And what to say to her now? That he had just used her, that she—and the act—meant nothing more to him than relieving himself? He wanted her to feel Geordie’s pain.
But nay, that meant taking her body was not enough. He must break her heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Oh, what had she done? Jeannie asked herself the question, as might someone emerging from a mad dream. She had never considered herself a foolish or precipitous woman. Yet she had just welcomed Finnan MacAllister between her legs—a place where she had allowed no man.
And now her sanity returned slowly, in pieces. The sounds of the night came to her even as the pounding in her ears—her heartbeat—calmed. She heard the rustle of the branches overhead, the buzz of insects.
She would have bites in the most shocking places.
She could feel Finnan’s breath coming softly between those irresistible lips of his. What made them so irresistible? Was it their strength? Their warmth? Their wild flavor? He still lay on top of her, the graceful length of him a balm. One of his hands rested, in a gesture that hinted of possession, on her bare breast.
Did she want for him to own her?
Yes, oh, yes. But he did not, even though she had just given him the greatest prize a woman could purportedly bestow on a man. She still owned her own soul.
Or did she?
She could not deny the magic inherent in the night surrounding them, and in the act they had just committed. If magic could steal a woman’s soul, hers might now be at least partially in the hands of this particular man.
She should be shocked that she could consider such a thing, that she could be lying here, out of doors, completely open to him and with no wish to cover herself.
Instead, she wished it were daylight so she could see that body of his, trace the tattoos with her fingers, especially that one on his… Desire convulsed her again when she thought of that part of him.
He stirred against her. The intimacy of it lent another stab of desire.
“Jeannie,” he said.
Oh, the musical lilt of his voice! She wanted nothing more than to hear it sing through her, unending.
“I had no idea you were—untried.”
Ah, that. She lay staring at the outline of the rowan tree overhead and acknowledged the need to explain.
“Geordie,” he said.
“I never lay with him.” She said it plainly, honestly. Could she prevaricate with this man who had touched all of her?
“Why not, if he was your husband?” Had a note in Finnan’s voice changed, become hard and sharp?
“Ours was not that kind of marriage.”
“How is that? I know he loved you.”
And how to explain the way things had been in Dumfries? Finnan had not seen his friend in some time. Would he even believe the man Geordie had become?
“He fancied he loved me, perhaps.”
“If he said he did, he did. I knew him, knew the strength of his heart.”
“I do not doubt he had changed since you journeyed together.”
Finnan stiffened in her arms. “Impossible. Geordie was the truest man I ever knew.”
Yet Finnan had not witnessed his disintegration as Jeannie had. Finnan had not watched as Geordie lost himself by bits to the drink and whatever private demons rode him. Jeannie, who had, could not even say what they were.
She said none of that now, for Finnan MacAllister had never come to Dumfries. He had been busy with whatever devilry had taken place here in the glen—the same that now left him running like a hart over these hills. He had known a different Geordie MacWherter than she.
“Geordie and I had an understanding.”
“Did you, so?” He hauled himself up above her, and his hand withdrew from her breast. “So he understood why you did not welcome him to your bed? ’Tis plain enough you do not mind a man between your legs.”
Jeannie’s every instinct went on alert. She studied the shadow he made above her against the lighter darkness. She could not see his eyes, but she felt his emotions strike at her like blows.
Why was he so angered? And where was the man who had just held her so tenderly, moved inside her gently for all his strength and passion? Flown…
Before she could speak, he demanded, “Are you sure Geordie comprehended how you used him?”
She gasped. This was the man she had first met by the pool, he who had flared to rage when he tumbled to her identity. Had he never put those feelings aside after all? Then what had this night been about?
Very carefully, she said, “Geordie understood I was prepared to give myself to no man.” Until now, until you.
He got to his feet and turned away from her. The starlight slid over his shoulders and flowed like water over the sculpted muscles of his back. Jeannie’s heart twisted in her chest with dismay and helpless attraction.
“What is it?” she asked softly, but he did not reply. She scrambled to her feet also, unsteady and all too aware of stings in unfamiliar places, and tried to smooth her skirt down over her knees. Her world tilted, and she almost fell down again, realizing that everything—everything had changed.
She wanted to turn and run, haul her bodice back up over her breasts and scamper off through the darkness, bar her door against whatever this was that flared between them, never let him in again. She had made a great and terrible mistake, the worst any careful woman could make. And yet he stood there tearing at her with his fathomless anger, a god in black and silver.
“Finnan,” she breathed, and her voice did not sound like her own. Instead it seemed to come from the night, on a breath of hopeless enchantment.
Yes, she should move away, flee and hide herself. Instead she took one long quivering breath, stepped forward, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
He stiffened like a man being touched by a hot brand, every muscle rigid. “Why are you angry with me?”
For an instant she thought he would not respond. It felt as if he had closed a door against her, even though the mane of his hair spilled over her fingers where she touched him, and his scent filled her, lifted her.
