“But if you are?” she persisted. “Because I have no reason to think that night was anything but a horrible accident. Ian was angry about something, decided he needed to drive into Inverness without waiting for morning or for the weather to clear, and off he went over my objections. You know he was never rash or impulsive, but he did get impatient. And that night he was impatient.”
“What made him angry and impatient, then?” If she’d had a hand in this, every word she uttered needed to be looked at from two sides, but that didn’t mean what she said couldn’t be useful.
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. He rarely told me anything.” She shifted a little. “Your hand’s bleeding.”
He lifted his left hand, hanging over the arm of the chair. Blood dripped from where a small piece of glass dug into his knuckle. “Hm.”
“That’s all you have to say? You threw a marquis through a window. I suppose I should be thankful we were on the ground floor.”
Callum lowered his hand again. “Donnach should be, ye mean.”
She rose again, walking to the door and saying something to a maid outside the library before she returned to her seat. “So you had a hunch he would come calling, but that’s not all of it. You wanted him to make an appearance. You always delighted in needling him.”
“I reckon ye’ve got that backward. He nae missed a chance to jab at me, and I couldnae resist snapping back. But this isnae about who caught the bigger fish. And nae, I’m nae making a secret of being here,” he returned. “Did I expect him to come by and ask about me? Aye. He killed my brother. Of course he wants to know what my plans here might be.”
“So your ride this morning wasn’t about fresh air or Jupiter. It was about being seen.”
Rebecca Sanderson had always been a clever lass. As poised and ladylike as she’d become, she hadn’t lost her wits. How had that been, he wondered, with her in the company of his methodical, unimaginative brother? But then she’d chosen Ian. He needed to remind himself of that. “Dunnae fret. Ye and I’ve both made it clear that ye and Margaret arenae here willingly.”
“But you don’t care if I’m here at all.”
“Ye made yer bed, lass. Ye lie in it. The only question I have about ye at this moment is whether or nae ye had someaught to do with Ian’s ‘horrible accident,’ as ye called it.”
A maid slipped into the room, handed Rebecca some cloth and gauze and a bowl of water, and departed again. Approaching him, Rebecca knelt at his feet beside Waya and gestured for his hand. “You know me. Do you honestly think I would ever hurt Ian?”
He lifted his head. “I dunnae know ye. I knew ye. But then ye did someaught I couldnae even have imagined, so there’s a good chance I’ve always had ye figured wrong.”
Glancing up at him, she took his hand. “Then I’ll tell you directly. I mourned for Ian,” she said quietly, putting her fingers around the shard of glass. “This will hurt.”
“I’m nae likely to cry,” he stated, and refused to flinch as she pulled it from his knuckle. “And saying ye mourned a man doesnae mean you didnae first harm him.”
She put the cloth over the cut and pressed down, lifting her face again to look him in the eye. “I didn’t harm him,” she returned. “I had no reason in the world to do so. He and I always got along well, and we had a good marriage. We were well respected by our peers, and he was always kind to me. And he gave me Margaret. I know you think I married for a title and for wealth, and that’s partly true. I also married Ian because he was … safe. He wouldn’t gamble away our future, or take up with a mistress, or get drunk and do something impulsive that would come back to haunt us later.”
“But ye willnae say ye loved him?” She’d made the omission of the word fairly obvious, but he was petty enough that he wanted to hear her say it.
“I loved him,” she countered. “He provided me with a good, comfortable, happy life.”
His jaw clenched. “And I wouldnae have?”
The second he spoke he regretted the question. He didn’t care what she thought of him; that time had passed ten years ago. At the same time, he knew he’d fashioned a great portion of the last ten years in order to refute exactly that of which Rebecca and Ian had accused him. He wasn’t that idiotic, spoiled, drunken boy any longer. But even that idiotic boy had been correct about something. He’d blustered about everything, though, and so he’d been unable to make them listen to the one most important thing. That would never happen again.
