“Hm. That sounds like someaught that would get ye angry, nae frightened. Did he tell ye I’ve nae much of a future? Did he threaten ye with someaught, yerself? Tell me, lass, or I’m likely to imagine the worst, anyway.”
She grumbled a curse under her breath. He did make a point—Callum had never required much in the way of proof to set him against the Duke of Dunncraigh. “It was just … Yes, he suggested some things, including that he could see I kept Margaret if I was willing to cooperate and be silent about whatever they planned on doing. The idea that this was something acceptable to him, that he would simply trample whatever happened to get in his way, whether what he wanted actually belonged to him or not … It made me angry. And I realized I was very unprepared to see him like that, even knowing in principle what he’s done, when I thought for a long time we were friends and allies.”
“Aye. If it makes a difference, at the very beginning ye likely were allies. Every time he dug an ounce deeper into the business, though, he likely figured he needed yer da’ and Ian a little bit less.”
“And their shares a little bit more.” She nodded, belatedly shaking herself. “What are you doing here, though? Did you find anything? Or could you not get into the house?”
He loosened his grip from around her shoulders and pulled a small book from one pocket. “I found someaught.”
Her father’s journal. The old, cracked leather cover had been part of her everyday life for decades, so much so that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized it wasn’t among his things. But then her father hadn’t been among his things, and that had set everything at Edgley House off balance. She took it with shaking fingers, lifting it to her face to smell it.
After a year it didn’t carry the scent of her father or his cologne any longer, but it still had the faint musty smell of old leather clinging to its pages. “Thank you,” she breathed, pinning it to her chest. “Did you look through it?”
“Nae. I grabbed what I could find and trotted down here to look in on ye.”
“Is this it, then?”
“Nae. There’s a satchel up with Wicker,” he said, naming the coachman. “I sent Johns back for Jupiter.”
“And?” she prompted.
“Ian’s ledger, contracts showing the dates Dunncraigh purchased ships and land and buildings—some of it paid for by Sanderson’s—to expand the fleet, and his ledger showing how he’s been using his clan’s tithing money, and yer money, for himself.”
She stared into his eyes. He’d found … everything. “Do we go to the authorities now? Heavens, I don’t even know for whom we should be asking.”
“I want a closer look, first. I didnae make things neat and tidy when I left Maxwell Hall, either, so he’ll know someone took his papers. He’ll reckon it was me. I’m a bit curious to see what he does about that.”
“‘A bit curious,’ you say,” she commented, her heart thumping. “I do think you’re a madman, sometimes.”
He smiled. “Sometimes, I reckon I am.” Callum kissed her lightly on the forehead, protective rather than romantic. “I came back here to kill two men. I didnae expect to find anything else. If keeping what I have found requires me to go after justice and nae revenge, I reckon I’ll live with that. As for who we should seek out, he’s the Maxwell. If I went to a parish constable, Dunncraigh would know about it before I’d finished my first sentence. I hate to say it, but I reckon we need the Crown. I’ll have to ride down to Fort William, or dispatch someone to the House of Lords in London. That’ll take time, lass.”
“I don’t like either suggestion,” she returned. A trip to Fort William would take him two days, plus another two days to return. And sending someone all the way to London and waiting for a response could take weeks. “What about the clan Maxwell chieftains?”
“And ye said I was mad, lass. If half of them werenae in his pocket, I suppose they could take the leadership of the clan from him. They couldnae see him arrested or tried for his crimes.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll send for Kimes, and have him find me a judge he can trust. I’ll nae sleep until Dunncraigh and Stapp have iron bars between ye and them.”
“Do you really think they would attempt to drag me off by my hair and force me to marry Donnach?” Rebecca retorted, glad to feel some anger replacing the dread of the past hours. “I would be screaming the entire way. I’m more worried about you.” She tapped her forefinger against his chest.
