Chapter Eight
He reached out and called her name. He couldn’t hear her answer over the clamor. The gowans were everywhere. They almost enveloped her. He called to her again, but something choked him into silence. He kicked harder. Harder. Reaching out. He almost had her.
“Declan.”
The sound of his name jerked him awake. He lay naked, his legs tangled in the bedclothes, hair and pillow damp with sweat.
“Declan.” His sister Margaret pounded up the stairs.
He sat upright and covered himself before Margaret burst into the room. Her wild-eyed expression relaxed into relief.
“Do you ever knock, woman?”
“Someone’s robbed the—” She stopped to catch her breath.
“I ken it,” he said. “Is Hamish with you?”
“Aye, outside seeing what damage is done to the chickens.”
“Go home to your cottage, Margaret. Lock the doors and load the musket. Dinnae leave until Hamish returns.”
Still half in a dream state, Declan went to the basin, poured water from the ewer, and splashed his face until he returned to his skin. His dream of Caya had left him shaken. Why couldn’t he reach her? What did it mean? His shirt and britches lay on the floor where he’d dropped them last night. They hadn’t dried completely, but he pulled them on, cold and uncomfortable. He was hungry.
A short time later, Declan and Hamish followed the wake of rubbish the thief had left. An empty jar of jam, a grimy stock, the tea towel that had held Caya’s revel buns, a discarded crust of Margaret’s meat pie, a pair of tattered breeks, and one filthy stocking with a hole in the toe. The bampot had taken the path that led to his stillhouse. Shite.
He and Hamish left their horses to graze on a patch of sweet grass, then crept through the stand of trees surrounding the malting shed and stillhouse. Most people who lived nearby knew approximately where the distillery was hidden. Those folks also knew to stay the hell away.
“Do you see him?” Hamish whispered.
“Nae. But the lock on the door is broken.”
“Could be someone’s inside.”
“Could be. Go canny, man. He’s got my pistol.”
The two Scots slipped silently through the grass. When they reached the structure, stertorous vibrations from within rattled the timber walls. Declan rolled his eyes at Hamish. This was the most incompetent thief in all of Christendom.
Inside, shafts of morning sunlight angled through the line of windows on the east side of the stillhouse. One hit the belly of the copper still, making it glow like it was on fire. Another bathed the sleeping form of a man. He lay snoring on the dirt floor, sprawled on his back, an empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a pistol in the other. When Declan bent and retrieved his dirk and firearm from the man, he wrinkled his nose. Vomit crusted the man’s spotty beard and hair. From the stain on his britches—Declan’s britches—he’d pissed himself, as well.
“Jesus,” Hamish muttered and went back outside.
Declan kicked a booted foot. “Get up.”
No movement.
He kicked harder and shouted, “Get up, ye mingin’ clot-heid.”
The dung heap stirred slightly, making incoherent sounds. Hamish returned with a full bucket of water and dumped it on the man’s head. He rose, sputtering for breath. Declan grabbed him by the back of his jacket and dragged him out into the daylight, whereupon he curled into a ball like an exposed grub.
“Stop your grietin’ and pull yourself together, ye silly wee man,” Declan said. “I’m no’ going to kill you.”
He uncovered his head. Eyes like two pee holes in the snow blinked up at Declan.
“You,” the thief hissed.
“You ken who he is?” Hamish asked.
Declan had hoped he was wrong. No such luck. “Aye. Caya’s brother, Jack Pendarvis.”
Hamish whistled the I’m glad I’m not you tune. Traitor.
The Cornishy bastard reeked. “Here,” said Declan. He handed Hamish his pistol. “Take him down to the river and make him bathe. I cannae take the stink of him.”
“Wait!” Jack shouted. “Where’s my sister? I want to speak with my sister.”
Hamish shoved Jack in the direction of the river. When Jack resisted, Hamish grabbed his wrist, twisted, and marched him to the water’s edge, the Cornishy devil squealing and cursing all the way.
While they were gone, Declan paced. What the hell was he going to do with the bastard? If it had been anyone else, he would have taken the thief into Thurso and handed him to the magistrate. But no. As usual, things were far more difficult for him. His stomach growled, a loud angry gurgle. Bloody hell, he was hungry.
He had no doubt Pendarvis was the man who had assaulted Peter and tried to steal the draft horse. Failing that, the bampot had robbed Taldale. Jack should be tried for robbery and acts of violence. Unfortunately, this same thief was also Caya’s kin. Jack had already hurt the lass deeply by his disregard for her welfare. The last thing Declan wanted to do was further upset his sensitive bride with her brother’s arrest. Plus, he’d promised her he would help get Jack out of the country.
On the other hand, he had an obligation to protect Balforss and all the people within. The right thing to do was to bring Jack to Laird John and allow his uncle to deal with the matter. But what about Caya? Shouldn’t his sweet wife come first? Shouldn’t he see to her well-being before all else? True, they weren’t yet married. But they would be. His dreams told him so, and his dreams never lied.
He had a sudden murderous thought. He could drown Jack in the river. Jack was a hazard to the public. How many other people had Pendarvis robbed along the way to Balforss? The world would be better off without the man. Hamish wouldn’t tell anyone, and Caya would be none the wiser.
But God would know, and he would make Declan pay double. He sighed.
Hamish returned from the river with Jack at gunpoint. Jack looked marginally improved. His hair lay slick against his small, misshapen head. Finding his tall beaver hat in the dirt, he brushed it off and set it atop his head, making him look all the more like a numpty.
“I want to see my sister.”
Declan refrained from laughing at the ridiculous-looking fellow and addressed his brother-in-law instead. “I’ve a dilemma of sorts.”
“Oh, aye?”
“I demand to see my sister now,” Jack said.
Declan turned a deaf ear to Jack and continued his conversation with Hamish. “The bastard is Caya’s brother, my future brother-in-law.”
“He’s also a thief,” Hamish said.
“Are you listening to me?” Jack shouted.
