A Devil in Scotland

by Suzanne Enoch

  With a swift kiss he took her hand again and pulled her toward the main part of the house. “Then let’s get ye dressed and see this finished.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Callum stepped down from the coach first, slung over his shoulder the satchel containing Ian’s ledger, George’s journal, and the Duke of Dunncraigh’s ledgers and contracts, and put out a hand to help Rebecca to the cobblestones.

  A light mist dampened his face, putting a small halo around the lamps lining the street and reducing the harbor to a gray shadow of occasional masts and bobbing ship lights. Men could be anywhere and everywhere, both his and the duke’s. Good. The more, the merrier.

  Rebecca thought she knew what he meant to do, and he left it at that. He’d pushed Dunncraigh to this point, and he would answer for that. Tonight he had two goals: retrieve Margaret and keep Rebecca out of Stapp’s fat hands. And above all, make certain they would remain safe from this point on. Nothing else mattered.

  He offered his left arm to her, keeping his right close by the pistol that bumped against his hip with every step. That small gun in his coat pocket and the knife in his boot were his only weapons, and this time, on the one occasion he would have found her most helpful, he didn’t have Waya at his side. It felt almost like being short a limb, but she’d done her part. He would do his.

  Two additional lamps flared at the head of the pier. Five figures, one less than half the size of the others. His heart began beating again. If they hadn’t brought Margaret … Callum rolled his shoulders. He didn’t have another plan for that contingency. But she stood there, Dunncraigh with a hand on her shoulder keeping her still and directly in front of him, the bastard. In his right hand he held a pistol, pointed down for the moment, at least. The threat, though, was clear enough.

  “It didnae have to come to this,” the duke said.

  “I agree with that,” Callum returned, slowing some twenty feet in front of the quartet of men and young Mags. “This is on yer head, Domhnall. Every bit of it.”

  If the duke didn’t like being called by his Christian name, he didn’t show it. Instead he gestured at the satchel on Callum’s shoulder. “Toss that to Donnach. And it had better hold every piece of parchment ye stole from my home.”

  Callum tossed it into the marquis’s waiting hands. “Aye. Even the parchment ye stole from Ian and George Sanderson, first.”

  “Uncle Callum, I want to go home,” Margaret said, her voice quavering.

  “Hush,” Dunncraigh said, shaking her a little. “I told ye to be silent.”

  Rebecca’s grip tightened on his arm. Resisting his own temptation to comfort the wee lass, Callum kept his gaze and his attention on the duke. “Nae one hair harmed,” he said. “That’s our agreement. And dunnae bother saying ye wouldnae hurt a bairn. Ye already did, when ye made her half an orphan.”

  “It’s all here, da’,” Stapp said, closing the satchel and handing it to one of the other men. “Now ye send Rebecca over here, Geiry.”

  He shook his head. “Nae. Ye give me Margaret, first.”

  Dunncraigh pulled the lass harder against his legs, the pistol in his other hand twitching. “This isnae a trade, MacCreath. This is ye give me what I want, and when I’m satisfied, I’ll give ye what ye want.”

  “Callum,” Rebecca breathed.

  “I’m nae about to give ye both lasses and every bit of paper that proves ye a murderer,” he returned, wet running down his face from the mist.

  “Ye dunnae have any other choice, lad.” Dunncraigh offered a half smile that looked smug even in the fitful lantern light. “Ye thought to outsmart me. Me. Donnach, burn the ledger and the journal. And Rebecca, come over here before yer daughter trips and falls into the harbor.”

  Rebecca gasped.

  “Aye, the lass told me she cannae swim. A shame. I recall the tales about ye and Ian and Callum there swimming all about Loch Brenan.” He tilted his head a little. “A shame Ian couldnae swim the night he drowned.”

  “But how many of ye did it take to hold him down after ye beat him senseless?” Callum shot back, watching as Stapp pulled Ian’s ledger from the satchel and walked over to the nearer of the lanterns. “And all for what? Some ships?”

  “The fact that ye dunnae ken the importance of Sanderson’s tells me ye dunnae deserve to profit from it,” Dunncraigh returned. “Rebecca. Now. Once she signs the matrimony register and says ‘aye’ in church, we’ll give ye the bairn.”

