His Wicked Highland Ways

by Laura Strickland

And after—after, when she lay still quivering in his arms, when her fingers that just could not seem to get enough whispered over him, when he knew he owned her body and soul, he said, “And so, Jeannie, do you regret giving yourself to me?”

  “Regret?” she repeated, as if she knew not the meaning of the word. She reached up and kissed him softly, with such tenderness Finnan’s heart nearly quailed within him. “How can I regret anything that has happened between us? You must know how I feel for you.”

  He dragged his fingers through her hair and drew her head back so he could gaze into her eyes in the dim light; he needed to witness her pain. “And how do you feel for me, Jeannie?”

  Her lips quivered, as if she could barely find the words, before she spoke. “I love you, Finnan. My heart is yours.”

  “Is it so? Have you given it to me? Do I hold it in my hands?”

  “You do.”

  He caused his voice to harden. “And how does it feel, Jeannie?”

  “What?”

  His fingers tensed. “How does it feel to present your heart and everything you are—all your hopes and needs—to someone on a plate, only to learn he does not care?”

  “I—” He felt shock spear through her, felt pain replace it as the barb went deep into her most tender flesh. “I do not understand.”

  “Och, I think you do—I believe that, at last, you understand completely. For I do not want you, Jeannie. I do not love you. I ha’ been using you all this while. And now you know how Geordie felt—you feel what he felt—when you refused the gift of his heart.”

  He could not look into her eyes after all. He moved swiftly, violently, and got out of the bed while still she lay there unmoving like a woman struck to death. He donned his clothing, and she did not speak, did not stir. And she never called him back when he went out into the night.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Finnan MacAllister stared into the pouring rain and told himself he should feel some measure of satisfaction. From the time he received Geordie’s final letter he had planned revenge against the scheming lowland wench who hurt him. Now he had that revenge in kind; the thing was over and done.

  He needed it over and done so he could turn his eyes to the other matters that beset him: Rescuing Deirdre. Settling the Avries for good. Getting on with his life.

  His life? What was left of it? Aye, well, there was this glen—place of his devotion, loyalty, and heart. But there seemed something wrong with his heart now. Ever since he left Jeannie MacWherter lying in the dark it had struggled to beat in his chest.

  And why did his flesh still ache for her touch? That was over now. He had paid his debt to Geordie, the obligations of duty and brotherhood fulfilled.

  It did not help his peace of mind that young Danny remained so persistently happy. Indeed, ever since Finnan had stalked from Rowan Cottage and met up with him at dawn, Danny had done nothing but prate about his Aggie. He went on about her even now, when the two of them crouched beneath a granite overhang trying to remain hidden and keep from the wet.

  “I tell you, Master Finnan, I never thought any woman would want me. Me—with but the one arm. Yet when she came walking out to me last night, I could not mistake. A man does not mistake, does he, when a lass gives him her heart?”

  Finnan grunted and cursed inwardly. Aggie had still been with Danny when Finnan came upon them in the half-dark. The lass had dressed swiftly and run off home, but not before Finnan saw her give Danny the kind of kiss that would have warmed him to his toes. And from what Danny had hinted, they had ample time before that to consummate their feelings.

  “A priceless gift, a woman’s heart,” Danny went on, staring like Finnan into the rain with a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Anyone’s heart,” Finnan asserted, trying to justify himself. How did Jeannie fare now? What had she done after he left? Stayed in the bed and wept? Hauled herself up on her dignity? Become angry? Cursed his name?

  Had he destroyed her as he intended?

  Aye, and now he must stop thinking of her. He must focus on Deirdre.

  Danny said softly, “We ha’ pledged ourselves to one another. And you ken, Master Finnan, what that means. You and Master Geordie taught me what it is to make a vow and keep it.”

  Aye, right, Finnan thought savagely—that was all he had done. Then why did he feel as if his own heart had been torn out by the roots?

  “She is the one for me,” Danny went on devoutly.

