A Devil in Scotland

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Where will you be staying?” she continued.

  “Here.”

  Her eyebrows dove together, her soft-looking lips compressed tightly. “You most certainly cannot think to reside here with me and Maggie.”

  “I most certainly can,” he returned.

  “Waya should stay with us,” the bairn put in, giving the black wolf a vigorous scratch between the ears. “Her fur is very rough.”

  Rebecca’s fair skin paled further. “I am not—”

  “Office?” He pointed toward the room where Ian had once kept his books and correspondence.

  “Yes, b—”

  “In there,” he cut in. “Pogue, my bags will be arriving shortly. I’ll take the master bedchamber and connecting rooms.” Deliberately he glanced back at Rebecca, very much doubting that she’d moved out of those rooms in the past year.

  “I … Of course, Master Call—I mean, Lord Geiry.”

  “Hold a moment, Pogue,” Rebecca countered, and with a damp swoosh of her lavender skirts led the way into the office.

  “Waya. Guard,” Callum murmured, and the wolf extricated herself from the bairn’s clutches to go sit staring at the front door. He’d been reining in his temper, his words, his desire to lash out so tightly that his muscles practically groaned as he followed her. If she still thought of him as the short-tempered, adventurous boy she’d once known, she’d just made a very large mistake. He looked forward to pointing that out to her.

  The office had always been neat, and as he walked inside all the books were still lined up precisely on the shelves, while an open ledger lay parallel to the edge of the desk, a pencil perpendicular to that atop the pages. It almost seemed as if Ian was still there, and had only left the room a moment ago. He shook off the sensation. Rebecca seated herself behind the desk as he closed the door, shutting them in. So she wanted the position of power; she could take it, as far as he was concerned. He had the power.

  “You cannot stay here,” she said abruptly, slamming the ledger closed. “It’s not proper.”

  Callum leaned back against the door. “That’s how ye greet a dear friend ye havenae seen in ten years?” He gazed at her until she glanced away. “Ye look proper, still dressed in half-mourning colors even, but I’m beginning to have my doubts about yer sincerity.”

  “You may have been my dearest friend a decade ago. You are not any longer. And don’t you dare blame me for that.” She smacked the flat of her hand against the desk, likely wishing it was his face. “I have no greeting for you. Leave, Callum. No one wants you here.”

  “I want me here, and I reckon that’s what matters. I’m the Earl Geiry now, lass, whatever ye thought might happen.”

  “Whatever I thought might happen?” she echoed. “I thought it would be your cousin James and his family taking the house, but I would hope they would have given more than two minutes’ notice before they threw my things out of the bedchamber where I’ve been laying my head for the past ten years.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, lowering his head to gaze at her directly. “I’d suggest ye nae go complaining to me about being thrown out of a room without notice. I left the fucking country with what I bore on my back and naught else.”

  “Language, sir!”

  Aye, he’d have to mind his language, and his temper. Kentucky had been a bit more rugged than Inverness. Aside from that, he had a task to accomplish, and he’d do well to remember that bellowing and punching might not be the best way to accomplish it. Not at the beginning, anyway. Not until he knew the name of every man—and woman—who’d had a hand in killing Ian. “Do ye have any more children?” he asked brusquely. Margaret had changed things, in ways he couldn’t even begin yet to foresee. The angel of death he’d meant to become had someone to protect, now.

  “No, we—I—don’t have any more children. Ian sent you letters. Did you not receive them? He spent a great deal of money to track you down.”

  “I dunnae ken why he would, being that he issued an order and I followed it. But aye, I received his letters. I didnae read them. I used ’em for kindling.” The first letter had been a shock when it had arrived, a little better than five years ago. As far was Callum was concerned, he’d moved himself as far across the world as he possibly could from the Highlands, and once there, as deep into the woods and hills as the terrain and the natives would allow. And then Ian had somehow found him. Now he wondered if his brother had written to announce the birth of his daughter. It didn’t matter, of course; until five minutes ago he hadn’t wanted anything to do with bairns from his brother’s happy marriage. Until he’d set eyes on the delicate, defenseless sprite.

