“I’m listening.”
“May I wear a kilt?”
On his other side Rebecca burst out laughing. “No, you may not wear a kilt, Lady Mags. Kilts are for Highlands men. And ladies do not show their knees or their ankles.”
The six-year-old sighed. “Is Grandmama spinning in her grave again?”
“Very likely.”
Sweet Saint Christopher, she was a delight. If he could somehow forget everything else, the oath that had brought him back to Scotland, the devils circling around them, he would have been content to chat with his niece, sit for her tea parties, and go walking in the park with her and her mama. The three of them, for the rest of his life.
Was that why he’d agreed with Rebecca that hurting and disgracing Dunncraigh would be preferable to killing him? When he’d thought she was involved he’d wanted nothing more than to end all of them, whatever the consequences to himself. Callum sent her a sideways glance. Was that why she’d suggested this twistier path? Did that mean she wanted him about? God knew he wanted to be here, however much it upended the life he’d carved out for himself.
“Does Waya get to stay here with me tonight?” Margaret asked, not even attempting to hide the bites of beefsteak she dropped for the mop and the wolf.
“Aye,” he returned. “Much as I’d enjoy the stir she caused, I dunnae think Laird and Lady Braehaudin want to risk their other guests getting devoured.”
Margaret laughed again. “That would be funny.”
“People getting devoured is never amusing, Mags,” her mother put in. “And I know this is the first evening in some time that I’ve been out late, but you will listen to Agnes and go to bed when she tells you to do so.”
The lass wrinkled her nose. “Very well. Are you and Uncle Callum going to dance?”
“I reckon so,” he put in, before Rebecca could say otherwise. “I didnae get dressed up in my best tartan to stand alone in the corner.”
Nor had Rebecca. Against her own better judgment, or so she’d claimed, she’d donned a deep blue silk gown with black beading throughout the bodice and down the short, puffy sleeves. Together with the black lace gloves sitting by her left elbow, she looked lovely, sophisticated, and very, very desirable. And despite the black, not at all like a widow just coming out of mourning.
“M’laird, ye asked me to tell ye when the clock struck nine o’clock,” Pogue said, as two of the footmen cleared dinner from the table.
“Aye. Thank ye, Pogue. Have the coach brought ’round, will ye?” Rising from the table, he called Waya to the foyer while Rebecca’s maid retrieved her reticule and heavy black wrap. “Waya,” he said, squatting in front of the wolf, “guard Margaret.”
With a softwhumphshe rubbed her side against his thigh, nearly shoving his kilt up to his hip, then padded back into the dining room, only to appear again as Rebecca and the lass emerged. “Is Waya guarding me now?” Mags asked, skipping forward to put her arms around his neck.
He kissed her on the cheek, lifting her in the air as he straightened again. “Aye.”
She twisted around to kiss her mother, and smoothed her skirt as he set her down again, a miniature image of propriety—temporary or not. “Have a pleasant evening, then,” she chirped, and went traipsing up the stairs with her pack as Agnes appeared on the landing.
“We could stay in,” Rebecca commented, looking after her daughter.
“Nae.” He took her in from head to toe again. “But dunnae think I’m nae tempted.” So tempted, in fact, that he was beginning to think the kilt might have been a poor choice of attire.
With a fine color touching her cheeks, Rebecca led the way out the front door. He handed her into the waiting coach himself, though, mainly because he wanted to touch her. Because she was his sister-in-law and he was the patriarch of the household they didn’t require a chaperone, which, considering Scottish law, seemed rather questionable. On the other hand, he didn’t want a damned maid traveling everywhere with the two of them. Especially not after last night.
“You know people will talk when they see me wearing this,” she commented again once the coach rumbled onto the street.
“Aye. Ye look like a woman and nae a widow.”
“A widow is a woman.”
“A widow’s a lass ye feel sympathy for, nae desire for.” He moved from the opposite seat to the place beside her. “I want Stapp and Dunncraigh to see that ye’re nae some weepy lass they can pretend to rescue. Ye’re a woman that other men desire, and they’re nae the only men in the hunt.”
“Donnach has a legitimate reason to want to marry me, though. Whether or not he… cares for me, he and his father have a great deal of money invested in Sanderson’s. If he can acquire a much larger share through marriage, why shouldn’t he make the attempt?”
“I’ve nae argument with that,” he returned, though just the idea of Donnach Maxwell laying hands and mouth on Rebecca made his jaw clench. “They murdered two men in order to acquire Sanderson’s. That’s nae a plan they’ll be willing to abandon.” He took her hand, curving his fingers around hers. “If I’m correct,which I reckon I am, the second they see ye dancing with other men, and in particular with the man who owns the other large portion of Sanderson’s, they’ll crawl out of the shadows to push ye into marrying Stapp. And ye’ll have to be ready to push back.”
“I know.”
“Are ye ready? I very much doubt it’ll be pleasant, lass. Especially if ye resist.”
