“You came back for revenge. Not for me.”
That stopped him. He’d become more comfortable with lying—or “diplomacy,” as Rory Boyd had termed it—but lying to Rebecca was another animal entirely. “Ye broke my heart, lass. For ten years I looked for reason to hate ye, because I couldnae forget ye. When I read about Ian, I decided ye must have had someaught to do with it, because that fit the tale I’d built around ye.”
“So you hate me.”
“Ye were there for that kiss yesterday, aye?” he asked dryly.
“You tried to hate me, then,” she amended, still looking annoyed. “I only spoke the truth that night, you know.”
Callum swallowed back his immediate retort. “Aye. I ken. I was a drunken boy. I also told ye—every one of ye—the absolute truth. Only where I listened to ye, ye never listened to me. So aye, I came here for revenge, and I thought to sweep ye up with the rest of the devils who killed Ian. But firstly ye’ve a daughter who looks like him,” he said, clearing his throat as his voice broke. “Secondly, I’m fairly convinced that while ye likely encouraged Ian to tangle himself up with Dunncraigh, ye didnae have anything to do with killing him.”
She gazed at him in silence for a moment. “And the kiss?”
He began to feel like he was leaving his belly exposed to a knife blade, and that she held the weapon. Picking up his gloves, he moved around her for the door. If he knew anything about Rebecca, though, she would hound him until she had an answer to her question. Drawing a breath, he left the bedchamber for the hallway. “Mayhap it wasnae hate I felt,” he muttered, and descended the stairs for the breakfast room and the welcome interruption of Mags and her pack.
* * *
Rebecca stood back on the road, the reins of both horses in her hands, as Callum made his way down the shallow bank to the edge of Loch Brenan. The broken ruts in the road where the phaeton’s wheels had turned were softer-edged now, almost invisible after a year of weathering, but she knew they’d found the right place.
“It was raining that night, ye said?” he called up, wading into the water as if he didn’t care that he wore expensive Hessian boots, not to mention a fine linen shirt and buckskin trousers. At least he’d taken off his jacket and waistcoat, but that was likely for reasons of buoyancy rather than concern over his garb.
“Yes. It had been, all that day. The weather didn’t clear until the next afternoon.”
“How far out was the phaeton?” he asked, continuing forward until the water rose to his chest.
On the shore, the black wolf paced back and forth, whining and clearly trying to summon the courage to jump in to join her master. “Only the top of the seat showed above the water,” she returned. “Another five or six feet beyond you.”
With a nod he faced forward again and continued into the loch. She had no idea what he might be looking for; Loch Brenan hadn’t caused the accident. It had only been there when the carriage ran off the road. But he was after a conspiracy that didn’t exist anyway, so the idea that this needed to make sense to her had flown away with the geese.
“About here?” he called again.
“Yes. I believe you’re standing right where the left front wheel would have been.”
“And where was Ian?”
She looked away up the road. “Why are you doing this to yourself? To me? Do you think I’m enjoying this?”
“Nae, I dunnae. Where was Ian found?”
Curling the fist holding the reins, she pointed her other hand toward the reeds just to the left of where he waited. “In there. Facedown, with a large purple bruise and a cut over his right temple.” She shifted, pointing to the stand of trees on the far side of the road. “And the horses were over there, with the remains of their tack.”
“What did they find with him?”
Rebecca frowned. “What do you mean? They found the phaeton and the horses.”
“In his pockets.”
“Callum, this is ridiculous. Get out of the water before you catch your death. They found nothing in his pockets but what he usually carried: money, his pocket watch, some calling cards, and one of Margaret’s hair ribbons.” She stopped, covering her eyes with one hand so he wouldn’t see her crying and accuse her of being weak-kneed or something equally ridiculous. “You’re an awful man, to make me remember all this.”
“Rebecca, look at me,” he urged instead.
Stomping one foot, she complied. “What?”
“I’m standing.”
