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

and then swooned.
    H eath 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.
    A t 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