Callum closed his satchel and fastened it, then did the same with the portmanteau he’d liberated from the attic. His luggage had doubled in a matter of ten days, despite his best efforts. He’d forgotten how many clothes being in Society required; Kentucky had been much simpler.
And here, at Geiry Hall, was simpler than Inverness. A good portion of him wanted to stay, to spend his days riding his land, watching his niece grow up, and figuring out what the devil lay between him and Rebecca. Something remained; he felt it every time she entered the room. And he wanted to know how far it went, where it might lead. All that, without knowing for certain he could trust her.
He felt that he could. Waya didn’t sense anything nefarious about his former sister-in-law. He couldn’t explain how she did it, but the wolf could smell a liar—and evidently they stank, because Waya didn’t like them anywhere near her.
Or perhaps he wanted to trust her, because he wanted her so badly he even dreamed about her at night, now. And he hadn’t done that in years. The—
“Uncle Callum,” Margaret said from the doorway, “I’m willing to return to MacCreath House, but I think Daffodil should come with us. I didn’t even have a chance to go riding more than two times, and that makes her very sad.”
“Yer mama told ye nae, I wager, and ye’re here now to twist me about yer wee finger,” he returned, grinning.
The lass pranced forward, flinging her arms about his waist and tilting her head back to give him a hopeful smile. “Please?”
“Good God, ye’re shameless.” And she was already the reason they’d stayed for three days longer than strictly necessary. Callum tapped the end of her nose with his forefinger. “Nae. But I’ll go riding with ye every morning the next time we come down here. And that’ll be soon. I swear it on Waya.”
“You aren’t supposed to swear, but very well. Can Waya at least sleep in my bedchamber with me at MacCreath House?”
Looking down at her upturned face, he envied her. Even with her father gone, the lass had every confidence in the world. She knew for a fact, in her mind, at least, that she ruled her world, that she would always have enough food to eat, friends with whom to chat and play, pretty gowns to wear, and a wolf at her feet. And by God, he meant to make certain all of that remained true. Taking her around the waist, he lifted her into the air so she could look down on him. “Aye, as long as ye leave yer door open. Wolves sometimes need to roam at night. Agreed?”
“Aye,” she returned, giggling.
“And lasses do nae roam at night. Aye?”
“Aye,” she repeated stoutly.
Outside, the coaches clattered up the drive from the stable, and he set Margaret down again. “Go fetch Agnes,” he said, naming the six-year-old’s nanny as he nudged her toward the door. “Tell her we’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Aye,” she called again, galloping up the hallway.
Hefting both bags, he left the room as well, Waya falling in behind him. When Jamie, one of the two footmen he remembered from his previous residency, left the corner room with four bags clutched in his arms, Callum appropriated one of those, as well.
“M’laird, ye shouldnae be carrying yer own bags, much less her ladyship’s,” the servant exclaimed, rebalancing his load.
“It’s nae trouble,” he returned, heading down the stairs and leaving the footman with no option but to follow. “They’re lighter than barrels, which is what I’m accustomed to hauling about.”
“Is it true ye own the Kentucky Hills Distillery, then? If ye dunnae mind me asking.”
“Aye. I do own it. Ye’ve heard of it?”
“Down at the Bonny Bruce they call it the finest whisky nae made in the Highlands.”
Callum chuckled. “I’m nae certain that’s a compliment.”
“From Highlanders? Aye, it’s a compliment.”
His sales numbers said likewise, but he settled for nodding. In the Highlands, nothing was permitted to be superior to what was made here—at least not anything admitted to publicly. The very fact that the Bonny Bruce, a small tavern with naught but locals patronizing it, stocked his whisky spoke volumes all on its own.
“So it’s back to MacCreath House, then?” Rebecca asked, as she joined them on the front drive.
“Aye. And I’d like yer permission to go through yer da’s office at Edgley House.”
“So now you think my father had something to do with Ian’s death?” she retorted, lowering her voice as the servants loaded the coaches.
“Nae. I think yer father’s death had someaught to do with Ian’s.”