“I can see that.”
“Nae, ye cannae. I’m standing. I’m nae swimming or treading water. How does a man drown in five feet of water when he can swim like a fish, and when he could just stand up?”
“I told you he had a horrible bump on his head. He was unconscious.”
“And what did he bump his head on, then? The bank here is smooth, and the road’s fairly straight. Even if the horses spooked and bucked the traces, the carriage had to turn nearly eighty degrees left, roll down the bank, and keep him in the seat until it came to a stop in five feet of water, at which time he … floated away on his face?”
“That’s what happened, Callum. Precisely. So yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
He waded back toward her, water making his white shirt cling to his skin, the ribbons of muscle beneath making her abruptly wonder whether she needed to take a cold dip in the loch herself. The wolf shoved her head beneath his hand, and he gave her a scratch before he walked back up to the road. “I dunnae see it,” he said.
“Only because you don’t want to see it,” she countered.
That merited her a sideways glance. “I want to look at the phaeton now.”
Before she could lead Peaches over to a likely looking boulder, he took her around the waist and lifted her into the sidesaddle. Good heavens. The sensation of breathlessness lingered even after he released her to swing up on Jupiter, and Rebecca shook herself. Yes, he was strong. That fact didn’t make him less aggravating.
The wolf loped in a wide circle around them, making Peaches give a nervous sidestep. Glad of the distraction, Rebecca pulled the chestnut mare back under control and nudged her into a trot behind the big stallion. “Did you have to bring the wolf with you?” she asked.
“Waya watches my backside for me. And if she doesnae get a good run every other day or so, she gets irritable.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Mayhap ye could use a good run, yerself.”
Oh, that was enough of that. With a sniff she urged Peaches into a canter, passing by Callum and Jupiter. Half a dozen heartbeats later the pair drew even with her. Unless she wanted to gallop she would have to tolerate him, she supposed, but at least a canter would see them back home sooner. Not home, though, she corrected herself. Not her home. Not any longer.
Back at the stable yard he kicked out of the stirrups and jumped to the ground before Jupiter could come to a complete halt, then strode over to take her around the waist before the groom, Thomas, could reach her. “Stop grabbing me,” she muttered, putting her hands over his as he lifted her to the ground.
“Ye didnae used to complain about it,” he returned in the same tone, letting her go again.
“I’m not eighteen any longer.” Smoothing her skirt, she headed around to the back of the stable, listening until he fell in behind her.
“Nae, ye arenae,” he agreed. “Ye’re … curvier now. Softer. Nae all skin and bone and sharp elbows in my ribs. I like it.”
That made her blush, when it likely should have made her turn around and slap him. “It is not appropriate to talk to me like that in front of this … thing,” she stated instead, and kicked the rear wheel of the phaeton. The fancy vehicle had always seemed frivolous, unlike her logical husband, and since the accident it had become almost a living embodiment of everything she hated about what had happened.
Callum didn’t reply to that, but sent her a sideways glance as he pulled the heavy canvas covering off the phaeton, walked around to the front of the vehicle and then, to h
er surprise, stepped on the front wheel and pulled himself up onto the water- and weather-worn seat. Shifting a little, he held out his hands as if he was holding the reins, then bent forward and back again, twisting from side to side.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“What did he hit his head on, do ye reckon?” he asked, having to fold over nearly double to lower his forehead near to the low dash rail above where his feet were braced.
“The phaeton no doubt bounced down the bank quite a bit. It could have been anything,” she retorted.
“Nae. I’m serious, Rebecca. Come and look. What do ye see that might have caused that blow to his head?”
Reluctantly she stepped up to the front of the carriage. “He was driving through the wind and rain, Callum. A tree branch might have hit him. Perhaps that’s what spooked the horses.” It made sense; something had caused this, after all.
“And did ye find any downed trees by the loch? Any broken branches?”
