“How did you get this?” she asked when the worst of it lay exposed.
“Sword,” he told her shortly, and his breath hissed between his teeth—perhaps not so unmoved by pain after all.
“It will not stop bleeding and needs to be stitched,” she told him firmly.
“Will you do it?”
She did look up and meet his gaze then. It looked feral and dangerous, and she faltered. “Me?” Before he could answer, she told Aggie, “Run get the needle and thread…again.”
“We had best not make a habit of this,” Finnan said with a touch of humor, when Aggie went into the other room.
Jeannie wanted to make a habit of him. Should she mind in what condition he came to her door, so long as he came?
She thought of all her fancies these past nights, of the two of them lying together performing shocking and exquisite acts upon one another. Her cheeks heated further.
“Have you a flask?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Nay, why?”
“My father, who was widely read, used to say whisky—any liquor, really—could be used to purify a wound. This looks ragged and very dirty.”
“Blood will wash it out.”
“As it did for Danny?” She looked up once more and caught him peering down the front of her night rail. Ah well, nothing she could do about that now, and he saw nothing he had not already held in his hands.
But he said, “You are very beautiful, Jeannie MacWherter. I suppose a thousand men have told you so.”
Only one, and Finnan did not want to hear about him.
“You are a wicked man,” she told him. “Cannot even a mortal wound dissuade you?”
“This is no’ mortal—just an inconvenience.” He dropped his voice for her ears alone. “You are all I have been able to think about. The taste of you, how warm you were when I—”
“Here, mistress.”
Aggie stood by with the needle already threaded. Suddenly, though, Jeannie felt unequal to the task.
Finnan assessed her with a measuring look and took the needle from Aggie’s fingers. “You steady my arm,” he told Jeannie, “and keep the blood sponged away. I will do the stitching.”
She knelt on the floor beside him and gripped his arm in both hands. Their heads bent so close they touched as, with another sharply drawn breath, he began the work.
Before he finished they were both sweating, and Jeannie’s hands trembled badly. Thirty painful stitches he had made, for she counted them.
What kind of strength—mental and physical—kept a man upright in his seat through such an ordeal? Finnan had turned pale as milk, but his hand remained steady and firm. A woman could only admire such a man.
In truth, she felt much more than admiration. At that moment, kneeling beside him, she experienced what she never yet had toward any man: a stir of the heart.
Nonsense, she told herself sternly. She could not possibly be falling in love with Finnan MacAllister, not when she had kept her heart whole so long. He was completely and utterly unsuitable—the last man in the world she needed: wild, dangerous, beautiful.
He looked up and caught her gaze with his, which was full of ironic light. “Well, now, that was no’ so bad. I thank you for your assistance.”
Jeannie, still shaking, got to her feet. “We are not done. You stay there while I wrap the bandages. Aggie?”
Aggie, who had stood and watched the procedure despite herself, stepped up with the remains of Jeannie’s best sheet cut into strips.
“Aye,” Finnan said, “and then I will away.”
Jeannie glanced at him. “You are going nowhere. Aggie, make the laird some tea and then take an extra blanket up to the loft.”
“He’s sleeping there?” Aggie squeaked.
“No, I am. The laird will take my bed.”
Finnan parted his lips to protest, but Jeannie’s gaze met his like a crossed sword.
“’Tis no’ safe for me to stay here,” he told her. “I refuse to bring trouble to your door.”
And she replied, “I do not wish to hear your protests. We will worry about the consequences come morning.”
****
Jeannie MacWherter’s bed, soft and comfortable, should have drawn Finnan into exhausted sleep. He had been living rough for days, laying his head on boulders and bracken, and his weary body craved this haven.
But his mind stayed vigilant even once his body relaxed and the cottage became quiet. He listened for every sound inside and out—heard the women murmuring to one another in the loft before they slept, heard Danny stir restlessly. He listened to the wind rise outside and fooled himself there were footsteps.
His arm throbbed with a steady ache in time with his heartbeat. He throbbed elsewhere also and ached for release. Jeannie’s bed smelled of her, a delicate and beguiling scent, and prompted a host of memories. Her golden head had lain on this pillow—he recalled burying his face in her hair when they lay in the rowan copse. He thought on the perfect globes of her breasts, glimpsed down the front of her night dress, almost enough to distract him from his stitchery.
By all the gods of this place, how was he to sleep, with her under the same roof?
Upon that thought, his ear caught a sound, and then a succession of them, inside the cottage rather than without. A shadow stirred in the doorway of the room, and then a miracle came to him on soft, bare feet.
She wore only the night rail and floated like a spirit, being nearly soundless. In the dim light—for she had hung a cloth over the window—he could barely see her, just the blur of her pale clothing as she moved.
But he did not doubt her identity, and the breath caught in his throat. “Jeannie?”
“Hush, we do not wish to wake the others. I came to see how you fare.”
Liar. ’Twas not why she came. Finnan’s every instinct told him she answered the same desire that rode him here in the dark, and his heart leaped with hope.
