Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (17 page)

“Where are we?” Rowan asked. His voice sounded as scratchy and hoarse as hers had right after the accident.

“At Marybone, the family estate of Laird Macnachtan. Do you remember the accident?”

Rowan slowly nodded.

“We are the only two to survive.” She touched the fingertips of his bandaged hands. “I don’t know if we are going to win, Rowan,” she confided. “There is a force here, the same one that tried to stop us on the road to Loch Awe. Do you remember?”

“The wind.”

“Yes, the wind . . . but it wasn’t really an act of nature, was it?”

“No.”

Margaret nodded her agreement. “You are not in danger,” she said, wanting to give him some reassurance. “But I don’t know what is afoot, and I fear, Rowan, that any opportunity we had at defeating Fenella is past. She’s too strong. I feel like a child in a dark room. I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid to do anything because I sense she is watching.”

He moved his fingers, a motion for her to lean forward. When she did, he said, “Why did I wake?”

The question surprised her. “What do you mean?”

“Why did I wake now? What has happened?”

“I assume your body decided it was time,” she said.

He shook his head, his expression tired. “There is no such thing as chance,” he murmured. “Always a reason.”

This was more of his unorthodox beliefs. However, Harry always listened to him, and perhaps Margaret should as well. “If it isn’t chance, then could it be that Fenella wants you awake? Owl saved my life,” she whispered. “Remember the cat only I could see? I was not going to live after the accident and Owl came to me and performed some sort of protective magic. I didn’t even have a scrape on my skin.”

His eyes narrowed as he listened.

“Fenella’s book is gone,” she continued. “It was burned by this man called Swepston who came across the accident and stole it. He wants the curse to go on forever. Surprisingly, Laird Macnachtan does not agree. I had anticipated we would be enemies, but it is far different from that,” she said, her mind suddenly filled with the images of the two of them making love. Of their kisses. “He wishes us no ill will. Swepston did not like that fact and burned the book.”

Rowan’s frown deepened.

“I thought all was lost but then the laird took me to the island where Rose Macnachtan jumped to her death. There I saw Owl again, and she led me to two unmarked graves. They must be for Rose and Fenella, but, Rowan, beyond that, I know nothing else. Every direction I go has an ending without a solution. And I’m afraid time is running out. Laird Macnachtan sent a messenger to inform Lyon that I was safe. The messenger has not returned. I don’t know if that means Neal is still alive or not.”

“The messenger may not have reached Lord Lyon,” Rowan suggested. “My lady, you are on the right trail. The cat is telling you that.”

“By taking me to the graves?”

“If you see the cat, then your quest is still alive.”

That made sense. “But Owl comes and goes. She does not stay with me.” Margaret studied the weave of the bed sheet a moment before saying, “Laird Macnachtan saw Owl. When he woke this morning, Owl was watching him. He chased her and touched her but when he attempted to capture her, his hands went right through her body. And he says he doesn’t believe in ‘ghosties.’ ”

“What changed? What let him see the cat?”

They had made love.

It was so obvious Margaret was surprised she hadn’t realized it before now.

She looked at Rowan, who waited patiently for an explanation. Harry trusted the valet, so she would as well. “We were together. For the night,” she said. “On the island alone.”

He nodded as if he had already concluded that. “Perhaps that was meant to be,” he said.

Margaret leaned forward. “What? Am I to continue that behavior? Do you believe it seemly of me?”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of course not,” she said, quickly.

Rowan drew a deep, heavy breath. “My lady, I do not know. However, there is a force here. Something beyond our understanding. In India, we have a different view about what happens between a man and a woman. If you were not titled or an heiress, would it matter so much? Follow the way you must go,” he advised.

“And which way do I continue?” she asked, thinking about her recent words with Heath.

“You will know.”

That was no answer, but Rowan’s eyes were starting to droop with exhaustion. “Here, I have been selfish,” she admitted. “You must rest.” She started to plump the feather pillow around his head.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door and Laren entered with a tray of food. “How is he?” she asked Margaret.

“Healing,” Margaret answered. She gave Rowan’s fingers a small squeeze. “This is Miss Macnachtan, one of the laird’s two sisters. They have been very kind to us.” She meant those words. “Rest now. We shall talk more later.”

