“She has suffered a terrible accident,” Anice said, defending their guest.
“Yes, but she is, well . . .” Laren’s voice drifted as if she couldn’t explain, her lips pressing together.
Anice jumped in. “Poo. She’s fine. And everyone in society admires her.”
Heath didn’t trust the worship in his sister’s voice. “She isn’t any better than the two of you.”
“Except she’s rich,” the ever-practical Laren answered. “And even if she does act a bit funny, you should consider her for a wife, Heath.”
The idea was tempting and ridiculous at the same time. What would his sisters say if he confessed that he’d secretly lusted for the woman? He’d not embarrass himself with that confession.
Instead, he shook his head. “Can you imagine the likes of her arguing with Nila? Or organizing the charity baskets and herding Janet and the other churchwomen into doing good works? Or seeing to the wash and the cleaning the way you girls must?”
“The cleaning wouldn’t be a problem,” Anice said stoutly. “If you marry her, we’d have so much money, none of us would have to do those things. Of course, we will need to clean you up if you are going to impress her. I don’t want to be rude, Heath, and you are not a bad-looking man—well, perhaps a bit arrogant—”
“And he does have a temper,” Laren agreed.
“Yes, he does,” Anice answered. “But the worst of it is that right now, Heath, you smell strongly of the pigpen.”
“And the marsh,” Laren agreed.
“And you need a barber.”
Heath held up his hands to stave them off. “Enough. I’m not courting Margaret Chattan. I’ll grant you she is lovely, but you know nothing of the world beyond Loch Awe. It’s different than it is here. Lady Margaret Chattan could not survive in these mountains. Furthermore, what your papers don’t tell you, Anice, is that she is known for being difficult and arrogant and conceited. Traits I acknowledge in myself but doubly unpleasant in a wife. And then there is the name they have for her in London. They call her the Unattainable because she is cold and distant. Is that truly what you want for me?”
Worry lines marred Anice’s forehead. She looked to Laren, and Heath understood. They knew the debt he carried. And he knew that unless he did something about it, his sisters were doomed to be spinsters.
All the marriageable lads for a hundred-mile radius knew the Macnachtans were done up. No sensible ones came to pay their respects.
At one time, he’d told himself it was because they were in mourning for Brodie . . . but the year had passed and no one knocked on Marybone’s doors.
Well, that wasn’t true. There had been an older widower looking for a mother for his eight children, and a few buffoons who thought his sisters were desperate enough to consider them. Heath had sent them all on their way.
He placed a brotherly arm around their shoulders. “Money is tight, but we will see our way through this. Do not worry—”
A woman’s sharp voice interrupted him. “Macnachtan.”
The word rang through the stable yard. Heath turned to see Lady Margaret Chattan standing on the path leading to the house. She wore a red cape and her black hair curled around her shoulders. Her face was pale, her cheeks were rosy, and her blue eyes were lit with the fires of righteous anger.
Here was not a pampered society miss, but a medieval queen ready for battle.
Heath stepped forward, suddenly too aware of the beard stubble on his jaw and the muss of his hair. He could smell the pigs on him . . . just as he caught the scent of her. She smelled of the forest, of dark greenness and night air.
God, he’d lost his mind. In a second, he’d be spouting poetry. That was how strong his reaction was to her.
“I am the Macnachtan,” he said.
She pulled her arms free from her cape. In her hands she held a pistol.
Heath recognized the weapon. He’d discovered it himself when they been collecting her things around the accident. He’d placed it in her traveling case along with a bag of black gunpowder. He hadn’t thought it was hers or that she would have the desire to use it.
She now proved him wrong by leveling the gun on him.
Her hands shook slightly.
Rowlly and several of the other lads stepped forward as if to overpower her, but Heath held up his hand, warning them back.
This woman was frightened, even though they had done nothing to harm her. He wanted to hear what she had to say.
He also suddenly, blessedly, felt very alive. She could pull the trigger and shoot him dead. This was the edge of danger, of adventure he missed from his military days, and he reveled in the moment.
“What is it that you want?” he asked, his voice calm. “If you wish to shoot me, fire away . . . but I must warn you that your gunpowder was very wet when I found it. Your weapon could misfire.”
“I want Fenella’s book. I must destroy the curse,” she said. “I want it over and done.”
The damn curse. He did not need her jabbering superstitious nonsense. Everyone would start spitting again.
He folded his hands in front of him, keeping himself relaxed. “And how may I help you?”
“Tell Fenella to stop.” Desperation edged her plea.
Heath frowned. Fenella was the name of an ancestress of his, but the woman had died centuries ago. He didn’t know of whom Lady Margaret spoke. “Who is Fenella?”
“The witch. The one who cursed us. She’s here.”
A collective gasp seemed to rise from the crowd behind him, and Heath wanted to shake his head. There would be more stories around the table tonight.
“My lady,” he said softly, “there is no curse and Fenella died long ago.” He dared to take a step forward.
She cocked the pistol. “The curse lives, and well you know it, Macnachtan. You took my book. I want it returned.”
