“I will try to collect him when ’tis dark. I hope he will be able to travel by then.” He adjusted the leather bag and winced when he moved his left arm. It must be painful, but she would never have guessed that, last night.
The memory of his touch still whispered over her skin as he stepped out the door with her following.
Morning mist clothed the glen and rose sluggishly, lit by the new sun. A fortuitous time for him to be away, but she wanted to bury both fists in his plaid and hold him.
“I will worry for you,” she said helplessly. Long for you. But she did not add that. Could he not see it in her eyes as he turned and looked at her?
Oh, and he appeared like a young god with the hazy light dancing around him, hair warmed to red, and that dangerous, seductive brightness in his eyes.
“And I for you,” he returned. “Danny makes a dangerous presence in your home. Should they come to your door, do not let them in for any reason.”
“How am I to keep them out?”
“Tell them your maid is ill, raving. Say it is some vile contagion.” He smiled ruefully. “I do not doubt Aggie can play the part. Meanwhile I will do my best to keep the hounds away from here.”
“How?”
“I will allow them a glimpse or two of me and then lead them a hare’s chase down the other end of the glen.”
Jeannie’s eyes widened in horror. “But you are not fit, hampered by that arm.”
“Fit enough for the task.” Just as in her bed. “And I can move much more quickly without Danny.”
Jeannie, not happy with the plan, did not know how to dissuade him, and fell silent in dismay.
His gaze caught hers. “Thank you, Jeannie.”
“For keeping Danny? I do not mind.”
“Nay.” He leaned forward, and she felt his lips, a source of warmth in the cool morning air, touch her cheek. In a whisper meant for her ears alone, he said, “For last night.”
Jeannie’s heart broke into still more jagged pieces, and she spoke the words she had vowed she would not. “You will return?”
“Aye, tonight. Keep him quiet till then.” And just like that he stepped away and disappeared into the mist as if he had never existed.
Jeannie stood on her doorstep a moment longer, arms wrapped about herself, eyes searching for a hint of him and but one thought in her mind: When he returned tonight, would she have him in her bed again?
She reentered the cottage, only to be met by Aggie’s accusing stare. The maid bent over the hearth, stirring a pot of oatmeal, but all her attention focused on her mistress.
“I am that shocked, mistress, truly I am.”
“Eh?” Had Aggie observed Finnan’s parting kiss?
Aggie waved a hand. “For you to appear so, barely clad, in front of a man. You do know, mistress, in strong light he could see right through that night dress?”
Jeannie drew breath to speak, but Aggie did not give her the chance. “And,” she added with heat, not like the servant she purported to be but the friend she truly was, “you were with him last night.”
How did Aggie know that?
She need not ask; all fired up, Aggie rushed on. “I woke in the night, and you were gone from the cot in the loft. I grew worried that the lad, here, had taken a turn for the worse and you had risen to help tend him. But when I peeked down the ladder, Danny still slept, and no one else was in this room.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” Aggie emphasized, her cheeks turning pink. “There was but one other place you could be. And I heard whispers—”
Had she, by God? And what had Aggie overheard Jeannie say? She had done her best to keep quiet even in the throes of intense pleasure, but the small cottage afforded little privacy.
Her face, too, flamed with heat. She crossed her arms over breasts still tender from the ministrations of Finnan MacAllister’s mouth.
“I went back to my bed,” Aggie said self-righteously, “not knowing what to think. I never heard you come out of your room till dawn.”
“But Finnan heard you snoring.” Finnan, holding her against his muscular body, all of him hard.
“That,” Aggie said with dignity, “was Danny.”
“Ah.” It seemed passion had fogged both their minds.
“Mistress, what were you thinking? I know you are a widow and have had a man before”—Aggie lowered her voice—“although you and Master Geordie never did share a room.”
“It is certainly none of your business, Aggie,” Jeannie said gently. But it was—the two of them had thrown their lot in together here, and she represented Aggie’s only security.