He watched her expression, waiting for her to absorb the fact that he considered both Ian’s and George Sanderson’s deaths to be anything but accidental. In his narrative it all made sense; he only needed to find the threads that connected the entire mess together.
Her eyes widened, and she grabbed his arm to drag him down the drive. It would take a man a good bit bigger than she was to move him, but he acquiesced, walking away from the house and the general chatter behind them.
“Stop this,” she hissed, facing him. “I understand you feel somewhat … responsible, and you want to make amends for not being here. But it’s beginning to sound mad. For heaven’s sake, Callum. Let the dead rest, and look to your own future.”
He tilted his head. “I’m looking to yer future, Rebecca. And Margaret’s.” Seeing her skin darken and anticipating another browbeating, he took a breath. “I’ll make ye a bargain. Let me look. If I dunnae find anything, if there’s nae a pencil mark out of place, I’ll stop. Agreed?”
That was all a lie; he knew something lay just beyond his reach, and he’d die before he let it go. But she nodded, which was what he required. Without her permission he would have to break into Edgley House, and that could get complicated.
“I’m going with you,” she stated, the clench of her jaw enough to tell him that it wouldn’t do any good to argue.
He nodded. “Good. And if I find someaught, ye’re going to stop telling me I’m mad, and ye’ll listen to what I’ve been telling ye.”
“Agreed. Because you won’t find anything.”
For the devil’s sake, she was a stubborn lass. But then she’d had better than a year to reconcile losing the two men closest to her. He needed to be respectful of that. Aye, six weeks ago he’d been ready to doom her with the rest of the rats. But the past few days had convinced him that she was just as much a victim as Ian—she merely didn’t know it yet.
It was well past nightfall when they drew up in front of MacCreath House, to find another coach there before them and blocking half the street. The crest on the door, a lion standing on a wolf, made his jaw clench—and not simply because of the metaphor. Dunncraigh.
He grabbed for the handle of his own coach, barely slowing when Rebecca snatched at his sleeve. “Don’t, lass,” he growled.
“You’re his partner,” she whispered after him. “This is business.”
“I’m nae his partner.”
“Your accountant would say otherwise.”
Shrugging free, he kicked out the step and descended to the ground. Seeing Pogue approach from the house, he gestured at the pair of vehicles behind him. “See to the lasses,” he ordered, stalking up to the Maxwell’s heavy coach.
The door opened as he reached it, and Dunncraigh himself stepped to the ground. “Good evening, Lord Geiry.”
“Ye’re in my way,” Callum grunted. “Get out of it.”
“I wanted a word with ye, lad,” the Maxwell returned, his words smooth despite the hard set to his eyes. “We’ve another business, one located in Knightsbridge down in London, that wants to do its shipping with Lady Geiry’s fleet, but there’s a matter of a signature or two still required.”
“And so ye came and sat in yer coach all day long and waited for me?” Callum returned. “The bloody Maxwell, himself? Or was it that ye had the road watched, so ye knew I was headed back into town?”
“Or is it that Donnach and I’ve come by for the past few days, hoping to catch ye without having to darken yer door?” the duke countered. “This is business. We dunnae have to be friends for business.”
“Whose signature do you need, Your Grace?” Rebecca asked from close behind him.
“A month ago yers would have sufficed, my dear,” the duke returned with a warm smile that made every muscle in Callum’s body go taut. “But Callum here has been recognized by the courts, I hear, so it must be all three of us.” He put an arm on her shoulder, and Callum nearly flattened him. “Will ye give me a moment with the lad, Rebecca?”
“Certainly.” She stepped away, leaning toward Callum as she did so. “Behave,” she breathed.
“Nae,” he returned in the same tone.
“Now. Walk with me, will ye?”
“I thought we went through this already. I’m nae walking with ye.”
Beneath the street’s lamplight Dunncraigh’s smile faltered a little before he resumed it again. “I dunnae think ye want either of the lasses to hear what I mean to say to ye, lad. Walk with me.”
Margaret stood in the doorway, chatting to Pogue about wolf packs, while Rebecca had returned to wait behind her, one hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Scowling, Callum turned back to the duke. “Waya, guard Margaret,” he ordered. With a low growl the wolf sent a look at Dunncraigh, then walked away, tail down. “The wolf doesnae like ye, either, Dunncraigh,” he said, and began stalking up the street. “She can smell carrion.”
