But his mother had wept harder. “They will murder you, Finn my love, and we will have nothing, nothing! At least I can live if I know you are somewhere in the world and can come back to reclaim your father’s lands.”
And so he had traveled everywhere in the world, but she had not lived. Word reached him but slowly through that family friend in Fort William. An illness, some said. Others whispered of murder, or suicide.
Where was Deirdre now, he wondered, as he fought Rohre for control of the reins. Reports there also varied. Some said dead. Some said mad. Upon his return, Finnan had served her husband’s father—Gregor Avrie—as he deserved, but had caught not a glimpse of his sister.
Would he even know her now, after so long? Aye, but he would know her eyes, so like his mother’s.
He tried to picture them and saw in his mind’s eye, instead, Jeannie MacWherter’s eyes, blue and innocent. Aye, she feigned innocence, but Finnan knew it very well for deception. And he vowed again, as Rohre pounded down the glen, Gregor Avrie would not be the only one he paid in kind.
Chapter Eight
Bright sunlight glittered off the waters of the burn as from shards of glass, blinding Finnan’s eyes. When he and Rohre, with Danny’s mount now trailing well behind, entered the copse of trees not far north of Rowan Cottage, the sudden gloom further dampened his sight. Indeed, not until Rohre’s stride broke and the horse tossed his head did Finnan realize they were no longer alone.
A group of mounted men had ridden out of the trees onto the path, blocking Finnan’s way.
His every instinct roused in response. Ten years away from home and he had been first and foremost a warrior. Before he could curse, he had his sword in his hand, the same razor-edged blade with which he had defended his life across Scotland. Blinking fiercely, he saw his attackers all came heavily armed.
But who were they? And from whence had they come? He controlled Rohre with iron knees, leaving his hands ready to fight, and the horse snorted.
Finnan spared a thought for Danny coming behind. If things got ugly, the lad would ride right into it. He eyed the mounted men, assessing his chances. Six of them, two planted abreast at the front, four behind. Finnan sneered; he’d faced steeper odds, though usually with Geordie at his side.
“Well,” said one of the two men in front, “if it is not the MacAllister cur who considers himself laird of this place.”
Avrie. The name appeared whole in Finnan’s mind, spurred by the hate he heard in the voice, and just like that he knew his opponents. How, though? The brothers Avrie—Stuart and Trent—had been conspicuously absent from the glen since Finnan returned and killed their traitorous father. But another thought possessed his mind. “Where is my sister?” he demanded.
The man on the left—was he Stuart?—tossed his head. “Lost to you, turncoat murderer. You will never see her again.”
Rage rose to Finnan’s head. “You think I will not make you pay for your crimes, even as did your accursed sire?” He tossed his head much as Rohre had. “Get you out of my way.”
Stuart Avrie spoke again. “I think not. A coward such as you might find it easy to terrorize an old woman and a man on his own. But his sons are here now, and serving you notice we will answer you as you deserve.”
Finnan’s head jerked up further. “I am no coward.”
“Nay? Is that why you stood against our Prince at Culloden and fought on the winning side?”
Finnan said nothing. He owed explanations to no one, especially these jackals.
“The Crown pays its turncoats well,” said the second brother, who must be Trent. “And the dog came back to Glen Rowan a wealthy man. What does that tell you, Brother?”
“That he needs settling.” Stuart gestured to the men at his back. “Take him.” And the two of them rode away into the gloom beneath the trees.
Finnan understood the gesture: they would be elsewhere, with clean hands, when he was slain. But his lip curled in derision. And they called him a coward!
Still, his career and much of his future had been founded on just such strategy. Was it not why men of high renown paid mercenaries? And he liked these odds much better.
He eyed the wall of four men on horseback who faced him. Were they mercenaries as well, or just members of Avrie’s household guard? Either way they were paid men, with little invested in the cause.
He knew how liberating it was to hold no stake in the outcome of a battle. It freed a man’s emotions and let him concentrate on the matter at hand. Yet he could not, himself, be more invested.