“No, but—”
“Answer me this, then. Where was he going in the dark and the wind and the rain in a phaeton? Why didnae he have himself driven in the closed coach?”
“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me. Perhaps he was in a hurry to meet my father.”
“Did he receive a note from yer father?”
She dug her fingers into the hard metal of the dash rail as she glared up at him. “No. At least Papa said he hadn’t sent anything to Ian that day. Perhaps he needed a new contract signed, or to go over some figures.”
“But he didnae have anything in his pockets, ye said. Did he leave with anything in his hands?”
“I’m going to begin throwing things at you,” she snapped. “Stop it. There isn’t anything to find. You’re looking for trouble to justify hating Dunncraigh, and there just isn’t any.”
Callum held her gaze. “Did he have anything in his hands when he left the house?” he repeated evenly. “Or did he drive out into the middle of the night for nae reason at all?”
Rebecca shut her eyes, trying to remember. It had been just any other night, up until the point that it hadn’t been. Yes, he’d been quiet, and a little short with his words, and he’d snapped at Margaret when she’d scampered into his office begging for him to read to her. Then he’d gone striding about, back and forth, opening and slamming his desk drawers, and then he’d shoved some papers into a leather pouch and—
“Yes,” she said aloud, opening her eyes again, to find Callum watching her intently. “He had a leather pouch with some papers in it. I didn’t see what they were, but he was … annoyed—upset—about something, to the point that he snatched Margaret’s favorite book away from her when she asked him to read it to her, when he did so regularly. That … surprised me. He put the pouch in his inside breast pocket. On the left.”
“And it wasnae with him when he was found the next morning.”
A chill, slow and dark, trailed down her spine. “I don’t recall anyone with it. The farmers, Mr. Landry and Mr. MacKendrik, were the ones who found the phaeton. They pulled him from the water.”
“I know them,” he returned. “Or I did. Good men, both of them.” He hopped down to the grass again.
“The papers might have simply floated away and sunk somewhere,” she proffered. “And he frequently found bits of his business annoying. You haven’t proven anything.”
“Nae. But it’s a start. I’ll find more. Enough to prove it to ye.”
“And to a court.”
Callum sent her another glance before he strode around to reclaim Jupiter, no doubt so he could call on Mr. Landry and Mr. MacKendrick. Rebecca felt another chill. She knew why he hadn’t replied to her. Because once he’d proven to her and to himself that Ian had been murdered, he didn’t mean to take his accusations to court.
Men had, on occasion, attempted to kill the Duke of Dunncraigh. He kept kinsmen about him at all times for just that reason; a man who burned out his own cotters had enemies. But none of those enemies had been Callum MacCreath. And she was very soon going to have to decide on whose side she wanted to stand.
Chapter Nine
Callum closed his satchel and fastened it, then did the same with the portmanteau he’d liberated from the attic. His luggage had doubled in a matter of ten days, despite his best efforts. He’d forgotten how many clothes being in Society required; Kentucky had been much simpler.
And here, at Geiry Hall, was simpler than Inverness. A good portion of him wanted to stay, to spend his days riding his land, watching his niece grow up, and figuring out what the devil lay between him and Rebecca. Something remained; he felt it every time she entered the room. And he wanted to know how far it went, where it might lead. All that, without knowing for certain he could trust her.
He felt that he could. Waya didn’t sense anything nefarious about his former sister-in-law. He couldn’t explain how she did it, but the wolf could smell a liar—and evidently they stank, because Waya didn’t like them anywhere near her.
Or perhaps he wanted to trust her, because he wanted her so badly he even dreamed about her at night, now. And he hadn’t done that in years. The—
“Uncle Callum,” Margaret said from the doorway, “I’m willing to return to MacCreath House, but I think Daffodil should come with us. I didn’t even have a chance to go riding more than two times, and that makes her very sad.”
“Yer mama told ye nae, I wager, and ye’re here now to twist me about yer wee finger,” he returned, grinning.
