A Devil in Scotland

by Suzanne Enoch

  Callum grimaced. “I keep trying to tell ye, ye knew me, Rebecca. The idiot boy who realized how stupid he was just a wee bit late and who by his own actions made certain he lost everything. I dunnae drink. Nae any longer.”

  “But there’s a glass there on the desk.”

  “I like to be reminded how close I am to disaster.”

  “You own a distillery. How can you—”

  This time his mouth curved into a rueful smile. “I’ve a particularly good sense of smell. And I’ll take a swallow when necessary. One swallow. My men have orders to club me over the head if I try for more than that.” He blew out his breath. “I’ve nae been clubbed but once. That was after I got the first letter from Ian, after five years of nae a word.”

  “The letter you burned.”

  “I burned them all, but aye.”

  He took her mouth again, and she closed her eyes, sinking into the sensation of him wrapped around her. She’d been desired before, of course; she’d spent nine years as a married woman, after all. But Ian had approached her differently. He saw her value as an entire being—the inheritance she would bring into his control once her father passed, the additional power that wealth would bring to the MacCreath family. When Donnach had begun to express more than friendship she’d realized the same thing. He wanted what she brought to the table, the power and wealth she carried with her, wrapped around her like a cloak.

  Callum looked at her differently. In his eyes, in his arms, she felt like a woman. A woman of flesh and bone desired by a man of flesh and bone. No numbers, no logic between them. Her money, her business ownership, fell to a very distant second, if it even mattered to him at all.

  Unless that was just her, wishing for all that. But when he touched her, when he kissed her like this, as if he simply couldn’t keep his distance no matter what he might have preferred, she felt it. He wanted her.

  Tangling her fingers into the back of his dark hair, she opened her mouth to his, seeking and tasting him as he tasted her. With her back pressed against the wall she could feel his strength. She could feel his power, how self-confident he’d become, how driven. Callum still burned, but he had a firm grip on that fire now. He’d set his gaze on Dunncraigh, but for this moment he looked at her. Perhaps she could save him, save both of them, if she gave in to what she wanted anyway, if she let herself fall for him as much as her heart ached to do so already.

  The door bumped against her back. “Mama, I found my book. Come read to me.”

  Swallowing and out of breath, Rebecca leaned her forehead against Callum’s. If she couldn’t stay away from this man, she would need to explain some things to Margaret before her daughter saw the two of them together.

  “I’ll read to ye tonight, Mags,” he said, before she could gather her wits together enough to speak. “Will that do?”

  “Oh, aye,” Margaret returned. “Yes, please!”

  “Go upstairs and wait for me, lass.”

  “Aye, Uncle Callum. Good night, Mama.”

  “Good night, Mags.” Once the sound of Margaret’s footsteps retreated, Rebecca slipped out of Callum’s arms. “Are you certain you want to read to her? She’ll demand it every night if you begin it.”

  “Ye said Ian read to her. I reckon I can manage.”

  Rebecca searched his face. When he’d first arrived she’d thought him the devil himself. Perhaps he still was. But this devil seemed to genuinely adore his niece. And if the least of the conspiracies he claimed happened to be true, she couldn’t imagine a better protector for Margaret. Or for her, for that matter.

  That all teetered on what would happen to him if his suspicions were correct. And what would become of him if his suspicions were wrong.

  Chapter Ten

  Callum dragged a chair over beside the pillow-heaped four-poster bed where his niece nested like a baby bird in an overlarge nest.

  “No, no,” she said, lifting her head up over the edge of the pillow canyon. “You must sit here.” She pointed toward the far side of the bed.

  “If I’d realized ye were going to be so strict, I’d have run away,” he commented, leaving the chair behind and moving around to sink down onto the bed beside her nest.

  She handed a large, worn book over the top of the pillows. “No you wouldn’t,” she returned. “You’re wrapped around my little finger. You said so yourself.”

  “Aye, that I did.” He turned the book over in his hands. Charles Perrault’s Tales of Mother Goose. “I remember this book.”

