Tell him no, advised the small voice again. Send him from your door.
But every other sense argued differently. She remembered him rising from the pool, every part of him naked to her gaze, the overwhelming, wild, and terrifying beauty of him. Might I have that? she asked herself, and the question shocked her still more deeply.
She was a widow, yes—one who had barely felt a man’s touch. She and her husband had never lain together. He had kissed her on the lips—a sweet, whisky-flavored caress that had stirred her pity rather than her desire. Nothing, nothing like this. Was she to grow old alone, die without truly living, without tasting fire?
She lifted her chin and told him with what propriety she could muster, “Yes, Laird MacAllister, you may call on me.”
Oh, and what was that she saw in his eyes? Satisfaction? Victory? Desire? For something flared there that made Jeannie’s stomach flutter in response.
She drew her hand away again, and this time he let her. He made a slight bow that tumbled the wild hair over his shoulders. “Until then, Jeannie MacWherter. Be safe.”
He turned from her, took the bridle of Danny’s horse in his hand, and, leading the other animal behind, moved off. Aggie, a thoughtful look on her face, stepped away. Both women stood watching until the movements of the small party could no longer be seen down the glen.
****
Aye, and this would be easy, Finnan told himself as he moved off and away, his feet padding in whispers on the soft, green turf. Far easier than he had imagined at the outset. He had bedded many women in his time, and he knew full well when he had snagged one’s desire.
Jeannie MacWherter wanted him, and he had not yet even kissed her on the lips. She wanted what she’d seen at the pool, and she wanted his mouth on her, everywhere.
He would be happy to comply—possibly the next time they met. He would, of course, have to get the little maid out of the way. Seduction never worked well with an audience. But he did not doubt he could have Jeannie in broad daylight, right in her cottage—Geordie’s cottage that she had stolen—and in any position he chose.
The thought enflamed him. He pictured Jeannie on her knees before him, her golden tresses in a tangle and her lovely red lips parted in anticipation of what he would give her. He wondered again about the curves beneath that plain gown, how her breasts would look, how they would feel in his hands. But this was not about desire.
It was about revenge.
Of course he had the Avries to deal with first. He glanced over his shoulder at Danny. “All right, lad?”
“I will no’ complain.”
The words pricked Finnan. ’Twas something Geordie had always said, and usually with a touch of dark humor, when things were at their very worst. They might be hungry, wet, and cold, with battle wounds, and nowhere safe to lay their heads, but if he asked his friend how he fared, the response was always the same.
He gave a hard laugh now, grim in its acknowledgement of their situation. Surrounded by enemies once again, and him with paradise to hold and this lad to defend.
Yet the promise of Jeannie MacWherter lay before him.
Chapter Fourteen
Jeannie spread another cloth on the prickle bush and straightened her aching back. She and Aggie had been up doing laundry since before dawn, and it was now well after noon. Endless buckets of water had been hauled and heated over the fire, and countless garments and sheets wrung out. She tried to imagine doing this chore in winter, and failed.
Aggie looked as tired as Jeannie felt, her round cheeks red from exertion and her hair straggling down. She had stopped moaning some time ago, however, for which Jeannie was profoundly grateful.
The cottage lay peaceful and drowsy in the warm afternoon, bees humming among the heather farther up the hill, but Jeannie felt anything but peaceful inside. A day and a half it had been since Finnan MacAllister rode from her door, but she still had not been able to chase him from her mind.
She planted both hands in the small of her back and stretched, letting her eyes stray down the path he had taken away. Did she expect to see him returning? Her heart leaped at the very thought, and she forced herself to measure, instead, the deep hue of the sky and the white clouds sailing inland from the western sea.
