A Devil in Scotland

by Suzanne Enoch

  Chaos. The man personified chaos. Always had, always would. At the same time, she was abruptly thankful that other than their unusual eyes, he and Ian didn’t look much alike. Especially now. Ian had been slender and compact, but Callum had become sinew and muscle and grace—a hard life, she realized. Whatever the past ten years had been for her, they’d been hard for him. He’d worked hard. No one looked like that from lounging about writing poetry. Even sitting there on the floor he looked deadly.

  “Why can’t I be in Uncle Callum’s pack?” the six-year-old queried, rubbing her hand along the wolf’s belly as if the beast was someone’s pet poodle.

  “Because proper young ladies aren’t wolves.”

  “She has ye there, lass,” Callum unexpectedly agreed. “I reckon if only those of us in this room know it, though, ye can be in my pack.”

  She rose up on her knees, leaning over the she-wolf to hug her uncle. Her small arms couldn’t meet around his broad shoulders. “Thank you, Uncle Callum. I’ll be a very good wolf.”

  With a chuckle he hugged her back, lifting her over the wolf to perch on one of his thighs. Then he looked up at Rebecca over the girl’s head. “It appears yer mama thinks she’s going somewhere this evening,” he commented. “Should we ask her where?”

  “I heard Agnes and Mary talking about it this morning,” Margaret replied, pulling an old watch out of her uncle’s pocket and flipping it open. “They were wondering how she would go to the theater if Lord Stapp couldn’t come calling to escort her.” She turned over the watch. “This has Mama in it.”

  For the first time since his return, Rebecca saw Callum flinch. Gently he put his big hands over Margaret’s small ones and retrieved the timepiece. “It’s an old watch,” he returned, clicking it shut again.

  “I have no idea whether I’m going out tonight or not,” Rebecca said, following the watch with her eyes as he returned it to his pocket. She’d never sat for a miniature portrait that she recalled. Where had he gotten a picture? “I thought it would be rude not to be ready if he sent word for me to meet him.”

  Setting Margaret aside, Callum easily rolled to his feet. “Mags, stay here with Waya for a moment, will ye? We need to get her accustomed to staying by yer side, being that ye’re part of the pack now.”

  “Oh, of course!”

  Moving forward, he took Rebecca by the elbow in a firm grip that didn’t hurt, but that she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to. Together they walked to the head of the stairs, where he drew her to a halt. “Ye mean to stand by Stapp?” he asked in a low voice. “After what I told ye about Ian nae drowning? After Stapp tried to get ye to leave this house without Mags?”

  “I’ve known Donnach for better than ten years,” she returned in the same tone. “He’s been my friend. The last thing I remember you doing is breaking your brother’s heart.”

  His two-colored eyes narrowed. “If ye—”

  “I said I would aid you if you convinced me. I’m not convinced of anything but the fact that you’re willing to throw people who outrank you through windows and that you think a kiss can mend all the insults and misery you handed me that night. Now let me go.”

  He released her elbow. “I told ye before I’d nae stop ye from leaving the house,” he rumbled. “Mind yer venom, woman, or I will stop ye from coming back inside.”

  “My venom?” she snapped, and jabbed a finger into his chest, hard even through his jacket and waistcoat and the thin shirt beneath that. Concentrate, she ordered herself, and poked him again. “I have not done a damned thing wrong, Callum. I didn’t run away. I didn’t—”

  “I didnae run away, either,” he retorted, his jaw clenched and the words tight.

  “Very well. I didn’t act so poorly that I was forced to leave my home,” she revised. “I did everything I was supposed to, and as I’ve said, I had nothing to do with Ian’s … demise. So be a little nicer to me, or don’t expect me to be any nicer to you.” Rebecca took a step closer to him, even though she had to lift her chin to hold his gaze. “For all I know, you’ve come here with the express purpose of creating destruction and chaos, simply because you blame Donnach and Dunncraigh and Ian and my father and me for your behavior that night and you want revenge on the lot of us.”

