Chapter Seven
Caya had meant to tell Laird John about the incident with the Scrabster women. But he was a busy man and rarely available for a private talk. And anyway, would he want to be bothered with something so trivial? Peter had said those women were nothing but a suspicious lot. No doubt religious zealots, all of them. Her father had always told her not to take notice of such individuals. Perhaps her best decision was to forget the whole thing had happened and move on. That was the kindest thing to do. Forgive and forget like a good Christian. At least, that’s how she justified her silence.
Friday came. Caya woke with the sun, performed her morning ablutions, then joined Mrs. Swenson in the kitchen before breakfast. Declan had sent her daisies via his cupid, Peter, on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Today she would answer Declan’s gifts with one of her own—revel buns—yeasty sweet rolls flavored with saffron, cinnamon, currants, and sultanas. Her brother, Jack, had allowed her to bring only what she could wear on her back or fit in her travel bag. One of the precious few things she had packed was her tiny supply of saffron, expensive and difficult to come by. Lucky, too, because Mrs. Swenson had no saffron nor did she know of any use for the delicate spice.
She sprinkled a pinch of the burnt orange–colored threads into a few teaspoons of warm water to soak and watched the bowl turn the color of a summer sunset.
“What a bonnie color the wee things make. Like tansy flowers,” Mrs. Swenson said, peering over her shoulder. “Wherever do they come from?”
“I’m told they come from the centers of crocus flowers that grow in the East. In Cornwall, we only make the revel buns on special occasions like Easter or Christmas because the spice is so dear.”
“And what’s the special occasion today?” Mrs. Swenson poked her in the side.
She pursed her lips. Today was market day in Thurso. She and Lucy were going into town to purchase a few necessaries. Afterward they would visit the home of family friends, Dr. and Mrs. Farquhar. She planned to deliver the saffron treats to Declan on the way. Mrs. Swenson knew very well her purpose for baking. Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to admit her affection for the tall, dark Scot.
“Today we celebrate the Visitation of Mary, do we not?” she said in exaggerated reverence.
“Ooooh. I see,” Mrs. Swenson teased. “The buns are for the Virgin Mary. Silly me. And I thought they were for the young man who’s been sending you flowers.”
Caya disintegrated into laughter, something she’d done more often in the last week than she had in the last few years. The stress of losing the farm, the creditors threatening the workhouse, and the fear of leaving her home had taken a toll on Caya’s capacity for happiness. It felt good to laugh again. Laughter made her feel…new. New country, new home, new friends. She even had a new gown to wear.
She and Magnus’s mother, Aunt Agnes, had spent most of the last two days cutting down one of Lucy’s old gowns—a light blue frock made of airy lawn cloth with a delicate chain of daisies embroidered down the length of the sleeves. The bodice had become too tight in the bust for Lucy’s comfort—or so she said. Caya suspected Lucy made up the excuse to make a gift of the gown. Still, she was thankful for Lucy’s generosity and excited to add a new gown to her meager clothing cupboard.
While the revel buns baked in Mrs. Swenson’s oven, she returned to the house to get ready for her trip to Thurso. The finished blue gown lay on her bed. She traced a finger around the embroidered daisies. Would Declan notice them on the sleeves of her gown? Would they be satisfactory acknowledgment of his gifts? More importantly, would they serve to return his sentiments of love?
She heard a light rap on the door. “It’s Lucy. May I come in?”
“Please.”
Lucy swept into the room with a gust of the citrusy bergamot Flora used to make soap. She moved with the confidence all beautiful women seemed to share. Caya wondered if confidence rose from being beautiful or if being beautiful came from having confidence.
“Almost ready?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I need help fastening my gown.” All of her clothes fastened in the front, a design common among women who lacked a lady’s maid. The altered gown, like all of Lucy’s, closed in the back, making dressing impossible without assistance.
After finishing the last button, Lucy stepped back and looked her up and down. “My, you and Aunt Agnes have done a fine job. This gown never looked so lovely on me.”
It was a generous thing for her to say. “Thank you, Lucy. When I’m wearing it, I don’t feel quite so plain.”
Lucy laughed as though she had told her a joke. “Who on earth said you were plain?”
“Well.” She thought for a moment. “My brother, I suppose.”
Lucy dropped her smile. “Darling, your brother is a blasted idiot.”
Her batch of revel buns had produced two dozen. She packed six for Declan and six for Mrs. Farquhar. Anticipating Peter’s insatiable appetite, she wrapped two lavishly buttered buns for his immediate consumption and included another two for him to eat at his leisure. The balance she left for Mrs. Swenson to serve with the afternoon meal.
The same wagon used to transport the women of Balforss to church clacked and rattled into the dooryard. Lucy fondly referred to the rig as “The Crate” because it looked like a large wooden box on wheels. And that, in fact, was what it was.
The spindly groom, Peter, looked insubstantial driving something as big and cumbersome as the Balforss wagon. The draft horse alone was at least a hand taller. Yet, the boy managed the wagon with surprising skill as he maneuvered The Crate up the drive to the front of the house. After pulling the brake and securing the reins, he hopped down, opened the wagon door, and offered Lucy and Caya a gentlemanly hand.
“We’re stopping at Mr. Declan’s house on the way, Peter,” she said, and she held out the bundle of bakery.
Peter’s social airs vanished in a heartbeat. He extracted one warm buttered bun, stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, and uttered a muffled, “Fank you, miff.”
They reached Taldale Farm just after one in the afternoon. She remembered her last visit, the time she’d spent alone in the kitchen with Declan, and how he had so passionately declared she was his. She must remember not to be alone with him again. Laird John hadn’t objected to their exchange of tokens—the daisies and her baked goods—but he hadn’t yet lifted his ban on courting.
When The Crate creaked to a stop, she stared at the large front door in the center of the stone house—the house that would be hers one day if…she swallowed. What if her visit was not welcome? What if he was not alone? What if Declan saw her unannounced arrival as an intrusion? So many “ifs.” Suddenly, she felt foolish—her visit, the revel buns, her gown—everything must look foolish. Oh dear. This was the wrong thing to do.
Lucy leaned forward and caught her attention. “Caya, is something wrong?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea. We should go.”
One of Lucy’s elegant dark eyebrows lifted. “Nonsense. You made those revel buns especially for Declan. Now, go deliver them. No need to stay long. I’ll wait here for you.”
Peter hopped down and opened the wagon door.
“What if he’s not home?”
“Then go inside and leave the bundle in the kitchen. He’ll know who it’s from.” Lucy patted her arm for reassurance.
Caya wobbled on shaky legs to the front door. She knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Waited. Knocked a little harder. Still, no one answered. She looked back at the wagon. Lucy made a go inside gesture.
