“Is that so? And what would you have to give up if you wished to marry, Lord Geiry?”
“Revenge,” he said coolly, and returned to the ledger he’d pulled from the pile.
After that, she couldn’t concentrate. He knew he was likely to die because of this pursuit of his. They’d both spoken about it. But earlier when they’d jested about marriage, for him it had been nothing but that. A jest. Because he wanted revenge, and nothing else mattered as much to him. Why was it worth so much? Rebecca studied him as he carefully went through each page, looking for clues of Dunncraigh’s duplicity. Because he still blamed himself, she realized. It had to be that. Nothing else made sense.
Perhaps, though, he hadn’t considered every possibility before him. “Why didn’t you simply march off the ship and shoot Dunncraigh between the eyes?” she asked, setting aside the part of the stack she’d perused.
She felt his gaze on the top of her head. “I wanted to,” he returned. “I didnae know who else might be involved.”
“Meaning me,” she said, glancing up at him.
“Aye.”
“But now you know I had nothing to do with it.”
“Aye.” He paused. “Ye’re aiming at someaught. Tell me what it is, Rebecca.”
He actually wanted her opinion, her thoughts. If a man had ever asked her such a question before, she couldn’t recall it. Another way in which he differed from his older brother. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, feeling out a path for her words as she spoke. “I know you said you’d look for evidence that could see him arrested and prosecuted, and that you don’t like that idea.”
“Nae, I dunnae like it,” he agreed readily.
“Yes. And your way, killing him and Donnach, would get you your revenge. Our revenge. But you know it wouldn’t end there. You would be immediately arrested, or killed in return.”
“I ken. But ye and Mags would be safe.”
“Are you certain of that? At the least we would have to move to London, because we’re outsiders enough here as it is. I don’t know anyone there. What if—”
“Ye decided to marry again?” he finished for her. “Ye’re worried ye’d nae know whom to trust.”
“Of course I wouldn’t know whom to trust. And if I don’t remarry, then Margaret would become the target of fortune hunters the moment she came of age, because she’ll inherit after me.”
“And in this imaginary land, how do ye reckon me nae killing the Maxwell will alter yer circumstances?”
At least he still listened. “I told you what happened with the Duke of Lattimer. He’s not the only one who’s bested Dunncraigh over the past year or two. The world grows more modern. A clan chief who looks after his own interests before those of his clan finds that his people have elsewhere to go, other, more sympathetic ears to listen and to help.”
“Ye want me to join forces with the lordlings who dared to snarl at His Grace? I willnae. Snarling at him or making him pay a fine is nae stopping him. This is my fight. My way.”
“Of course it is.” Though an outside opinion or two might prove very helpful, she hadn’t expected that would interest him. This was far too personal for that. “What I’m trying to say is that if he condemns himself, shows his true colors and in so doing shames himself in full view of clan Maxwell, then haven’t you won? The legal approach can work. It will work. But I want everyone else to know what a … a damned rat he is.”
Callum ran his fingers through his dark hair. Pushing to his feet, his steaming cup of tea in one hand, he walked to the nearest window. “Ye’re suggesting I trade killing him for embarrassing him? They dunnae sound like equal punishments to me.”
Rebecca took a breath and held it, sending up a silent prayer at the same time. “Then go now and kill him. End this searching-for-clues nonsense, and do what you came here to do.”
The teacup shattered in his hand, china and hot liquid splashing over his hand and to the floor. Evidently he’d been able to stifle his old volatility, but not extinguish it completely. “I think about it,” he muttered, not moving. “Walking straight up to him and gutting the bastard. Every time he strolls up to me and offers his sympathies or to buy me out, he has no idea how close he is to dying. And I havenae stopped myself because I was afraid, or because I lost my will.”
“Then why?”
Finally he faced her, his face a blank mask except for the utter fury in his eyes. “Because it would be too easy.”
“‘Easy’?” she repeated, steadying her legs beneath her in case she needed to move quickly.
“Nae for me, because aye, it would be nice and simple. One slice, and he’d be gone. But it would’ve been too easy on him.”