  “You never read any of them? Any of them?”

  She looked at him, her gaze traveling from his worn boots and breeches up to his jacket with one button missing, before she met his gaze again. He knew the appearance he presented, and he didn’t much care what she might think of him. This wasn’t about him, and it was only about her if she’d had something to do with Ian’s death.

  Callum narrowed his eyes. “I dunnae reckon what I did out in Kentucky has any bearing on anything. Though I did miss seeing any letters ye might have written me. I had a yen to burn some of those, as well, but they nae did arrive.”

  “I never wrote you.”

  If he hadn’t hated her for ten years, that might have wounded him. As it was, he shrugged. “Just as well. I’ve more interest in what ye might be up to today, anyway. A wee bird told me, for example, that ye’ve had Donnach Maxwell calling on ye. The Duke of Dunncraigh’s firstborn, no less.”

  “Who is this wee bird?” she demanded, clearly exasperated. Good; that made two of them. “You said you only returned to Inverness this morning.”

  “Aye, I did. Dunnae dodge the question, Lady Geiry. Do ye mean to wed the Marquis of Stapp? Has he been whispering to ye about how easy it’ll make managing yer fleet if he marries ye, since ye’ve had all yer businesses entwined for ten years now?”

  She lifted her chin, which would have been haughty if she didn’t still have hair and water running down one side of her head. “I am a widow. I believe whom I choose to see is my own business, and none of yours.”

  He nodded. “So it is. Unless he’s been having that conversation with ye for longer than a year.”

  “You go too far, sir,” she snapped, her fingers beginning to shake before she folded them into her lap. “Your brother and I were perfectly happy. I will not lower myself to answer your asinine, ill-meant accusations.”

  She hadn’t forgotten how to hold her own in a conversation, for damned certain. He refused to admire her spleen. “Then dunnae. But Donnach Maxwell willnae be calling on ye here. Nae any longer. I’ll nae have him in this house.”

  “You cannot—”

  “My house,” he interrupted. “My rules.”

  “Then you may have this house,” she snapped, pushing to her feet. “I have Edgley House by the harbor, and that belongs to me. You stomp about this house as long as you wish. You’ll do it alone.”

  She strode up to him, clearly expecting him to move out of her way. Callum remained where he was, wondering if she had any idea how very patient he was being. He could make her tell him what she knew about Ian’s death, and just how close she’d become to Donnach Maxwell; of that he was certain. But blunt didn’t suit him. Not today, anyway, when his memories were nearly thick enough to walk upon. And not after meeting the little one. And the wee lass had changed more than that. He couldn’t sit alone in his fortress and plot his vengeance against the world while Margaret MacCreath and her two-colored eyes smiled innocently at him.

  “Go if ye like,” he said, keeping his voice low and level. “Lady Margaret stays here.”

  All the color left her face. “What?”

  “I’m Lord Geiry. She is my brother’s daughter, and therefore my ward. She goes where I say. And I say she stays with me.”

  “You devil!” Rebecca swung her open hand at him.

  He knew it
was coming, and lifted his arm to block the blow. Then he caught her wrist in his fingers. “I’m being very kind at the moment,” he said, releasing her the second she pulled away. The touch seared him, and not with the anger and disgust he’d expected. “I’m allowing ye to stay if ye wish. Ye might consider that before ye begin slapping and kicking.” The Rebecca he remembered had never been much for slapping, but she’d had a hell of a kick. That likely wasn’t proper enough for her any longer, but he didn’t care to find out for certain.

  She tromped to the desk and back again. “Why did you come back?” she finally snapped, pacing again. “Why? Because with Ian gone you would finally have his money? Because you would do anything to make a stand against Dunncraigh? It’s been ten years, Callum. The duke has been nothing but kind for all that time, and especially since Ian died. I don’t know how I would have managed to sort through my father’s business or keep Ian’s going without his or Donnach’s expertise on the matter. So keep your stupid, petty grudges to yourself, and do not ruin my life, or Maggie’s, because of them. Take the title, take the money, take the house, but leave us alone.”

