She tried not to linger on that word, because her definition and his seemed to vary wildly and she needed to remain cordial. In her dictionary a friend did not murder husbands and fathers to gain control of a business. But then she wasn’t supposed to know about that. Or if she did, she wasn’t supposed to believe it. Even now, even reading Ian’s letter, she could still find room for doubt. It was so mad, after all. Could anyone commit two murders and then smile and pretend perfect innocence to the degree that Donnach and his father apparently had?
Every word he said needed now to be examined for a hidden, second meaning, every compliment for a secret threat. It was dizzying, and after her interlude in the garden she already felt off balance. “I’m residing in Callum’s house,” she said, keeping a smile on her face. “I shall honor his rules. But no, he didn’t say I couldn’t go walking with you. Where shall we meet?”
“Along the river walk in front of the cathedral,” he said promptly. “We’ll take a stroll south to the Ness Islands for a picnic luncheon.”
“You have it already planned, don’t you?” she asked, just barely refraining from sending a glance in Callum’s direction. He didn’t want her to risk her safety, but at the same time, all they had by way of proof was Ian’s note and Callum’s unwavering conviction.
“I’ve missed ye, Rebecca. We had plans, ye and I. Am I wrong to think we still do?”
If she hadn’t known, if Callum hadn’t insisted that she listen to his mad accusations and then provided Ian’s letter as proof, she would have been touched by Donnach’s pleading tone. She would have worried that he stood at risk of genuine heartache. If Callum had never returned at all, she would have been tempted to tell Donnach that wooing wasn’t necessary, and she would of course marry him.
But Callum had returned, and whatever lay between them was like lightning, bright and dangerous and mesmerizing. She craved it. Whether this was just her clinging to an old memory, an unfulfilled desire, or something that had a future, the idea of anything pulling her away from it—from him—before she’d had a chance to figure it out made her angry and almost … frantic.
This flirting with Lord Stapp was for a cause, though. It didn’t mean anything. Not any longer. It wasn’t real, and it would more than likely help. More importantly, by spending a day with Donnach Maxwell, she might discover enough information to save Callum’s life. All it would take from her was some courage.
She waited until they’d danced separately down the lines then rejoined again at the end of the row. “You are not wrong, Donnach,” she said, following that with another unfelt smile. “I have missed our chats.”
“I renew my offer to settle ye in at Samhradh House with me. Or at Edgley House, if ye prefer. Ye dunnae need to remain under Geiry’s roof.”
“I do,” she returned. “He is Margaret’s guardian. I won’t leave my daughter behind.”
“Well, I see that as a problem,” Donnach said. “Because he’ll be her guardian until she’s eighteen, at least. I cannae adopt her without his permission. How can I marry ye, Rebecca, if ye willnae come be with me?”
A perfectly logical question. And it still made dread crawl down her spine. “Running away to hide and marrying are two different things,” she countered, feeling her way as she spoke. “He won’t harm her, but I can’t leave her there without a very good reason.”
To her relief the dance ended before he could question why she’d very nearly just contradicted her own logic. She joined in the applause, but kept clapping longer than she should have when Donnach offered her an arm. Blast it all, she had no talent for subterfuge. Hiding a scowl, she put her hand over his forearm.
“For the past year, lass, ye’ve been able to rely on me to help ye,” he murmured, guiding her toward the open balcony doors. “I’ve nae a reason to stop helping ye, now. None of us wants that drunk here interfering. So ye may continue to rely on me. All I ask in return is that ye dunnae listen to his nonsense. He’s a madman who’s been carrying a grudge for ten years over someaught he did to himself. He needs to nae be here.”
What did that mean? Had he just offered to kill Callum? Had she inadvertently encouraged him to do so? Oh, no. This couldn’t—
“The next dance is mine,” Callum said from directly behind them.
Donnach stopped them just short of the balcony. “Go away, Geiry. Ye’re nae wanted here. Ye’re barely tolerated. Do everyone a favor and go spend the rest of the evening at one of yer taverns. The Seven Fathoms managed to survive without yer blunt, but I reckon they’d weep with joy to see ye back again.”
