Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] (7 page)

“Good enough for you, Laird?” Tully asked. He was silver-haired and stoop-shouldered and he’d known Heath since the day he was born.

“Yes, Tully, thank you.”

“Lady Macnachtan will want to be seeing to that wound,” Tully said.

Heath had removed his shirt, and although he’d been correct and the ball had gone through, there was a bit of pain in the muscle. “She’d best bring some compresses.”

“Nila says putting chicken droppings on a wound like that will heal it without a scar.” At Heath’s glare, the older man held up his hands. “I was just saying, Laird. Offering to help.”

“If you want to help, keep Nila and the chickens away from me.”

Tully chuckled. “Aye, I’ll try to do that, Laird, although the chickens and Nila have a will of their own.” He left the room.

Heath wasted no time finishing undressing. He crossed to the set of drawers and opened one. He pulled out a cloth bag. Inside were some of the items from his naval career. He rarely looked at them now.

One was a bar of finely milled, sandalwood-scented soap. He held the bar up to his nose. The scent reminded him of the day in Amsterdam when he’d purchased it. That day hadn’t been long after he’d seen Lady Margaret in London.

The officers he’d been with had teased him. The soap had been an extravagance. Heath had always sent the majority of his pay home, then he saved a portion, and spent what was left on necessities.

The soap had not been a necessity, not with cakes of lye soap selling for a half penny, but today, he was glad he’d purchased it.

His arm was beginning to hurt.

He climbed in the tub and gave himself a good scrub. It felt good. It had been a long time since he’d done this.
Too long, perhaps?

And he was ashamed.

He knew that he’d started drinking more than he should in the evenings. Part was the burden and nature of his responsibilities. He felt like Sisyphus of Greek myth who’d been forever doomed in Hades to roll a rock up a hill, only to see it roll back down again. Every day it seemed he had to do the same things over and over and say the same things repeatedly. He was ground down by the boredom.

But the other reason he numbed himself with spirits was fear.

He’d never imagined that he would take Brodie’s place. His brother had been so full of life, of confidence, it still didn’t seem possible to believe he was dead.

There was a knock at the door. It was Dara. “Heath, are you ready for me to bandage your arm?”

“One moment.” He climbed out of the tub. He would toss the water out the window later. Using the shirt he had just removed, he dried himself off and then quickly dressed in fresh breeches and stockings.

“Heath?” Dara said.

“I’m dressed, save for my shirt. One moment.”

The door opened. “Don’t bother with your shirt,” she said. She carried a roll of clean bandages that looked very much like the horse leg wraps he had used and a container of salve. “It will be easier to bandage without it and I’m an old married woman. The sight of your chest won’t make me missish. Here, sit on the edge of the bed. It will be easier for me to reach your arm.” She stopped and sniffed the air. “Heath, is that good smell you?”

“Tend my wound, Dara.”

Her eyes lit with laughter. “Well, Her Ladyship may be silly for shooting you but at least she has done one favor for all of us.”

“My arm, Dara.”

“Yes, Laird,” she said, and then her laughter turned to a frown as she studied the wound. Dara had been a minister’s daughter in Dalmally. In that role, she had done a fair amount of nursing. Even Mr. Hawson, the doctor, deferred to her. “It isn’t bad but it needs to mend.” She began wrapping his arm. “I can’t imagine what Lady Margaret was thinking, firing a gun at you,” she said as she worked.

“Pull tighter,” he ordered.

She did as bid.

Heath winced. “Not that tight.”

“You might need a stitch.”

“I hate stitches.”

“I hate unruly patients,” she answered calmly, tying a knot in the bandage. “If it doesn’t start mending up tonight, I’ll put a stitch in it on the morrow.”

Heath would see that didn’t happen.

He stretched his arm. It hurt like the devil but he’d heal. He always healed.

“Speaking of patients, how is Lady Margaret?” he asked.

“Still sleeping. The woman is exhausted.” She paused. “It is odd that almost everyone traveling with her died and yet she survived with a nary a scratch.”

Heath shrugged and pulled on the clean shirt he had taken from his drawer. “Accidents happen that way,” he said. “I’ve seen crews hit by cannon fire where the ball took the life of one man and the man standing next to him didn’t receive so much as a scrape.”

Dara shivered at the thought. He tried not to talk too much to the women in his family about war. They were gentle, happy souls. They would not understand the grittiness of being in battle or why he had thrived on it.