  There. It likely wasn’t the wisest accusation to make, especially considering he literally could toss her from the house the same way he’d done with Donnach, but he didn’t seem to realize that he was the only one carrying doubts about other people’s motives.

  “Dunnae mistake me,” he returned, his voice still hard and low. “I do mean to have my revenge. But not for that night. I remember quite well what happened, lass. I remember that if I hadnae gone to the tavern—again—I might have been here to keep Ian alive.” He closed his mouth, taking a deep breath. “If ye had naught to do with Ian, then ye’ve naught to fear from me. As long as ye dunnae side with those who did him harm.”

  Which meant Donnach, of course, and his father—the two people who’d aided and guided her through the turmoil, who’d taken on some of Ian’s and then her father’s responsibilities when she’d felt completely overwhelmed. “As long as you convince me that they’re guilty.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “I want to trust ye, lass. We were friends once. Good friends. Or at least I reckoned we were.”

  She wasn’t certain friends ever kissed the way he’d kissed her earlier. But in all honesty that was the first time he’d ever touched her like that. And he’d only brought up marriage that night because Ian had done so first. “We were,” she agreed. “As for now, I hope you’ve noticed that your niece has no preconceived notions about you, because I never attempted to carry tales about you.”

  “Ye nae thought to set eyes on me again, so what would the point be?”

  With a slow breath she lowered her hand again. “About six weeks before he died, Ian mentioned you in Maggie’s hearing. She adored the idea of having an uncle in the Colonies and demanded to know everything possible about you—not that either of us knew very much. Or even if you were still alive.” Rebecca sighed. “The fact that you’ve suddenly appeared, and with a wolf of all things, is simply the extra gravy on the goose, if you must know.”

  “At least one lass in the house is happy to see me, then,” he mused, looking her up and down again in a way that made her blush. “Ye look very fine, Rebecca. It’d be a shame for ye to stay at home tonight. It’d be a greater shame for ye to be seen going about with Donnach Maxwell, especially considering what I mean to do to him. But I reckon I’ll leave that up to ye to decide.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth, and stayed there. Her breath hitched; if he kissed her again now she might do something mad like remember that she’d once imagined a life with him. That she’d once wished he would see her as more than a slightly unconventional friend.

  When he turned around and started down the stairs, she realized she’d begun to lean toward him a little. Scowling, Rebecca straightened, her fists clenching. This would not do.

  Halfway down to the landing he turned around to look up and face her again. “If ye do see Donnach, feel free to tell him I said that. I’d nae have ye keeping my secrets when ye dunnae trust me.”

  No, she didn’t trust him. But that didn’t seem to be the problem. He didn’t care if she trusted him or not. He didn’t care if the men he’d declared to be his enemies knew his plans or not. Did he care, though, if he was wrong?

  A small shiver went down her spine at an even more troubling thought: what if he was right?

  Chapter Six

  “Enter,” Callum said, keeping his gaze and his attention on his brother’s accounts books. He’d spent nearly a decade working on his own books, but his had been concentrated on one entity: the Kentucky Hills Distillery. Ian’s fingers were in dozens of ventures, businesses, properties, banks, and of course a good third of Sanderson’s, George’s fleet.

  Pogue opened the office door and slipped inside. “As ye requested, m’laird,” he
whispered, looking over his shoulder like a bairn expecting to be caught with his hand deep inside the biscuit jar. He handed over a folded note.

  Callum opened it. The note, written in Lord Stapp’s too pretty hand, was surprisingly brief; he’d thought for certain that the marquis’s venom would take at least an additional page. No doubt both Stapp and Dunncraigh considered him beneath their notice these days, though, a drunk fit for nothing but bellowing. Good. It would make them easier to drag to hell if they weren’t even looking. That would make his revenge less satisfying, though. He damned well wanted them to know what was coming.

  “Dearest Rebecca,” he read to himself, “I had anticipated arriving at your doorstep to escort you to the theater this evening. For your own safety, however, I think it best I not darken your halls tonight.”

  “For her safety,” Callum repeated aloud, snorting. The coward. It wasn’t Rebecca’s safety that concerned Stapp.

