Lighting a second candle against the one guttering in the lamp, Callum pushed it into the soft wax of its predecessor. Beyond the closed door of Ian’s office—his office, now—the house lay silent and dark. Even the servants wouldn’t be stirring for another hour or two.
At his feet Waya lay stretched out on one side, her legs kicking a little as she no doubt ran down an imaginary deer. A few feet beyond her the well-groomed mop, Reginald, snored softly, his nose pointed toward the wolf as if he needed to keep an eye on her even while he slumbered.
Rolling his shoulders, Callum turned to the last page of the ledger. These accounts were all in regard to Geiry Hall; evidently his brother kept separate books for each property and business, and then an additional ledger combining his entire income and expense. To Callum it seemed like intentionally sending himself to hell, but Ian had always liked organization.
Once again, though, he found nothing. Yes, money coming from and going out to Dunncraigh for various ventures, and the business ties between the MacCreaths and the Maxwell and George Sanderson growing more tangled over time, but as much as he wanted to find something that shouted murder or deceit, nothing of the kind caught his attention.
As long as a single book remained for him to search in the office he wasn’t about to admit defeat, but if his brother had suspected anything—anything—he would have left a clue about it. Callum knew that, with every bone in his body.
Why the devil hadn’t anyone else been suspicious? Why hadn’t Rebecca kept Stapp, at the least, from rummaging through drawers and taking whatever he pleased? After ten years of doing business together, the damned marquis probably knew just where to find whatever it was he’d wanted for himself. He’d probably known about the hidden panel at the bottom of the left drawer, as well. At any rate, it was empty. Still, Callum couldn’t be certain whether anything had been there to be removed or not. But finding nothing didn’t meant that nothing existed.
Sitting back, he ran a hand through his hair. Searching at three o’clock in the morning likely didn’t help anything either, but it had felt more useful than the previous two hours he’d spent pacing in his new bedchamber, unable to sleep.
For the devil’s sake, he wanted Rebecca. And it didn’t matter whether he could trust her or not, or that she’d been married to his own brother. Traditional Highlands law actually encouraged a man to marry his brother’s widow, to keep clan and property intact. This … need wasn’t about the law, though, or about his plans for Dunncraigh and whoever had helped him.
Every time he looked at her, he felt like that idiotic boy he’d been—all spleen and no wit. And why hadn’t he touched her all those years ago? He couldn’t explain it, not really, except to admit that perhaps she’d been more significant to him than all the other lasses with whom he’d dallied. She’d been a friend, and a lass with some damned sense in her head. In treating her with his version of respect, though, he’d lost her to his logic-minded brother, who saw her for the monetary prize that she was.
And she’d hurt him because she’d been more decisive and more mature than he had been. It had taken another man removing her from the chessboard for him to realize that firstly he wanted her about, and secondly that he’d done nothing to earn her loyalty or respect but drag her from one scrape to the next. Just the opposite, from what she’d said to him. And as drunk as he’d been, as drunk as he’d gotten at the Seven Fathoms after he’d packed a single bag and left the house in Inverness, he remembered every single thing she said. He might as well have tattooed her words across his chest, because they’d burned themselves onto the inside of his ribs, anyway, exactly where his heart had been before she’d clubbed it to death.
Callum shoved to his feet, growling as he stalked to the office’s small window. Behind him Waya rose, padding over to rear up against the windowsill beside him and gaze out into the darkness beyond. No doubt she sensed his aggravation, and had put it to a possible attack by Indians or Irishmen.
He scratched her behind the ears. “Ye reckon we should have stayed in Kentucky, do ye, lass? I’m nearly ready to agree with ye. Cousin James would’ve made a fine Earl Geiry. Hell, he might end up as the earl, anyway.” Callum sighed. “There’s the young lass, though. Does she smell like me to ye, Waya? Ye took to Mags quickly enough, and that’s for damned certain.”
The wolf gave a slow wag of her tail, though he didn’t know if that was to acknowledge his speech or because she’d heard Margaret’s name. He knew enough by now, though, to be able to tell when Waya accepted another member into her pack, and Margaret had been accepted nearly from the moment the wolf had set eyes—or nose—on her.
With a last glance at the dark, moonless sky, he returned to snuff the candle out, leaving the room full of silent black shadows, the half glass of whisky still standing where he’d poured it three hours earlier. When he opened the door to leave the room Waya moved out ahead of him, and then he nearly tripped over the white mop as Reginald wheezed to his feet. He and the Skye terrier looked at each other for a long moment, before Callum inclined his head. “If Waya says ye’re acceptable, I’ll nae argue,” he muttered, “though I dunnae quite see the attraction, myself.”