“True, but put yourself in my place,” Declan said. “I’m your brother-in-law. Would you turn me over to the law?”
Hamish rubbed his chin as if considering the notion.
Declan chuckled. “Right, but even if you could catch me, how do you think Margaret would react?”
“She’d skin me alive.” Hamish nodded. “I see your point. Would you have me turn him in for ye?”
Jack screamed at the top of his lungs. “I said, I want to see my sister now!”
“Quiet!” Declan barked. He turned back to Hamish. “Nae, but thanks. In any case, I cannae let this”—he jerked a thumb at Jack—“complication make us lose a day of whisky making. With the rain last night, the malt is liable to mildew.”
“True. We need to grind the malt today or risk losing the entire harvest.”
Declan pressed his lips together, considering his next move. “Fine then. Only one thing to do.” He spun around and stormed toward Pendarvis.
Jack backed away. “No. No, wait,” he said, cowering like a child. He stumbled over a clump of grass and fell on his ass. His foolish hat toppled off his head, and Declan crushed it under his boot.
He reached down and pulled Jack to his feet, shook him once, and released him. “You have a choice, Mr. Pendarvis,” he said, careful to keep all traces of rage from showing on his face. “You can work for me or go to the magistrate’s office. Which will it be?”
Jack straightened his jacket with a tug. “Neither. I am a gentleman and demand to be treated—”
“Which one?”
“Gentlemen are not born to labor like common—”
“Hamish, tie him up and take him to the magistrate.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Teeth on edge, Jack capitulated. “Fine. I’ll work.”
Hamish instructed Jack to lug sacks of grain from the malting shed to the mill. The Scots suffered through nonstop complaints, groans, and curses until the man’s whining became background noise to the loud process of grinding the malt for the mash.
At midday, Declan sent Hamish home for food and to let Margaret know all was well. His gnawing hunger only compounded his irritability. The fact that Jack, having consumed the contents of his pantry, was the cause of his hunger, made him hate the man more.
“Where’s the whisky?” Jack asked.
“You drank it all.” The memory galled Declan.
“No. Where do you store your whisky?” Jack addressed him as if he were a halfwit.
“This is our first making. It willnae be suitable to drink for three years.” Jack must truly think he was a numpty if he expected him to say where he kept his cache of aging whisky.
Desperation in his voice, the man persisted. “I’m parched. I need something to drink.”
“Hamish will return with ale, no doubt.”
Jack made a derogatory snort and tripped over the bag of oats he’d just set down. What the hell was he going to do with the man? He was about as welcome as a turd floating in the beer. And how did he and Caya come from the same sire? They were so different.
“Did you wed my sister as you promised?” Jack asked him.
“I will.”
“Where is Caya? What have you done with her?”
“Stop pretending you care a whit about her.” The man had no right to speak her name, much less inquire after her.
“I want to see her.”
“She doesnae want to see you. And if you go near her, I swear I’ll tear out your throat with my teeth.”
Jack turned back to his work, mumbling something about Scottish savages.
Declan would be damned if he would upset Caya by bringing her brother to Balforss. Worse, she might forgive Jack and want to keep him. The thought of having to look at the man, speak to him, work beside him every day, made him want to retch.
Hamish returned with food, and they found a shaded spot near the river to eat. Jack drank off his ale in one go, then stuffed his face with Margaret’s cottage pie. It was the first time he’d been quiet all day. Declan’s mood improved once he’d eaten. He even laughed at one of Hamish’s bad jokes.
Hamish jerked his thumb in the direction of the Cornishy whelp having a piss in the bushes. “Have you decided what you’ll do with Gentleman Jack over there?”
Declan sighed and closed his eyes. “I need to find a place to stash him until I can locate a boat that’ll take him as far away from here as possible.”
Hamish lifted both hands and shook his head.
“Nae, I wouldnae do that to you and Margaret,” he assured his brother-in-law. “Besides, your place is too close to the big house. No. I have to get him off the property.”
They were quiet for a while as they watched Jack Pendarvis pour himself another tankard of beer and then slop it on the ground when a bee startled him.
“I’ve an idea,” Hamish said.
“Oh, aye?”
They both continued to stare at the Bee versus Man dumb show taking place before them.
“Do ye ken Mr. Kinney what runs the public house in Scrabster?” Hamish asked.
“Neil Kinney?”
“That’s him.”
Jack dropped his tankard on the ground and flailed both arms at the bee.
“For the price of a cask of your best, he’d keep yon loon pickled and out of sight until the next free trader comes through.” Hamish applauded when a sharp cry signaled the bee had won the battle.
Declan liked the idea. For the first time that day, he believed things might work out to his advantage. By month’s end, if all went according to plan, Jack Pendarvis would be out of his hair, and Caya would be his wife.
Declan got to his feet. “Thanks, man. That’s what I’ll do.”
…
Caya followed Flora and Lucy up the gravel path toward the church. They passed a knot of women who fell silent and turned their backs, the same women who had been so welcoming last Sunday. Had she imagined the snub? And where was Declan? She needed to speak with him about her brother.
Another woman crossed herself and pressed her child behind her—a gesture that looked suspiciously like she was shielding the boy from her. Or was Caya being overly sensitive since Friday’s encounter with the Scrabster women at the market? She could be mistaken.
Once inside, she scanned the dozen or so heads already seated. Where was Declan? He hadn’t met her outside the church as he had last week. She swept past a fat man who made a disapproving sound. The grunt was meant for her. There was no mistaking it. Then someone whispered, “Witch,” and her heart took off at a gallop. Where was Declan? He should be here with her, by her side, to protect her from these people as he had promised. Why wasn’t he here? Had something happened?
Or was he still searching for Jack? Upon waking this morning, Caya realized she had asked too much of Declan. She was wrong to beg him to save her brother, especially after Jack had attacked poor Peter. Asking him to intercede on Jack’s behalf—on her behalf—was selfish and put Declan in danger, compounding her guilt and adding to her mounting pile of wrong-doings. Now that she was thinking clearly, she wanted to retract her request, but where was he? She needed him here.
