His Wicked Highland Ways

by Laura Strickland

  Outside the single window, gray light gathered, the half radiance that filled the glen at dawn. Her cockerel crowed again, and she blessed him. What would have happened but for his cry? Might she and Finnan MacAllister both be in this room by now?

  She eyed the bed and wrapped her arms tight about herself. She had heard about the act from women she knew, not the least Aggie, led astray in Dumfries by a young doorman at a neighboring house, who had soon abandoned her. It could be awkward, uncomfortable, even painful.

  With Finnan MacAllister, Jeannie believed, it would be none of those things.

  She had to regather her sanity, needed to go back out there and act the mistress of this place. He was just a man. One with a magical touch, a hard, beautiful body, and delicious lips. Mating with him would be like mating with liquid fire. Taking him into her mouth…

  She stopped herself there and tried to think of something—anything—that would dampen her imagination. Surprisingly, an image of Geordie MacWherter flickered to life in her mind—Geordie, with his wide, sorrowful gaze and the well of deep sadness he seemed to carry around with him.

  Ironic, that the memory of her husband should now deliver her from temptation. Hastily, she straightened her clothing and bundled her hair into a respectable knot. Before she finished, she heard voices from beyond the curtain—that of Finnan MacAllister, which now seemed to have become rooted in her soul, or perhaps a bit lower down, and Aggie’s lighter tones. She pushed her way back through the curtain. Aggie bent over Danny’s makeshift bed, her hand on his forehead, and exclaimed in concern.

  Finnan MacAllister—but no, she would not look at him.

  “He is burning up,” Aggie said, “and will not wake.”

  Jeannie swept forward to examine the lad. Two flags of bright color flew in his cheeks, and he tossed, restless.

  “Go and dress yourself,” she told Aggie more brusquely than she intended. “It is not proper for you to appear in your nightclothes.”

  Did she hear a faint snort from Finnan MacAllister’s direction? Still, she would not look his way.

  “I did not know they were here,” Aggie began, in defense of herself.

  “Just go.”

  Foolish, for it left Jeannie alone with Finnan again, the last thing she wanted.

  “Danny seems very ill indeed,” she said. “Have you dressed the wound?”

  “I was just about to, when your maid appeared.” Finnan approached, and Jeannie’s entire body went on alert. She had never suspected she could quiver with awareness. Hastily, she stepped away.

  “Jeannie,” he said, and the sound shivered through her. “Jeannie, will you not look at me?”

  She would have fled once more, but his fingers snared her wrist. She shied from the immediate rush of pleasure.

  “I am that sorry,” he told her in a low voice. “I have made things uncomfortable between us.”

  It had not been all his doing, the kisses, the touching—she knew that very well. Yet she said, “You have made things impossible between us. You will have to leave.” Because now she could not trust herself near him.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Just as soon as I can move the lad.”

  And when might that be? Danny had arrived on his feet last night but did not look capable of standing on them now.

  Aggie came clattering back down from the loft and tied her apron around her waist.

  “Please heat some water so Laird MacAllister can tend Danny’s wound, and then make some porridge,” Jeannie bade her.

  Aggie nodded and leaned in close to Jeannie. “Have you told him those men were here yesterday afternoon?”

  “I have. He will be leaving as soon as possible.”

  Aggie did not look happy, but she went about her duties without further comment. Finnan MacAllister stepped away as she gathered a basin and bandages—further inroads on Jeannie’s best sheet. She wondered what thoughts occupied his mind and then cursed herself for caring. Last night had been a rush of madness, now over and done.

  Yet when he began peeling the bandages from Danny’s wound, she followed the gentle movements of his fingers, all too aware of the way the thick auburn hair spilled down the back of his neck. She had touched that hair, tangled her fingers in it. She had been cupped by that hand, had pressed herself against that lithe body.

  By heaven, was this a disease that afflicted her?

  Danny stirred when the bandage came away, tossed his head restlessly, and moaned.

