped her boots weren’t tracking mud on Flora’s fine carpet. She was grimy from travel and far too underdressed to be dining with ladies. “Where is my bag?”
“Haddie brought it to your room, dear.” Flora took her cloak and motioned to a pink and green striped upholstered chair. “Sit down and have something to eat.” After draping her cloak on the back of the settee, Flora poured Caya a steaming cup of tea and added two spoons of sugar. “The laird will want a word with you after he’s finished talking to the men. Then you can rest until supper.”
Caya took the teacup from Flora, and it rattled in its dish, all but announcing her nervousness.
“Och, lass. There’s nae need to fret. It’s just us women, after all.”
She lifted the cup to her lips, more to hide her embarrassment than because she needed a sip of tea.
Lucy held out a small plate with a slice of cake and said, “Try this one. It’s my favorite.”
She dutifully took a bite of the spice cake—moist, sweet, and fragrant—and made a reflexive “mm” sound. Flora and Lucy laughed. Discomposed by her unmannerly slip, Caya swallowed quickly, swiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her little finger, and whispered, “Do pardon me.”
“Dinnae fash, dear. That happens to everyone the first time they taste Mrs. Swenson’s molasses cake.”
“It’s true,” Lucy said, as she shared one of her treats with Hercules. “Mother Flora fed me Mrs. Swenson’s molasses cake on my first day at Balforss, and I made the same sound exactly.” She popped the last bite of a gooseberry tart into her mouth and closed her eyes in ecstasy. Hercules’s tail thumped lightly on the carpet. “No more for you, you little beggar.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Caya said, “how is it that you are here?” Goodness. Was that a rude thing to ask? “I mean, I’m surprised. I mean, not surprised, but confused—”
Lucy tossed her head back and laughed, a pleasing sound. She flapped a hand and said, “Trust me, when Papa promised me to Alex, I was outraged. By all rights, I should be married to an earl, or a baron at the very least. Am I right?” She laughed again and sighed. “Lucky for me, my father had other plans. You’ve seen how handsome Alex is…”
Caya stammered for a second, not knowing if it was good manners to comment on Alex’s looks.
“Well, as handsome as he is, he’s an even better husband. I am very happy here at Balforss. Scotland is my home now.” Lucy reached toward Flora, and they clasped hands briefly. These two had a strong bond between them. Envy nipped at her conscience again. When was the last time she’d shared a friendship with another woman?
“I’m glad for you,” she said and dropped her eyes to her teacup.
She was seated comfortably in front of a peat fire with Lucy and Flora, as her hostess insisted she call them. It would take some getting used to, all this use of Christian names, as if they were family. Yet, that’s the way Flora and Lucy were treating her. Like family.
The parlor was as lovely as its mistress; a rich Persian carpet covered the wood floor, embroidered draperies flanked the glazed windows, and golden afternoon sunlight gave the room an otherworldly glow. In fact, she had stepped outside her life into another world. Her future had changed forever when Jack had gambled with her life and lost, breaking his promise and severing their familial bond.
Declan Sinclair had offered her a choice. She could have waited for the arrival of Mr. O’Malley, the man Jack had “sold” her to. Instead, she had chosen Declan, a man who wanted her and, if she was honest with herself, a man she wanted. She’d chosen Declan, and all that came with him—his family, his country, his house—for better or for worse.
Poor Declan. The laird had looked angry. She hoped he wouldn’t be too hard on him. She felt relaxed enough to chance another sip of tea. It was strong and sweet. A very good leaf. A light rapping sound caught her attention, and they all three turned toward the parlor door.
“Come in,” Flora called.
Declan stepped into the room, his face flushed and bothered as if he bore some unhappy news. “The laird would have a word with you and Caya, Auntie.” His eyes darted a quick look at Caya. His distress made her heart falter. Would the Laird of Balforss turn her out? Had he forbidden the marriage? She searched Declan’s face for some kind of answer. He pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly.
