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

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.