  He tilted his head. Was that the man he’d been? It sounded familiar, in an uncomfortable, far-off way. “I’m nae here for any damned money,” he stated, grinding out the last word. “And in Kentucky we’ve nae use for earls or dukes. I own a business that I began, one that I reckon earns me more income than Geiry ever could.”

  She looked him up and down again, color returning to her cheeks. “You don’t look it.”

  “I didnae dress to impress ye, Rebecca.”

  Lady Geiry sniffed. “If you have your own money, then why are you here? You’ll ruin everything!”

  Callum had become accustomed to keeping his own counsel, to knowing the hows and whys of a thing and simply expecting his employees to do as he ordered. He hunted alone but for Waya, and after his exit from Scotland ten years earlier, he’d found that he preferred it that way. And he fully meant to ask his own questions in his own time to discover what, exactly, had happened to his brother. Still, all he had now was a vast, smooth surface of unknowns. If he stirred the pot, however, a morsel or two might emerge.

  “I was stacking kindling,” he began, pushing away from the door and walking to the window when the memory made him restless, “and found a bit of newspaper that said Lord Geiry was dead. Then I found the last letter I’d received before anyone could burn it, and read it. Half an hour later I was on my way back to Scotland. As for the why, it was one word I read. One word I keep hearing. Do ye ken what the word was?”

  She’d pivoted to keep him in view. “I’m … I’m sorry you had to learn about Ian’s death that way, Callum. I truly am. But this has been difficult enough. Please go away, and don’t muck about in what we’re just managing to get straightened out. We’re trying to move forward again.”

  “‘Drowned,’” he said, ignoring her protest. Well, not ignoring, but memorizing every word for future study and reference. “Ian drove off the bank of Loch Brenan and drowned. Didn’t break his neck, didn’t get crushed beneath the wheels, but drowned. Ian. The lad who caught fish with a spear from under the water. The lad who’d go swimming with us, but wouldnae go shooting or riding because he couldnae bear to look the fool.”

  “What? I…” She took a deep breath. “Accidents happen, Callum. He took the phaeton out in a storm, and a terrible thing happened. Don’t try to make it worse than it was.”

  “Ye’ll have to excuse me if I choose nae to take yer word for anything, lass. Especially when ye’re being courted by Donnach Maxwell and practically calling Dunncraigh yer da’ a year after losing yer true papa.” Returning to the door, he pulled it open. “I’ll be sleeping in the master bedchamber. Unless ye and I are sharing it, ye’d best have yer things out by midnight.”

  She stalked past him. “Don’t you dare speak a word about this drowning nonsense to Margaret,” she hissed. “I think sometimes she still expects her papa to come walking back through the front door.” Her voice caught. “If you’ve come only to look for conspiracies, look well. You won’t find any. And then go away. Or at the least, let me leave with my daughter.”

  Callum watched her return to the foyer to collect young Margaret and then head upstairs, calling for servants to help her move her things to the yellow room, wherever the devil that was. He wanted to walk the house, to familiarize himself with it all over again, but he would do that tonight, after everyone else had gone to bed.

  As for Rebecca, when he’d gone over this plan in his mind, he’d forced her out of the house. He didn’t trust her; she’d stood against him once, and so she could go to the devil with the rest of clan Maxwell. Margaret’s existence had altered that. The one person he knew to be innocent in Ian’s demise was going nowhere. The closer she remained, the better he could protect her. If that meant Rebecca had to remain beneath his roof as well, then so be it. The truth, as Shakespeare had written, would out. And God help Becca if she was involved.

  Chapter Four

  Rebecca paced the morning room floor, her gaze angling to the mantel clock every time she reached the farthest point from the window. Someone was punishing her. That was the only reason for this disaster that made any sense. And whoever it was had the ability to slow down the progression of time, as well.

  Finally the front door opened, and she gripped the back of the couch to keep from rushing into the hallway. When Pogue knocked on the half-open door, she gestured him forward. “Get him in here, and shut the door,” she whispered. “And please let me know if Lord Geiry stirs from his bedchamber.”

