“I ken who ye are. A younger brother desperate to be half the man his older brother was. So desperate ye’d even take his widow for yerself.”
“I see throwing ye out my window didnae knock any sense into ye. Care to try again on the balcony?” He gestured toward the open doors to one side of the room, the only place where he’d noticed a breath of cool air and the scent of damp evening.
“My father offered ye a very generous price for whatever claim ye have on Sanderson’s fleet, Geiry. Take it. The next offer willnae be as generous.”
Taking a last look at Rebeca, Callum faced the Marquis of Stapp. “Ye’re interrupting a mighty pleasant view here, so I’ll ask ye plain—what will that next offer be, exactly? Because I did turn down the first one.”
Donnach’s brow furrowed for a heartbeat before it smoothed out again. “More than likely it’d be beating ye half to death and throwing ye on the next ship back to America.”
“That doesnae sound very gentlemanly. And how do ye mean to explain two Earls of Geiry vacating the title within eighteen months?”
“Ye can keep the title. In Kentucky, or wherever ye were hiding.” Stapp took a half step closer, and Callum edged his fingers toward the sgian-dubh sheathed against his right calf.
Hiding. Had they looked for him? Ian had known where he was. If his brother had trusted the Maxwell so much, why hadn’t he said anything? Or had they not told Ian they were looking?
Hm. It would have made sense to remove him even before killing Ian. Then the title would have gone to his softheaded cousin, who would have wet himself at the idea of being noticed by a duke and the head of their clan. And then, with Donnach’s marriage to Rebecca, Dunncraigh would have owned Sanderson’s entirely.
Callum clenched his jaw. Damn him for being too stubborn to read Ian’s letters. The last one, at least, though he hadn’t known at the time that there would be no more. It might have told him what was afoot, that they were all in danger. It might have convinced him to return home in time to save the lot of them.
“Interested, aye?” Donnach asked, misinterpreting his silence for consideration. “I’ll convince the duke to grant ye a boon for going away. It might nae be what he offered ye before, but I reckon it’ll be enough. More than enough.”
“More than enough for what?”
“To compensate ye for nae marrying a lass who nae wanted ye, anyway. I was there, if ye’ll recall. I heard what she called ye. And I saw her choose yer brother. I even heard the conversation after ye left the house like a scalded cat.” The marquis chuckled. “I’d wager yer ears were burning, because it was fairly unpleasant.”
Ah, the bit where Stapp tried to turn him against Rebecca so the marquis could move back into the “almost betrothed” position. “Back to Kentucky,” he mused, wishing he hadn’t allowed Rebecca to convince him that shooting both Maxwells was too easy. He knew it, too, but damnation, it was tempting. “Have ye ever seen a man scalped?”
Stapp blinked. “What?”
“Scalped. I’ve seen it. Lost three of my men back when I first began my business. They strayed where they shouldnae have, and paid for it. My point, though, is that once ye’ve seen a man scalped, still alive and begging to be killed, being threatened with a beating doesnae much signify.”
“Ye’ll nae win her, Geiry. Ye cannae be trusted, and ye cannae be relied on. I’m the one who’s been here for the lass when she lost her husband and her father. Ye were somewhere off seeing men getting scalped until ye got word ye’d inherited a title and blunt.”
“Dunnae fu—”
The Duke of Dunncraigh stepped between the two of them before Callum could jab a finger into the marquis’s chest, grab hold of his jacket, and drag him out to the balcony.
“Away with ye, Donnach,” his father said.
With a curt nod the marquis turned on his heel and walked into the crowd. Given how close he was to losing his temper, Callum was surprised to see that no one else seemed to have noticed the confrontation. But then Stapp was much more accustomed to navigating Inverness soirees than he.
As for Dunncraigh, well, Callum had insults aplenty for both the marquis and his father. After holding them in for a decade, it felt good to let them fly. Especially since it wasn’t just for his own satisfaction. He had two lasses to keep safe. “Rebecca may think ye’re some kindly grandfather to her,” he said aloud, gazing at the duke levelly, “but I know ye killed my brother, and I know ye killed George Sanderson.”
