“Then one will do for me,” he returned promptly, moving again to wrap both arms around her. “Dunnaeexpect me nae to attempt to give ye more. What do ye reckon, once a day? Twice a day?”
She snorted. “That might do it, I reckon,” she said, mimicking his accent. In truth she and Ian hadn’t attempted anything close to that—especially as he became more distracted by what he saw happening to Sanderson’s, she realized now. “It’s very generous of you to think of Margaret that way.”
“I’d have to be a damned fool nae to be wrapped around her wee pinkie. She’s the grand lass; I’m just happy to be part of her pack.”
Rebecca chuckled again. He made the future sound so grand, and so achievable. All they needed to do, then, was see that he—and she—survived the next few days. She wanted more than a daydream. She wanted the past finished, dealt with so she would never have to worry about anyone attempting to take her present and her future away from her again. And she wanted… him.
As for four children, including Margaret, that sounded divine. Their pack, as he would say. Rebecca sank onto his chest again, twirling her fingers idly against his skin. From the amount of time they’d spent in his bed over the past fortnight or so, she could well be pregnant, now. While part of her would be delighted beyond words, the part of her that recognized the look in Callum’s eyes—the one that said he remained ready to turn justice back into vengeance if the wind blew southerly—didn’t feel ready to face anything so overwhelming while what felt like the entire world kept trying to pull them to pieces and stomp on the remaining bits.
“That’s nae a happy expression there, lass,” he commented, raising his head to eye her.
And now she had to weigh what she wanted to say very carefully, so he wouldn’t go charging off to slay her dragons. “It’s… wonderful to think of a future,” shesaid, picking each word. “I don’t want to get too far ahead of the present, though.”
“I ken.” One of his hands slid down her back to cup her bottom. “I reckon ye need some more distracting.”
“Callum, you are a wicked—”
A shot rang out, freezing the words in her throat. Half a heartbeat later a young scream answered it. Before Rebecca could do more than gasp, Callum had slid out from under her, grabbed his kilt in one hand, and was out the bedchamber door.What now?she wondered frantically, yanking on her gown.Dear God, what now?
Chapter Nineteen
“Where’s Margaret?” Callum bellowed as he flew downstairs.
One of the footmen paused in the foyer. “In the garden, m’l—”
“Go put yer eyes on Rebecca and dunnae take them off her. Now!” Yanking tight the knot he’d put in his kilt, Callum ran for the rear of the house. He didn’t have a gun with him, but he yanked a claymore free of a suit of some ancestor’s armor as he tore past it.
He shoved through the garden door, his heart beating loudly enough that he could hear it in his own ears. If not for the scream he would have thought the gunshot a ruse, something to get him away from Rebecca. But men, armed men, remained in the house. She was safe. “Margaret?” he bellowed.
“Here, my lord.”
Agnes, Margaret’s nanny. A thousand curses pushing about in his chest, he found the woman, seated in the grass with Reginald in her lap. Waya lay a few feet away. With her black fur it took him a moment to see the splatters of blood around her.
Callum swallowed. “Where’s Margaret?” he asked.
“Five men took her,” the nanny managed around sobs, as she held on to the wriggling terrier. “One of them hit Andrew across the head, and then Waya—she was very fierce—she bit the man, nearly tore off his arm, and another of them shot her. I couldn’t—”
Spying Andrew lying halfway inside a hedge, Callum tossed aside the sword and pulled him free. The footman had a knot the size of a shilling on the back of his head, but he opened his eyes and groaned when Callum shook him by the shoulder. “Are ye alive?” he asked.
“Aye.” Andrew started to rub the back of his head, then flinched and changed his mind. “Where’s Lady Mags?”
“Gone!” Agnes sobbed again, burying her face in the mop’s fur.
“They wore Maxwell tartans,” the footman groaned, putting his head in his hands.
Callum ignored that. He already knew. Instead he walked back to where Waya lay, silent and still. Taking a hard breath, holding tightly onto the fury biting into him, he squatted down beside her. “Good lass,” he whispered, putting a hand gently on her head.
The wolf twitched. Jolting back into motion, he scooped the animal up in his arms and made for the house. “Water and light,” he snarled, heading down to the kitchen.
He laid her on the table there, grabbing up a lamp and trying to part her fur with his free fingers. Someone took the light from him, and he went to work with both hands, cursing as he followed the trail of the ball. It had dug into her chest, lodging into her shoulder. The force must have knocked the wind out of her, but she was whining now.
“Pogue, send for a doctor and get Waya and Andrewlooked at,” he said, straightening as he pressed a cloth against the oozing wound. “And have Jupiter saddled.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“Get out of my way, and stop following me!”
Rebecca shoved into the room, a collection of armed grooms and footmen dogging her. She stopped as she saw Waya, her hands going to her chest. With her loose blond hair and gray tone she looked more like a banshee of legend than a flesh-and-blood woman.