Flora extended a hand to her. “Come along, dear.”
Declan led the way downstairs. When they reached the library, he said, “I’ll wait out here,” and made a feeble attempt at a smile.
She balked at the doorway, not wanting to meet whatever destiny lay within.
“Dinnae fash, a nighean,” Flora said. “The laird isnae an ogre.” She whispered, “He tries hard to sound like one, but he’s really as sweet as a lamb.”
In the low rumble Caya had come to like, Declan said, “It’ll be all right, lass.” The jagged edges of her fear softened. Odd how this strange man could have such a calming effect on her.
The laird sat behind the largest carved oak desk she had ever seen. In a brusque, business-like manner, he rose and motioned for her and Flora to sit. She had an attack of the collywobbles and pressed a hand to her stomach, wishing she hadn’t eaten the cake. Vomiting on the floor of the laird’s library would not make a good impression.
“Declan has informed me of the circumstances that brought you to us,” he said, his words clipped and terse. “I apologize for the actions of my son and nephews—”
She witnessed an odd exchange take place between Flora and the laird. Silent, but something definitely passed between the two. The laird’s shoulders relaxed and his voice took on a lighter tone.
“Miss Pendarvis…Caya, it was wrong of Declan to remove you from your brother’s care. If you wish it, I will see you returned and your brother compensated for his trouble.”
Returned? To Jack? No. “I—I—” She stammered in a voice too small for the room. “I can’t.”
Flora put a hand on hers. “Is it that you’re afraid to go back or that you dinnae wish to go back?”
“I do not wish to go back,” she said as forcefully as possible.
“Your brother would be within his rights to complain to the magistrate,” the laird said. He looked expectantly at her.
“I’m sorry.” She made herself speak louder. “I don’t mean to cause you trouble.”
“John.” Flora aimed a pointed look at her husband and exchanged another silent communication Caya wished she could decipher.
He nodded to Flora, then said in a rolling burr, “There’s nae need for worry, lass. You are here through no fault of your own. But, I want to make this clear: no one can…” He struggled for a moment, and his face went slightly red. “No one can win another person in a game of cards or any such contest.” He gave Flora a sidelong glance. “Regardless of the outcome of the aforementioned card game, you are under no obligation to marry anyone. Do you understand?”
But if she wasn’t to marry Declan, then what would become of her? “Mr. Sinclair—Declan—he promised my brother—”
“A promise that holds no meaning in light of the events which led you to our door.”
Panic tightened her chest, and she fought for breath. She rose from her chair without thinking. Where was Declan? Why wasn’t he here to tell the laird that he’d promised? “But, he gave me his word.”
The library door opened, and she turned to see Declan’s worried face.
“Out!” the laird shouted.
Declan stepped back outside and closed the door.
Tears she hadn’t expected collected and threatened to spill down her cheeks. She whispered her plea. “Declan gave me the choice. He said it was my choice. Mine.”
The laird lifted his palms as if to signal her back to a state of calm. “Wheesht now, lass. I didnae mean to upset you. As of this moment, I consider you my ward, and like every person living under my roof, you are my responsibility.” He rose and came around to her side of the desk, reaching for her hands. “No one can lay claim to you, no one can own you, and no one can pressure you to marry because of some damn—” Flora’s sharp intake of breath gave him pause. “Because of some daft card game. Do you understand, lass?”
She nodded, still dazed by this turn of events. A man had given her a choice. Another man had taken her choice away. She was a fool to assume it would be otherwise. She had spent all day adjusting to the idea of marrying the tall Scot, and now she was on unsteady ground again.
“Yes, sir.”
Laird John released her hands, and she dashed away her tears with a sniff.
“Declan,” he shouted toward the door.
The library door opened immediately, and Declan poked his head in again, eyes wide with apprehension or expectation, Caya couldn’t tell which. Had she ever been so relieved to see someone?
“Come,” the laird said, crooking a finger at him.
Declan crossed the room and stood at her side, facing his uncle.