“Ye’ve picked up an interesting companion. I’ll give ye that.” The duke matched his pace as they continued away from the house. “I hear ye began a brewery in America. The only way for ye to slake yer thirst these days, aye?”
“If that’s how we’re beginning, I foresee ye taking a swim in the river by the end of this conversation,” Callum returned, rather than answering. Let the Maxwell think what he wished. There were other men who’d found that underestimating him could be fatal, as well.
“Ye’re a strapping lad, now. I’ll grant ye that. But I ken who ye are, Callum. Ye’re a man who craves adventure, nae wanting to rest yer head in the same place twice. I can make that possible for ye.”
Abruptly interested in more than just trading threats and insults, Callum slowed his pace. “And how is it ye reckon ye know me?”
“I heard ye, the night ye left. And yer brother told tales of ye all the time, how ye wished to visit China and Africa and cross the Atlantic to see the southern Americas. I can give ye that.”
He could have it now if he wished it, but that wasn’t the point of this conversation, clearly. “I’m the earl now. I have duties.”
“If ye hadnae made an appearance within the next few weeks the title would’ve gone to yer cousin James, as I reckon ye’ve been told. A fine, bright lad, by the way. With a good head for business. I very much doubt the courts would fight ye if ye decided ye couldnae accept the responsibility and ye handed it over to him.”
“Aside from the fact that James has the smarts of a mushroom and ye know it, that plan of yers sounds like it would make me considerably less wealthy.”
Dunncraigh folded his hands behind his back, reminding Callum of nothing so much as a vulture waiting for its dinner to die. “I’ll be honest with ye. Ye’ve a large share in a business where I’ve sunk a great deal of my money and my time. And the idea of a reckless lad with a penchant for too much drink having that much control over my future doesnae sit well with me. So I’m asking ye to sign over yer share of Sanderson’s fleet to me, and I’ll definitely be generous with yer compensation.”
“How generous?”
“I’ll give ye thirty thousand quid for it, lad. That’s more than it’s worth, but it’ll see ye well gone from here and in considerable style. Ye could purchase a kingdom in China with that amount of blunt. In fact, ye dunnae have to sell it to me. Just go away and leave the running of it to me or to yer cousin. The thirty thousand’ll still be yers.”
For a moment Callum considered that the idiot he’d been ten years ago would have jumped at the offer. Taking responsibility off his shoulders and paying him for the privilege? Leaving him free to drink and whore on every continent and island between here and Australia and back again?
Now, though, he had more important things to ponder. Had that been it? Had Dunncraigh resented Ian and George having the reins to the shipping business? Had Ian protested against his increased involvement or some new commerce the duke favored? Dunncraigh had as much as said he didn’t like anyone else steering his ship. Was that reason enough for a murder? Two murders, even?
Callum gave a slow nod. “I’ve a counterproposal for ye, Yer Grace. I’ll take my third of the shipping business and run it as I goddamned see fit. Ye’ll take yer arse off my street and go fuck yerself. I know what ye did. And I know what ye’re trying to do by having Stapp court Rebecca.”
The duke’s face darkened. “I—”
“Shut yer gobber. I’m talking,” Callum cut him off. “Him marrying her would give ye two-thirds ownership. Then all ye’d need to do would be to buy off my gullible cousin with some blunt and flattery, and it’d be all yers. Or ye could pay him to leave the running of the business to ye, and ye’d have nearly the same outcome. Ye’re nae fooling me. Ye ken shipping is where the new money’s to be made, and ye dunnae want to share. Just as ye didnae want to settle for the profits of renting a pier to Sanderson’s.”
“Whoever ye think ye are, MacCreath, ye’re clan Maxwell,” the duke retorted, his green eyes narrowed. “I’m the Maxwell. I’ll nae abide ye ever speaking to me that way again. Take what I offer ye and go away.”
“I’m nae going anywhere, Dunncraigh. By my way of thinking a man who murders for greed sells his soul to the devil. I mean to help Auld Clootie collect yers. And I dunnae think we should make him wait much longer.”