As if to prove his point, he heard the approach of Danny from behind. He called out, “Go back, lad! Do not join me here.”
“What? Why?”
Finnan did not need to turn his head to see Danny disobeyed his order.
He called again, “Stay at my back!” And he urged Rohre forward with his knees.
The men were not mercenaries, as he learned at the first pass. A mercenary would have employed far dirtier means to spear him than did his first opponent. Finnan, nothing loath to use every trick at his disposal, feinted and got inside the man’s sword to slit his throat with the razor blade almost before the fellow could blink. He fell from his horse with a thud, and the animal blocked the others’ way, further improving Finnan’s odds.
The second man, a chancer, whirled his sword around his head and came in bellowing. Finnan ducked and barely saved himself from scalping.
He heard Danny holler from behind. While his opponent was overextended, Finnan launched himself from Rohre’s back and took the man over backwards from his mount. They both landed hard on the track; the air left his opponent’s lungs with a rush.
Rohre and the other animal danced, cutting off the two remaining riders. To Finnan’s horror, he heard Danny come wading in.
The fool! The lad was no warrior, and he carried no sword, only the dirk in his boot. Filled with alarm on Danny’s behalf, Finnan closed his hands around his opponent’s throat and bashed his head against the ground until the man passed out.
He had dropped his sword in the fall but now recovered it before scrambling to his feet, his muscles working with well-trained efficiency.
The sight that met his eyes set his blood aflame. The last two guards had Danny trapped between them, the lad already disarmed. Even as Finnan watched, one man struck. His sword took Danny in the stump where his right arm should be.
Without conscious thought Finnan raised his sword and chirruped to Rohre. The horse, head high and nostrils flared, answered, and Finnan vaulted onto his back. They moved together into the fray.
He took the second man, who blocked his way, in the back between the shoulder blades, and cursed as the fellow fell. Rohre, now as enflamed as Finnan, shouldered the man’s mount aside. Moving together, they were in time to see Danny’s attacker stab the lad viciously.
“No!” Finnan bellowed the word, all his heart in it. He watched Danny’s eyes go wide, saw the lad slump over the neck of his mount as his attacker withdrew the blade.
“Face me!” he roared. “I am no unarmed lad. Face me like a man!”
The man jostled his horse and turned it in the limited space. His gaze flicked toward his fallen comrades and then locked on Finnan.
“I know what you are,” he sneered. “Everyone knows. A traitor, a turncoat, a murderer.”
Finnan’s blood burned so hot he barely heard the words. All he saw was Danny doubled over in agony.
He urged Rohre forward, and the horse, picking up on his emotions, charged. Finnan’s sword met his opponent’s in the air with a wild clang. He felt his mind slip into fighting form—no distractions, few emotions, just total concentration.
For Danny, he thought when he marked the man’s shoulder. And for my Da, when he slit the fellow’s sword arm, causing him to drop the weapon. For myself, he thought when his blade kissed the side of the man’s neck with swift competence.
He felt a flash of satisfaction then, for he remained untouched. Unlike Danny.
Swiftly, he dismounted. Rohre stood blowing air and trembling with reaction. Danny had tumbled from his mount during Finnan’s last encounter and lay in a heap on the ground.
“Guard,” Finnan told Rohre. He did not know if the two brothers Avrie lurked somewhere nearby, watching to see the outcome of their ambush.
He thrust the sword upright in the ground, ready to his hand, and knelt down beside Danny, laid hold of the lad, and turned him over.
Blood, a veritable river of it. The cloth Danny kept pinned over his stump had been shredded, but the wound in his chest caused Finnan’s lips to tighten, for it was from there the bright blood spewed.
Yet the lad’s eyes were wide open, stretched by shock.
“Master Finnan—”
“Hold on, lad. I will get you to safety.”
Where, though? If he turned back for Dun Mhor there might well be another troop of men waiting for him. And he would have to pass by Avrie House.
But Rowan Cottage lay directly ahead. And the Widow MacWherter owed him, whether she knew it not.
