Page 95 of Stealing Sophie
“There is a barren curse on this place. Long ago, when some laird of Glendoon died, and his love died with him, a terrible curse befell this place. Nothing flourishes here, they say, until–” He stopped.
”Until what?” She shuffled the cards, fanned through them.
He shrugged. “Until the magic returns. But no one knows what that means.”
She glanced at him quickly, cards stilled in her hands.
“Connor says it is all nonsense,” he said, “and nothing grows here because the castle sits on solid rock, so we can only expect weeds and bleakness for our efforts.”
Hearing the door open, Sophie started and looked up, hoping to see Connor. Mary entered, came near.
“I have filled a tub for ye, Mistress,” she said. “'Tis not much, a wee hip bath, but I thought ye might like it after working in the gardens all day. I brought you some of my good soap, made with lavender and rose petals.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you, Mary.” Sophie smiled. She had been unable to scrub her hands clean enough and felt as if a film of garden mud clung to her like a pall.
“Since ye were raised in this glen, I knew you must have the Highland habit o’ keeping clean, as we like to do, rather than the Frenchie habit o’ living with yerself.”
“Ah, thank you,” Sophie said, trying not to laugh.
“I found linens and fresh clothing and left them in the laird’s bedchamber. The tub is set in the kitchen, where it is warm by the hearth,” Mary went on. “Roderick and I will be off for home soon, but it is there when you need it.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said. Indeed she did have the Highland habit, as Mary called it, of preferring cleanliness. Her back ached and her shoulders were stiff from the day’s hard work, and the thought of a hot, fragrant bath was deliciously tempting. Waving farewell to the Murrays, she glanced once more through one of the windows in the great hall, worried anew about Connor. The feeling that plagued her spun again in her belly, insisting that all was not well with his outing that night.
She nearly called for Mary and Roderick to come back, should he need their help. But she only shook her head, telling herself despite her worrying that all had to be well. It had to be.
He nearly hadto fight Neill off as they came to the Glendoon gate; the man’s abiding concern and questions were no help. “I am fine,” Connor insisted. “By the devil, Neill, leave off. It is naught.” He kept a hand pressed to the cloth-covered gash.
“Damn fool,” Neill said. “There was a fair amount of blood.”
“Better now. A scratch,” Connor said.
As they went through the gate, Mary and Roderick were crossing the yard and came running. The dogs were with them and ran forward too, Colla woofing, the terriers and spaniel jumping about. While Neill explained to his wife and son what had happened, Connor soothed the dogs, keeping a hand at his side. When Mary insisted on tending to his wound, he shook his head.
“It will be fine. Go home, the lot of you.” He urged them toward the gate, wanting to hasten them home. “I promise it is fine. Sleep will heal this wee hurt faster than bandages and possets—and well-meaning Murrays.”
“Let Sophie tend to ye,” Mary said. “She is waiting inside. Go in by the kitchen. You know where I keep the healing salve in the kitchen cupboard,” she went on. “And there is whisky on the shelf as always. Let yer bonny lady take care of ye this night.”
“Aye well,” Connor said, though he did not plan to reveal the injury to Sophie. If she was asleep, he would not alarm her. And he did not relish anxious fidgeting over his person. He could see to this himself. Should she care to do anything else to his person, he could find the strength for it by morning, he felt sure.
He shut the gate on the Murrays while they were still talking to him. Dropping the bolt, he turned. He felt relieved to be home, and he hurt like hell.
Home, he thought, and almost laughed. And how he hated attention and fussing over him, always had, from boyhood on. Partly he loathed admitting he needed help, that he might be hurt or weak. And tonight, he did not want to admit that a damned Sassenach musket ball had grazed him.
The dogs wanted to fuss over him too, gathering around him, nudging at him as he walked. The wolfhound leaned, offering his shoulder for support. Connor accepted that, moving ahead, trying not to trip on the smaller dogs.
Clutching his side, breathing carefully, he crossed the yard. Somehow he had made it up the beastly hill just outside the castle, and his bed was only a little further, inside and up the turning steps. He could just sleep on the warm kitchen floor, he told himself. With a dram or two of whisky, it would do.
Reaching the kitchen garden, which looked neater each time he came through there, he headed for the kitchen door, staggering as he entered. Low flames glowed in the hearth, and that the room was empty. The wooden hip tub sat before the wide hearth, filled with steaming water. The fragrance of soap wafted toward him.
Bless Mary for leaving him a bath, he thought, even a flowery one. It would do well this night. Normally he bathed quickly in a cold loch or washed at the burnside, and usually the tub was dragged into place on cold winter nights. Mary had been kind to prepare one, not even knowing that he needed it to ease and cleanse his wound.
Going to the cupboard for bandages and Mary’s oil and herbal ointment, he then poured whisky into a pewter tankard. Taking a long, fortifying sip, he coughed, winced at that, and took the supplies to the tub.
The water was tepid—Sophie must have used it for her bath already and gone to bed, he thought. Good. He did not want to wake her, preferred to soothe the wound on his own. Glad to see that Mary had left a bucket of steaming water warming by the hearth, likely for his bath, he lifted it, wincing, to pour it. The hotter the better for this, he thought.
Resting for a moment, gasping, he pressed the cloth to his side again, taking it away. The active bleeding had not begun again. The wound was closing, just a deep graze, not very serious but painful. He stripped carefully, wincing again as he removed his shoes and stockings and eased out of plaid and bloodstained shirt. Standing nude in the firelight, he peeled away the cloth that was stuck to the wound. The ball had nicked skin and muscle in his side but had not embedded. It looked clean enough after Neill fussed over it, and pressure over the last two hours had allowed it to knit some.
Stepping into the tub, he sank into the heated water with a low groan. The tub was not much bigger than a deep washtub, but when he bent his knees up, he could submerge to his chest. The water stung the wound at first, then blissfully soothed.