Flora and Lucy slid into the pew and made room for her to join them. She paused at the end. Once seated, she would be trapped. No way to flee from the suspicious stares of the congregation. Did everyone think her a witch?
Lucy patted the space next to her. “Ignore them.”
“Where’s Declan?”
“Making whisky, most likely. Sit down.”
Whisky? How dare he make whisky when she needed him here with her. Her fear molded into anger. Odd how the two emotions felt almost the same. Caya took the proffered seat next to Lucy and reminded herself she was in church. No place for anger. No place for fear. She took a deep breath and tried to pray. When the processional began, the screech of Mr. Donaldson’s fiddle drove a spike of pain through her forehead.
It was Whitsunday. Pentecost. She gathered the frayed ends of her nerves and listened to the sound of the vicar’s voice rather than his words. Soothing. Calming.
Alex sat next to her, looking the proud father with Jemma in his arms. She’d never known a man to be as engaged in the care of his child as Alex. She’d even seen him change the baby’s napkin. Twice. Were all Scots as demonstrative, or was it only the Sinclair men who exhibited the trait? In any case, she was glad for the distraction sweet Jemma provided.
She rose with the congregation and sang “Away with Our Fears, Our Trouble, and Tears.” It was one of her favorite hymns. She knew all the verses. The congregation sang the first verse with confidence, then stumbled through the second before stopping altogether. Not everyone in church had a prayer book. No one had hymnals.
It came to her with a rush of clarity. That’s what she would do. She would write down the lyrics she remembered from her favorite hymns and make copies for the members of the choir. Laird John would provide her with ink and paper. If not, surely Vicar James would find the necessary supplies. Four copies would be enough to start with. People could share. And…
The quality of Vicar James’s voice changed from soothing to deep and booming, the kind of voice that demanded her ear.
“It has come to my attention that many members of our congregation believe in witchcraft. Witchcraft!” He smiled and people laughed. A few glanced in her direction. She wanted to hide.
“Absurd, is it not? My parishioners speaking of witchcraft? You might ask yourself, ‘Why would the vicar mention witchcraft in church?’” He pulled the corners of his mouth down and made a face. More nervous giggles. “I will tell you.” He paused, waiting for quiet. “Because I hear nothing but talk of witches among you. No talk of our Lord. No talk of our Savior. No talk of good deeds. Only talk of witches.”
He paused again for a few uncertain titters this time. Then Vicar James slammed his Bible shut with a crack and shouted, “Blasphemy!”
Caya flinched, as did most everyone in church. He cast a critical eye over the crowd like a disapproving schoolmaster. Mouths hung open, not knowing what to make of the vicar’s outburst.
“I would expect this from the simple folk of Scrabster. Poor. Uneducated. Taught to fear anything they don’t understand. But from people of privilege, people who know better, people like you?” His face turned an angry red, and his eyes glowed like twin torches of fury. “Outrageous. Your talk is for no one’s benefit but your own idle entertainment. Worse, you chatter at the expense of the innocent. I am ashamed by your behavior, and you should be ashamed as well.”
The vicar paused, breathing hard. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. His jaw muscle flexed and jumped. “A young woman new to us performs what seems like a miracle, using knowledge gifted to her by God. Knowledge we lack.” He was shouting now. “And the way we thank her is to spread unfounded rumors about her, blacken her good reputation, and assign wicked motives to her actions.”
Caya glanced around. No one was looking her way now. Many dipped their heads and closed their eyes. Others still had faces frozen with astonishment. These people had probably never seen their vicar angry before.
James banged his fist on the pulpit. “Why spread these lies? To make ourselves seem superior? Holier? To tarnish her spotless soul so as to make ours seem cleaner? Why would we do such a thing?” In a tone that might as well have come from the heavens, James raised the Good Book. “What does the Lord have to say about such behavior?”
He flipped the Bible open to a marked page. “‘They are filled with unrighteousness, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whispers.’” He paused to breathe, then leaned out over the pulpit, and in a voice low and deadly, said, “Search your souls. Confess your sins. Ask for forgiveness and remember Him always. Above all, recognize His gifts and give Him thanks.”
James said a short prayer, crossed himself, and stepped away from the pulpit.
Perfect silence. Not a rustle of skirts. Not a scuff of a boot. Not a cough or a sneeze. Everyone seemed to have stopped breathing. Then, with the perverse timing characteristic of all toddlers, Jemma shattered the silence with a shriek. Standing on her father’s lap and facing him, she clapped her hands on his cheeks, repeating, “Da, da, da, da, da.”
A smattering of nervous laughter broke the tense atmosphere in the room.
“Thank you for reminding me, dear Jemima,” Vicar James said, smiling, his good nature somehow restored. “We have not one, but two baptisms on this auspicious day. Will the parents and godparents please come forward?” The congregation made a collective sigh. Everyone loved a baptism.
She hadn’t needed Declan by her side after all. Vicar James had come to her defense in a way Declan could not. Declan might have intimidated the nasty wagging tongues. But the vicar had swept aside the rumors and shamed the gossipers into silence. James had been her champion today.
Following communion, Vicar James made an announcement about the formation of a church choir. “Anyone interested in taking part, our first meeting will be held here this coming Saturday at one in the afternoon.” He gestured toward the Sinclair pews. “Miss Pendarvis has accepted my request to lead the choir.” He sweetened the offer with, “And Mrs. Swenson will provide refreshments at the first meeting.” His charm having returned, Vicar James added, “You won’t want to pass up Mrs. Swenson’s molasses cakes.”
After church, Caya found the vicar outside, talking to an older couple. She lingered until he was finished and then approached him. He looked down on her with an apologetic smile.
“I expect those words were for my benefit,” she said.
Vicar James pulled his chin in and furrowed his brow. “Absolutely not. Every member of my congregation needs an occasional talking to about the sin of gossip.”
The blood rose in her cheeks at his teasing. She looked down, hoping her bonnet would conceal her reaction. “Even so, thank you.”
