“I’ll give ye a trio of lads from my warehouse here,” Callum decided. “Ye use them how and where ye see fit.” He turned around, taking a step back toward the shorter man. “And ye’re nae to trust anyone but those who already have yer confidence. Ye ken?”
The clerk nodded. “Aye. And thank ye for having trust in me, m’laird.”
Pushing back at his own impatience for answers, Callum inclined his head. “I’ve nae found a shilling missing in eight years, Dennis. The lot of ye have given me every reason to trust ye. Keep me informed.”
With that he returned to the busy dockside streets. Waya at his side, he walked down to the water, taking in the sight of half a hundred ships loading cargo, unloading it, or jockeying for position in the harbor. The wealth to be had was almost tangible; no wonder Dunncraigh had dug in his claws the moment he saw a chance to grab some of it.
What had it been, though, that had pushed the Maxwell to murder Ian? What opportunity had come along that the duke simply couldn’t share, couldn’t allow anyone else to partake of?Thatwas what Callum needed Dennis Kimes to discover; without a reason, proving that a duke had committed a murder would be impossible.
Of course in truth he only needed to satisfy himself. Once he knew for certain who’d done what and why, he would act, and everything else be damned. Callum rolled his shoulders, shaking off the sensation that fate waited in the wings. A good quarter of the ships in the harbor flew the small white and green flag of George Sanderson’s fleet—or rather, of Rebecca Sanderson-MacCreath’s. A portion of the profits of every voyagethose ships made went into her coffers now. Even deducting the pay of the captain and crew, insurance, the ships themselves and their upkeep, she was worth a fortune.
He frowned. Did she realize that? Had it occurred to her yet just how valuable a commodity she’d become? Because he would have been willing to wager everything he now owned that that fact hadn’t escaped Dunncraigh or his dear eldest son, Donnach Maxwell.
Waya uttered a soft, low growl beside him. Stiffening, his hand instinctively going to the knife tucked into the back of his trousers, Callum turned around. Half a dozen men rode toward him, the one in the lead mounted on a muscular gray charger. They spread out as they approached, enclosing him in a half-circle with the harbor at his back.
They could attempt to pen him in if they wished; the moment he recognized the stiff posture and lifted chin of the lead rider, flight became the last thing on his mind. He’d wondered when the Duke of Dunncraigh would deign to acknowledge his presence in Inverness, and it seemed he’d just found the answer to that question.
It also meant the duke had someone keeping an eye on him, or they’d never have found him in the tangle of people and wagons about the harbor. That didn’t surprise him in the least, but he would have to take it into account from now on. He stood where he was, one hand on the knife handle, and let Waya move a step or two in front of him. And then he waited for them to finish closing in, as if that rendered Dunncraigh any safer from him.
“Callum MacCreath,” the duke finally uttered. “I nae thought to see ye back on Scottish soil, lad.”
“I nae thought to be here,” he returned. “But yedidnae have to come looking for me. I’d have gone to find ye, soon enough.”
Deep-set green eyes assessed him. How much of that last conversation did Dunncraigh even remember? Callum doubted it had crossed the duke’s mind since, except perhaps when he’d felt the need to tell Ian he had all the friends and family he needed here, and he was lucky he’d run off that drunken brother of his before any harm could come of his association with the wastrel.
“I didnae see any reason to delay,” the duke commented. “We are partners now, after all. Join me now for luncheon at the Olde Club, and we can discuss our business.” He glanced down at Waya. “I dunnae recommend ye bring that beast with ye, though.”
The Olde Club, at the time he’d lived here, at least, had been the stiffest, most prestigious gentlemen’s club in Inverness. He’d set foot there once, in Ian’s company, and had detested every overstuffed moment of it. But this wasn’t about a pleasant luncheon, or the company he might find there. This was about information, and power. “Nae,” he returned easily. “I’d sooner set my own kilt on fire than sit at a table with the likes of ye, Dunncraigh.”
A muscle in the older man’s cheek jumped, but otherwise his expression remained unchanged. “That’s nae wise, lad. Wearepartners, and it’s to yer own benefit to know yer business. At least I assume ye’ve nae idea of what yer dear brother had planned for the family MacCreath. But he confided in me, and it behooves me to help ye figure out all the twists and turns.”
Every time Dunncraigh uttered the word “lad,” Callum wanted to punch him—which was likely what the duke intended. “I reckon ye can wait until I’m ready to meet with ye,” he retorted. “If ye care for a word, senda note. I dunnae recommend ye come calling at my home.” He smiled. “Nae doubt Stapp can testify to that.”
“We left off poorly, lad,” the duke pursued. “Ten years is a long time to carry a grudge for someaught ye did to yerself. Let’s begin again, shall we?”
“I reckoned that was what we were doing,” Callum said. “Ye brought yer wolves,” he went on, gesturing at the men surrounding him, “and I brought mine. I’d call the playing field level. Dunnae ye fret though, old man. I’ll be seeing ye again. Soon.”
With that he walked off down the pier, eyeing the rider who blocked his path until the man backed his horse out of the way, then whistling Waya to heel. Dunncraigh had likely seen what he expected—the “lad” who drank too much and spoke too freely about whatever tickled his mind. Good. The less worry the duke had, the more likely he would be careless. Arrogant. Unmindful of any consequences for his actions. Especially the ones that he’d taken a year or so ago. Even if he wasn’t, Callum would find the chinks in the Maxwell’s armor.
What concerned him at the moment was whether Rebecca had begun to find the chinks in his own, and what he meant to do about that. And about her.
Chapter Seven
The moment the coach stopped, Margaret flung open the door and nearly fell on her face to the ground. Before Rebecca could even gasp a warning, Callum grabbed the girl by the back of the gown and hauled her back inside the carriage. “What’s yer hurry, Mags?” he asked, setting her onto her feet.
Of course he’d adopted the nickname the Scottish servants called Margaret—Mags would never do in London, for it sounded much more like the name of a shepherd’s daughter than that of an earl’s—but of course Maggie had now begun to refuse to acknowledge any other version of her name.
Rebecca hadn’t realized how much her daughter craved having a father about, because other than a slowly lessening recitation of where Ian had gone and the acknowledgment that he wasn’t coming back, Margaret had never attempted to replace him with Pogue or any of the other male servants, or even with Donnach or His Grace the duke. But however… confused she felt about Callum herself, Margaret clearly adored him.
“I want to show you my bedchamber,” the little one returned. “And I forgot to wait for the steps.”
As she spoke, the butler hurried out of the house and flipped down the coach steps himself. “My lady,” Duffy exclaimed. “And Lady Mags. I’d nae idea ye were…” He trailed off, his narrow face going gray, as Callum emerged from the coach. “Sweet, merciful Saint Andrew,” he intoned.
Callum offered his hand. “Hello, Duffy. I didnae think to send word ahead, so ye can blame me for the surprise.”
“M… Master Callum? I mean to say, Laird Geiry.” The butler shook his proffered hand vigorously. “I, that is,we,thought ye—”
“Aye. I’m aware.” He turned around, offering that same hand to help Rebecca down from the coach.