Upstairs in the master bedchamber the wolf leaped up to sleep in the deep windowsill, while the mop settled into a ball down beneath her on the floor. Callum shed his clothes and slid naked beneath the cool sheets of the bed. He had three hours until dawn, when he could go take a look over the scene of the accident and the phaeton. That should have been the only thing that mattered, the only thing occupying his mind at all. The fact that it wasn’t, he could only blame on himself—and the mesmerizing blond lass a few doors down from him and likely sleeping with the bliss of a wee bairn.
The next morning he’d just finished slathering his chin and cheeks with shaving soap when a knock sounded at his door. “Aye?” he called, opening the razor and lifting it.
“It’s me, Mags,” his niece’s young voice returned. “I’m looking for Reginald, but Mama says I cannot enter a gentleman’s private rooms.”
“I’m nae a gentleman; I’m yer uncle. Come on in, lass.”
Tail wagging furiously, the mop scrambled to meet the door as Margaret opened it. With a happy squawk she plunked herself down on the floor and pulled the terrier onto her lap. “There you are, you silly dog!”
“He asked to spend the night with Waya,” Callum explained. “And I didnae want him scratching at yer door all night.”
Waya hopped down from the window and padded over to lick the bairn’s ear, making her squeak again. “Good morning, Waya,” she said, giggling. “I wanted to bring you some roast chicken this morning, but Mama said you would eat my hand off to get to it.”
“She wouldnae,” he countered, stroking the bare blade of the razor down one cheek. What an odd gathering they were. The wolf, aye, but now he was keeping company with a spoiled lapdog and a wee girl child. And it felt … comfortable. “A wolf pack always looks after its bairns. Ye’re a bairn of her pack. She’d die for ye, lass. But she’d nae ever harm ye.”
“How did you come to find her?” Mags asked, giving her four-legged, long-fanged nanny a hug.
“I was hunting deer about three years ago. Someone had set a bear trap, and I found a she-wolf caught in it, dead. She looked like she’d been nursing, so I looked about for the pups. I found the den, but a coyote had gotten there first. Waya was the only one left alive, black as pitch and too wee to even open her eyes. I should’ve left her, I reckon, but I tucked her into my coat and took her home.”
Margaret’s eyes were wide, her expression one of fascinated horror. “What’s a coyote?” she whispered, checking the shadows in the corners of the room.
“It looks a bit like a fox, only bigger and lighter colored,” he said. “Mostly they scavenge, and the pups were likely too easy a meal to pass by.”
“Are there any coyotes here?”
“Nae. I reckon Waya’s the fiercest beast in all of Scotland, other than me.”
The lass grinned again, laughing. “And the both of you are my pack.”
“Aye, that we are. And nae a speck of harm will come to ye while we’re about.” He glanced past his reflection in the mirror as Rebecca stepped into the doorway. She’d donned a pretty gray muslin gown, no doubt to point out to anyone who might see them at the loch today that while she wasn’t still officially in mourning, she continued to honor her husband’s memory. Or perhaps it was for his benefit, alone.
“If she was so wee, how did you feed her?” Margaret wanted to know, standing to wander over and seat herself in his vacated dressing chair as he stood at the mirror.
“I cut the tip of a finger off my best pair of leather gloves and had one of my men bring me half a pitcher of fresh, warm cow’s milk every two hours for the next fortnight, and I convinced her that I was her mama.”
“That’s marvelous!” she exclaimed, picking one of his new gloves off the table to examine it, no doubt for holes in the fingers.
“My men thought it was a bit mad, actually, and I had to purchase another cow for my trouble,” he commented. As he recalled it, “mad” hadn’t been the term they’d used, but “fucking nodcock” didn’t seem like the kind of dialogue he should be sharing. “But there she is, and I’ve nae had a finer hunting companion. Aside from that, just having her by my side saved me at least twice from being murdered by the Cherokee when some other fool broke a treaty with them.”
“Do you think I’ll ever find a wolf cub?” Mags asked, contorting her face to match his as he shaved his upper lip.
“Young ladies do not have wolves as pets,” her mother finally interjected, straightening in the doorway before she strolled into the depths of the room.
“Waya’s not a pet, Mama,” the lass returned. “She’s part of our pack.”
“Ah. My mistake, then.” She glanced at him in the mirror, her light blue eyes more amused than he’d seen since he’d returned. “Am I part of this pack? Or is it just for wolves and young girls and uncles?”
“Oh, no,” her daughter said, shaking her head. “It’s also for you and for Reginald.”
“Well, I’m pleased both your dog and I are included, then.”
