South of the cathedral along the walking path Stapp had chosen, the buildings trailed off into tangles of brush, then trees and pretty glades with scattered thatched-roof houses and an old ruin or two breaking up the wilderness. It was damned pretty, and he wished he’d thought to take Rebecca walking there himself. Now she would only see it as him aping the ape.
It would also make following the two of them much simpler for him, and increase the temptation for him to put a ball between Donnach Maxwell’s shoulder blades. Callum rolled his own shoulders. He’d become accustomed to a certain lack of civility, to using brute force without hesitation when the occasion called for it. That had been for stakes of life and food and land. This, revenge, was both cleaner and more… messy. Especially when one particular lass continued to tempt him toward peace and domesticity.
Still, it had taken courage last night for her to agree to picnic with Stapp, and even more to tellhimabout the rendezvous. She had a backbone, and resolve. How far would she be willing to go, though, to avenge a man who’d been dead for fourteen months, and another who’d been gone for just short of that? No, he corrected himself. She didn’t want to avenge anyone. She wanted theMaxwell and Stapp to stand before a judge and be weighed for their crimes, and to accept whatever punishment or lack thereof some stranger decided they merited.
His curricle stopped just short of the cathedral. Before the groomsman could jump down to help Rebecca to the ground, Stapp stepped forward to see to it himself. When he took her hand, Callum clenched his fist.
The drizzle of the morning had ended, and blue sky crept closer along the western horizon. The grass would be wet, but given the trio of footmen who fell in a dozen or so feet behind Rebecca and Stapp, the marquis had planned for that. Among them the lads carried a small table, a pair of chairs, a blanket, and a large picnic basket. Callum was glad to see them present, loyal to the Maxwell or not. At least Stapp wouldn’t be attempting to remove Rebecca’s clothes in front of his footmen—or so he hoped.
There were several ways to convince a lass to marry a lad, after all. So far the marquis had tried faux protectiveness and flattery of her weak, feminine heart. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t tire of being patient and move on to threats or ruination. Of course that would also be the last thing Donnach Maxwell attempted.
Keeping to his crouch, Callum returned to the back of the roof and walked out along an overhanging, adjoining oak branch, then clambered to the ground. He’d worn his old Kentucky buckskins today; bold red and green and black plaid didn’t blend well into the greenery growing along the Ness. And he didn’t think for a moment that the three footmen were the only Maxwell men wandering about along the river walk today.
Rebecca carried an umbrella of green oiled silk, and used it presently as a walking cane. She’d dressed in a matching green walking dress, simple and half covered by a black pelisse. Whether she’d worn black to continueto honor Ian or to send Stapp a reminder that she was freshly out of mourning, Callum approved. He approved the umbrella, as well—anything she could use as a weapon if need be.
Using trees and low-growing greenery for cover, he kept thirty or forty feet behind and to one side of the strollers. Her dark colors hadn’t kepthimaway, but then he and Ian had always had a complicated relationship. Ian’s death had made this, today, possible with Rebecca. But at the same time he’d adored his brother. With a low growl, Callum shoved the thoughts aside. Not even Saint Michael could reconcile gratitude for the new possibility of a life with Becca against fury over Ian’s death. They didn’t fit. But there he was anyway, in the middle of it.
The sound of Rebecca’s sweet laugh drifted out to him, shaking him out of his idiotic thoughts. His only duty today was to see that she remained safe. Anything else, he could tolerate, including the anticipated insults to himself and his character. Hell, he’d spent too much time mulling those in his own mind to be hurt when someone else spoke them.
After a mile or so they turned off the trail for a small, tree-edged clearing. While Rebecca and Stapp stood arm in arm chuckling over something, the footmen set up the table and chairs, laid out plates and utensils and glasses, poured Madeira, and served stewed partridge and Jerusalem artichokes in a white sauce. Heavy for a luncheon, but no doubt Stapp meant to impress. It smelled good, per the rumble in his own stomach.
While the two of them sat to dine, he crept closer, settling in behind a cluster of young cherry trees. A half-dozen men seemed to have found interesting bits of ground all about the glade, because they all stood in separate, silent contemplation in a rough circlesurrounding the luncheon. Of course Stapp would want men to guard his precious backside—and likely to keep Rebecca from leaving if she’d felt so inclined. Callum had stalked panthers on occasion, however, and avoiding the view of a few Highlanders wasn’t much of a challenge.