  Finnan said, with no wish to be cruel, “Are you certain, lad? ’Tis not just your cock talking, is it?” Danny had been with few women, and Finnan understood the lure of the flesh, the gods help him.

  Danny turned bright gray-blue eyes on him. “Nay, though I do say ’tis a miracle she would accept me, maimed as I am. Damaged. But when she took the clothing from me, she did no’ seem to see that.” His voice lowered, became devout. “Master Finnan, she kissed me—even where my arm used to be.”

  “You are no’ damaged, lad,” Finnan said. “For your heart is whole, despite all you ha’ suffered.” Unlike Finnan’s. He saw now, indeed, he was the one maimed. “And,” he added, “your Aggie sounds a good, generous woman.”

  “She is that. I never hoped to meet anyone like her. But now, Master Finnan, we need to get through all this trouble.”

  “Aye, lad, so we do.”

  ****

  “What is it, mistress? Are you unwell?” Aggie posed the query softly as Jeannie stood at the cottage window staring out blindly at the rain. The rage that had possessed her when Finnan MacAllister walked out on her—the helpless, blinding fury—had abandoned her slowly, passed off like numbness from a stunted limb, leaving a well of hurt so deep she feared to sound it. Black and wide and merciless it yawned inside her, full of darkness that threatened to rise up on its own and overwhelm her.

  He had done this deliberately, and in the most hurtful way he could imagine. She had been over it a thousand times, lying in the bed last night after he left, had recounted and remembered every word and every deed they had shared since she met him at the pool. She had relived it all, cast in the new light he provided, and saw what he had done: lured her, led her, used her—all for revenge. Not one single kiss had been true.

  Yes, and what a cruel and vicious man he proved to be. Her father used to say nothing could match a highlander for vengeance. Now she knew it to be true. For none of this had been about any feelings Finnan MacAllister possessed toward her, save hate. It had all been about Geordie.

  Her heart quivered inside her chest, proving it still sought to beat, and pounded pain through her in another wave. If she had caused Geordie MacWherter to feel like this with aught she had said, done, or refused him, then she deserved some pain. But she did not deserve having her heart torn out still bleeding, for she had not meant to hurt Geordie.

  Never meant him any harm.

  And Geordie had been a grown man who made his own choices, took his own chances.

  As had she. No one had forced her to take Finnan MacAllister to her bed. No one had compelled her to bare her body—and her soul—to him, no one had implored her to kneel at his feet. That did not make this hurt any less.

  And that must be the lesson Finnan wanted to teach. Her father’s scholarly mind, that had instructed her so long, made her regard that fairly even now. Finnan believed she had hurt Geordie deliberately, had used and denied him. She had not. And looking back on it, she could not be certain Geordie MacWherter was a grown man inside. A part of him had seemed ever the lost child.

  Those letters—the ones he had written to his friend most likely when in a whisky haze—Jeannie would give much to know just what they said, not that it mattered now. She was destroyed completely. Did it truly matter whether Finnan MacAllister had justification?

  “Mistress? You have taken nothing to eat today. Let me make you some tea.”

  Perhaps the Avries would find him, corner him, put an end to his life—an end to his strength, grace, and beauty. For she found him beautiful yet. The
remnants of her heart—poor quivering shreds—did.

  He could not run forever.

  And why did that thought cause her more pain?

  “Come, sit down.” Aggie coaxed Jeannie to the bench and crouched down beside her. “What has happened? Did you and Master Finnan quarrel last night?”

  Jeannie shook her head. They had not quarreled, no. He had loved her quite well, let her taste him everywhere—for the last time—and then shattered her world.

  “Is it that you are worried for him? The situation is dire, yes. I am worried for Danny, as well, and for the life of me cannot see how it might come right. But there must be something we can do to help. I will go to Avrie House as soon as this rain lets up, see what I can learn. No one knows we have taken sides in this quarrel. At the very least, we can get information to them.”

  Aggie got to her feet and bustled about making the tea. Jeannie felt sure she would not be able to drink any, but when Aggie brought the mug she reached out and snagged her maid’s wrist, stared into her eyes.

