The glazed look cleared a little from her eyes. “I trust you. And I know how angry you are. We can’t—”
“We’ll meet them on that pier, and ye’ll agree to whatever they ask. That’s all I need ye to do. Nae a lie or a trick, or any subterfuge. The truth.”
Blue eyes studied his. “You’d let them win? You’d have me marry Donnach?”
“Nae.” His scowl would have proven any other response a lie. “But that’smypart. I know the bastards. I know their finances, their dreams, and their nightmares.”
She grabbed his shoulder. “Do not attempt anything that might get Margaret hurt.” Her voice broke. “Promise me.”
He felt her pain all the way to his bones. “I would die first,” he whispered.
Abruptly she released him. “Then go do what you need to do. I’ll be here.”
Straightening, he leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll be gone two hours. Three at the most. Keep lads with ye every moment.”
“Ye’ll nae be going anywhere alone either, m’laird,” Pogue spoke up, his low voice rough.
He wanted to; the day he couldn’t see to himself… Callum stopped the thought before he finished it. Hewouldn’t have Waya with him. And without him, Margaret and Rebecca would both be lost. With a curt nod he headed for the side door. “I’ll take Malcolm and Johns,” he agreed, naming the two grooms.
Outside he ordered two more mounts saddled. He had several stops to make, beginning with Crosby and Hallifax and ending with Judge MacMurchie, and a few more visits in between. No matter the cost, nothing was permitted to harm his two lasses. Aye, he had plans, but none of them would be what damned Dunncraigh expected.
***
If she’d ever had a doubt about who now commanded the household, the two footmen still dogging her heels despite nearly three hours of demanding they give her room to breathe would have answered that question. Rebecca almost appreciated her growing annoyance, though—it gave her something to think about aside from Margaret and how frightened her daughter must be. And how angry and murderous Callum must be feeling.
He’d given his word not to do anything to endanger Mags, and that was theonlyreason she’d meant it when she’d said she trusted him. Because she could otherwise quite easily imagine him charging through the Maxwell Hall front door and shooting the first person who challenged him. If there’d been a way to be certain they could secure Margaret, she might well have urged him to do just that.
The nerve of these men. Business she could understand, but firstly they’d seized on her father’s good fortune and murdered to make it their own. His hard work, his dream, his trust in Ian MacCreath, and they’d stolen it and taken advantage and then killed when they didn’t like the percentage they’d earned. And now…Now they’d taken a six-year-old girl, willing to threaten her, to trade her for their own blasted greed. She hated them.
And if Callum hadn’t returned from Kentucky, she would have been marrying one of them, fooled, lulled into thinking them friends who had her and Margaret’s best interests at heart. But she knew better now. Once he had her hand in marriage and her property in his name, Donnach wouldn’t have needed her any longer. Would he have been willing to risk her eventually discovering what he’d done to her father and previous husband? Or would she have died of some mysterious ailment as soon as he could be rid of her without causing undo suspicion? And then what would have happened to Margaret?
She shuddered, wrapping the shawl she’d finally donned more tightly around her shoulders. Just the idea of that spirited little girl alone in the world with no one to look after her but Stapp and Dunncraigh made her ill. And she was with them now.
But in this instance Margaret wasn’t alone. As Callum had said, Dunncraigh needed to keep her safe, because at this moment Mags was the only thing between the Maxwells and a bloodbath. And by his words to Dunncraigh’s messenger, he’d made certain they knew it.
She heard the front door open, and rushed to the balcony that overlooked the foyer. Callum stood in the entryway, his shirt collar open beneath the heavy black coat he’d donned, and his kilt… He wore different colors, she realized abruptly. The Maxwell green and black and red was altered to show more red and thicker bands of black, the green reduced to thin lines and darkened. That was the MacCreath tartan, from before thetime they’d joined clan Maxwell. She’d seen it in some of the oldest portraits at Geiry Hall, but she hadn’t known any examples of the pattern still existed.
He looked up at her, all sign of humor or anything at all but anger and worry gone from his two-colored eyes. “Are ye well?”
“No, I’m not. Did you do what you needed to do?”
“Aye. How’s Waya?”
She tried to be angry that he would ask after his wolf in the middle of much larger worries, but for heaven’s sake, Waya had tried to protect Margaret. “Better,” she returned, squaring her shoulders as she descended the stairs. “Are you going to tell me what you were off doing?”
He tilted his head at her. “Come to the kitchen with me.”
Without waiting for her reply, he headed toward the servants’ area at the rear of the house. Her two footmen guards in tow, she followed him. Yes, anger seared through her, anger and frustration at what had happened and at not knowing what to do about it. Blaming him for stirring up this mess might make her feel better for the moment, but logic demanded that she acknowledge how much more dire her—and Margaret’s—predicament would have been without his presence.
They’d moved the big wolf to a corner, cushioned by pillows and covered with blankets, a bowl of water and a plate of raw beef on the floor directly in front of her. The uneaten meat didn’t seem a good sign, but she opened her yellow eyes as Callum squatted down in front of her.
“The doctor was scared he’d be mauled if he tried to dig out the bullet,” Pogue said from beside the big stove, “so we all held her down and I saw to it, myself.”
For the first time she looked over at him, to see hisright hand swathed in bandages. “She bit you?” Rebecca asked, more guilt digging at her.
“More like she tried to eat me whole,” the butler said, a grim smile touching his mouth. “But we got the damned thing out, and poured yer best whisky on the wound. She lapped up a glass of it, too, and I reckon that quieted her down some.”
“I’m sorry I wasnae here to help,” Callum said, scratching behind her big black ears.