His good humor faded. No one called him a liar. A rascal, yes, but a liar, no. “I know nothing about a book. Whatever you had that we found, we placed in your room. And, although I am surrounded by women, my lady, none are witches. Come, give me the gun.”
She shook her head. “Fenella is alive. She never died, don’t you understand.”
“I understand I am beginning to doubt your sanity.” Heath raised his voice, speaking to his clansmen rather than to her. “My ancestress Fenella is dead. Long gone. You need not fear her. Now, hand the pistol to me, Lady Margaret, and we shall discuss this in private.”
Her grip on the gun tightened. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of you. Fenella murdered my companions. She caused the accident.”
“How so?” Heath asked.
“She swept us off the road.”
“The wind through there is high during a storm. The road is not good. The locals know that.”
An angry muscle worked in her jaw. “That is not what happened. The road was good. The wind swept us off it as if we were crumbs on the table. They all died because of her. I should have died. I did die.”
Heath wasn’t certain what she meant. “But you didn’t, my lady.”
“I did,” was her answer, her voice shaking slightly. “I don’t know how I am here now.”
The woman had lost all reason.
Heath began calculating his chances of taking the gun from her. He decided the direct approach was the best.
“Hand the gun to me,” he said, using the voice he used to soothe his sisters when they were unreasonable. “You are tired. You have been through a horrible ordeal. Let us return to the house so that you can rest.”
“I don’t have time to rest.” She held her gun up higher. “I must stop this curse.”
Rowlly had eased himself around her. She had not noticed yet.
“We will help you,” Heath promised, “but first you must give me the gun.” The poor girl, she was caught up in fear, a fear of the supernatural.
Rowlly’s foot kicked a rock on the path behind her. She took a step aside to include him now in her sights. �
��Stay back,” she warned.
“Do as she says, Rowlly,” Heath ordered. He dared another step toward her. “Lady Margaret, you have nothing to fear.”
“How do I know that?” she demanded, the frown line between her eyes deepening.
“You must trust us,” he said. He took another step.
“I can’t.”
“And yet you are amongst us,” he said in understanding.
She shook her head. “Do not come closer.”
“The gun is no good to you,” he told her. “The gunpowder was wet from the rain.”
For a moment, she appeared uncertain.
“Let us discuss this matter,” he encouraged, moving toward her. He wanted the gun from her. He didn’t believe she would fire it. He didn’t think she had the fortitude.
He was wrong.
Heath was six feet away from her when she pulled the trigger.
Chapter Five
Fire and smoke burst from the pistol’s muzzle.
Margaret’s arm jerked with the force of the weapon’s explosion. This movement wasn’t unexpected to her; however, it did make her more aware of her surroundings and what she was doing.
She was shooting at a man.
Margaret had fired a pistol for sport many times, but this was the first she’d aimed with deadly intent—and her action shocked her into reality.
Before the firing, she seemed to have been in a dream born of desperation and fear.
Now she understood she was not asleep.
The gun had fired.
And she wasn’t someplace safe, but instead was surrounded by her enemies.
The ball hit the Macnachtan’s arm, tearing through the coat he wore.
To his credit, he stood his ground. Had he believed she would not fire?
She was surprised herself.
His clansmen surged forward. In truth, she’d been so focused upon the laird that she’d barely registered the presence of a stable yard of people around her. Now rough hands grabbed her arms, reaching for the weapon and pulling her this way and that.
“Stand back, lads,” Laird Macnachtan ordered.
The three men who had come for Margaret dropped their hands but did not move, holding her prisoner with their bodies. “Are you all right, Heath?” the shortest of them said.
The Macnachtan looked down at his coat where her ball had ripped through the material. “You missed my heart, my lady.” His voice was deep, his accent not as pronounced as the others’.
“I hit where I aimed,” she informed him.
That was not true. She had been aiming for the heart. This was Harry’s gun. The sight would be true, but perhaps the fact that the powder had been damp may have impacted the ball’s direction.
She didn’t know if that was what had happened or not, but she was lucky she hadn’t killed him. His clansmen would have seen her hanging without hesitation.
The lines of his mouth tightened and there was knowledge in his eyes that he knew she lied.
Gray. His eyes were a clear, almost silver gray. The impact of them almost knocked her from her feet. They were the sort of eyes that registered everything, cataloguing details, gauging their importance.
This man could speak with his eyes, or hide his thoughts behind them.
Those eyes now told her that he’d decided to be magnanimous. “Then I shall be thankful,” he said, “that you didn’t aim at my heart, my lady. Apparently your powder was not that wet.”
He was giving her back her honor. Allowing her to keep it. “A Chattan always protects the powder,” she answered, and took the arrogance out of her words by offering the gun to him.
“Very wise,” he murmured approvingly, stepping forward to take the weapon from her. He was a tall man with dark brown hair in need of his barber. His beard had a day’s growth, maybe more. His teeth were white and straight, and the set of his jaw told her he was not one to suffer fools gladly.
He appeared disheveled, impatient and very, very masculine.
Here was a man who could take charge and make the world turn on his terms or die trying.
He was also her enemy. She must remember that.
