A Devil in Scotland

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I suppose my answer depends on your plans,” she returned, wishing this odd … ease at being back in his company would go bury itself back in the graveyard where it belonged. No, not ease, precisely, because he continued to unsettle her. Trust, perhaps. She’d been injured in his company, but never more than scrapes and bruises. Looking to him for protection, though—logically it made no sense. For goodness’ sake, she had a safe, predictable, kind beau for that. “I want to be happy you’ve returned. But the last time you were here, you were chaos personified. You can’t deny that.”

  “Nae. I cannae.”

  “I’m not so certain that’s changed.”

  Callum nodded, unexpectedly veering them off the path and heading them toward the stable. Did he want to look at the phaeton now? She would have preferred that he examine the vehicle by himself; personally she didn’t like being anywhere near it.

  At the side of the stable, the one farthest from the house, he stopped and dropped his arm, loosing her grip on his sleeve. His gaze holding hers in a way that made her heart skitter a little, he dug into one of his pockets and produced a five-pound note. Wordlessly he took her hand and placed the paper in it, curling her fingers over the money.

  “What are you—”

  “I dunnae want to be nice right now,” he murmured.

  Callum put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back against the stable’s exterior wall, then leaned down and took her mouth in a hard, warm kiss. Heat speared through her, putting the lie to whatever she wanted to tell herself about how wrong this was and how much she didn’t want it. Want him.

  With a low moan he tilted her head up, plundering her mouth. Rebecca grabbed onto his lapels, holding on both to keep her balance and because she had the mad desire to climb inside him, to be so close that no space existed between them. His tongue invaded her mouth, tangling with hers, his breath hard against her cheek.

  When he tugged her gown up past her knees, his big hand splayed along her bare thigh, she groaned. God, she could feel him, feel his arousal pressed against her through his trousers and her muslin skirts. And she wanted him. For a year she’d slept alone, and even before that except on the occasions Ian visited her bed, and abruptly it felt like decades. Eons.

  Thank goodness she knew better than to fall for him. Rebecca kissed him back, hot and openmouthed, wondering if he had any idea that if he’d kissed her ten years ago as he was doing now, she likely would have thrown caution, logic, and self-preservation to the wind and gone with him anywhere he wished.

  A good portion of her still wanted to do so, still felt the pull of him against her better judgment. But she was a woman grown now, and one with a child and responsibilities and employees and all of those futures resting on her shoulders. And he … He wanted revenge, and had openly declared that he didn’t care if he lived past the moment he found it.

  Gathering up all her willpower, all the anger and frustration she’d ever felt in his presence, she doubled her hands into fists and shoved. It felt like trying to push over the Rock of Gibraltar, or so she imagined, but he backed off by an inch or two. “What?” he murmured, nibbling at her lower lip.

  She knew he could feel her shaking. “No,” she managed.

  He stilled. “Nae because of Ian, or nae because of me?” he asked, keeping his tone level and his voice very quiet.

  Rebecca knew what he meant. Did she cherish the thought and memory of Ian so greatly that the thought of being touched by his brother filled her with dismay? Or was it simply Callum who gave her pause? If she answered with the former, he wouldn’t touch her again. She knew that, without either of them having to say another word. He would leave her be, find his vengeance, and then she’d likely never speak another word to him unless it involved Margaret. But then she might never feel this wanton, this wanted, this … alive, ever again.

  “It’s not Ian,” she whispered.

  Callum touched his forehead against hers, very softly. Then he backed away, nodding. “I reckon I can work with that,” he said, and turned on his heel.

  Chapter Eight

  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, an
d 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.”