  “We seem to be at an impasse, then,” Callum said, clenching his free hand. “I’ve another offer.”

  “And what might that be?”

  With a muffled boom, one of the ships in the harbor blazed into view, yellow and orange and blue light enveloping it halfway up the main mast. Everyone on the pier flinched away from the light, except Callum. He freed his arm from Rebecca and took a long step closer to Dunncraigh. “That’s the Sunrise Star,” he commented, having to raise his voice a little over the roar of the burning ship. “Part of yer new fleet, I believe.”

  Dunncraigh whipped back around to stare at him. “Are ye a madman? I’ve the bairn, right here.”

  “I wanted to make certain I had yer undivided attention.” Moving slowly, Callum drew two bundles of paper from inside his coat. “Yer other six ships out there, the ones ye purchased without getting approval from the two other people who own the company, the ones ye havenae yet finished paying for, are also loaded with thirty kegs each of Kentucky Hills whisky.”

  “Ye son of a b—”

  “Here, in my hands, are agreements handing over my shares in Sanderson’s, and Rebecca’s shares. To ye.” He lifted the papers. “They’re signed, approved, and witnessed by a judge and a magistrate. They’re yers. All I need from ye is Margaret, and yer agreement to leave the lot of us alone, in peace. The other six ships out there, the entire company. Yers.”

  He could practically feel Rebecca’s shock running cold up his spine. Of course she didn’t approve, but since Ian and her father had died she’d clung to Sanderson’s as her only security. He didn’t approve, either. But it made sense, if Dunncraigh agreed.

  “Ye expect me to believe that?” the duke retorted, flinching as the ship exploded again. “Ye’d hand me everything, when for weeks ye’ve been swearing to kill me. To ‘end’ me, ye said, and that was ten years ago.”

  “Killing ye willnae bring my brother back to life. I reckon if giving ye what ye want will convince ye to leave us be, I can live with that.”

  The duke looked from him to Rebecca. “Ye want her for yerself. Ye always did, I reckon.”

  “Take the papers and we’ll be done with this,” Callum urged, moving another step closer. If the duke had any idea how contrary even making the offer was to his sense of honor and justice and decency, the man would grab the agreements and run for it. “And give Margaret back to me.”

  Dunncraigh continued to glare at him, white hair painted orange in the reflected firelight. “I am the chief of clan Maxwell,” he bit out. “Ye dunnae dictate to me.”

  “I’m nae—”

  “Ye think just because I allowed the Duke of Lattimer to take some useless cotters off my hands that I can be placated? That I’ve gone soft? I could’ve had Lattimer’s own sister killed, and I decided to be magnanimous. Me. I’m the Maxwell. I’ll nae be made a fool of.”

  All the tales had been true, then, about the duke having to surrender a good thousand clansmen to Lattimer when the cotters decided an English duke cared more for them than did their own clan chief. As for Lattimer’s sister, that would be Lady Maxton, Graeme Maxton’s bride.

  Callum shook himself. Domhnall Maxwell’s ravings didn’t matter, as long as the duke took the logical route here. “I didnae say ye werenae the Maxwell. I’m giving ye a company, Dunncraigh.”

  “So ye can go about saying I kidnapped a wee bairn to make ye do it? So ye can tell every man ye come across that I had Ian MacCreath and George Sanderson murdered? So my own clan thinks they can stand up to me and get away with
it? Nae. I’ll keep the girl, and I’ll take the lass. With them both in my household, I reckon ye’ll keep yer damned gobber shut.”

  Lowering the papers, Callum took a deep breath. The man in front of him was clearly coming loose at the seams. An offer of everything he’d been after for ten years had done nothing but anger him. Well, he had another tack to try, but he’d given his word.

  “I’ve been away for ten years, Yer Grace,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I dunnae ken what ye might be talking about. All I have to give ye is these papers. And all I ask ye in return is to give me the lass and to leave Rebecca be.”

  “Da’,” Stapp said, still clutching Ian’s ledger. “At least let me take a look at the p—”

  “Shut yer mouth,” Dunncraigh snapped. “Ye should have taken her the second she came out of mourning. I told ye how it should go. But nae, ye had to woo her, as if I give a damn what she thinks. As if she and this little bit of muslin matter.”