For the briefest of moments, they both held the pistol. A lightning bolt of energy seemed to pass between them.
She let go of the gun, startled by the sensation, and then felt embarrassed. Had he noticed her abruptness? Did he experience that awareness—?
Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling well and it had nothing to do with this confrontation with Laird Macnachtan. Her head began to ache as if gripped in a vise and her stomach churned.
He placed the gun into the deep pocket of his coat. “I’ll know better than to keep that pistol and powder where you can reach it in the future.”
“Is that all you are going to do? All you are going to say to her?” his sister Anice demanded. “She could have murdered you, Heath. I’ve lost one brother. I’m not anxious to lose another.”
“She’s right,” Laren agreed. “I truly thought she’d killed you, Heath.” She threw her arms around his shoulders. Anice did as well.
For a second, Laird Macnachtan appeared startled, as if he didn’t know what to do with his arms full of sisters. “I’m fine—” he started, but Laren cut him off with an exclamation of horror.
“You are bleeding. Her shot did hit you,” she accused. She pulled back her hand from his arm to show the smear of blood on it.
“Oh, Heath, how can you just stand there bleeding?” Anice said.
“It’s a flesh wound. A mere scratch. The ball went through. One of you lads fetch a clean cloth from the tack room so I may apply a bandage.”
A boy of about ten ran as if wings were on his feet to do his laird’s bidding.
“A bandage from the tack room?” Laren repeated as if not believing her ears. “Do you want a fever? Or worse?”
“Worse?” he echoed, mimicking her, widening his eyes. “What could be worse, Laren?”
“You could lose your arm,” Anice answered, her brother’s disregard for his own safety obviously unsettling her.
“Then I wish the bullet had gone in my head,” Laird Macnachtan said, “because I wouldn’t mind losing it right now.”
“That is your own fault for drinking so much last night,” Laren replied.
That announcement was met by a boisterous round of comments from all within hearing and some suggestions of what their laird could do with his head.
Margaret watched all this, confused, the pounding in her head growing stronger. This was not how servants acted at her brother’s estate. This easy camaraderie was not a part of her experience.
Nor did his sisters take offense. They accepted that all had a voice, from the oldest to the youngest.
This was a different world from the one she lived in. This was foreign, strange even.
“Anice, Laren, easy now,” he said. “I’m in no danger. I’ve been shot worse before.”
His announcement did not calm his sisters. Their brows came together in alarm, their mouths opening to ask a million questions, and he held up a hand to beg for quarter. “I was in a war. Remember? Do you think in boarding a ship, men throw thistles at each other?”
“The world might be a better place if they did,” Anice announced, and the men around her laughed.
“You may have been shot at by the French,” Laren said, “but we didn’t expect you to be shot right here before our eyes. You could have been mortally wounded.”
“But she was not aiming for my heart,” he reminded them. His voice was light. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
A new voice spoke up, one as grating as a crow’s caw, and it belonged to a small, grubby-looking woman. She appeared to have only two teeth in her head and her nose was impossibly big. But it was her tiny, shrewd eyes that put Margaret on guard. “I believe you should rid yourself of the Chattan,” she announced, and then spit on the ground. “No good will come of having her here.”
“The woman is our guest, Nila. Remember that,” L
aird Macnachtan bit out. “And quit spitting.”
Nila did not take well to the order. Her eyebrows almost disappeared in her hairline. For a second, Margaret anticipated her spitting again, but grumbling several opinions to herself, the crone had the good sense to withdraw.
Meanwhile, the stable lad returned with a roll of clean wraps used for horse legs. Laren took the cloth from the boy and began wrapping the wound to stop the bleeding without bothering to remove the laird’s coat.
Margaret had to speak up. “You should remove his clothing if you wish to stop the bleeding.”
“Well, aren’t you something, my lady.” Anice spoke with scorn. “First you shoot him and then we are not tending him well enough for your tastes. I fear everything they say about you is true.”
“Everything they say about me?” Margaret repeated, mystified and, yes, feeling very guilty.
But Anice and her sister were not up to answering. They, Nila and the few other women in the stable yard gathered around the laird.
Nila informed them she’d heard of a remedy for healing that called for putting chicken droppings on the wound. Anice shouted, “Someone, fetch a chicken.”
The women might have been serious in the order, but the men in the stable yard hooted with laughter.
That was enough for the Macnachtan. “If any of you brings a chicken, I’ll wring its neck, and yours,” he warned as he pushed his way out from the midst of the women. Laren followed him, her hands holding the bandage she’d wrapped around his arm.
“And here we thought it would be making you smell better than the pig stink you are wearing, Heath,” one of the men said, and the others laughed.
A dull red crept up the Macnachtan’s neck.
He’d taken their earlier comments in stride, but this one had touched a nerve.
“I haven’t finished tying the bandage, Heath,” Laren complained.
“It is good enough,” he barked out. “And don’t the rest of you have tasks to be doing? Or are you going to stand around grinning like great apes all day?”
The men quickly went about their business, a sign that they did respect him when he used a tone of voice that warned heads would roll.
Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Page 6
