His Wicked Highland Ways

by Laura Strickland

  He jerked to life then, seized her with hands less than gentle. “You are a witch, Jeannie MacWherter.”

  She wished she were. She would weave a spell over him, make him remain always with her to do her bidding.

  Perhaps she still could.

  With a small smile, her eyes never leaving his, she fell to her knees.

  ****

  Finnan struggled from the great depths of passion and tried without success to reach for his sanity. Overhead, through the branches of the pine beneath which they lay, sunlight glinted and dazzled his eyes. A thought teased at him as from a great distance—there existed some danger, and he should keep watch.

  But Jeannie MacWherter, warm and completely naked, lay in his arms, and he could spare little attention for aught else. His entire body still quivered from the sensation of her mouth on him, hot and eager, so eager. He wanted it again, wanted her again, wanted nothing else.

  She stirred against him, and he responded like a man in the throes of torture to a hint of pain. So aware was he of everything about her now, even her breathing felt erotic.

  She laughed softly, and he nearly convulsed.

  “What?” He tangled his fingers in her glorious hair and drew her head back so he could gaze into her eyes. They smiled at him. By all the holy gods, a man could lose himself in those eyes.

  The corners of her luscious mouth quirked. Och, that mouth!

  “It is a dragon,” she pronounced.

  “What is?”

  Bold and shameless, she held his gaze. “The tattoo that decorates your manhood. I confess, from first I saw you, I wondered.”

  “Ah, that.”

  “Did it not hurt?” She planted a small kiss at the corner of his mouth as if to assuage any lingering pain.

  “I do no’ recall. I was drunk at the time.” He reflected with what remnants of his mind she had left him, “It did smart a bit the next day.”

  “Poor dragon.” She ran her hands down his body and captured him. He came up between her fingers again like a raised sword.

  “I told you I wished to see you,” she whispered while her hands did magical things. “All of you.”

  “Ah.” The capacity for thought fled him. There existed only the softness of her breasts, the heat of her hands, and the blue of her eyes. He must keep sight of his goal here, though—remember that he meant to trifle with her heart.

  “Why a dragon?” she persisted. “And did you need to be upstanding while it was put on?”

  Perhaps. The tattoo artist, down near Falkirk, had been a lass, and not ill-favored. “A dragon is powerful magic,” he told her.

  “As are you.”

  He kissed her deeply, and she continued to massage him all the while. She broke the kiss and slid over his body to straddle him.

  “Tell me about this one.” She touched his shoulder. “And this, and this.” Touch, touch, like sparks of fire.

  “Why?”

  “Because they are beautiful, and I want to taste them all.”

  He growled, seized her hips, and positioned her where he wanted her. “Later.”

  “Now.”

  A battle of wills, was it? He smiled to himself. He had begun to learn of this woman; she would not be able to hold out long against him.

  She bent forward and ran her tongue across his taut stomach. “Tell me of this one.”

  “Victory tattoo got after a battle.”

  “And this?” She moved to his right bicep, her hair trailing across his skin.

  “Got that after I saved the life of a chief. I was in his hire—” He caught his breath. She had moved lower, far lower. He tangled his hands in her hair. “Ah—”

  “And this?” The top of his left thigh, very nearly where he wanted her. He struggled to recall the marking there, and failed.

  “And this?” Not waiting for an answer, she skittered her lips and tongue upward until they reached the skin above his heart.

  He froze. “I told you of that one.” Geordie—the intertwined hounds they both shared, the brand of their sworn loyalty.

  How could he have forgotten?

  Her blue eyes swam back into his range of vision. Aye, beautiful she was—the witch.

  “What is it?” she asked in a whisper. “What troubles you?”

  “You must return below. Gather your clothing and go.”

  “But we are not finished.”

  “We are.”

  “Most assuredly, my laird, we are not.”

  Anger raced through him, combining with the passion he could not deny. He had a cruel and sharp tongue when in a temper, but he held it now. He would not spoil all the work—glorious work!—he had done.

