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

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