“Finnan,” she said again, as if that could claim him. She felt his muscles quiver against her fingers as if he fought some great battle, and he sucked in a deep breath before he turned.
And that helped her little in the end, for she could not see his face clearly in the flickering light. His voice came at her out of the darkness. “Angry? How could I be angry with you, Jeannie, when you have just given me so great a gift?”
“You are angry,” she insisted. “I am no fool.”
He gave his head a sharp shake, and the hair rippled over his shoulders. “I am but thinking I should not have taken what my friend enjoyed not.”
Was that it? He felt some kind of misplaced guilt? But surely he saw it was up to her, Jeannie, where she bestowed herself?
And what to say to him? That she had never wanted to throw herself, wanton, at Geordie? That she had never considered, with Geordie, the thoughts that now pounded through her mind: that she might run her tongue all over his hard body; that she might kneel before him and perform an act she had, before this night, barely let herself imagine.
She said none of that. Instead she stepped forward, pressed herself into his arms and felt her still-bare nipples peak against his flesh.
“Jeannie.” The word came from him in a growl. Suddenly fierce, he caught her between his hands, a grip that stopped just short of punishing. “Go home. Shut your door. Save yourself.”
Had he read her mind? Did he have that power? She struggled to see the expression in his eyes and failed. He was but a mysterious presence in the dark.
“Why?” she asked even though she already knew the answer.
“Because I will break your heart.”
****
And why had he said that? Finnan demanded of himself even as he caressed Jeannie MacWherter’s soft flesh between his hands. Why warn the wanton vixen? Was it because desire still pounded at him? But n
ay; he could control mere physical reactions. Could he not? Yet Jeannie wielded a powerful magic. And she must be an actress beyond compare, for she projected a vulnerability that spoke to every protective instinct he had ever possessed.
Aye, warn her, the devil in him applauded, make the game a challenging one. That will render it all the sweeter when you break her.
Sure, he had to keep in mind this was all about revenge.
Yet his hands slid without his permission down her bare arms to her hands. He wanted another sip from that sweet mouth of hers, longed for it the way a man half sotted longed for more whisky.
She did not speak, and he could barely see the expression in those wide eyes, but her whole body cried agonized hesitance. Aye, a fine actress was Jeannie MacWherter. She thought to play upon his sympathies even as she had upon Geordie’s.
Yet she had remained virgin. That fit with none of the opinions he had formed about her.
She spoke at last in a breathless voice. “I do not doubt you are right.”
But she remained where she was, pressed against him and looking like a wanton angel with her dress down around her waist. Because he could not help himself, he slid his hands from hers and across that silken skin until he cupped her breasts. A gasp issued from between her lips.
The soft mounds of her flesh filled his palms and spilled over. Perfection. He was already up and hard against her again; she must feel the evidence of his arousal.
Would she accept him a second time? The mad question tore through his mind even as he watched her lean into his touch.
He knew it then—he had her, quite utterly, in his hands.
Make her want for it, the devil said now, changing his tune. Make her beg. You want her on her knees. He did, in more ways than one.
“Go home,” he told her instead, even though his body screamed in protest.
“I will.” But she did not move, and his thumbs moved of their own accord to find the tips of her breasts and tease them into tight peaks. Her hot mouth called to him—but if he gave in and kissed her, he would never have the strength of will to leave her wanting.
Instead he released her from his hands and used them to tug the fabric of her bodice up over her shoulders, covering her bosom.
She helped him and retied the bodice with her own hands. To his surprise a wry smile curved her lips. “I cannot imagine what you think of me.”
“That you are gey beautiful,” he said with absolute veracity. “And that I have taken what I should not.”
He lost sight of her face in shadows as she bent and shook her skirt down over those slender legs. Next she bundled her hair into a rough knot that would not stay where it belonged. He had lost all the pins.
“There. Do I look a respectable woman?”
She did not; she looked like one he needed to plunder all the night long.
“I must go back and face Aggie.”
“And I must collect Danny, and be away.”
She nodded, hesitated, and raised a hand toward him. Half breathless still, she asked, “When will I see you again?”
And there it was, he thought, the question that proved he had her securely gaffed. A second question lay within the first: When will I lie with you again?
In his many years away from home he had loved any number of women, if only in the physical sense. Almost without exception they had asked him that, be it in demand or longing. But Finnan MacAllister had rarely stayed anywhere long enough to spend more than one night with any of them.
Now he said, at the devil’s bidding, “It might be best if you do not.”
She went still, and he felt her denial come at him out of the dark. Before she could ask why, he spoke again. “’Tis safer for you, Jeannie, if I keep away. ’Twas kindness itself for you to house Danny for me, but I would never forgive myself if I led the hounds that chase me to your door.”
“That makes some sense.” Her hands rose, and she tried again, unsuccessfully, to bundle her hair. It took her a score of heartbeats to say, “But I could meet you away from the cottage. Here, perhaps.”
He smiled to himself under cover of the shadows. “And should the Avries’ hunting party come upon us when we are together? You would be ruined in more ways than one.”
