by Paula Quinn
“Fergive me,” he whispered, looking into her eyes, longing to kiss her. Fergive me fer everything. “I couldna find the butterbur.”
“Of course,” she allowed and with a smile, broke free from his embrace and ran off to get the daisies.
Patrick watched her go. He thought he might be a different man, but he’d chosen to remain at Tarrick Hall, despite Elsie. If Charlie ever discovered all the things he kept from her she would consider him no different…nae, worse because he’d broken through her armor. He’d felt it in her sweet surrender when he kissed her. He’d penetrated her defenses and she let him kiss her. She would never forgive him for that.
But how could he keep the truth from her, from Duff? If he told one, the other would find out. He should go now before everything was out in the open—with her father probably dead.
His gaze dropped to the butterbur needing to be cut and cleaned.
He reached for a knife and slammed a root on the table. Why was Elsie his responsibility anyway? Or Nonie Wallace? Hadn’t he kept himself from this kind of burden? The guilt? Hell, he never wanted this. He had to get Elsie well, find Kendrick’s remains and exact a little Highland vengeance on the guilty, and then he had to get the hell out of Pinwherry.
Stay with the plan. He heard his cousin Cailean’s voice in his head warning him while he chopped and carried the pieces of root to a pot. As lads, they had fallen into as much mischief, if not more than the rest of their cousins, but only the two of them had escaped with the least punishment…because they always planned out their actions carefully.
He would not veer off. He would not…
She returned to the kitchen and stood at the entrance with the daisy circlet in her hand and a hopeful smile on her lips. “She’s feeling a bit better.”
For a moment, Patrick forgot their names, the innocent, and the guilty. He could only stand captured and captivated by the sight of her in her flowing skirts and obsidian waves falling around her shoulders. He never wanted to stop looking at her, at her face, her slender shoulders that bore the weight of her world. He could make her happy.
His sorry condition only lasted for a moment before his attention was pulled to Duff appearing at his sister’s side at the entrance.
“She’s asleep,” he told Charlie, then turned to Patrick. “What can I do to help?”
Ye can get oot of the kitchen before I rid ye of all yer teeth. “We need water.”
Duff hurried to fetch two buckets and set out to the well. Watching him, Patrick wondered if he could take a blade to him if he had to.
“What troubles you?” Her silken voice brushed across his ear as she came near.
He looked away from the path Duff had taken and ran his palm over his chin. “Ye thought I wouldna return.”
She moved around him like a breeze and lifted a piece of the root to her nose. “What kept you?”
“There was no butterbur in Colmonell,” he told her, widening the divide between them with more deceit, but not seeing any other choice. It was either this or the truth—and that would only make her hate him sooner. “I had to travel to Craigneil.”
She accepted his word without further question. “Forgive me then for doubting you. You’ve shown me with Nonie—”
“Nae.” He looked at her. He couldn’t have her thinking he was some kind of hero. He wasn’t. It was odd, really. He had found a certain ease with her that he’d never felt with any other lass, as if he could tell her anything. And yet, everything she knew about him was false. “Dinna think I’m someone I’m no’. ’Twill be easier fer ye when I leave.”
She went still and dropped her gaze to the circlet. “’Twill not be difficult either way.”
He smiled at her bent head. He would miss her sharp tongue. But it was better this way. Seeing Duff proved to him that he wanted revenge on her family. There was no hope for anything between them. The sooner he left, the better.
Still, when she turned her back on him, he reached out to stop her. His fingers brushed down the length of her hair.
Duff returned with the water and then thankfully left again to see to Elsie. He was being generous about leaving his sister alone with Patrick, but Patrick was glad just to have him out of his sight.
He remained with Charlie and helped her separate the water into smaller pots and then add the daisies to one and butterbur root to the other.
“’Tisna that I want to go,” he began while he lit a small fire beneath the pot with the dried daisies. He didn’t like this silence between them, as if they were strangers.