“You don’t want me to answer that, Callum,” she responded, removing the cloth and setting it aside to wrap gauze about his hand.
“I asked the question; answer it.”
“Aside from the fact that you didn’t ask for my hand until after your brother had already secured it, you continually argued with and belittled everyone around you. Especially those who outranked you. If I’d chosen you, your … disobliging behavior would have seen us ostracized and ridiculed, until the point that Ian finally cut you off and we were forced to live with my father—or flee somewhere where we could attempt to begin again. You might have thought that an exciting adventure, but I wanted a family. Children. That required stability and safety.”
She’d damned well thought it through. As he had. And he couldn’t even pretend to be surprised that they’d come to the same conclusion. She hadn’t forgotten his mistakes, and neither had he. But her knowledge about his character lagged ten years behind his. “And now that ye’ve been widowed, ye’ve set yer sights on Donnach Maxwell for yer safety and stability? Because I dunnae give his continued survival very high odds.”
“Stop saying such things,” she countered, a bit of exasperation touching her voice. “Whatever your useless ‘investigations’ conclude, I can be compelled to testify against you if something happens to either him or the duke.”
“‘Investigations’? Ye reckon I’m that civilized? But ye didnae answer my question. Do ye think to marry Stapp?”
“I’m considering it, yes.”
Callum held her gaze as he let her words sink into his bones, her cloudless blue eyes a shade deeper than he remembered. Could it be sorrow? Or regret? He shook those thoughts out of his head. They weren’t useful. “I’ll nae allow that, lass.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m an heiress in my own right, Callum. Because of the … circumstances, I don’t rely on the Geiry title or income. And you cannot stop me from doing as I think best for myself and my daughter.”
“I can stop ye from doing any damned thing I dunnae agree to where Margaret’s concerned.”
She practically growled at him. “If—when—I remarry, my husband will … have a say.”
“I doubt it,” he retorted. “If that’s yer plan, though, I can stop it, too. Ye’ve lived in the Highlands for more than half yer life, Rebecca. Surely ye’ve heard of levirate marriage?”
She released his injured hand as swiftly as if he’d burned her. “You must be joking,” she snapped, her voice quavering. “You’d try to force me to marry you?” She shook her head, backing away. “You’d never succeed. Levirate marriage was designed to keep wealth within the clan’s bloodline. Donnach Maxwell is clan Maxwell. He’ll be the Maxwell, after his father’s passing.”
“I’ll admit,” he returned, standing and stalking after her, “that I’d find a complication or two. Being that the law was specifically created to enable a man to marry his brother’s widow, I do have a leg to stand on, I reckon.”
“Dunncraigh would never approve it.”
“I’ve enough money to put that into question with the courts,” he commented. “And ye’re assuming Dunncraigh would be alive to disapprove.” He stopped his pursuit as her back came up against the window, and instead placed his hands on her shoulders. He didn’t want to touch her, but he needed to know. “Swear someaught to me, lass. Swear ye had nothing to do with Ian’s death, and look me in the eyes when ye do it.”
He’d given her that challenge before, over the years, and she’d always risen to the occasio
n. This time, for the first time, he wasn’t so certain. But she lifted her chin to gaze straight at him. “I had nothing to do with Ian’s death. I swear it.” Rebecca swallowed. “And I’ll do you one better, Callum. If you’re able to convince me that he didn’t drown by accident, I will help you prove it in court.”
That, he hadn’t expected at all. Tilting his head, he studied her face, her expression, the straight, tense line of her shoulders. She might have a secret or two after all this time, and questionable taste in men, but she wasn’t lying.
Yesterday he’d sailed into the harbor at Inverness ready to burn to the ground anything and everyone who stood in his path. Then he’d discovered Margaret and altered his plans accordingly. And now it seemed he might—might—need to alter them again. Removing Rebecca from his enemies list wouldn’t make her an ally, but it could change some things. And since he had no intention of waiting for a court to decide anything before he acted, she could be useful.