“Today’s events have placed you, Caya, and everyone at Balforss in an awkward position. For the well-being of all involved, I have made her my ward. She will remain under my protection for as long as she resides under my roof. I insist you set aside thoughts of marriage or courtship or any such notion until you both can calm down and see things rationally. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Declan said. His voice sounded hollow, emotionless.
She was heartsick, but she supposed she was being ridiculous. How could she be disappointed about not marrying Declan Sinclair when she’d known him less than a day?
“After a reasonable passage of time,” the laird continued, “if you are inclined and if Caya is agreeable, I will reconsider.”
A smile spread across Declan’s face. “Thank y—”
“After a reasonable passage of time,” the laird said, cutting him off.
Declan brushed her hand with his little finger. His touch ignited a flame inside her breast that warmed her whole body, filled her with hope.
The laird cleared his throat, and Declan snatched his hand away.
Obviously struggling to maintain his patience, the patriarch continued, “In the meantime, you will observe all the polite rules of society. You two are never to be alone. To do so would compromise the lass’s reputation.”
“Yes, sir.” Declan smiled down at her, his sweetest smile. She bit her lip, suppressing her own. What had just happened? There seemed to be more unsaid than said between Laird John and Declan.
“You can go now, nephew.”
Declan backed toward the door, never taking his eyes off Caya. He said to her, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Goodbye, Declan.” Laird John crossed his arms and dipped his head.
“At kirk,” Declan said. “My sister will be there. I’ll introduce you to her.”
“Declan,” his uncle warned. Declan was probably pressing his luck by testing his uncle’s patience.
“G’night then, Caya.” He turned without looking and crashed into the closed library door. “Och. Sorry.” He fumbled with the handle before slipping out of the room, making more mumbled apologies.
The laird shook his head. “Dinnae ken what’s got into the loon. You’d think he’d lost all his good sense.”
“Bonnets,” Flora exclaimed. “You know very well what’s got into him, John Sinclair. Shame on you for torturing the poor lad.”
Flora ushered Caya out of the library and up to a guest room, where she left her to rest awhile before supper. The upstairs maid, Haddie, a cheerful young woman with a beautiful smile, her most appealing feature, brought hot water for Caya’s use.
“Miss Lucy says you’re from England, too,” Haddie said, emptying the water into a basin.
“Yes. Cornwall, actually.” Caya’s curiosity about Lucy got the better of her. “It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it? That the Duke of Chatham’s daughter lives here? At Balforss?”
Haddie nodded and smiled. “Oh, aye.” The young maid added more chunks of peat to the fire. “Laird John and the duke are old friends from when they served in the army. It was them that arranged the marriage.”
“And Miss Lucy agreed to leave England and come here?”
“Well, she wasnae so happy about it at first, but Balforss has its own special magic, ken? The longer you’re here, the more you’ll come to love it. You’ll see.”
“And Mr. Alex? Did it take Miss Lucy a long time to get used to him?”
“Och. They didnae like each other at all. But after a while, Mr. Alex sort of grew on her.” She picked up the bucket, then straightened. “Will ye need anything else, miss?”
“Thank you, no.”
Haddie quit the room, and she was alone for the first time that day. The maid had said Balforss had its own magic. She didn’t believe in magic, but she understood what Haddie meant. She sensed something warm and strong and alive about the house. Protective. Its walls, like strong arms, seemed to envelop its occupants in love, sheltering them from the outside world. Exactly the kind of house she would have one day. Exactly the kind of house she hoped Declan would give her. After all, he had promised. Or had Laird John canceled that promise?
She closed her eyes and tried to make sense of the day. The onslaught of dramatic life choices had come at her so fast and furiously, she hardly had time to weigh every decision properly. In one day, she’d accepted the marriage proposal of a complete stranger, left the company of her brother, traveled for eight hours, and been embraced by a new family, only to have her engagement broken by day’s end. What did it all mean?