  “It used to be Papa’s, he said,” she returned, yawning. “I saw that someone squished a bug in one of the pages, and that’s when he told me about you.”

  Callum smiled. “Aye, that was me.” He cleared his throat. “Which tale do ye wish tonight, my wee bug?”

  Mags giggled. “I want ‘The Sleeping Beauty.’ It has ogres.”

  Still running his fingers along the worn bindings, Callum flipped pages until he found “The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.” He could imagine Ian sitting here, reading tales to Margaret with the wind whispering outside beyond the green and yellow curtains. What the devil had happened, for him to risk losing all this? Why hadn’t he, a man who thrived on thought and caution, been more cautious that night?

  “Uncle Callum?”

  He shook himself. “Aye. Are ye certain this willnae give ye nightmares?”

  “The bad people get what’s coming to them. I like that.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. “So do I, bug.” He lifted the book. “‘Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who were grieved, more grieved than words can tell, because they had nae children. They tried—’”

  His thumb went through the binding. “Damnation.”

  Her face appeared over the pillows again. “There’s no swearing in this fairy tale.”

  “I ken. Give me a moment.”

  “Papa had to repair the binding all the time,” she chimed in. “Keep reading, if you please. You’re not even close to the ogre part, yet.”

  Callum pulled his thumb free, opening the book to the back to try to push the binding back in place. Right at the edge, a small CM written in black ink caught his attention. CM. For Callum MacCreath? It seemed far-fetched, especially if his brother had aimed it at him. Kentucky was nowhere near Inverness. And yet if Ian had repaired this book frequently … Glancing up at the sleepy face of his niece, he picked at the corner of the binding. It lifted easily, revealing a small, folded piece of paper pressed against the leather cover.

  God. Trying to stop the shaking of his fingers, he freed it and set the book onto the bed. “What is it?” Mags asked, clambering closer over the mountain of fluff.

  “I dunnae have any idea,” he returned. “Did ye and yer da’ read any other books together?”

  She shook her head, her loose, dark hair covering her blue eye. “No. I don’t think so. We always read Mother Goose. Sometimes Mama read it with me, and Agnes once in a while, but mostly Papa.” Yawning again, she brushed her hair from her face.

  And he was stalling. Shutting his eyes for a heartbeat, he opened them again and unfolded the missive. “Callum,” he read to himself, and his heart stammered again. “Callum, I hope if you’re reading this it’s because you’re here in Scotland and I showed it to you. If not, then I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. It began so slowly I didn’t even notice it, Dunncraigh tangling himself into the enterprise George and I began. Then I thought he was being helpful, or interested, or at worst, ambitious.

  “Tonight I finally unraveled it. He’s been making large investments in our names, siphoning off profits to fund his own ventures. And now he’s hired solicitors—I’m not certain why, but I imagine it’s so he can wrench majority control from George. I have a ledger book, in the bottom drawer of my desk, where I noted several discrepancies. Find it, if you don’t already have custody. George and I need to meet and stop this.

  “I hope again this is all old news to you, and we’ve already resolved it and are sharing a bottle
of your Kentucky Hills whisky as I show this to you. I fear, though, that is not so and the trouble’s been dumped in your lap. Keep my lasses safe, whatever comes. I know you will. And forgive me. Ian.”

  “You don’t look very well,” Margaret said into the silence, startling him. “Are you going to be ill?”

  “I might be,” he returned, standing. “Will ye go fetch Agnes and ask her to read with ye tonight, bug? I need a word with yer mama.”

  “This is not how I like things, but very well,” the six-year-old said, and rolled off the bed. “Come along, pack.”

  Armed with the half-disassembled book and with Waya and Reginald trotting behind her, she headed downstairs for the servants’ quarters. Pacing, Callum read the note again. He’d already searched the desk; no such ledger was there. The words swirled around him, accusations and apologies and worry and frustration. What if he’d read those letters Ian had sent him? Would he have known what his brother faced? Would he have had time to return home and prevent this disaster?

