“Ye cannae expect me to believe that this ledger fell from the sky, m’laird,” the right honorable Liam MacMurchie of clan MacDonald argued, gesturing at Dunncraigh’s accounts ledger.
“When someaught that useful arrives on a man’s doorstep, Yer Honor,” Callum returned, keeping a hard hold on his temper, “a man would be a fool to ignore it.”
Light brown eyes continued to eye him suspiciously, though the straight fringes of gray hair peeking from beneath the white, curling wig on the man’s head rendered him a tad ridiculous rather than awe-inspiring, at least as far as Callum was concerned. “And how would ye answer that question under oath, Laird Geiry?”
“That I found it on my doorstep,” Callum stated. He’d put it there and picked it up himself to be certain he wouldn’t be lying. As for where it had been before that, he doubted Dunncraigh would press the issue. Otherwise Callum would be obligated to explain that previous to his front step he’d found Ian MacCreath’s and George Sanderson’s private ledger and journal, respectively, hidden in His Grace’s bedchamber.
Silence. “Very well, then.” The judge let out a hard sigh. “Give me what ye have, and I’ll present it to my fellows within the next fortnight. I’ll nae send out a writ for an arrest against a duke without more voices than my own saying it’s to be done.” He pointed at the top of his head. “I reckon I’m fond of wearing this.”
“Nae.”
MacMurchie blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”
Evidently the judge wasn’t accustomed to anyone arguing with him. “Ye’ll nae remove those items from this house, and I’ll nae have ye showing what we found to yer cronies. Ye either see what we see in these pages, or ye dunnae. And if ye dunnae, then I reckon ye’re already in Dunncraigh’s pocket.”
The judge’s color deepened to crimson across his cheeks and nose. “I didnae travel across town to be insulted, m’laird.”
“Then dunnae insult me. My brother is dead, Lady Geiry’s father is dead, and someone shot at me last week. Every moment Dunncraigh and Stapp are left to roam about, Rebecca faces danger. That’s nae acceptable.”
Even if they hadn’t been lovers he would have spent every minute of the past nights in her company, just to be certain Stapp didn’t attempt a kidnapping and forced marriage, after all. They couldn’t continue like this, where he needed to protect her perfectly and Dunncraigh only needed one lucky moment to turn all this to disaster. The odds didn’t favor him, and they grew worse with each passing day.
“I do ken what yer concerns are, Lord Geiry. But ye have to understand that I, too, have a reputation, and that I only set eyes on this conspiracy two hours ago. I need more time.”
He did understand that, damn it all. “Take the notes we all wrote out, then. They summarize what we found. If ye need the exact words or figures, ye can call here and look at them.” He looked from the judge to the two accountants to Rebecca. “Two days, Yer Honor. I’ll give ye two days.”
Every bone and muscle and sinew screamed at him that Dunncraigh would be using every minute of that time to counter his moves. The duke had known for better than a day now that the stolen things and his own ledgers and contracts were missing. He wasn’t a stupid man. Since Callum hadn’t come for him, he would reckon that the law would be doing so.
Being civilized was a fucking nuisance. But the prize it carried with it happened to appeal to him more than what he gained from defying it, so he would wait. For a very short time. Evidently reading the barely restrained fury in Callum’s gaze, Liam MacMurchie took a step backward, then nodded. “Two days. Under the circumstances, I agree. I ken this isnae an easy thing, m’laird, Lady Geiry. It makes me wish I’d nae set eyes on young Dennis, myself.” He sent a sideways glare at his son-in-law’s brother.
Callum nodded. “Thank ye. I sent for some of my men, and I mean to have three of them keeping an eye on ye and yer home for the next two days.” He faced Michael Crosby and Dennis Kimes. “The two of ye, as well. I’m adding to the lads already watching over ye.”
Dennis, at least, looked relieved. “Thank ye. I’ve seen naught yet, but I sleep a wee bit better at night knowing they’re about.”
“And send off those letters I wrote as soon as ye leave here. They should arrive with Dunncraigh’s chieftains about the same time the duke finds himself in irons.” That part was a gamble, but with the information they’d included about where the clans’ tithes were going, even the most loyal of them wouldn’t be happy. With any luck the clan Maxwell chieftains would withdraw all support from their chief and leave him to the courts without the might of the clan at his back. And with more luck no Maxwell clansman would be motivated to stab him in the back to avenge his clan chief. A letter to the Duke of Lattimer would leave with Dennis as well, under the old banner of enemies of enemies being friends. Hopefully.