He must also remember that Dara would be more sensitive to such talk after losing her husband in such a grisly fashion. He ran a hand over the growth of whiskers on his jaw. He rose from the bed and crossed to the washbasin. He began sharpening his razor.

Dara leaned against the post of his bed. “You are shaving, as well, Heath?”

He caught her mocking glance in his mirror. He had been too busy the day before to apply a blade to them.

He’d also been too busy the day before that as well.

“I’ve gone to seed here,” he said.

“You have had your hands full,” Dara said sympathetically. “Perhaps it is good Lady Margaret is here. Perhaps her presence will help you think about what you want to do.”

Heath poured fresh water into the basin. “What do you mean?” He began lathering soap to shave. He should have cut his hair weeks ago. He had grown as shaggy one of the Jack-Tars aboard the
Boyne
.

“I’m talking about the offer from Owen Campbell that you discussed with me. I haven’t said anything to anyone, although sometimes this house has ears.”

“I haven’t really given it much consideration,” he lied, shifting his gaze to his shaving.

“You need to,” she said. “Your sisters need dowries. You don’t want them branded spinsters.”

Heath frowned. “Rowlly said the same to me several days ago. Have Laren and Anice complained?”

“Oh no,” Dara hastened to say. “They wouldn’t do that. It is just that I know what it is like to be a girl without a decent dowry. Until Brodie, I had no other callers, and no future.”

He rinsed the razor in the washbasin and faced her. “It’s been a year since Brodie’s death, how are you feeling, Dara? We never talk about it.”

She straightened. “For good reason. I miss him, Heath. I wish we’d had children.
Sons
,” she elaborated. “Then you could be off sailing the world and fighting the French.”

“All our lives changed with Brodie’s death.” He dried his hands on a towel thoughtfully and then said, “I will find the man who killed him, Dara. I promise you I will.”

A sad look crossed her face. “It no longer matters to me. He’s gone. Nothing will bring him back.” She lowered her head and then said quietly, “I wish I knew who murdered him as well . . . but life must go on, as hard as it is to think in such a manner. I need to start considering what I should do.”

“There is a place for you here. You are family.”

“Thank you, Heath. That is good to know. When things begin changing, it is hard to know one’s place.” She paused a moment and then said, “I must warn you of trying to change things at Marybone. Brodie tried to make changes. The crofters and the like resisted him and he was often as frustrated as you have been. I know you have grand plans—”

“Actually, some are Brodie’s plans. The improvements I’m suggesting are the ones he’d started or left notes indicating what he wanted done.”

“Brodie had high hopes for us all,” Dara said. “He always saw our best and ignored our flaws. I fear that is one of the reasons we are in such debt. He truly believed that he could breed horses and could save us.” There was a bit of silence. She sighed, the sound heavy, lost.

“Don’t worry about the debts, Dara. I shall see to those. What is important is that you make wise choices for your life.”

“I know.” She picked up the salve from the bed. “And you should think of the choices you have to make as well, Heath. I know you feel a responsibility to all the people here. But if you decide to sell to Owen Campbell, I’ll support you. I’d like to think as Brodie’s wife, my approval might mean something.”

“Thank you, Dara. It does to me.”

“So, have you given his offer any thought?”

Heath walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out his brown woolen jacket. This time he admitted the truth. “It’s all I can think of.”

“Then you will sell?”

He looked to his sister-in-law. Brodie’s death had been hard on her. “I don’t know yet, Dara. This is my birthright.”

“But you have not been here in years.”

“Aye, and it is harder to keep this lot in line than seven frigates of sailors . . . but it is the legacy of my ancestors.”

“And it is not my decision,” she said as if to remind herself. “I know you will do what is best for yourself and your sisters. As for the rest, I’m certain Owen Campbell will treat them well.”

“Or turn them out.”

“Do you truly believe he would?” She sounded surprised.

Heath shrugged. He honestly didn’t know what Campbell would do, and there were days even he wanted to walk away from all of this. “I can’t leave. Not yet. Not until I know who murdered my brother. I owe him that much.”

“Brodie wasn’t the sort who would have held you accountable.”

“He wasn’t,” Heath agreed. He opened a drawer and pulled out a neck cloth. He quickly tied it around his neck as he admitted, “It’s myself who needs answers.”

