She frowned. A second golden tendril fell, this one beside her cheek. “Still, I would know what ill he said of me.”
Finnan just bet she would. Scrambling in her mind, she was, wondering how the game she played with Geordie had gone wrong. She had not guessed Geordie sent letters to anyone. Finnan had to convince her he’d been mistaken, that his anger against her had flown.
Carefully, he said, “Does it matter now? I have come here to apologize. Geordie and I were used to defending one another and guarding each other’s back. And there was something in him that tended to make me feel protective.” Too true, that. “We each vowed to come whenever the other called.”
She gave him a cool look. “As I said, it is a pity you did not come to him in Dumfries when he stood in dire need of a friend.”
“I did not know. His letters did not call on me for help.” Geordie had been lost, aye, and clearly miserable, as evidenced by his presence in the lowlands, of all places. The past haunted him even as it did Finnan. But never once had he requested Finnan’s presence. “He had only to call on me,” he said simply, “and I would have been there.”
Indeed, he had very nearly gone anyway, when Geordie wrote to say he meant to wed the woman he had met. But he had been engrossed in his own battle here, trying to regain his birthright.
“As it was,” she went on, not quite calmly, “he had only my father for companion. They formed a…a curious relationship. In fact, that is how Geordie and I met.”
“Aye.” Geordie had described that as well. I helped the old gentleman home on more than one occasion, where I met his daughter. A precious flower she is, blooming in this cold, gray place. “Your father, a scholar—Angus Robertson.”
She inclined her head. “A once-practical, learned man, with a scientific mind, who taught his daughter not to believe in ghosts.”
“Ah, well.” Finnan treated her to his best smile. “You are in the highlands now, where ‘scientific’ principles tend to fly out the window. There exist in this glen many things you cannot hope to comprehend—fairies, boogies, a sea horse in the burn, and the spirits of ancient warriors. This is no’ the lowlands, you ken.”
“Nevertheless, Laird MacAllister, until a boogie man comes walking up the glen to my door, I will not believe in spirits.”
A boogie man had come walking up the glen to her door, Finnan reflected, did she but know it, one set to seduce her.
He wanted to ask how long it had taken her to persuade Geordie to kiss her, he who had believed so completely in true love. Had Geordie been lost at the first look from those blue eyes? How long would it take Finnan to persuade her to kiss him?
He fair ached for it, the touch of that soft mouth on his, ached for revenge, that was.
The maid cleared her throat and then sidled in between them, moving the way a man might in the presence of a wildcat. She carried a mug of what Finnan could only assume was tea in either hand. He longed for something stronger.
“Thank you, Aggie. Are there any scones left?”
“I will bring some.” Aggie’s voice made only a whisper. She placed a mug at Finnan’s elbow and handed the other to her mistress before turning away to the shelves beside the fire.
“So.” Finnan lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level, even though the lass could still hear every word. “You do not want to know what Geordie said to me?”
“I do not.”
“Even though I walked all this way through that torrent just to tell you? And even though ’tis to your benefit?”
“I thought you walked all that way to apologize.”
“That too.”
“Do you often expect sane, rational women to sit and discuss the conversations of ghosts?”
“Not ‘ghosts’—just the one.” He took a sip of tea, which scalded his tongue.
“Very well, then, Laird MacAllister, I will play at your game. What did the ghost of my husband say?”
He shot her a sharp look. Did she recognize this for a game, a trap?
The maid pushed in between them again, with a plate that held three meager scones. “I am that sorry, miss. It is all we had.”
“Thank you, Aggie. Leave us, please.”
The girl handed her mistress the scones and fled up into the loft. Finnan eyed the plate and raised his gaze to Jeannie’s face. He had to admit, nothing here seemed as he’d expected. Where was evidence of this woman’s greed? She must have taken Geordie for all he had.
He took another sip of tea, more cautiously this time. The stuff tasted like dishwater. He set the mug aside.
“I understand you do no’ believe me,” he said with what he hoped was engaging earnestness. “And I am a rational, practical man, so I do assure you. But I have been a soldier a long while.”
“A mercenary,” she interposed, speaking the words with some distaste. What did she expect? He had left home at sixteen, forced to make his way, and met Geordie soon after. The two of them had earned their fortune in the world—survived. How dared she judge the means?
“A mercenary, aye, and a soldier. Geordie and I stood at Culloden.”
“So Geordie did say. He used to get into fights over it, at the ale house. The first time, a crowd set on him, and he got the worst of it. My father made his acquaintance when he gave Geordie some rough assistance in the alley, after.”
Finnan scowled. “Why should Geordie get into fights over it?”
She hesitated. “He refused to state on which side of the conflict he had fought.”
Ah, and there lay the heart of the matter. And the accursed lowlanders had ridden Geordie hard for it, had they? Aye, Finnan should have been there, as ever, to stand at Geordie’s side.
“I am sure,” he said softly, “he owed your father a debt of gratitude.” Finnan meant nothing of the kind. “And I know how grateful he was for your presence in his life.”
“Then perhaps you will explain to me, Laird MacAllister, why you have turned on me? Why try to chase me from the glen?” She leaned forward on her bench, her gaze fixed on him. “Just what did Geordie’s letters say? I think you must tell me.”