“It was my pleasure to be of service to you, Miss Pendarvis.” The playful tone had left the vicar’s voice. She looked up. He was watching her intently. He spoke again, but Lucy interrupted them.
“Caya, darling, Mother Flora is looking for you.” Caya curtsied low to Vicar James. As she left them to look for Flora, she heard Lucy say, “That was the most entertaining homily I’ve ever heard.”
Caya met Flora with the other women of Balforss by the church gate. “Lucy said you wanted to see me.”
“Aye. I’m sending Alex to fetch Declan for supper. I thought I’d check with you first in case you’d rather I ask someone else?” Flora flicked her gaze toward Vicar James.
Flustered, she tripped over her words. “No. The vicar—Declan. I mean—”
“Take a breath, dear.”
She did and found her composure. “I’d be happy to see Declan at supper. Thank you, Flora.” Worry over her brother still plagued her. She needed to speak to Declan.
“Very well,” Flora said. “Wait for me in the wagon.”
Lucy was the last to wedge herself into The Crate. With the six women squeezed into place, Flora signaled Ian to drive on. A sharp whistle, a snap of the reins, and they were bumping and jostling along the road home.
“The vicar’s lesson today would rival that of any Presbyterian preacher,” Flora said. “You do know that was for your benefit, Caya. Nae doot quelling the gossip about you rescuing the Scrabster boy.”
The other women made sounds of agreement.
She dipped her head. “I thanked him after services.”
“I spoke to Vicar James, as well,” Lucy said. “He suggested we visit the Presbyterian minister, Reverend Linklater, and little Bobby Campbell’s mother tomorrow afternoon.”
“In Scrabster?” Caya gasped. Visiting Scrabster, walking among those hateful women, even talking to their clergyman, made her shiver. “Why should we do that?”
“To show them you don’t have horns and a tail, of course.”
The other women uttered sounds of shock and dismay.
“Oh, stop it. I’m joking,” Lucy said, piqued. “Why is everyone so solemn? I always feel lighthearted after service.” She brushed away their sounds of disapproval with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, the vicar thinks it’s a good idea, and so do I, but it’s up to you, Caya.”
She looked down at her gloved hands. She would like this business to be over—to go away for good. “If you and the vicar think it will help, then, yes. I’ll do it.”
“Good. Vicar James will collect us at the noon hour tomorrow.”
“I’d feel better if Declan went with us,” she said.
Lucy turned her blue eyes on Caya like a cat who’d spotted a juicy mouse, and her insides squirmed. “Do you expect him to protect you from the Scrabster women or from the vicar?”
Everyone in the wagon laughed. Everyone except Caya, whose face burst into flames.
…
Declan finished making the mash by early afternoon and was just locking up the distillery when Alex rode up.
“I came to see your progress,” Alex called, and he hopped down from his favorite horse, a warmblood named Goliath.
Always glad to see his cousin, Declan clasped his forearm in greeting. “We’ll be ready to fire the pots on Tuesday.”
“Need help?”
“I’d be glad of it.” It would be a relief to have another set of hands to work the stills.
“We missed you in kirk.” Alex gave him a sidelong look, and he wondered what the hell he meant by it.
“Oh, aye?” he said, fastening the new lock on the stillhouse door.
“Caya was asking after you.”
Ah, that was it. Alex meant to nettle him about his affection for Caya. “Did she now?” He’d be damned if he’d give Alex any satisfaction.
“Ma invites you to supper, if you’ve the time.”
“Thanks. I will.”
The two cousins walked the path toward Taldale Farm, their horses trailing behind them. After a few minutes of silence, Alex cleared his throat.
“It’s too bad the whisky season falls right in the middle of courting season,” Alex said.
“I didnae ken there was a particular season set aside for courting.”
“I speak metaphorically, ye ken. I only mean now might be your best opportunity.”
“Why now and not a week from now?” He refused to fall prey to his cousin’s goading. He’d already won Caya by saving her brother. No worries about courting from now on.
“Because, well…” Alex pulled at his collar as though he’d tied his stock too tight. “Someone else may beat ye to it.”
Alarm seized Declan in his tracks. He growled out one coherent word. “Who?”
Alex paused and tugged at his collar again but didn’t answer.
He grabbed the front of his cousin’s coat and jerked on it once. “Who!”
Alex’s face remained impassive. He blinked and said cordially, “Declan, let go a’ me.”
The air went out of his passion all at once. He relaxed his grip, smoothed his cousin’s coat, and stepped back, embarrassed by his outburst. “Sorry.”
Alex cast a resentful look at him before untying his stock and loosening his collar with irritable tugs. At last, he said, “You were right aboot the vicar. He’s most definitely pursuing Caya.”
“That bloody Bible-beating God-botherer—” He stopped himself, a horrifying thought having occurred to him. “Does she return his interest?”
“I dinnae ken, cousin. But ye best be about your business soon, or she might.” By “business” his cousin meant courting, a thing about which Declan was not well versed.
“There’s nae need to court Caya. She’s mine.”
“Oh really? Does Caya know that?” Alex was a little too smug sounding for his liking. “Because I dinnae think the vicar knows she’s taken.”
Gullfaxi stomped and nickered.
“Has he asked permission to court her? Has your da agreed?”
Alex shrugged. “Dinnae ken, but why would he say no?”
Bloody hell. Was the vicar good at courting? Would the vicar’s skill at wooing Caya outshine his own clumsy efforts?
“He’s got no business sniffing around my woman, and I’ll tell him that first chance I get.”
“Seems to me you ought to make yourself plain to Caya.”
Gullfaxi nudged Declan in the back, and he pushed him away.
“I have. Repeatedly. But your da and that blasted vicar keep getting in my way.” And anyway, wasn’t saving her brother from arrest enough to secure her commitment? “Why do I have to suffer the indignity of courting when it’s a simple matter of marrying the lass and taking her home?” Gullfaxi nudged him in the back more forcefully. “Christ, you’re an impatient beast.”