“You want him to feel your pain.”
“I want him to feel my pain, yer pain, Margaret’s pain that she’ll nae have a da’ to help her learn to dance, or walk her into church for her wedding.” He clenched his fist, blood from cut fingers dripping to the floor. “Before, it would have been enough to drop him in his tracks. Before I knew wee Mags. Before I knew that he’d hurt ye, as well as me.”
“Then let’s hurt him back,” she said, with far more courage than she felt. Once she agreed to go along with this, there would be no stopping. Callum MacCreath wouldn’t turn aside for anything—even her. “Court, yes, but not just that. Making certain everyone knows he’s a damned dog, whatever it takes to see him gone and you … not dead. So you can continue to protect us.” That would appeal to him, she knew. Not his survival, but his ability to continue to protect Margaret and her. This Callum would want that, she hoped. She believed.
He looked at her, the sound of the clock ticking in the hallway and dim outside noises of Inverness loud in the silence between them. If he realized she was trying to keep him safe, that keeping him alive and close to her mattered much more than what happened to Dunncraigh, she would lose. Abruptly, though, he nodded. “Aye. Let’s hurt him.”
* * *
As a twenty-year-old, Callum had spoken his mind, and not having hold of all the facts hadn’t slowed him down an ounce. He’d also been furious when his elders—namely Ian—had declined to listen to him, much less follow his advice. In the boldness of youth he’d felt utterly secure in the fact that he was a MacCreath, a man, unconquerable, and the only one who knew the answers.
The idea that he wouldn’t inherit the Geiry title, wealth, and estates hadn’t overly troubled him. He would have enough blunt to be comfortable, and anything he did with that money would belong to him. Therefore, when he’d left Scotland for Kentucky to make his own way, he’d still felt like he had his feet under him, even if his pride and his heart had been blasted into oblivion.
He looked to his right, where Rebecca sat dining on a beefsteak with oyster sauce. Margaret did the same to his left, with one wolf and one white mop keeping a close eye on her from below. The formality of meals had been the most jarring reminder that he’d left the wilds for an aristocratic household, but given that it had been ten years since he’d had a decent oyster sauce, he was willing to wear a fresh cravat and jacket for the occasion.
His mind returned to the fact that had been troubling him all day; Rebecca had never had any prospect of being independent. Aye, as she said, she could have avoided marriage altogether. That would have made her a wealthy spinster, but with no one to pass on her father’s holdings to in turn, all of her wealth would have eventually gone to partners or other investors, or at worst the Crown. Now that she had a daughter, if she didn’t remarry then Margaret would be the recipient of her wealth—which the bug could only hold on to as long as she remained unwed.
Rebecca, though, had wanted to marry. She’d therefore chosen a steady, kind man, a man her father liked and trusted, and one with whom she would be comfortable and content. And then it had all fallen apart, anyway. Because her husband had died before her father, she was the one who inherited the fleet and associated business interests, but as far as she knew that had been accidental. She still had some leverage, a ch
ance to find another kind, steady husband, because she still had monetary value.
He’d never been steady, nor particularly kind. At least never in the time she’d known him. Bellowing that he’d changed rang hollow, too, since he’d stomped into her house, thrown water at her, and then announced that he meant to kill anyone who’d had a hand in harming Ian. Even to his ears that didn’t sound like a man she’d want for more than an evening or two.
In truth, when he’d arrived it hadn’t been with the idea of surviving much past killing Dunncraigh, anyway. Two things had begun to alter that—meeting Margaret, and setting eyes on Rebecca again. And what the devil he meant to do about that, he had no idea.
“Why are you mad at your dinner?” Margaret asked.
He shook himself. “I’m nae mad at my dinner. It’s bonny.”
“But you’re frowning at it.” She wrinkled her own face up, imitating him.
“Good God, I’m terrifying,” he commented, sprinkling more salt atop the beefsteak.
“No, I’m terrifying. But I didn’t forget; you’re mad at something.”
