The rooftops of Inverness didn’t much resemble the wilderness of Kentucky in appearance, but climbing from a thatched roof to one of crumbling stone to another of hard tiles did seem somewhat familiar.
Callum paused on the roof of the Inverness cathedral, squatting in the shadow of the highest steeple to look out over the pathway along the river. The Marquis of Stapp stood there; from what he could tell, damned Donnach had arrived a good twenty minutes before the time of his designated rendezvous with Rebecca.
Thank Lucifer she’d told him about today, even though it had left him tempted to tie her to the bedpost this morning. His cock twitched at the mental image. Perhaps he should do that, anyway. She’d said Stapp wouldn’t attempt anything but honey-coated words and then had asked him to give his word that he wouldn’t interfere.
Well, he wasn’t interfering. He was watching. If that bastard laid a hand—or worse, a mouth—on her, though, “watching” could go fuck itself. She’d left first, taking his curricle to the cathedral, while he’d waited and then galloped off on the waiting Jupiter. He’d left the stallion at a tavern three streets back from the river Ness, then approached via the rooftops. No sense in alerting any of Stapp’s men who might be watching.
Back at MacCreath House, Waya had taken up her now-usual position at the head of the stairs to watch over Mags, and he’d begun to think the she-wolf didn’t miss running down boars and deer all that much—not when the exchange was table scraps and raw beefsteaks. She’d even chosen a nap first thing this morning over joining him on his ride. But she’d keep Mags safe, and that left him free to clamber about on rooftops.
South of the cathedral along the walking path Stapp had chosen, the buildings trailed off into tangles of brush, then trees and pretty glades with scattered thatched-roof houses and an old ruin or two breaking up the wilderness. It was damned pretty, and he wished he’d thought to take Rebecca walking there himself. Now she would only see it as him aping the ape.
It would also make following the two of them much simpler for him, and increase the temptation for him to put a ball between Donnach Maxwell’s shoulder blades. Callum rolled his own shoulders. He’d become accustomed to a certain lack of civility, to using brute force without hesitation when the occasion called for it. That had been for stakes of life and food and land. This, revenge, was both cleaner and more … messy. Especially when one particular lass continued to tempt him toward peace and domesticity.
Still, it had taken courage last night for her to agree to picnic with Stapp, and even more to tell him about the rendezvous. She had a backbone, and resolve. How far would she be willing to go, though, to avenge a man who’d been dead for fourteen months, and another who’d been gone for just short of that? No, he corrected himself. She didn’t want to avenge anyone. She wanted the Maxwell and Stapp to stand before a judge and be weighed for their crimes, and to accept whatever punishment or lack thereof some stranger decided they merited.
His curricle stopped just short of the cathedral. Before the groomsman could jump down to help Rebecca to the ground, Stapp stepped forward to see to it himself. When he took her hand, Callum clenched his fist.
The drizzle of the morning had ended, and blue sky crept closer along the western horizon. The grass would be wet, but given the trio of footmen who fell in a dozen or so feet behind Rebecca and Stapp, the marquis had planned for that. Among them the lads carried a small table, a pair of chairs, a blanket, and a large picnic basket. Callum was glad to see them present, loyal to the Maxwell or not. At least Stapp wouldn’t be attempting to remove Rebecca’s clothes in front of his footmen—or so he hoped.
There were several ways to convince a lass to marry a lad, after all. So far the marquis had tried faux protectiveness and flattery of her weak, feminine heart. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t tire of being patient and move on to threats or ruination. Of course that would also be the last thing Donnach Maxwell attempted.
Keeping to his crouch, Callum returned to the back of the roof and walked out along an overhanging, adjoining oak branch, then clambered to the ground. He’d worn his old Kentucky buckskins today; bold red and green and black plaid didn’t blend well into the greenery growing along the Ness. And he didn’t think for a moment that the three footmen were the only Maxwell men wandering about along the river walk today.