Laird John had seemed very angry about the card game, about the wager. He’d probably convinced Declan his decision to marry was unwise. Any reasonable person would be appalled to hear that their nephew had won a bride in a game of chance. Even more shocking, that the bride had willingly left her brother to marry the nephew. Perhaps Declan regretted his offer of marriage. Suddenly, her dream of a house and children were out of her reach again.
After a good wash, she stretched out atop the bed, luxuriating in clean sheets and feather bedding. This was her new bed, her new family, her new life. She supposed she should count herself lucky.
Luck.
Caya sat up abruptly. She didn’t trust luck. Luck was a trickster meant to tempt weak people like Jack. Good things did not happen because of luck. Good things came to people who worked hard. People who performed acts of charity. People who were virtuous. If she was to deserve this new life and get her own house, she needed to work for the privilege.
On the way to her bedchamber, Flora had said, “You will live here as a valued member of our family. Like everyone else, you’ll find your place. I’m certain you have much to contribute.”
What could she contribute to this household? She crossed to the peat fire and stirred the embers with the poker, encouraging more warmth. She pulled a small hassock with pink roses done in needlepoint in front of the hearth, then sat and extended her bare feet toward the heat.
Flora and Lucy made candles and honey for the household. The laird and Alex ran the farm. They had staff for the kitchen and for managing the house. What would she have to offer Balforss? Where would she fit in?
Caya wiggled her toes, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Tomorrow was Sunday, a perfect time to start anew. Perhaps then, after she spoke to God, it would come to her—the thing she possessed that would be of value to Balforss.
The entire Sinclair household would be attending church or, as Flora called it, kirk. That’s what Declan had meant. He had said he would see her at kirk tomorrow and introduce her to his sister. The idea pleased her, gave her something to look forward to, a concrete tomorrow after an ever-shifting today.
Declan. She had been disappointed when Laird John had taken away her choice. As much as she had worried about marrying a stranger, she wanted very much to be settled, to begin making her house a home. Those plans had been put on hold by the laird until he saw fit to allow Declan to court her.
Was courting different in the Highlands? She would have to ask Lucy. Truth be told, she didn’t know what it was like in Cornwall. She’d never been courted before. There had been Hugo, of course. Hugo Killigrew. She smiled at the memory of him. His father had owned a tin mine. He had hair bleached white by the sun and a chipped front tooth he sometimes worried with his tongue. He had loved teasing her, and Caya had loved him like only a fifteen-year-old girl could love a fifteen-year-old boy. They had been too young to court, but everyone had said she and Hugo would marry one day.
Then Hugo had drowned.
There were drownings every year in Penzance. It was a fishing town. Peoples’ lives and deaths were intricately woven with the sea. They had been children, playing among the dangerous sea coves used by the pirates in the last century, daring one another to venture deeper into the caves that pocked the cliffs at the water’s edge. Hugo had been a good swimmer. But that day, he had ventured too far and had been trapped.
She could still hear his mother’s cries as they’d pulled him from the water. Still remembered his father desperately trying to revive his son. The sea had taken the boy. The beautiful, terrible sea.
Declan didn’t know how to swim. Everyone should know how to swim. Just in case.
Declan.
She had placed her brother, Jack, completely out of her mind, yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Declan—tall, dark, and lanky Declan. Absurd, really. He was a complete stranger. Even more puzzling, she’d been upset when Laird John had dissolved their plans to marry. At the time, she hadn’t thought about the loss of the house Declan had promised her. Something else had disturbed her more.
To her shame, she knew the answer. She was attracted to the towering Scot, had fantasized about what it would be like to be held by him, kissed by him, loved by him. Oh dear Lord, to be loved by a man like him. It was wrong to have those thoughts. Sinful, even. She should set those thoughts aside right now. But it was difficult to do when the image of his handsome face and beautiful eyes stubbornly refused to leave her head.