Aggie drew herself up. “Maybe not. But I worry for you, mistress. A man like that! All the other women he has had—it is wicked.”
“And…” Jeannie held Aggie’s gaze. “Can you blame me? Have you looked at him? I cannot help myself, Aggie. In truth, I cannot.”
For once in her life Aggie seemed at a loss for words. She turned back to the pot of porridge and stirred fiercely.
“It may well end in tears,” Jeannie admitted, “but until then…”
Until then she would be left wanting Finnan MacAllister.
****
Danny’s fever broke late in the afternoon, and he awoke clear-eyed and full of questions.
“Where is Laird Finnan?” he asked even as Aggie fussed over him, adjusting his blanket and sponging his brow. “There was a terrible fight—”
“There was,” Jeannie told him, and took the seat beside his cot. “He brought you here, and I patched him up before he left again.”
Aggie shot her a scandalized look but said nothing.
“He means to come and call for you tonight,” Jeannie went on.
“Unless the Avries catch him,” Danny moaned. “I should be wi’ him, standing at his back.”
It occurred to Jeannie that Danny, now clear-headed, might make a wonderful source of information about the man who wholly occupied her mind—and Finnan MacAllister did so occupy it.
“Bring a cup of that broth,” she bade Aggie, “and see can we get it inside our patient.”
Aggie bustled and obeyed; she still refused to meet Jeannie’s eyes.
“Tell me,” Jeannie urged when Danny had taken his first sip of broth, “of this quarrel between the Avries and Laird MacAllister.”
Danny considered her with an intelligent gaze. “Surely you know? The story is all over the glen.”
“We have had only bits and pieces of it. I would know the truth.”
“Aye, mistress, but you may not like the truth.”
“Try me.”
Again the lad measured her with his eyes before he spoke. “This glen has been MacAllister land since time out of mind. Laird MacAllister’s father’s father’s father reigned here, and Finnan is the last in a very long line. When I met him—” Abruptly, Danny’s gaze clouded. “When I met him he had been dispossessed, his father foully murdered by those who should have been loyal to him, and his sister either stolen away or murdered also.”
“Sister?” Jeannie could not help but exclaim.
“She disappeared the same night his father was murdered. He never did discover whence. Try as he might, he has not been able to glean word of her, and he fears her dead.”
“The Avries,” Aggie breathed, caught by the tale despite herself.
Danny’s expression softened as his eyes found her face. “No doubt.”
“But why?” Jeannie wondered.
“Why did the Avries commit such foul deeds against their sworn lairds?” Danny shrugged. “For years they were ghillies to the MacAllisters, both favored and protected by the chief’s house. But a strain of madness, so I think, entered the mind of Gregor Avrie, he who was father to yon Stuart and Trent, and turned his heart and mind. He decided he had some claim to the position of laird. And he took control, murdered my laird’s father, and drove Master Finnan from the glen.”
“Someone must know what’s happened to the sister,” Aggie insisted.
>
“And,” Jeannie objected, “wouldn’t the former laird’s men stand with him?” She had heard tales of how these highland clans were ready always for a fight or vengeance.
“Aye, and so they did. My master says this glen was a far different place then, full of clansfolk both MacAllister and Avrie, many joined by ties of blood. Most are gone now, chased away or dead, for Gregor Avrie brought in a hired army, and after the old laird’s death blood flowed right well.”
Aggie voiced the question Jeannie longed to ask. “But Laird Finnan came back and murdered Gregor Avrie?”
“Aye—after ten years away serving as a mercenary, and after Culloden broke the backs of the clans.”
“Those at Avrie House,” Jeannie said softly, “claim Finnan MacAllister fought on the wrong side at Culloden—stood against the clans.”
Danny’s face closed abruptly. “Anyone who can say that does not know him. His heart is all for loyalty—though not necessarily to any prince.”
And that did not make an answer, Jeannie thought ruefully, even as Danny buried his face in his cup and went suddenly silent.