“That’s a dangerous thing for a lad with yer reputation to say to a man with mine,” the duke returned, not looking even a wee bit surprised at the accusation.
And both the duke and his son continued to pick at the man he used to be, the one they thought he still was. Callum curved his mouth in a slow smile. “Just because ye couldnae find me in America doesnae mean Ian couldnae. And just because he was a bit late in moving against ye doesnae mean he didnae tell me what he knew—and how he planned to fight ye.” He inclined his head. “Good evening to ye, ye old goat. I look forward to seeing ye again. Soon.” Turning, he walked away.
“Ye’ve said that before, and ye’ve insulted me before. I still seem to be … unharmed.”
Callum stopped. The man made a good point. Slowly he turned around and returned to stand in front of the duke. Bending his head a little to reach the man’s ear, he whispered, “Ye’re unharmed because this is my kingdom now, ye pile of shite. Ye’ll live for as long as I say ye will, and nae a breath longer. I warned ye that I’d end ye. I keep my word. But nae on yer schedule. Because if there’s one thing worse than being scalped, it’s waiting for the blade to touch ye. Think on that while ye lie in yer soft bed tonight.”
With that he did walk away, but only to the far side of the ballroom. He might have set the Maxwell’s gaze on him, but the easiest path to what the duke and his son wanted was still Rebecca. For God’s sake, he should just marry her now, and cut them off at the knees.
The thought tempted him. More than tempted him. He wanted her, and he had no intention of letting her go. Ever. But she wanted justice with a taste of ridicule, and he craved revenge. Stapp and Dunncraigh needed a taste of hope, or they might well cut bait and run—or rather, shut themselves behind locked doors where he couldn’t get at them, and where a single letter from a dead man wouldn’t sway a judge to action.
Still … He gazed at her, swirling and smiling halfway across the room, candlelight glinting along the silver clips in her golden hair. When she and her gangly partner came to an abrupt stop, he actually felt unbalanced for a moment. When he saw what—who—had stopped them, though, he pushed through the soft haze and started forward. Stapp.
As he reached the outermost dancers, Rebecca waved her fingers at him, though her gaze remained on the marquis. She knew the game they’d chosen to play, and while he might not have told her all of the twists and turns, she damned well had spleen. With a nervous half bow Mr. Basingstoke relinquished her to the marquis, and Donnach Maxwell put his hand on her waist, took her hand, and turned into the waltz with her.
Callum didn’t like it. At all. Whatever else that man had done to their family, he’d gone after Rebecca’s hand in marriage. Hell, he was still in pursuit, as far as he knew. Fuck.
They would have danced at some point during the evening; both he and Rebecca had realized that. She had to be swayable, for their plan to work. But not the damned waltz. Not a dance where the marquis held her in his arms.
He made himself watch, anyway. Aside from his vow to protect her, the sight of the two of them served to remind him of just how close he’d come to missing the chance to save her, and to have her. To know her again, and to realize all the ways in which he’d been an idiot ten years ago.
If she could knowingly dance in the arms of the man who had a hand in killing her husband, then he could watch her do it. But tonight, after they returned to MacCreath House, she would be his. Part of him wanted to think, to imagine, in much longer terms than that, but he stopped himse
lf. The deeper they played this game, the more likely it became that he would die protecting her. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—promise her a future he couldn’t deliver. No matter how much he’d begun to desire it.
Chapter Thirteen
“What did ye chat about?” Callum asked, appearing at her elbow as if out of thin air.
Rebecca took his arm, grateful for the solid warmth of his presence. “Air, if you please,” she said, trying not to look behind her to see if Donnach followed, ready to pounce on her again.
Without another word he guided her to the double doors that opened out onto the balcony. An iron railing ran along the front except for the section closest to the wall of the house, where shallow steps curved down into the pretty, walled-off garden.