“Ye’re nae a lad afraid to make a ruckus, are ye?” the judge asked, shaking his head. “Fetch my watchdogs, then. I’ve work to do.”
The construction of the warehouse had more or less ground to a halt with all the builders employed as guards to his allies, but protecting those who helped him had to come first. He sent one of the footmen to the morning room where he’d had a dozen of his men waiting, and divided them among his compatriots. It didn’t seem enough, but he couldn’t be at every house himself. Not when he had MacCreath House and its occupants to watch over.
When Pogue closed the door on the last of his guests, Callum took the butler aside, as well. “Nae a man or woman is to go anywhere by themselves, Douglas. Keep at least four or five footmen walking the floor all night, in shifts so they stay awake. Use the lads from the stable if ye feel the need to do so.”
Pogue nodded, his stern face even more lined than Callum had become accustomed to seeing. “Nae a soul will set foot inside this house without my permission, m’laird. Ye have my word on that.” The butler cleared his throat, then reached out to put a hand on his employer’s shoulder. “I swear it.”
“Ye’re a good man, Pogue.”
Ian had actually surrounded himself with good people—with two notable exceptions. Or three, if he counted the Sassenach Bartholomew Harvey, Esquire. But at least the solicitor had thought enough of his own reputation to send that last letter seeking him in Kentucky. Thank the devil for that—even if, as he’d begun to suspect, it had been done at Dunncraigh’s behest in an attempt to verify Callum’s location in Kentucky. And he wondered if the next letter from Rory Boyd at Kentucky Hills would make mention of any armed strangers who’d come calling, looking for Callum MaCreath.
He turned as Margaret galloped down the stairs, Agnes clucking behind her. “Where’s my pack?”
“They’re sleeping in the breakfast room, bug,” he returned, scooping her into his arms. “Tell me, have ye witnessed any odd play between yer Reginald and Waya?”
“Well, sometimes Reginald tries to ride Waya, and his pipe sticks out when he does it.”
In the doorway behind him Rebecca made a choking sound. “His pipe?” she asked faintly.
“That’s what Pogue says it’s called. A pipe and bags. Like a bagpipe. All boys have them.”
“So they do,” Callum agreed.
“Why did you want to know if they were playing?”
“Because I think Waya’s going to have wee, mop-shaped pups,” he answered, still deeply ashamed for his wolf companion. He thought she had more dignity than that. But then again, nae a soul could predict where love would strike.
Margaret put her little hands on his cheeks, pulling his face around to hers. “Puppies?” she exclaimed, looking deeply into his eyes with her own mismatched pair. “You’re not jesting with me, are you, Uncle Callum? Because this is very important.”
“I’m nae entirely certain, because this is late in the year for a wolf to pup, but she did spend four weeks on a ship crossing the ocean, and she’s nae in the wild. But I’d be willing to wager on it.”
“Put me down, please. I must go see to her.”
He complied, setting the little bug back on the floor. “Dunnae go poking her while she’s asleep.”
“Oh, I know that,” Margaret declared over her shoulder as she bounced into the breakfast room. “I’ll wake her, first.”
Fingers twined with his as he looked after the six-year-old. “How did Reginald even manage such a thing?” Rebecca whispered. “Waya’s three or four times his size.”
“I reckon he stood on a chair,” he returned with a half grin. “Or his pipe’s more mighty than he is.”
She cuffed him on the shoulder with her free hand. “That’s an image I’ll never scrub from my mind, now,” she said, laughter in her voice.
He faced her. “Ye heard what I told Pogue, aye?”
“Yes, I did. You don’t think Dunncraigh would actually attempt to break into the house.”
“They need ye, lass. Or yer hand in marriage, anyway. I’d remind ye that if ye married me this second, they’d lose all their plans, but I ken why ye want to hold on to yer choices until this is settled.” The protector in him didn’t want to see the logic of it, that she would want the ownership of a third of Sanderson’s to remain with her and not pass on to him—or to his heir should he get shot in the head over the next few days. But he did understand it. She had to think not only of her own future, but of Margaret’s. And charming as the wee bairn was, and whatever he might put in his own will, he couldn’t guarantee that his cousin would find her as precious and vital as he did. And as for Rebecca, after what had happened over the past year, he wouldn’t blame her if she chose never to remarry.
“I’m a prisoner here, then?” she murmured, pulling him in the direction of the stairs.
“Aye. And while I’m amenable to ye trying to persuade me otherwise, I’ll nae be giving in to ye. Nae about that.”