She lifted the iron latch and swung open the heavy oak door. Right away she heard sounds coming from the back of the house. She called to Declan before walking through the dining room. She called his name again when she reached the door to the kitchen.
A tall, dark-haired woman in an apron about Caya’s own age greeted her with a hardened face. “Who are you?”
She stumbled backward. “I…I…I’m looking for…”
The woman folded her arms under her bust, lifted her chin, and said, “You’re the wee bizzum what’s bringing my brother that Cornishy scran. Did ye think you’d buy his affection with a few meat pies?”
Caya gasped. Of all the rude—
“I most certainly did not.” Caya was so shocked, so taken aback by this woman’s accusations, she couldn’t think of a response strong enough to express her outrage.
“Oh, no?” The woman pointed at her bundle of bakery. “What’s that you got there, then? Put a love spell on those, did ye?”
“Never.”
“My little brother is a gullible sot when it comes to women, but you willnae put one over on me with your fancy cooking and pretty blue kirtle.”
“You are the most, the most…inhospitable person I have ever met.” She thrust her bundle at the woman. “Please give these to Declan.” She sprinted out of the house as if her hair had caught fire, not forgetting to give the big front door a good slam behind her.
Lucy opened the wagon door, looking startled. Flinging herself inside the wagon, she shouted, “Drive, Peter. Get us out of here.”
“Aye, miss.” Peter made a sharp whistle. The wagon lurched forward and then trundled down the lane at a clip.
“What on earth happened in there?” Lucy demanded.
Caya was so spitting angry she couldn’t speak at first. At last, she growled, “That woman.”
“What woman?”
“Declan’s sister. She’s, she’s… I dislike her.”
The alarmed look disappeared from Lucy’s face. “Oh, Margaret.” She flapped a hand. “Don’t mind her. She’s been in a bad mood for years.”
Caya leaned forward. “She accused me of trying to buy Declan’s affection with food.”
Lucy tilted her head and let her gaze slip sideways. “Well, she’s not completely wrong.”
“What?” She couldn’t believe her ears. Lucy was supposed to be her friend. Friends didn’t accuse each other of such underhanded—oh my Lord, Lucy was right. Her jaw dropped open, and she fell back in her seat.
Lucy laid a hand on her knee. “Forget Margaret. Once she realizes Declan is in love with you, all will be forgotten and everyone will be happy.”
Feeling dazed and numb around the edges, she nodded, not believing Lucy, but not wanting to further the conversation by arguing.
“You’re upset. If you like, Peter can take you home. I’ll go to the Farquhars on my own, and the boy can return for me later.”
“No.” She straightened her spine and her resolve. “I’m fine. Really.” She wasn’t fine, but she wouldn’t ruin market day for Lucy. It was Lucy’s favorite day of the month.
The market was crowded and loud. She welcomed the noise. The fugue of voices made conversation impossible. The last thing she wanted to do was chat about figs and fish. Buffeted between bosoms and backsides, she squeezed past people haggling over price and quality.
How could she have been so ridiculous? Why hadn’t she known that enticing someone with food was no honest way to establish tenderness? A woman’s attempt to snag a husband with her cooking was sad and desperate. And yet that’s exactly what she’d gone and done with Declan. Humiliating.
Lucy paused in front of each booth to examine every apple, every cabbage, every blank-eyed salmon. Occasionally, she would hold something out for Caya’s inspection. She would give whatever she held a dull nod. She knew Lucy had looked forward to sharing the day with her. She didn’t want to spoil things for her friend, but good Lord, would this day never end? How many hours before she could climb into bed and pull the covers over her head?
Lucy slipped her hand into hers and pulled her inside a shop. The door shut behind them with a jingle. Sudden quiet made the clack of Lucy’s heels on wood floorboards echo inside Caya’s head. Clean linen and wool smells tickled pleasant memories of Cornwall. They were in a dry goods store very much like the one she had frequented in Penzance. She remembered Lucy’s primary shopping mission: buy new trim to replace the frayed cuffs of her peach-colored gown.
“Which one do you like better?” Lucy asked, holding out two cards of fine Belgian lace.
She stared at them. They looked identical. She pointed to one.
Lucy sighed and handed the clerk one of the cards. “A yard of this one please, Mrs. Gordon.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined your market day.”
“Never mind that. I’m sending you home with Peter. Listening to Mrs. Farquhar prattle about her grandson will be torture for you.”
“But what about the saffron buns?”
“I’ll give them to Mrs. Farquhar, if Peter hasn’t eaten them all.”
When they stepped outside the dry goods store, she and Lucy came to an abrupt halt. Three women blocked their way. Caya caught her breath and froze when she recognized the one with the white hair.
“Witch,” the old woman hissed. Her companions repeated, “Witch,” and made the sign of the horns to ward off evil spirits.
“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy demanded, standing regal under the darkening afternoon sky.
Taking no note of Lucy, the old woman pointed at Caya and shouted to anyone within earshot, “She’s a witch. I saw her charm a dead boy back to life with my own eyes.”
Black talons of fear swooped down and clutched her shoulders. Her arms and her legs shook. She wanted to run, to break free, and flee this moment, return to the safety of Balforss, but her legs wouldn’t move. Curious folk gathered behind the wretched-looking Scrabster women. The crowd, like the weather, was growing ugly.
“Stand back, all of you, and let us pass.” Lucy’s tone was firm, but the three women held fast. Lucy raised her voice. “Madame, I mean what I say.”
The white-haired woman screeched, “I’m telling you, she’s a witch.”
Caya felt her knees buckle. She’d heard of women accused of witchcraft being drowned or burned, a practice that had been abolished in England nearly a hundred years ago. Did they still do such things in Scotland?
“Here now, what’s all this?” Vicar James pushed through the crowd of people. “Stop your nonsense and let these women by.” He thrust his way between Caya and her accusers.
The vicar seemed to have materialized from the ether, but she didn’t care. She practically crumpled with relief. Lucy wrapped an arm around her waist, and they clung to each other.
“She’s a witch,” the old woman repeated, with murmured assents from her fellows.
Vicar James bellowed, “Take your wicked tongues and leave. Go home and pray to God he forgives you for your evil talk.”
The women stood fast for a moment.
The vicar pointed an awful finger. “Go. Now,” he commanded, looking and sounding like an avenging angel. At last, the three Scrabster women turned away and shuffled off, casting furtive glances behind them.
“The rest of you, go about your business and forget all this unpleasantness.” The vicar waved a hand and waited until most everyone else had moved off. He turned and asked Caya, “Are you all right?”
She found she could breathe again. “Yes, thank you.”
“Will you see us to the wagon?” Lucy asked.