“True.”
“Come.” He reached for her hand. The way back to the cottage was short, and the light increased slightly when they emerged from the rowan copse. He stole another look at her, just because he could not seem to help himself: that disobedient, golden hair tumbled about her shoulders, and those lips that had clung to his so wildly were swollen. He ached anew to have her again.
But, by all the gods, he must have some self-discipline.
At her door he paused and reached out to smooth her hair. The warm curls clung to his fingers; he had best not touch her at all, if he wanted any hope of controlling himself.
“I must look…” she began, before words failed her.
She looked like a woman who had just been well-tumbled and needed it over again. But he did not say so.
“Go inside and pretend naught has passed between us,” he bade.
She gave him an incredulous look and went.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Steady rain dripped off the branches of the trees, struck the plaid Finnan wore over his head, and seeped through the wool to trickle down his neck. He sat huddled in a stand of pine, safe from the hounds, or so he hoped. Danny, exhausted and once more pricked by fever, slept behind him, under cover. Even the wet would not rouse the lad now.
The moments spent at Jeannie MacWherter’s cottage had been the last rest either of them had known. All day yesterday the Avries’ men had chased them about the glen, keeping them always on the move. Two groups of hunters combed the hillsides, one led by Stuart and one by Trent Avrie. Trent’s group had almost had them this afternoon, half way up the slope above Dun Mhor. Danny had stumbled and gone down; Finnan had climbed the rest of the hillside with the lad slung over his shoulder.
And got away. But for how long? He could move like a deer, but it could not be denied Danny hampered him. And with the return of the lad’s fever, Finnan could only ask so much. Danny needed rest and had been on fire when Finnan tucked him away among the trees.
Surely they were safe for a time. On a night so filthy wet, even his pursuers must be loath to venture out. Danny would catch his breath and be stronger in the morning.
But Finnan did not like keeping still; he never had, and now, surrounded by danger, he felt as if he had a prod at his back. Inactivity gave him too much time to think, and while he could unquestionably use an opportunity to figure how he would get out of this tangle, he could concentrate on only one thing.
Jeannie MacWherter.
She had haunted him ever since he walked away from her door. The feel of her flesh seemed to linger in the tips of his fingers, and his cock had been up more than down. Even now, beset by damp and exhaustion, the very idea of her had him stirring.
If ever a woman had been made for plundering, it was she. He relived again the moment he had plunged into her: her heat and tightness, that telling moment of resistance. And then the way she had clung to him with arms, lips, and those inner muscles. She fitted him the way a finely made sheath fit a sword.
By all that was holy, he had to stop thinking about it or he would embarrass himself here in the darkness, and he had not done that since he was a green lad. He had to stop thinking of her. Or if he did he must focus on his revenge, because this was all about Geordie. Jeannie had denied Geordie everything Finnan had enjoyed yestere’en. Remember that, my lad, he told his cock.
It refused to listen and bade him instead remember the scent of her, filling his senses when she became aroused. Her desire had beat at him like a wall of fire.
Perhaps, his maddened brain whispered at him, taking up the demand started lower down, he should punish her again soon. Now. He might walk to her door and—
Nay, but Jeannie MacWherter’s cottage lay down a rocky slo
pe at the other end of the glen. He and Danny should remain safe here.
Curse it.
For she would be so warm on a wet night. He imagined how she might strip the dripping plaid from him, and then all the clothing beneath. He thought on how her narrow white hands might move over his body, collecting moisture, followed by her lips and then her tongue.
What was it about the woman? She exerted a powerful attraction. He pictured the men of Dumfries lining up behind her like dogs behind a bitch in heat.
But that line of men included Geordie.
In truth, she had been fortunate it was Geordie she had wed, else she never would have remained unplucked. Any other husband would have pressed his suit, claimed his rights, and had her. Geordie, beneath all his muscle and brawn, had been a gentle soul and almost ridiculously courteous to women.
As two young, wandering mercenaries, they had both received more than their share of female attention wherever they went. He could remember many a time a woman had been drawn to the big, sandy-haired highlander, like a bee to honey.
Why not this time?
Jeannie hinted that Geordie had changed since Finnan last saw him. But Finnan knew that for a lie. He had the letters, after all.
Upon the thought, he reached into his leather pouch, wherein he kept his treasures, and extracted a folded piece of paper. Only three letters remained, and he kept them with him at all times. The others Geordie had sent were all destroyed, some to wet and one to fire. He should not expose one to the rain now. But he needed to remind himself just what Jeannie MacWherter truly was.
He smoothed the oft-folded paper open on his knee. Barely enough light remained for him to catch the words scrawled there. In truth, he had no need to. Everything Geordie had written was more or less inscribed on his memory.
Unlike him, Geordie had not received a decent education while young. When they met, Geordie had barely been able to write his name. Finnan had taught him that and enough to let him get by, in their quiet moments and over the long winters when time weighed heavily upon them. As a consequence, he knew Geordie’s hand as well as his own.
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 12