It had been written by Dunncraigh, and after four pages of spitting about the Duke of MacLawry and his ludicrous progressive ways, the journal ended. With a curse Callum flipped through it, but the rest of the pages were blank. He dropped it back into a drawer and grabbed the second one. Dunncraigh making business deals without the knowledge of his partners was one thing, and evidence that he’d defrauded his clan was another. But neither of them were proof that the duke had either murdered Ian and George, or that he’d ordered it done.
The second journal was much older, with the initials of Dunncraigh’s late father embossed on the hard leather cover. Pulling out his pocket watch and deciding he still had plenty of time, Callum checked through it. Other than a great deal of ranting about the Sassenach in Scotland and the Jacobites ruining the Highlands, he couldn’t find anything of interest. That one went back into the drawer, as well.
“Damnation,” he murmured, standing to go through the bookcase on the opposite wall. Shakespeare, Robert Burns, Walter Scott, and a first edition of Robinson Crusoe by Defoe made him wonder whether Dunncraigh read or simply wanted to give that impression. The rest of the tomes were almanacs, treatises on the different breeds of sheep, grain supplies during the Peninsular War, and a few others where even the title made him sleepy. He shook them out just to be certain, but found nothing.
Where, then, would a duke keep information he didn’t want anyone else to have? He wouldn’t have given a ledger or journal to Stapp, because he would have wanted to control them. The items could be back at Dunncraigh, he supposed, the duke’s fifteen-thousand-acre estate just north and west of Fort William, but they’d been taken from Inverness. It didn’t make sense that he would transport them.
Aye, he might have burned them, but as he took over the business shares of two men who’d been involved for longer than he had, Dunncraigh might have found a use for accounts and private thoughts, completely aside from anything incriminating.
Where would they be, though? The office would be the most protected spot, but also the most obvious. The master bedchamber? Servants would have the run of most of it. Still, though, he wouldn’t get another chance to look.
Hefting the satchel, he shifted the horse statue and slipped back out into the hallway, reaching back in to lean the equine against the door so it would fall over and leave it shut. He wanted Dunncraigh to know someone had been inside, but he didn’t relish being found out by some footman while he was still upstairs.
Someone coughed close by, and he ducked into the shadows beneath the main staircase as the butler passed through, collected a tray from the hall table, and continued on his way. After tracking down deer in thick brush, moving silently up the stairs felt fairly simple, and he reached the top before the butler returned to take his station in the foyer.
Well, he wouldn’t be leaving that way, then. Callum had never been upstairs in Maxwell Hall, and it took trying five doors before he found what had to be the master bedchamber. Two large stag heads faced each other across the room, the larger one with its antlers reaching nearly to the ceiling directly over the large bed, and the other over the fireplace on the opposite wall.
More striking was the large brown and gray bear head above the door. If the animal had come from Scotland it would have to be over four hundred years old, so it seemed more likely Dunncraigh had purchased the trophy from someone who’d been to America. Either way, he hadn’t killed the beastie.
The head above the far window, though, made him pause. A white wolf, lips curled back to show sharp fangs, yellow glass eyes snarling at him.
Like the bear, wolves had long ago been killed off in Scotland, though there remained rumors from time to time that some drover or shepherd had seen one high up in the Cairngorms. This specimen had likely come from the same place as the bear, but the fact that Dunncraigh had of all things a wolf up on his wall, seemed … prophetic.
Hell, he’d killed wolves himself when they’d gone after the cows in their compound’s small herd, but he’d never made a fucking trophy out of an animal. And he’d damned well never display an animal he hadn’t even killed. But that was Dunncraigh, he supposed, taking credit where he’d earned none.
The complete masculinity of the room surprised him a little, perhaps because it made him realize that his own bedchamber looked nothing like this one. The lighter curtains and wallpaper, paintings of heather and thistle, the carved wooden rabbits and foxes on the shelves—that had to have been Rebecca’s influence, because he couldn’t imagine Ian bothering with any of it. Clearly the Duchess of Dunncraigh held no sway in this room. He was rather glad to say that Rebecca’s touch was everywhere in his.