“Of course.” Vicar James placed a firm hand on Caya’s back and guided them toward where Peter waited with The Crate. Supported between the two, she found she could relax somewhat. In fact, the vicar’s large presence was a comfort.
“It was lucky you came along when you did,” Lucy said. Caya detected a ripple of fear in Lucy’s regal veneer, an armor she had thought was impenetrable.
“What were those women talking about?” he asked.
“Absolute nonsense, that’s what.” Lucy tightened her arm around Caya’s waist.
It was wrong not to have told Laird John about the incident straight away. Caya could see that now. She would have to tell everyone about the boy at the river, and her silence on the matter would make her behavior seem worse. “It was my fault.”
“Did something happen, Miss Pendarvis?”
“A child fell into the river while his mother was doing laundry. When she pulled him out, she and her friends assumed he was dead. I begged the mother to let me try what I’d seen fishermen do when their mates were thought drowned. I breathed into the boy’s mouth. He woke and…well, the other women were angry.”
The vicar stopped walking. “You breathed life into him?”
“I swear he wasn’t dead. I did nothing wrong.” Oh God, would Vicar James condemn her as well?
“No. No. I’m not angry. I’ve heard of this way of saving people. I thought it was fiction.” He started walking again. “Don’t trouble yourself. These women are simple folk, uneducated and prone to superstition.”
“Merde.” Lucy covered her mouth, looking shocked that the word had escaped.
The corner of Vicar James’s mouth twitched. “I’ll see you at services, then, on Sunday.” He was teasing, and Caya appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood after what had been a frightening encounter.
Crystal blue eyes marked with infinite patience looked down on her. The expression on the vicar’s face was so different from any she had seen from him before. She stole a glance at Lucy, whose raised eyebrows and pursed lips communicated an unmistakable, I told you so. For goodness’ sake. Flora and Lucy were right. The vicar was fond of her.
…
Declan looked up from his work on the new bunker. “You what?” He stood in the center of his kitchen, unable to sort out the meaning of his sister’s words.
“She has no right coming ’round with her fancy pies or pasties or whatever you call ’em.” Margaret jutted a pugnacious chin at him.
The skin on his back sizzled like bacon in a hot pan. “What did you say to her?” He was taut, ready to snap, and he held his fists at his sides for fear of reaching out and shaking his sister.
Margaret’s head wobbled on her neck with uncertainty. She looked to her husband. Hamish offered her nothing but an accusing look. With barely an ounce of shame, she said, “I might have called her a wee bizzum.”
Declan exploded. “You what!”
Margaret flinched. He’d never frightened his older sister before. But then he’d never been this angry with her, either. She twisted her hands in her apron. “She left you these.” Margaret reached for the bundle of rolls. “I wouldnae eat them. They’re probably charmed.”
“What the bloody hell do you mean by that?” Declan bellowed.
“Everyone’s calling her a witch.”
“Who’s calling Caya a witch?”
Margaret folded her arms across her chest, returning to her inherent state of belligerence. “Everyone in town. It’s common knowledge. At least a dozen women witnessed her conjure wee Bobby Campbell from the dead.”
Declan frowned at Margaret. His sister was making no sense at all.
“Explain yourself, woman,” Hamish said with an implied or else.
“The Scrabster wives were doing laundry by the river, and Mrs. Campbell let out a skelloch. When she pulled her wee Bobby frae the water it was plain to everyone the boy was drowned.” Margaret’s lips curled back. “Then, out of nowhere, yon woman appeared and snatched the babe from the grieving mother’s arms. She blew a charm into the bairnie’s mouth.” Margaret’s eyes opened wide. “And he come alive again. She’s a witch.”
Declan leaned down and roared in Margaret’s face. “Dinnae say that about my wife.”
Hamish set down his rasp and calmly inserted himself between the two. “Best leave off before things come to blows.”
Declan staggered toward the dining room door, panting from the effort of restraining himself. “You’re the witch, Margaret,” he shouted. “You and those gossiping bitches from town. Never repeat that evil lie again.” He left the kitchen and stormed up the stairs to his bedchamber.
By the time he had washed and changed into his good clothes, his rage had reduced to a seething boil. He was struggling with tying his stock when he heard a light knock on his door. “Come.”
Margaret entered his bedchamber cautiously. “Your dinner is ready.”
“I’m no’ wanting dinner.” He continued to fumble with his stock, refusing to look at his sister.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said. She sounded as sorry as a prideful woman could be.
He ceased his battle with the stock and turned. “It’s not me you should apologize to, is it?”
Declan and Gullfaxi kept a good distance ahead of Margaret. She was riding an old mule named George. Gullfaxi didn’t like George. No one did. George was an ornery beast who, if given the chance, would bite you as soon as look at you. The only person George ever let sit on his back was Margaret. He supposed the crabbit animal saw a kindred spirit in his sister.
His older sister hadn’t always been disagreeable. When she was young, she had been everyone’s favorite, with her bonnie curls and her sweet disposition. Her one heart’s desire—aside from Hamish—had been to be a mother. She would have been a good one, too. But she had slipped two bairns in the ten years she’d been married to Hamish, and those ten years of disappointment had made Margaret a bitter woman.
She called to him. It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d left his house. “What did you mean when you said, ‘Dinnae say that about my wife?’ Are you married to her?”
“No,” he said. “But I will be.”
“Ye’ve asked her?”
“Nae.”
“Then how do you ken she’ll marry you?”
“I dreamed she was my wife.”
Margaret snorted. She didn’t believe him. Most people didn’t. Laird John certainly didn’t. Don’t tell Caya about your dream. She’ll think you’re daft, his uncle had said. His uncle was most likely right.
When they rode into the dooryard of Balforss, he saw the back of a red coat and tensed. British soldiers could only mean trouble. He relaxed when he recognized the man wearing the uniform of the Highland Regiment, Alex’s younger brother, Ian.
Declan dismounted and strode across the yard, overjoyed to see Ian again. “Good to see you, man.”
“And you,” Ian said, clasping forearms with him and giving him a couple hearty slaps on the back.
“When did you return?”
“A few hours ago. The wars with France and America are over. I’m furloughed indefinitely.” He spotted Margaret and went to help her down from the mule. “Hello, cousin.”
George the mule curled his lips back and sank his teeth into Ian’s arm before anyone could call a warning.
Ian jumped. “Jesus, that nasty bugger bit me.”
Margaret slid off George’s back. “Sorry, Ian. Did he break the skin?”
“Nae.” He rubbed his arm. “But if that ass tries me again, I’ll remove his ears with my dirk.”
She kissed Ian on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re back safe from France.”