“I wish they would come after me, straight at me this time,” he said in a soft, low voice that made her shiver. “I’m nae a trusting man, to be struck from behind or poisoned.” Unexpectedly he took both of her hands in his, holding them tightly. “Ye know I would trade places with Ian if I could, aye? That I’d spare ye from the pain ye’ve had if it was in my power to do it?”
Hearing that rocked her to her soul. “No,” she said, her voice a barely audible rasp as she shook her hands loose and cupped his face in her fingers. “Something evil happened,” she whispered, willing him with all her heart to listen. “I refuse to feel guilt because I—we—have found something new and unexpected. I would never wish anything bad for Ian, and I know you wouldn’t, either. I had nothing to do with what did happen, and neither did you. Everything after that … It’s good, what we found. I wouldn’t trade it, or you, for anything. ‘What if’ has no place in our lives. We only have ‘now’ remaining. And you are not to sacrifice yourself out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. Do you understand that?”
“I understand I’m nae accustomed to having a lass dictate terms to me,” he murmured. “And aye, I ken. But ye’re wrong about one thing, Becca.”
“And what might that be?”
“It’s nae only now we have to think on. Ye left out tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that.”
Oh, she wanted to tell him that she loved him, that part of her always had, but it seemed like something he needed to say first, if and when he felt ready to do that. She understood it, of course. He was feeling his way through this just as much as she was. Claiming something—claiming her, desiring her, as he clearly did—was one thing. Saying the rest meant having to reconcile a very difficult relationship with his brother first.
As long as he continued to look at her the way he was now, as if he found her rare and precious, she could be patient. And she could be very happy with the way things were, if not for two very large problems—the Duke of Dunncraigh and his son. They weren’t finished with this, and neither were she and Callum.
* * *
“This one has the date of signing on it.”
They made for an unlikely group, Callum decided, shoving another of the contracts across the cleared breakfast table. Michael Crosby, of Crosby and Hallifax, let out a breath in order to extricate himself enough from the chair to reach the pages. The way he’d wedged himself in there, Callum doubted the piece of furniture would survive his removal.
Dennis Kimes sat beside his employer, making notes and filling the large man’s cup of tea every few minutes. He himself sat at the head of the table, his interest snagged by Ian’s ledger and the story it told about his dealings with Sanderson’s, while at his right elbow Rebecca read her father’s journal.
Another tear slid down her cheek, and she whisked it away with a handkerchief as if such a motion had become second nature to her, never even pausing in her reading. He hoped that wasn’t true, that she hadn’t been so deep in sorrow and acceptance of broken dreams that she expected it around every turn. Lately she’d laughed more often in his company, and in bed she came at him with a voraciousness that thrilled him, so hopefully reading about sad memories and missed opportunities would anger her rather than lower her spirits again.
Waya had joined them as well, sprawled out in a patch of sunlight beneath the nearest window. She’d declined to go for a run again this morning, which he put to a certain young lass feeding the wolf far too much ham at breakfast, until the mop bounced into the room, licked Waya’s nose, and settled atop her front paws for a snore. The sl
eek, midnight-black wolf resting her head on the much smaller fluffy, white-haired terrier’s back looked … quaint, he supposed, frowning, except for the ramifications of their abrupt affection.
Was that him, now? A wild soul lured into domesticity by a pretty face and promises of large breakfasts? He sent Rebecca another glance. In between tears she’d been making notes on a separate page as well, a litany of accusations against Dunncraigh and Stapp for which they needed the contracts and ledgers to prove culpability. Except that he’d known for weeks that they were fucking guilty.
But she’d smiled and kissed him and told him that she wanted him about, and that seeing them tried for murder and theft would be just as satisfying as seeing them bleeding in the street—and had the additional bonus of leaving him alive and not in jail or transported for killing them.
The oddest part of it had been the realization that she was correct. When he’d first arrived he’d had nothing to lose, nothing precious to protect or to keep him bound to life. On that first day in Scotland he’d discovered Mags, a lithe, hilarious translation of her staid, unimaginative father, and keeping her safe and happy had become his everything. Or so he’d thought.