“Aye, you are,” Alex said. “And if you don’t slow down and listen to what Caya wants, she’ll find it somewhere else.”
The truth of Alex’s words burned their way through his conscience. He was an impatient beast. He knew very well that women expected romance. Aside from three bunches of flowers and a scant few words about gowans and revel buns, he hadn’t bothered with any of that. Though humiliating, it was time to admit he knew nothing about courtship and ask Alex for help.
Alex started to walk, and he fell in beside him. “Did you court Lucy?”
“Och, me? Well, ye ken we were betrothed by our fathers. Marriage was assumed, of course, but I still needed to win her favor if we were to be happy, so I tried to court her.” He chuckled and leaned his head back. “Oh God, I made such a mess of it, it’s a wonder she didnae turn around and head straight home for London.”
“You mean the trick you played on her?” When Lucy had first arrived in Scotland, Alex had pretended to be a common soldier. She’d discovered his chicanery and had been so livid Declan thought she’d never forgive Alex, but she had.
“That and other stupidity. I was thoughtless, jealous, arrogant.”
Declan cringed a little. Alex had just described his own behavior.
“I even forgot to ask her to marry me.” Alex shook his head. “I was too proud to tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“To tell her that I loved her. I almost lost Lucy because I couldnae stop long enough to court her properly, to woo her like a man. And you’ll lose Caya if you neglect her.”
“I dinnae ken how to court.” He ran a hand through his tangled hair.
“Och, it’s easy, man.”
“Easy? What did you do? I mean, how did you do it?”
Alex leaned toward him and spoke low as if he were about to disclose the secret to making gold. “You’ve got to get close enough to kiss her first. If you kiss her, and she kisses you back, then you know you can bind her to you.”
“Oh?” He’d kissed women before and was confident he’d done it right, but couldn’t recall any of them kissing him back. However, the thought of kissing Caya and Caya kissing him back pleased him very much.
“You’ve got to ask her to marry you. Dinnae forget to do that. And you need to tell her things, true things, things you feel in your heart.”
“Like what?”
“Tell her she’s pretty. That’s a good start. She’ll also want to know why you want to marry her.”
They walked in silence for a much longer time. Declan debated the wisdom of telling Caya why he wanted to marry her. He wanted to marry her because his dreams told him it was the way it should be and he trusted his dreams. He also wanted to marry Caya because if he didn’t, he thought he might die.
Perhaps if he kissed her, and she kissed him back…yes, if she kissed him back, he would tell her about his dream. If she kissed him back, then she would believe him when he told her why they should be married. And if she kissed him back that would mean she liked his kissing. Wouldn’t it?
“Alex, do women like the kissing?”
“Oh, aye. They like kissing a lot.”
“And do they like the bedding, as well?” Declan couldn’t imagine any woman enjoying his ugly bits.
Alex snorted. “Do you mind the time we hid up in the stable loft? The time we were in trouble wi’ my da?”
“Which time? We hid there every time we were in trouble with your da.”
“That time we saw Geordie with Tottie in the loose box.”
He flushed with the memory of the two half-naked bodies grunting and struggling in the hay. He and Alex had been barely thirteen. At first, they’d thought Geordie was hurting Tottie. But it soon became clear that both parties were enjoying the frenzied tussle. The alarm he had felt had quickly turned to arousal when Geordie had abandoned his breeks and waved his considerable cockstand lewdly at Tottie. Tottie in turn had pulled her skirts up to her waist and, for the first time, Declan had caught a glimpse of a woman’s private parts.
He and Alex had lain frozen on their bellies in the loft above, staring wide-eyed at the activities below. After spending some time fondling Tottie while she panted and moaned for “more, more, more,” Geordie had climbed aboard and begun his business in earnest. The final indignity was when Geordie had yelled, “Put yer finger up my arse. Put yer finger up my arse.” Tottie obliged him, after which Geordie had assaulted her with a string of curses until he’d finally collapsed on top of her.
The event had raised conflicting emotions of arousal and disgust in Declan. He and Alex hadn’t talked about it for some time. Weeks later, though, when they’d been playing a game of attack-the-keep with Ian and Magnus, Alex had spontaneously used it as a battle cry. He’d charged Magnus and Ian with Declan at his side, yelling, “Put yer finger up my arse! Put yer finger up my arse!”
The boys had laughed so hard, Ian had wet his breeks. It had been a private joke between the four of them. Even when they had become grown men, whenever they heard someone boasting about his female conquests, one would lean to the other and mutter, “Aye. But did she put her finger up his arse?”
He smiled at the memory. “Oh, aye. I mind it.”
“It’s like that,” Alex said. “I mean, no’ all of it, of course, but, aye, your wife will like your bed fine.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Go slow the first time, mind you. Let her get used to you. Take all night if you must, but, Declan…”
“Aye?”
“I wouldnae ask her to put her finger up your arse.”
They laughed. Hard. It was a joke that never stopped being funny.
Declan knocked on the front door to Balforss, nervous as hell. And no wonder. He’d rather fight a wild boar armed only with a knife than what he was about to do. He’d been trained to fight with a knife. What training did he have for courting? A few jumbled words of advice from Alex?
Alex?
Why the bloody hell was he listening to Alex? And where the hell was Magnus? Magnus was much better with women than his clot-heid cousin, Alex.
He was about to turn and run when Auntie Flora greeted him at the door, saying he’d arrived just in time. “The men havenae returned from visiting the tenants. Will ye go and fetch the ladies for me? I ken they took Jemma to feed the ducks.”
“Sure, Auntie. Will you—” His voice warbled like a chicken. “Will you tie this stock for me? I can never manage it.”
Flora chuckled. “Of course.” She smelled of beeswax and bergamot, and the ruffle of her starched white kertch tickled his chin. The combination of those smells and her nearness triggered a memory of her blowing on his skinned knee and kissing away his tears. In all this time, nearly twenty years, she’d barely changed a whit.