“Never made it to France. Only got as far as Flanders.” He took Margaret’s hand in his. “I saw my sister, Maggie, in Edinburgh last month. She sends her love to you.”
Margaret smiled. She and cousin Maggie, the two Margarets born in the same year, had always been the best of friends. Declan remembered how they had done everything together. Even their weddings had only been months apart. But Maggie had moved to Edinburgh with her husband soon after her marriage. Margaret rarely saw her best friend anymore, something Declan knew added to his sister’s sadness.
“I miss her,” Margaret said.
“She’s with child again.” Ian made a gesture in front of his stomach to indicate her size. “Her third.”
Margaret whispered, “Three.”
Declan opened his mouth to stop what he knew would come next, but he was too late. Ian had already spoken the words.
“You must have bairns of your own now. How many?”
She turned to stone for a moment. In words that could have easily been tears, she said, “No, Ian. We havenae been so fortunate.”
Ian looked stricken. “I’m sorry, cousin.”
She patted his chest. “Pay it no mind.”
Ian turned to Declan, looking at a loss. “Em…I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner.”
“We’re here to visit Miss Pendarvis. Have ye met Caya yet?” he asked.
“Oh, aye. She’s an awfy quiet wee thing. Does she ever speak?”
“Perhaps she’s shy of your uniform,” he said, feeling the need to make an excuse for her. “Is she in the house?”
“Last I saw, she took the path to the duck pond.”
“Thanks, man. We’ll talk later, aye? You and Alex and me, we’ll have a dram.”
This was a rare day in the Highlands. The sun had come out and burned off the storm clouds that had threatened earlier. Caya wasn’t at the duck pond. He and Margaret continued down the path toward the field where Flora kept her hives. The afternoon sun flickered through the western line of trees. A light wind picked up, bringing with it the hum of bees. The biting midges would hatch soon, and the river would be good for fishing.
He spotted her in the distance. The sun cast a glow around her yellow hair like a halo. She had her back to him, walking through the field of waist-high wildflowers. She held her arms out and let her fingers trail over the tops of the flowers as she walked—almost but not exactly like the image in his dream. Odd, that. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the image was different. Why didn’t she look like she did in his dream?
Rather than call to her, Declan increased his pace to catch her up. He was a few yards away when she turned and inhaled sharply. He’d startled her.
“What are you doing here?”
The grass stirred behind him and Margaret stepped forward. Caya’s lips tightened, and she looked down.
“You’ve met my sister Margaret. She’s married to Hamish Clouston, who works for me at the distillery. I told you about them. Do you not ’member?”
Caya said nothing.
“Margaret, meet Miss Caya Pendarvis.”
Caya hesitated for a moment and then bobbed a curtsy.
Margaret attempted an awkward curtsy in return.
“My sister wants to say something to you.” He elbowed Margaret in the side.
Back rigid and voice clipped, Margaret said, “I came to apologize for my rude behavior this morning.”
He felt a twinge of sympathy for Margaret. It had to be difficult for her to bury her pride and apologize.
“I have no excuses,” his sister said. “But I wanted you to know, the sweet rolls you brought were delicious.” Margaret sounded as if she was ordering meat from the butcher. Short and to the point. She pulled a scrap of paper from her apron pocket and fumbled for her next words. “This is my receipt for raisin cake. I ken you’re a crack cook, so…” Margaret thrust the paper in Caya’s direction.
Declan’s jaw dropped. Margaret never shared her receipts.
Caya had gone still. She looked at the proffered receipt for a long while before she reached for Margaret’s peace offering. After reading the receipt, her face lit up as bright as her sunlit hair. There was joy in her smile. Declan felt a tightening in his chest. If Caya’s unhappiness caused him pain, her happiness would likely kill him.
She released a short burst of laughter. “Thank you, Margaret. Thank you so much.” His heart burst with feeling for them both—the prideful sister who would humble herself and the injured Caya who would offer forgiveness at once.
Margaret’s shoulders relaxed. To his amazement, the two women turned their attention toward the silly receipt and chattered nonsense about sultanas and currants and nutmeg and whatnot. They walked past him as though he were invisible and headed back toward the pond, fastened at the shoulders.
“Caya?” he called.
She paused to look at him. “Yes, Declan.”
“Thank you for the yellow rolls.”
Her smile was sweet, but not as bright as the one she’d given Margaret in answer to the receipt. “They’re called revel buns, and you’re welcome.” And then she curtsied again.
Bloody hell.
He trailed behind, feeling out of sorts listening to Caya and Margaret havering about food. A part of him was pleased they got on well. Another part of him resented his sister drawing Caya’s attention away from him. He had hoped to have a word or two or three alone with her. Perhaps he could convince Margaret to toddle along home to Hamish.
“Caya.”
She turned to him, her face unreadable. Damn, what he wouldn’t give to know her thoughts right now. “May I have a word with you? Please?”
Margaret slipped off toward the house, but Caya, thank the Lord, remained. He approached cautiously. How close, he wondered, would she let him get before she took a step backward?
“Margaret tells me you saved a boy’s life. That was a brave thing you did, lass.”
She twisted her hands and shifted her weight. “Yes, well, my help wasn’t appreciated by the Scrabster women. They think I’m a witch.”
“Will you look at me, please?” After a moment’s hesitation, her eyes flicked up and met his. “Pay those nasty women no mind. You’ve nae need to fear. I will never let anything bad happen to you. I’ll protect you with my life, and that’s a promise.”
“Thank you.” She let her gaze slide away.
His skin cooled as if the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. All he wanted at this moment was to scoop her into his arms, squeeze the fear from her body, and stroke away her uncertainty. She was like a magnet, and he trembled from the effort of holding himself back.
“Is there something else that bothers you? You’ve but to ask and I’ll—”
She stepped back, her jaw set, determined. “I wasn’t trying to buy your affection with food.”
“What?”
“I was simply thanking you for the—I wasn’t—I didn’t think I could make you—the buns were a gift, not a—”
The leash on his impulse broke, and he lunged. Before she could react, she was in his embrace, her small self engulfed by his awkward limbs, his cheek pressed against hers, his heart banging in his chest. Instead of resisting or attempting to free herself, Caya did the most remarkable thing. She let her body ease against his, melting, softening, forming her curves to match his angles, a warm, sultry, dizzying sensation.
She whispered in his ear, “Thank you for sending me daisies.”
His cock sprang to life with no prelude, no warning. Was this how it would always be when he held her, instant arousal? He breathed her in, her silky cheek against his, her voice sounding sleepy, her words so intimate, familiar, wife-like. Jesus, he needed to take her home with him. Now. All this waiting was unnecessary.