His everything had expanded to include one more being in the days and weeks that followed. He thought he’d convinced himself that she was a sister to him, until the night Ian had claimed her, taken her away from him. She’d called him a foolish boy, and by God she’d been correct.
For the next ten years her words, her face, her voice, had haunted him, even when he’d thought himself free of her. Everything he did had been in part to prove her wrong, to prove to himself that she’d been wrong about him. The man he’d become between his twentieth and his thirtieth years had learned a great deal from his mistakes. In returning and attempting to prove to her how wrong she was, he’d merely proved that she’d been utterly correct in throwing him aside. And he’d never been more proud to realize that he’d finally met her expectations, even if it had taken a figurative trip through the desert of his soul for him to do so.
“What are you looking at?” she asked quietly, lifting her face to meet his gaze.
His mouth curved. “A summer’s day. A winter’s night, and all the times in between.”
She smiled back at him, the expression lighting her blue eyes. “Oh, good. I thought I had ink on my nose.”
He damned well hadn’t expected to laugh today, but amusement burst from his chest. It felt like hope, light and bubbling and warm. She felt like hope. “Ye have a way of cutting to the heart of a matter, lass.”
Crosby cleared his throat. “We need to bring in a solicitor, m’laird. I can make note of what appears to be irregular, of numbers that dunnae balance and purchases that werenae approved by Mr. Sanderson or the previous Lord Geiry, or by Lady Geiry or yerself. I can show how those purchases are tied to profits—and potential profits—larger than those to which he’s supposed to be entitled. But a solicitor could tell ye what laws are being broken and what charges ye could bring against him.”
“My brother’s wife’s da’ is a judge,” Dennis said. “A ‘right honorable.’”
Callum didn’t want to bring anyone else into their circle. Another mouth that could spill secrets and carry tales to Dunncraigh. “What clan is he?”
“Clan MacDonald. But dunnae hold that against him. He’s a good man, I reckon.”
Frowning, fighting to balance risk against expediency, Callum took a deep breath. “Send for him then, if ye would.” They needed someone; none of them in the breakfast room had ever brought charges against a duke or a marquis, and they had evidence against both.
“Aye. I’ll be discreet on paper, just on the chance someone comes across my note.”
“Ye do that.” Closing Ian’s meticulous ledger, he pushed it down the table to Mr. Crosby. “I’m going for a breath of air.”
“I wish ye would,” the accountant said with a grimace. “Ye make me nervous, glowering over there.”
“Well, we cannae have that.” Callum nodded at Rebecca as he stood and left the room. Waya barely bothered opening one eye before she went back to her nap. He wanted a run; missing the one with Waya and Jupiter this morning had left him restless and irritable to begin with. But he also knew better than to go roaming today without the wolf by his side. Dunncraigh or Stapp, or both of them, had already tried to have him shot once that he knew of.
Instead he headed for MacCreath House’s small garden, blooming with summer roses, Scottish primroses, and the deep red royal helleborine. Some of the flowers seemed almost exotic now; he’d grown more accustomed to seeing the larkspur and columbine and Virginia bluebells in the hills of Kentucky. He squatted down, running his hand through a patch of lavender and breathing in the scent.
“I know this frustrates you,” Rebecca said from the pathway.
Still on his haunches, he turned his head to look over at her. “Nae. Ye had the right of it, Becca. Justice, and nae vengeance. Ian would approve of that. I reckon yer da’ would, as well.”
She walked over to kneel beside him, straightening her pretty blue and gray muslim about her. “They would,” she agreed. “They would be surprised, and proud of you. Especially Ian.”
Sinking onto his backside next to her, he reached out for her fingers. “After this is over with, I want ye to know I mean to ask ye again to marry me,” he said, hoping he wasn’t tempting fate by planning for something beyond stopping Dunncraigh. “I made a disgraceful, thoughtless plan for my life one evening, and had it pulled out from under me because of my own stupidity. I spent the next ten years making certain I didnae ever repeat my mistakes. I love ye, Rebecca. There’s a hole in my heart that’s only filled when I’m around ye. I want ye to know that.”