She paused beside the narrow bed and regarded him. He wanted so to reach for her, but in this game he played she must reach for him.
She whispered, “I hoped you slept.”
Liar, again. Whatever she desired, she did not want him insensate.
“I cannot sleep,” he told her. “My mind is too full.” As well as another aching part of him. But this was no rowan copse out on the hillside. Would she truly give herself to him here under her own roof, with the others within hearing distance?
While still he wondered, she reached out and her cool fingers found his forehead. “No fever yet.”
He asked, his voice a taunt, “Never tell me you were lying up in that loft thinking about me?”
“Yes.” The word whispered between her lips. “I feared you might be unconscious, delirious, or cold.”
“So have you come to keep me warm?”
In answer, she slipped into the bed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jeannie had never before had a man in her bed, had never wanted one. No sane woman should, she told herself fiercely even as she eased her body between the blankets and against Finnan MacAllister’s. Oh, she might have imagined it back in Dumfries, tried to conceive what it would be like. Nothing she had ever imagined compared with this.
And she would defy any woman to keep away. Had she not tried to argue herself out of this while lying in Aggie’s cot up in the loft? As well try to keep wasps from a honey jar.
This particular bed was too small for the both of them. And Finnan MacAllister was not in any way a small man. She found herself lying half on top of him, and the sensation was…
Stunningly wonderful.
Full contact she had from her breasts on down, and she could feel all of him, hard muscle and more.
“I would not hurt your arm—”
“Jeannie,” he breathed and swallowed the rest of her words as his mouth captured hers in a wild demand.
And oh, she had craved this, the heat and sweetness of it, the claiming. His lips molded to hers, and his tongue invade
d her, making his desire more than plain. She melted like tallow when the candle is put to flame.
Take me, she begged him in her mind even as his tongue caressed hers intimately and his hands, already moving, spread their heat through her night dress. He should not be using that arm, she thought quite clearly, an instant before all rational thought flew away.
His hand slid from her shoulder downward and, as if in answer to prayer, paused to cup her breast. Fire raced through her from his fingers, a potent conflagration.
He broke the kiss, and his breath whispered over her lips as he spoke her name again. “Jeannie.”
She moaned and gave him little kisses, rained them upon him. She caught his lip between hers and sucked it in. She wanted him inside her so much she could barely breathe.
No one had ever told her a woman could ache for the taste of a man, or for the feel of him hard between her legs. But every part of her cried out for him now.
Following her desire, she let her hands move also, stroked the muscles of his chest, fingers trembling with delight. Daring in her need, she continued to trail her touch downward. He lay more than half undressed, chest bare, stomach bare except for an interesting and tantalizing pattern of hair. Her fingers encountered no barrier until they met with his trews. She explored the laces, her fingers intelligent in the dark, and untied them with an agility she might never have imagined.
He moaned then. Even as she slid her hands around him in a deliberate caress, he made a sound deep in his throat and kissed her once again.
And oh, he felt hot, so hot, the burning brand of desire. Like a woman drunk with delight she slid fingers that seemed suddenly too small for the task up and down the length of him. His whole body jerked in response.
Now she broke the kiss and began to withdraw from him. “I am sorry. Should I not—?”
“Do you not dare stop.” The growl of the words made her shiver. She caressed him still more deliberately, sliding her palm up and down the great, hot length of him.
“What do you want, Jeannie MacWherter?”
Must he ask? It had to be more than plain. A woman did not present herself at a man’s bedside, did not caress him, unless she ached for the act. But for some reason he wished her to say the words.
She would beg, if she must.
“You. I want you.”
“What do you want of me?”
Oh, and he was wicked—wicked—making her admit it. But a sob came from her throat as she caressed him faster. “This.”
“And how do you want it?” His must be the voice of the devil coming out of the darkness.
“Any way you will give yourself to me.”
He moved then, sliding himself beneath her so she fully straddled his hard body. His hands drew the night rail up past her legs, her buttocks, her shoulders. When he pulled it off over her head, her hair tumbled about the both of them.
So now very little lay between them. His trews gaped open, and she could feel him prodding between her thighs. Her bare stomach rested on his, her breasts abraded by the hair on his chest.
Would he enter her now and end this exquisite ache?
But no, for he slid down in the bed, his hands at her waist, and his mouth latched onto her breast.
So intense was the pleasure, Jeannie nearly cried out. Only the knowledge that Aggie would hear her and come running prevented it. What if Aggie brought a light and saw the two of them this way, devoid of covers and shame? Somehow the fear of discovery only heightened her pleasure.
She cradled his head—hair like silk—as his hungry mouth plundered her, and pressed herself closer. The ache between her thighs intensified, and tingling spread throughout her body, like that before a thunderstorm.
“Give yourself to me, Jeannie.” His breath whispered across the damp skin of her breast. “All of you.”
“Take what you will.” Jeannie had never imagined offering all of herself to any man, but he was not just any man. He was a god, hard and vital in the dark.
