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.