“Does your mother know many remedies?” she asked him, veering off the topic he’d brought up.
He was happy to comply. “M’ mother knows everything there is to know aboot foliage of any kind. No’ only does she have a remedy fer every ailment, but her expertise in the kitchen is withoot rival.”
“Did you learn much from her?”
“I learned everything she taught me aboot her healin’ plants. While m’ brother practiced the art of courtly behavior, and m’ cousin learned how to wield a spoon, I spent m’ nights up late with m’ mother, learnin’ her remedies.”
He missed her. Isobel Fergusson was a good woman, and she taught her daughters to be the same. Saucy mouthed Mailie was the only one to tell him what she thought of his disreputable ways. He missed her too. He wanted to tell Charlie about the women in Camlochlin—and about his father.
But to what purpose? He should be relieved really. He had no reason to stay after he got what he came back for. The decision was already made for him.
But he felt like hell.
“I havena seen m’ kin in a long while. I want to—”
“You have no obligation to explain anything to me,” she cut him off, holding up her palm. “You’re free to leave without quarrel from me.” She folded her arms across her chest and turned to stare into the pot of daisies, her defenses returning like a tower around her.
Patrick stared at her profile illuminated by the flames and cursed the temptation to veer from his plan.
“Ye expect me to believe ye wouldna miss me?”
She blinked at the steam rising before her face, and then slanted him an incredulous look. “Is that so difficult to imagine?”
“Aye,” he said, “’Tis. Ye’ve shown no displeasure in m’ company.”
“Ha!” She tossed her head back and laughed. “You wouldn’t have believed anything I told you.”
He tilted his mouth into a smile. Damn it, he couldn’t help it. She delighted him. He liked this side of her better than her angry silence.
“Ye told me I was no’ altogether barbaric like the rest,” he reminded her while the daisy tea began to boil. “That I had a naturally easy way with people, ‘beguilin’ at will’ were yer exact words. Ye told me I was kind and verra clever, mayhap, even a hero, and I believed ye.”
“Of course you did!” she said, all traces of amusement gone. “Those are all good qualities!”
His dimple deepened. “Were none of them true then?”
“None of them,” she said icily, rejecting his truce. “I was tired and not in my right frame of mind when I said those things.”
“Now I dinna believe ye.”
She looked like she wanted to hit him. He grinned at her. It was all he could do to stop himself from tossing his plan to the wind and kissing her senseless. “Tea’s ready.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The daisy tea helped Elsie’s labored breath—that and Duff’s quiet voice at her bedside while they waited for the butterbur to soak.
“I cannot believe we’ve had”—Elsie stopped to cough then sipped more of her tea—“daisies right here all along. Thank God for you Mr. Campbell.”
Aye, Charlie had thanked God often when Elsie’s color returned. She also asked why He’d bring a man like Patrick Campbell into her life, only to watch him leave?
But wasn’t that what she had wanted? He wasn’t included in her life with Elsie. Besides, she’d known from the
beginning that his heart was true to no one. Why had his words created such turmoil inside her? So, he was planning on leaving. It came as no surprise. So he’d kissed her last eve and set her heart to ruin. It was her own fault to allow it.
Instead of being angry with him, she should be thanking him for riding all the way to Craigneil for Elsie.
She turned to look at him now standing at the doorway. Sensing her, he turned his hard gaze from Duff and let it soften on her and then on her sister.
“Ye’ll be well soon, lass.”
Had he truly done it? Had he brought her sister a cure? Answered her prayers?
She hadn’t meant what she said earlier. Everything she thought of him was true. He was beguiling. He was a hero—to Nonie, to Elsie…to her.
“You brought back a good amount of roots,” Duff said, standing up to stretch. “How long until we need more?”
What was that flash across Patrick’s eyes when he looked at Duff? Now that Charlie thought about it, Patrick appeared angry at Duff since his return tonight. She wondered why.
“Ye’ll have enough,” Patrick bit out and then excused himself and left the room.