  Jeannie bit her lip; the wound looked angry, the flesh red and puffy around the stitches.

  “Inflamed,” she whispered.

  “Aye, it looks bad,” MacAllister agreed. “But he has been through far worse.”

  “What if the Dowager Avrie’s grandsons come back?” asked Aggie, from the hearth. Aggie had never been the sort of servant to speak only when spoken to.

  “Surely they will not,” MacAllister replied, “if they ha’ already been here looking. They have no reason to believe you in league with me, have they?”

  “None besides the fact that you once owned this property,” Jeannie said.

  He looked at her, and his gaze skittered over her body, from her lips downward. “Still, that does not lead them to think you would protect me.” He corrected softly, “Or, us.” He turned his attention back to Danny. “By any road, we will be gone before you know it. Have you any herbs in the house? Yarrow or comfrey? This wound needs to be packed.”

  Jeannie shook her head. “I have never needed to grow my own cures; there were plenty apothecaries in Dumfries.”

  “This glen is my apothecary. I need to go out and search.”

  Into that gray dawn? Jeannie glanced toward the door even as all her instincts rose in protest. “But…”

  “Just for a wee while; I promise I will come back for him.”

  “Is it safe?” she asked, without intention. Finnan MacAllister was not hers over whom to worry. And he could quite plainly look after himself.

  “They may be watching the cottage,” Aggie added, proving she, too, felt protective.

  “Just try and keep him quiet until I return.” Finnan moved to the door in that soundless way he had.

  Let him go, Jeannie’s common sense told her, and pray he does not return. Better if he walked straight out of her life.

  But he gave her a smile before he slipped out the door, and she felt its effect all through her body, down to her toes.

  By heaven, what had come over her? She raised both hands to cheeks as flushed as Danny’s.

  “Mistress, are you ill?” Aggie inquired.

  “Yes. No. We find ourselves in a perilous situation, Aggie.”

  “Yes, mistress. But we cannot turn our backs on them, can we? Not with this poor lad so sore hurt.”

  Jeannie very much feared she would not be able to turn her back on Finnan MacAllister, not for any reason.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Finnan whispered a prayer as he cut the stalks of yarrow with his dirk—no prayer ever heard in any kirk, this, but one far older, that flowed from his heart. Long ago he had learned not to take anything without permission.

  That was why Jeannie MacWherter would be begging for him before he took her.

  And the ancient laws decreed he give thanks for all that came to him.

  Oh, aye, he would thank her most generously after, just before he broke her heart.

  By God, why could he not manage to chase the woman from his mind? Was she not just a woman like every other he had rowed in his arms, with two legs, two breasts, a mouth, and a well of heat into which he might pour himself? Only, she was not like every other woman—those lips of hers tasted wild and sweet, and his fingers craved the feel of her soft flesh.

  He straightened from his place on the hillside and let his gaze find the new dawn. He had to go carefully, here. He would have her, just as she deserved. Yet he needed to remember this was not about pleasure, but retribution.

  He might take his pleasure, as well.

  Th
at thought curled seductively through his mind. Aye, he might—over and over again, before she learned not to trifle with a highlander’s heart. The treacherous wench. The beautiful, irresistible she-demon.

  Nay, but that was an exaggeration. Jeannie MacWherter might be a scheming little baggage, but she was a flesh-and-blood woman, no demon. He would leave her with a lesson before he chased her away out of his glen.

  The morning light blurred before his eyes as he contemplated how he would have her. There, in her own bed? Out here on the hillside, a willing sacrifice made to this place and Geordie’s memory? Aye, that would be sweet.

  He was already up and hard beneath his kilt just thinking about it, so beguiled he almost missed the movement along the floor of the glen below.

  Instinct honed over many seasons in the field corrected his error. He blinked, and his surroundings came back into focus.

  A party of men on horseback, a patrol. Searching for him. Aye, and the hounds were abroad early this day, hoping to catch him unawares, no doubt.

