“Dunnae worry yerself, lass. I’ve nae forgotten how to ride.”
“I don’t care.”
She did remember how he used to ride, utterly fearless and taking far too many chances. He’d been mesmerizing. He still was, apparently, since she stood up to watch through the window as Malcolm the groom led the big bay stallion around to the front of the house. Donnach had urged her to sell the brute, but Jupiter had been Ian’s one indulgence, his one dangerous thing. She thought it was silly and sentimental, but now if it took Callum down a peg or two, perhaps some good could come of her reluctance to part with the animal.
The bay stomped, then backed up, blowing, as thewolf trotted onto the front drive. As the two beasts stared at each other, Callum walked up, took the reins from Malcolm, and swung up into the saddle. Jupiter whinnied, starting to rear, but Callum didn’t tighten his grip, instead kicking the stallion in the ribs and leaning in to say something she couldn’t make out. The bay bucked, then set off down the short drive at a dead run, the wolf loping behind them.
“That man can ride,” Malcolm commented to Pogue as the two men stood by the front steps, their words carrying to Rebecca through the open front door.
“I reckon he’ll have half of Inverness claiming the devil and his hellhound are about,” the old butler returned.
The groom spat. “Aye. And I’m nae certain they’d be wrong about that.”
Rebecca wasn’t so certain about that, either. The Callum MacCreath with whom she’d grown up invented nonsensical rhymes, drank more than he should have at places where he should not have ventured, and had clearly idolized his older brother even while he constantly argued with and teased him. As he’d reached his twentieth year the drinking had gotten worse and the humor lessened, until she’d begun to think he would never mature into anything other than a loudmouthed buffoon. Adding Lord Stapp and the Duke of Dunncraigh into the mix had only made him as combustible as black powder and as dangerous as an unaimed shot.
That man, though, the one at this moment likely spreading panic through the outskirts of Inverness, didn’t much resemble the Callum she’d known. He’d come in like the winter wind, shoving all resistance aside, and it had happened so fast she still hadn’t found her feet. And she needed to find her blasted feet. The sooner the better.
“Mama,” Margaret said, dancing into the morning room, “Agnes says I must stay up in the nursery, but she’s afraid of Waya, and I want to see her.”
Waya?The wolf, Rebecca remembered belatedly. “The wolf and your uncle went for a ride,” she said. “And yes, you should remain up in the nursery until we can find another place to stay.”
The six-year-old stopped spinning her circles. “We have to leave? Why won’t Uncle Callum let us stay? He seemed very nice to me. I’ll ask him, if you like.”
No, she didn’t like. “He will permit us to stay,” Rebecca said slowly, deciding against informing the sprite that she’d essentially become a captive. “I’m not certain we should, though. He’s an unmarried man, after all.”
She stopped. Hewasunmarried, wasn’t he? She hadn’t asked, but she’d assumed… No, he must be single. Otherwise he would have informed her that she was now the Dowager Countess of Geiry or something equally old and finished sounding. And the way he’d looked at Margaret, as if she was both precious and alien at the same time—he was not a man who’d spent any time with children.
None of that mattered, though. What mattered was that Callum seemed to be set once again on making trouble, and she wanted Margaret nowhere near it. Or him. “Don’t fret though, butterfly,” she said, moving to take her daughter’s hand so they could spin together. “We have your grandpapa’s home closer to the harbor. I simply need to make some arrangements before we can officially move in.”
Margaret flapped her free arm up and down. “I’m glad Uncle Callum is here,” she stated. “Everyone’s been going to heaven and leaving us here alone.”
Yes, they had been. Rebecca sighed. “We’re notalone,” she returned. “We still have Lord Stapp and the Duke of Dunncraigh. And your friends, and mine.”
“Well, I do like Sarah MacKenzie quite a lot, but she’s afraid of dogs, and I have a wolf now.”
“You do not have a wolf. Your uncle has a wolf. And we won’t be sharing a house for long.” The sooner they could both remove themselves from the complications he represented, the better. If Mr. Harvey couldn’t discover something, she would find someone who could. Money certainly wouldn’t be an issue. Rebecca tugged her daughter toward the hallway. “Now let’s go have some breakfast before it gets cold.”
“Very well. I intend to save all my ham for Waya, though.”
“As you wish. I would imagine a wolf prefers uncooked meat, though.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that,” Margaret returned. “Excuse me, then. I have to go see Mrs. Kirkland and tell her I would like some raw ham for breakfast.”
Oh, dear. “Just don’t eat any of it, yourself, Maggie.”
The six-year-old giggled. “I’m not a wolf, Mama.”
No, Margaret wasn’t. But there were two wolves residing at MacCreath House now. Waya, and Callum. A man who’d been a puppy ten years ago had matured into something else entirely—a hunter, a predator. One who seemed to be looking for prey. And she had the disturbing feeling that he might be looking at her.
Half an hour later as she sat shaking her head at her daughter, presently seated at the breakfast table with Reginald on her young lap, she could almost pretend that Callum MacCreath’s arrival had been a nightmare, that he’d vanished with the morning mists as a warning for her to be more grateful for what she had remaining.
“I do hope you’ll remember that in polite company we do not feed Reginald on the tabletop,” she commented, resting her chin in her hand and trying not to smile at the sight of the white Skye terrier sticking his long tongue out as far as he could manage to reach the scraps of meat Margaret had placed on the smooth mahogany surface.
“I’ll remember,” the six-year-old said, giggling. She nudged a scrap of meat closer to the dog, and Reginald gobbled it happily.
Someone rapped on the front door, and a moment later Pogue stepped into the room. “My lady, Lord Stapp wish—”
The Marquis of Stapp brushed past the butler. “Callum MacCreath?” he snapped, scowling as he looked about the breakfast room. “Is it true?”