  How far could he push her? How much could he make her want him before he broke her in his hands?

  He allowed himself another, small smile. By faith, he was indeed a wicked man.

  “And,” she wondered, “what does that expression mean? An instant ago you looked ready to throttle me.”

  Could she read him so well? “I think only of your safety, Jeannie, and that you should not linger here and so risk yourself.”

  “At this moment,” she confessed, “I care little for risk.” She leaned up and whispered against his lips, “I want to stay.”

  “Then best to ask me prettily,” he bade her.

  And she did.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “My son is dead.” The Dowager Avrie spoke the words in a stark, level voice that nevertheless betrayed her pain. “Have you any idea how that feels? As a woman—a widow who has lost her husband—you should.”

  Jeannie carefully set down her tea cup and looked at her hostess uncertainly. The old woman must have been beautiful once. Her white hair, piled atop her head, still showed a few threads of red, and her blue eyes remained bright. But her skin had become pale and translucent as old paper, and the severity of her expression chased from her any real attractiveness. Upright as an iron rod in her chair, she betrayed no hint of actual compassion toward her guest.

  Jeannie struggled to decide how to respond. A messenger had brought the invitation—or should it more rightfully be called a summons?—this morning, that the Dowager Avrie wished to entertain Jeannie MacWherter for tea. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Jeannie had come.

  Now she strove to compose herself and said, “I am so sorry for your bereavement, Lady Avrie.”

  “My son Gregor was a good man, an extraordinary man, one in a thousand. He did not deserve to be foully murdered.”

  And what of Finnan MacAllister’s father? Jeannie wondered as she strove to keep her own face expressionless. Had he deserved to be cut down, his family shattered and his son driven out, all to satisfy another man’s greed? Revenge, as she knew, was an old game in the highlands—tit for tat, cow for cow, head for head, even woman for woman. But the situation in the glen now went far past tit for tat.

  “Fortunately,” the Dowager continued with a touch of savage pride, “my grandsons have returned to set things right.”

  And what of this woman’s daughter-in-law, Jeannie wondered, the mother of those sons? A woman did not achieve the title of Dowager Lady unless there existed a Lady Avrie. But Jeannie saw no evidence of her here or anywhere.

  “Forgive me,” she said, investing her voice with a full measure of curiosity. “What has this to do with me?”

  The Dowager Avrie swept her with a cold stare. “This monster my grandsons hunt was friend to your late husband, was he not? A close friend. ’Tis why you are in possession of Rowan Cottage.”

  “Well, yes.”

  The Dowager’s chin lifted a notch. “I brought you here to request your cooperation—woman to woman—and your assurance that you will do nothing to aid this vile murderer, despite that relationship.”

  Alarm raced through Jeannie like liquid fire. How was she to convince this old woman with the sharp eyes of a blatant lie? For she knew to her soul she would do anything to protect Finnan—throw herself to a pack of wolves, if necessary.
<
br />   Back in Dumfries, she had learned to lie. Once an honest, truthful girl, she had been forced to grow into a duplicitous woman who assured her father his acquaintances from the tavern had not called for him and, indeed, that establishment was closed today. Surely she could deceive one old woman?

  “I do assure you, Lady Avrie, though my husband was associated with Finnan MacAllister years ago, that was long before my husband and I met. I have absolutely no acquaintance with the man.” His tongue, sliding over her flesh, his fingers invading her, his body claiming hers in an act of flagrant completeness… “Your grandsons have already impressed upon me how dangerous he is. I want only to keep out of what sounds a dangerous situation.”

  “It is most important you offer him no succor, give him no aid of any kind. My grandsons have him well trapped and are watching his every move, tightening their net around him.”

  Jeannie’s heart began to struggle in her breast. Was it so? Did they, then, know that she and Finnan had been together? Did this old woman play at a game of her own? Jeannie would not put it past her.

  Danny had left her cottage early this morning, slipped out into the mist to join his master, and much recovered. Had his departure been observed?

