Three months later …
“I dunnae ken why ye’ve settled on me,” Callum said, flinging a rock into Loch Brenan and watching it skip a half-dozen times. “I’m nae a chieftain, and I’ve nae more than a hundred cotters on my property.”
Graeme, Lord Maxton, leaned back against a pine tree and crossed one ankle over the other. “Exactly. Ye’ve nae potatoes in the pot. That’s why.”
“If that’s what qualifies me, I’ve a niece with nae a potato in the pot, either,” Callum retorted, then pointed at the third man, standing midway between himself and Maxton. “And why is Lattimer here? He’s the chief of clan MacKittrick.”
Tall Gabriel Forrester, Duke of Lattimer, squatted down as a wee bairn ran up and grabbed the back of his leg. “I’m not a clan chief. I’m a Sassenach landlord whose cotters gave him a nickname.” He straightened again, holding the toddler against one hip. “Where’s your mama, Kieran?”
“Puppies,” the boy returned, laughing and shaking his hands in clear excitement.
“Ah.”
“We already voted on it, Callum,” Graeme continued, pushing upright as the three of them headed back toward the blankets and tables set out beneath the shade of the pine trees. “All the clan chieftains. We couldnae agree on much of anything but that even his own relations didnae want any of Dunncraigh’s sons, nephews, brothers, or cousins to be clan chief. And we agreed that what ye did was right, and that ye were more fair than ye had to be.”
“I’m nae made to be a clan chief.” For God’s sake, he had a pack, and that kept him busy enough.
Rebecca approached, one of the white, long-furred, long-nosed puppies in her arms.
“They want you to be chief of clan Maxwell, Fiona and Ree say,” she commented, looking at him intently.
“Aye. Because I’m nae interested in the task, apparently.” He glared at Maxton. “Dunnae ye think this’ll have all the Sassenachs looking sideways at us, if the man who kills a clan chief gets to become the clan chief? And it’s nae a precedent I want to set, considering that I’d be the next one to get a ball through my head.”
“We all have our own concerns, our own groups of cotters and industries and cattle and sheep. Ye do, as well, but ye’ve been gone. Ye’ve nae had the chance to dig in and ignore the rest of us in favor of yer own.”
Marjorie, Lady Maxton, joined her husband, their four-month-old daughter in her arms. “I suggested that since you have an English wife, you’ll be more open to having better relations with the Crown,” she said, her own tones English and well educated.
Her brother, Lattimer, nodded. “And yet you’re a Highlander, and one who’s demonstrated the willingness and ability to protect his own.” He handed the two-year-old bairn off to the slender, redheaded woman who joined them. “Kieran tried to shove me into the loch.”
Fiona, the Duchess of Lattimer, laughed. “Och, ye didnae try very hard, did ye, my lad?” she said, lifting the boy up into the air.
Callum looked over the meadow, at the half-dozen puppies of varying blacks and whites jumping about in the flowers as Waya and the mop, along with Mags and Graeme’s youngest brother, Connell, rolled around with them and shrieked with laughter. Peace, love, and warmth fell about them like blossoms.
“Give me a damned minute to talk it over with my wife, will ye?” he demanded, and she handed the puppy to Graeme as Callum held out his hand to her.
Together they walked back to the water. He’d chosen this place for the picnic because this was where they’d swum as children, and because it was halfway around the loch from where Ian had fallen. He didn’t want to remind her of that, any more than he wanted to continue thinking about it. They’d put a great deal behind them, and he remained uncertain that he wanted more responsibility piled back onto his shoulders.
“You employ half a hundred men from clan Maxwell in the distillery already,” Rebecca pointed out, wrapping her hands around his arm and leaning against his shoulder.
“Nae only clan Maxwell, though,” he returned. “The warehouses, the ones in America, are full of Highlanders, aye, but from all the clans.”
“Precisely,” she said.
He sent her a sideways glance. “All the barking’s made me a bit deaf, lass,” he said. “Could ye explain yerself?”
She chuckled. “For a decade you’ve brought together Highlanders from all over Scotland, and found a way for them to work together. Doing so within clan Maxwell would be much simpler than that. And you even have the means to help the poorest of them find employment. You own a fleet of ships, two distilleries, three warehouses, and—”
“We own all that,” he corrected, blowing out his breath. “I’m actually more surprised than anything. I would think I’d be their last choice, nae their first.”
“Why? You learned how to survive using your own two hands. I know you never expected to inherit the title. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve learned over the past ten years, makes you the best choice I can think of.”
He faced her. “So ye wouldnae mind me having to ride about the Highlands bellowing orders and pretending I’m a king?”
“Stop that. That was Dunncraigh’s idea of a clan chief. I know it’s not yours. And I think the one question you need to answer is if this is something you want to do? Because it’s forever, if you take it on.” She leaned up along him, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him softly. “And you can ride about the Highlands all you want. Just don’t expect me to stay behind while you’re doing it.”
“Graeme last knew me ten years ago. He couldnae have seen anything then to give him confidence about me.” Callum glanced back toward the viscount, currently muttering about something with his English brother-in-law. Two damned conspirators.
“They saw you at the harbor. And they’ve seen you since then. They know who you’ve become.” She put her warm palm against his cheek. “I know who you’ve become.”
He grinned. “A couple of months ago ye thought I was the devil.”
Rebecca chuckled. “You’re a devil,” she commented, kissing him again as he wrapped his hands about her hips. “My devil. And now you’re also the chief of clan Maxwell. And the leader of our little pack. And my husband. And my love.”
“When ye put it all like that,” he returned, kissing her back, “I reckon it sounds like I can manage it. I do like surprises.”
“Do you?” She leaned against his chest, looking up at him with her light blue eyes. “Good. Because I have another one for you. You’ll have to wait about six months to open it, though.”
He froze. The world slowed around him as what she’d said sank into him, through his skin and his bones and into his heart. “I love ye, Rebecca,” he murmured and, grinning, lifted her into the air. “One bairn, two, or four. But ye ken we’ll have to stop calling our pack wee.”
She laughed, holding on to his shoulders as they twirled slowly. “Call us whatever you like, as long as you keep saying ‘ours.’”
He started to answer, but Waya and her pups galloped over to leap around them, followed by Mags and Connell, Reginald, and wee toddling Kieran Forrester. “I can do that,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony. “Aye, lass! Aye.”