“… comfortable profit,” Stapp was saying around a mouthful of partridge. “Even before ye wed me, we’ll keep ye and Margaret safe and earning a fine income nae matter what nonsense yer brother-in-law gets into. Together we own two-thirds of Sanderson’s business. He cannae stand against that, even if he tries to wreck us out of spite or someaught.”
“Do you think he would attempt such a thing?” Rebecca countered. “He does seem to look kindly on Margaret, and he’s been pleasant to me.”
“Lass, he’s threatened to murder my father on the three occasions they’ve crossed paths since he crawled back to the Highlands. He threw me through a damned—pardon me, blasted—window. That’s why I dunnae like the idea of ye staying beneath his roof. If he blames us for Ian drowning, he likely blames ye, as well. I couldnae guess what he might try, especially when he’s been drinking.”
“Callum would never harm Margaret or me,” she returned. “I’m certain of that.”
“And yet he willnae let Margaret leave his household. Doesnae that hurt ye, Rebecca? He might as well be keeping ye prisoner. Ye said so, yerself.”
Callum gazed at her through the filter of damp bark and leaves. She lowered her gaze to her plate, her sunrise-blue eyes thoughtful and, in his opinion, wary. Her golden-blond hair coiled at the top of her head caught the weak sunlight, an angel’s halo for a lass who’d gone through far more sorrow in her twenty-eight yearsthan she deserved. This lass deserved laughter and warmth and a far distance from plots and deaths and hidden enemies wearing the faces of friends.
Had he made things worse for her? Callum scowled. Stapp would say so. The marquis would say that his anger and accusations had caused her—were causing her—nothing but more worry and frustration that she should have been spared. But then Stapp and Dunncraigh had begun this war in the first place. And if stopping it meant another share of worry, then he would take as much of it as he could from her, and then see that it ended. Permanently.
“Callum and I were friends before you and I met, Donnach,” she said. “I knew him well. Or I knew who he used to be. He does seem to have changed.”
“Dunnae tell me ye’re carrying a torch for him, Rebecca.” Stapp picked up his knife, then set it down with a clatter. “Fer God’s sake. The man’s a devil. Ye cannae deny he wants nae a thing more than to destroy everything Ian ever touched.”
Callum touched his fingers to the ground, ready to launch into the open and take down the marquis. With surprise on his side, he had no doubt he would reach Stapp before any of his men had a chance to move. One flick of the blade in his boot, and Rebecca would be safe, damn the consequences.
“Have you and your father made an attempt to reason with him?” she asked. “He is your partner—and mine—now, after all. Perhaps your expectations of him have colored your own views.”
“Mayhap it’s jealousy that’s colored my views. Ye could stop all this feuding if ye’d agree to marry me. We could do it today. With yer part of the business added to mine, we could buy him out. Or force him out.”
“I thought we were becoming friends, Donnach.More than friends. Are you saying I’m a… monetary decision?”
Good lass. Anything they could make him say, any way they could draw him out, would help, whether they decided to go to the authorities or hang him by his own belt.
The marquis leaned forward, laughing. “That didnae sound even a wee bit romantic, did it?” he asked, no amusement in his voice. “Of course we’re friends, Rebecca. We have been for nearly a decade. I’m… frustrated. The bastard’s been back for less than a month, and he’s managed to step between us. Is it so odd that I want to move past him?”
She smiled. “Of course it isn’t. I have some things to consider. Please give me a day or two to do that. In the meantime, might we discuss something less serious? Tell me our next step in expanding Sanderson’s.”
“I dunnae know if that’s less serious, but I do like talking about making money.”
From there he spoke about wanting to expand the fleet, open a second office in London and a third one in New York. He even envisioned one in India, which wouldn’t make the East India Company very happy. Callum could hear the Duke of Dunncraigh in the plans, though, his thirst for power and importance. Being the chief of clan Maxwell didn’t satisfy that, apparently. Looking after his own, keeping them fed and safe in a land where sheep were worth more than a human life—there clearly wasn’t enough glory in that.