  He stuffed the cut yarrow into his pouch, turned, and, very like a deer, loped up the hillside. The search party headed toward Jeannie’s cottage, but even as he gained greater height and crouched down to watch they veered westward and away. He breathed a bit more easily. Four riders; he knew he could take them with his sword, but he would prefer to avoid such an encounter if he could.

  He stood still as a rock and watched them wind away and disappear into the mist. Then he murmured another prayer beneath his breath, for protection this time, and started down.

  He had almost reached the cottage when a bird fluttered near his shoulder and away again. He paused, looked for and found it perched on a prickle bush. A highland grouse—Geordie’s bird. Geordie had always favored it for its courage and ability to conceal itself, and had one tattooed on his cheek.

  “Hello, old friend,” Finnan said softly. “Have you come to visit with me?”

  No exaggeration to think the spirits of those on the other side came in the guise of birds. Had Finnan not seen crows take the souls of many after a battle? The crane was said to bear the task of carrying souls to the next world, but Finnan knew different. For fighting men it was the crow.

  The grouse fixed him with a beady eye that held all Geordie’s sadness and vulnerability.

  “Do not worry; I will settle her,” Finnan promised.

  The bird ruffled its wings in distress.

  “You always did have a soft heart,” Finnan told it. “No one knows that better than I. And no doubt where you are now some of the pain she caused you has faded away. But I ha’ taken a vow of vengeance on your behalf, and you know I never leave go of my vows.”

  The bird opened its beak; Finnan almost expected Geordie’s voice, low and deep, to issue forth.

  “There is but one thing,” Finnan confided. “I shall need to plunder her in order to see her set right. I hope you will not mind that, where you are.”

  The bird gave a wild cry and flew away. Finnan took it for permission.

  ****

  “They turned away to the west,” Finnan said softly to Jeannie even as he packed the yarrow into Danny’s wound. He did not want the maid, who seemed an excitable creature, to overhear. He did not need her fretting and greeting.

  Give Jeannie MacWherter her due; she did not seem the sort to greet. He sensed strength beneath all her beautiful softness.

  She turned those clear, blue eyes on him but said nothing. Her head, bent over the basin she held, nearly touched his.

  He went on, “I do not doubt they made to cross the burn at the rock ford not far from here, to search the other side of the glen. That should remove the threat a wee while.”

  She nodded. “And as you said, why should they come here, when they have just been?”

  “Aye, and they have no cause to believe you would succor me. It might be safest if you put about the tale, through your maid, perhaps, that you fear and despise me.”

  Her steady gaze did not waver from his. “What makes you think that would be a tale?”

  “Ah.” He allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch upward. “So you are still holding those letters against me.”

  “They were hard and vicious.”

  I am hard, whenever I am near you, Finnan thought ruefully.

  “And frightening to a woman with nowhere else to go.”

  “I regret that.” He let his eyes caress her face, allowed his admiration to show. “I had not met you then. I had only what Geordie wrote to me by which to judge.”

  “He never said he wrote you letters.”

  Finnan would wager not.

  “I wish you would tell me what did he write, that gave you so harsh an opinion of me.”

  Anger licked at Finnan’s soul. “That you did not love him.” Would not, no matter how Geordie tried.

  “Well, that is true. He knew it at the outset. He said he did not mind.”

  A man might say many things, as she would learn to her sorrow.

  “No matter now,” he told her, and smoothed Danny’s bandaging in place. “The yarrow should dim the pain from that wound. But I hate to move him again.”

  “Stay then,” she urged, her gaze fleeing his at last.

  He felt it then, how close he stood to having his way with her. He said, “I dare not.”

  “Why?”

  “A thousand reasons, not the least of which is what passed between us last night.”

  She bit at her luscious lower lip. He ached to do the same. “We might try to overlook that,” she said, “since we were both at fault.”