A half-dozen guests stood about on the balcony already, and without pause Callum headed the two of them down the steps and into the torch-lit garden. Once amid the trees and flowers he led the way off the stone path and up to the back wall, beside a small stone birdbath ornamented with stone cherubs and a stone sparrow.
“Don’t trample the bluebells, or Lady Braehaudin will have you clapped in irons,” she cautioned, releasing her tight grip on his sleeve.
“I’ll keep that in mind. What did Stapp say to ye?”
Of course he wanted to know how his plan was progressing. Rebecca took a short breath. For a moment she’d thought he might have wanted her out here amid the shrubbery for something else, and she felt disappointed for and annoyed with herself all at the same time for wishing it. “He reminded me how volatile you are, and how you’d only bothered to reappear when you had an inheritance to claim. And how he and I have been friends for a decade, and confidants for fourteen months.”
His eyes glittered reddish in the reflected torchlight. “And ye said?”
“I agreed with him. He wasn’t lying, after all. Not about that.”
He nodded, a muscle along his jaw flexing. “And he thinks ye can still be swayed to his side, then?”
“Of course he does. That’s what we agreed on, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Turning half away, he seemed abruptly interested in the birdbath. “Considering ye fainted dead away when ye set eyes on me, I wasnae certain ye had it in ye to smile at him. But ye did.”
That snapped her spine straight. “Don’t you dare try to turn this on me,” she hissed as loudly as she dared. “Yes, I smiled at him. You asked me to.” She dug her forefinger into his shoulder. “You wanted me to dance with him.”
“Nae a waltz.”
“Well, that wasn’t up to me, was it? Should I have refused? Told him, ‘no, I’ll only tolerate you for a quadrille’?”
He swung around so quickly she lost her balance. Callum caught her by the shoulders and shoved her backward against the stone wall, then claimed her mouth in a breath-stealing, openmouthed kiss. “Every lass,” he growled nearly soundlessly, his lean, hard body pressed along hers, “every lass for ten years was ye. Every damned one. There were times I almost wished Ian dead so I could have ye. I want ye for myself. I dunnae want to share an ounce of ye, even for justice. Or for vengeance.”
Heated, delighted shivers began between her legs. She would never, ever admit that on occasional, brief moments she’d closed her eyes and tried to imagine Ian was his brother, but Callum was here now, and real. Sliding her arms around his shoulders, she sank against him, relishing in his touch.
Callum pulled at her skirt, lifting it along her thighs. Rebecca opened her eyes wide, looking beyond his shoulder to see if anyone might be watching. Of course he’d chosen the most secluded spot in the entire garden—he was a born wilderness hunter, after all.
Holding her against the wall, he hiked her skirt up to her waist, lifted the front of his kilt, and drew her legs around his hips. As he slid inside her she gasped, covering the sound with her mouth against his shoulder. The distant realization that Ian would never have dared be so reckless and bold blasted into pieces as she locked her legs around his hips and he thrust into her again and again, hard and fast and desperate. She came, muffling her ecstasy against his mouth, not caring if he was scratching up her gown with bumping her up and down the hard wall at her back.
While she clung to him he released his grip on her thighs, holding on to the top of the wall on either side of her, shoving in hard as with a grunt he climaxed. He held her pinned there, a blue-garbed, half-naked butterfly splayed on a card, as he spilled himself into her. She could feel the hard breathing that matched her own, the taut center of him focused entirely on her. She spasmed again, abruptly and violently, as he gazed into her eyes.
At the other end of the garden someone laughed. Had they heard? “Put me down,” she whispered, still panting.
“Nae.”
“The longer we’re here the more likely someone will see us. For Margaret’s sake, put me down.”
Scowling, he released the wall and put his hands around her waist. Her legs a little unsteady, she lowered them to the ground again, brushing her skirt back into position as he took a step away.
“I ken,” he murmured, resettling his kilt. “I pushed ye to come here tonight. It’s on me that ye had to dance with Stapp, that ye had to smile at him and Dunncraigh. I reckon I have ’em aimed at me, now. I’ll nae put ye into the middle of this again.”