“I hope he doesn’t go to sleep immediately,” Laren said. “I carried this tray up all those stairs for him. It’s some of Cook’s good broth. It will lift your spirits.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said for both of them. She started to leave, but then stopped. Rowan was right. She needed to see this through. Perhaps she had not been wise walking away from Heath. “Do you know where your brother is?”

A worried look came to Laren’s eye. “He left.”

“Left?” Margaret repeated in surprise.

“Yes, he left the house. I saw Rowlly a moment ago. He said Heath saddled Admiral and took off in a tear.”

His leaving annoyed Margaret in a way that it shouldn’t have. What should she care what Heath did or where he went? He’d made it clear he wanted everything on his own terms. Apparently if he wasn’t satisfied, he rode off.

Then again, she’d stormed away from him.

But she hadn’t expected him to leave the physical boundaries of the house. Indeed, Margaret realized she’d assumed that eventually they would continue their “discussion.”

“Is there anything wrong?” Laren asked, concern in her voice.

There were many things wrong but Margaret didn’t know if she understood exactly what they were. “Everything is fine,” she murmured, and forced a smile at Rowan. “Please, rest.”

He gave a weak nod and she left to return to her bedroom. It was close to the dinner hour. This had been an event-filled day.

Cold bathwater still waited for her . . . as did the cold hearth.

And Heath had gone off to who knew where without a word to her.

And Margaret felt miserable.

She told herself to stop being foolish. She forced herself to concentrate on building a fire. The flint didn’t spark immediately so it was an effective distraction.

An even stronger distraction was the bath she took. It had taken great effort for Tully to bring the water to her room. She would not waste the effort. The temperature of the water was not unbearable but she made quick business of her bath. She then dressed and went down to dinner.

Heath did not join them. He had not come back from his ride.

Laren and Anice pretended that all was fine, although they had to have heard the arguing in the sitting room. Dara didn’t pretend, but offered Margaret consoling looks that annoyed her greatly.

After dinner, Dara managed a private moment with Margaret by following her upstairs when she went to her room. At the top of the stairs, she stopped Margaret and said, “You seem so unhappy. Do you wish to talk about it?”

For a second, Margaret was tempted. Then again, the habit of aloneness was strong within her. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing her doubts and fears. That was not what a Chattan did.

“I’m fine,” Margaret said. “I just don’t like arguments.”

“You will have plenty with Heath,” Dara assured her, shifting the candle for the two of them she held in her hand. “He has too much of the naval officer in him. You will do as he says or he’ll keelhaul you.”

Margaret rolled her eyes and Dara smiled before turning serious. “He did ask you to marry him, didn’t he?”

The temptation was strong to share the truth. Suddenly, Margaret didn’t want to have this conversation, but she would not lie. “We haven’t discussed anything about marriage,” she demurred, and that was true, in a way. “I wonder where he spent this evening.”

“Probably at the Goldeneye, drinking. He does that more than he should.” Dara smiled sadly. “I knew he was going to pounce on you. I warned you.”

“You did.”

“You
don’t look happy. And the way he treated you this afternoon, that was humiliating. He acts as if he doesn’t know how important you are.”

Margaret stood with her hand on her door handle and decided that now might be a good moment for plain speaking. “You are working very hard at creating a division between myself and Laird Macnachtan. I’m beginning to wonder why.”

Dara took a step back with a dismissive gesture. “I told you earlier. I feel you are being rushed into something that I believe you will regret.”

“Did you regret your marriage?” Margaret asked. She’d learned that often people accused others of their own thoughts and sins.

“Of course, I didn’t. Brodie was a remarkable man. A kind man. I don’t know where I would be if he had not come to my rescue.”

“Everyone speaks highly of him. I wish I’d known him.” Margaret meant those words.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and they saw the glow of candlelight. Laren and Anice joined them at the top of the stairs.

“We’d wondered where you had gone off to,” Anice said in her usual cheery manner.

“I’m surprised you are still awake,” Laren said to Margaret. “I’d have been to bed an hour ago.”

“I need to check on Rowan,” Margaret said.

“Here, take a candle,” Anice offered, and excused herself. Laren and Dara also murmured good nights and went to their rooms. Apparently Dara did not want to share her doubts in front of her sisters-in-law.

