Finally he faced her, his face a blank mask except for the utter fury in his eyes. “Because it would be too easy.”
“‘Easy’?” she repeated, steadying her legs beneath her in case she needed to move quickly.
“Nae for me, because aye, it would be nice and simple. One slice, and he’d be gone. But it would’ve been too easy onhim.”
“You want him to feel your pain.”
“I want him to feel my pain, yer pain, Margaret’s pain that she’ll nae have a da’ to help her learn to dance, or walk her into church for her wedding.” He clenched his fist, blood from cut fingers dripping to the floor. “Before, it would have been enough to drop him in his tracks. Before I knew wee Mags. Before I knew that he’d hurt ye, as well as me.”
“Then let’s hurt him back,” she said, with far more courage than she felt. Once she agreed to go along with this, there would be no stopping. Callum MacCreath wouldn’t turn aside for anything—even her. “Court, yes, but not just that. Making certain everyone knows he’s a damned dog, whatever it takes to see him gone and you… not dead. So you can continue to protect us.” That would appeal to him, she knew. Not his survival, but his ability to continue to protect Margaret and her. This Callum would want that, she hoped. She believed.
He looked at her, the sound of the clock ticking in the hallway and dim outside noises of Inverness loud in the silence between them. If he realized she was trying to keep him safe, that keeping him alive and close to hermattered much more than what happened to Dunncraigh, she would lose. Abruptly, though, he nodded. “Aye. Let’s hurt him.”
***
As a twenty-year-old, Callum had spoken his mind, and not having hold of all the facts hadn’t slowed him down an ounce. He’d also been furious when his elders—namely Ian—had declined to listen to him, much less follow his advice. In the boldness of youth he’d felt utterly secure in the fact that he was a MacCreath, a man, unconquerable, and the only one who knew the answers.
The idea that he wouldn’t inherit the Geiry title, wealth, and estates hadn’t overly troubled him. He would have enough blunt to be comfortable, and anything he did with that money would belong to him. Therefore, when he’d left Scotland for Kentucky to make his own way, he’d still felt like he had his feet under him, even if his pride and his heart had been blasted into oblivion.
He looked to his right, where Rebecca sat dining on a beefsteak with oyster sauce. Margaret did the same to his left, with one wolf and one white mop keeping a close eye on her from below. The formality of meals had been the most jarring reminder that he’d left the wilds for an aristocratic household, but given that it had been ten years since he’d had a decent oyster sauce, he was willing to wear a fresh cravat and jacket for the occasion.
His mind returned to the fact that had been troubling him all day; Rebecca had never had any prospect of being independent. Aye, as she said, she could have avoided marriage altogether. That would have made her a wealthy spinster, but with no one to pass on her father’s holdings to in turn, all of her wealth would have eventually gone to partners or other investors, or at worst theCrown. Now that she had a daughter, if she didn’t remarry then Margaret would be the recipient of her wealth—which the bug could only hold on to as long assheremained unwed.
Rebecca, though, had wanted to marry. She’d therefore chosen a steady, kind man, a man her father liked and trusted, and one with whom she would be comfortable and content. And then it had all fallen apart, anyway. Because her husband had died before her father, she was the one who inherited the fleet and associated business interests, but as far as she knew that had been accidental. She still had some leverage, a chance to find another kind, steady husband, because she still had monetary value.
He’d never been steady, nor particularly kind. At least never in the time she’d known him. Bellowing that he’d changed rang hollow, too, since he’d stomped into her house, thrown water at her, and then announced that he meant to kill anyone who’d had a hand in harming Ian. Even to his ears that didn’t sound like a man she’d want for more than an evening or two.
In truth, when he’d arrived it hadn’t been with the idea of surviving much past killing Dunncraigh, anyway. Two things had begun to alter that—meeting Margaret, and setting eyes on Rebecca again. And what the devil he meant to do about that, he had no idea.
“Why are you mad at your dinner?” Margaret asked.
He shook himself. “I’m nae mad at my dinner. It’s bonny.”
“But you’re frowning at it.” She wrinkled her own face up, imitating him.
“Good God, I’m terrifying,” he commented, sprinkling more salt atop the beefsteak.
“No,I’mterrifying. But I didn’t forget; you’re mad at something.”
“I’ve just been thinking about how brave ye and yer mama have been over the past year or so.” He leaned closer to her, putting his chin near the top of the table. “Did she have gentleman callers telling ye to call them ‘uncle,’ bug?”
She giggled. “Only Uncle Donnach. But yes, she had gentleman callers. And so, so many yellow and white roses. I could smell them everywhere.” Margaret made an expansive gesture, taking in the whole house.
His good humor squeezed into anger at her comment.Uncle Donnach. Rebecca had been trying to survive, he reminded himself forcefully. And Stapp had of course been extremely helpful and understanding about her situation—because the marquis wanted her fleet.
“Margaret, why don’t you—”
Callum lifted a finger at Rebecca before she could hurry the wee one away. He kept his gaze on Mags. “I need ye to listen to someaught, lass,” he said quietly, reaching over and taking her free hand. Her fingers looked so small and delicate in his; it seemed a miracle that she could exist in this place with conspiracies and dangers all around. “Ye’ve but one uncle in this world, and that’s me. So call Donnach Maxwell anything else ye like, but please dunnae call him yer uncle.”
She nodded, her two-colored gaze meeting his. “Very well. May I call him Stapp, like you do?”
“Aye.”
“And you’ll always be my uncle? Because I didn’t know you for a very long time.”
A smile touched his mouth, and his battered old heart. “I will always be yer uncle. And ye’ll always have me wrapped about yer wee little finger.”
Margaret stuck out her pinkie. “Good. Then I have another question for you.”