  “That is generous of you. I know I overstepped myself, and quite honestly I do not know that I would not do the same again.”

  “Oh!”

  “I will take to the hills. But I would ask of you one last boon: might I leave the lad here one more night? If you agree, I thought we could conceal him in your loft.”

  “Well—” He saw the thoughts move behind her eyes. Leaving Danny here made a reason for Finnan to return. “All right, just for the one night, mind.”

  “Aye, sure.”

  “But I do not see how you are to get him up to the loft.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  He stepped away from the sleeping lad, brushed past Jeannie, and felt the contact all down his body.

  “Aggie,” she bade the maid, “come sit beside the patient. Wring the cloth in cool water, and lay it on his brow.”

  “Gladly, mistress.”

  Finnan experienced a flash of misgiving. He did not need the maid succumbing to any inconvenient attraction. When he and Danny left here for good, they would break all ties, clean.

  He watched as Aggie settled herself cozily beside Danny’s makeshift cot. When he turned back, Jeannie MacWherter once more watched him. She could not keep her eyes away, it seemed.

  “I will be off out of here before dark,” he told her.

  She hesitated before she said, “Must you? I was just out at the well, and the weather is on the change. Rain coming, so I do believe. Surely no one will be hunting you in the wet.”

  She did not want him to go. A good sign.

  But he shook his head. “I’ve no wish to endanger you.” And if he stayed, could he have her in her bed this night, the two of them entwined and making their own heat while the rain fell outside? Aye, that image would haunt him while he slept in the wet.

  “At least take a good meal before you go.”

  “I will, that.”

  She turned to the fire, but not before he saw the gladness fill her eyes.

  ****

  Before dark came down, he carried Danny up to the loft like a sack over his shoulder. The maid had jumped to offer her own bed and now fussed around it, adjusting the pillow and blankets.

  “I will just make sure he is comfortable, shall I?” she asked as Finnan and Jeannie went back downstairs.

  “You will no’ let her sleep up there with him?” Finnan asked, only half concerned. In some matters, Dann
y must look after himself.

  “Certainly not. There will be no impropriety here.”

  Was she sure?

  “Aggie will bed down in my room.”

  He took up his plaid, against the rain that now crashed down, along with his sword and leather pouch.

  Jeannie reached out and touched his arm, her fingers immediately skittering away again. “Are you sure you should not stay?”

  “Never say you are worried for me?” He raised his hand and touched her cheek very gently. “No need, Jeannie. I am a survivor, me.”

  She shivered beneath his touch. “I do not doubt that. Yet the night is filthy wet.”

  “I will stop by some time tomorrow when I think it safe, to see how Danny fares. I hope I will be able to move him then.”

  Her eyes searched his. “And should he take a turn for the worse, instead?”

  “Then signal me. Wave a white cloth in the air from your back garden. I will keep an eye on the place and come should you need me.”

  She nodded but did not look happy about it. Finnan smiled to himself. Aye, he had already half won, but best not to press her too soon. Make her want it; make her beg.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” she said.

  “Aye, and thank you. How could I ha’ been so mistaken in the woman Geordie wed? Clearly, you are an angel.”

  He bent his head then to kiss her cheek, an intended mark of gratitude. His lips skittered along the warm velvet of her skin as she turned to catch his mouth with hers. For an instant, Finnan went still, both breath and heartbeat arrested, as her sweetness flooded upon him.

  Hot, blinding, lips parted slightly beneath his, her mouth lured him in. He dove into her without further invitation, his tongue a sword meant to wound her mortally.

  But swords, as he should know full well, were two-sided, and he felt the backlash of the passion that pierced her.

  Danger, his mind screamed at him. Do not lose yourself in punishing this minx.

  Failing to heed his own advice, he captured her face between his hands so he might kiss her still more deeply. Her fingers came up and curled around his wrists, but not in an effort to prevent the embrace. Instead, it felt as if she grounded him, clung the way her legs might around his waist in a still more intimate situation.