“There,” she said stepping back. “Not too tight, is it?”
“No.”
“You look real smart.”
Her words had the same effect as her kisses had on his tears when he’d been a boy. He smiled. “Thanks, Auntie.”
On the way to the duck pond, he repeated Alex’s advice to himself. “Tell her things. Get close. Kiss her. No. Wrong order. Get close and kiss her first, then tell her things. Propose. Tell her…tell her…” Damn.
Alex had given him too many things to think about. Bloody hell, courting was complicated. When Hamish had come to court Margaret, things had seemed straightforward enough. Hamish arrived with gowans, asked her to marry him, and she said yes. Why was there so much more involved with courting Caya?
The light laughter of women fanned across the tall grass. Waist-high daylilies laden with their orange blossoms bent over the path and left their ruddy pollen on the sleeve of his coat as he brushed by. He rounded the tall juniper and saw her surrounded by gowans, her yellow hair loose and swaying on her shoulders, facing away. Just like in his dreams.
But not like in his dreams. Like when he’d seen her in the bee field two days before, everything about her was the same—her hair, the flowers, her gown—and yet everything was not the same as his dream. How could that be?
…
Caya heard her name and turned, knowing whom she would see. He smiled that impossibly charming smile that demanded hers in return. For a moment, she admired his lanky lope, so lithe, graceful. Then she considered her own appearance. Oh dear, her hair had come down.
Lucy scooped Jemma into her arms. “Come on, sweetheart.” Jemma screeched an ear-piercing protest that made everyone wince. “Hello, Declan. You’ll excuse us. Jemma’s cutting a tooth, and she’s been in a foul temper today.” Lucy hurried back toward the house with Jemma squirming and flailing in her arms, leaving Declan and Caya alone.
She searched her apron pockets for something to bind her hair. Finding nothing, she wrapped her kerchief around her head.
“Don’t,” Declan said.
She lifted her head and met his warm brown eyes. His look was so shockingly direct it made her heart stutter.
“Leave it,” he said, his voice velvety. “Your hair is too pretty to hide.”
Caught in his gaze, she was powerless to do anything but obey. She slipped the kerchief off and stuffed it back into her pocket. “You weren’t—” Her voice sounded like a squeaky hinge. “You weren’t at church this morning.”
“I’m sorry.” He stepped closer to her. “I’m here now, though.”
“My brother—”
“He’s fine. He’s safe.” Declan took another step closer. And then another.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you—”
“Wheesht now. Dinnae fash aboot that.”
He was close. Close enough she could feel the heat of his body. “We should go back to the house or we’ll be late.” Her statement was so lacking in commitment even she didn’t believe herself. She should back away for modesty’s sake, but she couldn’t.
No. That was a lie. She didn’t want to.
“Caya.”
Her eyes closed at the sound of his voice speaking her name low and rumbly. His sweet breath brushed her cheek with cinnamon and clove. He pressed his soft lips to hers and she reeled. She clutched at his coat to keep from swaying. No need. Declan had her in his arms, his big warm hands on her back. His lips released hers for a moment and then fell back into place, fitting perfectly. His kiss grew urgent, and she answered him, pulling him closer, slipping her hands over his shoulders, her fingers finding and stroking the downy hair on the back of his neck. Oh dear, how could anything so wrong, so sinful, feel so wonderful?
This was bad, lovely but bad. She shouldn’t. They must stop. Now.
She broke the kiss and pushed against Declan’s chest. Goodness. He was out of breath, and so was she. Who knew kissing would be so strenuous?
He looked down on her, surprised. “I kissed you,” he said, and blinked.
“Yes, but we need to stop. You must release me.”
“But you kissed me back.” Somehow, that aspect of the kiss was causing him confusion.
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry. It was very wicked of me.”
“God, no,” he said, looking at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. “You kiss like an angel.”
“Thank you very much, but I’m afraid all this kissing has to stop.”
“Why?” He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers.
Caya felt her resolve weaken and her lids begin to droop. “Because we’re not supposed to…not supposed to touch…this is too…”
He whispered in her ear. “But you kissed me back.”
She was definitely in trouble, sinning with her mind and her body. How could she ever face Vicar James in the confessional? She grasped at the only lifeline left to her, the residual anger and fear from the ugly business in church, and freed herself from Declan’s embrace.
“You weren’t at church this morning,” she scolded. “I had to face all those people on my own while you stayed at home making your stupid whisky.”
“What people?” he asked, baffled.
“The people at church. They were calling me witch behind my back and—”
Declan jerked to attention and clapped his hands around her shoulders. His face contorted with anger. “Who called you a witch? Who?”
She twisted away. “Never mind. It’s over now.”
“Och, lass. I’m sorry,” he said, truly remorseful. “Had I been there, I would have run anyone through who’d said a cross word to you.”
“Yes, well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it?”
“Problem?” he asked, back to his former state of bafflement.
“You and your swords and your whisky. I don’t understand those things, I don’t trust them, I don’t approve of spirits and violence. I require a life of temperance and quietude. I can’t abide whisky drinking in my house or swords or, or, or all these passionate kisses in broad daylight. You and I are very different, Declan.”
“But you kissed me back. You liked the kissing part,” he said. “Husbands and wives are passionate with each other. Did you not know that?” He raked a hand through his hair, pulling wild strands free of his queue. “Whisky making, that’s who I am. I cannae change that. And it’s true I was a soldier once, a bloody business, I know, but I cannae change that, either, and I’m not ashamed, I’m not sorry. A man must protect his family, and I can do that. I will always protect you.”
“There are ways to protect someone other than with violence. Vicar James protected me—”
“What?”
Declan dipped his head, and his brow cast a dark shadow across his face. She had waded into dangerous territory by naming Vicar James.
“He put a stop to the gossip this morning. The vicar didn’t have to use a sword. He used a more powerful weapon, the Word of God.”
Declan staggered back as though she’d struck him. “You think the vicar is a better match for you because he’s a man of God and I’m a man of blood?”