Pulling his mind back to his task, Callum rifled through the single bed stand and then the trunk at the foot of the bed. Nothing. The short bookcase beside the fireplace held nothing of interest, either. These were all places, though, the servants could reach. Someone as cautious as Dunncraigh wouldn’t put anything possibly damaging where anyone else could see it.
He made his way into the dressing room, filled mostly with hats and boots, and drawers with fresh cravats, shirts, and kilts. The valet would likely know more about the room than the duke, but he rifled through everything, anyway. After this, Dunncraigh would likely have men stationed every ten feet inside the house and around its perimeter. Callum wouldn’t be getting in here again.
And still, nothing. Swearing, he shoved the drawer holding the kilts closed, ready to slam the large wardrobe doors closed over it, but something shifted. Opening it again, he pulled everything out. Just heavy wool in the black, green, and red of Maxwell. Frowning, he pushed the drawer hard again. Something distinctly slid from back to front, but the velvet-lined box was empty.
Pulling the drawer out completely, he put it on the floor and crouched in front of it. As he looked at it from the side, the inside seemed more shallow than it should have been, but only by an inch or so. Unless he was imagining it because he wanted it to be so.
With a deep breath he pushed his forefinger down on the front right corner of the bottom piece. Nothing. The same with the back right corner. Then he pushed down on the front left corner, and it gave. The opposite corner lifted. He dug his fingers into the small space, caught hold of the bottom piece, and pulled it up.
An accounts ledger and a smaller journal lay side by side in the shallow, velvet-lined space beneath. For a half-dozen heartbeats Callum simply stared at them. Then he scooped them up, opened the ledger to see Ian’s neat handwriting, and shoved them both into the satchel. “I’ve got ye now, ye bastard,” he growled. “We’ve got ye.”
Moving quickly, he left the master bedchamber for the back of the house, looking for one of those open windows and a convenient trellis. He might have what he wanted from here, but Dunncraigh still had Rebecca far too close to him. And however much he’d paid the maître d’, he trusted himself more. He might not be able to perform a rescue without her punching him or chewing his ear off, but he could damned well watch over her until she was home safe.
And then he—they had some plans to make.
Chapter Seventeen
When Callum paid the maître d’ at Alba Gàrradh to watch over her, Rebecca decided he should have added a few more pounds to ask for discretion. She put her hand over her glass as the man leaned over to refill it with Madeira for the fourth time. “No, thank you,” she said.
“Did ye find the pheasant to yer taste, milady?” the tall fellow pursued. “That was a prime one. Hung for five days.”
“It was very fine, thank you,” she returned, wishing she could motion him to go away. She could certainly find him if needed. He’d barely moved more than ten feet from the table over the past hour.
“If ye’d like,” the man pursued, “I can show ye where we hang the game bir—”
“Go away,” the Duke of Dunncraigh said. “If we need ye, we’ll summon ye.”
The man swallowed and bobbed his head. “Of course, Yer Grace. I didnae mean to disturb y—”
>
“Now.”
Ignoring the exchange, the duchess reached out and put her hand over Rebecca’s. In the past she’d found the gesture comforting, a signal that she wasn’t alone, that people in the Highlands cared for her even if she was an Englishwoman by birth. Now, however, Rebecca had to wonder if Eithne knew what her husband and son had done, and even if she’d approved of the venture. And she made herself smile, anyway.
“I wish ye wouldnae be so stubborn, Rebecca,” the duchess said in her soft voice. “Ye could come stay with us, and nae even the worst gossip in Inverness could so much as raise an eyebrow at ye.”
“I’m staying in a house with my brother-in-law and my daughter,” she countered. “I can’t leave Margaret, and Callum won’t allow her to go elsewhere.”
The older woman glanced at her husband. “We do have some influence, ye ken. Perhaps we could persuade the court that the new Lord Geiry isnae fit to be anyone’s guardian. And when ye wed Donnach, he’d be pleased to adopt the bairn. Then her upbringing would be his responsibility, and we could all tell MacCreath to go to the devil.”