Margaret shouted his name, and Caya pushed away as if she’d touched a hot stove. Damn his sister. Still, the way his body was on fire, he could hardly blame Caya for reacting as she did.
Margaret shouted again, and they turned their attention toward the house. Wild braying sounds echoed from the dooryard. It had to be George. Only the racket wasn’t the typical complaint of an irascible mule. The calls sounded more like an alarm.
“What do you suppose has got him riled?” he asked.
Caya ran toward the front of the house, with him following close behind. They found Margaret attempting to calm the mule, but George continued to honk and screech at something farther down the lane. A riderless horse trotted toward the house, a wild-eyed Belgian, mane and feathers dancing, its loose harness trailing in the dust.
George stopped his braying, and for a moment, the four of them stood in silent confusion, watching the black giant approach.
“That’s the horse that pulled The Crate,” Caya said, almost to herself. Then more urgently, “Declan, Peter took the wagon to collect Lucy from the Farquhars.”
He ran for Gullfaxi, heart drumming in his chest. He was already swinging his leg over the saddle when he shouted, “Tell Alex and Ian.” One swift kick and he and Gullfaxi were flying down the lane. They skidded into the turn at the road to Thurso, and he kicked harder.
“Come on, laddie. Come on!”
There was only one route to Thurso from Balforss. Peter had to be on this road. He slapped a hand to his hip. Bloody hell. He didn’t have his dirk. He’d been in such a temper when he left his house he’d forgotten to arm himself. No time to take a detour home. He needed to find Peter and Lucy.
What could have happened? His mind hopped from one thing to another, a broken axel, a crash, a robbery gone wrong? Highway robbery was becoming more and more commonplace in the south of Caithness. Not so much here in the north. Until, perhaps, now.
Up ahead, he saw a single horse pulling a familiar looking gig.
“Whoa, laddie. That’ll do, now.”
As the gig neared, he recognized the driver, Dr. Farquhar. He had a woman passenger with him. The woman lifted a hand and waved.
Lucy.
Declan let go the breath he was holding. Thank the Lord. Lucy looked fine. But, when the gig was only a few yards away, he saw a slender body slumped over in Lucy’s lap, and the relief he felt only a moment ago vanished.
Aye, me. Not wee Peter. He would be saddened by the loss of the boy, everyone would. But, having saved the boy’s life and acted as his adopted father, Peter’s death would devastate Alex.
Rather than stop them, he turned Gullfaxi and fell in step with Dr. Farquhar’s gig.
Lucy shouted over the clopping of the horses, “When Peter was late, the doctor offered to drive me. We found him lying in the road next to the wagon.”
Lucy had a good deal of blood on her gown. Peter’s blood. It looked as though he’d received a blow to the head.
“Is he alive?” Declan asked.
“Yes. The doctor needs to stitch him up,” she called.
Ian and Alex came barreling down the road, spewing clots of mud in their wake. They, too, pulled up short when they spotted Dr. Farquhar’s gig.
“I’m all right, Alex,” Lucy called out. “But we need to get Peter home straightaway.”
Alex carried Peter upstairs. Lucy and Dr. Farquhar followed them, leaving Declan and the others standing in the entry hall, looking anxiously at their backs.
Laird John broke the charged silence. “Peter is in good hands. There’s nothing more to do for the time being but wait and pray for his swift recovery.”
“I’ll be upstairs in my parlor should anyone need me,” Flora said.
Laird John and Ian slipped into the library. No doubt for a tot of whisky. Declan could use one, too, but he remained in the entry, wanting to be near Caya.
“Is Peter hurt badly?” she asked him, her face covered in worry. She was a kindhearted lass. No doubt she had developed an attachment to the likable lad, he having acted as their cupid. He wanted to reassure her, smooth the trouble from her brow, tell her all would be well, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know for certain.
“I dinnae ken, a leannan.” A leannan. He’d called her sweetheart without thinking. Would she know the meaning of the Gaelic word? If she did, would she like him calling her sweetheart?
Caya turned to Margaret. “There was so much blood.”
His sister waved off her concern. “He’s got a dunt on the head is all,” Margaret said as though Peter had skinned his knee. “Head wounds bleed something awfy. He’ll be fine.”
The shadow lifted from Caya’s face. Again, Declan resented Margaret’s ability to do for her what he could not.
“I should go,” Margaret said. “Hamish will worry if I’m not back before dark.”
“You shouldnae go alone,” he said.
Margaret released a sharp bark of laughter. “Do you honestly think that ornery mule would let anyone near us?”
He smirked. His sister had a good point, and for the first time he saw the wisdom in her choice of mount. “Still, take the seaward trail while it’s still light and stay off the main road, aye.”
He kissed her cheek, and she slipped out the door.
For a heartbeat, Declan thought he had Caya alone again. Then Alex thundered down the steps. He’d strapped on his sword belt and armed himself with dirk and pistol. There was a ferocity in Alex’s eyes Declan knew well. Bloodlust.
“How fares the lad?” he asked.
Alex shook his head. Either he couldn’t talk or didn’t want to talk in front of Caya. He jerked his head toward the library door, a signal for Declan to join him.
“Wait here,” he said to Caya. He added, “Please?”
She curtsied.
Damn.
Inside the library, Ian and Laird John waited with identical expressions of concern. Anyone would make the two for father and son they looked so alike, whereas Alex was the male reflection of his mother.
“Did the boy say what happened?” Laird John asked.
“The only word he said was ‘pirate.’ He was attacked. I’m sure of it. Lucy said the wagon wasnae damaged.” Alex shook his head. “This was no accident. Some bampot bent on mischief must have tried to steal the draft horse.”
“Aye,” Laird John said, sounding weary. “Cottars, no doubt. Run off their land and so desperate they turn to thievery.”
Ian, Alex, and Declan waited silently for Laird John to give them orders.
“I have sympathy for those left homeless, but I cannae let an attack on one of my people go unanswered.” After a moment’s thought, Laird John said, “Right then. You three search for Peter’s pirate while there’s still light.”
“And if we find him?” Ian asked.
A disturbing grin formed on Alex’s mouth. “We’ll feed him to the fish.”
…
Caya followed the men outside to watch them leave. They acted nonchalant and said Scottish things like, “Back in a trice” and “Dinnae fash yourself,” which she had come to know as phrases of reassurance. But there was an intensity in their movements that made gooseflesh rise on her arms. Ian and Alex took off at a gallop with the draft horse in tow.
Declan walked toward her, holding the reins of Gullfaxi, a muscular dark gray gelding with a white mane and tail. She reached out, and the horse met her palm with his muzzle.
“Promise me you’ll stay close to the house until we sort this out, aye?” His voice was as soft and velvety as Gullfaxi’s nose.