The lass pranced forward, flinging her arms about his waist and tilting her head back to give him a hopeful smile. “Please?”
“Good God, ye’re shameless.” And she was already the reason they’d stayed for three days longer than strictly necessary. Callum tapped the end of her nose with his forefinger. “Nae. But I’ll go riding with ye every morning the next time we come down here. And that’ll be soon. I swear it on Waya.”
“You aren’t supposed to swear, but very well. Can Waya at least sleep in my bedchamber with me at MacCreath House?”
Looking down at her upturned face, he envied her. Even with her father gone, the lass had every confidence in the world. She knew for a fact, in her mind, at least, that she ruled her world, that she would always have enough food to eat, friends with whom to chat and play, pretty gowns to wear, and a wolf at her feet. And by God, he meant to make certain all of that remained true. Taking her around the waist, he lifted her into the air so she could look down on him. “Aye, as long as ye leave yer door open. Wolves sometimes need to roam at night. Agreed?”
“Aye,” she returned, giggling.
“And lasses do nae roam at night. Aye?”
“Aye,” she repeated stoutly.
Outside, the coaches clattered up the drive from the stable, and he set Margaret down again. “Go fetch Agnes,” he said, naming the six-year-old’s nanny as he nudged her toward the door. “Tell her we’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Aye,” she called again, galloping up the hallway.
Hefting both bags, he left the room as well, Waya falling in behind him. When Jamie, one of the two footmen he remembered from his previous residency, left the corner room with four bags clutched in his arms, Callum appropriated one of those, as well.
“M’laird, ye shouldnae be carrying yer own bags, much less her ladyship’s,” the servant exclaimed, rebalancing his load.
“It’s nae trouble,” he returned, heading down the stairs and leaving the footman with no option but to follow. “They’re lighter than barrels, which is what I’m accustomed to hauling about.”
“Is it true ye own the Kentucky Hills Distillery, then? If ye dunnae mind me asking.”
“Aye. I do own it. Ye’ve heard of it?”
“Down at the Bonny Bruce they call it the finest whisky nae made in the Highlands.”
Callum chuckled. “I’m nae certain that’s a compliment.”
“From Highlanders? Aye, it’s a compliment.”
His sales numbers said lik
ewise, but he settled for nodding. In the Highlands, nothing was permitted to be superior to what was made here—at least not anything admitted to publicly. The very fact that the Bonny Bruce, a small tavern with naught but locals patronizing it, stocked his whisky spoke volumes all on its own.
“So it’s back to MacCreath House, then?” Rebecca asked, as she joined them on the front drive.
“Aye. And I’d like yer permission to go through yer da’s office at Edgley House.”
“So now you think my father had something to do with Ian’s death?” she retorted, lowering her voice as the servants loaded the coaches.
“Nae. I think yer father’s death had someaught to do with Ian’s.”
He watched her expression, waiting for her to absorb the fact that he considered both Ian’s and George Sanderson’s deaths to be anything but accidental. In his narrative it all made sense; he only needed to find the threads that connected the entire mess together.
Her eyes widened, and she grabbed his arm to drag him down the drive. It would take a man a good bit bigger than she was to move him, but he acquiesced, walking away from the house and the general chatter behind them.
“Stop this,” she hissed, facing him. “I understand you feel somewhat … responsible, and you want to make amends for not being here. But it’s beginning to sound mad. For heaven’s sake, Callum. Let the dead rest, and look to your own future.”
He tilted his head. “I’m looking to yer future, Rebecca. And Margaret’s.” Seeing her skin darken and anticipating another browbeating, he took a breath. “I’ll make ye a bargain. Let me look. If I dunnae find anything, if there’s nae a pencil mark out of place, I’ll stop. Agreed?”
That was all a lie; he knew something lay just beyond his reach, and he’d die before he let it go. But she nodded, which was what he required. Without her permission he would have to break into Edgley House, and that could get complicated.
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