“Someone took a shot at me.” Reaching around her, he pulled the nursery door closed. “I wanted to be certain it wasnae a distraction while Stapp dragged ye out to a church or someaught.”
Her face grayed. “Someone shot at you?” Seizing his arms, she held him away from her, searching his front—evidently for holes.
“They missed.” He shook himself free. “And I’m getting ye all wet. My apologies.”
“We need to go to the authorities, Callum,” she said quietly, grabbing his sleeve again. “Before youdoget shot.”
“We havenae a damned thing to give them.” Tiltinghis head, he wondered what she would say if he suggested they hand over Sanderson’s to Dunncraigh and simply flee to Kentucky. That would never do, though; she’d made a life for herself in Scotland, but Rebecca was no adventurer. Her steadiness helped anchor him, and given the way his life had gone, he needed her to be logical and forthright. He simply… needed her.
“Then what do we need to do so we can stop this before I lose you, too?” A tear ran down her cheek.
He brushed it away with his fingers. “We need yer da’s ledger, and Ian’s. So I needyeto find out for me when Dunncraigh’s most likely to be away from Maxwell Hall. Can ye do that without putting yerself in harm’s way?”
Her eyes lost focus for a moment as she considered. “Yes, I believe so. I’ll invite Her Grace to luncheon. We’re still friends, as far as anyone knows. Give me a day or two.”
Callum leaned in and kissed her sweet mouth. “I’ll give ye a day or two, Becca.” He’d give her a thousand thousand days, if only he could figure out how to end this with both of them alive and well.
“Uncle Callum, why are you kissing my mama?”
Margaret stood in the open door of the nursery, the mop on one side of her and Waya on the other, her nanny Agnes standing behind the pack with her hands over her mouth. “Friends kiss each other,” he stated, belatedly lowering his own hands from Rebecca’s waist.
“I don’t think so,” the wee lass countered, shaking her head. “Not like that.” She stuck out her tongue, mouth open, to demonstrate.
“Oh, for…” Rebecca knelt beside her daughter. “Uncle Callum thought I’d gone out into the rain and gotten hurt,” she explained, taking her daughter’s hand. “He was very relieved to see that I was well. That’s all.”
“Well, I’m never going to kiss anyone like that.” She made a face. “Yuck.”
“I should hope nae, bug,” Callum commented. “Now if ye’ll excuse me, I need to find some house plans.” As he passed, he helped Rebecca to her feet. “I hope my face doesnae look like that when I kiss ye,” he murmured. “I’m like to have nightmares, now.”
“We’re going to have to tell her something sooner or later,” caught him as he headed for the stairs.
Aye, they were. Not until he could be certain he wasn’t going anywhere, though. Not to prison, and not to the devil. Because he wasn’t about to offer the bairn another chance at a father and then take it from her again. Or let anyone else take it from her.
Chapter Sixteen
The two days Rebecca asked for turned into five. She was ready to storm Maxwell Hall all on her own and demand the return of any stolen property, or at the least risk looking desperate by sending another note to the Duchess of Dunncraigh asking to go to luncheon. Just as she sat down to write it, though, the reply arrived via special messenger and Pogue brought it to her in the morning room.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, relieved that she hadn’t somehow single-handedly ruined their—her—plans for a more peaceful resolution, until she recalled that if Eithne Stewart Maxwell, the Duchess of Dunncraigh, accepted her luncheon invitation then Callum would immediately put himself in more danger.
Then again, Callum had just that morning declared that he was finished with patience and meant to visit Maxwell Hall before sunrise tomorrow, regardless of who might be in residence. Now, at least the duchess would be away.
Standing, she broke the wax seal and unfolded the note. “Oh.” As she read the half-dozen lines her relief dropped into a tight, twisting dread. Rebecca closed hereyes. Callum would like it as little as she did, but she could do it. She would do it, because this would actually make things easier for him.
“Where’s Lord Geiry?” she asked, preceding the butler to the doorway.
“In his office, my lady. With that skinny ginger man, again.”
“That skinny ginger man is Dennis Kimes,” she informed him, “as you know. He is Callum’s… business adviser.” Actually she didn’t think Mr. Kimes had a title, but Callum clearly trusted him—which made him at least half an ally, as far as she was concerned.
“Och, he’s a new face. New faces are naught but trouble, if ye ask me, my lady.”
“Old faces can be trouble, as well.” Lifting an eyebrow at the servant, she curled her fingers and rapped on the closed office door.
“Enter,” Callum said, and she pushed down on the handle and stepped inside.
He stood behind his desk, the ginger-haired accounting clerk beside him, both of them looking over what appeared to be building plans. Hopefully it wasn’t Maxwell Hall—since including a “new face,” as Pogue termed Mr. Kimes, in something that Callum tended to call “vengeance” or “revenge” seemed exceedingly risky.
“I have a note,” she said as he looked up at her.