“He spoke of your marriage. It was not all he had hoped.”
Color flared in her cheeks. Hastily, she set her own mug aside and drew a breath. “What concern is that of yours, Laird MacAllister?”
“Everything to do with Geordie MacWherter concerned me, all danger or perceived danger.”
“You consider me to have been a danger?” Again, her beautiful eyes widened. “Me? I would like to know how.”
“There was that in Geordie’s letters that led me to believe you had taken advantage of him.”
“Was there?” She looked completely taken aback. Aye, a fine actress.
He held her gaze with his. “I stood to defend even Geordie’s heart.” Or avenge it.
The color in her cheeks flared still brighter. “You know nothing of the relationship that existed between me and my husband. It is not unusual that people should marry for convenience.”
“Convenience?” It had been nothing of the kind. Geordie had adored her from the tips of her toes to that crown of golden hair. Finnan slid forward to the edge of his seat. “Did you not love him?”
The expression in her eyes changed, transformed from embarrassed affront to something far colder. She gripped the edge of her bench so tight her fingers turned white. “Laird MacAllister, you may indeed own this glen—every stick and stone, as you say—by whatever means you have stolen it. But you do not own me and have no right to the contents of my heart.”
What heart? It was obviously as cold as her gaze had become. Aye, and he saw the truth now beneath the pretty picture she sought to present.
He said, hoping to catch her unawares, “Geordie wishes me to look after you. It is what he came to tell me last night. You see, he loves you still and wants for you to remain in the glen.”
Chapter Seven
Jeannie looked up from the kale bed where she once more knelt, and sweated, beneath a
clear, northern sky. Yesterday’s torrential rain had flown as if it had never existed. The glen drowsed in a haze of peace so seemingly complete it felt obscene for so much disquiet to possess Jeannie’s heart.
She decided she detested garden work just as much as did Aggie. The tiny black flies bit mercilessly and the stooping caused her back to ache. She marveled that her life could come to this: a scrap of garden and a small cottage spelled existence. Yet she’d become convinced that if the kale failed to flourish she and Aggie would never survive the winter.
With a sigh, she shifted along the row of struggling plants and thought about Dumfries. More precisely, she thought about Geordie, as she had ever since Laird MacAllister’s visit yesterday afternoon.
What sort of letters could Geordie have written to his friend? What had they said of her? And what had she seen in Finnan MacAllister’s eyes when he spoke of them?
The man was an enigma, a mystery, layers upon layers, each more bewildering than the last. He might smile at her, a seemingly winsome smile, even while that light which bespoke anger flared in his eyes. He professed to be a practical man, a soldier, even while he spoke of fairies, boogies, and ghosts. She considered herself a very fair judge of human nature, but she could not begin to guess what to make of the man.
Nor did she quite believe his claim that the spirit of her husband had persuaded him to call off his cruel campaign against her and allow her to remain here in peace. It made no sense.
Then again, the man was a highlander…
She sat back on her heels and brushed the hair from her forehead. She had met very few highlanders in her life. Geordie had been one, but Geordie now seemed as unlike his friend as day like night.
She remembered the first time she had seen Geordie MacWherter, big, burly, covered with cuts and bruises at the time. Appalled that her father should bring home a crony from the alehouse, she had tried to keep her distance.
But as he so often did, her father had called on her to provide hospitality, and she glimpsed something unexpected beneath Geordie’s rough exterior—a gentleness, a longing, an almost childlike expectation. Yes, from the first, Geordie had disarmed her.
But she had never loved him.
Oh, she had cared, and she had felt for him, even pitied him. But pity did not win a woman’s heart, at least not hers. It would be difficult, anyway, to love a man who spent most of his time drunk, who wept when in his cups and sometimes muttered about the past in a brogue too thick to let her understand.
Something rode Geordie MacWherter hard, a fool could see that. And as the tales went, troubled spirits were most likely to return to this world after their death. But the idea that Geordie had come now to speak to his friend—well, it seemed absurd.
She spoke aloud to the sunny day, there in her poor excuse for a garden. “If you are going to show yourself, Geordie MacWherter, do so now, here, when I need you.”
Nothing. A breeze ruffled the stalks of kale, and a bird took wing at some distance and sang a sweet, heartbreaking song. No more.
She called a picture of Geordie up in her mind, as if that could summon his spirit. Well over six foot of strapping male he had been, a warrior out of training and beginning to go soft, the ale putting extra weight on his large frame.
His friend had not fallen out of training. It would be difficult to imagine a man in better form than Finnan MacAllister. And she had seen all of him.
But Geordie—Geordie had reminded her of a bear, big, slightly bewildered, and drowsy, but still very dangerous if roused. She had lost count of the brawls in which he had been involved during their acquaintance.
But certain things about him remained the warrior, no matter how intoxicated he became. He wore always a highland dirk in the cuff of his boot and could draw it before a man might blink. He wore his sandy hair long in the highland fashion and often half-braided like a man going into battle. And those sleepy hazel eyes could, in an instant, turn to granite.