She’d walked up to him, waved his hands away and retied the knot he had sloppily managed. Lifting her eyes to meet his, she said, “You’ll know soon enough what it is you should be doing.” She stepped back. “Dinner will be within the hour. I’ll see you then.”

“I’m going downstairs as it is,” he answered, and opened his door for her. He followed her out into the hall and down the stairs. He had an hour to waste. It was an incredible luxury. He should do paperwork, but then he rejected the idea. Lady Margaret’s arrival had disrupted the normal order of things at Marybone. She’d reminded him of the taste of the world he’d had and might not have again.

Heath decided to walk to the stables and see how the pregnant mare was faring. The animal had been anxious all day. It was too soon for her to foal but Heath had learned a long time ago that God and nature had a way of playing tricks.

Stretching out his bandaged arm, knowing that moving it would save the muscles from stiffening, he walked toward the back hall when he heard his sister Laren shout, “
Help me
.” A crash punctuated her words.

The call came from the library that also served as his study. Heath ran in that direction, reaching the library door a step before Dara and Anice.

He was shocked at the sight of Laren and Lady Margaret struggling against each other. Her Ladyship held a book in her arms and Laren fought gallantly to take it from her. Lady Margaret battled just as earnestly to keep it, shoving his sister back against his desk with her shoulder in a move Heath had used himself just a few days ago in his brawl at the Goldeneye.

Laren lost her hold and Lady Margaret turned to dash out the door with her prize.

Instead, she ran right into Heath.

Chapter Six

T
he moment Margaret’s nose ran into Laird Macnachtan’s hard chest, she knew she had made a grave error in judgment.

His hands came down upon her shoulders. Manacles could not have been stronger than his grip. Incongruously, the scent of sandalwood surrounded them, tickling her nose and making her blink. He smelled much different, and far better, than when last they’d met.

“Lady Margaret, why are you raiding my library?”

She tightened her hold on the precious book,
Fenella’s book
, clutching it close to her body. She wished she had managed to sneak in and out of the library without being discovered.

Margaret had come to her senses earlier to find herself returned to her bed. She’d been embarrassed that she had swooned in front of the Macnachtan. That wasn’t something she did. She didn’t even own a bottle of smelling salts.

And yet, when she’d woken, the distressing headache she had suffered before fainting was gone. She’d felt fine, and she needed to find Fenella’s book. Time was of the essence.

She knew it wasn’t in her room and decided to start her search on the first floor. When she’d come down earlier, she’d noticed the library.

Sure enough, upon entering the small, masculinely furnished room, she’d spied a leather-bound book tucked into one corner of the shelves that lined the walls. She had just opened it and discovered handwritten entries when Laren Macnachtan had come upon her and demanded she turn over the book.

Margaret was not about to give up Fenella’s book now that she’d found it. The book belonged to her.

Every person in the household, including the laird’s female relatives and a bosomy woman who smelled of flour and the kitchen fire, seemed to be here now. They crowded around the door, their heads craning to see around Laird Macnachtan.

Margaret met his hard gaze. Earlier, when she’d shot him, those eyes had held a touch of humor. He was not amused now, and he was intimidating.

He was too male, too strong, too
everything
.

It was hard to even speak when she was around him.

His sister Laren had no such difficulty. “I caught her stealing a book, Heath. I asked her what she was doing and instead of answering, she tried to push past me. She shoved me out of the way. You saw her.”

Heat rushed to Margaret’s cheeks. Listening to Laren’s description of her behavior, she realized how erratic she must appear. It was in keeping with how erratic she felt.

None of this made sense—from the accident to her being here, whole and healthy.

For the first time she considered that perhaps
they
didn’t know any more than she did.

Margaret took a step back. “This is my book. I brought it here.”

“This is the book you accused me of having stolen before you shot me?” Laird Macnachtan surmised.

“Yes
, the
one
you said you
didn’t
have.” The words exploded out of her, propelled by righteous indignation. She drew a deep, exasperated breath, trying to calm herself. “I
need
this book.”

“Apparently.” His gray eyes upon her were unreadable, the set of his mouth stern.

He turned to the others. “I wish a moment alone with Lady Margaret.”

“I don’t believe that is wise,” Laren protested. “She is very strong. Look at this red mark on my arm.”

Margaret looked with the others. Laren had pulled up her sleeve to show a red welt. She must have hit her arm hard on the desk when Margaret pushed her.