Last night had been pure torture, a test of her endurance. How long had she tossed in her bed, trying to persuade herself to sleep? But every time she closed her eyes she saw him stripping the shirt from his body beside her hearth, laying those beautiful hands on Danny’s head, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
What was it about the man? Aside from that faultless body, of course, and the wicked light in his eyes. Jeannie narrowed her gaze against the glare of the sun and forced herself into an honest acknowledgement of the truth: she had never seen a man as attractive as Finnan MacAllister.
And she had seen all of him.
The memory of it even now made her blush, yet she let herself relive it again: the wonder of seeing him arise from the pool dripping with water, the long, reddish-brown hair slapping his back, the tattoos that covered his body, and those well-defined muscles. Tattoos everywhere, even…
“Mistress, are you all right?”
“Eh?” Jeannie opened her eyes and looked into Aggie’s concerned face. “Of course.”
“Only, you looked like you were in pain,” Aggie pointed out. “I will fetch us some water, shall I? You sit there a moment.”
Jeannie complied and perched on the stone wall that hedged the yard, making sure she chose a place from which she could still see the track.
He had said he would come to call. He had, right before he seared her cheek with that burning caress.
What did it mean? His letters, still folded away in her chest and covered with his forceful, black writing, had expressed his hatred. But they were written before he met her. Dare she hope he had truly changed his mind? She did not know, but if she held to honesty she had to admit she hoped it was true.
Did highland men, moreover strapping warriors who walked about carrying the evidence of past battles on their bodies, truly believe in the existence of visiting spirits, or had he made it up? If so, why? She, herself, gave the tale no credence. She would rather think of Geordie at peace, the demons that had spurred him laid to rest.
As for Finnan MacAllister…
“I hope he is all right.”
“Eh?” Jeannie started and nearly dropped the cup of cold water Aggie placed in her hand.
Aggie leaned against the wall, drank from her own cup, and said, “I have not been able to stop thinking of him.”
Jeannie stared. Had Aggie, too, been taken by the auburn-maned half-god-half-man? And who could blame her if she had?
“Only imagine,” Aggie fussed on, “losing an arm in battle, and him so young and handsome.”
Jeannie breathed again. Aggie spoke of Danny. Hastily, Jeannie reordered her thoughts. “Yes,” she murmured. She supposed Danny a winsome enough lad, with thick, brown hair and those wide, pain-filled gray-blue eyes. And she knew, better than anyone, how soft was Aggie’s heart.
“What if they were attacked again on the way home, and him burning up with fever? I wish they had stayed longer.”
So did Jeannie, if only so she might gaze on Finnan.
“And who could imagine the Dowager Avrie’s sons doing such a thing?” Aggie went on. “Attacking in broad daylight.”
“The two houses are at war,” Jeannie said. “We are best out of it.”
Aggie lowered her voice, even though no one but the bees could hear. “There is much hatred toward MacAllister among those at Avrie House. Dorcas says Laird MacAllister killed Master Avrie and so took the glen from him.”
“It was MacAllister’s first, to my understanding.”
“Wicked highlanders,” Aggie decided, “with their treachery and their back-stabbing.”
Jeannie had to remember that Finnan MacAllister was indeed a very wicked man. Wicked enough to strip the clothes from her body? To plunder her with that bright
, dangerous gaze? To touch her everywhere with those lips that trailed flame?
Suddenly she was on fire, far beyond the effects of the warm day.
“Yes,” she murmured, “we are far better out of it.”
Aggie shot her a look. “What will happen if the Avries take the glen back from MacAllister? Will we be asked to leave?”
“I hope not.” But disquiet stirred in Jeannie’s heart. How long had it been since she had felt secure? She could not even remember.
She pictured again the care with which Finnan MacAllister had tended Danny. What would it be like to have someone take care of her that way?
“I mean,” Aggie rattled on, “I am not entirely happy here. It is dull, and I do miss Dumfries. But I am not sure I would like to go back now. And I know I would not want to leave without learning what has happened to that brave lad.”
“I thought,” Jeannie said absently, letting her eyes wander to the trail again, “you were interested in the groom at Avrie House. What was his name?”