  “His sister,” she said.

  “Eh?” Aggie looked startled.

  “MacAllister’s sister is there at Avrie House. Listen to me. You must find a way to speak with her, let her know her brother wishes to meet with her, rescue her. Perhaps she can work from within even as he works from without. She may have knowledge that will help.”

  “You think so?” Aggie asked thoughtfully. “Does she want rescuing?”

  “She was forced to wed Stuart Avrie long ago. Finnan will not rest until he frees her.”

  “But how am I to win a word with her, and she a lady of the house? I go there only to visit her servants. Indeed, mistress, I have not laid eyes on the woman.”

  “I have, the day I saw the Dowager. You will find a way, Aggie, clever girl that you are. Perhaps we can prevent further bloodshed.” For despite all Finnan MacAllister had done to her, despite the pain inside and how angry she should be, Jeannie felt something for him besides rage and hurt. She did not want to see him hunted and trapped, seized and slain.

  She pictured him so, lying in his own blood, arms flung wide, hair spread around his head, all the wicked light flown from his eyes. Her poor, abused heart stuttered again in her chest. No, not that—anything but that.

  Because she loved him. Heaven help her! Even though she knew she should despise him, and despite all his cruelty, she loved him still.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Mistress Avrie agreed to come and see you,” Aggie announced grandly. She shed her shawl and tried to smooth her hair, disordered by the wind. Bright flags of color flew in her cheeks, and her eyes shone with victory. “I managed to steal a word with her in the end. You would have been so proud of me.”

  “I am proud of you,” Jeannie said even as her stomach roiled beneath another wave of emotion. For the past two nights she had not slept nor, in truth, taken more than a sip or two of tea—not since Finnan walked out of her life. Foolish woman that she was, she kept listening for him to return. Despite all her lectures to herself, she kept hoping he would change his mind, reconsider—realize he had genuine feelings for her after all.

  Was this how Geordie had felt? She had to push that thought away from her, she could not handle it on top of the bitter suspicion that, no, Finnan would not return: his work with her was done.

  Wicked highlander that he was.

  She should have known better from the first, known he was not for her. But he had woven his trap so well, and she had tumbled right in.

  Now she tried to focus on the matter at hand. Perhaps she could still help him, or rather help ease the dire situation in the glen, even if he did not deserve it.

  “When will Mistress Avrie come?”

  “She could not say. She is kept close, watched often. She said she must wait until her husband is away. But I believe she will come. She was near in tears when I mentioned her brother.”

  “Yes?”

  “I had only a few stolen minutes with her, mind, there in the parlor where she sat alone. But she said she has feared for him being hunted like an animal, and she seemed ever so grateful we are helping him.”

  “Come, Aggie, and tell me all about how you accomplished this miracle.”

  Aggie sat with her on the bench like the friend she had in truth become. “I did not think I would manage it at first. When I visit Dorcas and Marie we always sit in the kitchen, you understand. Indeed, I never even knew Mistress Avrie was there all this while. But then at the end, and just when I despaired, Dorcas mentioned her—you know, in that sly way she has.”

  “What did she say?”

  Aggie’s enthusiasm dropped a notch. “That the Dowager’s grandsons were getting very close to snaring their quarry, and she could not imagine what his sister might say when they slew him. It seems they almost had him the other night and wounded him full sore. But that does not seem right, does it, mistress? For were he hurt, he would surely come here for you to tend.”

  Jeannie’s gaze dropped to her hands. “He will not come here again.”

  “Why ever not? The two of you did quarrel. I knew it!”

  Jeannie twisted her hands into a tortured tangle. “It seems Laird MacAllister’s feelings were never in earnest. He only wanted to repay me for what he considers my ill treatment of Geordie, in Dumfries.”

  “Oh, sweet mercy!” Aggie reached out and covered Jeannie’s hands with her own. “Never say it is so. That beast! And yet still you seek to aid him? He could not be more wrong about you, and I would love to give him a right earful. I will, if I get the chance. Does he have any idea how things were in Dumfries, how hard our backs were to the wall? You would not be the first woman to wed a man she did not love in order to save herself. And Master Geordie—he did not seem to mind.”