The smile that touched her mouth made him hard. “Let’s just begin with persuasion then, shall we?”
* * *
Being a prisoner in MacCreath House wasn’t as intolerable as she might otherwise have expected, Rebecca decided. Unbuttoning the trio of fastenings holding Callum’s trousers closed, she slid a hand down his hard chest and abdomen, following the dark trail of hair that narrowed to a line before widening again at his … pipe and bags.
“Fer God’s sake, woman, dunnae start laughing when ye’re exposing a man’s nether parts,” he stated, pulling the remaining half-dozen pins from her long hair.
He didn’t sound horribly offended, but then he had no reason to be insecure about his nether parts. They were magnificent, if she said so herself. “I was thinking about what Pogue told Mags,” she explained, curling her fingers around his half-erect cock.
“Mm-hm. I’m nae a self-important Skye terrier.” Taking her by the shoulders he twisted, putting her breathlessly onto her back on his soft bed. “And I dunnae have need of a chair.”
With a laugh she reached up to shove his trousers down past his hips, and he kicked out of them. He’d already undone the trio of buttons between her shoulders, and when he yanked down the front of her gold and brown muslin gown to lick her left breast, she could only gasp and tangle her fingers into his dark, lanky hair.
She loved this, when he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, when she had every ounce of his attention and his passion. That was one of the most striking changes to his character—he’d been angry and quick to take offense before, but about everything. Now the man presently drawing her dress past her hips as she wriggled to aid him had a calmness to his center, a focus that made him a deadly opponent and an exceptional partner.
Flinging her gown behind him, he sank down on the bed and lowered his head between her thighs. As his fingers and tongue teased at her most intimate place, Rebecca twisted her hands into the bedcovers and moaned. However this had happened, however the two of them had managed to overcome years of imagined animosity—a heated dislike that she had begun to realize had more to do with loss and disappointment than actual hatred—she wouldn’t have traded these moments.
As she’d told him, the past couldn’t be reconciled, and so she didn’t attempt to do so. Perhaps her life now wasn’t so much a new chapter as it was a new book. Volume the Second in the life of Rebecca Sanderson-MacCreath. Bad, terrible things had marked the end of the first book, but the second one, barring something unforeseen from the villain, looked to proceed much more happily. And she hoped it would be a very long book, full of boring passages about long walks and warm evenings and laughter.
And this, of course. Spasming in ecstasy, she arched her back and tried not to crush his head between her thighs. “Stop teasing me, Callum,” she ordered, when she regained the ability to speak again.
He lifted his head, looking up along her body at her. “Are ye in a hurry, then?” he murmured, a delicious grin on his lean face. As he lifted an eyebrow, his fingers slipped inside her again.
Oh, she tried never to compare, but Ian had never done … that to her. Rebecca pounded a fist against the mattress as his wicked, wicked tongue dipped into her once more. “Callum,” she ground out, unable to stifle a very unladylike squeal of shaky laughter. “Now!”
His chuckle warm against her thighs, he lifted up, wrapping his hands around her ankles and pulling her down the bed toward him. Arranging her legs around his hips, he went down onto all fours, hands on either side of her shoulders. “I could nae refuse ye, Rebecca,” he murmured.
When he slid inside her, she shut her eyes, reveling in the filling sensation, the weight of him across her hips. Opening her eyes again, she swept her hands along the hard, taut muscles of his shoulders and back. He was beautiful, a man accustomed to hard work and with the body to show for it. Fit and lean and large, he dominated every room he entered just by walking in. And since he’d returned, he’d had eyes for no one but her. She’d seen him walk right past lasses with whom he’d dallied as a nineteen- and twenty-year-old and not even blink. Ten years had changed them both, but he bore time’s marks both inside and out.
The headboard thumped against the wall with every deep thrust he made inside her, her back arched to take him in more fully. She pulled his face down and kissed him, every inch of her alive and aroused and excited by him.
He changed his pace, practically lifting her from the bed as he stroked into her faster and faster, then slowed again. The shivering light inside her stretched and drew tighter until she shattered, moaning helplessly as she clung to him.
As she finished he sped his pace again, rocking deeply into her until with a low, groaning growl he came, spilling his seed inside her. Panting, Rebecca loosed her legs, tilting her chin up as he kissed beneath her ear and worked his way around to her mouth.
“Ye undo me, lass,” he said, rolling onto his back and pulling her over on top of him.