“Is it broken?” Laird Macnachtan asked.

“It hurts,” Laren answered, her expression tense.

“Move your fingers,” her brother ordered.

She could move them.

“You will be fine,” he said. He stepped aside so that she could pass. “And so will I, Laren, but if you truly fear for me, stay out in the hallway where you can come running if I need help.” There was a hint of humor in this last suggestion as if he didn’t believe it would be necessary. His sisters weren’t so certain.

“We
will
be out here,” Anice declared, her threat directed more to Margaret than her brother. Laren nodded her head in agreement, holding her arm gingerly now, something she hadn’t been doing only moments before.

“I will feel safer,” he assured them with the forbearance of an overly tolerant older brother, and signaled with his hand that he wanted them to leave.

Laren still hesitated.
Out
, he mouthed.

She left with the others.

Margaret had started studying the grain in the hardwood floor at her feet. She would not give up Fenella’s book. She wouldn’t.

“Would you have a chair, my lady?” he asked.

Margaret didn’t answer. If she could, she would
will
him away.

“Well, I shall have a chair. This has been what one would call a challenging day.”

She listened as he moved the wooden chair behind the desk and sat in it.

Margaret braced herself for his questions. She moved her stare from the floorboards to a point in the far corner of the room.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he waited.

She knew what he was doing. Her brother Lyon used this trick all the time. If he waited long enough, people usually told him what he wished to know. Of course, she’d proven herself more stubborn than her oldest brother on many an occasion. She could also outwait the Macnachtan.

Cold and darkness seeped into the corners of the room. There was no fire in the grate. He didn’t seem inclined to light a candle and was at ease as the late afternoon shadows took over the room.

Slowly, a bit of tension inside her started to unwind.

She dared to look at him. He sat at his desk, calm, relaxed, self-assured; everything she wasn’t. It almost hurt to look at him.

And so, she
had
to break the silence. “I’m not stealing the book. This is mine.
You
took it from me.”

“If that is what you believe—”

“It is what I know
. This is
my
book.”

“Then you may have it.”

She frowned, not trusting him.

The laird leaned forward, placing one arm on his desk. “My lady, the book has been on that shelf since this house was built. For all that time, no one has looked at it. You are welcome to the book.”

The Macnachtan sounded too calm, too reasonable to be lying. Or perhaps he was the best sort of liar. Margaret had learned men had the gift of telling a woman exactly what she wanted to hear, true or not, without a pang of conscience.

“However, may I look at the book?” he asked. “Just so I know which one you are taking?”

Her guard went up. She shook her head.

He leaned back in the chair. “What is so special about this book?”

“You know. You took it from me.”

“Did I?”

There was challenge in his voice.

“Someone did,” she answered.

“Are you certain that is
your
book?”

He was cleverly planting seeds of doubt. She knew it, and yet she couldn’t help but look down at the book she held. The cover was similar to Fenella’s book—or was it?

Suddenly, Margaret feared she was the one being unreasonable and a bit mad.

She didn’t understand herself any longer. One moment she felt confident, and in the next seemed a shambles. She weighed the book in one hand, placing the palm of her other hand on the cover.

“I shouldn’t have shot you,” she confessed, staring at the cracked leather of the book.

“You were afraid.”

There was no accusation in his voice but a simple statement of fact.

She nodded. She was afraid. She was
very
afraid.

“Your trip has been hard on you,” he said. “You lost many people in your party.”

Tears burned in her eyes. Her throat tightened. She held the tears back. It never did any good to cry.

“It’s hard to lose people we are close to,” he continued, his deep, melodic voice soothing. “Or to be close to death ourselves.”

Faces came to her mind—of Balfour her coachman, and Thomas her driver, and Smith. And then there were her brothers. They, too, could die. They were in the process even as she stood here.

He rose from his chair and came around the desk. He turned the chair situated in front of the desk toward her. The seat was upholstered so that it would be comfortable. “Please, sit, my lady. Let us discuss this.”

Still, she did not move. It was as if she was powerless.

He held out his hand to her. She startled, on guard—and then realized he was offering a kerchief. In spite of her best efforts, she was crying. Tears streamed down her face, dripping off her chin.

Some women were more lovely when they cried. Margaret was not one of them. Her face grew splotchy and her eyes red. She was losing both pride and looks in front of him. It was too much.