  He looked down again. “I request instead that you will concede to meet me and my father for breakfast at Maxwell Hall at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If we are to hold to our plans for betrothal and matrimony, we must anticipate that your brother-in-law will attempt to interfere, and we must strategize accordingly. Yours, Donnach.”

  So Donnach’s primary concern was that he wouldn’t be able to marry Rebecca. That made sense, when his family had a considerable amount of money wrapped up in her father’s shipping enterprise—her share and control of the company would go to whomever she wed. Of course Donnach wanted that. Had he wanted it badly enough to kill Ian for it, though?

  Callum could answer that in his own mind, but now he evidently needed to convince Rebecca, as well. He had no real reason for doing that, except that at this moment he wanted her to believe him. To believe that ten years ago he’d been correct. And perhaps, to believe in him. He didn’t expect to survive this, after all, and if the legal records could show that he’d been justified, he supposed his soul and his pride would rest easier.

  “What do ye mean to do with that, m’laird?” Pogue prompted after a moment, gesturing at the note.

  He wanted to burn it. That would only delay all parties, though, rather than resolve any issues among them. Folding it again, Callum handed it back to the butler. “Give it to Lady Geiry,” he instructed.

  “Aye.” With a bow, Pogue headed from the room.

  “Wait.”

  “M’laird?”

  “Where’s a respectable place for a lad to go have a meal?” he asked, scowling at his own weakness. “Where a respectable lass could also show her face without causing a scandal?”

  “Ah. I would say MacCulloch’s Tea House just across Black Bridge. They say the Madeira’s fine there, but the brandy’s watered down. Or I could name a handful of taverns where ye’ll find a number of handsome lasses and much better drink, m’laird. The Seven Fathoms still stands.”

  A tavern would be easier, he told himself, even as he shook his head. Not the Seven Fathoms, though. Not there. “Tell Rebecca I’ll be taking myself to MacCulloch’s Tea House at eight o’clock, if she’d care to join me.”

  “Aye.” The butler hesitated. “Isnae that asking for trouble, lad? If I may say so?”

  “I reckon it is,” Callum returned, going back to the ledgers. “I’m nae one to shy away from trouble.”

  The butler nodded and pulled the door closed behind him. Rebecca had provided no proof that she hadn’t had a hand in Ian’s death except for her word, but Callum tended to believe her innocence, regardless. Innocent didn’t equal trustworthy, however.

  When he’d first heard the news, he’d wanted her to be guilty. He’d wanted an excuse to punish her—not because of Ian, but because of the way she’d insulted and dismissed him ten years ago. Now, in part because of young Margaret and in part because he’d nearly kissed Rebecca for the second time in a day, he’d begun debating what he truly did want her role in all this to be.

  “Stop,” he muttered at himself, flipping another page. He had a task. One task. Nothing else mattered.

  Callum closed his eyes. No, he needed to amend that statement now. Margaret MacCreath mattered. His brother’s daughter. His niece. Whatever he did, she needed to be and would be protected. Mags was innocent in all this, and she was his blood. Two months ago—and for the ten years before that—he hadn’t wanted to know anything about his brother’s life, his happiness, his wife, or his hypothetical offspring. He’d met the bairn a day ago, and now he couldn’t name anything more precious to him in his entire life. Before he took his revenge, before he put a target on his own back from both the rest of clan Maxwell and the law, he needed to see that she was safe and protected.

  Finally he closed the ledger and shoved it away from him. He couldn’t decipher all of it, no matter how long he spent staring at the figures. Not without knowing more about Ian’s holdings and who else had a share in them. Pulling a sheet of paper from the desk, he scribbled a note to Michael Crosby. His accountants might not have managed Ian’s accounts, but they knew numbers. And they would have more familiarity with other Scottish businesses than he did.

  The office door rattled and swung open. “You might’ve asked me yourself,” Rebecca said, stopping in the doorway.

  He pushed to his feet, ignoring the speeding of his pulse. “Ye dunnae have to join me. Ye did get all dressed up, but ye can stay at home if ye like.”