It seemed she would have to get the rest of the story from the man himself—if she ever saw him again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Breath came hot and painful in Finnan MacAllister’s lungs, and he wondered with pitiless honesty how much farther he could run. He had been over the glen like a hart since leaving Jeannie MacWherter’s door—a hart well-hunted. Now night gathered over the mountains to the east, and he could not imagine where he would find the strength to go on. Hunted on his own lands, but not defeated—not just yet.
His left arm hurt like fire and would be damn near useless in another fight. His sword—already well-wetted with blood in not one but two encounters—had barely been out of his right hand. He ached for food and rest.
He ached for Jeannie MacWherter.
A wonder he could spare a thought for the woman, in his present straits, yet his mind returned to her again and again. He remembered the feel of her silken tongue gliding over his skin and the heat of it when she accepted him. She was like a fever in his blood.
But he did not see how he would get back to her cottage this night. Certainly he could not lead the hounds that pursued him there, if only for Danny’s sake.
For Jeannie’s sake.
He watched a line of torches, held by men on horseback, go by below him, and his tension eased a bit. He bent to a rivulet, a mere trickle of sound in the descending dark, and drank his fill. That answered one need. He eased down beneath a tree and, for the first time in hours, laid his sword aside.
Free, for the moment. Free to think on Jeannie.
What was it about the woman? Aye, well, he knew fine what it was—not only beautiful, with that air of impossible innocence, but she tasted like heaven on his tongue. No wonder Geordie had tortured himself over her.
Nay, but he had to keep his eye on the truth: ’twas she who had tortured Geordie.
He remembered again the way she had felt when he slid into her for the first time, searing with heat and so tight. And the way she had moved beneath him last night, in breathless invitation.
He shifted where he crouched, in an effort to ease the sudden tightness in his groin. Oh, aye, he wanted her again, would have her again. But probably not tonight.
And when he had her, he promised himself—when next he splayed her hot and quivering beneath him—would he break her heart then? Would he have his pleasure and then his revenge?
“All for you, Geordie,” he whispered into the darkness, and knew he lied.
****
Finnan MacAllister failed to come and collect his man when the dark descended like a deep blue curtain over the glen, even though Jeannie, Danny, and Aggie sat up talking long into the night. At last Danny fell into a fitful doze, and Aggie retired to the loft, but Jeannie dared not take to her bed.
She knew the scent of Finnan MacAllister remained there, along with his essence. She supposed she might strip herself naked, crawl among those blankets, and revel in memories. But she felt far too restless.
When the cottage lay quiet, she stepped outside and into the beautiful night. Stars spread overhead like bright clusters of jewels, or the eyes of pagan gods. A clear night, and not the best to be abroad and hunted. She stood silent, with her breath held, but heard nothing. No shadow stirred, approached, or transformed itself into Finnan MacAllister, and she trailed back inside, disconsolate.
By dawn, her desire had reached fever pitch, but he did not come then either. Danny was up by first light, moving under his own power and seeming as restless as Jeannie. She watched Aggie fuss over him, watched them converse together with their heads close.
She dissuaded the lad when he said he wished to leave.
“Laird MacAllister promised he would come and collect you. He will do so when he thinks it safe.”
Twice before noon they heard and glimpsed mounted parties that rode by and splashed through the ford that lay not far off, and Danny hid in the loft. But the horsemen did not stop at the cottage, and at last, in mid afternoon, Danny fell into a doze, with Aggie nodding beside him.
Jeannie, unable to quell her uneasiness, went out into her garden. Here the warm sun found her, and she told herself digging in the dirt would bring a measure of calm. But the surrounding quiet called on the sleep she had missed the past two nights, and she was more than half asleep when the first pebble landed beside her.
And from whence had that come? She raised her eyes to search for a source, and a second pebble joined the first, just beside her knee.
The third gave her a direction—a lone pine just up the slope from her garden wall. And did her eyes catch a hint of movement there?