Rebecca carried an umbrella of green oiled silk, and used it presently as a walking cane. She’d dressed in a matching green walking dress, simple and half covered by a black pelisse. Whether she’d worn black to continue to honor Ian or to send Stapp a reminder that she was freshly out of mourning, Callum approved. He approved the umbrella, as well—anything she could use as a weapon if need be.
Using trees and low-growing greenery for cover, he kept thirty or forty feet behind and to one side of the strollers. Her dark colors hadn’t kept him away, but then he and Ian had always had a complicated relationship. Ian’s death had made this, today, possible with Rebecca. But at the same time he’d adored his brother. With a low growl, Callum shoved the thoughts aside. Not even Saint Michael could reconcile gratitude for the new possibility of a life with Becca against fury over Ian’s death. They didn’t fit. But there he was anyway, in the middle of it.
The sound of Rebecca’s sweet laugh drifted out to him, shaking him out of his idiotic thoughts. His only duty today was to see that she remained safe. Anything else, he could tolerate, including the anticipated insults to himself and his character. Hell, he’d spent too much time mulling those in his own mind to be hurt when someone else spoke them.
After a mile or so they turned off the trail for a small, tree-edged clearing. While Rebecca and Stapp stood arm in arm chuckling over something, the footmen set up the table and chairs, laid out plates and utensils and glasses, poured Madeira, and served stewed partridge and Jerusalem artichokes in a white sauce. Heavy for a luncheon, but no doubt Stapp meant to impress. It smelled good, per the rumble in his own stomach.
While the two of them sat to dine, he crept closer, settling in behind a cluster of young cherry trees. A half-dozen men seemed to have found interesting bits of ground all about the glade, because they all stood in separate, silent contemplation in a rough circle surrounding the luncheon. Of course Stapp would want men to guard his precious backside—and likely to keep Rebecca from leaving if she’d felt so inclined. Callum had stalked panthers on occasion, however, and avoiding the view of a few Highlanders wasn’t much of a challenge.
“… comfortable profit,” Stapp was saying around a mouthful of partridge. “Even before ye wed me, we’ll keep ye and Margaret safe and earning a fine income nae matter what nonsense yer brother-in-law gets into. Together we own two-thirds of Sanderson’s business. He cannae stand against that, even if he tries to wreck us out of spite or someaught.”
“Do you think he would attempt such a thing?” Rebecca countered. “He does seem to look kindly on Margaret, and he’s been pleasant to me.”
“Lass, he’s threatened to murder my father on the three occasions they’ve crossed paths since he crawled back to the Highlands. He threw me through a damned—pardon me, blasted—window. That’s why I dunnae like the idea of ye staying beneath his roof. If he blames us for Ian drowning, he likely blames ye, as well. I couldnae guess what he might try, especially when he’s been drinking.”
“Callum would never harm Margaret or me,” she returned. “I’m certain of that.”
“And yet he willnae let Margaret leave his household. Doesnae that hurt ye, Rebecca? He might as well be keeping ye prisoner. Ye said so, yerself.”
Callum gazed at her through the filter of damp bark and leaves. She lowered her gaze to her plate, her sunrise-blue eyes thoughtful and, in his opinion, wary. Her golden-blond hair coiled at the top of her head caught the weak sunlight, an angel’s halo for a lass who’d gone through far more sorrow in her twenty-eight years than she deserved. This lass deserved laughter and warmth and a far distance from plots and deaths and hidden enemies wearing the faces of friends.
Had he made things worse for her? Callum scowled. Stapp would say so. The marquis would say that his anger and accusations had caused her—were causing her—nothing but more worry and frustration that she should have been spared. But then Stapp and Dunncraigh had begun this war in the first place. And if stopping it meant another share of worry, then he would take as much of it as he could from her, and then see that it ended. Permanently.
“Callum and I were friends before you and I met, Donnach,” she said. “I knew him well. Or I knew who he used to be. He does seem to have changed.”