“Yer mama once found a wee kitten out in the woods,” Callum put in, watching to see whether the reminder would annoy or embarrass Rebecca.
“She did?” Mags faced her mother. “You did? Was it precious?”
Callum snorted. “It was the cub of a wildcat, turns out. That she-devil chased us until we had to jump in the loch to escape.”
“The lesson being,” Rebecca added, putting out a hand to fix one of the lass’s dark curls, “don’t go about picking up wild babies.”
“Unless we know they’re orphaned,” Mags amended.
“Unless you have permission. Will you lead your pack downstairs for breakfast?”
Margaret bounced to her feet. “Of course. Come along, pack.”
The mop trotted after her, but Waya stayed where she was in the middle of the floor. “Mags, tap yer thigh and say, ‘Waya, close,’” he instructed, demonstrating. The wolf rose and approached to stand directly beside him, her head tilted as if she couldn’t figure why he needed her there by the dressing table.
When the lass did as he said, he patted Waya on the rump to release her, and the wolf padded over to join the mop. Then the trio trotted for the stairs, one of them singing loudly about a girl and her wolf pack.
Abruptly aware of just how close Rebecca stood behind him, Callum finished shaving and shoved a towel over his face to clean off the excess soap. He’d learned over the years to guard himself, to refrain from saying or acting on whatever came into his skull, but even so it took some effort not to turn around and grab hold of her. Not to drag her to the bed and lift her pretty gray skirts and take her for himself.
“It was your idea to pick up that kitten,” she pointed out.
“Aye, but ye did it. I had nae idea ye could run so fast.”
A brief smile touched her mouth before it fled again. “When do you want to go down to the loch?” she asked.
He lowered the towel again. “After breakfast. How far is it from here to where the phaeton went in?”
“About half a mile. Walking distance, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s just beyond shouting distance, which is what I was asking. Even if he called for help, none of ye here would’ve heard him. And we’ll ride, I reckon. I had Jupiter brought down. And I saw ye still have Peaches.” The chestnut mare would be nearly thirteen, still serviceable for a lady’s mount, and it had felt … comforting when the old girl had nickered at him from her stall. At least someone didn’t have bad memories of him from his last days in Scotland.
“You should take that down,” she said abruptly.
“I beg yer pardon?” He turned around to look where she gazed. “Oh, that. Nae, I like it where it is.”
The portrait had to have been painted shortly after Rebecca and Ian had married, for the young lady seated in the garden still had the angles and hopeful blue eyes of a young lass. And she smiled, as she used to smile at Callum—a look he’d seen but once since he returned. He liked her smile.
“It’s a portrait your brother commissioned of his wife. It’s not appropriate for you to have it in your bedchamber.”
“I dunnae give a damn if it’s appropriate or nae. I once carried a torch for that lass. I like it. It stays.” He faced her. “Now, do ye want to find someaught else to argue about, or do ye wish to go down for breakfast?”
For a long moment her light blue eyes held his gaze. “If you carried a torch, it didn’t burn very brightly,” she finally said. “Not until after you noticed that someone else also carried one.”
He could debate whether Ian had carried a torch or an abacus, because he would have been willing to wager that his brother had written more calculations than poetry over the merits of the match, but he kept his mouth shut about that. It was done and over with, except for the pieces he needed to gather and sweep into something that made sense. “It may nae have burned bright,” he returned, “but it burned so hot and deep it’s nae gone out yet.”
“You came back for revenge. Not for me.”
That stopped him. He’d become more comfortable with lying—or “diplomacy,” as Rory Boyd had termed it—but lying to Rebecca was another animal entirely. “Ye broke my heart, lass. For ten years I looked for reason to hate ye, because I couldnae forget ye. When I read about Ian, I decided ye must have had someaught to do with it, because that fit the tale I’d built around ye.”
“So you hate me.”
“Ye were there for that kiss yesterday, aye?” he asked dryly.
“You tried to hate me, then,” she amended, still looking annoyed. “I only spoke the truth that night, you know.”
Callum swallowed back his immediate retort. “Aye. I ken. I was a drunken boy. I also told ye—every one of ye—the absolute truth. Only where I listened to ye, ye never listened to me. So aye, I came here for revenge, and I thought to sweep ye up with the rest of the devils who killed Ian. But firstly ye’ve a daughter who looks like him,” he said, clearing his throat as his voice broke. “Secondly, I’m fairly convinced that while ye likely encouraged Ian to tangle himself up with Dunncraigh, ye didnae have anything to do with killing him.”
She gazed at him in silence for a moment. “And the kiss?”