“I don’t know what I think,” she said, feeling her anger slip away. “All I know is that this, what happens with us, it’s too strong so it must be wrong.”
“Nae, nae, lass.” Declan’s voice was gentle, beseeching. He clasped her hands in his. “It’s no’ a sin to burn for the one you’re meant to marry. And you and I are meant to marry. I believe it. I ken you believe it, too.” He smiled down on her. “You kissed me back.”
She looked down, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. He was so sure. But how could she be certain? “You really think so?”
“Aye. There’s no need to doubt.” He pulled her a little closer. “When we’re married, you’ll see.” He slapped his forehead. “Oh. Wait. I’m supposed to ask you first.” Declan cleared his throat, straightened, and braced himself. “Caya Pendarvis, will you marry me?”
The question left her speechless. She shouldn’t be surprised. He’d declared his intentions all along. Still, it was the way he proposed that gave her pause. “What did you mean by, ‘I’m supposed to ask you?’ Did someone say you must propose?”
He looked unmistakably guilty. “Nae…well…aye. Alex said I should.”
Alex? Alex made him propose? Caya withdrew her hands and backed away. Hurt feelings seared their way up the back of her neck.
“Alex told you to ask me to marry you?”
“Aye.” Declan cocked his head. “Did I do it wrong?”
“Alex made you propose?” She felt hot tears gather.
“Well, no’ exactly.” His Adam’s apple bobbed again. “He explained the proper way—”
“Proper?” Caya asked. Her voice quavered, and she fought to steady herself. “You mean, honorable? He asked you to do the honorable thing, then?”
Declan seemed unsure. “It goes without question, does it not? It is my honor to marry you.”
“So, you admit it? You’ll marry me to satisfy your honor?” Hurt turned to humiliation.
Declan’s face flushed an angry red. “I am an honorable man, Caya. I value my honor. Would you no’ want to marry such a man?”
The vicar was right. Declan didn’t want to marry her because he loved her. He just needed to prove he was a man of his word. “I release you,” she shouted before she thought her words through.
“What?”
“I refuse your offer of marriage.”
The color drained from Declan’s face. “But, you kissed me back.”
“You asked. I refused. You’ve satisfied your obligation, and now your honor is restored.” She stormed off, then remembered her shawl and returned for it, ruining her dramatic exit and making her even more infuriated. Caya dashed away angry tears and sniffed. “In any case, you are the last person in the world I would marry.”
She gathered herself on the way back to the house. Declan could just take his blasted house and his kisses and his big brown eyes and…damn and double dammit to hell. She was shaking, and her face was probably blotchy. It would not do to arrive at supper looking discomposed. If anyone asked her what the matter was, she’d burst into tears. She quickly tied her kerchief around her hair. When she entered the back door, she removed her apron and took a deep breath before stepping into the dining room.
Supper had already been laid out. Ian, Alex, Laird John, and Flora were all waiting. She and Declan had obviously held things up. She moved to take a seat next to Flora. Ian held out her chair for her.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. Her movements were jerky and mechanical, as was her speech. She stole a quick look at a puzzled-looking Alex. Most likely, he expected her to return beaming with happiness. Well, he and Declan could just go… She wouldn’t finish the nasty thought.
The men took their seats. Everyone passed platters and served themselves with none of the usual friendly chatter. Only the clank and scrape of serving utensils and forks echoed in the dining room. Though her back was to him, she sensed Declan’s arrival when all heads lifted toward the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
She sank a few inches in her chair. Against Laird John’s strict instructions, they had spent time alone. His identical apology most assuredly gave them away. Laird John shot him a hard look, confirming her assumption. Declan dipped his head, then sat directly across from her, blast him. His face looked the color of a frog’s belly. She experienced a perverse sense of triumph seeing the effect her refusal had on the Scot, then felt a stab of pity for him. He looked so miserable. Like a lost puppy.
Last to arrive, Lucy swept into the room on a dramatic sigh. “At last. Jemma’s down for the night. No, no, no. Sit,” she commanded the men. “I thought she’d never settle. Thank goodness for Haddie. She’s always so good with Jemma.” Her words died off as she glanced around the room, no doubt sensing the tension and trying to suss out the origin. She settled in and heaped vegetables and meats onto her plate. Lightening her voice, she said, “I’ve never seen such unruly behavior from a child so young. She obviously gets it from you, Alex.”
“Nae,” Alex said, matter-of-factly, and swallowed what was in his mouth. “She gets her red hair from me. Her temper is from you.”
Lucy made an English, “Hmmph.”
Alex made a Scottish snort.
Declan said nothing and ate nothing.
Ever the hostess and mother to all, Flora placed a thick slice of ham on Declan’s empty plate, tapped his fork, and said, “Eat.”
Through surreptitious glances, Caya saw that he did eat, though she didn’t think he enjoyed the ham one bit.
Toward the end of the meal, Laird John asked to have a word with Declan in the study, and the two excused themselves. Alex and Ian made a hasty exit as well, leaving Flora, Lucy, and Caya alone in the dining room.
Muffled shouts from behind the closed library door reverberated across the entry hall and into the dining room. Was Laird John angry they’d been alone? Or that Declan had proposed? Or that she had refused? She shouldn’t care. It had taken courage for her to refuse Declan. Another less scrupulous woman would have accepted his offer regardless of the fact that it had been made under duress. Now that he had satisfied his honor, he must be relieved to be free of his promise at last. A lump the size of a walnut formed in her throat. She tried to swallow, but it would not go down.
Lucy stood and peeked out the dining room door to see if anyone was listening and then rounded on her. “What on earth has happened? I left you alone with Declan for five minutes and you return to the house looking like you’ve both swallowed poison.”
“Did he do something to upset you, dear?” Flora asked. “Did he…rush things? Men often do.”
“No, nothing like that.” She twisted her serviette into a knot and wished she could hide.
“What, then?” Lucy crossed the room to stand behind Flora’s chair. “Tell us.” They waited.
“He asked me to marry him.”
