Betting the Scot by Jennifer Trethewey

Author:Jennifer Trethewey [Trethewey, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Wager, Amara, Scot, Scottish Whisky, Mistaken Identity, Scotland, Highland, Highlander, Unrequited Love, Adventure, Historical Romance, Cornwall, Entangled, Regency Scotland, arranged marriage, pirates
Amazon: B07C9Y4JNW
Goodreads: 39119103
Publisher: Entangled: Amara
Published: 2018-04-23T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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