“Ye’re nae a lad afraid to make a ruckus, are ye?” the judge asked, shaking his head. “Fetch my watchdogs, then. I’ve work to do.”
The construction of the warehouse had more or less ground to a halt with all the builders employed as guards to his allies, but protecting those who helped him had to come first. He sent one of the footmen to the morning room where he’d had a dozen of his men waiting, and divided them among his compatriots. It didn’t seem enough, but he couldn’t be at every house himself. Not when he had MacCreath House and its occupants to watch over.
When Pogue closed the door on the last of his guests, Callum took the butler aside, as well. “Nae a man or woman is to go anywhere by themselves, Douglas. Keep at least four or five footmen walking the floor all night, in shifts so they stay awake. Use the lads from the stable if ye feel the need to do so.”
Pogue nodded, his stern face even more lined than Callum had become accustomed to seeing. “Nae a soul will set foot inside this house without my permission, m’laird. Ye have my word on that.” The butler cleared his throat, then reached out to put a hand on his employer’s shoulder. “I swear it.”
“Ye’re a good man, Pogue.”
Ian had actually surrounded himself with good people—with two notable exceptions. Or three, if hecounted the Sassenach Bartholomew Harvey, Esquire. But at least the solicitor had thought enough of his own reputation to send that last letter seeking him in Kentucky. Thank the devil for that—even if, as he’d begun to suspect, it had been done at Dunncraigh’s behest in an attempt to verify Callum’s location in Kentucky. And he wondered if the next letter from Rory Boyd at Kentucky Hills would make mention of any armed strangers who’d come calling, looking for Callum MaCreath.
He turned as Margaret galloped down the stairs, Agnes clucking behind her. “Where’s my pack?”
“They’re sleeping in the breakfast room, bug,” he returned, scooping her into his arms. “Tell me, have ye witnessed any odd play between yer Reginald and Waya?”
“Well, sometimes Reginald tries to ride Waya, and his pipe sticks out when he does it.”
In the doorway behind him Rebecca made a choking sound. “His pipe?” she asked faintly.
“That’s what Pogue says it’s called. A pipe and bags. Like a bagpipe. All boys have them.”
“So they do,” Callum agreed.
“Why did you want to know if they were playing?”
“Because I think Waya’s going to have wee, mop-shaped pups,” he answered, still deeply ashamed for his wolf companion. He thought she had more dignity than that. But then again, nae a soul could predict where love would strike.
Margaret put her little hands on his cheeks, pulling his face around to hers. “Puppies?” she exclaimed, looking deeply into his eyes with her own mismatched pair. “You’re not jesting with me, are you, Uncle Callum? Because this is very important.”
“I’m nae entirely certain, because this is late in theyear for a wolf to pup, but she did spend four weeks on a ship crossing the ocean, and she’s nae in the wild. But I’d be willing to wager on it.”
“Put me down, please. I must go see to her.”
He complied, setting the little bug back on the floor. “Dunnae go poking her while she’s asleep.”
“Oh, I know that,” Margaret declared over her shoulder as she bounced into the breakfast room. “I’ll wake her, first.”
Fingers twined with his as he looked after the six-year-old. “How did Reginald even manage such a thing?” Rebecca whispered. “Waya’s three or four times his size.”
“I reckon he stood on a chair,” he returned with a half grin. “Or his pipe’s more mighty than he is.”
She cuffed him on the shoulder with her free hand. “That’s an image I’ll never scrub from my mind, now,” she said, laughter in her voice.
He faced her. “Ye heard what I told Pogue, aye?”
“Yes, I did. You don’t think Dunncraigh would actually attempt to break into the house.”
“They need ye, lass. Or yer hand in marriage, anyway. I’d remind ye that if ye married me this second, they’d lose all their plans, but I ken why ye want to hold on to yer choices until this is settled.” The protector in him didn’t want to see the logic of it, that she would want the ownership of a third of Sanderson’s to remain with her and not pass on to him—or to his heir should he get shot in the head over the next few days. But he did understand it. She had to think not only of her own future, but of Margaret’s. And charming as the wee bairn was, and whatever he might put in his own will, he couldn’t guarantee that his cousin would find her as precious and vital as he did. And as for Rebecca, afterwhat had happened over the past year, he wouldn’t blame her if she chose never to remarry.
“I’m a prisoner here, then?” she murmured, pulling him in the direction of the stairs.
“Aye. And while I’m amenable to ye trying to persuade me otherwise, I’ll nae be giving in to ye. Nae about that.”
The smile that touched her mouth made him hard. “Let’s just begin with persuasion then, shall we?”
***
Being a prisoner in MacCreath House wasn’t as intolerable as she might otherwise have expected, Rebecca decided. Unbuttoning the trio of fastenings holding Callum’s trousers closed, she slid a hand down his hard chest and abdomen, following the dark trail of hair that narrowed to a line before widening again at his… pipe and bags.