Released from his promise to Jack, Declan should be relieved not to have to marry a plain and dowerless Cornish woman. Yet she thought he had been a little pleased when his uncle suggested he might court her “after a reasonable passage of time.” The spot on the back of her hand where he had trailed his little finger still burned. Were she and Declan equal in their desire to marry?
“I’ve won the honor of marrying you,” he had said when she questioned him this morning.
Honor. That must be it. The tiny spark of happiness burning in her chest died. For Declan, marrying her was the honorable thing to do. No doubt he was one of those men to whom honor was everything. Not a bad quality, but sometimes the dogged adherence to the “code of honor” ran contrary to what was practical.
She had, for just a little while, believed that Declan wanted to marry her. But, no. Declan, gentle and honorable man that he was, felt compelled to marry her. That was all. Once again, Caya stuffed her sinful notions into the box and turned the key. She would atone for her transgressions tomorrow.
…
Declan called down to Magnus, “Hold.” The task of hauling the bathing tub to the second-floor bedroom proved more daunting than he had anticipated. He regretted declining Alex’s offer of help. The first eight treads hadn’t been that difficult for him and Magnus, but the turn in the staircase had been an exhausting feat of mental and physical engineering that required shifting the tub on end. As a result, the second half of the ascent nearly broke the two Scots.
“Only one more step to clear. Ready, man?” he called down.
“Aye.” Magnus had worked up a sweat and was blowing like a hard-ridden horse.
“You all right, cousin?”
Magnus gave him a sharp nod. “On three. One. Two. Threeee-ah!” They set the tub on the top landing. Thu-thunk. Magnus arched his back, and his spine made a series of popping sounds. “The damn thing must be made of stone.”
“Nae. Zinc. I didnae ken zinc was so heavy when I bought it.” Declan wiped the sweat off his forehead with the front of his shirt. “Have you got it in you to get this to Caya’s room?”
“You calling it Caya’s room now? Has she agreed to marry you?”
“She will.”
“But Uncle John said you had to wait to court her.”
“No need for courting. She’s mine.”
Magnus tilted his head to the side. “Awfy confident for a man what kens nothing aboot women.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times, I ken plenty aboot women. I have two sisters.” He held up two fingers, palm out, then turned his hand around, and gave Magnus a rude hand gesture. Magnus loved to taunt him about his lack of experience with women. The subject vexed him, not because he was embarrassed, but because it was none of Magnus’s bloody business.
“Do you think a bathing tub is going to make Caya want to marry you?”
“Nae. But did you ken a hot bath always improves a woman’s disposition?” He cocked a challenging eyebrow at his cousin.
Magnus’s face went blank.
“Ha! See. I ken women fine,” he said, thoroughly vindicated. “Now, help me move this bloody thing.”
The bathing tub in place, they paused for a pull of whisky from his flask.
“Why’d you build a separate room for your wife? Will she no’ be sharing your bed?”
Declan smiled at the idea of sharing his bed with Caya. “Oh, aye. We’ll share. This is her room for bathing and some such. Lucy told me women like to have their own room. And it’s not separate. See?” He showed his cousin the door connecting Caya’s room with the next bedchamber. “She can come and go through here.”
Magnus examined the workmanship on the doorframe and nodded his approval, then walked into the master bedchamber. He unlatched one of the shutters.
The view from the front was a source of pride for Declan. He had chosen the location carefully. His house faced east for the morning light. Emerald green pasture stretched as far as the horizon, and one could just make out a patch of blue-green sea over the treetops to the north.
“Will you be glazing these windows?”
“That will be the last thing. I’ve yet to finish the kitchen and build the washhouse.”
“But you’re living here now?”
“Aye. I let my sister Margaret and her husband Hamish move into Cleaver Cottage. She makes my meals and does my laundry in exchange. Hamish helps with the building when he’s not working at the distillery with me.”
“Fair trade.” Magnus slapped a big paw on his back. “It’s a fine house, man. You’ve done well.”
“Do you think she’ll like it?”
Magnus flashed a broad smile. “Dinnae ask me. You’re the one what kens women.”