“Och,” the duke retorted. “I’ve seen yer sort before, lad. Ye’re a disappointment to yer family, looking for proof of someaught that didnae happen just so ye can hold up yer head again. Ye cannae act without that proof, or the world’ll nae view ye as anything but what ye are—a failure. Give up. There’s nae a thing here for ye.”
The duke couldn’t have been more in error. Callum had nothing to prove to the world. In fact, the knife tucked into his boot would already have kissed the duke’s throat except that he’d promised one person proof before he acted. One person stood between Dunncraigh and the grave. And at that moment Callum remained motionless, debating whether he would be willing to give up a chance for anything with Rebecca in exchange for immediate, final revenge.
“Is there anything ye require, m’laird?” Pogue asked, the butler abruptly appearing, a lantern in his hand, from the direction of the house. He trailed behind a trio of Dunncraigh’s men, Callum noticed belatedly, the hounds no doubt attracted by the commotion.
He shook himself free of his bloodlust. Whatever he wanted to do, meant to do, Rebecca still trusted the Duke of Dunncraigh and his son. Callum had to prove them unworthy of her trust and her compassion before he acted. And that was purely for her sake. Not for theirs. Not for himself, because he already knew. The bloody butler had just earned an increase in his salary for giving him a moment to find that clarity. “Some tea and biscuits would be grand, aye,” he said aloud.
The duke forced a laugh that wouldn’t have fooled a bairn. “We’re finished chatting.” Dunncraigh took a half-step closer. “Ye rant all ye like, Geiry. It’ll make ye sound more like a fool than ye already are, and however loud ye bellow, ye’ll nae prove a word of any wrongdoing in court.”
“What makes ye think I’ll take this to the law?” Callum murmured, holding the duke’s gaze for a hard quartet of heartbeats before he turned on his heel.
“Callum?” Rebecca said quietly as he passed her and stalked into the house.
“Get inside and stay there,” he snapped, and headed for Ian’s—his—office.
Oh, dear. She’d seen this before, countless times. Ian and Callum would argue about something, usually Callum’s recklessness, and then Callum would stomp off somewhere and get drunk and make things even worse. It had been frustrating and predictable back then. Now, it could be dangerous. He wasn’t twenty years old with no power and no responsibilities. And while she could flee if necessary, Margaret could not—which meant neither of them could do so.
“Maggie, please take Agnes and your wolf pack upstairs,” she said calmly, stepping into the foyer as their luggage passed them by. “It’s nearly your bedtime.”
“I don’t want to be Maggie,” her daughter said, frowning.
“No?” With some difficulty Rebecca tore her attention from the closed door at the end of the hall. “Who do you want to be, then? I already told you that ‘the Splendid Princess Margaret of the Faerie Realms’ is too long to remember.”
“You just remembered it,” the girl pointed out. “But I want to be Mags. That’s what Highlanders call me, and I’m half Highlander. And Uncle Callum calls me Mags.”
She’d known this was coming, blast it all. “Mags is very informal,” she countered. “In London they will say you’re being too familiar.”
“I’m nae in London.”
Rebecca shut her eyes for a moment. “You’re not in London.”
“And that’s why I can be Mags.”
Agnes gave a quiet snort, covering it with a cough.
Outmaneuvered by a six-year-old. “Very well. Here, you may be Mags.” Catching the nanny’s dark-eyed gaze over Margaret’s head, she angled her chin toward the stairs. “Remember to leave the door open for the wolf. I’ll be up in a moment to say good night.”
“Of course. Wolves sometimes need to roam.”
Yes, they did. And that was what worried her about the other wolf in the pack. Once Margaret and the rest of them vanished upstairs, she moved quietly down the hallway until she reached the office. Nothing she’d ever said or done ten years ago had prevented his drinking, and more than likely she should simply turn in for the night and leave him to destroy himself as he chose. Having him gone would return her life to normal—or what had become normal over the past year, anyway.
She lifted her hand to knock, but paused again. The last time she’d been alone in his company he’d nearly kissed all her clothes off, his passion raw and addictive. And then, he’d been sober. Taking a breath, she knocked. Perhaps she’d become addicted.