“Aye? Well, I reckon I can break yer nose before ye can make a fist. Care to wager on that?”
Rebecca pulled her fingers free and turned around. “There’s no need for stamping and shoving,” she stated, meeting Callum’s narrowed gaze. “I’ve promised this waltz to my brother-in-law, and I’m a lady of my word.”
Without waiting for anyone to respond to that, she took Callum by the elbow and, using all her strength, turned him an inch toward the dance floor. Abruptly he relented, and she nearly fell on her face as he gave way. Moving with whip-quick grace, he caught her beneath the arm and pulled her against his side.
“What were ye thinking,” he murmured, “going out to the balcony with that snake?”
“I was trying to keep up with his conversation,” she retorted. “I have no idea where my feet were going.”
A low rumble sounded in his chest. She looked up at him sideways, belatedly realizing that whatever she’d said had amused him. Well, at least one of them was enjoying the evening, then—though in truth she’d enjoyed it very much up until that last dance.
“And with whom were you dancing?” she asked stiffly.
“Morag MacKenzie,” he replied, taking her right hand in his left and sliding his right hand around her waist.
A little breathless at being touched by him in public, she put her free hand on his shoulder. “Morag … Wasn’t she one of the women with whom you spent your evenings when you were last here?” She hadn’t liked it then, but now she had the sudden urge to hit the pretty redhead in the nose. The jaw-clenching dislike punching through her felt unlike anything she’d ever experienced, but she knew precisely what it was—jealousy. She didn’t want any other woman touching him as she touched him now.
“Was she?” he returned, gazing down at her face. “I thought perhaps, but they’re all a wee bit fuzzy in my mind. I dunnae recall spending much time sober back then.”
He was in all likelihood lying, but she actually appreciated it. Neither of them was the same person they’d been ten years ago. Not even close. “Was I a fuzzy memory, then?”
“Nae. Ye were the siren calling me back from a very long time at sea, my lass.”
That sounded lovely, but too many men seemed to be attempting to sway her with pretty words, lately. “Don’t those who listen to sirens find themselves dashed upon the rocks? Am I deadly, then?”
The orchestra sounded the first note, but instead of straightening, he leaned his head closer to hers. “Aye. I’d die for ye, Rebecca.”
With that they were off. It took several turns for her to realize that he’d evidently been studying that first waltz very closely, because he knew the steps. He’d always been graceful, but for a few moments she had the distinct sensation that she was flying, floating a few inches above the ground as she twirled in his arms.
He’d likely meant to sound romantic. In light of his original plans and what Donnach had just said, though, she had the sinking feeling that he was being prophetic. How could she give her heart to a man who seemed determined to pay for his transgressions—or what he perceived to be his transgressions—with his life? How could she go through that again, especially knowing the pain that lay ahead?
“I would rather you lived for me,” she said quietly, but didn’t think he heard.
Chapter Fourteen
The rooftops of Inverness didn’t much resemble the wilderness of Kentucky in appearance, b
ut climbing from a thatched roof to one of crumbling stone to another of hard tiles did seem somewhat familiar.
Callum paused on the roof of the Inverness cathedral, squatting in the shadow of the highest steeple to look out over the pathway along the river. The Marquis of Stapp stood there; from what he could tell, damned Donnach had arrived a good twenty minutes before the time of his designated rendezvous with Rebecca.
Thank Lucifer she’d told him about today, even though it had left him tempted to tie her to the bedpost this morning. His cock twitched at the mental image. Perhaps he should do that, anyway. She’d said Stapp wouldn’t attempt anything but honey-coated words and then had asked him to give his word that he wouldn’t interfere.
Well, he wasn’t interfering. He was watching. If that bastard laid a hand—or worse, a mouth—on her, though, “watching” could go fuck itself. She’d left first, taking his curricle to the cathedral, while he’d waited and then galloped off on the waiting Jupiter. He’d left the stallion at a tavern three streets back from the river Ness, then approached via the rooftops. No sense in alerting any of Stapp’s men who might be watching.