She twined her fingers with his. “I thought my entire book had been written,” she said quietly, leaning her shoulder against his. “You were an early chapter of regret and disappointment and questions.” Rebecca kissed the frown on his brow. “Now I think perhaps you were the prologue, and my next set of chapters is just beginning.” This time she kissed his mouth, so softly it made him ache.
“I hope I’m in all the rest of the chapters,” he commented, putting his arms around her and pulling her onto his lap.
“So do I. You … excite me, Callum. I was content before, but you excite me and arouse me and fill me with joy. I love you. I want you to know that.”
If she’d asked him at that moment, he would have agreed to take her and Margaret away with him to Kentucky—or anywhere else she wanted to go. If she asked, he would turn his back on everything Dunncraigh and Stapp had done, whatever the cost to his soul. He had … everything, the most improbable occurrence in the world considering he’d never expected any such thing.
“I’m trying to earn that honor, Becca,” he murmured, wishing he could sit there in the garden and gaze at her forever.
“You did,” she returned, lowering her head to his shoulder. “You have.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Ye cannae expect me to believe that this ledger fell from the sky, m’laird,” the right honorable Liam MacMurchie of clan MacDonald argued, gesturing at Dunncraigh’s accounts ledger.
“When someaught that useful arrives on a man’s doorstep, Yer Honor,” Callum returned, keeping a hard hold on his temper, “a man would be a fool to ignore it.”
Light brown eyes continued to eye him suspiciously, though the straight fringes of gray hair peeking from beneath the white, curling wig on the man’s head rendered him a tad ridiculous rather than awe-inspiring, at least as far as Callum was concerned. “And how would ye answer that question under oath, Laird Geiry?”
“That I found it on my doorstep,” Callum stated. He’d put it there and picked it up himself to be certain he wouldn’t be lying. As for where it had been before that, he doubted Dunncraigh would press the issue. Otherwise Callum would be obligated to explain that previous to his front step he’d found Ian MacCreath’s and George Sanderson’s private ledger and
journal, respectively, hidden in His Grace’s bedchamber.
Silence. “Very well, then.” The judge let out a hard sigh. “Give me what ye have, and I’ll present it to my fellows within the next fortnight. I’ll nae send out a writ for an arrest against a duke without more voices than my own saying it’s to be done.” He pointed at the top of his head. “I reckon I’m fond of wearing this.”
“Nae.”
MacMurchie blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”
Evidently the judge wasn’t accustomed to anyone arguing with him. “Ye’ll nae remove those items from this house, and I’ll nae have ye showing what we found to yer cronies. Ye either see what we see in these pages, or ye dunnae. And if ye dunnae, then I reckon ye’re already in Dunncraigh’s pocket.”
The judge’s color deepened to crimson across his cheeks and nose. “I didnae travel across town to be insulted, m’laird.”
“Then dunnae insult me. My brother is dead, Lady Geiry’s father is dead, and someone shot at me last week. Every moment Dunncraigh and Stapp are left to roam about, Rebecca faces danger. That’s nae acceptable.”
Even if they hadn’t been lovers he would have spent every minute of the past nights in her company, just to be certain Stapp didn’t attempt a kidnapping and forced marriage, after all. They couldn’t continue like this, where he needed to protect her perfectly and Dunncraigh only needed one lucky moment to turn all this to disaster. The odds didn’t favor him, and they grew worse with each passing day.
“I do ken what yer concerns are, Lord Geiry. But ye have to understand that I, too, have a reputation, and that I only set eyes on this conspiracy two hours ago. I need more time.”
He did understand that, damn it all. “Take the notes we all wrote out, then. They summarize what we found. If ye need the exact words or figures, ye can call here and look at them.” He looked from the judge to the two accountants to Rebecca. “Two days, Yer Honor. I’ll give ye two days.”
A Devil in Scotland Page 24