He had never been anything but unfailingly gentle with Jeannie—sweetly earnest and mildly gallant. Her heart twisted just thinking on it. Had she loved him after all? Maybe, the way one loved a brother or a child.
No wonder Finnan MacAllister wanted to protect him. There had been that quality about Geordie, after all. But the very idea of him writing letters to the man… Geordie should have been far too inebriated to put pen to paper. Anyway, she did not believe Finnan MacAllister. She could not give credence to a word the man said, whether it concerned ghosts or otherwise. His lips might smile, but the look in his eyes suggested deceit.
She looked up again as Aggie hove into sight, a basket over her arm. Impatient, she demanded of her maid, “Where have you been? I wanted your help with the weeding.”
Aggie made a face. Servants were not supposed to pick and choose their duties; Jeannie had let things get sorely out of hand.
“The ground is wet from yesterday’s rain,” Aggie pointed out. “You will be all mud.”
“True, but the soil is soft, and the weeds pull out most easily.”
“I have brought us eggs from Avrie House. We can have a good breakfast come morning.”
Or a good supper tonight. Jeannie knew all too well not much else lay in the larder.
“And”—Aggie lowered her voice to a near whisper —“I have news.”
“More gossip, you mean.” Jeannie sighed. As well keep Aggie from gossiping as halt the rain in this place.
“No, legitimate news got from Dowager Avrie herself.”
“You spoke with the Dowager Avrie?”
“No, but Dorcas and Marie got it straight from their mistress, as well as saw with their own eyes.”
“What?” Despite her resolve, Jeannie’s interest stirred.
“The Dowager’s grandsons have come home, the sons of her dead son. And they have vowed to settle that Finnan MacAllister.”
****
For a man who had achieved all his dreams, Finnan MacAllister did not feel as satisfied as he should. He sat brooding in the library at Dun Mhor, which had once been the favorite room of his father, Kieran MacAllister. Indeed, it was from this very room Avrie and his accursed men had dragged Kieran out to his doom.
All while Finnan lay upstairs in his bed unaware his father’s life was ending, spattered in blood on the stones of the courtyard. Aye, and he had sworn vengeance on that blood, every drop of it. He had worked and saved and suffered, he had bought up debts on the sly until he owned Gregor Avrie, and then he had returned to demand payment.
Too late, it had been, to save his mother, who had died in exile, or his sister who had fallen into the hands of one of Avrie’s demon sons. It had been eight years since he’d had word of Deirdre, ten since he had seen her. She had been only fifteen when the tragedy befell them. What sort of woman might she have become?
Agony stirred in his heart, which he had believed far too calloused to hurt so much. He had killed men, many men. He had lied, cheated, and traded his honor for money, all to get back to this place. And now that he sat here, he discovered it was not what he had anticipated.
Hollow. That described it. The house, with the Avrie clan chased from it back to the dowager’s dwelling or out of the glen, proved just a house and far too empty. The Avries had not suffered enough. He, Finnan, wanted more revenge.
But what? A vision of Jeannie MacWherter swam before his eyes. Aye, and he would have her sooner rather than later. That would be too easy, though avenging Geordie might soothe his pain.
Or would it? Avenging his father’s death had not, despite all his longing.
The trout in the pool had bidden him choose peace.
The library door creaked open, and young Danny poked his head into the room. Finnan and Geordie had picked the lad up following the battle at Culloden—a mere boy, in truth—and Danny had served him willingly ever since, a passable valet and an even better groom, despite the loss of his right arm.
“The horses stand ready, Master, if you wish to ride out.”
“I do.” He could barely stand being cooped up with paperwork on this fine afternoon. Maybe viewing his lands would settle his mind.
Danny grinned. “Rohre is full of himself today.”
Finnan grunted. He had bought the horse in Callander from a man he’d caught abusing the beast. The horse had a wild streak and a temper that proved he had not forgotten his past.
No more had Finnan.
Never mind, he had a taste for a wild ride. Perhaps that would chase Jeannie MacWherter from his head.
The great house of Dun Mhor lay at the northern end of the glen. An ancient place of stone built over the foundations of a roundhouse, it had housed members of Clan MacAllister since time immemorial—until the Avries took it into their minds to change that history. The Avries were supposed to be sworn allies of Clan MacAllister, held under geis, and had lived under the protection of the greater clan before the MacAllisters’ fortunes declined and the treacherous Gregor Avrie saw his chance. A deceitful plan, a dirk in the night, and Gregor supposed his future changed.
Finnan still remembered his mother rousing him from his bed, weeping. “You must go at once, Finn! Your father is dead, and you are his heir. They will kill you next. I could not bear it—anything but that. Take your sister and go.”
But they had been unable to find his sister. And once he had crept to the courtyard, viewed his father’s dead body and taken Kieran MacAllister’s sword into his own hands, his mother, clearly terrified, had bundled him off through a hidden exit, giving him all the portable wealth on which she could lay her hands, including her own gold brooch and a pouch of small coins.
He thought on it now as he thundered up the glen, letting his eyes rest on every sweep of turf and high peak, how he had sworn vengeance and begged his mother to let him stay.
“Let me answer these vile wolves as they deserve!”
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 4