  “He did mind, though. He wrote Finnan letters complaining of me.”

  “Whilst in his cups, no doubt,” Aggie denounced indignantly. “It is what some men do when drunk, go crying like babes. At least you were honest with him. Would it have been better for you to lie to him about your feelings?”

  “I no longer know, Aggie. My feelings are all burnt away.” Almost all, save for the relentless, sickening ache. “You must understand, though, I cannot stand by and see him killed.”

  “Yes, well, I could cheerfully see him so, for what he’s done to you. I will be cursed if I want to help him now.”

  Jeannie raised her gaze to her friend’s. “Tell me of his sister.”

  “Well, as I say, Dorcas mentioned her, wondered what she would do when her husband or his brother hauled her brother in and spilled his blood all over the stones of the courtyard at Avrie House. I made like I was curious to see her—was she aught like that devil everyone hunted—and Marie said she was about to take the woman her tea in the parlor, if I wanted to have a wee peek.

  “And so it proved. I stood behind the door when Marie carried in the tray. She is very like him to look at,” Aggie added judiciously. “You could not mistake them for aught but kin.”

  “No.”

  “And I made an excuse to leave soon after, but I did not go by my usual way. Instead I crept round through the garden to where those doors of their sitting room open out. I told myself, were she still there in that room, then it was meant to be. She was.”

  “That was wonderfully brave of you, Aggie.”

  “It was. I told her I was in touch with someone helping her brother, who wanted to meet with her. I wish I had not, now.”

  Jeannie experienced a twinge of disquiet. She had, indeed, endangered both herself and Aggie. For now someone at Avrie House knew of her involvement with the hunted man.

  All for the sake of someone who hated her.

  She must believe she could trust Finnan’s sister, but how completely under her husband’s thumb might Deirdre Avrie be? What if Stuart questioned her and learned about this meeting? He would come straight to Jeannie’s door.

  “How did she seem? What is her manner?” If Deirdre Avrie prove
d too downtrodden, she might not be able to help Finnan.

  “Difficult to say. She had a great deal of composure—like hard iron beneath her beauty. Despite that, the mention of her brother did seem to affect her.”

  “She will help him. She must.” Jeannie squeezed Aggie’s hands. For surely, like Jeannie, Finnan’s sister could not bear to see him dead.

  ****

  “So you are the woman who is helping my brother. I saw you once at Avrie House.”

  Deirdre Avrie stood framed in the doorway of Rowan Cottage looking so like her brother it nearly took Jeannie’s breath away. Jeannie reached out, towed her in, and hurriedly scanned the path behind her.

  “You are certain you were not followed?”

  “I was not. But I cannot be away long. It is far too dangerous. Where is Finnan?” Deirdre’s eyes reached behind Jeannie as if she thought to find him.

  “Not here.”

  “But he has been here? You have been aiding him?” Deirdre’s eyes examined Jeannie closely. The exact shape and color of Finnan’s, they were fringed with darker lashes. Her auburn hair, like his also, had been disciplined and confined in a knot at the nape of her neck. On her, his proud nose managed to look feminine, her oval face beautiful. She wore a grand dress of dark green that proved however her husband might misuse her he at least saw her well clothed.

  “Come, sit.” Jeannie pulled at Deirdre’s hand. “We do not have long.”

  “I dare not stay,” Deirdre said. “This place could too easily become a trap.”

  “Where are your husband and his brother now?”

  “I am not sure. They scour the glen for Finnan. Trent rode out with a troop of men this morning, headed north. Stuart left me not long since. But tell me how you come to know my brother.”

  “I was married briefly to his close friend, to whom he bequeathed this cottage.”

  “Married, briefly?”

  “I am a widow now.”

  “Ah. Not a bad thing to be.” Something flared in Deirdre’s eyes. “Though I do imagine some women must care for the men to whom they are shackled.”