“Dunnae tell me ye’re carrying a torch for him, Rebecca.” Stapp picked up his knife, then set it down with a clatter. “Fer God’s sake. The man’s a devil. Ye cannae deny he wants nae a thing more than to destroy everything Ian ever touched.”
Callum touched his fingers to the ground, ready to launch into the open and take down the marquis. With surprise on his side, he had no doubt he would reach Stapp before any of his men had a chance to move. One flick of the blade in his boot, and Rebecca would be safe, damn the consequences.
“Have you and your father made an attempt to reason with him?” she asked. “He is your partner—and mine—now, after all. Perhaps your expectations of him have colored your own views.”
“Mayhap it’s jealousy that’s colored my views. Ye could stop all this feuding if ye’d agree to marry me. We could do it today. With yer part of the business added to mine, we could buy him out. Or force him out.”
“I thought we were becoming friends, Donnach. More than friends. Are you saying I’m a … monetary decision?”
Good lass. Anything they could make him say, any way they could draw him out, would help, whether they decided to go to the authorities or hang him by his own belt.
The marquis leaned forward, laughing. “That didnae sound even a wee bit romantic, did it?” he asked, no amusement in his voice. “Of course we’re friends, Rebecca. We have been for nearly a decade. I’m … frustrated. The bastard’s been back for less than a month, and he’s managed to step between us. Is it so odd that I want to move past him?”
She smiled. “Of course it isn’t. I have some things to consider. Please give me a day or two to do that. In the meantime, might we discuss something less serious? Tell me our next step in expanding Sanderson’s.”
“I dunnae know if that’s less serious, but I do like talking about making money.”
From there he spoke about wanting to expand the fleet, open a second office in London and a third one in New York. He even envisioned one in India, which wouldn’t make the East India Company very happy. Callum could hear the Duke of Dunncraigh in the plans, though, his thirst for power and importance. Being the chief of clan Maxwell didn’t satisfy that, apparently. Looking after his own, keeping them fed and safe in a land where sheep were worth more than a human life—there clearly wasn’t enough glory in that.
The Maxwells had big plans. Long-term plans. The sort of plans that wouldn’t stand for interference from a cautious man whose heart would always remain with the Highlands and her people. The sort of plans that went beyond what a wealthy, self-made English merchant needed to see his daughter and granddaughter safe and comfortable.
Rebecca encouraged Stapp to prattle on for nearly an hour before she set aside her napkin and declared that the day had been refreshing. Callum would have termed it enlightening, but then he hadn’t eaten any of that fine-smelling fare. Once the footmen had packed up the remains of the picnic half the men in the glade began wandering along the path back toward the cathedral, while the other half waited until Stapp and Rebecca headed in that direction so they could fall in behind.
As if it had been waiting for the picnic to end, the drizzle began again. Rebecca opened her green parasol, and Stapp moved closer to her to share in the cover. Callum could repeat to himself that he didn’t need to be jealous, that whatever happened to him Rebecca wouldn’t ever agree to wed the marquis now. But she’d come close to doing just that, and as far as Stapp knew, he still had a very good chance of winning her hand.
“Touch her and lose yer arm,” he muttered, slipping past trees as he trailed them. “Try it, Stapp. I dare ye.”
Whether Stapp heard the warning or decided he’d be wiser not to press his luck today, he didn’t move any closer. As they reached the cathedral he continued on with Rebecca to the waiting curricle and helped her up to the seat. He said something to her that Callum couldn’t hear, then backed away as the curricle turned into the street.
Once she was safely away Callum sprinted behind the cathedral and through two alleys to reach Jupiter and the lad he’d left watching the stallion. He flipped a coin to the boy and swung into the saddle, heading them toward the bridge at a gallop.
He hoped Rebecca would tell him about her conversation with Stapp; he hadn’t followed them to eavesdrop but he hadn’t made any attempt to give them privacy, either. He’d followed to make certain she returned home safely and without incident. She might be a “friend” of Donnach and Dunncraigh, but Ian and George Sanderson had been “friends,” as well.