“Brush the leaves off my back,” she countered, and turned around. Once she felt his hands on her back and tickling deliciously through her hair, she squared her shoulders. “I’ve noticed,” she said, picking and choosing her words, “that when I’m not about, you take more chances. I saw you talking with His Grace. And I saw your expression. That was not the least bit subtle or polite.”
“I r—”
“I know you were trying to make them see you as the largest threat to their plans, you big brute. My point is, I have as much to risk as you do. Perhaps more. And I’ve been wronged by them, to a greater degree than you. So no, you are not going to set me aside and go lay waste to clan Maxwell on your own. We shall do it together.”
It was more than the wish to be near him, to chat and jest with him as she used to do. Now that he’d returned, now that she’d met this new, much-improved version of Callum MacCreath, the idea of watching him leave again, or of allowing harm to come to him, made her physically ache. And if she allowed him to view her as some delicate hothouse flower no matter how ill-prepared she felt for this task, then that old relationship she’d enjoyed so much, when they’d been equal, if wild, partners, would disappear.
“Together, aye,” he commented, as music began for a quadrille. “With me standing between ye and the vermin.”
That wasn’t much of an answer, but he hadn’t argued with her, either. “I have to go back. I’m to dance with Lord Braehaudin.”
“And I’ve his wife for a partner.” She started back to the pathway, but he took her hand. “I ken that ye’re nae the lass I pined after ten years ago. Ye’re an entirely different lass—a lady. And ye—you, standing right there—fascinate me. I’ve nae wish for harm to come to ye, but aye, I could use yer help. Just for God’s sake, be careful.”
Rebecca put a hand on his chest. “I’ll be careful if you’re careful. You used to be a man I liked despite my better judgment. You’re different now, in ways I can’t even describe.”
“Good ways, or bad ways?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Tightening her grip on his fingers, she towed him in the direction of the steps and the balcony. “Good ways, mostly.”
“I’ll see if I can do someaught about that.”
In truth, over the past fortnight she’d probably had more conversation with him than she had with Ian in the last six months they’d been married. Yes, they’d chatted about the weather, and meals, and Margaret, but clearly he hadn’t thought to confide in her about his growing suspicions of his partners. And she saw now that that had begun to consume him. He’d worked hard to improve the profitability of Sanderson’s, but she didn’t know if owning part of a shipping company had
been his dream—or if he had dreams. And he’d never, ever, had sex with her in someone else’s garden, as if he couldn’t stand the idea of not having her for another minute.
Back inside the ballroom Callum relinquished her to their host, the Marquis of Braehaudin, while he partnered with the marchioness. She tried to keep her attention on what she was doing; stepping on toes wouldn’t impress, and it had been quite a while since she’d danced with anyone. Even so, her mind kept wandering back to the garden, to the man who’d so unexpectedly stormed back into her life.
For heaven’s sake, more than once she’d actually prayed that he was dead, so she would never have to wonder what if. That was when she’d imagined him as he had been—a quick-tempered, easily offended rake in pursuit of any of a dozen different women at any given time. The man he’d become—a protective, hard, clever warrior—felt much easier on her conscience, but at the same time much harder on her heart.
As the quadrille ended, Donnach Maxwell came forward to collect her for the next country dance. She was beginning to feel like a tennis ball, batted back and forth and not even knowing on which side of the court she found herself. And she still managed to smile as he led her back onto the well-polished dance floor.
Callum wasn’t dancing, which should have pleased her. Instead, though, every unmarried female with whom he’d been previously acquainted seemed to have picked this moment to stroll by in front of him, accidentally notice his presence, and stop for a chat. As if they could have avoided noticing such an Adonis in their presence until now.
“I wondered,” Donnach said, as they bowed and curtsied, then hopped forward in one of the sillier dances she’d learned as a young lady, “if ye would consider meeting me for a stroll tomorrow.” He hopped beside her, keeping pace. “I’m nae to call on ye at MacCreath House, but surely ye dunnae mean to allow him to keep ye from seeing yer own friends.”
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