Back at MacCreath House, Waya had taken up her now-usual position at the head of the stairs to watch over Mags, and he’d begun to think the she-wolf didn’t miss running down boars and deer all that much—not when the exchange was table scraps and raw beefsteaks. She’d even chosen a nap first thing this morning over joining him on his ride. But she’d keep Mags safe, and that left him free to clamber about on rooftops.
South of the cathedral along the walking path Stapp had chosen, the buildings trailed off into tangles of brush, then trees and pretty glades with scattered thatched-roof houses and an old ruin or two breaking up the wilderness. It was damned pretty, and he wished he’d thought to take Rebecca walking there himself. Now she would only see it as him aping the ape.
It would also make following the two of them much simpler for him, and increase the temptation for him to put a ball between Donnach Maxwell’s shoulder blades. Callum rolled his own shoulders. He’d become accustomed to a certain lack of civility, to using brute force without hesitation when the occasion called for it. That had been for stakes of life and food and land. This, revenge, was both cleaner and more … messy. Especially when one particular lass continued to tempt him toward peace and domesticity.
Still, it had taken courage last night for her to agree to picnic with Stapp, and even more to tell him about the rendezvous. She had a backbone, and resolve. How far would she be willing to go, though, to avenge a man who’d been dead for fourteen months, and another who’d been gone for just short of that? No, he corrected himself. She didn’t want to avenge anyone. She wanted the Maxwell and Stapp to stand before a judge and be weighed for their crimes, and to accept whatever punishment or lack thereof some stranger decided they merited.
His curricle stopped just short of the cathedral. Before the groomsman could jump down to help Rebecca to the ground, Stapp stepped forward to see to it himself. When he took her hand, Callum clenched his fist.
The drizzle of the morning had ended, and blue sky crept closer along the western horizon. The grass would be wet, but given the trio of footmen who fell in a dozen or so feet behind Rebecca and Stapp, the marquis had planned for that. Among them the lads carried a small table, a pair of chairs, a blanket, and a large picnic basket. Callum was glad to see them present, loyal to the Maxwell or not. At least Stapp wouldn’t be attempting to remove Rebecca’s clothes in front of his footmen—or so he hoped.
There were several ways to convince a lass to marry a lad, after all. So far the marquis had tried faux protectiveness and flattery of her weak, feminine heart. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t tire of being patient and move on to threats or ruination. Of course that would also be the last thing Donnach Maxwell attempted.
Keeping to his crouch, Callum returned to the back of the roof and walked out along an overhanging, adjoining oak branch, then clambered to the ground. He’d worn his old Kentucky buckskins today; bold red and green and black plaid didn’t blend well into the greenery growing along the Ness. And he didn’t think for a moment that the three footmen were the only Maxwell men wandering about along the river walk today.
Rebecca carried an umbrella of green oiled silk, and used it presently as a walking cane. She’d dressed in a matching green walking dress, simple and half covered by a black pelisse. Whether she’d worn black to continue to honor Ian or to send Stapp a reminder that she was freshly out of mourning, Callum approved. He approved the umbrella, as well—anything she could use as a weapon if need be.
Using trees and low-growing greenery for cover, he kept thirty or forty feet behind and to one side of the strollers. Her dark colors hadn’t kept him away, but then he and Ian had always had a complicated relationship. Ian’s death had made this, today, possible with Rebecca. But at the same time he’d adored his brother. With a low growl, Callum shoved the thoughts aside. Not even Saint Michael could reconcile gratitude for the new possibility of a life with Becca against fury over Ian’s death. They didn’t fit. But there he was anyway, in the middle of it.
The sound of Rebecca’s sweet laugh drifted out to him, shaking him out of his idiotic thoughts. His only duty today was to see that she remained safe. Anything else, he could tolerate, including the anticipated insults to himself and his character. Hell, he’d spent too much time mulling those in his own mind to be hurt when someone else spoke them.