He began to feel like he was leaving his belly exposed to a knife blade, and that she held the weapon. Picking up his gloves, he moved around her for the door. If he knew anything about Rebecca, though, she would hound him until she had an answer to her question. Drawing a breath, he left the bedchamber for the hallway. “Mayhap it wasnae hate I felt,” he muttered, and descended the stairs for the breakfast room and the welcome interruption of Mags and her pack.
* * *
Rebecca stood back on the road, the reins of both horses in her hands, as Callum made his way down the shallow bank to the edge of Loch Brenan. The broken ruts in the road where the phaeton’s wheels had turned were softer-edged now, almost invisible after a year of weathering, but she knew they’d found the right place.
“It was raining that night, ye said?” he called up, wading into the water as if he didn’t care that he wore expensive Hessian boots, not to mention a fine linen shirt and buckskin trousers. At least he’d taken off his jacket and waistcoat, but that was likely for reasons of buoyancy rather than concern over his garb.
“Yes. It had been, all that day. The weather didn’t clear until the next afternoon.”
“How far out was the phaeton?” he asked, continuing forward until the water rose to his chest.
On the shore, the black wolf paced back and forth, whining and clearly trying to summon the courage to jump in to join her master. “Only the top of the seat showed above the water,” she returned. “Another five or six feet beyond you.”
With a nod he faced forward again and continued into the loch. She had no idea what he might be looking for; Loch Brenan hadn’t caused the accident. It had only been there when the carriage ran off the road. But he was after a conspiracy that didn’t exist anyway, so the idea that this needed to make sense to her had flown away with the geese.
“About here?” he called again.
“Yes. I believe you’re standing right where the left front wheel would have been.”
“And where was Ian?”
She looked away up the road. “Why are you doing this to yourself? To me? Do you think I’m enjoying this?”
“Nae, I dunnae. Where was Ian found?”
Curling the fist holding the reins, she pointed her other hand toward the reeds just to the left of where he waited. “In there. Facedown, with a large purple bruise and a cut over his right temple.” She shifted, pointing to the stand of trees on the far side of the road. “And the horses were over there, with the remains of their tack.”
“What did they find with him?”
Rebecca frowned. “What do you mean? They found the phaeton and the horses.”
“In his pockets.”
“Callum, this is ridiculous. Get out of the water before you catch your death. They found nothing in his pockets but what he usually carried: money, his pocket watch, some calling cards, and one of Margaret’s hair ribbons.” She stopped, covering her eyes with one hand so he wouldn’t see her crying and accuse her of being weak-kneed or something equally ridiculous. “You’re an awful man, to make me remember all this.”
“Rebecca, look at me,” he urged instead.
Stomping one foot, she complied. “What?”
“I’m standing.”
“I can see that.”
“Nae, ye cannae. I’m standing. I’m nae swimming or treading water. How does a man drown in five feet of water when he can swim like a fish, and when he could just stand up?”
“I told you he had a horrible bump on his head. He was unconscious.”
“And what did he bump his head on, then? The bank here is smooth, and the road’s fairly straight. Even if the horses spooked and bucked the traces, the carriage had to turn nearly eighty degrees left, roll down the bank, and keep him in the seat until it came to a stop in five feet of water, at which time he … floated away on his face?”
“That’s what happened, Callum. Precisely. So yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
He waded back toward her, water making his white shirt cling to his skin, the ribbons of muscle beneath making her abruptly wonder whether she needed to take a cold dip in the loch herself. The wolf shoved her head beneath his hand, and he gave her a scratch before he walked back up to the road. “I dunnae see it,” he said.
“Only because you don’t want to see it,” she countered.
That merited her a sideways glance. “I want to look at the phaeton now.”
Before she could lead Peaches over to a likely looking boulder, he took her around the waist and lifted her into the sidesaddle. Good heavens. The sensation of breathlessness lingered even after he released her to swing up on Jupiter, and Rebecca shook herself. Yes, he was strong. That fact didn’t make him less aggravating.
The wolf loped in a wide circle around them, making Peaches give a nervous sidestep. Glad of the distraction, Rebecca pulled the chestnut mare back under control and nudged her into a trot behind the big stallion. “Did you have to bring the wolf with you?” she asked.
“Waya watches my backside for me. And if she doesnae get a good run every other day or so, she gets irritable.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Mayhap ye could use a good run, yerself.”
Oh, that was enough of that. With a sniff she urged Peaches into a canter, passing by Callum and Jupiter. Half a dozen heartbeats later the pair drew even with her. Unless she wanted to gallop she would have to tolerate him, she supposed, but at least a canter would see them back home sooner. Not home, though, she corrected herself. Not her home. Not any longer.
