Looking down at her upturned face, he envied her. Even with her father gone, the lass had every confidence in the world. She knew for a fact, in her mind, at least, that she ruled her world, that she would always have enough food to eat, friends with whom to chat and play, pretty gowns to wear, and a wolf at her feet. And by God, he meant to make certain all of that remained true. Taking her around the waist, he lifted her into the air so she could look down on him. “Aye, as long as ye leave yer door open. Wolves sometimes need to roam at night. Agreed?”
“Aye,” she returned, giggling.
“And lasses donaeroam at night. Aye?”
“Aye,” she repeated stoutly.
Outside, the coaches clattered up the drive from the stable, and he set Margaret down again. “Go fetchAgnes,” he said, naming the six-year-old’s nanny as he nudged her toward the door. “Tell her we’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Aye,” she called again, galloping up the hallway.
Hefting both bags, he left the room as well, Waya falling in behind him. When Jamie, one of the two footmen he remembered from his previous residency, left the corner room with four bags clutched in his arms, Callum appropriated one of those, as well.
“M’laird, ye shouldnae be carrying yer own bags, much less her ladyship’s,” the servant exclaimed, rebalancing his load.
“It’s nae trouble,” he returned, heading down the stairs and leaving the footman with no option but to follow. “They’re lighter than barrels, which is what I’m accustomed to hauling about.”
“Is it true ye own the Kentucky Hills Distillery, then? If ye dunnae mind me asking.”
“Aye. I do own it. Ye’ve heard of it?”
“Down at the Bonny Bruce they call it the finest whisky nae made in the Highlands.”
Callum chuckled. “I’m nae certain that’s a compliment.”
“From Highlanders? Aye, it’s a compliment.”
His sales numbers said likewise, but he settled for nodding. In the Highlands, nothing was permitted to be superior to what was made here—at least not anything admitted to publicly. The very fact that the Bonny Bruce, a small tavern with naught but locals patronizing it, stocked his whisky spoke volumes all on its own.
“So it’s back to MacCreath House, then?” Rebecca asked, as she joined them on the front drive.
“Aye. And I’d like yer permission to go through yer da’s office at Edgley House.”
“So now you think my father had something to dowith Ian’s death?” she retorted, lowering her voice as the servants loaded the coaches.
“Nae. I think yer father’s death had someaught to do with Ian’s.”
He watched her expression, waiting for her to absorb the fact that he considered both Ian’s and George Sanderson’s deaths to be anything but accidental. In his narrative it all made sense; he only needed to find the threads that connected the entire mess together.
Her eyes widened, and she grabbed his arm to drag him down the drive. It would take a man a good bit bigger than she was to move him, but he acquiesced, walking away from the house and the general chatter behind them.
“Stop this,” she hissed, facing him. “I understand you feel somewhat… responsible, and you want to make amends for not being here. But it’s beginning to sound mad. For heaven’s sake, Callum. Let the dead rest, and look to your own future.”
He tilted his head. “I’m looking toyerfuture, Rebecca. And Margaret’s.” Seeing her skin darken and anticipating another browbeating, he took a breath. “I’ll make ye a bargain. Let me look. If I dunnae find anything, if there’s nae a pencil mark out of place, I’ll stop. Agreed?”
That was all a lie; heknewsomething lay just beyond his reach, and he’d die before he let it go. But she nodded, which was what he required. Without her permission he would have to break into Edgley House, and that could get complicated.
“I’m going with you,” she stated, the clench of her jaw enough to tell him that it wouldn’t do any good to argue.
He nodded. “Good. And if I find someaught, ye’re going to stop telling me I’m mad, and ye’ll listen to what I’ve been telling ye.”
“Agreed. Because you won’t find anything.”
For the devil’s sake, she was a stubborn lass. But then she’d had better than a year to reconcile losing the two men closest to her. He needed to be respectful of that. Aye, six weeks ago he’d been ready to doom her with the rest of the rats. But the past few days had convinced him that she was just as much a victim as Ian—she merely didn’t know it yet.
It was well past nightfall when they drew up in front of MacCreath House, to find another coach there before them and blocking half the street. The crest on the door, a lion standing on a wolf, made his jaw clench—and not simply because of the metaphor.Dunncraigh.
He grabbed for the handle of his own coach, barely slowing when Rebecca snatched at his sleeve. “Don’t, lass,” he growled.
