Gathering up all her willpower, all the anger and frustration she’d ever felt in his presence, she doubled her hands into fists and shoved. It felt like trying to push over the Rock of Gibraltar, or so she imagined, but he backed off by an inch or two. “What?” he murmured, nibbling at her lower lip.
She knew he could feel her shaking. “No,” she managed.
He stilled. “Nae because of Ian, or nae because of me?” he asked, keeping his tone level and his voice very quiet.
Rebecca knew what he meant. Did she cherish the thought and memory of Ian so greatly that the thought of being touched by his brother filled her with dismay? Or was it simply Callum who gave her pause? If she answered with the former, he wouldn’t touch her again. She knew that, without either of them having to say another word. He would leave her be, find his vengeance, and then she’d likely never speak another word to him unless it involved Margaret. But then she might never feel this wanton, this wanted, this… alive, ever again.
“It’s not Ian,” she whispered.
Callum touched his forehead against hers, very softly. Then he backed away, nodding. “I reckon I can work with that,” he said, and turned on his heel.
Chapter Eight
Lighting a second candle against the one guttering in the lamp, Callum pushed it into the soft wax of its predecessor. Beyond the closed door of Ian’s office—hisoffice, now—the house lay silent and dark. Even the servants wouldn’t be stirring for another hour or two.
At his feet Waya lay stretched out on one side, her legs kicking a little as she no doubt ran down an imaginary deer. A few feet beyond her the well-groomed mop, Reginald, snored softly, his nose pointed toward the wolf as if he needed to keep an eye on her even while he slumbered.
Rolling his shoulders, Callum turned to the last page of the ledger. These accounts were all in regard to Geiry Hall; evidently his brother kept separate books for each property and business, and then an additional ledger combining his entire income and expense. To Callum it seemed like intentionally sending himself to hell, but Ian had always liked organization.
Once again, though, he found nothing. Yes, money coming from and going out to Dunncraigh for various ventures, and the business ties between the MacCreaths and the Maxwell and George Sanderson growing moretangled over time, but as much as he wanted to find something that shouted murder or deceit, nothing of the kind caught his attention.
As long as a single book remained for him to search in the office he wasn’t about to admit defeat, but if his brother had suspected anything—anything—he would have left a clue about it. Callum knew that, with every bone in his body.
Why the devil hadn’t anyone else been suspicious? Why hadn’t Rebecca kept Stapp, at the least, from rummaging through drawers and taking whatever he pleased? After ten years of doing business together, the damned marquis probably knew just where to find whatever it was he’d wanted for himself. He’d probably known about the hidden panel at the bottom of the left drawer, as well. At any rate, it was empty. Still, Callum couldn’t be certain whether anything had been there to be removed or not. But finding nothing didn’t meant that nothing existed.
Sitting back, he ran a hand through his hair. Searching at three o’clock in the morning likely didn’t help anything either, but it had felt more useful than the previous two hours he’d spent pacing in his new bedchamber, unable to sleep.
For the devil’s sake, he wanted Rebecca. And it didn’t matter whether he could trust her or not, or that she’d been married to his own brother. Traditional Highlands law actually encouraged a man to marry his brother’s widow, to keep clan and property intact. This… need wasn’t about the law, though, or about his plans for Dunncraigh and whoever had helped him.
Every time he looked at her, he felt like that idiotic boy he’d been—all spleen and no wit. And why hadn’t he touched her all those years ago? He couldn’t explain it, not really, except to admit that perhaps she’d beenmore significant to him than all the other lasses with whom he’d dallied. She’d been a friend, and a lass with some damned sense in her head. In treating her with his version of respect, though, he’d lost her to his logic-minded brother, who saw her for the monetary prize that she was.
And she’d hurt him because she’d been more decisive and more mature than he had been. It had taken another man removing her from the chessboard for him to realize that firstly he wanted her about, and secondly that he’d done nothing to earn her loyalty or respect but drag her from one scrape to the next. Just the opposite, from what she’d said to him. And as drunk as he’d been, as drunk as he’d gotten at the Seven Fathoms after he’d packed a single bag and left the house in Inverness, he remembered every single thing she said. He might as well have tattooed her words across his chest, because they’d burned themselves onto the inside of his ribs, anyway, exactly where his heart had been before she’d clubbed it to death.
Callum shoved to his feet, growling as he stalked to the office’s small window. Behind him Waya rose, padding over to rear up against the windowsill beside him and gaze out into the darkness beyond. No doubt she sensed his aggravation, and had put it to a possible attack by Indians or Irishmen.
He scratched her behind the ears. “Ye reckon we should have stayed in Kentucky, do ye, lass? I’m nearly ready to agree with ye. Cousin James would’ve made a fine Earl Geiry. Hell, he might end up as the earl, anyway.” Callum sighed. “There’s the young lass, though. Does she smell like me to ye, Waya? Ye took to Mags quickly enough, and that’s for damned certain.”
The wolf gave a slow wag of her tail, though he didn’t know if that was to acknowledge his speech or becauseshe’d heard Margaret’s name. He knew enough by now, though, to be able to tell when Waya accepted another member into her pack, and Margaret had been accepted nearly from the moment the wolf had set eyes—or nose—on her.
With a last glance at the dark, moonless sky, he returned to snuff the candle out, leaving the room full of silent black shadows, the half glass of whisky still standing where he’d poured it three hours earlier. When he opened the door to leave the room Waya moved out ahead of him, and then he nearly tripped over the white mop as Reginald wheezed to his feet. He and the Skye terrier looked at each other for a long moment, before Callum inclined his head. “If Waya says ye’re acceptable, I’ll nae argue,” he muttered, “though I dunnae quite see the attraction, myself.”
Upstairs in the master bedchamber the wolf leaped up to sleep in the deep windowsill, while the mop settled into a ball down beneath her on the floor. Callum shed his clothes and slid naked beneath the cool sheets of the bed. He had three hours until dawn, when he could go take a look over the scene of the accident and the phaeton.Thatshould have been the only thing that mattered, the only thing occupying his mind at all. The fact that it wasn’t, he could only blame on himself—and the mesmerizing blond lass a few doors down from him and likely sleeping with the bliss of a wee bairn.
The next morning he’d just finished slathering his chin and cheeks with shaving soap when a knock sounded at his door. “Aye?” he called, opening the razor and lifting it.
“It’s me, Mags,” his niece’s young voice returned. “I’m looking for Reginald, but Mama says I cannot enter a gentleman’s private rooms.”
“I’m nae a gentleman; I’m yer uncle. Come on in, lass.”
Tail wagging furiously, the mop scrambled to meet the door as Margaret opened it. With a happy squawk she plunked herself down on the floor and pulled the terrier onto her lap. “There you are, you silly dog!”
“He asked to spend the night with Waya,” Callum explained. “And I didnae want him scratching at yer door all night.”
Waya hopped down from the window and padded over to lick the bairn’s ear, making her squeak again. “Good morning, Waya,” she said, giggling. “I wanted to bring you some roast chicken this morning, but Mama said you would eat my hand off to get to it.”
“She wouldnae,” he countered, stroking the bare blade of the razor down one cheek. What an odd gathering they were. The wolf, aye, but now he was keeping company with a spoiled lapdog and a wee girl child. And it felt… comfortable. “A wolf pack always looks after its bairns. Ye’re a bairn of her pack. She’d die for ye, lass. But she’d nae ever harm ye.”
“How did you come to find her?” Mags asked, giving her four-legged, long-fanged nanny a hug.