  That hadn’t been a confession, but it felt damned close to one. The momentary elation Callum felt, though, strangled into silence when the duke lifted the pistol to point it at Margaret. No, no, no, he shouted silently, keeping himself still.

  “Ye dunnae like my offer, then,” he said aloud, trying to turn the duke’s attention back to him. “Listen to this, ye old rat. If I say but one word, yer other six ships burn. And then I’ll raze Maxwell Hall. I’ve a judge already writing up the papers to bring formal charges against ye, and I’ve sent to Fort William for soldiers. I’ve sent for yer chieftains to have ye run off from the clan. How much are ye prepared to lose? Because I’ll take it all. Ye refused my offer. The only two choices ye have now, Dunncraigh, are to go to prison, or to leave Scotland tonight with naught but the clothes ye have on yer back. Just like I did. Ye’re done. Give me the lass. Now.”

  “Donnach, shoot him!” his father bellowed, and lifted the pistol to Margaret’s head.

  In one fluid motion Callum pulled the pistol from his pocket, aimed, and fired. He’d brought down bucks galloping full tilt through tree-choked ravines, axe-wielding Cherokee warriors running at him with death in their eyes. The Duke of Dunncraigh’s head snapped back. A heartbeat later he dropped bonelessly to the pier, then slid into the harbor with a splash muffled by the rain and the fire out on the water.

  With a roar Stapp charged at him. Callum dropped the pistol and pulled his knife.

  “Stop!”

  The roar came out of the rain, followed by the sound of weapons being brought to the ready. The marquis skidded to a halt, but it took Callum a moment longer to decide. But he’d given his word. Justice, not vengeance.

  “I reckon ye can pay for yer father’s greed,” he snarled, shoving the knife back into his boot as Dennis Kimes charged into view, a handful of well-armed Highlanders on his heels.

  They might well be there for him, as well—he’d just killed a duke, the chief of his own clan. He’d done what he could to prevent that from happening, but not a damned ounce of him regretted it. That bastard wouldn’t be taking anyone else’s husband or daughter away from them.

  Callum turned his back on the approaching group, instead walking forward to where Margaret stood, her arms straight down at her sides and her eyes screwed shut. He knelt in front of her, the sight of her shaking making him wish he could kill the duke all over again. “Bug,” he said quietly. “Ye’re rescued.”

  Her eyes flew open, the right one blue and the left one green, just like his own. Then she flung her arms around his shoulders. “I knew you’d rescue me,” she sobbed. “They killed Waya!”

  “Nae, they didnae,” he answered, scooping her into his arms and standing as Rebecca reached them. “She’s bloodied, but I reckon she and the pups will be dandy as daisies.”

  The bairn grabbed her mother, pulling the three of them together on the pier. “I’m so glad!” she wailed. “And I’m glad you didn’t have to marry Lord Stapp, Mama. He was very mean to me!”

  “Oh, was he, then?”

  Rebecca put her free arm around Callum’s shoulders before he could turn around. “It’s over,” she breathed shakily, kissing her daughter’s cheek.

  “I kept my word,” he said, holding both his lasses tight.

  “You did. Thank you, Callum. Thank you a hundred, thousand times.”

  “I’d do anything for ye, lass. Ye know that.”

  * * *

  Callum tried not to see the irony as the nearest tavern was cleared out to make room for him, Rebecca, Margaret, Stapp, all the witnesses, magistrates, local soldiers, and the four clan Maxwell chieftains and one additional guest Dennis Kimes had managed to drag to Inverness, but the Seven Fathoms remained full of old, uncomfortable memories. And it still smelled of beer and piss, even after ten years away.

  From the arguing going on at the front of the main room, the captain of the guard wanted him taken into custody, if only for the sake of appearance and to prevent the locals from rioting at the news that a clan chief had been murdered.

  “Not murdered,” one of the men, a tall, dark-haired one with an English accent, retorted. “I witnessed it, myself, and I’ll swear before anyone you please that by his actions Lord Geiry saved his niece’s life.”

  Ah. That would be the Duke of Lattimer, then. “I dunnae ken if ye’d be considered an impartial witness, Yer Grace,” the captain returned, confirming Callum’s suspicion. The tall lad had smarts enough to look uncomfortable, at least.