  Growling, he left the room and strode up the hallway to the bedchamber Rebecca had taken for herself after he’d removed her from the master suite. Not bothering to knock, he shoved the door open and walked in, shutting it soundly behind him and turning the key which rested in the lock.

  She sat up in bed, her blond hair disheveled and a sleeve of her night rail falling down one shoulder. “Callum? What—”

  “I found it,” he interrupted, reminding himself that he needed to watch her—not because she looked lovely, but because if she had known any of this, he would see it in her face when she read the note. He held it out to her as he reached the side of the bed.

  “You found what?” she asked, taking it. “Light a lamp, if you please.”

  He did so, turning back in time to see her face drain of all color. Any guilt he felt at not preparing her for the note, though, he would keep to himself. It was more important—to him, and for Margaret—that he know for certain whether she’d had anything at all to do with Ian’s death. He more than suspected she hadn’t, but half of that was just as likely lust. He wanted her to be innocent, because he wanted her.

  “No,” she whispered, reading the missive. “No. It was an accident.” She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “It was an accident! They were so kind to me, after…” She hurled the paper away from her, but it floated down to land on the foot of the bed. “It was an accident, Callum!”

  Without thinking he sat on the bed, pulling her into his arms as she sobbed. He should have been kinder, gentler. For God’s sake, she’d fainted when he’d first walked into the house. If he hadn’t been so certain that because she’d broken his heart, she must have helped kill his brother, he would have seen that the losses of the past year had left her more fragile than he’d ever seen her.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve forgotten how to be kind.”

  “No you haven’t,” she hiccupped between sobs. “You kept trying to tell me, and I wouldn’t listen. Where did you find this?”

  “In the binding of that Mother Goose book of Margaret’s. I found my initials in one corner and picked at it.”

  She slumped against his chest. “Good heavens. He took that book from Margaret, just before he left.”

  “Aye. So ye told me.”

  “He knew it was her favorite. She would never part from it. When she left it behind earlier this week, I thought I would have to send someone back for it, until Waya distracted her.”

  “It was still a risky thing,” he commented, feeling her shoulders easing a little. “I reckon he wanted to keep ye safe, but needed to let someone else know.”

  “He needed to let you know. Even after everything, he still trusted you. I should have, as well.”

  “Becca, I didnae earn any trust. I should have read his damned letters. I might have—”

  She straightened, putting a hand over his mouth. “Don’t do that to yourself, Callum. If you do, I’ll have to blame myself for being glad you were gone.”

  Wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb, Callum shook his head. “Of course ye were glad I left,” he said, moving her hand from his mouth and placing it over his heart. “I made trouble everywhere I went. And ye ken I still do.”

  “I was glad you left because then I wouldn’t be … tempted.”

  That stopped him. “Ye’ll need to explain that, lass.”

  “I can’t. Not tonight.” She plucked at the collar of his shirt. “Because I did love him. I did. But you were wild, and Ian was kind and safe. For a young lady of eighteen, the head knows one thing, and the heart, another.”

  Callum kissed her. She’d been angry that night, but she hadn’t hated him. She hadn’t found him repulsive. Whatever else he’d just confirmed, just learned, that seemed the most significant. And he had no intention of watching another moment of possibilities pass him by. He’d learned that much, at least.

  Bending her backward against the headboard, he kissed everywhere he could reach—her throat, her eyes, her soft, soft mouth. Moaning, she dug his shirt out of his trousers and slid her hands up his chest, the heat of her burning away the chill of the night, of what Ian had just confirmed from beyond his grave.

  Boots should not go on the bed. Wherever that thought came from, it did seem polite to remove them. Freeing one hand he did so, letting them drop to the floor and glad he’d had the foresight to lock her bedchamber door. Then he shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it aside, as well. His skin needed to be against hers. He needed to touch her, to feel her heat, to be inside her. For ten years, more than ten years, she’d haunted his dreams more than anyone else. For ten years he’d called himself a fool for being unable to forget her, for being unable to find some other lass to share his life. But she was the only one he’d ever wanted. And tonight, nothing was going to keep her from him.

