It was nightfall when Patrick left Tarrick Hall. He’d promised his kin he’d return soon but told them nothing about where he was going. He didn’t know why he kept quiet. He should have told them everything, including who Duff’s father was. He should have burned the butterbur and stayed where he was.
Why was he going back to Cunningham House? His uncle Cameron wanted no more fighting. It wouldn’t take much fighting to kill Cunningham and both his sons. He’d have his uncle Tamas’s blessing if he did. He could do it without harm to Charlie and Elsie. But how would they live without any men to protect them? He didn’t care if Charlie knew how to fend for herself against one man. What if the Dunbars or men like them ever returned? He couldn’t avenge Kendrick and leave Charlie and her sister at the mercy of savages. Another reason he couldn’t plan on killing them was because his uncle already lived with so many burdens. Patrick didn’t want to be the cause for another.
He wasn’t going back to kill them, though he couldn’t promise he wouldn’t beat them to within an inch of their lives. He was going back for answers. He would continue to be Patrick Campbell until he learned where Kendrick’s body was. Then he would go gather him and bring him home to his father for a proper burial.
He was going back because Elsie needed butterbur, and for the Wallaces and their wee bairns…and for Charlie.
He knew there could be nothing between them. His kin here and on Skye would never accept her. He knew the MacGregors were no strangers to marrying their enemies, but none had ever been sister to a man who killed one of their children. He also knew that Charlie would never forgive him for deceiving her. Still, he wanted her to know the truth about how her mother died and how the man who’d killed her had pled her forgiveness before he left her. It might not make losing her any easier, but his uncle was no monster. Patrick would tell her before he left, before he told her who he was and who his uncles were.
She would hate him, and he suspected he’d miss her, but there was nothing to be done about it. He’d find Kendrick and do what he could for Elsie and the Wallaces, and then he’d leave and never think of Charlie or any of them again. He realized it wouldn’t be easy and he blamed himself for giving in and giving a damn. Now he remembered why he’d steered clear of the burdens of responsibility.
By the time he reached Cunningham House, he was feeling quite miserable. He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to see Duff. He was afraid of what he might do. He remained in his saddle for a long time, torn between staying and leaving. He didn’t know how long he sat there trying to decide when Charlie pulled open the front door and hurried out to him.
“Where have you been, Patrick?” she asked, wringing her skirts in her hands. She looked almost bloodless in the pale moonlight, her eyes were wide and filled with worry. “You’ve been gone overlong.”
“What is it?” He leaped from his mount. He forgot everything else when he looked toward the house.
“’Tis Elsie,” she answered in a hollow voice. “Her breathing has grown worse since this morning. She still will not tell me who she was meeting last night, but I just know she is sick today because of it. Did you get the butterbur?”
Elsie was worse. If it was too late to help her, it would be his fault. He knew without a doubt that the butterbur would have worked if he’d delivered it sooner.
Nae. He wouldn’t let it be too late.
“Aye, ’tis here.” He hurried to show her. “Return to yer sister. I’ll take care of the plants.”
“Duff is with her. I want to help.”
He reached for the sack. He wouldn’t let the thought of Duff and what he’d done distract him now.
Charlie stopped him with her hand on his arm. “Will it help her?” Her voice was laden with distress and weariness.
He didn’t want to look at her and see it in her eyes. Why had he lingered at Tarrick Hall when he knew Elsie needed the plant? He could have been reunited with his uncles any time after he saw to Elsie. But he’d let loyalty dictate to him, and for the sake of Camlochlin he’d remained and found out things he didn’t want to be true.
“Aye, ’twill,” he said, pulling the sack free and tossing it over his shoulder. “Dinna fear.”
“Do you know how to prepare it?” she asked following him into the house.
He prayed he remembered. “We must clean the roots in cold water. Once they are completely dry we must soak them fer a few hours.”
“How many hours?” She tugged on his sleeve as they entered the kitchen.
“Six will be enough.” He dumped the sack on the chopping table and opened it.
“Six more hours until she can be helped?” She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. “My remedies offer her no comfort.”
Hell, there must be something. He thought of his mother’s jars lining the kitchen wall. “Is there any chickweed in the kitchen?”
“Nay.” She worried her lip.
He thought about it a bit longer. “Daisies!” he blurted.
“What about them?”
“They are no’ as strong as butterbur, but they will help until the butterbur tea was ready.”
“Daisies?” Her beautiful eyes grew wider along with her smile. “Elsie has the daisy circlet I gave her in our room!”
She turned to run off but then whirled on her heels and flung her arms around him. “Thank you, Patrick.”
Her long loose tresses brushed over his fingers when he stretched his arm around her waist.
God help him, he didn’t want to let her go. Couldn’t they just run away somewhere, away from their names, from duty, and responsibilities? He was good at running away but what of Elsie and Nonie? What of Kendrick’s empty grave? He couldn’t run this time, but he would have to let her go.
She tilted her head so he could feel her breath on his chin, fragranced in spice when she spoke again. “I feared you weren’t coming back.”
What was he to say? That he’d considered it? His heart ached because she didn’t trust him. Why would she? She was raised with murderers and she associated with drunkards and men who put pride before their family. She didn’t believe there were any “different” men because she didn’t know any.
“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.”