“I’ve just been thinking about how brave ye and yer mama have been over the past year or so.” He leaned closer to her, putting his chin near the top of the table. “Did she have gentleman callers telling ye to call them ‘uncle,’ bug?”
She giggled. “Only Uncle Donnach. But yes, she had gentleman callers. And so, so many yellow and white roses. I could smell them everywhere.” Margaret made an expansive gesture, taking in the whole house.
His good humor squeezed into anger at her comment. Uncle Donnach. Rebecca had been trying to survive, he reminded himself forcefully. And Stapp had of course been extremely helpful and understanding about her situation—because the marquis wanted her fleet.
“Margaret, why don’t you—”
Callum lifted a finger at Rebecca before she could hurry the wee one away. He kept his gaze on Mags. “I need ye to listen to someaught, lass,” he said quietly, reaching over and taking her free hand. Her fingers looked so small and delicate in his; it seemed a miracle that she could exist in this place with conspiracies and dangers all around. “Ye’ve but one uncle in this world, and that’s me. So call Donnach Maxwell anything else ye like, but please dunnae call him yer uncle.”
She nodded, her two-colored gaze meeting his. “Very well. May I call him Stapp, like you do?”
“Aye.”
“And you’ll always be my uncle? Because I didn’t know you for a very long time.”
A smile touched his mouth, and his battered old heart. “I will always be yer uncle. And ye’ll always have me wrapped about yer wee little finger.”
Margaret stuck out her pinkie. “Good. Then I have another question for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“May I wear a kilt?”
On his other side Rebecca burst out laughing. “No, you may not wear a kilt, Lady Mags. Kilts are for Highlands men. And ladies do not show their knees or their ankles.”
The six-year-old sighed. “Is Grandmama spinning in her grave again?”
“Very likely.”
Sweet Saint Christopher, she was a delight. If he could somehow forget everything else, the oath that had brought him back to Scotland, the devils circling around them, he would have been content to chat with his niece, sit for her tea parties, and go walking in the park with her and her mama. The three of them, for the rest of his life.
Was that why he’d agreed with Rebecca that hurting and disgracing Dunncraigh would be preferable to killing him? When he’d thought she was involved he’d wanted nothing more than to end all of them, whatever the consequences to himself. Callum sent her a sideways glance. Was that why she’d suggested this twistier path? Did that mean she wanted him about? God knew he wanted to be here, however much it upended the life he’d carved out for himself.
“Does Waya get to stay here with me tonight?” Margaret asked, not even attempting to hide the bites of beefsteak she dropped for the mop and the wolf.
“Aye,” he returned. “Much as I’d enjoy the stir she caused, I dunnae think Laird and Lady Braehaudin want to risk their other guests getting devoured.”
Margaret laughed again. “That would be funny.”
“People getting devoured is never amusing, Mags,” her mother put in. “And I know this is the first evening in some time that I’ve been out late, but you will listen to Agnes and go to bed when she tells you to do so.”
The lass wrinkled her nose. “Very well. Are you and Uncle Callum going to dance?”
“I reckon so,” he put in, before Rebecca could say otherwise. “I didnae get dressed up in my best tartan to stand alone in the corner.”
Nor had Rebecca. Against her own better judgment, or so she’d claimed, she’d donned a deep blue silk gown with black beading throughout the bodice and down the short, puffy sleeves. Together with the black lace gloves sitting by her left elbow, she looked lovely, sophisticated, and very, very desirable. And despite the black, not at all like a widow just coming out of mourning.
“M’laird, ye asked me to tell ye when the clock struck nine o’clock,” Pogue said, as two of the footmen cleared dinner from the table.
“Aye. Thank ye, Pogue. Have the coach brought ’round, will ye?” Rising from the table, he called Waya to the foyer while Rebecca’s maid retrieved her reticule and heavy black wrap. “Waya,” he said, squatting in front of the wolf, “guard Margaret.”
With a soft whumph she rubbed her side against his thigh, nearly shoving his kilt up to his hip, then padded back into the dining room, only to appear again as Rebecca and the lass emerged. “Is Waya guarding me now?” Mags asked, skipping forward to put her arms around his neck.