“Do you agree?” she prompted after a moment.
“Aye. I agree.”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “Splendid. Then let me go.”
“And if I dunnae let ye go?” His gaze lowered to her mouth. As they’d grown out of childhood together he’d had a few good chances to kiss her and had missed every opportunity to do so, and then ten years to think about what he hadn’t done, why he hadn’t even seen it until it was too late. But she didn’t belong to Ian now. She didn’t belong to anyone.
“Then I’ll accuse you of being drunk and irresponsible again,” she muttered, her voice still not quite steady.
For the devil’s sake, he’d meant to hate her. He’d fairly well managed to do that for ten years. But for most of the ten years previous, they’d been friends and companions, nearly inseparable until he’d discovered sex and whisky. Callum bent his head, brushing his lips against hers. Liking the sensation, he took her mouth in a warm, slow kiss. She tasted of tea and annoyance, and something else that he couldn’t quite name, but that made his cock sit up and take notice. This, her, was something he’d wondered about for a very long time. She put her palms against his chest, but before she could decide to push him away he took her wrists and drew them behind her back.
Could he trust her? He had no idea. All he knew at the moment was that after ten years of waiting and speculating and imagining something he’d never thought would come to pass, he felt that damned kiss all the way down his spine and everywhere in between.
Callum straightened, releasing her hands at the same time. “I’m nae drunk,” he murmured, and with a short whistle calling Waya to his side, left the room.
* * *
“My lady, shouldn’t you be dressing?” Mary asked, as the maid swooped into the wardrobe to place some freshly laundered clothes.
Rebecca started, lifting her head from the book she hadn’t been reading. “Hm?”
“You’re to go to the theater tonight, aren’t you?” the maid returned, her cheeks darkening. “Unless Lord Stapp has canceled. I … Well, it’s none of my business, I’m certain.”
The theater. She’d completely forgotten. Judging by the condition of Callum’s hand after it had gone through the window, she didn’t imagine Donnach would be willing—or able—to show himself in public tonight. Heavens, she hadn’t even leaned out the window to inquire after him, though her concern likely wouldn’t have been well received.
“I have no idea,” she said, setting the book aside. Robert Burns had never sat well with her; he felt far too many wild emotions for her taste, and felt far too comfortable discussing them. But this afternoon she’d been drawn to the poetry despite not being able to concentrate enough to make any sense of it.
“I suppose you couldn’t send over a note to inquire, either?” Mary suggested, a trace of humor in her voice.
“No, I don’t suppose I could,” she returned.
She should be appalled, horrified, or at the least furious at what had happened this morning. Aside from her beau being thrown through a window, her brother-in-law had kissed her—and not in a friendly, brotherly manner. He’d always been a disruptive force, and that had clearly not changed. That didn’t explain, however, why she hadn’t been more outraged at his treatment of Donnach, or at his attempts to command who she wouldn’t be allowed to see.
Lord Stapp had always been kind to her, from the moment Ian had announced their engagement. He’d always had a friendly word or two for her whenever he and his father met with her husband or her father for business, and after Ian’s death he’d been the first one to appear and assure her that she wasn’t alone. When her father had passed away, he’d helped her make the funeral arrangements and had brought Maggie a doll. Only gradually had his friendship become more romantic, and he hadn’t begun pressing the issue at all until her official year of mourning ended two months ago.
And while lately he’d begun to make mention of a future that assumed they would be married, she’d made the same assumptions herself. Today at the breakfast table he’d seemed somewhat … intense, but then he’d just learned that the position Ian had held in their mutual business had been taken over by Callum—a man with whom he’d never dealt well.
“My lady?”
Rebecca took a breath. “I seem to have drifted away for a moment, Mary. What is it?”
“What do you wish to do about this evening?”
“Ah. Well, I’d hate to dress and not have him call, but I’d dislike even more if he called and I wasn’t dressed.”