  “I’m not certain I wish to be seen with you,” she returned, not moving despite his approach.

  Callum stopped, the … anticipation in his chest shifting into renewed anger. “Because I’m trouble? Because I’m a drunken boy or someaught?”

  Blinking, she did take a step back. “Because you’re dressed like a drover fresh from driving a herd of cows to market,” she retorted. “MacCulloch’s Tea House is a respectable establishment.”

  “Och. Give me a damned minute, then, and I’ll change my clothes.”

  “Do you have any other clothes? Ian’s are in the attic, but I’m afraid you’re taller than he was.”

  “My trunk’s arrived from the ship. Wait for me.”

  Tromping up the stairs, he dug into the trunk where he’d had Boyd throw whatever he might need while he rode off to Boston and secured passage on The Rooster. A handful of clean shirts, a black coat he didn’t remember purchasing, an extra pair of trousers, and a kilt in the Maxwell red, green, and black. Lifting it, he shook it out. Little as he wanted to be draped in Maxwell colors, it could serve a purpose, he supposed. As he’d pointed out, he wasn’t trying to hide. Just the opposite. Earl Geiry was dead. Long live Earl Geiry. And death to all his enemies.

  * * *

  It was perfectly acceptable, Rebecca reminded herself, for a widow to dine with her brother-in-law. No one would think anything of it. In this instance they wouldn’t, anyway, because any observers would be too occupied with gossiping about when Callum MacCreath had returned, whether he was as wild as he’d once been, and whether that had actually been a wolf in his company this morning, or a hellhound. She doubted anyone would even notice her, which would be very pleasant for a change.

  As for whether Callum had been tamed, she couldn’t answer it herself. He definitely seemed more … controlled, but whereas before she would have described him as a wildfire causing destruction in every direction, now he burned on the inside. When he finally did explode, she didn’t want to be anywhere nearby.

  “Will this do, then?” he asked, trotting down the stairs with the wolf on his heels.

  Rebecca opened her mouth to answer, then shut it again. She saw men in kilts all the time; this was the heart of the Highlands, after all. But most of those men didn’t look like Callum MacCreath. All he needed was a claymore in his hands, and he would have been the image of Scotland, itself—or at least the one the English ladies whispered longingly about when they ventured this far north.

  “Yes,” she said belatedly, when he cocked his head at her. “Very acceptable.” She cleared her throat. “You cannot mean for the w
olf to join us, though. You’ll frighten everyone senseless.”

  “She’s been seen once today,” he returned, squatting in front of the beast. “That’s enough for now. Waya, guard the bairn. Guard Margaret.”

  With a soft whumph the wolf turned and padded silently back upstairs, and Callum straightened again. While his attention was elsewhere for once, Rebecca drank him in. Good heavens, he was striking. And her head barely came to the top of his shoulder, she couldn’t help noting once again. “Are you certain my daughter is safe with that beast?” she made herself ask.

  “Aye. Nae a soul Waya hasnae met had best enter the house, though, until I return.”

  “What would she do?”

  “Rip their throat out, I reckon,” he said coolly, in the same tone another man might use to discuss the weather. He took his greatcoat from Pogue and shrugged into it as the butler helped her on with her full-length black redingote with its puffed sleeves and ivory buttons.

  “Are ye permitted to wear colors now?” Callum asked, gazing at her as she turned to face him.

  “Yes. I’m wearing color. Violet.”

  “Violet’s a half-mourning color. Ye’re nae still in mourning.”

  “Not officially. Are you going to dictate what I’m wearing now?”

  “Nae. I’m just wondering whether ye’re still mourning, or ye’re just aiming to look like ye are. To discourage anyone from pursuing ye, for example.”

  She began unbuttoning the redingote again and unknotted the ribbon about her waist. “I’m not going to dinner with you if you’re going to lambaste me every second.”

  Callum took the black silk ribbons out of her hands and knotted them back around her, the tug and twist of it far too intimate for her peace of mind. “I’ll wager ye five quid that I can keep up a polite conversation longer than ye, Rebecca. How’s that?”