“Ronald. He is a fine-looking lad, as well, and with a bold pair of hands on him, but he is not a patch on young Danny.” Aggie sighed. “Do you think if I walked to Avrie House I could get some news?”
“You may not have to.” Jeannie’s eyes, still narrowed, had detected movement on the trail. Her heart leaped painfully in her chest. Had he come? Did he keep his promise so soon?
There—she saw a glint of light on harness; a mounted man. No, two. Had he brought Danny back with him? But surely the lad should be home in his bed.
“Oh, look!” Aggie said unnecessarily, for Jeannie’s attention was all on the approaching men. They slowed as they met the rise that fronted the cottage, and her heart plummeted. Strangers both, with fair hair that gleamed in the sun.
She unpropped herself from the wall even as they dismounted and approached the gate, which, as always, stood open. As alike as two hounds from the same litter they were, both tall and well built, with those shining caps of hair. They came armed, in leather, and in tartan that identified them.
The Dowager Avrie’s grandsons, it seemed, had come to call.
“Mistress,” said the taller of the two. “Good afternoon to you.” His eyes swept Jeannie in a comprehensive glance. From the distance she could not tell their color, but something in the look filled her with caution, though his tone sounded courteous.
“Good afternoon.”
“I am Stuart Avrie, and this is my brother, Trent. And you, as our grandmother the Dowager Avrie has told us, are Mistress MacWherter.” Stuart Avrie added deliberately, “MacAllister’s tenant.”
His voice changed at the speaking of the name MacAllister, from polite to dangerous, and hate twisted his handsome face. Beside him, his brother’s hand flew, as if by instinct, to the hilt of his sword.
More wicked highlanders and—if Finnan MacAllister could be believed—those willing to order an ambush. And breaking the law by wearing those swords, no less. Ah, well, and the highlands proved, indeed, as lawless and wild as her father had always claimed.
Gathering all her composure, she stepped forward. “You are mistaken, gentlemen. I am tenant to no one. My late husband owned this cottage free and clear.”
Stuart Avrie’s face darkened. “And him friend to MacAllister, we are led to understand.”
His brother gave Jeannie no chance to reply. Pushing forward, he asked, “Is he here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is he here—MacAllister?” He eyed the door of the cottage, which also stood open. “Are you sheltering him?”
Jeannie exchanged incredulous looks with Aggie and drew a breath. “I assure you not. I assume he is at his dwelling—Dun Mhor.”
“Nay,” said Trent Avrie, with steel in his voice. “For we burned Dun Mhor to the ground last night.”
Chapter Fifteen
Finnan MacAllister slipped out from the shelter of the trees and took a measuring look at the stars. Only a few hours until morning, and Danny slept peacefully behind him, under cover. They would make it safely through this night.
No moon sailed overhead, and that proved a benefit to a hunted man. Anger surged through him and soured his gut; it infuriated him that he should be chased like a hart on his own land. This place belonged to him both spiritually and by right, but he would stay hidden if he must.
The Avries would die. He savored that truth the way a man savors a draught of cold water after a long march. They would strangle on their own blood like their father before them, the treacherous bastards. But for the time being he had to play at ducking and waiting. He would strike when the moment arrived, not before.
He should have been more cautious withal—especially after that attack in broad daylight. He had let them harm Danny and attack his home. But he would have his own back; it was just a question of when.
And that meant his revenge upon Jeannie MacWherter would have to wait. Oh, aye, he would still extract what Geordie was due from her. Just not yet.
Upon the thought of her, he felt himself grow aroused. He remembered how she had looked when last he saw her standing in the morning light at the door of Rowan Cottage. He relived the moment he had placed his lips against the soft warmth of her cheek and known the intensity of the heat that flared. She would be that soft—and hot—everywhere beneath those clothes. He promised himself he would one day measure the weight of her naked breasts in his hands.
