“Take the papers and we’ll be done with this,” Callum urged, moving another step closer. If the duke had any idea how contrary even making the offer was to his sense of honor and justice and decency, the man would grab the agreements and run for it. “And give Margaret back to me.”
Dunncraigh continued to glare at him, white hair painted orange in the reflected firelight. “I am the chief of clan Maxwell,” he bit out. “Ye dunnae dictate to me.”
“I’m nae—”
“Ye think just because I allowed the Duke of Lattimer to take some useless cotters off my hands that I can be placated? That I’ve gone soft? I could’ve had Lattimer’s own sister killed, and I decided to be magnanimous. Me. I’m the Maxwell. I’ll nae be made a fool of.”
All the tales had been true, then, about the duke having to surrender a good thousand clansmen to Lattimer when the cotters decided an English duke cared more for them than did their own clan chief. As for Lattimer’s sister, that would be Lady Maxton, Graeme Maxton’s bride.
Callum shook himself. Domhnall Maxwell’s ravings didn’t matter, as long as the duke took the logical route here. “I didnae say ye werenae the Maxwell. I’m giving ye a company, Dunncraigh.”
“So ye can go about saying I kidnapped a wee bairn to make ye do it? So ye can tell every man ye come across that I had Ian MacCreath and George Sanderson murdered? So my own clan thinks they can stand up to me and get away with it? Nae. I’ll keep the girl, and I’lltake the lass. With them both in my household, I reckon ye’ll keep yer damned gobber shut.”
Lowering the papers, Callum took a deep breath. The man in front of him was clearly coming loose at the seams. An offer of everything he’d been after for ten years had done nothing but anger him. Well, he had another tack to try, but he’d given his word.
“I’ve been away for ten years, Yer Grace,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I dunnae ken what ye might be talking about. All I have to give ye is these papers. And all I ask ye in return is to give me the lass and to leave Rebecca be.”
“Da’,” Stapp said, still clutching Ian’s ledger. “At least let me take a look at the p—”
“Shut yer mouth,” Dunncraigh snapped. “Ye should have taken her the second she came out of mourning. I told ye how it should go. But nae, ye had to woo her, as if I give a damn what she thinks. As if she and this little bit of muslin matter.”
That hadn’t been a confession, but it felt damned close to one. The momentary elation Callum felt, though, strangled into silence when the duke lifted the pistol to point it at Margaret.No, no, no,he shouted silently, keeping himself still.
“Ye dunnae like my offer, then,” he said aloud, trying to turn the duke’s attention back to him. “Listen to this, ye old rat. If I say but one word, yer other six ships burn. And then I’ll raze Maxwell Hall. I’ve a judge already writing up the papers to bring formal charges against ye, and I’ve sent to Fort William for soldiers. I’ve sent for yer chieftains to have ye run off from the clan. How much are ye prepared to lose? Because I’ll take it all. Ye refused my offer. The only two choices ye have now, Dunncraigh, are to go to prison, or toleave Scotland tonight with naught but the clothes ye have on yer back. Just like I did. Ye’re done. Give me the lass.Now.”
“Donnach, shoot him!” his father bellowed, and lifted the pistol to Margaret’s head.
In one fluid motion Callum pulled the pistol from his pocket, aimed, and fired. He’d brought down bucks galloping full tilt through tree-choked ravines, axe-wielding Cherokee warriors running at him with death in their eyes. The Duke of Dunncraigh’s head snapped back. A heartbeat later he dropped bonelessly to the pier, then slid into the harbor with a splash muffled by the rain and the fire out on the water.
With a roar Stapp charged at him. Callum dropped the pistol and pulled his knife.
“Stop!”
The roar came out of the rain, followed by the sound of weapons being brought to the ready. The marquis skidded to a halt, but it took Callum a moment longer to decide. But he’d given his word. Justice, not vengeance.
“I reckon ye can pay for yer father’s greed,” he snarled, shoving the knife back into his boot as Dennis Kimes charged into view, a handful of well-armed Highlanders on his heels.
They might well be there for him, as well—he’d just killed a duke, the chief of his own clan. He’d done what he could to prevent that from happening, but not a damned ounce of him regretted it. That bastard wouldn’t be taking anyone else’s husband or daughter away from them.
Callum turned his back on the approaching group, instead walking forward to where Margaret stood, her arms straight down at her sides and her eyes screwed shut. He knelt in front of her, the sight of her shakingmaking him wish he could kill the duke all over again. “Bug,” he said quietly. “Ye’re rescued.”
Her eyes flew open, the right one blue and the left one green, just like his own. Then she flung her arms around his shoulders. “I knew you’d rescue me,” she sobbed. “They killed Waya!”
“Nae, they didnae,” he answered, scooping her into his arms and standing as Rebecca reached them. “She’s bloodied, but I reckon she and the pups will be dandy as daisies.”
The bairn grabbed her mother, pulling the three of them together on the pier. “I’m so glad!” she wailed. “And I’m glad you didn’t have to marry Lord Stapp, Mama. He was very mean to me!”
“Oh, was he, then?”
Rebecca put her free arm around Callum’s shoulders before he could turn around. “It’s over,” she breathed shakily, kissing her daughter’s cheek.
“I kept my word,” he said, holding both his lasses tight.
“You did. Thank you, Callum. Thank you a hundred, thousand times.”
“I’d do anything for ye, lass. Ye know that.”
***