“What?” he said, from somewhere beyond the door.
“It’s Rebecca.”
“Go away. I dunnae want to hear why ye think I’m wrong. Nae now.”
Mentally crossing her fingers, Rebecca lowered the handle and pushed open the door anyway. Callum stood glaring out the dark window, his fists on his hips. A half-full glass of whisky sat on the desk, with no sign of the decanter or bottle.
“What in heaven’s name did you say to His Grace?” she demanded.
He whipped around to catch her gaze. “Go ask him, if ye’re so curious,” he snapped.
“Perhaps I will, then,” she retorted. “He’s been far kinder to me than you’ve been. In fact, I’d be foolish to have any empathy for you at all.”
“Aye, ye would be.” Lowering his arms, he strode up to her. “I’ve a question for ye, Becca. The man offered me thirty thousand quid to go away. I didnae even have to hand over my shares of Sanderson’s. Just leave. Why do ye reckon he’d be willing to part with that kind of blunt and nae have control of the business?”
“Because you don’t simply make trouble. You are trouble. I would imagine he thinks that you’d counter anything he proposed to aid or increase profits, just because you don’t like him.”
His shoulders lowered. “Ye need to develop a better instinct for self-preservation, lass,” he muttered. “Do ye truly nae see it?”
“See what? That I have money and a fleet that will go to whomever I marry? Of course it will.”
“Aye. And if yer da’ had died before Ian, all that property of yers would be mine, now. I—or Ian—would have two-thirds ownership. Do ye honestly think Donnach Maxwell would still be courting ye if that were so?”
Rebecca opened and closed her mouth again, her thoughts bouncing between affront and horror. “Bad things happen, Callum. And perhaps Donnach is courting me because we’ve been acquainted for ten years, and he cares for me.” As for the order of deaths, it felt like he was only looking for ways to make a horrible set of circumstances even worse. Tragedy didn’t require a conspiracy. It made sense as she thought it, so she decided to say it aloud. “Tragedy does not require a conspiracy.”
Callum, though, had tilted his head again in the way that made her think him vulnerable, despite the fact that she knew him too well to be fooled. “He cares for ye, ye say,” he took up, clearly not even hearing the last thing she’d uttered. “Do ye care for him, then?”
Was he jealous? “First of all, that’s none of your affair,” she retorted. “Second of all, no one’s feelings but yours seem to matter, so don’t expect me to expose mine to your ridicule.”
“Have yer secrets then, Rebecca,” he said more quietly. “I dunnae think ye had a thing to do with this, and so whether ye want me about or nae, I mean to keep ye safe. Ye and Margaret. Ye dunnae have to like what I do, but know that as much as I mean to end Dunncraigh, I’ll see to it that ye and the lass are protected.” He took a slow step closer, bending down a little to reach for her hand. “I do recommend ye nae pin yer hopes on Stapp. And if he does have yer heart, then I suppose I apologize to ye in advance for what I mean to do to him.”
God, he was so blasted stubborn! “If you’re apologizing to me,” she returned, refusing to back away when he continued directly up to her, “don’t stop with my injured heart. You’ve always been a wildfire, without aim or direction. Your … antics have singed me before. So however safe you think to make Margaret and me, we’re still directly in the middle of this. And if you begin murdering people left and right, people connected to me, at the best I will face censure. I might face arrest. How will you protect Mags when you and I are both shipped off to Australia?”
He scowled, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I said ye’ll be safe. Ye will be. If ye dunnae get asked to a soiree over it, well, aye, I reckon I’m willing to apologize for that, too.” He tightened his fingers around hers. “If being singed a little is what truly troubles ye, it’s likely just as well ye decided nae to join me ten years ago when I asked ye to.” Callum placed her palm against his chest, and she could feel the hard beat of his heart beneath her fingers. “I mean to burn them down to ashes, aye. Them. But that isnae what troubles ye, is it?”
“Callum, you don’t know for certain if anything untoward happened at all. I don’t wish to see you hurt because you can’t forget ten-year-old wounds.”