Abandoning her hand trowel, she got to her feet. Her heart began to pound double time. She narrowed her eyes against the glare of sunlight and saw—
A flicker of well-known plaid: MacAllister tartan.
She allowed her gaze to sweep the immediate vicinity, searching out danger. Then she gathered her skirts, climbed the wall, and went up the slope, keeping her eyes down as if searching for herbs. Through the coarse grass she swept, and the bracken, and beneath the branches of the pine.
And there he stood, whole and breathing—the answer to all her prayers.
Oh, and he might as well be the spirit of the place, his hair the color of the tree bark behind him, his eyes full of reflected sunlight, far more handsome even than she had remembered.
And she had remembered him generously.
“Whisht,” he said at once. “Speak softly; sound carries far too well.”
She nodded, her throat tight with desire.
He reached out and drew her closer beneath the branches of the tree, his hand warm on her bare arm. His gaze moved all over her, like fingers in the dark.
“How fares Danny? I did not dare come last night and risk leading the hounds to you.”
“He is much better.” Somehow Jeannie drew her gaze from his lips. “Sleeping now, but he was up earlier and clear in his mind.” She barely breathed the words.
“Good. Keep him for me until nightfall, if you will. We will away then.”
“And, between now and nightfall?” Jeannie stepped still nearer to him, close enough that she could catch the wild, dusky smell of sunshine and pure male. His hand still grasped her arm, and her breath came more quickly.
“You must go back down and pretend I am not here.”
“No.”
“No?” He quirked an eyebrow and parted his lips, no doubt to protest. Jeannie did not give him the chance. She rose on tiptoe and covered his open mouth with hers.
Ah, bliss! The taste of him flooded upon her and promptly seduced all her senses. She had been craving just this, with every heartbeat.
This, and far more.
She raised her hands and pressed them against his chest even as she consumed him with her mouth. She wanted to draw his soul from him, possess it, own it—own him. Could such a man
, so wild and wicked, be owned?
After a stunned moment, he began to participate in the kiss with enthusiasm. His tongue swept Jeannie’s mouth, trailing heat, in blatant domination. Jeannie’s knees promptly wobbled, and she tumbled forward against him.
The kiss ended on a ragged gasp, and she gazed up into his eyes. What did she see there? Desire, yes—raw hunger that matched hers. And something more, far harder to identify.
It occurred to her, the thought bright and terrifying: if she did not turn around now and go back down the hill it might be she who lost her soul.
God help her, she did not care.
“Let me stay,” she whispered, begged.
The dark, unnamed emotion in his eyes flared. Just so must the devil look, she thought, when he drove a bargain. But Finnan said only, “Nay, Jeannie, ’tis not safe. Should we be caught up here—”
Without so much as a glance behind her, she told him, “You can see for miles.”
His hands steadied her, restrained her. “And do you suppose I could spare an instant to keep watch, if I had you naked in my arms?”
For answer she took a step away from him, but only so she might raise her hands to her bodice. She saw a great breath expand his chest when she began to unlace the fabric there, but he did not move or reach for her.
She kicked off her shoes next and then took the pins from her hair one by one even as he had that other night, and scattered them on the ground.
If this keeps up I will not have a pin to my name, she thought. Please God it keeps up.
“Jeannie,” he said when she unfastened the ties on her skirt and let it fall about her ankles—only that. The warm summer air found her flesh even as she revealed it to him a bit at a time—feet, legs, and, as the loosened blouse came off, breasts.
And then she stood shameless before him—trembling with eagerness, wanton. Free.
“Now you,” she whispered. “I want to see all of you.”
The only part of him that had responded so far stood beneath his kilt—that, along with his ragged breathing, he could not hide. He remained unmoving as a stone when she unlaced his sark and pushed her hands inside to meet warm, supple skin. She dragged her palms ever downward until they encountered him through the rough wool.
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 15