“I’m flattered you’re willing to take such drastic steps on my account,” Rebecca returned, wishing she could tell them exactly what she thought of them and their “charity” toward her and Margaret. “It’s something to think about, but I would need to be absolutely certain that Margaret could remain with me before I took any action. He—Callum—is very fond of her,” she went on. Make them worry a little, she reminded herself. That had been part of the plan. “And he … he and I were friends for a very long time before he left Scotland.”
“Before he was chased out of the Highlands for being a disgrace, ye mean,” Dunncraigh amended. “He wanted ye to run away with him, after ye’d agreed to wed Ian. That wasnae done with yer best interests in mind.”
Abruptly glad some Madeira remained in her glass, Rebecca took a drink. “Yes, I recall. It was a terrible night.”
“Aye. And now here he is again, still panting after ye. I cannae even imagine what Ian would make of all this.” He sat forward, covering her other hand so that she felt pinned to the table like an insect.
“Now, now, husband, dunnae be so hard on our lass,” the duchess countered, though her gaze remained on Rebecca. “She’s had enough turmoil. Give her some peace.”
“I know I cannae replace yer father, lass,” Dunncraigh went on, nodding, “but I’ve tried to give ye my shoulder and my advice over the past year. And I find Callum MacCreath to be a poor excuse for a man, and an even worse one of a potential husband for ye. Ye called him what he was, and what he still is—a drunken boy. That’s nae a man to raise Margaret. That’s nae a man to have anywhere near ye.” He sat back again. “That’s a man who begins fights he cannae win, and ends up dying over pride.”
With her hand free, she took another drink. Where had she found herself, when she couldn’t be certain whether her luncheon companion had just threatened the man she loved, or if he’d acknowledged that they’d already tried to shoot him? And personally, she didn’t think Ian would be at all offended to see the man his brother had become, or the way he and she had chosen to respond to Dunncraigh’s betrayal.
“You make some very good points, Your Grace,” she said aloud. “And Donnach has of course been a steadfast friend.”
The duchess patted her hand rather firmly and released her. “My lad doesnae want to be yer friend, Rebecca. He wants to be yer husband. And he wouldnae give ye a moment’s worry, which is more than ye can say about that MacCreath.”
Yes, she’d never have a moment’s worry until the second he pushed her down the stairs or put poison in her tea. Rebecca nodded. “Your advice has always been invaluable to me. And believe me, I am listening to it.”
“Good.” Dunncraigh pushed to his feet. “I’d like to leave here before that damned fool offers to chew my food for me,” he said.
More than ready to flee herself, Rebecca stood, as well. “Thank you so much for joining me today. It seems like it’s been ages since we’ve had time for chatting.”
They walked out to the street, and the two coaches rolled up to meet them. Rebecca thanked them again, but before she could step into her own vehicle, the duke took her arm. “Allow me, lass,” he said, helping her inside.
When he stayed in the doorway, a hand against each side of the opening, she took a breath. “I will consider everything you’ve said, Your Grace,” she said, figuring he was looking for assurance. “I promise you that.”
“A few weeks ago ye told Mr. Bartholomew Harvey to find someaught to get ye out from under Callum MacCreath’s paws,” he said, his voice low. “I can see Margaret freed from him. But I need to know that I can trust ye to cooperate and to keep yer silence about anything that might seem … irregular to anyone on the outside looking in. Are ye willing to do that?”
She had a very good idea how he meant to “free” Margaret. It would be the same way he’d freed her from Ian. Good heavens. “I would like Callum to relinquish his guardianship,” she returned slowly. Callum would likely want her to agree to whatever Dunncraigh said, but giving her permission for him to be killed? Never. Not even to help his plans. “Perhaps even to go back to his business in Kentucky. But he is Margaret’s uncle, her only close family on Ian’s side.”
“Ye cannae have yer daughter back as long as he’s anywhere about, Rebecca. Do ye want to lose her to a drunken madman? He’s brought a damned wolf into yer home! He’s become naught but a common brewer, for the devil’s sake. He needs to not be here.”
“‘Not be here,’” she repeated. “You mean … dead?”