Thudding across the river Ness just before the curricle reached it, he sent the big bay pounding up the narrow streets, past the rows of opulent, well-kept mansions, and up the short, gated drive of MacCreath House. Swinging down, he tossed the reins to Johns and dove into the house just as Pogue pulled open the front door.
“Is everything well, m’laird?” the butler asked, stepping back hurriedly.
“Aye. I’ve been here all day, in the office.”
“Very good—ye’ve a visitor in there now. Ye said he could have the run of the house. Mr. Kimes.”
Damnation. “Bring me a dry coat,” he shot, and headed down the hallway.
The clerk sat behind the large desk at the back of the room, three ledgers open before him and a much scribbled on set of papers on top of that. When Callum walked in the lad stood, nearly dumping the entire mess onto the floor. “M’laird. I—”
“Sit,” Callum said, shutting the door behind him and taking one of the chairs facing the desk. “I apologize for being late.”
“There’s nae nee—”
“As far as ye’re concerned, we’ve been in here together for two hours,” he continued.
“Um. Aye. Certainly.”
“Good. What did ye find?” Callum shrugged out of his wet coat and tossed it at a footman when a dry one arrived at the door. He couldn’t do anything about his buckskins at the moment, but hopefully Rebecca wouldn’t notice.
“Well, to begin with,” the clerk said, pulling still more papers from a satchel, “I’m nae certain what ye may already ken about Dunncraigh. Some of it’s common knowledge, after all.”
“Assume I dunnae ken anything that’s happened within the last ten years. I’ve heard a few things, but the more ye can tell me, the better.”
“Aye. Just over two years ago, then, he tried to purchase Lattimer Park. It’s a grand estate south and west of here, used to be the property of Malcolm MacKittrick before he was hanged for being a Jacobite. King George gave it to one of his Sassenach cronies, and it was last owned by one Ronald Leeds. He’d more or less abandoned it, but when he died the Crown found an English soldier to be his heir. Gabriel Forrester. This new Lattimer didnae want to sell, and Dunncraigh bought off the estate’s gamekeeper to sabotage the property. Lattimer found him out and took him to court over it. Dunncraigh lost nearly a thousand clansmen and five thousand pounds in damages over the mess.”
Dennis handed over a set of newspaper clippings that seemed to detail the story, but Callum set them aside for later. “Lost his clansmen to what?”
“To Lattimer. His cotters declared him the reincarnation of MacKittrick, and themselves MacKittrick’s clan. He’s doing well by them, from what I’ve heard.”
“They turned their backs on Dunncraigh? A thousand of them?” The Dunncraigh he knew would never have let that stand. Especially not when it elevated someone else’s standing in the Highlands.
“There’s only rumors about that, but it seems His Grace said they could either leave Lattimer’s land or leave clan Maxwell. All but a dozen or so stayed with Lattimer.”
“Serves the bastard right,” Callum muttered. Dunncraigh had been burning out cotters for years, sending them scattering to make room for his profitable Cheviot sheep. Eventually clan Maxwell would have had enough of the abuse. Or a thousand of them had, anyway.
“That’s nae for me to say, of course,” Dennis Kimes returned, glancing up from his papers. “The next incident that ended in the newspapers was six months later, when the Duke of Lattimer’s sister ended up married to Laird Maxton, one of Dunncraigh’s chieftains. Then another of his chieftains, Sir Hamish Paulk, had the sudden urge to pursue business in America. Ye didn’t know him, did ye?”
“America’s fairly large,” Callum returned. “Nae, I didnae meet him. I did know a Graeme Maxton, eldest boy of Brian, Laird Maxton. He’d be my age. That lad could drink.”
“Aye. That’s him. He married the English lass a bit over a year ago.” Dennis looked up. “He has three younger brothers under his wing, and a new bairn of his own. A good man, from what I hear.”