Chapter Nine
Jeannie lifted her head as her ear caught the echo of a sound. She could not be sure just what she had heard—it seemed quite distant—but noises tended to funnel up the glen from afar.
Shouting? The clash of weapons? Absurd. Since Culloden, Highland men were not even legally allowed to own weapons.
She stood among the rows of plants and attempted to brush the mud from her knees before calling to Aggie. “Did you hear something?”
Aggie appeared from around back of the cottage where she had been spreading tea towels over the prickle bushes to dry. She shook her head.
Jeannie narrowed her eyes and peered down the glen. The sun, well on its way to set, showed her only a glare of brightness. After a moment, she bent her back and returned to work.
Not until many minutes later did Aggie return and cry, “Mistress, someone’s coming!”
Jeannie abandoned her task and straightened again. Sure enough, two horses approached, led by a man on foot. The first horse, a big animal, had a coat that shone red-brown in the dying sun, as did the head of the man.
Jeannie swore softly, speaking a word no decent woman should employ, and started forward decisively. Oh, no—they were not having all that again.
She met Finnan MacAllister as he breached the rise that led to the cottage door. “You can just turn about and go, Laird MacAllister. I have no time this day for your tales and blandishments.”
He kept coming. She saw his expression then, stark and grim, and the blood spattered on the hand that gripped the reins.
“Peace, woman. I am no’ here for you.” He gestured to the back of the horse he led where Jeannie saw what looked like a bundle. No, it was a man.
She gasped. “What has happened?” What had he brought to her door?
“I need a place to lay him down. I fear he is dying.” Finnan stopped at Jeannie’s side and turned to the bundle, which she now saw possessed a brown head and a young man’s face. He already looked dead.
Instinct made her block the way. Trouble, that was what he brought, and Jeannie had already experienced enough of that in her life. Yet he slid the lad down from the back of the horse, which stood like a rock, and then lifted him in his arms like a child.
His tawny eyes, grave and intent, met Jeannie’s. “I fear he is dying,” he repeated. “I will never get him all the way back to Dun Mhor.”
Jeannie made a swift decision. “Come.” She turned and led the way into the cottage, catching a glimpse of Aggie’s horrified face in passing. The cottage possessed but the two ground floor rooms, one of which was Jeannie’s bedroom, and the loft. She knew MacAllister would never make it up the ladder with his burden, so she led him straight into her room and indicated the bed.
A small, bare place this was, with only the bed, a single chest below the window, and the few meager possessions Jeannie had been able to bring from Dumfries.
Finnan eased the young man down on Jeannie’s bed as tenderly as he might a child, and she got her first good look at the lad.
“Sweet heavens!”
Finnan MacAllister had not lied; the lad, sore hurt and awash with blood, looked past saving.
“What befell him?” A hunting accident? But these looked like no wounds taken in the hunt. The lad’s clothing had been rent as with a sharp blade, and the blood came hot and fast.
Finnan shook his head. “An attack in the copse not far north of here. Danny is no warrior, and he was unarmed.” Hard anger colored his voice, far too well disciplined at the moment to qualify as rage.
Jeannie turned to Aggie who, clearly aghast, hovered in the bedroom doorway. “Bring water and what bandaging you can find. Use a sheet if you have to.” Jeannie possessed very few linens, but needs must.
She glanced at Finnan. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Avrie’s men.”
That made her stare at him harder. “Surely not. There is no one at Avrie House save the Dowager.” Unless the rumors Aggie had brought home were true.
He flicked at her a glance sharp as a sword. “Her grandsons have returned.”
Jeannie contemplated it even as she watched Finnan open the lad’s rent tunic. His hands, already stained red, moved with the competence of one skilled in tending wounds.
“Have you been trained to treat injuries?”
“Nay, but a man who makes his way with the sword learns a few things about stanching wounds. That scar on Geordie’s belly? ’Twas I sewed that up on a cold winter’s day, with coarse twine.”
Jeannie had never seen Geordie’s belly, but it seemed no fit time to say so. The red cloth came away and the lad’s chest into view. The stroke, high toward his left shoulder, had surely just missed his heart.