“I thought Lord Geiry forbade him to call here,” Mary noted, selecting a pretty red silk and lace gown from the wardrobe and lifting it.
Yes, there was that. If she had been more certain of her footing where Callum was concerned, the way he’d taken over her life would be very annoying. It was still annoying, since now people—certain people—couldn’t even call on her at the house where she was being forced to stay.
And he’d only kissed her to shock her, to demonstrate how little power or control she had. As if she wasn’t already aware of precisely that. It didn’t matter, then, that he knew how to kiss, that he’d for a moment reminded her of what young girls had dreamed of when they imagined princes and heroes coming to call. No, not princes and heroes. Rogues and pirates. Even more delicious, those.
Before he’d reappeared—good heavens, had it only been a day ago?—she’d been happy. Happier, at least, each day a little better than the day before. She’d begun to look forward again. Donnach knew her father’s and her late husband’s business, had a large stake in it, even, and she could think of no one better to take over her portion of it upon their marriage. It should have gone to Ian, except that he’d perished before her father. If the reverse had happened, literally everything she owned except for Edgley House would now be in Callum’s possession.
She shivered. “You know I can’t wear such things yet,” she said, moving to the dressing table. “The violet one with the black lace will do.” A night out would be welcome; any distraction to keep her from dwelling on might-have-beens and should-have-beens and should-never-bes, all when she’d thought to spend the next week balancing invitations and broaching the topic of Donnach and marriage to Margaret.
“I haven’t seen much here in the Highlands to convince me that they adhere to proper traditions of mourning,” the maid commented, but replaced the scarlet gown in the wardrobe. “It’s been well over a year now, regardless.”
“Yes, but I’ve been in double mourning actually, haven’t I?” Rebecca returned without heat. “I’ve already tempted censure by wearing colors at home.” She sighed. “Yes, I could wear the red. It just doesn’t feel … correct.”
“I don’t think a soul could find a single fault in how you’ve carried yourself, my lady, if I may say so. And thank goodness you’re permitted to return to Society; you have some color in your cheeks again, finally.”
Despite having lived in Scotland for over half her life, Rebecca had decided that upon becoming Lady Geiry she required some as
sistance with propriety and decorum. Hiring an English maid from a well-respected southern household had raised some local eyebrows initially, but she’d never regretted it. Mary would never believe that her mistress had once climbed trees and gone swimming in the loch while only half clothed. And as she’d tried to forget everything she’d ever done in Callum’s questionable company, Rebecca found that very appealing.
In the violet and black at least she felt pretty again, and she remained convinced that the most significant improvement in her earlier doldrums had been when after six months she’d been able to stop wearing that awful, scratchy crêpe and heavy bombazine. Perhaps next month she would attempt something brighter, depending on the occasion.
Once Mary had finished weaving black and violet ribbons through her light hair and pinning the lot into a rather artistic tangle at the top of her head, she went to find Margaret so they could sit for an early dinner. As for Callum, well, he was on his blasted own. He couldn’t be allowed to disrupt her life any more than he already had.
“Then what’s Cherokee for ‘bear’?” Margaret’s young voice came through the open door of the nursery, and Rebecca slowed her approach.
“Yona,” Callum’s deeper voice returned.
“‘Yona,’” Maggie repeated, mimicking his slightly faded Highlands accent. “Do you have a yona for a pet, as well?”
“Nae. They sleep through the winter. I couldnae abide all the snoring.”
Margaret laughed. “But you’ve seen a bear?”
“Oh, aye. I have the skin of one decorating my floor back in Kentucky. But ye ken Waya’s nae my pet. We’re a pack of wolves, she and I. I look after her, and she looks after me.”
“Can I be in your pack?”
Rebecca stirred, stepping into the room. “It’s may I be in your pack,” she corrected, hesitating again at the sight of Callum sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite her daughter, Waya in between them squirming about on her back while Reginald hid behind Agnes the nanny and peeked around her skirts to sniff and whimper. “And the answer is no.”
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