  The butler nodded. “Of course, my lady.” Turning, he practically grabbed the young man by the scruff and shoved him into the morning room. “In ye go, lad.”

  Bartholomew Harvey, Esquire, tugged down at the front of his jacket as he regained his footing. “I’m here, my lady. You said it was urgent.”

  “I sent for you an hour ago,” she returned, keeping her voice low.

  “It’s only six o’clock, Lady Geiry. I was dead asleep, I’m afraid, and the office had to send someone to my apartment to wake m—”

  “Did you know Callum MacCreath was on his way back to Scotland?” she interrupted.

  He blinked. “No. I most assuredly did not. The first I knew of it was yesterday when he summoned me to that accounting office of his. Bloody Highlanders.” He flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  “I told you not to send any more letters seeking him,” she returned, ignoring his atypical profanity. Callum MacCreath could make a saint curse. “You’ve ruined everything.”

  “The law is the law, my lady, as I explained before. The title requires an heir. And he is the heir.” He frowned, his thin brows furrowing. “If it wasn’t him, it would have been James Sturgeon. Or someone else, if not him. Things must be settled by the book. You are aware of that.”

  “Of course I am. I just … I just didn’t want it to be him.” For years she’d tried to forget that last night, until she’d finally realized she would be much better off remembering how angry and hurt and insulted she’d been, rather than how fond she’d been of the stupid man—boy—for the ten years previous to that.

  When she’d first caught sight of him yesterday, she’d barely recognized him. Taller and broader across the shoulders, he looked like he’d spent the last ten years doing hard labor. The worn clothes certainly supported that, despite what he’d said about not needing Ian’s money. He looked even more handsome, the hard masculinity of him firmly defined. But that dark, cynical glint in his two-colored eyes—that was new. As was the way he’d trod over her plans as if they, and she, didn’t even exist.

  “May I ask, my lady,” Mr. Harvey said, making her jump, “what it is you require of me? It is quite early.”

  She clenched her hands together. “Yes. How do I get rid of him?”

  “‘Get rid of’? In what way, my lady? Because if we’re discussing something … nefarious, I cannot—will not—be a part of—�
��

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she snapped. “He walked in here and claimed my daughter as his ward, and refuses to allow her to leave his care. Surely I have a higher claim on my own offspring.”

  “Ah. No, I’m afraid you do not. Lady Margaret is Lord Geiry’s niece, and in the absence of her father—his brother—he is her guardian.”

  That panic she’d felt yesterday when he’d announced that she could go wherever she pleased, but Margaret would stay, hit her all over again. Maggie, Lady Mags as the Highlanders called her, was all she had. Her only claim on what her life had been like prior to last year, the only bit of home and hearth and warmth she had remaining to her. The only part of Ian she could see, other than the portrait hanging in the library.

  “But there must be something I can do,” she protested. Being in the same house with Callum, even for one night, had upended ten years of calm and peace, ten years of her being the lady she knew she could be beneath the scraped knees and stupid mad adventures. For heaven’s sake, she’d tried to hit him, when nothing in ten years had ever stirred her to such violence. Even Ian’s death, while it had brought her to tears and grief, hadn’t filled her with such … fury.

  “I’m not certain how to advise you, my lady. Or whether it’s proper for me to do so.”

  She faced the solicitor. “Why not? Or does he have your loyalty?”

  “He let my entire firm go from his employment yesterday, Lady Geiry, so I owe him nothing.” He paused, tugging at his jacket again. “In fact, while I still work with some of Dunncraigh’s properties, I have no dealings with anyone connected to this household, unless you’d care to secure my services. You do still have several holdings, thanks to your father’s will, I believe, and they remain yours until marriage. Some of them, even after th—”

  “Yes, I’d like to secure your services,” she interrupted. Men and their deals. She’d tired of them ages ago. “Draft whatever papers you need me to sign. Your first priority is to extricate my daughter and me from the clutches of that man.”