He kissed her on the cheek, lifting her in the air as he straightened again. “Aye.”
She twisted around to kiss her mother, and smoothed her skirt as he set her down again, a miniature image of propriety—temporary or not. “Have a pleasant evening, then,” she chirped, and went traipsing up the stairs with her pack as Agnes appeared on the landing.
“We could stay in,” Rebecca commented, looking after her daughter.
“Nae.” He took her in from head to toe again. “But dunnae think I’m nae tempted.” So tempted, in fact, that he was beginning to think the kilt might have been a poor choice of attire.
With a fine color touching her cheeks, Rebecca led the way out the front door. He handed her into the waiting coach himself, though, mainly because he wanted to touch her. Because she was his sister-in-law and he was the patriarch of the household they didn’t require a chaperone, which, considering Scottish law, seemed rather questionable. On the other hand, he didn’t want a damned maid traveling everywhere with the two of them. Especially not after last night.
“You know people will talk when they see me wearing this,” she commented again once the coach rumbled onto the street.
“Aye. Ye look like a woman and nae a widow.”
“A widow is a woman.”
“A widow’s a lass ye feel sympathy for, nae desire for.” He moved from the opposite seat to the place beside her. “I want Stapp and Dunncraigh to see that ye’re nae some weepy lass they can pretend to rescue. Ye’re a woman that other men desire, and they’re nae the only men in the hunt.”
“Donnach has a legitimate reason to want to marry me, though. Whether or not he … cares for me, he and his father have a great deal of money invested in Sanderson’s. If he can acquire a much larger share through marriage, why shouldn’t he make the attempt?”
“I’ve nae argument with that,” he returned, though just the idea of Donnach Maxwell laying hands and mouth on Rebecca made his jaw clench. “They murdered two men in order to acquire Sanderson’s. That’s nae a plan they’ll be willing to abandon.” He took her hand, curving his fingers around hers. “If I’m correct, which I reckon I am, the second they see ye dancing with other men, and in particular with the man who owns the other large portion of Sanderson’s, they’ll crawl o
ut of the shadows to push ye into marrying Stapp. And ye’ll have to be ready to push back.”
“I know.”
“Are ye ready? I very much doubt it’ll be pleasant, lass. Especially if ye resist.”
The look she gave him physically hurt his heart. Sad, angry, hopeful, and resolved all at the same time, it made him wonder if her heart had room left for him in it. She’d been through hell over the past fourteen months, and he’d arrived to make things worse, to put more of a burden on her.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said quietly, and he pretended not to be holding his breath as she leaned against his shoulder. “In your scenario, they killed Ian because he was on the verge of exposing the way they’d begun taking money and making agreements without his or my father’s knowledge.”
“Aye,” he agreed, knowing she hadn’t yet reached the point.
“And they deliberately killed him first, because if they’d killed my father first the business would have gone immediately to me and thereby to my husband. This way, Ian died, keeping my inheritance out of MacCreath hands. And then the other partner who’d begun to suspect wrongdoing could be killed, giving me said inheritance. In their thinking I become available, and I own what they want. They killed my husband and my father in order to get … me.”
“In order to get their hands on yer father’s share of Sanderson’s,” he amended, displeased by the bleak tone in her voice. She did understand it all. That was good for him, he supposed, but it couldn’t possibly be comforting to her. “I dunnae reckon they gave a damn about ye otherwise.”
“They will,” she stated, straightening again. “Whatever you have planned, Callum, I’m with you.”
He nodded. A few days ago the idea of having her as a willing participant, ready to use herself as bait to snare the monsters, would have seemed a boon. Now, though, he didn’t want to see her put in danger, despite the fact that she had as much reason to want vengeance as he did. Perhaps more. But when she declared that she was with him, it wasn’t revenge that came to mind. It was long, sweaty nights, and days filled with laughter. And suddenly he didn’t as much want to get to vengeance as he wanted to get through it.
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