“Could be worse,” Finnan grunted, clearly agreeing with Jeannie’s assessment. “Where is your maid with those cloths?”
Jeannie, half dizzy from the metallic smell of blood, went to the door, where she was in time to take a basin from Aggie before its contents spilled. She bore it back to the bed and set it on the floor.
“Here, mistress.” Aggie tiptoed in with cloths which Jeannie recognized as portions of her very best sheet. She sighed and folded a pad even as Aggie stood staring down at the lad—Danny, Finnan had called him—like a woman in a dream. “Is he dead?”
As if in response to her voice, the lad opened his eyes, wide and gray-blue, full of a sweetness that might belong to a child.
“What happened, Master Finnan?”
“You ha’ been struck, lad.” Finnan’s tone, harsh and rough, belied the great tenderness with which he worked at the wound at Danny’s shoulder. He bathed away the blood and revealed a ragged rent, the sight of which turned Jeannie’s stomach queasy. Surely human flesh had never been meant to suffer such abuse.
The water in the basin immediately turned pink. Without looking at Jeannie, Finnan reached for another pad of cloth, which she folded as quickly as possible and handed to him.
“He has but one arm.” Aggie whispered the words as if unaware she spoke.
“Hush,” Jeannie told her even as Danny’s gaze found Aggie’s face. “Go and heat more water, quick as you can.”
Aggie went, and Danny’s eyes sank shut again. For a terrible moment Jeannie thought they had lost him, but his shallow pained breaths still came, far too fast.
She asked, “Did the stroke pass all the way through?”
“Nay, but ’tis a fearsome slash.” Finnan’s hands still moved in calm defiance of his anger. “Valiant men, to face a maimed boy.”
Danny clearly possessed years enough to qualify as a young man, but Jeannie understood Finnan’s sentiment and could feel the protectiveness streaming from him.
The blood had begun to well up from the folded pad of cloth. Finnan turned his head, and his eyes, tawny red-brown and with a flame of anger deep inside, met Jeannie’s.
“I will need to stitch him up. Will you bring me needle and t
hread?”
“Yes.” Jeannie stepped to the door beyond which Aggie danced, hands twisted in her apron, and requested the items. When Aggie brought the sewing kit, Jeannie picked out a needle and a length of thread with trembling hands and carried them back to the bed.
Another glance from Finnan. “Can you thread it?”
Jeannie sincerely doubted it; her hands shook like leaves in a cold wind. But she nodded and turned to the window, seeking both calm and light.
Behind her, she heard Finnan murmuring to Danny, soft words of comfort and reassurance. “’Twill be all right, lad. We have been in far worse places, surely you remember, and survived just as you will now. You hold strong, and I shall see you safe.”
“Aye.” The word was barely a breath from Danny’s laboring lungs. Jeannie could hear the fear, though, as must Finnan, for he went on, “Trust me, lad. Have I ever let you down?”
He turned to Jeannie. “Where’s that thread?”
She thrust the needle, now with a tail, into his reddened, slimy hand.
Tersely, he told her, “You will have to hold him. I need him still.”
Without question, Jeannie moved to the other side of the bed. She placed one hand on the lad’s chest, the other on his upper arm, and held tight.
She caught her breath, as did Danny, when the needle bit torn flesh.
Finnan began to speak, like a father soothing his son. “Do you remember that time the three of us—you, me, and Geordie—were caught in that high pass above Glen Lyon by that band of king’s men? How many swords were against us then?”
“Ten.”
“Ten, and no mistake, but we made short work of them. Would have taken our weapons from us, would they not? But we showed them right and proper. Easy odds.”
Jeannie turned her head away, no longer able to watch the needle plunge through bloodied flesh.
“And,” Finnan went on softly, “that time north of Callander, in that ale house.”
To Jeannie’s surprise, Danny gave a laugh that shook his chest.
“Aye.” Finnan supplied words for him. “They did not expect a one-armed lad to have a dirk nestled in his boot. You served them right well that day.”
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 5