She rested her head on his chest, feeling the fast beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Her own heart matched it, the two of them in perfect harmony—for the moment, at least. He’d acquiesced to her request that they see to Dunncraigh legally, but she could see his impatience in every motion he made, every word he spoke.
“I saw the plans on your desk,” she commented, goose bumps lifting on her arms as he twined her long hair around his fingers. “The warehouse and what looked like a distillery.”
“Aye. It seems I’ve a talent for brewing that I nae had for drinking,” he returned.
“You’re beginning an empire of your own,” she pressed, still not certain why that annoyed her, except that men seemed to have the maddening ability to completely separate business from domesticity, and she was damned tired of being treated as part of one but not the other. Especially by a man who’d seen her as a partner when they’d both been children together. “You’ll have two empires, if everything works out as you plan.”
“Only until the bug turns eighteen, if ye reckon that’s old enough. I’ve nae decided precisely, but it’s what I put down for now. I’m nae partial to ill luck, but it happens. I wanted to sign someaught.”
Frowning, she lifted her head to look at his face. “What are you talking about?”
“Kentucky Hills belongs to me, nae to the Geiry inheritance. Do ye reckon that eighteen is too young to give it over to Mags? Mayhap one-and-twenty would be wiser.” He shifted a little, putting his free hand beneath his head. “And I dunnae care who might be courting her or promising to wed her, I’m making damned certain that it stays with her. I’ll nae see the lass marrying for any other reason but that she loves the lad.” He sighed. “I admired yer da’, but he put ye in a mess when he didnae allow ye to keep Sanderson’s once ye were wed.”
She continued staring at him, at his relaxed expression and the growing amusement in his two-colored eyes. “You’re giving Kentucky Hills Distillery—both distilleries, your warehouses, everything—to Margaret?”
“Aye. I have been listening to ye, Becca. I cannae change yer inheritance, but I can see to it that Mags doesnae lose what she owns. Ever. I’m willing to manage it unless—until—she wants to take it over.”
“What … What if you have children of your own?”
“If we,” he returned, emphasizing the word, “have children together, the first lad will have Geiry. The rest can have a share of Kentucky Hills, unless I conjure another brilliant business idea in the meantime.”
She couldn’t have stopped her smile if her life depended on it. “‘The rest,’” she repeated. “How many children are we having? Not that I’ve accepted your proposal.”
“I reckon four,” he said, stretching deliciously beneath her. “Including Mags.”
Oh, my. “I was married for nine years and managed to have only one, you know,” she commented.
“Then one will do for me,” he returned promptly, moving again to wrap both arms around her. “Dunnae expect me nae to attempt to give ye more. What do ye reckon, once a day? Twice a day?”
She snorted. “That might do it, I reckon,” she said, mimicking his accent. In truth she and Ian hadn’t attempted anything close to that—especially as he became more distracted by what he saw happening to Sanderson’s, she realized now. “It’s very generous of you to think of Margaret that way.”
“I’d have to be a damned fool nae to be wrapped around her wee pinkie. She’s the grand lass; I’m just happy to be part of her pack.”
Rebecca chuckled again. He made the future sound so grand, and so achievable. All they needed to do, then, was see that he—and she—survived the next few days. She wanted more than a daydream. She wanted the past finished, dealt with so she would never have to worry about anyone attempting to take her present and her future away from her again. And she wanted … him.
As for four children, including Margaret, that sounded divine. Their pack, as he would say. Rebecca sank onto his chest again, twirling her fingers idly against his skin. From the amount of time they’d spent in his bed over the past fortnight or so, she could well be pregnant, now. While part of her would be delighted beyond words, the part of her that recognized the look in Callum’s eyes—the one that said he remained ready to turn justice back into vengeance if the wind blew southerly—didn’t feel ready to face anything so overwhelming while what felt like the entire world kept trying to pull them to pieces and stomp on the remaining bits.
“That’s nae a happy expression there, lass,” he commented, raising his head to eye her.
And now she had to weigh what she wanted to say very carefully, so he wouldn’t go charging off to slay her dragons. “It’s … wonderful to think of a future,” she said, picking each word. “I don’t want to get too far ahead of the present, though.”
“I ken.” One of his hands slid down her back to cup her bottom. “I reckon ye need some more distracting.”
“Callum, you are a wicked—”
A shot rang out, freezing the words in her throat. Half a heartbeat later a young scream answered it. Before Rebecca could do more than gasp, Callum had slid out from under her, grabbed his kilt in one hand, and was out the bedchamber door. What now? she wondered frantically, yanking on her gown. Dear God, what now?