“My brother Neal never carries kerchiefs around,” she whispered. “Neither does my brother Harry.”

“I have more sisters than they. If they were in my shoes, they’d have one in every pocket.”

His mention of her brothers broke down the last barrier. She took the kerchief. Worse, she, who was said to epitomize grace and good manners, blew her nose in it, making a decidedly ungraceful sound.

“Please, sit, my lady.”

Margaret sat.

She expected him to attempt to snatch the book from her, but he made no move toward it.

Instead, he watched her with an air of patience.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” she confessed. “Did you not know we are enemies?”

“I don’t participate in feuds or grudges beyond one year’s endurance. I also don’t believe every tale whispered in my ear. Did my sisters tell you we buried your companions?”

His change of subject disarmed her. The tightness started to build again. She nodded. “I would like to pay my respects,” she whispered.

“I will personally escort you to their graves on the morrow if you are feeling able,” he offered.

“Thank you,” she managed. She crumpled the kerchief in her hand. He would not want it back. Her fingers were trembling, her hands resting on Fenella’s book.

“So, how do you know that is your book?” he asked.

“Because on the inside cover is a list of names,” she said, opening the book to show him—and then stopped.

There were no names there. Margaret frowned at the blank page as if she could will the names to appear. She started leafing through the pages.

He watched her, the only sound between them the turning of old, brittle pages.

Nor were there the spells or wives’ tales or sound advice that she’d read numerous times on her trip to Loch Awe. She realized now that this book had more to do with the managing of the estate and much had been written in a man’s hand.

“This isn’t the same book,” she replied, her voice hoarse with dismay.

“What book are you searching for?” he asked.

Margaret looked up at him. “You didn’t find any book in my things?” she demanded, uncertain whether she could trust him . . . and then realizing she had no choice.

She crushed the kerchief in her hand. She’d never felt so alone.

H
eath was concerned.

He’d witnessed men behave the way Lady Margaret did, men who had seen too much of battle, men who believed all was lost.

Lady Margaret’s actions might not make sense to him or anyone else at Marybone, but they did to her.

Heath was also worried about her health. She had deep circles under her eyes and her hands shook.

She was dressed simply and without the artifice of a wealthy woman. She’d pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck and it curled down around her shoulders. She looked young and scared and very vulnerable . . . and vulnerable women were a weakness of his.

“I sent word to your brother Lord Lyon that you are safe,” he offered.

She raised a hand to her forehead as if his kindness burdened her all the more. “It may already be too late,” she replied, not looking at him. “Lyon might be dead and Harry could not be long after him.”

He knelt so he was on eye level with her. “Let’s examine this logically. Speak to me of the accident,” he said, wanting to make sense of her strange belief in a curse. She was a modern woman. Certainly she understood that spells and curses did not exist? “You claim a strong wind forced your coach off the road?”

A small frown line appeared between her brows as she said, “I told you everything. I don’t remember much.”

“Then tell me what you do remember. Start at the beginning. You were coming here because of the curse my ancestress Fenella placed upon your family.”

She raised guileless blue eyes to meet his. A man could lose himself in her gaze when she appeared so defenseless. This was also
not
the proud woman who had caught his attention in London all those years ago.

“The curse states when a Chattan falls in love, he will die,” she said, her voice low. “Both Lyon and Harry are in love and both are deathly ill. The curse killed my father and my grandfather. Over the generations, many have come to Scotland to search for a way to end the curse.”

“They have come knocking on our door more than once.”

“And you wouldn’t help them.”

“We couldn’t, my lady,” he said. “A curse is words. Nothing more.”

Her shoulders stiffened. She did not agree. She continued her story. “We are desperate to save Lyon. In spite of what has been done in the past, Harry hoped to try a new tact and was the first to come to Scotland. We didn’t know of Fenella until by chance he found Fenella’s book. It was in Glenfinnan, which was once the seat of the Chattans.”

“Why was it there?”

“I don’t know the book’s history and I don’t believe his wife does, either. She said she discovered the book in her attic. It just appeared—”

Her voice broke off. She frowned as if a new thought had occurred to her.

“What is it?” he prodded.

“My sister-in-law discovered the book at the same time she found a small white cat. It’s a strange cat. Her ears are folded over and she has huge eyes that seem to communicate her thoughts. I called her Owl because she reminded me of one.”