Callum gave a slow nod. “I’ve a counterproposal for ye, Yer Grace. I’ll take my third of the shipping business and run it as I goddamned see fit. Ye’ll take yer arse off my street and go fuck yerself. I know what ye did.And I know what ye’re trying to do by having Stapp court Rebecca.”
The duke’s face darkened. “I—”
“Shut yer gobber. I’m talking,” Callum cut him off. “Him marrying her would give ye two-thirds ownership. Then all ye’d need to do would be to buy off my gullible cousin with some blunt and flattery, and it’d be all yers. Or ye could pay him to leave the running of the business to ye, and ye’d have nearly the same outcome. Ye’re nae fooling me. Ye ken shipping is where the new money’s to be made, and ye dunnae want to share. Just as ye didnae want to settle for the profits of renting a pier to Sanderson’s.”
“Whoever ye think ye are, MacCreath, ye’re clan Maxwell,” the duke retorted, his green eyes narrowed. “I’mtheMaxwell. I’ll nae abide ye ever speaking to me that way again. Take what I offer ye and go away.”
“I’m nae going anywhere, Dunncraigh. By my way of thinking a man who murders for greed sells his soul to the devil. I mean to help Auld Clootie collect yers. And I dunnae think we should make him wait much longer.”
“Och,” the duke retorted. “I’ve seen yer sort before, lad. Ye’re a disappointment to yer family, looking for proof of someaught that didnae happen just so ye can hold up yer head again. Ye cannae act without that proof, or the world’ll nae view ye as anything but what ye are—a failure. Give up. There’s nae a thing here for ye.”
The duke couldn’t have been more in error. Callum had nothing to prove to the world. In fact, the knife tucked into his boot would already have kissed the duke’s throat except that he’d promised one person proof before he acted. One person stood between Dunncraigh and the grave. And at that moment Callum remained motionless, debating whether he would be willing togive up a chance for anything with Rebecca in exchange for immediate, final revenge.
“Is there anything ye require, m’laird?” Pogue asked, the butler abruptly appearing, a lantern in his hand, from the direction of the house. He trailed behind a trio of Dunncraigh’s men, Callum noticed belatedly, the hounds no doubt attracted by the commotion.
He shook himself free of his bloodlust. Whatever he wanted to do, meant to do, Rebecca still trusted the Duke of Dunncraigh and his son. Callum had to prove them unworthy of her trust and her compassion before he acted. And that was purely for her sake. Not for theirs. Not for himself, because he already knew. The bloody butler had just earned an increase in his salary for giving him a moment to find that clarity. “Some tea and biscuits would be grand, aye,” he said aloud.
The duke forced a laugh that wouldn’t have fooled a bairn. “We’re finished chatting.” Dunncraigh took a half-step closer. “Ye rant all ye like, Geiry. It’ll make ye sound more like a fool than ye already are, and however loud ye bellow, ye’ll nae prove a word of any wrongdoing in court.”
“What makes ye think I’ll take this to the law?” Callum murmured, holding the duke’s gaze for a hard quartet of heartbeats before he turned on his heel.
“Callum?” Rebecca said quietly as he passed her and stalked into the house.
“Get inside and stay there,” he snapped, and headed for Ian’s—his—office.
Oh, dear. She’d seen this before, countless times. Ian and Callum would argue about something, usually Callum’s recklessness, and then Callum would stomp off somewhere and get drunk and make things even worse. It had been frustrating and predictable back then. Now, it could be dangerous. He wasn’t twenty years old withno power and no responsibilities. And while she could flee if necessary, Margaret could not—which meant neither of them could do so.
“Maggie, please take Agnes and your wolf pack upstairs,” she said calmly, stepping into the foyer as their luggage passed them by. “It’s nearly your bedtime.”
“I don’t want to be Maggie,” her daughter said, frowning.
“No?” With some difficulty Rebecca tore her attention from the closed door at the end of the hall. “Who do you want to be, then? I already told you that ‘the Splendid Princess Margaret of the Faerie Realms’ is too long to remember.”
“You just remembered it,” the girl pointed out. “But I want to be Mags. That’s what Highlanders call me, and I’m half Highlander. And Uncle Callum calls me Mags.”
She’d known this was coming, blast it all. “Mags is very informal,” she countered. “In London they will say you’re being too familiar.”
“I’m nae in London.”
Rebecca shut her eyes for a moment. “You’renotin London.”
“And that’s why I can be Mags.”
Agnes gave a quiet snort, covering it with a cough.
Outmaneuvered by a six-year-old. “Very well. Here, you may be Mags.” Catching the nanny’s dark-eyed gaze over Margaret’s head, she angled her chin toward the stairs. “Remember to leave the door open for the wolf. I’ll be up in a moment to say good night.”
“Of course. Wolves sometimes need to roam.”
Yes, they did. And that was what worried her about the other wolf in the pack. Once Margaret and the rest of them vanished upstairs, she moved quietly down the hallway until she reached the office. Nothing she’d ever said or done ten years ago had prevented his drinking,and more than likely she should simply turn in for the night and leave him to destroy himself as he chose. Having him gone would return her life to normal—or what had become normal over the past year, anyway.
She lifted her hand to knock, but paused again. The last time she’d been alone in his company he’d nearly kissed all her clothes off, his passion raw and addictive. And then, he’d been sober. Taking a breath, she knocked. Perhaps she’d become addicted.
“What?” he said, from somewhere beyond the door.
“It’s Rebecca.”
“Go away. I dunnae want to hear why ye think I’m wrong. Nae now.”
