Cathy Maxwell - [Chattan Curse 03] by The Devils Heart

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 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,