“I promise.” She found it difficult to meet his eyes when she added, “You’ll be careful, too.”
A puff of laughter escaped him as if she had said something silly. “I’ll be fine.”
He stood close. Very, very close. The setting sun cast shadows on his face, sharpening the lines of brow and cheek. Had he grown more handsome since they met? Since he’d given her daisies? Since he’d held her in his arms and pressed his hot arousal to her stomach? What a wicked, wicked feeling. And worse, she had encouraged him. But oh Lord, she’d do it again, if given a chance.
He leaned closer and her heart beat faster. He was going to kiss her. Right here. Right now. Should she let him?
He touched her arm. “Oh, look,” he said, as if he had discovered something small and pleasing. “You’ve got bitty gowans running all down the sleeve of your gown.” Their eyes met, and he chuckled lightly. “You do like the daisies, then?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He spun, stepped into the stirrup, and swung a long, graceful leg over Gullfaxi’s back. Then he took off down the lane, standing in the stirrups, his coattails flapping in the wind.
He hadn’t kissed her. She placed her disappointment in her box of guilty sins, along with the depraved sensations he provoked with his hot, hard, lanky body, and promised to account for them on Sunday.
She went up to Flora’s parlor to inform her of the men’s plan to retrieve the wagon. “They said not to worry, but I got a queer feeling. Will they be in danger, do you think?”
Flora took a deep breath and sighed. “Aye. Most likely.” She lifted an eyebrow. “If there’s danger, my Alex will find it. I shouldnae have named him Alexander. The name means defender of men.”
“What does the name Declan mean?”
Flora gave Caya a knowing smile. “Declan means full of goodness.”
She returned a look of perfect understanding. “Yes. He is.”
Flora set aside her knitting and crossed the carpet to a cabinet where she removed a bottle and poured two small glasses of a dark amber liquid. “Like John said, there’s naught to do but wait. This will help.” Flora handed her a glass of the stuff.
She smelled the contents and jerked her head back. “Whew.”
“Brandy. Drink. It will settle you.”
She rarely took spirits. She didn’t trust them. Look what they’d done to Jack.
A yelp came from down the hall. She and Flora turned toward the open door to the parlor and heard a pitiful cry of pain. Poor Peter. Dr. Farquhar must be stitching his wound.
She and Flora tossed back their brandy and swallowed. A warm sensation blossomed inside her belly like a flower unfolding. Not at all an unpleasant feeling.
“Sit yourself doon, a nighean.”
Flora’s voice was calming, as was the endearment a nighean. The way Flora used it, it meant, “my girl or dear girl.” Caya dropped into a cushioned chair by the fire and held her glass steady while Flora poured her another finger of brandy.
“Mrs. Swenson is sending up a cold supper,” Flora said.
Another howl echoed down the hall, more tortured than the first.
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Och, dinnae concern yourself with Peter’s cries. He’s awake. That means he’ll be fine. I’d worry more if he made no sound at all.”
The brandy must have emboldened Caya, for she asked, “Were you always so brave?”
If Flora was surprised or offended by the personal question, she made no sign.
“When you marry a Highlander, you learn to be brave.” She gave more thought to her answer and added, “A Hieland man is, and always will be, a warrior at heart. It doesnae matter if he wears a uniform or an apron, fighting is in his bones, ye see.” She took another sip of her brandy and leaned back in her chair. Addressing the fire this time, she said, “A Hieland man can be gentle as a lamb. Sweet as bees’ honey.” She smiled. “And charming. Very charming.” Flora’s eyes darkened. “But cross him, threaten his kin, or the ones he holds dear, and there will be blood.” She looked up as if remembering she wasn’t alone. “You cannae change that about a Hieland man. Dinnae even try. But know this, a nighean: he will love you with body and soul until the day he dies.”
Flora turned back to the fire, apparently seeing something in the glowing peat that pleased her. Caya didn’t move. She didn’t want to break the bubble of safety Flora had built around them. She sat for a long while, listening to the pop and hiss of the fire and thinking about what Flora had said.
Scotland was a strange place, full of contradictions. Life in the Highlands seemed unpredictable and often extreme. In these past seven days, she had experienced fear, anger, sadness, joy. She had lost and found a family. Lost and found her self-worth. She’d been swept up in the happy chaos of Balforss, all the while more fully engaged with the world around her than she had been in all her life.
And the one constant throughout this whirlwind week was Declan. Even if he wasn’t with her in the flesh, he was in her thoughts, pictured in her mind, his smile, his gleaming black brows, and the way he looked at her. The feelings he aroused in her melded into one. She could no longer separate the sexual attraction she had for him from mere fondness or admiration. Regardless of the reason—honor or desire—he was determined to marry her and she was determined to be his wife.
He will love you with body and soul until the day he dies.
Heavy footsteps popped their tranquil bubble. Dr. Farquhar appeared in the parlor doorway, looking tired and stooped. He ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair and sighed.
“Come in and have a dram,” Flora said.
The doctor nodded his thanks and went to the cabinet, seeming well acquainted with where Flora kept her spirits and thus, Caya assumed, had a long association with Balforss. He poured himself a good amount from a different decanter. Whisky, perhaps?
“Slainte,” he said and took a substantial swallow of the golden liquid.
Almost at once, the doctor’s body remolded itself before Caya’s eyes, gaining two inches of height and losing a score of years from his age. Whisky must have amazing restorative qualities as well as destructive ones. Perhaps, like medicine, the dosage is what made the difference.
“The lad will be fine,” the doctor said.
Caya and Flora exhaled their worries in unison.
“Oh, good,” Flora said. “Thank you, doctor. Will you stay for supper?”
“My thanks, but no. Tess will have my supper waiting. But, might I have a word with you, Miss Pendarvis?”
She startled at his request. “Me?”
Flora rose, but the doctor gestured for her to remain. He pulled a chair from the games table close to where Caya was seated by the fire. “I’ve heard talk. Gossip, no doubt, but I thought I’d speak directly to you.”
A cold lump formed in Caya’s belly, dousing the fire lit by the brandy. Dr. Farquhar must have sensed her unease.
“Dinnae fash, lass. It’s only I hear you saved a wean who appeared to have drowned in the river. Is that so?”
“He wasn’t dead,” she insisted, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.
Dr. Farquhar leaned back and smiled as if her confirmation brought him pleasure. “Ah. So, it’s true. I ask, you see, because, not long ago, I read a paper written by Dr. Trossach from Glasgow regarding the practice of resuscitation. The doctor recommended the application of tobacco smoke by fumigator and bellows into the patient’s—em.” Dr. Farquhar darted a look at Flora and made a delicate cough. “Em…to the patient’s backside. But he also stated that, when those implements are not to hand, sharing one’s breath with the drowned person can sometimes achieve the desired effect.” Dr. Farquhar leaned forward. “Is that how it was, lass?”