Back at the stable yard he kicked out of the stirrups and jumped to the ground before Jupiter could come to a complete halt, then strode over to take her around the waist before the groom, Thomas, could reach her. “Stop grabbing me,” she muttered, putting her hands over his as he lifted her to the ground.
“Ye didnae used to complain about it,” he returned in the same tone, letting her go again.
“I’m not eighteen any longer.” Smoothing her skirt, she headed around to the back of the stable, listening until he fell in behind her.
“Nae, ye arenae,” he agreed. “Ye’re … curvier now. Softer. Nae all skin and bone and sharp elbows in my ribs. I like it.”
That made her blush, when it likely should have made her turn around and slap him. “It is not appropriate to talk to me like that in front of this … thing,” she stated instead, and kicked the rear wheel of the phaeton. The fancy vehicle had always seemed frivolous, unlike her logical husband, and since the accident it had become almost a living embodiment of everything she hated about what had happened.
Callum didn’t reply to that, but sent her a sideways glance as he pulled the heavy canvas covering off the phaeton, walked around to the front of the vehicle and then, to her surprise, stepped on the front wheel and pulled himself up onto the water- and weather-worn seat. Shifting a little, he held out his hands as if he was holding the reins, then bent forward and back again, twisting from side to side.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“What did he hit his head on, do ye reckon?” he asked, having to fold over nearly double to lower his forehead near to the low dash rail above where his feet were braced.
“The phaeton no doubt bounced down the bank quite a bit. It could have been anything,” she retorted.
“Nae. I’m serious, Rebecca. Come and look. What do ye see that might have caused that blow to his head?”
Reluctantly she stepped up to the front of the carriage. “He was driving through the wind and rain, Callum. A tree branch might have hit him. Perhaps that’s what spooked the horses.” It made sense; something had caused this, after all.
“And did ye find any downed trees by the loch? Any broken branches?”
“No, but—”
“Answer me this, then. Where was he going in the dark and the wind and the rain in a phaeton? Why didnae he have himself driven in the closed coach?”
“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me. Perhaps he was in a hurry to meet my father.”
“Did he receive a note from yer father?”
She dug her fingers into the hard metal of the dash rail as she glared up at him. “No. At least Papa said he hadn’t sent anything to Ian that day. Perhaps he needed a new contract signed, or to go over some figures.”
“But he didnae have anything in his pockets, ye said. Did he leave with anything in his hands?”
“I’m going to begin throwing things at you,” she snapped. “Stop it. There isn’t anything to find. You’re looking for trouble to justify hating Dunncraigh, and there just isn’t any.”
Callum held her gaze. “Did he have anything in his hands when he left the house?” he repeated evenly. “Or did he drive out into the middle of the night for nae reason at all?”
Rebecca shut her eyes, trying to remember. It had been just any other night, up until the point that it hadn’t been. Yes, he’d been quiet, and a little short with his words, and he’d snapped at Margaret when she’d scampered into his office begging for him to read to her. Then he’d gone striding about, back and forth, opening and slamming his desk drawers, and then he’d shoved some papers into a leather pouch and—
“Yes,” she said aloud, opening her eyes again, to find Callum watching her intently. “He had a leather pouch with some papers in it. I didn’t see what they were, but he was … annoyed—upset—about something, to the point that he snatched Margaret’s favorite book away from her when she asked him to read it to her, when he did so regularly. That … surprised me. He put the pouch in his inside breast pocket. On the left.”
“And it wasnae with him when he was found the next morning.”
A chill, slow and dark, trailed down her spine. “I don’t recall anyone with it. The farmers, Mr. Landry and Mr. MacKendrik, were the ones who found the phaeton. They pulled him from the water.”
“I know them,” he returned. “Or I did. Good men, both of them.” He hopped down to the grass again.
“The papers might have simply floated away and sunk somewhere,” she proffered. “And he frequently found bits of his business annoying. You haven’t proven anything.”
“Nae. But it’s a start. I’ll find more. Enough to prove it to ye.”
“And to a court.”
Callum sent her another glance before he strode around to reclaim Jupiter, no doubt so he could call on Mr. Landry and Mr. MacKendrick. Rebecca felt another chill. She knew why he hadn’t replied to her. Because once he’d proven to her and to himself that Ian had been murdered, he didn’t mean to take his accusations to court.
Men had, on occasion, attempted to kill the Duke of Dunncraigh. He kept kinsmen about him at all times for just that reason; a man who burned out his own cotters had enemies. But none of those enemies had been Callum MacCreath. And she was very soon going to have to decide on whose side she wanted to stand.