“Wait.”
“M’laird?”
“Where’s a respectable place for a lad to go have a meal?” he asked, scowling at his own weakness. “Where a respectable lass could also show her face without causing a scandal?”
“Ah. I would say MacCulloch’s Tea House just across Black Bridge. They say the Madeira’s fine there, but the brandy’s watered down. Or I could name a handful of taverns where ye’ll find a number of handsome lasses and much better drink, m’laird. The Seven Fathoms still stands.”
A tavern would be easier,he told himself, even as he shook his head. Not the Seven Fathoms, though. Not there. “Tell Rebecca I’ll be taking myself to MacCulloch’s Tea House at eight o’clock, if she’d care to join me.”
“Aye.” The butler hesitated. “Isnae that asking for trouble, lad? If I may say so?”
“I reckon it is,” Callum returned, going back to the ledgers. “I’m nae one to shy away from trouble.”
The butler nodded and pulled the door closed behind him. Rebecca had provided no proof that she hadn’t had a hand in Ian’s death except for her word, but Callum tended to believe her innocence, regardless. Innocent didn’t equal trustworthy, however.
When he’d first heard the news, he’d wanted her to be guilty. He’d wanted an excuse to punish her—not because of Ian, but because of the way she’d insulted and dismissed him ten years ago. Now, in part because of young Margaret and in part because he’d nearly kissed Rebecca for the second time in a day, he’d begun debating what he truly did want her role in all this to be.
“Stop,” he muttered at himself, flipping another page. He had a task. One task. Nothing else mattered.
Callum closed his eyes. No, he needed to amend that statement now. Margaret MacCreath mattered. His brother’s daughter. His niece. Whatever he did, she needed to be and would be protected. Mags was innocent in all this, and she was his blood. Two months ago—and for the ten years before that—he hadn’t wanted to know anything about his brother’s life, his happiness, his wife, or his hypothetical offspring. He’d met the bairn a day ago, and now he couldn’t name anything more precious to him in his entire life. Before he took his revenge, before he put a target on his own back from both the rest of clan Maxwell and the law, he needed to see that she was safe and protected.
Finally he closed the ledger and shoved it away from him. He couldn’t decipher all of it, no matter how long he spent staring at the figures. Not without knowing more about Ian’s holdings and who else had a share in them. Pulling a sheet of paper from the desk, he scribbled a note to Michael Crosby. His accountants might not have managed Ian’s accounts, but they knew numbers. And they would have more familiarity with other Scottish businesses than he did.
The office door rattled and swung open. “You might’ve asked me yourself,” Rebecca said, stopping in the doorway.
He pushed to his feet, ignoring the speeding of his pulse. “Ye dunnae have to join me. Ye did get all dressed up, but ye can stay at home if ye like.”
“I’m not certain I wish to be seen with you,” she returned, not moving despite his approach.
Callum stopped, the… anticipation in his chest shifting into renewed anger. “Because I’m trouble? Because I’m a drunken boy or someaught?”
Blinking, she did take a step back. “Because you’re dressed like a drover fresh from driving a herd of cows to market,” she retorted. “MacCulloch’s Tea House is a respectable establishment.”
“Och. Give me a damned minute, then, and I’ll change my clothes.”
“Do you have any other clothes? Ian’s are in the attic, but I’m afraid you’re taller than he was.”
“My trunk’s arrived from the ship. Wait for me.”
Tromping up the stairs, he dug into the trunk where he’d had Boyd throw whatever he might need while he rode off to Boston and secured passage onThe Rooster. A handful of clean shirts, a black coat he didn’t remember purchasing, an extra pair of trousers, and a kilt in the Maxwell red, green, and black. Lifting it, he shook it out. Little as he wanted to be draped in Maxwell colors, it could serve a purpose, he supposed. As he’d pointed out, he wasn’t trying to hide. Just the opposite. Earl Geiry was dead. Long live Earl Geiry. And death to all his enemies.
***
It was perfectly acceptable, Rebecca reminded herself, for a widow to dine with her brother-in-law. No one would think anything of it. In this instance they wouldn’t, anyway, because any observers would be too occupied with gossiping about when Callum MacCreath had returned, whether he was as wild as he’d once been, and whether that had actually been a wolf in his company this morning, or a hellhound. She doubted anyone would even notice her, which would be very pleasant for a change.
As for whether Callum had been tamed, she couldn’t answer it herself. He definitely seemed more… controlled, but whereas before she would have described him as a wildfire causing destruction in every direction,now he burned on the inside. When he finally did explode, she didn’t want to be anywhere nearby.
“Will this do, then?” he asked, trotting down the stairs with the wolf on his heels.
Rebecca opened her mouth to answer, then shut it again. She saw men in kilts all the time; this was the heart of the Highlands, after all. But most of those men didn’t look like Callum MacCreath. All he needed was a claymore in his hands, and he would have been the image of Scotland, itself—or at least the one the English ladies whispered longingly about when they ventured this far north.
“Yes,” she said belatedly, when he cocked his head at her. “Very acceptable.” She cleared her throat. “You cannot mean for the wolf to join us, though. You’ll frighten everyone senseless.”
“She’s been seen once today,” he returned, squatting in front of the beast. “That’s enough for now. Waya, guard the bairn. Guard Margaret.”
With a softwhumphthe wolf turned and padded silently back upstairs, and Callum straightened again. While his attention was elsewhere for once, Rebecca drank him in. Good heavens, he was striking. And her head barely came to the top of his shoulder, she couldn’t help noting once again. “Are you certain my daughter is safe with that beast?” she made herself ask.
“Aye. Nae a soul Waya hasnae met had best enter the house, though, until I return.”