Something wasn’t right. Charlie wanted to go after him and find out what it was, but Duff went to the door and followed Patrick out first.
“Charlie?” Elsie asked, pulling Charlie’s attention back to her. “I’m glad Patrick came here, aren’t you?”
Elsie’s clear blue eyes were wide with anticipation. Her cheeks and lips had returned to their natural pink hue. She was going to be well.
Because of him. Whether he left or not, Charlie knew one thing. Soon, perhaps within the year, Elsie would be well enough to leave Cunningham House. Thanks to Patrick Campbell, a scoundrel with a knight’s heart she would soon be free to live her life alone with Elsie.
Thanks to him, she wanted more.
Aye, she trembled where she sat, she was glad Patrick had come here.
Patrick headed toward the front door. He needed to get air and clear his thoughts before he took action against the Cunningham men without finding Kendrick’s remains first. The sight of Duff, the sound of his voice enraged Patrick. Why had he done it? Why had he killed a young lad? He wanted answers. He was thankful Allan and Hendry Cunningham had gone to bed before he’d returned from Tarrick Hall. Apparently, Elsie’s condition hadn’t concerned them. Tonight, if he saw them, he might kill them.
Were these the men by whose standards Charlie judged them all?
“Patrick.”
He stopped at Duff’s call and blew out a long breath before he began to turn to him. He’d learned over the years that the best way to keep from killing a man was to smile at him.
“I was goin’ to check on the butterbur,” Patrick told him and turned toward the kitchen.
“May I join you?”
Patrick grumbled his consent and kept walking. Duff sure as hell didn’t get his manners from his father.
“I wanted to thank you for caring about Elsie and bringing back the butterbur,” he said, hurrying to catch up. “This attack was worse than the others. When I heard Charlie weeping in the hall…”
Charlie had wept in the hall? He didn’t want to give a damn.
“…I did what I could to help.”
Patrick cut him a quick side-glance. So, he wasn’t the most heartless of the three. “What did ye do?”
“I just spoke to her. I kept my tone gentle as it seemed to calm her, despite the topic of my words.”
Patrick nodded. A soothing voice was a remedy for many things. “What did ye speak aboot?”
They entered the kitchen and Duff reached for a jug of wine and two cups. “I told her I wasn’t a monster.” He looked down to pour the drinks, casting his solemn gaze into the shadows of his lashes. “Though I don’t know if she believed me.” He looked up and handed Patrick his drink. “She’s heard things to the contrary.”
Hell. Was Duff going to confess? It was too soon! Patrick wasn’t sure he could endure hearing the details without losing control of his temper. He could take Duff down right here and then go take care of the other two.
“Who has she heard them from?”
“Charlie, I’m afraid. She believes I killed someone she loves.”
Patrick set his cup down on the chopping table. Whether he was ready or not, he was about to get the information he wanted. He’d had a plan. What was it? Make friends and find his cousin’s remains. One thing he could do well was make friends. “Is she wrong to believe it?” he asked calmly.
“Nay,” Duff told him, looking down again and into his cup. “Though I’d laid not a finger on him. I did nothing to stop it.”
Patrick’s heart thundered in his chest. Why the Cunninghams? Why was it Margaret Cunningham who’d taken him in and not another family?
“What prompts ye to tell me this?”
Duff closed his eyes, seeming to gather himself from someplace deep within before he spoke. “Perhaps, because you know who I am and that my father is kin to the Fergussons, you will understand the weight which I carry.” He stopped and shook his head. Patrick thought he wouldn’t continue. “Not only because he was my kin—though that knowledge makes my shame even more unbearable.”
“Do the Fergussons know that ye’re a MacGregor?” Patrick asked him.
Duff shook his head. “Charlie told Kendrick but he never told his family. He was verra loyal to her. He was a thoughtful lad,” Duff told him, looking like he might begin weeping. Patrick felt no pity for him. “He had a particular disdain toward my father for abandoning me. Charlie discovered for certain last winter that I was involved with his death. I’ve tried to tell her that ’twas not by my hand, but she will not listen. Perhaps you might consider telling her what I am telling you.”