Rowan was asleep. His breathing was uncomplicated. He would heal. Margaret sat a long moment in the chair by his bedside, thinking about their earlier conversation and his words to her . . . and she could find no pattern or conceive of any new progress in the events of the last few days.

“I will have faith,” she told him. “I will not give up.” With those words, she rose from the chair and left the room.

Downstairs, all was quiet. The hall was dark save for her candle. She entered her room and shut the door. At some point in the evening, Tully had fetched her bathwater from her room. She went over to the fire and added fuel to revive the flames. She crossed to the bed and set her candle on the table beside it.

And she felt alone.

She wandered over to the window that overlooked the stables. All was dark save for the light of a full silvery moon.

Margaret started to turn away when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. She leaned close to the window, waiting, and was rewarded with the sight of Heath’s silhouette on Admiral in the stable yard. He had returned.

For a second, she stood in indecision. Should she hurry into her nightclothes and ignore him the way he’d ignored her by leaving?

Or should she force a confrontation?

There were things they had to say to each other, and she didn’t want them said with an audience. The women in this house were very good at ferreting out information.

Movement on the path caught her eye, the shadow of a man walking from the stable to the house.
He was coming.

She started to undress, determined to climb into her bed and not give him another thought.

But then she sensed, rather than heard, him enter the house. He would be coming up the stairs.

After what had happened between them last night, why should she be shy about going to his room? There would be privacy there. Everyone else was asleep. They could talk. She could explain that she wanted him to have the money and he could grumble all he wanted.

Time seemed to stand still. She listened, anxious to hear a sound from him.

She heard nothing . . . but he had to be upstairs. He must be. Once he had entered the house, it would not take him too long to climb the stairs.

But what if he’d stayed downstairs? What if he had decided to enjoy a bit of whiskey?

Then she would speak to him downstairs, she decided. That was a better plan anyway.

With firm resolution, she walked over to the door, opened it, and—

Heath stood there.

He still wore his coat although he was hatless. His hair was mussed, as if he’d combed it with his fingers. He didn’t smell of whisky but of the night air and the winter wind.

Her heart filled with joy at seeing him.

His eyes were very sober. “I don’t need charity.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“But I think,” he said, sounding hesitant, “I believe I might need you.”

Her response was to throw her arms around his neck.

Chapter Fifteen

H
eath had been run to ground.

And he knew it.

He wasn’t a man who liked being beholden to anyone. He’d hated Campbell for forcing him to be bankrupt . . . and he’d not been happy when Margaret had jumped into the fray and saved the day. Her solution had not been right in his mind. It had tweaked his pride. They would say the only way he kept Marybone was by marrying a wealthy woman.

Marriage. He’d never thought of marrying anyone before. In the navy he’d been too footloose to want to settle in one place. But now there was only Marybone.

And there was only one woman of the many he’d been with for whom he’d sacrifice all—and that was Margaret.

Headstrong, impossible to tame, infuriatingly beautiful Margaret.

After he’d left the house, he’d ridden Admiral like a madman for a good ten miles. Then he’d gone to the Goldeneye. Augie Campbell had been there and anxious for a second go but Heath wasn’t in the mood. His temper was waning and in its place was a rare moment of self-knowledge.

Yes, he hated that he couldn’t pay his own bills, even though he had done nothing to create the debt. But he’d be a fool to refuse Margaret’s generous offer. Furthermore, even if she hadn’t had money, he wanted her. He liked having her at his side. And he’d meant what he’d said when he told her he admired her. In fact, that was an understatement: He loved her.

The truth of that feeling went all the way to his soul.

But could she love him? Could she ever respect a man who needed her money? He didn’t know, but he understood that he didn’t want to lose the bond that the night before had created between them.

And now she was kissing him. Welcoming him with a willingness that made him hope that she saw him as a man. A man who was an imperfect creature but who wanted to offer to her his best. A man who would do anything to keep her safe.

He backed her into the room and pushed the door silently shut with his shoulder. He tasted salt in her tears. “What is this?” he said, breaking the kiss, his arms still around her. “What are you crying for, lass?”

“I never cry,” she told him, almost angrily.

“My brave Maggie. Tears have nothing to do with being strong.”

She leaned her head against his chest, her arms tightening their hold around him. “I’m so glad you returned. So very glad.”