So someone with his own background hadn’t needed to be banished from home and take ten years to decide what sort of man he wanted to be. He didn’t know whether to be pleased for Graeme, Viscount Maxton, or annoyed with him.
“From there all I have is rumors and conjecture,” the clerk went on. “Business deals refused then agreed to with worse terms, things burning mysteriously, a lad here or there gone missing without explanation. But it’s the Highlands, so…” He shrugged.
“A great many things seem to burn in the Highlands, even with all the rain,” Callum observed. As his brother hadn’t gone missing, he could only speculate how many other lads had met with unfortunate “accidents” if they attempted to defy the Maxwell, with no one ever thinking anything suspicious. One thing became ever clearer, though—someone needed to stop him. Permanently.
Down the hall Rebecca’s voice answered Pogue’s, and he brushed at his wet trousers again. “Ye have a list of his other investments?”
Kimes handed a paper across the desk. “Some of them. I also took the liberty of looking into purchases made by His Grace over the past few years. They’re in the second column.”
“Ye’re a good lad, Dennis.”
The clerk smiled. “Ye’re a large client, m’laird.” He began stacking papers and ledgers again. “Incidentally, Mr. Bartholomew Harvey, Esquire, came about the office yesterday, seeking employment.”
Callum scowled. “I dunnae want him anywhere near my business. As far as I ken, he gave every bit of information he knew about my brother to Dunncraigh.”
“It seemed suspicious, him coming to Crosby and Hallifax after ye let him go right in front of us. Mr. Crosby told him nae. I thought ye should be aware, though.”
“Thank ye again. The—”
A knock sounded at the office door, and it inched open. “Callum?”
“Come in, Rebecca,” he returned, standing. “Ye’ve met Mr. Kimes, aye?”
“I have,” she said, inclining her head as Dennis stood and sketched an impressive bow. She turned back to Callum. “Do you have a moment?”
“Aye. We’re finished here. Have some tea if ye like, Dennis. And I’ll meet ye tomorrow morning at the warehouse.”
“Thank ye, m’laird.”
The hem of Rebecca’s gown had darkened with wet, a strand or two of grass sticking to the soft-looking green muslin. He gestured her to the library, opposite, hoping she paid less attention to his trousers and boots than he did to her dress. Perhaps not wanting to tell her that he’d followed her was silly; perhaps she would realize that he had been there to protect her, and not because he didn’t trust her or because he was jealous.
“How did ye find Stapp?” he asked, shutting the door and leaning back against it.
“Much as we expected,” she returned, perching on the back of the couch, one hand draped behind her. Coy, almost. Not what he expected from someone who’d just spent luncheon with a killer.
“Aye?”
“Mm-hm. Full of reasons why I should put as much distance between myself and you as possible, and why marrying him immediately would be to everyone’s benefit.” She tilted her head down, gazing up at him through her thick eyelashes. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“It’s nae a surprise,” he returned, mentally scrambling. Was she simply flirting? Or did she suspect he’d been close by? “Did he say someaught we could use against him?”
“Well, given how determined my father was to keep Sanderson’s manageable from one office—you know how much he enjoyed overseeing every aspect of his business—hearing Donnach’s plans to add additional offices and more ships could certainly indicate that he and his father didn’t approve of my father’s decisions.”
Perhaps he’d been overthinking. He could track a bear to its den with it being none the wiser, after all. Callum relaxed his shoulders a little. “We’re getting closer to the proof ye wanted, I reckon.”
“The proof I wanted. Yes. Because you wanted to walk up and shoot them, and damn the consequences to yourself and those who rely on you.”
“I do recall that conversation, Becca.”
“Then why were you following me?”
Damnation. Time for a change of tactics, then, because he wasn’t about to lie. “Because I didnae want to see ye grabbed by Stapp and dragged off to the altar before ye could call for help.”
Her shoulders lifted. “Do you think for a moment that I would allow such a thing?”