Patrick almost refused to believe what he was hearing, it was so outlandish. Duff wanted him to convince Charlie that what he’d done wasn’t so wretched?
Patrick wanted to break something, preferably a jaw, or a nose. But he wanted directions. “Who was he?” He wanted to hear Duff speak the lad’s full name.
Duff guzzled the contents of his cup and then reached for more. “Vile stuff,” he said, concerning the wine.
Patrick agreed.
“He was called Kendrick…Kendrick Fergusson. He’d visited often with his father and uncles. Our mothers were friends. My father was always cordial for my mother’s sake, but he didn’t like them and he didn’t trust them. The boy…” He paused and Patrick looked away. “Kendrick and my sister had grown very close during these visits and their love was obvious to all. My father was against a union.”
So Kendrick had been killed to keep him away from Charlie.
“He was yer kin.”
Duff lowered his head. “I didn’t know, though it changes nothing. He had done nothing wrong. He was a lad.”
“What was done to him?” Patrick didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hear what Will’s son had done—or not done—to Cameron’s son.
“Hendry and I were to take him away and…dispose of him.” His voice had become almost dreamlike and distant, as if his memories were lost in a fog.
Patrick felt as if he was in the same fog. It was one thing to think about his young cousin’s murder, but to hear Duff describing how they were to “dispose” of him shook him to his core. He fought every urge to spring forward and close his hands around Duff’s throat. “Where did ye take him?”
“Dumfries.”
Dumfries. Patrick’s heart sank. It would take at least two days to ride there and more time to find Kendrick’s body.
“When we arrived, I couldn’t do it and left the task to Hendry. I should have stopped it.”
“Aye,” Patrick agreed, heartbroken for the lad and his parents—and for Charlie, as well, “ye should have.” If only he had. Things would be so different. Patrick could have taken Duff home to Skye and Charlie…she would likely be wed to Kendrick.
He tried not to think of what would have been, and how he
felt about it.
“So Hendry killed him and left his body in Dumfries?”
“Aye.”
“Was he given a grave?”
Duff lifted his gaze, glimmering with tears. “I don’t know.”
Disgusted, Patrick turned away. He was glad Duff was contrite.
“I am haunted by his face.”
Patrick hoped Kendrick haunted him forever. “And yet ye hate his faither.”
“Cameron Fergusson murdered my mother with a sword to her back. She was innocent.”
“As Kendrick had been.” Patrick wanted to tell Duff who he was, that Cameron Fergusson was his uncle and that the Cunninghams had destroyed his uncle’s life. He wanted to tell him that he’d spent the day with the Fergussons and that Margaret’s death was a terrible accident.
But Duff’s feelings could wait. He would speak to Hendry first and try to discover what had been done to Kendrick’s body.
“I don’t blame Charlie for hating me.” Duff’s soft, ragged voice raked across Patrick’s heart. “Kendrick was the love of her life.”
Och, hell, was Patrick a monster also? Why did hearing how much Charlie loved his cousin make his stomach hurt?
“D’ye think she will feel any differently aboot ye if she believes ye stood by and did nothin’ while Hendry killed him?”
Duff shook his head and set down his cup. “Nay. You’re right. Nothing will change.”
Patrick watched him move toward the doorway. He didn’t care if Duff lived with the weight of his actions. Most men did. His only concern was his uncle Cameron. “There might be something that will help,” Patrick said, stopping Duff from leaving.
“You will tell her my part in Kendrick’s death then?”
“You’re a fool!” Charlie accused, appearing at the door. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of anger Patrick had never seen in her before. He believed in that moment that Charlie truly did hate her brother. Madly enough, it made him feel sorry for Duff a little.
“You were never to speak of it to anyone,” she said to him. “Do you want to bring the Fergussons here again?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and ran from the house.