Slowly, deliberately, he lavished the attentions of his hot mouth on her other breast, until her body thrummed unbearably and she begged, “Please.”
“What more do you want?”
“You!”
“Then taste me.”
Did she dare? Given, the idea had been in her mind almost from the first moment she saw him arise from the pool, every part of him dripping wet. But this act, surely, was more wicked then all the rest.
Still, she parted her lips and let her tongue taste his lips, slide downward from there and taste his chin, and the skin of his throat and then his chest, picturing the tattoos there as she did. He tasted salty and wonderful and so utterly male it nearly cost the last of her senses. She released the idea of right and wrong from her mind and continued to work her way down.
The muscles of his taut stomach trembled beneath her mouth. When she slid still lower and once more curled her fingers around him, he moaned like a man in agony.
Now it was he who said the word, “Please.”
He slid into the hot cavern of her mouth like iron covered with warm satin. She closed her eyes, reveling in the pleasure and power of it as he arched off the bed.
Hers, hers, hers.
Yes, and this act might well be a wicked one. Delightfully so.
He began to move beneath her in a seductive rhythm. The tension in her body built, and her world narrowed to nothing but this man, this joining. When he drew her mouth from him at last and hauled her up, she nearly cried out again. In one swift movement he flipped her beneath him on the bed and entered her in a burst of pleasure that caused the light to explode behind her eyes.
And then they both lay breathing raggedly, his body draped atop hers while the waves of pleasure receded. Not far. She sensed he had only to move in order to send her soaring all over again.
Her mind, reawakening, tried to comprehend what had just happened. Here, in her own bed.
How would she ever be able to sleep here without him?
****
By all the gods of the earth, sea, and sky, what a woman! The thought dominated Finnan’s mind even as the last sparks flew from his inner vision and the soft darkness came down.
Fool, fool, fool.
What voice was that, making itself known now that he could hear it? Moments ago he had not been able to listen. There had been only the pleasure and the desire.
She would have done anything for him. He knew, without question, he had held Jeannie MacWherter in the palm of his hand, right where he wanted her.
Trouble was, she had held him, as well.
And he had made a fatal mistake, spilled his seed inside her where he did not want to leave it.
Och, but the heat and tightness of her after she had her mouth on him proved irresistible. He defied any man to do better.
At the thought of any other man claiming Jeannie, fierce desperation swamped him. Nay, nay, and nay.
His arms tightened around her instinctively, and he kissed the skin of her shoulder where his mouth had come to rest. By all that was holy, he already wanted her again.
She stirred against him and whispered, “Your arm—”
Aye, his arm. He had probably torn all the stitches, and cursed if he cared, though now as the urgency fled it hurt like a bastard.
“I am well enough,” he told her, a mere breath in the darkness. Did she know that he remained still inside her? The very thought had him hard again.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, and he shivered in response. He had not meant it to be this way. He wanted her in thrall to him, not the other way round.
He wanted to break her heart.
He reminded himself of that even as she brushed her lips across his brow in a gesture of such tenderness it made him catch his breath.
“I had best return to the loft.” Yet she lay where she was, and him still inside her.
He fought a brief inner battle and said, “No, stay where you are.”
“But Aggie—”
&
nbsp; “I can hear her snoring. She will not wake before morn. And surely”—he lifted his head and traced her lips with his tongue—“I can keep you awake until then.”
“You should rest.”
“Do you suppose that likely if you go from this bed?”
“No.”
“Then stay with me and afford me what relief you can.”
In answer she captured his hand and carried it to her breast. He teased the nipple into a tight bud, which made him lengthen and harden further inside her.
“Jeannie,” he said hoarsely, “will you accept me again?”
She stretched and arched beneath him. “Only try and leave me, my Laird Finnan.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jeannie stood with the pale light of morning flooding in through the open door of the cottage and felt her heart break.
Finnan MacAllister had risen from her bed at the first hint of dawn while still Aggie slept, and donned his clothing with his back turned. Unable to guess the thoughts in his mind, Jeannie had scrambled up also, snagged her night rail from the floor where it lay in a heap, and crawled into it, her heart thumping all the while.
How could she persuade him to stay? She must persuade him.
But nothing she had said then or since turned his mind. She believed she spoke reason all the while she changed the bandages on his arm, when he bent over Danny who still slept fitfully, even when Aggie clattered down from the loft and gave her a shawl—and a shocked look—to cover her near nakedness.
It did not matter how she appeared; Finnan MacAllister would not stay.
“I’ll not endanger you,” he said decisively, even as he slung his bloodstained plaid over his shoulder and hefted his leather bag. “The Avries are bound to come looking. I will appreciate it if you keep Danny one more day.”
“And you will return to see him?” Jeannie leaned toward him as she asked, her whole body aching for his touch. Was this how men felt in the thrall of whisky, as if they might die without just a bit more? She experienced a flash of sympathy for her father, and Geordie.
She would not ask Finnan to return to her, no. But to Danny? Surely.
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 14