She looked to Flora and received an encouraging signal. “I don’t know about the tobacco part, but back home, I have seen bodies revived by breathing in their mouths. I’d never tried before, but the mother was so—and there was a chance the boy…” Heart racing, she bolted to her feet, her fists clenched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Wheesht, a nighean,” Flora said. “Dr. Farquhar’s no’ angry, lass. He’s only curious. Sit.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I had my doubts about Dr. Trossach’s method, but now, well…” He stood with effort. “I see I’ve upset you, Miss Pendarvis. That was not my intention. I hope you will let me discuss this further with you at another time. As a doctor, I would want to know how you saved the boy.” The doctor swallowed what was left in his glass and set it down. He made a polite bow to both Caya and Flora. “Good night, Lady Balforss. I’ll see myself out.”
After the doctor left, Flora said, “Caya, why did you no’ tell me about this?”
“I was afraid. The women at the river were so angry. Like I had done something evil. And now they’re telling people I’m a witch.” Her chin wobbled. “I’m not a witch.”
Flora took her hand and squeezed. “Of course you’re not. No one here would ever think such a thing. Scrabster women, were they?” Caya nodded and sniffed. “Covenanters,” Flora said and made a pssht sound. “They see the devil in everything they dinnae understand. Pay it no mind, dear.”
Mrs. Swenson entered with a tray of food. She took one look at Caya wiping away tears and gasped. “Peter? Has he?”
“Nae, nae, the laddie’s fine. Caya’s just a wee bit fashed over nothin’.”
Mrs. Swenson made a trill of relief ending in, “Thank the Lord.” She set the tray on the games table. “There’s cheese, cold ham, bread, the last of the gooseberry jam, and some good ale.”
Lucy swept into the room. She had changed her blood-soaked clothing but looked exhausted. “Peter’s asking for you, Caya. He wants to tell you about the pirate.” Lucy sniffed the air, and her face changed like quicksilver. “Supper.” She fell upon the food. “Thank goodness. I’m positively famished.”
As always, Lucy’s presence in the room lifted everyone’s spirits. All of Caya’s earlier fears and regrets seemed to evaporate. She even managed a smile when Lucy took a large bite of jam-coated bread and reverently closed her eyes.
“I’ll go say good night to Peter.”
“Take this broth with you.” Mrs. Swenson handed her a warm mug.
She slipped inside the open door to the room adjoining Lucy and Alex’s bedchamber. Peter, his head bandaged, was sitting up in bed, reading a book by the light of an oil lamp. He looked up from his reading and his face contorted. A pitiful moan escaped on his sigh.
“How bad?” she asked.
“Just a scratch,” Peter said, sounding valiant.
“I brought you some warm broth.”
“Thank you, miss.” He took the mug with both hands and gulped the contents down without a breath. He’d been washed thoroughly and dressed in a man’s nightshirt. Lucy’s doing, most likely. Even though Lucy insisted she had only fond feelings for the groom, it was apparent from her reaction to Peter’s injury that she and Alex loved the boy.
Finished with the broth, he set the mug on the bedside table, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and pointed at his head. “Dr. Farquhar gived me three stitches,” he said with a measure of pride.
She sat on the edge of his bed. “Did it hurt very much?”
“Aye. Like the devil. But, I didnae mind it.” He shrugged, a mannerism she had noticed was common among Scottish men, especially when talking about their injuries. “Doctor said I’ll have a terrible scar.” The boy looked enormously pleased, as though the scar was a badge of honor commemorating his battle with the pirate.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
He held the tattered volume up for her to read the cover. A General History of the Pyrates. “I’m looking for the pirate what attacked me,” he said, flipping the pages to the next crude engraving. The title beneath the sword-wielding rogue read Calico Jack Rackham.
Caya didn’t have the heart to tell him the volume had probably been published fifty years earlier, and the pirates enumerated within would be long dead, not roaming the Scottish countryside.
“What did the pirate look like?” she asked, humoring the boy.
“Not like this one,” Peter said, pointing to the tricorne hat in the engraving. “My pirate wore a tall black hat what looked like a chimney pipe.”
“A tall black hat?” she repeated.
“Aye. I ken he was maybe a Cornwally pirate on account he talked like you, miss.”
Blood pounded in Caya’s head.
“Miss? Are you all right, miss?”
She stared into space, imagining Jack attempting to rob a stranger. She had left her brother to fend for himself with no money, no skills, no connections, with no means to survive on his own. She’d hoped he would’ve found work, let go of some of his arrogance, and done something constructive to earn his way rather than cheat his way through life. She was a fool. She should have known. Jack had no sense at all. She might as well have left a child on the streets. And now he had broken the law and caused someone injury.
“Miss?” Peter touched her shoulder. “Please, miss. Shall I call someone?”
“No.” She gathered herself into a semblance of calm again. “No, I’m fine. Get some rest now. I need to speak with Laird John.”
She slipped downstairs and peered into Laird John’s study. He was standing before the hearth, gazing into the dying fire. She hesitated at the door, wondering how the man would react when she told him of her suspicions. Would he be angry? Ask her to leave Balforss? Would he end all hope of her marrying Declan?
Laird John sensed her presence and turned. “You’re up late. Were you worried, lass?”
“I was wondering what will happen when you find the man?”
“We’ll bring him to the magistrate and he’ll be tried for theft and assault.”
Her stomach churned at the thought of Jack being arrested like a common criminal. She may be angry with her brother, she might never want to see him again, but she didn’t want him to suffer. “Will they hang him?”
“Nae.” Laird John made a doubtful face. “They might only fine him. If not, there’s a chance he’ll be indentured and deported to Canada.”
The time to tell Laird John was now. She should say, “I think Peter’s pirate might be my brother, Jack.” She should say the words now. Now before it was too late.
“Caya? Is there something else?”
She wanted to speak the words, but they would not come. “N-no.”
“Dinnae fash, a nighean. You’re safe here at Balforss. Go to bed and sleep well.”
She left the library with the weight of sin on her shoulders. Though she hadn’t spoken a falsehood, she had, by omission, lied to Laird John just as she had when she didn’t tell him about the Scrabster boy. Her father had always said omitting the truth was the same as lying. What was worse, she didn’t know if she had lied to save Jack or to save herself. Either way, she had to get Jack out of Scotland. And to do that, she needed help.
…
Declan met his cousins at the abandoned wagon. While Ian hitched up the draft horse, he and Alex rode up and down the road to Thurso, searching for signs of Peter’s attacker. They found nothing beyond the traces in the dirt marking the boy’s scuffle. When the sun gave up its last bit of light, they quit the search.