Hard green eyes studied her face. She didn’t know what she showed him; as hard as she tried to look stoic and hopeful of finding a way out of her predicament, the bile rising in her throat threatened to give away precisely what she thought of him and his suggestion.
“I’ve known ye for a long time, lass,” he said. “Long enough that ye owe me some truth.”
Nothing in the world could have prevented her from flinching at that. “I don’t understand,” she ventured, anyway. “When have I not told you the truth about something? You just proposed killing someone. Would you prefer if I didn’t hesitate?”
He cocked his head, the gesture much less enticing and vulnerable than when Callum did the same thing. “I want yer word that ye’ll marry Donnach. My lad’s been courting ye for a year. Until a month ago, ye were ready to plan the wedding. Why has MacCreath changed any of that? And dunnae say it’s because of young Margaret.”
“It is because of Margaret. I told you, I won’t leave her. With Callum here, she isn’t going to be allowed out of his care. Not in favor of Donnach.” She grimaced. “You know he and Donnach have never gotten along.”
“I’m aware. Are ye aware that Donnach will be duke in my place one day? That ye’d be the Duchess of Dunncraigh, wife to the chief of clan Maxwell? Here in the Highlands, I’ve more power than the King. Donnach’ll give ye sons, lass. Sons to be kings. Ye said MacCreath likes young Mags. Let him have her, then. Ye’ll have more.”
This was him. The man who’d killed Ian, and her father, because he thought himself better than they were. Because he wanted what they had, and felt he deserved it. And he continued staring at her. “I … You’ve given me a great deal to think about,” she said, unable to stop her voice from shaking a little. “Too much for me to give you an answer at this moment.”
He drew a slow breath. “And yet ye did just give me an answer, I reckon. I’m disappointed, Rebecca.”
“Give me a day or two to decide, Your Grace. Please.”
“Aye. Ye take a day or two. Ye decide how the rest of us are to proceed. What good clan chief wouldnae allow a Sassenach female to make the rules we’re all to follow? Good day to ye, lass.” He backed out and closed the coach door.
Rebecca put her hands over her mouth as the coach rumbled up the street. The worst part of this had been the way she’d had to look again at every conversation she’d
ever had with Dunncraigh and Donnach, searching for clues about who they truly were, what they’d truly done. For ten years she’d called them friends. For the past year she’d thought of them as family. Family—when they’d actually taken her true family away from her.
The coach rocked hard sideways. Gasping, she grabbed onto one of the rope handles and hung on, listening to muffled conversation above her. Before she could ask what in the world had happened, the door nearest her swung open.
She gasped again, clutching her reticule like a club as Callum swung his head down from above into the doorway. “Dunnae kill me, lass,” he grunted, flipping down and pulling himself inside the coach. He hooked the door with his fingers and shut it before he took the seat opposite her. “I said I wouldnae eavesdrop, nae that I wouldnae drop from the eaves.”
Rebecca threw herself at him, wrapping her hands into his coat and pulling herself as tightly against him as she could. Callum made a low sound deep in his chest that might have been a growl, and put his arms hard around her shoulders.
“I’m here, lass,” he murmured into her hair. “They cannae hurt ye any more.”
But they could hurt her. They could hurt her by harming him. “Maybe we should just leave,” she said into his collar. “You and me and Margaret. Let them do whatever they wish, as long as they can’t touch us.”
“I agreed with ye about going to the magistrate, to the courts, Becca,” he returned, still using the same soothing tone. “I cannae let them go entirely. It’s nae in me to do that.”
She pushed away from him a little, looking up at his face. “What if I asked you to, Callum? If I asked you to take us to Kentucky with you and never come back?”
His two-colored gaze searched hers. “First I reckon ye’d have to tell me what he said to ye that scared ye so much.”
And if she told him that, he would likely alter his plans back to murder. “Suffice it to say that he knows I have no intention of marrying Donnach. The way he worded it … I tried to go along with everything, to sound willing but a little hesitant, but— For heaven’s sake, he suggested I let you have Mags, because Donnach and I will have other children.”
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