Soon? Not soon enough.
He flicked his gaze northward in the direction of her cottage—Geordie’s cottage, he corrected himself. Jeannie was but a parasite, like a flea, that currently infested the place. A stunningly attractive flea in which he ached to bury himself.
Could he destroy her by making her want him—more, by making her love him as Geordie had loved her? Cold-hearted wench. He wanted that heart in his hands, right along with those breasts.
But first he must settle Avrie’s accursed spawn.
Hard to imagine now that for centuries past men by the name of Avrie had served his family loyally and well. MacAllister lairds had relied upon them in battle and friendship both, until one Avrie clansman got ideas too big for himself.
Finnan acknowledged he was presently at a disadvantage, his home heavily damaged, though certainly rebuildable—it had come under attack on numerous occasions over the past centuries and yet stood strong—the last of his family’s retainers chased off for fear of their safety. He and Danny driven to the hills… He saw all that as temporary. He and Danny, with Geordie, had been in much more difficult places.
He let his eyes trace the outlines of Orion, who hung above the glen. He remembered lying on a hillside far north of here, once. It had been after he and Geordie withdrew their swords from the service of a chief who refused to pay them. Before Culloden, that was. He had been sore hurting then, suffering one of the many injuries he had carried during his life. But Orion had seemed to point him homeward.
Now the warrior whispered that Finnan should turn his attention north, to Jeannie’s door. Could he not hide there as well as elsewhere? Might he not kill two birds with the one stone?
There, in the darkness, he smiled.
****
Jeannie drew the shawl close about her shoulders and edged nearer the dying fire. August it was still, but who would know it, with the way the chill arrived with the setting sun here in these hills? Of course, the light did linger long in the sky, but now velvet dark hung outside the cottage, and the cold crept in.
She should be in her bed. Aggie slept soundly up in the loft, but Jeannie had arisen from her own cot, her thoughts far too full to afford any rest.
Those men today—Stuart and Trent Avrie—had they truly burned Finnan MacAllister’s home? Did they hunt him like a fox on his own land? Did such things really occur here in the highlands?
What would they do if they caught him? Murder him in cold blood? A shiver traced its way up her spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly dark. She did believe they might, given the
look in Stuart Avrie’s cold eyes.
She remembered the man’s parting words to her: “I urge you, Mistress MacWherter, to band together with us in our effort to capture this blackguard. No one is safe with him at large in the glen.”
She should have asked. She should have demanded to know how they meant to resolve this situation, a circumstance that could never have evolved in Dumfries, where people tended to call the constables and only took matters into their own hands after too much whisky.
Need she remind herself she was no longer in Dumfries? This place, wild and lawless, seemed beyond the bounds of civilization.
She had been too stunned to ask the brothers Avrie anything. For an instant she had been sure they would push their way inside the cottage and search for MacAllister. But they had ridden away leaving her upset and, if she were honest, frightened.
She did not wish to be caught in the middle of some highland squabble. She would leave if she could; she had nowhere else to go.
The night seemed far too quiet, so much so she could catch the flutter of Aggie’s breath from the loft, and even the crackle of the dying fire sounded loud. She contemplated throwing on more fuel, just for the comfort of it, but she did not know how they would ever garner enough fuel for…
What was that?
Her head came up as her ears caught a new sound outside the door. A brush of movement? Another chill chased her spine, this one pure, superstitious terror. Anything could be out there.
She did not believe in the existence of Geordie’s ghost. She did not.
A soft knock sounded.
Jeannie, on her feet in an instant, froze where she stood, thinking of the wild stories Aggie had brought home from Avrie House of banshees, witches, boogies, all haunting the glen. Of course she did not believe in those things either, but she would be mad to open that door.
She eyed the bar that held it shut. Would that hold against a spirit? Against the ghost of Geordie MacWherter?
The knock sounded again, a bit louder this time.
“Who is there?”
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 8