  “I’m a clan Maxwell chieftain,” the second, much more familiar-looking man said. “Do ye consider me impartial? Because if Geiry hadnae taken the shot, I would have.”

  “Lord Maxton, once again, I ken that this is very emotional for everyone. But we must be certain the letter of the law is being followed here.”

  “Then put Stapp in irons and march him down to Fort William,” Graeme, Lord Maxton returned. “I took a gander at those ledgers, the same as everyone else here. I saw theft, and a damned fine reason for him and Dunncraigh to murder two people, just as Geiry says.”

  “But Lord Stapp is now the Duke of Dunncraigh.” The captain took off his hat and ran a hand through his damp hair. “This isnae what I had planned for my evening.”

  “What are they fighting about?” Margaret asked, sipping a very watered-down rum and looking sleepy despite the excitement of the past day.

  “About whether to arrest your uncle or Donnach,” Rebecca replied, her arm still close around her daughter’s shoulders.

  “Arrest him!” the bairn yelled, pointing a finger at where Stapp—the new Dunncraigh—sat, surrounded by soldiers. “He kitnapped me, and he shot my wolf!”

  “Kidnapped,” her mother corrected calmly, and reached across the table for Callum’s hand. “I remember this tavern. Do you?”

  “Aye. Never thought to set foot here again, though.”

  Light blue eyes assessed him. “You would have given him all our rights to Sanderson’s.”

  “Aye. I told ye I’d get Margaret back safe, whatever the cost. I would’ve told ye, but I wasnae certain what I’d need to use.”

  “I was about to shout at him to just take the stupid fleet, that if he’d given any of us the choice last year we all would have done what you offered.” She looked at their entwined fingers. “He won’t hurt anyone else. Ever again.”

  “My laird?” The captain of the guard stopped at the foot of the table.

  “Aye?”

  “In my opinion ye should take Lady Geiry and the wee lass home. I’ve talked to every witness, and nae a man but His Grace over there,” and he gestured at Stapp, “says ye could have done anything but what ye did.”

  “And Stapp? Dunncraigh, I mean?” Callum returned. Because while Domhnall Maxwell had been stopped, he couldn’t yet say the same for his eldest son.

  “Yer man says ye sent for soldiers from Fort William. I reckon we’ll hold him at the garrison until the Sassenachs arrive, and they can decide what to do with him. I hear the Old Bailey in London is for lairds going to pris
on, aye?”

  “That’s what I hear,” Callum agreed. “Thank ye, Captain.”

  Inclining his head, the officer walked over to where Stapp and his men waited. Donnach immediately began protesting, but a man used to naught but ordering others about was no match for a half-dozen strapping Highlands soldiers.

  Turning to face Rebecca again, Callum squeezed her fingers. “Would ye say I’ve kept my word to ye, then? I know I kept my word to Dunncraigh.”

  “Yes. You’ve more than kept your word, Callum.”

  He smiled. “Good. Because while this is the last place in the world I’d care to do this, I have to know this damned minute: Will ye marry me now, Rebecca Sanderson-MacCreath?”

  A tear ran down her cheek. “Yes. I will marry you, Callum MacCreath. Very, very, happily.”

  He leaned across the table and kissed her, ignoring the subsequent stir around them. They would have to become accustomed to it. And there was a damned precedent for a marriage to the widow of a man’s brother, anyway, at least in the Highlands. And this was the Highlands.

  “What is going on?” Margaret demanded, sloshing her drink against the table.

  “Your uncle and I are getting married, Mags,” Rebecca said, touching his cheek with her hand.

  “But are you my uncle or my papa? I’m very confused.”

  Callum grinned at her. “I’m yer uncle. I’ll be standing in for yer papa as best I can, though. Can ye make do with that, bug?”

  “The puppies will be mine, though?”

  “They’ll be a part of the pack, with the rest of us.”

  Margaret sighed. “Aye. I can make do with that. But I would like at least one of them to be called mine, anyway.”

  “But ye dunnae mind me marrying yer mama?” he pressed, ignoring Rebecca’s chuckle.

  “No,” she returned, taking another sip of weak rum. “I think you make each other happy, and we’re all in the same pack, anyway. Though I also think I may be three sheets to the wind.” Setting the mug aside, she rested her head against the table.