After a mile or so they turned off the trail for a small, tree-edged clearing. While Rebecca and Stapp stood arm in arm chuckling over something, the footmen set up the table and chairs, laid out plates and utensils and glasses, poured Madeira, and served stewed partridge and Jerusalem artichokes in a white sauce. Heavy for a luncheon, but no doubt Stapp meant to impress. It smelled good, per the rumble in his own stomach.
While the two of them sat to dine, he crept closer, settling in behind a cluster of young cherry trees. A half-dozen men seemed to have found interesting bits of ground all about the glade, because they all stood in separate, silent contemplation in a rough circle surrounding the luncheon. Of course Stapp would want men to guard his precious backside—and likely to keep Rebecca from leaving if she’d felt so inclined. Callum had stalked panthers on occasion, however, and avoiding the view of a few Highlanders wasn’t much of a challenge.
“… comfortable profit,” Stapp was saying around a mouthful of partridge. “Even before ye wed me, we’ll keep ye and Margaret safe and earning a fine income nae matter what nonsense yer brother-in-law gets into. Together we own two-thirds of Sanderson’s business. He cannae stand against that, even if he tries to wreck us out of spite or someaught.”
“Do you think he would attempt such a thing?” Rebecca countered. “He does seem to look kindly on Margaret, and he’s been pleasant to me.”
“Lass, he’s threatened to murder my father on the three occasions they’ve crossed paths since he crawled back to the Highlands. He threw me through a damned—pardon me, blasted—window. That’s why I dunnae like the idea of ye staying beneath his roof. If he blames us for Ian drowning, he likely blames ye, as well. I couldnae guess what he might try, especially when he’s been drinking.”
“Callum would never harm Margaret or me,” she returned. “I’m certain of that.”
“And yet he willnae let Margaret leave his household. Doesnae that hurt ye, Rebecca? He might as well be keeping ye prisoner. Ye said so, yerself.”
Callum gazed at her through the filter of damp bark and leaves. She lowered her gaze to her plate, her sunrise-blue eyes thoughtful and, in his opinion, wary. Her golden-blond hair coiled at the top of her head caught the weak sunlight, an angel’s halo for a lass who’d gone through far more sorrow in her twenty-eight years than she deserved. This lass deserved laughter and warmth and a far distance from plots and deaths and hidden enemies wearing the faces of friends.
Had he made things worse for her? Callum scowled. Stapp would say so. The marquis
would say that his anger and accusations had caused her—were causing her—nothing but more worry and frustration that she should have been spared. But then Stapp and Dunncraigh had begun this war in the first place. And if stopping it meant another share of worry, then he would take as much of it as he could from her, and then see that it ended. Permanently.
“Callum and I were friends before you and I met, Donnach,” she said. “I knew him well. Or I knew who he used to be. He does seem to have changed.”
“Dunnae tell me ye’re carrying a torch for him, Rebecca.” Stapp picked up his knife, then set it down with a clatter. “Fer God’s sake. The man’s a devil. Ye cannae deny he wants nae a thing more than to destroy everything Ian ever touched.”
Callum touched his fingers to the ground, ready to launch into the open and take down the marquis. With surprise on his side, he had no doubt he would reach Stapp before any of his men had a chance to move. One flick of the blade in his boot, and Rebecca would be safe, damn the consequences.
“Have you and your father made an attempt to reason with him?” she asked. “He is your partner—and mine—now, after all. Perhaps your expectations of him have colored your own views.”
“Mayhap it’s jealousy that’s colored my views. Ye could stop all this feuding if ye’d agree to marry me. We could do it today. With yer part of the business added to mine, we could buy him out. Or force him out.”
“I thought we were becoming friends, Donnach. More than friends. Are you saying I’m a … monetary decision?”
Good lass. Anything they could make him say, any way they could draw him out, would help, whether they decided to go to the authorities or hang him by his own belt.
The marquis leaned forward, laughing. “That didnae sound even a wee bit romantic, did it?” he asked, no amusement in his voice. “Of course we’re friends, Rebecca. We have been for nearly a decade. I’m … frustrated. The bastard’s been back for less than a month, and he’s managed to step between us. Is it so odd that I want to move past him?”
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