Laird Macnachtan turned his attention to Margaret.
The drumming in her head was louder now. She was suddenly very, very tired and she could not afford to be so. She needed her wits about her to find Fenella’s book.
She meant to say as much to him, but when she opened her mouth, no words came out.
She swayed. Laird Macnachtan put out his hand as if to steady her.
It was the wrong thing to do.
To her horror, Margaret bent over and was frightfully ill.
All over his boots.
She looked up, scandalized. This was beyond a lapse in manners. She’d never disgraced herself in such a way before. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and then swooned.
Heath caught Lady Margaret before she hit the ground.
For a second, he held the woman, stunned by what had transpired.
He wasn’t the only one. Everyone who had witnessed Her Ladyship’s disgrace also appeared dumbfounded.
It was Anice who broke the silence. “I’m not certain Lady Margaret likes you, Heath.”
He shot his sister a look that could have straightened the curls from her hair. He lifted Lady Margaret up in his arms and began walking toward the house. His body now smelled in so many wretched ways that he couldn’t bear consideration, and his boots were in need of a cleaning from marsh water, pig offal and—well, he didn’t want to think on it.
For once his clansmen kept their raucous opinions to themselves, although he did overhear Nila mumble something about “Chattans” and spit on the ground.
He didn’t chastise her this time.
At the house, Heath kicked off his boots by the door. It wasn’t easy since he still held the unconscious Lady Margaret. He’d always heard that the cream-at-the-top ladies of society prided themselves on nibbling like birds. Lady Margaret obviously didn’t share that habit. She’d grown heavier with every step he’d taken along the path to the house.
“Good heavens, Heath,” Dara said, catching sight of him standing at the back door struggling with balance and boots. “What has happened to you? And how did you come by Lady Margaret?”
“What hasn’t happened to me since last we saw each other over breakfast, Dara?” he said. She was his brother’s widow but he considered her like a sister. “Let’s see, I’ve been chasing pigs, arguing with Nila—”
“Again?” She heaved a world-weary sigh.
“I seem to never learn,” he agreed. “Then I was shot—”
That caught her attention. “With a gun?”
“Is there another sort of shooting? And then Her Ladyship added insult to injury by— How shall I say this delicately?”
“You don’t need to do so.” She sniffed the air and then pulled a face. “I believe I understand.”
Heath grunted his response as he finally kicked off his last boot. “I shall take her upstairs.”
“I shall move your boots to the back step,” Dara said, using a corner of the apron she wore to protect her fingers from touching them.
“I need to have a wound bandaged,” he called after her as she walked away.
“I shall meet you in your room. I’ll also see water is prepared for a bath.”
“Thank you, Dara.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m doing this for the rest of us, Heath,” she said, disappearing down the hall.
In stocking feet, Heath carried Lady Margaret up to her bedroom. He laid her on the bed. For a moment, he considered removing her cloak, and decided things were best if he left it alone. He did untie the strings at her neck.
When she’d first swooned, she appeared very ill, but now the color was returning to her face.
He was tempted to feel her forehead to see if she ran a fever, but he knew that would be just an excuse to touch her. He moved to the foot of the bed. She was so lovely . . . but there was something else about her that drew him. And it wasn’t any idiocy like the curse.
It was a yearning that seemed born from the deepest part of his soul.
And speaking to her, having that strange and violent interaction in the stable yard, had not dissuaded him. In fact, she had courage, a quality he respected.
He looked forward to their next exchange. “Hopefully, my lady, it shall not be as fierce.”
Her answer was the silence of sleep.
Heath left the room. He was no poet. No woman had ever claimed his heart. Then again, the day he’d caught sight of Lady Margaret on that London street, every other woman he’d met had paled in comparison.
He went to his room. Theirs was a humble household. He served as his own valet, just as his sisters were their own maids. He wondered what Lady Margaret would make of such circumstances.
The cook’s husband, Tully, served as a jack-of-all-trades. He had already delivered the tub to Heath’s room and appeared with two pails of steaming water while Heath was undressing. He poured them in and fetched a pail of cold.
“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 c
hest 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 h
e 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
The 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.
Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] Page 7