“As am I,” he said, and he kissed her again.

Their kiss grew more heated. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, their lips not leaving each other. He laid her on the bed, practically falling on top of her, and they both laughed, their voices low and meant only for each other.

Margaret turned on her side toward him. He would never tire of looking at her, especially when she smiled. He liked the way her eyes took on a light of their own when she was happy. With him, she seemed younger, freer, and that pleased him.

He brushed her hair back with his hand. “I’m such an ugly mutton-headed man, all rough and callused. I shouldn’t even touch you.”

She placed her hand on his chest. “I like your strength and your courage. I like that you aren’t afraid to take hold of your life and live it on your terms. I’ve learned much from you, Heath Macnachtan. In some ways, I feel as if I only started living once I met you.”

“After
you tried to put a bullet in me,” he corrected, and she laughed.

Dear God, he loved her laughter. He loved all of her, even the stubborn bits of her.

Margaret leaned over and kissed his neck, burrowing her nose against his skin. He adored her. Worshipped her. Began undressing her.

“I know what you want,” he told her. “And you are going to receive it.”

Her response was to pull him closer and begin unbuttoning his breeches.

He liked this part of her best. His Maggie wasn’t some retiring wallflower. She knew what she wanted, and she had chosen him. He was both proud and humbled by her choice, because he wanted her . . . in a way he’d never experienced with a woman before.

They grew serious about their work. There was no fear of the supernatural here other than the magic they were creating. They were a man and a woman who had just discovered what they meant to each other.

And when they were both gloriously naked, Heath rested his weight upon her. She was soft where he was hard, and completely willing.

He raised his body above hers. The words “I love you” hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he could not speak them. He was not worthy of her. She belonged to a different world, but for right now she was his.

His
, he repeated in his mind as he slowly slid into her.

She gasped her pleasure as her body stretched and accommodated him. Her eyes closed, her lashes dark against her cheeks. He liked this moment best. Feeling her, knowing he pleased her.

And then he began moving and all conscious thought left his mind.

They moved together, meeting each other halfway, satisfying each other as only two people who care deeply for each other could. Heath let his body say what his pride would not allow him to speak. She was his. No matter what happened beyond this night,
she was his
.

Maggie was a quick learner. Had she been possessed the night before? He couldn’t tell. She knew where to kiss him, what to whisper, how to encourage him.

There was no other woman like her and there never would be. That was what he’d discovered in the hours of running from himself.

He was no fool. He knew how complicated matters could be between a man and a woman. He had no expectations from her. He lived completely in this moment, their bodies bathed gold in the firelight as they strove together toward that moment of completion, of perfection.

She whispered his name. He answered her with his lips. He tasted her, desired her, enjoyed her—

Her legs grasped his hips. He pushed deeper, relishing the tightness of her, the quickening. Her arms embraced him as if he were a lifeline.

And then he was lost.

Margaret overtook him with her passion. She was clinging to him, the strength of her release radiating from her until he could contain himself no more.

Heath lifted himself above her, the better to thrust, once, twice,
dear God, she was a marvel
, a third time, and he was lost again.

For a long moment, joined at the hips, they held each other, truly becoming one.

And then slowly, he collapsed upon her. They were both breathing heavily. He felt himself leave her and he immediately gathered her close.

“I will not let you go,” he said. “I will not.”

She snuggled into his arms, without answering, her body as languorous as a cat’s.

He murmured, “And I prefer making love to you on a bed than on hard Scottish soil.”

“It was far more comfortable,” she agreed.

Heath kissed her forehead, her hair, her eyes, her nose. In this moment, there was nothing he couldn’t do. Not with his woman by his side.

Maggie smiled her pleasure.

Cool air skimmed his skin. He reached for the coverlet to throw over their nakedness.

“You are no longer angry with me?” she asked.

Under the covers, Heath ran his hand over the curve of her hip. Her breasts were against his chest. “It is hard for me to even think when I have you in my arms like this.”

“Then what happened last night was not . . .” She paused as if searching for a word.

“Lust?” he suggested. “A spell or a piece of pagan magic?” He kissed her. Here was his chance to declare himself. He could tell her that his feelings were stronger than mere need.

But what would she think?

How could he even trust the strength of his own feelings? They had not known each other a week.