The excitement generated by the hunt ebbed once they headed back to Balforss. Declan didn’t need to return to the house. Alex and Ian could report to Laird John without him, but he hoped he might see Caya. Perhaps she waited up for his return. If so, he might continue what they’d started in the bee field. Maybe coax her to a secluded spot near the back staircase where he could have a word alone with her and…and what?
Yes. That was the question. What would happen next? If they were married, he and Caya would retire for the evening. They would find their bed and do what married people do before they sleep. But what happened when one wasn’t married? Jesus, he hated this waiting, this time in between finding his wife and marrying her. Why did his uncle insist they wait? Laird John must see by now, Caya was his. To dither about made no sense at all. Worse, his uncle had Caya believing courtship was necessary. Nonsense. Courtship was for people who didn’t know each other, people who didn’t already know for certain they were a perfect match. Damn, if only Caya would see that they were meant to be together.
He was still brooding about his stalled marriage when they entered the laird’s study. He accepted a whisky from Ian and drank while Alex made his brief report. When he inquired after the ladies, Laird John indicated they’d all retired for the evening. Declan hid his disappointment, finished his whisky, and said his goodbyes. On the way out of the house, his stomach growled. Fine then. He’d go home to Taldale Farm and eat the remaining revel buns Caya had made him, the next best thing to seeing her.
Gullfaxi waited where he had left him near the garden, but there was something odd about the horse’s demeanor. He seemed bothered by something in the shadows. Declan tensed.
“Who’s there? Show yerself.”
Caya stepped out from behind Gullfaxi, her eyes as round as two silver shillings. The warmth of the whisky in his belly rushed up his chest, over his shoulders, down his back, and settled in his loins. Alone. He had her completely alone, and she had come willingly.
“Caya.”
“Please, I need to talk to you.” She sounded frightened, and the hot rush of blood he’d felt a moment ago turned chill.
He glanced around. Certain no one was watching, he led her a short way down the path toward the mill. “What troubles you, lass?” As they walked, he pressed a hand to her back to reassure her. More than that, he needed to make physical contact with her.
Once hidden by the trees, she stopped. “I need your help.”
“Anything. You have but to ask and—”
“Wait until you hear what I have to say before you say yes.” They were cloaked in darkness, and he couldn’t see her features, but he could tell by the quality of her voice she was upset. One didn’t grow up with three women in the house without learning to recognize the sound of one who had been weeping.
He fumbled in the dark until he found her hand and held it between his two. “Tell me, and I will do whatever needs to be done to take away your tears.”
“I—I think Peter’s pirate,” Caya sobbed, “is my brother Jack.”
Through her gasping and hiccupping, he gathered that Peter’s pirate spoke like Caya, and wore a hat that sounded a lot like Jack’s foolish topper. He didn’t want to believe it at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
“I don’t want to see him arrested and jailed,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Will you help me find him and get him out of Scotland?”
Hell. What she was asking of him was wrong. If the fugitive was Jack, he’d become a criminal. He’d assaulted and tried to rob a member of his clan. As his uncle had said, these actions could not go unanswered. How could he go against his laird’s wishes and help a criminal escape justice?
“I know Jack didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He was just frightened. Please help him. He’s lost.”
She was his wife. How could he refuse her? “Dinnae fash, a leannan. I’ll find him. Somehow. And I’ll find a way to get him out of the country.”
Caya pressed her cheek, wet with tears, to his hand. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, carry her home with him. But she was too upset to receive him. Instead, he guided her to the house and through the back entrance. He pointed her in the direction of the servants’ staircase, and said, “It’s all right. Go on to bed and I’ll see what can be done.”
On the way back to Taldale, he ruminated over his promise. He should have gone directly to his laird and told him the truth. Instead, he’d chosen to risk his laird’s wrath in favor of his wife’s affection. Had another man done what he’d done, Declan would have broken his sword arm. He turned his face up to heaven and shouted, “Lord, why do you make it so damn hard to get a wife?”
In answer, God took one last swipe at him. The skies opened up and began to piss down on his head.
He felt an uneasiness as he approached Taldale. No surprise to find the house dark. Still, he sensed something almost sinister about the place. He slid off Gullfaxi and led him to the as-yet-unfinished stable. Neither he nor the horse needed light to find his way. His eyes were good in the dark, a quality that had made him the best reconnaissance man in his regiment.
He removed harness and saddle and filled the feed trough with oats. Just as he finished rubbing the horse dry, the hair on the back of his neck bristled. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling as though he were being watched. Seeing nothing, he shrugged and went back to his work.
By the time he’d finished putting Gullfaxi away, the rain had let up, and the moon peeked out between fast-moving clouds. On his way to the house, Declan noticed something had disturbed the fence around the henhouse. Damn. A fox must have gotten inside. Lord only knew how many chickens he’d lost. No doubt the eggs were gone as well. He’d go without breakfast tomorrow morning.
Bloody hell.
Soaked and shivering, he returned to the stable for a mallet and some twine to mend the fencing. He hoped the makeshift repairs would prevent further damage during the night. He’d finish the job properly tomorrow.
Damn. The kitchen door was ajar. Hamish would have been the last to leave and it wasn’t like him to be so careless. He fumbled for the flint and struck it repeatedly, cursing his cold stiff fingers. At last, lamp aglow, he turned the flame higher to let the golden light warm the room.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Something—a fox or a polecat maybe—had gotten into the kitchen and raided his meager pantry. He spun around and searched the top of the new work table Hamish had finished for him. All the way home in the rain, he’d been looking forward to eating the last two revel buns. They were gone. Declan nearly wept.
He held the oil lamp over the bunker. Both the rolls and the towel they were wrapped in were gone. In fact, the telltale mess common to animal pillage was absent altogether. He examined the pantry more carefully. Various items were missing, but no broken jars or wreckage of any kind. Not something, but someone had robbed his pantry.
A jolt of panic sang through his body. Lamp in hand, Declan raced through his empty dining room and drawing room, then bounded up the stairs to his bedchamber, the only room where he kept anything of value. He stood in the doorway and let the light of the oil lamp cast shadows on the empty hooks where he stored his weapons—his sword, pistol, and dirk. Gone.
The top of his clothing chest yawned open. He rummaged through the contents. At least the jakey bastard had had the good sense to leave his old uniform alone. Alas, any clean clothing of value had been taken. Even the good socks his oldest sister, Lizzie, had made for him this past Christmas were missing. He reached toward the bedside table, in need of whisky. The bottle was gone.
Bloody fucking hell. Jack Pendarvis had robbed him blind.