“Did ye see all those men strolling about the park? They werenae there for the scenery, lass. And I ken ye’re a strong-willed woman. He’s a killer. And his lads likely are, as well. I reckon he could do someaught to convince ye.”
While the mantel clock ticked away, she stared at him. “I would have to give my consent for a marriage to be valid.”
“Ye’d have to consent, aye. Ye’d nae have to be happy about it.” Pushing away from the door, he walked up to sit below her on the couch, twisting half around to face her. “Ye went with him because ye wanted to come to yer own conclusions. I went because I wanted ye to return here safely with all of those conclusions.”
“So you weren’t there simply to eavesdrop?”
“Ask me what ye really want to know,” he countered.
“And what is that?”
“Ask me.”
Slowly she leaned her face down around behind him to his right ear. “Were you jealous?” she whispered.
He looked at her sideways, her face just a few inches from his. “I’m jealous of ten years of conversations ye had with him and nae with me. I’m jealous that he made ye feel safe and protected, whether ye truly were or nae, when ye needed someone for that. I’ve lost ten years, Rebecca. I dunnae want to lose any more than that.”
Turning further, he pulled her around across his thighs, digging his fingers into the golden hair at her temples as he kissed her. If not for the electricity crackling through him as they touched, he could almost believe he was dreaming again, that none of this was real, that she and Ian were married and far away while he sat alone in a cabin in Kentucky.
“Marry me, Rebecca,” he murmured, kissing her again. “Keep Donnach’s hands off yer business. Ye’ll nae be a target once ye’re wed. Ye’ll be safe.”
Somewhere in the middle of that she’d stopped kissing him back. Lifting his head, he caught her narrowed gaze. “You came here to murder people, Callum.”
“What does that have to do with anything? I agreed that we’d find ye proof first, and we have, I reckon.”
“After Ian died it took me nearly six months to leave the house again,” she said.
“Decide what yer disagreement is, will ye? Ye’re making my head spin.” He didn’t try to hide his scowl. He’d just proposed, for the devil’s sake. It was a new experience, aye, but it didn’t seem the time for her to recall pain.
“Then just listen for a damned minute,” she snapped back at him.
Callum lifted both eyebrows. “I’m listening, then, ye foulmouthed minx.”
She batted him in the shoulder with a closed fist. “You’re the one who taught me how to curse.” Rebecca rubbed her fingers across the spot she’d hit. “You can’t propose to me when you’re still not certain if you intend to live through this or not. I know what you said, but I caught sight of you when Donnach was gesturing with his stupid knife. You would have killed him, and all those men in the park would have killed you. And you would have died satisfied, because you got your vengeance.”
“I’d die to save ye. I’ll nae apologize for that.”
“I know that. But I also see it as a problem. I don’t want you to die for me, Callum. I want you to live for me. I want you to look forward to something past this. I have to look past this. I have a daughter. If I were to marry you and you got yourself killed, then your cousin James would inherit our two portions of Sanderson’s. I would have the house here in Inverness. Everything else would have gone to Ian, because my father adored him and trusted him. I own it only while I’m unmarried. So Mr. Sturgeon would inherit everything. And he would become Margaret’s guardian.”
He didn’t like that, the idea that his amiable, easily swayed cousin would have charge of the wee lass’s future. “I’d see to it that ye had someaught, Becca. Enough to be comfortable.”
“And that’s what I get in exchange for a marriage? A promise that I’ll have enough money to buy dresses? I have that now. I want something more.” She cupped her hands against his cheeks, gazing deep into his eyes. “I will not be a widow again. If something happened to you now I would…” She swallowed. “I’m not certain how I would manage,” she finished. “If I gave you my future, my heart, my soul, my hopes, my child, Callum, and then you threw your own life away even for my supposed benefit, how would I survive that?”
She made some damned fine points, little as he wanted to admit it. “It’s ye or my revenge, then?” he asked. “That simple?”
“Yes.” Rebecca kissed him soft as the touch of a feather. “It’s that simple. It has to be.”