  “And,” she asked, knowing she should not, “what will your sons do with this villain once they catch him?” It should be of no concern to her; she would do much better demonstrating indifference. But to save her life she could not manage that.

  The Dowager Avrie’s eyes gleamed. “He shall be treated as he deserves.”

  Jeannie trembled and strove mightily to conceal it. “You will call the magistrates? Cause him to stand trial?”

  The Dowager gave a thin smile. “That is not the way things are done here in the highlands. We make our own justice.”

  “So you mean to kill him.” Jeannie had no idea now what showed in her face. With panic beating at her, she scarcely cared.

  “How, Mistress MacWherter, would you deal with a savage dog? Would you have it stand trial, or would you make sure it will never harm anyone else?”

  “Even a dog deserves its life. And we speak not of a dog but a man.”

  “That is where you are mistaken. Finnan MacAllister is nothing more than a mercenary, a turncoat. Does he deserve to breathe the air of this blessed glen?”

  And, Jeannie thought indignantly, who had driven Finnan MacAllister to the life of a mercenary? Who had forced him from his ancestral lands?

  “A man,” she said carefully, “will do as he must to survive.”

  The Dowager gave her a long look. “You have a woman’s heart, soft and sympathetic,” she observed then with no hint of kindness, “and so easily deceived. Do not be mistaken in the nature of this particular man, Mistress MacWherter. We speak of a dangerous felon who needs to be put down as swiftly as possible. Indeed, I thought to bring you here today and offer you our protection.”

  “Protection?” Jeannie faltered.

  “Aye, so. He is capable of occupying your house if he goes to ground, of murdering you and your lass, or worse.” The old woman’s eyes gleamed precisely as if she could see Finnan’s handprints all over Jeannie’s skin. Heat flooded her. Did the Dowager know the truth?

  “May I suggest,” the Dowager went on, “you allow my sons to station a number of their men on your property? That way, if MacAllister does attempt to use you, they may intercept him before any harm is done.”

  “That will not happen,” Jeannie said. “He will not approach me. As you say, he knew my husband, not me.”

  “He will still consider that property his, no matter he deeded it to your husband under law. What is law to such a man?” The Dowager Avrie leaned forward in her chair and fixed Jeannie with a still more demanding stare. “I urge you, place yourself under our protection.”

  A reasonable enough offer, Jeannie thought, given the situation here in the glen. And what excuse might she give for failing to accept it?

  She twisted her fingers tightly in her lap. “I do appreciate your concern, Lady Avrie. But I am an independent woman and have been for some time, comfortable looking after myself.”

  The Dowager Avrie did not so much as blink. “I am afraid I shall have to insist. I will send two of my grandsons’ men to accompany you home. They will remain and stand guard on the road to your cottage, and watch the ford, as well.”

  Jeannie’s heart faltered in her breast even as she fought to keep from revealing the extent of her dismay. No, and no. How could Finnan return to her then?

  How could she go on living if he did not?

  Surely the Avries had seen something that made them suspect her.

  A tight smile curled one corner of the Dowager’s mouth. “I assure you, my dear, it will only be until the blackguard is caught and dealt with.”

  “I see.”

  “And then life here in the glen will return to normal. We will rebuild Dun Mhor and take up a peaceful existence there. You will be most welcome to stay in the glen. Though the rest of that traitor’s lands will be forfeit, we will gladly leave Rowan Cottage in your possession.”

  Jeannie fought an inner battle to hold back the words she wished to say, and failed. “How can that be? You do not hold ownership of Dun Mhor.”

  “I do not, no. But with MacAllister dead, it will pass to my grandson, Stuart.”

  “How is that, if you do not mind me asking?”

  “I do not.” A small flash of satisfaction ignited in the Dowager’s eyes. “It comes to him by right of marriage. You see, he is married to Finnan MacAllister’s sister—the last surviving member of her family, as she will then be.”

  “Oh!” Jeannie gasped.

  “Indeed.” The Dowager folded her hands. “My grandson struggles on her behalf. Once that renegade is dead, she too can take her rightful place.”

