“Go away, Callum. I dunnae care to know where. And dunnae come back. Ever.”
His spine stiff, Callum managed a nod. Aye, he’d been drunk, but he couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t have said all those things anyway. “Ye’ve the right of it. Ye might have told me what ye planned, and I’d have argued against it, but I suppose ye didnae want to hear what I had to say. But ye listen now, Ian MacCreath. This is a mistake.He’sa mistake. Our own da’ called him a cannibal, eating a man alive and taking all that he has, then leaving the bones to bleach in the sun.” Callum jabbed a finger in the duke’s direction. “But ye and Rebecca have yer marriage and yer fleet of ships and yer litter of bairns, and ye keep tangling yerself in with Dunncraigh until ye realize ye’re the fly and he’s the spider. I hope I never have cause to say I told ye so, Ian. I truly do. And now the lot of ye, go to hell.”
Turning, he stalked to the door, his gut churning. A nightmare. What the devil had happened? And why couldn’t he wake up?
“Well done, Geiry,” Dunncraigh commented smoothly. “Ye’ve seen the worst impediment to the future ye desire, and ye’ve dealt with it like a man.”
Callum stopped in his tracks and whipped around, stalking back up to the duke, to his clan chief. “And ye, ye rat-faced villain,” he snarled, “if Ieverhear of anything ill happening to my brother or to his wife, I will come and find ye. Even if I have to claw my way oot of hell to do it. And I’ll end ye. I swear to God.”
Sending a last look back at his gray-faced brother, Callum turned once more to Becca. She wanted this. She deserved it, then. And he hoped she regretted every damned second of it. Then he turned around again and walked out the door. And he didn’t look back.
Chapter One
Kentucky, 1816
The bushes on the far side of the ravine rustled again. Sinking lower into his crouch, Callum MacCreath slowly unslung the rifle from his shoulder. A light breeze touched his face, moving his scent behind him, away from the steep, crumbling bank. Readying the rifle, he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a low, two-toned whistle.
A heartbeat later a huge, bristle-backed gray boar ripped out of the tangle of vines and deadfall, squealing as it plunged down the steep wall and into the shallow creek at the bottom. The large, jet-black figure behind it stayed right on the boar’s heels, growling and nipping at the pig’s backside.
The boar scrambled up the near side of the ravine, screeching as it caught sight of Callum, its mouth agape and impressive tusks dripping water and saliva as it charged. Ignoring the earsplitting noise, Callum lifted the rifle, narrowed one eye, and squeezed the trigger. The boar pitched forward onto its tusks and rolled to a stop in a cloud of dirt. Then it began sliding back downthe slope behind it. A second later it splashed into the shallow creek.
The black wolf, though, skidded to a halt on the near bank and followed the pig’s descent with unblinking yellow eyes. Then it turned, licked its jowls, and gazed at Callum as he stood upright.
“Ye could go fetch it for me,” he commented, propping the rifle against the bear-clawed trunk of the nearest blue ash.
When in response to that the wolf only sank onto her haunches, he brushed the tips of his fingers across the coarse jet fur running down her spine, then hopped down to the creek bed himself. Crouching again, he pulled the knife from his boot and swiftly dressed the boar before he rinsed his hands and the blade in the slow-moving trickle of water. Even without its guts the beast likely weighed close to a hundred fifty pounds, but then the big bastard had been eating things that didn’t belong to it.
With a grunt he hefted the animal across his shoulders and straightened, using a small dogwood to haul himself back up the side of the ravine. Retrieving his rifle, he set off north through the forested tangle until he reached the ridge beyond and its slightly easier terrain.
Twenty minutes later the wolf appeared at his side. From the red of her muzzle she’d detoured to enjoy the boar innards he’d left behind. The top of her head just reached his hip, her long legs with the large padded paws easily matching his pace over the uneven ground, black death on four feet.
“I reckon ye ken I like a challenge, Waya,” he noted, angling toward the rising sun as the trees began to thin around them, “but next time ye might look for a boar that doesnae weigh near twice what ye do.”
With a low whumph Waya sped into a smooth trot, entering the large clearing ahead of him. A dozen wood-and-stone buildings stood scattered in a loose circle surrounded by a twenty-foot-tall split-rail wall. Inside, amid the clatter and thump of industry, a half-dozen workers left a pile of boards and approached him.
“That’s the boar what’s been tearing into the silo?” one of them asked, giving the wolf a wide berth.
“Waya thought so,” Callum returned, handing the animal over to a pair of lads from the cookhouse, who half dragged the beast indoors. “One of them, anyway. We tracked him for three miles, but he didnae go visiting any of his smaller pig friends. He’s dinner now, regardless.”
“Aye, Mr. MacCreath, and thank the devil for that. At least the smaller ones dunnae eat as much.”
“Callum,” Rory Boyd called, trotting up to him. “Young Geoffrey Winter came up here before dawn with word from his da’ that the damned Thomas boys are making offers for the rye crop all up and down the river.”
Callum shrugged. “We pay better, Rory. Always have, always will.”
“Aye, butwedunnae suggest what a dangerous territory Kentucky is or mention how easy it is for folks’ cabins to catch fire,” the shorter man returned. “That’s some good incentive there.”
“I’ll nae have that.” With a scowl, Callum whistled Waya to his side, and she trotted back down the outside stairs leading from the second-floor rooms they shared. “Send MacDougall and the twins down with a reminder to the Thomas lads that they’re the third set of Irish lunatics to try to take my business, and that if they dunnae move downriver by June they’ll find me a bit annoyed.”
Boyd grinned. “That should do. The last time ye were a bit annoyed with a lad, he ended with a broken jaw and passage back to Bristol.”
“He should’ve known better than to try passing his whisky off as mine. How’s Arnold dealing with the new lads?”
“Och, ye ken how gentle Arnold is. Even with that broken wing of his he’s still working them down to scarecrows. That was after he had to swear to them that ye’re nae some witch or a demon, of course.”
That was nothing new. Aside from his hard-earned reputation for directness, he supposed it was that like most male MacCreaths he boasted a green left eye and a blue right eye. Ian had the same oddity, as had their father. Not so long ago several of his ancestors had been burned as both witchesanddemons because of precisely that peculiarity. These days, though, lasses seemed to find his two-colored eyes attractive, thank Lucifer. He much preferred a roll in the bedsheets to a stake-burning. As far as his men were concerned, if they thought him a bit of a demon, and if that ensured their loyalty, he’d no objection. “If a man’s scared to work for me, he’s nae a man Iwantworking for me.”
“They’re still here.” Boyd cleared his throat. “Young Winter also brought up the mail from town. Ye’ve another letter.”