And yet, he trusted his heart.

What he didn’t know and couldn’t know was what was in hers.

Here was a woman who had been pursued by men with more power and infinitely more fortune than he. Men who were handsomer and offered opportunities he could only dream of. He couldn’t expect her to settle on him.

She touched the bandage on his arm. “Does this still hurt?”

He shook his head. When she looked with such empathy, he could almost believe she cared for him as deeply as he did for her.

Then again, no one had ever claimed that he could not be a fool. Just because he had tumbled head over heels in love did not mean she had.

And he’d best remember that. Or his eagerness would chase her off.

He sat up. She made a sound of disappointment. Her nipples, those delightful bits of femininity that could make a man crazy with desire, tightened with the cool air on her skin.

Heath resisted warming them with his mouth. He pulled the covers over her. “I must let you sleep,” he said.

“I’m not ready for you to leave. Heath, we have so much to discuss.”

He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. If he stayed here, he’d make love to her again, and again.

“Tomorrow,” he promised. Tomorrow when they could both think clearly and be in control of themselves. “Here, let me close the curtains to warm the room. I’m surprised you left them open.”

“I was watching for you,” she said. She pulled the covers up over those luscious breasts and he almost whimpered. He pushed aside the implications of what it could mean that she’d watched for him. He didn’t want to hope. He began closing the drape, when a flash of light by the stables caught his eye.

“Why can’t we talk now—?” she started but he held up a hand, warning her to silence.

The light was out of place. The stable lads were all abed—unless something was amiss. With one hand on the drape, he waited. “Someone is at the stables.”

Ever quick thinking, Margaret blew out the candle. “Would someone be down there if an animal was ill?”

“Then the person would hang the lamp on a peg the better to work. But this light moved as if a signal—”

A door opened out in the hall.

Margaret had heard it as well. They both listened as almost silent footsteps moved toward the stairs.

Heath waited, and then crossed to the door, cracking it open slightly. He caught a hint of movement. A woman’s skirt . . . naturally. The only people on this floor were he, his sisters, Dara and Maggie.

He closed the door and reached for his breeches. He began dressing.

“Couldn’t it be one of the stable lads?” she whispered, pushing the heavy weight of her hair back from her face.

“Possibly, but why would someone here leave her bedroom because of it?”

“It could be coincidence.”

“It could,” he agreed, buttoning his breeches. “I’ll find out one way or the other. But it doesn’t make sense that someone from the house would be leaving at this hour of the night.”

“Perhaps whoever it is wishes to go downstairs? Perhaps to the kitchen? Perhaps she can’t sleep?”

“All possibilities.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began pulling on his boots. He noticed that Margaret had started dressing. “You will stay here,” he said.

“You might need me,” she answered, ignoring him and pulling her dress over her head.

“I need you
here
,” he reiterated. “Where I know you will be safe.”

“I like to be prepared for anything,” she replied, pulling the lacings of her dress. “If the person is from the house, who do you believe is out there?”

“I don’t know.” He reached for his shirt, jacket and coat. “But
you
will stay
here
,” he ordered, rising from the bed. Before she could protest again, he opened her bedroom door and slid out into the hall.

All was silent downstairs, but there was a bit of fresh air as if someone had gone outside. Heath walked down the hall and opened the back door. He peered into the moonlit night. The shadows of the trees hid anyone making her way from the house to the stables. He started to go out the door, when he felt a presence behind him.

“Yes, I am here,” Margaret whispered.

He turned, blocking her way out the door. “Go back.”

It was too dark to see her face but he knew she scowled at that order. “I shall not. You might need me.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maggie, I
need
to know you are safe.”

“And I need,” she said, “to be wherever you are in case you need help.”

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“Yes, and I shot you.”

He made an impatient sound and was ready to argue, but she ducked under his arm and escaped out the door before he could catch her. She wore her red cloak. It was black in the moonlight.

“Come along,” she whispered. “I have my brother’s gun.”

“Not that again,” he muttered, but she had already disappeared into the shadows.

“Come,” she said in a hushed tone. “Don’t lollygag.”

Swearing under his breath, Heath went after her. The light in the barn could be nothing suspicious, but his every sense warned him there was something afoot, and Maggie was running right toward it.