“I could forget those wounds, lass. I don’t give a damn about Dunncraigh or Stapp. I earned my embarrassment and exile. They didnae do it to me. If they had naught to do with Ian dying, they’d nae enter my thoughts again.”
“It’s me you haven’t forgiven, then? Is that what you’re saying? Because those kisses didn’t feel like anger or revenge. They felt like—”
He bent his head and kissed her before she could finish her thought. “Felt like what?” he murmured against her mouth.
Sin. Lust. Need. All the things she thought she didn’t want from him, but nevertheless seemed to crave. She kissed him back, breathing in his heady scent of leather and shaving soap. Sliding her arms up over his shoulders, she sank into the heat of him, into the heady sensation of being wanted.
Leather and shaving soap. Rebecca pulled back a little, looking up at him from inches away. “You haven’t been drinking,” she breathed, studying his two-colored gaze.
“What?”
“I know you,” she persisted. “You get angry about something, and you go get drunk. But you haven’t had anything to drink today.”
Callum grimaced. “I keep trying to tell ye, ye knew me, Rebecca. The idiot boy who realized how stupid he was just a wee bit late and who by his own actions made certain he lost everything. I dunnae drink. Nae any longer.”
“But there’s a glass there on the desk.”
“I like to be reminded how close I am to disaster.”
“You own a distillery. How can you—”
This time his mouth curved into a rueful smile. “I’ve a particularly good sense of smell. And I’ll take a swallow when necessary. One swallow. My men have orders to club me over the head if I try for more than that.” He blew out his breath. “I’ve nae been clubbed but once. That was after I got the first letter from Ian, after five years of nae a word.”
“The letter you burned.”
“I burned them all, but aye.”
He took her mouth again, and she closed her eyes, sinking into the sensation of him wrapped around her. She’d been desired before, of course; she’d spent nine years as a married woman, after all. But Ian had approached her differently. He saw her value as an entire being—the inheritance she would bring into his control once her father passed, the additional power that wealth would bring to the MacCreath family. When Donnach had begun to express more than friendship she’d realized the same thing. He wanted what she brought to the table, the power and wealth she carried with her, wrapped around her like a cloak.
Callum looked at her differently. In his eyes, in his arms, she felt like a woman. A woman of flesh and bone desired by a man of flesh and bone. No numbers, no logic between them. Her money, her business ownership, fell to a very distant second, if it even mattered to him at all.
Unless that was just her, wishing for all that. But when he touched her, when he kissed her like this, as if he simply couldn’t keep his distance no matter what he might have preferred, she felt it. He wanted her.
Tangling her fingers into the back of his dark hair, she opened her mouth to his, seeking and tasting him as he tasted her. With her back pressed against the wall she could feel his strength. She could feel his power, how self-confident he’d become, how driven. Callum still burned, but he had a firm grip on that fire now. He’d set his gaze on Dunncraigh, but for this moment he looked at her. Perhaps she could save him, save both of them, if she gave in to what she wanted anyway, if she let herself fall for him as much as her heart ached to do so already.
The door bumped against her back. “Mama, I found my book. Come read to me.”
Swallowing and out of breath, Rebecca leaned her forehead against Callum’s. If she couldn’t stay away from this man, she would need to explain some things to Margaret before her daughter saw the two of them together.
“I’ll read to ye tonight, Mags,” he said, before she could gather her wits together enough to speak. “Will that do?”
“Oh, aye,” Margaret returned. “Yes, please!”
“Go upstairs and wait for me, lass.”
“Aye, Uncle Callum. Good night, Mama.”
“Good night, Mags.” Once the sound of Margaret’s footsteps retreated, Rebecca slipped out of Callum’s arms. “Are you certain you want to read to her? She’ll demand it every night if you begin it.”
“Ye said Ian read to her. I reckon I can manage.”
Rebecca searched his face. When he’d first arrived she’d thought him the devil himself. Perhaps he still was. But this devil seemed to genuinely adore his niece. And if the least of the conspiracies he claimed happened to be true, she couldn’t imagine a better protector for Margaret. Or for her, for that matter.
That all teetered on what would happen to him if his suspicions were correct. And what would become of him if his suspicions were wrong.