  Lifting her onto her knees, he grabbed the bottom hem of her night rail and pulled it up over her head, casting it into the pile. Generous breasts, a soft curve to her hips—he noted her in general, then nudged her back onto the bed again. He could admire her specifically later.

  Callum moved over her, taking a breast into his mouth and flicking the nipple with his tongue. When she groaned again, he thought his cock would split right out of his trousers. Her hands at the fastenings only made it worse, but he liked that she wanted to undress him. Lifting up a little, he made room for her hands as he shifted his attention to her mouth again.

  When she finally opened the last button of his trousers he kicked out of them one leg at a time, every muscle taut with need. Keeping his mouth hungrily on Rebecca’s, he lifted her legs and pulled them around his hips, impaling her on his shaft.

  She dug her fingers into his back, breathless need on her face as he sank deeper inside her. Finally. She was no damned virgin, and he didn’t want to be gentle or slow. The need, the urge to claim her, overwhelmed everything. Planting his hands at her shoulders, he pushed into her again and again as she locked her ankles around his arse and dug her fingers into his back and held on.

  Her light blue eyes, darkened to purest sapphire in the candlelight, held his gaze as she moaned and panted in time with his thrusts. Neither of them spoke; he for one didn’t want her coming to her senses and asking him to stop. Perhaps she had the same concern about him. Regardless, the room was quiet except for the crack of the fire, her breathy groaning, and the rhythmic creak of the bed.

  Her breathing came more quickly, and then she tilted her head back as she spasmed around him. Good God. Clenching his own jaw, Callum sped his pace, digging his fingers into the sheets as he climaxed, emptying himself into her.

  When he’d finished he rolled onto his back, panting and sweaty. More. He wanted her again already, but his damned body needed a few minutes. When she turned and curled against his side, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and finally relaxed a little. She hadn’t tried to escape, at least.

  “I’m generally more composed than that,” he f
inally murmured.

  She kissed his chest. “I honestly didn’t mind,” she returned, trying to keep the amusement from her voice and not quite succeeding. Good heavens. One moment she’d been weeping over Ian, and the next … “Good heavens,” she said aloud.

  “It might’ve been wiser to show ye I’ve a slow, patient side,” he commented. “Ye said ye already knew the wild one.”

  “The wild one has its merits.” In nine years of married life she’d never experienced an encounter quite so invigorating. The fire in the hearth snapped, and she lifted her head—and caught sight of Ian’s note still on the foot of her bed. A touch of guilt chilled her fingers. “What are we going to do? This is—”

  “Dunnae say it’s wrong,” he broke in, his accent deepening. “It’s nae wrong, Rebecca.”

  “Would Ian think that?”

  “I already reminded ye about levirate marriage. Highlands men end up dead more often than ye’d think. If a lad couldnae marry his brother’s widow, wealth and property and clan would end up fractured and broken all about the countryside.” His arm tightened around her. “And I’m nae finished with ye yet.”

  That started a low shiver deep in her belly. And abruptly it seemed like a great deal longer than fourteen months since she’d had a man in her bed. Ian had told her that he’d forgiven Callum, and that he’d written to tell him so. At the time it had made her angry—or so she’d told herself. The last thing she wanted was Callum back in her life to complicate everything. But Ian’s death had jumbled and wrecked any plans she’d had for her future. And now here Callum was, in her bed.

  “That ledger Ian mentioned isnae in the desk,” he said into the silence. “Might yer da’ have taken it? To protect ye or himself?”

  “I don’t remember him taking anything, but several of my recollections from then are … fuzzy.”

  “Understandable. I need to take a look.”

  “You still need more proof?”

  He cocked his head, looking down at her. “I’d have been content to gut Dunncraigh the moment I set foot on land. But ye wanted proof, and now I want to know why they did it. I dunnae ken that it matters, all in all, but the part of me that cannae conceive of that level of greed wants to hear him confess. At the least I want to understand why he decided Ian needed to die. Do ye nae want me to look into what happened to yer da’?”