  “But MacAllister is her brother.”

  “And she will do what is right. My grandson has taught her well about obedience.”

  Jeannie’s heart sank. Did Finnan know his sister was here in his enemies’ power?

  The Dowager tipped her head as if reading Jeannie’s expression. “Perhaps you would like to meet her before you go.”

  Jeannie’s gaze stole to the door. “Is that possible?”

  “It is.” The Dowager rang the bell at her side. When the servant whom Jeannie recognized as Marie came, she bade the woman, “Please ask Mistress Deirdre to step in.”

  Jeannie got to her feet when, a few short moments later, a woman entered. It had crossed her mind while waiting that the Dowager Avrie—obviously a cagey old vixen—might have fed her a tale. But she could not mistake the woman she now beheld for other than Finnan’s sister.

  Tall she was, slender, with a head full of auburn hair worn simply in a braid down her back. Her face—beautiful, severe, and undeniably feminine—yet carried the set of Finnan’s features in the cheekbones, nose, and eyebrows. Had Jeannie needed further confirmation, her gaze met Jeannie’s in a fierce stare; the tawny eyes might have been Finnan’s own.

  “Deirdre, my dear,” the Dowager said brightly, “I wanted you to meet our neighbor, the Widow MacWherter. She is going to help us bring your brother to justice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Finnan MacAllister edged out from under cover of the sentinel pine on the slope above Rowan Cottage and narrowed his eyes to peer through the gloaming. A perfect day it had been in Glen Rowan, warm and with fair winds chasing white clouds like sheep across a field of blue. Now the light lingered late in the west like a benediction, but he knew all too well it held no blessing for him.

  Two men in Avrie colors stood guard on the trail at the rise that led to Jeannie’s gate. He cursed softly as he watched them settle in for the night and felt Danny move up to his side.

  “What is it, Master Finnan?”

  Finnan did not answer at once. Anger, dismay, and, were he honest, alarm pounded up through him. Why would the Avries feel it necessary to post watchers there? Had he been seen going or coming? Ha
d he placed Jeannie in danger?

  And how was he to reach her now? He choked back his desperation and, without looking at Danny, said, “Trouble for those two lasses below, if not us. Careful,” he warned as Danny took an incautious step forward. “Do not let yourself be seen.”

  Now it was Danny’s turn to whisper a curse. “I never should have gone there, sick with fever or not. Now Aggie is in danger.”

  Finnan slanted a cool look at his companion. “Aggie, is it?”

  Danny’s expression turned grim. “She is a sweet lass with a kind heart. I would not like aught to happen to her, especially because of me.”

  “The two of you grew friendly, did you, whilst you lay ill?”

  “More than that. She is the sort of woman a man could get used to staying with for good.”

  “Oh, aye?” Surprise made Finnan withdraw all his attention from the scene below and bestow it on Danny instead.

  “Does not seem to mind the places I ha’ been or the things I have done—nor the loss of the arm. Never thought I would find anyone like that.” Danny sucked in a breath. “But I am in no position to do aught about it, am I?”

  “And that is my fault, lad. I have brought you to all this.” And her. Only look at the danger in which he had placed Jeannie. Finnan caught himself up harshly. What matter—he wanted only to destroy her, did he not?

  Nay, that was not all he wanted. He ached to taste her lips again, plunge himself into her heat, or even just gaze into her eyes.

  “I do not mean that, Master Finnan,” Danny avowed. “You know all my loyalty is yours, no question.”

  “I do know that, lad, and I am grateful.”

  “Only, what are we to do? Chased we have been over the rocks of this glen for days, and with your arm refusing to heal… Your gey big house stands guarded, and the cottage below. How are we to defeat them all?”

  Finnan MacAllister gritted his teeth. “’Tis time we fought back, Danny my lad.”

  “But how?”

  “By turning into shadows—spirits, if we must. By enlisting the help of the glen itself.”

  Danny shivered. “You ken fine I do no’ like it when you begin talking of magic.”