Flora and Lucy cocked their heads to the side in unison, the question So? etched on their faces.
“Declan and I are not meant to be together.” She struggled to keep her chin from wobbling. “He only asked me because he felt obligated.”
“Why do you think that?” Flora asked.
“He said as much.”
“And what did you say?” Lucy asked.
Her vision blurred. “I said he was the last person in the world I would marry.”
“Merde. I’m going to have a word with Alex. Maybe he can tell me what the D-E-V-I-L is going on.”
“It’s still a curse even if you spell it, lass,” Flora said and rose from the table. “Let’s go up to my parlor.”
Caya and Lucy followed Flora toward the staircase. As they passed the library door, she overheard Declan shout, “Doesnae matter! She willnae have me.”
The library door swung open, and Declan, his cheeks dark with anger, stormed out. He stopped for a moment in front of her, his face a mask of torture, then he turned and flung open the front door.
Standing on the stoop, a fist poised to knock, was Vicar James. Caya’s hand flew to her mouth. From behind her, she heard a collective female gasp. Of all the ill-timed entrances, the vicar’s had to be the worst.
In the next instant, Declan and the vicar were rolling and thrashing on the ground in a flurry of coattails.
She ran toward the fray, having no idea how to stop them but knowing she must try before one of them, most likely the vicar, was hurt.
Flora called to Laird John for help.
“Stop,” Caya shouted. “Please, stop this instant.”
Laird John pushed past her, grabbed Declan by an arm, and yanked him off the vicar. Declan struggled until he freed himself from John’s grip. He was breathing hard and covered in dirt.
Vicar James scrambled to his feet, looking much less affected by the unexpected skirmish. He brushed the dirt from his trousers and coat and then retrieved his hat from where it had landed in a bush.
Declan wiped blood from his nose. She couldn’t bear to see his face, his hurt, his anger. She was the center of this discord. When she stepped forward to apologize, Declan turned and strode away, back rigid and shoulders hunched.
“I see I’ve come at a bad time,” the vicar said.
“Declan received some unfortunate news today,” Laird John said. “But that’s not an excuse for his behavior. I’m sure he’ll offer you his apologies when he’s recovered.”
“No harm done.” The vicar tested his jaw.
“Will you come in?” Flora asked.
Caya closed her eyes and willed the vicar to refuse her offer. The last thing she wanted to do at this moment was conduct idle conversation with the man Declan had just attacked.
Vicar James declined the invitation, and she exhaled her relief.
“I shan’t stay. I thought Miss Pendarvis might like to borrow my hymnal.” The vicar brushed the dirt from the cover and handed her the book. “I forgot to give it to you this morning.”
She bobbed a polite curtsy. “Thank you.”
“Well, em.” Vicar James backed away a few steps. “I’ll collect you tomorrow at the noon hour for our trip to Scrabster. Til then.” He tipped his hat, mounted his horse, and trotted away.
Caya dropped her eyes and said to Flora, “If you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my room.”
And never come out again.
…
Declan rode Gullfaxi home hard. Angry tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He told himself it was the wind, sand in his eyes, anything but what it was, gnawing defeat. She didn’t want any part of him, his whisky, his honor, his protection. To Caya, he was a godless, violent, unprincipled man—the last person in the world she would marry.
He found his bed and lay there, blank and flat as the ceiling. Where had he gone wrong? For the hundredth time, he thought back on every detail, every moment, every word said. Over and over, he replayed those fifteen minutes of nervous anticipation, arousal, joy, and then bitter disappointment. Bloody hell. He had done all the things Alex had said to do. And he had done them in the right order.
Exhausted and saddened beyond anything he’d experienced since the death of his mother, Declan started the process over again. He closed his eyes and laced his fingers together over his chest. This time, though, he went back further in his memory. He’d arrived at Balforss and handed Gullfaxi over to Peter. Peter had shown him his stitches, and Declan had congratulated him on his bravery. Flora’d tied his stock for him. Afterward, he’d gone to the duck pond to call Lucy and Caya inside for supper. On the way, he’d reviewed everything he and Alex had discussed on the off chance he found himself alone with Caya. And then…he’d seen her. Standing among the gowans. Just like in his dream, but…not like his dream.
Declan opened his eyes. Just like in his dream, but not like his dream. Why didn’t she look like the wife in his dream? Her hair, the flowers, even the color of her frock—all the same, but not the same. Damn. Why? What was different? He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture his dream. Nothing looked different. Things only felt different.
You are the last person in the world I would marry.
The pressure of his hands folded across his chest was too much. He was having difficulty breathing. Self-doubt catapulted him out of bed. The edge of the basin table was within reach, and he grabbed hold. Had he misremembered? Misinterpreted? Had he…no, no, no. Oh Jesus God, no.
He’d chosen the wrong woman. Caya wasn’t the woman in his dream. He’d taken her from her brother, snatched her from the man who would have been her husband, changed her life forever because of his selfishness, his bloody impatience.
A cramp twisted his bowels into a knot, and he doubled over. He cried out to no one because no one could hear him, alone in this empty husk of a house. When the pain subsided, he straightened and brushed the hair from his eyes. His knuckles were scraped from having attacked and beaten the vicar in front of everyone. Caya must hate him.
He hadn’t been able to stop himself. Already furious from his altercation with Uncle John, he’d seen the blasted God-botherer at the door, and the next thing… It hadn’t been much of a fight. He’d gotten no satisfaction from it, and maybe that was a good thing. Jesus. The vicar. He’d assaulted the bloody vicar.
Declan sat down on the edge of the bed. Now that the horror of misinterpreting his dream had subsided, he could see things more clearly. The vicar wasn’t a bad man. In fact, he was surely a better man than himself. He supposed Caya would do well with a man like James Oswald. He would have to apologize. To everyone. And then he would have to explain things to Caya. While he consoled himself with the belief that marrying the vicar would make up for all she had lost because of his mistake, Caya’s devastating words repeated in his head.
You are the last man in the world I would marry.