Before he’d reappeared—good heavens, had it only been a day ago?—she’d been happy. Happier, at least, each day a little better than the day before. She’d begun to look forward again. Donnach knew her father’s and her late husband’s business, had a large stake in it, even, and she could think of no one better to take over her portion of it upon their marriage. It should have gone to Ian, except that he’d perished before her father. If the reverse had happened, literally everything she ownedexcept for Edgley House would now be in Callum’s possession.
She shivered. “You know I can’t wear such things yet,” she said, moving to the dressing table. “The violet one with the black lace will do.” A night out would be welcome; any distraction to keep her from dwelling on might-have-beens and should-have-beens and should-never-bes, all when she’d thought to spend the next week balancing invitations and broaching the topic of Donnach and marriage to Margaret.
“I haven’t seen much here in the Highlands to convince me that they adhere to proper traditions of mourning,” the maid commented, but replaced the scarlet gown in the wardrobe. “It’s been well over a year now, regardless.”
“Yes, but I’ve been in double mourning actually, haven’t I?” Rebecca returned without heat. “I’ve already tempted censure by wearing colors at home.” She sighed. “Yes, I could wear the red. It just doesn’t feel… correct.”
“I don’t think a soul could find a single fault in how you’ve carried yourself, my lady, if I may say so. And thank goodness you’re permitted to return to Society; you have some color in your cheeks again, finally.”
Despite having lived in Scotland for over half her life, Rebecca had decided that upon becoming Lady Geiry she required some assistance with propriety and decorum. Hiring an English maid from a well-respected southern household had raised some local eyebrows initially, but she’d never regretted it. Mary would never believe that her mistress had once climbed trees and gone swimming in the loch while only half clothed. And as she’d tried to forget everything she’d ever done in Callum’s questionable company, Rebecca found that very appealing.
In the violet and black at least she felt pretty again, and she remained convinced that the most significant improvement in her earlier doldrums had been when after six months she’d been able to stop wearing that awful, scratchy crêpe and heavy bombazine. Perhaps next month she would attempt something brighter, depending on the occasion.
Once Mary had finished weaving black and violet ribbons through her light hair and pinning the lot into a rather artistic tangle at the top of her head, she went to find Margaret so they could sit for an early dinner. As for Callum, well, he was on his blasted own. He couldn’t be allowed to disrupt her life any more than he already had.
“Then what’s Cherokee for ‘bear’?” Margaret’s young voice came through the open door of the nursery, and Rebecca slowed her approach.
“Yona,”Callum’s deeper voice returned.
“‘Yona,’”Maggie repeated, mimicking his slightly faded Highlands accent. “Do you have ayonafor a pet, as well?”
“Nae. They sleep through the winter. I couldnae abide all the snoring.”
Margaret laughed. “But you’ve seen a bear?”
“Oh, aye. I have the skin of one decorating my floor back in Kentucky. But ye ken Waya’s nae my pet. We’re a pack of wolves, she and I. I look after her, and she looks after me.”
“Can I be in your pack?”
Rebecca stirred, stepping into the room. “It’smayI be in your pack,” she corrected, hesitating again at the sight of Callum sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite her daughter, Waya in between them squirming about on her back while Reginald hid behind Agnes the nanny and peeked around her skirts to sniff and whimper. “And the answer is no.”
Chaos. The man personified chaos. Always had, always would. At the same time, she was abruptly thankful that other than their unusual eyes, he and Ian didn’t look much alike. Especially now. Ian had been slender and compact, but Callum had become sinew and muscle and grace—a hard life, she realized. Whatever the past ten years had been for her, they’d been hard for him. He’d worked hard. No one looked like that from lounging about writing poetry. Even sitting there on the floor he looked deadly.
“Why can’t I be in Uncle Callum’s pack?” the six-year-old queried, rubbing her hand along the wolf’s belly as if the beast was someone’s pet poodle.
“Because proper young ladies aren’t wolves.”
“She has ye there, lass,” Callum unexpectedly agreed. “I reckon if only those of us in this room know it, though, ye can be in my pack.”
She rose up on her knees, leaning over the she-wolf to hug her uncle. Her small arms couldn’t meet around his broad shoulders. “Thank you, Uncle Callum. I’ll be a very good wolf.”
With a chuckle he hugged her back, lifting her over the wolf to perch on one of his thighs. Then he looked up at Rebecca over the girl’s head. “It appears yer mama thinks she’s going somewhere this evening,” he commented. “Should we ask her where?”
“I heard Agnes and Mary talking about it this morning,” Margaret replied, pulling an old watch out of her uncle’s pocket and flipping it open. “They were wondering how she would go to the theater if Lord Stapp couldn’t come calling to escort her.” She turned over the watch. “This has Mama in it.”
For the first time since his return, Rebecca saw Callum flinch. Gently he put his big hands over Margaret’ssmall ones and retrieved the timepiece. “It’s an old watch,” he returned, clicking it shut again.
“I have no idea whether I’m going out tonight or not,” Rebecca said, following the watch with her eyes as he returned it to his pocket. She’d never sat for a miniature portrait that she recalled. Where had he gotten a picture? “I thought it would be rude not to be ready if he sent word for me to meet him.”
Setting Margaret aside, Callum easily rolled to his feet. “Mags, stay here with Waya for a moment, will ye? We need to get her accustomed to staying by yer side, being that ye’re part of the pack now.”
“Oh, of course!”
Moving forward, he took Rebecca by the elbow in a firm grip that didn’t hurt, but that she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to. Together they walked to the head of the stairs, where he drew her to a halt. “Ye mean to stand by Stapp?” he asked in a low voice. “After what I told ye about Ian nae drowning? After Stapp tried to get ye to leave this house without Mags?”
“I’ve known Donnach for better than ten years,” she returned in the same tone. “He’s been my friend. The last thing I rememberyoudoing is breaking your brother’s heart.”
His two-colored eyes narrowed. “If ye—”
